★ --;; It's a wonder that Vash is given the amount of reprieve that he gets. Grief rises up like a wave once the tears begin, and the horrible ache in his chest and the nauseous feeling in his gut holds hands with the already-there torment of his body slowly lighting up and blinking out. He almost feels like he'll be sick with it, chest heaving, sagging back against the wall where he's been left, hand coming up to cover his mouth.
So many years, and names and faces are still burned into his mind permanently. How many of them is he going to have to see? How many of their faces and bodies, marred so horrifically?
Your fault. Their voices aren't needed to make the words ring in his ears. Monster. Murderer. How stained are your hands?
No more time is allotted to him though; soon enough there's a chorus outside of Vash's head, just like the one inside of it, and he has to bolt.
(Eddie. Selena. Marie. Vince. Arron.)
He'd promised to be careful, that he wouldn't go and get himself killed or burn himself up, but there's no way he's going to be able to keep that promise, he knows. Not when every step as he runs sends flares of pain shooting up his legs, the whole world spinning. There's some sort of relief to be found in separating from Wolfwood, and Vash hates it. Hates that he's still too much of a coward to talk about these things, even if they'd had the time- that no matter what he does or says that it will end up end up hurting him.
He hates that, too; hates that he'll always end up hurting those around him, in the end. It's been proven over and over again- and this entire situation is proof enough of that.
He has to stop to bend over and heave deep, shuddering breaths whenever he can, vision fuzzy and making his eyes screw shut from the vertigo. He's lucky enough to know Fibonacci like the back of his hand, even pain-blurred and addle-minded, enough so that he's able to duck and weave and find another temporary hiding spot.
Knives, he shoots down their link. It's louder than he'd usually send, but he has no way of knowing if his brother is even awake or not. Even this much makes the pounding in his head that much worse, but it's the fastest way to reach him. Somehow, someway this too has come about because of him, and the timer that's been hanging over his head all this time is so much closer to zero than he'd thought. He's got very little time to do what he needs to. Knives, are you home? Where are you?
Vash can't wait on him though- he's digging out his phone at the same time, figures calling would be faster than a text, and quickly jabs in the younger Stampede's information with shaking fingers. It rings, and rings, and rings- but there's no response.
"Come on," he spits. Tries again. There's no mental link between him and his counterpart like there is Knives-- it's the only way he has to get ahold of him. Wolfwood's words ring in his ears, the worry that had been laced in them; that the other Stampede was probably in just as bad of a position because as different as they were, he was still Vash too.
How many times is Vash going to drag him into his own problems? Cause him more pain?
The second try doesn't bring any luck either, and the dial tone makes his ears ring. "Shit."
He doesn't have any other choice than to keep hoofing it, hoping he'll find the needle in the haystack. He hopes, hopes, that at least if he's nearby then if there are any of those walking corpses (don't think too hard, don't look at their faces, 'They're dead, Vash.') they'll somehow figure it out and go for him instead.
@blankticket
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