DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.
"I'm sorry, son," the old man said, "I just don't need any help right now."
"That's ok," Vash replied. "It's good when a man has his home all the way in order. Thanks for hearing me out."
"Tell you what." The old homeowner dug in his pocket. "I hate to turn someone away with nothing. Here's some money for a meal, at least, you having gone to the trouble of coming out here and all."
"Thanks!" said Vash, genuinely appreciative. In his hard experience, people often were only willing to part with money in exchange for something of benefit to them.
It didn't bring him a meal fit for a king, but neither did him bring him bread and water. It was a good medium-sized breakfast, plenty enough that he was glad to have it, even if the waitress thought it odd that he requested to sit where he did. That was ok; Vash thought it a good thing that someone should be innocent enough to be unaware that his position offered the greatest view both of the door and the window showing the outside.
What a conundrum that such things as a good vantage point that could save your life should feel so…heavy. Yes, that was the word – knowing what it took to stay alive, not being able to completely relax even in the little things, that just felt a very heavy burden.
What must it be like to be innocent? To be able to drop your guard completely around people? If he had ever known, Vash had long forgotten…
Uh-oh. His thoughts were interrupted as he caught sight of the gunman Winchester outside. Looking for more trouble. For someone as dangerous as he claimed, it seemed Winchester had never learned the lesson Vash had learned far too early – never look for trouble, it's already looking for you.
Just as well that Winchester was on the prowl. If Vash got lost in sad thoughts, he truly might drop his guard for real. The only time he could afford to do that was in his tiny hotel room, after he had taken precautions. Outside of that, he always had to stay at minimum of yellow, paying attention to everything and thinking ahead.
He flagged down the waitress and asked for the owner. Once they were face to face, Vash got down to business. "Is that your thomas tied up outside?"
"No, I live in the apartment above here," the beefy owner, who was also the cook and in a stained shirt and apron, informed him. "It belongs to Jenny, the waitress." She was called back over. "Man here wants to know about your thomas."
"It isn't double-parked, is it?" the waitress fretted.
"No, ma'am," Vash assured her. "I just wondered what you'd ask to rent it for part of the day. I promise to have it back well before closing time."
"Rent it? Well, that's odd. You seem ok, though." Jenny fidgeted in thought. "All right, you can rent it. What do you need it for?"
"Oh, just a little fun." Vash started to take out some money, but Jenny held up her hands.
"You can pay me later," she said. "I'm not sure what to charge, and you might want to pay less after you're done. My thomas is a ladies' man, he doesn't really take to men riding him."
That was such a kind thing, and so monetarily unwise. Man, it must be nice to be as innocent as her.
Vash had one more thing to ask of her. "Do you know where I can buy a toy gun? Any kind will do."
"Actually, yes; I have one I was planning to take home to my nephew today. Would you like to rent it, too?"
Vash frowned slightly. "This one might have to be bought. But I'll pay twice what you did."
"Oh, I couldn't do that, mister, it wouldn't be fair. Just what it cost is a fair trade."
Vash blinked, unused to this level of honesty and kindness. But he agreed, anyway. It seemed Jenny was operating out of her own ethics system, and not just the pure naiveté many claimed innocence to be; while unwilling to accept money for the thomas until after its services were rendered, she wanted payment for the toy gun once it was in Vash's hands.
He would sort out jumbled thoughts on innocence and kindness later. Right now, it was time to deal with the outlaw again. He tucked the toy gun into his belt, having left his actual gun in his room. If he wore it around such as Winchester, someone was liable to get hurt.
Vash waited until he saw the outlaw outside again. Then he made his move, stepping out to meet him almost face to face.
"There you are, you coward!" Winchester declared. "Don't think you'll get away from me again!"
"Wouldn't dream of it," Vash replied. "I take it you want satisfaction for the grievances you've suffered?"
"No, I don't want – any of what that is," the gunman barked. "I want to settle the score!" He drew his gun and fired twice – except Vash was close enough that he had stepped even closer, so inside Winchester's range that he was past the gun and standing at Winchester's elbow. The bullets sailed harmlessly down the street.
"Get back!" Winchester demanded. He stepped back, firing twice again – except as fast as his trigger pull was, Vash moved even faster, again next to the gunman's elbow.
"Cut it out!" Winchester, still trying to be faster than Vash, moved back yet again and fired a third double-tap – with the same result, Vash moving with him so the outlaw's gun was extended well past its target.
"Now look what you've done!" the gunman fumed. "You made me use all my shells!"
Vash slapped on an apologetic look. "I'm very sorry. Terribly rude of me. I know how expensive ammunition can be. Here, I'll tell you what, let me make it right. I'll give you my gun. Then we do it the old-fashioned way, each taking ten steps. We turn, you fire. If you hit me, then you'll know you're the best gun around for sure. How does that sound?"
Winchester was suspicious. "You won't pull any of this tomfoolery of stepping toward me again?"
"You have my word," Vash promised. "I won't take one step toward you."
"All right, then. Here we go. Turn. Now – one, two, three –"
Winchester, being the dishonest cuss he was, got all the way to five before turning with a loud "Aha!", intending to guarantee his satisfaction by shooting Vash in the back.
But he was already denied the satisfaction he sought. Vash had kept his word not to move toward the gunman; instead, he had moved away and was already on the thomas he had rented, hanging tight to a rough ride but still skedaddling away.
Winchester swore vehemently, taking a quick aim at his target. He squeezed the trigger with all the hate in his heart.
The hammer clicked, a small white flag coming out the barrel and unfurling. Black capitals on it spelled out BANG!
In frustration, the outlaw threw the toy gun to the ground and stomped around in a tantrum. What a crappy start to the day!