[ in hindsight, perhaps this was not the best idea to come into his head tonight, deciding to pay over for a ticket to come into the maze. not that vash ever has good ideas, mind you, but this would count towards one of the lower highlights even in the series of mistakes he's made. it's disorientating, the myriad of reflections staring back at him with eyes too old and too knowing - is that what he really looks like? - that vash mostly stares at the ground as he walks, carefully toeing around the edges of the mirrors to avoid running into them.
perhaps it's just his imagination, but he can hear footsteps - behind him, before him, leading the way as surely as a clear path to a slaughterhouse. a couple of wrong turns as vash whirls around, chasing a glimmer of a blade at the edge of one mirror, a tinkling of golden earring dangling off the end of a dark-fringed ear - and vash is completely lost.
okay, vash thinks to himself as he does a full circle turn where he is completely hemmed in by the mirrors. everywhere his eyes land, there's something wrong about the reflection that looks back at him - white face, white hair, red hands, green hands, red coat, black coat. surely this is all some kind of weird trick of the lighting, some angle of the mirror that throws up something wrong. okay, this isn't fun anymore. he wants out of here, thank you!
spying a gap between two such mirrors - avoiding looking directly at either of them, though one holds its - his - hands out expectantly, vash slips through and picks a random direction to walk in. ]
[ pay for a ticket? wolfwood? nah, no way. even if he does have any crumpled-up double dollars stuffed in his pocket, they're not gonna get him very far here. of course, he's not wandering around the carnival looking for people he can rip off, either. ticketed events are soundly out. the funhouse isn't even on his radar. or, it wasn't-- until he sees the flicker of bright red fabric disappearing into the maze.
he has no reason to think it's vash. in fact, it's probably more insane for wolfwood to entertain the idea that it could be him. he's the one that dropped him off at the butcher's front door. but the possibility hooks into his gut like an anchor, and wolfwood's feet are stumbling towards the funhouse before he can second-guess it.
inside is... a hall of mirrors. with all the sand in no man's land, glass and mirrors aren't uncommon, but decorating like this is still-- pretty tacky. as he walks past his reflection, he notices some of them are taller, shorter, squiggly... this is some kinda joke, then. a left turn, and more mirrors. if this is what's fun about the funhouse, wolfwood isn't looking forward to being stuck here.
suddenly, the flash of red again.
his heart leaps into his throat, and wolfwood lurches in that direction immediately. but the red isn't a jacket. it's a reflection. the lit cherry of a cigarette, and another him, smoking it. wolfwood hasn't lit up since he got here. he clicks his tongue, turns away from it like it's an annoyance, even if he feels the hair standing up on the back of his neck. left turn. dead end. go back, right turn, another right turn, dead end. wolfwood is starting to get antsy, and it isn't just because he's all turned around. he runs, and the reflections in the mirrors follow him, but they don't mimic him-- he sees himself with a white shirt, himself with longer hair, no sunglasses, orange shades, a gun, an apron, a bottle of booze, a couch a couch a couch--
vash. looking just like he did the last time wolfwood saw him. this must be some sick torture or something, and yet, relief washes over him. he slows, takes a few careful steps forward, reaches out to touch the reflection. and it's warm. not a mirror. ]
Jesus Christ-- [ wolfwood stumbles back in shock, and bangs right into a mirror, the clang echoing in the halls. ]
cw science experiment, body horror, mild hallucinations 😭😭😭😭
[ vash is caught staring at a reflection when wolfwood appears behind him over his shoulder, intersected by the bright green of his arm; birthmark reflected under the opposite eye, and it's a pale greenblue gaze that flicks upwards to fix upon the other's figure.
he doesn't bother turning around. for what feels like days, weeks, months he's been trapped in here going around in circles, and every mirror-surface he sees - wolfwood on his knees, with broken glass vials shattered before him dripping luminous green like blood from his hands. meryl and roberto, dissolving into red petals. rem's body floating in water red like her flowers, but it's not rem, it's tesla's body floating, and as vash watches she opens her eyes - her eye - rimmed with crusted blood staring, always staring. wolfwood's figure takes one step then another, closer and closer, and vash doesn't turn around - wills himself to not to, even when he knows that there isn't anything there. this isn't real.
what will it be this time? a rope around his neck, a gun to the back of his head, a knife between his ribs.
when the hand comes to rest against him, a solid, real pressure - with all the weight of fingers, thumb, palm - vash nearly jumps out of his skin the selfsame right alongside wolfwood. the echo of the collision reverberates through the space they're in and vash stares, open mouthed and wide eyed, at the other. ]
[ wolfwood looks just as dumbfounded. for one long moment, all the mirrors seem to return to normal, and repeated down the hallways is nothing but dozens of vashes staring at dozens of wolfwoods. he swallows hard, and a beat later the images in the mirror start to shake, reverberating waves that echo across all the mirrors on the wall. the waves, not unlike a droplet of water falling into a pail, wipe the reflections clean.
fucking weird.
wolfwood sighs, pushes himself away from the wall he's pressed against. his back throbs in soft complaint, and he gets the feeling he's gonna be bruised there soon enough. ]
Yeah... 's me. Don't sound too excited.
[ can he even blame vash for a lack of enthusiasm? wolfwood's probably the last guy he wanted to see again, after... everything. that begs the question, how is vash even around to run into him again? did he slip out of knives' grasp? how'd he end up in this place-- and what even is this place?
out of the corner of his eye, wolfwood thinks he sees the image in one of the mirrors shift. he grits his teeth. ]
[ it's not necessarily for lack of enthusiasm ... but vash doesn't bother to correct him, instead looking over the other closely - perhaps too close for wolfwood's comfort perhaps - eyes bright behind the tinted glasses before he tips his chin down, letting his own distorted face reflect back onto wolfwood on the mirrored surface of the lenses. like this, his expression would be hard to read; for all that he comes across as like an open book, once that cover snaps shut and fastened with an ever present smile? it's just another face in the crowd, one vash overlapping with another as the shadows ripple in the mirrors around them.
yeah, they need to get out of here. ]
... We'll just have to figure that out, right?
[ even though the tone is practiced - cheery, lilting, with a slight quizzical quirk to the eyebrows - there's a definitive line of tension to the set of his shoulders as vash reaches out a hand, beckoning wolfwood forward beside him as he picks a direction, swivelling on one foot. ]
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expiationlogs2024-10-14 08:59 am
wildcard ....
perhaps it's just his imagination, but he can hear footsteps - behind him, before him, leading the way as surely as a clear path to a slaughterhouse. a couple of wrong turns as vash whirls around, chasing a glimmer of a blade at the edge of one mirror, a tinkling of golden earring dangling off the end of a dark-fringed ear - and vash is completely lost.
okay, vash thinks to himself as he does a full circle turn where he is completely hemmed in by the mirrors. everywhere his eyes land, there's something wrong about the reflection that looks back at him - white face, white hair, red hands, green hands, red coat, black coat. surely this is all some kind of weird trick of the lighting, some angle of the mirror that throws up something wrong. okay, this isn't fun anymore. he wants out of here, thank you!
spying a gap between two such mirrors - avoiding looking directly at either of them, though one holds its - his - hands out expectantly, vash slips through and picks a random direction to walk in. ]
no subject
he has no reason to think it's vash. in fact, it's probably more insane for wolfwood to entertain the idea that it could be him. he's the one that dropped him off at the butcher's front door. but the possibility hooks into his gut like an anchor, and wolfwood's feet are stumbling towards the funhouse before he can second-guess it.
inside is... a hall of mirrors. with all the sand in no man's land, glass and mirrors aren't uncommon, but decorating like this is still-- pretty tacky. as he walks past his reflection, he notices some of them are taller, shorter, squiggly... this is some kinda joke, then. a left turn, and more mirrors. if this is what's fun about the funhouse, wolfwood isn't looking forward to being stuck here.
suddenly, the flash of red again.
his heart leaps into his throat, and wolfwood lurches in that direction immediately. but the red isn't a jacket. it's a reflection. the lit cherry of a cigarette, and another him, smoking it. wolfwood hasn't lit up since he got here. he clicks his tongue, turns away from it like it's an annoyance, even if he feels the hair standing up on the back of his neck. left turn. dead end. go back, right turn, another right turn, dead end. wolfwood is starting to get antsy, and it isn't just because he's all turned around. he runs, and the reflections in the mirrors follow him, but they don't mimic him-- he sees himself with a white shirt, himself with longer hair, no sunglasses, orange shades, a gun, an apron, a bottle of booze, a couch a couch a couch--
vash. looking just like he did the last time wolfwood saw him. this must be some sick torture or something, and yet, relief washes over him. he slows, takes a few careful steps forward, reaches out to touch the reflection. and it's warm. not a mirror. ]
Jesus Christ-- [ wolfwood stumbles back in shock, and bangs right into a mirror, the clang echoing in the halls. ]
cw science experiment, body horror, mild hallucinations 😭😭😭😭
he doesn't bother turning around. for what feels like days, weeks, months he's been trapped in here going around in circles, and every mirror-surface he sees - wolfwood on his knees, with broken glass vials shattered before him dripping luminous green like blood from his hands. meryl and roberto, dissolving into red petals. rem's body floating in water red like her flowers, but it's not rem, it's tesla's body floating, and as vash watches she opens her eyes - her eye - rimmed with crusted blood staring, always staring. wolfwood's figure takes one step then another, closer and closer, and vash doesn't turn around - wills himself to not to, even when he knows that there isn't anything there. this isn't real.
what will it be this time? a rope around his neck, a gun to the back of his head, a knife between his ribs.
when the hand comes to rest against him, a solid, real pressure - with all the weight of fingers, thumb, palm - vash nearly jumps out of his skin the selfsame right alongside wolfwood. the echo of the collision reverberates through the space they're in and vash stares, open mouthed and wide eyed, at the other. ]
.... Wolfwood?
no subject
fucking weird.
wolfwood sighs, pushes himself away from the wall he's pressed against. his back throbs in soft complaint, and he gets the feeling he's gonna be bruised there soon enough. ]
Yeah... 's me. Don't sound too excited.
[ can he even blame vash for a lack of enthusiasm? wolfwood's probably the last guy he wanted to see again, after... everything. that begs the question, how is vash even around to run into him again? did he slip out of knives' grasp? how'd he end up in this place-- and what even is this place?
out of the corner of his eye, wolfwood thinks he sees the image in one of the mirrors shift. he grits his teeth. ]
You know where to go to get outta this place?
no subject
yeah, they need to get out of here. ]
... We'll just have to figure that out, right?
[ even though the tone is practiced - cheery, lilting, with a slight quizzical quirk to the eyebrows - there's a definitive line of tension to the set of his shoulders as vash reaches out a hand, beckoning wolfwood forward beside him as he picks a direction, swivelling on one foot. ]