Disclaimer: I do not own Trigun or any of its characters.

LIVING MEMORIES

-A Trigun Story-

Chapter 2: Frey

"That will be all." Michael effortlessly picked up his bag of groceries with one arm and exited the store, ignoring the small bell that announced his presence on the street to anyone who cared. "This should be enough to get me home," he said to himself as his feet involuntarily turned in the direction of his car, which was parked between the store and the bar next door.

He reached into the bag and pulled out a bag of potato chips, ripping the top off with his teeth. When he reached his car he set the grocery bag in the back and slowly climbed into it, his other hand being shoved into the potato chips for another handful. The car was topless, like many of the cars on Gunsmoke. It didn't make sense to him. After all, these cars were horrible to travel in due to the endless abundance of sand on the planet. He had multiple unpleasant memories of traveling in sand storms, where sand could seemingly reach anywhere it wished, no matter how covered or protected it was.

His personal complaints were interrupted by a yell from the bar his car sat parked next to, followed by several more angry shouts. He shook his head and turned back to trying to start the car, knowing noises like that were just best to ignore.

The sound of a stool crashing to the floor brought his attention back to the bar momentarily. His curiosity piqued, he walked up to the window and peered inside. The only thing he saw was a black and red blur flying toward him.

He didn't even have time to run. The next thing he knew, the window had shattered, and he was on the ground in the sandy street, having the wind knocked out of him. After a few moments he realized what had hit him.

It was a person.

Whoever he was, he scrambled to his feet quickly, as men were now pouring out of the bar. Michael outstretched his arm, half expecting a helping hand, but whoever had landed on him had bolted, the mob of angry men following.

"Wait a sec . . ." Michael murmured, mostly to himself. They were gone. Shaking his head, he stood up and brushed the sand and pieces of broken glass off, muttering under his breath. He began to climb into his car, when an old woman ran out of the bar, obviously terrified.

"Oh, young man!" she called, "please, you must help! Those horrible men, you have to stop them!" Michael glanced at her, planning to complain that it didn't concern him, but the look on her face pulled at his heartstrings. Groaning, he climbed back out of the car, muttering that he was becoming too soft.

"Wait, aren't you going to take the car?"

Michael looked back at the old woman and smiled, his eyes reflecting a mischievous shine. "Nah, it will just make too much noise. I like to surprise them."

In a few minutes he had caught up with the mob. His eyes caught flashes of them between the buildings across the road, where they still ran, focused on their victim. Michael increased his speed slightly, slowly gaining on the first of the men. Thank goodness he was fast.

Wondering why he was going to the trouble of helping this person who probably deserved whatever these men would do, he pulled out his cross-shaped gun and fired across the street.

The bullet hit one of the front men in the arm. He and a few of his companions were deterred, but the majority kept running. Michael grumbled under his breath.

Quickly he broke into a sprint in order to get in front of the target, then cut across the street. The leader of the mob, an obviously drunk and very large man, caught sight of Michael, and automatically assumed that he was attempting to assist the pursued. He pulled out his own gun and madly fired round after round in a drunken stupor. Some of his comrades glanced at him cautiously, others, just as drunk, willingly joined in. Michael ignored them, continuing to run and ignoring the sudden searing pain in his stomach.

The target glanced apprehensively back at the men over his shoulder, wondering what had sent them into such a rage. There was hardly any time to consider it, however, before an arm shot of nowhere and grabbed him, pulling him into a smaller dark alley. The victim felt a strong hand clapped over his mouth, and a masculine voice whispering harshly in his ear, "don't make a sound." Both of them watched as the men ran by, not even noticing them. As soon as they had passed, the victim began to struggle against the owner of the arm, and surprisingly the arm easily fell away. He turned back to find a young man dressed in black, smiling slightly despite the fact that he was drenched in sweat and deathly pale. He almost immediately recognized him as the boy he had been thrown into earlier.

"Wait, how did you get in front of me-"

He stopped as Michael fell to his knees, breathing heavily. "What's wrong-" He gasped as Michael pulled his other arm away from his stomach, which was covered in blood. The victim fell to his knees in front of Michael. "Oh my gosh, they shot you!" Michael looked up, expecting to see worried and compassionate eyes, but instead found the copper-colored ovals absent of pity. Then he noticed something else.

"Wait a second, you're a girl!"

The young woman stood up, placing her hands on her hips. "Of course I am," she said accusingly, "what did you think I was?"

Michael just shook his head, turning his attention back to his newly acquired wound. The girl sighed.

"You idiot, what were you thinking?" she muttered. "Saving a complete stranger like that . . . you shouldn't be so trusting, you know. I could kill you right now if I wanted to." If it hadn't been for the sharpening pain in his side and the fact that his vision was becoming more blurred by the second, Michael would have laughed out loud at her attitude. The girl turned, peeking out of the alley to double check that the men were gone. "You shouldn't involve yourself with things that don't concern you." Somewhat arrogantly she pushed a strand of short raven black hair behind her ear and murmured, "besides, I could have taken care of them by myself." Her only answer was the sound of a body hitting the ground, and she turned to find Michael unconscious on the cold stone ground, his crimson blood slowly seeping through his clothes.

The first thing Michael was aware of as he awoke was that his pain was gone. He shifted slightly, and immediately realized that he had been wrong. It was still there, just less pronounced. In his small movement, he also discovered that he was lying down, and that his coat and shirt were missing. The ground also seemed to be moving.

Slowly he opened his eyes, and instantly groaned as the light hit them.

"Oh shut up, you big baby."

He jumped as he realized someone else was in the room with him. He forgot to care, however, as the pain of his wound hit him again, and he let out a long, low moan. He heard footsteps approaching his bed, and then someone pried his mouth open, pouring a caustic liquid down his throat. He began to gag violently as the horrible taste penetrated his mouth, but stopped when the feminine voice returned.

"Hold still and drink it. It will make you feel better," the voice muttered impatiently. In spite of this reassurance, Michael reached out blindly, trying to shove whoever was doing this to him away. He sensed the girl back off, and heard her set the bottle of vile liquid down. Free of the horrible medicine, Michael reached up to his eyes and began gently massaging his eyelids, cursing his horrible luck.

"Do you feel good enough to sit up?" Michael stopped and opened one eye halfway, finally seeing the girl, though his vision was still slightly blurry.

Upon seeing her he realized why he hadn't recognized the fact that she was a girl. Her hair was as dark as midnight, and fell just above her shoulders, but it had been pulled up and covered by a hat. Her clothes consisted of a pair of tan baggy pants, obviously worn, and a simple black T-shirt. Sitting on top of her head was a pair of gray sunglasses. The only feminine thing on her body was an earring, a little red flower near the top of her left ear. It was no wonder that he had seen her as a boy until he had gotten up close.

"Why?" he asked in response to her previous question.

"I need to change your bandages."

It was then that Michael realized why he was shirtless. This girl, whoever she was, had cleaned and bandaged his wound.

Cringing slightly as he moved, Michael pushed himself up into a sitting position. Taking this as her answer, the girl stepped forward and began to remove the white wrappings around his stomach.

"How long have I been out?"

"About four days."

Michael tried to jump to his feet, exclaiming, "four days!" but almost immediately collapsed back onto the bed, groaning as the pain from his sudden movement hit him. He looked up at the girl, who looked down on him, smirking.

He closed his eyes again and rolled over on his side, not caring if she had finished. "What are you smiling at?"

"You."

Somehow her simple answer angered him even more. "It's not funny, okay!" To his dismay, he could almost feel her smile widening.

"You know, you sure are making a big deal out of this." Abruptly Michael rolled back over so he was facing her, his light blue eyes making a pathetic attempt to look angry.

"I was just shot! Of course I'm making a big deal out of it!" He sat up again, glaring at her. "It isn't funny! Now just leave me alone, would you!"

The girl's expression suddenly changed from amusement to absolute seriousness. Silently she sat down in a chair next to the bed. Michael continued watching her angrily as she lifted her leg onto the bed and pulled her baggy pant leg up. Red stained bandages greeted his eyes.

"What . . . I, but . . . you were shot, too?"

She shoved the pant leg back down and stood up again. "Yeah, saving you."

Instinctively he reached out. "Are you okay?" She immediately swatted his hand away.

"I'm fine."

"But what about the bullet-"

"I already got it out, okay?" He looked up at her in surprise. Her acidic cinnamon eyes were watching him closely, clearly saying, let it go, okay? They almost seemed to bring out a red hue as her frustration heightened. He quickly shut his mouth, looking down.

She reached down, finishing with his clean bandages. When she was finished, she leaned back in her chair, putting her arms up behind her head. "You know," she began, watching him with one open eye, "I only thought you were being a baby because you've obviously been through this kind of thing before."

He looked up at that, dismayed. "How do you know-"

"You've got scars."

Michael snorted. You should see Vash's.

"Who's Vash?"

Michael looked up in shock. "I, I didn't say anything . . ." The girl's face paled suddenly.

"Oh, uh, yeah, never mind, I don't know what I'm talking about." She began to laugh nervously, scratching the back of her head.

Awkward silence filled the room for a few moments. The girl stood up and walked to the window. Looking out it, Michael suddenly realized why the 'ground' was moving. They were on a sand steamer. This brought another thought to him.

"Um, where are my shirt and coat?"

The girl turned again, obviously glad for the change in subject. "Oh, I threw them away."

"You what!"

"Well, you see, they were covered in blood, and it wouldn't come out, so I just got rid of them. You wear too much black anyway, you know. So I got you a new shirt." She pointed to a bag on the floor next to him. He grabbed it, and pulled out a navy blue button-up shirt.

"It's still dark," the girl explained, "and blue will look good on you. It matches your eyes."

Seeing protesting as futile, Michael just slipped the shirt on, surprised that she had been perceptive enough to correctly guess his size, buttoned up all but the top two buttons, and rolled the sleeves to his elbows.

"See!" she commented, "it looks great." Instead of responding to her comment, he just looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

"Who are you, anyway?"

"Frey."

"Frey," he repeated. "That's it?"

"Yes, Frey. And you are . . . ?"

"Michael."

Frey nodded. "Okay, Michael. Now that that's out of the way, would you mind telling me why you rescued me? I don't have any money, if that's what you want-"

To her surprise, Michael actually started laughing.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. I was wondering myself why I did it. Some old lady just asked me to."

"So you just did it? Out of the kindness of your heart, right?" she said sarcastically.

"Um, yeah."

Her eyes silently appraised him. "Alright then, but why did you allow yourself to be shot?" He looked down. He had hoped she wouldn't realize he had let himself get wounded. He easily could have stopped it, but that would have required . . .

"I guess I could have killed them, but Vash never would have forgiven me."

"He never would have known," the girl answered, not bothering to ask who Vash was and revive the awkwardness that had existed the last time he had been mentioned.

"He would have found out."

She said nothing more on the subject.

"So, where are you from?"

"Huh? Oh, I'm from September."

"Any family?"

Frey turned on him sharply. "No." Then her expression softened, for the first time. "I live with a doctor in town. It's a long story. You?"

Michael shifted uncomfortably as he answered. "Yeah, I just live with my mom."

For the second time, awkward silence filled their small cabin. Both took a deep breath.

"So what were you doing in Tonim Town?" They looked at each other and laughed, having spoken at the same time. The tension broken, Frey answered.

"I was just on an errand for the doctor. Looking someone up for him. You?"

"Just on my way home from visiting someone." He failed to mention that that 'someone' was his dead father.

Frey nodded, then looked back out the window, watching the quickly passing landscape. No matter how far they went, the scenery was always the same. Sand, sand, and more sand.

"Where are we going?"

Frey sighed. "Wherever this takes us."

"You mean you have no idea where we are!"

"Hey, I was just concentrating on getting us away from those guys, okay? This was our only option. I didn't bother asking where it was going. I wouldn't complain if I was you. At least you're alive."

She looked over her shoulder as Michael abruptly stood up. "Well, I'm going to find out," he said, growing frustrating with her oppressive attitude.

"No," she protested, "you need rest. I'll go."

"But your leg-"

The acrid look immediately returned to her eyes. "Michael." He gulped. "Sit down." Silently he obeyed. "I'll be fine. It's nothing."

She walked over to the closet and pulled out a red jacket, which she slipped over her black T-shirt. She also slid on a pair of dirty brown boots and pushed her sunglasses onto her nose, then reached for the handle on the door.

"Frey?"

"Yeah?"

"Why did you help me?"

She looked at him and half smiled. "Same reason you helped me, I guess. I have no idea."

Four hours later, Frey stood alone on the deck of the sand steamer. After being told that the steamer's next stop was the city of December, she had come here.

It was nearing evening now. The city was faintly visible in the distance. She still had no idea what to do. She couldn't get off now, she was nowhere close to home, but she had no money left to continue. Sighing, she leaned over the edge, watching the miles of sand pass beneath her feet.

"Excuse me, Miss." The voice made her start, and she whirled. She had half expected to find Michael behind her, but instead her eyes met those of a member of the steamer's crew.

"Miss," he continued, "the money you gave us was only enough to get you this far. You'll either have to pay us for further passage or get off now."

Frey smiled sheepishly. "Um, I'll get you that in a minute, ok? It seems I left my money in my room."

The man raised an eyebrow. "You don't have any more money, do you Miss?" It was more of a statement than a question.

Frey began pulling at a tuft of her black hair uncomfortably. She glanced back and forth, searching desperately for an escape from the situation. Suddenly she cried out and pointed at a spot behind the man.

"Oh my gosh! What is that thomas doing!" The man turned, and she bolted. He realized what she was doing when it was already too late.

"Hey you, get back here!" he cried to no avail. Muttering under his breath, he stopped a passing crew member.

"Alert the crew immediately that we've got a fugitive on the steamer. She's a young woman, about eighteen, wearing tan pants and a red jacket. She's got short black hair. We need to get her off as soon as possible." The other man immediately nodded and disappeared.

Frey darted through the halls below deck as fast as she could. She could hear the pounding feet and yelling voices above her, and knew that soon she would be caught. She burst into her cabin and grabbed Michael, who was sleeping.

"Michael," she muttered, shaking him violently, "Michael, we've got to go now." When he had finally been aroused, she grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him to his feet.

"Frey," he asked groggily, "where are we going?"

"I don't know," she muttered, "anywhere we can hide."

"Hide?" he asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Yes. They're trying to make us get off at this stop, but we can't."

"Why?" he asked, as the steamer started to slow, eventually coming to a full stop.

"Because then we'll have no way to get out. I'm completely out of money, so unless you're hiding some substantial funds in your pants . . ." she let it trail off, shaking her head. Michael just watched, still not completely coherent, as she shoved a few things he couldn't make out into a bag and then grabbed him by the wrist, hauling him out the door.

He silently allowed himself to be dragged through the dark hallways by her, regardless of the fact that he could make out her slight limp and knew that enduring that kind of pain while maintaining a steady run was probably just about killing her. The only way it wouldn't be was if she had taken some of that horrific stuff she had forced down his throat (which he noticed was working), but he didn't know anyone that would willingly put him or herself through taking that, no matter how drastic the pain.

Frey led him around a corner and down another hallway, almost straight into the arms of the man that she had encountered earlier. She backed up, pulling Michael with her, but the man chased them right into a corner. At that moment, the steamer began to move again, throwing Frey slightly off balance. She just shoved Michael off when he reached out and tried to steady her.

Both Frey and the other man moaned, Frey because she was stuck with a bunch of men after her again, and the man because now he couldn't get rid of her while they were in this town.

She sighed. "I guess this is my stop." Michael looked at her, suddenly very apprehensive.

"Um, Frey, the sand steamer is moving."

The crew member of the steamer snorted. "What are you talking about? You can't get off . . . aagh, what are you doing!"

Frey had ripped open the small window on the wall and climbed halfway through it.

"Are you suicidal? You can't jump out the window!" the man cried as he and Michael each grabbed one of her legs.

"Do you think I'm just going to sit here and let myself get arrested for attempting to stow away?" she cried stubbornly.

"That's better than dying!" the man cried.

"Who said I'm going to die?" Suddenly Michael let go of the leg he was holding.

"What are you doing!" the man cried.

Michael shrugged. "Hey, she's got a point." The man blanched at his words, then was forced to let go as Frey kicked him in the stomach and gave one last shove. Michael was right behind her, and the man watched in shock as the two plunged downward. No one could survive a fall like that.

Michael held his breath as his dark hair whipped around in his face. He glanced at Frey. Her eyes were closed, her face completely serene and calm.

"How the heck did I get myself involved with you?"