[There's a difference between the dangers of home and the dangers here, at least in Vash's mind. Home is a known threat. He's spent a century on the surface of the planet, crisscrossing it until he'd all but mapped it entirely with his bootprints. The vibrations of a worm, the ticks of your average gunman, he'd memorized them all years ago.

This is new. This is unknowable, given everything. And so Vash feels a deep level of trepidation at the mere idea of going into the woods they've been warned about.]

Maybe not those native to this place. But we're not the only transplants.

[He squints, then takes off his glasses. He scrubs the surface on a sleeve, wiping away some of the droplets of water.]

They don't have a reason to lie to us, Wolfwood.