Disclaimers: Here’s the money question: If I had created Trigun, and I were rich, would I be eating ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner everyday? Didn’t think so. I don’t own ‘em.


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Somewhere in time, there is a circle.
Somewhere in time, the circle will be complete.
Somewhere in time, love is forever.

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Well, I suppose there isn’t much that can be done about my fusty donuts and tepid coffee, so I get up from the table and leave the room, not even troubling myself to dispose of the aforementioned items. My mind continues on in a miasma. A million and one thoughts travel through my synapses as I walk with a heavy step down the corridors I had only just traveled through. The world almost seems to spin.

I really don’t even know what to make of any of this. I don’t know what I should be thinking, or how I should counter. My mind is blaring at me to do something, to find him and tell him something, to say words momentous and evocative and so weighty that he can do nothing more than divulge to me that he is, in fact, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, and my make paltry, juvenile dreams of life after death come true. It sounds illogical, now that I think about it. Really, there’s nothing I can do about this state of affairs. All I can do is let it go. I just have to chalk it up to another of my millions of life occurrences and look at it with detachment. If I get too close to this situation, I may very well be hurt by it. The inertia of the circumstances is, at this very moment, attempting to fling me forward into some gauche situation that I would have no real escape from.

This is all too much for me to handle. My legs are quivering again as I walk, and my belly has resumed its tight constricting and churning. I’m probably sweating straight through my new dress shirt, too. After a few more moments of trying to lug myself back to my room on the sand steamer, using the walls to my left and right as support as I propel myself forward, I give up and do the only thing a man of my stature and age can do: I fall to the floor and cry, right there in the middle of the hallway. Luckily, there is no one around to see me slither my back down the partition and curl up into an upright fetal position, enfolding my emaciated legs to my chest with my lengthy arms. Not that I would really care, at this particular moment in time.

My tears begin to stream forth from my eyes, searing and saline, a few of them making their way to my lips as I let out a diminutive sob that sounds doleful and pitiable even to my own ears. Memories of Nicholas come flooding back into my consciousness and I find myself lamenting even louder, the resonance of my sobs reverberating and ricocheting through the long, thin corridor that envelopes me. Then, through the hazy sound of my heartbeat in my ears and the echo of each moan, I begin to hear footsteps, light and wary, traveling in my direction. I pointedly place my hand flat against my forehead, which is beginning to ache with my exhaustion, and then wipe my eyes with my fingertips, taking a deep, trembling gasp and mentally chastising my weak nature. I don’t dare to stand, though. I fail to believe that I could truly assemble the force or willpower to do so at this moment in time. The footsteps stop nearby, and I cast a meager glance at the one laying claim to the noisy shoes. Nicholai stares back at me, his eyebrows raised and his head tilted in a look of complete and total worry and concern. “I thought I heard someone crying. Vash, are you okay?” He takes a few swift steps forward and kneels beside me, his hand instantaneously resting upon my shoulder to console and support.

I do nothing more than shake my head, and, faced with this man who reminds me so much of Nicholas it causes a nearly insufferable pain, I begin to weep again. He’s instantly in front of me, both hands gripping my shoulders a bit too firmly to be comfortable, but still benign, in a way. I look up at him through red-rimmed eyes and a tear-stained face. I probably look like a complete fool; a man nearly five-hundred years of age crying like a small child, curled up in a ball in the middle of a dimly lit corridor on a sand steamer. And for what? Because I met someone who looks like a friend long since dead.

“Vash, what happened to you?”

I roughly shake my head, trying to be kind, yet unyielding. I do not desire his help, nor do I wish for his pity. “I’m fine, Nicholai,” I say resolutely, swallowing heavily past the protuberance in my throat. He gives me a fleeting look that resembles uncertainty and acceptance all at once, and stands, offering me his hand once more to assist me in doing the same. I receive it and heft myself to my feet, looking everywhere but at his face as I wipe the tears from my cheeks and attempt to regain control of my breathing.

“I’ll walk you back to your room,” he says, the expression sounding more like a demand than a proposal. I nod and begin to walk again, his shoulder almost pressing against mine in the taut, restricted breadth of the corridor. My legs are still shaking.

“Vash?” His voice shocks then, having come so suddenly, and I can congregate nothing more than a small grunt in response to his questioning intonation, my voice sounding rough and feeling choked owing to the tears that still threaten to shed themselves. “I never would have imagined that a famous former outlaw like you would break down into tears in the middle of a dark hallway on a sand steamer.”

Obviously the legends about me have failed to incorporate the actuality that I’m an appalling crybaby and a sniveling wimp. I’m too sensitive for my own good, I suppose. Not many inhabitants of this planet, even back when I was still an outlaw, could believe that I was the authentic Vash the Stampede when I’d emerge and start performing my, “Love and Peace,” act and endeavor to save other peoples’ lives, even if it put my own in peril. Not to mention all those times I would squeal like a little girl and scamper away, rather than exchange blows. I expect a lot of people had the notion that I was a wimp, back then. Truth be told, though, I was doing it for their own good. I didn’t want to harm people, and God knows I was capable of it. I ruined whole townships and put that vast hole in the moon that continues there to this very day.

“I suppose I just needed to cry,” I answer lamely, realizing as the words spill forth that it is an absolute fabrication. I by no means suddenly undergo the imperative need to explode into tears. I don’t shed tears lacking reason. I can’t quite comprehend, now, precisely what it was that I was crying about, but I do recognize that it has something to do with the man walking in close proximity to me, giving me a bizarre, yet considerate look. Nicholas probably would be turning over in his grave right now, laughing at me, were he to see me like this.

I close my eyes firmly. God, I thought about him yet again. I must cease doing that. Every time I do, I get maudlin and specious and instigate my sniveling again. It is quite an unsightly tendency of mine, quite an irritation.

“Vash, no one just breaks down crying like that. Was it something I said to you? Something I did?” I cast a feeble glimpse in his direction, smiling despondently at the ridiculousness of the situation. Of course it was nothing he said or did. It was everything about him. The way he saunters, the character of his voice, a more featherlike murmur than Nick’s but still coarse and jagged and wholly masculine, and his very quintessence and impression seemed to be reminiscent of the man that has preoccupied my waking dreams for so very long now. “The way you were crying… it sounded like someone was ripping your heart out,” he whispers, his eyebrows melding themselves together in consideration and incomprehension. He, himself, looks equally as pained as I, his eyes damp with more than the customary amount of the saline liquid that glazes them.

Needless to say, I am taken aback by this and I slow my stride a considerable amount. He is forced to do the same, seeing as how he has no awareness as to where my room is. He lifts his head slightly from gazing downwards at the floor as he walks and looks at me through half-lidded irises covered with wisps of chocolate hair. His eyes are honey towards me, sweet and tangy all at once, the look encompassing every emotion that he could possibly feel at this moment: anything from disgust to complete understanding. He is questioning me, staring right into my soul, trying to find out just what could possibly be on my mind, what could bring me to such harsh tears.

I forcibly evade his stare, my eyes returning once more to the still-broken shoelace, the longer one clacking against the floor as I take each slow, deliberate step. Tension saturates the air like a rag soaking up water and the time lengthens itself, minutes turning into hours. I hear the shuffling of clothing, the faint whisper of fabric against fabric, and feel a hand once again rest against my shoulder. If I close my eyes tight, I know I will picture Nicholas there, his hand on me, comforting, reassuring.

I finally give in, my resolve fluttering to the ground around me like a falling house of cards. “I was crying because you reminded me so much of him… that it hurt.”

His hand jerks away from my shoulder as if I’d just bitten him, and I continue to walk at the same pace. His footfalls no longer sounding, I discern that he has ceased his stride, probably gazing at my withdrawing form. After a moment, they continue, and he is again at my side. “I didn’t realize…” He seems to fumble for his words a moment, his gaze turning skyward as he gropes in his jacket for a cigarette. The small, blunt objects rest against his inner pocket at the left side of his chest, just like Nicholas’ used to. He rests one between his lips, seeming to gnaw on it a bit in thought. “I didn’t realize I reminded you of him that much. I didn’t mean to…”

I bring him to a halt before he can even instigate an awkward act of contrition with a quick look that cautions him not to persist further, my stride befalling an immediate halt. It lasts a meager second as I gaze into the foggy blue eyes, and I feel myself relax under the credence of his shocked, intent look. “Don’t apologize. It’s not you, Nicholai. It’s not your fault.” I suddenly feel myself build up a bit of courage as I take a step forward and continue down the hallway. “Nicholas and I… we were close. I felt more of a connection to him than I ever have with anyone but my brother. When he died, it was as if a part of me died with him. I know it sounds typically cliché, but that’s truly what it felt like. Then, when I saw you, sitting at that table, for a moment, it was as if that piece of myself had been given back. It’s not your fault that you look like him, so don’t blame yourself for the odd way I’m acting.”

I finally reach the entry to my room, resting my hand upon the cold knob jutting out from the door and staring at the blemishing scar that blights my flesh. Nicholas was one of the only people that has observed my marred, dilapidated body, and not given me a look of total repugnance or apprehension. Meryl and Millie… when they first saw me, caught standing in my room in nothing more than a pair of baggy sweatpants with a towel perched around my neck… I recall the looks they gave me, as if I were some sort of distorted monster. Nicholas never did that. When he first saw me, his eyes never flinched; his words never hesitated, and he seemed totally unaffected by my appearance, as if it were the most innate thing in the world. I presume he had anticipated someone who had lived the kind of life I had to be a bit tattered and wrecked. Even so, that lack of response was strangely comforting to me, back then. “Maybe I just need to rest.”

I hear fabric against fabric once again, assuming that he’s shifting his weight nervously despite himself, and I turn to face him. “It was nice meeting you, Nicholai,” I state, offering my hand. He seizes it timidly and gives me a minute smile that speaks volumes, and I know that he has not condemned me for my peculiar actions and that he understands what I must be going through.

“You too, Vash the Stampede.”

I nod and again turn to my door, opening it silently for fear of waking Knives from his sleep. Unfortunately, my actions were futile, seeing as how my brother is previously awake, relaxing lazily in one of the flowery chairs, his face resting against his fist, elbow on the table, as he fingers the top of a small glass containing some sort of red-tinted liquid. He immediately raises his glance to me and, seeing Nicholai beginning the walk away behind my room, rises to his feet, his brusque voice marring the pristine silence of the moment. “I didn’t know you would be bringing company,” he accuses, leaning against the table and narrowing his brows to glare at the man’s retreating form. Nicholai scuffs his feet on the floor, stopping himself, and turns back around, glancing through the open doorway that I swiftly tread through and engage my place at my brother’s side. Nicholai waves at Knives nervously through the still open doorway.

“Knives, this is Nicholai. Nicholai, this is my brother, Knives.”

An odd silence encompasses the room for a moment, neither of them daring to speak. I smile ineptly and spare a glance back and forth between the two. Knives doesn’t seem to find this new person very pleasing to his tastes.

Nicholai finally speaks, clearing his throat uncertainly before doing so. “You two look very much alike,” he states plainly. It’s obvious and dry, but true. Knives’ hair is much shorter than mine, and a bit darker, but I suppose we still look the same.

Knives straightens himself from leaning against the table, his eyes seeming to covet engraving holes in Nicholai’s skull. “And you look very much like Wolfwood,” he states in an accusatory tone, then favors me with a glance. “Vash… I thought you were over that demented priest.”

A brusque twinge immediately radiates from my chest at his callous words and I swallow harshly, making an anomalous gulping noise that permeates the silence. My eyebrows crease themselves together and I give Nicholai a feeble, desultory look. He returns the expression, knowing all too well that the words have upset me. “That’s not nice, Knives,” I admonish, my words falling short of the consternation I had hoped to produce.

Knives smirks at me, his eyes turning vinegar: acidic and bitter, and I know that he’s toying with me again. The only difference this time, though, is the fact that it is Nicholas’ memory that he’s amusing himself with. A bolt of anger temporarily dulls my vision, my heartbeat becoming the only thing I can see as the blood pulses through my veins. Nicholai, still waiting awkwardly near the door, shuffles his feet, completely ill at ease, and I use the sound of his footfalls to bring myself back to reality. I take a deep breath and soften the glare towards Knives to something reminiscent of sympathy, and walk back to Nicholai. One side of his mouth twitches upwards anxiously, probably a hint of him understanding my situation. “Knives is usually in a bad mood when he first wakes up. Sorry.”

He nods at me and takes a step back, then stops, seeming to consider something a moment. “If we ever run into each other again, I’d like to hear more about this Wolfwood character that’s got your panties in a bunch.”

I laugh outright at that and he embarks upon his journey down the corridor. I gaze at him as he leaves, peeking my head forward to see his form fading out in the dim hallway, and I can’t help but smile to myself. Meryl’s words suddenly come into my consciousness. “The world is full of meetings and partings… and reunions.” The smile on my face turns to one of sadness, and then disappears completely as I turn back to Knives, who has resumed his place in the blossom-covered chair.

“I didn’t know you wore panties, Vash,” he teases me, once again fingering the glass set upon the wooden table.

“I don’t,” I spit at him forcefully, then stomp over to my bed and curl up on the soft mattress, facing away from him. Knives may be my only brother, but he’s a poor substitute for a good friend. Sometimes I wish I could wash my hands of him altogether; tell him to get lost, stop picking on me, leave me alone, anything. But, in the end, I say nothing and take it like as much of a man as I am, and he remains my brother, through and through.

“Regardless of everything Wolfwood did to you, regardless of the fact that he was one of my men, you still cared about him.” I grunt in response and put a pillow over my head. Stale, juvenile, and silly, but it seems to get the message through most of the time. Knives doesn’t seem ready to back down from his playtime, though, and he continues to berate me. “You know that he didn’t give a damn about you. He was only around you because I wanted him to be.”

I curl up tighter, my chest constricting.

“If I had told him to leave, he would have.”

I stifle a low growl in my throat, biting back the words that crave to surge from my lips.

I suddenly feel a weight settle down on the bed behind me and the pillow is jerked away from my turned head to reveal Knives hovering over me like some sort of scavenging bird, a malicious smile on his lips. My glare is the only reaction I will favor him with as I maintain to figurative biting of my tongue in restraint of anger.

“Vash, you let him get to you too much,” he seethes, baring his teeth at me, nearly hissing the words. My bottom lip quivers a moment. Rather from anger of sadness, I myself am unsure. He sits back on the bed, his eyebrows raised in apparent realization of some fact that has eluded him. “Don’t tell me you two fucked each other, Vash,” he suddenly exclaims, his voice edged with the spice of near laughter.

I stop thinking.

I widen my eyes in recognition of what I’ve just done when I see my brother sprawled out on the floor, his nose trickling a small amount of blood onto the crème carpet and his eyes lightly shut. There are cuts upon his left and right cheeks that seem to be swelling already, and I’m sitting atop his hips, my hands clenched into fists that have a light red tinge. I stare at them dumbly, then look back down at Knives, trying to piece together what has happened. I cast a glance back at my hands, and then back to Knives, lying motionless underneath me.

The world spins for one short moment as I suddenly leap to my feet. Once again, I do one of the solitary things that a man of my distinction and maturity can do: I scream like a little girl and run out of the room.