(Greetings all readers! Just wanted to note that I've started a forum for questions/comments/discussion, you can find the link by clicking my NAME up top, to get to my user profile - then click 'forum'.

Also, I want to mention that I've begun to write a new story - a 'prequel' of sorts, focusing on the backstory of my OC. I am wondering if anyone's interested in that, so please let me know! I suppose I'll put it on anyhow, why not.

Thanks again for reading, I really appreciate that people take the time to, and I am flattered that there are people who like my OC's and storyline enough to read this RIDICULOUSLY large amount of material!

Now here's what you came for:)

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Knives."

So cold. Cold and still, not a breeze. Just cold. Bones cold, throat cold, nothing to block it out.

His mouth was only slightly open, breathing down to a normal pace. He still couldn't see anything, just darkness and cold, and the memories darting around like gnats in his mind. The shivering had stopped. With hardly a thought to it, his fingertips had fallen into the sand between his knees, and he felt that when he stirred his fingers just a bit the little granules tickled his callused skin. Slowly, his eyes cracked open.

"Knives."

Blue sand. Moonlight cast a slightly blue color onto the sand at his fingers, delicate little rocks, so small. In a flicker, he sent a blade out to slice one into perfect halves. Simple, easy. Clean. This made sense.

"Knives, stop it."

There was a rock about the size of his fist beside his knee. Lifting his left arm out of the sand a few inches, he sent out a blade to slice it. Halves, fourths, eighths, sixteenths.

"Stop!"

Stop! No! STOP! Leave me ALONE! STOP!

Knives cringed, pulling his arms up against his chest. His back hurt, curled over as it was. He could only see his knees, his lap, his arms below him, and the shadow he cast upon this place with the help of the moons above.

A sigh of relief, only slightly released, as if she changed her mind. "Knives."

That was a concerned tone, a tone full of worry and fear and anxiety, but a soft one. A safe one. There was no pain in this voice, this wasn't one of the horrible sounds in his head, this was outside of him. Like the shadow, the sand, there existed something outside of himself.

"Knives, what are you going to do, now?" She sounded as if she knew the answer, and it wasn't what she'd hoped.

He decided that he was going to straighten his back and lift his gaze. Yes, gather his surroundings, now he was fairly sure of where he was.

A laser line, red, moved with him, pointing to just above his line of sight. He followed the line, followed it from the business end of a firearm, followed it to point over his head. No, not over. His eyes followed the line until it made him cross-eyed. It was resting in a dot, he assumed, just above and between his eyes.

Largely without the help of his mind, his body sought to preserve itself. At the same moment that his head ducked away to the right, his core sent a thin, little blade up and into the barrel of the laser gun, swiping forward to cleave the thing apart.

Her body also meant to preserve itself, sending itself back onto her elbows, letting go the grip on the gun as soon as the good eye caught sight of the blade's flicker.

Letting his eyes focus on hers, he noted her expression carefully. She looked afraid, angry. Her face was flushed. Nervously, her eyes flitted away from his at intervals.

"You're…very…angry. Right now. Aren't you. I really ought to kill you," she grumbled, mostly to herself, as she lifted herself back upon the backpack. She studied the sliced gun in the sand between them, then glanced back up to see he was still staring. "Stop judging me," she murmured, looking back and forth between his steely eyes with her only useful one.

Judging? That's hardly the term for what he was doing. What was he doing? How did she look different, was she still Vanessa? Why wasn't she crying?

"Knives, are you in there anymore?" she asked, waving her hand inches from his face. His gaze followed her hands, and then returned to stare at her face. Frustrated, since it'd been hours, she'd sat there, aiming at him, fighting to stay awake as he sat in his stupor, Vanessa reached down to grasp his left wrist with both hands, pressing his palm into the sand. "I should've expected that; an eye for an eye. You really shouldn't have, though. If I hadn't pulled my weapon back for feathers, your face would've ended up a lot worse than mine did when I…Knives?"

He'd smirked, slightly, for a second there. 'You intended to maim or kill me anyhow, it wouldn't have made a difference,' he argued in a thought. 'And what else does a laser to the brain do, but kill?'

They sat there, silent, staring each other down, trying to read each other. Her breath quickened some, his slowed some. It was nearly dawn. She let go a hand from his to reach behind slowly and pull out a canteen.

His eyes must have opened a little at the sight of it, because she stopped lifting it to her own lips and passed it to him. With his free hand, he wrapped his fingers around the metal, over her fingers, and closed his eyes, drinking slowly.

She thought to tug her hand away, but didn't. It was foolish; it left her open to attack.

Knives finished, finally easing the sore of his mouth enough to work his tongue. Letting loose her hand and its contents, he began to stare again. "Is that all…true?" he asked in a hoarse, crackling voice.

Hesitating, she nodded once. "The angel arm don't lie."

"I'm…I'm sorry."

Vanessa grumbled a curse to herself and narrowed her eyes. "Sorry you weren't there to kill them before they could-?"

"Yes," Knives interrupted, knowing what the end of that sentence would be. "And, because…it…those things…you didn't deserve it, no one…I'm just SORRY."

She frowned, blushing suddenly. It seemed he'd seen quite a lot. As she feared, he saw everything.

"It's all so hard to believe, to comprehend, ALL of it, and you…you act as though…I don't know, you don't seem like someone who…You hide it well-"

Letting go his hands, she dropped her hands into her lap to wring.

Continuing to lock his eyes with hers, Knives went on, gathering his thoughts, his reactions into something he could say aloud. "It more or less puts things into perspective…I felt more…important…before…" Clearing his throat, he heard his voice ring out clearer, softer. "I can't believe I…I'm sorry I…I saw you as an object, of sorts, before, and they…" He shuddered at the thought, as a chill ran through his spine, forcing his eyes away. "There are things I would take back if I could. I'm sorry. I like to think I'm not capable of the things they did to you. But…you don't want to talk about this, do you. Let's never speak of this again," he offered, shifting to stand.

She grabbed his wrist again and tugged him back down to his knees. "You just got to know the real me, the parts of the sum, Knives. Don't want to talk about it? Fine. That's easy for you. But don't go thinking I'm anybody different than who you knew before. I was a victim. I survived. This is me."

"So, you're going to kill me now, because you think I'm going to kill the humans?" Knives asked, wishing suddenly to change the subject.

"Did you see why I don't want you to kill them?" she quizzed, eyeing his expression for signs of deceit. Seeing him nod, she continued, "You see how badly I want to kill them, too? How I've ALWAYS wanted to, deep down?"

Frowning, he recalled that as well. "The last human you killed on purpose was a man who was going to kill you. Just before you met my brother."

"And now, every time I want to lash out at them, I feel his thoughts inside my head. Vash is the angel on my shoulder; you used to be the devil on the other."

He recognized the metaphor, he'd read it before. Funny, the devil in Christian mythology was an angel once, who fought for human rights and was punished by fellow angels for the cause. So, really, Vash was the devil and Knives was the angel. But he understood her metaphor anyhow, defining the devil as the one urging violence. From her viewpoint, she was quite accurate. Knives the devil.

"I came to respect my angel's voice. And I thought my devil became…just a man."

"I have no intention of killing them, unless to save your life. But you don't believe me. And, knowing this…knowing all of this…"

"You have another reason to hate them," she finished for him. "That's…I guess that's sweet, Knives. But…Didn't you see, how most of them were nice to me? Most of them didn't hurt me!"

He scoffed, "That's a weak argument. It seemed all the faces in the mobs were angry. They did nothing to stop it."

She sighed quietly, her shoulders drooping some. "If they were educated, it wouldn't have happened," she muttered. "And it won't happen again. Besides, the only person to give me a scar and remain alive today is you."

"I know. And not all of them were punished for their crimes."

"That's life," she interrupted, somber. "Most crimes go unpunished. But things usually come out fair in the end; you can make things fair. And for every ounce of self control you exact, every drop of blood you don't spill, you've become the better for it all."

His face contorted into disgust at what she'd said, and he wrenched his arm away from her easily. Whirling on one knee, he flung blades towards the cart with an unleashed roar. The toma squeaked out the beginning of a scream but their throats were carved away before the sound could be made. Sliced, shining bits of metal and rubber and toma flesh and packed foods floated on the air for a moment before falling into a sickly wet pile upon the sand. Metal pieces clanged against metal, squished against carcass meat. A corner of a water jar peacefully let water spill from its edges onto items below.

Bellowing out a few more low, angry sounds, Knives climbed to his knees and stomped to the newly made rubble, fists at his sides. He rushed at and kicked the pile, sending chunks of things flying off. Blood squashed against his boot and into the air. Sections of windshield crackled when kicked and tinkled down, broken. Metal clanged and rang out like music as it shuffled around. Sending a blow into a twisted shard of a door, the bit retaliated by flinging back into his shin before flying off into the dark. Knives roared again, voice cracking for a moment, hobbled and fell, then climbed back to his feet and unsteadily resumed thrashing about with the other foot. His arms came up to shield him from some things that broke upward when he attacked them, from the thick, cooling fluids the toma'd drenched everything in. For good measure, he sent his blades into the mess a few more times, letting some fling themselves high into the air above his head before slashing back down upon the bits and the sands. Taking a shard deep in the forearm, he pulled it back out and threw it far away, and crumpled down, onto his back, panting.