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nomans_land2023-05-02 05:02 am
nml_mods) wrote in nomans_land2023-05-02 05:02 am
Entry tags:
On The First Day
It had been months.
Months of terror, of families ripped apart, refugees racing against the Ark in the sky, against the Plants that had once been their only source of survival on the world and had now been turned against them, raining lightning and death down on them like the hand of a vengeful God. Humanity pushed to the brink, fleeing their homes and communities, waves of refugees fleeing across the sands as more and more towns and cities fell to the reign of destruction that had been biting at their heels every step of the way.
And then, as the last descendants of the survivors of the Big Fall clustered in the city of Octovern, spiilling out into the streets, every available, livable space filled to capacity and beyond, what felt like the final days of humanity began. The sounds of artillery fire filled the air, the sight of the Ark and its grotesque ruler loomed overhead, and in the distant sky high above, the previously-inconceivable reinforcement ships from Earth took up orbit around No Man's Land. Throughout the night, explosions lit up the sky, thundering with deafening reports through the air, and yet the civilians below had settled into a still, terrified, anticipatory silence. They couldn't see, from their perspective, the figures atop the ruins of the Earth's space destroyers that had already fallen to the ground, locked in battle for the future of the people far below. But the sight of Millions Knives high above, terrifying and grotesque with the power of the Plants he had absorbed, was omnipresent, a never-ending threat, the harbinger of doom, biding his time until he could make good on his promise to wipe every last one of them off the face of existence.
And then something had changed.
Electrical currents rippled through the air above the downed ship, carrying screams on the wind. To the people below, Millions Knives' massive form had shifted, writhing, bellowing with unholy rage and pain and despair. And then it begun to unmake itself, shredding, crumbling, tearing itself apart at the seams and floating to the ground in tiny, shining, white particles. Tiny, white feathers drifted on the wind, closer and closer before, one by one, they began to settle to the roofs of the buildings, to the tops of cars and to the streets, and to the heads and faces of the humans staring up from below.
The instant that contact was made between feather and skin, a connection was made; between Human and Plant, between each person standing side by side, minds thrown open in bursts of light and expanding consciousness, and through the doors sprang multitudes of memories spanning hundreds of years. Suffering, laughter, pain, sorrow, joy, enslavement, death, pride, love. The Plants had made the connection to their creators - their keepers - that they had been silently pleading for since their first containment, and with it every man, woman, and child on the surface of the world began to see and feel and hear their stories and their cries for help. They did not want this war, they did not want this destruction. They had seen the promises of vengeance and a paradise for their kind atop the bones of humanity offered by Millions Knives and they had felt the hopes and dreams carried by Vash the Stampede of a kinder, more loving world, and they had made their choice.
Let there be love and peace in this world.
In the chaos that followed, as the bodies of the Plants began tumbling to the ground in a writhing mass and the screams of shock and confusion began to rise from the sea of humanity below, something rippled in the air, a last gasp of those silent voices before the connection was lost.
This was...different. New. As if reality had taken the distraction caused by the calamity below to shift itself sharply to the left, and then snapped. It started at the core of the mass of angelic bodies as men and women began to rush to their aid, a shockwave in the fabric of creation that rumbled silently in the atoms of the world and ricocheted outward, along the ground, through the air, until it had enveloped the entire planet. Time froze for an instant, and to the eyes of all who had the capacity for sight, that leftward shift became manifest, the world doubling on itself as the ground shook beneath their feet.
Wails of confusion and fear rose into the night sky, and for a brief moment, it felt as if the world were about to unmake itself on the molecular level. But then, just as suddenly as it had come, the distortion snapped back into place with a loud, ear-splitting CRACK, and in the stunned silence that followed, only one thing could be certain; things were not the same as they had been mere moments ago, as if everything and yet nothing at all had changed, all at once.
The world of No Man's Land was as it should be, but all across the surface of the planet, pockets of reality had split open, sending the inhabitants of mirrored existences tumbling through wide, unseen rifts. People and places outside of time and space found themselves staggering to their feet in a world that was both foreign and familiar at the same time, found themselves face to face with their own reflection made flesh, tossed about by the pleas of a race reaching across the fabric of creation for aid in putting a stop to a war that had been fought time and time again, across reality after reality, without fail.
Thus began the new chapter in the history of No Man's Land.
[Wherever your character was, whatever they were doing, when the rifts in reality opened, they will have found themselves rocked by a massive earthquake that lastes a few short seconds before settling with a loud crack, like thunder. While no damage will be left in its wake, the characters themselves will realize that though the planet appears to be the same, it will quickly become evident that they are in an alternate reality of the place they call home. Are they standing in the rubble of a once-destroyed city now remade whole? Is the bar they had been taking refuge in suddenly gone, leaving them tumbling to the sand with nothing but their drink in their hand? And what of the friends that had been standing by their side seconds before? This is where your stories begin.]
Months of terror, of families ripped apart, refugees racing against the Ark in the sky, against the Plants that had once been their only source of survival on the world and had now been turned against them, raining lightning and death down on them like the hand of a vengeful God. Humanity pushed to the brink, fleeing their homes and communities, waves of refugees fleeing across the sands as more and more towns and cities fell to the reign of destruction that had been biting at their heels every step of the way.
And then, as the last descendants of the survivors of the Big Fall clustered in the city of Octovern, spiilling out into the streets, every available, livable space filled to capacity and beyond, what felt like the final days of humanity began. The sounds of artillery fire filled the air, the sight of the Ark and its grotesque ruler loomed overhead, and in the distant sky high above, the previously-inconceivable reinforcement ships from Earth took up orbit around No Man's Land. Throughout the night, explosions lit up the sky, thundering with deafening reports through the air, and yet the civilians below had settled into a still, terrified, anticipatory silence. They couldn't see, from their perspective, the figures atop the ruins of the Earth's space destroyers that had already fallen to the ground, locked in battle for the future of the people far below. But the sight of Millions Knives high above, terrifying and grotesque with the power of the Plants he had absorbed, was omnipresent, a never-ending threat, the harbinger of doom, biding his time until he could make good on his promise to wipe every last one of them off the face of existence.
And then something had changed.
Electrical currents rippled through the air above the downed ship, carrying screams on the wind. To the people below, Millions Knives' massive form had shifted, writhing, bellowing with unholy rage and pain and despair. And then it begun to unmake itself, shredding, crumbling, tearing itself apart at the seams and floating to the ground in tiny, shining, white particles. Tiny, white feathers drifted on the wind, closer and closer before, one by one, they began to settle to the roofs of the buildings, to the tops of cars and to the streets, and to the heads and faces of the humans staring up from below.
The instant that contact was made between feather and skin, a connection was made; between Human and Plant, between each person standing side by side, minds thrown open in bursts of light and expanding consciousness, and through the doors sprang multitudes of memories spanning hundreds of years. Suffering, laughter, pain, sorrow, joy, enslavement, death, pride, love. The Plants had made the connection to their creators - their keepers - that they had been silently pleading for since their first containment, and with it every man, woman, and child on the surface of the world began to see and feel and hear their stories and their cries for help. They did not want this war, they did not want this destruction. They had seen the promises of vengeance and a paradise for their kind atop the bones of humanity offered by Millions Knives and they had felt the hopes and dreams carried by Vash the Stampede of a kinder, more loving world, and they had made their choice.
Of course, but...what would he do at a time like this?
I wonder if he'll laugh again
I wonder if he'll follow his ideals again.
I see. You all know him as well. That young man with a gentle smile.
Little Red Brother.
Let there be love and peace in this world.
In the chaos that followed, as the bodies of the Plants began tumbling to the ground in a writhing mass and the screams of shock and confusion began to rise from the sea of humanity below, something rippled in the air, a last gasp of those silent voices before the connection was lost.
Help Us. Help him. Please.
This was...different. New. As if reality had taken the distraction caused by the calamity below to shift itself sharply to the left, and then snapped. It started at the core of the mass of angelic bodies as men and women began to rush to their aid, a shockwave in the fabric of creation that rumbled silently in the atoms of the world and ricocheted outward, along the ground, through the air, until it had enveloped the entire planet. Time froze for an instant, and to the eyes of all who had the capacity for sight, that leftward shift became manifest, the world doubling on itself as the ground shook beneath their feet.
Wails of confusion and fear rose into the night sky, and for a brief moment, it felt as if the world were about to unmake itself on the molecular level. But then, just as suddenly as it had come, the distortion snapped back into place with a loud, ear-splitting CRACK, and in the stunned silence that followed, only one thing could be certain; things were not the same as they had been mere moments ago, as if everything and yet nothing at all had changed, all at once.
The world of No Man's Land was as it should be, but all across the surface of the planet, pockets of reality had split open, sending the inhabitants of mirrored existences tumbling through wide, unseen rifts. People and places outside of time and space found themselves staggering to their feet in a world that was both foreign and familiar at the same time, found themselves face to face with their own reflection made flesh, tossed about by the pleas of a race reaching across the fabric of creation for aid in putting a stop to a war that had been fought time and time again, across reality after reality, without fail.
[Wherever your character was, whatever they were doing, when the rifts in reality opened, they will have found themselves rocked by a massive earthquake that lastes a few short seconds before settling with a loud crack, like thunder. While no damage will be left in its wake, the characters themselves will realize that though the planet appears to be the same, it will quickly become evident that they are in an alternate reality of the place they call home. Are they standing in the rubble of a once-destroyed city now remade whole? Is the bar they had been taking refuge in suddenly gone, leaving them tumbling to the sand with nothing but their drink in their hand? And what of the friends that had been standing by their side seconds before? This is where your stories begin.]
no subject
Which was why, when the shaking started and the thunder cracked inside of his head, he was walking East, towards the orphanage, his coat tucked inside of his rucksack and a simple shirt and pair of pants in place of his leather gear in the hopes of avoiding detection for as long as possible. He was climbing over a pile of rubble in the path when the voices filled his brain, and for a second he thought he was having a flashback, and he stumbled as his foot caught on the stone and sent him lunging forward into the sand. This was different, though, not the same, but close enough to the cries for help that he'd heard in Octovern that it left him dazed long enough for the rumbling to start. And then he felt the world shift on a molecular level, so close to the way it felt to use his own powers but on such a grand scale that he had a moment of panic before a clap of thunder sent it all crashing back down to reality.
When the fog began lifting from his brain, he found himself whole despite the momentary fear that he'd lost control of his own powers that the event had caused, and he crouched in the sand for a moment, letting himself get reacquainted with reality before a distant, strangely familiar voice managed to bring him out of his daze. He dragged himself to his feet, taking a moment to dust himself off and then glanced up just as the sound of feet racing through the sand reached his ears.
That was the moment he had the second biggest shock of the day, and he visibly recoiled at a figure he'd only ever seen in the mirror, running toward him from the direction of the orphanage. Only the hair on the man in front of him was much lighter than the hair he'd seen in the mirror that morning before checking out of the inn he'd stayed at.
Startled and confused, he dropped into a defensive position, raising his left arm, palm outward in a warding gesture as he glared out through bewildered eyes.]
Woah hey, no, that's close enough, friend!
no subject
Defensive position and friendly greeting or not, for him to be here, today of all days, means that he's an enemy. Another trick of Legato's maybe, or yet another human with lab-grown powers that his brother has unearthed from somewhere. Either way, he doesn't have time for this. ]
Sorry, but I'm in a hurry. Will you let me pass?
no subject
And here, he'd hoped his life was going to start getting easier.]
I'm not going to shoot you. I don't want to fight. I was just...on my way to visit a friend, that's all...
[And that was when he realized the direction the man in front of him had been coming from, and recognized just how much of his hair was still blonde. And the readiness he had for drawing his weapon so quickly just made a lot more sense. Even if it didn't, even if this shouldn't even be possible. Was he dreaming, or was this the universe's twisted idea of some sick joke?]
I...think you may know who I'm talking about.
no subject
Vash lowered his gun to his side, but kept his finger on the trigger, just in case. ]
If you're heading for the orphanage, then you should know there's nobody there. They're all gone.
[ His voice wavered a bit on that gone, and he clenched his teeth hard to prevent it wavering any further. There would be time to grieve later, if he survived. ]
no subject
He gave a small sigh, shaking his head as he glanced over that red shoulder to the distant building on the horizon.]
The kids, yeah, and Melanie. Made sure they got out on the refugee ship before the Ark showed up. Someone's still there, though. I-...we...buried him out back. Didn't we.
[It wasn't a question, and he heard the way his voice wavered in almost exactly the same way. So surreal, too surreal, and still he couldn't figure out how or why this was happening or whether it was even real.
But then...it should have been easy enough to tell, shouldn't it?
He flexed his jaw for a moment, debating on whether or not he wanted to risk the vulnerability it could cause, before reaching out with his mind, feeling for the other's consciousness and trying to make a connection only their kind could be capable of, sending out a quiet, wary wave of thought-feeling-voice into the air.]
I don't know what's happening or how we both got here, but I know what you're going through.
no subject
If it wasn't a trap, if this other version of himself standing in the roadway wasn't an illusion, or a shape shifter, or some other unbelievable scheme cooked up by one of Knives's followers, then how was it possible he was here? He didn't feel threatening... although Vash would be the first to admit that his ability to tell when somebody was hostile rarely worked as well as he'd like. He certainly wasn't acting hostile. All he was doing was delaying Vash's advance to December, and hadn't he already delayed himself enough, with whatever malfunction his gate had caused while fighting off the ark?
The kids, and Miss Melanie, they'd all escaped on the refugee ships, yes. He didn't nod confirmation as his double spoke, but his whole posture -- and the finger on that trigger -- relaxed somewhat. But then we buried him out back, said his double, and Vash's shoulders slumped in defeat as the tears that welled up. He blinked them roughly away, not daring to risk a moment of impaired vision around such an obvious threat, but if this imposter wanted him vulnerable, that was the moment. That was his chance.
And still no attack came. Instead, soft and gentle as a cool breeze on a hot day, a voice rippled through his mind, offering understanding and connection. The sound he made in reply couldn't be called anything other than a sob. ]
...Who...?
no subject
For all the weirdness of feeling his own mind mirrored back at him, there was something reassuring about it. He really didn't know how or why, but there was no mistaking who was in front of him, now. At the same time, there was a moment when his own mental thought-answer almost coalesced in reply before he blinked, giving a soft, bewildered laugh under his breath. Doing so, however, reminded himself of the girls' horrified reactions, wondering how he could smile with blood pouring down his head, chased from town on the threat of an actual stoning, and his realization that somewhere along the way, he'd started having trouble recognizing what an appropriate emotional response to the things that were happening actually was. He tried to quash the humorless smile on his face, and was mostly successful.]
Who am I, or who did we bury? [Truth be told, both were valid questions right now. How in the Hell is he standing here, having a conversation with himself in the flesh from months past? And also, pretending not to know who they had laid to rest behind the orphanage, if only to get confirmation that the person in front of him actually knew and wasn't an imposter, wasn't an entirely terrible idea, now that it occurred to him.] I'm not one of Emilio's puppets, at least. I really don't know what's happening, but I promise, I'm not a lie.
[The next thought-voice had lost all tones of amusement when he continued, grim and quiet and undeniably sad.]
We buried Wolfwood. Out between the buildings, by the play-yard. He doesn't ever have to leave, now, he's...home. [He reached up and rubbed at his sternum, at the physical ache in his heart, shifted to press the well-loved lighter he now kept in his breast pocket just a little closer to his chest. His own vision was well beyond clarity at this point, too. And, because it was something only they would know, only they had been around to see, undeniable proof of who he was, he added.] It hurt too much the leave him at first, so we sat with him in the grave until he'd gone cold.
[He didn't sob, but he couldn't stop the way his lip trembled, or the tears that now rolled unabated down his face. When he spoke again, it was physically, suddenly feeling too vulnerable to keep a full connection, despite keeping his mind open to the other, in case he still needed the non-verbal avenue open to continue the conversation.]
I really was just coming by to check on him, before...I don't know. Disappearing for a while, I guess, until things calmed down again. Just in case I couldn't visit him again for a while. I'm not sure what's happening. I was just walking, and I heard our sisters crying out just now, and then you were running toward me.
no subject
But his whirlwind of questions fades as the other Vash continues to speak. We buried Wolfwood, and even though it's not his memory, not his experience, Vash can feel every shovelful of soil behind those words. He can feel the dirt under his nails, the weight of the stones in his palm. The weight of the corpse in his arms.
His jaw aches from smiling, but he can't make his face relax. It's locked into a rictus grin that just grows wider as the other Vash continues, pouring horrors into Vash's heart and mind. Part of him recoils from the knowledge, but still he sifts through every sentence, every flash of feeling that accompanies those terrible words. He would have buried Wolfwood out behind the kitchen, yes. He would have waited, at the edge of a fresh-dug grave, to make sure of the body within. He'd thought Wolfwood dead before -- he would have made sure. He would have had to be sure.
But he's not sure, can't be sure, because these aren't his memories. He never washed the blood off Wolfwood's face, never searched his pockets for any remaining vials. Never debated whether to save it for Livio, or to see if he could force one more miracle. Never got to say goodbye.
His voice is as stiff as his gestures when he's finally able to reply, tight with the effort of keeping himself under control. ]
I heard them too. [ His sisters. Their sisters, maybe? Maybe. ] The rescue ship had gone, and Knives was... I looked up and he was there. [ He doesn't know how long he sat there in silence beside Wolfwood. It could have been seconds, or hours, he doesn't recall. Time stopped when Wolfwood stopped breathing. The world had died with him, until Knives had dragged it back into focus. ] He attacked, and I put up a wall, and... and I heard the other plants.
[ They'd been calling for help, he sends along their connection, in feelings more than with language. It's the way he usually communicates with their sisters, in images and feelings, rather than with the words they often don't seem to understand. He'd thought it was the plants trapped on the ark, crying out in distress as he responded to Knives's bombardment, crying out in fear as Knives drained their lives away, fuel for the attack on his little brother while Vash had been distracted with grief. And then the attack had ended, and the ark was gone, like it had never been there. The ark, Livio, Wolfwood... all vanished.
How can he be sure Wolfwood is dead without a body? ]
So if... If you're me from the future, then you know where Knives is now. Where can I find him? Is he still in December?
[ His grief has to wait -- Knives must be his priority, if he's not already too late. ]
no subject
He was about to ask where he had come from, if he had yet to bury him but, if the streaks of his hair were anything to judge by, had definitely been there when he died.
But then he spoke before the question could coalesce itself into words, and it made at least some sort of sense.
It was both strange and at the same time a comfort when the other began communicating the way he did with their sisters, like some kind of DNA-deep instinct that he so rarely got to act on, something that was coded into the structure of his bones. Words were more difficult, words could be misconstrued and twisted and misunderstood, forgotten. The way their sisters communicated was the feeling of simply being known, understood, accepted. He couldn't help but reply in kind, even after he'd pulled back on his own just moments earlier.
The Ark had left, taking their sisters with it, there had been no calls for help in December. It had been in Octovern, he had connected with them, given them their choice, left it up to them, and they had reached out, called out, abandoned Knives' mission of death and destruction and reached out in turn to humanity in a shower of gleaming feathers. That had been where the call had come from, only...this time it had been different. Something had changed, and with that change had come...whatever this was.]
They're safe. Er. Were safe. He didn't stay here after the attack. We had time to...[He gestured vaguely, uncomfortably, didn't want to say it out loud.] Livio is fine. I mean he is where-...when? I come from? It's...the war is over...It ended months ago.
[For him, at least. But...if the man in front of him isn't a lie, either, and he has yet to stop Knives, then...
He felt a sudden wave of nausea hit him with full force as the implications sank in. He doesn't want to do this all over again. He can't-...Not Legato again, not fighting with his brother, letting himself take what should have been a fatal blow for him and then carrying him away as he lost consciousness. Waking up, knowing he's nearby, sensing him in hiding as Dr. Bond nursed Vash back to health and told him who had begged the man to save his life but had never come back to speak to him in person once he had regained consciousness.
Feeling his presence suddenly...gone, when the day had come to leave six months later, and knowing, knowing, that he was now, for the first time in his entire life, really, truly alone.
He swayed back a step, felt a weight settle on his chest that made him feel as if his lungs were struggling to draw in air. He wanted to say something, but words caught in his throat, and where before the mental connection had been a conscious action, suddenly he knew it was the only way he would be able to communicate until the spell had passed. Where he had pulled back out of a sense of vulnerability moments before, his mind was reaching back out in a wave of what he dimly realized was a panic attack.
Oh, oh no, had he projected all of that outward? Had he forgotten to pull away to avoid overwhelming the other, the younger, him? His emotions flared even stronger, shamed, worried.
To someone watching them from a distance, he might have even looked calm. To anyone with the communicative abilities they had, he was calmly losing his shit.]
no subject
But before he can dig further into the memory for answers, the mood shifts abruptly. It's an immediate gut punch of grief, and fear, and pain: first, hinted more than stated, there's something horrific about Legato, something that he instinctively recoils from. Something he doesn't want to dig into. Something that makes the breath seize in his chest, something...
...and then Vash feels his brother die. ]
...No.
[ The other Vash might be maintaining his mask, but Vash cannot, not in the face of all of... this.The tears are immediate and blinding as he staggers back, throwing up his hands to try and ward off the feelings that the other Vash is bombarding him with. It's as if someone reached inside his chest and carved out a great handful of his heart. He can't breathe. It's too much. ]
Stop! Stop, no more, please, stop!
[ This isn't real, this can't be real! Wolfwood's death is still so fresh in his heart, ungrieved and unburied, and now he's going to lose Knives, too? He can't. He won't.He has to... Knives, where is Knives? Where is his brother?!
His feet slip beneath him as he backs away from the man who looks so much like him. Knives is in Dec-- no, Octovern, he has to get to Octovern, now. ]
lol damnit, I don't have a better icon for this tag then basically the same one you used!
And yet, when it was someone else, even literally another version of himself, who was suddenly hit with the force of that pain, who radiated so much horror and agony just before trying to break the connection, it was enough to break through the difficulty he had verbalizing what he needed to say.
Except that all he could say was to scream, his own hands flying up to cover his head, not unlike the way the other moved in front of him, and then rip his consciousness away as if it were as lethal as a shot from his gun. The feedback loop of pain and misery in those few short seconds was immense, more than he could handle, and the knowledge that he had caused it, had shattered what little glimpses of actual reassurance and hope he'd tried to give the other before his own pain had taken over without his consent, only compounded it with guilt and a flare of self-loathing that he only felt in some of his worst moments.
It didn't matter that the man in front of him was himself, that he very well may have been on the same fated road he had walked and was destined to suffer those same horrifying events. It was another person, and he had caused that. He had dumped all of the trauma that he'd been carrying into his head, and it was unforgivable!
If words had been difficult a moment before, they were impossible, now, and what had started off as a mild panic attack had suddenly flared into full force. He needed to make it right, he had to stop him before he did something rash, but he was terrified of acting and making it worse. He backpedaled, wanting to run, his arms still curled around his head as if he were trying to bundle up the mental connection he'd already severed and pin it back down into his own skull. And then he took a staggering step forward, wanting to reach out, to calm the other man, to undo what he'd done, but was too terrified of making it worse.
All he could do was sob; short, wailing bursts of sound, like he wanted to form words but couldn't. His mind wanted to reach out, with speech just outside of his capabilities, but he refused to let it, instead trying to take himself in, make it smaller, rip the ability to do so out of his own head and throw it away so he couldn't hurt anyone else like them again, terrified of himself in an entirely new way that had never once occurred to him until now. And yet the words still formed in his mind, screaming out despite not being allowed to connect, just wanting to be heard.]
I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, don't go, I'm sorry!
no subject
Is this what that hopeful future will cost? As much as he wants to fight against the idea, he knows, deep in his gut, that what the other had shared with him was the truth. This grief is to heavy to be anything but real, and if the grief is real, then so it the joy. He'll succeed. He'll win. The ships will be protected, plants and humans will speak to one another for the first time in centuries, the war will be over... and all it will cost is his brother's life and his own peace of mind. That screaming, flailing man in front of him... that's his future? That's the future that saves the world?
That's who he has to become?
Hands still raised in warding, he takes a tentative step toward the other Vash. He's always known – suspected, feared -- that the fight with Knives would kill him. Even since the ark, since he first saw just how much Knives had become, his only hope had been that he'd last long enough in the fight to find a way to reach his brother. And he'll succeed, won't he? This broken man is proof that he'll succeed.
Vash chokes back the last of the tears, his mask sliding somewhat awkwardly back into place.
If this is the cost, then he'll pay it. ]
It's all right.
[ Two lives, for millions? Of course he'll pay it. And if his hand is shaking when he holds it out to his double, well, there's nobody to see it but the two of them. ]
It'll be all right.
no subject
His shoulders shook as, slowly, his body curled in on itself, the panic quelling and leaving behind shame. But at least the tension in his body seemed to be releasing, and the curl of his arms over his head became less an attempt at protecting the world from himself and simply...hiding, from himself, from the world around them, not yet even feeling the courage to look out from the shelter of his own limbs.]
I-...I'm-...[Words were still hard, but at least he was able to start, and at first they came one at a time, punched out of his lungs with each slowly-settling gasp.] 'M sorry...I'm sorry! [He forced himself to pull his hands away, shaking them out as if trying to release what was left of the tension in them, flexing them into and out of fists.
When he managed to open his eyes, even from where his head was turned down toward the ground, he could see the blurry image of an outstretched hand through his tears. His hand jerked, as if moving to take it before second guessing himself and pulling sharply away. He was a mess, he knew he was a mess. Broken, feeling as if his emotions were bleeding him out onto the sand. He had to get them under control.]
I didn't...didn't want t'hurt you. Never...never would have meant to...to show you that. [There was a laugh, a short, barked sound that was almost hysterical. But he made himself reach out again, his own hand shaking, palm down, loose, as non-threatening a stretch as he could make it, like trying to coax a frightened animal not to run away. It was with the back of his fingertips that he made the first delicate contact, and he almost jerked his hand away again as if he were afraid of being burned. But it seemed to break through some of the fear as he gave a small, relieved sort of sob, letting still-curled fingers reach further until he could finally press palm-to-palm, trembling as he gripped oh-so-gently, still afraid of chasing the other man away.
He was staying. He...was staying? He was real and Vash hadn't just driven him into a panic that sent him to his own death in an attempt to stop the things he had seen in his head. He could barely even look up, his eyes darting up to see the uncomfortable look on his face before darting back away to simply stare at the buttons on the collar of his coat, his left hand still folded against his temple as if he were ready to hide again at any second.]
I'm...not even safe around myself! [He let out another humorless laugh. He didn't know what he would do, or what it would even mean, if he sent the man out to his own death, if in his carelessness he caused him to change course in an attempt to change the visions. Things had been balanced on such a razor's edge; one change, one single action different...so many lives were at stake.] Don't leave. Please don't leave.
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Plants weren't meant to be alone. That had been one of his very first lessons, when learning about himself, and his brother, and their strange, dream-like sisters. The text had gone on into mind-numbing detail about feedback loops and resonance echoes, scientific explanations for something that he'd always understood on a much more emotional level. When a plant was alone, it didn't work as well as when it was paired with another, and plants in a long sequence were even more stable and productive. the book talked about capacitance versus voltage, but Vash knew it was simpler than that: plants got lonely.
The other's grip was so gentle that Vash feared he'd slip away. He tightened his own grip, holding on securely, and even laid his prosthetic hand over their joined ones. A solid connection, grounding, something to hold his future self together. ]
I'm here. I'm here, I've got you.
[ He wasn't entirely sure that was the answer to the question... or if there had even been a question. ]
It's okay. [ It wasn't okay. But it would be. ] It's better that I know what's coming. What I have to do.
[ But deep in his heart, something protested that acceptance. There had to be a way for the future he'd seen to unfold that spared his brother's life. There had to be a path where Knives lived! And, if that wasn't possible, then... then maybe there was a path where neither of them survived. Where neither of them had to be alone.
Where neither of them had to end up as broken as the man whose hand he was clinging to for dear life. ]
You've been through so much. I'm sorry.
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Now, it slowly drew him out of the hunched curl of his shoulders, until even his prosthetic was lowering slowly from the defensive guard against his face, shifting slowly to hold the ball of their hands from beneath, wanting even the muted, dulled relays of touch from the sensors that were wired from the thing and into the nerves in what was left of his arm.]
It's...it's too much. It...[Almost drove him over the edge. Almost killed him. He'd had a couple days between losing Nicholas and getting to Octovern to begin to compartmentalize and steel himself for what was going to happen, and it had still almost been too much. But to have it shoved into his head all at once? He shook his head in short, jerky movements, gave the other a soft, pained sound.]
It's just what I-...It's what we do, isn't it? Nobody else can do it, so we have to take their place. [Taking the abuses, blocking the bullets with his own body, protecting people, helping them, keeping them safe at the expense of his own well-being. What else was he supposed to do? At least if he was the one carrying these burdens, no one else had to hurt.] I don't know how to do anything else.
[Even to the point of wishing he could have not inflicted that pain on the other him, could have let him stay ignorant and safe. And that thought made his eyes widen, finally looking up at the other man.]
Maybe...maybe you don't have to. I've already done it, right? I wouldn't be here if I hadn't. So...so you don't have to go through it, it's already done!