Thanks for the reviews! I have one question: how in the world do you put up a disclaimer? Unfortunately, I do not own Trigun, and I'm waiting for some lawyer to descend upon me and tear me apart any second. Please keep up the reviews--I'm a fledgling and I need the help!
Vash had been in Baker for two whole days now. He had managed to rent a bedroom for three weeks on the margins of Baker. He'd been hoping for an ordinary home, far away from the heart of town where he'd be noticed more easily. He had found what he was looking for in the small, quaint shotgun house at the very edge of the city.
Vash was in his rented room–a comfortable chamber with wallpaper that had gone out of style years ago. His red "geranium" coat was spread out on the bed, now dry, along with his gun. Vash chewed his lip as he debated whether or not he should chance being seen in it.
"Oh, well," he murmured cheerfully as he slipped into it. He had worn the overcoat for so long that he felt exposed without it. His stomach growled and he frowned. Next step: dinner.
Outside, the energy of the city had gone down slightly. At least it was less noisy. The sun had just set and night was falling quickly. Baker certainly must have been settled by chefs, because every street was punctuated with small restaurants and pastry shops. Vash stood in the middle of the street, torn between a seafood café and a pizzeria. Salmon sandwiches won out and a few minutes later he was seated in the dusky atmosphere of the seafood restaurant. He tried to keep his face low and hidden: the people seem too absorbed to recognize him, but he wouldn't take chances.
A waitress came and filled his order, then disappeared behind the swinging kitchen door. Vash gave his company a wary survey, and was startled to see that many of them were tough-looking, heavily-muscled men with powerful firearms. He wondered if it was too late to eat at the pizzeria.
"They call him 'The Stampede'," the nearest bounty hunter was saying. "I guess the guy made a mess of July."
"So what?" Asked his companion disinterestedly as he sipped his drink.
The first hunter leaned forward, lowering his voice so that Vash had to strain to hear. "So now Vash The Stampede is numero uno on the top ten most wanted list. I hear there's a sixty billion double dollar reward."
The second man's voice was sharper now. "Sixty billion!"
"Yeah. They say he's in Baker right now."
Vash felt a little sick and tried to judge the distance from his table to the door. He sorely regretted deciding to wear his bright red coat.
"Do you think we have what it takes to catch this guy?" The second bounty hunter was asking.
His friend scoffed. "Catch him? No, we don't. He's got to be slippery to have gotten this far. We aim to kill."
Vash's gut tightened.
"So what's he look like, anyway?"
"Well, last they hear, he was wearing a red greatcoat. He's got blond hair, spikes it or something. But don't go to heavily on appearances. Vash is probably a master at disguises. If he had any brains, he'd have ditched the jacket."
Vash's face reddened. He needed to get out of here–fast. He picked up a menu and angled it so the hunters couldn't see his face, then slid out of the booth and walked quickly to the exit.
"Mister?" Oh, no. The waitress was trailing after him.
"Hey!" She said angrily. "Where do you think you're going? You haven't paid yet."
I haven't eaten yet, either, Vash thought. Instead of mentioning this, he handed her a few bills, tried to be inconspicuous. It was too late.
"Hey, it's The Stampede!" Came a cry. There was an eerie silence as every head turned to look at Vash.
Quickly, say something intelligent to discourage them! His mind screamed. He opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say. A minute passed. Okay, say something unintelligent. Just say something.
"No, I'm not," he squeaked. Brilliant. 'No, I'm not.' That ought to convince them.
Vash sized up the situation. Every man was on his feet and tensed, ready for him to make the first move. Without hesitation, Vash turned and dashed out the door, acutely aware of the spray of bullets that buried themselves in the door behind him. The door banged open, and Vash darted into an alley to avoid being seen. The back street was a cul-de-sac. He was trapped.
"HAS ANYONE SEEN A BLOND MAN IN A RED COAT?" Boomed a voice in the street. There was a low, confused murmur, then:
"No, why?"
"The guy's a dangerous criminal. Shoot on sight."
Vash glanced around wildly and spotted his salvation. Someone had carelessly left the first-story window ajar in the brick building that made up the left side of the alleyway. He dove head-first and landed with a clatter on the floor of a darkened clothes store. Looking around, Vash was struck with an idea. He snatched a pair of sunglasses and a fedora, then stripped off his coat and stuffed it into a duffel. He jammed the hat over his hair, donned the glasses and shouldered the bag. Then, on afterthought, he left some money on the counter top–Vash the Stampede was not a thief.
He walked out of the store, trying to ignore the staccato gunfire. One man looked strangely at him, and Vash was acutely aware of how odd sunglasses at night must have seemed. The man simply shook his head and walked off, and Vash fetched a sigh of relief.
Vash continued, unnoticed, into the desert. He had no drink, no food, and little cash. Baker, he decided, was a perverse disappointment.