DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

"They're dead. People are dead."

"Who the hell cares?!"

"You killed all the people – you killed them all! And you are the one solely responsible for all their deaths. Now you are also going to die!"

"Don't kill me – please don't kill me! I'm sorry! I don't want to die!"

Vash the Stampede did not care, any more than Monev the Gale had cared about the innocents who had not wanted to die. He was past the point of caring. It was time to put the mad dog down.

Finger tightened on the trigger…

He awoke with a start, right arm slapping at his left to knock the shot off course. Blinked in the darkness, squeezing his hand just to make sure it was empty.

Just another nightmare. Remember to breathe. Remember how it happened – he had not taken a person's life.

The problem was he had wanted to.

He sat up in bed, rubbing his face. Threw off the sweat-soaked covers and walked to the window, opening it and looking at the sky, something he was used to doing instead of checking the clock. Middle of the night, but maybe the bar would still be open. Or maybe he could help himself. One way to find out; he dressed and went downstairs.

The lights were mostly out. A few lamps were lit by the bar, keeping the darkness at bay with a dim glow; in a town without a plant, things had to be done the old-fashioned way. Things were quiet, the only sounds those of chairs being set on tables as the bartender cleaned up.

"Howdy," he said without looking up. Vash paused for just a step on the stairs, something clicking in his mind, then continued down and to the bar.

The bartender put the closing-up on hold and went behind the bar. "Whiskey again?"

The usual humor was out of Vash's voice. The nightmare had left him tired and gloomy. "Consistency is key. Hit me."

The bartender set up a glass and poured. "Can't sleep?"

"Not well. Pour one for yourself, too."

"Don't drink."

"No?"

Shake of the head with a rueful smile. "No. Too many broken promises, but there's two I intend to keep. That's one of them."

"I think maybe I know the other one."

Eyebrow arched. "Do you now?"

Vash looked up, meeting the bartender's eyes evenly. "You're a pretty steady guy."

Shrug. "Some people are."

"You recognized me."

"I'm sure a lot of people do. You're pretty well-known."

"Mostly by reputation, not really by face. And that business with the kid – you didn't even flinch. Most people would have either ducked behind the bar or pulled a gun themselves."

Another shrug. "You had things in hand, as it turns out."

"You already knew I did," Vash commented. "You read me as soon as we came in, and you read that situation from the moment that kid stepped in it."

"Did I now?" The bartender was relaxed, like someone playing a friendly game of checkers and chatting with an old friend.

"Yep. How long have you been out of the Life?"

The bartender's mouth twitched into an expression not quite worthy of being called a smirk. "I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

"Cut it out. What's your name?"

"Folks usually call me Barkeep."

Vash snorted. "Be that way, then. But I have other questions. What is this place?"

"A bar."

"The town, you smartass."

Barkeep chuckled. "Welcome to the humble village of Kirk."

"Kirk?" Vash finally got around to taking a drink of his whiskey. "Weird name."

"It's supposed to be some kind of joke. I asked one of the old-timers once, why name it Kirk? He said when it was set up, the founders aimed to boldly go where no one had gone before."

Vash's eye gave a very slight twitch. "That might be the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

Barkeep topped off Vash's glass. "Maybe so. The people who founded this place seem to have been a little weird. Who in their right mind moves away from a place that has a plant? Still, they had their own beliefs and wanted to have a place where they could live them, and they were stubborn enough to make it work. Even knowing the water they found wouldn't last forever, Kirk has made a good run of it. But even the most stubborn have faced facts – without new water, this is a dying town. Big Sister O'Brien trying to run everyone out is only killing it quicker."

"Who?"

"Mercy O'Brien. She showed up maybe a little over a year ago, with her own private army. Started throwing money around, making like she wanted to be everyone's Big Sister. Most people were happy for the money she gave, but didn't want anything to do with her after she started in with buyout offers, even with the water level dropping – until things started going wrong. If she wanted your land and you said no, little things would start happening. The more you said no, the worse those things would get, until you said yes."

Vash gazed into his drink. "What's the law say?"

"Didn't have any law to begin with – everybody understood each other. Remember, we're talking about a small group of people who started this place because they all were of a like mind."

"Care to elaborate?"

"The idea, as I understand it, was to have a sort of 'voluntary community'. They didn't like living in places where being good with a gun is a ticket to do whatever you want to whomever you want whenever you want, but neither did they like living in places where the peace is kept by some central authority that decides what's right. They wanted a place of their own where they all generally got along and did what was needed because it needed to be done, not because they could do it or go to jail. A place of natural consequences, not artificial ones."

"You mean like you don't work, you don't eat?"

"Something like that. It doesn't make any sense when it's explained, I know, but I've been here a few years and seen people freely volunteer to do things just because somebody has to do them. It's worked well enough that they could function without organized law; until O'Brien showed up, at least. A little while ago, a man was picked to wear a badge. After the murder happened."

An image of a hand with a gold ring went through Vash's head. "Murder?"

"Oh, there's nothing to say it was murder. But everyone knows what it was. Not so long ago, somebody refused to sell, no matter how bad things got for him. Then he disappeared one night. O'Brien insists he lit out on his family. They're gone now, too – his wife wanted to stay, but you know how it is. Kids to feed and she needed the money."

"Yeah. I know how it is." Vash was really wishing he had not let Meryl prod him into coming here. "Where's the man with the badge?"

"After the murder, he got to wondering why O'Brien is going to all this trouble to buy up a podunk village. He went off to do some checking into things, see about getting some outside help. Maybe he'll be back soon, but maybe not."

"Who is there to keep her in check in the meantime?"

"Just the townspeople. One badge, one man." Barkeep's mouth was a thin line. "The kid was right about one thing – things keep going this way, there's a war coming."

Monev. Legato.

Knives.

There was a war coming, all right. What Vash the Stampede feared the most was what it would turn him into.

"You could pitch in," he said.

The thin line of Barkeep's mouth became a thin smile. "You've been told already – I'm just a bartender. Why don't you jump in?"

Having toyed with his drink long enough, Vash tossed the shot back. Waited until it was refilled before replying, "You have me mistaken for someone else. My name is La Mancha, and I'm just a used windmill salesman."

The thin smile let loose a chuckle. "I can appreciate that. But fair warning – try to straddle the fence, and you might fall off."

"Keep that in mind for yourself, chief. This war hits, you might have to break that second promise."

He tossed back his shot and laid a note on the bar. Returned upstairs. Maybe he could still get some sleep without what lurked inside him knocking to get out again.