AN: I seem to have strayed from my style. I cant exactly write like I could in chapter 1 and 2. I wish I still "had it". Anyway, this could be one of my last chapters. I'm kinda losing the luster. Maybe I was too anxious and expected too much. Not sure what will happen. Review if you like, but I hope you enjoy.

DISCLAIMER - Same as always.

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Darkness. It had become so familiar to him. Him. Nicholas, wasnt it? Thats right. The darkness that swirled around his compendium of thoughts ws a dull haze that his senses couldnt penetrate. He wasnt dead; he knew what that felt like. Maybe in a state of limbo, or bodily disrepair. What did he remember? The old woman, a self-imposed mission, a red haired woman, the man in black, and then the man in Red. Why was he there? It didnt make any sense. For every conclusion of thought, it was back to the Red Man. To Vash. Nicholas felt vacant, hollow. He was missing something he realized he never had. He, of course, couldnt specifically decide what it was, but there was a hole in the rock solidness of his emotion. He had his faith, and his dogmas. He had his friend, the Punisher, now the Evergreen. He was missing something.

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Nausea had become a familiar but none-too-pleasant awakening. Nick sat up with a grimace that looked to be tattooed on his features as of late. He uselessly groped for that darkness that was giving way to the harsh realities and substances around him. The cold stone floor, the stained glass window, the iron-bound wooden door; and the stool whereupon Rossy was perched. The Priest opened his mouth to speak, but his lips cracked and bled, and his throat was comparable to the desert outside.
"Drink your water, you'll be of no use to us dead or delierius." Rossy's voice was like silk, cold silk.
Wolfwood obeyed. He couldnt deny the cruel irony here. A position of servanthood to a godlike figure. He had to admit she and the Scythe had the qualities. They commanded respect, fear, and obiedience all in one iron-fisted package. He drank greedily, feeling the coppery taste of blood mingle with that of dirty water. He didnt care.
"What do you want?" His voice was a croak at best.
"I will let you get away with that, but only once. You will speak only when spoken to." Rossy tossed her fire-red hair. "Narsus knows something of you, and has a vested interest in you, Priest. Were it up to me, you would be tortured and dead." She raised her chin just a bit, "But it isnt, so you will do exactly as I say, when I say it." She left off the "understood"? part, it wasnt a question.
It was happening again. This woman, this arrogant woman, had become the manifestation of the unnecessary evils in the world he so hated. Hated; that was a funny thought. A man of the cloth, and he felt an underlying hatred that burned in the furnaces that made him tick. He was human. A painful realization for someone who strived so heavily, so adamantly to be godly. That was a thought for another time. He held his fury in check, but the seething desire to hate this woman in any concievable way burst through his rational thought like a sand train.
"What number did you say you were?" Nicholas ignored the searing pain in his throat. "Which of the infamous gang are you?" His right hand was white-knuckled around his cup, his left crept inside his pants pocket.
"You would be wise to not concern yourself with me." If she was flustered, she showed no outward sign. "And my patients wears thin with you."
"There must be a lot of you, now." the Priest had formulated the situation to the T. He knew the procedures well, and the instruments of terror that the Guns used to either raze a town or totally enslave it. "You look young, girl," that had to sting, "high up on the number list?"
Rossy shifted, as if she wanted to stand but was supressed by unseen weights. "You will hold your tongue, Priest." The venom in her voice was evident. He had gotten to her.
"Thats what I thought," faith was a funny thing. It made you take risks, believe in things, and be totally willing to do something absolutely foolish. "After Dominique I cant see how the trust in a woman would be restored." His hand found something solid.
Rossy faltered. How did this Priest know about Dominique? She was dead and gone for over two centuries. Wolfwood's words battered her like winds from a monsoon. Her fire red curls shook with rage who's restraints were rapidly falling away. She calmed, suddenly. The eye of a monstrous storm. Her lips slipped from an angry line into a dazzling smile.
Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice. . . I dont think so.
Nick's eyes narrowed to blurred slits. He knew this trick for what it was. His right arm snapped forward and slung his cup, still half full, directly at her pearly white smile. She was caught totally off guard. Her eyes widened, her smile slipped, and the cup caught her just under the right eye. She recoiled and fell away from her hummingbird-like perch.
Wolfwood's laughter was that of someone who was in knowing control. Her rage erupted. She threw herself to her feet and blindly dove for the unmoving holy man. She again never saw it coming. Nick snatched the lock-back knife from the hem of his pants, and unceremoniously grabbed a fistful of red locks. In one calculated but desperate maneuver, he wrestled her down and managed to sit straddled across her stomach.
The Priest was dead, she lunged for his throat, she could feel the blood washing over her hands from his neck. She was wrong. He moved SO fast. His arm had come up and pulled her to the ground by her hair. Her HAIR. The rough stone floor and her sudden impact stole the breath from her, and when she managed to peer through the stars in her vision, that arrogant bastard was sitting on her. She growled and made to say something, but that idea too, was predicted and forestalled.
Nick clapped a hand over her mouth and made a point of placing the knife against her throat.
"All you had to do was tell me your number." Wolfwood's arms were tensed in rage, and veins at his temples bulged with the racing of blood. So much hate. No, he had to stop himself. He fought the internal battle for an eternity that spanned between heartbeats, but he won over himself. The hatred slipped away, and his composure remained. When she died, he would be the least of her problems.
Things went bad again.
"Rossy, dear," that sinister voice eminated from the doorway behind him, "do you know why Mr. Priest here knows so much of us?" Nicholas was frozen. The situation sized up as a standoff. He should have known better.
"Because, Rossy the Read," Nick could hear the grin through the man's words, "Nicholas D. Wolfwood was thirteenth of the Gung Ho Guns."
All eyes went wide, all except for those on the evil face of Narsus.