judge / jury / executioner

Not far is a bustling city filled with residents, including humans. Yet a place like this has remained without destruction and without having its soil ruined by construction. The realization contradicts everything Knives knows of mankind - with every memory that has remained the clearest in his mind, at least.

"Sometimes," the specter replies. "Not all the time. Just when you're in here alone." Zazie immediately takes a 'seat' on the table top on the other side of Knives.

" I'd rather face the devil himself in this laboratory than my classmates. Right now, I am trying to focus, " he mutters under his breath, couple of more labels attached before he moves the track of samples into the cabinet of other specimen.

Finally, Knives turns to face the other, pushing his glasses further up the sharp line of his sloped nose.

Maybe, maybe a part of him is intrigued by the physiological components of someone like this.

Watching the movements of Millions Knives feels like seeing something not quite as it should be-- a human shape set off kilter, as though it never learned the intricacies of the process. Or-- more fittingly-- had never cared to learn. A reminder staring Vash in the face of just how removed they both really were, are, stripped back from so much humanity that he'd spent a century and then some wrapping around himself. Sharp, fluid yet disjointed all at once, jagged despite the smoothness of his skin, in stark contrast to Vash and the ease with which he's come to walk through the world with all his ramshackle parts.

Is it strange, then, to be relieved to see them?

Maybe it doesn't even matter, with how short the feeling lasts as a whole; fractions of it sliced away as his brother was so skilled at doing.

"No one killed me," Vash finally says, throat tight.

Loss's guiding hand has been such a constant in Vash's life that now, not even for the first time on this island, it's difficult to know what to do without it cruelly ripping the rug of itself out from underneath him, no regard for the scars it had already carved in nerves and muscle and memory. He's not sure if the fact that the pull is only half-hearted makes it any better or any worse as he stares at Knives, the pitch-black rot that now marks them both.

That singular question serves as an answer in and of itself; that this is not the brother that had left him with deafening silence for a second time but one plucked from yet another pinprick of time, one that had not yet granted them the same gifts of momentary, relative, equilibrium.

"Didn't think you were one to believe in the afterlife, anyway."

He still hasn't moved. He should. He should. But nearly 150 and then some of hurt, of anger, of fear, don't merely vanish with forgiveness, having been embedded so deeply in the DNA of them both.

Still, Vash takes the steps-- one, then another, herculean. The soles of his boots feel like they're full of concrete. Still, the gap between them feels impossibly wide, even though it can't be more than a handful of feet.

I was right. I was right all along!

A sentiment an excitable child might shout at the top of their lungs, accompanied by victorious laughter and a pointed finger.

The image that he allows to take shape in his mind shifts and distorts, turning the scene from the white sterile walls of a spaceship back to this odd reality. Falling rain turns the surroundings blurry, like he is watching the scene through a heavy, gray curtain. The fabric of the jacket clings to his skin, bringing a shiver down his spine.

His raised shoulders drop, all joints let loose at once to create a movement that is as unnatural as the way he carries the rest of himself.

They are wild animals, and I sent you off for slaughter!

In this moment, he holds onto it as an absolute truth to bring himself cold comfort. Knives had trusted those people during his last weeks alive, to the point that he was willingly aiding their survival. He had given them the greatest gift imaginable, a payment for their unexpected generosity, and left them the only thing that held any importance to him anymore.

The exact moment that sent him and Vash off on this long, disappointing road towards the end remains fresh in his mind. He has carved every detail of it into his ribcage. There were no steps left to retrace. Knives could never walk back and piece them back together, stay, and make him understand. There was no getting through his twin's thick skull with common sense. It was, unfortunately, a trait they shared.

" I've always believed in what I see with my own eyes. "

The narrower the gap between them grows, the further away Knives drags his gaze. The dark bags carve deep underneath his tired eyes, brows knitted into a tense frown. He makes no effort to reach closer, his feet remaining planted firmly on the concrete, where the dents are forming into puddles from the rain. The ground could quake and split in half, and he would not budge.

When the person in question stirs on the bench, Zodyl brushes aside the thoughts of bloating cadavers, and focuses. He did not expect to be spoken to.

" Yes. Unwillingly. That seems to be the case for everyone that I've spoken with. Nobody has been able to provide useful information about this place. "

A city populated by people who were brought here by forces beyond their comprehension. Not a single individual was able to explain how they came to this place, nor an idea of how to leave. It vexes Zodyl, putting a frown on his face-- one that does not reach the vacant stare in his dark eyes.

" I'm seeking answers regardless. "

Small failures were not going to stop him. They never did.

The train rumbles on the tracks ever so slightly as it picks up in speed. Zodyl watches the way a small insect crawls across the floor between the seats, before he brings his gaze to the stranger again.

How long does it take for someone to give up and accept their fate in this place? Would he become one of them? Being forced to live a normal life while surrounded by humans truly was the worst fate he could think of. Maybe that was the point of this. His attempt at taking the easy way out had failed, the side effects of death - both mental and physical - still weighing down heavy.

" Many of them have accepted their fates. "

A hand moves up to press against the stiff muscle of his shoulder, one eye pressing shut while the other keeps peering at his unexpected company. The train comes to a silent halt in front of a stop, but no one boards - Knives could have exited and rid himself of this encounter, but he remains exactly where he is, his lanky form sprawled on the bench like a poorly reanimated corpse.

He tips his head against the cold window, allowing silence to linger before responding.

"Whatcha doin'?"

Good. He would rather deal with a wandering spirit, or a dozen of them, than another student. The only reason he frequented the laboratory in the late hours of the night was to not have to answer stupid questions. But judging by the tone, this one wouldn't leave him be if he simply ignored it - as tempting as it is.

Vash can sense it at once; just like his twin brother, this alternate of him doesn't have the strength to pose a threat, from the way his arm is being held. Or perhaps the other Plant doesn't mean him any harm?

He can't help thinking it, but this isn't the time to waste on naïve hope. The paper bag in his held hand is dropped, grabbed in time by his free hand with a light crunch as those fingers gain purchase. Now Knives is holding onto a forearm with an empty hand, glassy digits splayed out to emphasize a signal of surrender.

Vash hasn't broken eye contact.

It hadn't awakened more than irritation in him. Ghosts were simply that - ghosts. Gone and buried, like he should be.

What his hand grabs onto now is solid.

" That's a bold claim to make at first glance. "

His eyes narrow. Another moment passes before he finally lets go, his hand aching from the sheer force of the hold.