singillppl | December 2023 Test Drive Meme

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December 2023 Test Drive Meme

DECEMBER 2023 TDM

PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: A new group of arrivals find themselves lost in the frozen wilds and vulnerable to the dangers of nature. With luck, they make it to the town of Milton, and to a friendly face offering food, warmth and shelter — not to mention the fact they are not the first to come here.

PROMPT TWO — MISTY FALLS CAVE: The Interlopers go out in search of a hidden cave in the mountains found by Methuselah, which may still contain the hidden stash of a doomsday prepper. However, they get a little more than they bargained for when they venture inside.

PROMPT THREE — SERPENT'S BREATH: Interlopers investigate the mysterious cause of whatever is killing and poisoning the wildlife and vegetation of the area — and discover a supernatural creature is behind it.

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

WHEN: Mid-Decmber.
WHERE: Milton, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential animal attacks, potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk.

'You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.'

It’s the last thing you hear. A dark, deep voice. Impossibly ancient. You feel afraid. Maybe you’re dreaming, maybe you’re wide awake. You saw the lights, and then your world went dark. But you hear it in the blackness, you won’t forget those words.

You awaken. You are not where you were before. It’s different for everyone, there doesn’t seem to be much of a pattern in where you find yourself. You may open your eyes to find yourself in a cold, dim and dank cabin. The air is stale, dust hangs in the rays of weak sunlight that shine through the tiny windows. Someone lived here once, but they aren’t to be found. You look around, it seems like no one has been here in a long time. The fire is cold, the dishes in the sink are pretty mouldy. It is quiet. The wood creaks around you. Or perhaps you may awaken to find yourself shivering in the yawning maw of a cave, the freezing stone below you. Or maybe you’re unfortunate enough to sit up to find yourself lying in the snow, in the middle of the wilderness. Snow lies thick around you. It’s freezing out. You haven’t felt a cold like this before in your entire life. Cruel and biting. You have no idea where you are, and what’s worse — you are completely alone.

You may feel different, too. Any powers or magics you may have feel... absent. Disconnected. Things that may not have affected you previously now do. Something in you has changed.

You know you can’t stay where you are. You’ll need to move, try to work out where you are and how you came to be here. So you walk, head out into the unknown, in hope of finding a trail or a road. You’ll find one soon enough. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused. You’ll both need to keep going. It won’t be easy. You hear howls of wolves around you, and the terrain is difficult: slips and falls are likely. You’re completely vulnerable out here in the open.

It’s possible you may come across someone here. Another fellow Interloper, out hunting or gathering. They’ll likely offer help and get you into town. However, for the unlucky ones who don’t come across anyone, you’ll carry on until you see it: the lazy trail of smoke rising in the air. Fire. Not just one, but several. Civilisation…?

Follow it, and soon enough the way you’ve taken will certainly become a path or road. Unfolding before you in the mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights: a small mining town tucked up in the valley. Battered, rusted road signs will direct to “MILTON, POP. 947”. You’re almost there, you keep going, and it looks like other people have had the same idea as you. In fact, you’ll hear the muffled sounds of life. People. In The town!

As you head into the outskirts and further into town, you’ll find it’s a little easier to walk but the cold has gripped you hard. You’ll find the buildings, both shops and homes, some are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up, some of them are occupied. People are going about their business, or stood watching from their tiny porches of their small, timber homes. For a town this big, there doesn’t seem to be many people.

Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the biggest of the smoke trail rises: a school-house of sorts, or some kind of community hall. Perhaps both. You’ll find more and more people all drawn to this place, each and every one of them in the same position as yourself (and your companion, if you’ve found one). Some are in worse states than others: some are bloodied, nursing bite wounds or cuts; others might have some other kind of injury sustained in the journey here from falls. Others may look as if they could faint from the cold at any second.

The door opens, and you’re greeted by the gnarled, wizened face of an elderly man, dressed in thick furs. He has a kind face. He smiles warmly, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.

“Ah, even more, still. Just as I thought.” he muses. “I wonder if this is perhaps the new status quo. I am Methuselah. I welcome you Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. You are not the only one, the lights are changing things. They bring more of you every so often. Come. Mother Nature has not been kind to you, but there are plenty here to help.”

The room is dim, lit only by natural daylight through the windows. A roaring fire sits at one end of the huge hall. It crackles, bright and cheerful…. and warm. Even as big as this place is, the room is pleasantly warm. You’ll also find basic cots set up down one side of the hall, places to rest for a moment and get your bearings, or just trying to recover from the cold. Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long tables with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen. Once again, Methuselah offers a feast, aided by some of the other Interlopers.

There are canisters with hot herbal teas and coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus grilled fish. There's also things like instant mashed potatoes, and tinned vegetables. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast, although newcomers will note from others who have been here some time that this particular feast is less bountiful this time.

Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks. He does not have much time to talk. More and more people seem to be coming in from the cold. He will not stop to sit and rest until everyone is seen to, taking up a place by the fire to gaze silently into its flames. He is troubled, thoughtful.

He will encourage newcomers to get warm and eat, and when they are ready to — they can explore the time and find one of the many empty homes to call their own. He will not speak much, but perhaps you might be able to get some answers from those fellow arrivals who’ve been in this place for some time now.

However, he will speak of something important, and will gladly share with others: “I have been looking for something for you all. There was once a townsfolk I knew of: Matthew. A suspicious, paranoid old miner who was interested in Prepping. He often spoke of the world coming to an end and strived to survive it. He often spoke of a cache hidden in the mountains, where he collected things of value. I have found the place, a hidden cave, but I am unable to get through, myself.”

… Well, he is an old man, after all.

“There are signs outside, so it is promising it is still intact. Perhaps the cache is still there. It might provide something useful for your growing numbers.”

MISTY FALLS CAVE

WHEN: Mid-month, onwards.
WHERE: Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: booby traps; claustrophobic situations; potential injury/maiming; potential hyperthermic situations; exploration horror;

Methuselah gives directions to those willing to check out the lead for the old prepper cache. Following the river up from Milton Basin will lead to rugged, difficult pathways up towards Misty Falls — a waterfall, the river source itself. Most of the river is completely frozen with the freezing temperatures, but it is not completely so the closer to the source you go. Misty Falls is certainly idyllic, or it would be perhaps on a fine summer’s day — good for a nice hike. But the place looks desolate in the eternal winter cursing the Northern Territories.

The half-frozen waterfall is a din of sound, but the water itself is incredibly fresh and cooling for those hot and tired from the hike up. Those paying attention might notice a small space between the water and rock, big enough to squeeze through to get behind the waterfall itself. In the small space, the entrance to a small cave can be found. There are faded handmade signs, all in the same hand, reading ‘DANGER KEEP OUT’ and it isn’t too far of a stretch to wonder if perhaps this might be the secret stash of the old miner that Methuselah spoke of.

Venturing into the cave will not be an easy task. It seems the old miner was keen to keep any trespassers out, and most of this comes down to the cave itself. The walls of the cave quickly narrow, with only enough space to walk in single file. Jutting stone will easily make those stumble and trip. Occasionally the cave’s passage becomes narrower, meaning one might have to stoop or even crawl to carry on through. Here and there, the uneven floor dips, and your feet will find themselves in shin-deep frigid water. It’s slow-going, even if the actual passage itself isn’t incredibly long.

But perhaps the worst of all is the pressing darkness. A darkness so black even with lanterns switched off, one’s eyes cannot adjust to it. It is smothering, pressing. The air is stale and damp, you feel small — and the cave itself still presses in on you. The miner also kept a few tricks up his sleeve in order to keep out intruders. There are dead-ends, making it easy to get lost. Trip wires are hidden in the darkness, causing small man-made cave-ins to fall upon unsuspecting heads.

It might be safer, saner to give up and turn back. But persevering will see the cave opening up once more, this time widening into a room. The place is fashioned into some crude shelter. There is furniture, lanterns to be lit.

With more light, the miner’s stash is revealed: the painstaking, time-costing work of a paranoid old recluse. Crates of non-perishable foods, MREs, and bottled water. Medicines and basic medical supplies, flares and tools.

A perfect supply of survival goods, ripe for the taking.

SERPENT'S BREATH

WHEN: Throughout the month.
WHERE: The entirety of the Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of dead animals; malevolent creature; snakes/serpents; poison/airborne toxins; potential poisonings; potential burn injuries; potential (temporary) blinding.

It’s noticed in different ways: perhaps a trail of dead animals stands before you, each one with no particular injury other than what appears to be burned hides and flesh — it is as if the wildlife simply dropped dead, for the most part. Perhaps you notice huge, tunnel-like grooves in the deepest parts of the snow, a few feet in width — as if something long and thick had made its way through to clear a path. More worryingly for some, they might notice trails of rot: destroyed trees, decaying plant life, as if the very earth itself has been scorched in the wake of something passing through, leaving nothing but destruction and devastation.

Something is destroying the flora and fauna of the world. There seems to be no pattern, simply the random trails all over the place. There appears to be no other tracks, other than the long, smooth tunnel-like pathways. Whatever it is, it must be stopped. Resources are so precious in this world, if the beast is allowed to continue then all who live here will soon starve due to lack of animals to hunt and plants to gather.

Following the tunnels is a sure-way to hunt the beast down, although these paths will lead far from town. It is best to go prepared. But soon enough, you may come across the slumbering beast, curled up on the snow or coiled underneath some jutting space of stone along the mountains. You’ll hear and smell it before you see it: the long grumbling snores as it sleeps, and the putrid stench of rot. Everything in you tells you to flee, much like when an animal senses something toxic, or poisoning.

You press on, finally stumbling across the beast: a long, serpent-like dragon, with tremendous horns and fangs, coloured with muted grey scales and huge, glowing, flamed eyes.

The element of surprise will work in your favour to try and kill the beast, but it will give up a good fight. It will take several rounds of fights with it before it will finally be taken down permanently. It moves quickly, with scales like steel. Its eyes and mouth are its weakest spots, as is the soft underbelly of its body — fire will work well on harming this beast, especially with a well aimed shot into its mouth.

Its open mouth is where it holds its most powerful weapon. Not the fangs, no. The very reason why the air smells of rot, why the wildlife lay dead, why the earth decays at your feet: its breath. The beast’s breath is highly toxic, it will burn the skin of those it comes into contact with. Breathing in the fumes will poison those who breathe it in, and will cause a weakening, sickly illness. The breath may even temporarily blind.

These injuries are not fatal, and will heal with time and the basic medical attention available in the world. Victims will require rest for at least a week, depending on how severe the blast of the serpent’s breath. But killing the best will ensure its havoc is brought to an end.

FAQs

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.

2. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect. Methuselah will not know how they got there, and will be quite bemused by the happenings.

3. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.

4. If asked any personal questions, Methuselah will smile and say "Oh, you don't want to know about an old man like me. But I have lived all over in these parts for all my life." He will be more concerned with trying to help Newcomers, and is genuinely concerned for them and their well-being. Other Interlopers will say much of the same — there's little to know about him.

5. More information about Milton can be found here.

MISTY FALLS CAVE

1. Tools found would be basic survival/camping tools one might expect: knives, hand axes, rope, handsaws, torches, batteries, etc.

SERPENT'S BREATH

1. The Stoor Worm, or Mester Stoor Worm, was a gigantic evil sea serpent of Orcadian folklore, capable of contaminating plants and destroying animals and humans with its putrid breath. Assipattle, the youngest son of a local farmer, defeated the creature by flinging still-burning peat into its mouth. As it died its teeth fell out to become the islands of Orkney, Shetland and the Faroes, and its body became Iceland.

2. It is possible the harvest the beast once it is killed, particularly for its fangs and skin. The skin/scales will provide ample protection to try to use it for armouring themselves. The fangs would provide useful for crafting knives or weapons.

3. It is... technically possible to eat the meat of the beast. Care should be taken in butchering, however. And it is not advised to eat the head.

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[knives didn't make a habit out of visiting the community center without substantial reason to do so. usually that reason was to find vash or v, always ones to wander away from knives' constant apprehension. there was never any promise that even within the town borders there was safety, creatures and unseen powers with reaching hands ready to snatch up unsuspecting victims.

neither his brother or v were around the church when knives returned from the frozen basin and so, after dropping off his equipment, he headed for the community hall to start the process of dragging his kin back before it got well and truly dark.

the piano settled off to the side tempts him lightly as he comes inside, tapping the snow off his boots, but he resists for now. his fingers too cold to play anything decent. he picks his way slowly around the large meeting space, keeping a fine distance from others mingling - new faces, new interlopers. too many mouths to feed and a slowly dwindling supply to feed them with, eventually there would be a breaking point. knives scans around the room as he makes his way over towards the fire, searching for those familiar faces. he could warm his fingers for a moment or two before heading back towards the kitchens, suspecting that may be where he finds one wayward brother.]

[ It's like a smell, wafting through the community hall. Like something's died under the house weeks ago, the putrescence only moving when the people do, clinging to their clothes and swirling about, untraceable but unavoidable. When he turns his head it catches him, ripe and foul.

It's not a smell, not really, but that's as good a way to describe the sensation as any other. He knows Knives is there before he registers what his eyes are showing him. He knows it in his gut, in his soul. Can feel it between his teeth.

His hair is black, his frame hidden in layers of warm clothing, but there's no mistaking the man walking slowly towards the fire. In a single sinuous movement Wolfwood rises off the bench he's been warming his own self at, eyes, locked on his prey. When he'd fought Legato, he'd made the mistake of announcing his arrival. He'd hesitated, and he'd nearly failed.

He's not going to fail this time.

It's only a handful of steps to close the distance between himself and Knives, and he'll do it silently and quick, hands flexing with readiness. He's in Hell, and that's the Devil, and he's going to squeeze that bastard's throat until his head pops off. ]

[it would be easy to pin his slow reaction timing to a multitude of factors; the drastic shift from one elemental extreme to another or even the last of his celestial abilities drained to the very last drop, leaving him close to, if not just about, as human as the other poor unfortunate souls trapped here. his body could still move fast on muscle memory and sharpened instincts, things that don't just die away even with his powers depleted. but he isn't expecting to be thrown into a fight amongst these humans, especially not ones already at the edge of their own personal despairs.

that was his first mistake, obviously.

knives immediately recognizes his blunder a moment too late, when strong hands are already wrapping around his throat. his own hands coming up to grab at those wrists, eyes widening in recognition - chapel, no, punisher - blunted nails digging into sunburned skin and enough strength aiming to crack wrist bones. lips pulling up over sharpened fangs as he snarls, voice crackling with fury.]

You-

[ His hands lock around Knives's throat, and his face splits into a grin at the recognition in the other man's eyes. Yeah, that's right. Me.

Knives raises his hands to fight back, clawing at Wolfwood's hands instead of summoning his blades, or simply ripping Wolfwood in half. And it's strange, it's unexpected, but it's sure as hell not unwelcome. He'll worry about what's wrong with Knives later, once the monster's dead, he thinks. Even when Knives clenches his fists and something in Wolfwood's wrist gives way, his grin doesn't falter.

His grip does, though. He can't hold as tightly with a broken wrist, no matter how much training to endure pain he survived, no matter how hot fury is adding steel to his muscles. He can't squeeze Knives's throat into paste the way he wants to, but that just means Knives will die slower. Wolfwood grits his teeth and digs his nails in, leaning into Knives with his whole body's weight, cutting his lungs off from any chance of air. ]

[ Although his brush with human illness has left Vash with the lingering effect of tiring faster than usual, he's recovered well enough to lend a hand as he's become used to doing whenever Methuselah returns and starts preparing his feast for newcomers. Once again Vash has taken to the community hall's kitchen to help cook and clean. With most of the feast already prepared in the previous days, now laid out for all Interlopers, new or old, to enjoy, it's mostly a matter of making sure the table stays well stocked with what limited choices they have to offer. That, and a whole lot of cleaning dishes.

When he steps out of the kitchen to gather some more of said dishes — maybe offer a friendly face and dole out some food while he's out among the new unfortunate souls — he's not expecting the sight he sees. Coming right out of the kitchen, he has a pretty clear view of the fireplace and the scene that's unfolding there.

Everything inside of him promptly seizes when his eyes land on familiar faces — his lungs no longer draw breath, his heart starts skipping several beats if it doesn't stop outright, the blood in his veins turning icy cold in sudden stillness. He'd hoped, of course he'd hoped the second this place returned his dead brother to him, but to actually have his selfish wish granted is another thing entirely. His heart's desire is right there, still cloaked in the very fabric he'd used to wrap his body in (the sight which makes him more than a bit queasy), choking the life out of his brother.

It feels like the curling of the monkey's paw.

He'd be frozen to the spot in shock if sheer force of habit didn't kick in: someone is in danger and so his body moves. There's no thought behind it, he just runs full tilt at the figures across the room with every intention of simply bodily throwing himself with his entire weight at Wolfwood; more a panicked bid to throw him off Knives than the joyous embrace it should have been.

He's not sure where he gets the air to call out from, but the name he hasn't been able to say for almost a year now tumbles right out of his mouth in a choked rush. ]

Wolfwood, WAIT!

[ Typhoon incoming. ]

[there's very little time or room for any of knives' usual miles-a-minute thinking, only driven by instinct and bodily impulses clamoring for survival. maybe later he'd recall the irony of this moment, a desire to survive still alive somewhere inside him despite all his previous attempts to find a quiet death.

one of wolfwood's wrists cracks inside his grip, allowing him less than a moment of relief and it's all that he needs to push back. there's a skinning blade tucked under his belt and that alone is all he needs to immediately reach for it with the hand that had crushed the priest's wrist, ready to sink the sharpened metal into wolfwood's own throat.

vash has terrible timing; or perfect timing, maybe.

the knife never finds wolfwood, knives' arm jerking back when suddenly vash is barreling into the other man with a scream.]

[ They have the attention of the room but nobody's doing anything yet other than watching, some in horror and fear, some with eager anticipation. Wolfwood doesn't care who sees this murder, so long as nobody interferes. His attention is fully on Knives's face, the colors changing beneath his skin, the way his eyes roll, the expression of a man finally -- finally -- meeting some form of justice.

Perhaps tomorrow, some of Wolfwood's victims will appear, and he'll meet the same fate, he distantly thinks, and the thought tears a rough laugh from his lips. That'll be justice too. One of Knives's hands falls away, but it's a trick, he's not dead yet, so Wolfwood holds on, squeezing so tightly that his hands are tingling from it. Almost there. Almost. He--

But then like a splash of cold water he hears his name in a voice he'd know anywhere, and all the ferocious joy twisting his face drops immediately into shock and despair. Vash is here? Here? He shouldn't be here!

He loses his grip on Knives, hands starting to fall away already as Vash slams into him, taking them both to the floor. Wolfwood's head hits the ground hard, and for a moment his vision swims out of focus. ]

Wha...?

[ it's more like they both have the perfect timing, really - or maybe there is some kind of hilariously terrible analogy in the way that he, like his other self, first appears in the doorway to take in the scene; though in vash's case, it was to get more firewood. trust him to miss the party starting because of something innocuous like that. he has got a bundle under one arm, a bigger stack slung over behind him piled into a carrier, and for a moment vash cuts an ungainly, comical figure near the back entrance as he simply stares - almost not believing the incomprehensible tableau presented to his eyes until a third is joining the pile of limbs on the ground with a yell.

the cry is mostly incomprehensible, a wordless shriek of a wounded bird more like than actual speech. it's something more ancient than that - something in the torn edges of vash's voice pulls at the raw, primal parts of his insides, some part of him - puzzling and unknowing - responding to the desperation of it like a thrum in his veins and he too, is adding himself into the mess of it all, dropping his bundle all in a crash before he is scrambling forward to join them.

he can barely comprehend what is going on - whether his other self is struggling with his captive or not, there isn't much time to observe; there is other things left to him that he must do, anyway. it's almost strange how certain he feels as vash drops to his knees beside knives, almost bodily hauling him away from the mess that is the other two. ]

[ Nothing else in the room matters, Vash is deaf and blind to it all when his focus is solely on the two struggling forms with laser-like intensity. He notices too late that his voice had been enough to get Wolfwood to loosen his grip, unable to stop his momentum as it carries him forward until it's forcibly stopped; a bundle of desperation colliding hard with a solid, very much alive body. They go down together, poor Wolfwood bearing the brunt of the fall as Vash is cushioned by him. The ungraceful toppling of limbs might have been comical if it weren't for the sound of Wolfwood's head hitting the ground — too loud, too hard. Vash hadn't meant to hurt him, but that's the story of his life, really. He never means to hurt anyone.

Somewhere along the downward journey to the ground, his heart remembered to start beating again, doing so in double time, kick-started by a surge of worry. Whatever precious little air he'd had left is knocked straight out of his chest and yet it doesn't stop sound from coming out of him. As he pushes himself up to frantically look at the body beneath him, there's a stream of barely audible, tight oh no's and sorry's pouring out of him. One shaking hand is drifting up to touch Wolfwood's hair, fretful fingers checking for injury, while his other — steadier if only because it's his prosthetic — starts reaching out towards Knives even as his eyes remain glued to Wolfwood's face. He's caught between two almost-opposing desires, wanting to tend to Wolfwood and Knives, but he can't do both at once.

... Except maybe he can.

To his immense relief, his other self is suddenly right there. That he immediately goes to assist Knives, no questions asked, fills him with a gratitude he'll have to express later. It means he can keep his attention on Wolfwood. Which is good because he finds it impossible to tear his gaze away even though his vision is quickly growing blurry with the welling of tears. His mind is a whirlwind, his emotions going every which way. His only coherent thought is a single litany:

He's here. He's here. He's really here.

The body underneath him is not stiff and cold like the last time he'd held it in his arms and that awareness keeps tugging on his attention like an incessant child. His chest hurts with everything it's trying to contain, emotions too big to be held behind the bars of his rib cage, straining to break free.

He can't let them, can't let himself break down. Not yet. He needs to mitigate the situation, get Knives away from Wolfwood until everything is cleared up. With tremendous effort he forces himself to take a shuddering breath, gather his porcelain-fragile composure, and put it all into a single request posed to his double. ]

V, can you take care of Knives for me? Back at the church, please.

[ All the while his eyes don't leave Wolfwood for even a single second. ]

[the blade is thrown from his grasp and clatters loudly across the hardwood floors in the commotion. knives forgets about it all for a moment as the pressure around his neck is relieved, body instinctively sucking in precious air even as his entire body burns with the effort. eyes bloodshot, saliva dripping off his chin, his vision swimming with black dots and stars that leave him disoriented and dizzy with all of his energy momentarily focused on replenishing the air in his lungs. he doesn't remember falling to his knees, curled over and forehead nearly touching the flooring as he gasps in broken rasping breaths.

his heart is ready to beat itself to death, hammering away against his ribs, when he finally looks up to see-- vash, vash always in some sad state, now blubbering over wolfwood's body and knives remembers he had been so close to sinking his knife into his neck. darkly, he wishes vash had been a moment too late but the moment was gone now. the lying priest was out of his grasp now.

time moves sluggishly, something he could blame on the lacking oxygen and rush of adrenaline still flooding his system. but he can't think properly, his head filled with cotton and keeping his reactions dulled. so when v enters the scene (where did he come from-?) knives doesn't immediately struggle as he's pulled away from the scene unfolding in front of him.]

Vash--

[oh, his voice is little more than a crackle, so much so he doesn't even recognize it as he calls for his brother. there's a crowd, new and old interlopers bearing witness to this debacle. later, knives will be furious, but right now he doesn't recognize this feeling, eyes never leaving vash even as his brother only stares down at wolfwood, wolfwood, as v's hands grab him like he weighs almost nothing.]

[ Knives is here, somewhere, someplace close nearby, and that threat needs to be addressed, but he can't take his eyes off the man leaning over him, the angel with the big sad eyes would should not be here. ]

What did you do?

[ There's no blood for Vash's exploring hand to find – he didn't split his scalp when he fell. The force just stirred his brains around inside his skull, leaving him confused and bleary-eyed. For a moment, he even thinks he sees a second Vash... but that's not possible. There's only one Vash, only one blond idiot here... although he's not blond anymore. Why isn't he blond? ]

You shouldn't be here.

[ Shoving an elbow between himself and the floor, Wolfwood forces himself up to a sit in a series of jerky motions, swallowing back the nausea as he rises. He's never been this affected by a simple blow to the head before. Something's wrong. This whole situation is wrong. This is Hell, only bad people go to Hell! That's why he's here! That's why Knives is here! But Vash is good. Vash was good, he realizes, because if Vash is here, that means he's dead.

Vash is dead.

A knot settles heavy in Wolfwood's throat, choking his next words with emotion. ]

You're supposed to go to the good one, you idiot! You're...

[ The idea of Vash the Stampede, teh Humanoid goddamn Typhoon being condemned to eternal torment the same as him, the same as Millions Knives, is a wrongness that he just can't possibly endure. His hand flies out of its own accord, fastening on Vash's collar with the same iron grip he'd used just a moment ago to try and squeeze the life out of Knives. What deal did he make, how did this happen, why?! ]

What did you do?!

Edited 2023-12-09 00:13 (UTC)

[ His fingers don't come away red during his frantic inspection and that at least eases one of the many knots in his chest. Vash can't hear his brother's broken call over the pounding of his heart in his ears, but he can feel it. A distant tug on their connection, the faintest brush of an emotion that's not his encroaching on his own. It's the one thing that threatens to break his spell and make him look away. He starts to, but then Wolfwood speaks and his attention snaps back like a compass pointing north. He can hear his other self's voice vaguely filtering in and he takes that as reassurance Knives will be taken care of, he'll be okay. Vash will have to apologize and check on him later.

Right now he gets caught up in the familiar cadence of Wolfwood's voice, a sound he's missed so very much, that he never thought he would ever get to hear again. Enough so that the words themselves are a little delayed reaching their mark, but when they do, he's left confused as they grow in intensity and are accompanied by a hand grabbing his collar. (Even that is a familiarity he's missed.) ]

What? What are you—?

[ It's almost as if he's going through deja vu. It's the same reaction Knives had and his own words are nearly a perfect repeat before he catches himself. He didn't understand what Knives meant back then either. Now he suddenly realizes what Knives and Wolfwood have in common and it finally clicks.

He almost wilts on the spot because Wolfwood is wrong. He doesn't deserve to go to "the good one". He never has and certainly not now when he's deliberately stained his hands in blood, same as Wolfwood has. He'd made a terrible choice and he'll have to live and die with it. If there is a penance for him to pay at the end of his road, so be it.

But along with that realization comes another. More and more noises from their surroundings are starting to reach him again. He becomes aware of the spectacle they've made of themselves. His hands come together over Wolfwood's mouth to hastily silence him. It takes everything for Vash not to start hysterically laughing or break down sobbing — he's not sure which will happen if he allows the dam to burst — right then and there and to speak as calmly and evenly as he can manage. ]

I'm not dead. This isn't an afterlife.

[ Ignoring the stinging in his eyes while he stubbornly refuses to let the tears fall, he takes on the herculean task of slipping his fool's mask back on for a moment and turning to the crowd of unfortunate onlookers.

"Ahaha sorry about that! It's all good now. Carry on!"

He throws the words out, quick and careless, before his focus goes towards taking gentle, firm hold of Wolfwood's arms so he can pull him up along with him as Vash rises to pick them both off the floor. The second their feet are touching the ground proper, he starts moving backwards to the semi-privacy of the kitchen, pulling Wolfwood with him. ]

Just come with me.

[ He's so confused. Vash slaps his hands over Wolfwood's mouth to stop him talking, then takes him by the arm to drag him away, and Wolfwood lets himself be dragged, although his attention never turns from Knives the whole time. There is another Vash here, one with this Vash's blond hair, and Wolfwood can't tear his eyes away from the unlikely duo until his Vash pulls him into the kitchen, and they're lost to view.

Only then does he spin back to stare at Vash, eyes so wide they're burning and bright, and he locks both hands onto Vash's arms, in parallel of the grip Vash has him in, to hold the slippery bastard still. ]

Knives is here.

[ He'll keep his voice low, understanding the need for secrecy in battle – because this is battle, because out in the next room is the monster who's killing the world! Or who killed the world. He's never had much of a poker face, and his face contorts with fear and worry and rage in cycles. He's never felt so lost. ]

Spikey, you're wrong. You're wrong, you're dead. You fought Knives, and you both died. You're dead.

[ That has to be what happened. Knives bloated himself with every plant on the planet's surface, becoming huge beyond comprehension. Wolfwood had seen him a handful of times during Vash's imprisonment, and every time the sight had chilled the blood in his veins and left him trembling. He'd been unstoppable, and Vash had gone to stop him.

That they're both here only makes clear what must have happened. Why can't Vash see that? ]

We're all dead. That's why we're here.

[ He stares searchingly into Vash's wet blue eyes, and god. He never thought he'd see this face again. Part of him wants to just lean forward, wrap his arms around the man, hold him tight and breathe him in and let the horrors of the last day or so drain away. His friend. The man who'd come for him, who'd saved the orphanage when Wolfwood hadn't been able to, who'd risked the whole world to see him one last time. What stupid thing had he done now, to end up here? Was it to follow his brother, to keep that psychopath contained for all eternity?

Wolfwood's breath catches in his throat and he chokes around the thought, hands clenching tighter around Vashs's. ]

You idiot.

[ There's a little bit of relief when Vash manages to wrangle Wolfwood into the kitchen while his composure is hanging on by a thread. As the door falls shut, he's prepared to let it snap, to give in to the urge to throw his arms around Wolfwood, hold on tight, and just let the waves of well-worn grief pour out of him to create space for the joy of impossible reunion instead. Vash doesn't get the chance. Wolfwood spins and grabs hold of his arms before Vash can lift them, can barely even react, and he quickly realizes he needs to keep it together a while longer to at least try and explain some parts. Wolfwood looks so lost and afraid, Vash's heart breaks for him. He wants nothing more than to soothe his fears and worries, take them all away, make him see that the war is over. At ease, soldier.

Vash hardly ever mourns the loss of his powers, but he does in this instance. He wishes he could take one of his feathers, press it against Wolfwood and let him know and feel the truth in an instant. There would be no need for fumbling words and clumsy attempts at explaining anything. Vash doesn't even know how to start articulating that Knives isn't a threat anymore — quite the opposite, he takes such good care of Vash now, his devoted attention can be almost suffocating, and he hasn't lashed out at the people here. Nothing he says is likely going to sound believable. Simply showing the memories would work so much better.

But even if he still had his powers, he never had a say in what memories and feelings he sends across and there are things Wolfwood is better off not knowing. Things Vash would rather not share with anyone, not even his dearest friend. He has to try and do the human thing of speaking even though there's a lump in his throat making that seem impossible. It's not at all helped by Wolfwood calling him an idiot. Vash never would have thought he could have missed being insulted this much. He just wants to laugh and cry.

He can't. Not yet.

He has to take a shaky breath, letting the tight grip Wolfwood has on him be the thing that holds him together as he blinks hard to fight against the tears clinging to his lashes. When he opens his mouth to speak, he lets the words fall out in a tight babbled rush without thinking too hard on what to say. There is only the desire to reassure leading the way. ]

Shh, it's okay. I'm not. I promise you, I'm not. He never could kill me any more than I could kill him.

[ That is to say, for all that they had sworn to kill each other, they never could. Knives had held him captive on the ark for months with ample opportunity to be rid of Vash for good whenever he pleased and yet he'd never done it. In their final battle, when it came down to it, no true finishing blow could be delivered. At the start and at the end of things, all they had was each other — brothers, twins, two sides of the same coin — and neither could let go. Someone had to leave of their own accord and it wasn't Vash who had done so. ]

Knives saved me in the end. It's over. I made it out alive, the world is fine.

[ Worse for wear, perhaps, but recovering and surviving as No Man's Land has always done. There is still life, there is still hope, humanity continues on. He has no proof to show Wolfwood, only earnest words coming from his trembling frame, hands desperately squeezing like his grip might do a better job of conveying all he wants to express. ]

I know it doesn't make any sense right now, but trust me. This is just Milton.

[ There really isn't anything "just" about it, but it's not the condemnation that Wolfwood believes it to be. For all that this place might seem like Hell occasionally, Vash doesn't think Hell would let him experience such fierce joy by returning his brother and his friend to him.

Something in his frantic composure finally cracks, the first fissure appearing as the tears spill over and Vash laughs, helpless and breathless, voice cracking and splintering under the weight of his emotions. ]

Welcome to Earth, Wolfwood.

[ I made it out alive.

Knives saved me.

Welcome to Earth.

Wolfwood's knees want to buckle under the weight of so much information. He sways, grip tightening on Vash's arms until he's sure to be leaving bruises, holding on not just for his own stability, but for dear fucking life. Nothing that Vash is saying makes sense, but at the same time, he knows this man. He can hear the honesty in every word out of him, can feel his earnestness in the trembling beneath his palms. Vash is telling the truth – or he thinks he is, anyway. He's alive. Knives is forgiven.

This is Earth. ]

We're on Earth.

[ He can't seem to catch his breath, and his mind is swimming with too many questions to be able to put them all into words. This is Earth? This frozen place with its single pale sun is the distant paradise he'd dreamed of as a child? This place? The cradle of humanity, the great fertile world brimming with life and technology? This miserable ice cube is the original Eden? ]

How?

[ It can't be. It's not possible, it can't be Earth, and as he fights to reconcile that idea, that somehow they've traveled years through space, that Vash survived, and more, that Knives did too... as he struggles to understand how in the fuck Vash could have convinced the Earth forces to send himself and Wolfwood and Millions Knives back to Earth, he realizes that there's one death that Vash hadn't assured him about. ]

Am I dead?

[ He hates how small his voice sounds, hates it as much as he hates the grave dirt still clinging to his collar, Milton's mud embedded thickly beneath his nails. He hates the question itself, and how there's no answer that will bring any comfort. Either he's alive, either he was miraculously saved from certain death after he'd thought himself gone, was rescued and revived and shipped across the galaxy only to be buried in a shallow grave outside of just Milton... or he'd dead. Dead, and breathing. Dead and warm.

Is this even Vash at all, or is this all just part of the torments of Hell? There were two of them, circling close around Knives! He tries to laugh but, for all that his eyes are dry, the sound that tears loose in his throat can't be called anything but a sob. ]

Are you even really here?

Edited 2023-12-11 02:03 (UTC)

[ Vash isn't even conscious of the ache in his arms as Wolfwood clings all the harder. The swaying has him tightening his own grip, desperately trying to steady Wolfwood as he threatens to topple over even though he himself feels like he's a mild breeze away from falling over. He can only nod in confirmation when Wolfwood repeats the fact, figuring now is not quite the time yet to say that this is a version of Earth. Explaining quantum physics and the theory of parallel universes is going to be inevitable given that he'll have to explain his other self's presence at some point, but not quite yet. This is already overwhelming enough. He can only hope that there were science fiction books in Wolfwood's past somewhere that will make it all easier to explain; maybe the orphanage had a little library. (Vash highly doubts it though.)

The question as to how they're here is one he has no real response to. He wishes he had the answers, wishes so badly he could lay out even what little information he does have into nice bite-sized pieces, easy to swallow and digest. Understandably, the questions keep coming and each lands like a physical blow to Vash's chest. What's even worse is the noise Wolfwood makes. That sob is a knife to his heart that's being twisted with that very last question. There's a choked noise escaping Vash in response, a barely swallowed back sob or wail, and it takes everything not to just fall apart on the spot.

He needs to reply. Even if it hurts. Even if he has to squeeze his eyes shut because he can't keep looking at Wolfwood as he tells him the terrible truth through hitching breaths. ]

You did die... but the dead have ways of coming back in this place.

[ Be it through ghosts re-playing their last moments over and over again like recorded holograms stuck on a sickening loop or like Knives and Wolfwood, suddenly alive and breathing again, inexplicably. ]

We don't know how we're here or how any of this is possible.

[ There is no real comfort he can offer.

He forces his eyes to open again, ignoring the tears freely dripping down his cheeks. He lets go of Wolfwood's arms, pulling his left arm closer to himself and by extension bringing along Wolfwood's hand to where he can press it against his chest, his flesh hand coming to cover it. It's not nearly enough, yet this is all he can offer with any certainty: ]

But I am here. I'm right here, Nicholas.

[ Vash tries to assure him, presses Wolfwood's hand to Vash's chest where he can feel that big soft heart, that strong heart, pounding away. Vash tries to comfort him – even with tears pouring down his face Vash is trying to comfort him – but all Wolfwood can see is the grave dirt beneath his nails where his hand is splayed out over that strong heart.

The dead have ways of coming back in this place.

So he did die. Sitting on that couch in the remains of Miz Melanie's office, sharing a drink, not brave enough even then to say anything he wanted to say, feeling his body going numb, slowly, a creeping blanket of nothing that clawed its way up his legs until it could wrap itself around his heart, all the fear, all the regret... that was real, then. He'd died.

And Vash wouldn't have left him there, so Vash would have buried him.

If the dead have been brought back, Wolfwood realizes with a jolt, then it's not so that he can be tormented for his crimes. Everything centers around the man in front of him, doesn't it? He's been resurrected, reassembled, breath blown into his lungs so that he can stand here with Vash. Whatever tech rebuilt him, whatever strangeness might be crawling around in his guts, whatever miracle redeemed his soul... it was for Vash. Wolfwood was nobody from nowhere, and the hole Vash dropped him in was the best he could ever have hoped for.

(Not that he's not thinking about, no, he's not going to let himself think about it, how heavy his corpse would have been, how messy, how hard the ground around the orphanage was, how kind the addition of the bedsheet shround to keep the sandy soil off his face, he can't, he can't. Not now. Not ever.)

Somebody brought him back, for this. Somebody pulled him from the ground, fixed him, and brought him here, for Vash.

To give Vash back his friend? Or to torment him? Wolfwood flexes the hand on Vash's chest, filthy nails curling softly in as though he's going to reach into Vash's ribs and take hold of his heart. Is he a gift, or a trap?

How can he tell?

But Vash is still blubbering, and that makes one choice easy. ]

I don't... oh, come here.

[ Like he'd comfort a child, Wolfwood wraps his free hand around the back of Vash's head, and pulls the man into his shoulder. This is new, this contact, this comfort, and it's a far cry from his usual friendly shoving and teasing. But he's dead. The rules have changed. He doesn't have to be so afraid anymore. ]

You're a bigger crybaby than Livio was.

[ Wolfwood's fingers curl into the fabric of his sweater and already that feels like such a marvel, solid proof that his friend is truly here and alive, but then Wolfwood has to go and do something unexpected. Utterly defenseless, Vash is reeled in easily, eyes widening in shock at the strong hand in his hair and the firm shoulder he finds his face being pulled into. It's not like any sort of comfort they've shared before. Even when waking up crying or screaming from nightmares as they both had a tendency to do, what they would do was distract one another with casual talk, becoming a focal point that provided a sense of normality against the traumas of their pasts and that was enough. They never talked about it, never acknowledged it. They certainly never provided a comfort like this.

The last time he'd had his head against Wolfwood's shoulder was back in Wolfwood's grave, when he'd taken a small moment to lie down in the hole with his dead body, feeling any lingering warmth from the suns leave it. He remembers wishing he could stay right there, to be at rest together and not have to part, but the final battle had beckoned, his brother's taunting laughter still ringing in his ears. He'd had to leave it behind.

(Much later on, he'd thought of returning to the grave whenever his time was up and doing what Knives had done, pouring the last of his power into a beautiful tree or a flowering shrub to let the roots sink into the soil and reunite them in death. Milton had other plans. Better ones, maybe.)

Wolfwood smells of damp earth and old rusted iron, not too unlike how he'd done back then, and it's not helping Vash keep it together one bit. It's only by virtue of his surprise that he manages to sputter out a protest out of sheer force of bickering habit alone. ]

N-no way, he's— w-worse than I am.

[ He hadn't been the one crying into his salad, thank you very much. (Never mind that he and Livio both cried over a worm scaring them.)

Not that he can beat the crybaby allegations either way. Especially not when the hitching of his breaths is getting worse and worse, chest growing tighter and tighter, heaving with the effort to draw air. The thread frays and finally snaps. Vash is powerless to stop it. All he can do is let go of Wolfwood's hand so he can wrap his arms around him and hold on tight as the floodgates open and nearly a year's worth of repressed grief comes spilling out. Burying his face into Wolfwood's shoulder harder doesn't stop the torrent of tears that start to fall nor does it even do much to muffle the strange sound that rips itself free seemingly from the very core of his being, something that sounds more like a wounded animal than anything human. He can only sob like the child he's being held as, clinging as though the fate of the world depends on never letting go again. ]

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