AN: Thank you as always BlueSynth for following along and reviewing! Glad that you're finding time to read even when life gets busy! These last few chapters have been such a roller coaster huh? :D

Chapter 22 - Living & Longing

Previously, Vash, Lois, and Jimmy backtracked, only to find Wolfwood in trouble. Legato revealed that he'd captured Lobo for stealing the Plants. Back on the sandsteamer, Meryl, Milly, and Clark overhear a concerning conversation amongst the crew. A whole new perspective on Plantkind begins taking root in their minds.

Now, Wolfwood suffers the aftereffects of Legato's torture and the taunting of Livio's fate. Clark's past also tries to reach out to him, but the timing is never quite right. Vash takes a moment of reprieve, but foreboding, dark clouds hang above Ripmela.

—L&P—

Wolfwood couldn't even push himself up.

Shortstuff still hovered over him, worry in her eyes. That damn vial glowed, clasped in her tight, trembling fist. Like a glass of clear, cool water after going days wandering the desert with a bone-dry canteen. Tempting him. Taunting him.

He ripped his gaze from hers and snatched the vial right out of her dainty hand with his own mangled one.

The glass shards ripped his tongue and lips as Wolfwood bit down. Barely able to tilt his head, he threw back the vial, swallowing the battery acid-tasting serum. Some of the liquid trickled down his chin, and he didn't even bother wiping his face. Instead, he let his head rest on the rough ground.

The drug coursed through his veins, providing a euphoric sense of relief and an ever-fleeting high. Gnarly snapping and popping noises spread outward from his gut to his extremities as his bones and joints mended and contorted back into place. Even with the serum flushing through his body, the healing process stabbed spikes of pain everywhere, as if his limbs and bones were being broken all over again.

Wolfwood was vaguely aware of the moans and yells involuntarily escaping him, but at this point, he didn't give a flying fuck.

The agony of knowing Livio was still alive felt worse than any torture that blue-haired psychopath could put his body through. Wolfwood spent two fucking years mourning his adopted brother. And now, knowing those lunatics still had their claws dug into Livio…

Wolfwood's screaming and snarling sent Shortstuff scrambling back from him. Despite the red-hot rage and uninvited tears clouding Wolfwood's vision, he saw the worry in Lois's eyes morph into fear.

Like a hammer smashing into a brick wall, his spine audibly cracked as the vertebrae realigned. A guttural groan rolled up past his throat.

With his spine healed, the rest of the serum continued to work through his system. Fingers, arms, and legs snapped back into anatomically correct directions.

After what felt like hours, the snap, crackle, and popping concert of his body faded. Along with his groans and shouting.

He laid still as a corpse, eyes closed. His sunglasses had long gone missing sometime during the fight. He couldn't bear to see the pitiful expressions of Shortstuff, Shutterbug, and Needle Noggin.

Of course, with the worst over, he sensed Shortstuff return to his side. When she attempted to touch him, something snapped in him. And it wasn't his bones.

His eyes peeled open, hellfire blazing in them. "Don't touch me!" He pushed the petite woman away. Wolfwood heard her suck in a breath in surprise. She flinched back further as if that hellfire burned.

Wolfwood rolled over, shakily rising on hands and knees. He stumbled to stand. Even Vash came over to help him. "Hands off, Blondie!" Drops of bloody spittle flecked Vash's face.

For the briefest of moments, Vash's wide, aqua eyes made Wolfwood pause. Almost willing to accept his comfort.

"Wolfwood…" Vash whispered, brow furrowed. His arm lowered slowly to rest at his side.

But the moment shattered. "Just… Don't…" Wolfwood choked, gritting his teeth.

He took a few tentative steps down the street, no direction in mind. Just anywhere to get the hell away.

Get away before they could see what a monster he was. A monster like him didn't deserve their pity. Their concern or kindness.

—L&P—

Clark could hear Lois crying. In this place, Lois cried often.

Crying because Clark lied to her. Crying because her father lied to her. Crying because they both hurt her.

But in reality, Lois always put on a brave face. She was always the one to reassure Clark that he was one of the best things in her life. She was the strongest person Clark knew.

He could hear soft whispers as Jimmy comforted her. Jimmy was better at comforting her because he knew what it meant to be a normal human. Because Clark was always missing. Always in danger and getting hurt. Always had a target on his back.

Because Clark was too scared of being able to love her the way she deserved. To be there when she needed him the most.

Maybe it'd be better if an alien like 'Kal-El' wasn't in their lives. Instead of constantly thrown into these life-threatening situations, they'd live happy, peaceful, safe lives. Normal lives. They'd excel in their careers. Develop regular, healthy relationships.

Clark isolated himself in that strange, white void inside his ship. He sat cross-legged, shoulders hunched and staring at nothing. There was nothing to look at anyway.

Maybe if he stayed long enough, that hologram… his father would take pity on him and keep him company. Kal-El could learn the language of his people.

Maybe if he understood himself better, he could come to terms with his place in the universe. 'Kal-El' wouldn't be such an imposter.

He'd know what he was supposed to do—meant to do. Be able to answer the questions everyone kept asking of him. And not fumble around blindly in the dark (or in the blinding light).

A pair of black boots stepped into Kal-El's view. When Kal-El looked up, he saw the holographic figure of his real father standing before him. His father wore that same expression he'd seen last time.

Concern, disbelief, and tenderness.

"Filo" (my son).

Kal-El's—or was it Clark's?—heart clenched tight in his chest. He pushed himself slowly to his feet. The other man stood a few inches taller than him. Clark wasn't used to looking up to meet someone else's gaze.

"Uzu la trezoron, kiun mi lasis ĉe vi," his father said, voice deep but gentle. His hand rose, palm facing up.

That miniature gunmetal-gray obelisk flickered into view and hovered between them. It radiated warmth, contrary to glowing a cool, turquoise hue.

Oh. Right. Clark forgot about that strange data device. So much happened since he'd found the object buried amongst the ruins of his ship. It was impossible to keep his head straight lately.

His father placed a palm on his own chest, over the symbol on his uniform. "Sciu kiu vi estas." His other palm rose to rest on Clark's as well.

The scene swirled around them. A reddish-orange haze filled the endless expanse. The ground—the whole world—rumbled and shook. The walls and ceilings broke apart and crumbled around them.

His father's face collapsed along with his body, slumping onto his knees. The gray-haired man looked up one last time, blue eyes filled with heartbreaking loss, yet also full of hope.

"Tiam, vi povas truly live."

—

Clark woke, lurching upright.

He whipped his head around, taking in the surroundings.

Despite the lingering panic, his brain eventually caught up. Clark's breathing slowed. He gulped—the dry, musty air thick on his tongue.

Clark remembered he'd been sleeping in his tiny bed in his tiny stateroom. On the sandsteamer on a strange planet far, far away from home.

He blinked a few times as his vision adjusted to the darkness. One of the many perks of his superhuman eyes. The room would've been pitch black if not for a soft, blue glow coming from the opposite corner.

An almost imperceptible rumble caught his ear, and a faint tremble coursed through the room. Through the hull of the sandsteamer.

For a moment, Clark feared the scene from his dream was bleeding over into the waking world.

The pulsing bluish light spilled out from the belt pouch he'd laid on the small writing table near the door. Clark rolled out of bed and shuffled over, hunching slightly.

He reached out to the pouch but then hesitated.

Did he really want to know? Each time he learned something new about his origins, the worse it was. Destruction, invasion, conquest. A race of people with unparalleled powers and a drive to slaughter.

No. He couldn't run from the knowledge. Whatever it might entail. Lack of knowledge is ignorance. Ignorance is apathy. Apathy is selfishness.

None were traits he'd been raised by. None were traits he could live by.

With a newfound resolve, he reached out to unlatch the belt porch. To finally learn what he needed to know.

A knock on his door jolted Clark, causing him to jump and bang his head on the low ceiling. He yanked his hand back, rubbing his head despite having barely felt the impact. He looked up and saw a small dent in the ceiling and frowned.

"Clark? It's Meryl and Milly. We're pulling into port at Ripmela."

He glanced at the door and then back at his bag. The glow from the pouch receded and then faded away.

"I'll be out in a jiffy!" he called.

Clark's shoulders slumped, and he sighed. Maybe later.

—T&J—

Vash longed to follow after Wolfwood, but his feet felt like concrete blocks.

The memory of the fight on the Humpback over two years ago started piecing back together. Vash pleaded with Wolfwood to find another way to save his friend. His brother. The name finally returned to him—Livio.

But the Eye of Michael's assassin was but a shell of whoever his former self had been. Brainwashed by Conrad through inhumane experiments until his subject was nothing but a mad killing machine. As ready to kill Wolfwood, his brother, as he'd been to kill Vash. Just like Rollo.

While Rollo—Monev—had met his end through Wolfwood's mercy, Vash refused to let Livio meet the same fate. Even with Wolfwood's detached bravado, would the undertaker have been the same afterward if he had made that killing shot himself?

Livio's broken mind grasped a thread of lucidity at the last moment. But Wolfwood and Vash watched as that lucidity came at a cost. The silver-haired man came undone, taking matters into his own hands, desperate for the mercy even Wolfwood couldn't bring himself to give.

Double Fang pulled the trigger. His blood splattered hot and red on the wooden deck. And Livio fell hundreds of feelz to his demise.

Wolfwood's anguished cry echoed in Vash's ears. Both from the memory and from just moments ago as Wolfwood learned that his brother was still alive.

Livio the Double Fang was alive.

Lois took a few steps in the direction Wolfwood stalked off. The movement out of the corner of his eye yanked Vash out of his memories.

Vash reached out and caught her arm. "Give him a few minutes." His voice a whisper.

"But—" Lois began, but she looked back at Vash. Whatever expression Vash wore must have made her pause.

"He'll come back when he's ready." Vash smiled that smile that couldn't reach his eyes.

"Is he… is he okay? Physically, at least?" she asked, brows furrowed. She glanced back down the street.

Vash gave a small nod. "Hm. I believe so. Those serums… they haven't failed him yet."

Jim stepped over, similar lines of worry etched into his face. "Yeah, we saw. What are they? Some kinda healing potion? It was like something outta a video game."

"No," Vash said sharply, not quite a bite in his tone, but enough to convey it was a serious matter. "It's no game. It's…well, you wouldn't want to know."

A gust of wind swept in through the city street. The cool air felt refreshing on Vash's sweat-slicked face. He closed his eyes for a moment, and another wave of weariness washed over him.

When he opened them, he gazed into the darkening sky. The pressure of the brewing storm made his joints ache in places where he'd been injured in the past. His left arm always ached the worst—thankfully less so without the prosthesis attached.

However, it didn't help that the bloody gash carved into that shoulder from Lobo's weapon was still raw, yet mostly clotted. The wound already started to scab over, but it itched like crazy. Vash's blood-soaked shirt was wet and sticky, and all-in-all he felt gross and uncomfortable.

Man, I could use a nice, hot bath. And that drink…

With Wolfwood wandering off and drowsiness setting in, Vash scoped out a relatively clean spot on the sidewalk and slumped down on his rear, resting his back against a building wall. He sighed but didn't say anything else.

Reading the room, Lois and Jim also got quiet, their hushed chatter kept to themselves.

Vash felt their eyes flicker to him a couple of times, but he sensed they didn't mean to stare. Now that he knew the pair were reporters, he had a pretty good idea of how eager they must be to ask a bunch of questions.

"Hey, man. There anything you need?" Jim asked. "Uh, I got more water and a granola bar…"

Vash peeked open one eye. That was not a question he anticipated.

Jim stepped over to Vash as he rummaged through his bag, pulling out his canteen and a rectangular, plastic film-wrapped bar.

"Oooh, and M&Ms! Gotta get that blood sugar back up, eh?" He held a palm-sized yellow pouch. It featured an egg-shaped character with a face, arms and legs, and an 'm' on its middle. Smaller egg-shaped pieces in rainbow colors were scattered around the wrapper. Soft clinks came from inside as the young man shook the pouch.

Vash opened his other eye and blinked. He stared for a minute at the silly-looking character on the bag.

"Umm… You're not allergic to peanuts, are you?" Jim asked when he didn't respond.

Vash began to chuckle, and it quickly turned into a belly laugh.

At first, Jim seemed worried and pulled back the bag of M&Ms. But Vash's laughter must have been contagious because Lois started laughing too. Jim followed a moment later. They both dropped down onto the sidewalk next to Vash as their giggles faded.

"No. I'm not allergic to peanuts. It's just…" Vash waved a hand in the air. "It's been a very long time since I've had any. Commodity food items are a bit of a luxury in these parts."

"Not just peanuts! Chocolate-coated peanut candy!" Jim said, tearing open a corner of the pouch. He dropped a few pieces into his and Lois's palms and then handed the pouch over to Vash. "I think you owe yourself a little chocolatey luxury." The reporters both popped the candies into their mouths.

Vash copied the pair and tried a few M&Ms himself.

A real smile grew on his face, and his eyes became damp with tears brought on by his new friends' kindness.

"Mmm. These are good! These are really good," Vash said. "Thank you."

—L&P—

Above Meryl, the morning sky gradually darkened with thick, grayish-brown clouds.

The ominous howl of the wind scraping along the hull of the sandsteamer sent shivers down Meryl's spine. The ancient metal plating creaked and groaned in weary defiance against the coming sandstorm's first wave of assault.

The intensifying wind whipped sand and dust high into the air from the ground far below.

Meryl tugged her navy blue gator over her mouth and nose and then pulled the hood of her cloak around her head. Her usual polarized sunglasses had been swapped out for more protective eyewear before exiting onto the deck. She'd learned the hard way to always keep a pair handy for times like this.

Milly and Clark towered above Meryl on either side. The trio waited in line on deck near the exit ramp with their luggage in tow. They were squeezed in amongst the crowd of passengers also debarking at Ripmela.

Before the three went out on deck, Meryl insisted they gear up. She knew the signs of a bad storm, such as the keening winds and drop in temperature.

Milly's long, tan coat flapped in the wind. A green gator also rested over her nose and mouth, protecting her from breathing in sand. Large, round goggles shielded her eyes. They reminded Meryl of the buggy ones on Zazie's mask.

Clark held the brim of his fedora in place, pulled low over his glasses. His other hand tugged the scarf of his red cloak tight in front of his face. He'd wrapped the rest of the cloak tightly around his shoulders so it didn't wave wildly like a huge banner in the breeze.

Meryl chided herself for not packing a poncho or something else he could use in place of the attention-grabbing cloak.

Clark had been reluctant to wear it as they suited up. But it was the best he had. Without him saying anything, Meryl understood he worried his civilian disguise wouldn't hold up.

Clark kept nervously glancing around. His eyes stayed squinted against the sandy gusts of wind, but Meryl swore she caught a flash of blue glow from them.

He was jumpy for some reason. Meryl thought his unease stemmed from more than the approaching sandstorm or somewhat breaking his disguise. Even before leaving the passenger quarters, Clark had looked distressed, snapping his head to and fro with furrowed brows.

She couldn't fault him for the whiplash he'd endured since arriving on No Man's Land. If anything, she was impressed by how well he'd coped so far. If she'd been in his place, she'd surely be a wreck.

Meryl tapped him on the arm. "You good, big guy?" she asked loud enough to be heard over the howling wind.

Clark glanced over, his brows furrowing further over his already squinted eyes. Some emotion flashed through them, but she wasn't sure what. It looked almost confused… and sad.

"Y-yeah. I'm okay. Just… I have a bad feeling," Clark replied. His gaze left hers as he swept it around their surroundings again. He kept lingering on the sight of the city off the port side, as well as the direction of the sandstorm from the west.

"I hope we can find somewhere to hunker down quickly. This sandstorm looks like it's going to be awfully fierce," Milly added, huddling in close.

"Agreed," Meryl said with a nod. "We should find lodging as soon as possible. This storm is rolling in fast. We don't want to be caught outside when it lands in full force."

Milly nodded back.

Another gust of wind whipped by.

When the howl died down a moment later, Meryl heard a group of passengers making a fuss near the deck railing.

Milly must have noticed too. The tall woman stepped closer to see what was going on.

She gasped, turning back with a 'come here' wave. "Miss Meryl, look! There's a whole lot of federal troops down there!"

Meryl had to circle around the crowd to find an empty spot along the railing. Everyone around her was just too tall and blocked her view. Typical.

Meryl's eyes went wide as she took in the long row of federal soldiers standing between the dock and the writhing mass of people, eager—practically desperate—to board the steamer.

At first, her heart stopped, feeling the citizens' fear. But then she logically considered what might've caused such panic and chaos. Just that morning, she'd heard over the radio about another Plant theft. Not to mention the alarmed rumors of Vash the Stampede's presence.

Her heartbeat returned, stronger even than before.

What if he really was here? After all this time, would she finally see him? Confirm for herself that Vash was truly alive?

A choked sob got stuck in her throat. The sound a pathetic, hopeful thing.

She felt a warm presence at her side. Clark stood there, leaning up against the railing next to her. He'd taken his hand off his cloak and moved it to grasp the metal ledge. His knuckles were white, but she could almost see the strain it took to prevent himself from crushing the railing a second time.

His gaze fixed toward the city center. Not down to the docks and people below. Again, something flashed past his eyes. Despite the harsh wind, they grew wide like hers.

If Meryl wasn't feeling what she was at that exact moment, she might have been confused by the expression. But she knew exactly what it was.

Hope, desperation, and longing.

—L&P—

Legato's steps echoed through the spacious laboratory. The room was dark but cast in a violet-blue glow. Each day that glow brightened more and more into a radiant, angelic blue.

On the far side of the laboratory, a wall of glass stretched like a divine veil between lesser life forms, like Legato, and the serene angels before him.

The dependent angels floated on the other side of that veil, circling closely around a central, bulbous mass. Their petal-like wings unfurled, bodies reclined, and long, spindly limbs spread languidly. Silvery serrated tendrils connected each angel to the mass in the middle.

All the angels' lips hung loose, and their blank, unmoving faces were turned toward the heavens. An almost imperceptible humming filled the sanctuary as the angels resonated their song of healing.

Legato approached and kneeled near the veil of glass.

Layers of white angelic wings curled around the mass in the middle of the luminous cistern. The wings shuddered, and Plant markings pulsed a vibrant violet. Then the wings began to slowly spread open.

The partially unfolded wings revealed the muscular bust of Legato's Lord and Master. His pale face remained mostly hidden by long locks of platinum blond hair. But a sharp, spearmint green eye framed by thick blond lashes opened and pierced down at the servant.

"Master Knives, I have captured the off-world Sinner who dared abduct your sistren. How shall I carry out the Sinner's punishment, my Lord?" Legato asked, his head bowed and eyes kept down.

Although his master spoke no words, lucid thoughts and images filled Legato's head. The sensation always overwhelmed him, twisting his insides until he almost retched.

But in a way, it was the most pleasurable experience. One he constantly craved. The intimacy of Lord Millions Knives touching his lowly mind with his desires and orders was incomparable to any other earthly, mortal feeling.

The will of Lord Knives rang as clear as the glass veil between them.

"As you wish, my Lord."

—L&P—

AN:

Thanks as always for following along! Please review to let me know how you're enjoying the fic, what you liked, or what you'd like to see in future chapters! I appreciate every favorite and follow too!

Next Chapter 23: Strong Will, Stir the Heart

Wolfwood suffers the aftereffects of Legato's torture and the taunt of Livio's fate. Clark's past also tries to reach out to him, but the timing is never quite right. Vash takes a moment of reprieve, but foreboding, dark clouds hang above Ripmela.

—

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