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Bounty hunters are a pain in the ass if I've ever gotten to know them but, fucking hell, they're trigger happy. Getting caught in the crosshairs is a hell of a place to be and it ain't a fun one at that, especially if he's involved too… getting close to Vash is like flying close to the sun, in his eyes. Too close and you get burned, you die. But damn it, will he do something about that to stop you from dying.
I always hate it when it comes to me too, staring down the barrels of at least five pistols, saying my prayers and preparing to face the chorus of angels that sweeps, those fuckers will do anything if it means getting their disgusting hands on Vash's bounty.
Today just so happened to be one of those bullshit days where I'm roped into something much bigger than me and Vash needs to get himself involved. Too many warning shots and slurred speech later, I crease and, honestly, a steel cap boot square in the stomach is not what I need at this moment. Besides, I hate the taste of blood, thoughtless pricks. They press and press and press, spilling drunken word vomit about Vash and my connections to him, demanding I give them information. Like hell I will!
I find myself winding up in some random alley, bloodied and bruised, watching the suns slowly set through a swollen eye, wondering where the hell Vash would be now… but if he saw me now, saw how they kicked and beat 'til I bled, he'd lose his fucking mind and last time that happened, shit went down and not in the good way either.
Vash has a tendency to occasionally snap, mind you, it is a rare and, quite frankly, horrific sight. All lights are out and it kills me to see him like that but it must kill him inside too… I pray for a higher power to assist him on the right path when I can't myself…
I need a cigarette…
There's times where I look at him and wonder just how the hell I get into these kinds of messes.
Vash. Vash the Stampede. The Humanoid Typhoon. The man is a mess and, damn it, he knows it but never admits to it. I'm a man who does confessionals for those struggling and in need of release and a change of heart for a living so boy, do I know when something is up with him.
And I hate it. I despise it with my whole being, the loathing that prickles at my skin like the blistering heat of the suns that dry out this good for nothing planet. That smile he plasters over his face as an 'Oh! Nothing is wrong!' facade while his body language tells a different story completely. The way he rubs the back of his neck and nervously laughs as to brush it off. The way he just plays everything off as if nothing happened. And it is insufferable.
It can go on for days if he really tries, and those insurance girls notice it on the off chance too. Skittish mannerisms and the occasional 'witty' one liner before dashing for the hills, kicking dust in his tracks, making it out to be like he's vanished. Eventually he comes back one way or another, dragged along by that tall insurance girl or finding him sat alone at a random saloon on the other side of whatever town he's stumbled upon. It isn't easy keeping up with him in more than one way.
But, God rest their souls, when he's found out and hunted down in this state, he lives up to his name and not even by his own fault. It's constant, inescapable, like a ghost of metal and smoke that clings to you like tar, unshakable. He stares off into the distance and watches the waves of heat dance before him as the barrel of a gun points to him head on. Inescapable. I wish I could read his thoughts every once in a while, just to see what goes on in there, what causes him to act the way he does…
It's weird seeing him act like that, nonchalant, blasé, unaware, it's almost scary. This man, who's ran leaps and bounds over dunes of sand, plays with the local townsfolk's kids when he has nothing to fear, drinking like the rest of the world never existed, all of that disappears in the snap of the safety removal. He's got this light, where it shines in his eyes, practically unnoticeable unless you really look for it, and I've seen it a few times myself. It's a relieving sight to see, that slight glint, when he truly can be himself.
But that light snaps off as soon as it appears and it is terrifying when it does. Vash the Stampede, the chaser of the mayfly known as love, the man who cannot bring himself to shoot a fly, stares down the end of his gun with nothing behind his eyes. And that's the look that razes cities. The way he steels himself, his body tense and eyes dead to the world, as if he could focus on one thing and one thing alone. He mentions his dislike of death and blood often, but seeing what that does to him is practically a whole other level of understanding. Revenge isn't a taste he's adjusted to yet, as he chews on the feeling with such malice and yet never swallows, he spits it in the face of those who lay pinned beneath his foot and he caves. His eyes disappear behind those glasses of his, his expression unreadable at most times, I can feel his pain tear through my soul just looking at him like that. His deadpan expression could haunt dreams if stared at for too long, filling the boots of the man he's known to be.
The aftermath of these episodes aren't pretty either. Holed up in a hotel room, sat in complete deathly silence, either thinking to himself with that same, dead expression or cleaning off his gun to occupy himself. Sure, he never passes up the occasional drink when I offer, sat beside him as the wethered springs of the mattress groan under the weight. It ain't fun to sit and watch him in silence, but it's gotta be done if he's going to get anywhere. The swishing of liquor cuts through the silence momentarily and he always lets out this long, exhausted sigh after each drink. Whatever goes on with him, it's audible. It's like he ignores the burn of the alcohol, or rather he enjoys it in this state, which worries me. And once again, he'll always be blasé about it. "I just know how to handle my liquor, Nick, I've been doing this for a long time" is his usual response before I even open my mouth to ask. Watching him drown like that, Meryl always says to leave him alone but I truly believe that's not what he wants. He'll shove you off and leave without a trace but inside, you can tell he just doesn't want people being hurt because of him. He wants company but won't let himself have it, painting his own self fulfilled tragedy with each step in the sand.
It's those nights where no one intervenes that scare me the most. Left to his own devices, no one wants to room with the globally feared Vash the Stampede, he sits alone. The girls end up falling asleep by themselves and smoking out the window seems to be the only method of stress relief in this run down hell hole. Sure, there's drinking and spending one night stands with strangers to take your mind off shit but the moments afterwards just leave bitter tastes. Sometimes I wonder if he notices my smoking, the dying embers float past his room's window often enough, almost poetic, huh. Leaning out far enough lets me catch a glimpse of the back of his head when he sits with his back against the wall, I feel perverse, spying on him like that. I hate feeling soft, like that mushy feeling when you care about someone a bit too much, and I hate thinking of what people would say if they saw me that way too. Nicholas the Punisher has a soft heart. Ugh. It churns my stomach at night thinking about it too hard, but that sickened feeling twists like a knife to the side when I think about how Vash must feel…
Every so often, if we travel together, I check up on the old needlehead. Back-lit by the moons and sat in solitary darkness, seeing his eyes shine that soul chilling white, that shine where you know he's serious, it's unnerving to walk in on to say the least. He sits there and stares, out into nothingness, watching the dust and sand mix in the air, lit up by the moons' light. I can sometimes hear him murmur from my own room, though he's quiet enough to not be fully heard. Sharp inhales of breath and ragged exhales, sometimes I wondered if he was just blowing off steam as one does with a local girl or someone, but I digress. He sits and stares at himself, a body worn of patchwork, loathingly created by the world, drinking every last burning part of himself up and forcing it down so as to not tear himself apart. Mottled scars that run furiously across his chest, tearing at their own seams from overexertion. He reminds me of someone from a famous play from years ago, lost to time, obsessively washing himself, his hands, synth and flesh, his whole body, head to toe, filing himself down raw in delusion. He has blood on his hands. The blood of thousands. Millions. He's lucky he physically hasn't cracked yet.
I've watched him pick at himself for minutes at a time, going completely under his radar. Hand of skin and bone running over each despised bionic aspect of his body. The whining of metal being pulled and scratched as he denies himself his forced identity, it can only be described as deafening. He's a weapon. He's a weapon and he knows it. He hates it. Because of that, he hates himself too. I've seen that exhausted look on his face, the one where his mind races to ideals of ripping everything that makes him dangerous out of himself. I've only seen it once before, where he's completely run out of ammunition in the middle of a fight and he resorts to using his arm, that conflicted look on his face as he does it, aiming his arm point blank and tensing his hand further and further, wondering on if it truly is the right thing for him to do, if he relies on his lost technology like this, would that make him the weapon he truly, deeply believes he is?
Vash the Stampede, the Humanoid Typhoon, an eternal clockwork eclipse. He shines as bright as the sun, but burns brighter than ever when darkened. Feared by nations, by man and God, may I be his witness.
I look up to the sky, sending my sign to God, and pick myself up. A sky flooded with a warm amber slowly bleeds to a deep blue, speckled with stars. All those small lights, one by one, they remind me of the shine in his eyes. I dust myself off and push on ahead, stamping the dead end of my cigarette into the ground, watching the last of the ashes crumble into the sand. The chill of the moons turns my breath to steam, so I can imagine the tobacco a little longer… step by step, kicking up dust and aiming pebbles at windows, I slowly make my way back. I imagine his reaction, eh, whatever happens happens, he needs someone by his side and that role becomes mine and mine alone, and yet he is blissfully unaware as usual. As long as that light still shines.
As much as he gets on my nerves, I couldn't go without him, the light he shines when unthreatened is the most comfortable warmth a human could feel, a man who glows with light. I want to keep that light from fading as much as possible. Vash the Stampede is a wounded soul and I take it upon myself to heal him, not by the power of God, but my own hand, because sometimes all he needs is someone else.