A/N: Here's the showdown. I hope I didn't let you down--it's a little short, but writing it has been a good way of getting my mind off of finals :\...i hate chem...
Peridot3783: Thank you, Peridot! I like responding to your reviews--I like to thank y'all whenever I get the chance: You deserve it! I owe so much to all "Wanted"'s reviewers, especially those who take the time to review every chapter.
Pailay: Thanks! I've been aiming for a fic that makes Meryl independent w/o being OOC. It's nice to hear things like that.
Aine of Knockaine: Thank you, as usual. I hope you enjoy this next chapter; I look forward to your comments--they're so regular! It's comforting to have as good a reviewer as you reading "Wanted".
My Name is R.C: Hey, R.C. Thanks for reviewing, and I'm glad you've enjoyed the story so far. I'm much obliged! btw--I read your profile. You sound alot like me ;) I absolutely hate Chemistry, but I've only got three more days of it left! and the people rejoiced
siNicaLLY diSTuRbEd: Of course I'm going to tell you what happens--you know where I live. And Zazie and Midvalley won't be making an appearance, but Milly makes a short one in the last chapter.
Rot's ears were ringing. He wondered if he'd heard correctly. "Challenge me to a showdown?" He said confusedly.
Vash gave a barely perceptible nod.
Rot started to decline, but then his eyes wandered over the two-hundred brawny thugs that were tensed on the sidelines. If they sensed fear they would turn on him like wolves. His lips trembled as he asked: "What are the rules of engagement?"
"Twenty paces apart. We fire on the count of three. If you win the draw, you can claim the $$60 billion double dollar bounty."
"And if I lose?"
"I take your place as the leader of the Desperados."
There was a an intake of breath from a few of the thieves, and grunts of surprise. Rot's eyebrows rose astonishment. He had to accept–the gang was watching him, waiting for his reaction. His eyes narrowed; he could almost see that $$60 billion double dollars--and damn it looked nice.
"Alright, Vash the Stampede. A duel to the death."
The gunman had already started for the door when he called back: "Meet me at noon by the city spring."
"My followers will be attending, Vash!" Rot yelled after him.
Vash threw a wave over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around. "Until noon."
Rot's nerves had been on edge since morning. The whole setup felt vaguely surreal as he tried–once again–to wrap his head around his encounter with Vash. He was going to fight a gunman–a legendary gunman. I must be losing my mind, he thought desperately. Surely $$60 billion double dollars couldn't be worth this. If he was smart, he would cut and run right now. The Desperados would be after him. Maybe they'd kill him. But, God, he didn't want to face that man, Vash.
The twin suns were nearly at their zenith in the sky.
"Uh, Boss?"
Rot's head snapped up, dampened hair sticking to his clammy brow. "What?" He growled.
"It's almost noon." The Desperado continued. Something in Rot's mind came dangerously close to snapping. Just calm down and focus. Focus. You can win this. You WILL win this, if you keep your mind clear. Rot took a few deep breaths, then rose.
"Alright, boys," he said, shocked to hear that his voice had lost its cultivated coldness. Instead of sounding like a rough, hardened criminal he sounded...afraid. "It's time to go."
The short walk to the city spring was in silence. The denizens of October were locked inside their homes, shades drawn. The gangsters didn't utter a word, but marched in silence behind him. It felt to Rot as though the pressure on him was intensifying until he couldn't breathe–until he could hardly stagger under its weight.
As the spring resolved before them, Rot could make out the tall, lissom gunman leaning casually against a house. A breeze stirred his white dress shirt. The man looked up at him and smiled. "Mr. John Rot. I thought you were a no-go for a moment."
Rot couldn't find his tongue. Already, the suns were beating down, uncomfortably hot. Sticky sweat ran down his back, gluing his shirt to his skin. His fingers felt unnaturally thick and clumsy, and he flexed them.
"Put down your weapons." Vash addressed the gang sharply. "This is a gunfight for the leadership of the Desperados. It will be conducted with honor."
There was a commotion as the Desperados–used to obeying orders–threw down their guns and pocketed their bullets. Metallic clanks and snaps sounded crisply in the afternoon air.
"Are you ready?" Asked Vash quietly.
Rot's mind, unusually slow, took a moment to process Vash's question. He grunted in response.
"All right then," said the blond curtly, checking to make sure his gun was loaded. Rot tried not to stare at the huge, gleaming weapon. Vash held the gun out at an arm's length. Rot looked from the firearm to Vash, then back again, before he raised his own sidearm and touched the barrel to the gunman's.
"Twenty paces." The legend reminded him. Rot turned and took twenty long, hesitant steps, counting under his breath. One, two, three...the gangsters moved automatically out of his way; nine, ten, eleven, twelve...the suns only seemed to grow larger and warmer in the sky, until Rot's was sure his brain was cooking in his skull; eighteen, nineteen, twenty. He stopped, steeling himself, before spinning to face the humanoid typhoon.
Rot watched Vash's lips move as he mouthed a word; he was too far away to be heard, but Rot knew what he had said anyway: fire.
The leader of the Desperados rolled to the side out of instinct, dirt exploding to his right as a bullet buried itself in the ground beside him. He shot wildly, not bothering to aim, then threw himself to the left. A bullet whizzed by, nicking his ear. Rot clutched the wound as hot blood began to leak from the graze. He glanced up, gauging his angle and distance, before squeezing off another two bullets. The shots went barreling past Vash, and Rot lurched to his feet for a better vantage point. He needed to outsmart his opponent.
The Desperado fired two shots, one slightly left of the outlaw, the other slightly right. To his surprise, the man somersaulted clean over both rounds and landed lightly on his feet. Rot dove behind a building to catch his breath. He reloaded his gun with shaking hands. Just have to last a little bit longer...he thought. He was beginning to feel lightheaded, though whether it was from the heat or the shot to his ear, he wasn't sure. He slammed the bullets in and whipped around the corner of the house, firing blindly.
"Aah!" He cried in surprise as the legendary gunman returned fire. A bullet skimmed his arm, so close to the skin that he could feel the heat of the metal searing his flesh. There was a crack of gunfire, the acrid smell of gunsmoke, and Rot felt a sudden stinging in his leg. He was hit–another graze. The "legendary gunman"'s aim was awfully lousy Rot reflected sourly. He charged forward with a battle cry, fired his gun three times. The Humanoid Typhoon jerked back and fell to the ground, motionless. Was it over already? Rot had expected more of a fight; maybe he had underestimated his own skill. Multi-billionaire John Rot, the slayer of Gunsmoke's notorious Humanoid Typhoon. It made for a pretty headline Rot thought smugly. He approached the gunman cautiously and leaned forward.
Suddenly the blond man kicked out, knocking Rot's feet from underneath him; Vash had been feigning. Rot fell hard and was up in an instant. Vash was already hurrying backward, away from Rot, shaking dust from his revolver. Yes, that's right, thought Rot, run away. He raised his piece and fired.
There was a ping! of metal against metal, and Vash's gun flew out of his hands. "All...I have to...do..." Rot grunted to himself, "is...finish him." He had the outlaw cornered; he was weaponless.
Rot slowed his breathing and aimed for the fatal shot. He squeezed the trigger, listening for Vash's cry and the thud of the falling body. There was nothing. He looked up wonderingly, but the gunman hadn't moved. How did I miss at this close range? He wondered. Oh well–he had Vash now. Rot raised the gun, spying through the gun's sight. There was a quick blur of motion, almost faster than Rot could follow, and Vash was beside him. The blonde lashed out, twisting Rot's colt from his grasp and flinging it away. An uppercut caught the gangster off-balance. He dropped to the sand, spat out blood. Vash was already dashing for his weapon, and Rot crawled toward his own firearm. Vash was scooping his gun from the sand when Rot aimed his sidearm and pulled the trigger.
Click. The hammer fell on an empty chamber, and Rot's eyes widened. There was another blur and Rot felt the muzzle of Vash's weapon, still hot, shoved against his temple.
"Checkmate." He said cheerfully.
What the hell? Thought the gangster. "There's no way you could have moved that fast!" He puffed, trembling violently. How had this happened? Two heartbeats ago, he'd had the upper hand. Unwilling to accept defeat, Rot slipped his hand into his sleeve and withdrew his hunting knife. The blade arced through the air, flashing in the sunlight, and sliced into the outlaw's left arm. At least, it should have. Instead there was the clang of metal meeting metal, and the knife clattered from Rot's grasp. "Wha...what?" Cried Rot, tearing away Vash's shirt to expose a gleaming metal arm. "It's prosthetic," he said unbelievingly.
"Sorry," said the blond with a goofy grin.
Rot screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the deafening gunshot, the pain, the blackness. It never came. He opened his eyes to see Vash, gun still pointed point-blank. "Just finish it quickly." He pleaded.
To his surprise, his adversary holstered his gun and offered his hand.
"What are you doing?" Asked John Rot. "It was to the death–if I had won, I'd have killed you in an instant!"
"Actually," said the gunman, slipping on his topaz sunglasses. "I hate blood. Just the very sight of it makes me feel a little faint."
Rot brain was buzzing. Was he being made fun of? "What...are you doing?" He repeated.
Vash cocked an eyebrow. "Surely you don't want me to kill you?"
"N-no." Stammered Rot, accepting Vash's proffered hand. Vash hoisted him to his feet.
"Then get out of here," he said. "Start over. And if I hear a single rumor that John Rot has resurfaced, I'll come for you. I'll finish what we started here today. Understand?"
Rot nodded, began to retrieve his gun.
"Uh-uh," came The Stampede's mild warning. "Leave it." Rot, with his head held down, tried not to look at the angry faces of the Desperados as he made a hasty exit.
"Alright, boys!" Vash cried, mocking Rot's western twang. "I am the new leader of the Desperados. As of this moment, your undying allegiance is pledged to me. Unless someone else wants to challenge me?" He asked, pleased when none of the thugs met his challenge. "Okie doke. Have any of you heard of a town called Buigna?"
There a few submissive "no"s and several men shook their heads.
"It's a mining down in the middle of nowhere. Buigna is built on top of the biggest known gold vein in Gunsmoke, worth $$73 trillion double dollars or something like that."
The Desperados began to whoop and holler. There was an electric buzz in the air as the men looked around in blank astonishment.
"They're digging for it as we speak. They expect to strike gold in roughly 75 years."
The buzz promptly died away. "75 years?" Roared one man. "I'd be 107 years old by the time they struck gold!"
"Yup!" Said Vash cheerfully. "You're going to go to Buigna and wait until they strike the vein. Oh–and no moonlighting on the side. I'll see you in 75 years!"
The gang stared in disbelief as the tall, slender man walked away. A hot wind tousled his golden hair, making the tattered sleeve of his white shirt flutter behind him like a ghost. 200 pairs of eyes followed him as he slid on a pair of lambent sunglasses, flashed a roguish grin, and disappeared around a street corner. That humanoid typhoon. The outlaw. Gunsmoke's own Vash the Stampede.
Meryl struggled to stay awake in the cool warehouse. She was so tired; she couldn't tell if she was awake or asleep. The pain in her shoulder said she was awake, but she couldn't make any sense of her situation. She had seen Vash. He had been talking to Rot. Then she'd blacked out.
Meryl was still in the abandoned warehouse, but now it was truly abandoned. The Desperados were all gone. They'd left her alone in the huge, rancid building with nothing but the flies for company. It didn't make sense.
The door creaked open, its hinges groaning in protest. Someone–she couldn't see who–stood in the doorway, testing the door. He closed it, opened it, closed it again, until Meryl was sure the rasp of the unoiled hinge would drive her insane. Still, she bit her tongue, refusing to even glance at the newcomer.
"Wow. That could use some oil." A voice concluded brightly.
Meryl looked up finally, eyes wide with recognition. Vash smiled at her. "Hey, there, insurance girl."
"Where's Rot?" Asked Meryl, craning her head to see around Vash.
"He's gone," Vash said. "I don't think he'll visit October again soon. Rot was anasty thief, but really justa pushoverin the end." Meryl accepted this, sitting in silence for a moment.
"The Desperados?" She asked.
"They'll be busy for awhile," he replied, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
Meryl struggled to stand, then fell back gasping in pain. Immediately Vash was at her side. "Stop moving," he said sternly, frowning at her with mock severity.
"It's over?" Meryl managed between shallow breaths. "It's finally over?"
Vash smiled genuinely, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. "Yes, Meryl. It's over."