fullofmercy | Between the wasteland and the sky

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Between the wasteland and the sky

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."

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When Michael steps back into the bar from Miami - he says his good-bye to William and then heads for the garage. It'll be a quick trip as far as anyone waiting for him is concerned, with plenty of room for them to get back and catch a bite before heading back to the Wasteland - which Michael even mentally calls 'Ellen's Wasteland' after stepping through the door to the gray-brown desert of Wolfwood's world.

It reminds him of a lot of the places he's seen; war torn villages in Iraq and Afghanistan where the fighting hasn't stopped in decades and the people continue on their merry way - places where a car bomb could kill a dozen people outside a mosque and the next day they'd be talking about an impending wedding as the women stirred pots and the men waited for military to roll through town again. The thought brings a bitter, coppery taste to the back of his throat.

For all his rage about what had happened back home and the all-too-familiar sensation of a place that by all logic should have rolled over and died by now, he could be himself twenty years ago.

After checking the gun tucked into the back of his jeans, Michael nods and quietly replies; "Fun."

Even without the second sun fully risen, he's grateful for his dark glasses. The sand reflects what light there is, and without a cloud in the sky, the glare is already nearly unbearable. Around them, people start making their way to whatever errands they need to run in this Godforsaken place, but they aren't busy or distracted enough not to cast suspicious looks on the two strangers.

Wolfwood gets it worse, but then, he's used to it. The Punisher attracts attention, it always has, and attention, here, is rarely the good sort.

"The larger cities are slightly better off," he tells Michael as he wheels the Angelina II carefully forward. Bar had thoughtfully packed the meat in an insulated cooler; it ought to stay fresh for the trip and then hopefully long enough to be eaten safely.

It's not like ice is exactly easy to come by, here.

"They have plants for energy and water. Places like this are just lucky if they don't get swallowed up by the desert. We're on the edges of civilization now, but we'll have to go another ten iles to get to the orphanage, and that means booking a ticket on a sand steamer headed out that way."

They're headed for the tiny town store -- it's easy to find, the faded, cracked sign swinging above the porch says STORE in carefully blocked letters, and the proprietor is sweeping sand away from his steps.

Wolfwood could tell him it's useless, but does an action's impotence really make it worthless?

For now, he lifts a hand in a wave, grins, friendly. "Good morning."

He doesn't even get to the part about what he wants before the guy looks up, face blank, and heads back inside the building, ignoring them both, the door swinging shut behind him. Wolfwood makes a face.

"That wasn't very polite."

No stranger to the heat, but a little put off by the pair of suns lingering against the clear sky, Michael nods as Wolfwood explains. A sand steamer, he guesses, isn't much different from a train - which is an improvement to the camels he's sort of expecting.

When the door slams shut, he raises an eyebrow over the frame of his glasses; "They don't like strangers? Or have you made a few friends with the locals?"

"I seem to get that reaction wherever I go."

Unfazed, he leans the Angelina II against her kickstand and hefts the cross onto his back before heading up the steps himself, dry wood creaking under his boots.

The air is slightly cooler inside, and the shop is dim, lit by squares of light at the windows and a sputtering kerosene lamp by the register that the proprietor blows out as he counts the drawer.

Disinterested eyes flick up to study them, but the tone he uses is more reluctant than outright surly.

"Help you?"

"Yes," says Wolfwood, decisively. "My friend and I need tickets for the next steamer headed to December. One's stopping here today, am I right?"

The foot of the Punisher thunks, sudden, to the ground, and when the shopkeeper looks up again, Wolfwood's leaning on the arm, casual, smiling, and whatever his immediate answer would have been dies on his lips.

"Tickets're expensive, preacher," he says, almost apologetic. "Can't buy goods just with prayers."

Edited 2012-06-05 19:00 (UTC)

Michael withdraws a battered billfold from his back pocket and silently thanks years of training for reminding him that other worlds don't take Visa. Not that he has one of those anymore either. Still, Bar's currency conversion alone is a spy's wet dream - there are few things more annoying than trying to convert a grand in US dollars without valid ID or getting half exchange rate on the street.

The "STORE" seems like the sort of place where if you have to ask how much something costs, you're gonna get ripped off. Better to play it safe like he's traveling but familiar.

"I got this one, Padre - how much I still owe you? Should be more than enough to cover the tickets and a meal."

Pretty much the last thing he expects is for Michael to step up with a wallet that the storeowner eyes with undisguised interest, and Wolfwood isn't sure whether to thank the guy or ask if he's an idiot. There's a reason you don't bust money out right away in a place like this; they could get the tickets for a favor and a few pounds of crabmeat -- that stuff is more precious than gold, here -- or they could wheedle them out of the guy and make a run for it -- or they could sneak onto the steamer and hideout in the boiler room until the next stop.

Not glamorous, but efficient.

Still, he has to admit that actually paying upfront is really the easiest way. It saves them a certain amount of haggling, and people are surprisingly reluctant to deal generously with a man of the cloth.

That can't be right.

The shopkeeper's sharp eyes move from Michael's wallet to his face, and he shrugs. "Thirty," he says, making Wolfwood roll his eyes.

"Where's your compassion?" he asks, looking wounded. "I'm a priest on a mission of mercy, and you want to charge me full price? Shame on you."

The man looks slightly suspicious. "What mission?"

Wolfwood fixes him with a stern look. "We've been sent by the Bernadelli Insurance Company to deal with Vash the Stampede. Word is he's been in the area, and we need to beat him to December. I don't know what he'll do if he finds out we're here, but I'd hate to be the reason he decides to visit your town."

"Vash?...You're bounty hunters? Or...why would they send a priest?"

Wolfwood shakes his head, solemn. "Why do you think?"

There's a moment while the shopkeeper thinks this over, then pales, visibly. He turns back to Michael, as if looking for confirmation, then shakes his head, lifts his hands. "I don't want any trouble. We'll make it fifteen..." Wolfwood eyes him, and he goes white as a sheet, waves his hands. "Ten. Ten is fine. Just, please. Get out of town. We don't want any trouble here."

Michael smiles, tongue tucked in his cheek - he's gotta admit, his new acquaintance is pretty slick. And this Vash character gets a little more interesting every time his name's brought up.

Sort of reminds him what happens when you drop the name 'Michael Westen' in the right parts of St. Petersberg.

He flips over the cash and then holds out another ten to Wolfwood, eyeing him through the amber lenses of his shades; "A debts a debt, friend. Consider us even. For now."

Taking the money without hesitation, he nods. "Thanks. I hate to be on the wrong side of a debt."

His smile is as dry as the words.

Well, a favor is a favor, and he'll do what he can in return for the guy -- as long as it isn't money.

There are limits.

The shopkeeper hands over the tickets, waits for them to sign them and then stamps them in red ink before pointing to the western side of the room. "Steamer stop's at the edge of town. I hope you don't mind if I say I won't be sorry to see you go, preacher."

"No offense taken." Turning, Wolfwood lifts a hand in farewell. "May you go with God's protection."

"Yeah," he can hear the man mutter, as they step back outside. "I'm not sure even God can do anything against Vash."

By the Angelina II, Wolfwood inspects the tickets, then hands Michael his. "Here you are. I have to admit, that was easier than usual."

"It's amazing what a little bit of actual currency can do." He mutters with the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he examines the ticket. "Not that striking mortal terror into the hearts of shopkeepers isn't fun."

He comes off a little more bitter than he actually feels, hell - if the guy's fine with being a pariah that's his business, but Michael's found it easier to befriend people that control things like getting on a train.

"Gotta say, it's a little strange to be working with a beacon - I'm a bit more used to being invisible."

He cuts his eyes across at Michael as they walk, but his tone, after a short pause, is mild.

"I don't do this for fun. Believe me, it's a lot more suspicious-looking to actually pay upfront; nobody has that kind of money here unless they work for whatever passes for government within the town, or they're a crook -- or both. But it sounds nice, having currency on hand. You'll have to tell me what it's like, sometime."

To tell the truth, that act is exactly the kind of thing Vash would get all puppy-eyed and hurt over, right before accusing Wolfwood of being a terrible priest.

Not that he's ever tried to claim he's a good one.

Michael snorts and nods; "I'll keep that in mind, back on Earth it'll open any door - no questions asked. Not that I mind being seen as a crook."

He's starting to get the hang of not expecting reality to work the same way in places. It's a slow process.

"When's the train?"

"Why?" Wolfwood casts a grin over his shoulder. "Are you a crook?"

Not that he'd care. Occasionally, a crook is better than an honest man to work with. They can generally take care of themselves fairly well, and tend to come with useful skills -- as long as you don't mind watching your back.

The station is near one of the town's two saloons, and Wolfwood can see a few people waiting, already. All of them look like out-of-towners: a few wear the faded finery appropriated by what passes for the elite (that girl in the nice dress, she must be the daughter of a mayor or governor -- important, judging by the boulder of a man skulking around nearby, glancing suspiciously at every movement).

"Soon, hopefully," he says, glancing at the horizon. The second sun has risen by now, and the day is getting hot, rapidly. Pointing, he indicates a small cloud of dust in the distance.

"There."

Michael regards the dust cloud with a mild nod; considering the question. As usual, he knows his role on this job. He's an extra set of hands and eyes - and doesn't like to look of nervous man one bit.

Still, he answers softly; "I'm a good guy, but one who understands that there's rarely a clean answer to a situation." He considers the man-purse with thirteen grand still sitting in his room back at the bar and what he knew Barry did to get him that money. "The difference is in knowing when it's right to do what's wrong."

"In my experience, there isn't always a lot of time to figure out a neat, clean way to do things."

As he settles the Angelina II back on her stand, he glances, casually, at the other passengers. The pretty girl in the nice dress ignores him, but her bodyguard eyes him back until Wolfwood looks away again.

"Personally, I think the difference comes of doing bad things for personal gain, and not for the better good, but that line can be so thin sometimes, can't it?"

For now, he sticks his hands in his pockets, smoking, watching as the sand steamer come lumbering across the dunes towards them. The thing stands as high as a building, metal plating glinting dulling under the double suns.

"Here's our ride."

And even when there is time, options are typically limited. And he hates to admit it, but there have been a few too many times that line has been crossed.

As they board the train, he shifts from one foot to the other - digging his pistol into the small of his back but ensuring the weapon is concealed enough as he takes care to board first.

"The bodyguard's a problem," he whispers under the din of the steamer and passengers stowing their goods.

Wolfwood glances at the hulking man from where he's busy unloading the cooler and boxes from the Angelina II in order to park her in the limited garage space.

"Funny. I think he's thinking the same thing about us."

Michael's right, though: the guy is paying attention in a way that's distinctly unnerving when the whole point of this endeavor is to get the supplies to the orphanage with as little trouble as possible.

The engineer points a pen at the boxes. "What're those?"

"Communion." Wolfwood pats the Punisher. "Just transporting them back to my church."

It's a good enough answer that the guy doesn't ask any more questions, just locks them up with the rest of the valuables people are shipping, and calls the all aboard.

"Come on." Wolfwood says it low, at Michael's shoulder. "He'll be going with the girl to one of the staterooms. Best place for us is the cafeteria. It's on the other side of the steamer."

Michael follows easily enough, keeping a close eye on the pair as long as they're in his line of sight.

"I should have worn black, could have said I'm your altar boy." It's only a slight tease, one he probably wouldn't understand that would have had Sam wetting himself holding back the giggles. As frustrated as he still is with life, it's hard to pass up a good clergy joke in any universe.

Still, he squares up his shoulders as they enter the cafeteria and scans the room for anything potentially useful.

Wolfwood cracks a smile as he shoulders his way through the crowds.

"Little old for that, aren't you?"

The steamer is full: December is a popular destination, and the families in the cafeteria make room for two more cheerfully enough. Most of them are young couples looking for work, and there are a handful of children running around, playing games of bounty hunters versus Vash the Stampede that inevitably end in all the unfortunate bounty hunters lying around groaning in exaggerated pain.

They take a fairly unobtrusive spot, and Wolfwood leaves, returns with food and water. None of it's very good, and Michael can certainly see why fresh meat is such a commodity here. Everything available has been so processed it's hard to tell what it may once have been, but it travels well and it's filling, and that's the point.

It isn't long before Wolfwood finds himself dragged into the children's games, but he eases up with them in a way that's impossible around adults. A few parents cast curious glances at the big cloth-covered cross, but as the journey continues, the mood lightens and conversation picks up. Eventually, he tells Michael to head to the bunks to get some rest if he wants -- they'll be traveling into the evening.

They're well into the desert and the suns are near setting when it happens: the steamer's engines groan, grind, come to a stuttering halt, hissing softly as the metal cools.

And then the power cuts out.

In the darkness and confusion, Wolfwood gropes around for the Punisher, then looks for Michael as a few metallic bangs sound in the distance.

"We shouldn't have stopped. Stay out of line of sight of the doors."

Edited 2012-06-06 13:16 (UTC)

Acting on impulse, Michael rolls off the bunk and crouches out of sight, feeling around to identify where he is before silently drawing his 9mm and flicking off the safety.

"You thinking a robbery?" He asks quietly, eyes locked on the doors and waiting for them to open; "Or that they're after the girl?"

"Don't sell them short." Wolfwood positions himself at the side of the door, Punisher in hand. "The best bandits are multitaskers. It all depends on if they know she's here."

Dammit, he'd known it was a bad idea to travel along with an upperclass escort, but they'd had no choice.

As if in answer to Michael's question, there's a crackling from above as the PA system kicks in, and a man's smug voice comes over the speakers, echoing into the stricken steamer. He sounds giggly, at the edge of self-satisfied hilarity, like taking out a sand steamer is just the absolute highlight of his day -- which, to be honest, it probably is.

"Greetings, citizens!" he says. "You are being addressed by the melodious voice of none other than Pierre Patricks. It's such an absolute pleasure."

Low moans echo through the corridors, and Wolfwood grimaces.

The man continues. "We apologize for the delay in your journey. Rest assured you will be allowed to continue on -- just as soon as we've relieved you of any valuables you might be carrying. Don't try to hide them. This is your only warning -- you won't get another. Don't try to hide yourselves, either. Everyone will come to the cafeteria, with everything they've brought. You have ten minutes. For every minute you make us wait after that, I, personally, will kill a hostage."

There's a pause, and then a laugh. "Oh! I forgot to mention the hostages. Say hello, kids."

The silence between that comment and the next sounds from the speaker settle heavy in his chest, but his suspicions are confirmed when the PA fills with the panicked shouts of the same children he'd played with earlier.

"They must have been playing in the corridors," Wolfwood says, low, but rage is beginning to build.

"Pleasure doing business with you all," says the first voice. "See you in ten minutes!"

The PA clicks off, leaving a sinking silence before scrambling and shouting begin in the rooms around them.

Micheal closes his eyes a long moment as the bastard makes his announcement, going over the layout of the steamer in his head. When the system clicked off, the sound of panic began to start.

"How many do you think there are?"

It's a matter of numbers, if there's less than four - it's worth the danger of going in just the two of them even with the hostages. More than that... not gonna happen.

Wolfwood sighs, considering.

"Pierre -- they call him the Pirate. The last I heard of him, he was working with a fairly small crew, but he must have at least one inside man. Probably two, in order to get to the cockpit, and that's where he'd have to be to use the PA. I'd say we're looking at eight or ten, if we're lucky."

His thoughts are running rapidly. "Six of them -- a team for each main level -- will be herding people out of their rooms and towards the cafeteria. I'd say he's probably got at least one in the cockpit with him. The others will be patrolling, looking for anyone trying to cause trouble."

Cracking the door, he looks out, carefully. "I'd say our best bet is to take the team on this level, take their communicators, and try to get to the hostages -- as long as that's really his only game."

That really isn't good. But, his logic's sound enough. he's run crazier gambits on his own.

"If they know we're here and armed they'll take it out on the hostages." He whispers, "We should move quickly and only fire if we absolutely have no choice."

He pushes up on his feet and shifts close to Wolfwood, tucking his pistol into the back of his jeans and then untucking his shirt. "If it comes down to it, send me in as a hostage - I'm a lot cleaner than everyone else... I could probably pull off a rich idiot and take them from the inside if it comes to it."

He's not wrong, but Wolfwood shakes his head after a second's quick thought.

"That should be our last resort." His eyes flick up to the grate above the door, and when he casts a half-grin at Michael, there's no humor in it.

"How are you at taking down opponents without using a gun?"

Edited 2012-06-07 03:56 (UTC)

The chance to bust a few heads is a hard one to ignore, especially the kind of garbage that uses kids for leverage.

A slow smile curls the corners of his lips and he replies easily; "Fifteen forms of hand to hand combat at master level. Specialization on improvisational tactics."

Sam once said his body is a deadly weapon... Michael didn't argue.

"I'm pretty sure I'll be fine."

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