Vash never thought he'd admit he liked his black hair. The more he looked at it, the more he got accustomed. On a particularly bad day of finding his reflection a bit too similar to a raven-haired man he knew before, he felt... weaker. He hasn't felt physically weak in a long time. He lay in bed that night wondering. Wondering why the springs of the aged mattress stung a bit harder, why the lights seemed a bit too bright when he's dealt with them for over 150 years.

He woke up feeling ill, unable to stand up for long. He thought it could be the heat, but that would make no sense; Hes long grown used to the heat of the desert planet. He was confused. Why was he sick now? He picked himself up and got to the shattered mirror, and everything made sense. His hair wasn't at its usual softness, it was coarse and like it was going to fall out. The black hairs hanging on with the last bit of life Vash had in him. He was spent. Vash had used the last bit of what could only be described as life energy.

He was dying. But he didn't want to die like this. He rummaged around weakly, finding all the old, admittedly crusty makeup from when he had to disguise himself back in the running days. How stupid was it to spend your final moments doing makeup? Very. It was a blotchy mess, tears causing the makeup to drip down with them. He wasn't going to die pretty, but maybe the universe would think his attempt was beautiful. If no one found him beautiful, at least the welcoming arms of death would.

"Thanks, Meryl." He mumbled, thanking the woman who taught him all the tricks to doing makeup in a shitty situation. The wind blew sand into the broken window of his shack, only making this situation far more... pathetic, for lack of a better word.