I'm sorry for the long wait, I've been busy. Trust me, the chapter's worth it. ^^
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Part VII
"Either that, or the dead walk again." The voice behind me continued, the soliloquy raising the hairs along the back of my neck... the dead... Did I really look so much like him? Or was it merely the bastard, trying to get on my nerves. Willing my heart not to pound (though I doubted it would help) I turned, slowly, one hand on the gun- no longer so comforting a thing.
Somehow, I expected more of a specter; something more clearly evil. As it was, only the faintest hint of maliciousness, painted into the smile adorning his lips (my uncle's face, so nearly...) betrayed his opinions; his eyes were hidden to me, by tricks of the shadows. As though the darkness did his bidding. I almost would have believed that.
Still, it was a figure you could pass in a crowd without a second thought. His features, wrought so similarly to Vash's, were bland, masked; his dress simple enough, and unremarkable. Something glinted at his throat; a pendant of some sort, I thought, though I couldn't make it out.
"Speak, boy." His voice betrayed him, now. The disgust was palpable, his arbitrary rage like an electric current in the air. I thought I might strangle on the tension. My fingers closed by their own will around the gun. I found myself lifting it without thinking. Coldly, I took aim, digits dancing on the trigger finger. A wash of bloodlust consumed my mind... Murderer...
No matter what he looked like. I'd sworn to myself that I'd kill the man. My mother's face passed briefly through my mind. With a whispered prayer, I forced myself to look straight ahead- I'd lose my aim if I gave into the urge to glance away- and began to pull the trigger.
At that moment, a shadow brushed my shoulder. I jumped, and it followed through, grabbing me by the arm, sending my aim into space. The bullet sped off, an oblivious little angel of death, harmless. I tried to turn to face him, the cry already beginning in my throat, but I'd been passed by. It was though I didn't exist, again.
I watched the two of them, stepping back into the shadow, breath coming raggedly. The brothers stared each other down, anger crackling in the space between them. I looked at both, but recognized neither. This was not my uncle in any way I'd seen him; he wasn't joking, or sobbing on the inside. He was strong, and filled with terrible duty and resignation. The expression on his face could have been carved by the desert winds. Ageless, angry, and decided.
His brother was calmer than anything I'd ever seen before- his lips holding neither the contemptuous snarl nor the acidic smile I'd come to know, from what little I'd seen of him. He stood there, staring at his sibling. The gazes were evenly matched- neither moved, neither gained, and neither relented.
Suddenly, Vash's hand was in the air, and Knives was clutching his own cheek, his face a mask of rage. I hadn't seen either move. The arm- his left, I noticed, as though he forbore to touch his brother with his own flesh. It fell to his side, moving out of time. His face hadn't changed. My uncle was, when angry, as impassive as the sands. But the desert could never be as deadly.
"You're as bad as they ever were." Even his voice was cold, toneless. Involuntary I glanced at the scarred moon. It shone with its brothers, marred forever by the wills of the two who stood before me. I looked back to the scene, praying silently to whatever force might be listening, though I knew not what I asked.
Knives laughed, then; a sound devoid of compassion, and, I thought, of reason. He straightened, his hands falling from his face to cross lazily over his chest. His eyes seemed luminescent in the half-light, as he regarded my uncle. "And you're better than they could ever hope to be, I assume?" Another dark chuckle. "What does it matter, then? You and I are above their right and wrong."
This time, watching, I saw him move; for a moment, I thought he was about to strike again. Instead, the black glove closed around the glimmer around Knives' throat. Now, for the first time, his face became an incoherent mask of rage as he ripped the thing away. Holding it in his hand, he regarded it for a moment. Then he struck again, lashing out with clawed fingers.
Obviously expecting such a move, Knives ducked the motion smoothly, and came up beneath my uncle's guard. I saw the poisonous sparkle too late, and tried to take aim again, but my arm would not obey me in time. While I watched, helpless, he slashed through the red fabric, taking a malicious pleasure in the sound of the tear. Then, he brought the thing- a jagged piece of metal- back, driving it into flesh as hard as he could. And, faster than a cobra's strike, he was past Vash.
My uncle's mouth opened, but no sound came out; he gasped raggedly, and fell to the ground. Glassy eyes rolled wildly, delirious, as he managed to roll over, hands clasped instinctively over the wound. I could see the darker red, near black in the bad light, spread across the lighter, mingling to pool beneath the round circles of buttons.
Knives turned around to survey his handiwork. His grin, a ghastly mockery of that which once adorned my uncle's face, was feral. He panted faintly with the effort of his sin, the touch of Vash's hand clear, now that he'd turned towards me; red, seeming to me like the Mark of Cain.
"Pitiful, brother. You even bleed like them." He knelt down, looking critically (though not without considerable, sickening humor,) at the wound. Feebly, Vash raised an arm, trying to lash out again. Knives didn't even bother to duck. Standing, he kicked my uncle in the ribs viciously.
"I wonder if you'll die like they do." His tone was even, casual. He was completely mad. No sooner had I thought it, and realized I still held the gun, did he turn to me.
"And you, pup. What to do with you?" Amusement crept back into his tone. "Lord knows I had reason to keep your sire around..." though he looked at me, I knew the words were meant for Vash, although the mocking tone made me wince as well. "Nonetheless... I don't really want my dearest sibling to expire. I suppose it's your duty to take care of him." Again, I heard my uncle whimper at his words, though I didn't know why.
"I suppose we'll meet again," he added, nonchalant, turning to walk away. I realized he held my gun in his hand. Following my eye, he spun it around and dropped it into a pocket. "Though of course, I don't intend to be so merciful next time around." He turned back to the crumpled form against the wall. "See you around, Vash!"
And, as I rushed to my uncle's side, he walked away. When I looked up, he was gone.
I was alone, with the slowly dying outlaw. Vash moaned and shifted, fingers clenching and unclenching. He managed to open them, looking blankly down at what he held.
It was a small bit of jewelry; I didn't recognize the design, but apparently he did. It almost looked like a simplistic version of one of the old Ships Vash described, when he felt like telling old tales. He stared at it for a moment, before black leather twitched over it again. His lips opened and closed, while he worked to speak. I did my best to gather him up, fumbling through the red-stained-red folds of cloth.
"Rem..." And he passed out of consciousness.
I began the long stumble, back to our hotel.