––A manga-based retelling of Trigun, from Vash's POV. Fluff, angst and yaoi later on– this fic is more of an interpretation with a few added scenes, NOT a translation. (Reviews keep me happy!) Trigun under Nightow, not me.
Ex-Innocent: one.
I love this song– it's a classic. A real easy tune, not all that fast, but I wouldn't call it slow, either. There's two guitars, an' if you listen real close you can pick one from the other. Most people I ever sat down with (through this song) say "Well that sure is some fine guitar!" and I always felt obligated to give the second one credit. The geezer's know; it's an older band. There's some mellow drumming, and sometimes they use the really classy stuff– I've heard a number of theirs with a flute in it once. And then there's the singer: Eddy Sands. His voice is rough, like a man who's enjoyed a cigar or three in his lifetime; gnawing the brown stick and numbing his tongue against it... but it's nice that way. I like the coarse-paper tone and the easy curve of his vowels. I don't care much for the lyrics– never have– but it's still a nice listen.
"Mom. Buy me a gun."
"And what are you holding in your hand right now?"
"No, a real air gun would be cooler!!"
Looking at her, I think the kid's mother doesn't appreciate the dart gun he's got already– his father probably got it for him, no doubt considering the tick of annoyance in her eyes. I'm glad for it, though. A gun of any kind is an awful thing to possess.
"Sir, here you go!"
I recessed my attention from the woman and her son, smiling as best I could manage. It was meant for the waitress, but I think it may have been facing the food. She's busy. Cute, too– but I didn't realize it until she had left. I don't mind. Digesting steak takes concentration, anyway. It's not bad– the sauce is good; on the mashed potatoes too. Potatoes are probably one of Gunsmoke's most abundant organic product. It grows in dirt, and that's all we have. It's kind of like the cockroach of crop... but better tasting.
I can't help but gaze toward the window, slender with thin frames whose white paint had since toned itself like muted dust. The yellow pastel curtains framed it like a sweet-and-dainty face, and offered the wall a nice offset. Pleasant, but unoriginal. Outside, a man was screaming for a doctor.
I should have left earlier, but that delay of my fork was just enough to be Too Late. That man needed help, and here was a group of tough guys clomping heavily over the porch, come to cause trouble of course. The hesitation at the door was suspicious, but it should have been a dead give away.
I'm getting along a little slower these days, I guess.
I was going to pay, leave a tip for Cute-Waitress and then investigate the wails that had now become distressfully quiet. One of the punks outside pushed open the door, and Cute-Waitress turned to offer a greeting. She wasn't through with the second syllable before I knew, and they peeled off a round of bullets, ripping through the opposite wall to my left.
Four of them burst in.
I was the target.
They opened fire.
I started counting.
With four semi-automatic weapons puking bullets in droves, the noise is loud enough to hurt, but I'm used to that. They each had maybe 10 rounds left– a couple hundred bullets– I lost count when I upturned the table to protect Grandpa, but I still had an estimate and that's good enough. The guy with the weedy hair was slower than the rest of them. I moved right, hopping over a table that looked more like a crescent moon (or maybe Swiss cheese?), to help Cute-Waitress and the small family. I tripped.
The punks let their fingers off the trigger long enough to see if I was dead or not. There was ketchup in my eye.
That kid dropped his gun and started crying– just bawling into his mum's arms, an' I felt bad. I thought of sitting up and wiggling my fingers at him; smile and assure him I'm still quite alive, but the punks might notice something like that.
They start laughing, busting their guts over a little spilt ketchup (in my eye), but I think the weedy guy had a few more crayons in the box than the rest of'em. I don't know what he wanted to do; nudge me with his gun 'for sure,' I think. He's the only one with any small amount of ammunition left, and I didn't want that in my face, so I kindly declined and remedied that, nudging my finger against the barrel.
"Hey, hey, Girl. Don't make that face!! If it's about the damage, we can rebuild the whole shop."
That made me feel better. I decided to offer my gratitude personally, and brought my weedy friend along with me. "Oh, that's good!" I draped an arm around Weedy (I think I heard them call him Magnus, but Weedy is much better) and sidled up to the big guy. "I was awfully worried."
He stared, and I thought that was slightly rude. He sniffed me, and... well, I'm not quite sure what that was. "...You reek of tomato." This made me frown, and I flaunted the offending ketchup bottle, explaining. "The moment I fell, I was wearing this on my head. Could you pay my cleaning bill as well?"
"Naw. I got another idea. YOU'LL HAVE TO SETTLE FOR A ONE-WAY TICKET TO HELL!"
Hm. I admit, it wasn't quite what I'd been hoping for– and again with the gun-in-face thing? I believe I'm a fairly generous and reasonable man, so I compromised with a game of suction darts. "Hasty." I sighed. "Too hasty! C'mon, let's not jump to conclusions. Why don't we discuss this?"
They never agree, I don't know why I keep trying.
"Wha... What the hell... Who... are you..?"
Wanted. Vash the Stampede.
Estimated Age: 24
Birthplace: Unknown
Residence: Unknown
Suspected in the murder of Count Revenant Vasquez and believed capable of G-grade damage. Suspect still at large.
Bounty: $$60 billion double dollars, dead or alive!!
Note: Pacifist.
