Hey guys, here's chapter three. Many thanks to sausuge, my one reviewer (by the way sausuge, Wolfwood is dead -sorry- but he'll still play a major part in the story). New reviews are always welcome!

Disclaimer: I do not and never will own Trigun

LIVING MEMORIES

-A Trigun Story-

Chapter 3: The Intro to the Stampede

The next thing Frey knew, she was lying on her back. She heard someone nearby, someone calling her name. It was distant, barely discernable . . .

"FREY!"

She gasped and shot into a sitting position as cold water was poured over her head. Michael was kneeling next to her, grinning. "Good, you're awake." She glared at him, then let herself fall back onto the ground, spreadeagling.

"Well that didn't go as planned. Where are we?"

"In December."

She moaned aloud. "Oh yeah . . ."

"You know," Michael commented, "that was pretty stupid of you. We would have ended up here anyway, if you just would have cooperated with that guy, and you wouldn't have been knocked unconscious."

"I didn't plan on jumping out a window," she shot back, but she bit off her retort as she noticed that Michael was leaning over her leg, her bad leg.

She shrank away from him. "What do you think you're doing!" Immediately she regretted it as a sharp pain shot down her leg. "Ow!"

He patiently pushed her back down so she was laying on the ground, then went back to cleaning her wound, causing her to wince. "It reopened," he explained, "you need to take some of that sick crud you gave me."

"Why? That has nothing to do with my wound reopening . . ."

"I know, but if you take some you won't be digging your fingers into the ground and clenching your teeth because of the pain anymore."

Stubbornly, Frey lifted her hands from the ground and allowed her jaw to go slack, ignoring the fact that it made the pain almost unbearable. Michael just shook his head.

"Here," he said, pulling the vile of liquid from his pocket, "I managed to grab this on our way out. Drink some."

Frey clamped her mouth shut, shaking her head.

"Oh grow up. It's not that bad."

"That's why you were practically vomiting when I made you . . . ugh, Michael no!" She tried to squirm away from him, but it was too late. Michael had taken advantage of the moment she had opened her mouth, and the medicine was now running steadily down her throat.

She coughed and sat up, spitting in the sand in an attempt to get rid of the taste in her mouth.

"So, what do we do now?" she asked, still gagging.

Michael smiled. "Well, lucky for you, I live here."

Frey looked at him in surprise, her eyes suddenly forgiving him for forcing her through what he just had. "Really?"

"Yeah. You can stay with us for a while." Frey smiled and actually allowed Michael to help her to her feet, in light of their good fortune. The pair started down the street, Frey doing her best to hide her limp. Michael didn't even dare offer her help walking. They hadn't gotten far when they heard a loud, echoing scream. Michael apparently recognized it, as he shook his head, murmuring, "he's at it again." Frey raised a questioning eyebrow, but Michael just shook his head again, silently telling her that he'd explain later. "You stay here, okay? You're in no condition to be coming along."

"But Michael . . ."

"Don't whine to me. You're not coming." He turned on his heel and was gone, Frey glowering as she watched him leave. "I'll be back soon," he called over his shoulder, "just stay here." Frey kicked the dirt angrily, then cringed as she remembered her injured leg. She looked down at it in surprise when no pain came, and just glared even more angrily at the retreating figure of Michael as she realized it was because of the medicine they had made each other unwillingly take.

Michael ran down the street, toward the source of the noise. He could recognize that fake, pity-seeking scream from a mile away. It was Vash.

The sound of repeated gunshots gave Michael another clue as to where Vash was. He turned, following the source of the noise, and soon located what happened to be a mob of men, all set on killing Vash the Stampede. He slowly gained on them, as he had with Frey's mob, but as he was more confident in this situation, he dropped the stealth act and at the right moment threw himself in front of the mob, between it and Vash. The men stopped, staring at him stupidly. After a few moments one in the middle waved his gun in the air, crying, "get him!" The mob would have started forward if not for the young woman that now burst out of a nearby alley to stand by Michael.

"Frey," Michael muttered under his breath, "I thought I told you to stay put." He glanced quickly over his shoulder. Vash was nowhere in sight. This was quickly turning from a fun little game to a seriously dangerous situation.

Frey smiled. "You didn't seriously think I was going to let you have all of the fun, did you?"

"Get 'em both!" One of the men suddenly yelled. "They're with Vash the Stampede!"

Frey began backing up, more out of confusion than fear. "What are you talking about? We're not with that outlaw!" She turned to run, grabbing Michael, but the sound of a series of clicks made her freeze. She turned back around. Every single man in the group had a gun fixed on either her or Michael. Slowly the men circled them, chuckling.

Suddenly one of them grabbed her roughly by the shoulder, holding her inches from his revolting face. She could feel his rank breath on her face, reeking of beer. A snide smile crossed his face as he looked at her, and he chuckled softly. She would have shuddered, but refused to allow them, or Michael, to see any weakness in her.

"Now, what's a pretty thing like you doing with Vash the Stampede?" His words were slurred together as only a drunk man's would be. She was about to retort, but she felt someone grab her jacket from behind, and was soon safely back next to Michael, who had a death grip on her upper arm. She looked up at his face, but he didn't look back. Surprisingly, his eyes held no fear, only confidence and anger, which she was surprised to realize were there because they had touched her.

"I told you," she spat, "I don't know what you're talking about!" She glared at the man, mustering every ounce of anger and bitterness she could into her eyes. It gave her great satisfaction when he actually fell back a step.

"No! Leave them alone, or face the terrible wrath of Vash the Stampede!" Everyone's heads turned, and Frey saw a distant figure running toward them, waving his arms like a maniac. Michael loosened his grip on Frey's arm, and actually smiled.

The men had temporarily turned their attention from Michael and Frey to the man, who continued running despite the downpour of bullets now falling around him. And Michael was smiling at seeing him? Frey would have expected a less idiotic rescuer, considering Michael's reaction. She cupped her hands to her mouth.

"What are you doing, you idiot! Get away from here while you can! STOP RUNNING THIS WAY! YOU'RE GOING TO GET SHOT!" Frey's shouts died as the nearest man slapped her roughly across the cheek, leaving a stinging red mark and ordering her to shut up. The man was lucky that she soon became preoccupied with the man still running toward them, or he without doubt would have received a swift kick in the groin, among other places.

The man's running failed to cease, but miraculously he wasn't hit. It was obviously his intention to rescue the two of them, but as he reached the mob a man simply outstretched his leg in his path. The man tripped into the circle, landing on his face right in between Frey and Michael.

Now that he was closer, Frey saw that he had spikey blonde hair, was very tall, and wore a simple white shirt with brown pants.

Michael cleared his throat. "Frey, meet Vash." Then, suddenly getting an idea, he commanded Frey to the ground. She raised a rebelling eyebrow, but couldn't protest when Michael grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her down. She ended up sitting in the sand next to the supposed Vash the Stampede.

Her eyes widened as Michael's hand entered one of the pockets in his black pants. She knew everything was happening much faster, but to her his movements seemed played in slow motion. His hand reemerged, and with it the strangest gun she had ever seen. It glinted as the sunlight hit it, and somewhere in the back of her mind she acknowledged the fact that the men had fallen silent, along with her. She couldn't even hear their breathing.

Then Michael fired. The small cross spat out bullet after bullet, Michael emptying and reloading it with inhuman speed. In moments all of the mens' guns lay useless on the ground, Michael's cross pistol emitting a small amount of smoke.

The man named Vash raised his face from the sand, grinning.

"Nice shooting."

"I learned from the best."

Frey and the mob stood dumbfounded. Some of the men began to run, but a few remained, including the one that had earlier accosted Frey. These were not willing to give up their $$60 billion so easily. The same man grabbed Frey again, this time holding a knife to her neck.

"Give yourself up or the girl dies, Stampede." Michael immediately cocked his gun. "I wouldn't do that," the man continued. "You wouldn't want to accidentally hit her, would you?" Michael glared, but lowered his gun, and Vash remained silent on the ground, as half of the remaining men had guns focused on his head.

Frey smiled, ignoring the cold steel that was so close to piercing her flesh. "What, you've given up already?" she asked boldly, no longer in the trance Michael's actions had put her in. Michael looked at her, shaking his head in a warning to not try anything brash. She ignored him.

Swiftly she drove one of her elbows into the man's stomach. In his shock, he released her, and she took the opportunity to pin him to the ground, kicking his knife out of his hand.

"Why you little . . ." Before he could finish, Michael had picked Frey up and grabbed Vash by the collar, dragging him to his feet, and broken through the men at a breakneck run. Frey noticed in amusement that Vash turned and stuck his tongue out at the baffled men as they ran away.

"Michael . . ." Vash said between two huge gulps of air, "please . . . stop . . . can't run anymore . . ."

Michael pulled them around a corner and up against a wall, also taking deep breaths from running so hard for so long. Frey, finally realizing that she was being carried bridal style by Michael, jumped away from him, muttering, "put me down!"

All three sunk into sitting positions on the ground. When he finally had his breath back, Vash glanced over at Frey, nudging Michael in the side.

"Um, who is she?" He had tried to whisper without her hearing, but realized he had failed as she turned sharply at hearing a reference to herself.

"Vash, this is Frey. Frey, Vash." The two sat on either side of Michael, watching each other carefully with a small degree of suspicion.

"Ok, but who is she?"

"I really have no idea," Michael whispered back.

Finally Vash outstretched his arm over Michael, grinning. Frey carefully took it and allowed him to shake her hand, then finally smiled. His shake was firm, confident. Maybe he wasn't such a bumbling idiot after all.

"I get it," she said, "those guys just thought you were Vash the Stampede because your name is Vash, right?"

Michael looked quickly at Vash, trying to suppress a laugh, and Vash just grinned sheepishly at her.

"Yeah, that's it," he said, laughing and scratching the back of his head nervously.

Rolling his eyes, Michael stood up, brushing himself off. "Well, I've got to get home." He outstretched a hand to Frey, but she ignored it and stood up on her own. He just shook his head, slightly frustrated with her undying stubbornness.

"Yeah," Frey started, "I'll just, um, be on my way, I guess . . ."

"You're staying with me, remember?"

"No, don't worry about it, I can handle myself. I'll get home." Michael barely resisted reaching out and strangling her.

"Frey, you don't have any food."

"So?"

"Or water."

"Yeah?"

"Or money."

"I'll be fine."

"Or transportation."

"Don't worry, I'll get by. I don't need-"

"What are you going to do, teleport back to September?"

"Um . . ."

It was at this moment that her stomach decided to growl loudly, easily heard by Michael and Vash. Michael smiled, his expression daring her to try to protest again.

Sighing in defeat, she muttered "fine," and silently followed Michael away, though not without making her disapproval of the arrangement clearly known. Vash had watched the short exchange with a small amused smile, and now walked a few paces behind the two, chuckling softly to himself.

"Mom?" Michael swung the door open slowly. "MOOOOOOOOoooooooom . . ."

No one answered. All of the lights were off, so Michael hit the switch on the wall, bathing the room in a soft yellow light. The room they were currently in was the living room, with a couch, a few chairs, and a coffee table. Through an open doorway Frey saw the kitchen, in which was a staircase she assumed led to the bedrooms.

Michael sighed. "My mom isn't home. I'm going to go cook something. I'm starved." He headed into the kitchen, leaving Frey standing there awkwardly. "You can do whatever you want," he called from the doorway. "This will be ready in a few minutes."

Not seeing any other options, Frey plopped down on the couch, quickly welcoming its fluffy cushions in contrast with the hard chair she'd been in for the past four days. Before long, she felt her eyes growing slowly heavier. She let out a long yawn and stretched in a not completely sincere attempt to stay awake. Before long she had been completely enveloped in darkness. Michael's head appeared in the doorway.

"Hey Frey, how's chicken noodle-" He stopped. She was fast asleep, her breathing deep. She had wrapped herself in a large black blanket on the couch, and all that was showing from it was the top of her head. Smiling, he glanced out the window. The sun hadn't even completely set yet.

"Well, goodnight."

A few hours later, when the sun had set, Frey still lay sleeping on the couch. Michael had eaten his share of the soup he had made, then promptly followed Frey's example and fallen asleep at the kitchen table, leaving her share to grow cold on the counter. Neither heard nor noticed the tall woman now nearing the house, with light brown hair and two overflowing bags of groceries.

Milly hummed cheerfully to herself as she pushed open the door. Her attention was immediately drawn to the figure on the couch, and the black hair protruding from under the blanket. Two bags of pudding cups were dropped as she let out a loud, unrestrained squeal.

"Michael!"

She ran across the room, pulling off the blanket in an effort to prevent "him"from suffocating. The face of a sleeping young woman greeted her own. Milly blinked a few times, confused.

The sudden removal of the blanket made Frey shiver, then wake up. She rubbed her eyes, then opened them, only to see a very tall woman staring openly at her. Immediately she jumped into a sitting position and tried to back up, though the couch prevented it. The awkward and horrible silence was finally broken by the sound of a pan crashing to the floor in the kitchen. Only moments later, Michael burst into the room.

"Wait, Mom! It's not what you think!" The silence returned as Milly glanced at him, then back to Frey, still staring in disbelief.

Frey gave a confused look to Michael, who just stood there. She glanced at his helpless look, then at the baffled woman still watching her, then back at Michael, noticing the yellow apron with a big smiley face on it. Then she did the only thing she could think of to do. She started to laugh.

At first Michael looked at her in shock, but realizing that there was nothing else to do, he soon joined her. Milly just looked back and forth between the two as they laughed so hard it hurt.

"Stop," Michael begged, "I can't laugh anymore, Frey!"

She momentarily stopped and looked at him, but the look on his face just made her buckle over again. Eventually Milly began to laugh a little, not able to help it after watching the two of them practically bust a gut.

Once Michael and Frey had regained control of themselves and the tension in the room had been somewhat eased, Michael sat down on the couch next to Frey and quickly introduced her, explaining that he had helped her out in Tonim Town and wisely leaving out the facts that they had both been shot, had been nearly arrested, and faced two angry drunken mobs in the course of less than a week.

"Frey, this is my mom, Milly."

Though there was little resemblance in Michael and his mother, Frey quickly noticed that they had the same bright blue eyes.

Milly quickly smiled and reached out, shaking Frey's hand enthusiastically. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Frey. Will you be staying with us long?"

Frey shot Michael a surprised look, but he just smiled, as if to say, I told you it was alright.

She looked back at Milly, already beginning to like her. "No, I wouldn't want to be a burden or anything. I'll just be in town long enough to earn sufficient funds so I can get home."

"Nonsense. You can stay with us as long as you like." She quickly cut Frey off as she began to protest. "We've got room anyway, and it's not like you have anywhere else to go, right?" Confused at the abundance of hospitality she was being given, Frey just nodded.

"Um . . . okay."

"Great! So where's your stuff?" Frey lifted the small brown bag from of the floor.

"Right here."

"Well, she seems nice," Milly said, plopping down on the couch and opening the first of her mountain of pudding cups. Frey was upstairs now, asleep, having been obviously exhausted.

"Yeah."

"That's a very nice shirt, Michael. Where'd you get it?"

Michael looked down in surprise at the shirt he had practically forgotten. "Oh, Frey bought it for me."

"It's nice to see you in something other than black."

"Sure."

"So what happened to your other one?"

"Oh, it was too blood-" he cut himself off. "Uh, I got rid of it."

Milly bolted to her feet, pudding forgotten. "Oh Michael, where was it this time?"

"What?"

"Where did you get shot this time? Are you okay? Do you need to see a doctor?"

"I'm fine, Mom."

"Let me see it."

"Mom . . ."

"Let me see it, Michael! I want to make sure you're okay!"

Reluctantly, Michael lifted the front of his shirt, revealing his bloody bandages. Though her childishness usually made her rather incompetent as a mother, Milly never under did it when she believed he was really in danger.

"See Mom? It's already been taken care of."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Milly sighed in defeat and sat down, making herself accept that there were some parts of his father that he would always have. Quietly she turned back to her pudding.

"So, how did you get shot?"

Seeing no reason to hide any of it from her anymore, Michael answered truthfully. "I got hit helping Frey, okay?"

"Well at least you were doing something honorable," she answered, smiling.

"Right," Michael responded, wondering how she could be sick with worry one moment and grinning from ear to ear the next. "Goodnight."