#thr 2 amoirsetpacis

[deadlydevotion]

Legato can't force himself to move more then to pry the cord from his arm, can't make himself get up and go over to what's left of Vash and Knives. He can't make himself look, knowing they're already gone and one of them was very very much due to him. Him and the gun currently in his hand.

Even if he could make himself go to the corpses of the two people he cared about he couldn't touch them. How could he force himself to put his hands on them after everything? All he can do is sit, breathing finally evening out a little, and stare blankly at his bloody hands in his lap. Tears carve a continuous, silent track through the dirt on his face.

There's a tiny part of him that's grateful he's not sitting here alone. That Wolfwood is here too even if it won't last. He won't care to make it last. Legato will be alone until Knives comes back, with no one who cares enough to bother checking on him. The house will be silent and likely empty and it will be his own fault. What other friends has he made? Which of the others from his own world or the adjacent one will spare a moment to bother thinking about the monster in a thin, human skin that he knows they all see.

Not a damn one and it's his own fault.

God he wishes Midvalley were here. Or Elendira. Someone.

He watches the bodies fade with an empty feeling in his chest that might just open up and consume him whole and starts slightly when Wolfwood finally speaks.

Legato blinks down at the bloody Colt in his hand for a half second before turning it around and pressing the handle into Wolfwood's palm. He doesn't speak.

All he can do when Vash clings onto the front of his hoodie is loop his other arm around his shoulders to keep him tucked up against him. His cheek presses to his hair and he opens his mouth, wanting to say something, anything, to assure him it's not his fucking fault but he can't get it out in time. That heartbeat gives a few more pitiful little flutters before it stills entirely, those feathers burn into nothing, and the figure in his arms goes limp.

He barely registers the horde's final desperate attempt to descend upon them. It doesn't matter, anyway. They disappear into nothing. Wolfwood's ears are ringing and he can only vaguely process that Legato is still there, and he's saying something but it sounds like garbled static. Wolfwood doesn't say anything to him. He turns his nose into Vash's hair, eyes screwing shut.

The body is still warm. Wolfwood hugs him like it'll be enough to will that heartbeat back to life. In the back of his mind he knows that it's temporary, Vash and the others will return soon enough, but he thinks, in that moment, that he understands the pain, grief, and horror that Vash had felt when he died, too, back on that desert planet.

A shaking breath, one that makes his lungs burn. He gets a mouthful of the smell of death and rot; something he's so used to makes him feel horribly nauseated now, in this moment. Wolfwood's dimly aware that he's trembling. A weak, pathetic little noise bubbles up in the back of his throat, but he's otherwise silent.

When he finally comes up for air the other bodies are flickering, pixelated at the edges, fading. Even if Wolfwood could bring himself to let go of Vash, it's not like he could do anything to keep those bodies there. He doesn't want to look at them at all.

Wolfwood looks at Legato again. He's too numb to be angry. His eyes catch sight of the familiar gun in his hand.

"...Hand it over," he says, demands, his voice rough and strained. Wolfwood manages to pull one hand away from Vash's body—which he knows is going to disappear soon, too—and holds it out. Usually he'd just grab it from him himself, but all the fight has left him.

[deadlydevotion]

Its like having a strange new sense, something that marks out the bright pulsing energy of his prey. He follows the feeling, splitting away from the tide of other corpses to slip through streets he doesn't know after the tempting sense like a dog tracking a blood trail. It helps that he can spread his threads out over such a long distance, searching, searching, searching.

Vash thinks he can get away. Maybe from the others, the horde of those killed by his hand, if not his intent. He can't escape Legato, not when he has no other leash to hold him back. He doesn't even think of his Master, its not important. All that matters is finding Vash and breaking him.

There's a brilliant energy ahead, running from the others and blocking their way with rubble. Always such a refusal to kill, even those already dead. Pathetic. He reaches out with his power and snaps those other pursuer's necks, letting them crumble to nothing. This is his prey. No one else's.

The Stampede's senses are as keen as ever, though the Plant that spins around to face him, aiming a different, clunkier gun at Legato's face, is not the one he's hunting. Oh its Vash the Stampede alright, just not the one he's after.

He smiles, head tilted so what remains of his bangs covers the left side of his head. The ends are dipped in red, leaving a thin, delicate trail of blood over his cheek.

"Well well, what do we have here? You're not who I was looking for, but somehow this is almost as good." He stalked closer, watching Vash with his one gold eye burning bright and manic. "I suppose I can pass the time by bringing you torment to match the other's. Tell me, do you know why we're all here?"

His threads snaked out, seizing control of the Plant's legs, rooting him to the spot. He wasn't going anywhere any time soon.

@blankticket

@amoirsetpacis

★ --;; 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 @deadlydevotion

[deadlydevotion]

Gold eyes are so wide the orbs themselves might just fall out and roll away and Legato would bless the loss of vision. He wouldn't have to stand here helpless and watch as the corpse of his friend - the one he shot a hole straight through, the one who's blood is sticking to his skin - wraps fingers around the throat of the man he loves more then anything. The fingers on his own neck, wrapped around the front and back to keep him still and limp in the way only he himself knows affects him this way, tighten.

"Watch. You did this. I have to protect him." His own voice hisses in his ear.

'Take care of yourself,' Knives tells him and the scream echoing in his head tries to tear free of his throat. Its caught and held by the hand blocking his airway and only a faint wheeze escapes but he does his best to scream along with Stampede.

He can see the twisted logic of the Revenant, the need to protect his Master from anything that could taint him. He can see how his other self would see him as eroding that which makes Knives so far above them. He can see it and he hates that he understands even as Knives' eyes roll back in his head and tense muscles twitch before stilling, going limp and quiet in the corpse's grip.

And then Stampede charges, slams into them both, taking all three of them to the ground with another explosion of feathers and wings. Breath suddenly finds its way back to his lungs only to get slammed out again as he's thrown against the ground but those fingers are off his neck so he shakes off the back spots at the corners of his vision and kicks out, trying to free himself from the mass. It's not nearly as effective as he'd like, not while his whole body is shaking violently, not while he's half blind by tears.

The Colt is still in his hand, cord attached to it digging into his arm and the limb below the elbow has long gone numb.

He kicks again, struggles against the hold, grabs the cord hanging from his arm and yanks.

"Gun-" he wheezes, then reaches his threads into himself, forces a full breath. "Your gun!" He all but shrieks, batting aside the threads that try to wrap around him. There's no one left for him to protect now, only himself and Stampede against the undead monster. How long will it be before he tears them both apart too?

"Yes Vash, your gun! You've killed me once, what's one more time?" The Revenant laughs, equally as pinned, equally as unable to fight his way out of the feathery pin. He's hardly even trying, just enjoying the horror he's wrought. "What's three times even? Kill both of me, it would be a mercy! Why leave the pathetic pretender to suffer while his little friend and Master are dead? Put us out of our misery! Two more shots to the head while we're pinned! Scatter our brains across the pavement!"

"Shut up!! Shut the fuck up!! You're not me!! I won't be you!! You killed them!!" Legato screams and claws at the feathers to try to get at his undead doppelganger, gun in his hand immediately forgotten in his grief-terror-rage. If he can just kill it, smash that face as easily as putting a fist through a mirror, maybe he won't have to be that. Maybe he won't see this thing he'd become in his dreams. Unlikely but he can damn well try, if only Vash would let go-!

@amoirsetpacis @punisheye

Even with Little Vash's abrupt exit, there's still almost too much going on, or maybe it just feels that way because Knives is avoiding processing the crumpled pile of of red on the ground or thinking about why Legato and his brother are now covered in so much crimson. His heart torn between taking solace in Spirale's unique form of reincarnation and the younger plant's warning to not trust it's reliability.

For better or worse, the Revenant's rant ends up being an anchor for Knives to focus on. Each word is a dagger in his heart. None of it is unjustified, and the plant finds himself at a loss for words. A state made worse by the living Legato's quiet pleas whispering in his mind. He has no apology sincere enough for the dead, and no way to aid the living.

Then that pile of red begins moving. It stands, and staggers towards him with no will of it's own. Even if he'd realistically never arrived early enough to save the younger plant, guilt and frustration still causes his guts to churn uncomfortably. If only there had been something he could do. But, there wasn't, and now there was nothing he could do to stop his quickly approaching end.

As slowly cooling fingers wrap around his throat, his gaze shifts past the corpse's blank face to the living Stampede, and a choked noise of despair bubbles out of his throat and forces it's way past the unfeeling hands. The plant knows that look intimately. It isn't quite as violent as a Last Run, but it is unmistakably the decay that threatens to come for all of them. How long does his brother have left? Hours? Minutes? Either way his twin is far past the point of no return.

I should have stayed in bed, Knives thinks to himself, but immediately regrets it. Even if, objectively, his attempt at interfering was only ever going to result in providing another corpse for the pile.

His end almost certainly guaranteed, Knives spends his last moments smoothing out the edges in any way he can. Hoping the living Legato is still listening, Knives directs a few stray thoughts his way with a glance. 'I'll be back,' he promises. 'Take care of yourself, I'll be back in a day.'

Then his attention turns back to his decaying twin. Given the lack of reply earlier, he's not sure how much of a connection they still hold with the state he's in, but Knives doesn't dwell on it. Instead, he spends his last few fading moments shouting reassurances down that tattered mental link. Vague statements promising that everything will be okay, and that they'll recover from this.

Even if the words don't make it through, he hopes that their warmth will at least leave an impression on the other plant, and provide some comfort in Vash's last moments. If nothing else, they let Knives feel like he contributed something as his consciousness fades and his body slacks until he's just as lifeless as the corpse strangling him.

[deadlydevotion]

Legato's eye is locked on the older, decaying Stampede, watching his eyes widen as he absorbs what's standing in front of him, what horrific nightmare fuel has crawled out of Hell to haunt him in the physical realm. The smile that stretches across his face is unhinged and manic, delighting in the horror he inspires.

It's not that far off from the grin the living Legato had given him, nearly two months ago in the flower shop.

"I don't know what better you could be referring to," he hums to the younger without taking his eye off the older, watching the barrel of the Colt sway with the shaking of his hand. "The dead don't change, they're dead after all. If Master Knives has changed well... I'll be sorely disappointed to find out." His grip shifts again from the younger Stampede's hair to his shoulder as Legato circles around behind him, leaning over him in a way that can only be described as predatory, even as his gaze never once leaves the slowly rotting form before them.

"You did bring me here, brought all of us here. All the people you failed to save and one you didn't even try to. How does it feel, knowing that every single person who suffers today suffers because of you alone?" He chuckles, low and grating, as blood continues to drip from what's left of his face and now lands on the blonde's shoulder, overlayed on top of the brighter red of his jacket.

"It took so much just to make you grant me my rest, what will it take this time? Is your little doppelganger's life worth more then my own? Will you let him die while you tremble there, too horror-struck to move?" That bulky gun aimed at the elder Vash is twirled around, tucked under the younger's chin while Legato remains leaning over him, unmoving but for his smile growing, his threads coiling to hold the elder's trigger finger perfectly still. Just in case. "Ah, but I think I just want to see the look in your eyes as you watch him die~"

The younger pulls the trigger.

It clicks empty at the same time as another voice rings out from the same direction the elder Vash had come, the same voice as the revenant before them but raised in sharp denial rather then a low, malicious purr.

"VASH!!" Another Legato, the exact spitting image of the one before them only lacking the mortal wound, staggers a little when the chamber of the blonde's gun clicks uselessly. It doesn't help that he's breathing hard, disheveled from running from the hordes of dead he has no way of dealing with. He'd headed for this pocket of calm without thought, only to feel his own threads spread out over the area. Dread had called him to investigate when the pocket didn't move and he's been vindicated in that feeling.

If only the vindication wasn't washed away in the tide of horror he feels, face to face with what he knows in his bones is his future. That creature, cracked into so many pieces it's a miracle the thing is still human shaped, is going to be him one day. He stands frozen where he'd stopped, the revenant giving him a lazily curious look past the irritation at the interruption and the lack of a bullet in the chamber.

"Now, what sort of gunman leaves himself with no bullets?" The revenant asks slowly. "And what pathetic version of myself calls out for Vash the Stampede? Are you truly so wretched that you'll find attention in our sworn enemy?"

The living, breathing Legato knows he should be doing something, acting, making some sort of move but all he can manage is staring, wide-eyed at the monster he'll become and a rough, half strangled "Don't touch him."

@blankticket @amoirsetpacis

Tears are blinked back in surprise, terror-struck heartache momentarily jolted away, as Legato announces the arrival of Vash the Stampede. He's here. He'd barely heard the loud echoes of heavy boots, awareness having been numbed with freezing panic.

Now sensation returns, and a flood of mixed emotions sweeps through the younger Plant's heart at once, his shared face framed by his puppeteer's fingers.

Vash has come to the rescue, nevermind the black line trailing down his nose and his stammered negotiation. The sight of him alone is at once blessing and terror; the younger Stampede clings to the denial of sin like a lifeline. The older Vash will know what to do in the face of overwhelming power, because he resolved his fight with Legato without being the one to land that grotesque lethal shot.

Voices of loved ones echo in his head— Meryl, shouting behind elevator glass: Vash, don't go, it's a trap! Wolfwood's shared memory, overlapping with the present: What are ya doin' here? Ya got more important battles to fight right now. His predecessor, affirming their way of life: You don't need bloodshed to change things.

Despite the terror and the guilt, he forces on a smile.

"It's gonna be okay," the puppet promises, as his betraying fingers pull back the hammer of his gun. He's unsure of who it is, exactly, he's speaking to.

Peace Bringer is completely empty. With Vash's manner of fighting, it'd be too dangerous to carry any chambers loaded. But he's not sure if the other two here know that, that this analogue for himself has also been rendered toothless.

It could buy the other Vash the chance to do whatever he needed to do to neutralize this maddened revenant. His lost-tech fingers, subtly, twitch once at the fingertips. It's the only part of him left under his own control, the signal made in his predecessor's peripheral vision. There isn't much to work with, and the element of surprise would only work once.

But once could be all they need.

"Vash. Your brother—he's on his way here. He n'I, we were gonna meet up." It's a lie intended for Legato's ears, one Vash is running with from his other self; he needed to make the most of whatever advantage and bluff they could use. Eyes slide along to the side, trying to get his string-puller's attention.

"He's changed, for the better. Like you, Legato." Knives won't let you do what you're doing. Stop this, now.

[deadlydevotion]

Standing next to the elder Vash the Stampede, staring across a space that seems infinite into the remaining eye of the monster he'll end up as one day, watching him force his friend to pull the trigger of his gun over and over again, Legato can't bring himself to move a muscle. He can feel the threads in the air, taste the minute electrical charge pulsing along them. He can see the spider's web and he knows what this undead version of him can do with it, intimately.

He's the only one not bound up in invisible silk, wrapped up for the spider to torment and devour at it's leisure. That won't last long.

Every time the Revenant shifts his grip on Vash, Legato wants to tear his hands off, rip him into pieces to deny what he sees. What everyone else sees when they look at him. This is why Wolfwood and Livio had come after him, this is why Stampede looked like he'd seen a ghost. A ghost and a monster, the human kind which Legato has always believed are the very worst of them. He'd known he wasn't a good person, this is just visible confirmation of how rotten to the core of his being he is, how deep the cracks go.

He doesn't want to be that. He knows it won't matter what he wants.

'If somethin' were to happen to you, I'd wanna protect you too.' 'You're no monster, Bluesummers.'

Vash has so much faith in him, that he can avoid being this nightmare thing. It will all be wasted if he doesn't do something now.

Everything happens at once.

Stampede fires, the Revenant's wire device shatters into pieces and he reels back from the force. Legato lifts his hand with a grit toothed snarl to match Stampede's, fury and terror in equal measure as his own threads snap out and twist with the monster's. He can't match this thing at full power, probably would be outmatched even with his own restored entirely. But he can buy time. For one of them.

"One minute!" He bites out as the hold on the blonde Typhoon shatters, his threads not able to break but instead nullify the Revenant's. "Pull yourself together Stampede, I can't free you both!"

The monster snarls and Legato can feel the spider's web close on him instead, yanking him forward between Stampede and the thing, aiming him as a human battering ram at Vash. It's the one time Legato allows himself to be grateful he's not enhanced like the Eye members. He's extra grateful that hand movements are just an extra measure of focus rather then required to manipulate the threads. As long as he's conscious, his hold should be maintained. For a minute.

"You dare turn our powers against me!? To save Vash the Stampede!? I'll make you tear his heart out for that!" The Revenant snarls, focus narrowing to keeping as much control over Stampede as he can while distracting the blonde with his friend's body as a weapon. Fine, if he couldn't make Stampede watch him force the younger to kill himself, he'd make him watch the living Legato tear the younger apart instead.

@blankticket @amoirsetpacis

Legato's eye is locked on the older, decaying Stampede, watching his eyes widen as he absorbs what's standing in front of him, what horrific nightmare fuel has crawled out of Hell to haunt him in the physical realm. The smile that stretches across his face is unhinged and manic, delighting in the horror he inspires.

It's not that far off from the grin the living Legato had given him, nearly two months ago in the flower shop.

"I don't know what better you could be referring to," he hums to the younger without taking his eye off the older, watching the barrel of the Colt sway with the shaking of his hand. "The dead don't change, they're dead after all. If Master Knives has changed well... I'll be sorely disappointed to find out." His grip shifts again from the younger Stampede's hair to his shoulder as Legato circles around behind him, leaning over him in a way that can only be described as predatory, even as his gaze never once leaves the slowly rotting form before them.

"You did bring me here, brought all of us here. All the people you failed to save and one you didn't even try to. How does it feel, knowing that every single person who suffers today suffers because of you alone?" He chuckles, low and grating, as blood continues to drip from what's left of his face and now lands on the blonde's shoulder, overlayed on top of the brighter red of his jacket.

"It took so much just to make you grant me my rest, what will it take this time? Is your little doppelganger's life worth more then my own? Will you let him die while you tremble there, too horror-struck to move?" That bulky gun aimed at the elder Vash is twirled around, tucked under the younger's chin while Legato remains leaning over him, unmoving but for his smile growing, his threads coiling to hold the elder's trigger finger perfectly still. Just in case. "Ah, but I think I just want to see the look in your eyes as you watch him die~"

The younger pulls the trigger.

It clicks empty at the same time as another voice rings out from the same direction the elder Vash had come, the same voice as the revenant before them but raised in sharp denial rather then a low, malicious purr.

"VASH!!" Another Legato, the exact spitting image of the one before them only lacking the mortal wound, staggers a little when the chamber of the blonde's gun clicks uselessly. It doesn't help that he's breathing hard, disheveled from running from the hordes of dead he has no way of dealing with. He'd headed for this pocket of calm without thought, only to feel his own threads spread out over the area. Dread had called him to investigate when the pocket didn't move and he's been vindicated in that feeling.

If only the vindication wasn't washed away in the tide of horror he feels, face to face with what he knows in his bones is his future. That creature, cracked into so many pieces it's a miracle the thing is still human shaped, is going to be him one day. He stands frozen where he'd stopped, the revenant giving him a lazily curious look past the irritation at the interruption and the lack of a bullet in the chamber.

"Now, what sort of gunman leaves himself with no bullets?" The revenant asks slowly. "And what pathetic version of myself calls out for Vash the Stampede? Are you truly so wretched that you'll find attention in our sworn enemy?"

The living, breathing Legato knows he should be doing something, acting, making some sort of move but all he can manage is staring, wide-eyed at the monster he'll become and a rough, half strangled "Don't touch him."

@blankticket @amoirsetpacis

[deadlydevotion]

It's over so suddenly, a gunshot from a weapon that's not the one in his hand catches the Revenant in the head, scatters his brains across the pavement as he'd wanted. He vanishes into nothingness and Legato can only think 'it's my turn next'. No one coming to save Stampede will spare him, not tangled in his feathers and covered in blood as he is. He relaxes, strained lungs dragging in air as fast as they can in the few moments they have left.

He's beyond surprised when Wolfwood grips his shoulder instead, a steadying, grounding grip in the midst of the sudden silence.

Or not quite silence, not when he can hear the approach of the hordes of undead that had chased him here in the first place. They're closing in steadily even as Stampede crumbles to pieces. Legato doesn't even try to move, to fight his way out of the hold of the feathers still thrashing, accepting the battering he's taking as far less then the pain he's owed for everything that's happened here. Only meets Wolfwood's gaze when he glances over and stays silent.

Silence as Stampede dies is the least he can do after his patently catastrophic attempt to help the younger.

It's only after the Plant falls still, after the alley goes truly silent with the lack of vengeful dead, that Legato finally moves to disentangle himself. He doesn't even notice the cord still wrapped around his arm until the pain registers when he tries to push himself up and he stares dumbly at it for several seconds before even trying to loosen the twisted metal.

After all that, Stampede's death is almost... anticlimactic. It leaves a strange disconnect in the wake of his burning presence. The man who refused to die no matter all that he'd been put through by humanity, betrayed by his own body in the end. Would he come back in the same state? Legato cannot imagine the agony of suffering through that death over and over again. Surely the Stars aren't that cruel?

How... funny. Almost two months ago Legato wanted nothing more then to die over and over again to test the extent of their 'mercy'.

"I'm... sorry..." He rasps, voice no steadier then his hands as all of him shakes. He can't look at Knives, at Vash, can't stand the blood on his coat, on his skin. There's a scream building up under his skin as it all comes crashing in at once but all that makes it out of his throat is a thin, high noise of panic and despair.

Take care of himself? How is he supposed to do that? How can he when this is his fault for existing, for being the way he is? How can he take care of himself when he knows the creature he's going to become, whether he wants to or not?

It was then, in the middle of Meryl's home as he tried to figure out a plan with Livio on who was staying, who was going, that it hit him: he needed to leave. Immediately. He needed to find Vash, because something was wrong, which— well, duh, but whatever it was? It was worse. Wolfwood's learned to trust his gut more often than not. So there had been a little tussle with Livio when he demanded to leave instead, 'til he booked it out the door and down the street to the parked motorcycle before the big guy could pin him.

Sometime ago Vash had tried to send him his location through the map phone app, not realizing that the link he sent made it so Wolfwood could see his location at anytime until he turned it off, which he never did, and that just seems way too convenient, but Wolfwood uses it to pinpoint where he is now unless he happened to ditch his phone. It's handy, he supposes, in case he needs to get Vash out of trouble that always inevitably finds him. He tears through the streets on the motorcycle (which he absolutely will not be returning in time), all the way back to Fibonacci.

There is the sickening stench of death. Blood and rot. The streets are oddly quiet, save for the roar of the motorcycle engine. It's only when he turns a few more sharp corners that he sees the mob of vengeful ghosts all crowding around— something. Slowly advancing through the alleys. And he hears screaming. Multiple voices, frantic and furious.

So he just plows through the mob, bodies mowed down and shredded beneath tires and sent every which way. Wolfwood barely has time to process the scene in front of him—two heads of blue hair, an explosion of feathers, bodies on the ground, so much blood—before he's lunging from the bike, spinning the Punisher around to angle it properly, and firing the moment his feet hit the dirt. The one he hits definitely seems to be the right one— one side of its head already missing, with an open skull and exposed brain. The bullet tears through the other side of its head in a burst of bone fragments and grey matter.

It's the only shot he needs. It's the only shot he can even safely fire because there are two other people on it that could get hit if he decided to just fill it with holes like he wants to.

Wolfwood spins around and fires off a few shots at the mob, which makes them back off hopefully long enough for him to then stumble off to where he sees Vash and— Legato? And the corpse of... Legato. Wolfwood doesn't say anything, his hand reaching out to grab Vash's shoulder. Something white shoots past his vision and he feels a stinging pain in his cheek, but it hardly registers, because now Wolfwood's looking at him: pale, shaking, sprouting dangerous feathers, covered in blood, some of it being his own. Legato, the living one, is wheezing, sweaty, covered in grime. And the bodies—

He notices Knives at first, with the dark finger-shaped bruises on the pale skin of his throat. When he sees the other body, with its coat red like the blood on the ground and messy blonde hair, he swears his heart stops (what's he supposed to tell Meryl, now? What about the other him? They're both so worried for him). Wolfwood wants to howl with rage, but instead he drops his Punisher to the ground and his knee hits the dirt, gathering Vash close to him with one arm while his free hand curls into Legato's shoulder. He's panting.

"C'mon. Breathe," he grunts, his hand smoothing out over Vash's back, rubbing against him through the fabric of his hoodie, and then he freezes.

It's something he's felt before, in his own chest and in a memory that wasn't his. The rapid skip-stall-start of a heartbeat. A failing heartbeat.

Vash is dying.

"Fuck— shit— no!"

And he knows, horribly, that there's no way to stop it. Wolfwood's getting blood all over his clothes. He vaguely registers that he's bleeding from a cut on his cheek. Wolfwood affords Legato, whose expression can only be described as despairing, one tired glance, then looks back down at Vash cradled in his arm.

"I gotta get you outta here," he says hoarsely.

[deadlydevotion]

Legato is covered in blood. His coat is soaking it up greedily like a dying man who's found an oasis in the desert, pristine white blossoming red like the petals of a flower. His ears are ringing and a distant, detached part of him isn't sure if it's the shock or the fact he just fired a very heavy gun in an enclosed alleyway.

He can't scream. He can't even breathe, every muscle of his body feeling frozen solid in a sheet of ice. All he can do is watch the thin trickle of smoke rise from the barrel of Stampede's gun as Vash- his friend, that was his friend he'd shot and killed him so close so close his blood was all over Legato it was never coming out-- falls to the ground with an unceremonious thud.

He's killed so many people. Watched as he forced them to kill friends and family, to rip their own hearts out of their chests, twisted them up into complicated knots just to see how they'd break. He's killed people he knew were entirely innocent, contenting himself with giving them the escape from life that he'd been denied.

Their blood never burned, the sight of their body never imprinted itself on his retina, the empty thud of their corpse never stuck on a loop in his ears.

His hands are steady in the hold of the monster as he lowers the gun, the ache in his arm from the cable cutting off his circulation is a distant hum. He's not sure if the screaming he hears is someone else or the noise he's making in his head. He doesn't even register the hot tears that spill down over his cheeks.

Feathers erupt and bat him away, to be caught by the grip of the creature as they back away from Stampede. The Revenant's face is gleeful, delighted as he watches the reactions to his handiwork. It's only when his gaze shifts to Knives that the manic smile drops away, replaced by a wide eyed, wild stare.

"My loyalty, my devotion... it meant nothing to you. Nothing at all. I am no less a vicious spider among butterflies then any other human. Why... why does he have what I was never allowed to reach for!? Why now when it is so far too late!? I am dead and gone, body rotted away and eaten by worms! Why do you see him!?" A hand reaches up to wrap around the living Legato's throat, squeezes a faint wheeze from lungs only just remembering they need to draw air. "Why does he deserve what I never did!?"

'Knives,' comes a small, utterly broken voice in the Plant's mind, Legato not left with the will to manage more of a flex of his power then that. 'Knives please...' Legato doesn't even know what he's begging for, only that Knives is the last safe bastion in a world that's ripped itself apart in less then a minute and like a child he wants for nothing more then to run and hide in the only arms he feels safe in.

He wants to go home. He wants to wake from this nightmare back in bed, let Knives soothe it away with his weight and warmth.

Why did he even wake up this morning? Or any morning? Why did he make Knives spare him in that moment he thought he'd given up all will to live? If he'd died there like the rest of the tainted vermin this wouldn't have happened at all.

Movement catches his eye as red shifts and stands, red like flowers, red like blood, red like the coat the corpse is wearing. There's a hole blown clear through his chest, shattered ribs and minced organs visible as empty eyes turn to Knives. Legato lifts his new meat puppet and has him advance.

"Don't worry Master, I'll save you from the taint of this filth. No unworthy hands will touch you again." The monster focuses all his will on the two, letting his hold on Legato fall in favor of fingers pressed into places on the back of his neck that instantly evokes limp obedience, too well-trained to immediately resist and too far in shock to manage his powers. Even Stampede is released in favor of holding Knives still so Vash's dead fingers can wrap around his throat and squeeze tight.

"It's alright, you can join me Master, let me bask in your presence again."

@plantfell @blankticket @amoirsetpacis

Everything happens so fast. It's almost like being in the eye of a hurricane, everything happening around him, but not quite touching him. It's so damn frustrating. Even after almost five months, only a fraction of his power has been returned to him. Barely a fraction. In the grand scheme of his life time, it wasn't that long ago that his mere presence would have been bring the fight to a standstill. Now all the pawns continue to dance around him, almost all ignoring his presence.

All of them, except Legato.

Both humans call out to him, new and old mixing together in a nauseating harmony. It reminds him that the bloodied doppelganger, though he may not be the Legato he's come to be so intimately familiar with, he's still the one he created. Raw power isn't necessarily what he needs to bring to the fight.

Or maybe there's nothing he has to offer. Before he can fully form a thought on what to do or say next, he feels the tug of wires pulling at his limbs. As he painfully resists the control, an almost forgotten anger flares up in Knives' chest, and the plant glares at the Revenant with the rage he failed to call upon when he first arrived. How dare a mere human so flippantly take away his agency. How dare that human be one supposedly loyal to him! Biting words bubble up in Knives' throat like bile, but they die in his throat as the gunshots pull his attention to Legato, his Legato, and Little Vash. Two reminders of the fact that his rage and indifference is the root cause of this horrible play. It's not the solution.

"You're right, Legato!" Knives shouts as he tears his eyes away from the terrible scene unfolding to give his attention fully to the Revenant. There's some doubt that he even still wants it, but if there's even the slightest chance that it might help, he'll give it freely. If not to completely stop the attacks, then to at least distract the ghost and provide time or an opening to the others caught in his webs.

"Your so called inferior reflection taught me that. He showed me the strength of your loyalty. I didn't see you before, but I see him now, and I see you, too. Stop this fight, and we can go home together! I can show you what we've built, what you've always deserved to have."

[deadlydevotion]

As this younger looking Vash begs, pleads, and cries Legato only chuckles. Of course he won't just leave the Vash he knows alone, why would he do something like that? He'd been dragged from sweet oblivion for the express purpose of hunting Vash the Stampede, of course he was going to cause both of them as much joint torment as he could.

That was the only purpose left to his existence after all.

"Ah, here comes the man of the hour," he says as heavy, thudding footfalls echo in the quiet alley. "Your timing is truly impeccable, Vash the Stampede." He doesn't bother to turn, not even as he hears the light click of that Colt leveled at his head. It's such a familiar sound after all, one that's not a threat even if he's left Vash free to move for the moment.

"Why would I release a perfectly good tool? He didn't even have the sense to fear me, practically tripped into my hands." He does release his grip on the Little Vash's chin, only to thread his fingers into bright blonde locks instead.

"I would like to check on my Master. It's been so long since I last saw Him. But unfortunately, I have a more important purpose at the moment." He turns to face the black haired Vash, tilting his head to be sure he can see the results of his labor. It was such a good shot after all, an instant, glorious death.

"Master will understand. After all, my service would have ended with my death. You did such a good job of ensuring it was glorious and final. Or it was meant to be. You've pulled me from my rest and I'm rather irritated by that. Don't you have any respect for the dead, Vash the Stampede?" He tugs on the threads he's woven into the younger's body, raising his gun to point at the elder.

"I've woken you once, dreaming saint, I wonder what it will take to do so again? How many pieces can I break you into?"

@blankticket

@amoirsetpacis

➠➠➠➠➠➠

As Vash stares at, into, through this victim personally executed by the Humanoid Typhoon, he swears he can hear the killing shot itself fired, distantly.

The Plant healer is stunned into silence, mouth hanging ajar in horror as Legato explains just how his mortal injury had come to be. Even with those big orange lenses to help hide his eyes, it's possible to see Vash process the truth of the situation. July, Jeneora Rock, Legato Bluesummers. The masses of the vengeful undead and the impossible bore of the shot in the puppeter's head—everything lends to the synthesis of a terrible understanding. He's the last one in on the joke, after all.

Just like that, Legato severs the divide between nightmare and reality for good; now seamless, Vash undergoes a full-body shudder of revulsion caused by pure instinctive terror, bodily response an acknowledgement of what has been, and what's to come.

"That can't be true." This can't be real. Even reduced to this, he can't bring himself to accuse his own friend of telling lies, of being a liar.

The denial is flimsy defense, the syllables sounding broken; his will, although yet unbroken, wavers. "It can't. He wouldn't—Vash didn't do that. No. No, it's—it can't, it isn't—it's not the way you say he's done it. He didn't mean to."

He can't even shake his head. July had been an accident, Jeneora Rock had been an accident, Legato couldn't POSSIBLY have been killed by his predecessor. The way the pieces align—(Bluesummers talking about pushing Vash into violence, about Livio and Wolfwood assaulting him ostensibly without reason, everything, everything)—it'd make him collapse, if Legato hadn't woven total control throughout his body.

It's easy to let the fear spiral fast. The pacifist's mind is unsparing in possibilities: he sees now that if Legato wanted him to die, he could make his lungs stop moving, his heart stop beating, make Peace Bringer goodnight-kiss the underside of his chin. But then he would break, too quickly at least, and be of no use.

Vash is going to see him like this, weaponized against himself.

"No," he quietly sobs the word, eyes quick to water. Mercifully, tears cloud his vision. He has barely enough control over himself to swallow, voice on the verge of breaking.

"Don't do this. He won't hurt anyone. Leave him—alone, please, let it out on me. Please!"

➠➠➠➠➠➠ @amoirsetpacis @deadlydevotion

[deadlydevotion]

Vash yanks him off his feet and swings him around like a ragdoll and its only the Revenant's intimate knowledge of his- their body's lithe grace and range of movement that keeps him from tumbling entirely. He's moving again not of his own accord within a moment, yanked along like a puppet on their invisible strings.

He's not in control of anything here, he doesn't even have control of his own body and the thought is ice water in his veins, catches in his throat and makes him choke on his next breath. He's fought so hard for control over everything but the master he chose and now he's again no more then a doll for someone else to play with.

"Knives!" "Master!" Identical voices call as Knives descends, one cut off with the crack of metal to the side of his head while the other seizes the opportunity.

"I can't free more then one at a time," the living Legato shouts, explanation for his attack as quick as he can manage. A blow to the skull might rattle the Revenant but he doubts it will keep him down. He's proven right when he's yanked into motion again, darting between the blonde and the undead as Stampede finally moves. "Vash has a minute-!" He's cut off as his jaw snaps shut with an audible 'crack!' of teeth.

"You don't deserve to address our Master so intimately! You deserve nothing!" The Revenant shouts and grabs Legato by an arm, flinging him away-

Straight into the path of the cable attached to the Colt. Right arm outstretched, it snags and twists around his forearm with the force of the throw, digging in hard enough Legato winces even as he snatches the cable to reel in the gun. The Revenant turns and snarls, focusing on laying his threads thick in the air to catch at everyone, Knives now included.

Legato, still bound by the other's will, settles the Colt in his hand, pivots, brings the gun up and Vash is too close he's too close Legato hardly needs to aim and he can't even scream a warning with his jaw wired shut-

The gun fires, trigger pulled once, adjust for the kick, twice. Center of mass, lung shot, slow bleeding death, choking on blood, not quick, not instant, not clean. No no no nonono Vash he was trying to protect for once in his life he wanted to protect-!!

"Suffer! All of you suffer!! This is your fault Vash the Stampede!! Your doppelganger will die, this inferior reflection of me will never deserve my Master's name, Master will not choose you over me again!!" The Revenant shrieks wildly, yanking on threads to contort his victims violently.

@blankticket @plantfell @amoirsetpacis

It takes his brother's second attempt at contacting him for Knives to jump into action. Worrisome as it was to hear his brother call out, only to receive silence when he returned the call, there were plenty of ways to excuse the odd parts of Vash's first attempt at contact. Maybe he got distracted, maybe he misjudged how long he had to use his powers. His brother had his phone number, if it was important, there were ways to get in contact with him.

Excusing the strange distant quality of Vash's voice when he calls out wondering where Knives is the second time, is much harder to excuse. Within minutes, the plant is out the door and soaring through the skies above the wards looking for his brother. Periodically he calls out in hope of a response, but ultimately he finds Vash before he ever hears anything from him.

As high up as he is, it's difficult for Knives to fully discern what is going on. There's four figures surrounded by countless more figures. It's obvious that two of them are Vash and Little Vash, and Knives would recognize that blue hair anywhere. Except, there's two nearly identical heads of blue hair. The plant's heart sinks as he realizes what that must mean. It's a delicate situation, he needs time to think and come up with a plan-

Bang!

The skull on the shoulder of one of the Legato's shatters and he shouts something at the Vash that shot him. Then the other Legato lunges at Little Vash. For one short moment, Knives hopes it Legato coming to his brother's doppelganger's aid, but it's quickly apparent that's not the case. Damn it! There's no time to think, he has to act now.

Without another thought, Knives dives towards the ground and lands with a flourish of feathers which quickly dissipate as soon as his feet are back on the ground. Closer now, it's clearer that the situation is more dire than he knew. It's almost difficult to find one point to focus on. The gun pressed again Little Vash's chin, the state of his Vash, the state of the relevant Legato and his mutilated skull.

"What the hell is going on here?" Knives tries to find that part of him that found it so easy to berate Legato in their world. To project an aura of dominance and put an end to the conflict with his influence over the human alone. His words, however, lack bite. Oh, he still has a commanding, barking voice, but worry is the dominating emotion, not superiority. Still, Knives tries. "Stand down, Legato."

@blankticket @amoirsetpacis @deadlydevotion

[deadlydevotion]

Well now isn't that an interesting reaction? The thing that had once been Legato Bluesummers cocks its head slowly, watching the shift from fear to relief back to fear again. This soft little version of Vash the Stampede, a squishy little grub to the cockroach that he knows, knows him and recognizes him but didn't fear him on first sight. How odd. Fun though, to watch relief curdle into terror. Delightful even.

"I wouldn't worry about them," he says pacing closer and then starting to circle the Plant with slow, even steps. He keeps his right side angles toward him, still watching him with madness coiling in the depths of his eye. "I'm not interested in sharing my prey, no matter that they think they deserve a piece. It's only right that I get first claim after all..." he stops now in front of Vash, shifts his stance and flicks his bangs back.

His left eye is gone, along with a good third of his head. Ripped out and blown away by a heavy caliber gunshot, close range. There's chunks of white bone sticking out among the grey matter and blood oozes from the gaping hole to slowly pour over his face. What hair is left to cover that side is sticky and matted with blood and more oozes from between his lips as he smiles toothily.

"I believe I have the delightful distinction of being the only person who's life was ended by Vash the Stampede's own hand of his own accord. Jennora Rock and July brought hundreds of thousands of deaths but mine? Personal. And now that he's dragged me back from my rest I'm quite eager to make him suffer all over again." Threads coil through the rest of the Plant's body, holding him still as the revenant leans in and takes hold of Vash's jaw, grip gentle despite the boiling, manic, hate under his smile.

"You are the perfect tool to make him suffer. What better way to inspire agony then to turn this pretty little doppelganger against him? How many times do you think I can make you shoot him before he actually does something about it?" Vash's arm raises against his will, his gun held loose and casually as Legato smiles and smiles.

@amoirsetpacis @blankticket

He’s on high alert, nerves frayed, but the sight of his friend brings him immediate relief. It shows in the way that he lets his shoulders lower, slowly lets go of the breath he was holding tight in his chest.

Knowing the two of them are still surrounded by danger, the pacifist's grip on Peace Bringer remains, but he's mindful to point the gun toward the ground, off to the side.

"Bluesummers," he breathes, head turning briefly to survey their surroundings. "C'mon. Let's move, it's not safe—"

What?

Confusion and fear flash onto Vash's face as he snaps his attention back to the revenant. He's not yet totally in on the joke that Legato seems to find so amusing, but he does recognize this as a set-up, and himself as the punchline. Sweat runs down his temple.

Such a casually admitted desire to torment him causes a knife of dread to dig into Vash's gut. Taking any sudden moves would escalate the situation, and he's scared, so he stays where he is.

The younger Typhoon is yet to experience anything like Legato's abilities, apart from friendly and soundless conversation. The feeling of being unable to control his legs is, then, a background worry, albeit sharply growing with panic; it's a struggle to keep himself focused on the weaver's approach.

"You're." A beat of consideration, eyes tracing the line of blood on the phantom's face. Vash blinks. "Okay, you're hurt. There's a lot of—There's a big crowd after me, Legato, we gotta go. Please. I—I can help you, but we need to keep moving."

➠ ➠ ➠ ➠ ➠ ➠ @amoirsetpacis @deadlydevotion