1Meryl was hot. And starving. And most of all, she was thirsty. She had only been in the desert for two days, but already her tongue had swollen like a balloon in her mouth until it was difficult for her to talk. Her lips were cracked and dry–she hadn't had anything to drink for forty-eight hours. What's more, she ached from a hundred different places. There was no help for it: she'd have to make a trip to the city. Not October–they were expecting her there. One of the suburbs, like Fest. Or Baker.

Meryl stripped off her coat. She was about to discard her derringer, then decided against it–if she ran into a Desperado, he wouldn't be able to tell it wasn't loaded. The pistol could very well save her life. She considered trying to change her appearance, but there was no use. The sand that caked her neck and forehead, coupled with the narrow graze the bullet had left on her cheekbone would give her away.

For now, the wind from the coming storm was doing a good job of covering her tracks. But the storm was due in only a handful of days; after that, there would be no hiding from the Desperados. She mounted the thomas and headed south-southwest to the bubbly town of Baker. She figured Baker, with it's crowded streets and easy atmosphere, would be easier to melt into.

Meryl tied the thomas to a watering trough and used the water to rinse away the dirt cemented to her face. She didn't trust the water to drink though, even as thirsty as she was. She stared at her reflection in the water, amazed at how much had changed in two days. There were dark bags under her eyes, dark bruises on her jawline from where she'd hit the glass. A dozen scratches marred her neckline, and her hair was disheveled and marbled with desert sand. She stood up abruptly and stumbled into an eatery, seating herself on the red barstool.

The eatery was nothing like the diner had been last night. It had gleaming black and white checked floors and polished tables. The air was clear and sweet. The whole place had a wholesome look. She dug change from her pocket and put it on the counter.

"Water," she rasped, amazed she could still speak. The bartender set down a glass he has been drying and left for the other room, returning with a pitcher of water and a large glass. He poured a generous amount out, which she eyed thirstily. She downed the glass, then another and another. Still, the constriction in her throat didn't seem to go away.

The bartender rummaged through the cupboards, handing her a vial of rock salt. "How long have you been out there?" He asked concernedly.

Meryl took several deep breaths. "Two days."

The man's eyebrows shot up. "Without water?" His tone implied just how crazy he thought she was.

"Yes," Meryl answered curtly, trying to discourage conversation.

"Well, you're dehydrated," he said, mixing the salt into her water. No shit, thought Meryl dryly.

"Drink this. It'll bring up your electrolytes. You won't feel so thirsty." Meryl scrutinized the drink, the shrugged and raised it to her lips. She was beginning to feel sick, like her stomach couldn't take all the water after two days of thirsting in the dunes.

"What's all this?" Meryl asked vaguely, gesturing the streets outside. Baker was usually crowded, but today it was exceptionally packed . The whole town seemed to be buzzing with excitement. The chatter of voices could be heard from inside the diner.

"You haven't heard?" The man asked, surprised. "Oh, right. The desert." He leveled a gaze at her. "The Desperados left October two days ago. Right in the middle of the night. They didn't say a thing–just left. There are one or two still there, but most of them just took off. Baker's been celebrating since."

So the Desperados have left October. They're hunting me, now. Meryl stood up, a little unsteadily, and headed for the door.

She looked left and right down the busy street. Signs advertising fresh fruits, bars, and material shops whipsawed in the breeze. Meryl stepped into the road and was almost bowled over by the activity. She descried a gunsmith's shop and fought against the flow to reach it. She needed a gun–a real gun–if she was going to survive.

Vash the Stampede regarded the city of Baker cheerfully. The town wasn't big–it was more of a suburb built in the outskirts of October. Vash had lost his interest in big cities: Crime in every alley, "Wanted" posters plastered to every streetlight. There were just too many money-hungry people out for an easy 60 million double dollars.

Besides, Baker had seemed like a nice enough place to live. He'd heard it was settled by displaced chefs. Vash liked the sound of that.

Late afternoon was falling over Baker Square Park; A large fountain was centered in the square, water glittering under the sunlight. Vash chose one of the granite benches at the edge of the park and sat down, leaning back into the shadows. As cheery as the city was, it didn't match the descriptions Vash had heard at all. He'd assumed it would be a friendly, quiet atmosphere. Somewhere to catch his breath, if only for a few weeks. Instead, he was mildly taken aback at the aura of the place. It was bright and festive. Musicians were playing in the boulevards and laughter rang loudly in the small town. Citizens, dressed to the nines, had gathered around the street performers and were cheering.

Vash smiled contentedly, happy to be away from the melancholy of July. His face darkened momentarily as he remembered what it had felt like to walk through the ruined city. Debris still littered the ground, and the smell of decay was thick in the air. He doubted if either would ever truly go away. But here, perched at the edge of Baker Square Park, thoughts of July couldn't be farther away.

His aquamarine eyes followed a pair of children trying to fish a ball out of the fountain without falling in. Lazily, he unfolded his long limbs and stood, pausing long enough to slip on his signature topaz sunglasses.

"Hey, fellas!" He said brightly, crouching beside the two boys. "Want some help?"

Shyly, the older one nodded, and Vash looked up at large green-and-blue ball that bobbed on the water. Cautiously, Vash climbed onto the basin's brim. Baker Square's fountain was wider than it appeared, he mused as he balanced on the lip of the stone and stretched his hand out toward the wayward toy. His fingers brushed against it, sending it careening in the other direction. Vash huffed a sigh and tried again, leaning as far over as he dared. Suddenly his boot slipped on the slick fountain rim, losing purchase, and he tumbled head over heels into the water.

The boys were laughing silently, and Vash couldn't stop a slow, lopsided smile from sneaking onto his face. He covered it by snatching the ball and standing to his full height. He tried to be as stately as possibly as he untangled his sunglasses from where they'd been forced askew. "Here you go, boys." He said, handing the boys their plaything. "Promise not to go near the fountain again?" He said with mock seriousness.

The boys nodded energetically and he ruffled the tall one's hair. The children darted off down the street to a safer spot, leaving Vash dripping in the middle of the Park, dumb smile fixed onto his face. With a start, he realized how ridiculous he must look. I should get out of these clothes, he thought with a rueful glance at his trademark red jacket. "I guess it's best I don't wear it for awhile anyway," he murmured, as his eyes fell on the top ten most wanted list outside the sheriff's office.

He started down the dusty street, noting the shops left and right. The city was awhirl with excitement, and no one seemed to notice him squelch by. He stopped outside a tailor's shop, then fingered the money in his pocket. It was enough for a change of clothes and a place to spend the night.

Ten minutes later, Vash walked out of the store in a white dress shirt and black slacks, his soaked clothes folded into a package and tucked beneath his arm. Nothing could be done for his sodden boots. He'd have to tough it out. As for his gun...well, it'd probably be best to get it to a gunsmith. It was in need of a good cleaning anyway.

Vash stopped before the gunsmith's. The handwritten sign over the door read "Open", so he shouldered past the swinging doors and into the musty shop. The gunsmith, a wiry, mustached man, was in heated debate with a slender woman. Vash watched with mild interest as the woman took out a derringer and laid it on the counter between them. The gunsmith shook his head and went into the back of the store. There was sounds of rummaging and the lady looked around, allowing her irritation to seep through. She was much younger than Vash had thought–only in her twenties. Her short, sable hair was streaked with sand, and her face was scratched and bruised. Her stormy grey-violet eyes, however, were fiery and there was a defiant tilt to her chin.

Realizing he was staring too hard, Vash lowered his gaze to the gun in his hand. Water leaked from the clogged barrel as he fished out the bullets, hoping they weren't too badly damaged: bullets were expensive. The gunsmith had returned, and Vash watched from the corner of his eye.

"This what you're looking for?" He asked, handing her the gun. She checked it deftly, opened the chamber. "There aren't any bullets," she said.

"Bullets cost extra," he replied.

"How many rounds does it hold?"

"Fifteen."

Vash's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He recognized the model she was holding: it had less punch than his own handgun, a 6-round pistol that had been a gift from Millions Knives. But when it came to sheer numbers, the 15-round firearm had his beat. Where is she going with that? He wondered.

"I'll take thirty bullets," she said handing him a rolled-up wad of double dollars. The gunsmith reached into a carton, counted out thirty bullets and slipped them into a drawstring pouch before stuffing the cash into his pocket.

"Can I help you sir?" Asked the gunsmith.

Vash looked up, feeling irrationally guilty. "My gun needs a cleaning."

"Let's see it."

Vash handed the weapon over reluctantly, feeling defenseless despite the gun built into his forearm.

"This is curious," the man murmured, enraptured. "Where did you find this?" He demanded.

"It was a gift," The Stampede said simply.

The man grunted. "It'll be ready in an hour."

"That long?" Yelped Vash. He didn't like the idea of being unarmed, though he rarely used the gun.

"Can't be helped." The gunsmith sniffed.

A gleam of metal caught Vash's eye and he glanced down at the counter, half surprised to see the mysterious woman had left her derringer there. He glanced around, but she was already gone.

"How much for this derringer?" He asked. The gunsmith picked it up, turned it over in his hands. It was old, but it had been well-kept and polished.

"$$200." The smith decided abruptly.

Vash gave the man $$75. "Take it or leave it."

The gunsmith palmed the money greedily, and Vash made sure the gun was not loaded before tucking it into the waistband of his slacks.

"I'll be back in one hour," he said, tossing the gunsmith a pollyannaish wave.