Author's Note: Simply put, this is a Legato POV. And since we're talking about Mr. Bluesummers here, expect high quantities of angst, violence, insanity, and depression. Spoilers for pretty much the whole series, so you have been warned.

Disclaimer: Outside of my very active imagination, Legato does not belong to me - all of Trigun belongs to Nightow-sensei and whoever he's licensed it to. Please do not copy, alter, post, or mess around with this fic without my permission. As always, reviews are much appreciated. Let me know what you think, what I can do better, if you know of any arcane ceremonies for bringing Legato to real life....etc. Arigato! ^_~


By Rachael Haring

It's time, Vash the Stampede.

This human body itches, like a thousand centipedes writhing beneath unclean skin. It twinges and chafes, eternally reminding me of its deficiency. I can smell its filth, its sweat, its weakness. I loathe it. I want to cut it, hurt it, shuffle it off like some reeking sackcloth. Its impermanence is imperfection. Every second, it fades and wilts, like a desperate weed in a bed of suns-baked sand. It should not exist. I should not exist.

Don't you understand? My presence is blasphemy in the face of His true, perfect beauty. His skin...His voice...His hands...His force. All flawless. Eternal. Powerful. More holy than anything I could ever imagine. His blows are godly caresses; His words are the revelations of a thousand prophets; His eyes are seas of omniscience. How can I not worship Him? How can I not feel the weight of my disease under his divine footsteps?

And now, at last, I've reached the end of my devotion. I've done all I could. There's one last way for this hateful body to be of use. It must serve its purpose, and then go to its rotting grave with all the other hollow bits of trash. Help me serve that purpose. Help me please Him.

Kill me.

What are you waiting for? Are you really afraid of hurting me? Do you really think I fear anything now? I can hear your thoughts buzzing around in your traumatized brain, crashing into each other like frenzied carrion flies. I can taste the bitter indecision in your throat. You cling, and you resist. I send another mental command to the puppets, and their pained cries stab into you, pushing you closer, closer to that edge of choice. Aren't you going to stop me? How many of your precious insects must I destroy before you deem me no longer worthy of breath?

Look at me, His Brother. Look in my eyes, and see the weariness, the resignation. Everything I'll ever be, I've already been. I'm already dying. I'm already dead. I only need you to pull the trigger.

Do it, Vash the Stampede. I murdered your priest, so take his job upon your shoulders. Send me to my blank paradise, and sink deep into your own personal hell. Live with this, for Him. Crumble into pieces. Shatter. Reflect his brilliance, and take his darkness deep within you. Accept Him, lesser angel. You are Him. He is You.

I kneel before you, a parody of prayer, a sacrificial lamb to slaughter. I bow my head to receive your blessing.

I can feel the barrel warm and hard against my scalp, burning with the heat of double suns, trembling with your sacred rage. My brain craves the impact of your bullet, longs for cold metal plowing deep through synapse and nerve. I want it to destroy my thoughts, my memories, every last trace of me. I want the anointment of blood, the rush of death, the silence. I want it. I need it. If you've ever professed mercy, grant me this respite. End it. Please. End everything.

Heal me.

Dismiss me.

Release me.

Bestow your benediction on my unworthy soul.

And I will go in peace.

© 2003 Rachael M. Haring