I do not own Vash the Stampede, Rem Saverem, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Milly Thompson, Meryl Stryfe, etc: they all belong to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow.

It occurs to me that Vash -might- compose letters in his mind as the way that he re-examines his day, unwinds, and learns any lessons he can from it.

This is an attempt to blend the tales in both manga and anime. Anywhere there is contradicting information, the manga's will be used. I use manga dates where they are given. Where dates are not given, I'm using my best guesstimate.

As the various "Unwritten Letters" accumulate, there will be more and more spoilers.

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Drunkard

Year 110, month 6, day 12

Dear Rem,

This week I met a very sad man.

He was a gunsmith, one of the best. Some people called him "legendary" and "a genius."

Yet a tragedy had driven him to drink. A bank robber had killed this poor man's wife and daughter. I don't know who was looking after his son, though it's certain the youth wasn't with his father when I visited.

The poor man was too rarely sober to be a good parent at that time, so it's not surprising that his son was elsewhere. Come to think on it, the boy should be in his late teens by now. Perhaps he'd learned enough from his father to set up his own shop. I'll see what I can find out.

I feel so sorry for him. It must hurt him so much to be parted from his family, especially with most of them dead. If I can help him and his son to not be estranged, maybe that will help both of them to heal.

I literally bumped into the father as he came out of a bar, looking for someone to buy him a drink. He tackled me, and wouldn't let me go – even after he threw up on me – until I agreed to buy him a drink.

I'd gone to that town hoping to find him, since my revolver needed a tune-up. It took feeding him a few drinks before I realized I'd found the man I sought. He was so broken; it almost hurt just to look at him. It did hurt to talk with him, because he was hurting so badly.

I drank with him, enough to make myself sick. I can imagine your disapproving look, dear Rem. I couldn't think of any better way to comfort him.

I tried to treat him with respect, since his own hometown had lost respect for him. I tried to meet him where he lived, and, sadly, that was at the bottom of a bottle. I hoped that treating him with respect, and meeting him where he was, would help him to find himself again. I hoped that would help him to heal.

Deep in his cups, he expressed the idea that the only way to avoid hurting others was to do nothing. In his mind, that had become something like equality. Or perhaps it was only his pain speaking. I don't know.

You see, the gun that slew his wife and daughter was one he'd crafted and given away himself. It is possible that fact hurt him as much as losing his family did, that his gift had been so badly misused that it took away two of those he held most dear.

When he passed out, I covered him up so he'd not grow ill from taking a chill. Desert nights can grow very cold, even indoors.

The next morning, when I went out to find an alcohol-free breakfast, a robber came to that town. He claimed to be "Vash the Stampede," which is what most people call me.

Never mind why I'm called that: it's not important. What matters is that this brigand was using my name to frighten the townsfolk into cooperating. He'd even conscripted those two young insurance girls to carry the town's money from the bank into his car.

I'd seen the girls in town the day before, and knew they were still looking for me. So when this robber turned up claiming to be me, I suspect they approached him as they did the last man that they thought might be me. Because of that, their lives were in danger.

I was so worried about them that I had to do something. So I confronted him. A member of his gang said the gang boss was "Vash the Stampede" to my face.

I said the first thing that popped into my mind, which I daresay you'd find highly amusing. I told him I'd heard the real Vash was more handsome. That probably didn't endear me to him, but it may have annoyed him enough that he would make a mistake.

Mistakes from people who want to hurt others can be helpful. They can give me opportunities to protect the innocent. Sometimes they help me protect the ones who make the mistakes, too.

Anyway, I'd left my revolver with the gunsmith and didn't want to reveal my concealed weapon. So I pointed my finger at him from my pocket. I behaved as if that was a gun, which apparently convinced the robbers well enough to make them hesitate.

Then, to my surprise, I discovered that many of the town's folk still had the guns they'd been given by the gunsmith when other bandits had invaded. When I stood up to the robbers, others pulled their guns and stood with me. It was a beautiful moment.

The gunsmith came out of his drunken stupor, and stood against the robbers with the townspeople. The bandits were driven out of town. Nobody got hurt, Rem. I'm still very happy about that. I don't like it when people get hurt.

The gunsmith tuned up my revolver, and said he wasn't going to drink anymore. He even offered to tune up my gun again any time it was needed. I hadn't expected him to be so generous.

I felt good about the way the town began to respect him again. I liked even better how he was beginning to regain respect for himself.

I think I managed everything without the insurance girls learning who I am. At least, I hope I did. I'm really starting to worry about them. They're so determined to find me, and imposters may harm them. I don't want them to be harmed. I want them to thrive.

Unfortunately, the girls also left town today. They are traveling in the same direction as I am. If this continues, they may learn who I am. That may make it more difficult to avoid them.

I don't know if I can protect them adequately if they're close to me when something truly bad happens. Somehow, I seem to be a magnet for bad things. I don't want those children to be hurt when bad situations or misguided violent people come into my life.

I already knew that treating everyone well is always the right thing to do. I saw it work better than usual, when the gunsmith abandoned drunkenness and rediscovered himself. He now says he has better things to do with his time. I was very pleased to see him grow better.

I did leave town in the direction that the bandits took, to make sure they kept going.

I can't think of anything else to tell you about this last week, even if you were here.

I've never forgotten you. I still miss you, Rem. I hope that you and your Alex are together, and happy, wherever you are.

- Vash "the Stampede"