He hadn't been there long - the journals had always been second-priority, no matter how much they connected people in the Hotel, and by the time Vash managed to read the entry, a rather large congrigation had already formed.
Not enough people to block out the sight, though. Vash hadn't forgotten the smell of blood, but it wasn't that shocking to see; sure, he was as mad as he ever got whenever another life was gone, but a person couldn't help but... want to accept it. Another one down the drain, for a reason she couldn't have caused. The Stampede almost fidgeted, sitting back on the fence between the urge to get revenge in the normal, instinctive bloody reaction or his normal one. The latter won out, of course, but not before he heard -- oh. Ratchet.
The Plant had put on his glasses long before, hiding his eyes as he always did, but that almost wasn't enough to stop some of the blank sympathy that had to be obvious there. "... God didn't do this." Whoever did - they couldn't kill, but there had to be a way to reason with.
... Of course, that depended. It looked like the work of - that... What had they called him? Cake? Damn.