Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY, but I do own all OCs in this fanfic.
Prologue
Several years before the present day, sometime after The War...
Remnants…
Remnant. That was the name of his world. Or at least, the man believed it to be so. History tends to get disoriented these days.
Civilization has always been built upon the histories of the old. Sadly, though, the tyrants of his time don't seem to realize that. Instead, they insist on burning the truth and burying whatever they couldn't destroy. They're more interested in living through their lies rather than embracing the cold truth.
Byproducts…
A man was pacing back and forth in his cell, oblivious to the world outside. The white chamber he had known for so long had deprived him of all color. His skin became a ghostly pale, his eyes became glass, his hair withered into grey. This room, this asylum, had deprived him of his very soul.
The Kingdoms were nothing more than soulless machines. In this world, the people are only fleshy puppets, playthings of their rulers. They had already taken away their voices, their freedoms. But now… now they were taking away life itself.
That's all we are…
They were making the mistakes of the old ones. He saw what became of them, how they brought about their own downfall. He wouldn't be surprised if this was his world's destined fate. To drown in its own ignorance and fade from history.
The door to his cell opened, with several figures swarming into his prison. Most of them were brutes, corrupt guards serving their more twisted overlords. They had come to "escort" him again, to the interrogation room. This wasn't his first trip there, and it likely wouldn't be his last either.
Sighing, he accompanied them to the chamber. He had already told his story a thousand times, and yet they insisted on hearing it again and again. They seemed to think that he had access to some treasure grove or something. What he saw was by no means a treasure.
He could see remember it all like it was yesterday. The storm that sunk his squad's ship. The island they had washed up on. The metallic abominations that butchered his brothers in arms.
And that face… That wretched, withering face. That dead eye and the broken optic beside it. A gaping hole where the lower jaw and throat should've been. A near-corpse on life support.
And his voice… that damned, infernal, maddening VOICE! He could still hear that metallic wheezing in his head. He could still sense an appalling, scrapping sound echoing from the shadows. And he could still feel the old one's words slithering around in the back of his mind.
The next thing he knew, he found himself at a table, in a room of navy-blue. Sitting on the opposite side was a scrawny man, with a towering brute beside him. This was no doubt his interrogator, sent from the tyrant. He could easily see the political ambition in his eyes as well, a typical trait these days.
But something caught his eye. On the table was a metal, skull-like object. Its ruby-red optics bore its way into the man's soul, sending him a familiar chill. He recognized that face.
Looking over the interrogator's shoulders, he could make out another metallic object in the back. It possessed a skeletal appearance, with talons and claws in place of feet and hands. Within the ribcage was some sort of cylindrical chamber, with a circular glass window. On the floor were large wings, no doubt once part of the machine.
The man's eyes widened. Cold sweat ran down his face, lips sputtering. Flashes of copper and obsidian ran through his mind. The taste of rusted iron was in the air. A second later, a fresher scent of iron came. This one though, was crimson.
He snapped back into reality when he heard the worm's voice.
"You recognize this, don't you?" He inquired, with a hint of something beneath the words. Was that supposed to be a taunt?
The man just nodded. His warden slid some sort of paper towards him. It was a map of their world.
"Where did you last see this?" The politician asked.
The soldier only pointed towards a speck of nothing below Mantle. The other frowned.
"There's nothing in that area," He said. "Nothing but seas and storms."
The man gave a sad smile. "That's only the outside of the damn place," He replied. "Nothing but a shell to keep out the world."
"And you managed to bypass this?" The figurehead asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Not intentionally," The hoary one admitted. "We sailed right into the middle of some sea battle, and ended up taking part in it. The next thing everybody knows, some storm appears outta nowhere and trashes us. Those of us that survived were sucked right into the eye of it."
An earthquake ruptured within his head. He grabbed his forehead in pain, wincing as he closed his eyes. Time was rewinding before him, the past corroding the present. The room rotted away, revealing ruins of some nameless city.
Factories littered the land, their fires still burning like miniature suns. Skyscrapers were crumpling into dust on the horizon. Homes and shelters were burnt away, leaving charred skeletons in place. In short, it was an industrial hell on Remnant.
Sadly, he won't be forgetting about it anytime soon. And neither would his captors. Once more, he told them of the brass horrors he saw. Once more, he dove into the darkest recesses of the past. And once more, he would stare into the eyes of insanity itself.
And it in turn would stare back into his…