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Vash awoke with a hoarse gasp, trembling from head to foot. His damp, tangled hair stuck to the back of his neck, and his tank top was plastered to his skin. The bedsheet, soaked through with sweat, was wound tightly around his body. He didn’t remember his nightmare, but knew it had to have been the same one, the living nightmare that had kept him wide awake three nights ago.

Horrific creatures erupting from his arm, helplessly writhing and thrashing around. Feathers sprouting from his scarred flesh. The all-consuming dark vortex swallowing everything and everyone and turning the sky scarlet.

He had only been able to sleep after drowning himself in drink. If he didn’t sleep, he couldn’t go on, and he had to keep moving. He couldn’t stop, not as long as he was out there.

The creatures. The feathers. The spiraling void. The crimson sky.

I’ll make you remember what you did to July!

Meryl! His chest seized up, and his heart thumped against his ribs. Meryl’s in danger!

He staggered out of bed, hips and knees protesting, and frantically turned in a circle while fiddling with the sheet with his right arm. He stepped out of the sheet and was struck by a bout of vertigo, causing him to stumble and just barely catch himself by pressing his scarred shoulder against the wall. His head throbbed, and his ears rang. Black spots danced across his vision. His breaths came short and raspy. A pulse of white-hot pain shot through him from head to navel, drawing a strained grunt out of him that trailed off into a groan.

It’s been a week now, Vash. You need to move on.

Vash’s groan dwindled into a whimper. He bit his lip to dam the tears.

Meryl’s okay, he told himself. She’s okay now.

It was a new day, Meryl was okay, and he was far away from here. The sun was rising outside, and he had to get going. The squeezing pain in the stump of his left arm, the raw ache in every joint in his body, and his pulsing head didn’t matter right now. He needed to keep moving.

As if on cue, the back of his brain began to buzz, and his stomach twisted with cramps. Two different cravings vied for his attention. He ignored the buzz and tried to open his eyes. If he could manage that, he wouldn’t have to see the blood-red sky and the blindingly white feathers. He tried to think about breakfast, about a fried sunny-side-up egg on buttered toast. His mouth watered with longing, even though food wouldn’t quell that pesky buzz.

Eating breakfast would give him the energy to go to the saloon and pick up his next glass of alcohol. That would silence the buzz, if only for a while. First, though, he needed some water. Sweating out what felt like half his body weight had left him parched.

His flask was sitting on the nightstand. He’d mistakenly left it in the restaurant last night, and Wolfwood had handed it to him, refilled with water instead of alcohol, before turning in for the night. Sitting next to the flask were his sunglasses. They’d slipped out of his drunken grasp on the way back to the hotel; Meryl had picked them up and wiped the sand off the lenses with her cape. Against the opposite wall stood the stout little mini-fridge, patiently holding the carton of six eggs he’d whittled down to two, half a loaf of white bread he’d shoved in there to stop it from getting stale, and the little pats of butter he’d swiped from the restaurant. At dinner, his hands had trembled too much to hold the knife, so Milly had buttered his roll for him.

Vash turned on the cheap hotel stove’s front left burner, attached his left arm while he waited for the pan to heat up, and tried not to cry as he went through the motions of frying an egg. He toasted a thick slice of bread until it was golden-brown—Wolfwood liked his toast dry and as black as his coffee—and watched the butter melt into all the crisp crevices and crannies—Milly had spoiled him and spread two of those little pats of butter on his roll. He picked up the newspaper that had been slipped under his door, sat down with his water flask—two years ago, in a very nice hotel, Meryl had insisted on buying orange juice for the three of them, a rare and delicious treat—and took a bite of his toast.

The bread crunched between his teeth, a little bit mushy from the egg. The egg itself was perfect—not too runny, not too solid. He took another bite, and another, drank his water, skimmed the newspaper without really reading it. Another bite, and he started feeling restless. He needed to limber up so his muscles weren’t so sore and his scars stopped aching, at least for now. He wolfed down the rest of his breakfast, took another swig of water, and dropped to the floor for push-ups and crunches.

He finished his entire routine as usual, though his head and left side started to pound in tandem midway through, and the itch for a drink still hadn’t gone away. Grumbling, he pulled his sweaty tank top over his head, shuffled out of his sweatpants, and buckled himself into his everyday ensemble. Once he’d fastened the final toggle on the collar of his coat, he slicked up his hair, the black half crumpling and rustling like the morning paper under his touch, holstered his revolver, and headed out the door.

—

Warrens City was a small town, but mornings were lively. A woman hung laundry on a clothesline. A young father gave his giggling, ponytailed daughter a piggyback ride. Two elderly ladies and a middle-aged man sat on a bench and chatted. Four friends played a board game on the front porch of the general store. The saloon’s flimsy double doors creaked and swung on their hinges as a customer pushed their way inside. The buzz tingled at the back of Vash’s mind again. All the effort he’d put into his routine collapsed like a house of cards as the craving for drink threatened to consume him.

Unfortunately, one of the only people who could have stopped him was standing right in his diagonal path to the saloon. His stomach curled with shame, but he didn’t bother reaching for his shades to conceal his hollow eyes. Wolfwood was headed his way. He had nowhere to hide.

“Hey, hey, Wolfwood!” Vash laughed and faked a toothy grin as Wolfwood approached. “You’re up so early today! What gives, huh?”

Wolfwood stopped an arm’s length away from him. Vash continued beaming brightly, even as every muscle in his body tensed. So much for limbering up. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Wolfwood was right in front of him, he had to grab Vash’s shoulder with a shaking hand and squeeze it. Vash bristled and fervently hoped feathers wouldn’t suddenly spring forth. He imagined his arm opening wide and swallowing Wolfwood whole, and he shrank in on himself.

“Spikey,” Wolfwood greeted him.

He was wearing his sunglasses. Vash refused to look him in the eye. Wolfwood had drawn his gun on him the other night, and though Vash had known he wasn’t going to pull the trigger, the fear in his gaze that night, like his trembling hands, had been too much to bear. He shrank in on himself further, though it would do nothing to quell the horrible destructive power lurking underneath his skin. Wolfwood was right to be afraid of him.

“You look like you’re five seconds away from breaking something in half,” Wolfwood said.

Vash laughed again, higher-pitched and faker than before. A shock of pain gripped the scar on the left side of his chest, the one beneath the metal grate, and he choked on the agonized groan trying to crawl up his throat. “What kind of guy do you take me for, Wolfwood? That doesn’t sound like love and peace at all! You definitely woke up too early.”

“Who pissed in your cereal?” Wolfwood said under his breath.

“It’s ‘cornflakes,’ not cereal. And I had my usual egg on toast this morning. I’m a creature of habit.”

“A creature whose habit is bein’ an annoying prick. Listen, how about you and me go shoot some stuff together? Might mellow ya out a bit.”

Vash glared at him. “I already exercised this morning, thank you very much.”

The annoying buzz at the back of his brain grew louder, his craving clamoring to be fed. He wouldn’t be in any mood to practice shooting until he’d downed a glass of whiskey on the rocks, maybe two. The saloon was right there. He could just dart over and dip inside. If Wolfwood tried to follow him, Vash would lie that he had a “private appointment.” For a while now, Vash had recognized that they could no longer keep secrets from each other, but inviting Wolfwood to come along was out of the question.

Wolfwood scowled. “It’s like talkin’ to a fire-breathing thomas. What’re you so ungrateful for, huh?”

“Ungrateful?” Vash hardly realized his voice was rising in pitch. That insistent buzz was drowning out nearly all his thoughts. “I don’t know, Wolfwood, why don’t you tell me what I’m supposed to be grateful for?”

The delicious breakfast and invigorating workout that had almost fooled him into thinking this day could have been salvaged? The blue, cloudless sky, clear as the day it had happened? A town milling with people who might disappear into a swirling vortex at any time? Three relentless tagalongs who needed to learn to take a hint and get off his tail for good?

“Marlon set up a rage room for us, damn it!” Wolfwood spat. “That’s what I was tryin’ to tell you the whole time!”

“Marlon set up—” Vash pressed the heel of his left hand into the same eye. “Rage room? Where?”

“In his shed? Hell if I know. All he said was, ‘Hey, Slick, go get Lightning and those girls that are followin’ you two around.’ So I found them, and now I found you.”

“The girls?” Vash dropped his left hand limply to his side and winced when he felt a telltale pinch. He must have twisted a wire attaching it, but he didn’t have time to fix it now. “Why do they have to come?”

“Why not? It could be good for them, too. Did you forget how long the short girl spent cooped up in that tower? And the big girl begging us to come along to help save her? Quit slouchin’, Spikey, no one can talk to ya while you’re bent out of shape like that. And ’s not polite besides.”

“Sorry,” Vash mumbled, straightening his spine. “No, I didn’t forget.”

He wasn’t at all eager to face the girls again. Meryl hadn’t looked him in the eye at dinner last night. She had been engulfed by his feathers, which meant she must have seen what Hoppered had seen, and possibly more beyond that. Vash shuddered, overcome with dread. It was going to be nearly impossible to try and convince her that he was all right. Not to mention Milly, who wouldn’t stop looking at him with her brow knit in concern, and Wolfwood, who he could no longer hide anything from.

“Are you comin’?” Wolfwood asked. “Or are ya gonna stand around and sulk?”

“Yeah. I’ll come.” If the girls were expecting him, he couldn’t exactly disappoint them. And if Brandon had set this up for him, for the four of them, he couldn’t turn down his old friend. “Lead the way, Wolfwood.”

—

Brandon’s workshop lay on the outskirts of town. Brandon was standing on the front stoop, and the girls stood beside him. Milly had her hands in the pockets of her overcoat and occasionally glanced at Meryl. As he and Wolfwood got closer, the dark circles underneath Meryl’s eyes became more apparent. She looked pale. Vash swore he saw her shudder when he was close enough to wave hello to her.

“Good morning, girls!” he chirped, sure his performance was becoming less convincing by the second.

“Hello, Mr. Vash,” Milly said, offering him a small smile. At least she had been spared from seeing him transform into a monstrous harbinger of death and destruction.

“Good morning,” Meryl said. Her voice was faint and wispy. Vash was afraid she might pass out.

“Did ya have breakfast yet, short girl?” Wolfwood said. Vash frowned, wondering why he was only asking her.

“Oh, um, yes.” She sounded almost timid, which wasn’t like her at all. “Yes, I did.”

“We had oatmeal with butter and cinnamon sugar,” Milly said. “And a banana split.”

“Not a banana split, Milly.” Meryl placed her hand on Milly’s arm; it looked hauntingly frail and bony. “She means we split a banana. We only had one left.”

“Sounds good enough to me,” Wolfwood said. “Long as you had somethin’. Unlike last night’s dinner.”

“I had some food last night,” Meryl protested weakly.

It was hard for Vash to even look at her. She was like a shell of the vibrant woman who had once pointed a derringer at Brilliant Dynamites Neon’s head to protect him. On the other hand, Milly barely looked worse for wear. Full of life, she was the picture of health. Vash thought if she held Meryl, it might put some life back in her. He wished he could hold her, too, but he was afraid she would shatter to pieces in his arms, like Emilio’s puppets falling apart in his embrace back on the ship.

“You should have more,” Vash said. “You need to keep your strength up.”

“See?” Wolfwood said. “He agrees with me. You gotta get more food in ya, else you won’t be able to run around all over creation like that one does.” He pointed his thumb at Vash, and Vash let out a loud, grating laugh that pierced the sore left half of his chest like shards of glass.

Brandon rolled his eyes. “Listen, Lightning,” he muttered, “you and your buddies’ conversation is just so riveting, so I’m real sorry to interrupt.” Vash was usually delighted by his sarcastic attitude, but today, it just made him want to snap at him. He held his tongue and listened. “All I wanna know is, are you gonna do this or what?”

“’Course,” Wolfwood said. “C’mon, Spikey, gals, let’s go.”

They followed Brandon to a shed nearly large enough to serve as a warehouse. Vash kept himself a good five feel away from Wolfwood and the girls, but watched them as he walked. Wolfwood kept glancing between him and the girls, especially Meryl. Milly was watching her, too. Meryl was shuffling along, slouching as she walked, which wasn’t like her at all—she had always prided herself on proper posture. A stabbing pang of pain struck a scar on Vash’s right shoulder and rocketed down his arm. Almost automatically, he rubbed his right arm, then quickly dropped his hands to hang at his sides. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end at the possibility of accidentally unleashing that massive, horrible power lurking beneath his skin.

Brandon opened the door to reveal a wide, high-ceilinged room filled with porcelain plates, ceramic vases, glass bottles, and terracotta pots. Two large windows with four panes and picture frames, in addition to the windshield of a car, completed the setup. It was a garden of breakable things.

Brandon handed each of them a pair of safety glasses and earplugs. Wolfwood took off his sunglasses. There were dark circles under his eyes, and they looked sunken and sorrowful. Averting his gaze, Vash noticed a whiskey label on one of the bottles. The buzz gnawed at the back of his brain, eroding his other thoughts like a corrosive chemical eating away at rusted metal. Brandon wouldn’t have any problem giving him a can of beer from his stash if he asked. Vash didn’t want to twist his arm, but if he offered him another, he definitely wouldn’t turn it down.

“One at a time,” Brandon said. “Who’s goin’ first?”

Milly opened her mouth, but Wolfwood cut in with, “Ah, guess I’ll get it over with.” He pulled his pistol, the same one he’d pointed at Vash’s head, out from underneath his suit coat.

“Knock yourself out, Slick.”

Meryl sat down on a barrel near the door, plugged her ears with earplugs, and placed her hands on her shoulders in a self-hug. Milly lingered behind her and wrung her hands. Vash stood against the wall with crossed arms and vainly tried to forget the memories that wouldn’t stop haunting him and the buzz that was only growing more annoying.

Wolfwood shot a bullet straight through one of the windowpanes, then took out the other three. Two more bullets shattered the necks of glass bottles. They toppled and fell to the floor. Next were two pots. The second took two bullets to break, since the first only grazed the side of it. Surprised that Wolfwood, whose aim was usually spot-on, had missed his target, Vash craned his neck to look at him. He had lifted his free hand to support his shooting hand. He was biting his lip. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.

Vash’s stomach clenched. Wolfwood was terrified.

It’s my fault, Vash mentally lamented. All my fault. All because I was trying to protect Meryl. If she hadn’t gotten kidnapped, then maybe…

Vash shook his head. But Meryl is safe. She’s all right now. I have to try to act normal. Act like nothing’s happened.

“Come on, Wolfwood,” he jibed as Wolfwood replaced his spent clip. “Is that all you’ve got in you?”

Wolfwood scoffed, the faintest hint of a smirk appearing on his lips. Vash’s heart leapt up, but fell like a stone when Wolfwood lowered his gun.

“Guess that scuffle with those Yin-Yang jokers sucked all the energy outta me,” he said.

“Really, now?” The jab Vash had intended to be playful and lively came out hollow and stiff instead. “You’re a bit off balance lately, huh?”

“Knock it off.” Wolfwood lifted his pistol. “I still got plenty in me.”

He shot down two more bottles. He put a few holes in the car window, scattering glass everywhere. His shoulders remained taut with tension.

Maybe he needs a smoke. Or a drink.

Vash shook his head and sighed, massaging his aching brow. His legs and feet were tingling with unspent energy, but there was no room to pace, and he couldn’t go outside and run around now. He hoped business was going on as usual in the town, but mostly, he was thinking about the saloon and how quickly he’d be able to get his next drink.

“You want the sledgehammer?” Brandon asked Wolfwood.

Wolfwood shook his head. “I’m done. Let Spikey or the gals have a turn.”

“I’ll go,” Milly said. “And I’ll take the hammer.”

Brandon handed her the hammer and a pair of gloves. She walked over to the car windshield, raised the hammer above her head, and brought it down hard. Crash! Meryl winced and gasped. Glass scattered everywhere—shards shed on the floor, tiny fragments flung into the air. Milly swung the hammer again, aiming for the car’s metal frame. Bang! Meryl squeaked and clutched her shoulders tightly. The impact had dented the frame. She was trembling.

“You okay, Mini?” Brandon asked. “Need some earmuffs?”

“Hey, short girl, let’s go stand outside, you and me,” Wolfwood said. We don’t have to watch this. Let’s take a break, yeah?”

“No!” Meryl cried, digging her small fingers into her white cape. “I think we should st-st-”—crash! Milly struck the windshield again, and Meryl flinched at the clinking and clattering of shattering glass—“st-staaaay,” she stammered, shivering.

Brandon swore under his breath and tugged on the hem of his vest. “Be right back. Lightning, watch your crew.”

“Wait up,” Wolfwood called, but Brandon held up his hand with a frown.

“Not goin’ for a smoke, Slick. Stay put.”

“Hey, short girl.” Wolfwood glanced at her, then at his hands. Grimacing and shaking his head, he curled them into fists and buried them in his pockets. “Close your eyes. Hands over your ears.”

Meryl didn’t close her eyes, but she hesitantly put her hands over her ears. Wolfwood hovered awkwardly next to her. Vash fidgeted with the leather-clad fingers of his left hand. He wished he could console her, offer her some well-meaning, if hollow, words, but he was the reason why she was so unsettled.

It’s all because of me. He hung his head. It’s all my fault.

“Hey, Spikey, check this out,” Wolfwood said. Milly was still smashing the car to pieces. Bang. Crunch. Bang. He was holding one of Meryl’s derringers in his callused, dry palm. “She says the trigger’s busted on this one. It’s not loaded. Think Marlon can fix it?”

Vash reached for the little pistol, but before he could grab it, Wolfwood dropped it into his hand. Ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach, Vash tugged on the trigger. “Definitely stuck,” he muttered as he tried to unjam it. “But I think I can…”

Vash started messing with the trigger of the derringer. He pulled and pushed it and fiddled with it.

Bang! Crash. Bang!

Rendered practically unconscious by his transformation, he had felt more than heard her scream when she’d emerged from the cocoon of his feathers. He hadn’t seen her draw her derringer—and if he had heard it, it must have sounded like it was buried in the sand a thousand iles away—but pure instinct had told him she’d fired it. She’d been so brave then, standing up to the Gung-Ho Guns and Legato in spite of her fear. Even if he fixed her broken piece, would she be brave enough to wield it again?

Bang! Crash! Crunch. Bang!

Vash laughed triumphantly. “Aha! I got it!” He bounded over to Meryl with an unfamiliar, but not unwelcome, spring in his step. “Here you go. Good as new.”

Meryl lifted her head. As soon as she met his eyes, she tensed up and turned away. Vash’s heart fell.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, bowing his head.

“What’re you apologizin’ for?” Wolfwood grumbled. “You fixed it. Here, short girl. Here’s your damn gun.”

“I don’t want it.”

“’Scuse me?”

“I said, I don’t want it!”

The banging abruptly stopped. “Mr. Wolfwood!” Milly called, rushing over. She plucked a squished earplug out of her left ear. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Meryl squeaked, shaking her head. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine, Milly.”

The door creaked as Brandon walked in with a large, thick brown blanket bundled in his arms. He offered it to Meryl. She accepted it with a mumbled “thank you” and draped it over her shoulders.

“Do you need to go outside, ma’am?” Milly asked, brow knit in concern.

“No. I’m fine. I’ll keep watching. V-V-Vash can go next.”

A lump lodged itself in Vash’s throat, the kind he couldn’t swallow or wash down with alcohol. Tears blurred his vision, and he bit the inside of his cheek to try and dam them.

She can’t even say my name!

He understood why she would choke on it like it was bitter medicine. It was impossible for him to stomach what he had done. The memories were dizzying, nauseating. They radiated through him from head to toe—a feverish wave, burning as harshly as bile in his throat, that he feared would turn his organs inside out. He could only imagine how hard a pill it was for her to swallow.

Brandon frowned. “There might not be much left if ya let him go first.”

“I’ll leave some for her,” Vash said. Milly might have demolished the car, but there were plenty of vases, pots, and bottles just waiting to be used for target practice.

He started by taking out an entire line of vases with one shot. Though he was wearing earplugs, they didn’t put much of a damper on his acute hearing; the noise echoed off the walls and high ceiling and grated on his ears. Down went a couple larger vases, a shot for each. A single shot pulverized a particularly sturdy pot. Two more shots put holes in two windowpanes.

He reloaded and switched his focus to the bottles. One, two, three large bottles exploded into shards. The hunger started to gnaw at his brain. Another three. One, two, three.

He reloaded, determined to take out every bottle in the room. One, two. Three, four. Five, six. He reloaded. One, two, three, four, five, six.

“Whoa, whoa, Lightning, slow down,” Brandon said, or might have said.

“Mr. Vash, why don’t you leave some for Meryl?” he thought he heard Milly say. He couldn’t really hear anything over the ringing echo of shattering glass.

He tightened his hold on the grip of his revolver, and his palm prickled as he tore open the wound he’d sustained just days earlier practicing at Brandon’s shooting range. A strange, alien energy started to coalesce at the site of the wound. Heart fluttering in panic, he lifted the revolver and fired the four remaining shots at whatever target he glimpsed through his suddenly-blurred vision. His hand shook as he rotated his wrist to peek at his palm. In the middle of the red gash, he swore he glimpsed a flash of white.

He dropped his weapon, charged forward, and lunged for the bottles on the far table with a pained shriek. As he grabbed bottles by the necks and smashed them against the hard edges of windows, he caught fragments of voices.

“Spikey… back here… ’re you… the deep end?!”

“…wrong… Meryl… hey… okay?”

“Is it just me… cold all of a sudden?”

Stop it! Calm down!

NO!

The air around him rippled, disturbed by a forceful pulse. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bottle topple and fall from the edge of a table, though he hadn’t touched it or picked it up.

I did that? His heart clenched in horror. I’m a monster. I’m sorry!

Don’t give up so easily. You take yourself too lightly.

I’M SORRY!

“Another one… the hell?”

“My ears… I can’t move…”

“…all right, Vash?”

Again! Vash’s heart roared in his head and threatened to burst out of his chest. He broke into a cold sweat, and his breaths came shallow and quick as his chest seized up with viselike pain. I did it again! Now I’m going to turn into a monster and swallow them whole. Everyone will die because of me!

Frenzied and terrified, Vash grabbed the nearest bottle with his left hand and slammed it against a window’s edge. Glass flew everywhere. A large shard shredded the glove on his right arm and pierced the skin.

He was so lightheaded and the ringing in his ears was so loud that the pain didn’t even register. Using his left hand, he attempted to staunch the bleeding. Something small and white sprouted from the cut and curled itself around the tip of his thumb. He shut his eyes and screamed at the top of his lungs until his throat itched and burned. Overcome by nausea, horror, and adrenaline, he collapsed and blacked out.

—

“Vash?”

“Mr. Vash?”

“Snap out of it, Spikey, c’mon.”

Come on, Vash. Time to get up!

Vash’s head was pounding, and the base of his neck hurt. The back of his brain was still tingling, but the tenderness in his joints and scars was much harder to ignore. His right hand felt raw, too. Someone was holding on to it and wrapping something soft around it.

Desperately, instinctively, he flailed his arms to shake off the unidentified material and person. His hand smacked a cheek and the cartilage of the bridge of a nose, and he heard an indignant, “Ow!”

He just barely felt someone squeeze his left hand.

“What the hell was that for, Spikey?! It’s me, you needle-brained idiot!”

“’fwood?” As much as he wanted to disprove the horrible possibilities dreamed up by his vivid imagination, Vash was too weak to open his eyes. He tried to ask after Meryl, but the words came out muddled and incoherent.

Wolfwood sighed. “I didn’t catch any of that. Try again.”

“She okay?” Vash’s throat was so sore and his mouth so dry that he had trouble forming complete words. “Meryl?”

“She’s okay,” Milly said.

The large hand holding his prosthetic must be hers. He turned his head very slightly toward her, wincing when his neck ached, and caught a whiff of her perfume. She smelled nice, like vanilla and flowers. He attempted to convey that to her, but the only word he managed was, “Good.”

“Yeah, that’s good,” Wolfwood said. “Unless you’re talkin’ about yourself, ’cause you are not good.”

“’m sorry.”

“Now’s not the time for that crap, Spikey. Can I finish what I started, or are you gonna whack me in the face again?”

“Wh… ha… hap—” Vash tried to lift his head, but a cramp in his neck caused his head to drop limply to the floor again. Breathlessly, he finished his question: “Ha—appened?”

“We went to Marlon’s rage room, and it was your turn. You smacked a bottle against a window and broke it in half. A piece of glass went flyin’ and tore your glove and sliced your hand open. Then ya passed out and hit your head. Sit still. Don’t move.”

A door creaked. It sounded distant and foggy.

“Got some water,” said a familiar voice. “He come to yet?”

“Yes,” someone said. It sounded like Meryl, but it couldn’t be. She wasn’t okay. She was  still trapped in the tower.

“Mer…yl…” Vash choked on a weak, dry cough. “Are you…” He tried to sit up.

“I said, don’t move,” Wolfwood snapped, pushing on his shoulders. Vash’s arm flailed and hit him in the face again.

“Sorry…” Vash gasped. “Didn’t… mean to.”

“No more sayin’ ‘sorry,’ all right? Just lay back and let me and the big girl move you. We’re gonna try and prop your head up so you can take a drink.”

“Don’t be scared if you feel a hand on the back of your head,” Milly said.

Vash braced himself. All at once, there was a hand on his shoulder, a hand below his neck, and a hand supporting the back of his head.

“One, two,” said the voice he didn’t recognize. It sounded oddly familiar. “Three—”

Vash grunted in pain as they lifted him. The fingertips of the hand below his neck curled up a little. It felt like Milly’s other hand, strong and warm. He didn’t recognize the hand supporting his head, its fingers weathered and more heavily callused than Wolfwood’s, but the firm yet gentle touch put him at ease.

“Here it comes, Mr. Vash.”

The rim of a flask brushed his bottom lip. He opened his mouth, and the flask was tipped up. A trickle of water dripped past his lips and down his throat. He coughed a few times, then swallowed.

“That’s the ticket,” said the familiar voice, not Wolfwood’s. “Good going.”

Wolfwood went back to wrapping something soft around Vash’s hand. Curious about the voice he couldn’t quite place, Vash slowly forced his eyes open. Curly hair, stubble, the sunken and sorrowful basset-hound eyes of a man steeped in drink. A friend he always came to whenever he needed his old heap fixed.

“Marlon?” he guessed.

“Bingo.” Marlon gave him a wobbly smile.

Vash felt relieved, like everything would be all right. Maybe this had all been one long nightmare, and he would wake up to find his hair completely blonde, drool on his pillow evidencing a good night’s sleep, and a striped tie wound around his head. He exhaled a breathy laugh. “Did I… go overboard again… Frank?”

Marlon furrowed his brow. “Frank’s my old man. I’m the boy, remember? Brandon?”

“Where’s Frank?”

Marlon sighed. “He’s been gone a long time, Lightning.”

“Gone?” Vash’s chest tightened, and his eyes fluttered shut. “Like Meryl?”

“No one’s got my old man or your little buddy, Vash. Everyone’s okay. Everyone’s here with you.”

“Meryl’s… here? But she’s…”

“We already told ya, Spikey, she’s okay,” Wolfwood muttered. “She’s right here with us. Nobody’s been kidnapped.”

“Here,” Milly said. “Have some water.”

Vash took a drink. Wolfwood had finished bandaging his hand, but his palm still throbbed.

“Meryl,” he mumbled. “Need… to see…”

“Open your eyes, Vash. I’m right in front of you.”

Vash forced his eyes open. He saw Marlon—Brandon, not Frank. Wolfwood was to his right; Milly, to the left. And Meryl stood in front of her with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

Tears welled up in Vash’s eyes and spilled when he blinked his bleary eyes. He sniffled, his aching chest heaved, and he started to sob.

“Hey, hey, you shouldn’t wear yourself out like that,” Wolfwood said. “You’re gonna pass out again.”

Milly started to shush him. She gently rubbed circles into the base of his neck with her callused fingertips. It tickled; when Vash quivered in response, she stopped.

“Can ya sit up a little more?” Wolfwood asked.

Vash pushed himself to sit up, pivoting from his elbows with Wolfwood and Milly’s help. One of the scars near his navel pulsed, and an agonized cry escaped him. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Water?” Milly asked.

“Uh-uh.”

“Brandon’s comin’ up behind you with a blanket,” Wolfwood said.

A warm, worn blanket descended on his shoulders. It smelled like lavender—Meryl’s perfume. Milly let go of his left hand, but he reached for her and held on.

“Your blanket’s gonna fall off if you don’t get your arms inside,” Brandon said.

“I’m good.”

Brandon guffawed. Vash heard his father in his gruff chuckle. How long ago those carefree days had seemed when Vash had first met Frank and his boy, years before the destruction of—

“I’m sorry!” Vash cried. “Let go of me!”

“What’s goin’ on?” Wolfwood asked.

“It’s not safe! I’m… I could…”

“Hey, knock it off. You’re not—well, I mean, we’re all still alive, yeah?”

“Alive,” Vash repeated. “All alive.” Wolfwood’s words only soothed his agitation for a moment. “But I’m a killer!” he cried, his eyes flashing open.

Milly’s brow knit in concern. “Mr. Vash, what are you talking about?”

“Really, Spikey? You, a killer?” Wolfwood scoffed. “If it weren’t for your damn spikeyisms, there wouldn’t be half as many crazed idiots runnin’ around this hellhole planet.”

“You’ve always done whatever you can to save a life,” Milly said.

“But I’m… I can never…” He sniffled. “Never atone…”

Meryl bowed her head, and he burst into tears.

“Let go, let go,” Brandon said. Milly and Wolfwood let go of Vash’s hands, and Brandon pulled the blanket the whole way around him. “All right, Lightning, can ya stand up?”

“Try,” Vash mumbled.

More hands supported his arms and back. As soon as they tried lifting him, he doubled over and wailed in agony. Not only was he too stiff to move, everything inside and out—scars, joints, muscles, nerves, and internal organs—felt like it was on fire. Even the slightest touch resulted in sharp, stabbing shocks of pain like a knife that had once sliced clean through the tendons and flesh of his left arm.

“You need to go to the doc?” Brandon asked.

“Doc?” Vash squinted, unsure that he had ever even told Frank about the ship. “Can’t go. Too far away.”

“He means the hospital,” Wolfwood said.

“No! Don’t take me!” Vash let out a raspy cough. He groaned at the sensation of pins and needles causing his breaths to come short. “I… don’t have to go…”

“Okay, okay! We get it.”

“I’ll fetch my old man’s wheelchair,” Brandon said. “Probably better than carryin’ him.”

“Can you sit tight until then, Spikey?”

Vash grunted in affirmation, trailing off into a low, distressed whine.

One of the hands that had been on his back wandered down his left arm to his hand. Milly laced her fingers in his, giving his left hand a squeeze. The sensation felt fainter than earlier, and there was a prickling pinch where his port connected to the prosthetic. It eased his heart to know she was there, even if it was hard to look at her right now.

The tip of a callused thumb hesitantly brushed his ungloved right index finger. Wolfwood picked up Vash’s hand and turned it over, making his arm cramp vaguely in protest, to inspect the bandages. At some point he had shoved a cigarette in his mouth, but Vash didn’t smell any smoke. Wolfwood seemed to realize it at the same time, since he stopped his inspection to fish his lighter out of one of his suit coat pockets.

Milly frowned. “Mr. Wolfwood, shouldn’t you—?”

“I’m not movin’ an ich, so don’t even say it, big girl.”

“It’s fine,” Vash said. The familiar smell put him at ease, if only a little. “Don’t mind.”

“Gotta double-check that you’re wrapped up right,” Wolfwood muttered, staring at Vash’s hand as his cigarette burned. “Stay put.”

Vash averted his eyes, sure that Wolfwood was using it as an excuse not to look at him. Still, it warmed his heart that Wolfwood was being so attentive to his wound, and that he had no issue being this close to him for so long.

Milly let go of Vash’s hand to adjust his blanket. The scent of lavender made him think of Meryl. He lifted his head, which made his neck ache, to look for her; she was standing in front of him, where she had been before.

She’s so far away. Too far away to reach. What if something happens?

“Meryl,” he gasped, his chest racked by squeezing pain. “I need you… to come here.”

“Huh?” Meryl’s eyes went wide. “I… really don’t think there’s anything I could do to help. Milly and Wolfwood have everything taken care of. And Mr. Marlon will be right back to take you inside.”

“Please!” Vash begged. He didn’t care how desperate he sounded. He needed her closer so she could be safe.

“Just do it,” Wolfwood told her. “He ain’t in his right mind.”

“I know exactly what’s going on!” Vash retorted, nearly coughing again when the pins and needles in his chest punished him for speaking.

“That’s a lie, and ya know—”

“I’m coming,” Meryl interrupted.

She walked over to them, sitting beside Milly so their shoulders brushed. Relief washed over Vash, even though Meryl wasn’t touching him. His body was still unbearably sore, but his shoulders started to relax a little more. His racing heart calmed down. His breaths were far less shallow.

The door creaked. Vash winced at the sound of squeaking wheels.

“I’m back, Lightning,” Brandon said. “Gimme a hand, Slick.”

“Got it. Big girl, back us up again.”

Meryl got to her feet and backed away. Milly and Wolfwood stood up and walked behind him.

“Mr. Vash, look at Meryl for us, okay? Just watch her and keep your eyes open. Okay, on three. One, two, three—”

Wolfwood and Brandon grunted, and Vash screamed in agony as searing pain radiated through his entire body. He felt like a wet washcloth being twisted and wrung out. He bit his lip hard and tried to focus on his throbbing hand as a distraction, but it was no use.

“Put me down!” he wailed. “Put me back down!”

“You’re all right,” Milly whispered. “Look at Meryl.”

“Stop! Let go of me—” He choked on air and broke into a coughing fit. “What are you doing? Let go of me!”

“Jeez, stop—friggin’—thrashin’ around, you idiot!”

“Would you can it and get a better grip on him, Slick? Haven’t you ever dealt with someone who don’t know what’s goin’ on before? Gimme a hand here, Sunshine.”

“On it, Mr. Marlon. Shh, shh, it’s okay, Mr. Vash. Look at Meryl. Look at Meryl for me.”

“It hurts! Everything hurts! Let go of me now!”

“Calm the hell down already!” Wolfwood snapped. “We’re not tryin’ to hurt you. We’re not tryin’ to kill you. So shut your yap and grin and bear it. Cooperate for once in your spikey life.”

“All we need to do is get you in the wheelchair and then you can lie down inside,” Milly said.

“Yeah, and you know how comfortable that couch is,” Brandon said. “You’ve taken a load off at my place before.”

“How about it, Mr. Vash? Can you let us lift you?”

“Think so,” Vash mumbled, going limp all of a sudden. The pain and stress were wearing on him. His bones felt like they’d turned to jelly.

“Ready?” Wolfwood asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“One, two, three—”

This time, Vash was prepared to be lifted and expected the intense pain that went along with it. Once he was halfway to standing, they carefully lowered him into a soft fabric seat. Brandon adjusted the leg rests so that Vash’s feet wouldn’t drag on the ground, then spread the blanket over him. Vash closed his eyes almost the whole way, intending to leave them open a crack so he could watch where they were going. Before long, he started to dip in and out of consciousness. He was powerless to stop himself from drifting off.

—

Vash awoke resting on a familiar saggy couch that reeked of beer, machine grease, and gunpowder. His head was propped up by a lumpy pillow, and a scratchy brown blanket was spread over him. His heartbeat was slow and calm. His breaths came deep and even. The sensations and smells surrounding him felt comforting, not foreign or unwanted.

He still had a pounding headache, and nearly all of his scars were voicing complaints of varying severity. When he tried to flex his right hand, pain radiated up his arm. He winced and grunted.

“Are you awake?” Meryl whispered.

Vash opened his eyes and turned to face her. She was sitting right next to him. Her eyes were a deep dark blue, but not as dark as the bags casting shadows beneath them. Her trembling hands were so small. He wanted to hold them, stop them from shaking, but no matter how carefully he cradled them, he feared he would break them.

“’m sorry,” he croaked hoarsely. He started to cough.

“You don’t have to apologize, Mr. Vash. Here.”

She offered him his water flask, and Vash took it, noticing with a heavy heart how she kept her hand on the neck and waited for him to grab the bottom. The flask smelled smoky. He regretted that he thought about a finely aged whiskey first instead of Wolfwood’s cigarettes.

“Milly and I are going to have lunch soon,” she said. “Um, Mr. Vash?”

“What?”

“Um, well…” Meryl shook her head. “It’s nothing. Please, drink some more water. And rest for as long as you can.”

Vash averted his eyes and sipped his water. Who was this Meryl and what had she done with the confident, headstrong woman he knew? If only he could pick up her broken pieces and put her back together. But he was the reason she was shattered, and he could hardly be her glue if he was just as broken. How could he mend her if he couldn’t even mend himself?

“You take care of yourself, too,” he offered weakly. “Make sure you eat. And get some rest.”

“Oh, um, thank you.”

A knock at the door startled her. She sat upright and turned around.

“Time to head out, ma’am,” Milly said. Her eyes widened. “Mr. Vash, you’re awake. How do you feel?”

“I’m fine,” Vash lied. He forced a weak smile for her, for both of them.

Milly raised her eyebrows. “You’re smiling again. You must be getting better.”

“Yeah, I’m doing just fine,” Vash repeated, not sure she was convinced. He certainly wasn’t convincing himself.

“Mr. Wolfwood?” Milly called into the hallway beyond the door.

“What’s up?” Vash heard him say.

“Mr. Vash is awake. Do you want to say hello before we head out?”

Vash listened as Wolfwood’s familiar footsteps came closer. Relief washed over him when Wolfwood poked his head in the doorway.

“Be back soon, Spikey,” Wolfwood said. “Any requests?”

Vash thought about asking for a bottle of beer, or better yet, whiskey. “I’ll drink some more water,” he said instead. “Don’t worry about bringing anything back for me.”

“You could try soup,” Milly suggested.

“Nah. He’ll need to eat somethin’ that sticks to his ribs. Or at least a real big snack. That’s just how you work, right, Spikey? Ya can’t run on soup alone.”

Vash attempted to shrug, though it was somewhat lopsided since he was lying down. His stomach cramped; he wasn’t sure if it was a hunger pang or a scar’s complaint.

“Marlon’s gonna stick around and keep an eye on you ’til one of us gets back, all right? Later.”

“Rest well, Mr. Vash,” Milly said.

“Yes, please rest well,” Meryl echoed.

They left. Vash picked up the water flask and curled his left hand around it, holding it as tightly as he could to be sure he wouldn’t drop it. It might dent the flask, but he didn’t really have the proper sensation or communication with his nerves due to the wire malfunction, and it was going to be a while until he would be awake and alert enough to do any maintenance on it.

Brandon knocked on the doorframe and waltzed over to the chair where Meryl had been sitting. He had one hand stuffed in his pocket and the other wrapped around a can of beer. Burning with envy, Vash swallowed his sip of water too quickly and coughed so hard he wheezed.

“Jesus, Lightning!” Brandon removed the flask from Vash’s viselike grip and gave him a solid pat on the shoulder. “You gotta slow down, bud. Here, try again.”

Vash took another sip, coughed a few more times, then took another. Brandon waited for the coughing fit to subside, then helped Vash drink a little more. He leaned against the back of his chair and guzzled about half his can. His brow had a wrinkle Vash hadn’t seen last time he’d come by, and there were a few gray hairs he didn’t recall, either. Drowning himself in drink and living alone probably hadn’t done him any favors.

“You’re glarin’ at my can like it’s personal,” Brandon said. “I told you before, my old man and me ain’t cut from the same cloth when it comes to this. If you’re thinkin’ of gettin’ me to give up the dew of life, good luck.”

“No. I wasn’t thinking about that.”

“Thirsty, then.”

“Well, maybe…” Vash closed his eyes and grinned. “…I might be just a little thirsty.”

“Okay. Drink more water.”

Vash frowned. “Is water all I get?”

“What the hell’s your problem? Oh, I get it.” Vash opened his eyes to see Brandon scowling at him. “I thought ya smelled funny.” Pointing at Vash, he said accusingly, “So you went on a drinkin’ jag for a few days, and then all of a sudden you weren’t able to have your booze. Is that why you’re such a mess?”

Vash said nothing.

“Listen, it’s no good to go crazy if you’re not used to this stuff. All you’ll get is a killer headache and a beast of a hangover. Water’ll help some with the headache, but what you should really have is a few painkillers.”

“How will that make the craving go away?”

Brandon scoffed. “Hair of the dog don’t work. You know that.”

“You won’t give me anything?”

“Course not. Look how dehydrated you are.” He pinched the tiny patch of bare skin on the back of Vash’s right hand. It was slower than usual to bounce back. “And even if ya weren’t, you’re not endin’ up a lush if I got anything to say about it. Guy like you who’s always on the run’s got no time for my lifestyle. Be right back, Lightning. Hold your water.”

Vash sighed, grumbling once Brandon was out of earshot. He took a swig of water and stared up at the ceiling. The more he thought about his next drink, which kept getting further away, the less appealing it seemed. But he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to wait that long for something to stop the itch and numb the pain.

In the meantime, he could at least get more comfortable by detaching his left arm. He carefully nudged the blanket aside with his right hand. His left hand was still covered with its usual glove. He tried to undo the buckles, but with a bandaged right hand and reflexes slowed by exhaustion, he found it a much more daunting task than usual.

“Hey, whatcha up to?” Brandon said. “Is that somethin’ I can help with?”

“It’s nothing.” Vash furrowed his brow as he fiddled with one of the buckles. “I’m fine.”

“Knock it off. I know you’re packin’ heat in that arm, and it can’t be comfortable still attached like that. Lemme help.”

“You know how you can help? Bring me a beer and leave me alone!”

“There’s no way in hell I’m givin’ you booze right now. Now lemme see. It’s mechanical, right? I can probably figure—”

“Don’t touch me,” Vash snarled.

He attempted to pull his arm away, but moving his elbow resulted in the whole prosthetic painfully disconnecting from its port. The twisted wire snapped in half, and an electric jolt shot all the way up to his neck. He howled in agony and started to sob.

“Holy shit!” Brandon hissed. “Must’ve hurt like a bitch. Aaaand he’s cryin’ again. Sorry, Lightning. Didn’t mean to get you that riled up. I was an idiot, all right? Can I try and fix it?”

“A wire—” Vash gasped, trying to catch his breath. The pain radiating down his neck to his arm was so intense that he could hardly speak. “Inside. Communi”—he cut himself off mid-word with a groan—“Communi…cates. With my nerves.” He groaned again.

“A wire that communicates with your nerves. Inside your prosthetic arm. Okay. And what happened to it?”

“Snapped in half. Please.” He pointed to the port with a shaking hand. “Take it off.”

“Is it gonna hurt more if I do that?”

“It’s fine. I can handle it.”

Brandon frowned. “Dunno about that,” he muttered.

He reached over Vash and started to fiddle with the latches keeping his prosthetic in place. Vash gritted his teeth and tried to keep his grunts and groans to a minimum. He hissed in relief when Brandon finally detached it from the port.

“I’ll take this to my workbench in the next room over, okay? I don’t wanna bother you no more.”

“You don’t have to.”

“All I’m gonna do is raise a huge racket—oh.” Brandon cleared his throat. “I gotcha. All right. I’ll bring my tools in here if that makes ya feel better.”

Vash hummed and leaned his head against the back of the couch. “Thanks, Brandon.”

“No problem. Back in a jiff. Need to catch some grub. You take your painkillers and get some shut-eye, all right? I’ll fix that wire in no time.”

“Please, don’t bother. It’s very complicated. I should do it.”

Brandon huffed. “Gimme a break. What’re you tryin’ to say, it’s too complicated for me? I’ll take care of it, just you wait.”

Vash offered him a faint smile. “Counting on you.” He yawned, headache giving way to sudden drowsiness. He reached over for the painkillers Brandon had set on the nearby table and downed them with a bit of water. “…thank you.”

Just before he drifted off, he heard Brandon whisper as he left the room, “Think nothin’ of it, Lightning.”

—

Vash awoke to the savory, greasy smell of spiced kebab meat. Mouth watering, he fought his heavy lids and won, opening his eyes. Wolfwood sat on the chair in front of him, balancing a white cardboard container with dark grease stains on the outside on his knee. Inside the container was a pile of fries covered in white tzatziki sauce and seasoning. With both hands, he was holding something wrapped in pita bread and taking politely-sized, but ravenous, bites of it. A clump of red cabbage dropped out and landed on top of the fries.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Wolfwood said. “We stopped at a kebab shop downtown. I was surprised. Usually pretty tough to find a place that sells ‘donor.’”

“Döner,” Vash corrected. He hadn’t spoken German in about ten years, but he’d never forget how to pronounce an umlaut.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.”

“Save some for me? Please?” A sharp cramp pierced his stomach. “Please, Wolfwood, I’m so hungry,” he groaned pathetically. He didn’t have to put too much effort into pretending.

Swallowing his bite of döner, Wolfwood muttered, “Get real, Spikey. This is my lunch. The girls got a gyro and stuffed grape leaves for them and something for you. Not sure what it was.”

“Where are they?”

“They told me to go on ahead, and they’d catch up. Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you, after all.”

“Where’s Brandon?”

“Lookin’ for chairs for the girls.”

“Hey, can’t your people leave for even a few seconds?” Brandon joked as he walked in with two metal folding chairs, one under each arm. “You got some kind of separation anxiety?”

Vash’s ears burned, and he flared his nostrils and pouted. Wolfwood, at least, refrained from making a similar snide comment.

“I know, I know.” Brandon waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll quit pickin’ on ya and crawl back into my hole. Gotta plug away at that wire, after all.”

With a wink, he turned his back and walked away. Milly snuck past him and stepped over the threshold of the door, offering Vash a small smile and a wave.

“You look better already,” she said. “Do you want some lunch?”

“Yes,” Vash blurted.

The tantalizing smells of Wolfwood’s lunch were only making his stomachache worse. He needed more sustenance. Hopefully, it would sate his hunger enough that he could ignore the craving for alcohol.

“Good answer! Ready to sit up?”

“Back me up, big girl.”

Wolfwood stood up, set his box on the chair, and wiped his hands off with a handkerchief he pulled out of the breast pocket of his suit coat. Milly set down the paper bag she was carrying and hooked one of her arms in Vash’s left armpit.

“Be careful,” Vash said, and gasped when she shifted her arm slightly. “The wire—I—” He trailed off into a strained moan as the sleeve of her overcoat brushed the port.

“He snapped a wire earlier,” Brandon told her. “You might be brushing up against a nerve.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Vash,” Milly mumbled.

“I’ll do it,” Wolfwood said. “All I gotta do’s just shift him around enough to sit upright, yeah? Back me up with some legwork, Spikey.”

With Wolfwood’s strength and a bit of maneuvering with his legs, Vash was able to sit up against the back of the sagging couch. Milly and Meryl pulled up their chairs. Milly reached in the paper bag, set a white takeout container on his lap, and opened up the cardboard flaps. It was just a few skewers of grilled chicken arranged on a bed of rice with a pile of fries on the side, but Vash practically drooled at the sight.

“Okay, here’s how this is going to work, ma’am,” Milly said as she scraped the chicken off the skewers and handed Vash his plastic fork. “For every bite Mr. Vash takes, we’ll take one bite of our food. How’s that sound?”

“Okay,” Meryl said mousily.

Vash deliberately held himself back from tearing into his food the way he wanted to. If he ate too fast, he was likely to throw up, especially since his craving-induced headache had given him such intense vertigo earlier. Not only did he want to eat, he needed to eat, but he wouldn’t exactly get the energy boost he needed if none of it stayed down.

He took his first bite and was nearly overwhelmed to tears by the simplicity of it—starchy rice, mild, lemony chicken with a small enough amount of seasoning that it wouldn’t upset a sensitive stomach. They must have asked the cook to go easy on the spices, a show of compassion that warmed his heart but might have irritated the cook just a little. Suppressing a fond chuckle, he took another bite, slowly chewing it, and another.

“You’re doing so well, ma’am,” Milly said gently. “Soon you’ll have it all finished.”

“Knew you were starvin’, Spikey, short girl.” Wolfwood gestured to each of them with tzatziki-covered fingertips before licking them clean.

“It’s delicious,” Meryl said. “I wasn’t hungry enough for more than the stuffed grape leaves, but I think I’m going to finish every single one.”

Milly beamed. “That’s the spirit!”

“Hey, what about you, big girl?” Wolfwood pointed his thumb at her. “Your gyro’s halfway to stainin’ your sleeves.”

“Oh, my, you’re right. How could I forget about myself?”

They all dug in to their meals. Vash felt less nauseous and more reassured with every bite he and Meryl took. He tucked into his lunch with vigor, polishing off the rice and chicken. When he leaned forward to dip his fries in Wolfwood’s tzatziki, Wolfwood borrowed Meryl’s knife, slathered some sauce on it, and scraped it on the inside edge of Vash’s container. Vash’s headache grew dull as the painkillers kicked in. He started feeling better about getting up and going. His legs grew restless, though he hid it well by focusing on his meal.

“That was delicious,” Milly said after taking her last bite. “We should do this more often.”

“Yeah,” Wolfwood agreed. Vash had never heard him sound so wistful before.

Meryl bowed her head, and Vash’s heart twisted with guilt.

This couldn’t, and wouldn’t, become a habit. No matter how much Vash enjoyed watching Wolfwood licking sauce off his fingers, Meryl taking polite bites of her food, and Milly smiling while chewing. No matter how good food tasted when it was shared. They had all been lucky their meals hadn’t turned to ash in their mouths. The restaurant’s cook must have been extra talented. That was all.

“Hey,” Brandon called. “Think I’ve just about got this wire figured out. I found a match for the ammo, too, so I’ll throw in a cartridge for free.”

“That’s good news, huh?” Wolfwood said as he gathered up their takeout boxes. “We’ll be able to get going again. Here, I’ll get rid of the trash and go wash up.”

“I’d better wash up, too,” Milly said, getting to her feet. “Mr. Marlon, where’s your bathroom?”

“I’ll show ya,” Brandon said, and the three of them left Vash and Meryl alone to avoid each other’s gazes.

Muffled voices drifted from the staircase that led upstairs. Meryl drummed her fingers on her lap, then started wringing her hands. Vash stared intently at his arm port, then out the window. He conjured a Meryl in his mind who was full of life, wished there was anything, something he could do for her. He tried to glance at her out of the corner of his eye, but his heart clenched and he had to look away.

There’s nothing I can do to atone.

Two years ago, he had tried to tell her and Milly not to follow him. He had always known it might lead to something terrible. And Wolfwood—he couldn’t bear to think of what could happen to Wolfwood, what would happen to Wolfwood.

“Um…” Meryl started.

Swallowing, Vash finally turned to face her. “What is it?”

“It’s just…” She shook her head. “Never mind. I should wash up, too. We’ll be right back, okay? Don’t run off without us.”

She rushed out of the room. He sat there for a while, listening for any movement or voices. Five minutes had gone by without anyone returning when he heard muffled sniffling a couple rooms over.

Vash’s meager lunch sat like a stone in his gut. Rubbing his eyes with his right hand, he slowly sat up, wincing at the strain on his sore muscles, and looked around the room. On a corner table sat a crystal glass bottle filled with an amber liquid. Pulling the blanket aside, he got to his feet. He stumbled when he stood up, then limped all the way over to the table. He pulled the stopper from the bottle and guzzled it until it was half-empty.

Brandon, Milly, and Wolfwood’s distant voices were growing closer. He hurriedly plugged the bottle and staggered back to the couch. His head throbbed, and he groaned under his breath, falling forward and catching himself on the cushions. He buried his head in the blankets and blacked out.

—

He saw feathers and a dark void and a burst of light. It all faded away and was replaced by three smiling faces. He reached for them. They turned around and vanished.

No! Come back!

But they didn’t return. He was alone with himself and the feathers and the creatures and a bottle of eighty proof.

This is the way it should be. I’m a monster. Vash unscrewed the bottle and tipped his head back.

It’s not too late.

Vash’s hand slipped, and he dropped the bottle. Alcohol spilled all over his lap, dissolving his coat and eating away at his scarred skin.

Break this habit. For them. For me.

How can I?

Don’t you dare, Vash!

I can’t do it. I need to. I can’t go on without it.

I’m the reason you haven’t quit. You need to forgive yourself.

I can’t. I’ll never forgive myself. Never.

I’LL NEVER ESCAPE MY PAIN.

I’LL NEVER BREAK THIS ENDLESS CYCLE.

I’LL NEVER STOP MOVING.