I'm serious, people. If you don't know what a word means, use the handy dictionary program on this site. Or a real dictionary. Otherwise, some parts of this story will make NO SENSE AT ALL. Some cursing in this chapter, just to let you know. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Sprawled on the ground, darkness filling his being, Vash could hear the sinister men tromping away, their chatter and laughter fading off into the distance. Pain debilitated his arms as he tried to wipe blood-soaked mud from his face and neck. Spasms induced by a combination of drugs, exhaustion, and blood loss threw him deeper into the void of nihility, until a voice rumbled across the dunes and through the sand to Vash. The omnipotent voice was soon recognized to be that of none other than Nickolas D. Wolfwood.

Now standing, or assuming he was standing for sake of orientation, Vash turned his ethereal head to see his friend leaning against a polished marble cross that reflected a soft glow like the light of angels. Small tufts of grass sprouted around the base of the cross, stretching their leaves out pining for sunlight. Wolfwood dragged deeply from his cigarette. "Is this the last time I have to save your sorry ass?" Wolfwood joked from behind swirling wisps of smoke.

"Who said you were doing anything to save me right now?" countered Vash, smiling back at his friend.

There he goes with that big goofy grin of his, Wolfwood mused to himself. "You don't know it yet, but the only reason you aren't dead yet is you haven't crossed that line." He casually indicated a row of grass and weeds growing in a line across the black ground, illuminated under the same soft light reflecting off the cross. "You've got determination like no one I've ever seen that passes through these gates, not that I've been here very long.

"Truth is, you should be dead right now, but I worked it out with management to see that you stay alive if you really want to. If you find the will to stand up, I will do everything I can to keep you alive." Detecting Vash's confusion, he pointed to the battered corporeal Vash laying at Vash's feet. All the while he talked in a business tone, neither happy nor sad, caught between very separate emotions. I wish I didn't have to send you back out there to torture yourself again, Wolfwood worried grimly. And at the same time, I know better than anyone else that you've got some impossible solution brewing in your mind. But what separates you from me, is that it will work.

"So I guess it's a one-way road, huh? If I cross that line I can't go back." Wolfwood nodded. "Are the insurance girls there?"

Wolfwood gave a smug grin and a quick laugh. "Yeah, but they can't come here. Apparently I did enough good in my life to earn some overtime, but I'm working off of borrowed time right now. If you're going to decide, do it quickly. Management doesn't like the 'dearly departed' talking to the living for very long, if ever."

Vash sighed and cast a glance at the endless black all about him, looking to Wolfwood and gave his parting words, "Don't think of me as girly, but I really would like to give you a hug."

His voice rolling through Vash's body with the omnipresence of an angel, Wolfwood responded, "Sure thing, but you gotta cross that line to get to me." Vash simply smiled and walked deeper into the darkness. The further he moved, the more solid he began to feel again, until he was aware of a tingling sensation in his arms and legs. It started as a numbness, gently grew to life, to feeling, to pain.

A deep inhale was met with a puff of dust, irritating Vash's throat and nose. He sputtered a few times, spitting out blood occasionally, and groaned. Resting his head for a while, he remembered he had been carrying a gun and checked his holster with a brush of his hand. His fears were confirmed, the gun was missing. He ground his face in the dirt and cursed.

After lying still to recover himself to some extent, Vash drew his arms in to lift himself off the ground when he noticed a scuffling sound. He tried futilely to look past his shoulders, but before he could see anything the gruff wheezing voice of a certain Horace greeted him. "I see you are indeed still alive. Very impressive. Phillip said he had no doubts you would survive, but that he didn't feel like waiting, so I am the only one present and available to entertain your fancies. I hope you slept well."

Rolling on his side, arms and shoulders screaming in protest, Vash looked up at Horace through watery eyes. The old man was slumped over him, poised to strike at any sign of danger, yet casual and calm. "How am I supposed to fight you without a gun?" queried Vash.

Horace laughed roughly, "That's the point! Those poor shits in the Gung-ho Guns made one fatal- and I use the word quite literally- mistake when they opposed you. They fought you on the one platform you excel at most, gunfighting. We are not fools and have found it much to our benefit to engage you in melee combat. Surely a man trained only in marksmanship couldn't put up a fight unarmed. Mind you, however, it was not I who took your gun, but that bore Phillip. He has a tendency to make things much less..." Horace paused to consider his word choice. "Interesting." Is that really the best my vocabulary could conjure? Perhaps being around that fragile little pansy has dulled my senses. He must be boring me to death.

Vash eyed his challenger's bladed hands and the many sheaths strapped along his legs and belt. "Not a fair fight if you get so many weapons to yourself. Are you afraid of me?" Horace jolted at this insult as if stricken by a heart attack. A wicked smile and an even grimmer hatred spread across his face. Straining against pain, Vash struggled to rise.

He gasped when a pair of hands wrapped securely but gently across his chest and heaved him upward. "A wispy seedling challenges the stout oak? I fear no one. Don't conclude I am too weak in mind or in body to kill you." Once on his feet Vash nodded and sprang forward, pursued shortly after by Horace. Immediately noticing a whirring sound over his left shoulder, Vash dug his heel into the ground and spun about thrusting his arm out. The back of his clutching hand bludgeoned Horace in the face, cracking his nose and displacing his goggles.

Horace had not expected such a swift retaliation, and in a stupor slipped to the ground. Enraged, he lashed out in broad, careless sweeps. Not favoring a cheap shot to the side while he was down, he unsheathed and flicked a knife with hardly a glance. He shot up to his feet again, taking up a balanced stance in preparation for another attack. Finding Vash in hesitation, he blurted out, "You're supposed to be bad at hand fighting! How can you be so skilled in every field of combat? I have trained with the blade my entire life, yet you apparently master a new school of combat effortlessly. Instantly, I might add." He could feel his blood boil, rage and frustration fueling his assault.

Horace lunged, first doubling back, then lurching forward with his arms flailing limply behind. Just two paces from Vash, he thrust downward and swung full force with both arms in a cross cleave. A wrenching sensation pulled at his stomach. Why didn't I hit anything? He felt a tap on his back, sending shivers along his spine. "Are you some kind of demon?! How can you possibly move that fast?" Horace demanded as his voice grew hoarse and quivered.

Determination born of fear sent him in a flurry of sweeps both high and low, close and far, moving in great spirals and geometric patterns. His fear intensified with every strike that missed, which were numerous. Finally, he caught Vash in the side of the head with the inside of his hand, a broadside clout but a hit no less. At the instant his hand rebounded from Vash's skull he recalled an important fact, Vash had been mortally wounded for nearly an hour and a half.

Vash hopped backward with arms upraised to fend off more blows, bewildered to find Horace drop his guard in despair. He stared aghast at Vash, immobilized with fear. "Those injuries. They should have killed you! They haven't even slowed you down! If anything you are far faster this time around."

"Well, you caught me offguard with a cheap trick the last time. But you're right about these," he ran his fingers along the rippled scars on his neck and chest, "I do tend to heal quickly."

Horace was panicking now. "You stupid shit! You don't know anything about fighting! How many scars do you have to show off? Youngsters don't know anything about the world. They tell people like me to fuck off, well I'm older than you and am therefore wiser!"

"I don't know about that," Vash mumbled, loosening the buttons on his collar. Vash cut Horace short before he could begin his query, "You think I don't have any scars? I don't know why that is a source of pride to you, not when we can live together in harmony." He continued unfastening the buttons of his coat as he talked, removing it, folding it over and placing it on the ground. Next he reached up and unhinged the latches on his suit at the neck and both wrists, loosening it from his body. Gripping at the sleeves he yanked his arms through, then reached up through the neck and rolled the suit down to his waist.

Bare-chested, he displayed the maze of jagged gashes, stitches and gauze that trailed down his body. Horace chuckled through his gaping mouth, dumbstruck at the sight. "I see there are many things in this world I have yet to encounter. You are obviously one determined fighter. 'Love and peace', that's what you spout, but why does your body tell a tale of violence? Why would you put yourself through such agony if your goal is a peaceful world? And is that arm... prosthetic?"

You're not so interested in fighting anymore, are you? Vash thought smugly. He tapped the metal joint of his elbow, "This one? Yeah, it's prosthetic. Lost it at July."

"And you have continued to persevere for the last thirty years?" Slowly, a new appreciation for life crept over Horace, along with a slight "Thank god I'm not him" feeling. This man before him despised violence, and yet he continued to fight for the last thirty years for- for what? For his ideals, his idea of Eden. If such a seemingly weak and pathetic individual exerted himself to near-fatal limits so that he could achieve world peace, why would one be proud of being able to destroy so little when one cheated his way there? The dichotomy was immeasurable, so great a distance it made Horace find his past to quite absurd now.

"So this is what you do. This is how the Gung-ho Guns fell to you. I see now why Knives fears you. You're unstoppable." Horace carefully meddled with the latch to his glove until it came unfastened and he discarded it. He then worked off his other glove and added, "Because you're right."

"What? I don't understand what you mean." Vash started to approach Horace.

"Don't come near me. I still don't like you. I declare a ceasefire, but if you get close I remain willing and able to gut you." To ensure his threat did not fall empty he drew a knife. He gestured with his drawn weapon to the east as he removed some of the sheaths strapped to his clothes. "Phillip and the rest of the Deadly Quartet are over in the next town. If you want your gun back go get it from him. And pop him one in the balls for me, I didn't like the dipshit. As for me," he wandered off, discarding more of his weapons, "I'm going to plant a tree or something."

Works for me, thought Vash, replacing his suit and coat. He turned to the east with a hardened glare of determination and continued his trek.


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That took me a long time to write.... Hopefully I won't be too lazy to get the next chapter done in less than a week. And as a preemptive warning, there will probably be a considerable amount of carnage in the next chapter (that's what I planned anyway).