Monster in my Head
"It isn't the monsters that go bump in the night. Those can be shot, stabbed. Planned and plotted against. They have nothing on the darkness lurking within."
Beta: Setokaiva
Volume One, Chapter Two—Forests and Trees
8-8
Wenge crashes through branches and trunks like they're paper and almost slams into the ground. Widdle ol' me? The world quakes something fierce, but he holds on so I don't fall or hurt myself. Hell, I don't even lose my left-handed grip on Moon. That might have to do with his aura wrapped around me like a cloak—I didn't even have to activate mine.
"Clear," he mumbles. I parrot and he loosens his grip, letting me slip down and flip onto my feet. Not much to see, really; brown trunks and branches, with some green new-growths of spring, and a whole lot of green. Can't even see the sky through the foliage. He sniffs. "Grimm. Ursa minors."
"How you wanna do this?" I ask and sniff, but don't smell them yet. Fuckers stink to high heaven, all grimm do. Shame I can't identify the specific stink like he can. "I take the icing you take the cake?"
"You love swatting the flies," he says and chuckles, looking around as he loosens his strap and wields his Fluffy Bunny one-handed. "He said north?" I nod, keeping Moon ready for the trouble we know is coming. He leads, watching front and setting an easy pace. I keep our rear flank in check as we go.
"Ma's bugging me 'bout marrying you again."
I snort, shaking my head. "That's incest." He chuckles, not disagreeing. Twigs snap, younger branches bend and rub their leaves against us to trade scent markings, a whole lot of signs of our trail are left behind as we make our way. Even if the grimm don't know exactly where we are, they'll find us soon enough.
Leaves are browning, showing autumn is upon is, not that the heat of summer has eased much. Still, the nights are cooling. It's almost ten minutes before the stench hits me. Like sweaty gym socks and diarrhoea had a baby. And it's coming from all round us.
"I hate that you taught me that." Ignoring the chuckling, we just keep on walking along, if avoiding shrubs best we can. Trunks are so thick here that it's all too easy for them to hide behind them, but that only helps so much. That I still can't see them shows they know something about either camouflage or stealth tactics.
I activate my aura, knowing these fuckers are just hiding in the wing, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
"What you think, bra?" he asks, giving me the heads up it's about to go down. Not that it wasn't already obvious, but it's nice that he cares. "'Bout a dozen. Could be interesting?" Mag slides out, confirming this is a reg-mag—little point in starting with a dust-round, if a reg-round gets the job done—before slamming it right back in and safety clicks off. Never shot one of these.
"Power calibration?" As the words leave my mouth, red eyes glare from within a shrub, another two pairs from either side of one of the thicker trunks.
"Fair," he says. "Even split?" Four on my side, so that doesn't sound efficient. The first of them comes fully into view. Large. Wenge-size kind of large, if walking slightly hunched forward. All black save the white skull on head, with bone growths from its spine, and blood red eyes. Might have claws, but fangs are…yeah, bone white fangs, I assume its lips are taut against its gums, but no way to know for sure. No noticeable tongue, at least not just now.
"Meh?" The growling starts. A guttural, bestial sound. Never faced an actual grimm, but somehow facing Branwen when he's roaring drunk worried me more; an ass, perhaps, but a strong ass.
Eight rounds per mag. How many shots will I need? I shoot one right in the eye; a pained yelp and a red dot no longer glows. The second eye dims, the scent of dust slaps my nose—as if the previous olfactory cruelties weren't enough. Seven. Wenge has his marks between ten and two, he's fine.
"Eyes aren't armoured," I say. Not that I'm accurate enough to hit all of them in the eyes, but interesting all the same. The rest of their pack swarms us, trying to overrun us. Hmm, that suggests at least a base intelligence.
A crash, the snapping of bones. "Smash down," he says. "Skull caves easier." Wenge's club is at the tail-end of a dust cloud, no marks outside his vision.
As if I have even half the power he does. Or is he being an ass because I'm more accurate? Squeeze the trigger, the bullet ricochets off the skull and into a tree. Another two shots, but neither gets the eye. Hmm. Four.
I unsheathe Sun just as two of them try to flank me, duck under a swipe, stab. Blade-tip shunts the ursa into his buddy, but doesn't pierce. Aim, fire—right into said buddy's eye at practically point-blank range, dusting him. Three. Sun clicks into snake form, lashing the sneaky little ass that thinks his stench goes unnoticed. Even with four of the thirteen links slamming into his skull, neck, and back, it's only glancing blows and barely gets noticed at all. Wenge has a sneaky fuck on his four.
With a flick of the wrist I lash the fucker and the ass I was already dealing with, earning a double lunge at me. Moon shoots the fuckers right in the eye, almost point-blank—they dust before its corpse even hits me. One.
Safety engages, holster, and spin the little dial at Sun's base. The length of the link-blades glow cyan. Two more ursas jump me at once. A slash, and they fall to chunks, dusting. No more movement. I look around, sniffing just in case.
"Clear," I say.
"Clear," Wenge agrees.
I press Sun's pommel and give a twist. The bay slides out, showing the crystal didn't take any damage, and there's no difference with the glow. Good. Slide the bay closed, flick Sun this way and that to un-dust, reel back into sword form and sheathe. Moon unholsters and I click out the mag, trading it for a fresh reg-mag. Will need to refill before too much longer—only have six reg-mags.
"Note to self," I mutter, shaking my head, "get extended mags." Wenge chuckles, highly amused. He isn't any worse for wear, tapping his club against a trunk to un-dust it. "Crystal worked like a charm."
He nods. Two sharp sniffs. "You got time," he says. With a nod, I dig into my backpack for more ammo and fish out my mostly empty reg-mag. The box of regular ammo pops open, and I quickly click the missing six in. "What you think?"
"Ursa minors aren't too big a threat. Could be useful for testing new moves and tactics. You?"
"Skull's visually the most armoured," he says. "The back ain't soft. Underbelly's the best bet. If you knock 'em down, it's easier to cave in the skull with a good hit. Might be interesting to phase your blade through them and unphase?"
I stow the box and slip my backpack onto my shoulders, unholstering Moon again. "Not a bad idea. You didn't need a single shot?"
"Not even for the ursa major." He sounds amused. Fuck, there was a big one? I take out my scroll and press it open, shifting to the aura monitoring app. He didn't take even a ding, but my aura is at ninety percent. Right, that's why I hated the extended mags. Moon's shots are almost as powerful as Sun's, with less area to spread the blast over.
"Hey. You think I stand a chance at getting laid?" I ask. Wenge only laughs, shaking his head at my twisted priorities. Scroll closes and stows, and we head out. "Seriously. I'm tired of seducing straight girls. It never ends well."
8-8
Only run into two more ursai packs—quite common to face, apparently, or at least common in this area. So, we make it to a stone bridge easily enough. I'm not sure I like this bridge. Fairly narrow over a seemingly bottomless ravine. I look over the side of the bridge—oh lovely. Not bottomless, so there's plenty of space to fall properly before the landing kills you.
Nothing keeps this stone-age jenga tower in one piece, and it's so narrow that any land-based attacks would instantly put us at a disadvantage—or, well, technically it's a choke-point so us against many is in our favour. Not that aerial attacks aren't twice as fucking dangerous, considering there's no cover possible here. As we're strolling across, the abandoned temple comes into view ahead. Unless the bridge is also technically 'abandoned temple'…in which case, we've arrived.
Same stonework, same clunky chunks stacked atop each other. Strangely, there are no signs of this place being overgrown, as if it's properly maintained. Or maybe the grimm eat the vines? Dunno. Don't even know if they eat at all.
Another pair rush passed us and grab something and rush passed again. It might be efficient to work swiftly, but really, this isn't a race. Either way, we reach the end of the bridge and step onto the temple plateau. There seem to be a dozen little stone pedestals, each housing coloured chess pieces. Not sure I like the symbolism of it, but fine.
"Right," I say and grab the white queen piece and stuff it into my backpack for safekeeping. "That's our bit handled. Haul ass back?"
"Makes sense." Wenge nods. "Piggyback, my queen?"
Back of my pistol hand against my brow, I pretend I'm swooning, about ready to faint. "Mr Bruin. You sure know how to treat a lady." He snorts, shaking his head as he scoops me up like I'm a fussy toddler. "This works too. Hanging upside-down was really giving me a headache."
"It must be so much work, being carried."
I glare, or try to. He turns heel and dashes off so fast he barely has to hold me in place.
8-8
The amphitheatre is full of cheering and applause and words. Two screens light up with four pictures each, announcing the teams being formed. So many dicks; some boys, too.
Four arrogant little shits walk onto the platform, standing at attention before Ozpin. He calls their names, names them, and appoints a leader. Surprisingly, Douchebag McAsshole isn't said once—I've seen a fair share that shouldn't be named anything else. Goodwitch nods to us, and we walk up.
"Wenge Bruin. Ivory DeWitt. Tiffany Tulip. Eminence Neon," Ozpin says, gazing dispassionately at us. I should be happy I have a female teammate, but Tiff is too busy not glaring at me for some fucking reason. She's been avoiding me, and that spells all kinds of 'not good' that I just don't want to unpack in this lifetime. "You will be team White. Led by."
Tiff glances my way.
"Wenge Bruin."
The dark-skinned boy frowns. Tiff breathes a sigh of relief. But I tackle Wenge, gushing over and over as I climb the gentle giant and raise his fist into the air to proclaim him champion of the world.
"Congrats, baby bear."
8-8
I look around. The room is about the same size as my last dorm. Plain brown walls, taupe floor in that faux-wood style, and a single curtain fluttering in the wind. The beds honestly look like they were placed with laser precision—so perfectly spaced. There's a desk on the opposite wall of each bed, with a single chair, table lamp, and three shelves hung over it.
"We got this side," Wenge says and walks over to the left and plops on the bed closer to the middle of the room, no doubt marking the one closer to the wall as mine. I'm right on his heel before the others decide they're the 'we' mentioned. There are two doors over this way, perfectly spaced out. I jerk one open, finding decent closet space. The other jerks open as well, revealing more of the same. The other side of the room has the other two, so this works out.
"I got the right," I say over my shoulder, plopping my duffel bag in the right-hand closet. It's been a long ass day, so I'm in no mood to unpack just yet.
"It's communal baths and toilets," Wenge says, his gaze on me for some reason, but I'm more interested in the empty bookshelves. Ah, fuck it. I hate seeing empty bookshelves. I pluck up my bag and plop it on my desk. "Ive?"
My mechanics textbooks from Signal slide onto the shelf I've already clearly claimed as my own—given there are shelves over each desk, there's no reason for them to get all huffy with the setup.
"I was," Tiff sounds more than a little put out with something, but I'm too busy organizing my books to be bothered, "hoping we could. Have a girls' side?"
"I was hoping to get laid," I say. Practical Dust and Crystal Applications. Good book, but this D.S. Brown gets way too wordy. Still, it's something that's helped me time and again.
With the last of my books already set on my shelves—all design theory, mechanics, advanced chemistry, and dust theory books—I lift my lap-desk out of my bag and press the button to unfold it, setting it on my bed. The little slate grey surface is littered with scratches and burn marks from the shit I've gotten up to; she looks as rickety now as the day I scalped her.
My weapons' care kits, my modifications pouch, and my etui with my precision screwdrivers get stacked on the lap-desk. I'll probably designate a shelf in my closet for storage, or just plop it onto my desk when I want sleep, but that's for another day. A day when I have energy to actually think.
"Hey, you figure out how to balance the kickback on your pistol?" Wenge asks. There's a groaning of springs; ah, Wenge is putting himself between me and Tiff, warning her I'm not in the mood. "Look. Tulip. I get what you're sayin', but Ive's got a serious touch thing."
Tiff walks right around him and pokes my nose, just because she can. "I was stuck with this airhead for four years. I'm pretty sure I can handle her."
"Uh." A little voice from the other side of the room. It isn't that he sounds young, or high-pitched or anything, he just sounds small, like he isn't sure he matters just now. "Hi." Wenge, Tiff, and I look over at…Neon. His tiger-striped orange shirt and glow-in-the-dark lavender cargo pants reminds me of a billboard. And the undercut with bright pink corn-rows on his head…doesn't help the image much. This boy screams 'look at me' without even trying. So why does he look nervous?
Neon clears his throat and coughs into his hand. "Sup. Eminence Neon. Graduated from Sanctum. Tiffany I already know. Somewhat, at least." He sounds steadier in his shoes, but doesn't look any less unsure than a moment ago.
"Bruin. Faunus, in case you missed the signs." Wenge cocks an eyebrow, already sizing the boy up. Sure Neon's like a head taller than me, but Wenge is still by far the giant in the room.
"DeWitt. Don't touch me, don't touch my things, and don't get all familiar and shit with me. Went to Signal with these two. They've. Earned. My respect." Tiff flicks my nose again, giving me a funny look. "What. You ignored me since we arrived. Your own damn fault."
"I was hanging out with Yang. Stop getting all huffy about me not having your hang-ups." She grabs my shoulders, as if the act magically changes reality. "Now why can't we split the room so I don't have to change in front of Neon?" Because changing in front of Wenge is so much better?
I roll my eyes and shrug her off to get right back to unpacking my clothes. I don't have nearly enough stuff to fill my closet, but that's nothing new. "Because I'm not changing in front of anyone," I say, stacking my panties and bras without a care in the world. "And if I find him nosing through my things, there won't be a corpse left to find."
Neon gulps almost painfully, nodding to show he understands how real the threat is.
8-8
The school store is. Bothersome. Oh so bothersome. And full, and busy, and a whole mess of descriptors that are not synonymous with 'peaceful'.
Still. This needs handling, and the rest of the student body no doubt needs to handle it as well. I unfold my book list, and head over to that side. Hmm. History, boring. Grimm typology, biology, and tracking—oh fuck yeah, barbecue the bitches. Battle and battlefield tactics, could be interesting. Survival of the fittest: a guide to the great outdoors.
I blink, looking at that last name. It's a fucking camping book. Not only did some wiseass write a book on camping, but it's required reading? Fuck my life.
International Piloting Licence Handbook? We're learning to fly. Okay, I can stand leaning to camp now. That's weird; I don't remember applying for this elective? Wenge probably did it for me, knowing him.
Wenge and I gather our required reading books, and pick up a dozen empty notebooks for what we hope will be a very informative year. He grabs a pack of a dozen ballpoint pens, and I get the same in mechanical pencils, with refills and erasers.
"Hey. They've got weapons and gear," Wenge says and nods to the section with the most foot traffic. Interesting, to be sure. We both love ogling weapons and the like, but this needs handling and my patience has long since run thin with this particular three-ring circus.
"You go on ahead. I'll…" I look over to the uniforms, and sigh. Fucking skirts. Again. It isn't that I hate the damn things, but for fighting? Who the hell enjoys fighting in a skirt? Other than onlookers, obviously.
"Don't shoot anyone," Wenge says, waves, and heads over, no doubt glad he can just shop without needing me to run interference with Vale's usual zealous bigots. Sigh. Well, at least he's happy.
Maroon jacket, not the best but not bad either. Skirt—ick—let alone the migraine-inducing pattern. White form-fitting top with a fucking ribbon—what am I, a present for someone to unwrap?
The image of Goodwitch tugging my ribbon loose lobs itself into my brain; I shiver, as does my suddenly aching clit. Gods, may she be as straight as a horse shoe.
8-8
Charcoal drawings of king taijitu, death stalker, beowolf, boarbatusk, nevermore, and ursai. To be fair, that ursai looks like an ursa minor which is the more common incarnation, but still. A golden-looking bust of the pompous prick—he's in no way self-absorbed, obviously. The globe on his half-donut desk at least makes sense. Though, frankly, the man's script is abhorrent. That looks like 'boonbatusk'—if I didn't already know its name, I'd sound like an utter buffoon speaking of 'boonbatusks'.
Professor Port starts his lecture the most awkward way he possibly can. "Huntsmen. Huntresses." He makes a clicking sound and waggles his eyebrow suggestively—making a 'so not flirting' face to Xiao Long. You see, this is why Beacon doesn't want its students armed during class. I'd shoot his ass if he dares flirt with me. Hmm. Maybe I should get my hands on another pistol that I can keep on me at all times? Or maybe I can just make one. One that doubles as a dagger? Yeah, that way I can stab and shoot the pig if he flirts with me. So doing that.
He starts yammering on and on about this and that. Until at last he comes up to the actual informative part. Triple bareback knot –odd name, will have to look that up—pit trap filled with grimm to lure the larger ones. Beowolf only travels on all fours during high-speed travel, so they're technically shorter than they'd otherwise appear and this affects their tracks. If their hind footprints are deeper, they're either in battle or were threatening battle. Useful information buried under a veneer of bullshit.
Hmm. I've only seen a few packs of ursai, but they always seem to be in packs. His story tells of a single beowolf. Are they lone hunters?
I scribble notes. Especially of how he enjoys studying grimm in captivity, how they act totally different, at least in his mind. Hmm. And what's with the blunderbuss? That's not exactly an efficient rifle, let along the dual axe heads on the butt. Isn't that uncomfortable to fire? Probably emphasises his life hack—follow the rule of cool, but be otherwise worthless.
Hmm. Grimm corpses don't linger, but the living tend to attract more grimm; best to destroy quickly then. Interesting. Does size affect the attraction of grimm? The more bones visible, the more likely they'll attract other grimm? Maybe that's why beowolves are solitary while ursai are usually in packs. And nevermores…they're huge but I've never heard of them ganging up. Hmm, worth monitoring.
"The moral of the story?" Port says. There's a moral? Dude, you were literally telling us tactics on how to trap the shits. "A true huntsman must be honourable." No, we need to get paid. "A true huntsman must be dependable." Thereby getting paid regularly. "A true huntsman must be strategic, well-educated, and wise." All relating more kills and more Lien, so that makes sense.
"So." Port looks around, as if weighing us. "Who among you believes themselves to be the embodiment of these traits?"
"I do, sir!" Schnee says, raising her hand. Oh, boy. Dunno what crawled up her ass and died, but she radiates irritation.
"Well, then," Port says, "let's find out!" Are you kidding me? Rewarding that kind of shit is exactly the problem. "By the way. If any team leaders desire individual hunts, into the Emerald Forest, say. Please do not hesitate to fill in a request form. I do enjoy a good hunt. But be warned. I will refuse any team I feel cannot handle such a jaunt."
I prop my elbow up onto the desk Team WITE shares, plopping my chin onto my palm. Professor Port gives us all a verbal warning that we might well be asked to demonstrate how to fight grimm during his classes, and explains that the syllabus details the assigned readings for each class—and points out that uniforms are required to enter his class, while glaring at some dumb fuck in his street clothes.
"Ah," Port says. "Ms Schnee." The heiress stands at the ready, back in her bone white battle dress—a fucking skirt, why am I not surprised? With fucking heels?! Who in their right mind thinks fighting is heels make sense? Running in heels is a good way to twist your ankle, fighting in them is signing your death certificate, wedge heels or no. Hmm. She seems to have a rapier of some sort. With a revolver-styled hilt with slits that glow of dust. Schnee Dust Company, of course she uses her own products.
Professor Port takes his blunder-axe and hacks the lock open. Boarbatusk. Unarmoured belly, heavily armoured head and back—seems to be a theme with these things. Large tusks, hoop-like almost. Hmm, charges dead ahead, right for her, and drops its head as if to align its spine for impact. That's interesting. Has a steady dead-sprint pace, likely can't steer well once it starts charging.
The boarbatusk rams into the wall, but doesn't seem fazed by it. It turns on a dime, if while not trotting ahead. Definitely can't control its direction well. Would hacking off its legs make sense?
"What chu think, bra," Wenge murmurs, nudging me with his elbow.
"Seems suited to ramming," I says, keeping my voice down to not bother the others. "Blunt force to the skull would need more oomph than you're used to. Belly seems like the best place, least armoured. Maybe a side-step and ramming your club in its side?"
He makes a thinking-frown, shelving the thought for when he can test it, and says, "Tag?"
"If you were to," I say, scratching my cheek, "trip it up or knock it over, I could either shoot or gut while stunned. If it's mid-stride, I'd make a poor point-girl, but good bait. Maybe a bait-n-switch?"
"You solo?" he asks.
"Hmm." How would I take it down? "If I see it coming, rifle-Sun might make short work of it. If it's already too close?" How would I handle it solo? Phase through it, so I don't get hit. But even if it rams something sturdy it could shake it off. "Hacking off the legs to give me room to work? Maybe I could wrap snake-Sun around its neck and use a nearby branch for leverage and shoot it?"
"Sweet," Neon murmurs. "If you hang it up, I could carve it up." I glare at him, warning him to back off. This is Wenge-Ivory plotting, not Team WITE.
"Ive." Wenge glares at me, leaning forward to blot out Neon's annoyed cocked eyebrow. I roll my eyes and get back to watching Schnee making an ass of herself by berating her team leader. Funny. Xiao Long says something, no response. Belladonna says something, no response. Rose says something tactically robust, and gets chewed out for it. I wonder who she has an issue with…?
"You're setting just as bad an example," Tiff murmurs, glaring at me. Ohs noes. The team's frigid bitch is living up to her reputation. What ever will we do?
Schnee rockets to the upturned boarbatusk and skewers it, right in the underbelly like Rose suggested. Hmm. Is that how people experience me? Must be frustrating.
Professor Port reminds us about the assigned reading, and dismisses us. "Team White meeting. Let's go." I roll my eyes, already knowing what Wenge is planning.
8-8
"He's not just your dormmate," Wenge says. "He's your teammate. For the next four years." I nod, sipping my tea like nothing's the matter. The mess hall is, as usual, teeming with life. The picnic-styled tables are lined up in two columns and filled with jittery shits—and all the two-bit asshats I wouldn't piss on if they were on fire. "Ive. Seriously. I'm not asking you to be nice to everyone. Just tolerable, and to a teammate. Is that too much to ask?"
Legs cross at the ankles, tucked to my right to drop my knees. Head tilts towards Tiff, who rolls her eyes. I don't bother much with Xiao Long or Ao, who were Tiff's and my dormmates in Signal. Both Wenge and Tiff know this.
Neon looks from Tiff to Wenge, and back to me, blinking rapidly.
"If you seek my word I won't be an utter shrew to him," I intone. "Fine." Teacup upends and the last of the still warm liquid drains into me. "Rest assured, Mr Neon. I don't hate you more than anyone else." Clicking cup onto saucer, Wenge's I-have-an-idea face comes into focus.
"We need to run team drills," Wenge says. Ah fuck. "Remember how Port offered…?"
"My point exactly." I glare, annoyed at the bullshit I know is coming.
"Aw, don't be like that. Ma wouldn't let me in the house without you."
8-8
End Chapter Two
8-8
A/N: Does anyone wonder why Ivory has the semblance she has? Hmm. I wonder; what could it possibly mean for her?