Ok, here's the deal:
This fanfic is set in the Trigun world, and the Trigun characters are in it, primarily Vash, but the main chracter is new. I realize this chapter is kind of short, but I was pressed for time. The next will be longer.
Introduction
A lone figure staggered through the desert, tugging at his tan trench coat to shield his scarred, unshaven face from the brutal sandstorm. Boots filled with sand, he stumbled across the dunes aimlessly, blinded by the driving winds. The figure lifted his canteen to his parched lips, but to no avail. It had been empty for hours, the last drop gone long before the storm began. He dropped the flask in disgust, allowing it to swing on its strap and slap against his exhausted thigh. Taking another step, the figure's legs gave out and he collapsed, face down, in the sand.
As the world grew dark, Jake Krieg accepted that he was going to die. Rolling his head to the side, he allowed a dry whisper to escape his mouth, inaudible over the roar of the sandstorm. He said, "Well, shit," and blacked out.
Chapter 1: Jake Krieg
Jerked suddenly into conciousness, Jake sat up in bed, panting heavily. He looked around at his unfamiliar surroundings uneasily, wiping the cold sweat from his forhead with a shaking hand as questions formed in his mind.
"What the hell?" he thought aloud, "How did I get here?"
Jake thought back, remembered the desert, remembered collapsing. He remembered the nightmare that had awakened him. Always the same, Jake had the dream nearly every night. A sea of blood covered his dreamscape, corpses afloat like sponges. Corpses he recognized. Corpses he left in towns and sprawls of desert in the real world. People made corpses by Jake himself. Thier bullet wounds were geysers of blood, adding to the knee-deep pool Jake stood in. The only thing that ever changed was the body count, increasing with each new kill.
Jake sat, with his hand over his eyes for some time, trying to shake off the dream and the memories. When he finally removed his hand from his face, Jake took in the room more deeply. It was dark, the curtains drawn to keep out the sunlight. He sat on a bed in the corner, with a small bedside table next to him. On this table rested his pistols, a pair of two-tone Desert Eagle .44s. Their tones were inverse to each other; one had a black slide and chrome frame, the other a chrome slide on a black frame. He took these up, which both drove away the uneasy feelings, and brought back the memories of the men whose tickets he had punched with them. On the far side of the room, Jake's coat hung next to the door, on the opposite side of which was a small wooden dresser. Jake's attention snapped to the door as the knob began to turn, and the door to creak open. Light streamed in, silhouetteing an extraordinarily tall, brown haired woman in the doorway. Upon seeing Jake's guns in his hands, she yelped in surprise and immediately closed the door.
Jake stared, wide-eyed, at the entrance to the room for several seconds before vaulting from the bed and running to the door. He tossed his guns onto the dresser and turned the knob, but the door was held shut from the other side. "Hey!" Jake shouted, "Listen, if I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead by now. Now come on, open the door."