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Confrontation still managed to light some sort of tension in his gut; every move, every decision, all of it had to be extremely calculated. Any suggestion of weakness was abhorrent to himself, and to the power that he deserved. There, holding Vash in his web, sharp expression narrowing even further as the Humanoid Typhoon attempts to bridge some sort of communication-- Legato gives a firm tug to his wrist, only to watch the phone fall to the ground.

He glances downwards, and slowly tilts his head to the side at the caller ID: a name he didn't know. Legato bends down, keeping his eyes on Vash, and picks the phone up.

" At this point in time, I don't think you can give me any answers that I want, " he retorts, holding the phone between two fingertips. " Especially not with an audience. "

With that, Legato begins to drag Vash with his threads, eyeing the end of the quiet alleyway, following the sound of the traffic coming from the freeway on the lower tier of the ward. He looks back to Vash as they get closer and closer to the side of the railing, wicked intent in his expression.

" You can still do something for me though. You can struggle for me. "

Vash the Stampede has been in difficult situations at the mercy of humans, before. His body kept the score, each scar holding memory as important as the pain itself.

There's no way to physically influence the situation, of course, so that's been out the window from the get-go. But Bluesummers still hasn't made any obvious attempts at incurring any harm to either of them, yet; and crucially, he's talking. As long as the pacifist could keep a dialogue going, the odds just might slip well.

He's jolted out of his thoughts when his body moves without his say.

With his puppeteered hand no longer positioned to grasp it properly, his phone clatters to the ground. Its listener—according to the screen facing upward, someone named Naï—continues to hold onto the line quietly.

"Just wanted t'prove I'm interested in helpin' you get the answers you want," Vash says, putting effort in speaking clearly. "But you're right: you don't have t'believe me. You're the one in control here, Bluesummers. So, what d'you wanna know?"

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any way comfort blorbo drawing

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Legato's fourth month in Isola: I'm throwing Vash into traffic.

Legato's first month in Isola: This sucks and I'm probably hallucinating all of this.

Legato's third month in Isola: This still sucks and now Elendira is here.

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In all of his years of servitude, of bending the knee and keeping his head craned as low as physically possible, Legato should understand by now to keep his expectations low. 'Do not expect anything beyond instruction, you are a weapon, after all.' That was reality. And yet, the selfish, undeniable reminder of his unfortunate humanity, always clashed with this sobering truth: he did not matter.

Perhaps he expected-- more. Nothing grandiose. Not even warm. Not a proper welcome, even. He did not anticipate any of these things.

Yet, the flat delivery of the question, brings-- something to the surface, something that Legato cannot name, or properly acknowledge, but it makes his shoulders stiffen.

Perhaps he wished that his master cared that he was able to get here at all, given the circumstances as he clung onto several measly strings both physically, and mentally. Legato looks across the dim room with an equally flat and hollow expression, first noting the dark hue of Knives' hair, and swallowing down the shock so that it didn't manifest on his face.

" . . . "

What did he have to report on?

Success.

He forced the hand, and made the empathetic protector of humanity know how it felt to take a life.

Failure.

He failed to eliminate Vash the Stampede. The bullet to the skull was evidence, shot and taken out like a dog that had been struck on the highway.

Failure. Failure. Failure. And now he didn't even have the full range of his ability to be useful.

" Nothing of significance since coming to this place, Master, " Legato eventually speaks up, unable to look him in the eye as he mutters.

" I-- have lost the majority of control over my abilities. I don't understand why, or how, or when all of this happened, or why you are even here-- " he begins to ramble, and then pulls in his anxieties. There was no use for that.

" He killed me, master. Your brother. He killed me, and then I was here. I am sorry, I have little else to share. "

Almost immediately after sending the messages, Knives regrets his decision to have Legato come to his location. Not knowing what the human could be doing grates on his nerves. He knows what the man is like and what he's capable of. As well as the fact that the time from which he's pulled is sole determining factor for the severity of what he's capable of.

But… there's also wisdom in having Legato come to him. With his master as his focus, regardless of the era, it should reduce the human's inclination to get distracted by other matters. Having him at the ARK rather than some random district also reduced the potential for harm, should he have any adverse reactions to anything Knives might have to say.

That gets Knives dwelling on the past, present, and future. How much as changed, how much is left to change, and what could potentially be lost. By the time Legato does arrive, Knives is exactly where the human expects to find him.

"Come in." He commands flatly.

Inside, Knives is sitting slumped in a chair, one elbow resting on an arm of the chair, his cheek pressed against a closed fist. His expression as hard as it is distant. Despite all Knives has gone through, he's slipped right back into that cold persona. No doubt looking exactly as Legato last saw him, with the exception of his jet black hair.

"You made it." Knives comments, as his gaze lazily trails over to the blue-haired human. It's unclear to him, even with scrutiny, when the human's from. It could be before his revival or closer to his final moments, given that he's up and walking on his own. Unless, of course, the Stars were kind enough to return that ability to him. Knives tries to see if there's any sign at all. A wrinkle or a scar, but the longer he looks, the more he realizes how little he ever cared to really see his disciple.

"What do you have to report?"

[cerebralbleu]

The delivery of that statement brings pause to Legato Bluesummers, but not comfort.

It's almost poetic, really, the hatred that he feels when he hears those words. Any other living being would be quelled by them. And while Legato was visibly human, and physically human, he lacked the humanity in his heart to feel anything but wrath in this moment.

" I don't believe you. "

The response was immediate. No thought. No hesitation. Just words, and they rattle as though they came out of the dried throat of an old corpse.

" Why should I believe you? "

He had ever inclination to drag him out of this sleeping road, and hold him over the rushing traffic of the main highway. He could do it. He had enough use of his abilities to do that at the very least.

" You've done nothing but bring me grief. "

Legato takes one step backwards, pulling the subject of his ire along with the force of his threads.

" The fact that you just say these things so EASILY-- it disgusts me. "

It takes considerable willpower to resist the familiar creeping terror that comes with losing more and more control of his body.

But Vash can still hold the puppeteer's chilling gaze, and his vocal cords are yet unaffected by whatever invisible paralytic power this is.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he decides to say, as though he were the one holding Legato hostage. Vash speaks slowly and softly by choice; they both know he could scream for help or to warn others away, to raise his voice in effort to intimidate and posture. But he won't.

It's the honest truth, anyway. There's ample conviction in the pacifist's eyes that affirm that much. He's thinking that Legato must be more scared of him than the other way around—why else resort to something like this just to ask questions?

"You let me go, you'll get your answers." Simple, isn't it?

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Legato's expression twists into one of confusion, and disgust. What were those implications?! To dare assume that his loyalty was anything short of unwavering and solid. Elendira always knew how to crawl under his skin and take residence like a parasitic worm, always knew how to make him itch with anger. He scowls, and bites the inside of his mouth.

"Insinuate that I am a traitor again, and you'll look even more foolish than you've ever been. How is that not an obvious concern, Crimsonnail? There is only one true master that I have dedicated my service to, and to now say that there is another? How is that not cause for worry? How could you accept another so easily, believing that we aren't being deceived?"

It made little to no sense to Legato. Even though his current perception and insight of his surroundings was poor due to the dampening of his abilities, he was not going to act like this scenario wasn't bizarre.

"Unless I hear it from Master Knives himself, I cannot begin to believe that he would be content with treating another who claims to be HIM, as an equal."

Apparently he has lost his absolute fucking mind, as she successfully drags him down the street, arms locked together, laughing loudly at his pain. Oh, she did miss him, didn't she? Amusing as this place has been, how else was she supposed to get her kicks without the most dour ass to ever walk the planet to laugh at.

"Why would we kill the alternate ones?" She graces him with, not deigning to respond to his implication that she's full of shit, because she's not, and she knows her next move is a killer, one that will pierce that shriveled little heart of his.

Oh, perhaps, through the spine! He was rather pathetic for that, wasn't he?

"Unless..." Her voice falls into a mock whisper. She tugs him flush with her, lips close to his ear. "You would ever think to hurt any version of Master Knives? I'd never even consider that."

"My, perhaps the grave has made a traitor out of you yet! I'll gladly take your head for even the implication that you would harm a hair on his." Either of them, really, but she can't help the razor sharp grin that forms on her painted lips.

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NONE AT ALL. COME HERE.

" OH, surely there's no diabolical malicious intent in this! we are friends now! "

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" Where was this energy when I needed you to do your job? " Thread grab, stop booping yourself, stop booping yourself, stop booping yourself """Chapel"""

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HAPPY WEDDING TO @amoirsetpacis

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Describe your muse using shitty eBay reviews.

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It's Friday, and he deserves a little treat. 🎂

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for legato enjoyer’s birthday…🐣

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Legato's first month in Isola: This sucks and I'm probably hallucinating all of this.

Legato's third month in Isola: This still sucks and now Elendira is here.

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If Legato was the pinnacle of low self-esteem and fragile ego, Elendira embodied the opposite side of the spectrum, and that was all too evident as she laughed at Legato's frustration and confusion. Under normal circumstances, he would spit back at her with a harsh word or two, requesting that he be left alone.

Unfortunately (maybe for the BOTH of them) that was not an option.

" I don't understand. Alternate versions? "

Before another word is gotten out, Legato is pulled into a disgustingly close predicament, and he scowls, annoyed.

" You've lost your absolute fucking mind if you think I'm going to happily traverse down the street with you arm in arm-- " Legato deadpans, though his debate clearly didn't matter.

" That doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. And I think you're full of shit, " his already thin patience was wearing out.

" Alternate humans-- two of our very same lord-- and we're not doing anything about killing the fake ones? "

She laughs, high and lyrical. His irritation a salve to her soul, his pursed lips and drawn brow bringing her the utmost joy. Oh, had she missed him? Perhaps like one misses a splinter once it's removed, relishing in the intrusion and the ecstasy of pain.

"I know," she drawls, long and low. To all of it. That he doesn't have his abilities, that he doesn't know. "And that depends on what you mean by alone. By the time I arrived, there were already others from our world here. And, yes, dear, that means that our world is one of many.

"Perhaps, most interestingly," oh, how she relishes this. This moment before she changes his life forever. "There are alternate versions of us and the people we know. Some of which are here."

She loops her arm through his, tugging him along, letting him off easy this time without filling his mind with visions of how she would harm him, here on this street.

"Including Master Knives. Two of them, here with us!"

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He hadn't ever put much thought into how he operated in public. His technique was invisible, after all. Usually, when he deployed his phantom threads onto a target, Legato would do so without even looking at them.

This was different. He needed to look at this creatin directly.

" You don't have much to say? " He deadpans, narrowed silver meeting blue as he frowns.

In his current state, Legato could not enact nearly the amount of physical torture on this little insect. His own wings, torn apart and mangled by whatever force had dragged him to this hellhole. Perhaps they were both lowly creatures at this moment. Vash had wanted to die just as desperately as HE had in his final seconds, after all.

But there was no use in underestimating him.

" Now, don't tell me you're pretending that you've forgotten my face? Not after everything. "

Legato turns his head slowly, looking left, and then right. Nobody was on the street of the ward at this hour.

His attention snaps back to the captured Plant, and he smiles.

It's awful.

He attaches a thread to his artificial arm. This HAD to be the very same Vash the Stampede-- nothing else made sense.

" Or are you going to kill me again before answering any questions? You did a terrible job of keeping me in the ground. "

There's an effort to calm himself that doesn't go anywhere—kept like this, Vash finds himself unable to either tense or relax. Thought patterns rush through what they usually do in a perceived crisis: is anyone else around? They're in public, but it's a quiet street and there's no telling when or if any passerby could come by. Briefly his mind uselessly conjures an image he'd seen in a book, before; a dead butterfly with its wings pinned, a vibrant blue flayed open on permanent display.

No way to calm this guy down either, is there? The bead of sweat catches under Vash's chin. His memories are fragmented; it's beyond difficult, piecing together a torn photograph of who Legato Bluesummers is supposed to be.

Nicholas and Vash—his predecessor—had both mentioned his name, at the least… And in the case of the latter, it had come to light about what Vash had done to him, as impossible as it has been to accept (let alone discuss), but there was little else to go on besides notions of a hostile and tortured past by his hands.

The phone glued between Vash's hand and the side of his face remains just as silent as his twin.

He spares the effort of struggling. Paying as much attention as he can to his latest captor, the Stampede's eyes try to steadily focus toward the string-puller. Granted, there isn't much of a choice beyond cooperation. But if there's a chance for him to misdirect Legato using his eyes, he'll take it.

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Christ alive I'm so behind on my replies I am so sorry everyone, I've been having an ongoing canon event irl.

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Being haunted by a ghost of the past is simple enough to understand-- people die, and sometimes, people fail to rest in the grave, bursting forth and roaming the world in confusion, or in vengeance.

But what about a phantom of a future that one hasn't experienced yet?

Two shoulders connect in an accidental collision on the street, and the sensation of static electricity fills the air as the taller of the two comes to a halt.

He tastes blood on the tip of his tongue.

Legato Bluesummers has experienced this exact moment before, in a different lifetime, in a different town, with a different man, and it ended in catastrophic results.

And when he turns his head downwards, it is an unnatural movement-- as though the cerulean man was a spirit occupying his own body, controlling the corpse like a puppet. Every bone in his spine cracks, like a breaking tree branch, as he stares down at the stranger in silence.

Focused silence.

The taste of blood is swapped for the sensation of ice.

And tinnitus rings in his ears.

" . . . "

Ah. This stranger looks like someone who had put him down like a dog. A shame, he didn't dig the grave deep enough.

The threads that crawl from the base of his neck latch onto him; to be grabbed by this invisible force, feels like an attempt at possession, but for now, it isn't complete--

" Ｙ ｏ ｕ．"

Legato tilts his head to the side, unblinking, and tightens his grip on the man who looked unfortunately similar to his master's brother. A broken chuckle escapes him.

" You must think you're clever, trying to trick me by looking like that-- first you fail to kill me properly, now you're hiding yourself--

Vash the Stampede. "

He looked so differently-- smaller, there's more life in his eyes, far more than he had seen when staring at the opposite side of the gun barrel, laying in the bloody stand. Considering the strange anomalies of this island, it wouldn't be too strange for someone to be able to change their appearance just enough to disappear in the city.

@cerebralbleu

Venturing into Golden today wasn't a thoroughly calculated plan—initially Vash simply convinced himself to visit the place out of a need to reconnect and resocialize, but… It's proven overwhelming to be around the main streets and attractions of the liveliest Ward.

An anxious short walk away from the high-rises, the pacifist finds himself on the phone while on the relative quiet of Pearl Street. He can't help himself.

"—aren't telling me anything," the Stampede answers, too lost in the conversation by now to recognize the lone man he's passed on the sidewalk has slowed to a stop behind him. Normally, it'd be trivial to hear the way the stranger's boots twist, to sense that he's being looked at, but focus on this conversation clearly takes precedence.

"Tell me that you're okay, at least." It sounds more plea than demand. "You've always… You've always picked up when I've called. I just wanna know what happened, n'I promise I'll listen, Naï. We don't have to do any—"

The Humanoid Typhoon freezes in place. Even his mouth is stuck forming the next syllable, tip of tongue against his teeth.

It didn't matter how much panic he felt, or even that he's back to full strength; no amount of will would overcome being ensnared by invisible thread. The gun on his hip hasn't felt heavier before, feeling suddenly immovable and distant. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple.

Acutely he can hear the stranger's footfall grow louder. Closer. Against his ear, even the tinny voice of Millions Knives grows quiet.