A/N: Knives's "given" name here was shamelessly plucked from Shadsie's "Journey of Remembrance," a very impressive Rem-survives-the-Fall AU fic. (Hint, hint: go read it!) Because really, who names their kid Knives?
Also, there is Spongebob in this chapter. You have been warned. :P
Child of the Wilderness
Chapter Three
"I don't understand," Meryl says to me after a long, quiet period in which her hands expertly draw a needle through the edges of my tattered red duster while I toe an imaginary pebble on the floor. "You do nothing and trouble still follows you."
"Mm?" I look up and inadvertently meet her stormy gaze – somehow she's able to thread and glare at the same time. I shoulda known the girl was a stickler for multi-tasking. I'm also hoping she's as good a seamstress as she claims, or I would never have given her my coat. Still, if we're going to agree to be honest, the first thing I need to do is feel that I can trust her with my possessions: Rem's geraniums were as good a place to start as any.
My heart, I figure, can come later... though, she really has no idea how much of it she's already stolen.
"Sorry," she sighs, misunderstanding my thoughtful expression. "I'm not mad at YOU, I just... it makes me so angry, thinking about the crap you have to take from people day in and day out."
You have no idea, I mentally assent. A puzzled look crosses her face, as if I'd said it aloud; and I cringe inwardly, realizing I've accidentally opened the link by which I can telecommunicate with others. Then again, it's so easy to be casual with Meryl, to allow psychic vulnerability, that it's a wonder I don't screw up more. "Y-yeah," I stammer after a moment, attempting to counteract her suspicions and failing miserably. "It's pretty, uh, incendiary?"
She looks at me like I just transformed into a cat. "That's a pretty big word, coming from a lunkhead like you."
An extremely visible bead of sweat begins to trail down the side of my head.
"But yes, you're otherwise right. Exactly what I was thinking."
It takes a rather large effort on my part to restrain a sigh of relief.
"...What I want to know is this," she adds, sending my heart plummeting into my bowels. "Just WHY do you put up with it, anyway? Why don't you settle down, maybe start a family? You sure seem to like kids enough."
Don't you dare lie to her, Vashon Alexander Seibrem, or you'll never have another donut again!
I open my mouth, then close it.
And don't say something stupid, either... like, I wish you could bear MY kids, Meryl...
To compensate for my impulses toward the latter, I say nothing.
"Clamming up, huh?" Her tone is bitter, as if I was voluntarily electing to keep her in the dark – as though, in the end, I really was nothing but the womanizer that all the rumors had made me out to be. "I should've known."
"No," I say, as gently as I can manage. "You're wrong.
"I'll tell you."
Her expression softens then, the steely glint in her eyes disappearing in half-lidded concern. "The truth? And nothing else?" She puts down the object of her needlework, closes the gap between us before I can open my mouth to protest. "Because I hate it when you keep secrets from me."
What are we, some old married couple? I quip in my mind, but Meryl's giving me that strange look again, so I continue:
"Well... do you want the long or the short version? Either way I'm afraid it's going to be pretty short. There are some things that I simply will not allow you to intrude upon, whether you like it or not."
Touché. This thought comes from her, not me. The intensity of emotions comprising it, however, startles me... yet all she can bring herself to say is, "Fine, the first one then."
"It has to do with a woman."
She immediately stiffens. I blush furiously as I realize my mistake.
Oh, shit. That had to be the WORST way to begin...
"No, you don't understand," I say, studying her carefully blank features. "Her name is Rem Seibrem. Rem..."
It doesn't matter. Her face remains expressionless; the name means nothing to her.
"She is – I mean, was – my mother. Of sorts. She raised me when I was a child."
THAT piece of information effects a change in her that is more felt than seen; I can actually sense the sudden increase in her heart rate. "Your mother?" she repeats weakly, as though it's never occurred to her that Vash the Stampede used to actually be part of a family. Unfortunately, the rumors only serve to reinforce the notion that I was unleashed upon this world full-grown, as Athena sprang from the forehead of her father in Greek lore. It's just one more method of dehumanization my name has been subjected to.
"Yes," I affirm quietly. When she doesn't respond, I go on explaining the overlooked aspects of my rep. "Believe me, there's nothing I would love more than to retire to some obscure town and live the rest of my days in peace. But I can't, not when Kniv – Millones is out there... and anyway, I promised her."
"Promised her what?" Her voice barely exceeds the volume of a whisper.
I sigh, as if mostly to myself. "Lots of things. That I would take care of Millones. That I would protect humanity from him. But mostly..."
My fingers curl around her wrists in an unconscious gesture, as though doing so will somehow transfer some of her own incessant female strength to me. And in a way, I suppose it does.
"I promised I would never take a human life."
I can feel the cogs rotating in Short Girl's mind as she struggles to absorb all I've said; and not for the first time, I find myself questioning the wisdom of my actions.
Why am I doing this? Why am I letting a hapless woman in on a secret that could get us both killed? Is it that I don't care what happens to her?
...No. Knowing a little can't hurt her. And if she gets in too deep, I can always draw back. I can always be alone again.
I pray to whatever gods there are that day never comes.
"Craps."
That was the only word Millie could make out among the otherwise unintelligible murmurs of her Sempai. The big girl peered around furtively to assure herself no one was watching, then leaned down to answer:
"Uh, Ma'am, I think you better give it a rest. We haven't much money left and you don't want to overdo it on the gambling thing, no matter what your papa said – "
She paused, tense and hopeful, as her partner stirred.
"No," Meryl said. "I mean I gotta go..."
"Oh," Millie said. "OH!" She got up, too quickly, and subsequently knocked over a waiter bearing a tray of shrimp puffs. "Bathroom!" she shrieked, too flustered to apologize. "We need a bathroom! Where is it?"
"Damned gorilla woman!" the waiter replied in a thickly accented voice while mopping off tartar sauce that had accrued on his collar. "Here we do not use such vulgar language – it is called a lavatory!"
"You're the one who's being vulgar, calling me that!" Millie cried. In an instant she had her stun gun trained on him. "Prepare to eat big metal cross!"
"NO! Please, don't kill me." The server fell back, whimpering as he stared down the barrel of the formidable weapon. "Th-the restrooms are in the lobby, right next to the pool tables. Spare me!" He began to cry large noisy tears, thereby attracting the attention of the entire casino.
"Thank you," Millie said sweetly. In one swift movement she withdrew her gun, scooped up the permanently incapacitated form of her co-worker. "Well, toodles!"
She left in her wake a host of positively terrified staff members – many gun owners themselves.
"That was not normal," one of the scruffier patrons murmured to his companion, who nodded concomitantly.
"Oh, I'm a goofy goober – "
"YEAH!"
"You're a goofy goober – "
"YEAH!"
"We're all goofy goobers, then – "
"GOOFY GOOFY GOOBER GOOBER YEAH!"
Vash was no longer drunk; but one could hardly surmise that he was sane, either.
At the present moment he had no choice but to go on occupying the pub – engaging in anything and everything that offered even a remote hope of directing his thoughts away from the Insurance Girls for more than five seconds. This effort undoubtedly involved joining hands and dancing with an intoxicated waitress while reciting lyrics from a song about peanut people.
Thank God it's well after closing time...
"All right, folksh," he slurred to a non-existent audience, wrapping one lanky limb about his companion, "this one goes out to my bestest friend in the whole wide world! ...Uh, what's yer name again?"
The waitress's eyes disappeared in her drunken smile: "It's Lisa!"
"YEAH! Lisa! ...Oh, and don't forget this big peanut guy!" he concluded, gesturing to an adjacent barrel of rum. The stupid grin that had always constituted nearly half his body language grew even wider.
"No, that's a pickle," Lisa interjected helpfully, "I'm sure o' it – " She cried out, clutched her head. "God, I'm so drunk."
"I know," Vash said, suddenly more sad and serious than she had seen him in the past few hours. She became dimly aware of the fact that he had remained perfectly sober while she had gone and drunk herself into oblivion. She swatted at him, unsuccessfully, before collapsing in his arms. "You big stupid pickle... made me think you were a peanut."
"I'm sorry, my friend," Vash replied. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry that I'm not a peanut."
Suddenly mindful of the absurdity of their little exchange – what the hell was THAT supposed to mean, anyway? – Vash timorously shouldered the human bundle and prepared to lay her in the makeshift cot on the pub's upper level. (Lisa had, after a few drinks, confessed to the outlaw that she was the tavern owner's daughter, and that he had made up a bed for her on nights when he was forced to take sudden leaves of absence.)
The door swung open, admitting the brisk, chilly winds that so often accompanied the midnight hour.
A man subsequently followed them – almost as an afterthought, Vash noted with apprehension. He moved to shield Lisa from the cold, as well as from the potential threat the stranger posed.
His reservations were well founded, as a barrage of gunfire instantly exploded around them seconds later.
The initial shock stemming from the assault helped fuel the Stampede's drive to move; adrenaline pumped in his ears as, one-handed, he tossed Lisa's body into the air while opening fire with his prosthetic arm. Most of the attacker's bullets ricocheted harmlessly into the wall, while others struck Vash in such non-vital areas as the shoulder and arms; he let out a feral cry of pain before lunging backward to catch Lisa in her descent.
"Who the hell are you?" he cried as they both dove for cover behind a pinball machine.
"I think you know very well, Vash the Stampede," the man replied in a voice that instantly made his blood curdle. He lifted his face, enough that the outlaw could take in his scraggly features – Vash didn't recognize him in the least, but there was SOMETHING about the bloodlust in his eyes that forced him to acknowledge more than a passing familiarity...
"Legato!" he cried. The hatred and panic in his voice moved Lisa to tears; she buried her head in his coat and shook with silent sobs. "This man is innocent – you've possessed him! Let him go, NOW!"
"Oh, very well," Legato sighed; he seemed disappointed that he had been found out so soon. "But not before I give you a message..." His mouth curved in a sadistic version of a smile, and the Stampede could almost envision the psychic's own bloodless lips mimicking the gesture.
"Knives awaits you in Augusta."
Vash's breath hitched. "I know of no such person."
"Don't fool yourself. What do you think this is, a game?" Legato's grin deepened. "But of course... the Stampede can't be bothered to take the fate of innocent lives seriously. He'd rather go on living in a fairy tale, believing that his brother will greet him as joyfully as Esau met Jacob."
"What are you planning?"
"Nothing, if you comply. Be there to greet Kni – oh, excuse me, MILLONES – within five days... or we'll treat you to a reprise of what happened in Tonim Town. I don't think you need to be reminded of the 'mass disappearances?' "
No. He did not. Neither did Lisa; her mounting fear and grief was such that she had to fight to restrain a shriek at this revelation. Vash kept his arms protectively encircled about her, but he wasn't faring much better himself. "Bastard..."
Legato appraised them silently for long moments, then produced a small pistol from his pocket and held it to his temple. "Farewell, then."
They scarcely had a instant to scream before the wall was painted with the man's blood and brains.
