He hadn't noticed the way the air shook, the way the ground trembled, even the cry for help had been nearly drowned out by the echo of gunfire and tinnitus-like whine in his ears that muted almost all else. Almost. Help us, help him.
He wasn't the sort to help people. Wasn't part of the job, the opposite actually. And where had that gotten him? Shot through the damn lungs, Hopperd's howl of fury a distant and rapidly fading thing, the smells and sounds and sights of a frightened and battered city dimming in time to his own weakening pulse. It really was just his luck, wasn't it? Nothing else to lose, now.. not even his life.
Why not try a different road.
By Midvalley's best guess, the reverberations of whatever the hell that had been were quickly fading to little more than bewildered memory, and the buildings not far away were not at all the close packed town of a few minutes ago. This was not where he'd been shot; the red still soaked his once nice clean white suit, it still burned and stabbed when he inhaled too deeply but he knew the difference between a death wound and one that merely hurt to an inconvenient degree. He hadn't dreamed it. Hadn't dreamed the feathers, Legato's arrival, Beast somehow still being alive .. and he wasn't dreaming being somewhere where he shouldn't be, amongst the empty wilderness between towns. Gingerly he shouldered his saxophone and begun walking. There were voices ahead-- no, just one voice. But voices meant population, which meant maybe some bandages and a good stiff drink, and he had at least a little currency to pay for both; it'd give him time to sort out what the hell that just was, where he was, and more importantly what he was going to do now. His one chance to get rid of that maniac was gone, returning wasn't an option, being hunted very well might be..
These thoughts derail suddenly when he recognizes the somewhat slurred voice ahead, and the outline of a man. Not .. quite right, he's fairly sure the Stampede's hair had not been quite that dark not too long ago, but it's enough to slow his own footsteps to stillness, the crunch of pebbles quieting as he considers very, very carefully what to do nex: in theory one devil was behind him somewhere, and another devil in front of him.
No feathers.
And that looked ... awfully like Chapel's weapon.
Actually that looked awfully like a grave. Midvalley's a bit lost on a lot of things right now but he's pretty certain he hadn't managed to kill that durable bastard, nor would anyone have been able to stuff him in a hole and make a gravestone in the last handful of minutes either. This ... looked like a warzone already, but not the one he'd just been in. Some other fight. Was this the power of the plants? Was he ... teleported, or something?
Vash's question of what just happened doesn't really get an answer, because he doesn't know. But there is a response. "Is that Chapel?" A pause. What had that girl called him? "Wolfwood."
His tone is neutral. There's no attack, his saxophone still slung across is back, his posture as very deliberately casual as he can make it in spite of the sudden spike of adrenaline. Everyone knew Vash the Stampede didn't attack unless attacked first. But who knows what would be considered an 'attack'; if there was one thing Midvalley the Hornfreak is certain of, it's that he's wildly outmatched by these monsters. Even when one is possibly thoroughly pickled.
"Thought maybe this was your doing. Guess not, if you're as confused as I am."
What this funeral needs is sad music.
He wasn't the sort to help people. Wasn't part of the job, the opposite actually. And where had that gotten him? Shot through the damn lungs, Hopperd's howl of fury a distant and rapidly fading thing, the smells and sounds and sights of a frightened and battered city dimming in time to his own weakening pulse. It really was just his luck, wasn't it? Nothing else to lose, now.. not even his life.
Why not try a different road.
By Midvalley's best guess, the reverberations of whatever the hell that had been were quickly fading to little more than bewildered memory, and the buildings not far away were not at all the close packed town of a few minutes ago. This was not where he'd been shot; the red still soaked his once nice clean white suit, it still burned and stabbed when he inhaled too deeply but he knew the difference between a death wound and one that merely hurt to an inconvenient degree. He hadn't dreamed it. Hadn't dreamed the feathers, Legato's arrival, Beast somehow still being alive .. and he wasn't dreaming being somewhere where he shouldn't be, amongst the empty wilderness between towns. Gingerly he shouldered his saxophone and begun walking. There were voices ahead-- no, just one voice. But voices meant population, which meant maybe some bandages and a good stiff drink, and he had at least a little currency to pay for both; it'd give him time to sort out what the hell that just was, where he was, and more importantly what he was going to do now. His one chance to get rid of that maniac was gone, returning wasn't an option, being hunted very well might be..
These thoughts derail suddenly when he recognizes the somewhat slurred voice ahead, and the outline of a man. Not .. quite right, he's fairly sure the Stampede's hair had not been quite that dark not too long ago, but it's enough to slow his own footsteps to stillness, the crunch of pebbles quieting as he considers very, very carefully what to do nex: in theory one devil was behind him somewhere, and another devil in front of him.
No feathers.
And that looked ... awfully like Chapel's weapon.
Actually that looked awfully like a grave. Midvalley's a bit lost on a lot of things right now but he's pretty certain he hadn't managed to kill that durable bastard, nor would anyone have been able to stuff him in a hole and make a gravestone in the last handful of minutes either. This ... looked like a warzone already, but not the one he'd just been in. Some other fight. Was this the power of the plants? Was he ... teleported, or something?
Vash's question of what just happened doesn't really get an answer, because he doesn't know. But there is a response. "Is that Chapel?" A pause. What had that girl called him? "Wolfwood."
His tone is neutral. There's no attack, his saxophone still slung across is back, his posture as very deliberately casual as he can make it in spite of the sudden spike of adrenaline. Everyone knew Vash the Stampede didn't attack unless attacked first. But who knows what would be considered an 'attack'; if there was one thing Midvalley the Hornfreak is certain of, it's that he's wildly outmatched by these monsters. Even when one is possibly thoroughly pickled.
"Thought maybe this was your doing. Guess not, if you're as confused as I am."