DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

In a world of sand and heat, water can do wonders for renewing you. But Vash found that while a cold shower helped his body, it did little for his aching spirit. While removing himself from the equation was the only choice that would allow him to stay true to Rem's way of life and keep her with him, it nonetheless left him with a bitter sense of loathing that made him feel worse instead of better. The least bad option is still a bad option.

There was the need to pretend things were normal. To deny what was coming, even if only for a few moments. So Vash brushed his teeth, body mechanically going through the motions. One brief glance in the mirror showed him the truth in his eyes, that he was running away from the turbulence that was trying to claim him. He refused to look at the mirror the rest of his time in the bathroom, styling his hair by rote. The clothes from last night had been his last fresh set, so he put them on again, numb to the cool wetness of undried sweat that had soaked him in his feverish trip through Hell. There would be time to worry about laundry or new clothes later; the important thing now was to get equipped as soon as possible and leave. With luck, he could do that without encountering the insurance girls.

He tucked the yellow sunglasses in a shirt pocket. The harsh sunlight, worsened when it reflected off desert sands, made them desirable to have handy on a trek.

However, there was no question of donning the red duster. It would feel…wrong, somehow. It wasn't right to wear the color of determination when all he was determined to do was leave. He would only wear red again when he got the black feelings out of him.

Eventually, at some point, he would have to face his brother. Would need to be armed. Should he risk taking his gun with him when he left?

The twitch of his trigger finger at the thought of it told him no.

Screw it. Leave it here. Let it rust into oblivion. For the foreseeable future, he wanted nothing to do with that damned souvenir of Knives. Knowing that he still had the means of taking life in his prosthetic arm was already hard enough to deal with, he didn't need the six extra temptations that came with the revolver.

The blood-stained shirt from yesterday's encounter with Pierre would remain here; it could be burned or buried or whatever, but it wasn't coming with. The rest of his clothes he made sure went into his pack, as did his toothbrush and other sundries and gear. He secured the pack and left it next to the duster.

That was that. This wasn't getting any easier, but it had to be done. He just had to get water and food and he was out of here, and everyone would be better off for it.

Vash poked his head out of his door, checking for the insurance girls. All clear. Eased down the stairs, eyes scanning for them. So far, so good. He could make his arrangements without them poking in.

In fact, the only person in the saloon was Barkeep. The bartender looked plenty the worse for wear, still in his own dirty clothes from last night, as Vash approached.

The tired eyes were still sharp. "Didn't know the windmill market was so pressing elsewhere."

Vash blinked. "What?"

"You're leaving, right, La Mancha? Must be off to sell more windmills. Don't seem interested in tilting at any around here."

Eyes narrowed as a scowl appeared; Vash wasn't in the mood. "Get the hell off my back. I came here for water, and all I want from you is to know where to get it."

The swinging doors banged open. It was hard to tell which was harsher, the vehemence with which they were opened or Ranger's snarl as he came in. "Should've been around last night, then. We had water. Can't afford to waste any, but we did anyway keeping a blasted fire contained. Oh, wait, you were there for it. Until you weren't."

To keep a grip, Vash literally kept a grip, grasping the bar tight. Focused so hard on looking at an invisible spot on the bar he was almost drilling a hole in it. These helped keep his voice in check. "Your town. Your problems. Not mine."

"Noticed that," Ranger snapped. "Also noticed how my friend and I not only spent the night fighting a fire, but buried two people as well. Your two friends were there with us, even after the short one went chasing after you for God knows why. Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

"No."

"Then will you look at me?"

Vash released his death grip on the bar, slowly turning to look at Meryl. No sneaking out, after all. Looked just underneath her eyes, not willing to actually do this eye to eye. Couldn't stand to see his gun sights on her anymore.

She and Milly must have come in with Ranger, concealed by his hostility toward Vash. They both looked dirtier than Ranger and Barkeep did; probably weren't, but the soot and ash and sand was much more noticeable on their clothes. Both had some bad bags under their eyes.

Vash opened his mouth to get this over with quick…but before he got any words out, a man burst through the swinging doors. "Ranger!"

Ranger turned to the thin, bespectacled newcomer, not beating around the bush. "Are they there, Finch?"

"They are. Looks about every man O'Brien has. Kurtz is there, just like you figured. You said come tell, so here I am."

"Good scout, Finch. Your job's done now."

"I'll back your play, Ranger, you know I will," Finch said. "After last night, there's not a man who doesn't want to lay hands on that damn Khan."

Ranger shook his head definitively. "No backing, Finch. You've done your part. Just let me do mine."

The man named Finch stared at Ranger for a moment, thinking of pushing the issue, then thought better of matching wills with the man with the badge. Reluctantly left the saloon, headed off for safety.

"What's a Khan?" Milly inquired, eyes wide in curiosity.

Ranger turned his attention to her. "Something people around here say. You'd have to ask one of the old-timers where it comes from; I just know it's got something to do with the reason the town's named Kirk. But they consider it to be one of the worst insults imaginable."

"I'd also like to know why you did that, if it's ok."

"Did what?'

"Why did you turn down his help?"

Ranger tapped the piece of metal he wore. "Because the badge is mine, ma'am. One man wears it, one man does the job. People here are good, tough stock, but they're not from the same world as Big Sister O'Brien and her kind. I am. I've written up paper for Kurtz and I mean to have him, but I won't be responsible for any of my people dying."

"One against nearly the whole outfit," Meryl said, hope showing in her expression as she looked at Vash. "Isn't this where you come in?"

He still avoided her eyes. "No."

"These people need help. You know this."

This was exactly why Vash had wanted to avoid the insurance girls, Meryl especially. She was making it harder than it should be.

"I don't know a damn thing other than I never wanted to come here in the first place! I told you we should look somewhere else for water! You're the one who insisted on coming here, you're the one who said nothing would happen! Now you want me to charge in like some knight in shining armor. Can't you learn to listen? I said no!"

"And why not?" she demanded, refusing to be fazed by his words. "Because you're feeling sorry for yourself? Because you hold yourself responsible for that boy dying? Because you're mad? You're upset with the way things are, so you're just going to take your ball and run away?"

"Damn right!"

Meryl shook her head in frustration. "This isn't you talking. It's your voice, your mouth moving, but it's not your words. This isn't the man I – that we – damn it, this isn't you!"

"And what in shitfire'n'tarnation would you have me do?" Vash snapped at her. "Step out there like it's just any other day? And do what? Wave my hand and make them all go to sleep? That's what would have to happen, because I am not strapping on that damn gun!"

"Why won't you?" she snapped back. "I know you're not feeling like yourself, but this is serious. Somebody has to help Ranger. It's time to man up!"

"Because you have limits is why! You don't have to keep yourself in check, your bosses have already told you what you can't and can't do. I don't have that luxury; the only person keeping me in check is me. The only rules I can look to in a given situation are the ones I've made for myself – and right now, I'm getting too damn close to not having any!

"I go out there with a gun on, I can't guarantee people won't die; I can't guarantee I won't be the one that kills them!"

Meryl placed a hand on his arm, attempting to calm him as she had last night against John Silver. But his body was actually trembling from everything he was holding in, and he jerked away from her.

Milly had spoken to her of that brief moment in the jail, just before Monev's attack, when she had entered first and seen something in Vash's eyes that scared her deeply. Meryl had been dismissive of it until now, seeing in them a glimpse of the war that was ravaging his soul.

His voice was quiet now, but so tinged with a fight for control in its tone that it was more worrisome than his outburst. "Leave. Me. Out of it."

Meryl couldn't say which she felt more, scared of him or worried for him. But she steeled herself with a slow breath, holding his eyes for a moment. Then she went over to Ranger, who had been checking his revolver over during the exchange. It never hurt to check your weapon if you knew you were going to have to use it.

"I'll go," she said firmly, no quiver in her voice.

"Appreciate the offer, ma'am," Ranger replied, "but I said I won't be responsible for anyone dying."

"You said any of your people," she corrected. "I presume you meant anyone from here."

"I did, but I don't have any business taking –"

"I'm not from here," Meryl cut in. "And if you're so worried about my safety, you can ask Grim Reaper Bostalk how well I can handle myself! Or I can refer you to a very nice couple in Promontory, or the women of the Nebraska family. However, time is short, so I suggest you take my word for it, because I'm going to be out there with you regardless of your wishes!"

"Hell you think you're doing?" Vash snapped with a scowl.

"What you would if you could," she said softly.

"Bostalk? Nebraska?" Ranger's gaze drifted from Meryl to Vash, eyeing him shrewdly. Vash's returned stare was still an unblinking scowl. Ranger went back to Meryl. "You've got guns?"

"I have weapons I am proficient with," she asserted. "And fifty rounds at my immediate disposal."

Ranger nodded curtly. "All right. Want to get yourself killed, don't say I didn't warn you."

Milly stepped forward. "If Meryl goes, then I have to go, too."

Meryl turned to her partner, attempting to wave her off. "Milly, there's nothing in the rules that say –"

"You're my partner, Meryl," Milly stated with an unusual firmness. "It's my job to back you."

Ranger looked over at Barkeep. "This is the one with the projectile gun?" A nod was his answer. "Ma'am, I like your backbone, but this is no place for crowd control."

"Does anyone have a rifle?" the tall insurance girl queried.

"Just a moment." Barkeep disappeared into his back room, re-emerging with a lever-action rifle. "Like this?"

"Yes, that will do. Will you throw it to me?"

Barkeep threw the rifle in an easy underhand. Milly caught it by the underbarrel as easily as one would catch a ball, in one smooth motion twirling it to her dominant hand and working the action several times to check its smoothness. Whipped it up to her eye and checked the trigger motion with several smooth pulls. Nodded in satisfaction. "This will do very nicely," she re-affirmed.

Meryl was agape at her. Vash's head was cocked.

"What?" Milly asked them both innocently. "Games aren't the only things my brothers taught me. May I please have some ammunition?"

Barkeep went back and came out with a box of ammunition and a bandoleer for cartridges, and three sets of earplugs which he handed to the man with the badge.

While Milly loaded the rifle and Meryl readied the bandoleer for her, Ranger caught Barkeep's eye. "There's three now. Four makes a fire team."

The words were even, but his eyes betrayed the request. He knew the answer, but since other people were imposing themselves into this, it couldn't hurt to ask.

Barkeep's mouth worked slightly, just before he slowly shook his head. "I can't. You know why."

Ranger nodded in stoic acceptance. "A man keeps his promises." Looked over at the insurance girls. "If you two insist on butting in, reckon I ought to swear you in."

"Ok," they replied dually.

"Don't have any official words for it, but you'd better say 'I do'."

Meryl and Milly blinked and looked at one another, then shrugged. "I do," they said as one.

"Right. Now you're deputies, or whatever I'd have if they gave me a title. Just keep in mind – what you've got now is a license to kill, not get killed. Short lady – Ms. Stryfe, was it? You want to go ahead and get those guns you were talking about?"

"Trust me when I say I'm ready," Meryl told him. "You'll see what I mean."

"Sorry, ma'am, but I should see now. Best if I know what I've got backing me."

Nod. "Fair enough. I suppose you've heard it said that little girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice?"

"I've heard that."

"Do you know what women like me are made of?"

"Can't say –" Ranger stopped short. It was clear to him he'd underestimated Meryl, waiting for her to stage her demonstration without realizing she'd suckered him into focusing on her words. It was clear because there was a derringer now pressed tightly into his crotch, and he hadn't noticed her hand move.

"We're made of gunpowder and lead."

"Ok," the man with the badge said in acknowledgement of her point as she lowered the weapon. "But one derringer won't – ah, fifty rounds. Got it." Fifty rounds. Fifty derringers. Probably kept them in that cape. He thought of asking further about how well she could use them at distance, but the clock was ticking. Sometimes all you have time for is to just roll the dice. "Right, then. Let's move."

As they left the building, Meryl cast one last pleading glance toward Vash. He turned away.

"Whiskey," was all he said.

"You can't hide here forever," Barkeep commented as he set up a bottle and glass. Vash latched onto the glass, gripping hard to keep his damn trigger finger still.

"Don't intend to. First chance I get today, I get supplied and I'm out. But take this and make sure the girls get it so they can get supplied, too." Laid a sheaf of bills on the bar. "Nothing personal; I just can't be around anyone for a while."

"Want your gun back?"

"No. Keep it the hell away from me."

An eyebrow arched. "You're leaving the gun. Taking the cannoli, then?"

"What?"

Barkeep's mouth twitched slightly in a half-smile. "Nothing." The half-smile faded. "What's going on inside you…you won't make it go away just by removing yourself."

"Not the only reason."

"So I heard. You don't want to be a killer. I can sympathize. Who would want to be a killer – to make a life of taking life – when he could be anything else?"

"That's not only it, either."

"So what's the rest of it?"

"Fear."

The eyebrow arched again. "Fear?"

Vash slammed back his whiskey. Barkeep waited while he poured another shot and stared at the amber liquid.

"What's a storm?' the blond man asked at last.

"Not sure I know what you're getting at."

"A storm. Sandstorm, typohoon, whatever. You know what it is? A storm is nature breaking its own rules. It's nature with the limits shut off."

"Go on."

"I'm not a good man. A few people think I am, but I'm not. Not in the way most people are good people. I need rules to tell me how to be good. The woman who raised me, she gave me some rules. She's been gone a long time now; I think she would have taught me a lot more, but she never got the chance.

"I've made up other rules as I've gone through life. They keep me from crossing the line that she set for me. But a while back…I wanted to cross that line. And part of me has wanted to cross it ever since."

"Where's the fear come in?" Barkeep asked.

"Once I cross the line, I can't get back over it. The fear is that I won't want to. And that once I cross the line, Rem – the woman who raised me – will truly be gone. One wrong trigger pull could erase her from my heart.

"And…I fear what I can do without rules. I fear what I am without anything to keep me in check."

"Jamie," said Barkeep quietly. It always struck him as curious that a mere two syllables could send both love and loss crashing down on his soul.

Vash looked up. "You said that name before. Who is she?"

"The woman who saved me." From his shirt pocket, he removed a small, old black-and-white picture on metal backing. Laid it on the bar and slid it over to Vash. It showed a younger, well-dressed version of Barkeep with his arm around a short, pretty, brunette woman, so petite she could have been a pixie. She was wearing a simple wedding dress.

"I was never a good man, either," the bartender told him. "Unlike you, though, I didn't have anyone who set a line for me. What I had was a talent for killing, and nothing else.

"It was never personal. I didn't like it, not like Pierre or Kurtz. I just didn't dislike it. It was the only thing I was good at, so it became how I made my living. If you met my price, you bought yourself a dead man."

"What happened?"

"Jamie happened. I'd never met anyone like her. Don't ask me to describe her, there aren't words for it. She saw something in me that I didn't, and loved me.

"But she wouldn't be with a killer, and killing was the only life I knew. So she left."

"And?"

"And I was thrown off-kilter. I hit that point where the blood didn't wash off. Where I minded dying. That's when the killer's shakes started. I didn't know what was going on. It took longer than it should have, but eventually I realized I didn't want to be who I was. I wanted to be what Jamie saw in me.

"Spent two years killing the man I was. Learned how to tend bar, put together a stake, made myself as much a new man as I could. Then I went looking.

"It took a fair spell of time, but I found her. Promised her I'd never use a gun again. Whatever she first saw in me, she still saw it. And she took me for hers. We were happy and looking forward to starting a family. For a while, I really thought I'd made it out.

"I was wrong. The past caught up to us. They were going to kill me…but then, why kill a man when you can kill his soul?

"I held her as she bled out, and she knew what I was going to do. Her last words to me were to not break my promises. Because her faith said promises are sacred, and if you break them, you don't get to be together in…wherever. So ever since, I've kept those promises. Because I want to see my Jamie again."

The two men stared at each other. Between them lay the question of what action each would choose.

Barkeep made his decision.

He retreated into his back room again, coming back out hefting a large, drab duffle bag. Laid it gently on the floor and unsecured it. Took out a heavy lockbox, set this on the bar. Removed a leather cord from around his neck under his shirt; it held a key, tarnished with age. The key went into the lock, which yielded after a few moments' work.

Barkeep unwrapped oilcloth in the lockbox, then extracted a pair of twin revolvers, still in excellent working shape despite all the time he had hidden them away. Black frames, ivory handles with intricate etching. Beautiful but fully functional instruments of lethality.

Vash watched as Barkeep next took out a gunbelt from the duffle, dulled with age but the lovely detailing was still clear, and a box of ammunition. Watched as the ex-gunman thumbed shells into their slots on the gunbelt, fitting a few speedloaders into pockets for good measure. Watched as he loaded the revolvers and holstered them, tying the holsters down.

"You're about to break a promise," the blond man observed.

Barkeep was silent as he loaded a small pack with some rudimentary first aid supplies; he'd never seen a gunfight yet, regardless of scale, where they didn't come in handy. Now finished gearing up, his voice was firmly set in the decision he had made.

"After I lost Jamie…to say I was in a bad way is putting it mildly. She was my soul, and what are you without that? Ranger found me. Like her, he saw something in me I didn't, and he made it a project to teach me how to live again. He managed to pull me out of purgatory, almost against my will. Even helped me die on paper, get a clean do-over. Not having anywhere else to go, I just tagged along with him. Eventually, we wound up here."

"Didn't peg this as a place for outlaws."

"It's not," Barkeep said with a shake of his head. "But people here don't care about your past. They care about who you are, not who you were. I've been as close to happy as I can get since I've been here. Until Big Sister.

"I've set back and watched her run roughshod. Because I promised Jamie, and I need to be with her after my time is over."

He contemplated the guns. A few more moments went by before he continued. "Ranger's my friend, and he's out there now. Maybe breaking a promise means I don't get to be with her.

"But if I don't stand with someone who stood with me when he's up against it, then I don't deserve Jamie."

Heartbeats passed as he pegged Vash with a challenging stare. "And you? How determined are you to not break your rules? Determined enough to let your friends' blood be spilled so long as you don't get any on your own hands?

"What will it be? Are you just Passing Through…or are you willing to risk breaking your own prime directive to save your friends?"

Milly and Meryl were out there, putting their lives on the line.

If he went to join them, he could very well snap. He could lose Rem forever. He could wind up no better than Knives.

But he thought again of his gunsights centered on Meryl.

It wasn't just the thought of taking a life that bothered him about that. It was the thought of a world without her in it, the way it was without Rem Saverem.

He heard glass break. Looked down. He had squeezed his shot of whiskey so hard it broke, glass and liquor covering his gloved palm.

Forgive me, Rem.

Scowled at Barkeep; just because he had changed his course of action didn't mean he had to like this path any more than he liked the other. Is there any real difference between one damnation and another?

"Give me the goddamn gun. Before I change my mind."

Barkeep went into the back room again, coming out with Vash's revolver. Tossed it easily to Vash.

Time seemed to slow as reflex took over. It looked to Vash like the gun floated through the air in its arc, his hand coming up almost of its own accord. The grip of the revolver fit into his hand like two long-lost lovers reunited. He was bothered by how natural it felt.

"Ammo?" Barkeep asked.

"Give it. Got an extra belt?"

In short order, Vash was outfitted with a gunbelt, his gun holstered and tied, shells in the belt and as many speedloaders as he could cram in his shirt and pants pockets. This was quicker than going upstairs to gear up, since everything there was packed.

The pre-combat rush was taking effect, blocking out the fatigue of two men who had each endured a sleepless night. Their motions were becoming crisper, senses sharpening. Their skin appeared lighter as blood vessels were drawn deeper within, both for protection and greater efficiency as blood flow was increased to the most essential functions. Veterans of combat as they were, it was not surprising that, despite the rush, their heart rates and respiration began to steady. A long time had passed since Barkeep had last picked up a gun, but his body still remembered well how to prepare for the coming violence.

"Ready to break some promises?" the bartender asked, unable to hide the sad necessity he felt at what he was doing. I'm sorry, Jamie. Please understand.

Vash's hand hung easily by his gun. The trigger finger didn't twitch in the slightest now.

He took out his sunglasses and slid them on, a faint aura of blue beginning to glow from behind them.

"A clean conscience and sound sleep are overrated anyway. Let's get at it."