"Good morning!" said Meryl, as Milly rolled over to face her and yawned. Meryl's smile froze awkwardly for a moment as she realized that one long sleeve of Vash's shirt was still hanging out of her suitcase. She hurriedly threw her cloak down over it again.

"Good morning, Ma'am," Milly replied, stretching as she sat up. "You're awake earl—oh my god!"

"What?" asked Meryl, alarmed. Milly's beaming smile had vanished into an expression of mixed shock and anxiety.

"What happened?" Milly asked, hurriedly throwing off the covers and crossing the room to peer down at Meryl. "You have a black eye!"

Meryl's fingers flew up to touch the place where Sean had struck her the night before.

Shit.

How had she forgotten that? She must be covered in bruises...

"Oh," said Meryl, waving a hand airily as she tried to think of an excuse. "You know how the Thomas are," she said, seizing on sudden inspiration. "I woke one by accident when I tried to get a spare toothbrush and it kicked me clear across the stables!" Meryl touched her black eye again and winced, saying, "I must have hit the ground harder than I thought."

"Oh dear," said Milly, her shoulders slumping as she looked away from Meryl's eyes, thoroughly dispirited. "That's my fault, isn't it. Needing that stupid toothbrush..."

Watching Milly turn the kicked-puppy face on herself was heartbreaking, and Meryl was more determined than ever that the younger woman would never know what really happened that night. If Milly blamed herself this badly for a routine Thomas attack (it really did happen often enough to Meryl to be called "routine"), Meryl didn't want to know what reaction the truth would bring.

"I'm alright, don't worry!" Meryl assured Milly, smiling. "Just a few bumps and bruises. I've had worse. Remember the one that just fell asleep while I was still riding it? It almost crushed my leg when it toppled over! I limped around for a month!"

This did make Milly give a weak smile. "What do you mean, 'limped around'?" she asked. "You made me carry you piggy-back any time you got tired!"

Both women laughed at this and Meryl was relieved when the bright smile was back on Milly's face before the younger woman had even snapped those faded yellow suspenders in place over her shoulders. Milly began her usual chatting to fill the silences Meryl left between them, but it wasn't awkward silence and chatter; it was familiar, and comfortable, and so Meryl dressed while Milly talked about more of the performers she had seen at the town market two nights ago.

When Milly packed the last of her clothes into her heavy suitcase and turned to retrieve her stun-gun, Meryl hurriedly balled up Vash's shirt and pants and together stuffed them into the bottom-most corner of her own luggage. As she zipped the suitcase up tight and turned to find Milly just hanging the stun-gun from its leather sling over her shoulder, Meryl was sure the younger woman hadn't seen.

"Shall we go, Ma'am?"

"I think we had better," said Meryl. After paying for three nights of two rooms (and board for their Thomas), they were running awfully low on funds. She stood and managed to stifle a weary sigh despite protesting muscles and aching bones from the events of the previous evening.

When she led Milly from the room and locked the door behind them, Meryl turned toward the stairs and was startled when Milly went the opposite direction. The younger woman knocked on the door of the room where Meryl had last spent the night.

"Mr. Vash?" called Milly. "Mr. Vash, are you there?" When there was no answer, Milly just shrugged and smiled. "He must have gone down for breakfast already."

"Yeah," said Meryl vaguely, her heart sinking. She already knew they wouldn't find him.

Meryl wasn't quite certain why or how, but she knew Vash would be gone after their interaction the night before. Not the attack and her rescue; Vash would have stepped in for anyone. It was what had happened after. His jacket, the embrace. And then he had reached out to her, more than just literally, and she had rebuffed him, involuntarily though it had been.

And now he was running from it.

And she wasn't going to let him get away.

If she was lucky, Vash only had a few hours' head-start. If she was really lucky, he'd be on the steamer.

"Ma'am?" Milly asked, her voice from some distance. Meryl turned, surprised, to see Milly at the top of the stairs now, looking back at her in confusion; Meryl hadn't followed her from Vash's door. "Is everything alright?" Meryl could see the worry starting to take root in the younger woman's eyes again and she gave her the warmest smile she could.

"Everything's fine," Meryl assured her, hurrying to meet the younger woman. As she reached the stairs, Meryl gave one last glance toward Vash's door and tried not to panic preemptively. Maybe he would be downstairs.

But she doubted it.

When they reached the saloon, it was packed with people preparing to board the departing steamer. Meryl thought it would be hard to find anyone in that kind of mess. Milly, of course, immediately proved her wrong.

"Look, there's Jim!" said Milly excitedly. Meryl turned sharply as Milly waved across the room and she watched the larger man catch sight of them and go pale. He spun around and elbowed his way through the crowd, almost pushing people out of his way as he made a bee-line for the door.

"Well that wasn't very nice," Milly said, letting her hand fall back to her side as she frowned. Then she gasped, startling Meryl. "Did I say something last night that upset him?" Milly asked worriedly. "I don't remember! I was so drunk..."

"No, no, nothing like that," Meryl said, shaking her head. "I don't know why he'd run off without saying hello," she murmured. She would have expected Jim to leave town with Sean. She wondered if Sean was still here somewhere. She wondered if that was why Vash was missing. She wondered if...

The steamer whistle blew long and loud, and it derailed Meryl's train of thought. No, Sean was long gone by now, she was sure of it. No one would stay anywhere they had seen that terrible fury Meryl witnessed in Vash last night.

The sound of the whistle also made her realize Vash would be on the steamer. It was the fastest way to skip town, and the easiest way to stay hidden. Hell, Meryl could spend a week on a steamer without being found by anyone, much less by people she was specifically avoiding.

This did, however, present a problem.

They had no money.

And the Thomas were gone when she and Milly reached the stables at the back of the inn.

"Shit," muttered Meryl, scowling.

"What happened, Ma'am?" asked Milly.

"They must have got out…"—and didn't come back— "Damn it," Meryl went on. "We needed the money from selling them."

"For what?" Milly asked, looking puzzled now.

"To get on the steamer," said Meryl, absently.

"Why?"

"Vash," Meryl said, by way of explanation. She was trying to think up a plan, too busy to give Milly much more to go on. What else could they sell?

"You think Vash is on the steamer?" Milly clarified.

"Mm," grunted Meryl, still thinking. Could they get away with hocking that damnable typewriter?

"But we can't afford passage," Milly reminded her.

"No." Oh, to be rid of that infernal device...

"We could work our fare," suggested Milly, brightly.

"What?" Meryl said, forgetting the typewriter entirely now. "I'm not sure that's a good—"

"Well, why not?" asked Milly, beaming, already leading Meryl out of the stables by the elbow. "You worked steamers once, why can't I? It'll be fun!"

Meryl was still troubled by this thought and grimaced, though Milly didn't see it.

Almost nothing about Meryl's year aboard the S.S. Gunsmoke had been "fun." It had been hard work, and lots of it, and ended in the loss of everything she loved. Just thinking about it now made her insides twist up, and suddenly she hoped the reason for their Thomas' disappearance was because Vash had stolen them. Then she could go by land, and not set foot on the iron whale after all...

But Milly seemed set on the idea, and for the life of her, Meryl couldn't come up with any better option. And, sadly, she was convinced that Vash was somewhere aboard the steamer.

Shit.

"Alright," sighed Meryl, pulling her elbow out of Milly's hand and taking the lead. "Just... Let me handle it, okay?"

"Yes Ma'am!" agreed Milly, sounding pleased.

They followed the seemingly endless crowd of people flocking toward the steamer, carried along in its current at a slower pace than Meryl would have liked. Apparently she was beginning to show tell-tale signs of her irritation because Milly's hand fell lightly on the top of her head and stroked her hair in a familiar calming gesture. Meryl just sighed and went with the flow of the crowd.

Once they were within a hundred yarz or so of the steamer, however, Meryl pulled Milly sideways through the throng and steered them toward a slightly smaller gangplank than that which the passengers were taking. People running in and out of this entrance were considerably more frantic.

"This is the cargo hold and crew boarding," Meryl told Milly. "It's our best bet for finding any work." She had a sudden flash of déjà vu, the same scene almost six years ago—only she was a lot less terrified this time around.

Then they reached the bottom of the gangplank and stepped onto it, and Milly's curiosity finally seemed to get the better of her.

"What work did you used to do?" she asked, interestedly. "Were you a stewardess?"

"No!" Meryl said sharply. When Milly looked taken aback at such a vehement reaction, Meryl quickly composed herself. "Sorry, I just... No, I wasn't a stewardess, I was, um..."

Thankfully the steamer gave two loud bursts from the great whistle above them—the half-hour warning already?—and Meryl's answer could easily have been just lost in the noise.

In truth, stewardess was just a more delicate word for whore. True, they got paid a lot better than Meryl had, but still... Those women, most of them just as young as Meryl had been, would work in the lounges or casino during the day, and then make their real money at night, after all the bars closed and the rich men retired to their cabins.

Meryl hadn't even known of this practice, until she took a wrong turning in the night after a long shift and was propositioned by a drunken gambler who had become equally lost in the crew decks and thought he had found a stewardess to lead him back to his room. Even at sixteen, Meryl's response to such a query had been to break the man's nose. From then on, Meryl knew well enough to keep away from the passenger decks after nightfall.

"What do you want?"

A gruff voice recalled Meryl to the present, and she blinked up at a heavy-set man with an almost furiously annoyed expression. He wore a set of coveralls unzipped to the waist, the sleeves wrapped and knotted around his middle, and he was covered in sweat even in the relative shade of the crew and cargo gangplank. There was a massive clipboard tucked under one arm as he took stock of a crate full of what Meryl assumed to be live chickens, by the noise and smell of it.

"Catering, get it to catering," he snapped, waving in the two men carrying the pallet as he checked off something on his clipboard with a heavy-handed slash of ink. Then he turned his attention to Meryl and Milly again. "What do you want?"

Meryl knew that thirty-minutes prior to final passenger boarding was about the worst possible time to interrupt a deck chief trying to take in cargo, but they were short on time and she didn't see the head steward that should have been there wrangling the steamer's large crew.

"We're looking to work our fare," said Meryl, trying to make her voice heard over the rest of the commotion around them.

"Now?" said the man, incredulously. "You're seriously asking this now? Get the hell off my deck." Meryl grabbed his arm before he could turn away.

"We need to get on this steamer!" she said, angrily.

"Then buy a goddamn ticket!" replied the deck chief, sounding just as angry as Meryl felt. "Or next time get a job with the steward, before twenty minutes from last boarding!"

"Well, where's the goddamn steward?" demanded Meryl.

"I'd like to know!" roared the man. "Then I wouldn't be having to put up with your bullshit problems—"

There was a resounding crash! from a few yarz away that made both Meryl and Milly jump. Two men carrying a large crate of non-perishables seemed to have lost their grip and overturned it, sending canned goods sprawling across the deck.

"Goddamn it!" shouted the deck chief, turning to see a half-dozen tins of pickled salmon roll over the edge of the gangplank. "Fine, shit, I don't care," he said suddenly, throwing down the heavy clipboard. Meryl watched his discarded pen bounce away after the salmon. The man pointed a threatening finger at the kid who had dropped the crate, who seemed to freeze in abject terror. "You—get me the crew manifest," said the chief, pointing to the interior of the steamer. "Now!" he barked, when the younger man didn't immediately comply.

The deck chief took a deep breath through his nose, eyes closed, and held one hand out to the side. Meryl watched him curiously, until the kid came running back with another clipboard, this one just barely able to keep control of an even larger stack of papers. He placed it in the other man's hand, saying meekly, "Sorry, boss."

In one swift motion, the chief smacked the kid over the head with the clipboard without even having to look to aim the blow. Meryl winced for the kid as he clapped a hand to the growing bump on the top of his head, swearing under his breath as he slunk away.

"Alright, let's see," said the deck chief, considerably more calm than he had been at any time in the last ten minutes. He glanced up to look Milly head-to-toe, then gave Meryl the same once-over. "Guess we need a couple girls up on the snack bar," he grunted.

"Good, fine," said Meryl quickly. "We'll take it."

The man gave a little cough and beckoned them nearer. Meryl gestured quickly for Milly to stay back, already guessing what the man had to say.

"Standard twenty percent cut to your handler, for work on the side," he said. "And I could get you the best Johns."

"Just the snack bar," Meryl said, very deliberately, giving the man her fiercest stare.

The man drew back, startled.

"Wait, seriously?" he said, incredulous. "I mean, that'll pay your fare—barely—but..." He surveyed both women again and gave a low whistle. "Either one of you could make a small fortune on this passage."

"Just the snack bar," growled Meryl, desperate to keep Milly from hearing, baring her teeth in a snarl. The man held up his free hand in surrender.

"If you say so," he muttered, shaking his head. "That'll put you in the worst possible sleeping berths—"

"We'll manage," said Meryl, tartly.

"Fine," said the man, sighing. "Leave your bags with Butterfingers over there—" the kid had been listening in on their conversation from a short distance away and now his face flushed scarlet "—and get uniforms from Housekeeping. It's forward on the third—"

"I know where it is," interrupted Meryl, tossing her bag toward the kid. He caught it with a grunt of surprise, clearly not expecting the weight of the typewriter inside. Milly, on the other hand, walked over to the young man, smiling kindly, and set her giant suitcase at his feet. Meryl rolled her eyes at the kid's beatific grin and led Milly into the belly of the steamer.

The further they traveled down into the crew decks, the nearer they came to the coal-fired steam engines and the atmosphere around them began to get warmer and drier. And the noise of busy crewmen and women grew louder.

"Where are we going?" Milly asked, glancing around curiously.

"The laundry," said Meryl, over her shoulder. "That's where most of the fuss will be right now."

Her prediction was proved accurate the moment they turned the corner into the corridor dedicated to the housekeeping department. The entire corridor was in disarray, people scurrying both directions, arms full to bursting with linens and other sundries, and no one seemed to pay Meryl or Milly the slightest attention as they tried to make their way to the main laundry.

Meryl immediately spotted the head of housekeeping, recognizable not only by the tell-tale yellow cap affixed to her graying hair (which was now rapidly escaping from its severe bun) but also by the shrillness of her voice and the number of younger women running away from her, desperately trying to obey her barked orders.

Somehow making their way through the crowd—everyone else was trying to escape!—Meryl and Milly managed to reach the matron.

"What do you want?" she snapped, her tone remarkably similar to the deck chief's.

"New hires," gasped Meryl. Someone had rushed by with a stack of towels and elbowed her sharply in the chest. "Need uniforms."

"Taking on more of you tarts, eh?" said the matron, sneering down at Meryl (then up at Milly).

Meryl glanced sideways momentarily to see Milly's puzzled expression, then glared so fiercely at the matron that she seemed to think better of making any further comments.

"Hm," said the other woman, giving a small sort of cough. She shoved her way between two terrified girls and snatched two handfuls of fabric hanging on a long clothesline running parallel to the back wall of the laundry. The matron returned a moment later, dropping one bundle into Milly's arms and shoving the second so forcefully into Meryl's chest that she had to take a step backward. Meryl could already tell the clothes weren't yet fully dry.

She snarled, but Milly put a hand on her shoulder, saying, "Thank you, Matron." The other woman seemed surprised to hear the politeness in Milly's reply, and stumbled over her own, "You're welcome," as though she'd never had the chance to say it before.

As ever, Meryl was grateful for Milly's unwavering patience. Then she glanced down at the garments she held.

"You've got to be kidding me," said Meryl, flatly.