@humanitysong - from (x)
So many civilians evacuated the surviving cities' outskirts ahead of Knives's final attack that there are more abandoned buildings than occupied ones this far out.
Fortunate for all parties involved. Probably. Only a few worms scatter skyward from the gunshot-loud punch of body and weapon through the wood-reinforced corrugate metal roof, and then again through the upper floor.
Vash can immediately piece together the nature of the landing. Graceful is certainly not it. The weight of the canvas-wrapped Punisher and the strength of its wielder's grip broke momentum, but it made a poor parachute as it caught against the house's sturdy central beam and support rafters.
Granted, the rafters beneath the brand new impromptu skylight are snapped like brittle bones. The gun speared down stem-first through the floorboards and into the hard-packed dirt underneath, and Wolfwood spilled out alongside it. Sprawled on his back amid the debris—rusty roof panel fragments, splintered wood, and upholstery fluff from the crater of an obliterated sofa—he is an undignified heap.
Gasping for breath. Stunned but still breathing.
Urges and instincts conflict as he twitches, squirms, attempting to reassert some mastery of his limbs. That is a losing battle even as the high-pitched whine ringing in his ears fades.
"—Hnngh," he manages, most articulate as he fights against (and fails to repress) a rattling cough. He has no choice but to take a moment. That resignation comes as a compressed spring twangs from the smashed cushion, bouncing off somewhere unseen as a sort of final indignity.
The undertaker's clothing is different: rugged worm leather encompasses his legs, matched with the duster crumpled around him. He may have lost a few more buttons on his shirt upon impact, but the sidearm harness buckled over his chest remains intact and he managed not to land on the familiar hard carrying case secured at his side.
Dark eyes squint open, immediately cross, roll, and work to focus under scrunched brows. He isn't certain he can trust what he's looking at, and is too dazed to give it actual thought beyond cracking a (stupid) red-stained grimace-grin.
