FORTY-FOUR: likewise

Faye Valentine jumped out of the jeep even before Meryl had started to slow down. She gawked in amazement up to the great dome that dominated the skyline. She was freaked out, something that was a little out of character, but that didn't mean she wasn't ready to face whatever dangers stood in her path. Slowly, she pulled her weapon free and switched the safety off.

Behind her, Meryl started to pull pieces of what could only be a weapon from a box in the back of the jeep. As she started to assemble the thing, Faye grabbed Bran's binoculars and peered down to the base of the dome. Her eyes narrowed instantly as she saw several vehicles at what could only be the buildings entrance.

Around the building were several men. Most were younger, perhaps in their twenties and thirties, but one in particular stood out. An old man, slightly hunched over. "Son of a bitch! It's that old fucker!"

Meryl rose, her weapon slung over her shoulder, and came down to ground to meet her new friend. "What do you mean?"

Faye handed Meryl the binoculars, blinking when she noticed that Meryl was armed with a rifle equipped with a powerful scope. "There's six of them. The old fucker is the one who was in charge back in that old city I told you about."

Meryl peered down toward the base where Faye was pointing and shook her head. "That's the one? I'd bet my life savings that's Jed Quinn."

"Probably. So, what next?"

Meryl sighed. "I don't know."

"We can't just sit here."

"And we don't have the slightest clue where to go. We have to sit tight and wait for Vash." She slipped the gun from her shoulder. For a moment, she peered down the sight, checking to be sure that she weapon was properly assembled, and inserted the magazine, containing five rounds. Then she took a loose round, pulled back the bolt to load the last bullet, and slid it back into place. Laying low so to be sure not to be spotted, Meryl peered to the sight through the scope, ten times more powerful than the binoculars Faye had offered her. She took a moment to investigate each individual face. None she recognized, of course, but there were six of them, as Faye had said.

The old one was most likely Dr. Jed Quinn. She didn't think it could be anyone else. Four of the others ranged from their lower twenties or lower thirties. The fifth man was a little older, probably in his fifties. She almost anticipated catching a glimpse of her father, but he would have been much bigger than these goons. Physically, he was taller and brawnier than even Vash, rivaling but not matching the bulk of Bran the Toddler.

Meryl breathed a silent thank you to the deceased for helping her to get to this point. Glancing to Faye, who was right next to her, checking her own sidearm to see that she was ready for the inevitable, Meryl held out her hand.

Faye gave her a confused look, but didn't say anything.

"We're about to get our butts blown away," Meryl explained. "I just thought it would be a good idea that we were introduced properly before we die."

The other smiled and accepted her hand.

"Faye Valentine."

"Meryl Stryfe. It's a pleasure to have made your acquaintance."

"Likewise."

Meryl peered through her scope once more, her smile never withering.

Quinn was growing impatient, and when Quinn grew impatient, it typically meant that someone was about to die. His most trusted men, who had each just recently gained higher standing with the departure of Henry Starks, were at the top of his list. Men like Merrick Quicksilver and Kane the Nighthawk would now have to step up and take his place, or share his fate. Somehow, they each took their new positions in stride, never once acting as though they felt that their lives were at all in danger. Perhaps they were more concerned with victory than their own existence, and somehow that made perfect sense to Quinn. After all, these men had served Knives.

Because of Knives, they were men knew what it was like to serve impatient leaders such as Jed Quinn. It was one of the few positive qualities Quinn believed had actually aided Knives during his attempt at domination.

But that alone was not enough. Quinn added the human element that Knives had attempted to eradicate. Quinn added the passion that Knives had lacked. It was that passion that had convinced Morgante the Warhead to join him in his quest of domination. Of course, in any such excursion, failure was not an option. It was for that reason that men like Henry Starks and Jon Thomas and all the other failures that disgraced the whole of the operation had to die.

"Kane?"

The Gung-Ho Gun was at Quinn's side in an instant. "Sir?"

"I want you to rendevous with Dark Horse take command of the cavalry. Send half of your forces to surround the gorge to our north. I don't want Vash the Stampede have a escape route to the north."

Kane nodded, indicating that he understood the order. "Sir, he is on his way to the Millennium Arc. He has no intentions of returning north."

Quinn was well aware of that fact, but he listened intently to the younger man. "Yes. I appreciate your thoroughness, but you needn't worry. I intend to take all precautions. Vash evaded the Gung-Ho Guns in the past. He will not evade me."

Kane nodded again. "Yessir."

Quinn actually smirked as the gunman turned toward his duty. He called for one of the other Gung-Ho Guns to join him, and the two of them climbed onto motorcycles and were quickly on their way. For a moment the old man watched as a trail of exhaust and sand was lifted in their wake, and they soon disappeared into the backdrop.

In that moment, he heard a young man trudge out of the entrance of the Millennium Arc and sink to his knees as he gasped heavily, desperate to catch his breath. Merrick leaned forward to hear the boy's report.

With a nod, Merrick turned his attention to his leader.

"Quinn, we have them."

Jet struggled to regain his breath as the massive warrior known as Morgante the Warhead pounded relentless at his back with the flat of his hand, each blow racing down his spine and somehow cutting off the signal from his brain that would have urged him to run. Instead, his legs simply shuddered beneath him. He yearned to fall, but he couldn't. Not with the bastard's other powerful hand holding him in place.

He felt so useless, so…expendable.

Milly stood defeated, arms tied behind her back as another of the brutes her shoulders painfully. Jet felt sorry that he couldn't help her, but at least he could take the punishment. For them, it was at least worth it. Why should they suffer when he was willing and able to accept the pain on their behalf?

It sounded ridiculous, especially coming from his own thoughts, but Jet willingly accepted defeat in spite of it all.

"You should have remained in the command chamber," Morgante said. "It is your own fault." He kicked the side of Jet's knee brutally, forcing him from his feet. "Now just sit there and maybe I'll decide on a painless end."

"How could you do this!" Milly demanded. "It's just not right! You aren't human!"

Morgante turned his mechanical eye toward her.

She bit her lower lip fighting back tears.

"I never claimed to be human." He glanced to the fallen plant-spawn in the corner. He had to smile. It had been such an easy task. He lay there, unmoving, lost to them. All too easy.

"Stryker," Milly whispered, turning her gaze from him.

Poor bastard, Jet thought. He didn't know what had happened, but whatever the man had done, it had rendered Stryker helpless. He could hear the arrogant smirk on the brute's face as he spoke again. "Oh, he'll live." Jet fumed at the voice, but he said nothing. "This one is too important to Quinn's plans. If I were you, I would be crying for your precious Vash."

"You can't beat him!" Milly shouted defiantly, but she was silenced a moment later when her captor slammed the butt of his rifle into her stomach. With a soft whimper, the big girl slid to her knees. Jet offered her a sympathetic gaze, but he didn't dare speak. In the silence, Morgante gloated over his victory. Three down. Just one more would solidify a new victory. Quinn would be grateful for the salvaging this little crisis. Laying a boot to the side of Jet's head, the big man pushed him to his knees.

Soon, the moment was broken by the sound of footsteps rushing up to them. Someone entered the room, though Jet dared not look up to see who had joined them. "Morgante, I…there's a little problem." A boy. No older than twenty. Jet was pretty sure of it.

"Well? The child?"

He heard a soft swallow. The kid was nervous. "She, uh, she's disappeared. I can't find her anywhere."

Morgante was quiet for a moment. With a shake of his head he drew his sidearm and took aim. Jet flinched as a gunshot echoed through the corridor and heard the thud of a body crashing to the floor next to him. Morgante spit on the corpse. "Fucking kid."

Jet cringed.

These bastard killed their own allies faster than they killed their enemies.

Jesus, that was a scary thought.

"I don't get you," Spike muttered as he rubbed his soar shoulder. He was breathing harder now than he had been a moment ago. Sweat trickled down his brow and stung his eyes, but he didn't dare take his gaze off of Vash the Stampede. His opponent hadn't even broken a sweat, and that was cause for alarm, though he didn't risk panic. Not yet.

"Me neither. Care to go another round?"

Spike gawked. "Already? Christ, give me a second, will ya?"

"I don't have all day. I've got important business to attend to."

"You don't expect me to fight short of breath, do you?"

"You're not short of breath. You're speaking just fine."

Spike glared. "All right. Fine." He took aim again, emptying three quick rounds at the man in black. Just like before, he dodged them all, actually coming closer than he had been a moment before. "Sonuva… Hold still, will ya?"

"I'm just trying to make this competitive."

"You call this competitive!"

Vash smirked. "Let me guess. You're the kind of guy who's used to getting his way."

"All the time."

"Okay, okay. Just a second then."

"Huh?" Spike lowered his weapon. Vash reached inside his jacket and pulled out a strip of cloth. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Making it more competitive." He quickly tied the cloth over his eyes.

Spike watched him, incredulous. This guy was a bigger fool than he thought, and damned arrogant to. Arrogant, or suicidal. Maybe a little both.

Or maybe, he realized, something more. Vash the Stampede was the most feared man on the planet. There had to be some truth as to the rumor, no matter how vague. The bounty hunter rubbed the back of his head, watching Vash with wide eyes. "You've got to be kidding me!"

"Go ahead and let off a few rounds. I can't see ya, I promise."

"You're an idiot!"

"That's what people tell me, and I still can't figure it out. Go ahead, squeeze off a few."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Spike muttered under his breath, and pressed the release next to the trigger so that the empty magazine would fall to the ground. He reloaded and lifted his sidearm. In a matter of six seconds, he squeezed off four rounds.

His eyes widened when he realized that Vash had done it again.

Suddenly the man stood right in front of him, too close for him to fire another shot. Grinning like a fool, Vash lifted his hand and flicked Spike right between the eyes. The bounty hunter stumbled back and actually dropped his gun, grabbing his nose. "You arrogant little prick!" He glared at Vash and mumbled a few choice words. The Humanoid Typhoon's brow rose, impressed at Spike's vocabulary, as he slipped off the blindfold. "How the hell do you do that!"

Vash frowned, leaning forward. Suddenly there was the fire of the devil in his eyes, and the true Humanoid Typhoon burst free, the man who could topple entire cities in a matter of seconds. "You can't beat me. I can't allow you to beat me. Now if you don't step aside and let me get to where I need to go…" He lifted his prosthetic hand and the hidden gun slid out of the chamber in his wrist. He set the barrel loosely against Spike throat. "It's gonna get ugly."

Spike's instincts were triggered instantly. He knew this was no mere threat. It was a promise. This was a man who certainly kept his promises.

The bounty hunter closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

"There are men there after you," he said. "I don't know what kind of a man you are, but I'm pretty sure the bastards waiting for you aren't saints."

"I know who they are," Vash hissed. He wasn't about to let his guard down now. "I'm prepared for them."

"They want you dead. They could care less about the sixty billion. Why?"

He narrowed his eyes. "I'm not exactly the man from the poster. In a lot of ways, I'm so much more dangerous than that."

Spike smirked. "I think I believe you." The machine gun cold metal pressed more tightly into his throat. He held fast and brave, never taking his eyes from Vash.

"You have a choice to make."

The bounty hunter realized he still had his gun in his right hand. He held it firmly, but didn't lift it. If he did, he knew he was a dead man. Vash's eyes narrowed, staring coldly into his own. A warning, he realized, that time was running out.

Spike made his decision.