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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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."

Michael watches the wound as he pulls away the shirt - it's only a graze, but he can see unexpected fragments and assumed ammunition manufacturing might not be quite as controlled as it is at home. Cheap bullets, bad pressing... either way, he's got to get them out.

Without another word, he made his way down the corridor until he returned with a sewing kit and a bottle of clear booze that didn't have a label and the previous owner only referred to as 'hooch' - it smelled like a strong grain and the very quick nip Michael dared reminded him vaguely of the low end vodka in Russia.

Keeping one eye on Wolfwood and the other on his own hands, he set up a shot glass and poured out a shot before adding the tweezers and threaded needle; "This is going to hurt."

On a second thought, he took off his belt and handed it over; "You're gonna want something to bite down on."

He eyes the bottle with wistful wariness. "That isn't for me?"

It's not that he hasn't been patched up before; he has. In his line of work, it's an absolute necessity.

That doesn't mean he likes it.

The belt is handy, too, though he'd hate to admit it. His teeth grind down deep into the leather as Michael works, eyes squeezed shut as he does his best not to flinch or pull away.

A graze might not be as bad as some injuries, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like a bitch.

"I need you as coherent as possible while I work - in case something goes wrong." Not that it ever has before, of course, but things happen. "I don't know that I'd purposefully drink something the owner calls 'hooch' that doesn't even have a label."

He works slowly, removing the small fragments as gingerly as possible in between swipes of the alcohol soaked gauze to keep the wound clean and wick away the blood.

"You're lucky," he mutters as he sets aside the bloody tweezers and fishes the needle out of the shot glass; "Pierre was a terrible shot."

"Welcome to Gunsmoke."

He laughs, a ragged sound, the cigarette shaking in his fingers.

"That's why he had so many henchmen," he offers, by way of explanating. "I guess he didn't have the bullet with my name on it."

Someone does, he knows, but not a two-bit pirate like Pierre.

"Not today," Michael sighs and rinses his hands with more of the alcohol before wiping the wound again. "Alright, bite down now - I don't know if you've ever been sewn up before but it hurts like a bitch."

He wishes he had fishing line to work with, but good strong thread would do for just a few stitches. "Once the wound heals closed you'll need to have these removed - I can do it if you want me to."

Taking a deep breath, once his belt is once more secured between the other man's teeth, he makes quick work of the stitches - small, tight surgeon's crosses that'd hold up to even fore fighting and the weight of the cross he insisted on carrying. When he finished, he tied off the thread in a small knot and then rinsed his hands again.

"I'm gonna wrap it, and then when we get back to Milliways I want you to get some gauze from the bar - two rolls of five-by should do it." He rips off three squares and then presses them hard against the stitching; "First you lay down a pad." He then wraps the rolled gauze several times around his arm; "Then you wrap. Change it daily, keep it clean - I'm sure you know the drill by now."

As much as he'd like the throw out an uncaring quip, he's got to concentrate just so he doesn't end up yelling through the pain, biting into the belt as he forces his arm to lay still, and he's breathless with sweat beading on his forehead by the time Michael is done.

Thankfully, the guy was mercifully fast.

"Thanks," he says, when he can speak past the buzzing of pain arcing up from his shoulder. "I've had to take care of a bullet wound once or twice, but I have to say, it's much easier with a handy guy like you around to patch me up."

Wasn't that how Michael had introduced himself, anyway?

He feels dizzy, and his skin is pale and clammy, but the stitches and gauze are a distinct improvement, and after a second, he tries moving his arm, wincing, then nodding in approval.

"Good as new."

Michael almost blushes at the compliment, hiding it behind a shady half-smile as he pours out a shot for the preacher. "You get good at it after a while. Better than fixing my own."

Clearing his mess, he found himself once more fighting to focus on anything other than the man he'd killed and the girl he'd held hostage.

"It's a tight stitch, so you shouldn't have a problem with the cross or using a weapon or anything. It might hurt, but you won't tear it open."

He rotates his shoulder, slowly. It hurts, but the pain is dulling down a little.

It'll be manageable.

"Good thinking," he says, patting the Punisher like someone else might pet a favorite, loyal, dog. "And good news, too, considering we've got another field trip to Miss Park's world."

It's not a place he'd like to be slowed down, that's for damn sure.

A knock comes on the metal of the door, and a freckled face peeks in, wide eyes blinking uncertainly.

"Uh...sir? The captain wanted me to tell you we're nearly to your stop."

Gotta have you in one piece for that adventure - who knows what we'll run into next time.

Michael's still washing the blood from his hands when the door opens; "Thank you." The words seem to dismiss the man who seems almost in a hurry to get away from them - not that it would suprise him if he was.

"So, what's the plan?" He turns to Wolfwood, both of them reeking of strong booze and blood.

He'd be pretty hard-pressed to think of anything worse than the crab-mutants -- not that he's not sure Ellen's world won't try its damndest to come up with something.

Getting up takes a little effort, but he manages it, grasps the Punisher in his left hand.

"It isn't far. We'll have a little walk, but when the food and everything is unloaded, we can take the Angelina II back to town, if no door opens there. Come on."

It takes a little time for the steamer to come to a full halt, but Wolfwood and Michael aren't the only ones disembarking. A few families leave with them, heading towards a small collection of buildings just visible under the light of the moons now high in the starry sky.

The air takes on a certain degree of clarity out here, far from the cities, and as the steamer chugs away, the desert returns to the crystallized silence of earlier.

He breaks it by pushing the motorcycle forward.

"This way."

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