Guignol: The Life and Times of Leonof the Puppetmaster
A Trigun Maximum Fanfic by The Acolyte of Chaos
Summary: Everyone has a story, even if it isn't well-known. How does a person go fromleading a normal existance to being the most skilled (and deadly) showman on the planet? Follow young Emilio as he makes friends, falls in love, experiences tragedy, plays with dolls, and becomes the creepiest old man ever to walk the face of Gunsmoke.
Disclaimer: I don't own Trigun, Leonof, or anything else associated with them. I have the complete DVD collection, and all the mangas that have been released in English, but that's about it. Not only that, but I don't have a job, so suing me is pointless.
Spoiler Level: Low at first, but the spoilers will start coming towards the middle of the story. The last chapters, of course, will completelyruin Trigun Maximum 3 for you if you haven't read it already.
Genre: Drama/Tragedy. Anyone familiar with the manga should be nodding their heads here.
Pairings: Emilio/Isabel, others to be added at my discretion.
Author's Notes: I'm doing this because I can. I've decided to post as I write (against my better judgement), so any readers who like are gonna have to review to encourage me.
This is a minor crossover. It's not nesscessary to be familliar with any other universes in question though... my notes will tell you all you need to know without a bunch of spoilers, so fear not.
Also, this is manga-based, but you should still be able to follow along if you've seen the anime. The only major difference here is that the final battle between Leonof and Vash is different, and of course, there's Legato, the extra GHGs and all that, but that's stuff you can find out anywhere.
Alright, let's do this.
Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality.
Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see." - Queen (Freddie Mercury), "Bohemian Rhapsody"
Prologue: Darkness
151 A.F. (After Fall)
The man in the red trenchcoat stood in a field of scattered body parts. The blinding afternoon suns made him sweat and squint at once, and the effect was to make him look like he was weeping for his fallen victims.
He hadn't, however, killed anyone recently. In fact, the body parts lying on the ground were not actually human. Or dead. For that matter, they weren't even body parts.
He was crying, though. The constructs that had fallen to pieces before him were amazingly lifelike, and they had been constructed in the likenesses of people he considered his friends. When he looked at the devices later, he would marvel at their craftsmanship. Their skin looked and felt like real flesh, right down to the warmth of an actual human body. Their faces were capable of assuming any expression possible to an actual person. Their eyes were moist, as healthy organic eyes should be (when a doctor examined one of the puppets later, he found what were apparently tear ducts built into the eyes). In short, they looked exactly like an actual human being.
The monster standing across from the man in red remained expressionless. He looked far less human than his marionettes (he held a ventriloquist's doll in his left arm which, with its green hair and purple suit, only managed to make its holder look even more lifeless by comparison). Although it was unlikely, Vash thought it was technically possible that the man in the black coat and funny looking top hat had never learned about emotion of any kind. It was possible to get depressed just looking at him. His lips were so thin, his face so utterly blank, that had he not had the fuzzy moustache, the gunslinger would have been hard-pressed to point out his adversary's mouth. When speech did come from those lifeless-looking lips, the effect was startling.
"Welcome to the puppet show," the man said, in a rather conversational tone of voice.
There was a pause of a couple of seconds here to let his not-quite captive audience speak. When neither Vash nor his traveling companion spoke up in that short time, the man continued. This would most likely be the zenith of his existence, the defining moment of his entire life, and he'd be damned if he spent the moment staring at his foe in an awkward silence.
"I am Gung-Ho-Gun Number Four, Leonof the Puppetmaster. Again, I welcome you to the puppet show."
When his target did not respond (a couple of tears rolled down Vash's cheek, but the gunslinger said nothing), Leonof spoke again.
"Vash the Stampede, you are magnificent. A splendid audience. Merely with the artful technique of my fingertips, you cry, shocked, from the bottom of your heart. Truly magnificent. I..."
The priest chose that moment to open fire with his massive gun. Leonof had been completely aware of the priest's signature weapon (the huge, cross-shaped, canvas-wrapped bundle was impossible to miss), but it was amazing to see him draw it so quickly.
"Sorry, you sick bastard, but playtime ends here," the priest said, staring at the smashed ruins of the tree Leonof had been standing by.
The puppetmaster, however, remained alive and well. With a twitch of a finger, one of the more than four thousand strings he used to manipulate his puppets had whipped around the massive, cross-shaped submachine gun's barrel and pulled it down. The gun fired, but its intended target was untouched. Leonof was irritated regardless.
"Now, now," he mocked, "that is my line." He looked down at the dummy he was holding and flinched. It was a really good thing he kept spare parts on hand...
"Your barrel is off center," he said, holding up his now mangled doll, "You have to aim higher. You damaged Unica."
"Damn..." the priest swore under his breath. He raised the cross-gun to fire again.
He appears to be merely a meek, timid old man, he thought (marginally concerned that said old man apparently wasn't worried about the shots that had come less than three feet from his chest), but he's really a member of the Gung-Ho-Guns?
Well, what do you think? I apologize for the first few chapters, which will have a lot of setup, but I'll do my best to make it interesting. Bear with me for a few chapters, and I think you'll find it worth the trouble. You know, Stephen King never has to say that... Oh well.
