I do not own Trigun / Vash, Chronica, or any other characters from the anime or manga. They belong to the amazing Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow.

.

.

A Memory of a Stampede

.

Year 1736 month 3 day 10, at Seeds Village

"Tell us a story about something that happened when you were known as 'Vash the Stampede,' please, Papa?" Nicholas said. "While I'd like it best if the story included the man you named me after, I'd be happy to hear any story you'd like to tell. Anything at all."

Every other member of his family chimed in, even though most of them were several centuries old. The youngest great-great-great-great grandchildren were only in their early twenties; they pleaded with him the loudest. The enjoyment of hearing their father or multiple-times-great grandfather tell a story was something that none of them had ever outgrown.

Vash scratched at the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortable.

Efforts to squirm out of it failed. They only pleaded with him the more.

"All right," Vash finally said, "I'll tell you a story."

He waited patiently as the expressions of delight reached a crescendo, and then quieted down.

Vash let his mind wander back 16 centuries, to the first time he'd shut down an imposter after defeating Knives' cointegration…

.

Year 0139 month 8 day 25, in Ripmela

He passed into the city's gates with his wide-brimmed hat pulled low. His shoulder-length black hair was unbound, so it partially concealed his face from every angle except straight on. He'd repaired Wolfwood's sunglasses, and was wearing them. Those glasses were sufficiently dark, and different from his own, that it made recognition less likely.

Most of his new leather body-armor fit nicely under his ordinary clothes. Jeans and a button-front shirt completely concealed the leggings and the sleeves. He wasn't wearing the torso piece, because it would show in the shirt's neck opening. Thankfully, he had a dark brown vest made of the same material, which protected most of his upper body. The matching gloves and boots looked ordinary enough at a glance that they would not attract attention.

His silver revolver, snug in its holster that was strapped to his right thigh, also looked enough like what might be found on an ordinary drifter to avoid drawing undue notice. Nearly everyone carried some sort of weapon. In fact, he'd stand out more if he were not clearly wearing some manner of weapon.

His travel-stained wrap was nearly the color of the desert's sands, a common shade for such a garment. This, also, helped him to look like any other wanderer that might drift into a town.

He'd walked hard to arrive there, from the nearest semi-convenient sand-steamer stop. So it wasn't difficult to play the part of a weary wanderer. He kept his head down, trudged slowly, and carried his bag over his shoulder.

Since he'd been in the town before, he knew the general layout. He moved toward an unobtrusive lodging establishment he remembered, hoping to find a quiet room where he could stay until his business there was completed.

He'd nearly reached the first place he wished to check, when he was struck in the shoulder by a ball. One corner of his mouth quirked upward. Ah, children…

"Stanley!" a sultry contralto called, "you go and apologize to that man, right now! Then come in and wash up for dinner."

A boy, perhaps five years old, ran after the ball and caught it. His wavy rust-colored hair blew about his face and into his deep blue eyes. He stopped, and looked up at the unfamiliar black-haired man with wide, startled eyes.

"I'm sorry, mister," he said. The boy stood perfectly still, as if rooted to the spot.

He smiled, nodded, and raised one hand to touch the edge of his hat-brim. As if by coincidence, his raised hand was positioned between his face and the approaching footsteps of the woman who had called after the boy.

"Are you the real Stampede?" Stanley said.

"Please don't mind him," the woman said. She stepped between the tall man and the boy, knelt and gathered the boy into her arms – ball and all. A blonde streak had appeared in her russet hair, in the same place where it had first appeared in her father's. "Stanley was told that the man harassing this town is an imposter. Since then, he's been asking every man who passed by here if he was the real one."

"No problem." He spoke softly, hoping that she would be slower to recognize his voice than he had been to recognize hers. He nodded politely and began to walk past the pair, keeping his hand on his hat brim.

"Were you looking for lodgings?" she said, standing and turning to consider him thoughtfully. "Our rates are more reasonable than some."

He froze. Marvelous. It seemed she'd become, or perhaps married, an innkeeper. He did need lodgings, but he did not want to be recognized. "I'll keep it in mind," he said noncommittally. He began to take a step toward walking away as he slowly lowered his hand.

"We keep a clean, quiet house," she said. "Sturdy locks on the doors, and our kitchen has a good reputation. We serve doughnuts in the mornings."

He'd been compelled to lower his hand, since keeping it up would look odd and attract attention where he least wanted it. So he could see that she was considering him through narrowed eyes. That last comment suggested that she might be testing him, as if she might have noticed something familiar about him.

"Does that bring in a lot of customers?" he said, still keeping his voice quiet and hoping that she wouldn't recognize him.

She laughed. "Not as many as we'd hoped," she said. "We have enough to get by, but more are always welcome." She tipped her head slightly to one side. "At least come in and take a look, will you?"

He suppressed an urge to sigh. Instead, he shrugged as indifferently as possible. He followed her as she carried the boy into the front door. "Jack!" she called. "Customer!"

"Your husband?" he asked. Perhaps if he could get her to thinking about herself, she'd forget to think about him.

"Brother in law," she said. She put the boy down. "Stanley, go wash up for dinner."

As soon as the boy was out of sight down a hallway, she turned toward him again. "I learned that not all men are gentleman enough to sit in a chair and watch over a lady while she sleeps, when she gets so drunk that she can't walk," she said with some bitterness.

"When that happened about six years ago, I woke up married and pregnant. Thankfully, that scumbag got himself killed shortly thereafter. Jack's a better man than his brother was. He's good to the boy, who needs a man in his life, and he makes no demands on me."

Her customer nodded, wondering if she told so much to every passer-by or if she was still testing him. He remembered well the night he spent in a chair, watching over her as she lay in a drunken stupor and cried out in her sleep for her dead mother.

Jack appeared, a sandy-haired man who was so entirely average that one was inclined to look at him twice simply to make sure that their eyes were not playing tricks. "Good evening," he said. "Which floor would you like a room on?"

"The top floor," he said, "if any are available there."

"Two are unoccupied," Jack said. "One near the stairway, with windows overlooking the front, and another at the far end of the hall, with windows overlooking the back."

"I'll take the one facing back," he said, resigned. He reached for and into his wallet, and then pulled out enough double-dollars to pay for a week's rent according to the prices posted behind the counter where Jack stood.

"Thank you!" Jack said. He turned with alacrity to fetch the key off the wall. "And here's the key to your room, number 407."

He nodded and turned to the stairway. To his surprise, she followed him. She was silent as they climbed the stairs. She was silent as they walked down the hallway. She was silent as he unlocked the door to his room.

She put her hand onto his arm as he began to walk in. "I could swear I've met you before," she said. "Please, tell me… am I mistaken?" Her voice sounded more vulnerable than he ever recalled having heard it before. "I would like to see an old acquaintance again…"

"If a man who helped take down your father were to find himself here, with intent to take down another that is hurting people," he said, "would you really want to admit that you knew him, Amelia?"

"Perhaps not publicly," she said. Then she blushed. "I named my boy after you. 'Stanley' was the closest I could come to 'Stampede,' without anyone catching on."

He turned to look at her fully, completely surprised. That one he had not seen coming. "I hardly know what to say," he said. "Thank you… though I hope he will have a more peaceful life than I do."

"I will see to it that he does," she said. Her tone of voice suggested that was an oath, and not merely a hope. "Dinner is in half an hour. On the house. Stay as long as you want or need to. We won't let anyone annoy you."

"Thank you," he said. "I should wash up, too. It's been a long day in the desert."

"See you at dinner, then," she said.

…

He chose a table in a back corner, and sat facing the room. The boy, and probably the staff, had already eaten. Amelia appeared a few times, and made sure he always had plenty of water. She never spoke to him during the meal, nor did she show any special attention to him aside from being the one who personally refilled his water glass and brought his meal.

When he finished eating, he returned upstairs after touching his hat brim and nodding in gratitude to the staff.

He took off his vest and shirt, and dug into his bag. He pulled out his torso armor and put it on. He added a deep navy shirt over the leather-like body armor, and again put on his dark brown vest over the darker shirt. He tied his hair back. Then he pulled out a darker colored wrap that would blend better with the night, and put that on. He put extra ammunition into his pockets.

He also pulled a length of darkened rope out of his bag, and stowed it about his person. A few other checks, and putting all surplus items back into his bag, and he was ready to go. He locked the door behind him when he left his room.

He made use of the fire escape stairs to return to ground level. Weary as he was, he needed to begin scouting out the various saloons and see if there was anything to be learned about the man who was using his name without permission.

In this effort, his luck was far better than usual. At the second place where he paused around the corner from the front door, he came across the trail of the man he sought.

"Hey, Vash," a hoarse voice called.

"Yeah?" another man answered. "What do you want?"

Bingo.

He followed the pair, more quietly than the night breezes that swept across the desert.

…

Six hours later, eight men were bound and gagged in front of the door to the Sheriff's office. On the one in the long red coat was a note that read, "I tried to be Vash, but I got stampeded."

He pocketed the pen, and put away the extra paper. He returned to his hotel, and entered by way of the front door.

"You've been gone a long time," Jack observed dryly.

He shrugged. "I wasn't sleepy yet, so I took a walk."

"Just what are your intentions toward my sister-in-law?" Jack said, planting himself between his customer and the stairs. "I've never seen her get this excited over a guest before. What's going on between you two?"

"I'm only passing through," he replied. "She knows that."

"Does she?" Jack said skeptically. "I don't want her getting upset or hurt. She's a good woman, and deserves better than that."

"I'll leave tomorrow, after breakfast," he said. "If she didn't know it before, she will know then."

Jack snorted, but made no further effort to delay him from returning to his room.

He went into his room, made sure it was empty except for himself and his bag, and then locked the door. He pulled off his wrap, the remaining rope, and anything else that might make sleep uncomfortable. He turned off the light and collapsed onto the bed.

.

Year 0139 month 8 day 26, at Ripmela

He was awakened by the smell of doughnuts. The suns had barely peeked above the horizon enough to make a pearly grey light.

He quickly got up, cleaned up, shaved, and put on the same daytime clothes he'd worn the prior day, except that he swapped out the sweaty shirt for a clean one. He packed everything neatly into his bag, and slung it over his shoulder.

Jack was at the counter when he went downstairs, so he placed the key on the counter in front of Amelia's brother-in-law.

"As promised," he said, glancing pointedly at the key.

Jack nodded solemnly, and put it away.

Then he went to the same table where he'd eaten the night before, and put his bag on the floor. Before he could do anything else, Amelia came with a plate full of doughnuts.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully, and placed the plate in front of him. Then she saw his bag. "Why did you bring that?" she asked.

"I'm leaving," he said simply. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"So soon?" she said, looking both surprised and sad.

"You should recall something of how we drifters are," he said amiably. "We don't stay long in any one place."

"Let me come with you," she said softly, gripping the back of an empty chair at his table. "Please. This place feels like a cage…"

"No," he said, equally softly. "Don't make your boy grow up without a mother, as you had to do. He still needs you, and will for a long time yet. You can travel again when he's old enough to go with you."

Her chin quivered. "Is it possible that you have already accomplished what you came to do?" she said. "I had hoped…"

"It's time for me to leave," he said gently. "Good bye, Amelia. I truly hope that things will go well with you, and with your son."

"Good bye," she whispered, her chin still quivering. She turned and left, going swiftly into the kitchen.

He put his doughnuts into a napkin, put the napkin into his bag, rose and left.

He walked past the Sheriff's office, and saw that all eight men were still bound and wriggling. He grinned, and continued walking.

Not long after, the town was behind him and he was again traveling into the desert. He watched, walking briskly, as the suns finished clearing the horizon and began their daily climb into the morning sky.

.

Year 1736 month 3 day 10, at Seeds Village

Vash told the tale, leaving out only the parts about Amelia naming her son after him, and her request to accompany him when he left.

Everyone applauded, which brought heat into his face again. He noticed that it had grown late as he told his tale.

"Good night, everyone," Vash said to them, with gentle affection.

His family looked at the clock, and began to wish each other a good night. He hugged each family member as he or she left the room.

Nicholas was the last to go. (I'll ask for more tales tomorrow,) he warned. (Be ready!)

Vash groaned as he hugged him goodnight, and then he mussed his grown son's hair.

Nicholas swatted his father's hand away from his hair, but he was grinning widely.

When all was still, Vash locked up and turned out the lights. He went to his room, and sat on the edge of the bed. He turned out the lights and lay back, pondering which other tales would be worth telling to his family, since the subject had been brought up.

He fell asleep trying to decide.