Chapter Text
Wolfwood's motorcycle cut through brisk desert air as binary suns set. The experiments he endured as a child had made him less susceptible to uncomfortable temperatures. Still, wearing a long, black coat would be nice, rather than having it roughly folded in the bike's tail bag.
Part of him cursed himself for dragging that darkened garment from the bottom of the crater. He shouldn't have dug out the .22 caliber gun, either, which was currently wrapped within said garment. They weren't what he was originally looking for two years ago. He wanted to find a body. Or, perhaps some remnant of one.
Truth to tell, he wanted to see a very much alive, blond, spiky-headed idiot, covered in mountains of sediment and spilling over with guilt and grief. He would have carried that bawling mess out of there, kicking and screaming over his shoulder if he had to. Or, he would have cradled a corpse, if that was all that remained of Vash the Stampede.
He had found neither.
This both relieved and rattled him.
An ile down in that newly carved basin, hope and fear had curdled in Wolfwood's stomach. As he rode toward the small dot on the horizon, he now felt that same sensation in his gut. He tried to ignore that deep sense of dread eating away at him. But, he simply couldn't let something so potentially promising dangle before him and not take a swipe at it. This meeting was almost certainly a poisoned apple, a fabled falsehood dipped in dreamy deceit. Yet, the hue and fragrance were too alluring. If he found himself a trapped animal, he had only himself to blame.
However, he wouldn't waltz into a known trap with guns blazing. At least, not without tact. He needed to be smooth and seemly. He aimed to beguile. And above all, he had to try his damnedest to play dumb.
As such, the lack of the coat was by design. By all accounts, he was sharply dressed. A well-tailored black suit fit his form perfectly, bought from the earnings of his latest successful bounty. He also donned polished, black leather shoes. The top three buttons were undone on his dark gray button up. The exposed chest was the only indecent thing about him, at least visually. He had to appear composed and untroubled for the rendezvous. He needed them to know he was doing well as a rogue. And he knew any long jacket, regardless of the color, would indicate he may have chosen a side, at least, one outside of himself.
Unluckily, the meet up point was chosen specifically to menace him, the orphanage on the plateau just on the horizon of charge station 48. It was a screaming threat. He gripped Angelina's handlebars tighter. The bastards enjoyed exploiting this soft spot. They did the same with his crybaby brother, too. Although Livio was likely dead, Wolfwood couldn’t let them be privy to any more weaknesses.
Once close enough to his destination, he chose to park at a distance, stopping about fifty yarz away. He dismounted and employed the kickstand, untying Punisher from the back of Angelina and slinging it over his shoulder with ease.
The acrid smell of blood hit him as he approached, his enhanced sense of smell able to pick up the stench at a greater distance than those unsullied by Conrad's sins. He wasn't surprised by the aroma. His acquaintance was never able to help themselves.
He arrived at the front of the charge station as a figure emerged from its entrance, red flecked on their face and blonde hair, and splattered across their bright white skirt suit.
Elendira had aged. If he didn't know better, he would say they were about 14. Their hair was much longer, pulled back into a low ponytail, errant strands covering their forehead, some sticky with blood. Their gleeful smile would send chills down the spines of anyone. That is, anyone but Wolfwood.
They sauntered forward, a sizable white suitcase in their hand, and knee-high blue platform boots making them just a few inches shy of his height. They stopped about 3 yarz away, giggling, and scanned him. "Well, Punisher. Don't you clean up nice for a traitorous rat?"
He lit a cigarette. "Rather hard to be a traitor when the boss is dead, Crimson."
"Is that what you heard?"
"I ain't heard much of nothin'. Everythin' went quiet after July. I reckon I was blessed with a bit of freedom."
"Freedom? Freedom to kill for money, you murderer? To continue to look years beyond your true age? Are those crows feet you're trying to hide behind those sunglasses and stupid shag haircut?"
He ran a hand through his untidy mane. If he did allow himself a speck of vanity, it was undoubtedly allocated to how he wore his hair these days. "Don't be so quick to judge, old timer. Pray tell, did ya hit puberty yet? Do I have to sit ya down and tell ya hair will grow in weird places?" Wolfwood leaned forward and smiled jeeringly.
Their mismatched eyes narrowed. "I'm sick of your wretched mouth. Let's get to the heart of why I called you here."
"Oh, there ain't any hearts here today, Crimson. And I know ya ain't the one meanin' to talk to me. You'd kill me here and now if it wasn't for Daddy's right-hand bitch. Where's the blue-haired freak, anyway?
Elendira practically frothed. "You're lucky Legato's not present to hear you speak of him in such a manner. He'd snap you in half, and make you live to endure it." They shuddered, and moved the hair out of their face, as if to calm themselves. "It's unwise to speak so proudly. I know you're terribly low on vials."
He took a lengthy drag. "If yer lookin' to hand out vials, ya must be needin' a favor. What job could ya possibly stoop so low to need me for?"
That frightening grin reappeared. "Let's say that Master Knives, in his glory, will be reborn. And, if our Angel can successfully recover from such a wretched state, his vermin brother may too have survived."
His pulse quickened. Sarcasm should cover the sudden anxiety. "Well, I'll be. Praise the Lord. A miracle is upon us." The statement was as dry and flat as the expanse of sand around them.
"Fool of little faith," they spat. "You'd do well to atone for your petulance."
Wolfwood took a wider stance and let his fingers play with the Punisher's straps. Elendira needed the reminder that he wasn't a mere cheeky asshole. They knew he could hold his own if absolutely necessary.
"Don't get yer dander up," he said. "Let's say it's true that Knives is alive, and Conrad is stitching him back together with a prayer and a generous amount of elbow grease. Who's to say that the Humanoid Typhoon wasn't blown to bits like the rest of the city the dipshit cratered?"
Elendira clasped their hands behind them, placing their knees together and swaying. This was not a surrender. They delighted in looking demure right before striking. "Don't underestimate Gods, Punisher, nor their progeny."
Spitting out the cigarette, he pulled out another and lit it, chewing on the filter.
He knew Elendira was, approximately, a clone of Knives, spliced with some other unknown DNA as Conrad saw fit. He only saw Millions Knives up close a few times, but he recognized the ghostly echo of him in their face. Elendira was just as minacious, detached, and cold.
But there wasn't a trace of Knives’ twin. Vash the Stampede was too warm, too nice, and hell, too plumb foolish to be found anywhere in this demon's profile. Naturally, Vash's softhearted smile took shape in his mind. Needle-noggin could be… alive? It was an impossibility he couldn't say he hadn't wished for.
"Lemme see what yer offerin' for trade."
Elendira's lips curled wickedly as they lifted up the white suitcase. They opened it, and dozens of green gleaming vials of elixir sparkled in the aurora of the setting Child Sun.
Wolfwood craved them more than cigarettes.
"This gracious amount is all yours if you accept the job to find the twin scum. More to come when you locate said filth and let us know of his condition."
"Well now, where am I gonna start lookin' for him? I ain't no magician, Doll."
Pain suddenly seared into his right cheek. He grunted, bringing a hand up to his face. He looked at his fingers to see them stained red. They had gotten much faster than he recollected.
A single floating nail returned to Elendira's side. "I'm through with your smart tongue. You've tested my patience enough, Punisher." They closed the suitcase, and the nail in the air vanished like a rippling mirage. "The worms speak of a heavily scarred, one-armed blond man in a small ranching town east of here, between charge stations 65 and 73. He goes by some other name, Eriks, and doesn't seem to use a gun, but we have our suspicions."
Rolling his own blood between his fingers, his heart raced. But not from fear of Elendira. "The Stampede's bounty is 60 billion double dollars, dead or alive," he replied coolly. "Ya say ya want a status report, but eventually yer gonna want him, ain't that right?"
They cackled. "No, Punisher. At least, not quite yet. A cat likes to play with their dinner before biting off the head."
Sickening bile rose. Swallowing the burn, he remembered the way Vash looked at him, back in July, the last day the city stood intact and above ground. The man smiled so kindly, gracefully allowing Wolfwood to deliver him to his doom. Wolfwood couldn't let that be the last time he ever saw Vash the Stampede. Not if the man still had breath in his body somewhere on this purgatorial planet. No matter how dangerous, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from going east in search of him. Even with worms everywhere. Snitching bitches. Turn this down, and he was not long for this world. It was better, safer to accept, right?
With little inflection, while keeping up the poker face, he asked, "When do I start?"
Elendira squealed in deranged delight and tossed him the suitcase. He caught it with his left hand, then let it hang idly at his side. "Immediately, slave. The Beast will contact you when we want our information."
Taking one last inhale, he dropped the cigarette from his mouth. The sole of one polished shoe ground it into the cooling sand. The sunset turned to twilight, and the green fluorescence of worms shimmered in the navy sky, contrasting the paleness of the moons.
"Well, this has been a nice little reunion, but Ma says I oughta run along when the street lights come on. Say hi to the folks back home for me."
Elendira glanced behind them toward the orphanage. "I could pay them a visit, if you'd like?"
Clamping down on the tethers of his Punisher, he gritted his teeth. "I have a blood contract."
"And I have a thing for blood." Elendira beamed in the darkness. "Now, be on your way like a good little boy, Punisher, and maybe I'll resist for the night."
Unwilling to test them further, he glowered at them, then turned to head back to Angelina.
"One last thing!"
He stopped, but didn't look back.
"Do not be led into temptation, Pastor of the Eye of Michael. You have a noble title to live up to. You may cleanse the outside of your cup and dish, but I know the inside is full of self-indulgence and impure desire. Do not touch what doesn't belong to you. And Pastor, there is no place to hide from the Eye."
Contempt roared through veins. How dare they imply that he, Nicholas the Punisher, would ever approach Vash with any impulse of the flesh! He wasn’t going to touch him! How could he, with his hands soiled and his soul rotten? He wouldn't dare befoul such a kind creature with his cursedness.
Even if that creature was a good-looking, incredibly reckless dumbass.
Biting back a retort, he gripped the suitcase. He knew Elendira was looking for any reason to smite him, and to report back that the Punisher couldn't be cooperative. Instead, he said, "May the Lord bless you and keep you, Elendira, the Crimsonnail." He continued toward his bike as giggling fits erupted behind him.
He and Angelina sped off into the night. A tear threatened to fall, but he didn't let it. No reason for such a display of self-pity, even alone under the blanket of shadow. Or, maybe the dry air consumed it before it could tumble down his careworn face.
Either way, come hell or high winds, he was headed east.
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