nomans_land | Octovern, since that's where all the cool kids are.

Octovern, since that's where all the cool kids are.

Rated R for violence.

1.

It's a good thing all those wanted posters show a black haired angry twin of Vash the Stampede, because the one with hair so pale it might as well be white hasn't been noticed yet by anyone of the Federal sort. Just one more dust covered caravan cockroach in a city full of them.

It has taken Knives the better part of three months to get here.

On foot for almost all of it.

Being picked up a few iles out was nice but almost pointless by then, still, he'd hitched a ride, gotten dropped off and promptly relocated to the nearest restaraunt, bar or otherwise useful source of water and food, neither of which he actually needs.

Pretend to eat and drink, even if you don't have to

He also has no need for human clothing, but he's at least bothered with that, and is dressed in depressingly ordinary bluejeans and boots, black turtleneck shirt and sky blue crop top jacket, fingerless gloves on his hands and dark sunglasses more often than not hiding his both eyes and a twisting pale scar. It hides every single glowing line he struggled to easily obscure or that could catch an unexpected reflection of the light. He could be anyone, if 'anyone' paid for every single transaction in coins instead of paper bills, but nothing flags to humanity as obviously NOT human, which is the point. He doesn't think to hide from his own kind. Why would he?

And so he sits, a careworn bag sitting at his feet, working very slowly through a blueberry muffin and a tall glass of water with a lone icecube in it. Nothing to see here, move along.

2.

Knives, pack once more over his shoulder and map in hand, is losing the fight with navigation. The map's several years out of date and does not at all have all the modifications and camp outs and construction that's happened since the worlds merged. Which leaves him standing on the side of the road at a crossroads that simply doesn't exist on the map, scowling at the grid-marked map in his hands.

This is absolutely Ann Street. Ann Street should run right to North Street, but it does not. Not anymore.

Now there's an entire gun shop in the way and several shanty-town level buildings, and he's not entirely sure North Street even exists anymore. A trio of armed Federal troops march past; they ignore him and he only gives them a cursory look until they stop to update the wanted posters nailed to the gun shop's wall. While they might be on the lookout for a certain pair of notorious outlaws, he just doesn't fit the profile.

The names on some of those posters, though..

He crosses the street, dodging a tomas-pulled wagon, and stops in front of the dozens of posters to study them with a furrowed brow. Whoever's coming up with these things clearly is a terrible artist, while that's his name it looks nothing like him except for the beauty mark. "...Really? Not even a price tag?"

Aren't these supposed to come with a bounty, instead of 'Reward Upon Capture'?

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Knives speaks in terms of scientific discovery, of immortality, but all Wolfwood can hear is threats. I'm going to hurt you, that's what Knives is saying, and it's an echo of Conrad's voice, all those years ago. If you survive this, tomorrow we'll increase the dosage. He doesn't want to die, but there are worse things than dying, and he's still fighting against Knives's hold with everything he's got when those blades spear him, flashes of hot pain and then darkness again. Once again, he dies just like a normal human would. He's stronger and heals faster, but there's nothing he can do with damage that quick and brutal -- not without the vials of medicine that he was conditioned to accept, bright blue fluid made with a secret formula that even Wolfwood doesn't know is heavily plant-based.

Another few minutes pass, and then, just like before, there's a blink in reality. One moment Wolfwood is dead, bleeding from half a dozen places, and the next he's deep asleep, intact and healthy as he's ever been. The blood on his clothes has vanished, the color's returned to his cheeks, and for just those few breaths before he wakes, he's relaxed, at peace, his face slack with sleep.

This time, he doesn't awake fighting. He's frozen in place, wide eyes immediately seeking out Knives's face as he holds himself perfectly still, a mouse trembling in a cat's claws. He'd like to pretend that it's because he's realized that, so long as Knives is toying with him, he's not hurting anyone else... but the real reason is habit. Screaming and crying on Conrad's slab never gained him any favors, but at least when he took his treatments silently there was no additional punishment. He learned early to endure, but while he can control his actions -- and, to a lesser degree, his mouth -- there's nothing he can do about that rabbit-fast pulse, the tremor beneath his skin.

"If you really wanted to test this thing..." His mouth is dry, and it's made his voice a rasp. "Shouldn't you test it on you too?"

C'mon Knives. In the spirit of scientific investigation, fucking kill youself.

Even someone like Wolfwood can learn it seems, Knives was expecting him to come to fighting again. This is never being written in a book, filed in a case report or any such thing, he wasn't inclined to writing down his revelations but that didn't mean he wasn't keen on them and the mysteries they'd bring. He would have to find other subjects, test this further as Wolfwood heals, his heartbeat starting back up and then jolting back into fear. "I intend to."

Knives is many things, but he wasn't the kind to bother to waste time lying to beasts he felt so far beneath him that such dialogue as this is an extraordinary effort. "Once I better understand the process. Are you certain you don't want to cooperate? A little slice here," he prods the back of Wolfwood's neck with the arrowhead point of a blade, "And you won't feel any of it. I don't need your pain. I don't need your cooperation either, I will have what I want one way or another."

I intend to, he says, and Wolfwood doesn't bother stifling his snort of derision. Sorry Knives, but he doesn't believe that for a second. Test death out on other humans, sure, that he has no trouble believing. But on himself? The great Millions Knives? He wouldn't dare take that kind of risk.

Knives taps the back of Wolfwood's neck with a blade, and for an instant Wolfwood's face goes carefully blank, eyes unfocusing as he braces himself against the pain. But it doesn't come. Not yet, anyway.

"What's there to understand?" He tries to keep that regular cocky nonchalance in his tone, but it's hard to be arrogant with death looming so closely. "I die, I come back." Sure, as far as he knows he's the only one this is happening to, but like hell is he going to share that little detail with Knives. "If you use up all my spare lives f-for curiosity, I'm gonna be pissed as hell."

Knives makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. "They are not your lives to be possessive over, they are mine to do with as I wish." Some things stay the same no matter what world or universe it is, and he turns his attention to removing his remaining bullets and shrapnel, because they're beginning to close and Wolfwood is very clearly not seen as any kind of a threat. "But as it seems you possess only animal cunning and not imagination, I will educate you." The mundanity of tending to his own wounds, of having to cut one or two back open to fish out chunks of lead and steel, is at odds with the long unnatural metal things keeping Wolfwood bound and still. It's a gross parody of the countless wounds Vash has to tend to on his own, but Knives doesn't scar as easily. He does certainly scar, there's a network of knotted marks when he pulls up his shirt to see to the hole Wolfwood had left in his side, the same sort as the one that mars the skin over one eye as he finally takes off his dark shades to actually see what he's doing more clearly. They look old, though, none of them are fresh scars of recent wounds. "If something were to threaten Hopeland, but you are crippled in the dust and unable to reach it, knowing what you must do to recover would be important, wouldn't it?" Maybe it'll soothe Wolfwood a little, to know he left such wounds on his pale hide. "How long it takes to recover your life, recover your strength. How long you can fight before succumbing, without any cybernetics to help you."

If Knives thinks he can lay claim to Wolfwood's lives without holding a threat over the orphanage, he's got another think coming! Nobody owns him anymore, asshole! He's free of the Eye, free of any obligation to any goddamn plant, Knives or Vash. Knives can kill him, but he can't own him, not again. Never again.

The scars that cover Knives's body come as a shock, but Wolfwood's only ever seen one other Knives in the flesh. Vash certainly can be hurt, and those hurts tend to leave nasty souvenirs behind. He'd assumed that any damage Knvies took was simply healed away, but maybe that's not the case for this Knives. Is he less powerful than the one Wolfwood worked for? Those scars look old, though -- he hasn't been hurt recently, or at least, not before today. Wolfwood can't help but wonder if the nasty gash he'd opened in the asshole's side will scar too... not that he wants to stick around long enough to find out.

And then Knives brings up Hopeland, and all that stoic arrogance flies right out the window as he cranes his head upward as far as he can, teeth bared and furious. "There's no Hopeland here. You're in the wrong damn world for that to work!" Sure, there is -- or there was -- a big orphanage that provided kids to the Eye, and sure, the staff and a lot of the kids share names with the ones Wolfwood knew, but Knives can't know that. They can't be his price again. He can't put them at risk, can't let them bind him to this psychopath. This world's Wolfwood is dead, and the orphanage outside of December was never called Hopeland. "Don't talk to me about protecting them when you're the one who threatened them in the first place!"

"I know you are capable of thinking, else you wouldn't have been kept at all. Consider trying to use that supposed intelligence instead of imitating Pavlov's dog." The tiny pinprick of metal against the back of his neck pushes forward, scraping against bone before sinking into the critical nerves they protect. It's always harder on a moving subject, but he should be able to paralyze Wolfwood outright from the neck down, and if not, what's one more death? Knives will wait it out if he must.

Why would he play along with Knives's stupid games, he wants to argue? But before he can speak, the blade at the back of his neck stabs him again. There's the now familiar flash of pain, but then, instead of the world going dark, it's like his body falls away. He can't feel a thing as every muscle softens at once, turning to dead weight in Knives's grip. Even worse, the faint stink of ammonia announces that his bladder's let go, too -- he's pissed himself. He wants to shout, to curse Knives up one side and down the other for this humiliation, wants to demand another death to rectify this... but his lungs are barely responding. He can't breathe. His heart's still beating and his respiration is working, but at very low levels, like if he were asleep. In a panic, trying to struggle, his body can't keep up with the demand for air and all he can do is wheeze.

Knives is going to play his games whether or not Wolfwood participated, so he might as well try to make as much use of the ride as he can. Nothing happens at all for a little while by way of ending Wolfwood's life, Knives is busy taking stock of his injuries and determining if any other foreign objects are still where they're not supposed to be. As the minutes tick by and the paralytic blow does not heal itself, he returns to studying the paralyzed victim of his curiosity. "You," he begins at great length, rubbing his bloodied hands on his pants in a half-effort to clean them, "Are your own worst enemy. This situation, its pain and countless earlier deaths of innocents, would not have happened had you not chosen to make an enemy of me, not once but twice over. I would not know you fear the way I speak of those children had you thought instead of reacted; I know they are here, now." Knives has one last test to try out, though Wolfwood won't know it's the last. "You believe that your experiences are the only ones that could exist, can't conceive of anything else and stumble blindly and eagerly into causing the very things you condemn. Your narrow, unbending idea of what is and is not real in the face of countless possibilities is the pinnacle of arrogance and foolishness."

He's putting the scale of injury to the test this time, Knives knows how much a body can survive and for how long if he doesn't rupture major blood vessels in the process, and sets to work causing as much bodily harm as he can safely expect Wolfwood to survive for at least ten or fifteen minutes. Broken bones, flayed skin, ruptured organs deep in the gut but avoiding the arteries there are all enacted with precision and care. It's not a mercy that it can't be felt, as it can still be seen, and once he's certain he's caused enough different forms of harm only then does he move the blade in Wolfwood's neck just a little more and sever the spine entirely.

Knives might not count is a mercy that Wolfwood feels none of his work, but Wolfwood sure does. It's a small mercy, to be sure, but a mercy nonetheless. Conrad didn't believe in anesthetic. Whether Knives meant to cut him off from sensation before opening him up doesn't matter -- mercies are small in this world, and he'll take every accidental bit of peace that he can find.

Besides, he's got more than enough to think on while Knives works. He can't draw a deep enough breath to speak -- and honestly, he doesn't want to focus on Knives, not once he realizes what the man is doing. He can't even roll his head back to avoid looking, so instead he closes his eyes -- another tiny mercy -- and tries to formulate a plan. He'll need help to take Knives down, but he can't call on any of the Vashes. Even if death won't stick, they still wouldn't consent to attacking Knives with the intent to kill, and Wolfwood's certain that they'll need to kill the man, just to get him still enough to be restrained. No Vashes, then... but maybe the other Wolfwoods. The ghost especially might be useful here, especially if he could puppet Knives's body the way he did with that poor mindwiped Vash. They could puppet him straight over to the Earth fleet, he thinks. Give him to the Terrans, and let them deal with him. That would work. That would solve everyone's problems.

He doesn't even notice when Knives finally kills him again. Some minutes later, fully resurrected once more, he sneers at Knives, not bothering to struggle. What's the point?

"Go on, then. What're you waiting for?" He survived Conrad, he can survive this. It's just a waiting game at this point, and there's nothing Knives can do to him that he can't endure, nothing, apparently, that can't be healed with death

Every wound is gone, from the broken spine earlier, to being disemboweled, the lingering scent of ammonia the only mark that it had ever been there, that stain too is gone now. There's a window of injury, and anything sustained during that time would mend, not just the lethal blow. This was going to require further testing, somewhere less busy than Octovern's current kicked anthill status, and with a subject he knows couldn't have had any modifications to start with that might influence the outcome. The latency period between death and resurrection seems to sit somewhere in the vicinity of four or five minutes, he can work with that. He doesn't respond at Wolfwood's prodding, reaching over to cut a notch out of the man's ear as one might a stray dog or cat. It'll bleed, it'll sting like a bitch, but it's not even on the scale of awful things that could happen to a person. "I've learned all I can from you in this setting." Wolfwood's hands are pulled over his head and tied together with delicate thin chains of metal, the blades so tiny they should only feel like sandpaper against the skin, then lifted towards the overhead beams where he's summarily tied and allowed to dangle like a piece of free-swinging meat, cutting it off from himself and leaving it behind. Knives didn't much like leaving fragments of his power behind, but just this once it will suffice.

The other tendrils finally fall away and Wolfwood's weight rests on his own arms instead of Knives' powers, those same freed sets of blade upon blade are woven into a new jacket, this time in deep navy instead of bright blue.

Knives raises a blade, and Wolfwood bares his teeth, bracing himself for whatever's coming. But instead of stabbing him again Knives just flicks a notch out of his ear like he's a piece of livestock and strings him up in the rafters.

As his weight settles onto his own shoulders, and the thin chains around his wrists dig in, Wolfwood starts swearing, loudly and fluidly. Is Knives really going to leave him here? It'll take him too much time to get out of this, and by the time he's free, Knives will be long gone. He can't lose the bastard now! Once Knives vanishes through that door, Wolfwood may never find him again.

"The whole world's gonna be looking for you, you sonuvabitch!" Fun fact: dangling from what are effectively wire cuffs hurts like hell. His wrists are going to be a mess when he's finally able to get free. "I'll find you, I swear to god!"

Knives looks up, pulling his new, clean smelling jacket on and testing for motion. His side still hurts, some of the shrapnel injuries are still unpleasant, but he can move, so he puts his shades back on as well. Dressed this way, any wounds simply remain out of sight. "Do you think that'll go any different for you the next time? Or them? If you were that worried about the health of your species, I'd think you'd learn to keep your mouth closed and practice subtlety." Wolfwood is about as subtle as a tank through a china shop, so he's not worried all of a sudden that he's going to be in danger. This has if nothing else reassured him of his place firmly atop the pecking order of this planet except for the worms, and death itself doesn't seem like it'll be a problem moving forward. It's the best news he's had in years. "I'll be checking in with you in a couple of weeks to see if you've learned anything."

If that notch was still there in a couple of weeks, then Knives will learn something too, injuries that happen long enough away from a death remain. While killing now has a nice comfortable cushion, he'll just have to start employing maiming people for life and healthy doses of castration amongst the unworthy.

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Octovern, since that's where all the cool kids are.

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