A/N: So, uh… it's been a while.
Honest, I am terribly sorry for the ridiculous wait, and I feel awful about it. I had a lot of sad things happen in my personal life recently that really devastated me, but now I feel that I'm able to move on. Anyway, I hope that everyone enjoys the new chapter!
Disclaimer: The Trigun universe and its characters do not belong to me. I do own any and all OCs.
Chapter Two
"In all good Westerns, the good guy is always a bit questionable because he kind of has to make moral judgments."
-Daniel Craig
It was an exceptionally hot day.
Not that Gunsmoke was known for its temperate whether, but today was especially bad. Nicholas D. Wolfwood was unsure he could walk much farther, and was seriously contemplating lying face down in the sand and hoping that a bus would come by.
The heat tended to blanket the mind, causing all thoughts to float around like pesky insects and leaving people unable to focus, let alone speak.
Apparently, not all people suffered from this misfortune, thought Wolfwood, glaring at the figure opposite him.
It had been just one day since they had left all that nonsense at Macca City. One day of trekking through the God forsaken desert to track down the Dodongo brothers, wherever the hell they were.
Probably living it up and drinking ice cold water, Wolfwood thought sourly.
Twenty four hours of desert. Twenty four hours of thirst. Twenty four hours of sun. Twenty four hours of –
How in the hell was he still talking?
Vash the Stampede, despite his long and heavy looking red coat, was still going strong, hoofing it in whatever direction they were going. The man had not stopped blabbering since they left Macca City. Apparently he did not get a dry throat from talking.
And he certainly had a blabbermouth to go along with that noodle noggin of his. The man would not shut up about what doughnuts were his favorite, how nice of a day it was today (yeah right, though Wolfwood), and how gosh-darned glad he was that the insurance girls weren't stalking him twenty four seven.
"I mean, they're nice and all", said Vash, "but it just gets bothersome after a while, don't you think, Wolfwood?"
Wolfwood gave a noncommittal grunt.
And just like magic, he saw it. Oh, God had answered his prayers. For there, in the distance, was the most beautiful thing he ever saw.
To the critical eye, the town would seem dumpy, backwater, and thoroughly unattractive, but to Nicolas D. Wolfwood, it was a vision of exquisite beauty.
Vash was blissfully unaware of this new development, having recently tripped over a rock and was now sprawled on the ground. Wolfwood hefted the Punisher over his shoulder and jabbed Vash between the shoulder blades.
"Ow!" cried the man, trying to shield himself from the oncoming blows. "What was that for?"
"Idiot," said Wolfwood, rolling his eyes. "You'd lose your head if it wasn't attached. There's a town up ahead."
"A town!" exclaimed Vash, face brightening immediately. "I could go for a nice glass of water; I am pretty thirsty."
You should be, after all that nonsense, brooded Wolfwood venomously.
The town's name was Temperance, which Wolfwood found incredibly ironic, seeing how there was a saloon every other building.
It was a small town – only two long strips of buildings, and beyond that, more desert. The majority of the town was its Plant, which cut an impressive figure among the rest of the tired settlement.
Other than its sparse landscape, Temperance seemed like any other town. Kids played in the street, old women sat on stoops and gossiped, men hung about the entrance of saloons having just consumed enough alcohol to be pleasantly drunk.
The first bar they saw used to have had a name printed on the wooden sign that dangled from the entrance, but years of wind and sand had worn it away until the sign was little more than a piece of sandpaper. Five men with narrowed eyes and scowls loitered around the entrance, their hands resting on their holsters.
"This looks as good a place as any!" Vash attested.
Out of nowhere, the two boys who were playing across the street punted their ball in the direction of the two men. Tired as they may have been, instinct outweighed weariness, and Vash and Wolfwood dropped to the dusty ground.
One of the boys (who looked to be about eight) boldly marched up to the two.
"Get out of our town!" he demanded, stamping his foot on the ground for emphasis. "You're not welcome here! Get out!"
Vash chucked sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. "Surely you don't mean that," he petitioned. "You see, my friend and I have been walking for a very long time, and we'd like something to drink."
One of the men from the bar strode over and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Emmet's right," he said gruffly. "We don't take kindly to strangers here in Temperance."
"Listen, sir," Wolfwood reasoned. "We would just like a drink, and then we'll be out of your hair."
His haggard appearance must have struck a chord with the man, or maybe Wolfwood, with his sunglasses and cigarette, seemed much more relatable than the man in the funny coat with the wild hair.
"Fine," the man groused, but hand in your weapons before goin' in. We don't want no trouble.
"Fine by me," said Vash, handing over his revolver. "Just be careful with it, ok?"
"Funny lookin' gun," said the man, inspecting it.
"I suppose it is," said Vash with an easy smile. "Your turn, Wolfwood."
Without pretence, the priest tossed Punisher to the man.
"What the hell –" the local managed to get out while struggling under the weight.
"Thanks," said Wolfwood with a wave of his hand as he turned towards the saloon.
Inside was quiet and dark. The bartender nervously polished glasses at the counter, while the poker game a nearby table halted momentarily when the players stared suspiciously at the newcomers from under the brims of their hats.
Before they could even open their mouths, the bartender hurriedly shoved an unmarked bottle and two glasses toward Vash and Wolfwood. His expression made it plain that he would not make any substitutions.
The liquid was sickly yellow and tasted foul.
Vash reluctantly poured himself another while the bartender glared and polished an already clean glass; Wolfwood glanced around the room.
The men at the one table had ceased pretending that they were playing poker, and were now fully invested in staring at Vash and Wolfwood. Opposite them was another man who Wolfwood deduced was the sheriff. The man nursed his drink while simultaneously puffing out his chest so that his badge was fully visible.
Wolfwood disliked him immediately.
From his position at the bar, he had a lovely vantage point that allowed him to look out the window onto the street, where quite a crowd had gathered.
The man who had taken Vash's gun and Punisher had laid them on the ground and was giving them a full inspection as the crowd watched. Suddenly, Punisher's side arms opened up to reveal the storage bin that held eight Grader 2043 pistols. The crowd scattered like a flock of frightened birds, and Wolfwood laughed into his drink.
Despite the vile flavor, the bottle was soon emptied between the two of them.
The second Vash's finished glass touched the counter, the bartender swept away the remains in a flash of light and tossed them haphazardly beneath the counter.
He'll probably burn them later, Wolfwood thought sarcastically.
"There," snapped the man in a ferrety sort of voice. "You've had your drink, now get out."
He steered them towards the door with unnecessary force and shoved them out through the swinging doors onto the street. The extensive crowd that Wolfwood had noticed before had died down, and only the man who had taken their weapons remained, along with the boy Emmet.
"That all you'll be wanting?" sneered the man. "Oh would you like directions to the bank while you're at it?"
Despite all the insults, Vash still had an amiable grin on his face. "That won't be necessary. But thank you for all your help."
The man grunted distrustfully.
As was his nature, Vash began to make small talk. "You know, in a small town like this, I'd think you'd be more welcoming to strangers."
"Not now, Noodle-noggin," Wolfwood hissed to his companion. "Don't go sticking your foot in your mouth."
The boy Emmet, who was standing on tiptoe (probably in an attempt to intimidate the towering Vash), said "Why should we? It's not our job to be a welcoming party, 'specially not after –"
"Emmet!" interrupted the man. "That's enough out of you."
"After what?" asked Vash.
Silence.
"C'mon," prompted Wolfwood. "These people aren't going to say anymore. Let's get out of here."
They headed down the road to the opposite side of town from which they arrived. When they were about ten feet from stepping into the desert again, someone stopped them.
"Wait!" Emmet cried. Vash turned.
The boy sprinted down the street and was panting by the time he was level with them.
"Don't leave that way. Go back around."
"Can't do that, kid," said Wolfwood. "We've got to go this way."
Emmet was on the verge of tears. "No!" he pleaded. "Not that way! Just go around!"
Vash squatted down so his turquoise eyes stared into defiant gray ones. "What's wrong, Emmet?"
Now that he had his target's attention, the boy seemed reluctant to speak, and shifted nervously from foot to foot.
"You can't go that way," he mumbled, eyes on the ground. A few wayward and unwanted tears wet the dusty ground.
Wolfwood remained silent. He had plenty of experience with kids like this, and knew that they only way they would talk was on their own terms.
"Emmet!" called the man from down the road, hurrying towards them. "Emmet!"
Emmet was still sniffling when the man reached them.
"Whatever Emmet's told you, forget it," he rumbled. "That there desert is just as safe as the one you came out of."
"No, Dad," Emmet protested. "The bandits –"
"That's enough," said the boy's father firmly. "I don't want to hear another word out of you."
Bandits? Their curiosity was peaked.
"What was that?" asked Vash politely, trying to mask his interest.
"I told you, it's nothin'," protested the man.
Wolfwood raised an eyebrow. "I don't think so," he countered.
A change came over the man's face. His mouth was still set in a firm line and his craggy face looked like stone, but his eyes became softer and slightly more accommodating.
"Dad, please," begged Emmet. "I don't want anyone else to die."
"Fine," the man resented. "Just this once."
"Two months ago this town was a bustling little enterprise. Temperance was a happy place, with good, honest, hard working people. I wish that it had stayed that way. Yeah, the people living here are still the salt of the earth, but recent events have caused us to be a little distrusting of outsiders."
"Bandits?" asked Vash. The four of them were back in the bar. The locals' eyes were still distrustful, but since they were accompanied by Emmet and his father, Steel, they were left well enough alone.
"Yeah," said Steel, taking a swig from his hip flask. The man refused to touch the foul-smelling swill that the bartender proffered. "They came in like an overnight dust storm. Damn near wiped out the bank. They come back every couple 'a weeks and do it all over again. They're ruthless bastards, too. Anyone gets in their way, well…" he swallowed hard. "Now that news has gotten 'round 'bout our misfortune, no one wants to come near Temperance anymore. It's just a matter of time before this town dries up and blows away in the wind."
"So the bandits come from the east, then?" inquired Wolfwood.
"Yeah," said Emmet. The stool he sat on was so high off the ground that his feet didn't touch the floor. "If you go on their land, I don't know what they'd do to you."
There was a short, tense silence. As the wind howled outside, a new patron entered the bar. A strange clacking noise seemed to follow him as he walked to his seat.
Emmet clung onto his stool, and Steel slowly reached for his gun.
"What's wrong?" muttered Vash, concerned.
Steel's eyes darted back and forth nervously. "I don't recognize that one. Could be a bandit; we can't take any chances."
The newcomer certainly looked suspicious. He had a large hat and goggles that made it hard to see his eyes. Even in the heat, he wore a long coat and pants. They couldn't even see his hands with the utilitarian, fingerless gloves he wore.
The bartender furtively reached underneath the counted and brought out a mousegun. He tried to make his way over to the table, but Steel block him with his hand.
"Let me handle this," he muttered. The bartender nodded and handed him the weapon.
Steel approached the table. "Haven't seen you around here before," he said lightly. Behind his back he clutched the mousegun with trembling fingers.
The Stranger did not respond.
"You're not welcome here," Steel threatened, his voice shaking. "You can just clear on out."
Still, nothing.
"Do I need to say it again?" Steel shouted, "You're not welcome here! Now just clear off and join your bandit friends. We don't want no trouble!"
Finally, The Stranger moved. In one swift motion he somehow managed to pin Steel against the floor in a hammerlock.
"Dad!" yelled Emmet. Vash and Wolfwood both drew their weapons and pointed them towards The Stranger. Emmet pulled on Vash's sleeve.
"No!" he cried, "You'll hit my Dad!"
Before Vash could reply, The Stranger spoke.
"Listen, Mister," he snarled.
That's odd, Wolfwood thought. It almost sounds like he's a –
"I came here pursuing a bounty and I'd appreciate it if you stayed out of my way."
"I'm sorry!" implored Steel. "Please forgive me; I thought you were one of the bandits."
When The Stranger hesitated, Vash took the initiative. He fired a warning shot, blowing The Stranger's hat clear off his head.
It was only then that Wolfwood realized why he had been confused before. Ash brown locks tumbled from the hat and rested delicately onto the woman's shoulders.
Vash's gun hand went limp. "Sorry, miss," he apologized gallantly. "I didn't realize."
Oh great, Wolfwood thought. Now he'll turn on the charm.
"Don't apologize to her," shouted Emmet indignantly. "She pinned my Dad!"
The bounty hunter slowly stood up, releasing Steel from his hold.
"Dad!" called Emmet, hurrying over. "Dad, are you alright?"
"I'm fine, boy," replied his father stiffly, rubbing his shoulder.
The woman walked, still clanking, over to where her hat had fallen and picked it up disdainfully.
"Damn," she sighed. "That was my best hat."
"Who the hell are you?" asked Wolfwood. "Even if you're not a bandit, I see no reason why we shouldn't get the sheriff right now, or just take care of you ourselves."
"Now, now, Wolfwood," demurred Vash. "I'm sure this is all just a big misunderstanding. No need for more violence to get involved."
Wolfwood rolled his eyes. "You and your pacifism. Does more harm than good in my opinion."
The woman seemed to be slightly amused by this scene, and swaggered up to the pair with a smirk on her face.
"My name is Molly McCall," she retorted. She turned back towards Emmet and Steel, who regarded her with loathing. "You see, dears, I'm a bounty hunter. Quite good, too."
"So what?" snarled Emmet. Molly's smirk widened into a grin that seemed too wide to be friendly.
"So what?" she cried. "Kid, I'm your dream come true. Consider this: if you ask nicely, I'll get rid of your bandit problem for you."
The bar was so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop.
Emmet's voice was shaky. "You'll – you'll make the bandits go away?"
Molly's feral grin was now a Cheshire Cat smile. "For a price."
A/N: Phew! This chapter was a pain to get out! So much exposition! Anyway, I hope that I'll be able to get chapters out a bit quicker, thank you all for your patience!
~Gilly