I'll be damned

It's truly strange, wheeling the Angelina II out of the garage and under the double suns of Gunsmoke, making him squint even behind his dark glasses.  Human beings aren't meant to travel that way, he's totally, one hundred percent positive of that. Motorbikes, spaceships--hell, even Thomases are preferable. He likes to see where he's going, he likes to know how he's getting there.  Magic doors and multiversal travel are more than he's really comfortable with.

Yeah. But maybe just a little of the disorientation has to do with the place he's reappearing; a little wishful thinking to get him through the sinking feeling in his stomach. Hey, honey, he thinks, gloomy. I'm home.

It's early; one sun has managed to clear the horizon but the other is still only a wavering, fiery line bleeding reddish gold streaks across the infinite waves of dune after dune. A few houses, weathered clapboard, stand between him and the open desert. The morning breeze ruffling the few faded, flowered curtains already has a hint of the coming heat, a little vibrant edge to it, promises of the spike that comes once the second sun rises and burns over the planet for another day. Not a single cloud mars the unbroken smoothness of the sky.

Behind him, around him, the little town is just beginning to wake up. Vendors are opening their shop doors, mothers are coming out of their houses to hang rugs and wash on the porch rails or clothesline, men are greeting each other with silent nods on their way to whatever job they've managed to hold onto. Every one of them is gray and colorless, clothing faded with many washings and hours upon hours of harsh sunlight. Even their faces seem gray and lined.  Still, they smile, they shake hands. Even here, where the sand is already beginning to creep up onto their doorsteps, people continue to believe that everything will turn out all right. They have to--how else could they get themselves up in the mornings?

He finds it insulting. He finds it inspiring. It's the most unbelievable thing he's ever seen--the ability of humans to continue daily life under the constant threat of complete extinction.

He half-turns to his right, one hand in his pocket, fingers of the other already searching in his breast pocket for his pack of smokes, teasing one battered cigarette out, and casts his glance over Michael.

"Well," he says, and sticks the unlit cigarette between his lips. "Home sweet home."

Behind his sunglasses, he squints.

Somehow, he always manages to forget just how big the godforsaken desert really is; the emptiness of it, the way the light glares down from the two suns and reflects to make it look even bigger. Even the sky is devoid of any cloud to mar its brassy blueness, and it makes him wonder, like it always does, how a place like this comes to exist. Is it really forgotten by the Almighty, or is it just the sort of blank stage the human race needs in order to sort out all of its problems before it can be lead on to Eden?

Somewhere back at the Outpost, on an asteroid floating near a planet he'd never heard of orbiting a sun he'd never knew existed, a clock is ticking down. Two days ought to be more than enough time--as long as the Angelina II starts.

She's waiting for him right where he left her, like a faithful pet, the metal of her frame caked with dust but still showing a few game gleams. Not that how she looks is ever the problem. He wheedles with her, and threatens, and cajoles, and finally the bike, nursed back to life with some water in the radiator and some gas in the engine, coughs, turns. The packages he ties at the back of the seat--it's another four hours to the orphanage but they should be fine for the run, as long as he doesn't hit too many bumps along the way.

Or run into his employers. What was that about bumps?

But even Legato won't find him unless he's looking, and he isn't important enough to look for unless he's with Vash, so he should be comfortable under the radar...still, he'll keep his trip short. No need to put the poor kids through any more than they've had to deal with already.

Sometimes he thinks he really is the worst person to run an orphanage.

_______________________________


It's when the kids come running into the yard, all pink faces and sun-bleached golden hair and smiles, that he reconsiders. They swarm around the Angelina II, clamoring, while he laughs in delight.

"Did you bring us presents?"

"Where have you been?"

"Have you been rescuing people?"

One little girl stands apart, and he gently disengages himself from the yelling throng to go over and crouch in front of her, hands dangling between his knees. She sucks her thumb solemnly, and looks him over with round, gray eyes.

"You look terrible," she says, finally, and he laughs, grabbing her, and tosses her into the air where she shrieks with laughter.

"That's because I've been missing you, Sissy, my love," he says, and she clings to his neck.

It's here--that indefinable something, that mystery--here, when he sits on the steps and watches the kids play in the dusk, here when he brings out the pot of soup for dinner, here that is the closest thing in this world or any other that he has to a home. Home, which is nearly as impossible to define as love.

When he's here, he gives thanks over and over again.

_______________________________

After he puts Sissy to bed, clutching her new teddy bear, he goes outside, where the giant arc of the desert has cooled like molten glass, into something full of beautiful clarity. Each star burns like lit cigarette, every detail of the dunes and scrub plants are lit in relief by the moons. Sister Francis, who helps with cooking and cleaning and minding the children, is knitting something, rocking herself quietly in a chair by the door. Everything is peaceful, secure.

Only Knives would dare threaten the innocence that resides here.

He sits, smoking, until each moon has risen, and then unfolds his long legs to stand, hands in his pockets. Behind him, Sister Francis stirs.

"The children will be so disappointed to see you've gone," she says, but her voice remains quiet, soothing. She doesn't know what he disappears to do, only that when he returns, it's always with money, and food, and a few toys for the children. She doesn't begrudge or ask questions. It's why he keeps her here.

"I'll be back soon," he says, and flicks the stub of his cigarette into the sand. "For the next few months. After that, I'm afraid you won't see much of me around, Sister. I hate to break your heart."

He can practically feel her smiling in the darkness. A good woman--much like Milly. "I'll soldier on somehow," she says, with a laugh just at the edge of her words. He hears a creak, and then a gentle hand is laid on his shoulder. "Thank you, Father. You do so much good here."

When he doesn't respond, she goes back into the orphanage, and closes the door, turning out the light.

"Right," he says, finally, to no one.

It's another hour before he starts the Angelina II and heads back into the desert.

It's like he just can't win.

Nuts! thinks Wolfwood. He lifts a hand to his cigarette, steadies it as he takes a pull. His mind swirls, the seconds tick by--the cigarette only buys him so much time. The situation is desperate! Maybe I should just headbutt him and make a run for it?

Oh, jeez.

The man across from him raises both eyebrows as Wolfwood shakes his head violently in a vain attempt to clear it of such blasphemous thoughts. I can't do that!

Around him, garish music plays for the gaudy girl dancing on the stage, and men sit at small tables, silent, tired from the sun and the sand and travel. The girl twitches and stomps, and though she's dressed in a short little skirt and corset, he feels nothing but pity. She's just a kid, after all---

Ugh. A kid who needs dancing lessons.

Concentrate! He shakes his head again, feverishly peering at the pieces in front of him. Maybe--no.

Or--

Nah, not that, either.

"What?!? You don't have any pudding?"

That sounds...awfully familiar. Horribly so. Swiveling, he sees a tall girl with long brown hair bring her hands down on the bar. Even from across the room, he could see the hurt and reproach in her face as the bartender tried to explain that...well, there's no pudding in a bar.

Her lower lip trembles. "But I want to have pudding! Please don't be mean to me."

Altogether, it's too much for the bartender, who clearly doesn't speak Milly Thompson. Fortunately for him, Wolfwood does.

He lifts a hand. "Hey, what's the problem here?" There's even a warm little rush he gets when she spins around with a squeal and a big, beaming smile, just for him. How long's it been since someone's been happy to see him?

One last shake of the head. That's hardly worth thinking about.

Actually, it's sort of nice to walk back with her, out from under the stifling caravan tent, and it's nice to talk, too. Milly's so sweet and unassuming...and silly. In the dry world of Gunsmoke, being with Milly is like sitting by a cool, babbling brook in the shade. She's relaxing. It's...

Well, it's just a little treat! He's allowed to enjoy the company of a person instead of the Punisher for a little while every now and then, especially now. Trouble follows him like a bad dog, so is it really skin off anyone's back if he gives himself a little break every now and again?

Of course, Milly's no picnic, either, especially not after they run into that terrible dancing girl from the bar and find that she's wanted to be sold as a slave. Did he say trouble followed him? Milly's the one who hides the girl, she's the one who lies to the bandits.

"You know, there's such a thing as being too nice," he grumbles, as they walk the girl (who has a name, apparently, Moore, because that's such a nice, feminine name for a girl, jeez) out past the bounds of the caravan.

It's Milly who wants to help Moore and her boyfriend, the increasingly useless and annoying Julius, escape. It's Milly who drags them out into the desert. It's Milly who worries about the kids' safety, Milly who stands in his way when he tries to tell them the truth about this world.

It's Milly who waves goodbye, tears streaming down her face, as Moore and Julius leave to start a life on their own.

It drives Wolfwood a little nuts.

You can't just do that. You can't just think about the good of one person, or even two people. It's so frustrating. No one else seems to understand that if Julius leaves, the caravan goes under. Okay, sure, trafficking in slaves isn't the greatest way to fund an operation, but what about the innocent people in the caravan, the young families and the kids who need the protection of traveling in a group? What are they gonna do when they're turned away from the next city? How are they gonna make it through the desert without a car from their rich dad and the help of the frickin' Humanoid Typhoon to start them on their way?

But then, of course, it does work out. Vash makes it look real, so real that he convinced even Meryl and Milly that the kids were dead. The caravan leader says his son was killed, he gets a new pass, everyone wins.

He doesn't think anyone learned anything at all.

That's not how it works. That's not how life is. Don't they understand that sacrifices are needed? That there is no place for selfishness in the already selfish world they live in? The kids go off without a care in the world, learning nothing about how there's right, and there's wrong, and you can't just wave a magic wand and make the wrong choice the right one every time. Even the caravan leader gets by just fine. And Milly, sad to see Moore and Julius leave, remains secure in her image of the world as a good and friendly place.

It's annoying. She's so...good. She does everything he can't.

And she makes it look so easy.

It's so irritating.

Dammit!

This is a real bind. He put too much money on it, trusted too much to his own skill, and just look where it's gotten him. So much for trusting thyself; one more move and he's dead.

His hand falters, lifts. He takes a deep pull on the stump of cigarette he's got left, and glares at the man across from him. The guy stares back, impassive.

"You gonna move, or what?"

"I'm thinking." Maybe he could make a break for it? No, no, that's not right. And besides--he glances up again, assessing--the guy's bigger than he is. Who knew the gorilla could play chess?

Maybe he could use those three old guys behind him as cover?

Hell, no. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, then raises it, palm out. "Okay, okay." He stretches a finger out, pauses, tips over his king, and sighs as he watches his money be dragged across the rickety little table. "Good game."

The guy grunts and collects his cash, leaving Wolfwood drooping and despondant in the little wooden chair, gazing at first at the chess board and then at his own reflection in the storefront window before kicking back and lighting another cigarette. He's watching the old guys nearby, but they're not playing for any kind of money. He's already hit them up once.

They sure know a lot of nasty words for being some nice old men. Geez, nobody wants to give to the church anymore.

This is not how this was supposed to go.

"You're so nice!" she'd crooned at him, all smiles and sparkling eyes. Standing outside in the sun, while he dusted off his jacket, she clasped her hands together and bowed slightly, so that he could see a little purple glint off her hair that made him laugh, because if there was anybody this lady wasn't like, it was that chick Faye back at the asteroid. "It was so kind of you to stop and help. I don't know what I would have done."

From behind his mother, her son stood with crossed arms, three foot five of childish distrust and intimidation. Wolfwood raised a hand to wave and grin at him, but the kid's only response was a deepened frown.

Cute.

He'd leaned on the Punisher, regarding her over his dark glasses, and that was right where he'd made his first mistake.

"I'm happy to help anyway I can, lady."

Yeah. Right there. And the second one wasn't all that far behind.

"So, what's going on with those charming individuals, anyhow?"

Two for two, without even breaking a sweat.

That's how he'd found himself here, behind the counter, Punisher leaning up against the wall behind him. After all, he needed both hands to cook the damn rice, right? He sighs, and then grins back at the smiling face beaming out at the world from the spare apron she'd been able to find for him.

Hell, it's not so bad, is it? There are worse things to do with yourself than serve food. Loaves and fishes, and all that, right? Still...

"Hey, Neil."

The kid, loaded down with dishes, ignores him, so Wolfwood tries again. This time, he adds in a few steps so he's blocking Neil's path, and gets a glare for his trouble. "Leave me alone."

Wolfwood lifts his hands and laughs, all innocence. "Neil, come on, don't be like that! Let's be friends, okay?"

One long measuring look later--damn but that kid can really see right through you--and Neil shrugs, pressing the dishes into Wolfwood's arms. "Fine. But you'd better not be up to anything. And you'd better stay away from my mom."

How straightforward does he need to be? Jeez, he's just a kid, for Chrissakes! "Hah," Wolfwood chuckles, a little weakly. "Don't worry. I'll be on my best behavior, promise. I just want to chat for a second."

Neil gives him a look, and he amends, fast.

"Uh....after I do these dishes."

---

In the end, it was just as he'd suspected, and Neil had only given confirmation. This place is just barely staying afloat, even with Neil working and his volunteering--there just aren't enough customers, isn't enough money for all the debtors sniffing at the lovely proprietor's heels with her husband off gallivanting through the desert. Those two thugs from earlier were just the beginning; pretty soon they'd be beating down the door.

They've got to do something, and they've got to do it quick.

Sure, and maybe I can wish all this sand into gold and pay off all her debts. He shakes his head, cigarette in hand. The door is closed, and outside he can hear rowdy carousing at a bar down the row. Neil and his mother sit together at a table, his head against her shoulder--the poor kid's wiped out. They don't even look up when he walks by, or when he opens the door to go sit out on the porch, where his cigarette glows lin the shade. The problem keeps turning and turning in his mind--not enough money, not enough people. How the hell do you pay off all those wolves, and keep them off? It's impossible.

It's not like it's his problem, anyway. He's got enough damn problems of his own, and he's not going to make any money for the orphanage out here, working without pay just because some lady can't pay her bills. He doesn't need another kid to look after; he's not Neil's degenerate father.

He ought to just go, get out of town and maybe back to the Outpost...but instead, he sits and smokes and thinks. There's no need to turn around and look through the window at the woman, slumped at the table, her forehead in her hand and her son asleep on her lap.

No need at all, but he does anyway, and as he turns, his eye is caught by something else--a piece of paper tacked up on the doorframe. He can read the block letters clearly, even from here: 3rd Annual Quick Draw Tournament.

"...Huh."

TOUCH SCREEN TO START YOUR AVAILABLE DESTINATIONS

It made Wolfwood feel kind of foolish when he'd discovered this place, knowing that this stupid room has been just sitting here and and he just hadn't really noticed. He must have gone over every inch of this hotel in that time, but he missed this?

Not like it matters, anyway. He'd been having too much fun at the time to leave right away.

WOLFWOOD, NICHOLAS D., YOUR DESTINATIONS ARE

1. GUNSMOKE MEI CITY 9.17.26

His hand hovers over the screen.

Maybe he hadn't missed it. Maybe he just had been too damn happy to take a break from the sun and the sand. There are no orders here and no shootouts. No annoying legendary gunman with $$60,000,000,000 on his head. Instead, there's trees and grass and a city that isn't falling slowly to pieces--but that doesn't change the facts, and the fact is that he's been here too long. Not to mention he's curious as to what's going on back at home. His stomach growls audibly and he pats it. "Okay, okay. Food first, information later. You're the boss."



The walk out of here is a lot shorter than the one in--or at least it feels that way and he's got only a few seconds of cool air that tastes like metal before the door opens before his hand and he's got to squint to block out the suns. High noon and it feels like a million degrees; he can't even look straight until the dark glasses are safely over his eyes.

The horizon stretches: long, flat, shimmering, empty. The people who pass by wear clothing as colorless as the buildings are, brown and gray and tan, stumping up out of the sand and the hard dirt road like they were piled there by the wind, just a few more lumps of dune. The only thing with color in it is the sky, and that's as brassy and blue and mercilessly clear as ever.

Hey, it turns out that absence doesn't make the heart grow fonder. Still, there's something good about being back here, and the rumble from his stomach that accompanies that thought reinforces it. Time for some grub.

---

Unfortunately for him, it seems as though no one told the restuarant owners that they needed to have some food out...and the others weren't so keen on his staying after they'd seen the contents of his pockets. So woolongs don't actually get you anything here, what the hell happened to giving out of the goodness of your heart?

So much for charity.

There's another place, near the center of town, and he ambles towards it as some kids run by, playing and kicking up dust that turns orange and red in the setting sun, and at first he thinks that the shouts and squeals that he hears are coming from them. It's the scream that really catches his attention.

"What're you doing to my mom?!?"

It's dark and bare inside the little restaurant, and it takes a second for his eyes to adjust from the sunshine outside, but what's there is easy enough to see: two large men, one little kid tugging at an arm and kicking at a leg, and--oh, man--the most beautiful woman in the world being held between them, pleading. "Please," she begs, "please, I'll pay you the money, just wait a little longer!"

It's enough to melt a heart of stone, which is apparently not what these two have. "Lady," one of them says, annoyed, "you're long past your deadline. Unless you pay off your debt in full, we can't make any money, either."

The other one, finding this funny, laughs, and nudges the woman in the ribs with his elbow.

"Hey," says Wolfwood, taking off his glasses and tucking them into his jacket pocket (don't want them to get scratched, right?), "is this place open, or what?" He can practically see the poor woman trembling from here. It's hard to keep his voice even.

"Beat it," says the thinner of the two thugs, gripping her wrist even harder. "This is none of your business, preacher man."

"Oh, now," Wolfwood tells him, over the clank of the Punisher's foot hitting the floor, "that's just not true. After all, the Good Lord says that charity shall cover the multitude of sins, and I just happen to be an expert on that sort of thing. You've really got to embrace the spirit of giving; here, let me show you."

He gives. He's a generous soul, in that way.