Knives reaches for the twin posters and pulls them down with a frown; he'd think if they were really so wanted there'd at least be a bounty involved. For all 'the humanoid typhoon' was feared, clearly he wasn't that much of a terror if he didn't even qualify for a bounty as much as the petty criminals posted here! Thinking about it that way, in disconnected other-ness, made it easier to accept that somewhere out there, in some reality or other, his brother lived. Lived, and even thrived, a nightmare to humanity alongside his own twin as The Stampede. It's ironic that as soon as he turns his thoughts to what he'd do if he ever came across his brother's living echo from another universe, that a voice shouts. He doesn't recognize the voice, childhood tones do not match adult ones, and Vash never grew up; except they're plants, and they didn't always need voices, and he turns, map and posters still clenched in his hands. Hypotheticals and what ifs fade away against reality, and he finds himself unable to do anything at all except gape like a stranded fish, any thoughts of how calm and in control he'd be, how cooly, confidently unaffected by facing someone he'd only ever been able to see in half-nightmare dreams. He was strong, he'd always been strong, and against the impossible that strength cracks, as does his voice, the map and posters crumpling in his grip, forgotten. A century and a half of buried pain and grief threatens to split open.

"Vash?" His question is faint.