I do not own Trigun / Vash or Chronica. They belong to the amazing Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow.

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Stampede into the Sunset

Year 0209 month 6 day 2

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Chronica watched the suns set and the stars come out from her favorite vantage point. She was sitting on the roof of the sheriff's office in the outskirts of Octovarn. She enjoyed that moment when the winds began to blow cooler air over the parched face of No Man's Land.

She did not treat herself to this view every day. That would spoil it, removing something of its freshness. However, today had been her birthday. There were none alive on this world who knew that, so she celebrated it quietly here, alone.

She closed her eyes and enjoyed the gentle gusts of wind that blew her hair back. This hour of the day was one of the few that she truly enjoyed and found refreshing.

The moment passed, and she suppressed a sigh. It was time to get down, get dinner either at home or at a café or saloon, and then rest to be ready for the morrow.

Maybe tomorrow, she thought again. Maybe then, we can stop that arrogant bastard.

Her sisters in the orbs still insisted that "red brother" was a friend. Yet the bandit and his gang who were terrorizing the city so severely that it felt under siege was anything but friendly. She concluded that her sisters were mistaken.

Chronica opened her eyes and tensed herself to jump down from the roof.

But a sound halted her movement ere she stirred. This edge of town was well away from the livelier districts. Why would she hear a footstep now?

Moving slowly and cautiously to avoid making any sound, she peered over the edge of the roof. A tall, lean man was bending over and carefully placing something on the ground in front of the Sheriff's office.

She carefully opened her awareness, and could sense that another Plant was nearby. After all this time, could it really be...?

A cloud moved and the moonlight grew brighter.

With silent speed, she drew her gun, aimed at the leg of the tall man, and fired. He cried out, and limped around the corner with surprising speed. She'd grown accustomed to the way ordinary humans moved.

This man didn't move like that. She smiled. He couldn't get far, not with that injury.

She jumped down from the roof, and looked at what he'd left behind. It was a man in a red coat, with a note attached to him. The note read, "I claimed to be an ace gunman, but I'm only a joker."

Chronica rolled her eyes, and followed the blood trail. It didn't go far, just around a few buildings and then between some shipping containers. There he sat, bandaging his leg.

He looked up as she approached with her gun still at the ready. He looked back down, and finished tying off his bandage. Then he spoke.

"Please," he said, "get the other gang members. I had to injure some of them. I bandaged them, and they should survive the night with no trouble. But if they don't get more help after that..."

He looked up, his eyes pleading. "Please," he said again. "Don't leave them to die."

"And what will you be doing while I'm off looking for these bandits?" Chronica asked.

"I can't exactly run," he said. "Do with me as you please, as long as you help them."

"Are they your men?" she asked.

"No," he said. "They are associates of the man in front of the sheriff's office. He's the one who claimed to be the Stampede."

"And what do you claim?"

"I claim nothing," he said. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Ninety-five years she'd been searching for this man, and his brother. And all he does is surrender, with a request that she save the lives of bandits? She shook her head, feeling a little confused. Rumors among humans indicated that he should be a merciless killer.

Did her sisters really know him that much better than the humans did? Her sisters weren't always the best judges of character.

She reached out and caught one of his wrists, and pulled him to his feet. He winced, and stood only on the leg that wasn't injured. As she continued pulling, he limped after her without protest, though he did wince and grimace a lot. She let go of him long enough to claim his silver revolver and push it into her own belt.

She pulled the keys to the sheriff's office out of her pocket, and unlocked the door. She led him through the front part to the back where the jail cells were. She unlocked one of them, and led him into it. He sank down onto the bed, and then leaned forward to rest his palms on the edge of the bed. He hung his head, and said nothing.

She stepped back out, and locked the door.

"I need to know you aren't concealing any weapons," she said. "Strip down to your underpants, and hand everything through the bars."

He looked startled at first, then sad. "Must I?" he said. His eyes spoke more loudly, pleading for something.

"Get on with it," she said, gesturing with her gun. "I don't much care what you look like. I just need to know that I won't be shot in the back if I turn around."

"I wouldn't hurt you," he said.

"Strip already, or else I'll shoot you again."

He sighed and began slipping out of his jacket. He scooted along the bed, favoring his injured leg, until he could reach the bars where she was. He handed it to her. She took it, but kept watching him. One false move and she would shoot him.

But he made no false moves. He was slow and obvious as he took off his boots and vest. He gave her another pleading look before taking off his shirt. He wore bandages just above his waist, and there was a little blood oozing.

But that wasn't what made her gasp. The number of scars on his body... and he was a fellow independent Plant, who could have healed every one!

He finished undressing, careful of injuries on both stomach and leg. He passed all his clothing through the bars. She searched his clothing, and found only a knife that could qualify as a weapon. She claimed the knife, which he'd probably used to cut his pants so that he could bandage his leg. She returned his shirt, pants and boots.

He put on the clothes she returned to him, and then resumed his former position of leaning his hands on the edge of the bed with his head down.

"Assuming I believe your story enough to investigate," she said conversationally, "where would I look for these bandits?"

His head came up, a faint glimmer of hope mingled with the pleading in his clear aqua eyes. He gave detailed directions, including which street of the town to leave for the desert, which direction to go, and a few landmarks. He said there should be twelve people that needed to be moved, with eight of them injured.

"I'll see what I can find," she said.

She unlocked another cell, and then went outside to pick up the man who was tied up in the front of the office. On the way, she deposited Vash's other clothing and the contents of his pockets on a bench. She carried the trussed up man from outside into the office, through it, and then laid him on the bed in the open cell. After that, she left and locked the door behind her.

The man she'd shot said not a word while she did those things. He had leaned over on the bed, and curled up in a semi-fetal position. It looked like he might be crying.

She left, locking everything behind her, and went to the garage to get a truck with space in back for a few people. She drove it out into the desert, following the directions she had been given.

She was mildly surprised to find a group of bound men and women exactly where he'd said she would, and exactly as many as he'd said she would. Also, exactly as he'd described, some of them had been injured and were bandaged in addition to being securely bound with ropes. None of their injuries was serious, provided they received further care in a reasonable period of time.

She noted that the bandaging was well-done, as if by a practiced hand. These people had shot him, yet he'd bandaged them. Had she not interrupted, he would have carried each one, individually, into town so that they could get help. This was a very different view of the man than most humans had when they spoke of him.

She loaded the bandits into the back of the truck. It was a little cramped, but they were all able to fit without risk of further injury to any of them. She drove them back to the sheriff's office. She returned to the jail cells, and unlocked the other empty ones. Then she started hauling the uninjured bandits into the jail.

She laid each bound person onto one of the beds, and then returned to get the next.

She glared at the man she'd shot, though he remained curled up on the bed with tears streaming down his cheeks. She let herself check, and was surprised to learn that he cried not for physical pain but instead from a deep sense of loss.

She locked all the cells, and then left to drive the injured bandits to the local hospital. The people at the hospital were surprised, but willing to accept the new patients.

Chronica stopped by the sheriff's house and asked that deputies be assigned to guard them. The surprised sheriff agreed to that, and to her additional request for deputies to be sent to guard the healthier prisoners now caged in the jail.

I should take him to the hospital, she grudgingly admitted to herself. His leg and stomach should be looked at. So she returned to the jail, arriving before any of the deputies. She went to his cell, and unlocked it. He sat up, with tears still damp on his face, and simply looked a question at her.

"You're injured," she stated the obvious. "A doctor should look at those. Come with me."

He began to stand, but initially put too much weight on his injured leg and fell back onto the bed. The second try worked better. He began to limp toward her very slowly. She suspected the numbness was wearing off. She was surprised that he didn't complain.

She impatiently holstered her gun, and pulled his right arm across her shoulders. That helped him move faster until she got him to the truck. She opened the door, and he climbed in with only a little assistance from her.

She shut the door, and walked around to the driver's seat. She started the truck and put it into gear. She glanced at him as the truck began to move forward, and saw him sitting still with his head bowed. Risking another quick, passive detection of his emotions, she again felt his agonizingly deep sense of loss.

"So where have you been?" she asked. "I'm not the only one who's been looking for you."

"I stayed with an old woman who desperately wanted a son, until she died," he said. "Since then, I've kept moving."

"Did you kill her?" Chronica asked.

"No!" he said, sounding hurt. He turned his head to look at her, with shock and sorrow on his face. "I wouldn't do that. She was so kind, I..." He turned his face away, looking out the window beside him.

"So I'm supposed to believe that the 'humanoid typhoon' spent several years all alone with an old lady, pretending he was her son?" Chronica snorted.

"Believe what you like," he said softly.

"Where's Knives?" she said.

"I don't know," he replied. "He was gone when I woke up."

The rest of the trip back to the hospital was silent. She helped him in, and got him to a room with a bed. She helped him get up onto it. She went out and asked a nurse to get a doctor to come look at a patient. Then she returned into the room.

He was sitting exactly as she had left him, with his head down.

"Does getting captured break your spirit so easily?" she asked, disbelieving.

"No," he said softly.

"Then why are you crying?" she asked. She knew his tears were not feigned, but could not tell the cause from the faint emotional echoes he gave out.

Suddenly she noticed dampness, with a reddish tint, just above his waist. It was soaking through his shirt. "How bad is that other injury?" she asked.

"It's not important," he said quietly.

She put her head out the door. "Is a doctor coming yet?" she asked the nurse walking by. "I think this patient may be hurt worse than I'd first realized. He's bleeding significantly."

"We'll get one," the nurse said, and quickened her pace.

"Thanks," Chronica called after her.

She returned to the room where the man still sat dejectedly. "Off with that shirt," she commanded.

He looked up at her with a desolate expression in his aqua eyes, but he said nothing.

"I'm not kidding," she snapped. "Take it off, now."

His shoulders moved slightly in what might have been a shrug, and then he began unbuttoning his shirt.

Once again, she was shocked by the number and severity of his scars. She bade him lay down on the bed, so he wouldn't be using his stomach muscles. She started removing the bandages around his upper abdomen, touching his body as little as possible in the process.

The doctor arrived just as she had reached the innermost layer of bandaging. Chronica stepped back to let the man do his job.

"What happened to you?" he asked calmly. He began washing the wound.

"I ran afoul of some bandits," Vash replied.

"Hmmph," the doctor said. "Was it that damned 'Vash the Stampede' who's been causing so much trouble lately? I wish somebody would shoot him!"

"Be careful what you wish for," Vash said softly. "You may get it."

He passed out as the doctor probed at his wounds. Chronica quietly stepped nearer. "How bad is it?" she asked the doctor.

"Frankly, I'm surprised he didn't pass out sooner," the doctor said. "Is he a prisoner?"

"Possibly," she said, half disbelieving her own words. "I'm trying to determine just how much involvement he had with the bandits. It is possible... he might only be a victim."

"I see," the doctor said. "Well, the bullets seem to have gone clean through, but he was hit a few times. They barely missed his lungs and liver, but it tore up some of his muscles. He'll survive, but he won't enjoy it for several months."

"His leg is injured, too," she said. She suffered a pang of guilt as she thought about that. She remembered how her sisters and a few humans had insisted Vash was no criminal, but someone who cared about all the people on the planet. His behavior so far seemed to back up those stories, instead of the many tales of criminal acts attributed to him.

The doctor finished re-bandaging Vash's stomach. Then he removed Vash's leg bandages, and cleaned that injury also. Finally, he put fresh bandages on the leg injury.

Chronica tried to shake off her confusion. She simply didn't have enough information yet. She must be careful, and patient. She'd been angry at this man for so long... it was difficult to think or admit that she might have been badly mistaken.

"If there's any chance this guy is a victim," the doctor said, "we should probably watch him overnight. He's lost a lot of blood, and his wounds were not cleaned immediately. There could be complications."

"All right," she said. "I need to check on something, but I'll be back. I'll watch him when I return; you needn't trouble the sheriff's deputies when they arrive. We already know that the others are bandits."

"Understood," the doctor said. "I'll have an orderly stay with him until you return, to make sure there's no trouble."

"Thanks," she said. She needed to get his clothes from the sheriff's office. With luck, perhaps nobody had noticed them.

She didn't know yet what she would do with him, but she wanted to keep her options open. If his clothing was found, that could force her hand.

As she'd hoped, the deputies who'd arrived were too busy with the people in the jail to have noticed Vash's things yet. They were also busy reacting in various ways to the note found on the red-coated bandit.

"So, that vigilante was here, eh?" one said. "Normally, I don't like meddlers. But this one has some good results! Not an 'Ace' gunman, but only a 'Joker' ... ha ha ha ha ha!"

She spoke with them a little, and saw to it that things were well in hand. Then she quietly gathered up Vash's effects and left for the hospital.

She stuffed his things into a bag before entering the hospital. He was still in the same room, and still unconscious. The orderly nodded at her, and left. She put down the bag with Vash's things in it, and stared at him for a short while.

She knew what she was about to do was unethical, but she needed to know a few things - and she needed to know them fast. She also knew this wouldn't work if he was conscious.

Chronica tried to brace herself, having no idea what she would find. She stretched her hand out, and laid it on his forehead.

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Year 0209 month 6 day 3

It was late afternoon of the following day before he stirred. His eyes snapped open, and he tried to sit up. That effort was immediately cut short with a groan, as he fell flat again clutching at his stomach. His eyes squeezed shut, and he gasped a few times.

Then his eyes opened again, more slowly. He looked around, and saw her. He looked away from her, toward the window. Then his expression changed.

"You've been in my mind," he said. He barely spoke above a whisper, and she had not previously known it was possible for a voice to hold so much anguish.

"I needed to know about Knives," she said. That had been one of the reasons she looked. Surely, he would understand that need. Knives was dangerous.

"You didn't need to go that deep just to learn about him," he said in that same soft, anguished tone.

"Depends on how much I wanted to learn," she said.

He continued staring forlornly out the window.

Chronica was still processing what she'd seen in his mind. He'd been wandering so long, so alone. He desperately wanted peace and love, yet both were constantly denied him. It was difficult to adjust her thinking.

Her sisters had been right, and the humans who scorned him as a vicious killer had been wrong. She had been wrong.

She didn't know what to do about it.

She'd watched him all night. His hair was nearly all turned black – even his brows had turned black. She had dared to run her fingers through his hair, searching, while he slept. She found four blonde hairs near the crown of his head. That was all.

He couldn't function like a Plant in that condition. Any use of Plant power, under these conditions, would kill him. On the other hand, he could live like a human for a very long time.

"You neglected to mention that the old woman you stayed with had an adopted daughter," she said.

His breathing stopped for the space of several heartbeats. Then he slowly drew breath, and spoke.

"Please," he said, "if you want to kill me, just do it. Do not ask me to betray the sweetest, purest, gentlest, most innocent soul on this world. At least let her live in peace. Please."

"Where is she?" Chronica pressed.

"Somewhere I hope she will be safe," he said. "She'll be safer as long as I stay away."

His internal pain spiked again. Suddenly, she understood. "You don't expect to see her again, do you?"

"I expect to die," he said softly. "Isn't that why the bounty on my head says 'dead or alive'? Most prefer 'dead' to 'alive,' and I daresay that difference will be solved after some excuse for a trial makes it all look properly legal."

Chronica winced. She'd heard enough talk among the law-enforcing humans to know that he was probably right. It surprised her that he didn't sound bitter, only sad.

Her sisters were right. This man truly was a thoroughly gentle soul.

She hadn't named him. None knew who he was. There was still a possibility of fixing this, of turning him loose again.

"I haven't turned you in yet," she said slowly.

Those words made his head turn toward her again. His eyes narrowed as he searched her face. She let her sincerity be felt strong enough for him to detect it.

"Why?"

"You're Knives' brother, by all accounts," she said. "I thought you would be like him. When you weren't, well, that changed a few things."

He just looked at her, his expressive aqua eyes puzzled.

"How many of the crimes of which you stand accused are Knives' doing?" she asked.

He turned his head to stare at the ceiling. "I failed to stop him," he said. "That makes me as guilty as he is."

His emotions were not in conflict with his words. He was telling the truth, or what he perceived to be true. Had he been carrying that guilt all along?

"I disagree," she said firmly. "He chose to do harm. You did not."

"That's not what the price on my head says," he said. "I have ... killed. I deserve whatever they choose to do to me." He turned his face back to the window.

The one with the power to choose was currently herself, Chronica realized. He would not resist if she turned him in. He was too sad and guilt-ridden.

The more she knew him, though, the less inclined she was to turn him in.

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Year 902 month 6 day 17

Two weeks later, they stood at the edge of town as the first sun began dipping behind the horizon. His sad, gentle eyes looked puzzled.

"I mean it," she said. "Nobody else knows who you are. Get out of here, before I change my mind. Go."

He stood for a moment longer, and then nodded. "Thank you," he said softly.

He turned around and limped toward the sunset without looking back.

She watched him walk away, as the suns continued setting and spreading the multicolored glory of their last rays across the sky. The farther he walked, the lighter her heart felt.

I did right by him, and by this world, she realized. I could still stop him, and turn him in. He wouldn't protest, except to look at me sadly through those eyes.

I won't do it, though. Letting him go is the right thing to do. I can feel it.

She continued watching until the night enfolded him, and she could see him no more.