DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.
Standoff
"'Sure, we've got plenty of time to stop off for drinks,'" Meryl Stryfe mocked. "'A few drinks always helps you enjoy the play more.' And now look – the play starts in fifteen minutes, Mr. Wolfwood!"
"I know what time it starts," Nicholas D. Wolfwood said calmly. "And I'm sorry, I didn't think Milly would wind up ordering that much."
"Went down smooth," Milly Thompson interrupted with a slightly tipsy smile.
"Right," Wolfwood continued. "Anyway, this shortcut will have us there in ten minutes tops, no sweat." He led the way confidently.
"Assuming we don't run into trouble on the way." Meryl flitted her eyes back and forth, scanning the rowdies and ne'er-do-wells that occupied this rough part of the town they were in.
It was one thing to deal with harmless drunks and bums in broad daylight, guys who yowled like cats with their hackles up in attempts to back each other down but would never actually act on their threats or harm a hair on a lady's head. Quite another to enter an area after dark where ill intent hung heavy, whose occupants' impulse control would have been at a minimum even without alcohol. Life was often regarded as cheap on Gunsmoke, but in this area you didn't even need an argument over a craps game to get killed. Sometimes all you needed was just to be you, minding your own business, and somebody would decide he was annoyed by your mere presence and end his annoyance with a bullet.
And even though most people would be more than happy to have the Humanoid Typhoon for a traveling companion in such circumstances, Meryl knew more than most that the man next to her did not repel trouble. Just the opposite – trouble was attracted to him like he gave off its mating pheromone.
"You know, I think this is the first play I've ever been to," Vash the Stampede spoke up. "I wonder if I'll like it."
"You've got some drinks in you, spikey," Wolfwood stated. "Even if it's more Shake-your-pee than Shakespeare, you'll be fine. Alcohol makes everything more enjoyable."
"Will you two shut up?" Meryl hissed. "I don't want to draw any more attention than we absolutely have to."
"Oh, come on," Vash said amiably. "People are generally good. I'm sure if we leave these people alone, they'll leave us alone." A gunshot sounded from a little way back, doubtless one of those annoyed people ending his annoyance. "See? They're shooting in the air, having a good time. Relax."
Meryl snorted; it was useless trying to get him to be serious about anything. She wondered for the umpteenth time how this man could possibly be the same one she had seen stop the villainous Nebraskas with just six bullets, as well as the display of bravery that was facing down B.D.N. It was just inconceivable.
Maybe if she hadn't been thinking about Vash, she could have seen it coming and stopped it.
Vash would later think back that perhaps if he had been out in front, he could have stopped the group in time, or simply stepped out of the way, or found some other way to avoid the encounter altogether.
Or maybe there wasn't anything either one of them could have done to stop it.
What-ifs aside, it happened. Wolfwood had been cautious around the spaces between buildings, pausing before moving ahead. He had been checking across the street. But you can't watch everywhere at once, and he passed by a fleabag-apartment doorway while preoccupied with a possible threat down the way.
Somebody stumbled backward out of the doorway and into Wolfwood, knocking him into a stone post. The priest knocked his head pretty good against it, letting slip a "Damn!" right before impact.
The group stopped and gathered around Wolfwood as he checked his head. No blood, but there was already a discoloration that would become a nasty bruise before too long.
"Should we get him to a doctor?" Milly wondered.
Wolfwood waved her off. "I'm fine. My head can take a few knocks." He looked down at the person who had knocked him against the post, sitting dazedly on the ground. "But I think I'm owed an apology."
A cocked pistol sounded from within the doorway. Four men emerged, guns drawn and aimed at the group.
"I'm owed one first," one man said with a guttural, two-pack-a-day voice. Even in the weak lamplight of the street, Vash could see bruising on the man's knuckles. He presumed this would be the one who had started this whole thing by sending the man on the ground out the doorway and into Wolfwood. "And I'll have it."
It wasn't purposeful, only reflexive instinct, but suddenly Wolfwood, who had left his cross back at their hotel, had a pistol of his own drawn from inside his coat and leveled at the one who insisted on his apology.
"One gun against four," the leader noted. "Not good odds."
"They just got better." Milly, mostly unnoticed before now, was hefting her big stun gun. Most people would flinch merely at the size of it, but these men were made of sterner stuff, one taking a bead directly on her.
"That's my partner you're aiming at." While no mere mortal could ever be as good with a gun as Vash was, Meryl had mastered every aspect of her derringers. Even with no one to see it, her draw was so quick and subtle it was hard to tell precisely when she had done it. But she had, and now each hand held a derringer leveled evenly at the man aiming at Milly.
One of the other four shifted to aim at Meryl.
"I wouldn't." How odd. Without consciously thinking about it, Vash nonetheless found the thought spoken, his arm suddenly holding his own revolver. What was it about the sudden danger to Meryl that had prompted such an unconscious reaction?
Now wasn't the time to think about it further. Suddenly, they were in a four-on-four standoff.
"That bastard there insulted my sister," the man with the bruised knuckles spat. "I demand an apology, and I'll kill to get it. Even if I have to go through the four of you for it."
"Can't let you do that, friend," Wolfwood said coolly, any pain from his bumped head forgotten. "An apology's nothing to kill over."
"Says the man with the gun on me."
"You drew first," Wolfwood pointed out.
"And maybe I'll die last."
Words continued to be exchanged. People shifted aims at minor movements. Meryl was sure her heartbeat had skyrocketed into the thousands. She was suddenly aware of a bead of sweat at the tip of her nose, just hanging there, stubbornly refusing to fall. It itched like crazy, but she couldn't take her attention away from what was happ – another small movement. She shifted her aim again, not daring to divert her attention even so much as to wonder how long this could go on before someone pulled their trigger, causing everyone else to pull theirs.
Milly's arms were aching, but she held her stun gun steady. She didn't want anyone here to die, and certainly not over an apology, but if she let her stun gun drop even for a second, Mr. Wolfwood or Meryl or even the seemingly invincible Mr. Vash might – well, get vinced. The sudden thought came to her that it might even be her. Oh, dear – had she remembered to tell her family she loved them in her last letter home?
Wolfwood was trying to find a way out of this, but really couldn't. He wasn't trained in conflict resolution, damn it! His mind kept shifting over to who to shoot first, how to reach an end with none of his people dead. But every scenario he ran through his head, no matter how he figured the angles, at least one of them would die. If he did this, it would be Meryl; if he did that, Milly. The only one he figured was guaranteed to survive was Vash, that spikey-headed luck-of-the-devil bastard.
Vash could probably end it all, if he only had the guts to. He was fast enough, faster and more accurate than anyone Wolfwood had ever seen. But he was hindered by his reluctance to take a life. If Vash were the one to end this, it would probably be by letting everyone get so fatigued from the stress that they just fell asleep. Pacifistic fool. Wolfwood considered himself a pacifist, as well, insofar as he preferred peace to war; however, he favored the more pragmatic sense of the word – if you started trouble with him, he would pass a fist through your face.
While Wolfwood couldn't find a way to end it, Vash could.
"Hey! You!" he snapped. "You with the bruised knuckles!"
The leader of the other four looked at Vash. "What? You want to die first?"
"Nope." Vash's gun was very clearly now aimed at the leader. "I don't want anyone to die here tonight."
"Then all of you holster and get on your way!"
"Not happening."
"Then we got nothing to talk about!"
"Sure we do. You said this guy on the ground –" Jerked his head at the man on the ground, no longer dazed but paralyzed by all the drawn guns. "– insulted your sister, right? This is all because you want an apology, right?"
"Damn right!"
"All right, then. You on the ground, what's your name?"
The guy on the ground was so paralyzed he either didn't hear or couldn't answer. Slowly, deliberately, keeping every movement obvious, Vash eased over and nudged him with the toe of his boot. No response. He nudged a little harder, almost but not quite a kick. The man looked up, cowering at the tall man with the big gun looking down at him.
"What's your name?" Vash asked quietly.
"G-G-Gordon," the man stammered. In other circumstances, his voice would probably be considered smooth. The dimpled chin and soft skin, eyes that even in the weak light were unmistakably blue – he might not look like he worked for a living, but some women went for that baby-boy look in a guy.
"All right, Gordon. The one who wants an apology – did you insult his sister?"
"I said she had a nice rack. It was a compliment, you know? But she got mad, so I called her what she was, a stuck-up bitch."
For some people, that would be no big deal. Even if the incident indicated this person was more good-looking than good-mannered, some do not consider words worth killing over.
But then, some do.
"Ok, Gordon, maybe you don't see anything wrong with what you said, but there's one way out of this. You swallow your pride and give the man the apology he wants. And I strongly suggest you avoid his sister in the future. Can you do that?"
"If it means I stay alive, I can do anything."
That said even worse for his character than reacting badly to a rude remark. Someone who will so readily attest to being willing to do anything usually is telling the truth. Someone who values his life above all else likely doesn't hold anyone else's life with the same esteem.
But while Vash figured it was a good bet he had little use for a man like Gordon, the use he did have for him was keeping everyone here alive, and getting his friends out of this safely.
"Ok, Gordon, I want you to apologize, loud and clear."
"I'm sorry," Gordon called.
"For what?" Vash prompted.
"I'm sorry I insulted your sister!"
"C'mon, Gordon, a little more oomph. Your life's on the line."
Trembling, Gordon wailed, "I'm sorry! I was rude to her and I apologize, I won't ever do it again, I swear on my mother's grave!"
Vash wondered whether Gordon's mother was still alive, but that was neither here nor there. The man might be a little too willing to do anything that meant he would live (which could mean apologizing, or could mean leaving others to die; Vash had seen the latter more times than he cared to), but in this case it was the ticket out of this mess.
"You got your apology. Satisfied?"
"Works for me," the gravel-voiced leader of the other group said.
"Good. Let's all be on our way."
"'Fraid not." Guns stayed leveled; tension was still heavy.
"Oh, for – why the hell not?" Vash demanded.
"We lower, you might shoot us."
"I could say the same about you," Wolfwood interjected. "I'll lower after you do."
"And we'll lower after you. Looks like we're here a while longer."
"Hey!" Vash called to everyone. "Eyes on me!"
They all turned one eye to Vash, the other watching everyone else.
"Watch! Just pay attention to me!" Slowly – S-L-O-W-L-Y – Vash de-cocked his revolver. Raised it in plain sight, finger very clearly off the trigger. Broke it open for all to see, emptying shells into the palm of his other hand.
"No bullets," he said loud enough for both groups to hear. "No killing. One at a time, ok? Nobody wants to die, so come the hell on, already!"
The leader of the other group, just as slowly as Vash had, allowing no suddenness that might touch off this powder keg of a situation, de-cocked and emptied his shells, showing the unloaded gun for all to see.
One by one, everyone else followed suit. It was slow, harrowing…it was so tense you almost couldn't breathe. But it got done.
At the end, everyone holding their unloaded guns for everyone else to see, Vash said, "Good. You've got your apology. Nobody's dead. Let's all call it a night."
"Fine by us," the leader of the other four said. "And you –" To Gordon, still on the ground, unwilling to move until no one was watching him. "– watch your mouth from now on." The response was a mute nod.
The two groups went their separate ways, each easing away from the other. Even without guns in play, everybody was still wary. They all knew there were others within range who were armed, and each group would waste no time reloading. Who knew how long this temporary good will would hold?
But it did, long enough for Vash and company to resume their journey.
"All right," Wolfwood said once they were fully on their way again. "Let's get to that play! But first, I could use a drink –" He yelped as Meryl slugged him in the shoulder.
A hair-raising encounter. Guns drawn. Triggers very nearly pulled. All concerned were lucky to be alive.
It was just another Tuesday night on Gunsmoke.