AN: Well I'm starting to get a little feedback, and I appreciate my devoted readers. The praise really keeps me going. Wow, that sounded shallow. Anyway x_x. I've also started to read you guys' stuff and I am really enjoying it! Expect reviews from me soon ;) Well, on to the good stuff (or bad stuff, however you look at it), hope its enjoyable.

Shadowcat - I appreciate the continued postings, your really helping me out and I hope to please.

Miss Eriks - Glad you are enjoying my fic. Always a privelage to have another reader. Hope I dont let you down.

Trin - Well if you read these in a lump sum, hope I'm up to par for the standards. Any tips, you know I'll incorporate. Hope all is well with you and yours. Everyone should also check out her fic, Pacifist by Nature - Lily Trindylle. Its a great, GREAT work.

Disclaimer - Good lord, this is longer than my chapters. You know the drill here...Onward! >O

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Shallow graves. In years passed they had been dug out of necessity. They marked battles, poverty, or in some cases, unsung heros. Now, however, a grave in any form was an honor. For people of infinite burdens to take time away from the focus of survival to dig a grave spoke worlds for the unfortunate, or in some cases fortunate, inhabitant.

Many graves were dug today. Wolfwood had stopped counting somewhere in the thirties. So many graves. He felt he at least owed it to them. He had killed many of them. Killed, but not judged. Some of them had died thanking him, but he would never know that. He was stripped to the waist, and felt like his bones had liquified. He had worked from dawn to now, and the sun was well past its zenith in the sky. He hadnt slept in a long, long time. He sat down heavily, leaning against the tall wheel of the sandcrawler's front half, wiping a wave of sweat away from his eyes. He reluctantly picked up a jug of water, uncapped it, and dumped a quantity over his head. It was refreshing, to say the least.

He hadnt gone through many of his recent aquisitions, but he knew there were at least some useful items. He had countless rounds of ammunition, lots of containers, some food, and he had noticed several articles of transportation left strewn about. The chaos he had wrought was impressive. He knew, though, that if he dawdled around too long in the insurmountable heat, things would not boad well for his anatomy or rational thought. He heaved himself up, fighting down the urge to light a cigarette. He looked over the sea of ragged crosses that dotted the rises of the dunes nearest him.

He shook his head and shuffled over to his findings. Even though he felt that every little bit helped, he was practical. He systematically set about filling certain packs with guns, others with food, and others with spare clothing that was passable. He was sick of the desert already, and still a few days out of the city Hazel mentioned to him. He trudged back to the crawler, dragging the overstuffed packs behind him, eventually managing to sling them inside the crawler's back seat. Right next to the Evergreen.

The Evergreen. That was probably the second most perplexing phenomena to date. He realized, of course, that Vash had the Punisher, and of course didnt bring it back to the church. That wouldnt have made sense. Nick turned back to the desert, leaning against the machine. The Evergreen, though, was a total mystery. Chapel had killed him with it. His left side still ached when he thought about it. He had seen Chapel flee. Nothing made sense. He shook his head, and had finally resigned himself to leave, but something caught his eye. A glint on something shiny about half way down the dune. Wolfwood ambled down the dune, almost too tired to care, but curiosity got the better of him. He knelt by the buried treasure, wiping away the grit created by the shifting sands. He smiled.

An hour later, he was on the move again. He sat at the wheel of the sandcrawler, he still had tired eyes, but he was smiling. The crawler was his cargo ship, his only livelihood outside the Evergreen. A shame he had to survive by his guns, but peace was never, never attained through nonviolent measures. It was hard to say he was doing God's work, but to think he wasnt here for some purpose of the nature was arrogant, given his recent occurances. The crawler had enough food supplies to last him at least two weeks, and water and gas for another three. The ammunition was abundant, and the clothes would serve. It was the last cargo item, though, that inspired his smile. Propped in the back of the crawler was a faded blue motorcycle. Apparently it had been left in the mayhem he had caused. Wolfwood didnt complain. He loved motorcycles.

Smile as he would, though, it was little distraction from the ache that had penetrated his bones and the sag in his shoulders. Dusk was two hours away when he decided that if he wished to be concious to see the morning, he had to get some sleep. After some minutes of scouting, he located one of the higher dunes and pulled the crawler to it's leeward side. Nick learned from encounters. He lashed down his packs and cycle, slid his food beneath the seats, and layed across the front cab. Of course, the Evergreen was cocked beside him, easily within the reach of his right arm.

Nick stared up at the fading sky for long minutes. His cycle of thoughts swirled around a central eye of logic. None of this should be happening. Divine purpose was hard to comprehend. Wolfwood was searching for some pivotal event that would give him a little insight to things. Perhaps he'd found it. His deep seated hatred for the Gung-Ho Guns could be a derivative of purpose. He didnt know. He percieved the Guns as a cancer on an already dying world. He withdrew that thought as soon as it passed. If Gunsmoke were dying, then something would have killed it a long time ago. Something a lot more profound than a band of thieves with overzealous ambitions. The more he thought about it, the more Nicholas found God in so many aspects here. Hazel and her community, his own deliverance from the band of raiders. He took no credit for that. He was gladly trusting himself to be in the hands of something larger. It sounded almost romantic, or fantastical. He didnt care. When you stay dead for two hundred years, you tend not to just wake up. Gunsmoke was a perilous world in a spiral of uphill struggles. Wolfwood had seen two groups of people, two ends of the spectrum. It gave him hope. There was hope in the world, but evil as well. The balance of power was a funny thing. Wars waged back and forth, people thrown into chaos, it was all a matter of when, not if. It seemed now, however, that hope had been shackled and chained, barely surviving through the people that squared their shoulders and beared the weight of the deserts. Nick closed his eyes. Shallow graves.