A somewhat more serious take on Vash and Meryl; Meryl's impressions and understandings of Vash throughout their journey. Rated for violent or sexual themes and scenes. Follows 26 Episode story structure, fairly strong adherence to canon.
Meryl had been ecstatic to receive the Vash assignment. What an honor! Hell of a promotion, really. She'd chosen Milly Thompson as her second in command, both for the amiable working relationship they had shared in the past and for the fact that Thompson could always come through in a pinch with her stun-gun. This was the Humanoid Typhoon they were talking about, after all. Better to be ready for any situation.
But now her patience was wearing thin. All they had been able to find so far was a string of dead ends and outlaws only claiming to be Vash the Stampede. No one seemed to even know what he looked like… So they had followed up on every lead they could find in the hope that just once they would catch a break.
And that lunatic was there every time.
Meryl felt her teeth grinding just at the thought of him. Her fingers typed more furiously than ever, stabbing at the keys with unnecessary force as she wrote another unsuccessful report. She and Milly—they had become fast friends in their travels, but the younger woman still refused to stop calling her "Ma'am"—had run into this character at every turn.
He had brilliantly yellow hair that stood up in a mess of spikes, and wore a long, vibrantly red duster. He was tall, and so skinny Meryl was fairly sure that even she could snap him in half.
She grinned to herself to think about what would happen if that man ever tangled with Milly. That girl was a giant—but was probably the sweetest person Meryl had ever known. She was glad to have the younger woman with her; Milly frequently kept Meryl's (very) short temper in check. Especially when she was close to throttling the stranger each time he crossed their path, wearing that ridiculous get-up.
And then there were those round yellow glasses of his… Meryl paused in her typing to think about them for a moment. He seemed to be a different person after donning them, as if there was a flicker of real solemnity and purpose in his eyes. But that person, whoever it was, would only stay inside him for a moment. Then he would usually let out a high-pitched shriek and run away, arms akimbo and feet flailing in the dust kicked up by his boots.
No matter what Milly claimed, that idiot was not Vash the Stampede.
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