Archive of Our Own ^beta

one - the eye of michael

Nicholas doesn’t cry. Not like the other kids when they leave the orphanage, their eyes wet with tears. He never understood why they cried; they were the lucky ones, chosen to live a better life. Nicholas stopped feeling jealous a long time ago. He knew no one ever wanted him, and made it that way, up until the men from the Eye of Michael came by.

He’s heard about the church. The older kids, back when there were any kids older than Nico, they talked about the Church. How every few years, they’d come by and adopt a kid. Make them a man of the cloth, they claimed, help extend the goodwill of the Lord, share the wealth. Their excuses always changed. And the caretakers of the orphanage could never refuse.

How could they, when a better life could be ahead of them?

Nicholas is the oldest, and he’s picked out by a man in priest robes. Within an hour, he’s bundled into the backseat of a car—the first time he’s ever been in one—and by the end of the day, he’s at the Church. It’s an imposing building, made of sand-lime bricks and a bell tower rising tall. There’s an ornate steel cross affixed to the front of the building. Nicholas burns everything he sees into memory: the lack of windows, the heavy doors, the smaller buildings off to the side.

Standing on the stone steps in front of the doors is another man. His hair is graying, his face severe, his robes immaculate and brushing the ground. There’s not a speck of sand on them.

“Nicholas Wolfwood,” the man says. Nicholas tilts his chin up. “The Eye of Michael welcomes you to our holy home, and rejoices in your dedication to the faith.”

Dedication to the faith? Nicholas could laugh. He couldn’t care less about God; what did He do, when the kids were starving at night, when the well ran dry? But he can’t say that. Instead, Nicholas grits his teeth and nods. “Thanks for having me,” he says, manners that were drilled into him once upon a time making a reappearance. One of the volunteers at the orphanage. She was a pious woman up until she died. God ain’t kind to no one in this desert.

The man stares at him and Nicholas keeps his gaze. And then he nods, and the men around him break rank. The heavy door swings open, revealing a dark hallway. No one says anything to him but Nicholas starts climbing the stairs. He’s made his choice. He’ll live with the consequences.

He’s shown to a room, his own room, with a bed that could fit five kids and a dresser to hold all of his things. Nicholas doesn’t have much. The bag on his shoulder only holds a pocketknife, hardsmoked thomas, a stolen pack of clove cigarettes from one of the volunteers, two canteens filled with water. Nothing to pack away into the dresser. It’s already filled with clothes when he opens in. Clean ones, his size, and it feels a lot like betrayal as Nicholas pulls off his shirt, the ones with holes along the hem and under the arms, and tugs a new one on.

It’s still black. He still looks the same. But it already feels different.

We are the vanguard! The words ring through Nicholas’ head as he points a gun downrange. The target is already riddled with holes: the forehead, the heart, the knees. Michael has sent us ahead to prepare for battle. Our cause is righteous. Our path to Heaven is secured by our actions! Nicholas aims, fires. A sliver of paper flies into the air as the bullet blasts through the ever-widening hole on the target’s head.

“Well done,” comes a voice behind him. Nicholas’ flinch is suppressed but his heart jackrabbits. “You’ve gotten better, Nicholas.”

It’s Father Chapel, the man that greeted Nicholas on his first day. He’s some sort of big shot, always coming and going, his name always said in tales of gory bloodbaths. Nicholas avoids him, like he avoids all the adults in this place, but it seems he has Chapel’s attention. He doesn’t know if that’s good or not.

“Thanks,” Nicholas mutters. The gun feels heavy in his hand. “Do you need something, Father?”

It’s a bunch of bullshit, the conventions of this place. None of the men here are priests, but they’re still called Father, like they deserve the title. Nicholas is an acolyte of Michael, but that just means they put a gun in his hand and tell him to pull the trigger. The entire church meets for daily prayers, daily sermons, and Nicholas is expected to be a believer. The vanguard of Michael, the holy army. Already, he knows it’s nothing more than a name to hide behind.

“Just checking on your progress,” Father Chapel says. “Soon, it’ll be time for the next round of disciples. It’s becoming likely you might even be picked, Nicholas.”

From acolyte to disciple. Maybe one day, Nicholas will hold the title of Father Nicholas. The thought makes his stomach curdle. How much of his life will he give to them?

He stays quiet. He doesn’t know what Father Chapel wants to hear from him: elation, excitement, dread? It’s the latter that’s making a home in him now, and the man must know it. He gives Nicholas a smile.

“You need to work on your faith, Nicholas,” he continues. “The Eye of Michael is your family, we are your blood brothers in His holy name. You have potential, certainly, but only if you can cast aside those ties to your past. I have faith that you can do it. And faith that you will become a perfect soldier, doing the work of the Lord.”

Existence is function.

Nicholas tilts his head up, looks Father Chapel in the eye. He’s always been bad about stepping down from a challenge. And he vows it here, now, in the face of a man who has certainly heard it hundreds of times before. “I’ll become better than you, even with all that’s weighing me down.”

Father Chapel laughs. His smile is sharp and wicked, like blades or the mouth of a snake. “I hope to see it, Nicholas.”

He turns then, vanishing from the training room. Nicholas watches until he’s certain the man is gone, but he feels eyes on him all the same. He picks up the gun, the grip feeling right in his hand, and fires down the range. A new hole appears, right over the heart.

He picks up other weapons. Handgun, machinegun, crossbow, daggers, knives, his hands, his teeth, turning his own body into a weapon. He skins his knuckles on a man’s face, gains scar after scar, molding his body into that of a soldier. We are soldiers of the Lord! We shall destroy them, the sinners and their abominations. Nicholas washes the blood down the drain and imagines himself drowning in a sea of it.

Father Chapel works closely with him. It makes Nicholas the talk of his fellow acolytes, their jealous whispers reaching his ears in the halls or over dinner. He’s certain to be apprenticed by Father Chapel and everyone is jealous. Nicholas wonders how they think so highly of the man. Every moment Nicholas spends with him, it’s like oil slick running down his spine. The man gives him an anatomy lesson, lists out all the ways to kill a human, all the ways to incapacitate one, filling Nicholas’s head with terrible visions.

First you mortally wound them, Father Chapel says and he slices a knife through the tendons on the leg, then you leave the corpses standing to make the others fear, then you kill with the highest level of efficiency. One shot to the head, two to the heart. Stay down.

The next round of Confirmations looms ahead of Nicholas. He’s been at the Church for just over a year, long enough to know it’s a death sentence more often than not. The acolytes that do well get Confirmed, though he’s not too sure what that entails, and an established member of the Church apprentices them. Those that fall behind are culled. Nicholas thinks of all the kids that left the orphanage in the same way he did. He hasn’t seen any of them yet.

“Your fighting skills have reached an adequate level,” Father Chapel says. He’s been watching Nicholas for the past several minutes, he could tell, even though the protective padding on his ears. “But those skills will decrease substantially if you are hit by even a single bullet.”

Quick as heat lightning, Father Chapel has a gun in his hand and the bullet is tearing through Nicholas’s shoulder. A noise escapes him involuntarily, but he keeps the scream lodged behind his teeth. It hurts like hell, like nothing he’s ever felt before, fire spreading through his veins. He grits his teeth, hand clamped to the steadily bleeding wound—dark red blood dripping through his fingers—and turns to face the man.

“In order to complete our object, you must have physical skills that go beyond an ordinary person. Now, are you ready for your Confirmation?” It’s only been a year Nicholas has joined the Eye of Michael, but Father Chapel’s hair is fully white. The lines on his face have deepened. He stares down at Nico, that same impassive face as always.

“I am,” Nicholas says, around the pain.

Father Chapel smiles. It’s still wicked sharp but there’s a glint of something else. Maybe if Nicholas was a more pious acolyte, he might’ve called it pride.

Confirmation rips Nicholas’ humanity away. They hook him up to machines and strap him to the table, and stand by as heavy bags of blue liquid flow into his body. If he thought the bullet that ripped apart the muscle in his shoulder hurt like hell, Nicholas thinks he might finally be dying. He screams, or maybe he tries to, but they stuck tubes down his throat.

Increased muscle strength. Healing capabilities. Sharpened sensory nerves. Strengthened bones. Nicholas’ body changes and changes. He can feel himself grow on that table. The orderlies have to adjust the straps more than once, loosening the slack to the leather doesn’t cut into his skin. His bones break and heal again, stronger. Holy fire scourges Nicholas from the inside out, leaving invisible wounds that feel like lightning every time he moves.

And through it all, they recite scriptures and prayers to him.

Let the angels, which kept not their first estate but left their own habitation, he hath reserved in everlasting chains under darkness under judgment of the great day. Behold, the Lord cometh with ten thousand of his saints, the execute judgment upon all, and to convince all that are ungodly among them of all their ungodly deeds with they have ungodly committed.

The first day, he thinks the men around him are the ungodly ones. Where’s the Holy Spirit in this, in this torture, Nicholas thinks, spitting against the gag shoved in his mouth. His anger only lasts so long, the emotion swept away with the pain. The second day, he finds Father Chapel in the sea of robes and feels oil slick down his spine. It burns quick, the worst sensation so far. The rest of the days fade together. All his knows is that table, the pain, words of God and long-dead prophets lodging themselves in his brain.

But ye, beloved, building up yourselves on your most holy faith, praying in the Holy Ghost, keep yourselves in the eye of God, looking for the mercy of eternal life. Now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy, to the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and ever. Amen.

Nicholas is the Eye of Michael. We are the vanguard of Michael’s army! His cause is righteous. God has sent them to this planet to rid it of its evils, of the sinners, and doing such work will secure his path to Heaven. His body is remade and strengthened, turned into a weapon of the Lord.

When the pain is over, he hardly notices it. Nicholas wakes up suddenly to an absence of the machines, the restraints, the fire that devoured his body. He’s in his room but it feels smaller. He stumbles on unsteady legs to the bathroom, finger hesitating on the light switch before he turns it on.

The person in the mirror isn’t him. He recognizes the hair, the dark brown eyes, the shape of his nose, but the face they’re placed on is older. Nicholas has a scar across his cheek, a thin line from a childhood accident, but it’s been smoothed away. He checks his hands, knuckles that are healed over without signs of the scabs.

He tears off his shirt, looking for the bullet wound. But there is none. The skin of his shoulder is smooth and unbroken. It’s like nothing happened to him. But something did.

There’s knock on the door, and Nicholas is unsurprised when Father Chapel steps through without permission. He’s carrying a large item, but he keeps it propped behind him. Nicholas tugs his shirt back on. He can meet Father Chapel’s eye now. He used to need to look up.

“You look well, Nicholas,” he says. “I see you’ve taken well to the enhancements. I knew you were strong in soul, and now you’re strong in body as well. You’ve surpassed most of those from Hopeland.”

Nicholas grits his teeth. He’s never seen the kids he once knew, maybe because they grew up too fast, but maybe because they died on that table. He can’t let his anger show. Father Chapel loved poking at him until he exploded, netting himself more pain. He doubts that’s changed now. “So what now?” he asks.

“Training, of course,” Father Chapel replies. “But first I have a gift for you.” He reaches behind himself for the item. It’s a monstrous gun shaped like a cross. Chapel wields it easily, but the weight surprised Nicholas when he hands it over. It’s heavy, heavier than something Nicholas could have carried the last time he was conscious.

“Rejoice, Nicholas. You have received the Eye of Michael’s highest honor. Only nine of these have been made in our 133 year history. Now you have the tenth.”

Nicholas looks at the gun. It’s taller than him. It’s heavier than him. But he holds it with ease that makes Father Chapel smile.

“Are you ready?”

Training means Nicholas learns how to use his new body. Training means Nicholas fights with other members of the order, using real guns with real bullets, and there’s real blood hitting the floor. How many times can bullets riddle his body before Nicholas needs manna, to heal the holes in his body. Each time he drinks one of those vials, he wakes up older. He gets taller, his body fills out. The Punisher, the monstrous gun that he would barely be able to carry just months ago, its weight falls easy on his back. And through it all, Father Chapel smiles down on him.

“It’s time for your first mission,” he says one day. Nicholas is taller than him now. “We expect great work from you, Nicholas.”

His target is no one special but it’s not easy. A band of slavers that have been causing problems up north in the Calamity Wastes, going from town to town and leaving destruction in their wake. It’s just Nicholas, facing a group of armed men, and the women and children they use as human shields. It’s a mission that was sure to make him red with rage. He has no doubt Chapel picked this one specifically for him, because of those attachments he scoffs at.

Don’t hesitate. Do only what you are supposed to do. before your target notices you, finish it.

Nicholas isn’t made for stealth. The Punisher is made to punish, to make men afraid of their incoming deaths. If Nicholas is going to kill a man, he’ll make certain they know who’s behind the trigger. The rest of the Eye of Michael, they hide behind their scriptures and holy words. It’s nothing but a bunch of bullshit. But Nicholas can admit that these men deserved it. Maybe God won’t mark this one against him.

“Are you alright?” he asks as he unties the women. He doesn’t approach the kids. He was good with them, once upon a time. But now his hands smell like gunpowder and metal. “Is anyone injured?”

There’s not much he could do if they were. The vials in his pocket would kill them. He doesn't carry bandages anymore, content to let his wounds sluggishly bleed until his body heals them over. But he could find something. He could manage it.

“We’re fine,” one of the women says. She’s still terrified, tear tracks down her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Nicholas says. He stands, watching as the two groups take care of each other. Small eyes watch him with fear, with curiosity, and it makes something in him ache. For the first time since he left, he misses the orphanage. And for the first time since he left, he knows he could never return. Not anymore. Not with the blood on his hands.

The Eye of Michael is pleased with his work, and they send him out again and again and again. He goes on solo missions. Half the time, Nicholas wonders if they just want to kill him. A lone gunman is only asking for a trouble, and he runs up against it most days. He picks up real cigarettes instead of the clove ones of his childhood. He watches as his skin knits over bullet holes and gashes from knives, his brown skin remaining unblemished. No mark of what’s happened to him left behind.

O Lord God, to whom vengeance belongeth; O God, to whom vengeance belongeth, shew thyself. Lift up thyself, thou judge of the earth: render a reward to the proud. Lord, how long shall the wicked, how long shall the wicked triumph?

Nicholas takes the scripture and casts it aside. The Eye of Michael is nothing more than a group of killers pretending they have virtue. If they weren’t cowards, they would call themselves what they are: murderers. Nicholas knows better than to hide behind ancient words and pretend it’s all for a righteous gun. He’s a gun. They point him and he shoots, whether it be in cold blood or deserved. But there’s not God making Nicholas press down on the trigger.

He’s not a righteous man. He’s not God, he doesn’t know the value of the souls to snuffs out. But he’ll keep doing it. He’ll be a demon, a wolf among these so-called righteous men, the only one that doesn’t pretend he’s anything but a killer.

Thou shalt not kill. Nicholas already broken that one. He’s a doomed man, and that’s never going to change. He’s already going to Hell; why not bring a few more souls with him?

July falls. Nicholas is south of the city and he watches the lights burn into the sky, he hears the noise rumble over the sand. In the following days, the city is found destroyed. Thousands are killed. When he returns to the Church, its members are in a fervent uproar.

A city of sinners destroyed! They said it was an angel, sent by the Lord. This is a sign of God! Our work is righteous, our work is true. We will bring about the Day of Reckoning.

Nicholas laughs at them, at their beliefs. None of them were close to the city like he was, none of them saw the wreckage. What good are their guns, their bullets, their false prayers, what good are all those against the type of thing that could cause such destruction? Something that could kill so easily wipe away a city like Sodom and Gomorrah, what good does such a thing have for guns and the men that wield them?

And if there is a God, one who sent the angel down, Nicholas hopes the Church is next. He’ll gladly go down with it.

Life goes on. The people of No Man’s land are uneasy, wary of everything after the fall of July. Nicholas has his orders and he carries them out. More blood on his hands. At night, he drowns in a red sea. And then he wakes up and carries on over the sand dunes.

Nicholas stumbles across the missive by accident. He’s in Father Chapel’s office, as the man called him for a debriefing on their next job. For once, Nicholas will be joining the man. He knows it should be an honor, but there’s only that oil slick feeling that runs down his spine. But he stumbles across the piece of paper, reads it, and barely stops himself before he crumples it.

An assassin to aid in the destruction of humanity. To bring about the End of Days underneath an angel’s guidance. It’s funny enough to make Nicholas bark out a laugh. The assassin known as “Chapel” is to come to Jeneora Rock, the paper reads. Nicholas burns it into his memory and waits for Father Chapel to return.

Nicholas has never liked him. The man who plucked him out of his home, who twisted his body into something beyond recognition, who points Nicholas like a weapon and claims the blood on his hand is justified by God. Nicholas can’t, won’t blame anyone else for the blood on his hands. He’s a demon. But if Nicholas’ hands are stained red, then Chapel is dripping with it.

He’s the one who finds children and changes them. He’s the one that taught Nicholas how to cause the most pain. He’s the one that mentioned gaining new blood from Hopeland and laughed as he twisted the gun out of Nicholas’ hands.

All Nicholas has ever wanted to do was protect what matters. The Eye of Michael gave him the strength, the ability to do so. But he can’t let them continue on like this.

Father Chapel has chosen you as his disciple. This is a rare privilege and honor. Be sure not to squander it, Nicholas. It hangs around his neck like a collar, the lead in Chapel’s hands. Nicholas has been chewing at it for years, trying to get the rope to fray. The bond between a master and his disciple is sacred.

Bullshit. Chapel might care for him, but the flicker of pride Nicholas once chased has flattened into disappointment. He’s too merciful, Chapel once said. He doesn’t let his victims suffer. Nicholas has felt nothing but resentment since he woke up and realized how many years have been stolen away from him. Chapel doesn’t deserve his mercy.

It’s a mess of a shoot-out, this mission. Nicholas keeps the Punisher firing, the metal growing burning hot under his hands. Bodies keep hitting the ground, some in silence and others in agonized pain. Nicholas hefts the gun onto his shoulder and aims it at the man who placed it in his hands.

It’s heavy. It always has been, even when he was barely fifteen and placed his hands on it for the first time, to now, with muscles that are stronger than a human’s. It gets heavier as the days go by. As the bodies hit the sand. Nicholas keeps on adding to the weight, again and again, and maybe one day it will be too heavy to bear. But for now, he can still aim true.

The man never saw it coming. BANG! The bullet blasts away flesh and muscle and bone. Chapel staggers with the first shot. He turns as Nicholas fires the second. Don’t hesitate. Do only what you are supposed to do. Before your target notices you, finish it. Chapel’s words rattle in Nicholas’s head. Their eyes meet through the haze and dust. The second bullet hits and Nicholas turns away from the wreckage and starts running.

Behind him, he can hear Chapel cry out. The bond between a master and disciple is sacred. And he that smiteth his father, or his mother, shall be surely put to death. Nicholas has always known he’s a doomed man. His immortal soul isn’t making it up to those gates. But he’ll be sure to take a few more on his way down.

In front of him, the sky is blue over the sand. He’s got his cross to bear and a new name to add to it: Knives.

two - the orphanage

“Nico! Nico, get back here!” Melanie’s shouts tear through the calm day. Nico doesn’t listen to her, running off with his armful of treats. The baker’s wife dropped them off just minutes ago, stopping to chat with melanie and leaving the sweet rolls unattended. She does it every now and then, coming by with something sweet for the children. There’s never enough, though, and Nico got sick of fighting for the sliver of a pastry that Melanie carefully divided for all the kids.

He races through the hallways, to the back stairwell that leads to the roof. It’s supposed to be locked, but Nico jimmied it a long time ago so he can push it open. The air is dry and hot like always, and Nico bounds to the edge of the roof. He can see some of the kids playing. They don’t pay him much attention. Everyone is used to him sneaking up here. It’s barely a blip in their day when Nico settles on the edge of the roof, legs swinging over the ledge.

Melanie and the other volunteers, they hate it. But there’s not enough hands to go around and Nico always slips by. He still has the rolls in his arms. They’re warm and soft, baked earlier that day. Everyone could get a mouthful, if he left them for Melanie to dish out.

Nico bites into one, lets the sweetness burst on his tongue. The bread is soft, almost melts in his mouth. He should share it.

Thou shalt not steal.

He throws the pasty behind him onto the roof. The rest get the same treatment, lobbed off onto the storage shed, onto another sandy patch in the playground, all of them crusting over with sand. Inedible. Tears sting his eyes and he wipes away at the roughly.

No one notices. Nico watches as the kids keep playing, unknowing of how Nico ruined a treat for them. He thinks of Melanie down in the kitchen, despairing over him yet again. He doesn’t know why he keeps doing these things. This place is the only home he’s ever known and he keeps ruining it. He wishes he knew how to stop.

There’s a rustle of wings behind him and Nico twists. A pair of birds have settled onto the roof and are pecking away at the roll. Their wings are bedraggled, their feathers askew. They chirp to each other as they eat and Nico watches in quiet fascination.

He envies them and their wings. Maybe it wouldn’t be any better being a bird, waiting on a wicked boy to throw away much-needed food for the next meal, but he could fly. He could leave this place and find somewhere else. It’s a big planet. There has to be somewhere that would settle the aching in his chest.

The birds have eaten the roll of the roof and moved on by the time Melanie makes an appearance. The sun is setting, the sky turning a deep purple. Nico’s been up here for hours and his skin is dried out and maybe even a shade browner. The kids have disappeared inside for dinner. Nico heard the call; he just ignored it.

He’s not surprised when Melanie settles not to him, even less surprised when she has a plate of food in hand. “You missed dinner,” she says, pushing it at him. He takes it with trembling hands. “What’s going on, Nico? You’ve been a menace all week.”

“I don’t know.” His voice is hoarse and dry. He’s all dried out from the sun. Melanie notices and pushes a glass of water towards him but he ignores it. “I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Melanie says, like it’s easy. Maybe it is for her. “I’d wish you’d talk to me though, when you’re feeling like this, instead of taking it out on us. Everyone here is going through something, you know that.”

He does. All the kids cry at night. His dreams are blissfully empty. He’s never known nothing but the orphanage and most of the days blur together. Kids that lost their parents, or were given up, they have a reason to cry, a reason to act out. Nico’s just a wicked little boy. He stares down at the plate of food. It should have a tiny piece of a sweet roll, but there is none. All the kids downstairs, they don’t even know.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what there is to say. Next to him, Melanie sighs and shifts in her spot. “You should eat, Nico. You deserve to.”

“Will I get punished?” he asks. He sticks a forked in the mashed roots but doesn’t bring it to his mouth.

“Oh, bright boy, I think you’re punishing yourself enough,” Melanie says. She places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes before leveraging himself up.

Nico watches the sun dip below the dunes as he mechanically chews his food. It turns to dust in his stomach.

To the assassin known as “Chapel”:

Behold, I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way, and to bring thee into the place which I have prepared. Beware of him, and obey his voice, provoke him not; for he will not pardon your transgressions: for my name is in him. But if thou shalt indeed obey his voice, and do all that I speak; then I will be an enemy unto thine enemies, and an adversary unto thine adversaries.

Jeneora Rock. Don’t be late.

The letter Wolfwood read off Chapel’s desk gave a place and a stardate. Jeneora Rock is far from December, and Wolfwood trudges through sand dunes and deserted settlements with the cross on his back. He gave his canteen to a couple of kids, thinking the town up ahead would have something, but it was dry as the sand and quiet as a ghost. The chemicals that reworked his body didn’t bother with fixing a his need for water, which is how Wolfwood found himself collapsed in a sand dune. All that hard work, for fucking nothing.

And then he’s found and saved, by Vash the Stampede, and something cold clicks into place in the back of his head. They’re both headed for the same place.

“Wolfwood, at your service,” he says, all charm that he learned with the Eye of Michael, something slimy and cold washing over him as he forces the teasing tone out. Maybe Vash doesn’t buy it. But somewhere along that train ride, Vash decides Wolfwood’s good. Vash draws him close, describes a man with a surprising amount of angry, but Wolfwood’s never seen him. He bets he’ll see the man soon, though.

And then Jeneora Rock is upon them, and Legato is waiting for the both of them. Wolfwood waves Vash off, and the two insurance agents, and hopes he doesn’t see any of them again.

When Legato Bluesummers finds him, asks Are you Chapel?, Wolfwood says yes. The lie slips through his teeth with ease. Add that to his lists of sins. His immortal soul’s just as heavy as the cross on his back. At any rate, Chapel’s dead. Wolfwood might as well take on the mantle. Legato tilts his head, staring through Wolfwood with those piercing eyes, but he just nods. And then there’s the doctor, and all the other people Legato has recruited, and Wolfwood is watching an angel be born on earth.

Knives’ body is covered in feathers, his hair trailing down his back, white gold like desert sand. Behold, for I have sent an angel of the Lord. But for all of his beauty, the room is filled with an oppressive force. Wolfwood is grateful when Knives leaves to face Vash. He watches the two brothers fight. He watches in wonder, in awe, in terrifying silence, as a whole is blast in the fifth moon, as the world is changed once again by Vash the Stampede.

He disappeared amidst the chaos. Legato gives Wolfwood the order to go look, so he does, but he comes up with nothing. Jeneora is filled with people calling him the devil. The insurance girls are gone. There’s on the red cloak, helped up by a pile of debris. The man who wears it is gone.

Wolfwood waits a day, another one, and then a third. It’s long enough that the rest of Legato’s goons have disappeared. The husk of the ship is silent, save for the groaning of the metal as desert wind batters at it. Wolfwood holds his breath as he makes his way through labyrinthine hallways, checking room after room methodically. Knives must be in here somewhere. And Wolfwood will find him and end it.

He’s in the plant room. Wolfwood should have checked here first, he knows, but something inside him, something instinctual, avoided it. Knives looks glorious still, an angel sent down to punish humanity for its transgressions. If Wolfwood were a more religious man, he might’ve fallen in line, right behind Legato and that doctor, but he’s not. He has his gun out, training on Knives’ chest, and his finger on the trigger.

And yet, his body doesn’t move.

He could end it now. Fire all the bullets in this magazine into that glorious body and end it all. But the air in the room weighs down on him, heavier than his cross and his immortal soul. He swallows thickly, his throat catching, and Knives’ eyes snap open. The blue of his iris is pale, almost white, and it only adds to the alien look of him. His fingers clench around the grip of the gun. He doesn’t want to die here. He doesn’t want everything he’s done, all the blood on his hand, to be for nothing.

“So you’re with the Eye of Michael?” Knives says. He says nothing of how Wolfwood has a gun pointed at him. He regards Wolfwood like he’s nothing more than an insect and to a creature like Knives, he must be.

Beware of him, and obey his voice, provoke him not.

“Keep to your contract and do my bidding,” Knives commands. His voice presses into Wolfwood’s head a hundred times, almost deafening. “Find him. Protect him. And bring him here without further damage.” His voice turns sibilant. An angel, a serpent, danger threading through every syllable.

It’s a new length of rope to hang himself by. All that work he did, at chewing that lead that connected him to Chapel, and he’s gotten nowhere different. But Wolfwood can follow orders. Like a dog, it’s all he’s good at. Function is his entire existence. If he’s not useful, then what’s the point?

He takes the rope and ties it around his neck, and looks for a tall tree to hang himself from.

three - vash

Wolfwood doesn’t know what he expected when he stumbles upon Vash after two years of fruitless searching. He’s done a lot in the interim. Added more weight to his cross, drenched his soul in more blood, kept an eye on his back and waited for the Eye of Michael to catch up to him. But it’s been quiet on that front. And with Chapel dead, Wolfwood doesn’t worry about the orphanage.

He worries about what Knives would do if he failed his new mission. Find him. Protect him. And bring him here without further damage. He’s already failed the last part. Wolfwood watches as the bullets push themselves out of Vash’s body. He watches as Vash throws himself headlong into danger, Wolfwood struggling to cover his back, and wonders if this infernal engine of a man will ever quit.

“So then, where are you headed?” Vash asks over a plate of noodles. WIth his hair pulled back, he looks like the man Wolfwood met two years ago. But two years have sunk lines into his face, a weight onto his shoulders.

“Dunno the final destination,” Wolfwood hedges. He doesn’t. Bring him here, Knives said, but it was obvious he didn’t mean the burnt out husk of a ship that gave him knew life. “However, I do know that I’ll need your strength.”

Vash isn’t convinced. Wolfwood doesn’t blame him. Instead, he talks about Knives’ latest massacre. There’s been a couple over the past two years, ghost towns popping up, rivers of blood, a danger that hums through the air not unlike what Wolfwood felt watching July burn. But he needs a way to get Vash up and moving, out of this hole he’s tried to bury himself in. Wolfwood doesn’t mind twisting that knife. He’s caused worse pain to better people. And still, Vash fails at keeping the peace. He’ll act like a dog but it won’t save no one. Wolfwood wonders how long it’ll take before he bites.

“How do you know so much about Knives?” Vash asks, suspicion still coloring his voice.

“I have a debt to settle,” Wolfwood says, and thinks of the way he failed to pull that trigger. “I’ll be leaving in three days.”

He’s not surprised when Vash joins him. Wolfwood saw a glimpse of the man’s determination, a need to see things to the end, and he exploited it. He got what he needed, Vash by his side, and into the dunes they disappear.

Vash sniffs out danger like a dog looking for its next meal. They’ve barely settled into the hotel when a man tries to kill Vash. Wolfwood sees firsthand why mankind is so afraid of him, the humanoid typhoon that tears the building apart. He sees red as he wrestles the Punisher onto his shoulder, taking aim at the hitman before he can get any closer to Vash.

He’s grateful for the insurance girls to show up again, at least one more cool head to try and keep Vash in line. He compliments Millie’s handiwork with her stun-gun and ignores Vash’s pleas for mercy. Wolfwood has to leave a message. If everyone thinks they can get potshots off on Vash, then his job becomes that much harder.

He doesn’t kill the man and Vash should be grateful for that. Wolfwood tries to shake Chapel’s voice out of his head as he burns the man. First you mortally wound them, then you leave the corpses standing to make the others fear, then you kill with the highest level of efficiency. Wolfwood’s never been able to forget the those edicts.

And then there’s the incident with the sand steamer and feuding families. Vash throwing himself into another one of humanity’s little squabbles, like his presence would solve anything. His inability to make a choice, to kill a man, it raises Wolfwood’s temper like nothing else. Vash is powerful, he’s seen to that, but his optimistic and a coward. Saving one life for the chance of letting more die later on. Wolfwood’s not a saint, the fucking opposite of one, but he’s never sat on his ass waiting for some good samaritan to solve a crisis.

When Vash comes out of it, bruised and bleeding, Wolfwood doesn’t do nothing more than scoff. He doesn’t know how many more beatings the man can take. He’s seen Vash’s body, scarred and whittled down, and knows the man won’t stop until every inch is raised red and angry and then some.

At this moment, people may die over there, Vash said. To me, that is a very serious matter. People may die everywhere at any time. Wolfwood wonders what he would do about that. How often he’ll throw himself in the line of fire.

But if Vash is going to play the saint, then Wolfwood will be the demon dogging at his heels, getting his hands dirty with the work Vash is too cowardly to complete.

He’s glad for the sandworm that lets him avoid Vash’s question, even if Vash doesn’t let up on it. He knows the handiwork of such a creature, knows it’s not acting of its own will but hers instead. It’s enough to make him tense up and Vash picks up on that, falling into contemplative silence for the first time that entire trip.

Of course a Gung-Ho-Gun would be waiting for them. Of course, he almost throws Wolfwood’s game. He watches as the two stand off, Vash with his gun and Rai-Dei with his blade. It’s a fight to the death, even if Vash doesn’t believe that. Because Vash thinks he can save everyone, even the freaks pitted against him in this killing game. The half-coin in Wolfwood’s breast pocket burns.

“We have found the location your secluded home,” Rai-Dei says, and the temperature drops even with the blistering heat. Wolfwood’s hand clenches on the straps around Punisher, as he watches Vash tense up with his words.

Rai-Dei doesn’t appreciate his movement and a slim dagger flies through the air. He just narrowly dodges it, bristling at the man’s words, as he watches Vash face the samurai again. Vash won’t kill him. Despite the urgency in his actions, Vash wouldn’t bring a permanent end to it.

“Now promise not to kill any more people,” Vash says, and turns his back on the man. Wolfwood watches as Rai-Dei thinks over the words, how he spurs into action barely a second later.

Wolfwood doesn’t hesitate. Not like Vash does. A spray of blood comes up, the warm liquid hitting him in the face.

“Wolfwood!” Vash bellows, closing the distance between them. “Why? Why did you shoot him, Wolfwood!”

The slap hurts like hell. His glasses fly off with the impact, landing in the sand. His cheek stings, his eyes welling up without his permission, but he raises his head to meet Vash’s gaze. The anger coursing through him makes him see red, and when Vash turns that baleful look on him again, Wolfwood slams his head down with enough force to send Vash onto his side, gripping at his nose.

“Are you really such an idiot?” he barks out. “If I hadn’t shot him, it’d be you lying there.” And Wolfwood would be facing Knives’ wrath. He’s seen bullets push themselves out of Vash’s body, but certainly he can still be killed. “Underestimating the Gung-Ho-Guns… You really are too naive.”

“You’re wrong,” Vash spits out. “He wouldn’t have pulled the trigger.”

“And you think a weapon is going to tell you what was going through his head? That he wouldn’t have shot you?”

“I don’t know!” Vash cries. “Maybe he would have fired, but… I would have just dodged! No matter how many times I’d have to! It’s better than killing him and taking away his chance to stop!”

And there it is, that judgment. His blood rushes in his ears, the anger coursing through his veins. A chance to stop? Vash is nothing but naive and it shows. Men like Rai-Dei, who gave their humanity away to turn more lethal, they will never stop. Wolfwood will humor him about humans, but those that have forfeited their humanity for power, the Gung-Ho-Guns, Knives, or Wolfwood himself, they won’t simply stop. The violence is in their blood.

“You damn hypocrite,” he growls, hauling Vash up by the collar. “You talk of saving everyone, but you don’t wanna get your own hands dirty, is that right?”

Vash doesn’t say anything, glaring up at Wolfwood. The blood is still rushing in his ears, the sound of a sand dune crashing down on him. Fast as lightning, Wolfwood pulls out his gun and wrestles it into Vash’s hand, holding them both up to his forehead.

“Shoot.”

Vash stares, brows furrowed. He tries to pull his hand away but Wolfwood’s grip holds strong.

“If you really believe I'm wrong, pull the trigger. In return, my role as the devil will be handed over to you. That way, you won't hesitate to take out the next man who gets in your way. It's a small price to pay. If it brings something like that out of ya... I'll trade my life.”

There’s silence between them. Vash’s hand holds steady with perfect finger discipline. He would never shoot. He can’t condemn Wolfwood for killing a man and then do that same. For a moment, he wonders what Vash has to say about those that take their own lives. If he shoulders that burden as well, or he thinks they’re just as despicable as Wolfwood.

“Can’t do it, can you? Chicken-shit.”

“You are the coward here, Wolfwood,” Vash says. “No matter what you do, you give it up so easily.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t know when to give up!” Wolfwood spits. His pacifism only brings him pain. At least Wolfwood knows his problems end when he ends a life.

“What are you saying, looking so mad? You that afraid to trust someone?” Vash says. The anger has almost disappeared from his face. He looks pitying, which only makes Wolfwood’s blood boil even more. “You told me back then that my face looked better with a real smile,” Vash says. Back then feels so long ago. Before his contract with Knives. Before he saw Vash for the force he is. Back then, Wolfwood saw a pretty man and thought he could have a nice night, if things were different. “If you could see yourself through my eyes now... You'd see a man forcing himself to play the devil while his own heart cries out.”

He’s not forcing himself, Wolfwood wants to say. But he doesn’t know how to explain it to the man in front of him. He’s a weapon. His function is his existence, and his function is to kill. He isn’t a righteous soldier of God. He is the devil. No amount of atonement can change that.

Vash drops his hand from the gun and Wolfwood barely manages to hold onto it. He tucks it away quietly, leaning down to pick up Punisher. Vash is forging ahead and for a moment, Wolfwood hesitates in following.

But he has a contract to fulfill.

He points the gun at the back of Vash’s head. It’d be over quick and easy. Before your target notices you, finish it. Vash knows it’s him, know it’s Wolfwood at his back. And yet he doesn’t care. Doesn’t turn, even when the moonlight reveals enough of Wolfwood’s shadow to make it obvious.

He could eliminate half of the threat to mankind right now. He could avoid another July. Maybe the orphanage would be safe. But without Vash, there’s still Knives, and Wolfwood can’t forget the oppressive air inside the ship.

When Wolfwood tucks the gun away, Vash turns to look at him. He would’ve let Wolfwood do it, and that knowledge turns sour in his stomach.

Somewhere along the way, Wolfwood looks at Vash and thinks, Do you know? When Vash saves a family from repo men, wins a shoot-out in a busy street, retrieves a cat from a tree, when he turns that bright and real smile on Wolfwood, he wonders. Do you know where I’m leading you? That I’ve decided your life is worth thirty silver?

Vash loses against Millie in a game of darts. Meryl’s drunk enough to be raucous in her laughter. There’s no worry today. There’s just good drinks and good cheer. The alcohol curdles in Wolfwood’s stomach.

Do you forgive me?

Wolfwood watches as Vash saves two people. There’s no bloodshed today, an oddity. Wolfwood imagines Knives will make up for it by tomorrow. He watches as Vash and his two new pals drink themselves drunk, reminiscing over anything and everything. Dread sits heavy in Wolfwood’s stomach. Dread, and something that he might call guilt it he let himself examine it.

The wisdom of two drunkards send Vash stumbling to the door, and Wolfwood almost trips over himself to follow. Outside, Vash seems to have sobered up quickly in the cooling desert air.

“Y’alright?” Wolfwood asks, holding the door open to let Vash in. If he’s puking up the mess in his stomach, Wolfwood would rather he do it out here.

“Wolfwood…” Vash begins, his voice clear in the night, “you really are my ‘guide,’ right?”

Wolfwood lets the door swing shut. “Yeah, that’s right.” He moves closer, still out of Vash’s reach. “I told you that from the beginning.”

And Vash should have known from the beginning. Wolfwood was always meant to guide Vash to Knives—neither of them knew the final destination until now. And here they are, the night before it all. He wonders, if he kisses Vash now, will he be signing the death warrant he’s been carrying around with him?

There’s half a gold piece sitting in Wolfwood’s pocket, right next to his heart. It feels as heavy as Punisher, ladened down with guilt that he can’t bring himself to touch. For someone like Wolfwood, it’s the role he’s meant to play.

Find him. Protect him. And bring him here without further damage.

He’s completed his contract.

“Wolfwood, I’ll be alright,” Vash reassures. He’s the one walking into the lion’s den. She’s smiling, that damned smile. Wolfwood’s hand tightens on the straps of Punisher. He would raze this place to the ground, if it meant Vash wouldn’t half to walk up those steps.

But Vash would never forgive him for that.

four - knives

Find him. Protect him. And bring him here without further damage. Wolfwood chews on the words as he follows after the Ark. Once he managed to break away from Livio and Chapel, the two having given up on their revenge quest, the Ark has been on the move. Wolfwood trails after it. He has nowhere else to go.

He can’t find the insurance girls. He can’t look for where Vash’s family has holed up. They won’t forgive him. He doesn’t expect them to. And he can’t return to the orphanage, to those kids. How could he face them, when he’s the one that gave up humanity’s last hope? And for what? The chance to live on the planet until it’s destroyed?

Instead, Wolfwood takes the slow journey of following the Ark. One day, he’ll be able to catch up. One day, he can right his wrongs.

It takes eight long months. Eight long months of the planet being ravaged even more that it already was, the dregs of humankind making their way to any settlement that still has a plant, fresh water, power. Wolfwood can’t help but scoff at them and their pathetic lives, hoping that someone will come along to save them, breaking into skirmishes and fights and bloodshed.

Knives paints the planet red, and Wolfwood helps him pick the worst of the ones that are left off. Someone once asked why his luggage was so heavy and Wolfwood said, “Because it’s filled with mercy.” Surely, it’s more merciful to die before facing the end of days. Wolfwood dreams he’s drowning in blood. Wolfwood dreams of Vash, his neck slit, the blood pouring out of him.

Wolfwood thinks of the length of rope Knives offered him. Wonders if it’s long enough to hang himself on.

But after eight months, Wolfwood finally catches up to the Ark. He hasn’t glimpsed Chapel or Livio, though they could still be lurking, and he grins as the local Militia manages to strike the Ark. It’s his chance. Wolfwood climbs his way up the wreckage, finding his way into the interior of the Ark, and stalks the dark hallways until he smells the stench of suffering.

It’s everywhere on this ship but it’s strongest here, and Wolfwood has no doubt of what’s behind that door.

“Spikey?” he says, trying the handle and finding it locked. Of course. “Can you hear me?” There’s no response. “This could get a bit loud.”

Wolfwood hefts up Punisher and fires a salvo of bullets at the door. It gives after a few seconds, flying into the room. Dust kicks up, the signs of a room that hasn’t been touched in a long, long time. But Wolfwood can hear the jackrabbit heartbeat within.

He has his gun out and on Legato before the dust clears. Don’t hesitate. Before your target notices you, finish it. Finger on the trigger, another merciful sentence to be carried out. But Vash is in the room. Vash is here, eight months of agony, eight months of living with Wolfwood’s betrayal, and he can’t betray him yet again.

That hesitation is all Legato needs as he twists Wolfwood’s body, the gun now pointed at his own chest. It’s a struggle. He shouldn’t have hesitated. he had the shot, he should have taken it. But there’s Vash, already so pathetic. Wolfwood would hang himself before he makes the same mistake again. In the end, their combined efforts shake Legato long enough for Vash to escape his cell, even for Wolfwood to pull the trigger on the man.

It’s not a killshot, and it allows Legato to manipulate him one more time, pain blossoming in his gut, but Wolfwood grits his teeth and bares it. He knows how many bullets he can take before he falters in his motions. Legato doesn’t stop him as Wolfwood hauls Vash over his shoulder, every moment sending frissons of pain through him. It’s his penance. His can do this, at the very least.

And then Livio, and Chapel rises from the grave, and Wolfwood’s body is riddled with more holes. He drops Vash. He loses him again. Each bullet that rips through him feels like fire, and Wolfwood isn’t even given the opportunity to dig one of the vials out of his pocket. Chapel’s eyes are manic with revenge and Livio—and Crybaby Livio advances on Wolfwood. Function is existence.

This can’t be the end. Crybaby Livio, what happened to him? The orphanage, their happy days… Why did he run away? Wolfwood can’t let it end here. He still has sins to pay for. He needs to save Livio… the kids… Vash…

With a groan, Wolfwood hauls himself to his knees. Pain ripples through him. His torso is wet and on fire with blood and injuries, but he can still pick Punisher up. But he can’t do anything more. Another bullet rips through him, sending him sprawling backwards. The Punisher lands on him, pinning him to the ground. It’s heavier than anything Wolfwood’s ever carried. It’s filled with mercy, with sins, all the blood he’s spilt.

I beg you… the young ones… All I wanted to do was save them. God… oh, my Lord…Can murderers… only be murderers? Are you saying I cannot be forgiven for my past? Am I…wrong?

“You are not wrong, Wolfwood!” a voice says and there’s the unfurling of wings.

He blinks, barely finding the energy within himself to open his eyes. Vash stands in front of him, wings sprouting from his back, spread over Wolfwood as if to protect him. As if he deserves that much. As he drifts off, he thinks he hears Vash say he’s sorry.

And after these things I saw another angel come down from heaven, having great power; and the earth was lightened with his glory.

Wolfwood broke his contract with Knives a long time ago. Perhaps from the moment he agreed to it. Bring him to me without any further damage. He never succeeded at that part. Vash was always bleeding, from wounds or his damned bleeding heart, and nothing Wolfwood could do would ever stop that. The same day he found him, Vash’s body was riddled with bullets. And Wolfwood himself has only added to the man’s pain.

“Are you okay?” Vash’s face hovers above his, creased with concern. His hair is limp, hanging over his face. He’s backlit by the light that’s managed to enter their foxhole, giving him a gold halo. Wolfwood doesn’t know if it’s a dream or not. It’s too nice of a reality than he deserves, but there’s not enough blood to be a dream.

“For now,” Wolfwood says. His body has patched itself back together but that won’t last very long. They’ll find some new fight to throw themselves into.

“Thank you,” Vash says after a minute of quiet. “For coming back for me.”

Wolfwood stares at the cave wall. “What the fuck are you thanking me for, Spikey?” he says finally. “I’m the one that gave you up.”

“You had your reasons, didn’t you?” Vash says. Like it’s that simple. Everything always is to Vash. “But you came back. Not many people have done that for me.”

Bring him to me without any further damage. Vash takes the ire of angry mobs with that smile on his face. A stoning, a lynching, a knife to the back. Wolfwood has never been able to keep him safe. He even smiled at Wolfwood as he stepped into that prison of a ship.

“I’ll try,” Wolfwood promises, his second contract with an angel. Maybe this one will win him enough goodwill to make it into Heaven. Fat chance. “I’ll come back for you, Vash. It’s the least I can do.”

Vash’s smile is beatific. Wolfwood’s breath catches in his throat. Vash, with a halo of light around his head, feathers still trailing down his arms, looks like an angel. In the way Knives had been terrifying as Wolfwood gave his word, Vash looks like the epitome of forgiveness.

He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.

Another promise Wolfwood will just break in the end. But he’s retrieved Vash, safe and free of Knives’ machinations. That’s enough for now.

five - his god

Nick never believed in God. Not when he was a kid, not when he was turned into a weapon in the name of God, not when he spent his days dirtying his hands with blood. God was the creature of a different planet, one that had something beautiful and worthwhile on it. If there is a God, No Man’s Land hasn’t ever seen Him.

Nick isn’t a religious man. His life has been too hard from the get-go, one hardship after another. He’s seen too much sorrow, too much pain, too much death, to imagine there’s some mercy God watching over this planet. And on days like today, Nick the only survivor of a firefight with bodies bleeding on the desert sand, he knows he’s right.

He leans over one body. A young girl. She must have a family somewhere on the planet. Something glints in her hand and he stares at it. A beaded rosary, glinting in the sun, her hand clenched tight around it. For the first time in a long time, Nick feels pressure behind his eyes, wetting without his permission.

“I’m sorry he didn’t save you,” he whispers, throat choked up. She deserved it more than him. Why should Nick be the one that gets to shrug off the bullets, that gets to bite the hand that feeds and still come out on the other side. It’s not fair.

There’s no one coming for her body. It’s the middle of nowhere, and he’s iles away from the nearest settlement. He props Punisher into the sand and gets to digging. It’s hard work, digging a grave out of sand. The hole fills back in with every other handful dug out, but Nick perseveres. Until the sun goes down and the temperature drops. She deserves this much.

She looks peaceful in death. The bloodstain on her dress has dried up. Wolfwood’s arm trembles as he lowers her into the grave, as he moves her hand and the clutched rosary to rest over her heart. Assassin, punisher, undertaker. He fills the sand in around her, watching as her face disappears under the grains.

Nick rests on his haunches. He’s not a religious man. He’s never prayed before. But he finds it in him to tilts his head, his eyes closed, as he says, “Dear Lord, deliver her soul into Heaven. Because she deserves a lot more than a life on this wretched planet.”

His anger boils over.

“While we’re at it,” Nick says, giving up on any semblance of prayer and yelling at the sky, “what the fuck is your problem, old man? You got people down here who believe in you, for some fucking reason, and you’re just letting them rot! What, are we not good enough for you? Has humanity gone so far beneath you that you just don’t care?”

Silence. There’s nothing but the dunes, the shifting of sand. Nick isn’t a religious man, and maybe his first attempting at talking to God shouldn’t be with anger. But Nick doesn’t know what he has left. There’s no love, no mercy, just the anger. Some days he thinks he could just drown in it. Some days, he thinks he’ll give in to the anger and the adrenaline rush and then he’ll be no different from any other member of the Eye of Michael. Maybe then, Chapel will be proud.

“Is this what you want?” Nick asks the stars. “For us to kill each other until there’s nothing left? Because congratulations, asshole, that’s what’s happening down here.”

He doesn’t know why he even bothers. If years with the Eye of Michael couldn’t turn him into a believer, yelling at the empty sky won’t do it either. But maybe, he’ll believe in a miracle. If God sent down a miracle, Nick will believe in him. Hell, he might even repent.

But there’s nothing. The desert is silent and full of death.

“Figures,” he mutters, hefting Punisher out of the sand. He’s iles away from the nearest town and it’s getting cold. Maybe God’s answer is him freezing to death.

Above him, the stars shine. A comet blazes across the sky. Nick’s never spent a day in his life staring at the sky; he’s not going to start now.

It happens again, and again, and again. Nick finds himself in a fight and innocent blood is spilled. It’s on his hands, even if he didn’t pull the trigger or wield the knife. He keeps digging graves, one after another, sending them off with a prayer. Our Father who art in Heaven, stop letting these people die. O merciful God, receive these souls into Heaven and free them of their pain. God, when will it be enough? How much blood will you let me spill? There’s never an answer.

When it’s a kid he’s digging a child-sized grave for, Nick can’t stop the tears from falling. “If you’re so good and just and fair,” he says, scraping his hands raw with sand, “why haven’t you killed me yet? I should’ve died a hundred times over but you still let me walk this stupid fucking planet. Haven’t I done enough? Haven’t I caused enough pain?”

The child couldn’t have been any older than five and he’s dead, and Nick pulled a slice of rebar out of his chest hours ago. His blood stains this desert but his body still moves forward. He cradles the kid in his arms, thinks of his mother’s lifeless body lying a few feet away, and cries.

“Is this all I’m good for, God?” Nick begs. “Can’t I still do some good? Please, I want to. I want to do something good.”

He used to. He used to be good. Nick used to swing babies to sleep, used to care for all things small. He’s not fit for such things anymore. Everything he touches, he stains. He ruins. God is right to ignore him, to let Nick drown in the sea of his own making.

Nick tilts his head up to the stars. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for, who he’s apologizing to, but the words feel insignificant. A grain of sand against a desert of death. “I’m sorry.”

He buries the child. He buries the mother. He blasts a cliff face into pieces, makes markings for their graves. In a few days, the desert will bury them. In a few years, this desert will be a graveyard, Nick its undertaker and creator.

He’s dying of thirst when he makes his way into the church. It’s nighttime, the moons shining down on this sleepy little town, and Nick’s surprised the doors are unlocked. Maybe there’s still some good clergymen in this world, nothing like those false priests in the Eye of Michael. He’s dehydrated and in pain, his back scourged by the sun and littered with gashes. Every step felt like agony. It’s a reprieve to sink into a pew, tipping his head on the backrest.

Nick drifts. Things are getting worse, more intense. There’s tales of a bounty out East, some man that leaves nothing but wreckage in his wake. It’s got people rattled all the way across the Badlands, and it’s got bounty hunters and murderers riled up for a fight. Nick was just trying to get to town, catch a ride on a steamer or some caravan back to the Church. He’s only got one vial of manna left and he can’t use it now, not when there could be something worse down the road.

“Hey, old man,” some kid says, poking at Nick’s cheek. “Are you alive?” The poking continues.

Nick startles awake, eyes blinking rapidly. He shifts in his spot and that sends fire down his back, a pained noise escaping his mouth. The kid who was poking him, a girl with dirt smudged on her cheeks and worn clothes, startles.

“Mama!” she calls and then runs off. Nick tries to track her movement but he can’t even move his neck without pain.

He loses another handful of seconds, because the next time he opens his eyes, a woman is leaning over him. Her face is creased with worry, her hands on his face. “Oh, you don’t look too well,” she says. The little girl hovers behind her shoulder, barely in Nick’s line of sight. She turns. “Charlotte, go grab us some water and rags.”

The girl runs away again. Nick loses time and then there’s a cup being help to his mouth, and he eagerly gulps down the water. It’s tepid but it’s the best thing he’s ever drank. And then the woman is pulling him up and Nick is just barely aware of the pained noises he makes as the tender wounds on his back are torn off the stone pew.

He passes out then, he thinks, and right before his vision goes dark, he thinks Chapel would be so disappointed him him.

Nick wakes up lying on his stomach. His back hurts, but not as much as it did before. When he tries to push himself up, he notices the bandages that have been pressed to the wounds. The person must’ve taken great care. Nick doesn’t know if anyone’s done this for him. At the orphanage, it was always scraped knees and broken bones hurriedly attended to because someone else was suffering. At the Church, he had to fight through the pain or be left behind. And on his own, he forces his body to heal despite the side effects.

No one has ended to him like this, so carefully, so tenderly. It’s a sign that he needs to leave before some worse happens. Where he goes, tragedy always follows. God’s seen to that.

He finds a shirt—not his own, that one was ruined—folded on the bed and pulls his arms through the sleeves. He only bothers with two buttons before giving up. Punisher is leaned against the wall. He wonders how that woman got it up here, as heavy as it is. Nick places his hand on the familiar leather straps and braces himself for the pain, then tugs it up and onto his shoulder. He grits his teeth until the initial burn passes and then makes his way out the door.

Daylight shines in through the windows among the hallway. Nick hears the sound of living from his left but sees a door with a window set in it to his right. That’s the exit. He shuffles his way towards it, cautious to stay quiet and not bang Punisher into the walls.

“Leaving so soon?” a voice behind him and Nick freezes. He looks over his shoulder and sees the woman. She has her hands on her hips. The girl stands next to her, eyes bright with curiosity.

“I’ve overstayed my welcome, ma’am,” Nick says. “Thank you for your help, it’s appreciated, but I have urgent matters to attend to.”

“Nothings more urgent than breakfast,” the woman says. She crosses the distance between them, tugs Punisher off his shoulder. She doesn’t even stumble at the weight. “Now sit your ass at the table.”

Nick stares. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles and follows her down the hallway. His stomach rumbles at the smell of fresh food. She doesn’t hesitate in loading a plate up for him, fried thomas meat and eggs, some greens, a glass of cool water. Nick mumbles out a thanks before he starts eating, too aware of how hungry he is.

“What happened to you?” the girl asks. Charlotte, Nick thinks she was called. “Did you fight bandits? Oh, did you run into Vash the Stampede?” Her eyes are wide with wonder. All the stories she’s concocting in her head are better than the truth, which Nick can’t tell her.

“Something like that,” he says, not having the energy to spin a story for her. He used to be good at that. He used to read all the bedtime stories for the kids, and come up with new ones when everyone got bored of the books.

“Charlotte, don’t be rude,” the woman says. She turns her smile on nick. It’s unrelentingly kind. “I’m glad you stumbled upon our little parish when you did. You needed the help and I was glad to give it.”

Nick tries to smile. “Thanks,” he says again. “Do you need anything for it? I didn’t mean to ditch without repaying you, but I’m low on funds right now.”

She shakes her head. “You can’t repay a good deed with money. If you wanted to repay me, you could stick around until those injuries of yours close up. I don’t want all my hard work to go to waste if you head back out into the desert.”

Nick regards her. She’s tanned, laugh lines carved into a face turned leathery by the sun. She looks like every other person on this forsaken planet, tired and aged, but her smile is real. The words are real.

“I can do that,” Nick says, “but I’m not a layabout. You can put me to work, ma’am.”

“I’m not that old,” she says with a laugh. “You can call me Mary.”

“Nick,” he says, instead of Wolfwood or Nicholas. “Now, what do you need me to do?”

She doesn’t let him do much. Mary’s seen the extent of the damage to his back and barely lets him raise his arms any higher than his shoulders. But he can wash dishes and follow Charlotte around the church as she chatters away at him. Mary cooks full meals and she entertains churchgoers. Nick hears their voices rising from the kitchen: How’d you find such a good man, Mary? Mind sending him my way when you’re done? The gutters on my roof need cleaning.

Within days, the wounds on his back have scabbed over, but Mary says nothing as she checks on his bandages. It’s too quick for a human, but she doesn’t say anything about them. “I guess I can put you to actual work,” she laughs and something wound tight in Nick relaxes.

He cleans the gutters. He carries bricks up hills, helps rebuild a retaining wall that crumbled overnight. Charlotte scampers on his back and pretends she’s a cowboy. There’s always something to do in the parish and Nick is happy to do it. Tucked away in this little town, with Mary’s smiles and Charlotte’s cheer, Nick almost manages to forget the danger that lurks out in the dunes.

This planet doesn’t allow for happy times to last.

The bandits ride in near sunset, when Nick’s tinkering with the well behind the church. The winch is broken, has been for weeks, and if he can fix this he knows everything will be a lot easier for Mary. He’s sweating and cursing, hands raw from gripping the heated metal, when he hears the scream.

Nick jerks up and rushes into the church without waiting. A scream of pain, a scream of terror, either one has him grabbing Punisher and thundering through Mary’s small home. The sight that awaits him in the small courtyard has him coming to a stop.

Mary, on her knees, her hair fisted by a bandit. Charlotte crying, hiding behind a fence. Nick can see a few other townspeople hiding in their homes. He’d call them cowards, but after a week in this town, Nick knows better. Their hands are calloused with hard work, not from holding a gun.

“Ohoho, who’s this?” says the man holding Mary’s hair. Her eyes meet Nick’s and there’s steely determination in them. Her gaze darts to Charlotte and he gets it. Nick reaches out, grabs Charlotte but the arm.

“Get inside,” Nick says, pushing Charlotte behind him. She stumbles backwards. He doesn’t look at her. “Charlotte, go!” There’s the sound of sandals on the baked earth and the door rattling shut. Nick reaches a hand out, fingers closing around the leather straps of Punisher. It’s been awhile.

“What are you, some sort of priest?” the bandit sneers, raising his revolver. “You better pray for mercy, preacher man.”

Our God is a vengeful God! the voice of the Church echoes in his head. God’s never been merciful. Nick’s seen proof enough of that. With a sharp tug, the fabric falls away from Punisher and he hefts the gun into his arms. His back screams at him and he can feel blood dribbling out of newly opened cuts. He grins.

“I’m not the one who should be worried,” he says, and pulls the trigger.

Gunfire breaks out in the courtyard. The first to fall is the man holding Mary’s hair, a bullet to the head, and he falls backwards. She cries out as her hair is tugged but he can’t focus on that. Can’t focus on the guilt that rises in him. Nick’s good at killing. It’s the one thing he’s good at. So he holds Punisher steady and enacts the mercy only he can.

It’s over in seconds. No one was expecting him to have a gun, and the bandits are cowered on the ground. Most of them are dead, he thinks. Bodies he’ll have to bury later. He can’t leave them for the townspeople.

“Mama!” Charlotte darts past him, skidding to her knees in front of Mary. It takes a second before Mary moves and then Charlotte’s wailing and sobbing, flinging her arms around her mother while Mary holds her back.

Nick looks away. It’s not his place. He lays Punisher against the wall, ignoring the way his back protests as the muscles shift under his skin. He’s felt worse pain before. He’ll clean up and then clear out of town, let them return to their normal, peaceful life. He’s let himself stay for too long.

“Nick,” Mary says, her voice ringing across the courtyard. “Nick, come here.”

He goes. She’s standing, one hand on the back of Charlotte’s head as the girl clings to her waist. He looks for injuries, something he missed in the seconds it took for him to arrive. Her cheek is red, and there’s no blood in the air, but Nick still worries.

“I’m sorry,” he says, like a reflex.

Nick’s done a lot of apologizing these past few years. Every fight he steps in has its casualties. The graves he’s dug, the apologies he’s let drip from his lips, they’re old hat by now. It’s been a long time since he’s saved someone. Most times, Nick gets there in time to avenge them.

“What for?” Mary says and she smiles. Like the way Melanie used to smile at him, matronly and exasperated. “You did good, Nick. C’mon, let’s get you inside. I can see that blood on your shirt.”

“But the bodies,” Nick says. He just needs a shovel and a patch of sand.

Mary shakes her head. “You’ve done your part. Let us take care of you.” She places her hand on his shoulder and pushes him back towards the church. He goes, looking over his shoulder as the townspeople leave their homes and starting barking orders to each other.

Their hands are callused from hard work. Death is nothing new.

Mary bullies him into sitting at the table, setting a glass of cool water in front of him. Charlotte doesn’t want to leave her mother’s side but she settles next to Nick. Like he’s just as good.

“Don’t you want me to leave?” Nick asks after minutes of quiet. He’s overstayed his welcome. He’s desecrated this holy place. Mary should run him out of town, like a sinner from the Garden of Eden.

“I don’t,” she says simply, “but you can if you wish. I want to thank you, Nick. I’m glad you were here. I think God put you in my path for a reason, don’t you?”

You did good. I’m glad you were here. For years, Nick has been leaving bodies in his wake. The only good he’s done is trade a murder for a murder. The desert still gets drenched with blood either way. God hasn’t been the hand guiding his path. God hasn’t touched Nick since the day he was born. All it was, was luck.

“I don’t think He wants much to do with me,” Nick says. “I’m glad I was here to help, but it ain’t Him that makes me do things.”

“Of course not,” Mary says. “But don’t discount Him so easily, Nick. In a planet like this one, as full of sadness and pain as it is, the fact that we still persevere is something. Maybe it’s mankind’s will to live, maybe it’s God’s will… But I have to believe there’s something kinder coming. That’s what makes all of this manageable, I think.”

Nick envies her for a moment, the belief that’s kept her kind despite the way no Man’s Land tries to tear that to pieces. Nick has let it beat him into submission, mold himself into a weapon, turned himself into a demon that does the work God is too much of a coward to do. If something is coming, it ain’t nothing good or kind or true.

“Just that easy, huh?”

“No, it’s not easy at all,” Mary says, her eyes faraway for a moment. “But it doesn’t hurt to be kind. It doesn’t always payout, but if I can save a man who in turn saves me, then it’s worked out so far.”

He stays quiet. Nothing’s ever easy on this planet. Mary’s held onto her faith with both hands, with more conviction that Nick’s had for anything in his life. It’s what makes her strong enough to be steely-eyed in the face of death.

She doesn’t expect him to say anything else, as she serves up bread and eggs. Nick sits with the words through the rest of the day, as he helps the townspeople dig the graves and haul the bodies. The cuts on his back have knitted back together, his inhumanity keeping him useful. Existence is function.

His hands are made for pulling the trigger. His body is made to shrug off pain that could kill a thousand men. Nick is an abomination in the face of God but Mary couldn’t care less. Charlotte doesn’t care. An entire town thanks him, despite the blood on his hand, and he sits with Mary’s words running through his head.

In the end, he stays in the town long enough for a church service. Mary leads the congregation, in prayer and song and spirit, and Nick sits in the pew he stained with his own blood, another blemish upon this town. She meets his eyes over the crowd, kindness etched into the lines of her sun-beaten face, and says, “I have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions, and, as a cloud, thy sins: return unto me; for I have redeemed thee.”

The scripture goes on, the prayer goes on, and Nick sits in the bloodstained pew and looks at his bloodstained hands, the sea of blood that he leaves in his wake, and wonders if it’s that easy.

Nick finds an angel of the Lord that came down from heaven, and Nick ruins him. Vash lets him. Vash is a bleeding heart stuffed into a body that’s almost human, and every drop of his blood sows discord as often as it reaps wheat. The world wasn’t built to host such a creature, wasn’t built to be good and kind in the way Vash deserves, and Nick stands by and watches as Vash rips his heart out from behind his ribs and offer it up again and again.

Nick isn’t a religious man, but Vash is the closest thing to a holy relic on this planet. The scars that come from forgiving mankind, that come from saving the meek and the mild, that come from being kind despite the pounds of flesh it costs him. He wonders what became of the flesh torn off, if they have the same power to heal a man. Nick wonders if he kept Vash’s heart, would God let him walk through the gates of Heaven?

He knows Vash would let him do it. He knows Vash would bow his head in supplication if Nick placed the barrel of his gun to that crown of gold. An angel of the Lord, reduced to a corpse in a sea of sand and blood. He would be forgiven, Nick knows. Forgiven by Vash, his path made righteous by his death.

Our cause is righteous. Our path to Heaven is secured by our actions!

Nick isn’t a righteous man. He isn’t a good man either, or kind, or forgiving, but he knows how to love. Covet, love, they’re all the same in the end. Vash will absolve him of this sin as well, Nick thinks, as he places those bloodstained hands on scarred cheeks. Vash has forgiven him of so much already; what’s one more?

Vash kisses him like a man dying of thirst, like a man who fasted in the desert for forty days and forty nights. Nick wants to touch every part of his body, every scar that speaks of betrayal, every gouged out piece of missing flesh, and Vash lets him.

There’s nothing holy about it. There’s no place for God in the space between their lips, between the press of their body, in the whispered curses falling from their mouths. Vash tastes like honey and Nick’s always been good at giving into temptation.

Vash puts his heart in Nick’s hand and he keeps it. He can’t stop Vash from tearing out bits of his flesh for the hungry, from granting absolution with his blood, but maybe if he can keep this one piece safe, it will be enough.

His cause is righteous. His path to Heaven is secured as the weight of his sins are absolved by the beating heart in his hands.