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Two years. It had been two years since that fateful day. A day that would live in infamy, and continued to haunt the minds of those who had loved and lost. The day the city of JuLai was wiped off the face of the map. All because of a demon. An unstoppable, ferocious force, who most knew as the infamous Humanoid Typhoon. The demon had lived up to its namesake. Faster than one could blink, one moment, and it was done. All that remained was a crater, a permanent blemish on this already hellish planet. Wolfwood would know. He’d seen it with his own eyes.
He also knew what a load of bullshit that story was.
He nearly bit his cigarette in half, grinding the filter between his teeth. He stood atop the dune in the same place he stood then. His grip on Punisher tightened, his whole body tense with the memory.
What the story failed to mention was the reason behind the destruction. The cause was a centuries-long battle, fought between brothers, two halves of a whole. And one of those brothers was fighting on behalf of all of humanity. Their unknown savior. And yet…
Wolfwood began his journey toward the ruins. All that remained were some slabs of concrete scattered about. The crater dug deep into the planet, like a deep gouge that would never heal. A more optimistic person may look at it and say it would heal with time (for some reason the person his mind kept conjuring sported bright blond hair and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes), but he knew better. He was a realist.
The undertaker carried on, his eyes trained on the endless sandy path before him that guided him closer to the desolate ruins. The sun continued to beat down on him, drenching him in sweat; it brought him back to a time before he’d met the little ragtag gang. Hopefully, the little lady was doing well for herself. He hadn’t heard anything of her in the last two years, each going their separate ways after everything that transpired. There was just no reason to stay together. So it was back to square one: just him and his cross.
Wolfwood sighed heavily, his breath escaping in one heavy puff, he nearly lost his cigarette. He caught it between two fingers, balancing it on his lips precariously, and took a heavy drag. Better the weight of smoke in his lungs than whatever this heavy feeling was. He closed his eyes, savoring the burn, so unlike the desert heat, but when he opened his eyes, the spark in his chest was back.
God, when was the last time he’d seen one of those wanted posters? It had to have been when he was first assigned his mission. Looking at it that way, it was like no time had passed at all. Even the bounty on his spikey head was the same, despite the man’s newest crime. Something pricked at his eyes, maybe the cigarette smoke, as he stared at the poster. The blond’s smile was beaming back at him like he was the most carefree being in existence (Wolfwood knew the truth though. Vash had carried more burdens than one man should ever have to shoulder). His hand under his chin just screamed cocky confidence and it contradicted everything Wolfwood knew about the man. He’d witnessed every wall Vash created crumble during their journey, brief moments where that carefully constructed facade dropped and Wolfwood could see Vash for who he truly was: a man with too many sins on his shoulders. Sins that had never been his to begin with and yet, he carried them. Slung them over his shoulder as Wolfwood did with Punisher.
This was what everyone ignored. What everyone left out of the stories. That Vash was the kindest person to grace Noman’s Land. That he would let someone, anyone, no matter who, a random officer or his own goddamn brother, take out their anger on him. He would take every punishment humanity could dish out if he thought he deserved it.
And this was their latest call for justice. Wolfwood stormed away from the poster. Humanity never deserved someone like Vash fighting for them. They never cared. Even when the blond begged others to run for safety, they still brandished their guns at him like he was the monster that needed to be put down. Wolfwood smirked ruefully, spitting out his cigarette and grinding it beneath his heel. What did it matter? A whole city was gone. People had died. And they’d needed a scapegoat. It was simple as that, to pin the blame on someone who’d already been a wanted man. They’d forever remember him as the demon that destroyed their homes and killed their families.
But Wolfwood just couldn’t match the Humanoid Typhoon they all knew with the Vash he knew. The Vash he knew was an idiot. He was gangly, flailing limbs and over-the-top reactions. He was the one who stopped him from shooting Livio on the sandsteamer, and convinced him that he could save his brother. And he was the one that thanked Wolfwood as he marched him to his doom, wholeheartedly believing Wolfwood to be the good man he insisted he was.
Wolfwood grimaced, feeling sick to his stomach. That was something else the stories left out. Maybe Vash would’ve found his way to JuLai without his involvement; he’d already been heading that way when he’d run into him (or more like they ran into him). But he was still the one who’d lead Vash those last few miles to Knive’s doorstep, a pretty package to be dropped off. He’d never forget how he’d left the blond to fend for himself, knowing that whatever Knives had planned would end in disaster for all of them. The moment he realized that his change of heart had come too late, clung to his memory like sticky beer on a glass; he’d arrived just in time to save Meryl from plummeting to her death, but not soon enough to help Vash as he fought his brother with everything he had. Even as he’d run, with the reporter tucked under his arm, he knew deep down, there was little chance of Vash surviving. That Vash could never kill his brother. That Vash was in this position because of him.
It was his own sin to bear, and he’d never forgive himself for it, despite a voice that sounded suspiciously like the spikey blond in his head telling him otherwise.
Shit, he needed another cigarette. Something, anything to distract from this burning ache in his chest and stomach. It permeated his whole body and he wished he could just drop to the sand and let it swallow him up. He kept walking. Pulling his pack out, he crushed it realizing it was empty, tossing it aside and continued on.
Before him stood what looked to be a shrine. Well, maybe shrine was a generous word. It was crude in its design, but still recognizable as a homage to the dead and lost. He moved closer to get a better look and his mouth twitched as he caught eye of a photo.
“So, she came by, huh?” He didn’t even remember when they’d taken the photo. Somewhere between their first meeting and Ship 3? He couldn’t say if his life depended on it. But there they were. All of them. Acting like nothing was wrong. Even the old geezer was in the shot. A cold chuckle burst from him as he noticed the glint of a flask in the sand, assumedly still full; the old man was probably tearing heaven a new one trying to get a drink. Nestled next to the flask was a pack of cigarettes. No doubt, they’d both been a parting gift from the one who’d tacked the photo to the slab.
With little guilt, Wolfwood, grabbed the pack and a cigarette slid into his hand. He could just picture the old man’s face now: indignation and disbelief as if after all this time he couldn’t believe Wolfwood would be bumming cigarettes off a dead man.
Wolfwood set Punisher up against a wall, before plopping down on the sand himself before the photo. The undertaker began a ritual of his own. Lighting the cigarette, he then leaned back on his hands, curling his fingers around the coarse grains that easily slipped through his fingers. The bright blue sky greeted him; funny, the sky could never compete with the blue of Vash’s eyes, and Wolfwood quickly found himself wishing he was staring at that endless blue abyss instead of this one.
“Hey, Needle-noggin.” His voice scratched against his throat; without anyone to travel with, he didn’t have much reason to use it anymore. His smoking habit probably wasn’t helping the matter. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I know you’re not gone. There ain’t no way you were taken out so easily.”
It felt absurd to say. Vash, alive? He’d watch Vash fall, like an angel struck down from heaven, a purple star exiled from its constellation, sent careening back down to hell. All the logic and all the evidence in the world showed there was no way Vash could’ve survived. And yet, somehow, he knew he was right. Perhaps it was him being stubborn or maybe it was a kind of hope he hadn’t known until he met Vash pulling at his heart, but he knew Vash was out there. Somewhere.
He would bet money that somewhere, the needle-noggin was obsessing over what had happened, sulking and blaming himself once more for something that he’d had no control over. And it was going to take a good smack back to reality to shake him out of it. And once the idiot comes to his senses, Wolfwood swore he’d do what he couldn’t do two years ago. He’d stay by his side. No longer would Vash have to face humanity’s and the world’s cruelness alone. Vash looked out for everyone, the world’s resident guardian angel. It was about time he had someone looking out for him too. Together, they could write a new story.
Wolfwood clambered to his feet. “Wherever you are, Spikey, I’ll find you. So don’t do anything stupid until I get there.” With his final words, he tugged the used cigarette from his mouth, preparing to chuck it like the last one. He hesitated before curling his fist around the still-warm stick. With one final glance, he heaved Punisher up over his shoulder and set out once more, with a slight breeze at his back that seemed to push him forward with each step.
Wait for me.