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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He straightens from where he'd knelt to get the Punisher and to slip a walkie-talkie out of the man's pocket, tossing it to Michael.

"The cockpit is up ahead, and one level higher," he says. "The others should be patrolling the sleeping quarters and herding everyone into the lower level. Getting through without getting seen could be tricky -- for me, at least. You might have better luck blending in, if it comes to that."

Keeping one hand clenched tight around the walkie, Michael nods. Taking the cockpit is a risky move - but he's prepared for it.

"You point me where to go and I'll be there." His voice is bare whisper, his free hand clenching into a fist. "If they so much as give one of those kids a bloody nose I will kill them."

He doesn't doubt it. Not after what happened on his way in - not after seeing ambulances taking away civilians because of the psychopath that's after him.

Wolfwood looks at him, gauging, then nods.

Never underestimate what a man will do when the lives of the innocent are on the line.

"We need to go up," he says, leading the way. "If we cause enough chaos out here, and take out his men, he'll have to send the reserves from the cockpit. It's still not a good chance to get in there, the door's a bottleneck."

Well, they'll deal with that as it comes.

Briefly considering the play, he nods again. "We should take out the patrols between here and there and pare it down to bare minimum - then seize the cockpit. We have to take the leader if we want the hostages unharmed."

Doesn't matter the size of your gang - a two man crew or a multinational organization... you take out the head and the rest crumbles underneath.

"In that case..."

Wolfwood glances behind them. Doors have slid open, and fearful faces peek out; he gives them an encouraging wave, but they only slip back into their rooms, silent.

"You go this way," he tips his head toward the bow end of the corridor. "And I'll go up the back stairs, and we'll get them between us. If we're really lucky, they may have split up."

He doubts it. When was the last time luck was on his side?

Nearly smiling, he pats Wolfwood on the shoulder; "We can do this, you know what we're up against... and I've dealt with guys that make these assholes look like kids in a sandbox."

He's not worried... then again, he rarely is. No sense in worrying about something you've committed yourself to - you just go in and assume somebody's going to make it out. Hopefully, it'll be you.

"We make it out of this mess, carton of smokes on me."

For a second, his grin flashes, white and sharp. "A really big sandbox, huh...?"

There isn't a lot of time, so he nods, turns, lifting his hand. "Then I'll see you on the other side. I never could pass up free cigarettes."

Or anything else, for that matter.

The stairs are dark and narrow, and his footsteps echo loud against the metal walls of the steamer, but there's no use in pretending he isn't there, and the few seconds before he opens the hatch to the corridor give him time to think.

This would really be an opportune time for Vash to be around. Not that needle-noggin is ever where he might be the most use.

"Don't you think?" he sighs, to the surprised thug who puts a gun to his head.

"What?" asks the other guy, or he would, if the Punisher didn't smash into him and leave him reeling with a hand to a mouth full of shattered teeth. Another hit and he crumples, leaving Wolfwood peering down the dim corridor and wondering how Michael's doing.

The thugs seem surprised to see him, but Michael's ready for anything. Even these insanely over-muscled meatheads. Taking several hard punches in the process, he manages to drop the first one with another swift blow to the head - the second takes a whole lot more and as Michael wraps his elbow under the thug's neck and cuts off his oxygen, the man mutters; "Too... late..." he urped, gasping for what little air he could suck down; "girl..."

Michael frowns and drops him when he stops struggling, letting him fall to the floor like a three hundred pound sack of potatoes.

The cockpit is so close... it'd be easy to force open the door and take control - but if the girl is the target, chances are she's already gone or dead... or will be soon.

He doesn't jog so much as walk quickly, but other footsteps sound, and he slides behind a support to wait, stepping out and into the other man as he comes along the corridor.

"Johns...?" The guy is calling for his partner, flashlight beaming a flicker along the floor, but his voice trails off into a gurgle as Wolfwood hits him with a shoulder to the chest and shoves him up against the wall.

"How many?" he demands. "How many did the Pirate bring?"

The guy's eyes are wild, showing whites all around the pupil as he struggles to breathe. "Not..." he gasps, and Wolfwood shoves harder, making him squirm against the wall.

"Too late, preacher man," he manages, before dropping back. Wolfwood lets him go in disgust, then sights down the corridor, looking for Michael.

The walkie-talkie on the guy he'd dropped sputters into life. "...ohns? Marco? We've lost contact with Alister and Jinto."

Pierre is too smart to send his men out. That's what Wolfwood is thinking, when a door in the corridor slides open, and he comes face-to-face with the bodyguard from before -- with the wide-eyed, fearful girl in tow.

Her hands are bound. There's a gag in her mouth. The man has a gun.

Wolfwood looks at the guy, lifting his hands, then at her. "I hope you weren't paying him well," he says, and hopes to what little faith he has in God that Michael is continuing along the corridor and might possibly manage to keep him from getting shot right now.

When the walkie crackles to life, Michael feels the bottom fall out from under his stomach. Something bad is happening - something very bad is happening.

Turning away from the cockpit, he turns toward Wolfwood and starts toward him at a quick pace - one hand gripping for his pistol as the other clenches the walkie tight.

The bodyguard shoves the girl in front of him, keeping the gun aimed right at Wolfwood's head.

"I knew you looked like trouble, preacher," he growls, eyes narrowing. "Just figures we had to have a would-be bounty hunter on board. Well, looks to me like you're in a pretty tight spot. Where's your God to save you now, huh?"

His hands are in the air, the Punisher at his back. There's no chance of being quick enough to avoid being shot, and it's damn near point-blank: this would be no clipping.

He's not ready to die yet.

His eyes slide to the girl, staring at him helplessly. "Sorry, sweetheart," he tells her. "You picked the wrong guy to back you up. Fortunately for both of us, I didn't."

(He hadn't looked, but there's motion at the corner of his eye, and that means either it's Michael, or they're all fucked.)

It's a hell of a risky gambit, even by what's he's swiftly learned of Wolfwood's standards. There's no way he could have known for sure the shadow passing from one alcove to another was him.

Michael exhales silently and forces himself forward as hard as he can - slamming against the body guard hard enough to send the girl sprawling into the preacher.

"Don't you fucking move." He growls loudly, digging the pistol against the back of the large man's head just above his brainstem. "If I shoot you now, you won't die right away... just hurt until you bleed out, unable to move or scream."

The twitchy primal part of him that saw the way he handled the girl is twanging on high alert - ready to put a bullet in the man and end it. Thankfully the more logical part of his mind knows there's still the little matter of the hijackers in the cockpit if nothing else. Shooting how could get very messy and not just in a way that leaves blood all over his nice shirt and traumatizes a little girl for the rest of her life.

What's life without a little risk? It all ends, one way or the other. Today, though -- he'd rather avoid it, if at all possible.

"Nice support," he says, with a smile edging dangerously on the absolutely deadly furious side. The girl is cowering against him, and he puts his hands on her shoulders, steadies her, steps back to look her in the eye.

"I'm going to take this gag out," he tells her, gently. "Don't scream, all right? We're here to help."

She nods, blue eyes wide and round and terrified, but doesn't scream as he pulls the gag as gently as possible from her mouth. "Why do they want you?" he asks her, and she shakes her head.

"My father --" she starts, then sends a terrified glance at her bodyguard. "He's a tradesman in December. He was shipping merchandise on this steamer: I was supposed to come along with it so I could -- could learn about..."

She trails off, eyes filling with tears, though she does her best to bite them back. "Those children, what are you going to do? Pierre will kill them if he doesn't get me and the shipment!"

"He'll kill them anyway," Wolfwood says, and immediately realizes he shouldn't have, but behind her worry and fear, she's got a core of steel, and she swallows back her hysteria.

"...Actually," he says, slowly, looking at her, "you might be able to help. You think he wants you? Not the valuables?"

Was this whole thing a set-up?

"That's the impression I'm getting," Michael snarls, digging the barrel even harder until the large man whimpers.

Steel eyed, he looks at the girl and is silently thankful he can't see her face... it might have been enough to push him over the edge. "Nobody's dying today," he replies coldly; "except maybe the people responsible for this."

He shifts his weight behind the large man - slamming him against the corridor wall. "How many are in the cockpit?" he asks as calmly as he can manage; "If you lie to me, I'll come back and put a bullet in your head."

Michael pulls just enough for a satisfying click that seems entirely too loud. Part of him wonders just how much of the threat is selling it.

The goon growls, but what resistance he puts up ends swiftly at the sound of the gun clicking loudly in the echoing corridor.

"Three," he says, finally, reluctant. His eyes cut to the girl, then stare sullenly at the wall he's pressed into. "Pierre and two hired guns. But you're never going to get him -- they say Pierre's a Gung-Ho Gun. He's the best in the business."

The best, huh?

Wolfwood's face remains impassive, but he stiffens, slightly, before turning to the girl again.

"Your father, what kind of trade is he in? Weapons? Slaves?"

She shakes her head, white and shaking. "No...he...no. He's a -- a plant technician. They're repair parts, brand new. He says he thinks he figure out a way to fix the lost technology..."

Mercenaries - he can deal with mercenaries. Most of them aren't willing to die for the sake of their contract, but this Pierre guy sounds like he might be trouble.

Somewhat satisfied with the answer, he rears back and slams his elbow against the back of the guy's head and knocks him out cold.

His brain flits over the implication of technology in a world like this; "I'm willing to bet he's on to something." His voice drops to a low murmur and he looks at his friend; "Your call on the next move, you know these guys better than I do."

The girl muffles a sound as Michael slams the guy into unconsciousness, but Wolfwood only steps back, picks up the Punisher.

"First of all, he's either lying, or we're in a lot more trouble than I anticipated," he says, flat. "Pierre's a two-bit pirate. Dangerous, but disconnected. If we're dealing with a Gung-Ho Gun who's calling himself Pierre...but that's not their style. I think he's just giving the rumor a little push to make himself seem worse than he is."

God, he hopes so.

Turning to the girl, he gives her a nod. "What's your name?"

She blinks. "E--Elsie. Van Linton."

"Well, Elsie," he says, "the unfortunate thing here is that you are the most valuable piece of leverage we currently have. The good thing is, we have a lot more information than Pierre does. I hate to say it, but we're going to have to bring you to him."

Michael's eyes widen and despite being lowered, his hand grips his weapon tighter - index finger running over the trigger. He's not so sure that's a good idea, but on the same hand he won't second guess the decision. While Wolfwood has a point, it puts her directly in danger.

"Wait." He swallows hard, looking down at the girl and hoping like hell the preacher gets where he's going with it. "Keep her between us, we don't want her getting away."

He's putting a lot of faith -- if that's even the correct word, it's not one he's used to, certainly -- in Michael's ability to catch on to plans half-formed and unspoken, but the guy's quick, and he comes over with a business-like stride, making Elsie quiver between them, her arm shaking in Wolfwood's hand.

There's a moment where he looks over her head at the other man, then nods.

"You're right. I'm sorry, Miss Van Linton. It's for the good of everybody. It's the only thing we can do."

The word 'leverage' can only mean one thing - and despite the desperation of the play it certainly makes a little more sense than storming the cockpit. Not that he would have avoided that decision either.

"Just stay quiet and walk," he whispers; "both of you. We don't want to announce to the rest of them that we've got the advantage."

He leaves his gun drawn, his nerves on edge as they make their way toward the front.

It isn't a long walk, but it feels as though it may as well be miles.

The steamer is quiet around them; people are cowering, doing their best to protect themselves and their children. That's for the best. The last thing they need is more possible collateral damage.

Michael's tense, and the girl is shaking, but he can't think too hard about either of them, his mind caught by the offhand comment of the treacherous bodyguard.

There's no way. He would know.

So he's almost relieved when the door to the cockpit is unlocked and opened by one of the two armed thugs inside and he lays eyes on Pierre only to not recognize him.

It's a small mercy, but one nonetheless, and he relaxes, slightly, as the man turns to face them. He'd been crouched by the group of frightened children, but they seem unharmed, for now, and that's another one of those little pieces of luck.

Of course, now, it immediately runs out.

He's tall, Pierre, with a carefully manicured beard and mustache, trimmed into swirls of dark hair over his cheeks and jaw, but his eyes are sharp and they land on the girl first.

"Ah," he says, brightening into a smile. "Good! Excellent work."

That's when he looks up, and to the girl's right, and sees Wolfwood.

It takes less than a second to realize he's screwed.

Pierre frowns, staring. "I know you," he says, slow. "The priest who rings the black funeral bell. They call you Ch--"

Unleashing the Punisher is an act so instinctive he may as well have been born with it. The belts and cloth can drop in a split second, and he's armed before two have passed, but two seconds is too long when the other guy has a gun.

Wolfwood's hand moves, and Pierre lifts his pistol, swiftly, fires.

He can feel the bullet ripping across his shoulder even as he throws himself to the side.

Edited 2012-06-10 17:23 (UTC)

Control. It's about taking control and using fear and anger instead of letting it use you. Michael takes a deep breath and grabs the girl by her shoulder, digging his fingers in tight enough that she can't run as he presses the gun to her head.

"We've killed six of your men, Pierre - this ends NOW or I will kill the girl."

Stiff, unwavering as he stares down the villain, Michael cocks the hammer and locks his eyes straight on the man - ignoring the frightened cries of the children. It's his only choice, he has to make it look like he won't hesitate to kill her. "She means nothing to me. Getting this rig to December on time with it's cargo intact is worth her life."

Ow.

There's warm wetness where he's gripping his shoulder, and a sharp pain radiating like a burn through his arm, and all he can do at all is glare.

Pierre nods to him. "Make a move towards that cross, preacher, and the next one goes between your eyes."

He lifts his hands, capitulating. "I don't know what you're talking about," he tells the guy, earnest, "but I think you've got the wrong idea."

"Shut up!" Pierre turns his attention -- and aim -- on Michael. His smile is sudden and disarmingly good-natured.

"'This ends' is such a vague term. What is it you want?"

"What do I want?" Michael flashes a somewhat maniacal smile - selling it as fully as he can without firing a shot. "I want you to apologize for shooting my associate, and I want you to get the hell off this train."

He digs the gun against the girl again, eliciting a loud cry that tugs at his soul in a way he knows he'll pay for down the road despite his good intentions.

"It's your choice, Pierre. You can walk away from this now or I can take care of the reason you're here."

If he doesn't walk away, Michael knows he'll have to think fast and aim even faster to take him out - and he's ready for it. His goons are distracted enough that as long as he acts fast he should be able to neutralize the threat without any civilians getting hurt. He kind of hates running on should though.

Pierre frowns at him, as Wolfwood eyes Michael from the corner of his eye. "You ought to pick your friends more carefully," he says, easy, though his eyes flick to the girl and back again.

He's wary, but not on the run yet.

"I've just done you a favor. As for the girl...well, I just don't think I want to leave. At least, not without her. She's the one with the key, after all." Above his ostentatious beard, his eyes are narrow and cold.

"Aren't you, sweetheart?"

Elsie's paper-white and her eyes have filled with tears, but she straightens as best she can.

"I won't help you!" she tells him, in a way that would be defiant if her voice weren't so shaky.

"No?"

Oh, no.

Why the hell doesn't he have a knife, or something? But he doesn't have time to think, because Pierre considers Michael for a minute, then swings his arm around -- aiming the pistol at the head of one of the children.

"Shoot her, and the kids die," he says. "Hand her over, or I'm going to start pulling the trigger."

It's a stand-off, which is bad in a lot of ways, but good in exactly one, being that Pierre's attention is at least off him. The Punisher is behind him: he turns and kicks it into the nearest guard. It's not much, but it's enough to knock the henchman off his feet into the other one, and to distract Pierre, who looks up, uncertain for just a split second, gun dropping.

He just hopes Michael takes the shot, because they won't get another one.

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