kniv̶e̶s̶.̶

All Knives sees in those eyes is more wretched, undeserved pride. Rotted young and arrogant… Every human was the same to the last.

"…'Prefer'?"

The steel snake that had carved the long-grown bark from a great tree whips toward it again, slicing its body such that it soon wraps around a neat branchless log of it. Other tendrils splay outward to support the manipulation of it. Meanwhile, foliage topples over on the ground, a sound like breaking bones alongside final susurrations of leaves. Fleeing birds are lucky enough to have wings to take them away to safety, abandoning their nests for survival.

"You've told me that no one will come for you. Not even who you're picking flowers for." It's rather pitiful, for Chara to continue going on like this while refusing to submit to the reality of their situation. But they're quickly proving that the pity is wasted.

Ah, what a shame. They were nearly there. If only they were smart enough to recognize that God is in front of them, even going as far as to hear their prayers…

Only to see fit to reject Him when He's made terrifyingly incarnate.

"I will crush part of your body underneath this tree, trapping you there," the Plant says plainly, as though forecasting something more mundane than death, "It will hurt; you will suffer greatly. The night will be dark, and death will come slowly.

"Will you pray then, or do you prefer to do that now?"

… yeah. That’s a threat if Chara ever heard one. And they’ve heard a lot of threats.

“…”

They watch as Knives makes his little display with the tree — why is he allowed to have real knives, while they got stuck with a stupid wooden one? — without much outward reaction.

He’s trying to get them to react. Chara wont let it happen.

They promised Frisk — promised Asriel— that they wouldn’t kill, nor be killed, but this really puts a wrench in things.

Their fingers curl against the fallen petals.

“Yes. Very much so,” they answer, saving their snark for perhaps a more appropriate time, “malnourished children are especially susceptible to injuries.”

"So you don't know how to eat." Flat and caustic. Chara seemed poorly skilled at begging for their life. All that defiance for nothing now, a worthless and brief moment of outspoken pride that led them to this. "You don't know how to speak."

The figure continues to stand there, unbothered and uninterested in the sound of bark groaning as it sloughs off and falls. Under the hood, a condescending look to the ruined flowers in their hands. Plants that will never take their proper form again, simplified by violence, and yet still seized by greedy little hands.

And to think this human still sought to bleat out that they were discarded, unusable and without purpose. Then who were the flowers for?

"You don't know how to be loved." A bladed tendril lazily brushes against the ground nearby Chara, seemingly enticed by their provisionally intact Achilles tendons. A scoff. "You don't even know how to run.

"Do you know how to pray?" Humans tended to insist that they had such an option when faced with imminent death. Testing the faith of an abandoned child nearly felt redundant more than it was amusing. It's a piquant experience.

Here now was the most pitiable example of those insects his brother was ever-so-fond of; all alone, what were they willing to do to survive? Was having human pride worth everything?

"Recite, child. Any prayer will suffice."

Is this guy fucking serious?

Of course he is. Of course.

He must be a human from how cruel he treats the poor flowers; flowers that have never caused anyone harm. something that he only destroyed because Chara was enjoying them; just to see the reaction that the cruelty brings.

What a disgrace. It’s so funny!! Chara laughs, hard, hand coming up to press against their temple for moment as they collect themself.

FICHT >ACT ITEM MERCY

CHECK >GATHER FALLEN FLOWERS PLEAD

Little lithe hands reach out to collect the torn petals; even if they’ve been destroyed, their purpose snatched away, Chara can dry them and use them in decorating. They haven’t lost all use.

“Oh, please. Give me a break.

To answer your question, as stupid as it is, I am not being used by anyone at all. I am a discarded, angry little thing, that has no real use and no purpose. Will you continue to try and agitate me, or are you going to do something useful and get a fucking life?”

Knives doesn't bother continuing down this line of talk. Here he was, generous enough to play along with a child's words, only for them to call their own way of thinking "stupid". That much was alright (really, all panicking humans behaved the same), but did they have to be so noisy and crass about facing down an obvious mass murderer?

He steps forward, in preference for dirt over the matted carpet of forest-grass. It had felt like he was walking barefoot against warm veins; against something disgustingly alive. Those eyes finally trail away from Chara's own to pointedly stop where they're bandaged up.

"Human skin is fragile, isn't it?" A pair of tendrils rise from the dirt nearby, high up enough to snag against a tall tree. Slowly, smoothly, the knives scrape downward, peeling the bark with ease.

Khrrrrrrrrrrr...

Underneath, the wood exposed is patterned with scratchy tracks set into it by bugs and worms, festering and feeding off the in-between for years on end.

The tree's stripped, vulnerable, exposed, and hideous inside.

Their hand had been mere inches away from where the blades now tear at the flowers; cutting the petals and stems, haphazard, angry.

It could have been their fingers making the grass bleed red, instead of the decapitated flowers, if the blades had landed just slightly differently.

“. . .”

FIGHT >ACT ITEM MERCY

> CHECK

ATK ??? DEF ??? looks like you are in a Situation. good luck, pal.

No words have been exchanged. The man standing here — Chara assumes they are a man, though the look in their eyes is anything but human — doesn’t make a move. Red eyes border ice blue ones, and not a sound is spoken.

They can feel their awful traitorous heart pounding in their ears, and it’s driving them nuts.

“What —

What is the matter with you? I am picking the flowers! You do not destroy something that someone else is using! Can you not see? Do you not have eyeballs?”

Those eyes keep their steady, unrelenting glare into Chara, even while the tendrils prepare for another strike. Emphasizing the point of the little human's helplessness against something so divine, they raze more flowers. And then some.

In the rush forward and back, stems and roots and dirt join the airborne display of miniature destruction. All the hard work the plants had taken to grow, form, and bloom are destroyed in the span of a deep breath. The land is effortlessly tilled.

Then the blades seem content to rest in the dirt, shimmering leaf-shaped metal traps waiting to spring.

"What about you, then?" Knives' soft, unimpressed voice is hardly helped by the distance he keeps. It might as well be a mutter meant for himself. "Is someone else using you?"

-> @tornticket

They’re back to where they started.

Figures.

They weren’t able to find Vash after they were separated. They were glad to have found their home — or what’s left of it — but it’s still… upsetting.

They were starting to get used to living with a fa — with others again.

But. Vash will be back here, sooner or later. He knows where Chara will go when they’re frightened. They just need to have faith.

… for now, they focus on collecting flowers. The cold has finally been broken enough to where the germaniums have started to bloom. Red, purple, blue — they’re nice looking flowers, and Chara could grow them easily if they collect the seeds… they could show Vash, or Miss Aerith, or Watanuki…

So that’s where the child is now. Knee deep in the grasses outside mistwood, sorting through the blooming flowers…

Steel lines fire through the air, wires and blades whistling an inhuman note; they cut straight across the flowerbed, letting delicate petals fly. The confetti is particularly red. Not all of the flowers have been lost yet.

And yet this child hasn't made a move to run away.

Knives moves step by step, stopping a ways away, once his auditory super-sense picks up on their quickening pulse. Close enough. They're far enough away, but it's possible for them to make out a scrap of yellow fabric spilling out from the tight clutch of his fist.

The metal killers drag against the dirt, pulling back toward their host, before lazily curling up beside him as though to strike again haphazardly. The angel doesn't bother wasting breath demanding answers from such a strangely daring human.

When faced with death, they were capable of all kinds of terrible little miracles. This small one would be no different from the rest of them. Perhaps they've simply forgotten how to be afraid, have had no willing teacher until now.

A piercing set of eyes, sight unimpeded by the hood surrounding, glare into Chara.

@kyouufu

Metal whizzes through the air. Fast as though fired with a gunpowder kick, the ten disembodied blades aimed at Legato's head stay suspended in the air before him.

Denied their lethal strikes, the dulled daggers hang there with furious tension made invisible. If the puppeteer were to lose focus, they would pierce through in an instant.

Their host soon draws near on a chariot of metal tendrils sprouted from his back, hateful eyes set deep into the darkness of his hood. Knives had gifted the grace of nearly half a year to disloyal Legato Bluesummers, patiently awaiting any speck of culpability from his lieutenant for the sin he'd so brazenly committed.

The principle of mercy was that nothing should be made to suffer unnecessarily. It was only due to Vash's personal appeals to that sense of mercy that Knives had decided to wait this long, to bear the pain of unfulfilled vengeance. And all for what, Vash? Just for this pathetic human to pretend that he could keep his head down, to shirk responsibility from murdering a divine object of worship—and now to delay the steel-edged comeuppance he was due?

"Worthless human." Those eyes crave retribution, punishment, and something far worse than mere execution. "Miserable wretch. Who gave you the authority to kill him?"

#kyouufu #kyouufu 1

plantfell

"It's possible we didn't, but now we have something new to discuss," Knives states, clearly growing slightly more agitated as the other plant plays his games.

"The value and condition of my possessions is determined by me and me alone. Put it back where it belongs or request proper permission to do whatever it is you're planning to do with it."

Touchy. Did he strike a nerve? Over something as meaningless as this? A glint of amusement shows in the younger Knives' eyes, before he returns his attention to his latest hostage. With purposefully slow footsteps toward the shelf, he's in no hurry even as he obeys.

"However you feel about it, it's clear you haven't found the need to use it for its purpose. You've left it alone for some time, despite what it was designed for." If the dust was any clear indication. "Why is that?"

#plantfell 2

From here, it was hard to see exactly what was going on between Vash and Knives. And it was hard to strain his neck with those knives back at his throat, threatening to cut him open and leave him dead on the sidewalk. Wolfwood feels a bead of sweat roll down his temple, his teeth gritting as he tries to stay as still as he can.

Vash isn't talking. He's gone silent as the grave, stock still. The feathers that had embraced him are starting to pull away, and for once Wolfwood wobbles, loses his balance, and falls on his ass. A really fucking embarrassing display.

"What're you doin'—?!" Wolfwood pushes himself up from the cold ground, reaching over to grab Vash by the shoulder and that's when he sees it, the lights under his skin, crawling like webs and pulsing. And something's going on with his gun, now pointed at the ground.

He doesn't give a fuck about whatever Knives is saying about him, whatever deranged fucking rambling he's doing about humanity, because he's doing something to Vash and Wolfwood doesn't know what.

Hot fury is rising up faster, faster, threatening to boil over. He's unarmed, helpless against a Knives with barely a fraction of his power, but he wishes he could beat the fucker down where he stands.

And he's angry at himself. He should have ignored him—kept moving. Not thought about why he's so close to home in the first place.

"You got no right to put yer grubby li'l paws on him," he spits out. "Whatever yer doin' to him... let him go. Now."

He shakes Vash by the shoulder. "You... snap out of it already! Vash! Vash!"

@amoirsetpacis -> @tornticket

amoirsetpacis

★ --;; Everything feels-- cold. Like he'd been dunked at the bottom of the sea that spread out seemingly endlessly from the edges of the island, without the rest of his body. Even Vash's own breath feels muffled, damped by the infinite dark he's found himself in, alone. There's an ache still radiating deep in his bones, bright and hot, but that feels damped as well, like a dull ringing not just through his ears but the rest of him too.

He's been here before- wherever here is. He knows it, even though that memory too feels hazy around the edges, not entirely there., like grasping for something just out of reach. Where had-- where had he been? He had been somewhere, before here. Had to have been. Trying to find the memory sends ripples of pain between his temples, radiating behind his eyes, forces them shut against the ringing.

There are voices coming from somewhere; they're muffled, just like everything else save from the stinging pain in his head. Vash can feel himself move, even if he isn't moving; can feel his head turn, follow something, even if he isn't the one doing it. Is he? He can't see what's being followed, can't clearly hear what's being said, like listening to a conversation a few too many rooms away.

The Colt sits in his palm, Vash slowly come to realize. There's a weight that both is and isn't there, heavy and not. Something's wrong with it. What's wrong with it? His arm feels so heavy; was it loaded? No, that doesn't makes sense- even if it were loaded it wouldn't weight him down like this. Would it?

He'd been-- he'd been. Where? What had he been doing? He surely hadn't needed the gun, had he? Why--

Nick. Something was wrong with him. What was wrong? There had been a buzzing at his wrist. It's still there, incessant; the breath in his not-chest quickens, ragged, anxiety lightning through nerves that can't move his body any further than that, steeping in fear that grips lungs with both fists.

Slowly, like floating to the surface, all that burning beneath his skin comes back, the pounding in his head-- and then all at once, voices in his ears and the sun too bright and the chill of the winter air biting into his nose and ears and being jerked about by the shoulder. The feeling of being forced back into his body.

He hadn't-- this wasn't what he'd been doing, was it? What had he--

Foggy eyes do a fast once over of his husband as he comes back into focus, just there in front of him; that fear calms, settles infinitesimally around the tired corners of his eyes.

"Nick," he says quietly, voice hoarse but relieved. "You're okay." The Colt is in his hand and it is familiar and Nick is okay. There are still-- his feathers are still out, why were they-

Vash coughs, and black stains his chin, Wolfwood's shirt. This time he's completely in his own body as the black engulfs his vision, as the concrete comes up to meet him.

@tornticket > @punisheye

#punisheye #punisheye 3 #amoirsetpacis #amoirsetpacis 4 #sorry to leave you guys hanging on for like 25 days LOL #ty for thread feel free to conclude yourselves if youd like

The continued demands that the Punisher makes, dulled blade as he is, are mercifully taken in stride. He's an emotional creature digging his grave deeper out of the fear that ruled his heart; though even so, defiance could not be without consequence.

His god does nothing to assist him in catching the collapsing Plant. The sight is enough for him to feel hard-earned satisfaction. Leaving vengeance to Him was right and just. Now the whole world's blind.

"All because of you." Knives states casually, like it's some offhanded note. "I wonder... What do you have to say for yourself?"

Before the child of the Eye could respond, Knives puts a finger against his own lips to signal silence. The procession of knife-trails arc low, bending against the ground in anticipation of raising their god up and away from the scene.

"...To him, I mean."

With a smile, the angel flees the scene with power and grace and swiftness; there is a rush of curved steel in sunlight, the sound of metal on concrete, a calculated movement that soon removes him from yet another mid-day atrocity.

( -> @punisheye )

plantfell

Watching his doppelganger interact with the doll is a strangely fascinating experience. As different as they are, he can picture himself at a younger age looking just the same. It's odd seeing himself how others must have. Odd, but not nearly eye opening enough to result in any sort of self reflection.

"He and I are on good terms," Knives answers the question he believes the other implies, "And, as I said, there was an exchange. It wasn't one sided."

It takes a few shuffled steps before he fully processes the other's intent to leave. A knot begins to form in Knives' chest. A feeling it's been quite some time since he's truly felt: possessiveness.

"Where are you going?" He asks. Tonally, it hasn't changed much from how he was speaking just a moment ago, but there is a darker quality to it now. A certain sharpness reserved for those who displease him.

#plantfell 2 #my touys.....

Purposefully, Knives slows his steps before coming to a full stop, as though to say to his predecessor: I could have kept going, but I've decided it's worth dignifying you with an answer.

"I wasn't aware we had more to discuss," he says, feigning aloofness. His eyes are still downcast toward the crude doll of Vash.

"safe!" it chirps again, in the very same cadence, when his thumb rubs up against a cotton-swelled cheek.

"It's clearly broken, anyway." Not to mention dusty. Knives gives the doll an unceremonious shake to showcase it, his expression of disgust unchanged by the way it flops around at his mercy. ("happy!") "I'm doing us both a favor."

I stuck! Hep me? :(

He's filling up the entire box with water.

And not poking air holes in, either.

#out of character.#joke post.#non isola #teruvashy

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."

Impatient for the answer and curious besides, the younger Knives had risen from where he was sat to properly inspect the item in question.

His fingers handle the doll as though it is some alien object, capable of breathing or biting at any moment. As his fingers pinch its nubby blue left hand, he lifts it up higher to the light, away from the other trinkets.

Eyes narrow, teeth partly revealed in a displeased snarl. It looks… Nothing like his brother. Not at all the way he should be. It is a grotesque beady-eyed effigy of him, something rounded and soft and harmless. Manufactured. A miniature incarnation of everything wrong with him.

"He's willingly gifted you this?" His condescending disbelief is tinged with jealousy. Then, after a beat of silence, he readjusts his hold on it. Fingers nudging against its oversized head, the thing chirps "safe!", much to Knives' displeasure.

He says nothing, but is obviously taking the doll for himself, beginning to shuffle away toward his assigned quarters.

#yoink #plantfell 2

heartglory

Unhappy is certainly a mild way of putting how he's feeling. Fucking miserable, maybe. Or just furious. This place is wholly unfamiliar, he's known none like it on Earth, and everyone seems to be held captive by an elusive group of individuals that thought it amusing to strip him of his power and drop him in an unfamiliar land.

His wings work at least, but he can't do much of anything else. Heart Render is nowhere to be found, instead replaced by a useless plank of wood that had been promptly tossed into that massive pit.

Michael has spoken to no one since he's arrived. People seem happy enough to give him a wide berth. He's traveled far from his assigned quarters, off into a neighboring ward, and he's found himself in what appears to be a more residential area. He passes a café with its lights off and curtains drawn.

A stray cat scampers past him and makes it a scant few yards until it skids to a stop in front of the only other figure there on the street, barely illuminated by the lights along the sidewalk. The feline arches, hisses, and darts off into an alleyway.

Curious, the dragon asks: "What are you waiting for?" And then, "Humans are suspicious of lone figures in the dark."

Make that two, now. This one strikes an interesting silhouette.

@tornticket

#heartglory #heartglory 1

Humans were densely packed in the Wards surrounding the heartless core of Spirale. Wading through the filth of it all was just as pleasant as it sounded—plumes of cigarette tar in the air, gaudy LED screens purporting the latest crucial hunk of plastic to covet, unruly snot-nosed children who lacked control over their volume.

This world was ruined, too—and it would have ruined him, if Knives hadn't followed him here. It's this forever-loyal sense of devotion that Knives bothers to visit; his ulterior motives required careful observation and research. His brother was the only reason to do anything at all.

The dragon nearly goes as unheeded as the vermin that hissed at his presence. The hooded figure turns the barest minimum angle needed to examine him. A single tendril of knives slips out from under the cowl, curling behind him like a devil's tail; mocking and playful, it crooks at the tip to parody the fled feline.

"Only a weakling would think like that." Humans were suspicious of their own shadows. It was fear that ruled their hearts; this was an obvious truth. "Have some dignity. You're superior to them, after all."

Just as quickly as Vash answers the phone and Knives speaks, his husband is coming around the corner. Two bangs, two of the blades down; Wolfwood almost shouts at him to be careful, stupid! but is a little too grateful for his arrival and that he really might just make it out of this alive.

The other blades swatted away by familiar feathers as if they're just pesky little flies, and softer ones are curling around his body and pulling him away just enough for Vash to get right between him and his assailant. They're warm, firm but gentle with him, and his body relaxes and brain registers safesafesafe. He's been held in Vash's feathers many times, but only one other time was to protect him.

Both of them had been in much worse shape then.

Wolfwood lets out a shaky breath. Somewhere through the static in his brain he's worried about Vash pushing himself like this, using his power—to protect him. He doesn't even flinch or shrink away when Vash bites at him.

Knives keeps fucking talking. Wolfwood wishes he would shut the fuck up for once. He tries, valiantly, to tune his words out. They strike where it hurts. At the guilt that continues to eat him alive. Can I really not change?

But he can. He's proven that.

Slowly, his hand raises to carefully run over the feathers cradling him. And quietly he mumbles, "...Sorry."

An apology just for his husband. He closes his eyes, and he's trying not to dread Vash's answer to Knives' question. At this angle he's having a hard time seeing just what's happening to Vash's gun.

@amoirsetpacis -> @tornticket

amoirsetpacis

★ --;; In stark contrast to the elated look on his twin-not-twin's face, so clows to his own, Vash's stays in the same hard line it had been in since he'd rounded the corner, since he'd begun to say his own piece, eyes locked firmly onto the other's expression. Each of his newly exposed appendages remains acutely aware of the movement around them, information overload compressed into a single point of focus. His grip on the revolver stay s steady, the light pressure hardly making it move in his grasp.

"I never once said that what he did was right," he says, voice still cold in a way it so rarely is. "You don't know the half of what happened after." Doesn't know how he had searched and searched, chest hollow. "And you damn sure don't know the half of what's happened between me and my brother." It's hypocritical, from the regards with which he holds his successor, but the degree of separation that had once wedged its way between the elder Stampede and his twin for so long feels renewed in a new way that he wished it didn't have to be.

He feels like he's burning up from the inside out, like he's going to be sick on the pavement a scant few moments from now. The back of his neck prickles, the inside of his throat.

"People change," he goes on, far raspier than he'd hoped. "Even if it's slow, even if they stumble. But you? You've had 150 years to change, and haven't in the slightest. So how are you any different?" It's mean-- bitter aftertaste in his mouth leftover from holding on to it for so long, dredged up again after being buried like so many others. His chest aches with it, and the hard lines in the corners of his eyes begin to droop.

"But know us, you'll still be--" forgiven, he wants to say-- probably already has been, in some way , by the one it matters from far more than himself, even if it's not entirely deserved yet. But the words die on his tongue, frozen in place. Those same eyes dull, staring at nothing, a statue. Even his feathers, though still taking up space, slowly still their movements as more of them unfurl from the barrel of the Colt. Like glass cracking, spiderwebs of bright blue creep up the long line of his neck from beneath the collar of his hoodie, up and along his jawline. They pulsate with red, a slow, wave like ripple of colour before steadily shifting back again to a duller shade of blue.

@tornticket > @punisheye

#punisheye #punisheye 3 #amoirsetpacis #amoirsetpacis 4

"Hmm," Knives intones; a flat note of satisfaction. A knife-laden tendril gently sweeps at the ground, precise enough to disperse empty shells away from the scene.

He's not locking away any memory that Vash would miss, certainly not so for a mere hour. How many bullets had the Plant loaded into his gun? What was the state of the house when he'd left it? The man he's protecting, the one he's standing in front of—was he hurt? Alive? …That's enough doubt to disorient and disarm him, surely. Whatever it took to stop him from further use of his power.

"Then let me spell it out for you: I've tried your idea of mercy. And yet here we are."

The Independent takes another moment to admire his feather-stilled work, so painfully similar to the reminders he'd surrounded himself with in JuLai. After a short, sharp inhale, his finger nudges the Colt downward with ease. It's there that his eyes catch onto the band around the other Plant's ring finger. Fists curling at his sides, he chuckles.

"They don't change, even if you try to cage them for yourself." Eyes aim behind him to the Punisher next, daring Vash to follow his gaze.

Any warm affection held quickly leaves him then, replaced with obvious disgust and barely-contained outrage. The knives surrounding Wolfwood's neck close in as he continues. "The human you're most fond of has proven this; all they'll ever do is hunt us down. Enslave and kill our kind."

With a dismissive wave of his hand, the encroaching collar is scattered away entirely. The lively belts of blades begin to trail loyally behind their host. Their movement and proximity near the other two is a considerate enough dance to menace, but not to harm.

"Everything I do is for us, Vash." A pause; a tilt of his head, as though about to relay something unremarkable for its inevitability. "He's begun to see things my way, too. A shame it's taken this long."

( -> @punisheye -> @amoirsetpacis )

railheist

The heat of the desert persists in spite of the snow sheeting the streets of Spirale. Maria wants to show the rest of the posse what passes for Lonestar around these parts.

it's remarkably similar, though the sands are redder, the horses are stranger, and they've got boars instead of bison, but it's still the closest thing they've seen to the land that the four of them call home.

That is, until they come across what looks like a battleship out in the desert. The four women, each one riding one of the Jewels of the Desert, stop their steeds when they spot it in the distance.

"Wait here," says Maria. She rides ahead a little ways until she can see someone else by the ship.

The man in the silver cloak has an appearance like no other...

It's not a good sign. She's tempted turn tail before he approaches her and the others.

@tornticket

#thank you!!#railheist #railheist 1 #event: cyor 2024 covet.

Blades, myriads strung together by wire, glint brightly as they sprout from behind the hooded figure. It's a single lengthy tendril, wildly unfurling behind Knives on his barefoot approach through high-noon sands. The heat makes the shape of him shimmer.

Typically, he wouldn't think to spare the effort to speak with insects. But these humans are dangerously close enough to trespass. It was in their nature to be stupid, prying, and lost. Whatever the case was for this visit, Knives was confident that they posed no threat.

So, he addresses their assumed leader with the airs of an angel who has never been denied a thing. He stops when he's close enough to hear, but refrains from tilting his head up to her, assuming that Maria would dismount.

"What business do you have here?" His voice is soft, almost as if to distract from the belt of blades that he could send crashing upon Maria and her steed. "Tell me who you are."

Sweat is trickling down his face, cold against his overheated skin. If Knives doesn't kill him then his fragile heart just might. Someone screams and people are scattering. If he dies right here he'd feel awful for Vash that would have to deal with it, for the children around that would have to see it.

Even if he begs for mercy he won't receive it.

I'm so stupid.

With the blades inches from piercing his throat, his eyes only widen when he sees Knives pick up his phone (no, no, no) and, almost frantic, he dares to speak: "Don't talk to him—"

The knives press dangerously closer and he swallows, quiets and stills. He's terrified and furious. That's just what Knives wants, and Wolfwood is giving it to him. God strike him down.

@amoirsetpacis -> @tornticket

amoirsetpacis

★ --;; It's been less than ten minutes since Wolfwood had closed the door behind him when Vash feels a familiar sensation creeping up his organic arm.

Usually it's easy to ignore the thing-- the bracelet's sensitive, feels like it's half on the fritz sometimes. Once a bit of hot oil had popped out of the pan and onto Wolfwood's arm, and it had registered that as being in danger too. But its hard not to give in to that base anxiety, and when the intensity ramps itself up all of a sudden during what should only be a quick few blocks away, it's more than enough to have Vash shoving his feet messily into whatever boots are in the entryway. One arm and then the other is thrown blindly into a grabbed coat as the door slams shut, already past the porch steps, all in less than a minute.

Without thought he's already several paces ahead of where he should normally be, quick in the unnatural way that stays buried beneath a century of humanizing muscle memory. His phone's ringing, he realizes, in the pocket of his pants. There is the brief thought of just ignoring it for now, there's something far more important going on, but he pulls it out anyway and upon seeing who it is pulls it up to his ear in a heartbeat.

"Nick? Where are you, what's--"

"Let's hear the reason you'd use to spare this sinful wretch." "Don't talk to him—"

Like the ice that lances itself through Vash's chest, through his nerves, for the briefest of moments his pace falters. He freezes. Feels all at once like the air has been squeezed in its entirety from his lungs. The final dredges of people who had been onlookers and had finally fled the scene give him a wide birth, he dimly realizes. For once, he doesn't care. From behind that piercing fear though comes anger, bright and hot, and in tandem they push him forward again. He knows the route, it's just one more corner and then--

The Colt in his hoodie pocket isn't the best place for it to be, but it gets yanked out faster than a normal person could possibly detect, firing one, two, into the blades that can be safely aimed for, face taught and eyes wide. His hands do not shake.

In sweats and whatever pea coat and mismatched shoes Vash had shoved himself into and his hair fluffy and down, he cuts a far less imposing figure than what usually comes with utterances of the Typhoon, of Diablo.

But feathers launch themselves free from his form regardless of the fact with a swiftness that has not been reached for in years, and in an instant they're hardening from the soft down his husband is accustomed to to weapons in and of themselves. They smack against the remaining blades, wrap around Wolfwood in a loose and undulating guard. In another instant that same preternatural speed has him there, between the both of them, directly in Knives' space as the same feathers take up more and more space.

"Do you understand," he asks, "why I forgave my brother?" His voice is eerily flat, tone even. It doesn't have to raise to be heard, this close, and the fury that sits just beneath his skin keeps the words sharp even without the volume, even as his chest heaves with it.

"Because I regretted that it had come to what it had. Because our mother had asked me to take care of him. But do you know why else?" His skin feels tight on his body, even though the sensation is so largely ignored, like he's too large for it. The insides of his ears and backs of his eyes burn in a way that is unfortunately familiar, throat already inching towards painfully raw before inevitable cracking.

"Because we both knew we were going to kill each other. And once he was gone, I wouldn't have anything left to fight for any more." Imperceptible to most, bright eyes harden just that much more. "But I do, now. And as much as he might be--" a quick glance over his shoulder, gaze blistering and pointed, the evenness in his tone breaking, "--an idiot!" before quickly turning back.

"You're wrong if you think I'd just lie down."

@tornticket > @punisheye

#punisheye #punisheye 3 #amoirsetpacis 4 #amoirsetpacis

He's here. Much sooner than expected. Much closer than expected. For all his fluffy might, this alternate Vash puts on a good show of his Plant powers, something Knives had only witnessed once before.

The proximity makes his fingers splay out, phone ignored; his hands itch with want to pull, to help free the growing inhumanity from his brother. Tendrils of blades even nudge to the side to allow this intimate distance. After all, it's as fascinating as the last time.

But his eyes glance down at the manmade weapon with distaste. It's recognizable, yes—but—it is not the gun he'd gifted his brother. Instead of touching his feathers, Knives opts to lay a delicate finger against the top of the end of the barrel, nudging the pad up against the front sights, where it settles. He looks up from it to address this interloper, amusement returning to his expression.

"Look at you," he breathes, before letting out a single huff of laughter. The corners of his mouth pull, his smile the same as his twin's smile.

"Dishonest, even when the stakes are raised. What 'care' have you paid your brother, Vash? You didn't so much as raise a finger when this parasite pursued me. You're the one who let things come to this. You did lie down—right when it mattered most.

"So this man... Your 'idiotic' reason to fight... Is proof that humans are incapable of change, no matter how much of your 'care' you personally give them. Tell me: does my wrath seem so unjustified to you?"

There is a faint noise fading in from their point of contact. Etchings of white begin to crawl toward the gun's wielder; lightning bolts in slow-motion. As they do, the displaced metal seems to evaporate up into the air.

( -> @punisheye -> @amoirsetpacis )

Clickclickclickclickclick.

He knows the phone is ringing now. He doesn't know if Vash will pick up. If he doesn't then the voicemail that's left will send him into a blind panic (and if he does pick up he'd come running here, wouldn't he, and just put himself in danger). Wolfwood stumbles, but his hand stays in his coat pocket. His other hand tries to jerk away from the cold blades scratching at his wrist.

The phone slips out of his pocket with the movement and hits the ground. He'd been smart enough to get a sturdy case and screen protector, it's the only reason it doesn't shatter on impact.

Screen lit up, there's a photo of Vash fast asleep with Kuroneko curled up close to his chest with the words 'Calling Vash...' below.

"—Is this yer way of gettin' revenge?"

And there he can't help the slight edge of fear in his voice. Wolfwood's eyes dart down to the phone on the ground and he makes no move to pick it up. He's too preoccupied trying to keep his hands away from the blades trying to get at them.

#cw: gore /? jic #punisheye #punisheye 3 #amoirsetpacis #amoirsetpacis 4

Revenge? It's a sentiment that's offensive in how absurd it is. It's all Knives needs to hear to know he's gone and cast pearls before swine.

The Punisher had borne witness to his god performing a violent miracle right before his eyes, only to squander its meaning. Perhaps the saint would be unable to comprehend His holiness unless his fingers entered the wound of His neck. As if he'd have the courage.

"You're unworthy of my grace, let alone my vengeance." It's spat out by the angel, remorseless as he watches his wayward lamb struggle against a paltry fraction of his power. "Seems your pride's made you too soft and stupid to realize when you're utterly outmatched."

Eyes trail down to the lit display of the phone. They widen in recognition, then hungry anticipation.

"Vash…?" All at once, ecstasy washes over his heart, cooling its righteous fury enough for him to recompose himself.

With another motion of his hand, the disembodied pair of knives are met with another pair. Instead of insisting on impaling their target, however, the four knives flank the Punisher's neck from cardinal directions, then simply hover there, content to brandish their edges with Wolfwood at their center.

The metal snakes of blades gently lower Knives to stand; one appendage delicately slips underneath the phone to retrieve it. When it curls close enough, it tips the device into the hooded figure's hands.

Knives seems adept at interfacing with it, switching the phone to speaker and raising its volume. He wastes no time the moment he hears the older Plant accept the call:

"Let's hear the reason you'd use to spare this sinful wretch."

( -> @punisheye -> @amoirsetpacis )

The sudden movement sends passersby scrambling away, and Wolfwood nearly turns tail and bolts. Primal fear lances through him and he freezes instead, but one hand slips slowly into his coat pocket to wrap around his phone. Right now he has no space to pull it out and call someone, Knives would probably crush the damn thing, but five clicks on the unlock button would send an emergency alert to Vash and call him.

That close bond bracelet sits around his wrist, hidden under his sleeve. He can tell that Vash is safe, but he doesn't know what Vash might feel from his end.

"Yer not," he rasps out, "my god."

And he sure as hell won't be kneeling. Not here, not now, not for this guy.

He stays standing even in the face of very real danger. Wolfwood can feel his heart beating rabbit-fast and part of him is worried it might give out. His neck's feeling hot under his scarf.

"What'll ya do if I don't kneel, big guy?" His eyes flicker down. Closer, at this angle, he can see a hint of a jagged scar peeking out past the hood. Guilt hits him like a punch in the gut. He manages to refrain from grimacing.