[ h a l c y o n . ] ₍ ₁₈₊ ₎

Thank you didn't at all mean he accepted the sentiment in the slightest, clearly. But pushing that angle had only made the other Vash cling tighter to that denial.

"I'd thought by sending you what you asked for, you'd've had something t'say t'me." Anything to address the voice memos' contents, he means. "Whether you do after all, you should know..."

Hesitation. His hand moves from holding the inside of his elbow to clutch at his hip instead. His gaze darts to the side; an quick exhale, and he's ready to try to look the other in the eyes again. Orange lenses do little to hide the fear.

"I'm not sure what a friendship with me would do for you, exactly." (I'm scared of you.)

"'Cause you... Already know things about me that I don't know. Already experienced things with who I used to be that I can't access as my own. N'I don't know how to make myself ready for something like that." It feels like he's some kind of madman, now, giving these months-long rushing fears his voice—their voice?

"Fact is, you're not stealin' anything, 'least not the way I see it. You're right-- you've been right-- about the fact that you n' him aren't the same. What he knew and what you know draw that line." A vague hand wave. "Somethin' there about the ship a' Theseus, I guess, I guess, if you dig hard enough for it."

"His life woulda' been yours, eventually. Does that mean he'd be stealing, too?"

That same quiet sadness from their last meeting still permeates, inescapable in its silent persistence. It doesn't seem to matter whether or not its welcome, whether or not he tries to shoo it away. Probably it would have been there regardless of which of his successors he was talking to, in some way.

"You really should come and see for yourself."

Granted, it seems harder than pulling teeth to get some of the people he knows to actually step foot through Sanctus Clinic's doors. Was his presence too intimidating? It wasn't as if he did all the counseling there...

But his eyes trail down to the pot in time, as well as the task presented to him. Aurelius doesn't find it too difficult—anyone can work with tools, much less an angel like himself. He floats his glass of sweet tea over and takes a refreshing sip first—it's the perfect drink for summer.

Then the angel rises to his feet, takes off his suit jacket and vest, and strips his gloves. He's already tossing them back onto the chair as he walks down the steps and inspects the pot of soil.

"It's kind of you to supervise," Aurelius observes, before bending down and picking up the pot. He grabs a nearby trowel on the way and heads back up the steps, setting his burden on the porch table so he doesn't have to crouch. "But the task seems simple enough."

"I'll keep that in mind," he says flatly as the man rises to his feet, not at all planning to actually do so. Honestly, he's a little bit proud of himself for not rolling his eyes so hard they'd fall out of his head at the other not even bothering to exert himself to lift a damn glass- a bit of unimpressed affect won't do any harm.

It only makes his eyebrows raise, then, when Aurelius considering the difference in weight. Doesn't even complain when it gets set on the table, even when it would probably be a better idea to do this sort of thing down on the ground and sitting on a porch step.

And then there's dirt all over his table, and Vash audibly squawks.

The table's not the only victim- there's dirt on the grapes still left in the dish and even a few flecks in his own glass of tea. All that on top of the fact that now he'll have to clean it all, after being so careful to not make a mess of the furniture and the wood--!!

"What're you-?!"

He isn't alone. But he can't bring himself to panic, watching in silence as dozens of others rush out of their prison cells - if the structures can be called such, given how they seem to open on their own once everyone is back on their feet, shouting and running towards the first exit.

There's an uncomfortable stir in the pit of his stomach, a flare of terror that shoots up and grips his cranium - the only visible reaction is the slight stagger in his step as the familiar sensation thrums through his system.

Waking up is the second most unsettling part of it.

He hadn't slept or been unconscious since waking up on the edge of the spiral. Had he, and everyone else in here, died again? Seems like an odd thing to forget. The last memory he can recall is an evening stroll through Mistwood.

It's like he had blinked and suddenly found himself imprisoned.

The narrow hallway is empty by the time he exits the room, glad to leave the sight of the prison cells behind him. The walls surrounding him are white and sterile, the small buttons on the control panels blinking in and out as he passes by.

It's all a bit too familiar for comfort. Knives remembers sitting in front of similar screens for hours on end, studying each button and combination, refusing to budge. Not until his concentration was broken by-

His head snaps up towards the call of his name, half of it audible in his ears and the other half inside his head. The static electricity whirs through his mind, making him quicken his pace. A single turn around the corner puts him face to face with his brother - and his ex-employee.

" - what is all this? "

Legato frowns with frustration, remaining still on his feet like the steel columns that held the ceiling up.

" We're being toyed with. The sooner our captor is discovered, the sooner they can be terminated. I have no plan to stay in this miserable cage, " the puppeteer remarked with an unpleasant sneer on his face.

He had reasons to believe that the brothers would be ill-suited for teamwork.

As sirens continued to blare overhead, and the denizens of Spirale rushed past them like a herd of farm animals escaping their pen, Legato cracking his neck. Lifting his hand, he twitched his fingers to test the strength of his threads. To his dismay, the very same limitations he was cursed with upon arrival to this world had returned to him.

" Our abilities are dulled. Still. . . " His thought trails as the sound of metal-on-metal impact thunders down the hallway with a low groan.

" It is either claw your way out, or wait to be killed, " Legato cut a glare at Knives in particular. Words lingered on his tongue: pull your own weight.

But he dared not say it. Not right now.

It seemed as though the commotion had summoned an unpleasant guest to their torment.

Legato Bluesummers had done little and less to Vash and his own- as far as he knew- since that horrific day in the mists. Really, they had done a pretty stand-up job of avoiding one another completely, even after whatever all those memories had been flooded back to him, along with all the conflicting emotions they'd brought along with them. And he's been here long enough, too- it's safe to assume that, if he had wanted to, he could have very easily ripped Vash's world apart at the seams.

And yet he hadn't. If anything, one hearing the way he speaks, it sounds as though Bluesummers wanted nothing to do with either of them.

Huh. News to Vash.

There's no time to mull it over, though, nothing to allot to any possible spiral of his own thoughts. Frightened shouts rise up in a cacophony along with the horrible, loud clanking of something- and then their company has arrived, big and metal and mean, and the Colt is out of its holster in an instant.

He's lucky it's loaded- can tell by the weight of it- but the volley of bullets that comes traipsing up along the metal floor and towards them is decidedly not. Neither is the fact that, as he leaps out of the way ( "Watch out--!!" ), he's realizing that the only ammo he's got on him are the bullets in the cylinder, their number paling in comparison to the thing barreling towards them.

He's done more with less, he has to remind himself. This isn't any different, present company be damned.

Whatever stragglers had been at the rear of the pack blessedly dash past and away ( there's blood on the floor, part of him registers, and worry sits like a lump in his gut, but there's nothing he can do about it right now). Vash rolls to a stop in a crouch, armored shoulder taking the brunt of the impact, aims and fires all in one fluid motion. The sound of the bullet going off reverberates through their metal echo chamber. The shot lands, metal lodging itself into metal as it comes in contact with the leg joint of the machine; the large bolt there may as well have been a bullseye.

The thing staggers, a few sparks fly, the leg crumples-- but it does little to show any effect past that. Instead Vash's eyes widen as yet another gun seems to materialize in less than a blink out from its carapace, and there's no hesitation when it starts firing once again.

"Far from it. How you treated him doesn't change how you'd told him 'no'."

Aware of it now, Vash consciously eases up on his anxious hold of his arm. He's careful to watch his volume and tone, softening it without changing his choice in words. "N'how he felt about it was his responsibility to handle, not yours."

They're gonna go nowhere fast if the other guy's gonna keep up these what-ifs and what-abouts.

Vash frowns, eyebrows furrow. It doesn't negate the fact that he hadn't been around like he should have been, not for either of them, even after he had promised to be. It's a debt he still owes, one he's proven time and time again to be bad at paying off.

The fact that maybe, apparently, something had stuck from their previous meeting doesn't even necessarily feel... good. He's not entirely sure how it feels, exactly, if he's being honest. Maybe this was why his successor had always gotten so frustrated with him-- why he'd gotten so angry in return. It's hard to listen to.

Instead of escalating into yet another argument ( though he had yet to have a proper one with this man, hadn't he? ) though, Vash sighs and runs a palm down his face in an attempt to keep fire starter from meeting kindling.

"Okay," he starts.

"How do you figure? Just-- from hearin' those?"

The line in the sand drawing the differences between his sisters and himself always felt impossibly broad, no matter their list of similarities. The younger Stampede drawing a bridge between them as he is feels ill-earned.

" 'Cause like I said, I do appreciate the thought, n' all. Just-- don't really know what to do with it, y'know? 'Sides sayin' thank you." Regardless of whether or not he actually wants it.

"No. I—I heard the same thing you did. It's clear t'me that he kept disrespectin' your boundaries, no matter how much you tried t'make him understand."

It's a tale exactly as old as they are. Some naïve Independent Plant sees fit to do what was best for someone else's sake, without even trying to ask if that's what they wanted—without asking what it is that they wanted at all.

So he doesn't. Lets it play out there, plain as day, yet again. To this person who really, probably, shouldn't see it. He'd know, though, probably, if Vash had pulled one out of the dusty old wardrobe, no matter how much he wants to.

The smile that cracks across his face isn't a falsehood-- nor is it a happy one, either, nor is the quiet laugh that accompanies it.

"I treated him so poorly. I can't blame him for what he met me with in return."

"It's funny. You're sayin' you don't want to make the same mistakes, but I'm the one who keeps makin' 'em."

What must if have been like? Being 'new' for the first time was hard enough, but to be so yet again, with everything hanging in the air around his successor-

Careful eyes search the other's face, noting composure and curiosity where Vash wants to see it; yes, six months seemed like it was about enough for him to have moved on. A deep breath. Vash's gloved hand flinches, holds at the inner elbow of his prosthetic arm. Old habit.

"The messages," he starts, and stops.

He's misspoken already. Those hadn't been messages—not if they were never really meant to be found. His stomach feels like it's twisting in knots all over again, just thinking about it. "What he left behind. I wanted to apologize properly. To you.

"Even if I dont remember saying all of that, it… Those words were disgusting. I'm really, truly sorry for the way he's treated you."

Habit. Before the younger Stampede even gets a chance to finish, of course he finds himself barging in. To say he's sorry, that the reason they were like that was--

He's beaten to the punch, anyway. Left blinking in confusion, staring at his counterpart. Still can't wrap his head very far around anything other than the fact that he should still be the one apologizing.

It takes a moment- he always seems to be good at that, no matter which one. Stealing the words right out of Vash's mouth.

Finally, finally, he thaws. Shakes his head.

"Nah."

He sinks into one of the chairs, crossing his legs and propping one elbow on the table as his knuckles tap his cheek. "I'll admit it's a novel concept. Even mortals gravitate towards methods that save them time."

"I suppose plants simply prefer to soak in the details."

Aurelius claps for Vash when he returns, pot and dirt together. For all his grumbling, the Plant did get things done as requested.

"It's worth it, sometimes."

"Slowin' down." He'd spent a very, very long time not doing so, after all. "Smellin' the roses, so to speak."

Pot retrieved and hands empty does leave Vash with a predicament, though, never mind his grumbling at having done the previous tasks. That being-- he now has no way to properly get out of continuing to be in the presence of Aurelius.

... He was really going to have to sit on the porch with this man, wasn't he? It couldn't even properly be called shootin' the shit. He didn't even have a beer.

Well. Then it would stand to reason that he didn't have to recline in the chair, wouldn't it? He can at least take that much for himself.

Grabbing a handful of grapes off the bunch, Vash hauls himself up onto the railing, one foot planted alongside himself and the other leg dangling.

"Why you gotta think I always have some ulterior motive?" Wolfwood grouses. The hand in Vash's hair settles on the nape of his neck to pull him in, planting a kiss to his lips that lingers for a few moments before he lets him go. "Maybe I just wanna look at ya. Or hold ya."

Both hands land on Vash's criminally tiny waist. He gives it a squeeze, fingers kneading into tight muscle and scar tissue through the fabric of his shirt. Wolfwood can feel the bumps and ridges of metal in his flesh, but it blurs together with everything else. They hardly register anymore.

"Not gonna give me a hello? Just gonna complain? Heartless, aren't ya?"

"Cause you do have an ulterior motive half the time," Vash huffs, though it loses much of its attitude muffled by cushion and comfort. As if to punctuate his point, he shoves his arms up and under his husband's torso. The number of times he'd been bitten, or tickled, or tackled, or thrown around, or noogied, or wet-willied-- "You big bully."

He'd be lying if he said the admission didn't still make his insides a little gooey though, even if it's far from the first time he's heard it. There's a reason, after all, that Wolfwood had been able to pull off all those little stunts ( not that Vash was much better, either, but he isn't going to admit that ).

"Alright then, alright," he says, picking the puppet up by the back of his jacket like one of those claw machines back on the boardwalk, bending at the elbow to place him on his shoulder. Talk about deja-vu.

"C'mon," he says as he does so.

He had seen dozens of people darting out of their prison cells, shouting about the situation: everyone had been imprisoned somehow-- imprisoned on the moon above Spirale City.

Legato needed to find someone that he knew. Collaborating in situations like this had been effective in previous incidents.

Rather than joining the rest of the crowd and running, Legato chose to walk briskly, keeping an eye on his surroundings and connecting with his senses. The sensation of static on his skin that usually accompanied his threads was weak-- just how it felt when he first arrived in this city.

Dimmed abilities were dangerous in situations like this.

Stalking forward, Legato frown with irritation and narrowed his eyes to try and focus on formulating a plan while he searched the premise for a familiar face.

Turning the corner in the sterile white hallway, he spotted someone draped in the bright red shade of the flashing lights of the emergency system. Legato's frown intensified momentarily.

" Vash the Stampede. "

He did not need to speak up very loudly. In all of his years of crossing paths with the Humanoid Typhon, they said very little to each other before recognizing the other half of their distorted reflection. It was a wicked aspect of their familiar existence, two sides of the same coin.

" Do you know what this place is? "

The first thing he realizes when his heart stops jackhammering, stops thinking it is somewhere it isn't, and his mind catches up to the realm of the waking, is that he's fully armored, despite having gone to bed in his usual baggy sweats; the Colt sits heavy at his thigh, too, beneath one of his coat tails, despite his tendency these days to leave it home more often than not.

The second thing he realizes is that he is completely alone in this cell.

Before his mind has time to start spiraling with worry there's a loud hiss, and his door's open. Vash barrels through without a second thought, goal formed crystal clear in his mind in an instant, as sharp eyes scan s o many others making for their escape, all vying for an exit- any exit, any way back.

He has people to find, first.

The planet far beneath(?) them, the great expanse spread wide; though Vash had near-immediately categorized them, had grasped exactly where they were, it came with a familiarity that made him level-headed, despite the alarm still blaring. Had to, after all; him being here wasn't what worried him.

his hand's hovering above a control panel mounted on the wall when he hears him. There is nothing like that voice-- one that still sends ice careening directly through his veins, seemingly no matter how much time they're given to thicken themselves.

" ... I don't know," Vash replies, voice surprisingly even, even to his own ears.

"From what I gather we're on the moon, but-- why this place is here, or what it is, is anyone's guess." The cells, even with their doors wide open, still leave an agitated buzzing beneath his skin.

"Goin' off of instinct, here," he says, nodding towards the panel. Even without the familiar sting of threads pressing down, down into muscle and nerve, he still feels frozen in place.

Vash had never been the one with all the tech smarts, though. He'd learned the basics ( and, by extension, far more than most back home ) simply by virtue of having lived upon the fleet. But this isn't necessarily close to then, and anything further than that, and he'd always looked over the shoulder of-

"Knives?!"

His head jolts back to the side, this time returning to facing the door he'd been working on. The buzzing of that ever-open gateway between the two of them seems to throw the gates open wide, a tunnel shortened to little more than an archway, even with the barrier between them.

The potential of having the both of them here at once-- it makes Vash's muscles tense far more than the alarms. Still-- he cannot leave his brother to fend for himself, not being so new to the island.

That, and he had made a promise.

"Are you there?"

A. DAY.

And he's already been beat on, stepped on, fucked up, thrown down, shaken up, stirred around, cracked like an EGG, had moon dust kicked in his eyes, nearly had his nose literally ripped off, been punched in the mouth, shot and left for dead, forced to drink orange juice, been thrown down the space stairs...

And you know what?

Then shakes her head. "No," Richeh says, "Richeh still wants to find them first."

Richeh starts to scoot off the shared bench. "Also that is not Richeh's contraption," she points out. "Professor Qifrey wouldn't know you."

Richeh has no idea if Vash has met her teacher before. "thank you for teaching Richeh, though, mister Vash." She does reach into her cloak and pulls out the gifted pen and journal. Quietly, the blue haired girl connects a circle and grabs the crystalline ribbon that pops out.

"Wh-- huh?"

"B-but-- I could give the phone t'you-- w-wait!"

No, he's not just a Plant. Her friend.

"I can understand that," Meryl says as she picks at the hem of her skirt. "Can't imagine bin' in this place is as sunny as it seems."

She glances over to Vash. "When you're ready," the former insurance agent says, "I want to hear how it all ended."

"I told you," he says,

"everything at Dragon's Nest ended alright." Don't think about Midvalley's mangled corpse in the rubble, nor Hoppered lying there with a bullet in his head. "Legato and Elendira left. Got you n' Millie to the hospital n' then me and Nick helped the the rebuild 'til folks didn't want us around any more."

He knows that's not what she means; there's a spiky elephant in the room that he's had yet to explain, has so far managed to dance around. The pitch of his hair is impossible to ignore for those who knew him, may as well be a neon sign pointing directly at himself.