#isola event: mistified (cyor)

[amoirsetpacis]

★ --;; Laughter, cold and harsh and horribly, horribly familiar in a way Vash desperately wishes it weren't, rings and reverberates through the fallen mist in a way that sends ice through his nerves and veins, sets a fire under the soles of his feet. All at once he's alone again in the veil of it all, and looking around wildly, trying to hone his senses in on any one point, leaves him still with the only option he's been able to take for so much of his life; run.

Towards it this time instead of away, despite the overwhelming dread seeping through his lumps and heart and lungs, filling them like so much cement trying to forcefully grind him to a halt. He doesn't let it, though-- he's here, that much Vash's successor had told him, that much Vash had been trapping tightly beneath his ribcage in the hopes that that fear would stay there, quiet, if only for a few more days. Until distance could be put, somehow, an excuse to try and rally himself together.

Seems he isn't getting the chance to do so.

The heavens fall out of the blank nothingness; as though the high rises of the city have been washed away with the damp there are no explosions to be had as starships that should not be here roar into existence, as they struggle to prevail against the inevitable collision with unforgiving earth, as they scream with the impact. They blip rapidly in and out of existence, distort themselves, as though they know they should not be here but have on other option other than to remain no matter how much they fight against it.

The laughter echoes again. A bullet rings, millimeters from his ear at zips by. Heart in his throat, Vash turns.

@cerebralbleu > @punishercross

[railheist]

Shoot! She thought she had him dead to rights, or just straight dead. Apparently not, though.

Once she catches her breath, she dusts off her sleeves and reloads her rifle, just as determined as ever.

"Right," she says. "I'll keep him distracted. Get outta here, Blue!" She can't risk him getting hurt.

Rifle at the ready, Maria steps cautiously through the fog, ready to fire at a moment's notice. Where can that bottom-feeder be?

yumine does as instructed. The covering of ears isn't enough to drown out the sound, but it's muffled enough by her sensitive ears. the smoke clears and in the handler's place is just an empty spot. He must have dodged quickly. He may not be one that belonged in this world, but he wasn't going to get himself shot on the spot.

He has his own gun and he's hidden, but his hiding is no match for Yumine's hearing.

She hears the cocking of the familiar gun and is quick to push both her and Maria out of the way!

"He's hiding," She warns. "Maria...I know his weaknesses...I-I'll find him. Just keep him stalled. He won't know where I am once I'm in air."

[amoirsetpacis]

★ --;; This isn't.... it's not new, but that doesn't stop the rapid descent of mist and fog from striking a chill through the entirety of Vash's body. If anything, after the few moments it takes for the recognition to settle in, that same recognition is exactly what makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The sudden flood of it, roiling and descending as though in a dream, is familiar in a way he so much wish it wasn't.

"Just once," Vash huffs quietly to himself, as if trying to distract himself from the buzzing of his nerves beneath his skin, "Just once, could I catch a break?"

So much pain, blinding light. A memory like his is both a blessing and a curse, so many things so crystal clear-- it had only been a short time ago, at least sin comparison to the rest of his life, but the memory of the last time this mist had cut through bone and sense still sits so vividly behind his eyelids.

He doesn't know where anyone else is. Doesn't know what they might see. What might see them.

Moving. He's got to move. If he keeps standing here as he is, he won't find anyone. He's good at moving, he reminds himself. Good at channeling movement into his feet, quickly, instead of the spiraling of so many thoughts.

But as he does, it doesn't take long for voices to be heard. Or-- a voice, rather. Stern and harsh and biting. The sound of a bullet ricocheting off the pavement.

Vash's feet choose the direction to carry him in, without second thought.

@punisheye

[railheist]

Maria glances over her shoulder. If Yumine isn't backing down either, then she'll feel a whole lot better about what she has to do next.

"Cover your ears."

She pulls the trigger of the Calamity Rifle.

THOOM!

With the sound and force of thunder, a terrible bullet of lead and brimstone comes scorching out of the obsidian barrel. It's aimed directly at the handler's chest.

With any luck, he'll be down for the count. When the smoke clears, what does she see? A man who is no longer a threat, or... something else?

Mister Blue waits for her, but Yumine can't bring herself to escape with Maria's horse. She couldn't leave her friend behind to fend off her handler!

And he knows it. The way he isn't even bothered by Maria's threat. Instead, he smirks, knowing damn well what choice Yumime even had.

She had none.

"Maria....,"

And he thinks he has her wrapped around his finger. Yumine reaches to tug on the ends of Maria's clothes and looks at her. "We will fight together. I...I will not run."

It wasn't what he had hoped to hear from her.

You think I won't hurt your loved ones then?"

He was capable of it. He was the kind of person that went through with what he promised...At least it was what Yumine had been trained to believe. Still, if she fought alongside Maria then perhaps they had a chance.

[railheist]

"Did you hear me? If you touch a hair on her head — or anybody she holds dear, for that matter — then you'll be pushin' up daisies so fast that people'll think you're a florist."

Maria draws the Calamity Rifle. It faintly smells of fire and brimstone. She takes aim at the man's chest, but doesn't pull the trigger. Not yet.

"Yumine, you get outta here. I can deal with him," she says.

She nods at her horse, but what Yumine decides to do is ultimately up to her.

This isn't what she wants. If anything were to happen to Maria it would have been her fault. Yumine couldn't have someone dear hurt in any way.

"Maria, please--," but her plead would fall onto deaf ears wouldn't they? She didn't look like she'd back down.

The man stands his own ground, brown eyes glaring at the harpy.

"Have you forgotten who holds the life of those dear people in your little town?"

[amoirsetpacis]

★ --;; The mist is just as thick as it had been before; feeling heavy in his nose and throat as Vash breathes through his long, quick strides, as though it held so much more weight hidden within itself, oppressive in every way it can force itself to be. Still, even through its impossible curtain, Vash is able to pick out the figures in the fog from at least several feet away. Sensitive ears pick them up first as their voices become clearer before their outlines gain clarity.

Soo enough Vash is entirely upon them-- in time for the gun to be brandishes, for the child's horrified eyes to widen as he shakes, ( "Stop--!" ) as blood paints the boy's front and face as he's forced to stand there and watch, face pale. The body jolts with each new wound before going completely still, no more force to move it.

Fury that hasn't been felt so acutely in years flares beneath his veins in an instant, bright and hot. Vash lurches forward again to reach, to do something, just as the mist thickens and undulates with its whims; one, two large steps forward until he's face to face with the heap of a man as he'd last seen him.

Or at least, almost. The man that had been spattered across what was left of the orphanage floor had been left in such a state by Razlo's final bout of fury that it was a wonder he could even be recognized, torn apart by so many rounds of bullets ripping him apart.

Vash had seen him, then. Hadn't payed attention to the dark lump against stark sand until well after the fact; until everything had felt like a dull ringing in his ears, until he'd been left hollowed out and empty, until he'd gone to fetch the shovel.

Only one grave had been dug that day, and it hadn't been for him.

The old man is barely being held together, now. Even as his body jerks unnaturally upwards he still doesn't sit straight, held up only by the careful geometry of his spine and the way the mist has placed him in the chair. By all accounts, his heart should not be beating. He's riddled with holes, see through in places; its a wonder there's anything left to hold him up at all. That blood doesn't continue to poor freely from so many open and festering wounds, left out in the heat of the suns.

From feet away, he reeks of death.

The anger doesn't simmer.

"You," he says, voice terrifyingly even, "should go back to how you were. Stay that way."

"You should be grateful."

That voice is low, cold. It speaks slowly, as if talking to a particularly incompetent child. And in the speaker's opinion, that's exactly what he's doing.

"Plucked from that slum of an orphanage and given purpose, and yet you continue to spurn it."

As Vash breaks through the mist, he'll see them: there is a young boy there before the towering figure in white. That boy can be no more than fourteen, but looks particularly small for his age. He's shivering, eyes wide, skin clammy. There is a gun in his shaking hands. Even with a face so round and soft with youth, his identity is unmistakable.

The man looming over him is unmistakable himself. Younger than Vash would remember, but not by much. There are less lines on his face, but his hair is already white. Instead of a beard there's a thin layer of stubble.

Neither of them seem to be aware of their audience.

The mist swirls then. A heap appears between the two. Looking closer, one would see that it's a body. No, not just a body. Whoever it is is still alive, just barely.

The boy tries to speak: "I'm so—"

"Enough. You are not sorry. If you were, you would do as you are told. But it seems that I, once more, have to do it for you."

And then the man brandishes a gun and points it right at the heap on the ground. One shot, two, three, four, more—overkill. His stone-faced expression and the way each shot illuminates him is almost hauntingly similar to the sight of a man in black shooting a samurai dead.

Blood splatters across the boy's face. He lets out a weak little whimper.

"This man was a traitor. He sought to destroy the Eye of Michael from the inside. And where would that leave your home? Without food, without money; no way to keep that hovel afloat. If you cannot kill anyone, how can you expect to keep your family safe?

"Do as I say, Nicholas, and all will be well."

The mist thickens around the three, obscuring them from sight. What's left is silence that seems to last forever.

And then it thins, and there is still a man there. Sitting, now, in a wheelchair. Older, clothes dark, torn from bullets. Blood is caked onto his face, in his hair. His skin is pale as death. He looks like he could be a corpse sat upright.

Until his head jerks up, eyes staring straight towards where Vash stands. The voice that comes from the bloody form of Chapel's throat is rough, creaking:

"Ah... it's you."

[railheist]

Maria doesn't go. Far from it. She stands her ground and locks eyes on the man. The Abyssidian rifle on her back glimmers in the crimson light.

"She belongs to nobody but herself. You'd better back off if you know what's good for you."

She holds out an arm to shield Yumine. The fully grown Mister Blue approaches, available to her as a getaway ride.

This is going to get ugly.

"Maria." Her name comes out in a hushed whisper. She tries to hide the fear in her voice, but it fails. She wants to reach out and grab hold of her hand and fly off, but that would have left Mister Blue on his own. She can't do that.

"He..."

"She belongs to me."

He answers. He hasn't moved from his spot just yet. "And WHO are you?"Brown eyes narrow at the woman and her horse. He doesn't seem pleased that his pet hasn't left her side to come to his immediately. She's hesitating. Yumine's talons clack against the ground beneath them. Just by looking at him, she knows he's growing impatient.

"Maria...Y-You should go. I will be able to handle myself."

[railheist]

The crimson eclipse shines through the mist. Maria walks up to Yumine's side. A fully grown Mister Blue trots along with her, and Maria adjusts the rifle on her back.

"Well, Yumine, looks like the fog rolled in. I'm surprised we're still here. Must be some sorta sign..."

"Hey. Who is that?"

She squints at the figure. Who is he, and more importantly, what does he want with Yumine?

MISTIFIED

"What...is this place?" And why was he here?

[amoirsetpacis]

★ --;; The heart still in his throat gets constricted there as it tightens, eyes wide and every cell of him on high alert, finally finding a focal point. The breath he takes rattles with an unease reserved for this man only, his own proclaimed hunting mark. A parallel has yet to exist- which his probably what he had wanted, anyway.

Brandishing a gun at him-- that was something Vash was used to; but holding the presence Bluesummers did, knowing exactly what was hidden away from his own eyes, what was possible-- all of those puzzle pieces leave Vash coiled tight like a spring locked in place. The knowledge of what he'd done, forever imprinted in the back of his eyelids.

The real question, though, the one electric in the back of Vash's mind-- was this him? Or was this another horrible spectre conjured by the mist still swirling angrily around the both of them, thrown about wildly by the self-made destruction of its own creations, just as that amalgamation of his brother had been?

Any comfort that could have been found in the fact that they-- whether this Legato was real or not-- were alone, any opening for Vash to have reached for the person who had walked headlong into that fight, is swiftly quashed by the sight in his own periphery.

Because if they had at least been alone, no one else to reach for, then maybe that single horrific memory wouldn't have to be given form, at least not in its entirety. But luck has never once graced Vash the Stampede when it came to this man, and his only saving grace is that the younger Wolfwood wasn't clearly in the other's line of sight-- regardless of whether or not that would even matter, in the end. That the screams of failing engines might have managed to cover the sound only honed ears like their own might have caught.

Vash keeps his eyes fixed ahead of him, locked solely onto Bluesummers, in the hope that it would be enough, for now. Go bubbles up hot in his throat, panic fueled, desperation, as nerve endings and muscle memory already relive that moment, those seconds. Get away from here, he wishes he could scream.

But instead he starts stalling. Hopes, somehow, that it will be enough to get the young undertaker to leave. Doubts it will be.

"Did you speak with him?" Vash asks instead of making the first move, voice as steady as he can make it. "My brother?"

@cerebralbleu > @punishercross

Gunfire punctuates deranged thoughts, a manifesto of one-sided devotion that would fall on nobody's ears. A corpse of a man shambles through the mist, pupils like pinpricks, like distant stars, blazing like the calamity overhead. He wields the gun, shooting wildly, achieving precision that could only be credited to his manic state.

All of this is so familiar to him, like he is possessing his own body and operating on autopilot.

Like he has been here before, hunting for his man, knowing that he was walking himself towards a burial ground that had yet to be dug.

The cacophony rattling in his ears demands that he prove himself. Prove his worthiness. Prove his efficiency. Prove the fact that he could kill him. He could bring him to his knees, and if not, he would fulfill the rotten promise that he gave to his master: your brother will suffer at the hands of humans.

Regrettably so, Legato Bluesummers was mortal, despite his demonic will.

Regardless of what happens, today, an angel learns how it feels to to be human, by committing a mortal sin.

Legato brandishes his weapon as he moves through the dense mist, looming, that stoic smile twisting into an awful grin when finally, finally, he locks eyes with the subject of his deep seeded ire. (Perhaps it is fortunate that his shot missed; he wants Vash to look at him. He wants to see his exquisite misery.)

Faux joy vanishes, replaced with his stoic gaze, the webbing of his threads already laid over the landscape, waiting.

" It's over. It was over the moment I arrived,

Vash the Stampede. "