I do not own Trigun / Vash or Rem: they belong to Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow.
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Death of a Stampede
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Year 0220 month 4 day 22
Vash hoisted his bag and set out as he watched the suns rise. He enjoyed the multicolored display spread across the skies as he walked. When away from home, that was the best part of each morning.
Away from home... it had been 57 years since he'd last visited the Seeds ship village, or seen either Rem or Shyla. He'd radioed in a few times, and he sent letters regularly. But he'd not actually gone there for 57 long years.
He'd gone to Meryl's house a few months after the last time he visited the Seeds village, intending to apologize to her for being insensitive. Unfortunately, when it came to the point, he could find no words to convey his regrets. He'd made an excuse and walked away. She hadn't recognized him, so he hoped at least he'd done no harm.
Before he left Seeds that last time, he had visited Luida's office. Together, they had planned a rotation of visiting Seeds village outposts, one per year. If there was any need to contact him, or leave him a message, that was how he could be reached.
The first few years, Luida had come. That had been a welcome surprise, the first two times. After that, God forgive him, he'd expected and anticipated seeing her again.
Seeing Seeds people helped ease some of the ache that came with needing to stay away. While all of them were like family, to some extent, there were a few that he especially treasured. Luida had been one of those few.
Unfortunately, a year had come when Luida's daughters met him, instead of Luida herself. They had tearfully informed him that their mother was gone. He had put an arm around each, and wept with them.
He'd also insisted on paying for a large monument to be placed over her grave. She'd been a good friend to him, her whole life. She'd helped shepherd the Seeds village through some of the worst times that No Man's Land had ever known. She deserved to be remembered.
He'd overcome their protests by reminding them that he would be the one to look at the memorial monument the longest, so he should pay for it. Then they had hugged him and thanked him.
But he still felt guilty. He'd not visited Luida during the final years of her life, simply because he could not get his body under control.
He must be one of the most pathetic creatures ever to crawl upon the face of this planet.
Sometimes this latest half-century felt like the longest years of his life. However, they had not been wasted years. He'd learned his own mind, heart and body better over time.
He could now grow a full beard, which hadn't worked previously. He scratched at it, thinking he'd worn it long enough, and was ready to shave it off.
He now knew exactly which type of female would catch his eye, and he knew why. He could stop awkward reactions cold simply by recognizing that the woman reminded him of someone, but wasn't that special someone herself.
He knew who, specifically, he wanted to marry. Unfortunately, knowing that didn't help much. He still hadn't learned how to stop his body from reacting to her.
He'd kept himself busy. He spent eleven years as a circus clown. A decade after that, he'd spent twelve years in a traveling thespian troupe, entertaining children. A decade later, he spent eight years as a carnival clown hawking balloons. All of those jobs kept his face concealed, and permitted him more freedom of movement than roaming about undisguised.
He dared not stay with any group for too long. His agelessness would be noticed and cause discomfort. Too many times, discomfort led to worse troubles.
He shifted his thoughts to other matters. He'd taken every opportunity to shut down numerous "Vash the Stampede" impostors over the years, making the world a safer place for honest citizens.
There were rumors of another "humanoid typhoon" rampaging nearby, so he walked in that direction. He hoped to shut down that man's misuse of his name by tying him up with ropes and taking him to the sheriff's office, as he'd done with dozens of other imposters during the last century.
He sighed. Would they never leave off hunting him, or abusing his name?
As much as he loved all people, ordinary humans and even criminals included, there were times when they frustrated him. The steady stream of bandits claiming his name was growing higher on that list of frustrations.
By early afternoon, he could see December in the distance. While in the neighborhood, he planned to visit Wolfwood's grave. That would come after tending the counterfeit "Humanoid Typhoon," however.
When he topped the next dune, Vash saw at its base a tall, lean man lying on his face by a backpack and the remains of a campfire. The fellow was wearing a red coat that was a fair imitation of the one folded at the bottom of his bag. There was blood in the sand. Twin tire tracks, as of a car, led away from the figure toward December.
Vash hurried down the dune, concerned for the health and safety of the prone figure. He reached the man's side, and turned him over.
He was too late to be of any service, aside from seeing to it that the man was decently buried. The young man had been shot in the face, apparently across the nose since that feature was almost entirely missing. There were more bullet holes in the chest. It was impossible to tell which of those many bullets had killed him.
Desert scavengers, perhaps insects, appeared to have already taken his eyes. The hollow, empty sockets and the missing nose gave the corpse an eerie appearance.
This must be the impostor he'd come to hunt. Vash wished he'd reached the man before whoever had shot him. Then the man would have survived, and might have learned to live a better life. Unfortunately, for this impersonator, it was already too late.
The body was partially stiff. Vash wasn't sure if rigor was setting in, or wearing off. Not that it made any difference to the victim. Dead was dead.
Suddenly, a thought crossed his mind. He froze, considering it. He glanced over the unfortunate's body again, pondering the new possibility.
The man's leathers were visually closer to his own body armor than most, though the coat was somewhat off in its detailing. Of all the impostors he'd encountered, this one's face and general build was closest to his own. His face was exactly the correct shape, and without eyes or nose, few would know the difference strictly from a facial examination.
Those most likely to pierce the deception were far away in the Seeds ship village. Doc, Luida, Meryl, Milly, Livio, Kaite, Sheryl and Lina had all died decades ago, so they'd not be hurt by word of his death. Nor would they be available to identify the body.
The corpse already wore an earring that appeared similar to his own ear radio. There was a brace on the left arm, and that hand was artificial. If he put the authentic red coat onto this poor corpse, most people would believe that he himself had died.
The idea of deceiving so many people was uncomfortable. Yet Vash had grown weary of being hunted and having his name misused. If this worked, it might solve both problems without anyone else getting hurt.
He dug into his bag, and pulled out his own red coat. He missed wearing it. He'd not worn it since the day he first took Shyla to the Seeds ship village. Now that it came to the point, it was difficult to part with that faithful old duster. The tailor who made it had died, but his great-grandson was growing adept in the same skills. There could be a replacement, or perhaps even an improvement.
It was going for a good cause. It might even save lives. Vash sighed again, and began to make the necessary adjustments. The pockets contained his ID papers and information. Those details would lend credibility to the idea that it was he who lay there dead.
Swiftly he traded coats on the corpse, leaving the front open enough to help explain the chest injuries. He added his old sunglasses, the amber ones with the w's in the sides. He'd not worn them for a century, since they'd become a detail that people used to identify him. He turned the corpse back onto its face, and stood holding the counterfeit red coat in his hand.
Surely, they would give this poor fellow a decent burial. As much as he was hated and despised, the lawmen would still be inclined to give him that.
In the distance, he could hear a car approaching. Perhaps those who killed this man were hoping for the bounty. If so, they were welcome to it.
Vash moved away, careful to sweep away his footprints as he moved. The impostor's coat was useful for that. Getting himself behind the dune should be sufficient. It would put him out of sight, yet still permit him to overhear anything important that happened.
He succeeded in reaching his chosen hiding place before the car arrived. There was just enough wind to erase any irregularities in his efforts to obliterate his tracks.
He heard the car approach, and the engine turn off. Car doors opened, and then closed. After a moment, he heard voices.
"See, sheriff?" a voice slurred. "We told ya that we killed him. Vash the Stampede, we got him dead. We was just celebrating a little before claiming the bounty."
"Hmm," said another voice. There was grunting, and sounds consistent with the body being turned face-up again. "Well, it certainly does look like him," the second voice continued after a pause. "His face is damaged enough, though, that it's hard to be completely sure."
"Oh, it's him all right," the slurred voice said. "We caught him by surprise, is all. You saw how Joe's arm was hurt, and Bill's leg. He did that. Fast one, but there was three of us and we was faster."
"Let's take him in," the second voice said. "We can examine him more closely in town."
Vash heard the sounds of a body being dragged, and then the car creaking, and finally everyone got into the car and drove away.
If the ones who examined the body and made the verification didn't know much about his scars, this might work.
Vash turned away from the town toward the orphanage, stuffing the corpse's red coat into his duffel bag. After the suns had set and everyone was asleep, he would quietly visit Wolfwood's grave.
He walked most of the distance, until sunset began. He could just see the smudge of the buildings in the distance, no details yet. He sat down, fished a food package out of his duffel, and began to eat while he waited.
He paused in mid-bite, feeling a spike of intense emotional pain. Perhaps pain was too mild a word... this could qualify as agony. He knew it was not his own pain. Plants could sense strong emotion from each other at any distance. He knew exactly from whom it came, and he could guess why.
That was quicker than expected. Had the authorities grown as weary of hunting him as he was weary of being hunted?
Whatever the reason for the swift verification and announcement, that was of secondary importance.
He closed his eyes. Thankfully, it took no special Plant energy to feel emotions. So this was not a life-threatening exercise.
That is, broadcasting emotion wasn't life-threatening provided that Knives was dead and Chronica didn't come after him. He could keep moving to avoid Chronica, but Knives… well, if his brother had survived, he would also learn conclusively that Vash still lived. In the past, Knives' hirelings had learned the location of Seeds...
No. He must not permit himself to think along those lines. He firmly contained and suppressed those emotions along with the thoughts that had triggered them.
He allowed himself, very briefly, to feel his affection toward the young Plant girl full strength. He carefully edited out all of his romantic inclinations toward her, since those might make her feel uncomfortable - and definitely made him feel uncomfortable. He concentrated on exactly how much he cared for her.
After a moment, there was a brief flash of fear followed by a hesitant hope. Then he felt her affection and relief.
He briefly shared his fond affection toward her again, with apology and caution. He felt affection and understanding coming from her.
He hoped she truly understood, and would not undeceive any more people than were absolutely necessary. She was intelligent enough to grasp the reasons why he would do such a desperate thing. Shyla could also help Rem to understand.
Not for the first time, Vash found himself wishing that Rem was also a Plant. That way, he could share his affection with her directly as he did with Shyla. Yet he knew that he could trust Shyla to tell Rem. There was nothing to worry about. Rem was in good hands; Shyla would take care of her.
Shyla was very good for him, even as a friend, he realized again.
It was tempting to continue basking in the warmth of Shyla's affection, but too much of that when they were so far apart risked attracting attention where it was least wanted. So, with a sigh, he resisted the temptation to share more emotional communication with her. He could always access her memories, if he really needed to feel her warm affection for him. There was plenty there, little as he deserved it.
He finished eating, and stowed the wrapper from the food package in his duffel. His fingertips brushed against the frame of a small photograph. He smiled at the memory, but chose not to pull it out. Rem had given him a copy of the picture he'd taken of Shyla, while she slept under the apple trees with apple blossom petals scattered across her shirt, face and hair, all those years ago. He treasured both the memory and the photo.
He had ample time before he needed to move. He closed his eyes and tipped back his head, spending a few minutes enjoying Shyla's memories of him that included her affection toward him. After perhaps a quarter of an hour he quivered, and immediately pulled himself out of her memories.
There was the one drawback to experiencing Shyla's memories. They came with an awareness of her body, since she was in her body when she lived through them. Any consciousness of her body frequently caused awkward side-effects in his own.
His determination to protect her, even from himself when necessary, increased. Shyla had a right to enjoy her childhood without worries about things she'd not yet grown into wanting. No mater how many centuries that childhood lasted, it should be protected.
Besides, there was no way to know if she would choose him, when ever she did grow inclined to make that kind of a choice. It's not like he had a lot to offer, he reminded himself wryly.
Word of his supposed death must already have spread as far as the Seeds ship village. Otherwise, she'd not have had such an intense surge of pain, or else it would not be so completely relieved just by learning that he still lived.
Perhaps, in a few years, he could return there to stay. He should wait at least a decade or two, in case the village was watched. Yes, that would be wisest course, even though unpleasant. He would miss the peace of that place until he could return there again.
However, he could send word by letter. That would both set their minds at ease, and allow them in on the plan. Like Shyla, they would understand his reasons.
That would be his next task, after visiting his friend's grave. He would write another letter from "Nate Saverem" that indicated he knew all about the dead man.
The unknown man's body would be buried, possibly at the Seeds ship village, with a headstone proclaiming him as Vash the Stampede. Since the fellow had worked so hard to steal that name, it might please him that his theft had worked so well.
Vash doubted it had pleased the young man to be killed for bearing that name, but at least he should get a very public funeral and probably a showy gravestone. If that was all that his name was worth, then it was best laid to rest with that imposter.
A tear trickled down Vash's cheek. Had the poor unfortunate, who would doubtless soon be buried under his name, ever known love like Vash received from Rem and Shyla? He wondered if the lack of such love might be part of the reason the man had gone wrong.
He mourned the dead man, sincerely, while the suns drooped toward the horizon and then behind it. He dried his tears, and waited just a little longer.
When Vash could see lights from the orphanage, he began walking that direction. It was nearly time to visit Wolfwood's grave. He could know more precisely when everyone turned in if he was a little nearer.
It would be a long night. If this ruse worked, though, the future might be brighter.
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Note: The visit to Meryl's house mentioned early in this chapter, along with a follow-up visit to Meryl's grave, are detailed in a two-chapter tale that I've written, titled "Too Late" (also available here on fanfiction net).