I'll be damned

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."

TOUCH SCREEN TO START YOUR AVAILABLE DESTINATIONS

It made Wolfwood feel kind of foolish when he'd discovered this place, knowing that this stupid room has been just sitting here and and he just hadn't really noticed. He must have gone over every inch of this hotel in that time, but he missed this?

Not like it matters, anyway. He'd been having too much fun at the time to leave right away.

WOLFWOOD, NICHOLAS D., YOUR DESTINATIONS ARE

1. GUNSMOKE MEI CITY 9.17.26

His hand hovers over the screen.

Maybe he hadn't missed it. Maybe he just had been too damn happy to take a break from the sun and the sand. There are no orders here and no shootouts. No annoying legendary gunman with $$60,000,000,000 on his head. Instead, there's trees and grass and a city that isn't falling slowly to pieces--but that doesn't change the facts, and the fact is that he's been here too long. Not to mention he's curious as to what's going on back at home. His stomach growls audibly and he pats it. "Okay, okay. Food first, information later. You're the boss."



The walk out of here is a lot shorter than the one in--or at least it feels that way and he's got only a few seconds of cool air that tastes like metal before the door opens before his hand and he's got to squint to block out the suns. High noon and it feels like a million degrees; he can't even look straight until the dark glasses are safely over his eyes.

The horizon stretches: long, flat, shimmering, empty. The people who pass by wear clothing as colorless as the buildings are, brown and gray and tan, stumping up out of the sand and the hard dirt road like they were piled there by the wind, just a few more lumps of dune. The only thing with color in it is the sky, and that's as brassy and blue and mercilessly clear as ever.

Hey, it turns out that absence doesn't make the heart grow fonder. Still, there's something good about being back here, and the rumble from his stomach that accompanies that thought reinforces it. Time for some grub.

---

Unfortunately for him, it seems as though no one told the restuarant owners that they needed to have some food out...and the others weren't so keen on his staying after they'd seen the contents of his pockets. So woolongs don't actually get you anything here, what the hell happened to giving out of the goodness of your heart?

So much for charity.

There's another place, near the center of town, and he ambles towards it as some kids run by, playing and kicking up dust that turns orange and red in the setting sun, and at first he thinks that the shouts and squeals that he hears are coming from them. It's the scream that really catches his attention.

"What're you doing to my mom?!?"

It's dark and bare inside the little restaurant, and it takes a second for his eyes to adjust from the sunshine outside, but what's there is easy enough to see: two large men, one little kid tugging at an arm and kicking at a leg, and--oh, man--the most beautiful woman in the world being held between them, pleading. "Please," she begs, "please, I'll pay you the money, just wait a little longer!"

It's enough to melt a heart of stone, which is apparently not what these two have. "Lady," one of them says, annoyed, "you're long past your deadline. Unless you pay off your debt in full, we can't make any money, either."

The other one, finding this funny, laughs, and nudges the woman in the ribs with his elbow.

"Hey," says Wolfwood, taking off his glasses and tucking them into his jacket pocket (don't want them to get scratched, right?), "is this place open, or what?" He can practically see the poor woman trembling from here. It's hard to keep his voice even.

"Beat it," says the thinner of the two thugs, gripping her wrist even harder. "This is none of your business, preacher man."

"Oh, now," Wolfwood tells him, over the clank of the Punisher's foot hitting the floor, "that's just not true. After all, the Good Lord says that charity shall cover the multitude of sins, and I just happen to be an expert on that sort of thing. You've really got to embrace the spirit of giving; here, let me show you."

He gives. He's a generous soul, in that way.