plantfell

[plantfell]

There's quite a lot left unsaid in response to the younger plant's appreciation. Largely due to the fact that it was not done for Knives but as the only one considering the consequences of actions. He tries not to stare at the scars or the fidgeting. Any time he does, a little anger flares in his gut and he knows it's a slippery slope of spiraling thoughts about Wolfwood and his choices.

No, all Knives does is give a quiet nod of acknowledgement. As much a statement of accepting it as recognizing the weight of the statement. A sign of respect that he doesn't dwell on it or force the plant to prostrate himself any more than he already has. It's sign enough that the gentle handling of his counterpart has born some fruit as far as trust is concerned.

What he won't let lie is the statement of steps. Or, at least, he wasn't planning on it until the other's attention is drawn away and towards something else. Confused, Knives turns and his eyes settle on the Vash plush. Ah.

There's a pause, then Knives calmly turns back to face the other plant and neatly fold his hands in his lap. "A gift from your brother," He states plainly. "It's an object unique to this world that bares his likeness. When hugged it gives a sense of his emotional state. There was an exchange. Vash has one as well that came in my likeness with similar functions."

@plantfell

"I appreciate your abstention; to let me attend to my matters as I see fit. …Rest assured, it was a very calculated risk, with more than satisfactory results."

If human filth were so keen to steal Vash away from him, to taint and wound him, then Knives was obligated to protect his brother by any means—even if it involved laying his own life down.

The way that Spiralian "death" had been explained was enough to put the option on the table, and worth prioritizing over the easy slaughter of the Punisher. Humans were such emotional creatures, so easy to manipulate. There was no doubt in this being another crucial success toward his larger schemes; now, Vash's loneliness would be harder for him to deny.

Knives' pale fingers haven't stopped idly rubbing at his new all-around neck scar as a result of this: like a choker, thick tissue remained wrapped and gnarled in the same pattern of his knives, despite the clean cut.

It's rare that Knives thought to explain himself to anyone, let alone imply he's in a subordinate position to anyone else, but if it was going to be anyone, who else would it be but this older self?

He's housed him, kept him informed of the ways of this new world, and kept out of his way. At the very least, he's owed respect.

"Just another step toward realizing our…" Trailing off, his legs uncross from his seat, leaning forward to point beyond the other Knives' shoulder. His eyes narrow at a familiar-looking object sitting on a shelf, before returning his squint to his predecessor. It sits besides a pair of novelty Groucho glasses. Bizarre.

"��What is that?"

[plantfell]

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?"

Oh, joyous day.

This happiness is hollow and rattles through him like a derecho through an abandoned building, but it is enough to prompt Legato to crawl out of his apartment for the first time in days; he hardly recalls how he responded to the text message:

[txt] Right away, yes Master Knives.

The directions were simple to parse. His master had always been a no-frills individual, making orders and requests easy to fulfill. It was the route that was rather-- confusing. In the weeks since Legato's arrival to this alien place, he could hardly make any sense of the island's geography. In an almost miraculous divide between one reality and another, Legato finds himself in a much more familiar sort of topography.

Desert sands burn his face as he approaches what looked to be the ARK. But how could that be possible? Legato had learned that for every answer he received on Spirale, two more questions appeared.

And, just as a phantom would abruptly materialize, Legato meanders the halls, his boots creating a faint echo with every connection into the steel flooring.

The joyous sentiment would, unfortunately, be clouded with an irritating anxiety: he suddenly becomes aware of every single little ache and pain in his body, and with that, he recalls the intensity of his master's wrath when he had first disobeyed.

Was Millions Knives going to enact that same wrath, after discovering that he had yet again, made an attempt at Vash the Stampede's life, before he fell, and the other Plant's gun was pressed to his skull?

The cold chill at the back of his neck needed to be ignored. He finally stops in front of doorway leading to where he usually found his master preoccupied with his thoughts-- and he knocks.

[plantfell]

"Regardless of what occurred in our home world, this Ark was deserving of a fresh slate," Knives retorts right back with a flat tone. Despite the tone, the words carry a weight much heavier than is relevant to the conversation at hand. Reflections on the plant himself. Implications about his psyche.

But that's not what this is all about.

"I have little doubt that you will leave this place and make your mistakes. It is in your nature," He continues, giving the human an unimpressed, half-lidded stare. Almost as if he were looking through the man, rather than at him. There's a lot of things that Knives could do to slow Wolfwood down, if not stop him, but, unlike the other man, he's unwilling to accept the consequences any of those things might come with.

"I know, just as you know that killing him will achieve nothing of worth. If we should be so lucky that it does not radicalize my counterpart further, no scales will be balanced. What has been done, has been done. What we know does not speak the same volumes as what we do with that knowledge. I do not have to hasten the inevitable, just because I know it is coming," Knives' gaze shifts back into focus, and he stares down the human in that way like a god perceiving an ant. "Not for his sake, but in consideration of how much the inevitable will hurt Vash without adding my involvement."

Knives calling him Nicholas leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Wolfwood thinks he should punch him (again) for that, but he's not here to hurt this Knives. He rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses, heaving out an exasperated sigh. What a pain in the fucking ass.

Still, shouldn't Knives know that assassins under the Eye are relentless? When they hunt you down, they'll go to any lengths. They won't stop until they find you.

"Funny thing to say about this hunk of scrap metal," he retorts. "How much blood's been spilled here even without me?"

He looks at Knives over his sunglasses and continues, "Whether ya tell me or not, I'm gonna find him. Y'know that, don't ya?"

[plantfell]

"Don't treat me like I'm a fool, Nicholas," Knives scowls. Mostly in regards to the claims that Wolfwood needs to "talk" with the younger plant. He doesn't know what Naï has been up to, to be fair, but whatever it is Knives is certain that anything the human has to "say" to him is more likely to exacerbate the issue than solve it.

"There is a plethora of ways you could speak with him that don't involve strutting up to our home with that ridiculous thing like you're the Big Bad Wolf. You've stained my halls with blood once. I'm not interested in allowing it to become your personal hunting grounds."

"Your doppelganger. Watch yer fuckin' tone, asshole." Wolfwood glances over Knives' shoulder, into the empty corridor behind him, then turns his attention back to the other. They haven't really properly spoken since the wedding, what with Knives' whole penchant for being a recluse. Maybe not the best way to meet up again in over three months.

But Wolfwood doesn't particularly give a shit.

Knives must still think he's an idiot. Wolfwood rolls his jaw. He's not here to fight this one, he's looking for the other one. Whether or not this guy tells him where the other guy is doesn't matter, Wolfwood will find him anyway. Would just be easier to get a better idea.

He's sure the younger Millions Knives is anticipating his arrival, anyway.

"I need to talk to him." They both know that's bullshit. More like he's got a score to settle. "You got any idea what the hell he's been up to? He been talkin' to ya about it? Or do I gotta tell ya?"

Wolfwood curls his fingers tighter around the straps of the Punisher. His molars grind together. The look in his eyes is intense, burning, and he says nothing else. Just waits.

[plantfell]

Something must be in the air with the how many interactions Knives has been forced to endure in the last month. That is to say, he's had to deal with more than zero people coming to his home in the Land of Burnt Umber. How dare others force him to avoid a life as a hermit.

It's with that bratty sense of annoyance that Knives answers the door. Only to have his expression immediately flatten to a tight, but neutral affect when he sees who it is and what he's carrying. Memories of a similar, unaddressed, scene flash through Knives' mind, but he's quick to shove them in the same corner of his mind that he forces away any unpleasant emotions.

"That's a very vague question," Knives hums with a dismissively haughty tone as he leans his shoulder against the door frame, and crosses his arms. "My brother? His doppelganger? Or should I be concerned about one of your shadows yet again?"

Perhaps it's a little more aggressive than their tenuous truce might permit, but Wolfwood crossed the line first by coming to his home with clearly deadly thoughts.

The familiar weight of the Punisher on his back as he moves through the desert heat is an odd comfort. If it weren't for the dried patches of shrubbery and the singular sun he could even pretend he was back on that dry, dying planet.

He cuts the engine of his motorcycle and hops off. With his weapon, there really is no question as to why he's here in the first place. Righteous fury and vengeance and whatnot.

Wolfwood didn't tell anyone where he was going. Hopefully this guy can keep his trap shut. Or his mind. He and Vash have that freaky telepathy shit going on, don't they?

The Ark is a looming, foreboding presence. He never comes out this way, all his trips to Umber have been to visit the younger Stampede and the undertaker. On this island he only has one memory of the Ark, and it isn't pleasant.

As if any of his other memories of the Ark back home are any better.

When the door opens, Wolfwood peers at Knives over his sunglasses. He puffs out smoke from the corner of his mouth, and without preamble he says:

"Where is he?"

@plantfell

[plantfell]

After the arrival of his doppelganger, Knives felt less inclined to keep track of the names that were added to the contact list with each passing eclipse. He already had one headache to deal with, he needn't burden himself with the responsibility of another one so quickly.

Legato Bluesummers Master Knives. Are you..

When he gets the text, all Knives can do is stare at the notification. Another headache. One that was clearly and more solidly his responsibility. Probably. Given the evidence so far, it seems like roughly a fifty-fifty chance to be one who is his responsibility and one who is his doppelganger's, but even then Knives would still feel like he shares some responsibility.

[txt] I could ask the same of you. [txt] Find your way to me, and do not keep me waiting.

Along with the texts, he sends his location as well as brief instructions on how to get there. Then he sets down his phone and rubs his temples with his pointer and index fingers. Dealing with Legato is going to be a delicate process, and Knives isn't sure what kind of man he'll have to become to deal with it. But, regardless of his feelings, it must be dealt with.

@plantfell

Master, I am sorry.

The blank, white walls of the apartment bedroom surround Legato while he sits on the provided bed. He had made no attempt at personalizing the space, for he was still convinced that this was all a complex delusion before finally falling into the recesses of the afterlife.

I failed.

In this vermin-infested existence, you had given me a second chance, and I failed.

Ah. I had hoped that you would had been the one to kill me. You would had accomplished the task, and gifted me a proper execution. Whatever your brother has done--

I do not know if I am dead, or alive.

Nearly a month had passed since his eyes snapped open in this strange city. Legato had shambled around like a fawn with broken knees, though that was not an unfamiliar sensation for him. Despite what he had learned about the island of Spirale, he felt as though he knew even less about his current predicament.

Through observations of human behavior, Legato had learned that the device he had found on his person was used for communication between two parties. Handling the 'smartphone'-- what an atrociously strange name for it-- was awkward, but it was a necessary function for acclimation into this 'society.'

Today, he switches it on.

" Messages, " Legato says flatly to himself as he opens the inbox. Many nonsensical texts and emails had been sent to the device. Business promotions. A crude 'welcome' message, a pop up video that makes him jump slightly--

And a familiar name of a wicked savior.

There, on the pre-programmed contact list, nudged between different names that he different recognize, was him. Millions Knives.

" . . . "

He was here? Why?! Had HE failed as well?! Impossible--

The shaky digit presses onto the name, and he is given two options: Voice Call or Message.

Calling his master after such a pathetic display did not seem appropriate. Legato had vivid memories of the last time that he had abruptly reunited with Knives after disappointing him-- he could not shake the sound of every last bone in his body shattering, rattling between his ears. A suitable punishment for his insolence.

A 'message' seemed more apt.

One single sentence is sent out:

[TXT]: Master Knives. Are you compromised?

[plantfell]

He comes and goes as he pleases. Were it that I was more overbearing, it would cause more problems than not. We're dangerous, yes, but, like all fresh arrivals, there is only so much he's capable of. Knives counters.

Though, he does realize that there is more harm that can be done than just physical injuries, it's yet to become particularly meaningful to him. He's closer to recognizing it, but admittedly he tries not to use his imagination too much when it comes to his counterpart. It comes too close to fantasizing about what he can do to others.

★ --;; Vash's mouth draws into a thin line. Of course there's reason to worry, he thinks-- though he keeps it tucked away to himself. Part of him wants to take Knives by the shoulders and shake him, too, because had the past century and a half not been proof enough of what the both of them were capable of? He may not have the entire story from the other set's point of view, not with he way his counterpart is just as cagey as he knows he can be in turn, but he knows enough to know that he definitely does have reason enough to worry.

Have you seen him often, lately? he asks. Vash knows he's toeing a line here, uneasy about what all of this might mean for their own relationship, but there are only so many places to garner information from. I don't care all that much if he tries to bother me- which, despite how agitated it might make others, is at least the truth from him- but. I don't know what he might want from him. That's what I'm worried about.

[plantfell]

There's a part of Knives that knows it's a lie. It's too quick. Too short. A quick dismissal that tries not to dwell long enough to lead to other questions. With just one word it begs to move on, and Knives is content to oblige. That part of him also worried how he might react to any other answer or elaboration. He's gotten so good at controlling his anger, but how much of that is merely an illusion brought on by his self-isolation?

You have no need to worry about him, Vash. Knives reassures flatly. He's under my care, here at the Ark. It seemed safer than letting him fester in the housing provided by the Stars. Better for his unwitting roommates, if nothing else.

Of course, that says nothing of how safe the Stampede actually is. Nor of what's being done to stop him from doing harm to anyone else when he's outside of the older Plant's supervision.

★ --;; No.

The lie is instant, easy, one that's become so second nature at this point that Vash hardly even registers he'd 'said' it until it's already been sent. His brother doesn't need to know about the glass that had cut into the soft flesh beneath his eyes, that had gotten stuck beneath the lid. Any reaction that could have come from that bit of knowledge couldn't be a good one-- he hadn't even liked letting Wolfwood know, forced to ask for help as he had been.

But. Well. I'm worried about the little guy. Surely there's to be some understanding there, unspoken; prying at old wounds directly stings far worse than simply alluding to them, after all-- but poorly healed scars hurt with an intensity far less than that of fresh ones, and with the years and experience that separate them the two sets of twins are nothing if not on opposing ends of the scales.

Those posters didn't show up until he did, y'know. And it's not as if all the stuff that happened last year s'old news.

[plantfell]

Knives had been out enough to catch sight of the odd wanted poster, but frankly they'd quickly blended into the background. Back home posters of his brother weren't uncommon and it didn't feel like a particularly strange development. Distantly, there was the thought to connect them to his counterpart's strange behaviour as of late, now that Vash is mentioning it, but he's distracted by something else.

What do you mean? He asks abruptly, more concerned for his brother than the Stampede. Did he do something to you?

[ x. ]

★ --;; Vash sighs; he'd suspected as much. Worry for all sorts of outcomes bubbles in his chest, hot and uncomfortable, as they've been wont to do as of late. It's so easy for any sort of progress-- from the lot of them, not just to point fingers at Knives-- to slip away. A century of living with circumstances so similar and yet so different are not so easily written over, no matter tha baby steps they'd both taken to try and begin to rectify them.

... He's not exactly willing to play nice, he finally responds. It's hard to even know where to begin, considering he has no idea just how 'acquainted' the two of them had become. Have you gotten out enough to see the wanted posters...?

@plantfell

[plantfell]

☠ ― Send '👄 + a topic' and my muse will give advice based around that topic! Can be good or bad.

(If you cannot see the emoji, simply say what meme it's for, and the topic.)

[plantfell]

It's early for the Crimsonnail, and she's agitated enough to show it. Still, it's not hard to see the fruits of her labor as soon as a certain someone leaves the Ark. Four raised platforms with boxes on them filled with dirt. "That idiot brother of yours could have picked a less annoying hobby." She announces, covered in sweat and dirt herself - far more of a genuine show of affection than the present itself, really. "But, given the jungle that he has in that yard of his, I figure you two can bond if we start growing things out here." Clapping the dirt off his her hands, she shrugs, "Something to do, in any case. Happy birthday."

When Elendira wanders up to him in a seemingly foul mood, Knives braces himself for whatever it might be. He hopes for anything other than a spat with his counterpart and yet he couldn't possibly expect what he's presented with. Frankly, he struggles to fully parse it until Elendira starts talking about Vash's garden and it clicks.

It's a touching enough gesture without the additional mention of his birthday. The date happens every year and yet it still manages to catch him by surprise.

At first, it's anyone's guess what the Plant is thinking. His expression tight and neutral, as it often is. Then it softens and he looks over at Elendira with a rare fondness that seems to be growing more common by the day.

"This is very kind of you, Elendira." By normal standards, Knives' tone might seem somewhat flat, given the circumstances and effort. By his standards, though? The softness of his tone makes his deep gratitude plain to those who know to look for it. As does the fact that he even bothers to say, "Thank you."

[plantfell]

I don't suppose you'd know anything about our most recent addition, Vash sends. There had been a bit of hesitancy to broach the topic first; they themselves are still far from stable, but the posters that had cropped up had finally been enough of a push to do so.

We have been acquainted. Knives' tone (in the way thoughts have a tone) is firmer, more sure, but there's a similar hint of hesitance. Just a drop. As much self-reflection and acknowledgement as Knives has done... Well, nothing really compares to having a mirror shoved in your face to truly make you understand your mistakes.

Why do you ask?

[plantfell]

It isn't as though Knives is under any illusion that showing his back to his counterpart is likely to have any sort of positive outcome, but he has little room to argue for now. Better to show his belly a little and present himself as safe person than to unleash a Knives upon this world that feels as though it's him against the world. The trick is to tread the tightrope thin line between safe and weak.

"My home is located in an area named The Land of Burnt Umber. More specifically the region known as the Hills of Silver. It's much like the landscape you would expect from No Man's Land. By virtue of it being a barren desert it is quite devoid of human life," Knives begins to explain as he leads the way.

"Though, I do have one of my…" He hesitates, not quite sure how to categorize Elendira. She was always apart from his followers, but he never put much thought into it. Now with the clarity of experience, it's hard to deny that the Crimson Nail holds a special place in his heart. However, it might be too forward to say that they're friends. Regardless, it's certainly not something he'd say in front of this version of himself.

"Mm. I'm not actually sure you have the Gung-Ho Guns in your universe. They're a collection of humans who proved useful in speeding up my mission." When Knives continues, he effortlessly excuses the hesitation in a way he hopes his counterpart won't find reason to complain about.

"In this world, once you've reached a certain level of renown or coin you can have almost any home you can imagine. I went with a facsimile of the Ark half buried in sand. It's quite large. Should you find your given accommodations too intolerable there's room enough for you. I believe you should find Elendira's presence inoffensive, but should that not be the case it is a big enough home to avoid her all together."

An uncharacteristic pause in consideration follows the question. The younger Independent's eyes trail away, then back to his predecessor.

"Lead the way," he acquiesces, gesturing with his chin for the other to walk before him. "I'll follow behind.

"Although there's no need for a hurried pace. I want to hear more about where you reside, in the meanwhile. I don't expect for you to tolerate living amidst the filth here?"

[plantfell]

"You are forgiven," Knives dismisses flatly, though he suspects his counterpart requires no forgiveness. It acts more as an olive branch to reinforce himself as safe and on the other plant's side. For now, at least.

"I am unaware of where your Vash might be. It's a long-winded explanation, but suffice to say when I became aware of your presence I attempted to contact him and was unable to," He continues. "Your injuries are a more pressing concern. Should I assume you have no interest in seeking out a human doctor?"

"Mine. … Ours. I'm wounded." In more ways than one. The victim's eyes trail down from the other's hair to admire the mark left behind on his shoulder, stark and undeniable. "Forgive me; the novelty of it made it easy to forget."

He hadn't been made to bleed in a long time, and especially not like this. The perpetrator hadn't thought himself capable of it, either. Then Vash had turned tail, as was his nature. To wound his older brother, and then to run after the matter.

Knives breathes in, noting that this older self smelled the same as Vash, like the desert. There was only one sun in this world; a twin abandoned. His next question is more curiosity than demand:

"Where is my brother, Knives?"

[plantfell]

"I don't have a plan," Knives answers honestly, with a little more irritation than he might share with anyone else. It's not at the question or at Elendira herself, but at the situation as a whole. He's still learning what this world and this peace means for himself. Though he may be much further a long than his counterpart, it's not like Knives is exactly one to lead by example.

"But being aware that he won't have any warm welcomes is exactly why I'm allowing him to stay here. Better he be cared for in the company of kin than forced to mingle with humans."

Not that it's necessarily helped Knives. It's just given him an excuse to be a hermit.

"I do have to ask," she leans against his door, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, "what, exactly, your plan is with him?" Her leader's double had just left, and she found herself sighing as she approached her just-as-silent Knives.

"They hardly took to us at first - and I still don't nearly get as warm a reception. Not that I'm bothered," she adds offhandedly, and her tone doesn't imply otherwise. She'd be more than happy to start bloodshed with their (former?) enemies, doubles and all.

"I doubt that he'll have anywhere close to a warm welcome, given, well," she gestures vaguely at Knives, who was keeping her own nailpoint tempered in this place given his own personal...growth? Whatever it was.

@plantfell

[plantfell]

OOC: Small life update, but posting will probably be relegated to the weekends for the summer! I work in a poorly air conditioned warehouse, so it's snooze town more aggressively than usual after work.

[plantfell]

Knives doesn't often pay much mind to an Eclipse. The number of people he cares to wonder about the arrival of is small, and over the past year it's been increasingly obvious that it's small enough that it's not worth worrying about. If one of his arrives, they're free to make their choices. Still, it's good to be updated every so often.

It would be the time he checks, wouldn't it?

At first, he's able to approach the realization that he can text himself rationally. As far as he's been able to tell, there's been no word of another version of himself ever appearing, so it's likely to be that this Knives is in full possession of his abilities. He's also not aware of any record of two "copies" of the same person from the same universe co-existing. By this logic, it's likely the younger Vash's brother and therefore his problem.

Just to ease his own worries, Knives sends a text to the Stampede to make sure he's seen the updated list. The only problem is after several minutes and several more texts later he gets no response. It's only remembering the Hug and Tell dolls that he and Vash exchanged that Knives is able to stave off the worry for a little bit longer. Right up until he takes the doll and finds that the emotion Vash is feeling the most in the moment is scared.

In an instant, the doll is haphazardly discarded as Knives bolts for the nearest exit and takes flight in a flurry of feathers. It could be anything, he tries to reassure himself, but he's not hopeful and a stop by Home to find it empty does little to quell any of the growing panic churning in Knives' chest.

The next stop is the city proper, but by the time he gets there his wings have reached their limit and he's been forced to search on foot. It's frustrating and the first time in a while that his limits have posed any serious obstacle.

Knives is pulled from his own thoughts by a touch to his shoulder, and he turns to tell off whatever pedestrian dared to lay their hand on him. Just as quickly, he freezes with his mouth poised to hurl some biting remark as he lays eyes the who. It takes a moment to fully comprehend the fact that his quarry managed to find him first, but when he does his jaw tightens and he stands straighter. Not quite a show of dominance, Knives knows how well that would be received, but a show that yes, they are the same, and yes he is just as dangerous.

"Knives," He greets tersely, finding addressing someone else with the name odd on his tongue. Has it felt this way for his brother all this time? "I would appreciate if you didn't sully my clothes," Knives continues, gingerly plucking the hand off his shoulder. Though, red now stains the pure white of his hoodie regardless of the intervention.

"Yours or someone else's?"

@plantfell

Unlike how his brother had fared, Knives is quick to recognize his second encounter of the day. And what a fateful one it seems to be.

Transmuted from steel to fabric, the hood of his coat slowly shifts its attention toward this strange new counterpart. His eyes are careful to assess the other, and ultimately rest upon the pitch-blackness of his hair, the back of his head.

He's calm in his approach to this new self, making no attempt to disguise his footfall.

The hand he then tries to place onto the other's shoulder is still stained with fresh blood. His other hand is occupied with a kitchen knife, taken from his assigned living quarters.