AN: Well I got more feedback than I thought, and I appreciate it! Please keep it coming, it helps motivation levels greatly. I just got some new ideas for upcoming events, so I hope everyone enjoys them. I hope I dont burn out or run dry, because I'm trying to get these out as quickly as possible. Anyway, thanks to the readers and reviewers. I couldnt be more greatful.

Disclaimer - Refer to chapter 3, same stuff.

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Wolfwood had found rest, not peace. He sat cross-legged across from Hazel well into the early morning hours. They traded tales of both past and present. Wolfwood recounted his hazy memories, regurgitating information, losing his sight to the dancing flames that burned ever-lower in the tent. That once large tent had seemed to draw inward, isolating the two occupants from the outside world. Hazel had readily explained the events, the history of Gunsmoke in general terms, emphasizing only the areas that pertained to the "Red Man" or the world-rending catastrophes after his dissapearance. It seemed as though Vash, the Man in Red, whatever his namesake was; he had been one of the few seals of Justice on Gunsmoke. When his influence was gone, the fear of the Red Stampede diminished with time.

Wolfwood interjected almost absently. The extent of time he'd been gone had not sunk in until he had finally spoken to this woman. He had asked about the companions of the Man in Red, and each answer was accompanied by a furrowing of her brow and a series of nervous, sightless glances to the darker corners of the tent. It wasnt possible. He had really been dead. Dead. With each passing minute the tale had gotten progressively more dire, and ever more helpless. The people had fled the cities, abandoning hope, abandoning sanity, and more importantly, abandoning the Plants. Actual armies had been raised, running freely with little to no intervention. The willingness to live in a world without legend had lessened. The sheer willingness to survive that had burned in the hearts of the citizenry had dwindled to a flicker in the span of the first fifty years. That first half-decade had been aptly named "The Panic".

The world had swirled into dark times. Wolfwood found that he had his arms wrapped around one of the Punisher's lateral arms, hugging it to his chest. It seemed to be an anchor in reality. Something he could touch, and trust. It was his light at the end of an impossibly dark tunnel. It wasnt until the fires burned low and both inhabitants had a hunch in their weary shoulders that the real news came. Through two hundred some-odd years of isolated exclusion, two facts dominated his burden-racked brain. No one saw Vash die, and the Gung-ho Guns were still among the world.

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The predawn chill seeped inside the walls of the tent, as if pushing relentlessly to eavesdrop on the most interesting convorsation in decades. Hazel still remained, statuesque, wrapped in a blanket of some dark-colored skin. Wolfwood was across from her, stretched out and propped on his elbow, the Punisher never out of arms reach. He would have looked almost casual, almost happy, had it not been for the rings around his eyes, and the grim set of his features. So much history, so much sadness. It was no wonder to him why these people didnt hold God as close as he saw Him holding them. They didnt have time. In the old days, he condemned people for that excuse, but here, now, it was simple fact. They were too busy surviving. A wall like silence that was near-touchable had settled between them, as if the fire was a dampener of wills. Neither wanted to break the silence. They had drawn inward, deducing, processing, and calculating. Seconds seemed to stretch beyond minutes to years. Nicholas knew the feeling overly well.

"Hazel," Wolfwood began, rubbing at his eyes, "you've told me more than I could hope to learn on my own, and I am greatful. You have to understand my curiosity, though, when I ask how you know so much." the Priest allowed himself to stare for the briefest of seconds at the cross cufflinks on his wrists before looking up to meet a gaze that didnt look back.

For the first time since their original meeting, the grandmotherly smile returned. "You must understand, Nicholas, I am an old woman." He fingers danced along her braid as she thought aloud. "My grandfather was a young man in the years just prior to Vas -" she paused, frowning at herself, still not able to call the infamous one by his actual name, "to the Red Man's dissapearance. He worked as a Bernardelli Insurance Agent."

Wolfwood reeled a bit. That was the company those two girls had worked for. The company that had vested a large interest in Vash, and his whereabouts. If he had it figured correctly, no others on the planet were as effective as Bernardelli agents in locating and maintaing taps on Vash. He allowed his mind's scales to weigh the news as it circulated through his thoughts, only after a moment realizing that Hazel had paused. "Please, go on."

Hazel's smile returned a bit as she continued. "He would always tell me stories about a pair of fanatical girls that were assigned to Vash," she flinched visibly at her own slip, and that gaze began to dart. But as she went on, a seething emotion that could almost be pegged as rage calmed her fidgits, "I was a very small girl, but I still remember the tales. That was, of course, before the Guns got to the agency. They-"

"The who?" Nicholas' attentiveness increased tenfold.

"The Gung-Ho Guns," Hazel allowed her point to deviate. If not for discussing painful memmories, then to allow mor information. "They were a group of oddly, and dangerously, talented killers. They went after the Red Man before he dissapeared. The Typhoon's dissapearance was so complete that not even the Agency knew where he went. That didnt stop them, though. They systematically killed every agent that didnt know something, leveled every office." She shook her head. "They never stop."

"What are you saying? The Gung-Ho Guns still exist?" Wolfwood's pulse wasnt racing, it was sprinting. He could feel blood boiling in his veins. The Gung-Ho Guns had stolen a life from him, crossed him, and then gone after his friends. Old debts and grudges die hard.

"The Guns still exist. And as strong as ever," she looked at him quizzically, as if not knowing made his tale more believable. "They hole up in the new July City. Just under three hundred iles from here." She shook here head. "They have a standing army of near two thousand. Of course, they dont need that many. Who would oppose them? Gunsmoke is deserts and mountains. But strange things have been happening as of late. Oddities in the weather. My old bones ache sometimes."

Purpose.

"Which direction to July City?" the firepit held no candle to Wolfwood's eyes. If Hazel only knew.

"East. Due east. But you cant get to it straightaway." Her brow creased, and for a moment Nick thought she would wag a finger at him and tell him to "Stay away from there, young man", but she didnt. "There is another village, an Atoll about sixty iles from here, to the Northeast. The better part of two days with that sand crawler you came in. Six days if you walk. Tell them I sent you, and you should be able to find what you need to make it to your next stop. Priest," she was still skeptical about addressing him by first name, "what is your interest with those beasts?"

"I have a score to settle with them. They," He looked down at his hands, "they took something from me."

Hazel pressed no further. "Priest, you have to understand my reverence to you. But you must also understand my urgency at this time. If word got out about you, even a rumor, it could prove the undoing of my community. I have to ask you to leave, and soon. Dawn is fast approaching. I can tell the villagers and the council you were a person friend of mine. I will, however, give you anything you need." Her look was one of dissapointment in herself, but firm resolve. Nicholas admired her.

"I'll only need gas, and some water." Nick ran a hand through his hair. "And a haircut."

Hazel laughed for a moment. "Very well, Priest. Sleep a while. I will see to your things." Hazel unwound her legs and stretched like an old tabby cat. She shook herself a bit, tired from the night's endeavours. Oh how she'd love to tell everyone that in the despair of Gunsmoke, hope still lives.

Nicholas stretched out, reclining against the Punisher. He sighed a bit slipping out of his jacket and using it as a blanket. So many new things. So many new avenues unexplored. Perhaps the most important thing, though, was purpose.