𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘳

Chapter 31. Qui Vivra Verra

A/N: My deepest apologies for taking four months to upload, I was working on other project and somehow my motivation fell to the wayside for this book. I am so sorry for not finishing this sooner, though with that said I can't guarantee it won't fall into hiatus with exams coming up :(

Even while working on this for this long, I'm still not happy with this chapter. But here it is.

*Lynyrd Skynyrd's Free Bird in respect to Wolfwood, is a very befitting song for him and his character relations.

[Gambler]

Through my nose I sniffle loudly. I immediately regret it, the sand entering my wind stream in a chunky state. I hack it up before spitting, praying to God it won't fly back and hit my face.

"Wolfwood is stupid," I remark. "And reckless."

"You usually say that about me," Vash admits.

"Usually, but it never puts me in a bad mood. It's expected of you."

I slow up, discarding my bike by a number of abandoned houses. The town abandoned them, so now there is only those unfortunate enough to be left at the orphanage. A desolate island, with hardly any access that's about to become deserted, one way or another.

Then I break into a run.

We could have been Wolfwood's home. If he'd made that a little more obvious, the Eye of Michael wouldn't be going after the orphanage. That dumb priest!

And then it's two buildings, and a lot of kids. Wolfwood's bloodied and the sand discolours all of it horribly, and there's Livio. Or Razlo, I can't tell but I've been told this is his "other self". A case of bipolar but it's much too scary to admit. It's why he has two halves of a coin. Like me, but it's only because I replaced Shana, but also took a spot of my own.

Razlo has a bad hair cut, his spiky grey hair on one side and lightning tattoos—or scars— on the other. His wide eye is crazed and he hardly has something to call a nose, paired with a wide grin. There is a faceless duo of clones, sporting the same clothes and muscle.

There's old man Chapel of course, spewed over his wheelchair and gun. And Razlo is aiming at the children.

"Hey, assholes!" I call, spreading wings to catch bullets high, while Vash goes low. My wings are not useless!

"Blueberry," Wolfwood says, "thanks."

My nose scrunches at his bloodied and torn clothes. "You look terrible."

"The trade in for you getting hot," he replies, dumping a vial of liquid down his throat. "No one can be called a pedophile, now you just make all men weak."

"Because I can surgically dislodge their spine with a katana, right?"

"Revy!" Vash scolds. "Thou shall not kill!"

"What? Quadriplegic is not the same as being dead!"

All while doing our harmless banter, there's crazed animal Razlo grinning to some degree of satisfaction. He must want a fight, like some rabid dog. You want a bone to pick? If you fire at a bunch of children, which he did with his tri-punisher (Nicholas' times three), I'll gladly punch him.

He opens fire, excited too much to hold back. "Die! Die! Die! Die!" he maniacally cries, firing with his tri-punisher ceaselessly.

Spread, I will my feathers, to keep those behind me safe at all costs. And it's not like I have great morals or anything, but—seeing Wolfwood's body break is one thing, I do it all the time. His heart is another that can't happen.