PARADISE.

@millionsnife // 𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑫𝑨𝑹𝑲𝑵𝑬𝑺𝑺 ( accepting )

   his breathing had finally started to slow to something other than frantic gulps, something other than painful attempts to swallow down as much air as possible into stiff lungs. but each inhale, however much slower, steadier than the last, still shakes as it enters then goes. 

   stiff and cold, so cold—like fingers left to sit too long in a bucket of ice after a bare knuckle punch against some ugly mug—except all over, everywhere, all at once, even in thought. so the presence of another at first goes unnoticed, as wild eyes, pupils blown, fixate on the parched earth below, where the dead man rests on hands and knees, head hung. he looks like the dead, with clods of dirt stuck and entangled in a nest of raven locks, and staining anywhere on his person that is not already set with the acrid stench of oxidized, rotting blood that never had the chance to dry. ( he also smells like the dead. ) yet, one hand, indiscernible from the soil and ichor that adheres to it, clutches at equally mangled and soiled fabric just above the left side of his chest, because he had to be sure. 

   a heart beat — slow but steady and gradually growing stronger. it chugs on, forcing blood into veins to return warmth to its vessel. 

   with those that still prop him up, Wolfwood's fingers curl against the ground like an unoiled machine, choppy and dragging. too slow, he's moving too fucking slow. this becomes ever more apparent by the second, then alarming when his head does not immediately snap up upon finally registering a familiar voice. instead the motion is sluggish, not truly in his control, much like a bad dream where hurried strides feel like running through water. but eventually, though delayed in reaction, an animalistic gaze looks up to land on the one who stands there — waiting. 

   under any other circumstance, whether casually with a drink in hand or while spitting up blood with three rounds in his chest, Wolfwood would have readily thrown something sarcastic and spiteful right back. but nothing comes to the man now ( if he could even be called that anymore ), as arteries pump a fog-riddled mind with nothing more than one chemical instinct: survive. 

   ❝ what're you … what d'ya … ❞ fuck. the musculature to form words fails him, and speech passes over numb lips and tongue in a slur. why was he so goddamn cold? a crinkle forms on the gunman's brow, the subtlest sign of something more than just a thing still inhabiting his mind. distress. 

He'd woken himself up, and he'd clawed his way out of his own grave. Knives hadn't had to lift a single finger. He hums idly, watching the man struggle to become something resembling human again, waiting. Says nothing when Wolfwood finally stumbles to his feet, swaying like a man drunk.

"He left you, you know. My brother. buried you and walked away. Had no faith in you. But I knew better. Nothing keeps you down for long, Punisher. Not even death."

Vash claps his hands together entirely too loudly, which matches perfectly with the oversaturated, over-wide, over-enthusiastic smile that is immediately pasted onto his face because if he tries hard enough then surely no one will see the fear and desperation in his eyes. "I don't suppose either one of you are well versed in exorcising demons from objects? Or demons that are objects? I really didn't ask."

The blanks looks he gets are not promising, so he claps again. Louder. It kind of hurts, but that's fine too. "Wolfwood, do something-- Uh, priestly." He's pretty sure that spitting on the ground is not that, however.

Smile turning into a very realistic pleading look, his hands are still clasped together as if in prayer as he looks at Meryl. "Please yell at it? Tell it to go away?"

"Wha--" Is as far as she gets before Vash's shrill "PLEASE???" interrupts, managing to drown out the otherworldly screaming if only for a moment.

"Well, what do I say?" Meryl tries for annoyance, but the growing concern in her voice is clear. "Go away, demon, there are more fun places to haunt?"

"Possess." Wolfwood corrects, not sure that he's correcting anything. "Ghosts haunt, demons--"

There's an abrupt, bewildered silence.

"Oh my god she did it," Wolfwood mutters. "What the fuck."

The silence does not get any less bewildered. Knives inches forward, skirting almost nervously around the reporter before he stares at the smoldering remains of shattered teacup.

"...Is it still there?"

Vash's eyes, initially wide with fear and uncertainty, begin to narrow. Just a bit. Not that he'd ever thought his brother an expert in these things, but the shifting responses aren't doing much for confidence.

"Maybe we should... try to do something about the screaming..?" Was that supposed to happen to begin with? It's been going on for an awfully long while, and he's starting to fell bad for the demon. Or whatever it is. "Put it out of its misery or something?" Not that he knows how to do that. Not with salt, apparently.

It's very possible that he should have been a little more forthcoming about what's happening on the phone. He's sure the wait won't be long, but if anyone stops for coffee or breakfast first-- Ah, wait, no, that's probably a good thing. Damn.

"...What the fuck," Wolfwood says, when he parks. Meryl tumbles off behind him, before echoing the question.

The words are gritted out as she scowls at the mock of a bow moments after he lifted away a giant boulder like it weighed nothing to him. And it probably didn't.

She's travelled with Vash long enough to see the kind of strength he possessed and when it came to it, she knew he was far stronger than any human. Meryl remembers when he and Wolfwood managed to lift up the cannon that had been attached to the sandsteamer, and if that wasn't proof enough then she didn't know what else could be.

Meryl walks in a few steps, apprehensive to go any further due to the lack of light and the fact that she knows these tunnels were made by worms. When he places the boulder back, sealing them inside, Meryl audibly gulps as any form of light is completely cut off from here. Hurriedly, she slips off her backpack and rummages through its contents, fumbling for a flashlight.

She nearly drops it in the process and sighs when she switches it on and a pale beam cuts through the darkness.

"You really didn't need to tell me that!"

She's now minding every step, the flashlight being waved around haphazardly as she's making sure not to step on anything that might remotely look like a worm.

After a moment of adjusting to their new environment, Meryl is able to hold the flashlight with one hand, steadily guiding the light in front of her and looking all around to make sure she's not angered Zazie in any way, while keeping her right hand outstretched and flat against the wall of the tunnel.

He keeps walking, one hand against the wall himself as he leads the way. The tunnel seems to be straight, at least for the moment and Knives says nothing about her haphazard light swinging. Even if he wants to.

When she finally calms enough to keep it steady and start asking questions, he snorts in amusement. "Days, probably. We're crossing most of the planet."

There are…others, as well, that come to mind, but Meryl does her best to focus on the positives.

She barely registers Knives’s warning about bringing a flashlight and with as many spare batteries as she can carry—and the very obvious threat of not wandering off where humans have seldom gone; if they’ve even gone there before.

Her experience being underground, even inside a giant worm, still counts and is not something she wants to repeat. Under any circumstance.

The reality of what they’re about to do makes her halt in her tracks as she composes herself, nearly forgetting the company she is with, and those memories make her snap to when she remembers that long tendril whip made of sharp blades that could have easily turned her into ribbons. 

“O-of course! I’ll keep it to myself!”

Not that she has anyone to talk to. The Bernardelli news agency has been feeling a little hostile towards her lately and Meryl is being careful where she treads. There’s been things going on that don’t quite add up—not like they are supposed to, and she’s being careful where she digs.

At the mention of Nicholas’s moniker, Meryl stops in her tracks like she’s been hit with a compulsion to remain frozen in place. 

They had said their goodbyes when it was decided that Home would be where they would part ways. 

“I…I don’t know where he is, actually. So, there’s really no point.”

Meryl grits her teeth at the slight tremble in her voice—not because she misses the Undertaker—well…that’s not entirely true but she refuses to admit it—but it is more so of the fact that she doesn’t have anyone she can really talk to. Vash can’t be found; Roberto is dead; Nicholas is…well, she doesn’t know where he is and she’s not about to start looking.

However, that doesn’t mean she’s about to let go of him entirely.

“I’ll need about a day to figure out how I’m gonna pack what I need,” she says, relieved that he’s not demanding they depart right away. It would make sense for him to find someone to look after the farm while he’s gone. “Well, I better get started…”

She gives one last look towards Knives, like she’s waiting for him to change his mind; when it’s clear he is not going to, Meryl books it and the first place she goes to is the nearest saloon. Out of breath, she reaches the counter, she procures a piece of paper from her notebook and a pen that can barely write but this may be its last note it will ever write before the ink completely dries out.

Despite the urgency, Meryl is careful to write clearly, and to not give too much information away. If there is one person who should know about her whereabouts, it has to be Nicholas.

To Nicholas,

Travelling far on the other side, with sharp company. Safe and doing okay. Can’t call you, no signal down here. Haven’t stopped looking. Hope you haven’t, either.

-Meryl Stryfe

She signals for the barkeep and hands him the note and gives a description of what Nicholas looks like. If he’s not changed since, she’ll expect he’s still carrying around that giant cross and looking as disheveled as ever.

Before she knows it, she’s meeting Knives back at the designated spot, a pack ready of what she considers essential to bring, and feels more nervous than excited at this point. 

"If you get eaten by a worm, that's entirely on you and I'm not telling them to spit you out." He pauses by an outcropping of piled rocks, studying them for a moment. Scratches along one linger under his fingers before Knives abruptly shoves the entire house-sized boulder aside and gestures. The bow's almost mocking as he ushers her into the darkness beyond the rock pile. "After you."

Once they're actually within the tunnel, Knives pauses long enough to drag the boulder back into place before turning to lead the reporter through the tunnel–the suns cut off abruptly with the action, plunging them into darkness once the boulder is re-blocking the entrance. It's impossible to see now, with no light. The only sounds are their footsteps, and Knives hand along a wall, scraping gently across the cool rock with each step.

"Watch your step. This is Zazie's territory and they won't take kindly to being stepped on."

They shrug a little bit, face pressed into their pillow. Ree loosens their grip on the bag a bit so Knives can have easier access.

He flops over, yawning.

They’re not going to ask how he knows they got attacked by the Nihilego. He probably smells it on them. Ree just … shrugs, before flopping facedown on their bed.

They haven’t even taken their shoes off yet.

“I didn’ go there expecting a fight. I thought you’d be bored, so I didn’ bring you. Sorry.”

The packet of gummy worms is still gripped in their hands.