His senses ping that the person on the other side of the rocks is a plant just in time for the plant in question to grab him and pull him down. Vash goes readily, legs folding under him and he even slaps a hand over his mouth for good measure so as not to frighten whatever the younger him is hunting. Because that's him, that's skinny, sunburned kid. That's him, how he looked nearly three quarters of a century ago, right around the time he lost his arm.

This world really is collecting Vashes, isn't it! Sorry for staring, young Vash, but he can't look away.

"What...?" he begins to ask, but no. Young him wants silence, so he'll be silent. Focusing hard, he tries asking the question again, this time mentally. What comes through is probably closer to a general feeling of curiosity, underlain -- unconsciously -- with threads of sympathy and protectiveness, like a toma hen tucking her fledglings under her wing.