Disclaimer: *wishes she owned Trigun*

Chapter Thirty-Six: Facing Knives

A/N: Hey, I have a bunch of poems over at fictionpress.net that need reviewing, care to help me out and go review them?

Perhaps it was unfair to say she had never been as terrified as this moment that fate had dealt her; perhaps it was unfair for fate to have dealt her this situation to begin with, to choose between her lover and her freedom. Perhaps, the plant pondered, it would have been better had she never left her planet to begin with. Should she have stayed there, maybe the two brothers might not have had to come together again under the strenuous circumstances that had linked them these past few months. Had she not burdened them with her presence, the might not have been faced with each other and the knowledge that they might perish in this scuffle that held little bearing over either of their lives, simply for this chestnut-haired woman of whom they knew little and, yet, held in higher regards that the other. It struck her, as she stood there, the sunlight on a slant through the window, falling upon the two like a spotlight on a stage, that neither wanted to do this; and, for both parties, their battle was in her honor. The particles of dust danced and leapt in the air, stirred by the Vash's movement for the colt that rode permanently at his hip, and she touched upon the thought that they were the only things in any real sort of movement in the corridor. Each plant seemed to stand still, statues frozen in a battle never destined to occur, only to be commenced, yet never to be conceived. It seemed, to her, that the dust was the only thing truly alive in that entire ship; that they, bioengineered beings who had abandoned their true purpose in life to bicker and fight their entire eternal existence, weren't really alive at all. For they were not meant to live, and yet, there they stood in this ship that never should have been. Their entire circumstance had never been meant to pass; for the ships to fall, the plants to live enslaved for over a century, for the only two men capable of saving their sisters too wrapped in either their own self-hate and pity or their hatred and disgust for all save themselves to do anything about it. As for herself, she knew not where her piece was meant to land upon this unpredictable chessboard of circumstance. Yet this thought, this thought that stated that she knew nothing of what was to pass twixt the siblings standing before her, weapons drawn and ready to fire, to snuff out the life of their only blood kin; she only had a feeling, deep and growing in the pit of her stomach, that blood would be spilled, and it wouldn't that of the sunshine blonde that defended her honor so chivalrously.

Not knowing what was to come, having naught a clue as to the outcome of the battle of the brothers, chilled her to the very marrow of the bone. They would fire at any moment, of that fact and that fact alone she was certain. The wheat-haired man who touched her in previously unknown manners, who kissed her with such ferocity that her knees threatened to buckle and collapse to the floor, who showed love and compassion only at the most fleeting of moments, yet made her heart swell with pride and her stomach feel at though a million monarch butterflies swarmed therein, yet was so cold and cruel when provoked that it made her feel hollow and used, who treated her like an object or mere toy to do with as he pleased, and who, she knew, would not his precious item through without a damned good fight.

She was not aware of who moved first, each cocking their colts, the terrible sound filling the heavy air in the corridor. The sunlight caught on the surface of the guns, each polished to a near-reflective finish, sending flashes of opal light dancing over the bare walls and for a moment then all was still again. Neither of the twin plants moved. Perhaps, she pondered, neither was willing to exact the movements that would restart their struggle against the other. For near a decade they had lived in harmony with one another, Knives in the confines of his ship until the day he craved so dearly should arrive: the day that his brother's bride's worthless, lecherous body crumbled away like the pitiful creature she was and turned unto dust to blow uselessly around the planet like her long-dead ancestors; blowing furiously for a time, caught by the wind that never ceased to blow, and then to rest lazily twixt the parts of his sisters. The sand and corpse dust that would clog his sister's fluid movements like fat in a vein, building up slowly but steadily until her parts could take no more and she died, wondering what cruel twist of fate, which ruling of a gods hand, which foolish spider had given up hope on her and turned his ignorant back on her. And Vash, temporarily freed of the burden of his genocidal twin, could lead his life as he pleased; living a quiet life in December with Meryl. And how he relished these days of peace, for his bounty had been dropped five years after his match with Knives. Half a decade had passed and no sign of the Humanoid Typhoon had been reported, and Vash's name faded from the press nearly as quickly as it had appeared; there one day and gone the next. Gone, yes, but not forgotten. His name would live forever in the history books, he knew, for he was the first Act of God upon the ill-begotten little dust ball they called home. The title he had received due to his brother's actions; his brother who lay in silently in wait, like a cat ready to pounce upon the mouse, in the confines of his ship until the day that Meryl's life was snuffed out like the flame on a slim taper. But Vash was content to dwell upon the moment, for he had her and she had him. For once in the near century and a half of his life, Vash the Stampede was content to stay as he was.

It seemed that his attitude to his life at the moment also applied to this situation, the female plant concluded, for both were still without movement; their still forms lacking the fluidity their heritage had endowed them. She remained clear with herself that it wasn't bloodshed she sought out, but simply her passage out of the infernal ship where she was being kept; shut in at the doorway before the exit, so near and yet so far from the freedom she sought so fervently. Standing behind Vash she could see small beads of perspiration forming at his hairline, the result of the pressure weighing down upon his shoulders. She could smell the poignant scent of sweat tainting the air; filling the sterile, filtered air with a scent so alive that she could scarce believe that the air could smell so real. Because to her, the air in this ship was fake, the highly filtered air purified until nary a speck of dust remained to justify that anyone save machines inhabited the huge mechanical mansion.

The scent struck her like a slap to the face, wrenching her from her thoughts and observations and hurtling her into movement before her senses even became aware of her arms and legs going without her mind realizing it. Her legs lurched her forward, and the feeling of her feet pulling out roots that embedded themselves into the tiles as they lifted nearly caused her to stumble forward. But her arms, quick and honed through years of training, threw themselves out before her and she watched, awestruck, as her flat palms made contact with the floor and the corridor spun vertically before her eyes, stretched wide around her irises at her movements, which seemed to happen without her mind's consent; her muscles moving swiftly forward, leaving her poor stunned mind behind. A flash of light flashing from Vash's gun that slashed into her eyes brought black dots that danced and spun in her vision as she became vaguely aware of a small metal ring fit itself around her index finger and spin out of his hand as her feet made contact with the floor again. As she felt her feet flatten against the tiles, she was thankful for the jagged grips on the bottom of her boots. As her toes touched the floor, her body lurched itself into a standing position, and her arm holding the gun extending itself in front of her as the other fell to her side, the colt spinning madly upon her index finger of her left hand until her wrist snapped forward, her fingers watching the grip of the gun and cocking the gun again with her thumb as the colt came to sit snugly in her hand, aimed between Knives' icy eyes.

"Let me out Knives" she stated darkly, her grip tightening on the gun. Behind her she could hear Vash stumbling and tripping over his words at his astonishment at his now-vacant palm before his eyes; the familiar feeling of his colt replaced by the air and dust steeling on his leather-bound palm. Behind her one plant stumbled with himself while before her the other stood firm, his tundra-sky eyes narrowing as a small sneer lit itself upon his lips.

"Would you really shoot me Rhianne?" he inquired, his voice like a tiger in the jungle, dark, bloodthirsty and menacing. His gun twitched, a small involuntary movement that caused the girls red lips to pull back in a small smile "I think the question is, Knives, would you shoot me?" she asked, stepping closer. Knives' gun shook again. She took another step, closing the few feet between them until she was mere inches from him; her aqua eyes looking down the barrel of his ebony gun and right into his. Something in them terrified him, sent a thrill right through him at the prospect of wiping out that defiant shine in her eyes, and his finger twitched against the trigger. Mere ounces stood between her and death, and yet she stepped closer, pressing the barrel against the flesh of her forehead. Knives could smell her fear, and he relished it as an animal does right before it tears into the soft flesh of its prey. He could smell her fear and her sweat and her scent as it wrapped around him like a strip of silk; beautiful but so easy to ruin with the poignant scent of blood. And yet he wished it so, craved her blood with an inhuman hunger that gnawed ravenously away at the very core of his being. He could picture it, the bullet drilling itself mercilessly into her skull, the blood flowing from that small puncture in her head like crimson water spilling from a gourd; raining shimmering red backslash over the walls and his brother who stood stock still in his fear. He could nearly feel the warm taste of it as it splashed against his face like a ruby red wave, and he could almost see the light fade out of those damnably defiant eyes as she fell to the blood-stained floor. His nostrils flared excitedly at the thought of smelling that bronzy, bittersweet smell that he had gone without so long and watch those eyes fill up with blood and leak crimson tears for him. The urge was nearly insatiable, almost unable to be fulfilled and it taunted him because she was only ounces away from death and only ounces from filling his needs…

"Come on Knives" she spoke quietly "I dare you"

For a moment there was silence.

Then the deafening shot rang out.