簀巻きにして沈めたろか、こら!

It wasn't the feeling of him being dragged rather jerkily, as his boots skitter across the dry ground, muscles flexing him out of the way of danger, as easily as one blinks, out of the way of another hail of bullets. It's hard to think among the noises of screams and the terror of those previously imprisoned now were causing abrupt chaos. Most were running, but a few personal, physical grudges had to be cleared up, apparently. Yeowch. Who lets a prisoner have those kind of heavy duty boots on them all the time?

They're blazing out onto the burning red horizon, forty miles out of reach of that town and anyone with enough gas to catch up wouldn't risk it. It's always been uncomfortable pushing long limbs into the sidecar, and he'd rather just risk being close enough to smell the smoke rather than get into it. It would be timely though that just as that familiar cramp starts bothering him, a thought rounds back to Vash The Stampede.

Vash had the entirety of the time they were scrabbling around at the sheriff's to look for his gun. Hell, maybe if he wasn't so busy stuffing seductive cotton in someone else's ears he might have remembered that he'd forgotten something important. All of which Nicholas chooses to keep to himself for once, because it's not like Vash would have had the luxury of making out anything but the curses interspersed between each word over the sound of Angelina's engine when he turns her around to rip across the dunes right back where they came from.

God.

"I'll kill you myself later." Angelina quiets to a whine as he pulls up to the carport attached to the sheriff's building. They've been gone at least an hour. There's no telling what the situation inside looks like.

For the moment it seems like some or all of the prisoners have escaped and the deputies are now licking their wounds or everyone is dead. Probably not that latter, although that would be highly convenient.

"Aw, not even a kiss out of the moment. You're a professional mood killer, too." His lips remain pursed, as if he really considered it a loss- But his eyes are already elsewhere, dimmed once more as the act has finally come to an end. It's perhaps concerning to arm-chair psychologists of their day that he could switch so quickly,from quick tongued to disillusioned and distant . Deft as ever, the keys are swinging around his fingertip before he's fully stood up. There were better to choose from, but receptivity could only be found out in the worst ways, as was his curse. But it's not a bad look on the preacher to be spurred to action once in a while. Even if it did pull apart his previous plans. When the door swings open, it's the duty of the gunslinger to haul dear sleeping Roger by his arms to a corner, where his slumped form and- with a little nudging- the tip of his shoe won't immediately be seen by whoever might come to check on him.

But now that the keys are in his hand, the consideration comes to mind of those still behind those bars. Surely, not all were in the same cell-block because they had mercy in their future. Clemency was not granted to those who were deemed worthy of death- and what was a few thousand added to that bounty of his? A flash of red dances from from door to door. clink. clink. clink.clink. Vash was back at Nicholas's side, the keys still whirling from his glove, until flung with a flick of his fingers into the grating.Shifting feet and confused voices begin to murmur,and thus, the fearless leader of the previously damned directs this newly horde of freed men with a mere pointed finger. They charge, and ...

"Exciting enough for you, Preacher?"

"You can have the next distraction. Promise." Vague for intentions. To allow the man in black be the subject of his next act, or allow for Wolfwood to put on sultry eyes for someone? Hard to say. But the plan is clear: smash and grab- even if there's chaos, no one ought to care about picking up some cross on accident.

He scans the hallways as the other escapees pour out in search of valuables and an exit sign. On each side, a series of partially cracked doors and their varying degrees of trusty, rusty security. Wolfwood squints, hoping for promising angles to beckon him in. Perhaps the gun locker? No, they’d have to know what the Punisher is to begin with. In a building this small and rundown, there isn’t exactly much room to store a giant cross.

“Lemme…just…” He has to trust Vash to keep trouble at arm’s length long enough for him to go through each room.

The law takes its time waking up, but when it does, the amount of flying furniture, paperwork, and curses is a sight to behold during intermissions between rooms. Eventually, Vash’s beneficiaries do all the work for them. They slip past tangled lawmen and prisoners like a pair of dancers dodging the spotlight. One black, one red. 

Only one place they haven’t gone through. 

“Damn! They barely even made it past the front door.”

There it is, in all its alabaster glory. The Punisher, partially wrapped in its shroud, leans against the wall by their path to freedom. He’d bask in the moment to laugh if a bullet didn’t just go ringing past his ear. 

“You IDIOTS! Don’t let them escape!” A commanding voice bellows. That would be the sheriff, then. A glance over tells him that a portly man is presently engaged in a wrestling match with another prisoner. Not a concern for them, then.

“I’d prefer gettin’ shitfaced if we’re talkin’ distractions!” The Punisher, revealed as a bulwark to cover their escape, is a comforting weight in his hands. He swings it wide, casting off bullet shells and splintered chunks of wood. “Need a drink after all this shit…” 

They scramble out of the building and under the baleful glare of the twin suns. Though temporarily blinded, the gleam of chrome and shiny black paint out of the corner of his catch his attention immediately. Wolfwood grabs a fistful of the back of Vash’s coat to reel him back in before he gets too far. 

Just the type that was easy to catch off guard. Simple, sweet. Probably deserved better in life.

"Oh, Captain Clems', not in front of the other prisoners...they'll get jealous..." Saying the words 'violent' and 'retribution' was not appropriate to keep this mood. They were in dangerous territory in a situation that would quickly get worse if things turned suddenly. Vash comes in closer; it's a shame the bars aren't wide enough for their foreheads to touch. That was one way out that would've been nice to utilize.

"If you're afraid of me escaping, well," A singular finger slips down between Roger's knuckles, until he's interlocking their digits, pulling him in closer.

"I know a few things near that belt that could help keep me close." Internally, he'd gotten to be a little dead to flirting; especially when the end goal was deception and likely adding one more person swearing they'd destroy him, even after life had left his corpse.

Screw this. 

Wolfwood has about as much as he can take in the next thirty seconds when he rises to his feet with the clattering applause of dropped toilet bolts. From there, it takes no time at all for him to sandwich Vash between his chest and the heavy iron bars separating the infamous Humanoid Typhoon from his admirer– and more than close enough for him to reach through the bars while Vash is gripping Roger’s hands to pull the poor young man in by palming the back of his head hard and fast enough into the jail cell bars the he can feel the resounding gong through the back of Vash’s coat.

“Got bored,” he sniffs, doublechecking that Roger is truly snoozing the rest of the night away in a crumpled heap on the ground in front of their cell before pulling his arm back through the bars and taking a step back to straighten out the front of his suit. 

AUTUMN

"Here, I made you coffee/tea."

"Nothing is more satisfying than eating soup on a chilly day."

"Let's go on a walk and admire the leaves together."

"Want to carve pumpkins together?

"School just started and I have a mountain of homework already!"

send 🌽 for our muses to walk through a corn maze together

send 🍎 for our muses to pick apples together

send 🥧 for our muses to bake a pie together

send 🍬 for our muses to go trick or treating (or pass out candy) together

send 🎡 for our muses to go to a country fair together

WINTER

"I should've worn my other jacket."

"Do you want help shoveling the driveway?"

"Your snowman looks better than mine..."

"Winter is the worst season. It's too cold and the flu spreads like wildfire."

"Look, it's snowing!"

send ☃️ for our muses to build a snowman together

send ⛸️ for our muses to go ice skating together

send 🔥 for our muses to cuddle by the fireplace

send 🎁 for our muses to exchange gifts

send ❄️ for our muses to have a snowball fight

SPRING

"My allergies are killing me!"

"Want to help me water the garden?"

"I love seeing all of the flowers blossom."

"I think there's a baby deer in the back yard!"

"I didn't realize it was supposed to rain today..."

send 🧺 for our muses to go on a picnic together

send 🚶 for our muses to go hiking together

send 💮 for our muses to plant flowers together

send 🫛 for our muses to plant vegetables together

send 🐕 for our muses to adopt a baby animal

SUMMER

"On a scale of 1 to 10 how bad does my sunburn look?"

"Do you want to cook on the grill tonight?"

"Should we eat inside or outside tonight?"

"Want to go get ice cream together?"

"Can you help me put sunscreen on my back?

send 🌊 for our muses to go swimming together

send 🐟 for our muses to go fishing together

send 🚗 for our muses to go to a drive thru movie theater together

send 🗺️ for our muses to go on a road trip together

"I can't think of anything, now that I see you up close. You made me forget, striding up like you're the captain... I don't really mind if you aren't...you can lie to me as long as you stop shouting so loud. "

Fingers slide down the metal, like the warm, sweet syrup he was lowering his tones to. The gaps are wide enough to bring one hand through and gently stroke the bars like guitar string, lonely and wanting more. This isn't a traffic stop, but if he had more of a ledge to rest his arms on it would be a perfect way for him to prop up his chin. And days, well, this jailer wasn't tall enough to look longingly up at him, but a bit of hunching really does create the same effect.

While so close in that big red jacket, it's easier to take up a bit of peripheral view, and slide just in front of the dislocated toilet while he treats the officer to a smile.

“Aw, shucks…” 

The man is a decidedly unflattering tomato shade from head to toe, rubbing the back of his neck, wiggling on the toe of his shoe, looking up at the ceiling…the works. Wolfwood is one more poorly executed solicitation short of having to scrape his jaw off the ground. 

Biting down on his tongue, Wolfwood scrambles off the bench and crawls over to the toilet to nudge it back into its rightful place while Vash has the deputy’s view of their cell partially obscured. The mounting bolts are still noticeably askew. Given that Vash has the poor man absolutely rapt, that should buy him enough time to unscrew all the bolts and pocket them before their captors become wise to the scheme.

“Name’s Roger Clems,” the young deputy says, drawn to Vash’s fluttering lashes like a moth to flame. “I wasn’t awares that the infamous Stampede was a proper gentleman…” 

Roger leans in close now, one hand wrapped around the bars right next to Vash’s hand. “Always thought that I oughtta be in charge of this place. Since you asked me so nice, I could show you some authority…”

Something dual-toned and very much an inhuman sort of sound manages to display mild offense, but he doesn't bat the helpful hand away. He could probably use some help when things are... actively on fire, after all. But if he thought he was a jittery wreck before, well--

Actually? It's not so bad. The glowing is a little... weird, and that's saying a lot for him to think of himself as weird, but Vash kind of feels a little bit-- Settled? In this oddly shifting form? Like static surrounds him in a pleasant sort of warmth.

Of course the whole high beam eyeballs thing is going to be a really big problem if he can't figure out how to stop that. It's hard not to look at Wolfwood for his reactions, to try and see what the expression on his face is, so he glances and looks away. Not too often! Probably.

"I didn't, uh." Vash pauses to pick at longer than usual teeth (fangs, one might call them) with a claw, dislodging a bit of wire insulation stuck between them. "I didn't really know I could do that. This." Eyes darting back to Wolfwood, he then decides he doesn't really want to know the man's reaction after all. "I mean, I was... I knew there were wires here and the electricity was kind of obvious, but then I just... sort of..?" There's an elaborate gesture made with hands and tendrils and something with was and was not a wing-like structure. Melting or forming? Does it matter?

He just whines as Wolfwood lifts his arm, and that's familiar and sounds just like him enough. "I am perfectly healthy for my-- Ah. Build. Thank you." And then, because there cannot be a missed opportunity, "But more donuts and noodles would be worth trying, right?" It might be a little difficult to do the puppy eyes thing with flashlights or whatever's going on, but--

He has to squint like an old man without his reading glasses whenever Vash glances his way, but he supposes it can’t be helped. They’re trying to hold a conversation, after all. Half of which reverberates through his bones whenever Vash opens his mouth. Which, when he thinks about it, is also weird in its own way, but then questioning anything too deeply about Vash’s …creature compulsions… is always futile.

Hopefully this doesn’t become a regularly occurring transformation, because he isn’t sure how he’s going to explain away a giant, energy-charged Plant creature in front of an entire town. 

Oh, the moon, y’know, it does funny things to a man. No moon in the sky, you say? That doesn’t mean it ain’t there!

“Huh?” Wolfwood blinks once, twice, before abruptly recalling that they are still in the middle of an active situation.

“Er…Probably not. I mean, dress shoes don’t typically come with rubber stompers, so…” Hmm. A quick look around suggests he should probably not stand so close to the live cables still writhing within arm’s reach. He drops Vash’s arm and jams a shoulder against his chest. Shoulder? Collarbone? It’s a little hard to fully discern what’s going on anatomically when he’s being flashed every other second or so. 

They cannot fail.

She’d once been good at keeping everything ship-shape even if things were capsizing around her. No Man’s Land has a tendency to create unknown obstacles even if the people here have adjusted to this roughened life. Staring down a barrel of a gun to stall for time while also protecting those she cares about? Not a problem. Working on overcoming her fear at being subjected to a tidal wave of raw emotions and memories depicting something utterly traumatic? She’s working on it.

It is a struggle to rip off a piece of jerky with her teeth, more so to chew it, as it feels like leather in her mouth rather than a piece of cured meat, and if it had taken her this long to finish a bite, they’d be here all day long. Meryl pockets the rest, just in case, and can’t help but nod in agreement to Wolfwood’s description of a bowl of noodles. Wouldn’t matter if it was too hot for soup, she’d easily have a bowl herself with the way he talked about how it would come prepared. The image of both of them sitting flanked by Vash and Milly comes to her and Meryl mentally adds that to her to-do list, even if that voice of reason is telling her to not get too far ahead.

Sometimes it helps to have something to look forward to rather than just focusing on the present. 

She gives another cursory glance at their shared meal, looking over anything she can slip into pockets that might serve them well, but she refrains, other than pocketing the rest of the jerky. She doesn’t know what will be required of them when they get to the ship, and if it would mean leaving things behind. 

She’s about to head out the door when she knocks into Nicholas’s back, staring up at him with a mild bout of confusion, “Wolf—”

Meryl stops talking and listens, understanding what he’s saying and where he’s coming from. In the short while they have been travelling together, despite what she learned from Zazie, she trusts him.

Because if they intend to see this through, there can’t be any doubt in her heart about him. 

“Yeah, his name is Bhodi. When we arrive at Ship Three, he gave me a code word to use once we’re close enough and he’ll be the one to see us inside. If there’s time, maybe we’ll be lucky enough to snag some walkie-talkies for us to keep in touch.”

It feels like a tall order, especially since neither of them have a visual to plan out what will meet them once at Ship Three, but she thinks Bhodi won’t let them split up without being prepared. She hopes, at least.

“Okay.”

The pit in her stomach grows heavier with each passing second knowing there is no turning back from this point on. 

Back in the saddle with the surrounding desert a blur around them, Angelina carries them across the sand sea. Time is precious; the roar of her engine fills their ears, drowning out the possibility of conversation as the race across the desert to reach Ship Three as quickly as possible. 

Ship Three’s outline finally appears off in the distance just as the twin suns are reaching the low point in their descent from day to night. 

Wolfwood takes them all the way up the winding path to the grasping stones playing host to the cable car that typically ferries passengers from the ground to the ship. When Angelina quiets, the hissing winds are a discomforting contrast from the rumbling of an engine that accompanied them for the past few hours.    

“Off t’see yer pal Bhodi now, right?” Wolfwood asks, folding his arms across his chest and leaning his weight against Angelina while he keeps an eye on their surroundings. Nothing but mist and big hulking rocks. They’re only partially hidden by the spires and irregular stone formations, allowing them to be observed at their discretion. Bhodi is the only one they’re expecting at this point. Anyone else requires swift deflection on his part so that Meryl and Bhodi can make their preparations uninterrupted. 

"I, am... getting there. Quit, griping so loud," Maybe the throbbing in his skull had nothing to do with it, but rubbing the sore spot ought to coax just enough sympathy to get Preacherman to quiet down to polite tones. If it didn't, well, he had to adjust his expectations for future endeavors.

A flex of fingers on the other hand, patting his own chest, to be sure of it.The body had a way of pretending that some parts were really, actively there, when they definitely were not. Briefly, his hand dips into his jacket...and slips back out, exhaling softly. Even if these high-rolling denizens were set on Justice upon them, they had not been so thorough as hoped. For example, to remove a limb would have been extremely cruel, unusual, though they were bound for death. if they had any idea what it could do, it might've been just a little harder to escape.

"Been a while since someone's knocked me out cold. Usually, they can't get past the first line of defense." Vash touches the ends of his hair for added effect, while stalking around the little cell. A little humor, offered, and if there was no acknowledgment, it was still worth trying to ease his own mind.

The wall closest to the bench has one, bare essentials toilet; at some point, the porcelain top was destroyed, as there are still shards floating in the exposed water tank. The adjacent wall has a grate, toward the ceiling, for airflow. Despite being set in a highly developed portion of Gunsmoke, it seems their prison was as basic as those as far removed as little settlements, like May. Three walls of painted white concrete, One wall of bars, and an indeterminate amount of time before their names were removed from the Census.

"Mr. Jailer-! We'd like to call home-! That's a law here in this town!" His voice echos down the hall to absolute emptiness. If someone was near, they didn't care enough to respond immediately. Then, stalking away from the bars, he throws up his hands. Really, short of saying ' Open sesame' for efforts.

"Do you think-?" And then his head shakes, jostling the little toilet jammed against the wall, kicking the screws. Bit by bit, it pulls away from the wall. " No- nevermind. If I held you hostage... they wouldn't care." Dim light shows on the other side, with another hefty jerk of his body backward, like a dog trying to get the upper hand on a tug-toy.

Whether he finds Vash’s joke amusing or not remains to be seen. What little he offers is the slightest arch of his brow. 

After their inspections, it is plain to him that there isn’t even enough room for the both of them to pace about like disgruntled zoo animals. Granted, Vash has a strange habit of filling an empty room with his presence in some fashion or another, so that’s nothing new to him. 

He wouldn't have minded staging a hostage situation, but they are of the same mind on their odds of success after their hijinks with McMahon.

“Oh, don’t worry Spikey, we’ll find it.” Like hell they were going to leave without the Punisher. Unfortunately, these sorts of things need to happen in the right order. He's since moved on to the corner of their box to investigate the concrete dust where the bolt plates holding the toilet in place were starting to come loose. If he can unscrew these things by hand they might be able to lift the whole thing out…Though he abandons his plan mid-flight to throw himself into a seemingly bored, cross-legged recline back on the bench when one of the jailers finally heeds Vash’s calls.

“What’s the trouble here now?”

They’ve gone and sent one of the greener constabularies to the cell, it would appear. The young man who approaches them has both hands gripping his belt and a painfully forced scowl set into his jaw in an attempt to look more threatening than a box of puppies. Wolfwood tries not to burst out laughing as the deputy gives them a once over from a respectable distance. There isn’t even a damn hair on that boy’s chin.

Vash makes a vaguely animal sound, like someone who's never actually heard a dog growl and tries to mimic it anyway. That, of course, gets some not-small amount of drool to drip over bare wires between his teeth and he--

Glows. Very, very brightly, going extremely rigid in the process while sparks fly and a slightly worrying sound of gathering power lingers in a low hum at the outside edge of both their senses. Finally all the lights go out completely around them, but Vash is... still...

He does finally drop the wires with a single smoky cough, but there are lines glowing all over his skin that might remind him of neon. The thing is, his eyes are also glowing, and that kind of has a flashlight effect on everything he's looking at.

Blinking a few times to clear the floating lights from his vision, Wolfwood grimaces and reaches out and pinches out a tiny flame burning on the tip of Vash's hair...or feather...spike thing. He never really gave it much thought as to what went where and how with these transformations but he certainly has plenty to think about now, standing here in the dark with a gigantic alien night light.

"Damn it, Needle-noggin, point those damn blinkers somewhere else. Already near-well blinded me once already..." he grumbles. And though he would never admit it aloud, cutting the beams of light by waving his hand in front of Vash's face is entirely too entertaining.

He gingerly steps over a chewed-up cable that sparks and snaps at him when he gets too close.

"If yer hungry you could've just said so. Instead of...doin' this."

Whatever this attempt is. Do Plants get some sort of nutritional value from trying to eat electricity? What if he was wrong this whole time about feeding Vash all those donuts and liquor? He doesn't know enough about Plant biology to theorize anything, much less try to rectify it.

Wolfwood lifts up Vash's right arm, a limb, far, far too long, from the armpit like he's testing its weight.

The cross smashes into a roulette table, after hitting several before it like a very oddly shaped skipping stone. Vash is able to slide off its metallic surface smoothly before the chips start flying with shards of wood like before. No chance of recovering anything from the previous game, now.

"Everyone's out-!" The face of property destruction still needed to know that there would not be one casualty. Not a single body among those that wanted to live, damn their winnings and pocketbooks. If Nicholas even cared to know.

Bullets are still whizzing overhead. Frantic voices and thudding leather shoes, and all he had time for was to upend another table to make cover for Wolfwood. His pistol aims at the colored, decorative glass from above Huey's head, ten feet away. It was one of the few remnants left of this oddly shaped building before it had been converted into a casino.

" Let's go, Wolfwood-!"

They were five feet from the door. But when it opens, it is not their salvation. His chest heaves as the twelve-gauge pushes snugly against his sternum, a controlled finger steeled against a misfire.

Military police. His hands are sky high when a pistol comes to his head, in his peripheral vision, a grinning man in a navy blue suit holding it there steadily. Ah. This had to be Dewey, then.

"Well. This took a turn."

Like a dog with a bone, Vash could simply never leave it. A person in need could never be overlooked under any circumstance. Nevermind all the rules and strings that came with any one of Vash’s pacifist missions. Mired in his own fair share of misdeeds, Nicholas is certainly not blameless. From the sleeve of his jacket and with a practiced sleight of hand, Wolfwood draws a pair of aces. He looks at them for a moment, sour-faced, then flicks them to the ground with a sigh. If only his pulsing headache could be tossed away so easily.

Upon detaining the two miscreants, the local constables also kindly stripped them of any meaningful valuables. Not as thoroughly as they could have, as made evident by the overlooked playing cards now on the floor of their cell. Wolfwood pats down his pockets one more time and finds his dour mood drastically improved upon recovering a single, crumpled cigarette. An unlit cigarette is still better than no cigarette at all, and Wolfwood summarily jams said cigarette between his lips as he rises from his end of the bench to pace behind the bars.

All wrought iron, solid in its construction and just as immovable. Wolfwood tests each one just in case. 

“They’re talkin’ to the federales as we speak. That sheriff is practically droolin’ to have ya shipped out with ‘em to November ‘n collect yer bounty.” With July lost, only the first city would have the resources to put such a notorious criminal to trial– and Wolfwood knows all too well which way the scales of justice will tip for mankind’s first human disaster.