The Amazing Universal Disclaimer: Don't own it. Won't own it. Can't own it. The end.

Author's Note:
A little history seems called for before we begin...

This fic started as your Average Joe Fic, the typical post-anime, Knives-redemption, second-generation-of-Gung-Ho-Guns, Vash/Meryl fic. Don't get me wrong -- a lot of my favorite Trigun fics are exactly like that, and they're excellent. But there's the problem -- I didn't want to write the same thing that a bunch of other people had already done better than me. A couple of months ago, I was desperate for something new -- from a new art medium, to a new writing style, to learning a new language -- I didn't care, I was just sick of always doing all my artwork the same way, be it drawing or writing.

Then we started reading John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath in my AP English class.

I cannot begin to explain how deeply this book affected me. I can't recommend it highly enough to those who haven't read it, and to those who have -- well, I think you'll have some idea of what this fic will be like now. I've drawn on a lot of Grapes of Wrath-esque elements while outlining this fic, one of which was the idea of having every other chapter take place outside the main plotline. Either chronologically or physically, each even-numbered chapter will not focus on the main plot. Also, characters may come and go without warning, and never have any relevance to the plot again. Basically, I'm just going nuts with my artistic license and breaking as many rules and standards as I can. So... read at your own risk. .

And by God, even though I have major issues concerning actually finishing the fics I start, this bloody thing will get out of my head if I have to force it out at gunpoint. has a determined look as she settles in for the long haul on this monstrosity So, ladies and gentlemen... enjoy the show.

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Chapter One: Fool's Paradise
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Vash... Vash.

Is he waking up?

I think so.

I'll get the water.

The ground bounced. Not ground -- it was too soft. Car seat. The backseat of a Jeep. His feet knocked against the far door, and his knees were stiff. Too tall to lay down inside without scrunching up.

Sore... aching all over. Body and mind, both hurt. Everything hurt.

Then a small hand sliding under his neck, fingers tangling in his matted hair, pulling out strands with little stinging pops. Skin on skin was too hot; as soon as the hand touched him, sweat broke out, and he tried to protest, flinching away.

The owner of the hand heard the weak sound he made, barely above a whisper, and hesitated.

Is he okay? Did he just try to talk?

I can't tell.

The hand shifted against his neck, even more unpleasant than before. Now his neck felt like it was on fire, but his forehead was cold and clammy. He shivered. His arms were cold, too... why were his arms bare? His coat was always warm... even in the freezing desert night, always warm and red and comforting.

It was gone. Coat, gun, innocence, sanity. Gone.

Another hand settled across his forehead, first the back of the hand, then the palm. Fingers brushed his damp hair out of his face, tucked some of it behind his ears, smoothed the rest of it back.

The fever's worse.

How far is it to Terma?

We'll never make it in time.

But where else can we go? Terma and December have the only hospitals that might take him... the only places too crowded for him to be recognized.

I know, I know... but December's too far. We have to get to Terma.

The hand on his forehead retreated, but the hand on his neck only slid around further, getting a firmer grip on the back of his head. He wished it would let go.

Head tilting forward... something damp brushing against his cracked lips... liquid heaven pouring into his mouth. He swallowed reflexively. It burned going down, making him cough up grit and bile. His head spun from the involuntary spasms, his diaphragm tightening painfully, constricting his lungs. He gasped, struck with a momentary irrational panic -- he couldn't breathe, couldn't get a full lungful of air. Then the same hand that had touched his forehead pressed into his throat, massaging the constricted area until it relaxed, opening up bit by bit until he could breathe again.

Give him another drink.

Sempai... we're low on water.

He needs it more than we do. He can't get dehydrated. Give it to him.

This time it went down easier, easing the acid, rasping pain of the bile that had come up when he'd coughed. The water bottle retreated after three swallows, though, much to his chagrin. Whoever was holding his head up lowered it back down to the car seat. After a little while, the combination of the water sloshing in his mostly-empty stomach, his position flat on his back, and the bumping, rolling motion of the Jeep made him feel even sicker than he had before. He wished he could sit up, but he couldn't move.

We're almost out of gas.

Isn't there a gas can in the back?

It's not enough. Only half full. If the speedometer on this junk heap isn't messed up, we've still got three hundred iles to go.

The voices faded in and out of his hearing. The irritation of being folded up like an accordion was getting to him. He tried to relieve some of the stiffness in his legs by turning onto his side, but as soon as he started tensing muscles in his legs and abdomen, a wave of nausea punched through his guts like a sledgehammer. He gagged, tensing reflexively, which in turn made the sickness worse.



The Jeep jerked a little to the side as the driver balked at the sharp tone of the other's voice.

Don't scare me like that -- what is it?

He's getting sicker!

I can't do anything! The voice sounded helpless, scared. If he looks like he's gonna puke, get his head out the door, at least!

Mr. Vash? Mr. Vash!

But the nausea was subsiding, only a couple of dry retches marking its passing. The nasty taste of bile tainted the back of his throat again. He longed for more water, for stillness and solitude and cool skin. He didn't remember any of those things. The Jeep was hot, his body was sweltering, the water that was cool going down was only getting warmer the longer it was in him; he was miserable.

Maybe it'd help if he sat up for a while?

Anything -- anything. Don't let him throw up if you can help it. He can't afford to be any more dehydrated.

Strong arms around his body now, lifting him up. His stiff knees protested being unbent -- they'd been that way for hours. But the less horizontal he got, the more his stomach settled, and for that he was infinitely grateful. Sore muscles couldn't compare with the relief of not feeling like he was about to choke on his own vomit at any second.

Mr. Vash -- please be all right.

Inane, quiet, pleading words that fell on uncomprehending ears. Something was horribly wrong, but he didn't know what it was, and he had the strangest sensation that he should remember something that hadn't happened yet, but he couldn't get a grip on it... and the world spun a little for a second, but the dizzy spell passed, and then he was leaning slumped against a familiar body that he couldn't quite recognize. Vision was going blurry. Sleep? Blackout? What was wrong?

There were four people in the Jeep.

For some reason, that was the last thought that penetrated his sick, fatigued mind before he passed out.

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We're almost there! Wake him up, if you can --

Waking was like wading through a boiling tar pit. Everything was hot -- black -- sticky -- nauseating.

Mr. Vash -- Mr. Vash -- look. It's your ship. You'll be all better soon...

Your ship. It echoed in his mind, mushed around in his head like bubble gum caught in the gears of a jaw. There was something strange about that possessive. Your ship...

Someone moved, turned. His eyes had unstuck themselves to where he could just see a faint line of light through his sunburned lids, so that when the person in front of him moved, he could see a little blur of shadow that might have been a misshapen silhouette. Even that tiny hint of light was enough to send sharp stabs of pain through his temples, though, so he closed his eyes again, trying to will his body to cool down and failing miserably.



Ten more minutes, tops. Try to get him sitting up again.

Are you sure there'll be a doctor there?

Hesitation; hands clenched around the steering wheel, white-knuckled. There has to be. He talked about a doctor when he told me... Told her what? told about his past? arm? brother? He vaguely remembered spilling a large part of his story to someone else... someone short, raven-haired, clad in white... but it hadn't been the whole story.

Some distant synapses fired then, and two pieces of random information clicked together in his head.

Doctor. Your ship.

[fighting puppets and blood and rains of bullets and wolfwood hated feared outsider ship jessica was right it wasn't my fault it wasn't my fault it wasn't my fault it wasn't but he died in my arms and i couldn't do any anything and she was only string and metal]

His eyes squeezed shut tight, one hand weakly curling up as if to make a fist. The nausea roiled through him once again. Why go there? Why go there now? The Doc could help me, but no one can help him.

Him.

Four people in the Jeep. Tall woman in the back, caring for him, feeling his forehead, giving away precious water and time and care. Another woman driving, worried, anxious, tense, sometimes swerving because of shaking hands. And in the front seat...

Mr. Vash, please try to move. Strong arms around his back and waist, lifting. Not too fast -- there you go. Before he knew it, he was sitting up. He thought he might have blacked out momentarily.

The tall woman sat behind the driver's seat, leaning across the backseat to give much-needed support to the sick man. He stared through slitted, blurry eyes at the pale blond head peeking over the top of the seat in front of him. It wasn't moving. No -- that wasn't true. It was moving with the motion of the car, bouncing whenever the driver hit a bump, lolling from side to side when she made a sharp turn.

Limp. Broken. Unconscious.





The crashed ship loomed up ahead of them.

Shouldn't we try to wake up Mr. Vash's br--



The shadow of the ship fell across the Jeep, blessedly cool and dim.

He can't walk, though. I can't carry both of them.

I'll... I'll do it. The driver sounded mildly fearful -- and a little repulsed. I'll do it, she repeated, louder, as if to confirm it to herself.

You can't lift him, sempai, said the other gently. You take Mr. Vash. I think he's awake enough to take some of his own weight.

The driver made a little sound of consent, but it wasn't sharp or brief enough to hide the infinite relief in her voice.

And then everything became a blur, a staggered stop-motion movie, merely a game that he was watching from the sidelines. He watched himself being lifted out of the Jeep, slumped, drooping, barely able to stand. Some small part of him -- instinct, nothing more -- tried to keep his body upright and walking. It didn't do much good, but it was enough to keep the struggling driver from collapsing under him. The other, the tall woman, had gone out of his field of view, but he couldn't turn his head to find her. So he stared ahead, partly watching his surroundings through his own eyes, partly watching the horizon and himself from somewhere outside his body. He felt disconnected, as severed from himself as his own arm. He did not tell his muscles to move, yet they did. He did not tell himself to be afraid, yet he was.

A twisted, crumpled door was the last thing he saw before he lost himself to darkness again.

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Dim. Cool. Quiet. Still. There was something soft beneath him, and he was able to lie straight, without bending his legs. A cool, damp something covered his forehead and eyes.

There were murmuring voices in the darkness. He realized that that was what had woken him.

... mainly due to the heat exhaustion, but when the Doc checked him over, he found that two of his gunshot wounds had become infected as well. You did the best thing, keeping him hydrated. There wasn't much else that could have been done without any disinfectant on hand.

He will be all right, won't he?

Of course. He's survived worse. You should have seen the state of his left arm when he came back to us after the July incident. He hadn't treated it at all -- it was shredded and infected like you wouldn't believe. It took a whole damn lot of work to get him pieced back together enough to attach a synthetic replacement. Guy's pain tolerance must be through the roof.

I don't know. I don't think so. He's never liked pain.

He wouldn't. No one does. I just mean he takes it better than most.

I know. He... The voice trailed off, and there was a very pregnant pause. It returned after a moment, abruptly changing the subject. Thank you so much for taking us in. It was pure chance that we saw the ship on the horizon -- we were trying to get to Terma.

Well, we've always taken Vash-kun in. He's one of us. But... look, ma'am, I don't want to be rude or anything, it's not my way, but... no one here likes outsiders. Last time any outsider came around with Vash-san, two of our Plants were killed and our city crashed. Leaves a little bit of a mark, you know? A lot of people don't trust Vash anymore, and almost no one trusts outsiders. Just a few, just the people who follow the Doc, like me. And... there's the matter of the... other one... The voice hesitated. Honestly, even I can't trust Vash completely, not after he goes and crashes our city and then has the gall to bring him here... Well, a lot of the old-timers here know Vash-san's whole story, and they know who that other one is. You haven't got many allies here, Miss. I'll help Vash, but I won't go near the other. No one will. The sooner Vash heals, the better.

I understand, came the second voice, quietly, resolutely. I'll tell Milly not to go out too much. Thank you for everything.

Don't thank me too soon, ma'am, said the other voice, a little apologetic. I can't guarantee anything. I'll talk to Natalie as soon as I can.

Thank you, the second voice repeated.

Shuffling footsteps and the hiss of an automatic sliding door. A pause, then, and a little patch of blurred light from the bright hallway fluttering against his covered eyes.

I -- I'm sorry if I worried you, ma'am. I don't mean to say that we here are violent people. I just mean that some things are kind of...

Unforgivable. I know. Thank you. The voice was less receptive now, a little more cold.

Yes, ma'am, came the wretched, mumbled reply.

The door hissed shut.

There was a heavy sigh from somewhere near the door, and then light footsteps coming in his direction. His foggy mind had worked out that he was in a bed, similar to a hospital bed, like the beds that had been on his ship at home.

Again, he thought in terms of possession. My ship... my home...

Have I ever had a home? I don't think so. I don't remember.

The cool, soft thing was removed from his forehead, making him snap back to reality. He tried to protest, but the only thing that came out was a pitiful little cross between a moan and a grunt. Even that little bit of vibration in his vocal cords made liquid fire run down his throat and into his lungs.

Whoever had been talking to the intruder was leaning over him now. A pale face swam into view -- small, finely boned, framed with unkempt black hair... Vash, are you awake? He dragged his eyes open a minute fraction further, and she took that as an affirmative. A small hand settled on his forehead, dispelling all of the lovely coolness that had been lingering there. He grimaced at the burning touch. You're still clammy, the woman standing by him sighed, sounding vaguely disappointed, brushing hair out of his face. She refolded the damp washcloth -- the soft thing that had been on his head, he noticed lethargically -- so that a fresh side was on the outside. Gently, she draped it across his head again, instantly easing a large portion of his discomfort.

Can you speak? asked the woman, leaning closer to him now.

He pondered this question. He worked his vocal cords again -- the fire wasn't as bad this time, but it still burned like hell, and he wasn't going to be making any speeches anytime soon. The leftover acidity of bile was sharp at the back of his throat, making his weak attempt at speech scratchy and hoarse.

he finally managed, blinking slowly, acutely feeling the weight of his eyelids as they moved.

Oh -- oh! I'll go get some, of course, said the woman, looking a little flustered. I meant to earlier -- forgot -- I'll be right back!

And then she was gone. He stared at the ceiling. At least he thought it was the ceiling. It was curved, and dark gray. There was a reddish-brown splotch that looked like rust directly above his head. His mind was getting foggy again, but... but he was fairly certain... that it wasn't rust.

Without warning, his throat became a lot drier.

He was losing his mind again, wandering off and leaving it drifting behind him. He felt like he ought to be going somewhere, but he didn't know where or why or how to get there, he just knew he ought to get on his way or he wouldn't get there before time ran out. But it was like walking into a room only to forget why you needed to be there -- he couldn't remember what he was supposed to do. A hint of thought flashed through his brain -- [name i need a name what's my name i don't remember it and that can't be right]

I don't deserve a name.

That confused him. Why had he thought that so clearly? Why did the part of him that couldn't remember anything hunger for memories while the part that did remember everything rejected memory itself?

Bewilderment went on a rapid downhill slide to weariness, and his eyes drooped. Part of him wanted to stay awake for a little while, at least for long enough to get a drink of water and try to speak. But that part was the minority, and so, without much of a fight, he let himself sink backwards, submerging himself under the black tide of sleep.

Just before he went under, a random thought flitted through his head... and Vash remembered.
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Post-Chapter Ramblings: FUN WITH PRONOUNS! Seriously. I made a conscious attempt to not name a single character in the narrative (dialogue doesn't count). The only time I used Vash's name was in the last sentence. And that is my artsy-ness for this one chappie. takes a bow, ducks possible incoming vegetables