Ex-Innocent: two.
Oh no. Do I hafta? I always get nervous when I have to introduce myself.
However, if I must...Don't you feel I'm like a peaceful hunter, continuing to chase the dragonfly of love?
It's a joke, most of it. Sometimes people take me so seriously, though. Sometimes I think they even get offended, but I couldn't tell you why. It's kind of like a pseudonym; "hunter of peace, chaser of love;" it's the fiction that I slate myself behind. It makes for a nice show, anyway.
I like to try and search for anything positive in a person, and the most I could say for these punks was that they were certainly persistent in their gains. Moreover, I suppose I'm at least thankful that they cared to invest in boxers– not that they really needed to strip all their clothes. I had just wanted them to give up their weapons, but they compromised with the vast majority of their attire. Eh.
I can't help but frown at what I'm left with, though. What did they expect me to do with this stuff? I suppose... I can drop them off at the charity thrift left of the town center.
I felt my sleeve jerk and looked down to find the kid standing next to me, his face pink from embarrassment and blotchy from tears. He lets go of my sleeve and offers a damp rag– probably from Cute-Waitress. I grin, chuckling and hold out his dart gun. "Here. Thanks, that saved me!!" He looks at the thing as if its some blessed artifact, but I hope his mother will wash my touch from it when they get home. I clean the decoy ketchup from myself with the cloth he gave me.
"That's quite an impressive arm. Have you lived this long without shooting?"
No, Grandpa– but the kid is still standing next to me, so I lie. I've lived a long time without shooting, but I have shot. What Grandpa asked is true, but it's not. I've shot, I've expended countless bullets through flesh and into gritty dirt, though I hit the weapon if I can afford it. I haven't killed, per se, but I've injured. I've incapacitated, I've wounded. I don't think Grandpa realizes the guilt in that question.
"...No matter who you are, pain isn't something anyone likes, right? So I decided it would be better to not have any casualties."
My tongue bleeds with the contradiction. Pain and casualties are not the same.
"You're an odd one. Can you really be called a gunman, I wonder?" Grandpa's voice is lacking of any real emotion, but he laughs. The kid laughs, and so does his mother, but they haven't seen the holster under my coat. I laugh, too.
A sequence of harsh rings skim our laughter, and Cute-Waitress gasps as she gathers herself about her and hurries into an adjoining room marked with a studded "Employee's Only" sign. Most large-town restaurants and businesses invest in telephones if they're ever presented with the offer, but I think most of the owner's only do it for show. There aren't many people you can call, so they charge domestics like us a fine price to use one.
Cute-Waitress emerged nearly half an hour later, and I didn't bother to ask her if everything was all right; I had made some obscure joke a minute ago, and Grandpa was laughing so hard I thought he was going to hack up a few hairballs. She smiled and bustled about the place, tidying and fretting over the ruined furniture and walls. She seemed nervous.
...You're an odd one. Can you really be called a gunman, I wonder? I have to smile at Grandpa's words. He had meant it as a joke, I know, but for some reason it just didn't settle right with me. Sometimes it's just easier to laugh, I guess. It distracted me from Cute-Waitress.
"Sorry about this."
How inconvenient.
I'm not laughing anymore; I dunno, maybe it's a kind of dying chuckle or something. I don't have to look to know she has a gun trained on me– not that I have eyes on the backs of my ears or anything, but there's a soft click-cln-clink; her unsteady hand chattering the gun at my back. People are starting to show up outside. I think I know who called earlier.
The Sheriff, or maybe even the Mayor himself. Checking up on what all the ruckus had been. Cute-Waitress stuttering, twining the phone's long cord in her grasp. So nervous. I can just imagine her nearly sobbing my name into the phone, asking what she should do.
Keep him there, of course. We'll have backup there soon.
Only, the so-called backup was turning out to be a militia made up of damn near every capable arms-wielding citizen in this whole city. I can hear them outside, a clumsy treble of voices; some shouting, others talking very loudly. I raise my hands and pressure my heel. My boot audibly tread the floor as I turned to face her.
"We talked it over at the town meeting and came to a decision. Half will go to the city's finances and the other half will be split up amongst everyone." A pause. "I'm very sorry about this... Mr. Vash."
She's gotten a better grasp on the gun, muffling the chatter; but she was holding it too close to herself. She looks too dainty to be holding a gun. She is too dainty. She isn't really sorry though; I can see it in her eyes. She's scared, and that's very different from being sorry for something like this. I thought about telling her this, but didn't.
That mother had grabbed her son, holding him by his arm. He was grasping tight onto his dart gun. I stood still, trying not to stare at the mass of people outside, waiting for her to take the kid away from here. She didn't.
Damnit. This is so dangerous.
"I'm sorry." Cute-Waitress. She said it again, and again I didn't believe her. Her thumb pushed gently against the hammer; her finger twitched. I needed a plan. I didn't have a plan. I never have a plan.
Pop! A dart shot past Cute-Waitress, but didn't come close to hitting her. It bonked against the window in a manner that was extremely anti-climactic for this situation. The mother grabbed her son, barking his name furiously. She actually sounded scared. Cute-Waitress yelped and her finger squeezed. The kick from the gun, small as it was, made her yelp again, louder this time. She had never fired a gun before; the jerk threw off her aim drastically. The lead bullet burrowed into the wall.
It isn't a plan so much as it is a distraction– but a distraction is still something to work with. They were all too startled by the gunshot to do much more than yell after me as I ran; and even her shout was muffled by her hand.
That militia of townsfolk was distracted too. Enough, at least, for me to get a few yarz behind me before a bullet pounded the dirt beside my foot. Damn. They were rousing from their little daze and starting to realize I'm not behind that window anymore. This presents a few problems on my behalf, now. Not that I'm out of shape or anything, it's just that I really hate running. It's so boring. Two bullets sped by my right, and another nicked the shoulder of my coat.
A ladder. I grunted, bumping my knuckles hard against the thick metal as I seized the bars.
