Just one day without the drama of the fight would be okay in his book! A day when he could happily glut on a 'sack' full of donuts ['sack' being a relative standard of measurement determined by his mood of the day], crash down on a stone wall somewhere, warmed under the heat of the sun [or better yet, in a sun 'circle!] to nap peacefully, or perhaps do nothing at all, feet kicked up, arms behind his head and eyes closed, ignorant to the world beyond his lids!
Striving to clench a lazy day like that was perfectly acceptable - actually OBTAINING it was another struggle entirely.
Alas, such was the folly of having such an unbelievable price on his head. Everyone and their dog sought a taste of that incredible prize. Hope was a sorry counter to reality, but they 'hoped' they had the skills necessary to achieve what had, up until that point, become the impossible.
And it was still 'impossible' being that he remained 'free.' Not unscathed, however. FAR from it.
He’d been doing good until the heat of adrenaline began to stagnate and cool, transforming the numb aftereffects of battle into a blazing something or other. His body seemed composed of concentrated pain, bruises on top of bruises, blood dribbling from what felt to him to be a hundred thousand uncomfortable paper cuts in all the wrong places.
Yes, there absolutely was a right and wrong place to suffer such afflictions! For example: the cuts at Vash's knuckles kept breaking open as he gingerly peeled the stocking off his feet. Or SOCK as the peasants called them. …. at least he hadn’t broken any toes. He hadn’t broken any bits at all!
So far as he was concerned, that was a point for team Humanoid Typhoon!
He let out the breath that he totally KNEW he’d been holding [the burning lungs was one small indication that he should likely inflate those things with the oxygen necessary to keep on keeping on], letting the stocking fall to the dirt at his feet.
So what did he learn today?
Probably shouldn't have done the 'thing.'
He learned that his head made an odd hollow sound when it bounced off the ground. And that he might, inexplicably, house a choir of mice up there, as loudly as they were twittering afterwards.
He wiped at his bloody lip with the back of his hand, now suddenly contemplating how the heck he was now supposed to pull his boots back on? He leaned back against the palms of his hands, one 'organic,' one metallic, eyes gradually falling on something that---
---- well, one thing wasn't like the other, tha twas for sure.
His eyes drifted left. They drifted right. There was no power source attached to it. To his naked eye, it looked to be just the pod, like it had dropped from no where right there at that very moment, conveniently situated for him to discover.
He swallowed, mouth suddenly painfully dry.
That sounded like a Nai trap, if he'd never heard one. But---
Well he couldn't help himself. He stood, cautiously pacing forward, holding his boots in one hand, the other carefully resting on the holster of his gun.