CHAPTER TEN: Moral Obligation

PART TWO…Identity …

The scars Knives gave her over a year ago were a bright pink, and though they were thin, and had been more carefully stitched than most of her other scars, they still carved little canyons in the surface of her skin with an almost plastic shine. There was no way to hide them, since no matter how high her collar rose, it could never cover the scarring that rose up her face and eyelids. The parallel tracks that snaked around her visible skin always hinted at the rows that continued. Like debossed ribbons, they wound around her cheek and chin, neck and shoulder, across her shoulder blade, and tapered to an end somewhere around her lower back.

Oftentimes she daydreamed that Knives had never carved her so. Instead, she envisaged an existence where Knives' reaction had been quicker, and harmless feathering had arisen from his arm from the start, instead of angel arm blades, and she had stayed with Knives in the desert, understanding him, leading their end to be far less bloody and painful and awkward and dramatic than it actually was. Why, perhaps if she were never injured during that mind probe of sorts she could've applied what she'd learned from his mind towards helping Knives cope with his feelings and past and become a happy, socially functional person. After all, the more she replayed the true events and fake possibilities in her mind, the more she believed that behind every one of his silences, threats, and speeches was a tiny, passionate voice asking to be accepted. 'Maybe,' she thought, 'I didn't give him enough of a chance.' Doubts and daydreams filled her time as she stared, without focusing, into a mirror that seemed indefinite and dirty to her vision.

Today she wore a charcoal gray dress, cut low at her neck, hanging on her shoulder edges. It was long to the floor and simple, with long sleeves ending at her palm. She'd made this one as well, tailoring it to the specifics she'd had for clothing for over 50 years. The scarring that coated her body kept her from dressing otherwise. For much the same reasons that Vash wore tight garments under his looser clothes, she made her dresses tight above the waist and flowing below. Scarring like theirs called for either completely restrictive garments or as little fabric contact as possible. She herself couldn't figure out how Vash could stand wearing pants, considering how much that hurt scarred knees and a scarred groin. But then, she reminded herself, the latter was a problem he did not have.

The other main motivation for this style of dress was the location of her scars. For the longest time, she had had scarring over her legs, ankles, arms, torso, back, wrists, and everything in between. Her fingers, toes, and everything above this low-cut neckline was scar-free before Knives' accidental weaponry ruined that ground as well. Of course, at that point, there was no longer a reason to cover this scarring, since, as she kept reminding herself, it could not be hidden. And so, essentially, she dressed to show off what little untainted skin she had. Shoes or other foot coverings were outside of her daily dress because what showed of her feet was unscarred. Call it pride, or vanity, but it helped her sanity to have this skin visible, to remind her that she was not completely in ruin.

Moving her face closer to the mirror, she remembered that all of the facial injuries she'd accumulated before Knives' accident had healed quite completely. Luckily for her, all scrapes and bruises and such that she'd acquired on her face from beatings and on her neck from strangling disappeared with time. She had been given a lovely face from birth, and it had brought her as much good fortune as it had brought woes.

Perhaps that was what bound Vash to her – her beauty. Her face, and her body, and her species, and the trauma they'd endured on Gunsmoke. Their personalities were so dissimilar, their interests so separate. This went back to her original theory, of course, that in the end beauty is the bait into relationships. And in all relationships, hope and trust make way for guilt and bitterness. Only if the guilt outweighs the anger will a pair remain together. Sighing, she wondered if she was simply a hag who'd forgotten the joy of loving someone.

And that lead to the most obvious question: what is love?

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Vanessa," a deep, soft voice apologized as the man walked briskly in from the next room.

Looking up from the tabletop mirror, she watched his blurry form sit across the narrow table from her. "That's fine. Sorry to waste your time. I realize it's a pipedream to-"

"Actually," Dr. Ezekial interrupted, "it seems your chances are far better than when you were first examined." The tall, dark-skinned man pulled her old exam notes onto the screen within the tabletop with a hidden keypad. "I cannot promise full vision, but improving your sight is possible. With corrective laser surgery-"

Vanessa smiled smugly. "No surgery, please. For obvious reasons, I'm far from fond of any sort of weapon or device changing my flesh."

"There's another option," he offered. He cleared his throat and rubbed his temples, annoyed by these Gunsmoke people and their phobias of science and medicine. "Lenses."

Again, Vanessa smiled knowingly. "Contact lenses were rendered obsolete centuries ago. No one bothers manufacturing them anymore."

"Right, Miss Saverem. But considering your [ahem] preferences, I'd have doubted you'd put such devices onto your eyes at all. No, I mean the simple, original way to correct vision. I spoke with my colleague, a physical therapist aboard the other ship, who in his free time sculpts. He says he can create some eyeglasses for you. Of course, his fees will be separate from mine, and I'll be giving him the information on what exactly you need. With a 20,000 credit payment, up front, I can instruct him to begin."

"May I meet this man before he begins? If you'd just give me his room number and name, I can contact him myself." Waiting patiently for the doctor to write up the info on a tiny pad, Vanessa remained chipper. She took the page and paid the man, who was all too happy to accept hundreds of credits for a simple vision consultation.

Joseph looked her over, well aware that she couldn't know his eye movements. "You're becoming awfully famous for an artist, up here, you know."

"I got lucky once is all," she dismissively replied. "Once the novelty wears off I can go back to just being the faceless immigrant."

"I can't imagine a face like yours not standing out," he murmured enigmatically. Precision hand-held glass cutting tools were drawn from cases and large, calloused hands arranged them on the coffee table as proof of his ability to create something like eyeglasses. He sniffed. "I can make the glass myself, and the frames can be made from scraps, so really the only costs are for labor. Gabe's already sent me the specs on your prescription and distortions, but it'll take me a while to draft the plans."

"I had a few ideas," she offered, trying not to sound astute. "Maybe I could send you some drafts over the network, to save you time?"

Joseph stared at her, waiting for her to realize the stupidity of her words. "If you want to."

"I'll still pay in full. Ten thousand up front, with fifteen more on the way after your work is done. I would think, after the draft is complete, ten days should be sufficient to complete the glasses, do you agree?"

He had to keep himself from licking his lips. Considering his gambling debts back on Earth, he really needed that money. "Deal."

Vanessa nodded. "Great. I was wondering if you'd mind telling me about your work, since I can't see it to justice now?"

Joseph hesitated, and then began a long description of his portfolio and theses. However, throughout the entire thing, with her staring blank with a little smile, he couldn't help but feel angry. Her stare was condescending in a way. To her, an instantly regarded painter, his feeble attempts at recognition must seem amusing. It made his blood boil.