DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.
"As for how well I can draw with it–"
Jeckle Hyde's teenaged ears quirked at Long John Silver's words. He was already looking raptly at the long-barreled weapon that gave the O'Brien man his moniker; now he was about to get to see an example of a gunman's speed.
Silver worked for O'Brien. He was the enemy. But a young hormone-ridden mind filled with fiction and fantasy in place of grim experience will still place a halo around testosterone-fueled displays of skill, no matter who the displayer. Jeckle rationalized it to himself as observing someone he would eventually fight.
After all, he reasoned, things couldn't stay contained forever. O'Brien's intimidation tactics were getting worse as people's resistance to her hardened; sooner or later, there would finally be war.
When it came, Jeckle Hyde would no longer be looked at as a dumb kid. People would look at him with the respect a man was due, the same respect they gave his father.
"Shells on the bar." Ranger's gruff voice brought Jeckle out of his thoughts.
"Right."
It was hard to spot the precise moment Silver's hand first moved. One second it was still, then there was a blur, suddenly the gun was aimed at the wall. It would have been impressive with any regular gun; it was more so with all that extra barrel to take out of the holster.
With a momentary amnesia of who Silver worked for, Jeckle gawked in admiration.
His father was not so admirable. "Time to go," Heck Hyde whispered in Jeckle's ear, unwilling to draw any attention to himself or his son.
Jeckle looked at Heck. "Why? We haven't even been here that long." There was a trace of adolescent petulance in his voice; he wanted to stay and see what happened next.
"We need to finish closing up the shop for the night so we can get on home."
"But things are just starting to get –"
Heck Hyde could see how things were starting to get, and he was unwilling to bet his son's safety on there not being gunfire. Besides, even if there weren't, Jeckle was bound to look at whatever happened and see all of its thrill and none of its danger. Heck was doing his best to keep the teen alive to grow through the foolishness and into adulthood; unfortunately, the boy was doing his best not to realize Heck was actually trying to help him. Jeckle Hyde had inherited his mother's stubborn streak, but not her good sense.
But with Francine no longer around, it was up to Heck to do what she would have done in his place.
Jeckle's words cut off with a sudden gasp as his ear was yanked sharply, forcing the teen to stand up from the table.
"Don't test me, boy," Heck growled fiercely. "I'll yank this one off and box the other one if I have to. We're going!" He pointed to the swinging doors.
Jeckle felt like all eyes were on him, even though the other townspeople in the bar were still watching the situation with Silver. Struggling not to cry in pain and humiliation, fighting to keep the embarrassed heat off his face, he nodded mutely. Heck released the ear but grabbed the back of his son's neck in a hard pinch grip, massive hand half-guiding, half-pulling the teenager outside with him.
"You didn't have to make a scene like that!" Jeckle said in chagrined anger once they were outside.
The response was a smack to the back of his head. "You think that was a scene? You count yourself lucky your mother's not around to see you acting like a damn jackass, she'd knock these fool notions right out of your head! Drooling over a fast draw, challenging that lunatic Kurtz – I know you don't think so, but you've got a lot to learn about being a man, son, and it's my job to keep you alive to learn it. One day you'll understand that."
It just wouldn't be any day soon, judging by the way Jeckle silently fumed as they started toward the barber shop.
The walk was made largely by memory. Some plant-based towns had little trouble producing lights and power to keep their streets lit at night, some found it more difficult; it was often fifty-fifty whether a traveler would find a new town lit or not. But the town of Kirk didn't even have the luxury of even odds. With no plants, resources were more than scarce enough to preclude street lights. Without artificial light, the outside was the color of pitch if there were little or no moonlight. Tonight was such a night, an overcast sky concealing the moons from the world. It looked like the forecast was for dark, with continued darkness until dawn.
After the fight with the blond stranger (part of Heck still wanted to do something about that broom-headed hairstyle of his) and Pierre resulted in an empty hole where once had been a window, Heck had put up plastic sheeting to cover the gap. Something more solid would have been nice, but the people of Kirk had long been in the habit of making do with what was available.
He unlocked the shop's door to let himself and Jeckle inside. Paused a moment as he lit the lantern they used for the rare times they were in the shop after sundown, thinking of the poor security provided by a plastic sheet. There wouldn't be any stopping someone who wanted to get into the shop tonight, and the time when people here could leave their doors unlocked was over for as long as O'Brien's people were around. Maybe he should stay here…
But God only knew what kind of trouble Jeck would get himself into on his own. The most important thing here was to keep his son safe, from his own impulses if nothing else.
"Can't keep anyone out," he said, "but I'll go check to make sure everything's locked up, all the same. May as well at least make them work for it. You make sure this plastic's good and secure, then we'll put up another piece outside before calling it a night; I don't want to come here tomorrow and find sand having blown in."
Jeckle nodded sullenly, reluctantly doing as he was instructed. When was his father going to stop treating him like a child? How in the world was he ever going to learn to be a man if he wasn't allowed to act like one? Just look at Vash the Stampede. It said in the manga Jeckle had been able to trade for seven or eight months back that the legendary outlaw was thought to be no older than twenty-four. Twenty-four years old, and look at the size of his bounty already!
Maybe he should run away. If nothing else, getting out on his own would at least allow him to start over, free from his father's shadow. He was tired of being "Jeck, Heck's boy."
It could be a good idea to leave. But first, he had things to take care of here. Something was bound to spark soon enough; when it did, Jeckle would seize his opportunity and kill some, if not all, of those who threatened this town. And then people would look at him with respect and finally call him by his rightful title. "Look," they would say. "There goes –"
The fantasy abruptly went black as he was struck severely in the back of the head. Jeckle slumped to the ground.
Heck Hyde emerged from the back area, satisfied that his shop was as secure as he could make it under the circumstances. He was greeted to the sight of his son on the floor, the darkness transforming both Jeckle and the man who stood over him into shadows.
The big barber's protective instincts went into overdrive, compelling him to lunge at the person who had hurt Jeckle. But he was a heartbeat too late; just as his brain was sending the signal to attack, it was overridden by the sensation of pain so intense it felt white-hot as a long, slender knife – blade so thin it could have been a razor, point capable of penetrating bone, and designed entirely for murder – effortlessly went through his skin and into his kidney. Heck was temporarily paralyzed by the pain, the lantern he held slipping from his grasp and clattering as it hit the floor. A gloved hand clamped over his mouth to muffle any sounds of agony. A boot slammed into the back of one knee, forcing Heck to kneel.
His mind was so scrambled with the pain of a knife in his kidney that Heck didn't hear the big kukri being drawn. When he saw its curved blade dancing in front of his eyes, though, the silhouette resembling to his pain-scrambled eyes the scythe of the Grim Reaper, he knew his murderer was Pierre.
"You should never have refused Ms. O'Brien," the assassin hissed carefully through a mouth that was still swollen from the assault he had been subjected to earlier. "Now you must lose your shop and your life…and your son."
Protective instincts kicked in again, and Heck struggled to rise to his feet, almost making it all the way. But Pierre twisted the knife further into his kidney, and the resulting spasm of pain sank him back down. It was so bad that he hardly felt it when Pierre smoothly sliced the edge of the kukri into his throat, sliding it in deep as he pulled it completely through. It was almost as if the blood were shy at first, the way it stayed in; but it didn't take more than a few seconds for it to begin pouring out from the severed blood vessels, the initial crimson quickly dominated by the brighter blood from a severed artery.
Pierre paused to wipe his blade on Heck's shirt. Rudely yanked the thin knife out of the barber's back, wiping it as well. Then he removed his hand from Heck's mouth, letting the body fall to the floor.
Two saving graces were given to Heck Hyde. One was that as he slid further into death's grasp, precious life fluid spilling out of him, he felt less and less pain. Pierre was an expert in his trade; he had cut deep enough that not only would there be no sound heard outside the shop as Heck was taken from the mortal world, but that taking would only be a few more moments away.
The second saving grace was that while his vision dimmed, he still was able to see something. It was blurry at first, but took clearer shape with every weakening heartbeat. A woman, lovely red hair, green eyes that shined with temper and vigor, skin with a healthy sun-kissed blush…Francine, Jeckle's mother.
The last act Heck Hyde managed to perform was to reach for his wife right before he went to be with her.
"What do you think he was reaching for that last second?" asked the raspy voice of the man standing over the still form of Jeckle.
"It's not my job to know or care," Pierre snapped at him. "My job was to kill this man quietly, and it is done. Your job is only partially done, Kurtz; hurry up and spread the accelerant so we can leave."
"What's the matter, Pierre, you don't like being around a dead man?" Kurtz taunted. "That beating make you afraid you'll catch what he's got?" He laughed, but still worked as quickly as he could while still being thorough; in his line of work, the more time you spent on a particular job, the more you were chancing something going wrong.
"Remind me again why we're doing this," Kurtz said when he was finished. Flexed his off hand, feeling a satisfying surge of pain course through him. Remembered how calmly his boss had spoken as she took his finger off at the joint. "Ms. O'Brien did stress to me the importance of playing nice. Besides, it would have been easier just to put a bullet in each and be done with it. A little more fun, too, if we gave them guns and made a game of it."
"You psychotic twit," Pierre snarled. "Ms. O'Brien knows the lawman has returned –"
"Ranger," Kurtz interrupted with a sigh, sounding like a little girl with a crush. "Glad he's back. He left before I could find out if he's the one."
"Shut up! She knows he has returned, and believes he would not have done so without intending to actively take a stand against her. This is a message to him, a reminder that war has casualties."
"Why the fire, then?"
"Because Ms. O'Brien is not stupid! She doesn't just want to send a message to the lawman, she wants to send one to this entire town! It's time they understand – they can either do things her way and live, or they can refuse and lose everything. It's as she said: 'If you wish to win without a prolonged fight, remove your opponent's will to fight.'"
Kurtz shrugged. "Works for me. I do like a good weenie roast."
The accelerant was lit, the two killers hurriedly leaving the building to avoid being seen.
Still in the building with his father's body as the fire started to build, Jeckle Hyde came to consciousness; the blow to his head had not been as hard as it should have been. He blinked his eyes several times and shook his head to clear the haze.
A horrified gasp expelled itself as he saw what had been done to his father. Saw the blood pooled around the body with its slit throat.
The horror left quickly, replaced by a rage that came out of every pore. His father was dead, and he knew who was responsible. Who had been there just this afternoon? Which of O'Brien's hatchet men used a knife instead of a gun? The answer was clear.
Ignoring the rapidly building fire that would eventually devastate the shop, Jeckle dashed to a cabinet in a corner of the shop, yanking open a drawer and taking out his father's just-in-case gun. It was an old revolver, given to Heck by his father, but it still worked. Jeckle frantically thumbed in shells, praying he wouldn't be too late to catch up to his father's assassin.
Dashed through the fiery heat and out into the street, eyes straining as he looked into the dark of night, fighting the flash image of growing flames.
There he was! Not too far away yet. Jeckle started running after his quarry, trying in vain to steady his aim as he moved. His vision was still a little untrue after being conked on the head, every running step in the sand making the gun's sights shift wildly. But that wasn't going to stop him from avenging his father.
"Pierre, you damned bastard!" he yelled after his prey. "When you get to hell, you tell them Mr. Hyde sent –"
Jeckle Hyde never got to finish his declaration. A gunshot cut him off, bullet slamming into his leg, taking his balance out from under him. He stumbled and fell in the street, gun skittering from his grasp through the sand.
Bootsteps thudded softly in the sand up to him. The first thing he saw coming into his vision was a gun barrel, dark without moonlight to illuminate it. Behind that was Kurtz, his face as dark as the gun he held, but there was no mistaking his death-wind intonement:
"Everybody dies."
Two more gunshots. Kurtz hurriedly ran to catch up with Pierre.
"You idiot!" Pierre seethed at him when they were far enough away to be sure of not getting caught. "I told you to hit the boy hard enough to kill him! He was supposed to be dead!"
"And he is," Kurtz answered coolly. "The message is sent."