Nicholas D. Wolfwood

[Fine, he tells himself—he might as well check out the journal; while he's normally on top of things (you never know what crazy shit's gonna go down), he's been pretty laid back, he'll admit. It's been calm, despite the last event. He's managed to just relax and take it as a small vacation, or some sort of half-assed blessing. Yeah, he'll go with that.

And now, to pester the new people.]

[VOICE]

Welcome to Luceti, all you new people out there—do I have some samurai out there? Gunslingers? How about the ever-popular pirate? I swear, I've never seen so many in one place before. [Granted he'd never seen a pirate in his life prior to Luceti, but eeeeh, whatever.] I'm starting to notice this place has just about every type of person around. Well, except for people the size of mountains. I imagine it wouldn't be very comfortable being around this rough terrain, actually.

[a thoughtful hum] I imagine some of you are from the usual interesting places... space? The desert? Worlds full of dragons or monsters or swords that're way too big to be lugging around?

[and a beat]

And don't forget to speak to your local spirit, around here. Just avoid the fire one—he's a real bastard.

(  [FILTERED TO VASH // 70 PERCENT UNHACKABLE]  )

[So it goes, things feel a little more normal again. He prefers it; the days where his cross sits unused in the corner of his room are pleasant ones, to say the least. Granted, poor Amelia's stuck in there house now thanks to the hideous hand she'd been dealt in the last shift. He makes sure to check in with her in the apartment to see if she's settling well enough, before giving himself a breather outside on the path with cross in hand. As much as he enjoys the whole 'not using it' thing, he's gotta keep himself sharp.

You never know, right?

By the time he's done at the battle dome, chipping away at the usual horde of 50 or so moving targets that totally look like bandits, he's ready to get on home and hit the hay. Uneventful, for the most part. It's one of those times where the clock seems to be at 7 in the morn' one moment and then 11:30 at night the next.

He slips into his room after dinner, and smokes on a cigarette as he gets ready to end one day and start the next.]

[Voice]

Looks like we're being led around by a rope, like usual. But you gotta' wonder—what good will it do to rile us all up into wanting to fight, into learning how to fight? Or have they forgotten that most of Luceti wants them either dead, or drinking through a straw? Either way, it's pretty incredible that they can't hold back these enemies, and yet we can kill them on the battlefield. Us, people who are trapped here, who can't even fight a gang of robots from dragging us off.

It's all topsy-turvy, isn't it?

[And while he's here... well, might as well take his mind off things for a little while to address a certain grumpy-faced child...]

[[Filtered to 'Katie' // 70% Unhackable]]

Hey, kid—can I talk to you, or would you rather just glare at me for a minute?

[Said without a trace of malice, of course, because Wolfwood has a hard time throwing that around kids; actually, he's far too curious about how she did it, than the fact that she tossed him for no real known reason toward what could've been his second death.]

[Action]

[All that said and done, he's got practicing to do. He's been hoarding up on his ammo, but knowing they'll supply him with more is a relief; he goes to the battle dome and proceeds to shoot apart whatever the simulation throws at him: guys with angel wings? Their weak points are those. Those big-ass things, right there. And they're significantly easy to shoot down when you just go for one of them. But then, he also practices on people he's used to shooting: guys with guns.

Swivel cross. Block bullets. Fire back from behind Punisher. It's all ingrained into his mind as clear as anything else he's ever learned. Except where his shots normally tear through vital organs, a lot of his targets instead are hit where they couldn't use their guns anymore—arms, and then legs, all meticulous. Some are killed. He notes it, acknowledges it, and makes no effort to correct himself for it.

When he walks out of the battle dome, his cross is significantly lighter. He'll take the time to drop by the Good Spirits and drink equally light, draw out a cigarette and light it, wait until the light outside's gone and find himself too awake to return home just yet. So he sits in the forest against a rock, arms folded while he barks sharply to his empty left-hand side:]

Are you going to teach me more or not?

[He returns home with a few little burns here and there, as expected. But at least he can create bigger blasts of fire. It's more than he was hoping for. Somewhere in this day, he fancies he'll have to talk to Vash about what's to come.]