Chapter Text
Melting, adrift, loose . Unwound like a spool of thread. As if there was a spool anymore- at his core the only thing holding him together was a knotted tangle masquerading as something solid, something true. Something was roiling in his chest, a twisted and broken thing writhing there. A hunger, maybe- a pain, assuredly. A ceaseless racket that cried out for someone, anyone to hear it.
The crooked nail gets the hammer, and the loud inner child gets to watch everyone he ever knew and loved die over and over and over and over and over and over again forever until he’s shot to death and bleeds out on the side of a road long enough for someone to recognize the body and cash-in the biggest paycheck the planet’s ever seen. Must be nice. Every day a little tiny cluster of neurons hopes he can finally meet whomever it’s going to be that helps him with his “totally not suicide because I’m not the one doing anything- I’m avoiding it, even!”
He sits and stares at the east wall in Sheryl’s living room. It’s greige and dusty in here, despite granny’s efforts to keep it lively. A faded, embroidered tapestry hangs behind the longest couch in the room. It displays some mesas not too far from Sheryl’s house- the original artist probably went to work and got some inspiration from the same place. In front of the couch sits a coffee table with a wobbly leg that Lina and Sheryl insist will never let any drinks topple over. (Maybe he was just unlucky, either way he spent longer than he’d ever want to admit cleaning the coffee stain out of their rug while they were away for a bit.)
The clock on the wall ticks a little too slowly.
Everything moves a little too slowly now.
He buttons up his shirt collar in front of the mirror on his dresser and it's still as much of a pain in the ass as it was twenty years ago. It would be wise to try and scrounge up money for a new prosthetic, but at this point he feels like he’s better hidden without one. Crippled wanderer with a penchant for getting his shit rocked for others’ sake. Had a nice ring to it. Maybe.
Well at least it got the rest of the town to bring plenty of thank you gifts to Sheryl and Lina’s house. They could use any extras they could get- both were far too proud to accept any gifts addressed to themselves.
Sheryl, aged out of working, lived off her dwindling savings from when she floated around doing office work in plenty of different cities. In her twilight years, she bought a farm with a few thomases to keep herself going. Lina was thrown into her lap when her parents split ways- neither could take her on their own. She was four. Since then, she’d made a habit of taking small jobs for spending money or favors. Nine years in town and she knew everyone’s name, occupation, family, and hobbies. Smart as a tack with the attitude of one. Had she been given a different path, she’d probably make a fine politician or lawyer or something-
He’d made money and a reputation by following Lina’s footsteps, acting as a much more capable pair of hands for odd jobs or temporary work around town. Folks would recognize him on the street now, ask him how things have been or if he just had a few minutes to fix this one thing and oh- I’ve got these extra pastries you could bring home with ya’ on yer’ way out and…
Two years he’d been there. Two meandering, blissful years. A fade to black for Vash the Stampede. It was awfully nice being someone else. Awfully nice indeed.
Of course, good things never last, and nice things are close enough to good things to hold hands and skip off into the sunset together. So this didn’t last either. After all, a dream is just a coma if you don’t wake up eventually, right?
A new water line was set to be built some fifteen isles away from Kasted city. They had driven through the miserable night, all of the moons were but a sliver of light, and the road was a gravel-strewn mess. Meryl went through the checkbox list in her head as she drove. Dangerous, unstable sand, more worm activity than she’d care for, and a rising star of an outlaw gang digging their fingers into the nearest settlement. Nothing was in order for her or Milly to approve of any sort of insurance plan for this project- it just wasn’t happening. So why were they sent out here in the first place? To give a tearful rejection? She gripped the wheel tightly thinking about her boss loudly wishing they’d get out of the office again. What she wouldn’t give to keelhaul that guy through the sand for just two minutes-
“Meryl, you’re making your angry face again.” Milly chimed on her right.
“My- what?”
“Meryl, watch out!” She pointed forward frantically, and Meryl stomped on the brake pedal.
A lone, mottled thomas ran past their car, hooting like something was chasing it. It wasn’t anywhere near Meryl’s front-end.
“This is going to be a nightmare.” Meryl moaned, leaning onto the wheel. She dropped her head down onto the horn with a thud and let it blare.
Okay, let’s take it from the top.
Ericks Squab was a man, late twenties- maybe thirty-something. He couldn’t remember. Last name wasn’t his either- another hole in his memory. Sheryl and Lina were happy to take him into the family after a year or so- so he was a proud Squab nonetheless. Apparently he was really strong and could outrun a thomas, and everyone in town loved him until he died. The end!
“Ericks, that story sucked.” Lina groaned, laying akimbo on the couch. “Also, I don’t think the Geralds will like you for the rest of their lives after what you did to their shed.”
He scratched at his neck, shrugging. “Well you put me on the spot. I can’t always spit out masterpieces.”
“I’m bored! You gotta tell me the story about the Bad Lads again. The one where you were on a steamer with Vash the Stampede!” She opened her arms for emphasis.
“Lina, we’ve both gotta get back to our chores, this house’ll fall apart if we don’t all do our parts, you know that. Also I’ve told you that story more times than I can count.”
She threw an arm over her face. “Ughh… I can’t even be lazy when Granny’s out!”
“Not until you’re done sweeping.” He picked up a plate and dunked it into the washing sink. “And not until I’m done washing these, and cleaning the thomas pen, and taking out the trash, and-”
“Okay, okay!” She whirled upright and stood. “I never get to be a kid.” She pouted and kicked the wobbly coffee table.
“If you break that, I'm not teaching you carpentry to fix it.”
She threw her hands up and stomped out of the room.
Two years. Two years he’s been looking with an empty, broken gun in his trunk and a hole in his chest. Angelina broke down seven times in those years, one of them just outside a town with a gunsmith named Frank Marlon. His Punisher was in need of a tuneup anyway, so he paid the man a visit. He was a drunk wreck, but after chatting with him for a bit he lit up at the mention of Vash’s name. A few shots and a night passed out later, Woflwood brought out Vash’s colt and Frank spent the entire day shut in his room tinkering away at it. Come sundown, the thing looked brand new and felt smoother than his expensive pistols. At the mention of money, Frank waved his hand and insisted he owed Vash a favor anyway.
A few more days in town fixing Angelina up, and he was back on the trail. Frank had called his Punisher an abomination and said he couldn’t be paid enough to tune it up. Fair enough. He offered Frank a smoke before going but he declined with a I don’t smoke, that stuff’ll kill ya while throwing back another fifth.
Fair enough.
Things were mostly just… quiet. His bike’s engine filled the silence where once people would be driving him mad. He kept expecting to run into him wherever he went, like it used to be.
Two years of expectations melted into two years of shrinking gains, two years of disappointment. Sometimes he’d dream about him riding behind- or even in a sidecar, he didn’t care. The quiet was driving him to worse depths of madness than the incessant talking.
He almost considered giving the gun a burial.
And then his bike broke down again.
He kicked the radiator pipe and scrambled after it, swearing up a storm, as it leapt from its frame and rolled down a dune.
Well, at least it was dusk.
After chuffing seven cigarettes to get his bearings, he shoved Vash’s colt aside to pull out his map. Seemed like the closest town was… Kasted city. A few wretched isles away. Whatever, he’s walked worse.
He put on his extra holster, jammed Vash’s colt into it, grabbed his canteen, and unlatched the Punisher from the side of his bike.
He sighed. “No time like the present.”