#misplacedreporter

Oh look! Its one of their favorite people to bother, the little reporter girl who's afraid of Worms!

"Well well look who it is!"

They're like you. It's unintentional, the way his head moves so quickly, eyes snapping to her. Us.

As unintentional and quick as the change in Vash's expression, a commet's streak, there and gone; swift but bright enough only to contemplate the after image: fear. The kind of wide-eyed terror of an animal in the process of giving in to the instinct to bolt--

But he does no such thing. He takes a slow breath and soothes the tension in bunched muscles back into neutrality, draws a smile on his face. Smaller than usual. Softer. Less of an act, but it's still...

There shouldn't be an us. There shouldn't be an us. There will only be him in the end. Again. And it will be his fault, like it always is. And there's something dangerously wrong with him now, because every attempt he's made to leave, to remove the danger of himself, has been half-hearted. Do you want to get them killed? Well, do you?

He shivers, but the night isn't that cold yet. He has his coat on, and temperature extremes don't usually get to him and--

He draws his coat closed, hides the bottom half of his face in its drawn-up collar. "I know." He does. He can't express how much he does. "Thanks, Meryl."

He should be. Alone.

But he doesn't... want to be, and he likes the humans who remain with him even knowing what they do about him (not everything, no, but enough), and he thinks that maybe--

Selfish--

his first instinct is to say no, because the humanoid typhoon cannot just walk into a new diner. but then he remembers that he can. people don't recognize him with the black hair and even when, his name has been mostly cleared.

“C’mon, Meryl. It’s Know-vember! The scholarly city! The finest minds in all of No Man’s Land, gathered here for the noble pursuit of academia.” 

They talk while they walk. Vash spreads his arms wide and wiggles his fingers for dramatic emphasis on the word ‘academia.’ 

The last time he was here with Brad, the salvaged data cluster from the SEEDS ship that had crashed here served as the fledgling university's foundation for understanding lost tech. An ever present reminder now encased into the ceiling of the central apse of the fallen observation deck that had been converted into the main library. The mass of circuitry and silicon had been preserved in plastisteel once all the data was spooled out, carefully transcribed and organized into analog copies in the event of Plant failure. 

Look up to remember that humanity came from the stars, and that they could yet achieve those heights once more. Nothing from the spacefaring age was magical. Technology could be understood, reverse-engineered, and learned from. The founding faculty believed in that mission.

November has grown since then. 

@misplacedreporter

The plant hybrid perks from the water vibrating furiously. He didn't care that the idiot Plant approved, this was a terrible idea! He's going to just growl to show his disapproval.

Luca cocks his head even further to the side as she exclaims, calling him Knives of all things. Hands raise slowly at her startled behavior, trying to minimize whatever threat he has apparently offered up. There's a genuine concern bubbling up in his expression.

"No..?" He states it almost as if it were obvious. Especially now that he does have some differing features. The mole is in the wrong spot, shorter hair, the slightest glint of green gracing his eyes in the right light. Not to mention over a century younger.