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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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.

Waiting for the right moment is an instinct, and much like breathing when the moment comes a spy doesn't think - they just take it.

The motion is fluid, in a fraction of a second he raises the gun and pulls the trigger three times - each shot hitting Pierre dead in the chest.

"I'm happy with my choice in associates." He sighs, keeping the gun level as he follows Pierre's body to the floor.

Elsie claps a hand over her mouth to hold back a shriek, and Wolfwood follows the Punisher, stepping on it to keep the man pinned beneath it groaning on the ground.

When he casts a glance at the other guy, he lifts his hands, shaking his head, and drops his gun.

"Good," Wolfwood tells him, then grimaces as he grips his arm and looks to the kids.

"You," he says to the oldest, who drags his eyes away from Pierre's inert body. "Where's the crew?"

The boy points a shaking finger at the other hatch, and Wolfwood nods to Michael to check it out.

"With luck, they'll just be tied up or drugged. Speaking of..."

The two thugs hang their heads.

Michael offers a half-nod and lowers the gun, still clinging to it as he pops open the hatch to reveal the crew bound and gagged.

He's gotta remember to start a list of things to bring on missions with Wolfwood - including zip ties.

"They're all right." He looks back to the preacher, thoughts about the person he just killed replaced by concentrating on the wound.

Rope works well enough for now, and there's plenty of that around, especially once he's untied the children. They all crowd towards the door, pale and wide-eyed, and though he reaches out with an encouraging smile, they avoid both him and Michael.

Turning to the girl, he shakes dizziness and pain off as best he can, gives her a softer smile.

"Elsie, I'm sorry we scared you. Can you take these kids back to their parents, please?"

She's still staring at Pierre's body, but looks up when he puts a large hand on her shoulder. "Please," he repeats, and she nods, ushers the children out with a fearful glance over her shoulder.

"Which one of you is the captain?" he asks, coming over to the groaning men Michael is untying. One mad lifts his hand, and Wolfwood helps him up.

"The engines aren't damaged," the man says, wincing as he touches a cut on his head. "We'll get moving again soon. For now, I'll have my men take these goons to the brig."

"There are more in the halls," Wolfwood advises, before lifting the Punisher awkwardly with his left hand.

His shoulder is throbbing. "And, Captain? I'd appreciate it you'd drop my friend and me off elsewhere. We aren't headed to December."

Michael watches somewhat quietly as the children are ushered to safety.

After a drawn out moment he approaches Wolfwood and says; "You've still got the bullet in you. I need some alcohol and a needle with strong thread - tweezers if they exist here. I'll get you cleaned up so you don't drop before we make it there."

He wouldn't let that happen, and while he has lost a lot of blood it's manageable.

It takes two crewman to lift Pierre and wrap him up, but he has to admit, he feels better once the man's staring eyes are covered.

I know you.

He'll have to be more careful, but the fact is, his reputation is insidious.

He's just lucky most people don't have more to go on than a vague description.

There's a snap and flare of a match as he lights a cigarette, glances at Michael, watching him for a moment and weighing the pros and cons of letting the guy patch him up. It's probably fine, he's had worse, but...

In the end, he nods, but tips his head toward the corridor. "Fine. But not here. Except..."

Going to Pierre's body, he toes aside the cloth, reaches down to take the man's gun. "For the bounty," he says, eying the crewmembers, who shake their heads quickly.

"You can have it," says the captain. "We'd all be dead if that nutjob were still alive."

Michael frowns as the acrid smoke hits his face.

"Fine, but if you bleed out between here and there, I'm not carrying you."

He probably would, if it comes to that, but he'd prefer that it doesn't.

His smile is tight, but full of the same sharp humor as always.

"If I bleed out, I'll have bigger problems on my plate."

It's been a long time since he's fully appreciated just how heavy the Punisher really is: he'd designed it himself and he's been carrying the weight for a long time, long enough for it to feel like just another part of his own body.

Now, though, the steel weighs him down, slowing his steps until he feels like he's dragging himself into the first empty room they come across.

"There should be a kit in there," he tells Michael, nodding to a metal cupboard near the head of the bunks. The cross goes does with a heavy sound, and he starts shrugging out of his jacket, wincing as the motions pull at the torn muscle.

The kit is, regrettably, the sort of thing reserved for the occasional twisted ankle or paper cut... not exactly gunshot wound material. But, there's a few things he can work with - including a pair of tweezers and some gauze.

"Sit down, I'm gonna see if I can find someone with a sewing kit and a bottle of alcohol. Unless you happen to be carrying it already."

He really, really should start a kit to take with him on these sorts of things. Little backpack, load it up... no problem.

He's eased his arm out of the unbuttoned shirt and lifted it to take a look, before turning away again and taking a long, hard drag off the cigarette.

It doesn't dull the pain, but it helps, a little.

"Not something I generally keep with me," he says, voice a little tight, though he forces a laugh. "Not learning to mend my own clothing is kind of a failure on my part."

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