Nicholas D. Wolfwood (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fullofmercy) wrote2006-10-15 12:07 pm
fullofmercy) wrote2006-10-15 12:07 pm
(no subject)
A man would put it all on the table.
Ok, let's go find a casino.
His neck is killing him, and Wolfwood tries to stretch, but there's something large and soft and gently moving in the way. Wincing at the crack of stiff muscles, he keeps one eye squeezed shut (as if he was going to get anymore sleep now), the other opening a slit to look around.
Oh, yeah. The girl. She's still fast asleep, her mouth hanging slightly open, and there's no sound but the hum of the bus and the measured breathing of its occupants. Good, she's asleep and so is everyone else. He shifts a little against her, lets his eye drift closed again, and even though it's hell to try and relax when he's got such a crick in the neck, he manages to put up a pretty good front of it.
The next time he wakes up, it's bright daylight, and the bus is trundling into Mei City, and next to him the big girl is looking excitedly out the window, laughing and waving to some children outside. It's an oppurtunity to crack his neck, and he sighs in relief as he does so, and surruptitiously steals the canteen on the seat across the aisle to check if there's any more water. Eventually, the bus creaks to a halt, and he makes his way out, bag slung over his shoulder, and blinks against the deep, burnt blue of the sky before sliding a pair of dark glasses over his eyes.
"Oi, preacher man!" He looks up, and the black cross of his Punisher blots out of the suns overhead as the men heave it off the roof of the bus.
"Thanks," he says, catching it and waving up to them.
"Damn, that thing's heavy," one of the men calls down to him, watching in disbelief. He smiles, mild, under the dark glass that cuts out the bright white desert glare.
"That's because it's so full of mercy," he says, piously, and one of them looks skeptical, but two of the others nod and he thinks he sees one of them bless himself. A flutter of red catches his eye,
So this is Vash the Stampede. Not what I was expecting.
and he turns with a quirk to his mouth. The dark glasses he wears flash in the sun. They exchange farewells: With luck we'll meet again, even though luck has nothing to do with it; were Wolfwood feeling whimsical, he might say Divine Providence might lend a hand, but he isn't, even though he offers the two girls and the tall man with the spiky blond hair a casual wave as he turns away from them. Luck, he knows, is just another name for the games people play with each other, and it's a word with no place here.
He might go so far as to say it was preordained.
Ok, let's go find a casino.
His neck is killing him, and Wolfwood tries to stretch, but there's something large and soft and gently moving in the way. Wincing at the crack of stiff muscles, he keeps one eye squeezed shut (as if he was going to get anymore sleep now), the other opening a slit to look around.
Oh, yeah. The girl. She's still fast asleep, her mouth hanging slightly open, and there's no sound but the hum of the bus and the measured breathing of its occupants. Good, she's asleep and so is everyone else. He shifts a little against her, lets his eye drift closed again, and even though it's hell to try and relax when he's got such a crick in the neck, he manages to put up a pretty good front of it.
The next time he wakes up, it's bright daylight, and the bus is trundling into Mei City, and next to him the big girl is looking excitedly out the window, laughing and waving to some children outside. It's an oppurtunity to crack his neck, and he sighs in relief as he does so, and surruptitiously steals the canteen on the seat across the aisle to check if there's any more water. Eventually, the bus creaks to a halt, and he makes his way out, bag slung over his shoulder, and blinks against the deep, burnt blue of the sky before sliding a pair of dark glasses over his eyes.
"Oi, preacher man!" He looks up, and the black cross of his Punisher blots out of the suns overhead as the men heave it off the roof of the bus.
"Thanks," he says, catching it and waving up to them.
"Damn, that thing's heavy," one of the men calls down to him, watching in disbelief. He smiles, mild, under the dark glass that cuts out the bright white desert glare.
"That's because it's so full of mercy," he says, piously, and one of them looks skeptical, but two of the others nod and he thinks he sees one of them bless himself. A flutter of red catches his eye,
So this is Vash the Stampede. Not what I was expecting.
and he turns with a quirk to his mouth. The dark glasses he wears flash in the sun. They exchange farewells: With luck we'll meet again, even though luck has nothing to do with it; were Wolfwood feeling whimsical, he might say Divine Providence might lend a hand, but he isn't, even though he offers the two girls and the tall man with the spiky blond hair a casual wave as he turns away from them. Luck, he knows, is just another name for the games people play with each other, and it's a word with no place here.
He might go so far as to say it was preordained.