The woman slides her house key into the lock and turns it anticlockwise. The door is windowless, solid wood, and the old-fashioned mail slot has been nailed shut. Every curtain is closed.

She opens the door just enough to slide through the gap, closing it behind her as soon as she does.

She walks past the pile of letters that lie next to the door, kicked aside.

She walks past the light switch, even though it is midnight.

She walks past a cordless telephone which, if the battery weren't dead, would be alerting her to the dozens of unheard voicemails stored in its memory, but not of the hundreds forgotten.

She walks past a bookshelf which is at capacity. Medical texts, historical diaries, literary classics, and on the bottom shelf, the one furthest from eye level, science fiction novels, all arranged in order of name, all thick with dust.

She walks past the skeleton of a cat, a collar still dangling from its vertebrae. The tag says "Stitches."

She walks to the refrigerator and throws it open. Everything inside is raw and fresh. Her hand hovers over a slab of pink, glistening beef that could feed four, and…

Salmonella e. coli listeria don't don't don't don't

…grabs an apple. Her arms tremble under their own weight and the corpselike chill in her muscle tissue.

She lifts it to her teeth and gouges out a chunk too big to chew. Her incisors clamp together, cutting it in half. One lump falls to the floor, unheeded. Before even swallowing the first piece, she attacks the apple again, tearing into it as if it lives and writhes in her hand, foam gathering at the corners of her mouth. Her throat spasms as a surge of juice trickles down, cold and flavourless. She bites down so hard that slivers of waxy skin embed themselves in her gums, drawing blood.

All wasteful, pointless ritual. She's forgotten the sensation of hunger.

But you want to feel something crunch

In less than half a minute, there's nothing but the core, and she bites through that too, cracks the bitter seeds between her molars, chews the stem into woody pulp.

The fridge beeps, warning that the door has been left open. She slams it shut. The contents rattle.

"I'm back," she announces.

The other person doesn't answer.


In the reception of the Lucida health clinic, a bearded faunus, who was younger than he looked, stood hunched and bundled in an anorak that had once matched the shade of his floppy, basset hound ears. He raised his fist to his mouth and barked out a single, protracted cough, a great wheeze that rose and rose in pitch before culminating in a sticky gurgle.

From behind her angular desk, Dr. Iris Lucida pointedly nudged a box of tissues.

"Egh," croaked the faunus. "Been swallowin' it all day. Why stop now?"

He inhaled as deeply as he could manage.

You could tell this was a human-run joint by who sat on which side of the big fancy table, obviously, don't be stupid, but you could also tell because there were no measures in place to regulate the smell.

It was one of the few human negligences he didn't begrudge them. Wasn't their fault their senses didn't work right. How could they grasp the bond between scent and emotion when they had never known their friends and family by nose, never carried a lost love in their clothing?

How was this one to know that, even when the last of the weary wounded had long since shuffled out the door, all clean and bandaged, their phantoms always lingered, stinking of blood and sickness and fear? And that here, in the centre of it all, she pierced the miasma with fumes of detergent and the soap that humans called "unscented", and barely a whiff of honest sweat behind it?

She wasn't. So she couldn't be expected to understand the chill it put in his gut.

"Don't suppose I can just get some cough syrup and go?" he asked, with a backwards glance and another chesty rumble.

"Cough syrup is a placebo, and you may quote me on that. You need antibiotics."

"And you can't get 'em cause you're not a real clinic." He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Waste my whole damn afternoon."

"Hearing voices as well, Mr. Bole? I thought it was just the cough."

Mr. Bole wrinkled his forehead, taking a moment to register the implication. "What. You're serious? Ain't that prescription stuff?"

"I may need a few days. One moment, please."

She swivelled her chair towards the sleek, black laptop sitting to her right (which, Mr. Bole had noted, was secured to the desk with a wire leash) and began to type. Mr. Bole leaned against the wood, watching her fingers move.

Eventually, he said "What's your angle?"

"Ninety degrees," she replied, not looking up.

"Wha?"

"A rather silly answer to a rather silly question, Mr. Bole."

He sighed. "I'm sayin', what do you get out of this? And I don't just mean 'cause you're human. You could have these same exact ears and I'd ask the same exact thing. Why stick your neck out for someone you're still callin' mister?"

"When you pass another faunus sleeping on the street, what do you see? A man in the same boat? Someone who would understand?"

"Pff. A new pair of shoes, if they're better 'n mine. Long as it ain't a cheetah or a gazelle or one of them fast ones."

"But you do see it. And I do as well."

And she made a near-imperceptible adjustment to her spectacles, perhaps for comfort, perhaps as nothing more than a gesture. And that seemed to be it.

"Um."

Mr. Bole turned.

A girl, who must have been wearing very soft sneakers, stood behind him. Her eyes flickered between him and the doctor, unsure of whom to address.

"I was wondering if I could volunteer, maybe?" she said, in a voice trying to excuse itself for the sheer rudeness of being audible.

Dr. Lucida glanced sideways. The girl wore a newsboy, with curly, storm-grey hair exploding from underneath.

"You want to work here?"

"Yes. Only, not for money. Volunteering. Um."

Two loose sheets of A4 hovered in front of her face, bent along the width from where her thumbs gripped them. The paper covering her mouth and the brim of the cap dipping over her eyes gave the impression of talking to a timid nose.

"This is my CV. Sorry, I couldn't find my stapler."

"Fuck me," muttered Mr. Bole. "You need a job reference that bad, petal?"

"Language, Mr. Bole."

"Language?" He snorted incredulously and spread his arms wide. "Well hot damn if I don't feel ten years old again. You my fuckin' momma now? You sure ain't my auntie, 'cause she cussed worse'n I do."

"No, but I am the one getting your medicine."

With no apparent pause in her keystrokes, Dr. Lucida accepted the CV with her left hand and began to read while her right hand continued ticking away, unmonitored.

Mr. Bole caught the girl's gaze, and she immediately dropped his. "You see that?" he said, inclining his head towards the doctor. "Like a f…friggin' robot. Creepy as hell."

"Miss Cirrostra, is it?"

"Hmm?" said Miss Cirrostra, palms clapping her thighs as she stiffened to attention. "Oh, my name! Yes. Rayna Cirrostra. Um, I have my passport here as well. If you need to see it. Sorry, I should have said all this when I…"

And then she deflated again, eyes fixing on the floor. "Sorry. I'm really bad at interviews. Nice to meet you."

"Not to worry," said the doctor. "But I don't see anything here about medical qualifications. You understand you'd mostly be cleaning and running errands?"

"Um, that's the thing. Not that I mind doing that stuff, but I can help with the patients too. If you want. I haven't studied or anything, but…"

She looked at Mr. Bole, or at least at the space a few inches beside his ear.

"Is it bronchitis?" she asked.

"What's it to you, petal?"

And she laid her hands on his chest.

For a moment, nothing happened. Rayna's face bunched a little, the freckles on her nose closing in on one another, and Mr. Bole regarded her quietly, paralysed by the sudden strangeness of it. Then he stepped back and batted her arms away, more out of surprise than aggression.

"The hell are you…"

The sentence caught in his throat. He put his hand to his chest, where Rayna's had been. And then he coughed once, short, sharp and clean. All air and no phlegm.

Dr. Lucida stared at him, fingers frozen on the keyboard.


"I thought you didn't do needles?"

Nora Valkyrie did not answer. She had, in fact, not said a word all morning, an event matched in rarity only by the appearance of certain comets. She merely clenched her fists and pursed her lips, hard and grim.

From behind her, Ren sighed. "She heard there'd be cookies afterwards."

Yang nodded. A pint of blood for something sweet. Fair trade at the Nora Bazaar. Gonna be some real big headlines in the med journals once they poke a hole in her. 'Beacon student found to bleed syrup, immediately tries to drink herself.'

The venue was a sports gym, deeply weathered, but still respected enough to command its own space amongst Vale's tight-packed architecture. Blue-clad nurses scurried back and forth from vans parked outside into the glass double doors, carrying bags and tubes and folded chairs.

"I told you we were early," said Weiss, with a sharp look that Ruby pretended not to see.

"Let's just go in," said Yang. "Worst they can do is tell us to come back later."

Team RWBY followed one of the nurses inside, leaving Ren, Jaune and Pyrrha to the task of uprooting Nora.

The donor benches were already in place, clustered neatly along the lacquered wooden floor. Rows of chairs stood on either side of the entrance, just beyond the reception desk, with the busy staff funnelling through the middle. Before the girls could decide whether to sit, however, a bald, bespectacled lady in a white coat detached herself from the bustle and strode towards them, flourishing a clipboard.

"IDs, please," she said.

They each produced their scrolls and slid open the holographic screens, tapping an icon to display their Beacon student identification. All except Blake, who stared agape at the bald woman.

She met her gaze coolly. "Your ID, please," she repeated.

"Er, yes. Here," stammered Blake, fumbling uncharacteristically in her pocket. "Excuse me, I know it's not really my business, but are you…"

Her eyes narrowed to a squint. "Dr. Lucida? Dr. Iris Lucida?"

"I am."

"God," she breathed, with a tinge of reverence. "I thought you were dead."

A smile tugged at her lips, but released them before it could take hold. "I…we all heard about-"

"I'm sorry," said the doctor. "We're expecting quite a few donors today, so I really can't chat. Seventeen, seventeen, seventeen…fifteen."

All attention fell on Ruby, who, despite monumental effort, grinned sheepishly. "Heh," she said.

"I'm afraid you have to be seventeen or over."

"Well…"

Ruby pulled Yang's sleeve and assailed her with a weapons-grade puppy dog pout, but her face had already settled into an unspoken "Told you."

"It's just, all my friends were coming, and this is, like, my entire circle and I'd be the one person who didn't show up." The words tumbled out almost too fast to understand, a rehearsed performance by a stage-frightened actress. "I mean, you could give my blood to someone, right? It wouldn't hurt them, would it? It's just for my safety. But that's fine! I'm a huntress!"

Dr. Lucida raised an eyebrow.

"In training," she added. "But I can take it. I know I can."

"Most people your age try to sneak into nightclubs, not blood drives."

"I'm not like most people my age," replied Ruby, simply.

The doctor scanned the room, ensuring no-one else was within earshot, then handed Ruby her scroll back. "I'll have to handle yours personally. Promise you'll keep it quiet."

"Yes!" said Ruby. "I mean. Yes."

"Good." She glanced at Blake before returning to her clipboard. "The faunus waiting area is on the left."

"What, they can't sit in the same seats as everyone else?"

Blake paled.

Yang had said it. Not a question, but an invitation. She took a half-step forward, shoulders rising, fingers curling, and the faintest puff of heat billowed from her skin. If the doctor noticed any of this, she showed no sign.

"Medical purposes. We can't give human blood to faunus or vice versa, so it's important that there aren't any mix-ups."

"Oh." Yang paused. The tension lingered in her muscles, but her glare softened and, noting Blake's mortified expression, she chuckled. "Duh, Yang. Shut up."

"Your names will be called when we're ready," said the doctor. "Make yourselves comfortable."

And off she went, her shiny dress shoes clacking.

The question came to each of them in turn. First Weiss, who had been ready to ask before the doctor even left. Then Ruby, who scratched her head in confusion. Finally, Yang turned to face Blake, realisation delayed by her earlier flash of anger.

"Wait a second," she said. "How did she know…?"

"I…" Blake's arms were folded across her abdomen, her gaze focused on the left-side seats. "I'll tell you later. Guys, I'm having second thoughts about this. I'm sorry. I'm going to head back."

They didn't have to ask why. Sitting in a faunus-designated area, the bow that hid her heritage from the world might as well have been made of cling film. Even so…

"Blake," said Weiss, careful not to let accusation slip into her tone. "Is something the matter? Because you made a promise."

"I know. I'll tell you. I will. Just not right now." She looked the three of them in the eyes, one by one, and they nodded, and nothing more was needed. "I'll see you back at Beacon, okay?"

Ruby was first to be called; by Dr. Lucida herself, as promised. She was led past the cushioned benches to a set of portable dividers at the back, arranged to provide at least the illusion of privacy. The doctor bid her to sit, then checked her temperature, pulse and blood pressure, efficiency bordering on impatience.

"So," said the doctor, making a final note. "Hopefully I needn't ask if this is your first donation."

"Well, I did just turn seventeen," replied Ruby, with a nervous sort of cheekiness. "Uh, my dad goes all the time, though."

"Is he also a huntsman?"

"He teaches over at Signal. You could say I'm following in his footsteps, but I dunno. I think I'd be doing this no matter what."

She flexed her fingers. The pressure cuff still constricted her biceps, and her forearm already felt like an overinflated tire.

Dr. Lucida opened a drawer, removed a sealed butterfly needle and tore open the plastic, letting the thin tubing uncoil and dangle. "I'll need a small sample first, just to check your haemoglobin levels. If you could clench your fist, please."

Ruby groaned. "I have to get two jabs?"

"I'm sure a little pinprick can't be worse than a beowolf."

"Yeah it can. Beowolves don't make me bleed."

She laid the hollow point against the inside of Ruby's elbow, aligned with a vein. Then she seemed to catch sight of something opposite her, and her eyes flicked upwards.

"Ah, there you are."

Ruby turned her head to see…no-one. When she turned back, there was the needle. Her brow furrowed.

"What was that about?" she said.

"You had your aura up."

Red surged into the tube, and the doctor affixed a syringe. "When we're expecting harm, even if it isn't life-threatening, we instinctively focus our aura to protect ourselves. For the average civilian, it wouldn't matter much, but with you, I'd have lost a needle. Just a little distraction to drop your guard."

"Huh. That's clever."

Ruby laid her head back.

The first needle she remembered getting, she'd wailed and pleaded all the way to the clinic. In the chair, she'd squirmed, insisting she would rather chance measles, but her mother had cupped her cheeks in her calloused hands, more comforting than soft ones in their familiarity, and assured her that it wouldn't hurt if she didn't watch. Ruby had leaned in towards those lavender eyes, seeing sincerity even through the blur of tears, and then the needle had gone in, and she had felt it, but it hadn't seemed such a terrible thing anymore.

Soon afterwards, the cuts and bruises of an aspiring huntress began to accumulate, crying over every hurt became the privilege of younger girls, and needles were just one more of life's little obligations. But even then, just as they touched her skin, just before that tiny spark of pain, she would look to her mother.

A few years later, she would look to Yang.

Now she looked to the ceiling, and the childhood custom had lost some of its power. The sting was mild but unrelenting, begging to be plucked out. But she still refused to watch, knowing that watching would make it worse, for the same reason she believed with all her heart that drinking milk would make her tall, that fresh homemade soup could cure the common cold, and that the world was not so broken that it couldn't be mended.

"A huntress, then."

"What?" Ruby blinked. "Oh. Yep."

"Very prestigious profession, hunting," said the doctor. "If you ask someone to name a hero, nine times out of ten they'll tell you their favourite huntsman. And of course the pay's nothing to sneeze at. All that fame and fortune can make a person forget how important the little charities are. Things that might seem trivial to someone like you can still make such a difference."

Ruby risked a downwards glance. Dr. Lucida gripped her arm between thumb and forefinger, her head bowed over the slowly filling syringe. From this angle, with the light catching her glasses just so, Ruby couldn't see her eyes; only the reflection of blood.

"You're doing a great thing today. I hope you'll remember that."