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❝ 𝐁𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞? ❞ ♡

It's not like she could have halted his advances anyways. As soon as he entered it was clear that the being was an unstoppable force, the screams and dripping blood only adding to the effect. Why the hell had she insisted on provoking him..?

It's feeble, the attempt to prop herself against the floor, only managing to slip one elbow beneath her side and lean forward, resting on the other. An inquisitive touch just beneath her nose, only to find her own blood dripping from it, coalescing with what lay beneath her, indiscernible. Remain low, she decides, remaining in her coiled position against the metal grates. Perhaps then she might live. But his words... The tone, it keeps pulling her back. No one ever spoke of plants like such.

ㅤㅤA searching gaze remains poised on its goal, discerningly tracing over the edges where pipes and metal are adjoined to the receptacle, conscientiously mapping their relinquishment from machines that have the potential to administer imposed configurations while keeping track of vitals  (  were they still sufficiently used in a manner reminiscent of a prior lifetime?  ).  Over a century had passed since they had crash landed on this damned ball of dirt of a planet, and yet his perception of the primitives's tendency to reject advancements is actively challenged with this woman's queries, disparaging traits and the inevitability of humanity's impending downfall pervasively interwoven in the Eye of Michael's teachings, now commencing to fray with the curious spark that undoubtedly tied with her profession in this establishment (  he should have gutted her before she had the chance to open her mouth  ).

ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe pliable layers of fabric donned about his crown ripple back, the tessellation of each fibre disassembling into individual blades, Knives's visage on full display as an upward lurch  of his form sees him draw aloft, the blond levitating to be eye-to-eye with the Plant, fatigued features adorned by copious motifs reflected back through the murky reddened liquid that surrounds her, revulsion twisting upon his countenance for the state she's been forced into, streaks of blanched patterns upon his face aggressively pulsating. Any culpability that resides within his own actions are vengefully diverted, the sharp turn of his chin resulting in a frenzied glare pointed at the human.

ㅤㅤWhat am I..? The cant of the blond's head reveals a sense of amusement regarding her audacity, the question resonating within the Independent's ears, varied points within expansive longevity from youth to relative maturity having garnered a different response, now all coalescing in some shape or form - a child, a brother, a terrified an angered seeker of truth, a liberator—  “An Independent,”  Knives finally reveals with his form rotating to fully face her, the delicate patterns of his heritage shimmering in a manner that's more pronounced  (  prideful  ),  stern features creasing into sharp edges, the grin playing on his lips deepening with a flash of trenchant eyes, peering to the ground with an elevated sense of grandeur. “Think of me as a harbinger of a new age.” There's a sudden retraction as the swathes of material loosely enveloping his frame disappear entirely, redirected to a more form fitting sheathe while a bladed wing erupts from Knives's right shoulder.

@phytonomy​

It's more than that, of course.

A connection even he cannot deny, no matter how querulous he might be about it. A synergy and a certainty in the calculus of combat and the day to day. Reliance. Trust. All things he rightfully does not deserve, but strives to earn.

So for all he snorts and grumbles, he recognizes Serious Vash Mode, and in that vein he posts up still and silent. He smokes and listens, listens and smokes, and isn't the texture of the wall fascinating? If his eyes were weapons, they'd be boring holes through the stucco and concrete.

The moment Vash paints a picture of what's beyond the barrier, Nicholas tenses. Muscle ripples taut under the blond gunman's perch, and broad hands flex atop leather-bound thighs.

"Yeah. That's a cartel hub," he deduces from the description alone, lapsed into deadly calm. "You see any icons, logos, flags anywhere? What kind of gear are they using? Uniforms?"

Nicholas is not, by any definition of the term (in his opinion) Good. Not by any stretch. But perhaps if his evil can erase another more insidious evil, he is inclined to try. Specifics might help, they might not; either way, urgency has slotted into place in his reckoning, and he wants desperately to do something rash.

Forty to sixty. They've faced worse, and without the element of surprise. Already riled. Expecting someone or something. That means there are other forces at work, or supreme paranoia.

"Can't risk crossfire."

A frown pinches between his brows.

"Get their attention, draw 'em away--or make like we're going in to make a purchase, take 'em out inside."

He wants to pace, wants to move.

ㅤㅤ"Icons... a circle with three pairs of lines intersecting each other. It looks... familiar, but I can't exactly place it. Sorta like I've seen it around in some towns, but never in full view." There's a faint furrow of his brow as he thinks it over, trying to piece together remnants at awkward angles that had been viewed on sun-bleached posters or fabric wafting in the dusty breeze, always outta sight and never quite cohesive. "Most of the people on patrol were dressed in black, white crosses on their sleeves. No visible signs of ballistics. There are a range of weapons but—" There's a pause, the blond's line of vision instinctually lingering back towards where they had left Angelina to safeguard the Punisher, stomach commencing to tie into knots. "A fair number of submachine guns. Double barrelled, shaped as crucifixes."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤVash trusts Wolfwood implicitly, but each second in which the Independent's line of vision had inched over the sorry scene makes him wonder if the other man is cut out for this, the tightening grip against the slender curvature of his thighs garnering a brief downward flicker of his gaze as if an adverse response had been proffered for the unasked question. As strong-willed and formidable as the brunet is, there's a tenderness present within the deepest recesses that isn't displayed in an overt manner, discretion within the silence of diverted glances, abrupt mannerisms and a hand kept busy with an oral fixation chain-smoking, the elder catching glimpses of it with each passing day where turmoil is laid bare before them to witness and endeavour to intervene. This occasion is no different, and yet the inclusion of children always seemed to strike a chord with his dear companion, his history intermingled with supposed sins casting a complex net of culpability. Vash contemplates asking Wolfwood to take a step back, to let someone else carry this burden along with the humanoid typhoon—

ㅤㅤㅤㅤBut it's never a cogent option ( a factor that they're both begrudgingly aware of ), a quiet "hup!" expelled as the blond springs off the man's shoulders to buoyantly bounce onto his ankles, heavyset boots taking the brunt of the impact as he weighs their choices - as intrinsically focused as the brunet can be, there's an unnervingly simmering tension residing within the other that Vash naturally hones in on, the need to speak up about a certain element regarding their ongoing tactics despite numerous spiels that Nicholas was probably utterly sick of. "I think buying's the safest bet, more of a chance for us to scope the joint. But regardless of what we see or hear in there... we're not killing anyone. Right?" There's a pause for acquiescence, the gunslinger veering in the opposite direction to lead the pair back towards the town, a nod of his head in the brunet's direction accompanied by palms gesturing along the length of his own vibrant coat.

but finishing trimax and rereading it finally got me to wrap my head around the fact that Knives spent years purposefully looking for and/or overseeing the creation of the worst in humanity, and presumably interacting directly with humans very little otherwise, all to prove his point to Vash.

Knives never went looking for anything to change his mind because he was scared of being hurt by what he found again. He had so much hope for humanity that was dashed by discovering Tesla. The point of Trigun is that continuing to have hope and trust in the face of uncertainty is arduous and terrifying, but that its worth it. Knives refused to acknowledge that he was afraid at all, tried to ignore how desperate he was to escape his fear. The only way he saw to avoid feeling afraid and vulnerable was for him to refuse to have any hope or trust in humanity.

Which is, symbolically at least, why Knives doesn't have a single scar from humans. He never risked trusting them enough that they might hurt him again. He could avoid that vulnerability and uncertainty by threatening them into obedience, and thinking of them as tools.

The one time he let a human close enough to hurt him (post-Rem) was Conrad-- and Conrad ended up decieving Knives with what little trust he was given. And Conrad felt his deception was necessary, because Knives was making himself a threat. Which Knives did to avoid feeling vulnerable.

It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. Knives guarantees he sees the worst in humanity, not just because he goes looking for it, but because he is constantly showing humanity the worst of himself. Because doing that makes him feel safe. Because he knows how humans will respond almost every time, when backed into a corner with their lives threatened. They'll try to survive. There's too many unknowns in any other scenario. Too many risks. He's too afraid of another nasty surprise, so he just tries not to be surprised.

(ID by @princess-of-purple-prose , Thank you so much!)

[ID: Trigun comics in a sketchy style.

Image one, Vash lies with his head in Wolfwood's lap, angrily complaining, and Wolfwood smokes while looking exhausted. Then Wolfwood stuffs a donut into Vash's mouth and says "Eat," and Vash's face turns cartoony as he goes "nom."

Image two, Vash holds a box of donuts and looks curiously over Wolfwood's shoulder as he reads something off a map. Vash says something indistinct in response while holding a donut to Wolfwood's mouth, and Wolfwood turns to bite into it.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

He disliked glancing in the mirror and seeing Vash still standing there. Icy blues wandered to look at his brother's fidgeting hands. The Plant watched them ball into fists and watched how the other man's eyes lowered. For a moment, Knives thought of speaking, but held it back.

What would he even say?

He would have just swept out of town to assuage the guilt and shame that threatened to drown him now… and yet Vash had to make it so difficult by showing up again.

Listening to Vash speak, and quickly running out of hair to trim up, he finally ran a hand through his hair to shake out any bits of remaining cut hair. He looked in the mirror briefly - it was choppy, but it would do. The scissors clacked against the counter as he set them down at last. And then he sighed, bracing himself against the basin for a moment before looking up again as Vash asked his question.

Their eyes met briefly before Knives broke contact.

At last Knives spoke, “No.”

No, he wouldn’t have opened the door.

No, Vash didn’t need a reason to bring anything. He could come whenever he liked even if Knives would prefer Vash keep his distance.

And no, he hadn’t intended on telling his brother anything at all.

That was his answer to all of it.

Knives' lips were pressed thin and he finally turned to face Vash once more, drawing himself tall. He moved past Vash at the door, only glancing at the helmet he had brought for him. The longer this went on the more antsy the "elder" brother became. Would it be so bad to just leave right now? He could grab his bag, it was always packed, get on his bike, and leave. Skip all of this and just find somewhere he could be alone. The idea of going to the ship wreckage was growing more inviting by the moment.

It wasn't even that he didn't want to see Vash... he just.. Shame and guilt crashed in waves where he went and wherever he looked. Especially when he saw his brother.

A hand ran through his hair again, scratching hard at the nape of his neck and sending loose hair falling to the ground. He walked around a corner and went to grab his bag. He was already dressed in civilian clothing, clothes that he had needed to get used to as opposed to his usual suit. Knives slung the duffle bag over his shoulder and moved briskly through the small house to collect whatever else he might have left behind.

Finally, Knives grabbed his keys and grabbed the handles to drag the new helmet off of the little table outside of the bathroom.

He was leaving. Now. He couldn't do this.

"I'm leaving, Vash. You shouldn't stay in one place for too long either." The planet was now crawling with those people who would want to take them and experiment on them... or better yet, for what he had done, the humans may just kill them outright.

ㅤㅤEverything grows stiflingly still, the air stagnant and the rhythmic swipe of the scissors deafening with the scant defensive words that Knives has to offer, the latter bludgeoning into the Independent in cumulative waves of unease. Vash attempts to veer his concentration towards the dark tufts which fall to the floor in their clumps of disarray, a means of guiding his frantic thoughts to the inane and inconsequential than to accept the aggrieved pang that malignantly cloys at the centre of his chest, his brother's admission akin to one of his very own blades piercing into flesh with each deepening tier of acknowledgment. There's a small yet involuntary step back, the younger visibly distancing himself from the conversation that he himself had unintentionally imposed, nausea rippling and taking hold with answers the man hadn't been ready to accept - what had he been expecting, for everything to be alright with the snap of his fingers or the flash of a smile? ( delusional ).

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ"I'm trying to—" The beseeching words fall onto deaf ears as the other commences to move through the building to gather his things, a looming sense of dread overwhelming Vash as his frame caves in from his prior upright stance, defeatedly growing smaller as he leans back against the edge of the doorway - while not actively engaged in the ability, their bond means the gunslinger can sense the trembling upsurge of Knives's agitation and anguish, miasmic sentiment that sours the atmosphere in a way that leaves a palpably bitter taste in the mouth, an acridity that forebodingly grips him. He isn't usually one to simply lie back and idly watch as things are flipped upside down, but there's a debilitating seizure of sinew and bone alike with the very instance of the swinging sound of the front door, eyes widening in alarm with the heave of his chest ( he had just gotten his brother back, but now— ).

ㅤㅤVash finds himself stumbling over his own two feet, lanky legs which had the propensity for such grace suddenly devoid of such, desperation setting in as a palm reaches out to tightly grab a hold of the other's arm in a fierce frenzy, the grip unrelenting as Rem's words to never leave Knives alone reverberate in agonised throes ( a promise he had already broken once before ). "Don't do this..." The plea is hissed through bared teeth as opposed to spoken, tears stinging at the corners of the Independent's eyes as they dart back and forth in search of the other's gaze, attempting to find a semblance of hesitance he could latch onto... only to be met with a disillusioned blankness. Vash chews at the soft flesh of his inner cheek, taking in a shaky breath to abate a sense of hopelessness when— ( what would Knives do in this situation? ).