For better or worse it seems to have knocked the fight out of him, there won't be further arguments or protest for at least a little while. There's no complaint to any of it, not the idea of being dropped with some Luida person, or being with these two longer, or not falling off the bike, or even the idea of a prosthetic arm, just another shallow nod. A prosthetic wasn't something he could think about right now, it just brought up images of his own decaying arm in the dust.
Bits of people in the dust, overlaid with Wolfwood's words, his other self's reassurance.
I'm sorry. There's some real shit you're going through
He was going to be seeing that for a long time, when he closes his eyes.
Somewhere safe, where I can help
At least Vash isn't a complete zombie, he does look at each when they speak, but it's with an unblinking stare and wavering attention. He'd have to not fall off the bike. Where was even safe? Would Knives even be safe, or would he take this as an excuse to keep killing while Vash couldn't stop him?
"I'll be careful." Of not falling off, of the giant gun. Slowly he works his way back to his feet, the warning of someone else's approach not even heard; their timing is terrible, turning up to a town full of corpses. Without the adrenaline of desperation and drive to make sure he saw and heard Wolfwood looking for survivors, the focus needed to consider much at all was waning, leaving only images and memory of the past weeks behind. Strangers they were, but the delusion that they were sent by his brother means they could be trusted. He wouldn't likely make it to the next town without them, he wasn't even sure where that would be right now. Once upright, with chocolate bar in tow, the bike is the next goal, but at least there's no panicking over more strangers turning up.
He'd be bitter, if he allowed himself to be, if he dwelled on it long, about how three only turn up now. Sadness and guilt was easier, even if it made his vision blurry and set off an internal chant of don't cry don't cry don't cry.
no subject
Bits of people in the dust, overlaid with Wolfwood's words, his other self's reassurance.
I'm sorry. There's some real shit you're going through
He was going to be seeing that for a long time, when he closes his eyes.
Somewhere safe, where I can help
At least Vash isn't a complete zombie, he does look at each when they speak, but it's with an unblinking stare and wavering attention. He'd have to not fall off the bike. Where was even safe? Would Knives even be safe, or would he take this as an excuse to keep killing while Vash couldn't stop him?
"I'll be careful." Of not falling off, of the giant gun. Slowly he works his way back to his feet, the warning of someone else's approach not even heard; their timing is terrible, turning up to a town full of corpses. Without the adrenaline of desperation and drive to make sure he saw and heard Wolfwood looking for survivors, the focus needed to consider much at all was waning, leaving only images and memory of the past weeks behind. Strangers they were, but the delusion that they were sent by his brother means they could be trusted. He wouldn't likely make it to the next town without them, he wasn't even sure where that would be right now. Once upright, with chocolate bar in tow, the bike is the next goal, but at least there's no panicking over more strangers turning up.
He'd be bitter, if he allowed himself to be, if he dwelled on it long, about how three only turn up now. Sadness and guilt was easier, even if it made his vision blurry and set off an internal chant of don't cry don't cry don't cry.