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Wolfwood took a deep drag from his oxygen mask, his eyes burning with tears as he tried to squint through the barrage of snowfall. It was coming down worse by the second; the wind whipping a violent fury, cutting across the exposed skin of his cheeks, right between where the mask stopped and his goggles began.
His intel had, of course, been fucked. There was goddamn nothing out here, less than nothing. Just the same vast, empty stretch of white rock and hidden fields of ice that he’d been driving through for hours now, only disrupted by the behemoth, jagged rock formations in the distance. Too large to be mountains, they reached into the sky, blotting out any world beyond.
He resisted the urge to kick something, namely the gas tank of his snowmobile. Angelina didn’t deserve that. He’d save the brunt of his anger for that bug-eyed freak, if he could get out of this alive.
A thin ping came from the dashboard, just the same as it had every ten minutes for the past hour. It was growing softer, weaker. He steadfastly ignored it, just as he ignored the little red arrow that was quickly approaching the little E.
His oxygen tank wasn’t doing much better, and he’d already used his backup on his way to the outpost on the edge of the known world, expecting that he’d be able to get a fill-up before he started his trek. No dice, of course. That desolate place had barely had two bits of fabric to rub together, to keep their skinny kids clothed enough to withstand the winds that cut across the tundra, battering their ramshackle huts and freezing any livestock they’d got hold of alive. No, this late in the cold season they’d all but run dry of supplies, and there wouldn’t be any merchants coming through to these outskirts until the thaw. Nothing to spare for some asshole tourist who thought himself fool enough to brave the edge of the world, and keep going.
Stupid. He knew better to make assumptions, to not think ahead.
But he’d been running. Running away, driving as fast as he could, not stopping through the nights or the days. Running away and running to. Not caring, exactly, what that meant for him. What it could mean for his next step, his next day, his next task.
He was always running, now.
There was a clunk underneath him, jostling his thoughts around his aching head, his searing eyes. A clunk, as things go, was not the worst of sounds that Angelina could make. It was more like a warning shot, whale-eyes before the bite.
He needed a solution, and he needed it fast. Neither of them would last much longer, not the way things were going.
He pulled Angelina to a stop, gnashing his teeth as he fought for something, anything he could do. He had a small tarp, he could—
But no, with nothing to tie it down to, it would be next to useless.
Fuck his day.
He whipped his head back and forth, searching for something, anything. Towards the right, where the beginnings of a hill had formed, a trail of rock leading upwards that would eventually form into the towering cliffs and mountains.
Something darker, open, like the light was disappearing inside.
Inside.
A cave.
Relief flooded him, hot and overwhelming. He heaved a breath, sucking in oxygen. Somewhere to take cover, to catch his breath, to figure out his next move without risking becoming a human ice-cube out here in the empty nothing.
More importantly, it was close. It was there.
He kicked Angelina’s side, leaning forward as he started the engine as though he could power her up with the sheer force of his willpower. She stuttered, rattling as smoke blew out the overheated tailpipe. But she moved.
“Good girl,” he wheezed, hanging on to the handles for dear life as they sped across the ice, the mouth of what he now recognized as the opening to a cave came closer into view. “Shit. God.”
-
It wasn’t much, but it was shelter.
Slotted between two massive rocks, the small, narrow cave was mostly dry, and blocked most of the frigid wind from blowing in. He had to duck his head to get in, pushing Angelina in front of him and wincing as her rails scraped against rock and hard-packed earth.
It didn’t take long to set up something that resembled a camp, stowing Angelina where the blowing snow wouldn’t get to her behind a shield of black rock. The cave was deeper than he’d expected upon seeing it from the outside, winding into the earth and disappearing into the dark.
Wolfwood tried to ignore it, turned his back to it as he struggled to light a fire with the draft coming off the wind. It wasn’t until he had a modest flame stable, until he’d choked down one of his calorie-dense and flavourless food bars, that he considered it at all.
It wasn’t entirely still in the cave, not entirely silent. There was a sound, soft but consistent, coming from beyond where the light touched.
It felt like it was distant, but cave walls could make for strange echoes. There was no telling what it was, where it was coming from. No, he decided, getting up and clipping his pack back onto Angelina’s boot.
Better to know now, then for whatever it was to come upon him as he was sleeping.
-
The further he ventured, the louder the sound became. It grew, echoing around the cavern until it became deafening.
A rush, a roar. The might of racing water, or maybe the beat of a thousand wings.
Had he happened upon an underground river? A colony of bats, or worse?
There was little indication of either, but he’d seen this planet twist itself in stranger ways.
He came to a stop, straining his eyes to see any further ahead. There seemed to be a bend just up the way, where he would need to navigate around an outcropping of uneven rocks in the path. He could keep going, see if he could find the source of the sound, or he turn back towards his camp, towards relative safety, at least for now.
He had barely come to a decision, barely moved to take a step forward, when the fabric that made up the world seemed to shift.
The rush of water became a scream, a screech. Wolfwood doubled over, clutching at his ears that had to be bursting, bleeding. The darkness of the cave seemed to wash over him, tearing at him and consuming him.
It felt hot, searing, inescapable, like something was dragging itself across his skin, cutting and burning.
He staggered back, gasping for air that felt thick, shimmering and full. For a moment, his head was clear, his mind sharp. In that moment, he knew.
There was something there, something shifting in the darkness, beyond where the human eye could see.
Something enormous, and it was watching him.
He ran.
-
He made himself small, huddling back against the freezing rock where he’d made camp. For a minute, he thought to douse the fire. That was it, that’s what had done him in. Made him a target, a lure. A brilliant flame attracting all manner of monster out of the dark, whether man or beast. Who knew, in these parts, what was worse.
But no, he thought, his hands aching with the labour of flicking the lighter, of hitting the flint, over and over and over, of the darkness of the cave and the cold of the world flooding in. He wouldn’t. He’d keep his flame, his light in the storm.
There may be monsters lurking in the shadows beyond the circle of the fire, but there was one within it, too.
-
It took hours before he was able to fall into a loose sleep, and when he woke he felt as though it had only been minutes. Groaning, he stretched, taking note of the fire that had banked low, the embers heating red with each gust of wind from the entrance to the tunnel. He sat, listening as the storm echoed around the rock with no end in sight, and it was so forceful that it took him far longer than it should have to notice what had changed.
The sound was gone. The rushing, the thundering. From the depths of the tunnel came only silence, the dripping of stalactites.
He leapt to his feet, skin tingling as though swept over by icy fingers.
Had he imagined it? Imagined it all?
Christ, he needed a long sabbatical after this. Wouldn’t take much to disappear out here.
The truth was, nothing much had changed about his situation. He was still stranded in the midst of a full-blown winter storm, still without the resources he’d need to get himself back to civilization. He supposed he could walk, but there was no telling how long it would take for the weather to subside.
Gnashing his teeth, hands itching for the box of cigarettes that had long since gone empty, he stomped back into the dark.
-
This was a waste of time.
Just the rocks and the dark, just as it had been before, but this time it was quiet.
“I got lost,” he muttered to himself, navigating around stalagmites as he ventured deeper, trying to measure just how far he’d gotten the night before. “Really, I swear. You ever go out in a snowstorm like that? Just fucking. Snow. I hate snow. Have I said that? Hate the stuff. It’s cold. And wet.”
He didn’t imagine he’d get very far with excuses like that. He didn’t think he cared much.
Just as he was getting tired of walking towards nothing at all, just as that bone-deep chill that permeated the air started to seep into him, he saw it.
Something was glowing, just beyond a narrow passage up ahead.
He paused, eyes narrowing as he twinged with the regret of leaving the Punisher behind. Just in case.
Could it be that he’d heard something, after all? Really, there could be any manner of bullshit hiding in a cave like this. It would be just his luck to come across some kind of bioluminescent creepy crawly down here.
It was either stubbornness or stupidity that pushed him onward, and he thought most likely it was a combination of both.
When he passed through the threshold, careful to quiet his footsteps and slow his breathing, he came to a stop.
There was a room beyond the walls, round and larger than he’d expected. High ceilings, dry and warm.
It was not empty. Not by a long shot.
He had, quite suddenly, found himself once more surrounded by the traces of mankind. A hulking generator hummed in one corner, powering an array of devices, many of which Wolfwood couldn’t fully see, much less name. Crates with a familiar logo, metal stands holding lamps that were shut off, dials spinning and twitching, steam leaking from some kind of radiator.
The soft beeps and whirls of the machinery weren’t what he’d heard last night, and still, they were just as out of place. What was this? A lab? A test site?
A refuge?
There at the centre of the cave, there was a small, crackling fire. It cast a wavering glow around the cave, overpowering the dull greenish gleam of the equipment.
And—
A man.
Wolfwood blinked, fighting the urge to rub his eyes to make sure they were working right. There, next to the dim glow of the subdued fire, a man sat cross-legged on a rough gray blanket, his back towards the tunnel where Wolfwood had come to a halt.
He must have made a sound, some kind of exclamation, for in the next moment the man turned, and stared.
“Oh,” the man said. “Uh, hi?”
Wolfwood’s hand twitched, and his instinct had him nearly reaching to his back, but he remembered then that he’d left the Punisher back with Angelina.
Still, the movement seemed to portray a message all the same. “Ah! Whoa, whoa, all good! It’s all good, I don’t mean any trouble! Seriously, whoaaa!!”
Wolfwood clenched a fist instead. “Who are you?!”
“Hah?” The man gasped, his hands coming up in surrender. “Nobody! Well—somebody, I guess? Just a traveller. Just like you?”
Wolfwood shook his head. Not possible. Not possible. “You were here? All night?”
The man slowly lowered his hands, expression calming from frantic to thoughtful. “Well, yes? I kind of. Live here?”
“I didn’t—“ Wolfwood started, and nearly snarled, the force of his confusion, his bewilderment leaving his nerves frayed and spiking. “Were you—“
“Slow down, man,” the man laughed breathlessly, gesturing towards the open space on the other side of the fire. “Why don’t you take a load off? It’s still pretty rough out there, huh? Geez, let’s all calm down.”
Wolfwood shifted in place, trying to wrap his mind around it. Had this all been here, just hours before? How had he not seen it? Could it have been real, the sound? All the equipment here, the machinery…could this have been the cause?
It didn’t feel right, it didn’t fit.
“Seriously,” the man insisted, “sit. You look ready to fall over. I swear I don’t mean any harm, and I can’t imagine it was very warm out front.”
He was tall, wrapped in a thick, worn blanket that may once have been a pale blue. His hair was long and pale, bunched up at his collar and tangled, as though he’d tucked it back carelessly.
He waited patiently as Wolfwood slowly sat, the farthest away he could get from the man, the closest to the entrance to the tunnel.
“Did you hear me?” Wolfwood asked, still feeling wrong-footed, on edge. “Did you know I was here?”
“I had a feeling,” the man said, watching the fire as it spat tiny sparks into the air. “Maybe, somebody. But, well…it’s not always friendly out here.”
Not anywhere, Wolfwood couldn’t help but think, and decided to say it out loud. He felt a quiet sort of twisted satisfaction when it made the man laugh. It did a whole lot of good for smoothing out his proverbial ruffled feathers.
The man listened as Wolfwood explained how he’d come across the cave, how his snowmobile had kicked it just as he’d reached the entrance. Empty tanks and no backup.
“You’re stuck, then?” The man asked.
“Looks that way,” Wolfwood said, wary of the man’s gaze. It was blue, electric even behind large, round lenses that were too big on a thin, long face.
“I have some gas, and air. I don’t mind sparing you enough to get back to civilization, even if it means you’ve gotta hunker down back at the outpost for a while.” The man said it as if it were nothing, to give a stranger his precious resources. Resources that lesser folk would kill each other over, had killed and would kill again. Wolfwood had—
“It’s—you don’t need to,” he said, speaking over the nausea swirling in his gut. “You don’t need to, but I’m grateful, all the same.”
The man hummed, the soft smile that seemed ever-fixed on his expression widening enough to show teeth. “Not like I’m using it.”
“How long have you been holed up here, anyhow?” Wolfwood asked, allowing himself to relax slightly against the wall of the cave. The fire felt good, the warmth settling into his bones. He noticed, a moment later, that there were heat lamps amongst the equipment, and added, “You’ve made quite the spot for yourself.”
The man considered the question, his eyes tracing the ceiling as though counting the days. “Hard to say. I’ve got what I need to last…”
It was not clear to Wolfwood whether the man meant, to last the storm or to last the season. Wolfwood had a suspicion based on the stability of the infrastructure the man had set up in this cave, one that felt heavy, that it had likely been far longer than just a storm or a season that he’d secluded himself here.
But it wasn’t the kind of question you could really dig into in casual conversation. He’d met his share of weirdos, of recluses. It just wasn’t every day he came across someone who’d willingly eke out an existence on the edge of the world, with a barely functional outpost as the closest means of survival.
“It’s good to have company,” the man seemed to conclude, a propos of nothing, and Wolfwood wondered.
-
Later, when the distant light from the world beyond the cave began to dim, the man stood, dusting himself off. Without a word, he began to circle the perimeter of the cave, fiddling with switches and knobs until the hunks of metal around them flickered on, casting soft, warm light into the dark.
Wolfwood watched him idly, taking in with a dim interest the sheer number of parts that the man must have, at some point, dragged back into the cave himself. There was something settled to it all, something that made Wolfwood think the man had been here far longer than he was letting on. It would certainly take a lot to survive out here, even with the relative shelter from the elements. The heating lamps, gas cans for fuel, something that looked like a communication device of sorts. A control panel that had been welded and fused together, like it had been compiled of scrap to serve function if not form.
He squinted, taking note of the cables that ran up to—
Was it a tank?
Wolfwood’s heart stuttered as his thoughts sharpened. It was familiar, he realized; it had only been the setting that had made it all difficult to recognize. He’d seen this kind of equipment before.
Equipment that he knew, rudimentary and haphazard as it was, helped keep plants alive in the cold.
“You’re—” Wolfwood blurted, before he cut himself off with a grunt.
“Yes?” The man asked, looking up from where he had been attempting to untangle a mess of thick wires, the task appearing futile as his efforts only seemed to have made the knots tighter. He seemed to catch where Wolfwood’s attention had shifted, and tension slid into the set of his shoulders. “Oh. Mnnn. It’s not…”
But it was. There was no denying it, and maybe the man knew it. He drifted off, lips pressing tightly together.
Wolfwood chewed on the side of his tongue, reaching for the right words, the ones that wouldn’t scare the man off, that wouldn’t show his hand. He’d never been good for that. He was what he was for a reason, he supposed. Blunt force was often the easier communication style.
Still. Still, he knew this was something. He wasn’t out in the wilds of the world for nothing, after all. He had to try.
“Wolfwood.”
The man turned, brows tensed in confusion. “What?”
“Name’s Nicholas D. Wolfwood,” he repeated, crossing his arms across his chest. “Figure it’s better to introduce myself, now that we aren’t strangers.”
The man blinked at him, mouth falling open and then moving, as though he too were searching for the right words. “It’s late,” he seemed to find, finally, and moved towards where he’d laid out his bedroll, closest to a heating lamp that sat on a rickety stool near the back of the cave.
Wolfwood wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, his stomach swooping. Had he committed some kind of social faux-pas, by not mentioning it? Did independents get offended by presumed familiarity? Did the man hate his name?
Shaking his head, Wolfwood slid onto the mat the man had provided, pillowing his head on his arm and enjoying, for once, air warm enough to sleep comfortably. Consumed by his thoughts, he almost missed when the man spoke up again.
“Thanks.”
”Huh?” Wolfwood tilted his head, and found the man staring at him from across the room, his face shaded in the dim light. He’d taken his glasses off, and there was a bit of long, blonde hair falling into his face.
The man didn’t repeat himself, but—
“Vash,” he said simply, a smile etching at the corners of his eyes.
His name is Vash.
“Oh,” Wolfwood breathed.
He will likely not be around others.
“It’s nice to meet you, Wolfwood,” Vash said, and it sounded like he really meant it. After a moment, he ducked his head, his chin digging into his chest as he curled into himself like a child. “See you in the morning, then.”
He will try to help you, if you need it. See that you do.
-
Vash snored, a bit. It was a banally human trait, and it set something in Wolfwood’s baser instinct on edge.
Vash was not human. Not even close, despite what he appeared. Despite how he presented himself. It was uncomfortable, uncanny. A near-perfect image, with the slightest of details that, if you looked hard enough, fractured the entire image.
Inhuman. Other. Too still, movements too smooth.
Secluded, living on scraps and a broken tank.
He thought of the sound from the first night, the feeling. The enormity of the dark. He wondered.
He could hardly understand it, hardly stand it. Why? Why was an independent living like this? Why was he not with other plants?
Why did he let Wolfwood join him, see his hidden home?
Most importantly, why did they want him?
He breathed out, letting the questions clambering inside of him drift away, like leaves floating down a stream one by one. There would not be answers, not ones that would satisfy him, anyway. He had a job to do. That was all. That was what was real, what was necessary. Anything else, all of it, was none of his business.
Still, there was something else nagging at him, something that was more digestible. An exhaustion that had been mounting, wearing at him, one that seemed to only grow worse by the day. God, he was tired. Day after day, night after night, there was always something. Something to do, someone to find. Another task, a new instruction. Another trek into the storm, another brush with death.
Is this what it would look like, if he stopped? Hiding out beyond the word’s reach, a life of solitude, of basic survival. He was so, so sick of running.
It was hard to untangle, to decide, whether such a life would be a good or bad thing.
It took time for his mind to settle enough, for his body to find a state close enough to relaxation, before he drifted off.
-
He could barely feel it, not his fingers or the snow, as he dug deeper, deeper. There seemed to be no end to it, despite him knowing it was there, it had to be. There had to be an end, there had to be earth beneath.
But as he urged on, his he pushed through mounds of white powder, as his fingers went red and numb, he found that it was endless.
He let out a cry, head swinging from side to side. No end, there was no end to it. Just white, just empty space. He was alone, and there was no one coming. No one there.
That was wrong, he wasn’t. Wasn’t alone, he was never alone. There was always him, his little shadow, his tag-along. The bumbling figure in the red jacket, too big for him, the sleeves dragging over his hands.
Where was he? Where? Where?!
Suddenly, his index finger hooked on something smooth, his wrist catching against a rough surface.
He stopped, and he couldn’t look. Wouldn’t.
The snow was gone, removed. He’d done that, hadn’t he? He’d pushed it all away. Found it like that?
Found him like that?
He gasped as he tilted forward, catching himself against a red shape that was too big and too small, so small.
And then it wasn’t just the boy, his shadow. It was all of them, every face. Every name he’d left buried in the snow, left to be covered up, to be missing and lost. He didn’t even need to bother digging a hole, not here. Not on this planet.
Punisher. Wraith. Nightmare. Murderer.
Wolfwood shot up, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the corner of the generator he’d fallen asleep next to, a name on his lips. He shuddered, the adrenaline of the dream falling away, leaving him scooped out and shaking, cold despite the warmth of the cave.
For a moment, all he could do was breath, calming the racing on his heart, banishing the images that swam in the darkness. Once he’d come down to something manageable, he took note of the soreness in his back, the sweat building at his nape and collar. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night, even burdened as he had been by the dreams. He also couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to bathe, and he was almost amused to find that he was embarrassed by the fact.
It was morning, he realized, and the storm must have passed. There was dim, pale light glowing from the end of the tunnel, where Angelina was stashed, where the mouth of the tunnel opened to the expanse of the tundra beyond. A fire had already been lit, he could tell by the warmth at his back, closer and more concentrated by the heat lamps, the soft crackle of sparks and snapping wood sending Wolfwood back to sometime that had been more gentle. He could no longer hear the shrill wail of the wind rushing past rock and ice, and for that he was grateful.
It was with this gratitude, one that extended past just the change of the weather and enveloping the kindness he’d been treated with last night, that he turned, hearing movement behind him.
Vash was up already, his back to Wolfwood. It was possible that he didn’t know that Wolfwood was awake, and that would explain why…why he was changing.
Vash pulled the thin shirt he’d worn to sleep up over his head, and Wolfwood found his gaze fixed.
There were, well. It was almost as though he’d been burnt, but Wolfwood had seen burn scars before. Shiny and red, often raised and tough, preventing a full range of movement.
These were dark, mottled like bruises. Raised and stretched, as though the skin had pulled and broken, snapped and healed together in the wrong places. Across his chest, his stomach. A patch on his jaw, going up onto his cheek. The worst were his arms, covered as they were in dark scar tissue. One of them had been severed, Wolfwood noticed with a harsh swallow, above the elbow. A prosthetic had been manufactured and attached instead, something that had been well-made, that moved without creaking, without freezing up or jerking like most he had seen. It seemed better cared for than any other of Vash’s equipment, as though he’d taken care to keep it maintained despite his environment, his circumstances.
There was a glint as Vash turned his head, his glasses reflecting the dim light of the tank, and Wolfwood turned away, something in his chest warm, his throat tight.
“What,” Vash asked, the noise startling Wolfwood as it cut through the quiet of dawn. “You’ve never seen plant rot before?”
As a matter of fact, he hadn’t. “Sorry.”
Vash laughed lightly, moving to sweep a hand through his bedraggled hair. “Don’t worry, it’s okay. It’s not the prettiest, huh? Anyway…did you sleep well?”
Wolfwood didn’t—couldn’t, say anything, his tongue struck dumb. Vash was made of impossibilities, it only made sense that he was this, too. A survivor, a medical marvel.
It had never been humanity’s intention, to land on this planet.
A maneuver of an entire fleet in distress, one that had caused the trajectory of their path to not to fall onto a planet orbited by many moons, covered by a sea of sand, but to a world ensheathed in ice.
It was no wonder, then, that those early humans had not been prepared. No wonder that so many had died, that extinction was a real threat, rather than a looming possibility. No wonder that the creatures they’d bred to help the species, to nurture humanity’s needs and support their livelihoods had been ill-prepared for the climate. Rot, they called it. Hundreds of plants freezing over, dying off, their limbs shriveling and falling like the molting petals of a frosted flower. The ones that remained became a near priceless commodity, once the scientists involved had managed to stop the death, the massacre.
Now, here Vash was. Smiling. When he did, it pulled at the blacked skin stretched over his jaw. It looked painful, though Wolfwood did not think it was because of the scar.
Wolfwood did not bother to ask how Vash had survived, how he had managed to stay out of the grasp of the government, the scientists. An independent, who had withstood the frost, the winter.
There were pieces, though. Pieces that were slotting into place, showing the larger picture. Vash. Vash.
Do not fail. He is more important than you know.
Before Wolfwood had the chance to say anything at all, to make himself something more than a slack-jawed idiot who Vash no doubt thought pitied him, or something equally awful, that expanse of skin was covered by a thick, dark fleece, and then a heavy jacket. He watched as Vash tugged the ends of his long hair out from the collar of the fleece, watched as it tumbled around his shoulders, the colour of straw and the dim sunlight in the thawing months.
“Breakfast?” Vash asked him.
Finally managing to knock himself out of whatever funk he’d fallen into, Wolfwood agreed.
-
They chatted over a combination of their meagre offerings, Wolfwood unwilling to accept Vash’s charity if he couldn’t contribute in his own way. He was nearly out of the freeze-dried rations he’d stuffed into every empty pocket in his jacket, but with any luck, that wouldn’t be a problem for much longer.
“You were lost, you said?”
“Yeah,” Wolfwood replied, clearing his throat and straightening from where he’d started to slump against the rock wall, the warmth of the heaters melting his aching muscles. “Yeah, got turned around just as the storm swept in, right nasty.”
Vash hummed, standing to clear away the refuse from their meal. “Where will you go now?”
Wolfwood shifted, turning to face him. It wouldn’t be wrong, right? It could be…a chance. “I’m headed to Julai. Heard of it?”
Vash looked down, his smile fixed. “Been there once or twice.” He raised his gaze to meet Wolfwood’s. “That must have been some storm, to take you all the way out here. The last time I checked, Julai was to the south, not the north.”
Wolfwood felt a bead of sweat run down his back. “Who’s to say it hasn’t up and moved while you’ve been in your hidey-hole,” he jabbed, going for good-natured. He felt a shallow rush of relief when Vash laughed, the sound echoing around the cave. “No, you’re right. I’d say I’m suffering from some bad directions and weather interference at its best.”
Taking a seat once before before the fire, this time right next to where Wolfwood lounged on the bed roll, he said, “I think someone must be messing with you, Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood grinned, and he knew it was too sharp, too full of teeth, but he couldn’t help the flicker of rage at the thought, even as he knew now that it was untrue. “I think you might be right.”
Vash hummed, and they fell into silence. Vash was staring at the opposing wall, his eyes soft, and Wolfwood knew that he was very far away.
“I wonder what it’s like now,” Vash said after some time, a little wistful, and--
It almost seemed too simple.
“You,” Wolfwood said immediately, too quickly. He cleared his throat. “You should come with me.”
“Me?” Vash asked, bemused.
Wolfwood leaned back, going for nonchalant and hoping it didn’t read as eager. “Why not, right? You should. See what’s become of the world while you’ve been hibernating. Who knows, maybe Julai did move north?”
Vash tilted his head, his eyes glittering. “I can’t even imagine.”
Filled with a sudden, frenetic energy, Wolfwood leapt up, pacing in the small confines of the cave. After a moment, Vash stood too, watchful as Wolfwood moved.
“Would you…we could probably take some of this along, strap it to—“ Wolfwood cut himself off, gesturing to the tank, the heaters. He didn’t know if he could actually follow through, if Vash really did need any of it. If he did…what would he do? Knock him out and hope he didn’t freeze over by the time they made it across the tundra? Somehow, he didn’t think he would get very far, for any number of reasons.
Thankfully, Vash shook his head. “Oh, mmm, no, this is just…creature comforts,” he said with a wry grin, waving a hand dismissively at it all, and then patting the side of his jacket, over his hip. “I have what I need.”
Wolfwood could tell that he was being humoured, rather than considered. “Leave it, then. It’s sheltered enough, you can always come back for it.” A lie. Maybe. Fuck, what are you doing. “Think of it like a little vacation with a new friend.”
Coming closer, Vash said, “Vacationing in the big city, huh? Ah, well. I don’t know if it’s such a good idea.”
He said it like it was a foregone conclusion, like Wolfwood should know it to be true. He looked tired, even after having slept. He looked thin.
“Was it really so bad?” He found himself asking, without even aware he was going to say anything at all. The question came from some dark corner, something soft and aching and real. Something he hated. “What you did? Bad enough to stay?”
It was an assumption, and he’d sound real fucking stupid if he wasn’t right. Stupid and cruel.
Well. He couldn’t help it, he supposed. Somebody’d once said to him, like recognizes like.
Vash seemed to take the question like a minute blow, his last breath rattling out of him like it hurt. Wolfwood, who’d thrown the knife, could almost feel the tear of it himself. He stayed silent though, watching as Vash thought himself into his next step, where the conversation would lead to next.
Wolfwood had to reach out and stop him. Literally.
His hands were freezing between Wolfwood’s. He fought the urge to rub warmth into them, knowing that he’d be fighting a losing battle.
It wasn’t a bad feeling, though. Not bad hands. There were slender, long-fingered. Pale as the ice, just like the rest of him. No, not bad at all.
Even though he was just taller than Wolfwood, Vash had a funny way of ducking his head and looking up through the rims of his glasses, that made him seem small. “I don’t…” He trailed off, whatever he was going to say disappearing into so much chilled air.
“Come with me,” Wolfwood repeated. There was that itch again, that strain. What are you doing, he thought, just as another part of his answered, my job. My job, it has to be.
My mission. My task.
Him. He is my task.
“Vash,” he said. It felt like poison on his tongue, just as it felt something like a prayer, something like awe. It was the first time, he realized, that he’d said it aloud. A name, just a name. A file, an instruction. Used to find, to track, said now to urge, to follow through.
A man. Mottled by the rot of a world that rejected him. Cold hands and a knowing smile, and eyes bluer than the sky on the clearest day, when not a single storm cloud dared to mar it.
And there it was, the twist of thin lips, the barest glimpse of teeth. It struck him as familiar, for a moment, though he could not quite place why.
He is my mission.
He is my—
“Okay.”
Wolfwood heaved a breath. “Okay?”
He had long grown aware that guilt could live so easily alongside satisfaction.
Vash smiled, and now Wolfwood could see the full strength of it. The beauty. “Yeah. Get me out of here Wolfwood.”
There was a flicker of a thought, something there and gone, as Vash smiled, his eyes meeting Wolfwood’s unflinching. Something that he didn’t fully understand, not yet. He wouldn’t for a long time.
It feels like we’re both getting what we wanted.