Trigun: Unwritten Letters 33

I do not own Vash the Stampede, Rem Saverem, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Milly Thompson, Meryl Stryfe, etc: they all belong to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow.

It occurs to me that Vash -might- compose letters in his mind as the way that he re-examines his day, unwinds, and learns any lessons he can from it.

This is an attempt to blend the tales in both manga and anime. Anywhere there is contradicting information, the manga's will be used. I use manga dates where they are given. Where dates are not given, I'm using my best guesstimate.

As the various "Unwritten Letters" accumulate, there will be more and more spoilers.





Gunslingers



Year 113, month 7, day 18


Dear Rem,

I can't expect that it will matter to you what is happening with me, not after what I learned last time... and told you.

Perhaps I shouldn't have told you. However, since you already knew me so well, it would have been dishonest to conceal that truth from you. To conceal such a painful truth from a stranger wouldn't be deceitful, but to conceal it from you... That would not have been right.

Rem... The truth is that I wanted to hide it from you. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. You deserve better than that, especially from me. In fact, you really deserve better than me, but all I have to give you is the best of myself. Flawed as I am, unfortunately, even "my best" makes a very poor gift for you. It is far less than you deserve.

Since I've already started talking to you, I hope that you won't be too disgusted if I tell you about recent days. I will try to talk more about those whose ancestors you died to save, and how I've tried to help them, than about myself. You'll probably like it better that way than the other, anyhow.

I may fail as much, or more, than I succeed when I try to help people. I have to try... even though I already know that it will never be enough, no matter how hard I try or what I do. Yet I must still do something. Even though I will always fall short, I must continue to try.

I don't have anyone else with whom I can be completely honest, Rem, as I could with you. Perhaps, though it seems unlikely, a day may come when I can be that honest with Wolfwood. He might, eventually, understand me well enough for that depth of honesty to make sense between us. If that day ever comes, then you won't have to put up with me anymore. For now, though, all I have is you.

You can ignore me if you want to. I won't blame you, if you do. I'll understand.

You might be pleased to learn that Milly is definitely on the mend. She's recovering far more slowly than I would, but she is recovering steadily. She's able to get out of bed and walk around a little, again. Wolfwood is even more relieved than I am.

During Milly's recovery, she, Meryl, Wolfwood and I have all stayed in the same place. I think Nicholas would refuse to leave before she was fully recovered, anyhow. Selfishly, I want to see her well before leaving her behind again, too. She's a good, sweet girl, and I am very fond of her - if less, and with a different type of fondness, than what Wolfwood evidently feels for her.

I learned that Brandon Marlon, an exceptionally skilled gunsmith, is now living and working here. I also learned which saloon he frequents. So, a few days ago, I went to pay him a visit. I wanted to learn if I could hire him to tune up my revolver. It's overdue for that level of maintenance, but I can't trust just anyone to take proper care of it (and return it to me). The Marlon family are among those few in whom I have complete confidence.

Brandon is the son of Frank Marlon, the gunsmith I told you about earlier who had become a drunkard. Thankfully, he chose not to remain a drunkard. Although I think he may have taken things a little farther than he needed to, in giving up alcohol altogether, at least he seemed much happier when I left than he had been when I arrived. It was good to see him so much more at peace with himself than he had been just a few days earlier.

Brandon's favored saloon had a pair of small swinging doors instead of an ordinary door (as you would find on the front of most houses or stores). The tops of those little doors were about as high as my underarms, and the bottoms were roughly even with my knees. As you can imagine, that left most of the doorway open even when those small shutter-like swinging doors were fully closed.

I arrived at the end of an argument. Angry voices had floated on the air as I approached. I peered over the doors and looked in, before attempting to enter the building myself.

Someone wanted a gun, but Brandon Marlon refused to make one for him. I'd arrived just in time to get in the angry man's path as he stomped out through the saloon's doors. The scowling man wore a badge that indicated he was the local sheriff.

"Watch where you're going," he snapped at me, as he hurried away.

After recovering from his surprise at seeing me again, Brandon was more welcoming. "... long time no see, eh, Lightning?" he said.

Soon he and I were standing at his firing range. I was firing at a target, to show him how poorly my revolver was currently functioning.

"I see," he said, when my demonstration was complete, "that thing's in bad shape. Certainly not fit for you to use."

"Can you take care of it, Brandon?" I asked.

After making a few less than complimentary remarks, which were probably his method of teasing me for surprising him, he said, "Don't worry. I'll have it done tomorrow."

"I'm counting on you, Marlon," I said.

"I'll stake my name as a legendary gunsmith on it," he replied casually, as he offered me another gun. "Here's a replacement ... use it while I make adjustments."

I lingered to practice at his shooting range. I needed to learn how the replacement worked. By learning what to expect from it, I could use it more effectively if a situation rose where it was needed.

I fired until it was emptied, reloaded, and continued firing the loaned revolver repeatedly. It was a little different from mine, but I could wield it adequately. The groups I placed at the practice target's shoulders were about fist-sized, instead of the size of a single bullet (or two). I thought that wasn't doing too badly, considering that the groups were made by an unfamiliar gun. With my own gun, I would have been more concerned, instead of merely disappointed, by so many wide shots.

There was something soothing about shooting practice. It required just enough concentration that it drove everything else out of my mind. This was a welcome respite since the memories of July had returned to haunt me.

I left for the night, but found myself back at that shooting range the next day.

I continued shooting until I'd worn blisters in my hand, even though I was wearing my glove. I had to pause, remove my glove, and bandage the burst blisters. I might have continued shooting, except that I didn't want to risk having my finger slip off the trigger because of growing slick from my own blood.

Even after bandaging my hand, I was having difficulty holding my arm steady. I was tired. The returned memories have drained me, and I haven't been sleeping well. The prior night had been no exception to that trend. I pushed those thoughts to the back of my brain. I needed to become more proficient with this loaned revolver, and that wouldn't happen unless I put in the work.

When I looked up toward the targets after bandaging my hand, I was surprised to see the Sheriff standing there and examining the target I'd been using.

"What the -?" he said. He began moving toward me. "You fired that many rounds," he said, nodding to indicate the empty shells at my feet, "and this" he pointed his thumb back over his shoulder, to indicate the target, "was the best you could do?"

I blushed. I should have worked harder to make those groups come out smaller. He's correct: I'm a sad excuse for a gunman. If I'm going to save lives, I must do better.

I chose to change the subject. "We met at the saloon," I said, "didn't we, Mr. Sheriff?"

Without any warning, he drove his left fist into my body. I think he was aiming for my solar plexus. He knocked most of the wind out of me, and I doubled over his fist. I will likely have sore muscles from that punch for at least a day or two.

"My name is Murdock," he said as he gut-punched me. "Don't you forget it! Let's get one thing straight: I don't like the looks of you."

"Is that so? I couldn't tell," I said softly, trying not to gasp. He wasn't the first to feel that way about me, nor will he be the last. I silently reminded myself that I deserve all of his hatred, and more, because I am nothing but a monster.

I put on one of my sillier facial expressions, hoping to diffuse at least some of his anger. I didn't want him to turn his frustrations loose against Brandon Marlon.

I wanted to help him, Rem. Unfortunately, as too often happens, I did not yet know how. I'm still not sure if I've helped him, or if Wolfwood is correct and I've only made him depressed.

Murdock talked about how Brandon was descended from the legendary gunsmith Frank Marlon. Even though Murdock called Brandon a drunk, he said the man "knew his stuff when it came to guns." However, in the Sheriff's not-so-humble opinion, Brandon must have lost his mind.

Then Murdock drew his pistol and proceeded to blow holes in my target. He aimed at both head and heart areas.

Unlike me, the Sheriff was practicing lethal shots.

When he finished, Murdock shrugged as if to suggest that he had done it easily and that it somehow proved something.

It crossed my mind that his groups were looser and wider than mine had been. I squelched that unworthy thought as quickly as I could. My body functions differently from his. I have no right to be proud, even when it looks as if I might be the better shot. A monster like me has no business being proud about anything.

Before I could decide what I ought to say or do that might potentially calm things down, Brandon came storming out to join us. Oh man, did he ever read Murdock the riot act!

Brandon made it extremely plain to the Sheriff that his itchy trigger finger was the reason why he refused to make him a gun. He wasn't particularly polite about it, either.

Murdock only grew angrier, unwilling to accept the lesson behind Brandon's scolding. He challenged the gunsmith to a draw.

I barely managed to hold back the enraged Sheriff, with one hand at his waist and the other on his shoulder. He was going to charge at the gunsmith and force the issue.

The sound of an explosion from town interrupted, before I could try any soothing words. The Sheriff thought that the explosion might have come from the bank. We all hurried to town, to see what we could do. I put on my glove over the bandages as we ran.

A large piece of metal armor, roughly bell-shaped, sat in the middle of the street. Someone was inside. The inhabitant lifted a hemisphere on top, to throw out dynamite sticks with their fuses lit, and then pulled himself back inside just before they exploded.

The Sheriff muttered that it looked as if they'd already traveled past his office. He paused very briefly, as if mulling over options in his mind. Then he pulled his gun, yelled "Freeze!" and charged.

He'd reached his decision and acted before I could speak or do anything. As one might expect, when someone impulsively charges in where angels fear to tread, the visible armored figure in the street was not acting alone. Almost immediately, Sheriff Murdock was surrounded and helpless.

I didn't wait to watch the whole scenario play out. Instead, immediately upon seeing so many others appear - and all of them looking toward the Sheriff with hostile intent - I raced back to the nearby hotel room that Wolfwood and I shared. I hoped he'd forgive me for borrowing his weapon without asking first, but there was no time to find him and make the request. I quickly took the starter off a missile, and then used his weapon to launch the resulting "dud" to create a diversion.

I jumped down into the fray, leaving Wolfwood's cross behind. I quickly kicked, punched, pushed, tripped, knocked down, or otherwise disabled them as I hurried toward the Sheriff. I needed to keep the attackers off-balance, preferably without doing any of them any significant harm. It wasn't the best tactic I'd ever used, but it got the job done.

Best of all, no life was endangered except my own. Since my life has less value than any of theirs, then risking myself was the only right thing to do. Who would have mourned me, if I had died? Certainly not Sheriff Murdock! He'd have said "good riddance," and then promptly forgotten me forever.

"What are you?" one of the Yin-Yang Brothers asked, as I hurried toward the one in the heavy bell-shaped armor. "What do you want?"

I offered them a deal, that none of them would get hurt if they released the Sheriff immediately. My left shoulder got hurt as I rushed toward them, so I reflexively held on to it as I spoke.

I heard someone scream my name. I think it sounded more like Meryl than Milly, but I dared not look to be sure. I had to pay attention to these men. If they tried anything, I'd have little enough time to react even without being distracted.

It was well that I hadn't turned my head. He threw out more dynamite sticks with the fuses lit. I barely had enough time to draw my borrowed revolver and shoot to extinguish all the fuses before any of the sticks exploded.

It proved to be wise that I had taken time to practice with the loaned gun.

"Lightning," I heard Brandon's voice calling to me, "catch!"

I flung the loaned pistol toward the sound of his voice, and listened for the sound of my own revolver whistling through the air. I caught it, and used it to discourage the Yin-Yang Brothers from doing any further harm.

I hope you'll forgive me for feeling that I didn't fail too badly on that day, Rem. Nobody died after I went to the town to protect it from the Yin-Yang Brothers.

I don't know if I will ever again feel as if I have succeeded at anything, not after learning what I did to July. I can only hope that I won't fail that badly again.

Wolfwood was very annoyed with me for borrowing his weapon, especially without asking. However, he was too busy checking over his cross to beat me up. I would not have resisted him, if he had chosen to attack me instead of looking to his cross.

Those things all happened days ago, now.

Since then, Meryl has been acting a little differently toward me. I'm not sure how to describe it, since the difference (assuming I'm not imagining it) is very subtle. I don't know if something about the battle that day has unsettled her, or if Wolfwood decided to talk with her (even though he'd resisted the idea of talking with her when I suggested it).

Today, the state guard was sending a paddy wagon to transport those Yin-Yang Brothers, who had threatened Sheriff Murdock, to a more secure facility.

So I sat on the rooftop of our hotel, to watch, just in case. It occurred to me that, if any of the gang were not involved in that incident, they might try to make trouble.

To my surprise, I saw Wolfwood walking down the street alone. His shoulders were hunched, and his head was deeply bowed. He wasn't near enough, and the wind was the wrong direction, so I couldn't distinguish his exact emotions from his scent. However, the manner in which he was moving told me enough.

"Wolfwood," I called down as cheerfully as I could, hoping to improve his mood, "Are you just coming back now? Are you nocturnal or something?"

His expression, when he looked up at me, almost seemed desperate. However, the shifting light of this world's various moons can sometimes play tricks upon one's vision. Perhaps the light was tricking my sight that time, too.

Nicholas said nothing. He just went inside. Soon after, I heard his steps approaching behind me. I'd heard him walking on enough different surfaces, enough different times, to know the sound of his step from anyone else's.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

I told him.

"Is that so?" he said.

I don't think Wolfwood knows, or perhaps he forgot, that my abilities to hear, smell and so forth are somewhat more sensitive than a normal human's. I heard the rustle of his jacket. I smelled the grease and gunpowder.

I remembered Luida's words, when she said that those I had called friends would hold a gun to my head. I hadn't expected her to mention, even that obliquely, the incident I'd told her about when Meryl had threatened to shoot me while I was trying to help that young couple escape from the corrupt caravan.

It seemed as if Luida's words were also prophetic, for it was happening again.

I closed my eyes, and waited. One heartbeat went by, and then another... and a third. If he were really going to pull the trigger, he probably would have done it by then. I opened one eye, and patiently listened to two more heartbeats go by.

I opened my other eye. Very slowly, I turned my head toward him. I heard him move as I turned. I looked up at his face, from where I sat by the edge of the roof. His eyes were still troubled, though his right hand was half-behind his hip and I could not directly see the gun he had pointed at me. Yet I knew it was still there. I could... feel it.

I didn't know how I felt. Was I disappointed, or relieved, that he hadn't fired?

"What's wrong?" I asked.

I wondered why he had pulled his gun and aimed it at me. I wondered why he hadn't fired. I also wondered what else was troubling him. I'm not sure which question I was asking, or if all of them were wrapped together.

"Nothing," he said.

I had thought he and I were becoming friends. It seems I had been mistaken, as usual. Or, perhaps, learning what a monster I am was more than he could bear. If it was that, I couldn't blame him for it. He probably had no idea what I am, until the recent battle at Dragon's Nest.

"Come on," I said, "let's go." I stood up, preparing to pass him on his left and then go down through the building. If I used that route, he wouldn't risk hurting himself if he wanted to follow me.

"Don't get tangled up in every little skirmish you see, Vash," he said sharply. "It will be pointless if you get yourself killed before you meet him."

Before I could say anything, there was an explosion from the direction where Sheriff Murdock was waiting with the prisoners. I found myself staring at it, slack-jawed.

"Tongari," Wolfwood began, "this is -"

I didn't wait to see what else he would say. This wasn't a time for words, but for action. I couldn't help anyone from halfway across town. So I jumped off the roof and began running.

The battle was brief, yet intense. There were, in fact, other gang members who had not been captured. And, as I'd been concerned that they might, they attempted to pry their kin loose from the hands of the law.

Only two things made this fight particularly different from any other.

The first is that we rescued Sheriff Murdock from the Yin-Yang Brothers, again.

The second is that Wolfwood joined me, to guard my back, at a moment when I would otherwise have been hurt... perhaps significantly. If he had not stepped in to join the fight, they might have hurt me badly enough to have gotten away.

Nicholas had a point. If someone kills me, before Knives has been stopped, then my life would be worse than useless. I have to face my malevolent brother, but first I must somehow regain the will to take care of myself. I was not sufficiently cautious in that fight. Right now, I can't make myself care about what happens to me. That variety of thinking won't get the job done, if I must face Knives. I cannot protect humanity if I don't defend myself at least long enough to stop my brother.

I don't know what to do, Rem. I've done a terrible thing, and I don't know how to bear the guilt and shame of my many sins. Somehow, I must learn. If I don't, then the descendants of everyone you died to save will be lost.

He would negate your sacrifice, entirely. I can't allow that. I won't.

If I don't stop Knives, no one else can. Many have tried, over the years... Knives only slaughtered them all.

So I must stop Knives, even if it costs my own life. I will pay that price, without hesitation. However, I cannot allow him to kill me until after I have either persuaded him to stop, or else found another method of preventing him from ever harming another human being.

Wolfwood... his actions tonight confuse me. First, he held a gun pointed at me when my back was turned. He must have been thinking about shooting me, but for some reason he didn't. Later, he jumped into a fight when he didn't have to, and he risked his own life to protect me.

After the fight was over, I did the only thing I could.

"Thanks, Wolfwood," I said. Then I turned my back to him. I deliberately offered him another opportunity to shoot me while I was defenseless, if he still wished to do so. I began to walk away from him, slowly.

I turned to look toward him again when I heard him mutter something unintelligible. I saw him standing with his back toward me, still cradling his oversized cross weapon in his arms.

Since his back was turned toward me, it seems as if he must have decided not to shoot me. Or, at least, he decided not to shoot me tonight, anyway. Another time, he may change his mind again.

However, for his sake, I hope that he won't. Although he tries to hide it, even from himself, it hurts Nicholas badly every time that he kills someone. It haunts him later, too. I don't want him to hurt that way, again, because of killing me.

I miss you, Rem. I will always love you, and I will always be grateful that you so freely bestowed your love upon me when I was a child. I shall never forget that kindness.

Now that I've more thoroughly learned what I am, I know that I can never deserve to enjoy a gift like that again. So, you see, there is no risk of any distraction that could ever dim my memory of your love for us. I will always treasure all my memories of you.

Rest in peace, dearest Rem.

- Vash "the Stampede"





Afterword: Just in case anyone else (besides me) overlooked this detail, the "loaner" revolver that Vash receives from Brandon Marlon is the gun he wields in the anime TV series. (In the movie, he wields the manga version of his revolver.) The myriad details that Mr. Nightow weaves into this manga continue to amaze me...