A/N: If you are an insurance girls' fan, then hang in there. Meryl and Milly will play a significant role in this story, nd they're coming in around Chapter Five, I think. lotsa romance in store! Read it, tell me what you think. I love reviews :)
Sinically Disturbed: Yes, Rene is cute, if you're into the whole cadaverous look. The chapter you were talking about was deleted from the story. Everyone should try reading Sinically Disturbed's story, by the way. It's fresh off the press!
Marie Ward: Thanks so much! I'm glad I have you as a reviewer: you're great!
Doctor Kiba: Thanks! I plan on giving it some kickers eventually. Hope you enjoy this chapter---it seems kinda "iffy" to me.
ReadingWhiz89: Good, I was hoping it'd turn out better. It'll be much longer, too. I might even have to break "Truth or Dare" into two stories. Thanks for your review!
Foxmagic: I'm glad you understand. Go KMV! Haha...thanks for reading and bothering to review. I hope you like this chappie.
Aine of Knockaine: I hope so! This fic will have alot more romance in it. I hope you'll like it!
Attention! I have a few deleted scenes from this story and Wanted. They're nothing big or important, but does anyone want me to post them somewhere where they can be read?
12 hours remaing
A sick feeling knifed through Vash's gut. He realized he was playing the game—playing right into Knives' hands. His mind was reeling as he tried to sort out his thoughts. His actions came hesitant, slow; he was in shock. Vash stood, riveted to the spot, tears falling down his face and catching in his day-old beard. He watched the man walk away languidly, one pale, wraithlike hand fishing in his pocket for a cigarette.
Vash eyes followed Rene's narrow back until it disappeared, mixing with the shadows. Still he remained frozen, eyes fixed on the point where the Gung-ho Gun had disappeared. A low, excited buzzing met his ears. Unable to sleep, the denizens of the city had drifted into bars and restaurants: public places where they swapped rumors about the bizarre murder. Golden pools of light spilled onto the darkened streets.
Presently, Vash became aware of something else—something far more pressing: time. He could feel the seconds tick away; he could feel the minutes slipping by. He knew one thing: he needed to get to Byrnes. He needed to get there now. He started down the street, half walking, half jogging. His feet were oddly numb and he stumbled, catching himself before he fell and forcing himself back up. He eyed the shop signs as they flashed past. Denise's Tailoring Services, The Stop 'n Shop Grocery Store, Confection Selection, Tiny Tot's Toy Store. At last, he found what he was looking for: a large cement garage with an overhanging poster that read "Gunsmoke's Busing Service" in bright-coloured letters. Vash's hand shot forward eagerly, twisting the doorknob. The doorknob jingled ineffectively and Vash cursed. Locked.
He leaned back, studying the schedule on the door. The soonest bus destined for Byrnes left at six in the morning. He couldn't wait six hours. He gave the door a savage kick and turned away, running a hand through his hair. Vash cast around, his eyes landing on an old, beat-up pickup truck. The dull blue paint had faded and was peeling back over patches of rust. Vash approached the vehicle slowly, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. He tried the door handle, found it unlocked. With a brief prayer of thanks, he eased onto the cracked leather seats. He pulled the door closed behind him, taking a moment to compose himself in the small, suffocating darkness of the truck. Vash put one hand to the ceiling, groping for the light switch. He made a faint sweep, brushing his fingers along the cloth overhead. No light switch. "Oh, well," he sighed to himself. "I'll have to do without."
Vash felt for the ignition. It was empty. "Shit," he murmured, aware that he was wasting precious time. He needed the car keys. Vash opened to glove compartment, feeling around with one hand. No keys. Groaning, he ran his fingers underneath the seat, finding a sticky, half-eaten lollipop, discarded wrappers, and empty soda cans: still no keys. He'd have to hotwire it.
Vash pushed himself further up on the seat, planting his long legs on the console. He gave one, two, three strong kicks, feeling the old plastic weaken. He probed around the edges of the console, hooking his fingers inside the cracked surface and gave a sharp tug. The console gave a little. He sucked in a deep breath, wedging his fingers firmly in the crevasses and bracing his legs against the console. Then he pulled as hard as he could, muscles screaming. He felt a drops of sweat begin to form along his forehead despite the coolness of the night. Finally, with a groan, the console popped loose and Vash stared at the massive tangle of wires.
He sorted through the wires, inspecting the colour of each one under the faint light from the grill behind him. Yellow, green, blue...he needed to find the red one. He snatched up a thick wire and held it up to the light: red. "Yes!" He crowed, nearly dropping the wire. He quickly bit the cord in half, fishing around for the green one. Finding it, he twisted the metal tips of the two wires together tightly. He felt a flush of pride as the engine spluttered to life.
Putting the truck in gear, Vash backed out into the street. "Hey!" He heard a peevish voice call. "Hey, that's my truck! He's stealing my truck!" Vash stomped the gas pedal to the floor and shot forward with terrifying speed. The sudden roar of the engine quickly drowned out the man's cries as Vash pulled out into the cold, desert night, racing toward Byrnes.
Six hours later found Vash sore and exhausted. The twin shots of bourbon in his veins made him feel warm and vaguely fuzzy. He passed one hand over his weary face, accelerating. Byrnes was in sight now, lit by the pale gold strokes of early sunlight. Tall, gothic buildings, black in the faint morning light, towered over Vash as he passed through the city's outer wall. He was met with the scent of ammonia and hard liquor and quickly rolled up the truck's window, gagging.
The city was windswept; sand crusted every trash can and litter fluttered along the dusty roads. A frail, elderly bum huddled against a building, trembling underneath his thin rags. A wine bottle, wrapped in a paper bag, was clutched in one gnarled hand. Vash watched the old man with pity as he raised the bag to his lips and sipped the alcohol, a shudder passing through his body.
Built five decades ago, Byrnes had quickly earned the title "Sin City". Filled with lechers, thieves, and murderers, it was as close to hell as anyone could get. If Knives was anywhere, he was here.
Vash had no idea where to start. Somewhere in this hell-hole was a young woman named Taylor Kathan. She was marked for death; Vash had six hours left to find her. Vash pulled the car into an empty parking space and disconnected the red and green wires, feeling the engine shudder and die. He threw the door open and climbed out. Vash couldn't lock the doors: he had no keys. The truck would likely be stolen before noon.
Vash hesitated mid-step, his eyes wandering in awe over the tall, dark buildings of Sin City. Years of wind-driven sands had worried away at the edifices, cracking the mortar and pitting the brick. The shadows seemed longer in Byrnes, the bite in the air more fierce. There was something alien and hostile about the city that made Vash shudder. He forced himself forward, keeping his eyes on the dusty crowned streets.
Vash's eyes flicked left and right, resting on the signs to business stores and restaurants. If he could only find a police station, they might help him. They could get him the information he needed. He felt a growing sense of unease with each passing minute and unconsciously quickened his step until he was fairly running down the avenue. Vash knew Byrnes was large. He'd never stumble across an information center or a police station this way. The heat of the rising sun against his back seemed to mock him, reminding him of the time slipping by.
"Miss," Vash called to a passer-by. "Miss!" He called again, louder, when she didn't seem to hear him. She kept her head lowered, barreling past. Vash grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. "Please, can you tell me where to find—"
"Get your filthy hands off me," the woman hissed, sinking her fist into Vash's mouth. Vash let go in surprise, tasting blood. "Miss," he called after her pleadingly. "Please!"
Vash eyes fell on his reflection in a darkened storefront. He looked haggard and exhausted, his eyes lidded. There was a smear of blood around his mouth and he touched the lip tenderly, wincing. Vash's eyes looked past his reflection, falling on rows of alcohol. A liquor store. Suddenly, Vash's eyes sharpened and he took a step toward the store, and idea forming in his head. There was one way...
A schedule taped to the window announced that Bailey's Liquor Store would not open for an hour and forty-five minutes. Perfect.
Vash slipped his piece out of the holster and cocked it. It wasn't as strong as the one Knives had given him: the one he'd buried in the desert. But it still had enough punch to take out a rabid thomas. Vash snapped the safety off and cocked the pistol, relaxing his arm to absorb the kick of the gun. He fired two rounds into the glass window front, the tinkle of shattering glass drowned out by gunfire.
There was a feminine scream from behind, some shouts of surprise and the scuffle of running feet. An alarm coughed and started to bleat, loud and shrill in the early air. Vash casually stepped into the store, tossing a look over his shoulder. He sauntered over the cash register and began to toy with it, listening. He could still hear some cries of outrage and shock, the piercing scream of the alarm. And fainter, in the distance, he could hear the wail of sirens. Vash's lips curved into a smile. Perfect, he thought again.
For the eleventh time that day, Deputy William Brock III made up his mind to quit.
Yes, he was going to quit this worthless dead-end job, go to college somewhere, and live a nice happy life. He hated his life at the 8th police precinct; he hated being called "rookie", and "you, there"; he hated his crummy metal desk. Hell, he hated Byrnes itself. There was something...wrong with Byrnes. Everything in "Sin City" was decaying from the inside out: the buildings, the streets, the people.
This is what Brock was telling himself as he hesitated in front of the sheriff's door. He looked around nervously, smoothed his tie, and knocked tentatively. Silence. "Sir?" Called Brock, knocking harder.
This time, he was rewarded with the sheriff's low, rumbling voice: "Come in."
This is it, thought Brock to himself. Tell him you're quitting. It's now or never. Brock opened the door and stepped inside, squaring his shoulders. The sheriff's office was large and bright. The walls were fraught with gleaming plaques and certificates, the occasional photograph. Brock had always enjoyed being in the sheriff's office; now it seemed like a battle ground to him.
The sheriff was sitting behind a well-polished mahogany desk, shuffling through paperwork. He looked up at Brock expectantly, his careworn face breaking into a smile. "Ah, Deputy Brock. Just the man I was looking for."
Brock ran over his prepared speech in his mind. "Sir, I—"
"We have a robbery on Main St., Deputy. I want you to handle it." He sat back, beaming, as though he'd just given Brock the greatest gift on Gunsmoke instead of another lousy assignment.
"But sir, I—"
"I know you've only been here six months, but your father and grandfather were both deputies, Brock. It runs in your blood. You're going to do fine."
Brock's mind was screaming at him to decline, to walk right out of there. But somehow he couldn't. After all, the sheriff was right: William Brock I and William Brock II had both been law enforcers. "Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."
"Good!" The sheriff clasped his hands together. "Go knock 'em dead, Brock."
"Yes, sir."
Brock put the cruiser in park, leaving the sirens and lightbar flashers on. He could see the crime scene just ahead: the big glass storefront of Bailey's Liquor Store had been smashed in. The sun glinted off a thousand shards that littered the streets and an alarm blatted loudly; Brock sighed. What a mess.
He got out of the car, readjusting his duty belt with a jangle. He was the only law enforcement officer on the site—which was usual. The police were so spread thin in Byrnes, it wasn't funny. The city was overcome with crime.
Brock un-holstered his gun, advancing toward the store. Though the robber was probably gone, it didn't hurt to exercise caution. He crept forward, picking his way through the shattered glass and bullet casings. There was a sudden movement inside the store, black against black, and Brock froze. Could the robber still be in there?
He checked his piece to make sure it was loaded and took a step forward, eyes darting over the darkened shop. It looked empty. Maybe it was just his imagination. Brock ducked inside, sweeping his pistol left, then right. All clear. He relaxed his arm, looking around. It was much cooler inside the liquor store; though the sun had barely risen, Brock could already see heat waves rising off the roof of his car. There was a faint, musty odor in the shop—not unpleasant, though. Brock began to run down a list of chores in his mind: turn off the alarm; take an inventory; notify the owner. He scanned the room for an alarm switch. None.
Brock made a quick circle around the store, eying light switches and fans. Still no alarm switch. He returned to the shattered window and frowned, rotating to take in his surroundings. Bailey's Liquor Store was comfortable-sized, a little dingy. Yellowing tiled floors, rutted and marked with rust, spread beneath the seven or so aisles. The shelves were cockeyed and bowed beneath countless bottles of alcohol. In one corner was an old, scarred counter and a plastic cash register. Brock walked over to the counter and crouched behind it. There! A red button labeled "ALARMS" was stationed on the faux-wood paneling. Brock jabbed the button and the bleat of the alarm bells stopped.
"Thank God," Brock mumbled, scratching his chin. Then he heard the scuff of a shoe against the outdated floors. He shot to his feet looking around. There was only darkness. This time, Brock wasn't fooled. There was someone in here with him—someone dangerous. The perp had had plenty of chances to slip out of the store unnoticed, but he'd stayed. He was playing cat and mouse.
Brock felt a chill trace its way up his spine. Slowly, he raised his gun. "Who's there?" He called, speaking loudly to cover the tremor in his voice. The sound of his own, unsteady breathing was the only noise in the dark shop. He held his breath, waiting for a reply. One second passed, two...it was only then that Brock realized that he could still hear breathing—just not his own. He exhaled loudly. "I'm gonna give you to the count of three!" He shouted. "One!" No movement. He snapped the safety off on his gun. "Two!" Still no reply. He cocked the pistol. "THREE!"
A tall blond man stepped forward, dim light slanting across his handsome features. Brock had to admit, this guy didn't look like a robber. He was lanky, with tightly corded musculature stretching over his broad chest. He wore a loose white dress shirt and black slacks—not the average thief's garb. But there was an loaded holster at his waist and a haunted look in his eyes that told Brock this was their guy.
"What's your name?" Brock asked sharply.
When the man spoke, it was in a low, composed voice. "Vash."
Brock barked a short laugh of disbelief. "Vash—the Vash?"
"Vash" didn't reply. The man's collected, quiet demeanor was unnerving. "Okay, Vash, what were you doing in Bailey's Liquor Store?"
"I was robbing it," came the sotto reply.
Vash's face was so deadpan, his answer so blunt, that Brock almost dropped his gun in shock. The uneasy feeling was starting to return. There was something off-kilter about this man, the deputy decided.
"Don't move," Brock ordered, heart thumping in his chest. "I want you to put your hands on your head and turn around—slowly!"
The man put his scarred hands on his head, pivoting slowly. Brock pressed his gun against the man's head, cuffed him deftly. "Okay, sir, I'm gonna march you out to the cruiser. One false move and you get a bullet in the skull. Got it?"
The man nodded, then stopped when Brock's finger tightened on the trigger. "Yes," he said.
"Good," Brock said. He leaned forward and took Vash's gun out of his holster. "Now, move."
Deputy Brock walked the man to the cruiser, unlocking the back door and forcing him in. An overwhelming feeling of relief washed over him as he slammed the door shut. Brock slid into the front seat and shifted into drive, pulling away from the crime scene. He'd come back later, notify the owner. For now his priority was getting the perp to jail.
"I need your help."
Brock's eyebrows shot up in surprise; he hadn't expected the man to talk. "What's that?" He said, licking his lips nervously.
"I need your help," Vash said again, more urgently. "I need to find a woman—Taylor Kathan."
"Look, sir," Brock began. "I can't just—"
"Taylor Kathan," Vash repeated. "I need to find her before noon. They're going to kill her."
Brock felt an icy cold wash over him. "Who's going to kill her?"
"I don't know," came the frustrated reply.
"You expect me to believe that?"
"You have to, deputy. Otherwise it's blood on your hands."
Brock's heart was beating faster, his palms clammy. He forced a fake laugh out. "I don't beli—"
"PLEASE!" Vash thundered. His voice was so pained and desperate that Brock found himself half-believing him. "Please," he said, more quietly but no less pressingly. "She'll be dead by noon."
Brock looked at the clock: 6:13. "I—I'm sorry, sir. You have to go into general lockup. I can't change that."
Vash's face paled. "For how long?" He whispered.
Brock shrugged. "Could be as much as 48 hours."
Vash leaned forward, his cuffed hands clinking as he hooked his fingers in the wire mesh that separated the front and back seats. "I can't stay in there for 48 hours. I can't even stay in there for one hour!"
Brock pulled into the station, killing the engine. He was glad the ride was over. This guy gave him the heebie-jeebies. Blood on your hands... He sighed, stepping into the hot sunshine. Brock unlocked the back door and gestured for the passenger to get out.
"I'll pay you a hundred thousand double dollars to free me and give me the location of Taylor Kathan."
Brock stopped in shock. This man was really desperate. "I'm not a crooked cop," he said coldly, forcing Vash into the police station.
The general lockup at Byrnes was a large, filthy place. The dank air stunk of vomit and cigarette smoke. Dim light filtered in through cobwebbed windows, and there was a thin layer of grime over every surface. Mumbled, incoherent sentences and low, cold voices echoed from further down the cell block. Deputy Brock unlocked a cell and gave Vash a gentle push.
The deputy moved to leave, then paused. "I'm sorry." He said. Vash's shoulder sagged and he remained, unmoving, in the center of the cell. Brock hesitated, waiting for Vash to say something. When there was no reply forthcoming, he locked the iron bars and left, a heavy feeling sitting in his stomach. "I have got to quit this job." He murmured to himself.
Fifteen minutes remaining
Vash lay on the thin, lumpy prison cot, listening to the traffic of detectives, prisoners, and deputies outside his cell. The man three cells down had started screaming about forty minutes ago, and he hadn't stopped yet. He rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in the mattress.
Vash had no clock. He had no watch—no way to measure the time passing by. He couldn't tell for certain how long he'd been in general lockup. Judging by the light now filling his cell, it was nearly noon. Nearly noon...he had failed. He had failed Taylor Kathan.
Knives...why? Vash wondered despairingly. "Why!" He yelled, muffled by the frayed, ratty cot. He knew the answer, though. He had made Knives swallow his pride, and Knives would never forgive him for that.
Vash sat up, squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his head dejectedly against the damp stone wall.
"Vash?"
At first Vash thought he'd heard the voice in his head.
"Vash?" The voice persisted. Vash opened his eyes wearily. Deputy Brock was staring at him through the prison bars.
"Hmm?" Asked Vash.
"We're letting you out." There was a loud rattle of keys in a lock, then the iron door slid open. Vash struggled off the cot.
"What?"
"There was nothing missing from the store. Bailey's insurance will pay for the damages. You're free to go," the deputy elaborated. He waved a slip of paper, a hint of a smile on his face. "And I have something for you."
Vash took the paper hesitantly and read:
Taylor Kathan
479 Diabolus Avenue
He looked up at Brock, disbelieving. The deputy smiled.
"What time is it?" Vash asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The deputy checked his pocket watch. "A quarter of," he said.
"11:45?"
"Yeah."
Galvanized into action, Vash bolted from the cell. "Thanks, deputy!" He called over his shoulder, blowing past the prison guard and out of the jail. His heart was pounding wildly. Fifteen minutes...he had fifteen minutes until they killed the woman. He banged through the 8th Precinct's double doors, stumbling out into the hot, arid streets. He blinked twice, shielding his eyes from the suns. It seemed doubly bright after the dim, constricted cell. Vash glanced around wildly. There was a single car nosing along down the street. It hit a pothole, rattling loudly.
"Stop!" Vash shouted. "STOP! I need a ride!" The car slowed, brakes whining shrilly.
Vash raced to the car, banging on the driver's side window. "I need a ride to 479 Diabolus Avenue!" The driver rolled the window down slowly.
"What?" Asked the driver lazily.
"Please, I need a ride."
The man paused, as if deliberating.
"I'll pay you," Vash said impatiently.
"How much?" The man asked, more alert now.
"A hundred double dollars."
"Make it two hundred."
"Deal."
Vash climbed into the backseat. "479 Diabolus Avenue! I'll pay double if you get me there in under fifteen minutes."
The driver peeled out, accelerating, and banked left. He stomped on the gas and the vehicle lurched forward, engine screaming. The man took a sharp left, wheels squealing; the car fishtailed, corrected itself, and barreled forward, gaining speed and momentum. "Hold on tight!" The driver yelled as the car took another violent left and centrifugal force pinned Vash to the door. He shifted gears, pressed the brake and gas at the same time; the engine revved as the car swung around in a sharp ninety degree angle.
Vash stared out the window tensely, watching stores and signs streak past. He leaned his forehead against the window, breath fogging the glass. Vash tangled his fingers through his hair, checked his holster: empty. Wait a minute...where's my gun? Vash thought frantically. A sinking sensation settled in his abdomen. Deputy Brock had taken it. When he was arrested. "Damn!" Cried Vash, drawing the driver's attention. I'll have to use the one Doc gave me, he decided.
His heart was drumming in his chest and his palms were sweaty. Vash wiped his hands on his pants nervously. His body was strung with tension and he rapped his fingers on the dashboard anxiously. "Where are we?" He asked the driver in a strained voice.
"We're almost there," the driver said enigmatically.
Vash wiped perspiration from his pallet, shifting his weight. It's hot. Freezing at night and scorching during the day. Damn, I hate the desert, he thought. Gingerly, he turned his thoughts on Knives. For 130 years, humans had been Knives' whipping boy. They had become his scapegoat. And now Knives was sentencing them to death for crimes they hadn't committed.
The driver slowed, turning on Diabolus Avenue. "485," Vash counted the house numbers flash past. "483, 481, 479. There it is!"
479 Diabolus Avenue was a low, ranch-style house. Years of hard sun and wind-whipped sand had left the brick house potholed and worn. It was modest and unassuming; priggish, yet well cared-for.
Vash stuffed some bills into the drivers hand and scooted across the seat. He flung the car door open and stumbled out, not bothering to close it behind him. The gunman ran up the steps and turned the doorknob to the front door. It twisted far too easily in his hand and he looked down: the knob had been broken.
Vash bursted through the front door and found himself in the living room. The walls were wainscoted in a simple, country manner, hung with framed photos and ceramic signs that read "God bless this home". Two white, wicker chairs with Sioux-style cushions were the only furniture. Shelves set in the walls bore a few well-loved porcelain dolls, carefully displayed.
The room was empty.
Vash crossed the room, his long strides eating up the ground. He passed into the dining room, looked around: empty. Frantically, Vash darted into the long, low-slung kitchen. Still no one.
"Taylor!" Vash shouted. He paused, waiting for an answer. None came. Two doors led out of the kitchen: one led into a bedroom, the other into what looked like a sitting room. Vash started toward the bedroom; then a flash of metal caught his eye. He twisted around: a large butcher's knife was lying on the green-tiled counter. Vash crossed over to the counter, picked it up. The plastic handle felt cool in his hot hand. Now he was armed. He fixed his eyes on the bedroom and took a shuffling step forward, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.
One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand. Vash counted the seconds as he moved toward the bedroom. He edged into the room, craning his head behind him to make sure he was alone. Vash's eyes traveled over the bare stucco walls, down to the terra cotta-tiled floors. A broken-in twin-size bed with wrought iron frames rested beneath the window.
Taylor Kathan was sleeping in the bed, her rust-coloured hair spilling in tangles over the muslin pillowcase. Vash dropped the knife and took a step toward her. Thank God. Thank God, he'd made it in time. Vash inhaled deeply, let out a weak chuckle. He turned to leave, and stifled a scream.
The name "Knives" was painted on the opposite wall in bright red paint, still fresh and dripping. Vash turned around hesitantly and crossed over to the bed. "Taylor," he said softly. "Taylor!" He repeated, more sharply, when there was no response.
Vash reached down to shake her, recoiled when his fingertips were met with something warm and viscous. He looked at his fingers, uncomprehending: they were tipped with blood. Vash ripped the quilt away, stumbling back in horror.
Taylor Kathan was dead.
Vash sank to his knees jerkily, clasping the dead woman's hand in his own. He leaned his head against the mattress, hot tears trailing down his face and soaking into the bed sheets.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to her, squeezing his eyes shut. "God, I'm sorry."
"You were late," came a silky, sinister voice from the shadows. Vash whirled around, eyes wild. A well-muscled man leaned casually against the doorjamb. Vash watched as he stooped, picked up the blade Vash had dropped, and turned it over in his hands, watching the metal gleam.
A long, white scar ran from the man's hairline to his jaw, interrupting the smooth olive complexion of his skin. Leonine white hair framed his young face, tangled and mussed. It was his eyes, however, that struck Vash the most. They were silver, always flickering and alive. Staring at the man's eyes, Vash was reminded of a flame guttering in the wind. There was something predatory in the way the man moved that made him seem like a lion hunting his prey.
The man tossed the blade toward Vash's feet with a clatter. "You killed her?" Vash managed to choke out.
"Yes," came the smooth reply.
"Who are you?"
"I am Daemonicola the Lion, the second of the Gung-ho Guns."
Vash picked up the knife and stood slowly, his sorrow quickly spinning into rage. "You killed her!" He spat out. He took two uneven steps, then lunged at the man, sweeping the blade in an arc. The man sidestepped neatly out of the way. Vash was pale and sweating. He swayed unsteadily—he had gone 39 hours without eating, drinking, or sleeping.
Vash launched himself toward the man again, snatching at his shirt. He pressed the knife against Daemonicola's throat, breathing heavily. He almost didn't recognize his voice when he spoke. "Now it's your turn to die."
"You don't want to do that." Came the level reply. "You don't want to face the consequences."
Vash's hand shook slightly.
"That's right Vash. If you kill me tonight, one of your friends will die." He winced as Vash pressed the blade more firmly into his neck. "It's your choice."
Vash held the knife steady for a moment, then lowered it. The man smiled wide, his lips stretching over rows of polished teeth.
"I thought so. By the way, Vash—your brother sends a message."
Vash drew his shirtsleeve over his face, answering in a trembling voice: "What's that?"
Daemonicola straightened his shirt, wiped away a trickle of blood from his neck. He hadn't even broken into a sweat. Then he looked Vash dead in the eye and asked: "Truth or Dare?"
