fullofmercy | (no subject)

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michael westen

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There are a few things he knows he should take with him.

The Punisher, for one: not that he travels anywhere without the familiar weight of the cross on his back. It's an old friend, and one he can't do without.

The Punisher isn't great for storing provisions, though, so he empties out his satchel into the saddlebags slung over the Angelina II's frame, and brings it back upstairs to the bar to fill his canteen and pack a few protein bars while he keeps an eye out for Ellen. He doesn't see her, but there's a guy nearby wearing the same sort of body armor, looking like he's waiting for something.

Well, who isn't?

Slinging the satchel over his shoulder, he hefts the Punisher and wanders over, free hand stuck in his pocket, friendly smile on his face.

"You look like you're headed out for some business," he remarks, off-handedly.

When the Punisher's foot lands on the floor, it does so with a distinctly metallic, slightly muffled clank.

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The question is enough to raise an eyebrow over the frame of his sunglasses and after a moment, he answers; "Hard to believe in God when you've seen the worst in his creation."

It's the closest he likes to come to discussing his particular opinion on the subject - he's seen enough horror to make the Bible a little hard to swallow.

He takes another long drink, preparing himself as best he can. There's an emergency canteen strapped to his lower leg and a flat standard issue slung over his shoulder but he knows it'll probably take more than a couple liters to get him back home when they're done.

"So, what's your skill? Scout? Faith healer?"

"The worst, huh...?"

Even he wouldn't say he's necessarily seen the worst the world has to throw at the innocent and guilty alike. Catching the cigarette between two knuckles, he breathes out a cloud of smoke, considers Michael through it for a moment.

For a heartbeat, his eyes are sharp, but when he takes another drag, they're nothing but thoughtful, and he doesn't offer any answers.

Why would he? It's not like he's ever found any. What sort of forgiving God would allow a man like him to exist, anyway?

"Oh, I'm something of a jack of all trades," he says, finally, in answer to the question. "Where I come from, it's a necessity. And yourself?"

He's always hesitant to use the word, even in a place where it's nearly meaningless to be a spy.

"I help people," he replies reservedly, "guess I'm a bit of jack of all trades myself. Weapons, hand to hand combat, technology, scouting... I'm a passable field medic when I need to be."

Wolfwood's smile is wide and toothy.

Aren't there so many different ways of helping people? Were he a less cynical man, he might even claim doing so himself.

"You sound like a very useful man to have along. Particularly that last part. It's always good to know someone might be able to patch me up if it's needed."

The praise elicits a small, but hesitant smile.

"It's a good skill to have when you can't exactly rely on hospitals or doctors before you bleed out."

"I certainly can't argue with that. Personally, I'd far rather have a someone around who can keep me from having to give any last rites. Or dying. I'd rather avoid that, too."

He barely chuckles under his breath and nods again; "Sounds like a good plan."

After a long moment, he looks up at Wolfwood and removes his sunglasses - getting a better, deeper read on him.

"What's your angle?" He knows better than to assume he doesn't have one - everyone has something to gain from putting themselves in a dangerous situation.

"Just doing a good deed. Lending aid to those in need." His smile is entirely unassuming, but there's something a little stilted about it despite his friendly tone.

"If you're asking what my price was, I'm not doing this for free. But then, I assume you aren't, either. Most people wouldn't."

Vash would. Milly would.

They're both better people than he is.

Somehow, he doubts it's out of the goodness of his heart - but Michael's been surprised before. Hell, he surprises himself sometimes.

"Fees are different than reasons. Most people don't try to get themselves killed because they're good samaritans."

"The most dangerous man I know is also the definition of a good Samaritan," he muses, flicking some ash off his cigarette, "so I don't know if I'd agree with you. More to the point, does it matter? One man might die for what he considers to be a glorious cause, and those around him might consider him a misguided fool. It's all a matter of perspective."

He did clarify 'most' - some people are either insane or stupid... some are both.

"I like to know who I'm really working with." He slips his shades back on, leaning back slightly in the seat with the clatter of armor plates against wood. "I trust Miss Park not to end the day with a gun to my head, but I'm not so sure about you - you're hiding something and I'm not going to ask what."

He takes another long drink of his water before adding; "Just don't let your secrets get in the way of the mission."

"You're a paranoid man, Michael," Wolfwood offers. "Or perhaps a hypocrite. In my experience, the men who are most worried about being shot in the back are those who start shooting first. At any rate, none of my secrets have anything to do with you, but as a measure of trust, I'll tell you that I'm helping because I need supplies for an orphanage I run, and this is one way to get them."

He shrugs, takes another drag off his cigarette.

"I won't even ask your reasons. They're none of my business."

Finally, the smile comes - orphanage? He's either a nice guy or a hell of a bad one. It's not for him to question, he's gotten his point across.

"Paranoid." He offers casually, "with reason." He's been shot in the back. Literally. And stabbed, and double crossed. Even before he got burned.

"And you're right, it isn't your business - but it's simple enough. Just wasting time and scraping together some cash before heading back home. Work's a little hard to come by right now."

"Now that's something I can sympathize with." He gestures with the lit cigarette, sending a thread of smoke spiraling towards the ceiling.

"Work is easy enough to come by at home, but there isn't always a lot of payment for it. Most people have a hard enough time just keeping food on the table for their families."

He lowers his eyes, he used to have a steady paycheck and bouncing from mission to mission more or less let him run free on the government's tab. But, since landing in Miami - it's pretty much been what little he's willing to take for a job worth a hell of a lot more.

"Sounds close enough to familiar. I freelance at home too, but mostly it's for families - dealing with gang bangers in poor neighborhoods, normal people getting threatened by thugs with guns and bad attitudes." He shrugs, finishing the last of his water.

"I don't like it when big guys think they can get away with hurting little guys." It's as much a truth as it is a threat. In his mind, Ellen may be part of a military organization, but a young woman in the wastes like that? Definitely counts as a 'little guy'.

"Hmmmm."

He blows a thin cloud of smoke into the air. "It's as good a cause as any, and better than most. As a matter of fact, I try to do something similar. I can't say it always works out for the best, but it's rarely my decision to make."

Shrugging, he taps off some ash. The ins and outs of morality aren't questions he struggles with on a daily basis: he knows what's right and what's wrong, and, more importantly, what needs to be done.

Which is why he's so often the man to do it.

"At any rate, I think I see Miss Ellen coming back, so I can only assume we'll be on our way soon."

Michael shrugs, they all do the best they can with what they have to work with. His own morality is a little more disconcerting at times, falling well into the permanent 'gray area', but he does what he can with it.

"It's that time."

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