[ Vash pauses, coat a tight knot in his arms, as young Vash stutters through his feelings. The memory it evokes isn't Knives running away, bullet shot, or any of the times they met up after that. Instead, he can't help but think of the very old version of his brother living out by Chisler's Hill, the Knives who'd stayed alive out of spite, and lived long enough to have a house full of rambunctious kids. The Knives who'd given him nothing but good advice, in his own way, and who had been very clear about his desire for Vash to survive, and return.

His coat creaks as he squeezes it, his eyes burning. With a dry laugh he blinks the prickles in his eyes away, and turns to the nearby boulder, dropping into a crouch and digging at the soft sand at the base of the stone. ]

Thanks, but I think I want to hide it, just in case anyone comes by.

[ His prosthetic hand makes quick work of the sand, shoveling it aside until the hole is nice and deep. ]

You know, that was half my lifetime ago that I got this new arm? [ Half a lifetime of aches and poor coordination, of fearing his brother in an entirely new way. Of hunting him, hating him, and making so many mistakes. But it all worked out, didn't it? ] He's still not... [ Kind is the word he wants, but it doesn't seem right here. ] ...easy. To love.

[ The coat disappears into the ground, and the red vanishes beneath the sand as he fills the hole back in. ]

But we've got a second chance here, all of us. [ Well. Those who were brought here, anyway. Their sisters apparently decided that there were very few Knives who were worth the effort to bring, and he can't deny that that stings. There'd be more fighting if they were here, but shouldn't they have been given that choice? ] To finally maybe understand each other a little better.