A/N: I want to say thanks to everyone who's reviewing. The going is pretty slow so far in Truth or Dare; you're really helping me out. If you're concerned with any OOC-ness on Vash's part, you'll be happy to hear that he becomes more Vash-like in next chapter (I hope), when the insurance girls are going to be introduced.
Semi-important announcements: The Hellcat and Sinically Disturbed have set up a fanart for Truth or Dare with sketches of all the new Gung-ho Guns (there will be five), and profiles. The art is beautiful; many thanks to you two! I'd like everyone to go check it out as soon as it's finished. I'll post the address in the next chapter and also in my profile.
I might also post the deleted scenes on this website, depending on whether you'd care to read them or not. There's one or two from Wanted, where Meryl and Vash have an unexpected encounter with Rot in a saloon (before the showdown, of course). There's also a "deleted scene" from Truth or Dare, when Knives recruits Daemonicola to the reborn GHG. Let me know if you're interested.
Marie Ward: thanks so much for everything. I really owe you alot. The only reason I stuck with this story so long is because of your and Peridot's reviews on Chapter one. If I could dedicate fanfics (without seeming like a pompous windbag grin) I'd definitely dedicate ToD to you.
Peridot3783: I'm glad somebody likes it! If I don't end up posting the chapters, I'll send them to you personally. Thanks for your reviews! I put alot of stock in them :)
Sinically Disturbed: lol. If it's so hard not to repeat what you've read, maybe you should stop demanding chapters in advance! Crazy yankee...smiles
ReadingWhiz89: I thought it would be more realistic if Vash failed too. It also puts him in a difficult emotional place. And if you thought Knives was evil before...:) Thanks for your review, anyway! With as small an audience as I have, I appreciate reviews all the more.
Foxmagic: thanks! I'm hoping things pick up once Meryl and Milly are introduced...and Knives. Speaking of updates, when will you grace us with the next chapter of "To Canaan Land"? Haha...you're going to have rabid reviewers on your heels soon!

Please Read and Review! I take comments, questions, sarcastic remarks...I need to know what you think and what I might need to work on. I think ToD is struggling--I need to know what's wrong.

Vash froze, his vision tunneling on the Gung-ho Gun. "What did you say?" He breathed shakily, his stomach plummeting.

"'Truth or Dare?'" Daemonicola repeated silkily.

Vash gave an uneasy laugh. It echoed unpleasantly in the lonely house, harsh and insane. "No..." He shook his head, strands of sandy-blond hair falling across his face. He adjusted his grip on the knife, slick with sweat. "No!"

Daemonicola made a show of looking at his pocket watch. "This is tiring, Vash. Choose." He looked up at Vash calmly, eyebrows arched over his silver eyes as he waited for the answer.

Instead, there was a moment of absolute stillness. Then Vash raised the knife before him in an unspoken threat. He could just glimpse his reflection in the steel of the blade. It looked tired, haggard, weary. And determined.

"Are you going to kill me, Vash the Stampede?" Drifted Daemonicola's honeyed voice. He took a step forward, taunting the gunman. Vash was next to him in an instant, the cold knife hovering over the Gung-ho Gun's throat. Daemonicola began to speak, but Vash shook his head sharply.

"I'm tired of listening to you." He narrowed his eyes and tilted his chin up, staring at the man with a kind of curiosity. "What makes you so sure I won't kill you right now?"

The Lion stared somberly with his strange eyes. "You don't have the courage," he said levelly. Daemonicola's fiery eyes darted over Vash's face, taking in every emotion that played across it, gauging his reaction. His voice dropped to a whisper. "You don't have the courage to face the 'consequences' of your actions."

Vash switched the blade to his left hand, wiped his right hand on his jeans, and switched the weapon back. His eyes flickered to the long scar on Daemonicola's face. "That's a nice scar. I can give you another one to match it."

Daemonicola smiled, and Vash was sure the bold talk had sounded as cheesy to the Gung-ho gun as it had to himself. The man's hand flew unconsciously to the scar, and his eyes hazened. "My father gave me this scar..." he raised a hand and pushed Vash's blade away. "Right before I killed my entire family." Daemonicola leaned forward, bringing his lips close to Vash's ear. "I was nine."

Vash took a step backward in surprise, letting the weapon drop to his side.

"'Truth or Dare?'" The Gung-ho Gun asked again, and Vash could feel a sick, dead weight settle in the pit of his stomach. At once he felt dizzy and nauseous, and he steadied himself against a wall.

"I can't..." he said in a pained whisper.

"It's your decision." Daemonicola took a step back, and both men eyed each other warily.

Vash opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. He licked his lips, painfully aware of the tears that stung his eyes. "Truth," he said, his voice a strangled whisper.

"We have a widowed mother of two and a twelve-year-old orphan held hostage. One will die. It's your choice: the widow, or the orphan?"

Vash's breaths were coming short and fast, and he was feeling so lightheaded, he thought he might pass out. He massaged his slack face with one hand. His skin was cold and clammy to his probing fingers. "Please...don't make me choose..."

"You can refuse...but you know the cost."

Vash let out a noise, spun on his heel. He stood with his back to the Gung-ho Gun, head hung, scrunching his hand in his hair in frustration. "...Can't!" Came the garbled answer. He spun again to face the man. "I can't!" He roared.

"Fine! Then you've made a decision already. The decision to let your friends die. It's a pity they had the misfortune of meeting you. They might have lived longer otherwise." The man turned to go, but was stayed by the solid, commanding voice of Vash.

"Wait!"

Daemonicola hesitated, clearly listening.

"I—I've decided," said Vash.

Two hours after his encounter at 479 Diabolus Avenue, Vash staggered into a cheerful roadside café, and dropped into a seat, head cradled in his hands. He couldn't stop the tears from coming, couldn't forget the words he'd spoken. The words that had sentenced a twelve-year-old to death.

"I—I've decided...kill the orphan."

Daemonicola smiled again, and a chill snuck over Vash. The Gung-ho Gun left without a word and Vash sank to the floor, body wracked with silent sobs. Shaking, crying, Vash repeated one word over and over to himself: "Why, why, why...?"

The mantra reverberated off the stucco walls, rebounded, filling the air with his murmured chant...in the small, countrified room, alone with the corpse of young Kathan, there had been no one to answer Vash's question.

Why?

He was nearing two days without sleep now. He could feel his edges blurring, his thoughts slowing down. And it wasn't over yet. Knives had something else up his sleeve, Vash could tell. The gunman could feel his dejection slowly turning into nervous energy. He didn't want to sit here, waiting for Knives to make his next move. He needed to even the odds...and he needed a weapon.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" Came the unnaturally high, cheerful voice of the waitress.

"A coffee," Vash said hoarsely, keeping his eyes lowered so the waitress wouldn't notice he'd been crying. A few moments later, the waitress slid a porcelain cup containing what looked like dark brown sludge under his nose.

"$$2.25." She said politely, flashing a radiant smile. Vash stuffed $$3.00 in her outstretched hand.

"Keep the change."

Vash snuggled a little deeper into the red booth seat. He glanced out the window to his left, watching people scurry past on the streets. The sun warmed the leather seat and illuminated his long eyelashes and pale skin. Vash looked down at the rapidly cooling coffee clutched between his hands. God, he was tired. He was tired and aching and wondering to himself why he'd bought coffee. He hated the stuff.

The sound of static erupted in the small diner, and Vash jumped before he realized that a waitress had turned on the radio. He listened half-interestedly to the weather announcer.

"Some...weather on the way, folks...monsoon season..." Bursts of static interrupted the weatherman's cheerful report. "Now...give you a little lesson on deserts. A desert is a biome ...receives 25 cm...rainfall each year. Rain is...rare, ...when it does rain, the...sometimes evaporate before hitting the ground...Gunsmoke isn't a normal desert, however. The planet has a monsoon season every five years or so. ...Monsoon season makes it possible to grow geoplants on Gunsmoke...and even creates the aquifers we live off of...Of course, Plants helped with our early survival...found that there were pockets of water called...hidden...beneath the sandy surface of the planet...well, Gunsmoke's last big storm...over six years ago! The monsoon season has caught up to us with a vengeance...weathermen across the planet...predicting one of the biggest, most cataclysmic storms ever! Hope you have umbrellas—"

"Hey, Joe, switch the station would ya?" Came the cook's abrasive cry. There was some more static, punctuated by the occasional country station. Finally, Joe settled on oldies. Tunes from a buoyant old song filled the restaurant.

Vash took a sip of the coffee and gagged. Yes, he definitely hated coffee. The stuff tasted like sludge. That was $$2.25 that he'd never see again. He forced himself to take another sip. The caffeine would have to last him the next eighteen hours. Maybe more. He glanced at the clock and stood, draining the last of the cup. He couldn't delay any longer. It was time to go. Knives was playing dirty, but by God, Vash wasn't going to submit without a fight. And his best chance at fighting lay near a small hamlet, 200 iles north of LR town.

The Place.

Vash halted, craning his head upward to read the large sign. It read "Car Rentals" in bold, sun-bleached letters. Car rental agencies were fairly rare on Gunsmoke, because cars were expensive and most people couldn't afford to purchase and maintain a large number of them. Vash was lucky that Byrnes was such a large city, or he would have had to rent a thomas instead. Vash shouldered through the glass door into a frigidly Air Conditioned room. Gleaming slate tiles met real wooden walls. Light fixtures set in the walls cast a soft, rosy hue over the room, and the hands of an antique clock ticked quietly from over the marble-topped counter.

Vash, of course, didn't notice any of this. He strode over to the well-groomed clerk behind the counter, gripped the marble tightly.

"I need to rent a car," he said.

The clerk cleared his throat, tightened his tie, and looked at Vash disapprovingly through half-moon spectacles. The gunslinger fidgeted, suddenly uncomfortably. He was suddenly aware that his white dress shirt was filthy and in need of a wash, that his eyes were shot with red and hooded, that he had sand underneath his short fingernails. "For how long?" The clerk sniffed.

"A day, maybe two."

The clerk scribbled a note on a pad, typed something into the cash register. "It costs $$300 per day," said the clerk. Vash's eyes widened.

"That's insane!"

The clerk said nothing.

"Put me down for one day," Vash said grudgingly, digging cash out of his pocket. He sorted through the crumpled bills, threw $$300 on the counter. He was going to starve at this rate. The clerk made a "harrumph!" in the back of his throat, counting the bills again before putting them in the cash register.

"Would you like liability insurance?" He asked in a bored tone.

Vash was about to say no; then he hesitated. It might not be such a bad idea...

"How much?" He asked.

"An additional fifty."

Vash grumbled, handed the man another fifty. The man scribbled something else on the notepad. He turned to a cabinet behind him, unlocked it, and swung it open. Rows of lambent keys jangled, reflecting the ruddy lights from the room. The clerk unhooked a silver key from the rack, re-closed it, made a notation in the notepad.

"Your receipt," he said, ripping the sheet off of the notepad, "and the keys to your car. It's the black one in the rear parking lot." He waved his hand vaguely.

Vash didn't bother to thank the man, shoving the receipt into a pocket. He walked across the room, threw open the door to the rear parking lot, and stopped. There were close to thirty cars here, polished and glittering in the late afternoon light. He stepped up to the black one and opened the driver's side door, choking as stale, hot air rushed out. Vash climbed into the seat, slammed the door shut behind him. Damn, it was hot in here. Vash started the car, quickly rolled down the windows, and pulled out of the parking lot.

He nosed his way onto Main Street and guided the car northward, out of Byrnes. He watched the ominously dark mists that seemed to cling to Byrnes disappear in his rearview mirror. He'd love to say goodbye to Sin City—to never return to this place. One step away from Hell. But in his heart, Vash had the dark feeling that he couldn't shed this city so easily. That somehow, he would be bound to Byrnes for the rest of his life.

Four hours later, Vash slowed the car, glancing around for anything familiar. God, things had changed. No longer was Solace the small, country town that Vash had known. After he'd left, the town had struck a water vein and things had taken a turn for the better. Now Solace was 70 square iles and growing. Billboards had been painted on the fences, new buildings were sweeping up, up toward the sky, and air was filled with shouts, chatter, the drone of engines.

Bits of the old Solace that he had known were wedged in between the new office housings and busy shops. Like the old, dilapidated grocery store on the corner of Hardison and Wess streets. Or the small, crumbling house that he'd lived in with the insurance girls after he'd shot Legato. Vash pushed the thoughts from his mind, instead focusing on the rocky horizon that shimmered and rippled as heat waves rose off the hot stones.

Vash checked the clock: seven pm. It had only taken him four hours to make it to Solace, and man had he booked it! This little rental car had a lot of juice in it—he had sliced off a good hour and a half by speeding the entire way. Once or twice, Vash had thought for sure that the engine was going to splutter and die, leaving him stranded between the two cities.

Vash accelerated, eyes fixed on the horizon. His destination lay outside the newly-paved sidewalks and glittering steel buildings of Solace. His wheels churned, kicking up sand as he sped north-bound, where the saloons and businesses petered out into dead, dry wasteland.

Eleven minutes, seventeen iles, and several cusses later

Vash didn't see the oasis until he was almost on top of it, courtesy of the suns and heat waves. They formed a mirage, making the tiny oasis vanish. Clever, Knives, Vash thought dryly to himself as he brought the car to a squealing stop. The engine gave an exaggerated shudder, the motor rattling beneath its hood, as Vash turned off the ignition. He climbed out, realizing for the first time that he should have brought a shovel with him.

Vash walked reverently over the same path he'd taken two years ago, to fight Knives. He moved over the geoplant slowly and carefully, aquamarine eyes slitted against the hot suns. Once in awhile, he'd scuff something with his shoe, bend over. But each time he straightened, empty-handed. An hour later, his dress shirt was damp with sweat, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He bent over for what felt like the umpteenth time that evening, his back protesting. He ran his fingers through the sand: nothing. Vash wiped his hand on his pants. He was making a slow turn, examining the small oasis again, when a chilling thought struck him.

What if Knives had beaten him to it?

What if his twin had already visited the geoplant, recovered their "siblings", and left? Vash was so absorbed in this new, frightening complication that he didn't realize what he's seen at first: something bright winking in the sunlight. Vash did a quick double-take before stepping nearer. Here it was: his gun. The gun Knives had given him.

He was damned lucky the shifting sands hadn't covered the firearm, but then the trees had probably helped. He slid the piece out of the sandy embankment, made a face. His old gun was in sorry shape—tarnished, almost unrecognizable. Grains of sand spilled from the chamber, from every groove, crusted to the hammer and sedimented to the mouth of the barrel.

Vash set the gun aside, digging in further. His hand brushed something that was not the smooth steel of a second gun, and Vash frowned. He closed his fingers around the object and gave an experimental tug. The object came loose, sand rolling in waves off of it. He gave it a good shake and held it up for inspection, heart catching in his throat: it was his red duster.

A little sun-bleached, caked in dust, wrinkled, torn and patterned with gunpowder, but intact. He'd shrugged out of the coat, abandoning it in the geoplant. He had hoped shedding his geranium-coloured duster would be symbolic of shedding his old, haunted life. Vash snorted. That hadn't worked out too well. Vash carefully folded the coat, turning his gaze back on the cache where he'd hidden the guns and coat two years ago. He plunged his hand back in, groping for the cold stock of Knives' gun. He felt his fingers close around it, yanked it out. He held it gingerly, as though he was afraid of setting it off accidentally. Vash laid the second gun beside his own and rocked back on his heels.

Now he had a fighting chance: he held the ace. Vash picked up the guns, one in each hand, walked back to the car. He unlocked the trunk, double-checked to make sure the guns weren't loaded, and tossed them in, re-locking the trunk and walking to the driver's seat. He'd gotten what he'd come for, but somehow there was still a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Hesitantly, Vash's gaze was drawn to the cache; he crossed the oasis to it. Filthy, tattered, his old duster lay beside the hole. Vash wished he could turn around, leave the coat—and leave Rem—behind forever.

He stooped picking up the duster and letting it fall open. A desert gust stirred the coat, whipped through the bullet holes that peppered the duster. Vash struggled into the garment, not bothering to button it. The coat billowed around his ankles, flapped out behind him as he turned to face the wind. He slid on his topaz sunglasses, took a deep breath.

Try as he might, Vash couldn't ignore his past. And he couldn't ignore Knives. He needed to become Vash the Stampede again. He needed to—to live.