Gah! Gruh! (General grunting noises) Well, I intended for last chapter to end on a cliffhanger, but my lack of an editor and inability to edit late into the night has caused it to look like it ended on a mushy note. My bad. But just to let you know, that last sentence in chapter two was supposed to imply there is a stalker nearby. Yah, anyway, here's the new chapter.

~~~~~~~~~~



A sound, squealing perhaps, more like knives rubbing together, resonated from a distance. Vash opened his eyes to see a paunch man garbed in brown, face obscured by a long red scarf littered with green zebra stripes and a pair of golden goggles strapped tightly to his bald head, standing no more than seven yarz away. He slumped forward a bit, which made him shorter than he already was. The sound came from his direction again, and a flicker of movement caught Vash's eye. He wore metal gauntlets, slips of metal lining his hand and ending in razor claws he could manipulate with his fingers; as he clawed the air they scraped together like scissors.

Vash moved to rise when the stranger spoke up, "I am Horace the Claw, the third of the Deadly Quartet. I and my friend over there-" he pointed to something above Vash, hidden by the roof of the miniature cave he had slept in "have been sent by your brother to stop you. He said we could slow your progress, but he really has almost given up hope on you, dear boy." There was a tone of sadistic delight in his last comment, lending itself to his intentions. Horace may have been old, but he looked capable of backing his talk.

Almost on cue a leg dropped over the mouth of the shelter, dangling for a time before being followed down by a much younger man with bright black hair and eyes to match, dressed in a spotless white doctor coat and slacks. He straightened his coat before looking up at Vash, smirking lightly. "Thank you for the introduction, Horace, but I do believe I can handle the rest. I am Phillip the Gimmick, the second of the Deadly Quartet. You see, we are the middle men, so to say," he chuckled with insane glee, "and do all the dirty work planned out by our leader, but we leave the demolition work for the subordinate. Quite efficient setup, actually." He paced around the mouth of the shelter, boxing Vash in as he spoke. "You probably won't be seeing the other two for some time, if ever, so why don't we get to know each other?"

I knew it, Knives recruited more people to do his dirty work, Vash thought as he observed Horace for any telltale weaknesses, glancing on occasion to Phillip. He was not prepared to fight. His body ached from walking many hours, his skin stung from long exposure to the burning sun, a churning pain filled his stomach. Vash absolutely craved water; there were only three bullets in the gun he carried. Phillip had him cornered. This fight would end soon.

"Let's start off with something of relative interest, shall we? Then we can work into the more boring details once we've acquainted ourselves." Phillip cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair, Horace flitted his fingers playfully again. "You have a woman you are attached to, correct? Or rather, you were attached to her, but I hear from Knives that you do tend to have dreams about these people even after their untimely deaths. Do you?" Vash nodded, straining to keep from lunging at Phillip. Some quality of his voice grated at him. "You have a disorder common in many shock victims in which your brain makes an effort to prevent psychological damage by sugar-coating, if I should put it that way, the dilemma you face. You refuse to accept their deaths by giving them life in your dreams, thereby softening the harshness of reality."

Vash bristled at the words, hatred and resentment boiling in his veins. "Are you telling me that Rem is something I made up! She is real! How could I be so cowardly that-"

"Obviously, Vash, I have hit a nerve. A chemical irregularity in your brain that you cannot control. Why else would you defend a woman who has been dead for almost a century?" Vash slumped down in resignation, unwilling to argue. "I have studied your behavior for some time now, and have found that the two halves of your brain are conflicting, Vash. The more artistic half of your brain wants to make your life a melodrama with you at the center, a pity party starring you, while the more literal half of your brain tells you to protect your mate. Just like animals. We have studied this in rats and found it to be true. Your brain is not functioning well due to trauma. Everybody thinks you should give up before you hurt yourself."

The word stuck to him, echoed and reverberated throughout him, amplifying with every pass through his mind. Everybody. Everybody was angry at him. But how could that be true? Meryl loved him, Wolfwood was still his friend. No, wait, they were both dead. How could they be his friends if he killed them? How could they feel anything if they were dead? Maybe this man was right, maybe something indeed was wrong with Vash. But he fought for love and peace, how could that be wrong?

Grinning, Phillip moved closer to Vash in an effort to intimidate him. Push him back into his own little cave while he's confused, thought Phillip, inspired to speak again. "And look at you, sleeping in a cave. You are afraid the world will see what you have become. Many shelters around here, and yet you choose the one that symbolizes your simple mind. You are vermin in a cave, Vash, afraid of the light outside. Afraid of your own shadow, you try to outrun yourself so you won't have to confront any of the problems you create. You are a liability, and everyone knows it. They all think you should stay in here."

This was too much for Vash, and the worst part of it all was, it was true. He wept silently now, his voice hoarse and dry, "How many?"

"I beg your pardon?"

He turned a glare filled with rage up toward his oppressor, slowly rising and growing more vehement in speech. "How many people even know I'm right here, right now? And who exactly is this everybody you keep talking about?" Phillip stared on coldly, silent. He made no effort to speak for some time. "So there isn't really anyone else but you, right? The 'everybody' you talk about is you, right?!" Phillip slid his foot back a hair, an infinitesimal retreat. His face felt hot and his forehead beaded with sweat. They locked eyes, exchanging hateful glares.

Both men jumped at a loud clang ringing off the roof of the cave. Vash looked up to see what Phillip was fearfully gazing at, a knife embedded into the ancient rock. From up on the hill Horace called down, "Really now, I'm getting bored. Why don't you let our friend out so he and I can play for a while." Phillip nodded nervously, taking a few shaky paces back to allow Vash out of the shelter.

Vash stormed up the side of the dune, his muscles surging though exhausted, until he came face to face with the aging man. As if in silent challenge to Horace's apparel Vash slipped out his glasses and forced them up the bridge of his nose, snorting in distaste as he pressed them firmly against his brow. The hard lines running down Horace's face softened, curved upward slightly in a smile masked by scarf and grim hatred. "Well, well! I see we share a commonality, no? I am quite fond of these goggles. They were a gift from an old friend. Please spare me any grievance by avoiding them in our fight, would you dear boy?"

Vash eased, hoping he wouldn't have to hurt anyone. "And certainly someone like you would never think to hit a man wearing glasses, would you?"

"Never." Vash caught the cold draft of his voice at the same time he felt a hand pulling his head down into Horace's knee, jarring the shades from his face. He stumbled blindly a few feet, moaning and clutching his bleeding nose. Whipping around to regain his senses, Vash felt another blow catch his right flank just below the ribcage, sliding up underneath his bent arm. Again before the world oriented itself Vash found his arm locked at his side, forearm pinned to upper arm. A knife's edge pressed against his throat, and he could hear Horace wheeze from behind his ear, "If you value your life, which I hear you don't, don't move an ich or I'll extend your mouth to the base of your neck!" On reaction Vash swallowed, cringing at the razor biting into his skin.

Phillip moved around in front of Vash and stared long and hard at him, his confidence and composure reestablished. He parted his lips slightly, sucked in a small breath of air, and spoke. "You enjoy self abuse as a source of punishment for your failures, but self abasement is an altogether different source of pain you have not hardened against yet. You despise yourself, yet cherish your values. You place too much importance on the words of a dead woman, Vash." Infuriated, Vash lunged forward only to be caught by Horace's clawed hand and drawn back. Sticky, hot blood dribbled down his neck as Phillip continued nonchalantly, "As I said, and let me reiterate, your problem is that the two halves of your brain are conflicting, Vash. The more artistic half wants everyone around you to feel sorry for you, for your life to be one big pity party with you as the guest of honor, the main attraction. Meanwhile the more literal half of your brain wants you to protect the ones you think are your friends, to be strong and affirmative and take action. Yet you run, so your brain punishes you for disobeying it by creating a chemical imbalance that makes you depressed and suicidal. When you do take action, it is against your 'values', so you punish yourself again anyway. Don't make life a pretty little rainbow land by dreaming up your friends to aid you when they are dead!"

As Vash considered what Phillip said, the psychiatrist dug around in his pocket until he found a small oblong article and pulled it out, shoving it offensively close to Vash's face. "You are unhealthy, Vash. You need help, so I'll do you a favor and administer this to you immediately." He drew his hand back until Vash could see it was a syringe filled with an ominous liquid of light blue tint. He tapped it a couple times and pressed some of the contents out to ensure it was flowing freely. As much as he wanted to stab Vash twice or three times, after the first injection he was sure to be thrashing too much for another dosage.

Even as Phillip moved to pierce his arm with the needle, Vash squirmed to free himself. "I didn't want to do this, but you have provoked me." Phillip reeled his free hand back and planted it forcefully into Vash's gut. There was no reaction; no flinching, no pain.

"Is that really all you've got?" Vash asked incredulously.

"Why do you think he earned a name like the Gimmick? All bark and no bite."

"Thank you, Horace, that's quite enough. Now let's finish this before breakfast." He whipped into a low crouch placing a hand on Vash's shoulder, and jammed the needle deep into his midsection. When he ripped it free Horace brought his bladed hand down across Vash's chest and raked hard, blood oozing from the fresh wounds. The ground rose quickly to hit Vash in the face, colors swirling and sounds echoing. Consciousness quickly evaporated as he looked up to see a blurred face possibly staring down at him.



~~~~~~~~~~~~

Is this really a good place to end the chapter? Well too bad if it isn't! Everyone that hates Phillip the Gimmick because he's evil, raise your hand. Everyone that hates him 'cause I suck as an author, lynch me. Hey, wh-why's everyone going to the hardware store?