Why? Why was he here? In fact, where was here anyway? Oh, but did it matter? Did anything? So many questions turned over and over in his mind, endlessly persistent and bothersome. He clutched at his head; it hurt so much. Had he any food in his stomach, it might have been dredged up at one point or another, so he was grateful for that. It didn't stop him from feeling as though he should try, however.
His wounds hurt too. He remembered that, and everything else. Well, perhaps not everything. He remembered being wounded, then... something hazy. Must have been the injuries doing that. Haziness... walking? Standing? Kneeling, laying down... what?
He remembered the woman. The woman and her precious innocence. Not like she could help it, of course; it was a matter of being in a place where it was simply easier things be forgotten.
So he didn't remember everything. He remembered what was before the haziness, the woman, this place. And damn it all, where was this place?
He dropped his hands from his head only to hug himself tightly. If he curled into a ball in that position, maybe his stomach would stop wanting to leave him.
He looked around for the millionth time. Same as before: an endless expanse of sand with the two blasted suns higher than high in a brilliant, cloudless sky. Yet the heat dared not to touch him; why?
Another why among the other questions of why, why, why, looping, spinning, over and over in his mind. A dream. It must all be a dream, yes, with reality just on the other side. This was a fabrication; it must be shattered. Yes.
How?
A dream a dream a dream a dream he felt like he was going to be stuck forever in this dream! He just wanted a way out, any way out, he didn't care, this was getting too much for him, a dream, a dream!
I want out, he thought. I want to be rid of this place, gone from here, I don't care how! Just get me out! Out! OUT!
He fell to his side, still embracing his middle. Out would be good; if he could go back in time... He had to concentrate. Concentrate what held him in that past.
He squeezed his eyes shut. A man. Blonde. Tall, as tall as him. Green eyes. Vash. He was prominent, so recognizable; why didn't he see him before?
A woman, but not the woman he saw earlier. If it was earlier. No; he could still reckon events as they happened, linearly, in a line, a line, a dream... A woman.
She suddenly flared into clear view, and he remembered again.
Knives's eyes snapped open. He drew in a sharp breath and exhaled slowly, reminding himself that what he awoke from was merely a dream. Calm was needed now, not haste; the faster one went, the more likely one would be susceptible to sloppy maneuvering. Precision would only come to him with slow, deliberate pacing. What's more, he wouldn't want to be caught unaware...
He sat up and glanced around. The last time he came to, he'd had that meddling human girl around. She had seen him in a moment of panic, and that just wouldn't do. He gave her a little lesson, one he suspected she wouldn't forget any time soon. The thought made him smile, but it was a short thing. He now had work to do.
So. His affairs were spilling over into his dreams, were they? He gathered as much when he had that first dream... how long ago? He looked at the window and saw it to be nighttime; scant moonlight found its way into the room, but he didn't care for it. 'Light' and 'dark' were just two ends of the visual perception spectrum, so what difference did it make to him? None; what his eyes could not do, his other senses would pick up.
Tapping his fingers against his thigh, he found himself a bit irritated. He would have liked to see his brother then, but the idiot was mostly likely asleep. Fool. Isn't he supposed to attend poor, pitiful, wounded Knives? He should at least be dozing in here.
But he chuckled. Vash's time was so divided these days, wasn't it? One moment he'd be battling the townspeople that wanted to drive him away, the next he'd be in here worrying if Knives was going to wake up and start killing everyone in sight... Oh, and let's not forget the very lovely Meryl Stryfe, the woman that distracts almost as much as our dearly departed 'mother.'
Knives smirked, then laughed. He knew the reason for Vash's preoccupation, and should have been incredibly infuriated. Yet, he was not. He knew what the end result would be; he knew how things would inevitably go.
I'm sure you're a fine woman, Ms. Stryfe, but you will do well to serve me instead of my sentimental brother.
But now was not the time to dwell on that particular notion. Right now, Knives needed to work, and use some of that precision he was so valued. So upon closing his eyes, he did just that.
