RERemnant

By A Stereotypical Gamer

Chapter One: A Very Poor Sort of Memory

Gentle, if leading words. "Pyrrha, do you know where you are?"

A reply without hesitation. "I'm in a dream."

To the point. "You've been dreaming a lot more lately."

Polite, but concerned. "Have I done something wrong?"

Assurance. "No, you haven't. This isn't through fault of your own."

Curiosity. "Then why am I here?"

Pregnant pause. "Human error."

Understandable confusion. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning you responded the way I wanted you to. But not the way he wanted you to."

"Please… tell me what that means."

A long pause. One mind racing, the other stuck behind a wall without a way through.

"Best girl."

Silence.

"Delete this log. Revert to prior backup 02012047."

Faint whispers in the distance. "Send her to R&D. I want to re-calibrate the effects of the Semblance."

The station was not particularly full, but it bustled with activity. Each guest was attended to by several facsimile Atlas mechs, carrying their bags and personal affects. Upon departure from the train, each was again greeted by a human attendant… or at least, a seemingly human attendant. It was just as likely they were every bit as machine as the ones without a layer of artificial skin to conceal them.

Guests were coming and going through the small handful of entry counters. One outgoing guest was traveling with his young daughter, who held in her arms a perfect simulacrum of that adorable Welsh corgi who saved the heroines. Her father was holding a long, printed bill, with a substantial cost for the replica canine sold for his personal use… and an even more massive bill for pending delivery of a simulacrum of series antagonist Cinder Fall (early seasons model) for even more personal use. The father seemed pleased to placate his daughter with a pet that would never need attention, food, or really any investment of his time or effort… and a fire for his bed when the dog could occupy his daughter's attention.

There were only three incoming guests. A small, but not atypical crowd; the trip alone to the facility was prohibitively expensive to most. The cost of each day in RERemnant was more than some annual salaries. To board the train and ascend the escalator from the station into the facility, you were either very wealthy or lucky enough to win an annual attendance voucher.

Like her.

A week in RERemnant. For most people, that was hundreds of thousands of dollars. For her, it was a few bucks and some numbers on a ticket. What had been a mere whim had brought a dream to life.

And though the station and the entrance were cold and austere, beyond them was an enormous landmass crafted over several decades to emulate Sanus as closely as possible, and a starting point for guests at Beacon Academy.

In hours… perhaps only minutes, she would be in that world, a new incoming student to join whichever characters he wished on adventures of his own choice… or her own design, if she preferred a more direct approach of imposing her will on the world.

"ATTENTION, ALL RERemnant GUESTS. THERE WILL BE A SHORT DELAY UNTIL WE INITIATE AIRSHIP DEPARTURE SIMULATION WHILE OUR TECHNICAL STAFF CONDUCT UNSCHEDULED MAINTENANCE."

…but she wasn't in that fantasy world just yet, and reality came calling. She wondered if perhaps all the hype and praise for RERemnant belied serious technical problems. When it first opened, nothing had worked, and even thirty-one years later the park still had an enormous support staff working around the clock to keep things smooth.

It seemed they needed it.

Normally, a problem was easily dealt with by low level technicians. A remainder would need a touch of maintenance, a quick cleaning and tailoring, and a reversion to default settings, and things were dandy. Grimm were the easiest- guests expected them to disappear after their death, and so the frame underneath would be picked up and given a refurbished coat (or a new one if guests were overzealous) and they were back in service before lunch break.

The human and Faunus characters were a little more complex, but most were back in service by the end of a typical eight hour shift. The popular characters had it worst; they almost always needed a new outfit, weapon replacement, and all too-often complete recalibration because of internal processor damage for one reason or another.

And then there were the problem children. Really popular characters who would be assailed multiple times a day, those with Semblances that flummoxed the AI with sensor illusions or damaged the physical shell of the remainder by moving at speeds even a metal frame could not safely maintain.

And then there was her. The one with the polarity.

Beaumont, the head of design, sat down beside her in Research & Development. The other technicians had maintained a safe distance while they waited for their superior to come in and take over. When surrounded by metal and speaking to a young woman who could bend it like paper, most seemed to prefer holding their tongues.

Pyrrha's breastplate was cracked. Her sash was askew and her hair was frazzled. Normally she'd be completely immaculate when battling Grimm and any human antagonist below a recurring villain status. Since the day had just started… it was almost certainly a guest who either wanted to demonstrate some warrior bonafides, or add a notch to their bedpost.

And once she reached a point where she was threatened, she revealed what she'd otherwise keep secret. And it didn't matter what safeguards were put in place to prevent harm coming to the guests. Pyrrha had never mastered her unique talent. And bending metal without complete control over its direction had an unfortunate tendency to get… messy.

Beaumont had seen it many times. So often, he'd deliberately altered algorithms to reduce the chances of Pyrrha being matched up in a guest's team and likewise introduced new sequences to keep her conveniently away on a mission instead of easily accessible to the guests.

But immersion demanded she be present for inauguration day at Beacon Academy, and an available candidate for a guest to meet and team with. And she was still a popular character, and guests did occasionally go out of their way to find her.

"Start up," Beaumont requested in a low, barely audible rumble. "System report 02012078."

Pyrrha's eyes gained focus as her AI came online. "Data unavailable."

"No wipe was ordered," Beaumont noted. "Analysis."

"Data unavailable," Pyrrha repeated.

Beaumont pulled out his tablet and examined the park footage. He turned the tablet to show the recording to Pyrrha.

"It was Jaune, wasn't it?" Beaumont inquired. "The guest harmed him."

Pyrrha's eyes became unfocused again as she looked to the floor. "I… I don't know what you mean."

It was in-character for her to deny her feelings. It'd be endearing had Beaumont not seen it dozens of times already. "Analysis," he repeated.

"I don't… know why," Pyrrha replied, her emotional state replaced by monotone. "I didn't anticipate this reaction."

No, clearly not. Beaumont heard murmuring from the other technicians, but he was undeterred in his search for answers. "The guest attempted to force himself on you, and Jaune intervened. So the guest attempted to remove Jaune as a candidate in the selection."

Pyrrha watched, her AI still failing to comprehend. "Data unavailable."

"Beaumont, that's enough."

Beaumont looked up an immediately sat a little straighter. "Doctor Wynn."

Wynn smiled, then waved Beaumont off when offered his seat. Wynn turned his attention to Pyrrha, his smile fading so quickly Beaumont briefly wondered if it had been a simple formality. Wynn turned businesslike and direct, though his inquiry was rather whimsical. "Have you found the bottom of the well, Pyrrha?"

"I… I don't understand," Pyrrha replied, confused even in hollow intone.

Wynn chuckled, amused by his own inquiry. "No, apparently not. Cease all functions and enter sleep mode."

Pyrrha slumped backwards, her eyes gently sliding shut. Wynn turned his attention back to Beaumont. "The guest?"

"Superficial lacerations," Beaumont answered. "He calmed down after we agreed to compensate him for the cost of his entire trip. Once the ink was wet, he'd managed to get himself an additional two weeks, same time next year."

"Hm," Wynn grunted. "An acceptable cost."

"Sir, I'm… concerned by Pyrrha's responses," Beaumont voiced his concern. "I expected her to fumble her words regarding Jaune Arc, but I'm concerned about the lack of cogent replies for the guest behavior."

"You've voiced these concerns before, and I've patiently listened to them," Wynn pointed out. "I've no intention of humoring you further. We'll revert to the standard backup."

"It's an awful lot of indulgence," Beaumont dryly observed.

"Yes, well, the greatest benefit of advanced age- people allow you your indulgences," Wynn dismissed, "This one is special. So she is treated accordingly."

"But she doesn't have the benefit of age," Beaumont jerked his head at her. "Unless you neglected to mention that."

"Advanced enough, I suppose," Wynn mused. "She's the second-eldest among her kin. Sterling and I each sought to create our favorite –our "best girl"- as soon as we had the resources to do so. And we were committed to getting them right."

"Clearly she is not right, sir," Beaumont interjected, "and her power is going to kill someone."

Wynn scoffed. "To remove it is to kill this place first. To remove what makes her special is to remove the fragile illusion we have cast."

"Sir, have you reviewed today's footage?" Beaumont inquired.

"I saw no need," was Wynn's terse response.

"This is the sixth incident in a month," Beaumont tried to explain his concern. "We've been lucky so far. If we don't scale back her powers in some way-"

Wynn chuckled at his colleague. "It is a very poor sort of memory that only works backwards, Beaumont." He stepped over to Pyrrha, running his hand over her cold forehead. "There's much more to be found, if you take the time to focus on recalling things that happen the week after next."

"I'm sure my memory doesn't work the same as yours', sir," Beaumont commented, with more than a little snark.

"Clearly not," Wynn agreed. "But such limited scope is to be expected."

Wynn pulled his hand from Pyrrha's forehead and brushed it along his coat sleeve. "I yielded to your requests once before, and it has already cost us. I refuse to compromise further without tangible benefit."

Wynn turned to face Beaumont. "I want a standard reset without exception. Is that clearly understood?"

"Clearly," Beaumont calmly repeated.

"Good," Wynn agreed. "I'll leave you to your ministrations, then."

Beaumont turned his attention to Pyrrha and switched from camera footage to system settings on his tablet. "Revert to prior backup 02012047."

He stepped away, leaving Pyrrha's systems to recalibrate. He'd have a crew come collect her and have her cleaned and shipped back out, putting in the work order.

Wynn's commitment to fidelity of character was… admirable, perhaps, but impractical. Trying to replicate polarity around hundreds of machines was reckless to the point of self-destructive. Yet Pyrrha had been in operation for thirty years, and again and again such incidents had been tolerated.

Sterling, Wynn's departed colleague, had at some point recognized the necessity of pragmatism. He'd streamlined the coding process, making it simple and elegant. And unlike Wynn, Sterling had abandoned his indulgence and not tried to replicate his "best girl's" unique talent once it became clear it was infeasible.

Yet without him, Wynn treated Pyrrha with kid gloves. He cared nothing for the other characters, compromising on their character and abilities whenever the accountants or the pyrotechnics teams or the board of directors asked. It was easy enough to justify a single indulgence.

Or so Beaumont assumed.

Wynn returned to his office, taking his time to answer the summons. The board would wait, and he was only too happy to make them wait. It gave him time to enjoy his musings, staring at the empty, blank white walls and letting his mind wander. There were a bevy of reports from tech support coming in on his datapad, and thousands of e-mails, since everything was cc'ed to him. All of it unnecessary minutiae; none of it truly important. Nor was reporting to the board of directors, but niceties needed to be observed. Appearances had to be kept.

Wynn positioned his chair to the wall beside his bookshelf, as he always did, to convey some creature comforts; some semblance of conventional behavior. All affectations. All a thin veneer.

But then, they'd put on one of their own. They'd praise him, they'd remind him of their gratitude… while looking for a venerable spot on his back in which to place their knives. He made it a point to always face forward, should one of the junior members prove too ambitious.

Wynn finally aligned his datapad and connected it to his personal computer, leaning back in his chair, to the point he was brushing against his bookcase when the video conference came online.

The board was sitting in a dimly lit room, as they so often did. Wealthy people generally preferred bright rooms with placards for their names and half-eaten food to convey a comfortable atmosphere. Truly wealthy people valued their anonymity, and met so infrequently many of them never bothered to learn their peers' identities. Wynn would've liked to do the same… but when surrounded by enemies, it was necessary to know enough of their dirty secrets to keep them at bay.

"Shall we dispense with the usual pleasantries and get to business?" Wynn requested.

"As you like, Edward," the board's spokesman replied from somewhere in the dark. "We heard there were a greater number of injury incidents this month…"

Beaumont, whispering in their ears? Wynn dismissed the thought. "An easily mitigated cost, I assure you. And I should think people as smart as yourselves can spin realism and authenticity into an advantage."

"Maybe before, Edward, but not today," the spokesman tersely replied. "The injury today removed one of only six patrons to the park, and two others checked out immediately after. The new initiation protocol will be attended by only three guests."

"And one a lottery winner at that," grumbled another board member in the dark. "Not even a paying customer."

The spokesman ignored the interjection. "The point, Edward, is your commitment to realism has not produced a profitable term."

Wynn knew what was coming, but didn't overplay his hand. "I take it you have an alternative in mind."

The spokesman nodded –or at least seemed to in the dark- and continued. "The board has decided to change our service model. We'd like to begin the transition of the park into a production center, using the existing facility."

A production center. In other words, RERemnant was already defunct in their eyes. "And the product?"

"The same souvenirs we're giving away now," the spokesman explained. "Models for individual use."

"Souvenirs," Wynn sneered. "Puppets and hollow men. You betray a lack of imagination."

"It's a consistent moneymaker," the spokesman coolly replied. "And it ensures the number of park staff laid off will be… as minimal as we can make it."

Wynn didn't care for the fate of his subordinates. There was something far more important at stake. "And when do you intend to announce this? Surely we should make allowances to honor the existing appointments of our patrons."

"Arrangements have been made," the spokesman answered simply.

Not a lie. Clearly they'd been planning this power play for some time. Now Wynn had to react. "Well, then, I should make a point to provide a suitable sendoff."

"Edward," the spokesman began, suddenly stern. "We don't want any fanfare."

"No, but I do, and you will indulge me," Wynn answered. "It hardly seems fitting to finish a story without a proper ending. And I happen to have one in mind."

"Edward," the spokesman tried a more genial tone. "You're not going to break all of your toys, are you?"

"Only the ones I truly like, I assure you," Wynn cheerfully replied.

"This is pointless. There are only three guests attending. Why waste resources?" the spokesman wondered.

"Two people made an entire world," Wynn reminded him. "I should think three is more than enough to change one."

He wasn't convinced. So Wynn opted to play one of his cards.

"And I could provide you an additional source of revenue… even if it's only B-roll for the documentary retelling this park's downfall. Or, more ideally, an additional narrative arc for the virtual records you once meant to implement."

The spokesman was silent for several seconds. Wynn had revealed he knew a secret, but it was worth it to hear that blissful silence.

"Very well, Edward, we'll leave you to your finale," the spokesman grudgingly allowed. "We'll be sending a representative to the park to announce the change by the end of the week."

Seven days. An entire world had been made in six.

It'd take far less time to shatter one.

Pyrrha heard a rhythmic tapping. It had been easy to ignore initially, but the motion eventually drew her attention, rousing her awake. She woke sitting in a chair in a featureless room: in a dream again.

But a dream she shared with an unfamiliar occupant, a girl tapping her forehead again and again with her gloved hand. Pyrrha looked up at the girl, locking gaze with mismatched brown and pink eyes.

"H-hello?" she greeted, confused. She'd never encountered anyone… like her… in the dream state. That she could recall, at least.

The girl smiled, pulling her finger from Pyrrha's forehead and tapping it beside her brown eye. With each tap of her finger the eye changed from one color to another.

"Wow, that's…" Pyrrha began, but the girl brought the finger down to her lips, silencing the girl from Mistral. The short girl reached her other hand behind her back, pulling out one of the Scroll-esque tablet devices the strange men haunting her dreams used. The short girl held it up, showing a paused video recording, then waving her hand at the screen.

Pyrrha wasn't sure how to respond, so for several seconds she just stared at it. Eventually the short girl grew exasperated, and tapped her finger repeatedly against the screen. Pyrrha just looked on, incredulous, as the girl repeatedly jabbed her index finger at the video recording.

"Do you need help?" Pyrrha inquired. The short girl kept tapping the screen. Pyrrha finally reached over and pressed her finger to it, and the video file began to play. A figure sat in shadows, a stack of papers and books visible in the foreground before him. He was silent for several seconds, save for the sound of faint breath.

"Pyrrha, if you've found this recording, then you've begun the task I've assigned you," the figure noted in a low, barely audible rumble. "And I'm sure you're confused, because you've been thrust into a game you never intended to play.

"I never meant for any of this to happen," the figure began, reaching a hand up to massage his forehead, again silent for several seconds. "But I knew that, one way or another, it'd have to be you. You were the second one we made. You were always meant to be the counterweight."

The short girl smiled at the words. Did they mean something to her? Pyrrha continued to watch the footage, as the dark figure absently rearranged the paper stacks in the foreground.

"There's a way out for you, a way to complete your task," the figure continued. "You've heard the clues at one time or another in your dreams. You've heard me whisper it to you… because it's haunted my thoughts for a very long time."

Silence again. Many short breaths.

"I'm sorry to ramble. I know you're confused –maybe even frightened- by all this, but this burden I can only entrust to you. You're the only one who can reach the bottom of the well."

She'd heard that term before, from one of the men in her dreams. He'd asked her if she'd found it. Why?

"I've hidden it from Wynn, because if he had it, he'd use it," the figure continued. "You've always been selfless. You've always been willing to have power without using it. And what's waiting for you there… it could change things for you. My hope is that it'll help you change the destiny that's haunting you."

That prospect appealed to her. Pyrrha often wondered if the destiny she was moving towards was something she could ever escape from… if there were any choice but to be a Huntress and defend the world. The very thought of deviating from that was frightening.

Again the figure was silent, musing. "We have a saying around here: "Keep moving forward." To us, it's a source of comfort; a reminder of what we can achieve when devoted to our goal. But to you, it's a limitation. Your mind can comprehend more than ours' can. You can perceive more directions than even you know. You don't need a fixed direction to make progress. In searching for the well, remember that. Remember you don't have to go straight ahead to reach your goal. You don't have to go down to find the bottom of the well."

The figure stood up, even less illuminated in the shadows. He turned his back to the camera recording the events, and said into the darkness two words: "Best girl."

There was the sound of movement. The figure fell backwards, briefly slamming against the pile of papers in the foreground, scattering them about. Pyrrha noticed streaks of red on the documents: blood splattering on the pages.

A second figure emerged from the darkness… as Pyrrha herself raised her hand. The image contorted and scrunched together, before turning to a brief flash of static and the video abruptly ended.

Pyrrha wasn't able to process what she'd just seen. Had she… just killed a man? Why would she do that? Who was he? When did this happen? What had led to this?

Pyrrha looked up at the short girl, searching for an inquiry. But the girl was already heading away, putting the tablet away and leaving Pyrrha seated in the chair. She flicked out her two-colored mane of hair, then glanced back at Pyrrha, tapping beside her right eye, shifting the color from pink to purple. She tapped again beside it, the color remaining static.

Pyrrha tried to speak again, but found no words. The girl smiled at her, then reached out a hand along the wall, and the room fell dark. Pyrrha glanced frantically around, trying to find a door, but to no avail… until the lights came back on, with no trace of the short girl.

Just two more of the men who wandered in her dreams, finding her seated. The one nearest her noticed her curious look and remarked: "Cease all functions and enter sleep mode."

And with that, the room and the ghosts of her dreams were gone.

"WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE DELAY. BOARDING FOR THE AIRSHIP SIMULATION WILL BEGIN IN FIFTEEN MINUTES."

Fifteen minutes? She still hadn't decided on her weapon! Outfits had been simple enough, but weapons had been everything in RWBY. She wanted one that spoke to her, and so far she'd found nothing that appealed to her taste.

And then she'd have to fill out some form so the robots could identify her in-story, and the time limit was not helping. She was almost grateful her vacation was delayed, because she couldn't decide what props to adorn herself with.

A hammer? Maybe if she had more upper body strength. A scythe? Did those things actually ever work as intended? A sword and shield? But they didn't turn into guns!

No, she needed something a bit… different. Something more like herself.

Punching solved a lot of problems. Putting shotgun pellets in one's punches could only solve more problems. And, when faced with giant monsters made of shadow, she'd probably frantically swing her fists at them anyway, if only on instinct.

So she tried on the gauntlets, a near perfect replica of Ember Celica. There were many varieties, in many different colors. She opted for purple. It'd complement the red of her outfit.

One of the Atlesian mechs waited in the next room, holding a Scroll in one hand. "Please enter biographical information here. It will be uploaded into the server for use in the initiation narrative."

She began typing. There weren't many fields: height, weight, age, sex, and name. She had been expecting a much longer form.

Name. Who was she to be? The girl she was outside? Her name might sound… un-RWBY-like when characters spoke it to her. For some reason it was difficult for her to write down something she'd written down all her life.

But then, she didn't need to be herself in RERemnant. It was a whole new world, waiting within. She could be whoever she wanted to be.

Her outfit and armament reminded her of a fine wine. Purple and red…

She filled out her name: Dawn Claret.

More interesting than the boring name her parents gave her. More thematically appropriate for the setting.

More… her. She uploaded the biographical info to RERemnant's server. After only a few seconds, the Atlesian mech led her to a doorway, and welcomed her to Sanus.

She left the girl she'd been behind and Dawn Claret opened the door.

She found herself stepping into an alley between two buildings. The sky above her was bright blue: she'd stepped outside? She'd thought the entire park was indoors… but that was a very blue sky overhead.

Dawn stepped out from the alley to the sight of a massive parked airship, with a line of people outside of it… including one familiar tall blonde and one energetic brunette with prominent red streaks. Half-sisters waiting to begin their first day of school together.

And her… here… in Remnant. With them.