#punisheye 22

[blankticket]

@punisheye

The door was open.

Or, more accurately: the door had ceased to exist. Strange, delicate mists had crawled in from the side of it, eating away at what was physical a moment before. Where an unimpressed guard had sneered down at Vash, now there was the swirling unknown.

Without hesitation, he pressed on past where he was confined. His body had moved before he can think to note how scary this all is, before he could have the good sense to fear how the mist could be endless, his world eroded. Vash hasn't quite come to accept this complete upending of the laws of reality—it's just that he can still hear the Plant screaming for help, somewhere out there.

Turning his head this way and that to find her, Vash nearly bumps his face right into a wall of black. Instinctively, his hands come up to prevent the collision, although they're awkwardly successful by the restraints around his wrists.

The little boy winces, totters back a step, looks up at Wolfwood. His cuffed hands pull defensively toward his chest.

"Ah…" Now he's getting scared.

Wolfwood doesn't look familiar in any helpful way—he's clearly not a part of SEEDS, or a face he recognizes from Ship Five's cold-sleep registry. But he's also the only adult around… The only being around, besides his Plant brethren.

The assumption he'd be brought back into confinement by this man makes tears bead up in the corners of his eyes. He's got to be brave for her sake.

Vash's face wrinkles with effort, tiny lungs gathering air for his demand: "Let me meet the Plant!"

[hollowfaith]

When Aurelius next returns to his office, he's going to find something a bit out of place: a small envelope with his name written in neat, blocky lettering and no sender. Inside is a plain piece of paper, and written on that paper is simply:

My bad.

... With a glittery sticker of a smiley face with its tongue out. There's no signature, but the letter smells faintly of coffee and tobacco.

Amidst the flurry of activity following the latest Sanctus Clinic notice, the pile of mail on Aurelius' desk grows unchecked. When everything is finally sorted out, it's the angel's human secretary who braves the empty study to straighten out the neglected paperwork.

The unmarked envelope looks almost childish next to the other correspondence, but Spirale is a city of misfits, so she knows better than to judge things by appearances. It ends up set aside while the secretary finishes processing the formal replies (most of which turn out to be cancellation notices and rejections to meet), and then plucked up between her fingers at the end of the day for a careful study.

Would it be fine to just let it sit...? Unless it was something urgent. You really couldn't tell without opening the envelope, but this was obviously a private message.

In the end, she choses prudence and puts the envelope into an even bigger one before mailing the entire thing to Aurelius' listed address in the Mistwood.

At the very least, his partner would be there to receive it for him.

[blankticket]

This Vash's given many pleas to Wolfwood, now; prostrated himself against the floor of his own home to unsuccessfully avert a vengeance so dedicated, it crossed worlds. He's demanded of Wolfwood to take control of his own second chance at life, to disentangle the shape of their childhoods. To rediscover his own faith in himself, in humanity; to let go of the constant and useless rumination on suffering. All of this sentiment—it's the same as what he's asked of his twin brother.

If Knives had disappeared that day, for good… Vash isn't sure whether he'd be doing any of this for Wolfwood's sake.

Of course, he's forgiven him; those earlier, candid words with Maria still ring true, still came from his heart. But Wolfwood's still as fearful as he had been since the last time they'd talked. Unwilling to lay the Punisher down, to reach his hand out to help or to be helped.

Yet he still led that child to the Plant. It's easy to imagine he showed that kid a great deal of kindness, even if that kid never existed.

People need time to change.

"…Don't let all your memories of me hurt you." The shape in the fog is fading, fast. "You still owe me a drink, anyway."

Vash keeps backing away from him, his whole body seems drawn tight, just from his silhouette. Is he scared? Has Wolfwood truly gone that far? Is there no fixing it? He died still thinking of himself as a monster and murderer, and that comes rearing its ugly head once more. The form of his friend shying away from him like this is devastating.

Devastating is an understatement, really.

The other wants him to have faith in himself and the people he loves. Wolfwood wants that, too; he's trying. But just this is making his resolve crumble. Does Stamps even really have faith in him, then? Acting like he wants to turn tail and run away, despite his words.

He can't help but think: does his own Vash feel similar? Is there still a flicker of doubt, or disappointment? Is he scared of what Wolfwood might do, too?

I know what you're capable of. Wolfwood doesn't know what he means by that. Isn't sure he wants to know what he means.

Both trembling hands move, palm up so he can look down at them. For a few fleeting moments he swears he can see blood staining them again, making his stomach drop. It's gone soon enough, but he still feels like he might crumple up and break apart like wet tissue.

What can he even say? The fight is quickly draining from him. Any argument dies before it can reach his tongue.

Heat builds behind his eyes. Wolfwood chides himself for turning into such a crybaby since he came to this place. It makes him feel like the little boy he scarcely got the chance to be.

...Wolfwood says nothing. He just tilts his face towards the ground and takes a wet breath.

[blankticket]

There's evident distrust in Vash's face, his stiff shoulders; a hesitance in yielding to the sentiment that he had been a child worth such insistent pitying. He did have someone; he abandoned him. For what Vash the Stampede has done to the planet, the mercy of companionship would've been grotesquely undeserved.

His family at Home had decided to accept him, anyway. To clothe him, to care for him, to give him purpose. They took risks and made sacrifices for him. It'd be dishonorable to discredit that just because of how things started off. The crew could have decided to do much worse to him at any point, and they would be more than right to make good on it.

The priest has only a sliver of an understanding of the many decades spent in close contact with Home. They might have had an ugly beginning, but things were much more difficult then. All of it was a direct result of the Fall. Why would it be inexcusable to—

—At the sound of gunfire, at a child's pained cry, the Stampede's practiced hand floats down toward his hip, a few steps drawn back toward the bloodstained cave. His body moves before he can think to issue it any command, primed for action. …But the other man's tired voice pierces Vash's attention.

Wolfwood's not too far away, and he still stands taller, but somehow he still looks small. Vash's shoulders sink for a moment, before he draws them up and takes another step back. Thin wefts of mist thread the space in front of him. He sighs as the fog softens up the edges of his silhouette.

"If the suffering's all you're choosin' to focus on," Vash says, "It'll be all you see."

It's a somber thought in itself: things used to be so different between them. But if it's true that people change, it shouldn't be a surprise that their silly little friendship could not remain as bright as it had been. Not forever.

"I know what you're capable of." This wasn't forever, either. "Come home t'yourself already, Wolfwood."

"It's not what you shoulda done," he rasps out. His chin tips down to look at the other in the face as he tries to ignore the thick scent of blood. It's hard to keep his hands from shaking. "It's that you shoulda had someone."

He shifts his weight like he wants to move forward, his hand moving up but quickly dropping back to his side, curling up tight again. Wolfwood swallows, too, and his jaw tenses.

"I wish they didn't leave you alone there," he says. "Stuck in those handcuffs. All dark n'cold. Just 'cus they were... scared. You were scared, too, right?"

Wolfwood, frustrated, rakes a hand through his dark mess of hair. Somewhere is the unmistakable sound of gunfire, a pained cry of a child, the familiar voice of an old man scolding a boy coming deep from within the fog. A boy that didn't have anyone anymore and was so, so scared and lonely.

"You- you deserved better than what ya got," he manages to continue. "Wish they'd been kinder to ya. That's it. Okay?"

[blankticket]

"I'm being accountable," Vash insists, but the elaboration on that is lost in frustrated silence. There go the goalposts.

Wolfwood's not listening. That shape beyond the fog simply stands there for the moment Wolfwood spots him, looking on while he catches his breath. His own fists clench, too; then relax with a sudden wave of weary resignation.

It's hard not to hear his brother in his ear again in light of this, whispering the inevitable he had prophesized from before the Fall: they won't change their minds on what you are, no matter how much of yourself you offer to them. He's a monster, an pitiful idiot content to submit to endless acquiescence; made deeply sick by his need to appear harmless, to be loved by any human giving him the barest amount of attention.

The Plant calmly walks forward to Wolfwood, after they both catch a glimpse of the ghosts to their side. On their opposite side, a shallow cave carved in the face of canyon rock begins to materialize. The strong scent of sacrificed blood permeates the air.

He comes to a stop when he's more clearly in view of Wolfwood.

"Go on. What should I've done?" Vash pauses to swallow. It makes the new, matching, all-around neck scar bob with the motion. "What'd I do wrong?"

Of course the little shit followed him, Wolfwood doesn't know how he could even expect otherwise. He keeps his back to him as he walks, footsteps heavy on the pavement, mist parting around him.

"You didn't make anyone do anything! When're you gonna stop takin' responsibility for shit other people did, huh?! Does it feel better to take every bad thing in the universe and pin it on yerself?"

Both him and the elder Vash do this shit and it drives him absolutely. Fucking. Crazy.

Wolfwood comes to a sudden stop when two malnourished, filthy children stumble out in front of him. Each one is holding a coin close to their chest. They give him a single glance, a grateful smile, and disappear back into the mist.

He turns around to face the direction of Vash's voice. He can see the outline of his silhouette, and considers turning back around and continuing to walk away. But he stays, hands balled up into white-knuckled fists and nails digging into his palms.

"Is it really that hard to get why it pisses me off? Seein' him- you- like that. Knowin' what they did."

His eyes flicker to the side when he sees movement, again, a few yards away from them both. Melanie is there. In front of her is a dark-haired young woman with a dark-haired little boy in her arms, no more than three. The little boy is passed over to Melanie, and there are words exchanged that he can't make out. Like a distant, muffled memory. But he can hear how the child wails as the woman leaves, crystal clear. Haunting in the mist.

"You... shoulda..." Had someone there to love you.

[blankticket]

As the priest turns, something small and organic and unquestionably alive floats up to Vash in the Plant tank, silently looking at him. Vash turns away from her, too.

"You can't—" Damn it, Wolfwood really is on the move, already. Chalk it up to the Stampede and his big mouth.

"—You're…" His pace slows enough through the mists when he knows Wolfwood is close enough to hear, but his own angry tone raises anyway. "You're the one who isn't takin' this serious, Wolfwood! Y'think that's what I'm doin' all of this for?!" To hear I'm sorry? It's an insult to the both of them. It was never about that.

"Doesn't matter how either of us feel about it, the Fall was 'cause of me. The Eye was 'cause of me. I made them do that. I've made them all suffer. I keep sayin' it's different, 'cause we ARE." He's panting. It's an effort to upend all this ugliness from inside, where Wolfwood's refused to look. "…Luida—she did—she did say sorry."

Not that it really mattered, though, right? If they didn't talk things out right now, then Wolfwood would only keep moving the goalposts.

"Look. You have t'stop seein' yourself in what happened t'me. You didn't do anything wrong." Vash still looks wounded; fists curled tight, he holds worry in his face the same way he did as a kid. "Why's it so horrible of me to forgive them? Why can't you accept that they changed their ways?"

Being struck across the face probably would have hurt less. Still, he lets Vash have it:

"They changed, cared for ya, loved ya, but did they ever fuckin' say "I'm sorry"? Ever once admit what they did was fucked up?" Or was it all just brushed under the rug, with these people hoping it would be forgotten? "Lockin' a little boy up for a year, all alone in a dark room, in handcuffs, no bed, and only lettin' him out once they learned he could work for them."

His skin feels hot, his eyes burning. Wolfwood can't help his anger. He also can't help the hurt that paints his tone even though he wishes he could hide it.

"You think I'm talkin' outta my ass? Like I don't know what it's like to be scared n'hurt little kid surrounded by adults that woulda killed me if I wasn't useful? When you looked at him, did ya even once think that you'd want to protect him?

"Would you look him in the eye and keep makin' these excuses to his face?"

Wolfwood hopes not, but he's realizing now that he has little faith in Vash, here.

"You sayin' I won't hear you but yer stubborn ass won't accept when people say you deserved a lot better than what you got. So long's you can keep actin' like yer tragedy's the greatest tragedy of all, that no one else can handle it, and yer the worst person alive.

"And it's so easy to fuckin' say I sound like him, huh? Anything to keep you from hearin' it. Fine. That's what you think. Nothin' is gonna change yer mind so who knows why I'm rantin' at a brick fuckin' wall."

The next breath he takes is a little watery. He waits for a moment, silent save for rapid breathing sending more puffs of fog into the growing mist around them.

"...Be fuckin' serious for once. Bye."

And he turns, stomping away.

[blankticket]

Shoulders tense. Fingers smear against glass, and the grey cuff on his wrist falls further onto his arm. But Vash doesn't move from where he stands, refusing to properly turn to face Wolfwood.

In the reflection of the mist-swirled glass, his hidden expression is made clear; wounded and unsure, it's at odds with how his tone tries to stay resolute.

"No, it's not what it looks like. Everything looks scary to a kid when they're alone. But they never hurt me." Why, had Wolfwood found bruises on the child that were never there to begin with? Were there red rings marked around his wrists? No. He was never subject to the impact of a raised hand or fist.

The burning sensation in his hair still prickles lightly.

"They still cared for me. They loved me." A shake of the head.

"You're sounding like him." It's a low blow; he knows that. But he just wants Wolfwood to cede, to drop it, to leave. His fingers curl into a fist against the glass. "People change, Wolfwood, I keep tryin' t'tell you that—but you won't hear it!"

Air is sucked in sharply through his teeth. As Stamps swaps places, Wolfwood rises back up to his full height. He casts one more glance at the boy (worried, sympathetic) who sits unconscious within the glass before the mist obscures him from view.

It's hard not to laugh humorlessly at the Plant's next words, but he manages.

"Thanks for the permission," and he sounds more glacial than he thinks he's ever spoken to the other before.

There are a lot of feelings rapidly bubbling up to the surface, threatening to boil over. When he looks over at the tank again the boy is gone, but Wolfwood still remembers what his little hand felt like, the arms curled around his leg, and those big, terrified, confused eyes.

He was just a kid. Just a kid and failed by the people that should have been protecting him.

"Y'know, with how you defended the folks that locked you up here I coulda expected you to've been more than a scared little kid. Maybe even gave 'em a real reason to be worried."

Wolfwood feels... angry. Hurt on behalf of the boy. Every little scrap of information he gains of the Plant's childhood pours salt into the wound.

"But you were really just a kid. All frightened n'alone. Buncha grown adults couldn't even feel a shred a' sympathy for you."

[blankticket]

The Plant watches Wolfwood draw closer, expression neutral. It's only when the human comes to a full stop that Vash mirrors his younger self, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to the glass.

The boy's breathing calms. The pressure in the air shifts as the connection is established, as light steadily traces through the dual markings pulse by pulse. There's a hair-raising sense of power generated, reciprocated, then drained.

Like a magic trick, smokeless, before Wolfwood's very eyes: reflections exchange places.

The child is on the other side of the glass, confined and alone. Freed, the darker parts of his scalp lightly tingling, his future self rises. His right hand is still placed against the tank, although very much out of reach, now.

He keeps his eyes trained on the little Plant, watching as the other slowly collapses backward. Their markings both fade. The slow rise and fall of the smaller Plant's chest, and his unworried expression, indicate he's successfully slipped into an unconscious state.

Mist begins to fill the tank, swirling from the bottom.

"…Thanks for taking care of him." There isn't much warmth in the Typhoon's gratitude, as genuine as it is. "You can go, now."

Really, he's content with standing back and letting whatever happens, happen, so long as no one gets hurt in the process. But he doesn't think he's really needed here outside of moral support, and the presence of the older Vash after what transpired in their last meeting is, admittedly, making him somewhat twitchy.

But he remains, watching in silence. Patterns pulse and glow, and it's a little startling at first. He'd seen the markings once before, just when the light hit Vash's eyes just right, but never like this. Not even his Vash can do... whatever this is. At least Wolfwood doesn't think he can.

Wolfwood hesitates when the adult Plant's eyes land on him again, when he's gestured to come closer.

It feels a little intrusive to do so. And he's a little surprised by the invitation.

And still, he takes a few steps closer, crouching down to be at level with both Plants. Still saying nothing, dark eyes flickering between the two before landing on the little boy and staying there, for now.

[blankticket]

The kid can hear him, as smushed up as he is; he shakes his head against the back of Wolfwood's leg in response, grasp no less loosening. But only a few seconds later, curiosity and the need for air cause for him to peek back out. He sniffles.

His older self is fully turned to face the two, even giving a friendly two-handed wave down toward Vash once spotted.

The boy doesn't flinch, mostly looking confused, now. He waits a little more, silent, as though trying to listen for something. Slowly, his gloved hands let go of Wolfwood, instead keeping them close to his heart in a protective posture. With hunched shoulders and unsure steps, he approaches the tank again.

The Plant squats slowly, empty mismatched hands pressing against the glass. He mouths something with a smile, but it's too muffled to audibly make out. The little healer tentatively presses an index finger opposite a blue palm, causing for matching markings to ripple onto matching faces.

"…Like me," the little one murmurs in wonder. He presses his forehead to the glass, eyes closing, and in relief he repeats: "You're like me."

The Plant in the tank hesitates, his head swaying back in surprise. Patterned eyes glance up to Wolfwood, before he signals with a tilt of his head for him to draw closer.

Ah. That's not what he was expecting to see.

It does bring a flicker of alarm, because why would his friend be encased in a glass tank like this? Did his brother do something to him? He looks well enough, though. There's no signs of struggle. He's just... standing there, back to them, until he looks.

Wolfwood can only meet his gaze for a second before those eyes turn to the little boy, who promptly hides behind—and hugs—one of his legs.

"Hey, hey, you scared? C'mon." It's not said meanly. Wolfwood turns at the waist so he can reach behind himself and give the child a pat on the head. "I guess he does look kinda scary, huh?"

As scary as that big-eyed dork can look like this, really. Which is to say: not at all.

But he hasn't seen him since... well, he doesn't know if that's important right now. He's still pretty concerned about why Vash is in there to begin with, and how he doesn't seem all that worried about it. Wolfwood turns his head to shoot his friend a questioning stare before turning his attention back to the little boy.

"We got all the way here, kid. You can't help him if yer hidin', y'know."

[blankticket]

Right away, Vash's instinct is to reach for the discarded cuffs, but the stranger's offered hand stops his attempt early. After a beat of hesitation, the little Plant carefully places his own hand there. Wolfwood's hand is warm. It makes him realize that the last time he'd had his hand held was… Was when…

The kid's head swivels to the same direction he was heading toward earlier, once more hearing something only he can hear. He raises his other arm's sleeve to brush across his messy, teary face. Then he glances back at his new tagalong buddy.

"Then… F-follow me, okay? She's this way!"

The healer's little legs pull them into a fast trot, through fog that begins to flicker red-pink. It thins as the sound of ship sirens more clearly pulse in time. If there's something the little boy tries to say between the alarms, it'd be difficult to make it out.

Soon enough, the two come across the red Plant, and the sirens subside the moment they're close enough to see. It's alone, encapsulated in glass like any other… But without any suspension fluid to keep it upright. The Plant doesn't seem to notice them just yet—and isn't in apparent harm.

The child is quick to throw away the hand of his temporary companion, disregarding the Plant's strange appearance and sudden lack of distress. He rushes up to the glass face to bang his tiny fist against it.

"Hey!" he tries to shout alongside the muffled thumps, voice starting to get hoarse from all the yelling. "I heard you! I'm here!"

The encased Plant looks over his shoulder, red coat shifting. Eyes behind orange lenses glance from Wolfwood—then down to his former self.

Startled, the child's hands cease to bang against the glass, and he totters backward... Slowly bumping into Wolfwood. Jumping in place, the kid quickly scurries to hide behind the man's leg, not daring to peek out.

Fingers pause when the little boy practically squeaks out his warning. Wolfwood blinks at him, lips twitching. He can understand the fear, the uncertainty. But this kid clearly has had no adult besides his mother treat him right at this point, has had no one else on his side. It's scary to be all alone. It's scary feeling like your very existence is wrong.

He's thinking about those marks on the wall. It makes his stomach turn. It shouldn't be shocking given what he's gone through, but the cruelty in which many treat children still stuns him sometimes.

So it's easy to show kindness to a scared little kid. The easiest thing in the world.

"I can deal with them bein' mad," he assures Vash. "They're not gonna find out. If they do, I'll tell 'em it was all my idea."

Wolfwood's thumb presses the release and the cuffs snap open. He pulls them away and lets them hit the floor without a care.

"Yer not gonna get in trouble. I'll take care of ya."

Still crouched, he turns his hand palm-up and offers it to Vash. Wolfwood let himself smile, eyes scrunching up. It's genuine and friendly. He hopes that the kid can feel a little more at ease seeing him like this.

"S'okay if you don't trust me, but I'll still help."

[blankticket]

Unfair! This guy's messing with him!! (…Right?)

Vash's only met so many adults so far—with the bulk of him still wanting him dead—and he only knows about two other Plants like him. Maybe Wolfwood was from a ship where the crew cared for another Independent well enough to be seen as equals, let alone friends, and to insist on getting him uncuffed…? Maybe Ship Three and Ship Five were outliers as to how special Plants were treated…?

As a kid, it's difficult to intuit what is and isn't possible in the world.

He pouts, eyebrows furrowed deep while he bows his head in thought. Then, with a little closed-mouth sound of frustration, the young Plant lowers his wrists toward Wolfwood's hands. A few tears plip onto the cuffs before Vash shakes his head to quit it. He sounds thoroughly begrudging of this plan:

"The. Button. You gotta press it."

The cuffs themselves have never chafed—some kind of gravitational force kept space between the physical shape of the cuffs to avoid discomfort, and without leaving any evidence onto his wrists. It made for a one-size-fits-all snugness, a vague impression of decency given to whoever had to bear them. Whether Vash had them on for a few hours or for nearly an entire year might have been difficult to tell, if this Wolfwood hadn't borne witness to those marks dug into metal walls.

"They're g-gonna be mad at you!" Vash warns again, flinching back into unease as he watches Wolfwood's instructed fingers move toward the release button. He's scared; he squirms in place. Doesn't wanna die. Doesn't wanna get this guy killed, get the Plant killed, like how he let it happen to Rem, to everyone, for being something wrong. He has to insist, louder: "They're gonna be mad!"

"S'okay. That don't scare me. My best friend's a Plant like you. We live together."

Best friend is one way to put it, but he's not really looking to confuse an already confused kid further. That's not what's important right now. What's important is this kid gets to where he wants to go and that he's safe.

"Plant or not, yer still just a kid." Wolfwood reaches over, his fingers delicately brushing over the cold metal of the cuffs. He frowns looking at them. "A kid ain't supposed to be wearin' these."

Such tiny hands and wrists. Awful that they even make handcuffs this small.

What kinda people're scared of a kid?

They just don't think you're useful to them yet.

"I don't know how I got on this ship. I'm just here. Maybe I'm meant t'be here n'help ya get to the Plant?"

"I won't tell anyone if you don't."

[blankticket]

Wolfwood's persistence stops the kid in his tracks. It's not frustrating so much as it is anxiety-compounding.

A criminal? He very much is, although it wasn't quite the reason he's been detained for the better part of a year. Vash shakes his head fervently, curling his hands toward his chest again as a measure to protect Wolfwood from himself.

"N-no! It's 'cause I'm a Plant, too." In other words, it's for your safety.

Vash had quickly come to learn that being nonhuman in itself was a danger that superseded appearances. What use was there for a Plant if he was defective? As things were right now, all he did was deplete resources and pose a threat to life aboard the ship. Maybe even beyond.

"They'd get mad at you, anyway." He really wasn't a part of the crew if his instinct was to free Vash. The boy wipes his face against his arm. "Who are you? How'd you get on the ship…?"

"Luida? She's not—"

Ah. He's trying to leave. Wolfwood considers reaching out to catch the boy by the arm but figures that it might just make him panic more. Especially since he already has those restraints. That can't be comfortable.

...He's thinking a lot about the tally marks carved into the face of a wall. Child-height. Wolfwood feels a little nauseated.

Wolfwood still deliberately moves to block the kid's way, but he stays crouched down, trying to make himself look smaller.

"Wait, wait, wait. Hold on. Don't go runnin' off on yer own! C'mon, I'll help ya." Wolfwood nods to the cuffs. "At least let me get those off a' ya, or somethin'. A kid ain't supposed to be wearin' handcuffs. Yer not a criminal."

[blankticket]

Overwhelmed with emotion and confusion, Vash totters another step back, unsure of whether he's even allowed to talk to this total stranger.

He already feels so much like he's constantly in trouble, doing something wrong. If he tells the truth, would that make it all worse? Would Wolfwood even believe him? But if he doesn't, then the Plant…

"I… I can hear it," Vash feebly answers, courage faltering. "Do you know where Luida is? Maybe she'll let me help."

The boy's head perks up at the sound of something at a particular frequency—looking beyond the stranger, not particularly wanting to wait around for an answer, he nervously circles around the other to chase after it.

"I gotta go. Bye."

It's as if everything disappeared at once all around him, replaced with a fog so thick he could barely see past his own nose. He feels exposed, still, and vulnerable—he doesn't know where he is now, or what exactly is going on.

He's in the middle of deciding which way he wants to go when suddenly a tiny figure tumbles out of the mist in front of him. Wolfwood tilts his head down, blinking, meeting the wide-eyed, wet gaze of the little boy in front of him.

And he knows that face. Had worn that face in a memory and seen a reflection of it looking back at him; had seen that face some weeks ago, older and more defined, distraught and disappointed in him.

Wolfwood nearly asks the little guy how he suddenly shrank, but the boy beats him with his demand.

"What?" What Plant? The older Vash? What? And why is this little version of Blondie have those handcuffs on?

He remembers, distantly, a conversation back in Home's geodome, with his friend held to his chest. That admission that he had been held captive as a child, up until he was useful.

"Hey..." The boy is clearly distressed. Wolfwood being so tall and kind of scary looking probably doesn't help, so he lowers himself down to a crouching position. He's so small, but he's trying to be so brave. Wolfwood tries a smile. "I don't know where the Plant is, kid. D'you need help? Why're you all alone?"

His human ears never couldn't hear the cry of a Plant, so he figures he's pretty useless here. Still, he doesn't want this kid running around these mists by himself.