Chapter Text
The blond strand of hair lays in his hand.
A condemnation, really.
He doesn't even remember reaching up to rip it out. Sometimes he can see glimpses in the mirror, bright lines scattered here and there hiding among the black. Most times, he can tell himself he's just seeing things. There's no way there could be that many left. He has done so much, has put so much of himself into everything that's happened…it should have been enough.
Why hadn't it been enough?
The question is one he's developed the habit for ignoring, looking away from it. Entertaining it always, inevitably, leads to memories of explosions, burning atmosphere, guns and bullets, the blood and smoke that come from the violence of them all. The burning poison in his gut as his mind reminds him of the bitterness still in his heart toward the very people he'd managed to save from complete annihilation. Not all of them, though. Not even most of them.
Not even all of the ones that mattered most.
The golden strand is the reminder that, even in spite of this, he still lives. There is just enough left in him for…he doesn't even know how long.
Longer than most who matter.
Always just too much longer.
And for what?
Pulling out the hair doesn't change this fact. He knows that. The root is still there to grow back, lost in the black of decay. It won't change until it, too, joins with the rest of the strands and finally acknowledges his wish.
There is some guilt, or used to be. But he's too old. Too tired and worn thin by loss and grief and regret.
There are times he thinks to himself, Rem, Rem…I'm ready for there to be a final destination. Please…
He thinks she would understand, at least. She also probably never anticipated just how long things would go on for. How much suffering would occur and would still occur. Humans were cyclical in their behaviors. Only a few generations to forget. A few more to remember again. Over and over, dizzyingly repeating the same patterns, enough to drive a person mad if they had any awareness of it.
It's exactly this that Knives would use in his arguments that humans were too slow at change.
Not all humans were.
He's seen plenty of examples.
And has buried almost every single one of them himself.
His hand curls around the damning golden thread. A wretched sound echoes in the small room. It takes him a moment to realize it's the cry he's choking back. Again. How many times has it been? And how many will it be, if he keeps finding these signs of his continued life?
He doesn't want to think of it. He tells himself, in what he knows is rising irrational hysterics, that this one has to be the last one. Surely there couldn't be more. How could there be?
The problem is that he can't see all the angles of his head, so even if he found all the ones he could in the mirror, the back of his head remains elusive. He couldn't very well ask someone to check for him, either. That would lead to too many questions. Questions people were becoming more capable of asking and answering with the arrival of the Earth Federation and their own knowledge of Independents.
He throws the hair into the garbage can and leaves the bathroom. His eyes are dry even with the emotions churning in his throat. He's well practiced at this. Nothing wrong. Nothing to see here. No one around is able to tell the difference between one smile and the next. Though, he has to give Meryl credit in that she is scarily perceptive. And tenacious. Even if she couldn't tell, she still has a decent sense that there is something not quite right.
It's this uncanny sense that he tries to avoid as he slinks around the back of the tavern. Out the side door.
There's the Earth Federation still hunting him down for questioning about Knives and his whereabouts, sure. But he really can't take the constant cameras and microphones being shoved in his face, either. He almost misses the good old days when it was just guns from the No Man's Landers being shoved at him from all directions.
Besides that, he has somewhere to go.
It's been another five months since the Humanoid Typhoon resurfaced.
He's already traveled quite a distance, but he had no idea just how far he'd been from his current chosen destination.
Leaning against the back wall of the tavern, Vash the Stampede looks up at the twin suns in the desert's blue sky. He's still wearing his signature red suit. Hair, though dark, still in the same style. Anyone who knows him would say he's pretty much the same as always—outwardly. They know well enough what's been changed but, frequently, are too kind to say anything about it. Not without invitation.
And he will never invite them.
He lets out a sigh, closing his eyes, almost hearing a scolding voice in the movement of air as a dry wind passes by. A familiar curse, unkind and without being asked for.
A withered smile crosses crookedly across his face, fond in spite of himself.
You would think I was being a damned idiot about it, wouldn't you?
Only silence answers. He's used to that. He lets the smile twist into a bit of a grin as he pushes his glasses into place on the bridge of his nose. He says to himself, instead, "They're probably scrambling to put up blockades around the town by this point…better to squeeze through before all options are out or there'll be trouble. Sorry, girls. Please deal with them nicely and don't do anything too dangerous."
He pushes off the wall of the tavern and starts to make his way west. Toward the remnants of the fallen city of December. The small village on the outskirts is miraculously still intact and thriving from what he's heard.
It's probably foolish. Predictable for anyone hunting for Vash the Stampede.
But he has so few friends these days. He couldn't do it for Rem. There hadn't even been a body, and the debris had fallen all across the planet. It'd also be some time before he could even think to go back to the church where he'd last seen Knives.
It's already been almost a year…
Dust and sand hit his face as he walks, and Vash lets out a laugh that sounds hollow to his own ears. "Don't start haunting me if I'm a little late. I'm trying real hard here!"
Each day is a struggle to keep putting one foot in front of the other. His black hair would be more of a comfort of this all coming to an end soon enough if he'd only stop catching glimpses of those blond strands of hair hidden away.
The ticket he holds is still blank, but for now, he at least has a place to go. People to see.
A friend to pay his respects to.
Narrowed dark eyes glare at impassive, cold blue.
Both individuals at the table—one a seeming teenaged youth, the other a fully grown woman—don't move an inch. An impasse. Observers hidden behind one-way mirrors exchange uncomfortable looks with each other. They can still hear the words ringing in the air after the youth's loud declaration of uncooperation. They should have expected it, really. This particular youth has a particular stubborn streak to him, though they can't fathom where he may have developed it.
There's another lengthy pause before the woman sighs, tilts her head to toss her blond hair back out of her face before she leans forward. "I understand. You are young. And growing very rapidly. It's only natural for you to have already reached this rebellious stage—"
"This ain't a rebellious phase. I'm tellin' ya there's nothin' to talk about—these scientists are just makin' things up—"
"Please do not interrupt me when I am speaking," the woman snaps out authoritatively which only makes the youth scowl before sinking back into his seat. "Thank you. Now. There is no 'making things up' when it comes to these men and women. There is a lot of study that has gone into researching Independents and how and why they occur. That you are the first Independent since the Federation has arrived on this planet is telling. You already know this. You have been informed again and again that you are of significant interest for the continued bridging of the gap between plants and humans following what occurred last year—"
The youth blows out a sigh, making his own blond hair fly up and away from his face, falling messily back onto his head. Nothing about his mannerisms indicate someone who's been raised in such an organized manner. "Lotta pressure to put onto a kid," he mutters to himself sourly, almost sarcastically.
The woman gives him another withering look, prompting him to raise his hands in surrender.
"Yes. We do recognize that it is a lot of pressure for an Independent still developing," she acknowledges patiently, hands folding over each other on the table. "That is why I am tasked with your care in the first place. To ensure the abuses of the previous age in this world are not repeated. As it is, you are vastly more developed within this amount of time than most other Independents. It's a concern, but not a large one yet. More concerning, however—" Here, her own blue eyes narrow at him. "—are the reports of your behavioral patterns. Specifically, your sleeping patterns. So I will ask again: have you or have you not been experiencing vivid dreams involving another Independent?"
"And what happens if I don't wanna answer, huh?" The youth scowls, crossing his arms across himself. It's a defensive gesture. Natural for a human to guard the trunk of their body but less so for an Independent. It is a matter of speculation still if Independents adopt this behavior because of nurturing from humans or if plants instill the instinct so as to have them fit in more among humans. "Since I'm so goddamn precious to the Federation—what're ya gonna do if I don't feel like answerin', huh?"
"Surveillance."
"Y'already do that."
The woman tilts her head and continues to stare at the youth. After a moment, his mouth starts to work, brow furrowed in nervous realization.
"Independents aren't s'posed to do that…?" It's a weak protest. He knows very well that there is no "supposed to" when it comes to certain matters. It's noted in his records that he has adopted a cautious and almost paranoid belief about the intentions of the Federation. There are questions about if the plants instilled this in him because of the events the previous year, or…perhaps, it could be something altogether different.
A foreign influence.
An infiltration.
It would explain why the youth is so familiar with things only natives of this planet would know.
"As you're aware," the woman begins again, "last year has proven the advantages of such actions—under strict observation and testing—"
"If it wasn't for what he did, ya wouldn't—"
The youth cuts off the heated and temperamental response, dark eyes going wide as if realizing what he is saying. The sweat on his brow and the scowl that comes onto his face next shows clearly that he knows his mistake.
Everyone's attention goes to him. The woman sits back in her seat, hands still folded on the table. "'He'."
The youth doesn't answer, mutinous.
"Please be clear of whom you're speaking. Who is 'he'?"
Again, silence.
The woman allows it for a moment longer, closing her eyes and letting out a quiet sigh. "Vash the Stampede, isn't it?"
"Fuck you."
The words are bitten out, but they're enough of a confirmation for those observing. There was no doubt who the youth had meant. However, there remains the curiosity of the statement itself, still.
"And what did Vash the Stampede do, exactly? Do you know? And how do you know? Did you speak with someone with knowledge of last year's events?"
"...no."
"How do you know of Vash the Stampede?"
Silence, once more.
"Please consider the fact that, as a fellow Independent, I also do not feel comfortable with resorting to other methods to obtain this information—"
"Why?" the youth demands, unable to keep quiet any longer. "Why are ya treatin' him like some kinda devil, anyway? Wasn't he the one who put a stop to what happened in the first place? Why are ya so damn interested in him in the first place?!"
The woman's eyes stay shut for a moment longer. Her hands curl on each other, almost wringing one another. "That he vanished with the rogue Independent is part of it. But the other part of it is that, if he still lives, then he is the Independent who knows the history of what's occurred on this planet since the 'Big Fall' one hundred and fifty years ago. It's vital that we obtain this information—"
"No, that's not why."
Her eyes open once again. Calm. "And why do you think it is?"
"'Cause if Millions Knives is dead, then he's the only one ya got to punish for that guy's sins." The youth presses his lips into a thin line before leaning forward, one hand reaching out to tap a finger against the table. "I ain't tellin' ya shit involvin' Vash. And it's got nothin' to do with plants or anythin' like that. I just owe him a helluva lot more than I owe you terrans."
Even the woman frowns at the No Man's Lander insulting slur of a term for the Earth arrivals coming from this young Independent. More discomforting, however, are the implications of what was said.
"...and why would you, who was born just a year ago, owe that man anything?"
The youth pauses, seems to debate his answer before giving up. There is the belief that he is wanting to avoid Independent surveillance. His hand reaches up to mess at his blond hair, wild and unsettled on his head.
"I don't really get it, either. The more I develop, the more I remember. But I remember…that idiot was there, at that time. Sittin' next to me."
"'At that time'?"
The youth's dark eyes look over to the one-way mirrors, seeming to pick out the men and women observing from behind it. There's something like fear in the gaze, as if knowing finally speaking of this matter will only open the doors to more complications, more reason for observation, study, experimentation.
"When I died."