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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.]
I can do Wonderwall.
Plus, the 60 billion double dollar man just said the sweetest thing he'd ever heard, something that draws a brief, unconscious smile to his face.
"Easy now; if I wanted a fight I wouldn't have said anything first. Knives is dead? Legato too then I take it, if you're still breathing and he's not, I can't imagine his pet lunatic would just let that go." Oh. Oh that made things so much better, and he can relax just a little, only as much as his lingering gunshot would let him.
Knives is dead, ergo Legato is dead, therefore, he is free.
How hard would it be to strike up a new band? It was like a tremendous burden of fear and horror had been suddenly lifted from his shoulders. If it wouldn't hurt so damn much he'd do a little waltz. .. On the other hand, that meant the rest of his 'companions' were likely dead too. He'd made a promise to Hopperd, which he hadn't thought he'd get a chance to see to. ... Well, now he would.
And his voice is still ever so careful. "You .. sober enough for this conversation? I just want to know where I can go to clean up, I have no idea where the hell this is or how I got here. Don't shoot me, and I'll return the favor." Not that he'd have a prayer of winning that particular conflict.
LOL I legitimately had to look that one up, and that sure was a blast from the past!
This really wasn't what he wanted right now. This was not why he was here. He didn't answer immediately, even with the reassurances that he wouldn't shoot as long as Vash didn't first, simply began to slowly shift and pull himself to a sit before turning his back on the man and moving to heft the Punisher out of the sand, leaning it on his shoulder so that he could begin to dig a little divot into the ground at the head of the gravestone so that when he propped it back up, it would be a bit more stable.
"You're outisde December." His voice rumbled out softly as he worked, one hand cradling the gun to his chest as the other fought with the way the sand insisted on sliding back down into the hole almost as quickly as he shoveled it out. It was the easiest question to answer, and the one that didn't feel too personal. "There's nobody here. People haven't come back yet, but if you head into town, they've started to come back, there. The inn is open again."
He reached a point where he figured the hole was deep enough and slid the Punisher down, letting his body weight wedge it in just a bit deeper before he began shoving the sand back in around it.
"...Ok. That'll hold for now, ok? I promise t'come back an' fix it when I'm not-...whatever." His voice was quieter, whispered only the grave to hear. He really didn't want to leave just yet, but...He gave a long, exhausted sigh, his shoulders slumping before he shifted to lift himself to his feet, bent at the waist, and grabbed his bag.
And then he was turning again, hefting the rucksack over his left shoulder, and looking back at the man in front of him.
"Come on. I'll show you the way."
It's a classic of highschool hallways from bored band students!
Wolfwood was another matter. He held no great personal feelings one way or another about Chapel, save that he was a frustratingly hard bastard to kill, and wasn't bad to share a drink with. There'd be no similar intense relief at the idea of Wolfwood's loss. Sure, Chapel had been a traitor, but so had Midvalley in the end, and neither were beholden to that organization anymore. Almost absently, one hand picks at the front of his shirt, where drying blood made it sticky and uncomfortable. Wolfwood was far more difficult to kill than he was, and yet he's the one alive. When he shouldn't be. What did that mean for someone a whole hell of a lot tougher?
Was there really anyone in that grave at all, or was the preacher hiding somewhere, licking his wounds and letting his comrade think for a time that he's gone?
"You don't have to. Obviously you've got other things to tend to here." And traveling with a creature that made his skin crawl was not really high on his do-list. Knives would kill without warning, and his brother .. well, that feathery nightmare that had resulted from Hopperd's attack probably hadn't boded well for anyone in the vicinity either. "Just point me in the right direction and I'll be on my way."
There's a moment's pause as he considers adding to that before deciding to keep his thoughts to himself. These 'independent plants' are too unpredictable, and pointing out Legato, who does not leave traitors alive, had killed him - and here he was, still breathing if bloody and hurt, therefore Wolfwood too might still be ... somewhere, could provoke the very reactions he's working to avoid. Dying again so soon would be pathetic.
See, my psycho band directors only let us play stuff from the 70's, or movie themes. lol
Something about that, and the fact that he had just been tending to the undisturbed grave of the one person he would give anything to bring back, tickled in his brain in a way that made his eyes burn and his mouth pull down in a grimace. There was something there that his sozzled brain had trouble grabbing at, but it would hit him eventually. Either way-...
"Hmm. No. You're hurt, and it's a few iles out, in the middle of the night."
And this man was an assassin. He remembered enough to know that he...hadn't exactly been working with his brother's followers, but the whole thing was hazy enough that he didn't know the exact details, and he hadn't bothered asking Wolfwood about it after the fact. That still didn't mean he felt comfortable leaving him alone in one of the cities, with innocent people.
He turned to stare at the empty orphanage a few yarz away, quiet and abandoned while it waited for everyone to return. There was too much history here, but it was better than nothing.
"Look. There should be supplies here, and no one will be coming back for a while. We should be fine staying the night. Come on, I know a little bit around the place. It's better than you bleeding out or freezing to death in the desert before the suns come up."
He turned, plodding his way quietly toward the back doors of the group home, wondering in the back of his mind if the place had had its power restored yet. Ah well, they could always light some candles, and the stove had been gas-powered, at least. He could light that with Wolfwood's lighter if he needed to.
That was the chorus teacher at mine.
Which was, by his hazarded guess, at least on the other side of a sand sea. That hole in the moon didn't appear there all on its own. "I don't think I'll bleed out. It's not as bad as it should... as it looks, probably."
It's not an argument, he's being too careful with his tone and deliberately unthreatening body language to be an argument. Does he know this place? Had he been here before, in one of the Gung Ho Guns' larks across the landscape? Was this damage caused by one of them? Midvalley doesn't follow immediately, gaze turning back to the impromptu memorial of a 300 pound machinegun-missile launcher for a long moment before turning away.
Like hell Chapel is dead, if he's still alive. He'll have to keep his head on a swivel, just in case.
This place felt like it should have ghosts. Midvalley was not a superstitious man, but it's with an uncomfortable chill that he finally follows. Maybe there'll be a tub and some water, his saxophone needed cleaning as badly as he did.
"Don't know how aware you were during ... all of that, with the feathers." Careful, careful. "Do you know what happened to Hopperd? You two, or Legato?"
See, my quoir teacher was GREAT, until she left and we got a new guy. 9_9
Not that this man was anywhere near as tolerable as Wolfwood had been.
Ok, so maybe he was feeling a bit churlish. He sighed as he fumbled with the door handle, giving a tiny, swaying shake of his fist in victory when he found that they had been left unlocked, and held it open, turning back to watch the man staring up at the moons. And then down at Wolfwood's grave.
"Just...get inside. Please." He really was too tired to argue. He turned to walk inside, leaving the door open to search for a light switch that rested just inside the doorway on the wall. There was a tiny, half-hearted "'Eyyyyy..." of satisfaction when the overheads came on with a sputter, drawing on whatever power was left in the batteries storing the electricity shipped in from December's not-yet-returned energy Plant. And then he was turning to glance around the room, hoping that a first aid kit was stored in the kitchen the back door opened up to. Surely they had one here, right? Armies of children and kitchens sometimes required first aid kits. They wouldn't have put that somewhere else, would they?
The question from outside, faint as it was, took a moment to get through his mind, and when it registered, he sighed audibly, his shoulders drooping at the mentions of "feathers." He really didn't want to talk about that day, wouldn't have even if the fog over his memories hadn't clouded them and made it hard to remember exact details. But...at least he did remember what happened to Hoppered.
And...Legato...
Really asking the hard-hitting questions, wasn't he?
"Hoppered is dead. I buried him in a grave next to yours." Because that was the easy answer. But oh. Wait...his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed at a thought, he blinked slowly, trying to grasp onto it and hold it before the buzz made it float away, and he turned to give the man a little frown through the doorway. "I mean...he was dead the last time I saw him, but so were you, so..."
And that was an uncomfortable thought. Was he going to have to start checking graves, now? Going back to see if people he'd put in the ground were coming back up? People he cared about, people who'd tried to kill him. There were so many bodies. He could probably remember a good number of where those graves were, if he put his mind to it.
"Why aren't you dead, anyway???" The bewildered look on his face shifted almost immediately to something a bit more guilty, and he grimaced at himself. "Ok, that...was shitty. Sorry."
But was he, though?
Ok, no, he was, even if his drunk brain was letting some of this darker thoughts claw their way to the surface, now that it was too addled to restrain them properly. He shook his head, reaching up under his sunglasses to rub the spot between his eyes, and when he continued with a flippant wave of his fingers, he kept his eyes closed as he tried to keep his thoughts in line through sheer force of will.
"Legato is dead, too. You are literally the only one still alive from my brother's team. As far as I know. Everyone is gone. 'Cept me and..." No. Best not mention the girls. Not that it wouldn't be hard to find out about their continued existence, now that they were television reporters. But the longer he let them go unmentioned and therefore safe, the better. "The Plants."
Yeah. That worked.
might be typos, phone tags are tough.
... Ah. If he had to guess with the damage outside, this was why Wolfwood turned traitor, and maybe in that case the rest of the Eye. Who had attacked? Zazie? Elendira?
Gently, Sylvia is set down; it would need a thorough cleaning and check over, if he was lucky the reed would be undamaged. He looks up, brow furrowed, at what might have been a rude question. "I should be," is the blunt response. "Legato isn't known for being forgiving of traitors, and he was a damn good shot." There's a brief rise of one hand almost to compulsively check the gunshot wound he knows is there, but the tremor of unease or fear returns and it falls back to his side. "He didn't miss."
Vash has to contend with the loss of his friend, Midvalley has to come to grips with knowing he died, feeling himself die, and still standing here. He wasn't a religious man.
"Everyone is gone. I never wanted on that bloodthirsty boat ride to begin with and I sure as hell don't plan on picking up where they left off. The Gung-Ho Guns are gone." He takes a slow breath, lets it out carefully to test the pain. "But of the whole group, I'm the only normal human. If I'm still alive.." He jerks a thumb back towards the door. "Who knows who else might be hiding and licking their wounds. One way or another, I'm not going back. I'm not wasting my second shot on someone else's vendettas."
Pfft, man, I commend the hustle, tagging from phones is a NIGHTMARE!
"No, he definitely didn't miss." Which made him turn and begin searching shelves and cupboards in earnest, until he'd managed to find a small metal first-aid kit tucked underneath the sink and lifted it above his head with a little "Hah!" He had already opened it and was beginning to sift through the contents by the time he stood up and began walking back over, pulling out a roll of gauze and tape. Probably would need that bottle of alcohol, too...and, unfortunately, maybe even those...giant tweezers, if there were still any bullets in his gut. Forceps? What even did they call those things? "Alright, lift up your shirt."
The abruptness and possible awkwardness of the statement didn't even occur to him, though to be honest it probably wouldn't have even if he weren't drunk. When Midvalley continued to rattle on, though, he blinked, looking up at him in a bit of a stunned silence.
He hadn't-...? Was he-...? Vash's mouth fell open, but whatever question he'd been about to ask died on his lips at the gesture he made toward the door and the implications of it, and suddenly his head was on a swivel, swinging quickly back and forth between him and the darkness that lay just outside.
Did he mean-...??? But-...there was no way-...The grave was-...But then Midvalley also shouldn't be-...No.
No, no. He couldn't let his thoughts spiral down that path. It was dumb, it would just get his hopes up for something he knew was impossible, and he was already hurting enough as it was. He unclenched his hand from where it had crushed around the roll of gauze, looked down at the table as he dropped the box down near the saxophone, and busied himself with opening the wrapper so that he could have a moment to collect himself again.
"...For what it's worth, I'm glad to hear that. I don't have any intention of continuing a fight that I never wanted in the first place. All I ever wanted was to be left in peace, so if that's sounds fine to you, then I'm glad to let what's in the past stay there."
no subject
He doesn't have the extensive awful scarring the likes of Vash or even Wolfwood had, but he's been in his share of scraps. This new set of injuries, neat half-healed, half-open holes, by their placement absolutely should have resulted in a dead man. Lungshot, heart-shot, if he'd made it thirty seconds without losing consciousness it would have been astonishing. They still bleed a little, but it's the sluggishness of a nonlethal wound. It really shouldn't be.
By the shocked silence, he estimated the Stampede was considering Wolfwood, and not the likelihood of Legato.
Of Knives.
Of it all beginning again. Of course a mind would turn to a lost friend before vicious enemies, but Midvalley had to be more practical about that. If he intended to make the best use of this second chance at life, he was going to have to be very careful to steer clear of anyone connected to that hell that was the Gung Ho Guns. "It was never personal for me. No offense, but you were just a job I wasn't allowed to walk away from." Unlike some of the others, who sought a test of strength ... or revenge. "I can't say anyone else might leave you alone, Knives has followers like a cat has fleas."
But it won't be Midvalley. He's not stupid enough to take the same road twice, when it already got him killed once. "And if you're the "red brother" that ... screaming was calling for, and I wasn't the only one to hear it." People will come looking.
People will come looking. Vash drew chaos like carcasses drew flies.
no subject
He hummed thoughtfully, turning and pouring alcohol onto a bit of gauze and turned back to begin cleaning the blood away, forgetting that it would likely burn like Hell. The fact that they were still open, but bled so little, was...so strange. But he supposed beggars couldn't be choosers.
"It's weird...'s like all the internal damage has already healed or something. Or at least...enough that you're not bleeding. Not like they should, at least?" He might have checked for a pulse, if it weren't for the fact that if he really focused, he could almost see the beat of it in the way the blood dripped down. He turned back to the box of supplies and pulled out a little container of styptic powder, dusting another piece of gauze before pressing the bandage to the wounds, ripping off pieces of medical tape with his teeth and his free hand before fixing it down. "You should really see a doctor after this, just to be sure. Even if they've started healing, they're deep."
He stepped back, crossing his arms and staring at the bandages with a deep frown, as if he expected the man's chest to beam the answers directly into his brain. And at no time did it ever seem to occur to him how that might have been perceived by anyone else, either too focused on figuring out what had happened, too drunk to know any better, just not hardwired to think of things involving bared skin the same way humans did, or some combination of the three.
Whatever the case, after a few moments, he shook his head, looking up at the man's face as he finally focused in on what he was saying, and finally gave a long, exhausted sigh. So. Just another poor soul who'd been dragged into his brother's crusade against his will. He reached up with one hand, rubbing his face and pressing against the beginnings of a headache between his eyes.
"If I took offense for every person my brother forced to come ruin my life-..." Ok, no, to anyone else, that probably would have been something very offensive. Maybe he was too drunk to explain what he meant there. But he barreled on. "Look. I don't blame you for what he made you do. He took perfectly normal, kind people and made them do horrible things, all for his crusade. And sadly, I'm used to it. He'd been that way for...a very, very long time. Even before he dragged you into it."
But then the last part of what he said made him pause, his hand moving down so that he could stare from over it, his brow furrowed.
"So...you heard that..." Which meant he hadn't just been having some sort of weird, drunken flashback. His arms shifted to cross back over his chest again, and he stared off to the side, thinking hard. "That...was my sisters. So yes. I'm the Red Brother. Only it's wrong, that call already went out months ago. Everyone was in Octovern when it happened, I was there! Why did they cry out again? I thought everything had been settled!"
no subject
"It won't kill me again, at least. That's good enough." Finding a doctor wouldn't ordinarily be difficult, but there was a strange silence in the air that made him wonder if something had changed, if he'd missed something very important ... it could just be the utter quiet of a battlefield's aftermath, he supposed. He had a good idea of where various cities and towns were, once he had a lock on where this was, getting proper antibiotics or whatever shouldn't be difficult.
Except that most of the planet is barren of human life now. He'll find out in time.
Were it anyone else but Vash the Stampede, he'd probably make a suggestive comment about being stared at, but that doesn't seem ... wise, no safer than implying the same if it were Millions Knives. And he can't bring himself to consider Vash in such a way either, any more than he could a plant in a bulb or a worm. He looked human ...
For a moment Midvalley considers rebuttoning his blood-soaked shirt, and then decides to just leave it til it dries so it doesn't stick to his fresh new bandages, giving a small quiet chuckle at what sounds like indignation from a mortal enemy. A lot of them, the Gung HoGuns, they'll do it because they want to, not because Knives forced them to. Some people are just born bad. Hoppered wasn't a monster at heart though, just dealt a bad hand. "Most of the Guns were not nice, normal, kind people even before that man came along." But not all. "Most of them turn up suddenly, expect them to pick up where they left off. I'd just rather go back to playing for happy crowded nightclubs." It paid better, it was safer.
And maybe saying so will be to his benefit. An assassin he was, but a homicidal maniac he was not.
"...Yeah?" He'd always had exceptional hearing, it helped with his music. All sounds were good sounds - and now he was hearing plants? Those were the sisters, based on how Knives referred to them. This isn't a confirmation he's entirely thrilled about, was he going to KEEP hearing them? "Huh, well, if it's you they want to get help for, and them, maybe it's not as settled as you hoped and Knives wasn't the problem."
..... Damn, it better not be, if Knives was a symptom and not the disease they were all fucked.
no subject
"You should still get some antibiotics, the good stuff. Sepsis is probably worse than going out with a gunshot." He shook his head, his nose curling. He'd seen enough people suffering from that over the years, had even had it on a couple of extremely unlucky occassions, thank whatever was out there for whatever made his body heal as well as it did.
He sighed at the man's pessimism, though he would have been lying to say it didn't sound a whole lot like the kinds of things Nicholas might have said about people, before. Which wasn't a happy thought to have roll through his head, especially not given the night's circumstances. Was it also a quality they looked for when recruiting for their little murder-cult? People who were so damaged that the world just seemed so bleak?
"Not even most of them, really." Nicholas, Livio, Emilio, Hoppered, Midvalley. Even Zazie had had their reasons, and to be honest, he could understand them. "How many of you did he pull in again? 13? So..." If you counted Razlo, and yeah, sure, he did. "More than half of you were just...pawns. Lives he played with because he thought it was his right." And even if he hadn't directly caused their descents into madness, even if they'd been allowed to live their lives without him forcing them to fight in his petty power struggles? It all came back to what happened the night of the Big Fall, didn't it? Everyone's lives were worse because of Knives, and because of Vash's inability to stop him from doing what he'd done, over and over and over again.
He sighed again, sinking with an unhappy groan into one of the seats, his gangly legs bunching up and making him look even taller than he already was when he was sitting in a chair meant for a small child.
"I just wanted this to all be over. I'm just so. Tired of all the fighting." His head dropped down to the table with a loud thunk. He'd been to the point of being a sad, mopey drunk before his night had gone all sideways. There was enough of that left that he was starting to veer into mopey, whiney drunk, and he didn't even care. Hell, he didn't even have to be drunk to act like a whiney, petulent child. The alcohol in his system was just helping it along.
"I've been dealing with this for a hundred and fifty. Years." His voice was muffled against the old, metal table. "Do you know how many generations that is? I'm old enough to be your great. Great...Greagreagreagranddad! Aren't old men supposed to retire???"
Yep, whining and moping. He felt pretty damn justified, though, given the circumstances.