Disclaimer: Trigun Maximum and its associated world and characters belong to the honorable Yasuhiro Nightow. I am making no money from this. This is merely fun I am having.

Notes: This story takes place after the manga version of Trigun, after the end of Trigun Maximum. The ending I am starting off beyond was one I read in fan-translation. There are manga-specific references that may not make sense to you if you have only seen the Trigun anime, and I used the manga fate of the city of July here. Basically, unless you've read the manga through to the end, including the fan-translations of very last chapters, this fic will probably make no sense to you.

This story is also based upon a loose series of fanart done by members of the TriNut fan message board (including myself), which can be seen around Deviant Art – the "White Vash" series. Different fans had different interpretations on this same idea, which was spawned by Puchiko2. "White Vash" as fanart never had a clear context. The art was just our "fantasy-repaint" in the tradition of the "Dark Vash" action figures that actually exist. This is my attempt to give our "White Vash Repaint" an origin and a context.

REFLECTIONS ON AN ENDLESS WHITE SKY

A Trigun Maximum fanfiction by Shadsie

The sky was white – that peculiar condition that happens to a sky just before the onset of a big storm. At least it wasn't tawny-brown, indicative of a sandstorm. Vash did not see anything like that on the horizon. The desert stretched on endlessly, but there were landmarks here and there – rock formations and assorted, weatherworn stone spires, the occasional dry, thorny tree, that sandworm he'd seen in the distance several isles back, frolicking delightfully in the open sands… Vash had made haste to avoid it.

No, if a sandstorm were coming, he'd see an ominous brown wall coming his way. That was what they were like – a sandstorm was a creeping wall, a ravenous beast that looked slow in its approach, but would be upon you in an instant. The satellite reports had said rain was probable in this area, but not high winds. Sweat clung to Vash's face in the more-humid-than-normal air. The wind whipping past him was cooling, but he was most grateful for the heat-resistance provided by his special-make coat.

Kain had always done excellent work for him.

Lost technology for lost technology.

The gunman rode an old motorcycle he'd refurbished enough to make serviceable. He'd finally learned how to drive one. He supposed Wolfwood would be proud, though it was more likely he'd scold him on his style, or poor maintenance, or something else, but not before striking a match on one of his knee-plates to light a bent cigarette. Little memories like that kept a person alive in one's heart.

Vash hadn't dubbed his machine any variant on the "Angelina" model Wolfwood had used. He mildly regretted that he'd never asked the makeshift priest who the original "Angelina" was. In fact, Vash had wondered if she was that inflatable love-doll Wolfwood had kept in his luggage. He did not want to remember how he'd found that ghastly thing, but it had been long after he'd accepted that Wolfwood was no ordinary preacher. Vash decided that "Angelina" had probably been some important woman in his friend's life, a girlfriend, or, perhaps one of the caretakers at his orphanage.

So, Vash had named his motorcycle after a woman that had been important in his life. He felt it somehow disrespectful to dub a vehicle "Rem." He called his bike "Meryl." It was a small, determined machine. Besides, it amused him to no end to think that he was "riding Meryl." Mayhap it was fortunate that he hadn't seen the lady Stryfe in almost half a year.

It was amazing – he'd gotten so good at dodging people, he could escape even her. He missed her, though, and Milly's hidden wisdom, but, as always, those girls were dedicated to their work and it was not a good thing for him (or the world) for him to be a regular television celebrity. It was hard enough being a legend.

If he could just fade away into the sands… change his name…. He hadn't the heart to get a new haircut and it always seemed to spring back up that way, anyway. His coat was just too useful. "Vash the Stampede" was a name spoken in fear and awe, and was something that no longer needed a person attached to it. Maybe in a hundred years or so, they'd stop hunting him. Maybe he'd actually get to see that day. His hair was pure black now, but he never knew how much energy Knives had put into him.

He saw the first signs of wreckage up ahead. He couldn't believe it – were there really plans in the works to rebuild this place? He was determined to pay it a personal visit, before any construction began.

A cold feeling clenched Vash's heart. This was a solemn place, a place for mourning, a tomb. They'd been obliterated, hadn't they? Not even ashes had been left to scatter on the wind. No matter how many times he'd tried to tell himself that he'd merely been used, that his body had merely been a "gun" and that his brother had pulled the trigger, Vash could not escape the guilt.

So, the gunman rode into his penance-ground, the twisted remains of the city of July.

He had not been here since not long after That Day. The city looked "better" somehow, than it used to. It was almost covered up by windblown sand. Two huge Plant bulbs lorded over the area, their glass busted and cracked at their bottoms, half-filled with tawny sand. The entirely of their insides were covered with a film of fine dust. They made a striking scene against the white of the sky.

Half-buried as they were, remains of buildings lay everywhere. Vash wandered what was once the high street, among the splintered boards and beams. Some of the beams were still covered in crumbling adobe. Chunks of adobe lay here and there, broken enough to show the bits of wood and chicken-wire used to reinforce the walls they once made up. Most of the houses here had been made of or with wood. July had been an affluent city. The municipal buildings in the city's center had been built mostly of metal, and a few, strangely enough, of plastic. In any given city, the utilitarian structures and the houses of the poor and middle class people were made from the scrap of whatever ship had crashed or landed nearby. Only the richest of families could afford Geoplant wood.

Vash wandered back toward the city's center. It had been right here, hadn't it? Knives had activated his Angel Arm right here. Vash longed for the days when he did not remember these details. He was more innocent then – as innocent as a gunfighter could be. Perhaps he could have continued to be innocent, but a part of him was glad to know the truth.

He lowered his head, sparing memories and prayers for the people he had known here. He spared silent regrets for those he'd never met.

Vash felt a pricking sensation on the back of his neck; it was dreadfully familiar. Vash took a moment to assess what he was feeling. No, it was not merely hairs standing on end – he felt feathers. He also felt a tightness and heat in his right arm. Something here was triggering his "seed" into an active mode and he did not know what it was. Did some of his energy linger here still? Did some of Knives' remain? Were the residual energy signatures of the poor dead bulb sisters that had once lived here doing something to him?

Vash looked down at his arm. Spirals of bright blue electricity arched around it. Pathetic little white wings and thin blades began to sprout from it, though his coat sleeve. He had never known how much energy Knives had pumped into him when he was dying, but Vash knew that it was not enough for this. Vash knew that one more expenditure of his power would bring on his death.

"Oh, crap!" the gunman uttered before he fell upon his back in the sand covering what was once a street.

He immediately thought; "Oh Crap?" My last words are going to be "Oh, crap?" I always thought I'd go out with something more poetic.

He felt arcs of familiar energy all around him. He was getting tired. All he could do before falling asleep was to stare up at the endless white sky.

Vash awoke, much to his surprise. He felt energy, but drawing into him this time. The tingling and snapping sensations ceased and he stood. He noticed one of his coat tails flapping in the breeze, but something was strange about it.

It was completely white.

Vash looked down on himself. His old duster was white. The gunman wondered if it had saved him, if his body had somehow drawn in energy from the coat.

Kain was a genius.

Vash's gaze caught the light of a large piece of mirrored glass upon the ground. He stared into it, running his fingertips through his hair. "The black of decay" was completely gone, but his hair was not its old blond shade, either. His hair was completely white, like the hair of an old man.

Vash never knew, entirely, what had happened to him. He spent a great deal of time wandering. He saw Milly and Meryl a few times, but did not get to speak with them. He saw their hair become laced with silver.

Time marched on relentlessly. His senses seemed to fade. Pain and desire, hunger and thirst – none of these bothered him anymore. Vash had always been able to endure; there were many times when he had been on the run that he'd go for days without eating or without sleeping. There was always the pain of hunger and the niggling pain of tiredness, but these agonies did not accompany the gunman anymore. He'd simply forget to eat sometimes, and when he lay down to sleep, it was dreamless and it felt as if he'd only blinked.

He wondered if he was even still alive. It made sense to Vash that he would be a wandering spirit, watching this world until the end of time. He wondered if, maybe, he was living on a strong energy, something given back to him, a new state of being. Perhaps he'd reached some ultimate form of Plant existence, one where he did not need to eat or to sleep. Maybe he was photosynthesizing, taking in all of the energy he needed from the suns themselves. Vash wondered if Knives also wandered in a similar state, somewhere out there.

Vash watched July rise again, much grander than it had ever been. Its spires shone silver in the moonlight and its glass-paneled towers glittered golden and blinding in the dawn. Vehicles hovered on tracks suspended in arcs around the skyscrapers and, at night, the lights of the metropolis outshone the moons.

The other major cities grew like this, as well. The cities used willing Plants – not as servants, but as partners. Large tracks of desert became green, supporting crops and trees. Vash watched, to his utter astonishment, as it became fashionable for the wealthy to live in housing communities with their own artificial lakes. He felt that to be a waste of resources, but if the Plants were willing to do such things and if it made people happy…

The world became tamer than it used to be, but it was by no means perfect. Miscreants told of a "phantom" that shot the weapons from their hands, or wounded them and left.

People stopped chasing Vash the Stampede. Surely, even being a Plant, he could not survive another hundred years. "Oh, someone's shot him down by now," and "Wasn't he last seen with black hair? Certainly, a black-haired Plant wouldn't keep living this long!" people would say, so the stories of a white-haired man that resembled the old advertisements and wanted posters were dismissed as fantasies, or as someone impersonating the old figure of legend.

Vash came to miss playing "tag."

He walked one afternoon down a dreary, narrow street in the city of Octovern. Of all the major cities, it retained the most "Old World charm." There were many structures Vash recognized from the days of the Last Stand that were still standing. The "Earthlings" couldn't erase all of the planet's history.

He stopped to listen to a young man in tattered jeans play a guitar. A few others gathered around him as he sang "The Legend of Vash the Stampede" in a deep and mirthful voice. When the young man was done and the crowd began to dissipate, Vash dug into one of his coat pockets and pulled out a twenty double-dollar bill. He dropped it into the open guitar case lying on the street.

"Thank you kindly, stranger," said the musician as Vash walked away. "Wait! Mister!" he cried out upon picking up and smoothing out the bill, "I've never seen money like this before!"

The man held up the bill. Upon a second look, he knew that he had seen something like this before – in a museum collection. He looked after the now distant form in the long white coat. "What a strange man, speaking not a word and giving me antique money…"

Words came to Vash's mind, words he had spoken once, an age ago, to his brother; We're the past. We no longer matter to the future of this planet.

So, the song of humanity still sang, and the man once known as Vash the Stampede had little part in it. And that was just fine by him.

END.

Shadsie, 2008