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 Four—The gift of flowers

8-8


"Sorry," Neon says, for the umpteenth time today. And we're just sitting down to breakfast. He still looks green, like he wants to puke up his guts. Hangovers must suck. Majorly. "Seriously. I." He makes a retching sound, looking even more tempted to puke than before, but forcefully swallows it down, just like the last dozen times.

"You do realise that your body is trying to upchuck the poisonous dosage?" I ask. Neon holds up a finger and calmly stumbles out of the room. Chuckling follows him out. "I gotta hand it to him. Can't hold his liquor, but fuck did he hold his own."

"Fight?" Nikos asks, eyes narrowed. I'm not sure why she and JNPR are here—well, it is breakfast, so it makes sense we're all in the mess hall. But why are they…here-here? Like, sitting beside me kind of here.

"Yeah, Ivory." Tiff gets on my case. Again. "Why don't you tell everyone the tale of how you encouraged your teammate to punch someone when he was too intoxicated to know it was a bad idea?" Wenge is too busy chuckling and scratching his jawline to do much of anything, so she should know I give no fucks.

"You got in a bar fight?" Arc asks, practically jumping over his breakfast to get closer to me. I shove his stupid face back into his seat—with a swift jab—with the sole of my boot. So, not a kick. And if my footprint marked bright red on his face is an issue, he shouldn't get so fucking close to me.

"No," I say, glaring at Arc to warn him I don't want him that close to me again. When I'm satisfied he'll behave, my leg phase down through the table, and I cross my legs at the ankles. "We didn't get into a bar fight. Some jackass was flirting with our waitress long after she made it clear she wasn't interested, and I happened to suggest that he has a penchant for sucking equestrian phalluses in his spare time. He took exception to that." Violently so. But I got our waitress's number, so I'm good.

"Ugh. Leave it to a DeWitt to be so—"

"Schnee," I warn her I'm not in the mood. I don't even need to hear what it is. She could round off by saying 'saintly', 'elegant', or even 'making-my-panties-wet gorgeous' and she'd still piss me off.

"Arrogant. Egotistical. And pedestrian." She glares at me—or is that a sneer?

"Ive." Wenge grabs my shoulder, knowing I'm more than ready to bitch-slap the little shit. "Let me handle this?"

"There's nothing to handle." I cut my pancake into little pieces and slather it in apple syrup. Neon's plate sits there, opposite me. He won't have the patience to do much of anything other than shove the food in his face, so I take his plate and cut his pancakes with his fork and knife—I dunno if he likes syrup, after all.

"Schnee, don't pick fights you can't win," Wenge says, understanding perfectly what the situation is. "And no, Jaune, it wasn't a bar fight. It was in a café. And the man was being utterly disrespectful." Not to mention the anti-Faunus bullshit. "On top of that, the manager was so apologetic to us, we dined all night on the house." Hence why Neon is hung-over. You just can't offer people like us anything free and not expect us to go to town on it.

Speaking of. Neon staggers back our way and collapses into his seat. I prick a few piece of his pancake onto his fork, lay said utensil on its side, and slide the plate over to him, pouring him some more tea, just in case.

"Sip," I say, offering him the weakly steeped flowery bullshit Tiff picked out, "and be careful. It's hot." Neon grumbles his thanks, and blows into his mug. Well, he isn't sending a spray of piping hot liquid everywhere.

"Careful, Ivory, or people will start thinking you have a heart." Tiff cocks an eyebrow, clearly suggesting I'm being nice to our teammate, or worse.

Soft, open-mouthed chewing draws the table's attention back to Neon. The playfulness in his eyes hints he's doing it on purpose—the disgust in Schnee's eyes announces who the intended audience is.

"Syrup?" I ask, offering to pour it for him.

He grumbles something with his mouth more than a little full, and a speck happens to catch the ice princess right on the forehead. He can't hit the broadside of a barn shooting, so I know that's purely coincidence. Funny as all hells, though.

Schnee's usually pale face is bright red, looking about ready to erupt. She looks...perturbed? I'd offer to cool her off with an ice blast, but I'm half certain Wenge will get on my case for it. Not that it'd improve her mood any—at least, not any more than Xiao Long and Belladonna struggling to not snicker.

Rose, on the other hand. She almost doubles over cackling her uniform-clad ass off. Hmm. Maybe that's why Schnee doesn't get along with her? Not my problem.

"Was that a yes?" I hold out the bottle of syrup.

8-8


Prime the engine; I click up the four engine primers, letting the system boot the proper sequence. A soft hum starts up as the aircraft vibrates, sending a tingling through me. I don't know why no one takes this course—it's addicting. If Peach keeps that…thing…in check, that is.

With a final switch clicked up, the windshield armour slides up, revealing a poor rendition of Beacon in all her glory—she looks like some brat was playing with lego and tried to make a tower. I strap in, ready for take-off.

"Did you contact the tower?" Professor Peach asks. I roll my eyes, knowing full well that's bullshit—the co-pilot's job, if ever there was one. Or anyone's job other than me, because I will slit that oversized sperm's throat and shit on the wound.

My headset claps down, the chatter of the other students already half-assing their way through protocol.

"Northern Storm to Beacon Tower. Engine is primed and purring, requesting clearance for flight plan golf six romeo two four, over."

"Beacon Tower to Northern Storm. I've received no such flight plan, over." Winchester. Of fucking course that Grade A jackass is the one to pull that stunt.

"Northern Storm to Beacon Tower. I sent it twenty minutes ago, and got the confirmation of arrival. Over." I glare over my shoulder at Professor Peach, warning her that I will kick that fuckwit's ass from here to Mantle if he keeps this up.

"Beacon Tower to Northern Storm. I've received no such flight plan, over."

"You're an incompetent fuckwit, Beacon Tower. Readying for take-off according to protocol zulu romeo six subsection four dash niner. Thanks for proving why I need to learn this shit, asshole. Northern Storm, over and out." I clap up my headset, and go back to ignoring the pointless chatter—though it sounds like everyone's laughing, for some odd reason. I can't even tell if that's through the headset or the paper-thin aluminium 'walls' of the flight simulator.

I slide the throttle forward, hearing the engine rev up. My steering wheel pulls back and the screen shows a choppy and blocky rendering of a clearly underwhelming take-off. I slowly spin the wheel to the right, seeing Vale load one lego-building at a time, so I slide the wing-actuator up into a forty-five degree angle, letting my 'air bus' build up forward momentum and altitude in one go.

It's a slow, meandering flight. Making sure I stick to the altitude and heading I planned out at all times is a bit tedious, but better than dying—if this were an actual flight.

Once I'm above the clouds, I rev up the engines to max and cross my legs at the knees. Every other minute or so, I check my gauges and GPS position to ensure I'm both on schedule and where I should be.

My engines cut out, all four of them. System shows nothing's wrong. Sabotage. I'm definitely kicking Winchester's ass again.

I click all four primers down and click them right back up. Altitude shows I'm going down, fast; faster than my screen agrees with. Faulty systems. Not a common thing, but fine. I prime the engines and start them right back up, take out my scroll and open my flight-assistant app. Of course, it shows I'm still very much in Beacon—logically, I'd be worried if it didn't. But the point is that I show Professor Peach I'm not playing. This isn't a game; this is an easy fall-back to getting a regular pay check.

Pitch and yew monitors are fucked, so I eyeball it best I can. As long as I stay above the cloud-line, I am unlikely to crash.

The symbol in the top right corner of my screen shows the speed is no longer 1:1.

"Professor. I'm going to fuck that asshole up." With a fire-dust-infused foot-long dildo, and no lube.

"How so?" she asks, her tone even. She must be used to me, because no one else tolerates my tongue.

"Fucking with my systems is good practice. Fucking with protocol is good practice. Fucking with time speed to skew my calculations is not good practice. All that does is show how little he cares about this simulation." At least there aren't any grimm in my fucking cargo bay this time. Or leviathans to contend with. Sigh—little miracles. I'm grateful for the sunshine, and all the flowers growing where I'll bury Winchester.

She says nothing. I roll my eyes, dividing the time needed by the speed of the 'time' in this stupid simulation Winchester is clearly fucking with. A-fucking-gain.

At the twenty minute mark, by my estimation, I should be entering Mistral airspace. I clap my headset down again. "Haven Tower this is the Northern Storm. I have faulty systems and do not trust any and all readings given. Requesting assisted landing and someone other than that dropped on his head as a baby Winchester to walk me in. Over."

"Affirmative, Northern Storm." Neon's voice rings through my headset. Thank the gods. Time slips back down into 1:1, but the systems are all still giving me these shit readings—placing me back in Beacon at three-hundred metres below sea level. "I got you. On my mark, begin descent at two metres per second holding current forward speed. Over."

"Beginning descent at two metres per second and holding current forward speed on your mark. Over." It's a long, quiet moment. Just me and the humming of the faux-engines.

"Mark." I dip the nose. "That's it's. What's your current throttle?"

"Eighty percent forward, four engines purring."

"Ease back to sixty percent forward and turn to your ten o'clock, over."

"Easing back to sixty percent forward and turning to my ten." I ease the throttle back and turn until that funny little black spot in my screen is dead ahead. "Over."

"You're doing good. Hold current speed and descent. You'll come out of the clouds in just under a minute. You should see the city all lit up. Mind the southern wind, but I'm taking that into my calculations. Over."

"Roger."

"Northern Storm. I've got plans for a night on the town. I'm dragging you with me when this is over, over."

"Get me on the ground safe and drinks are on me, over." Laughter, amused and airy. Neon sounds like he's enjoying this. The sight of a city finally loads. Buildings scattered throughout the gully, with three large hills acting as a natural barrier around the place. It looks idyllic, especially with the last rays of sunlight painting a gothic picture for me. "Tower, we've got a problem. I don't see your red light district anywhere, over."

All I get is laughter, mixed with some words I can't quite make out.

"Mistral doesn't advertise it, Northern Storm. You should see the runway at your eleven-thirty, over. Near the top of the hill."

"Negative, Tower. All I see is random lights. Holding on current descent and speed, over." The stupid slow ass backwater simulator finally loads the fucking runways lights. "Correction, Tower. I have your india niner four at my eleven-thirty, over."

"Perfect. You are flying a papa four six airbus, please confirm for landing protocol, over."

"Papa four six airbus, two seven one eight model, affirmative. If this wasn't an ass-backwards simulation my scroll could have helped quite a bit. Over." I should be coming in from the north-east, so the southern wind is going to nudge me to the left. I offer a slight right-wards course correction to counter the wind.

"Northern Storm, ease throttle back to forty percent, over."

"Easing back to forty percent throttle, over." I pull back the throttle again. The runway lights are practically under me, but I need to trust Neon for this.

"Angle wings to eight five degrees, over." Ah, he's bringing me in for a slow vertical descent. That makes sense.

"Angling wings to eight five degrees." I pull back the wing actuator, holding my wheel with one hand, knowing I'm going to need that sucker more than anything. With the engines at forty percent, I should be dropping at just under two metres per second now. Not the most graceful landing, but well within safety protocols for this model. "Over."

I keep an eye on the lights, correcting the wings and steering to make sure they stay as stable as possible. The space between the lights steadily grows. I should be at a hundred and fifty metres, give or take.

"Altitude one two five metres. Descent two point zero metres per second. Hold current trajectory. Be ready to increase forward throttle to fifty percent on my mark, over."

"Holding current trajectory." I grab my steering wheel between my thighs to keep her steady and correct as needed, using my now freed hand to grab the throttle. "Ready to increase forward throttle to fifty percent on your mark, over."

My legs twist and turn the wheel, keeping the rising lights as steady as possible, my left hand easing the wing-angle back and forth to use my every system to my advantage.

"Mark." I slide the throttle up to half-power. Not a second later, my screen shakes and my seat trembles with it. "Cut engines. Drinks are on you, Ive."

I ease the throttle back to zero and flap my wings down all the way. Engines cut out and I click down the primers. "Fuck yeah it is. Not bad, Neon. Not bad at all."

8-8


"I need two volunteers," Goodwitch says, looking around with her usual dispassion. The amphitheatre, per the norm, is full of first-years, and everyone is eagerly hoping they won't be picked. This is just the place and time to show off, and that means being singled out—or worse, being pitted against someone better than you and embarrassing yourself. "Anyone?"

"I will." Winchester struts up onto the little dais, his oversized dildo propped up onto his shoulder, needing only some lube to get himself ready to be fucked.

"And his opponent?" Goodwitch looks around, but no one seems interested. Fighting the school bully is something everyone should be falling over themselves to face. And yet, no one seems willing—maybe it's his tactics? "Come now, students. You have a field trip tomorrow. If I cannot trust you in combat, you will not be going, by definition."

A solid minute goes by, not a word spoken, and no volunteer steps up.

"Very well. Ms DeWitt." Of fucking course. "Consider yourself today's involuntary volunteer."

I look to Wenge; he wordlessly begs me to be nice. "Drinks are on me. We'll even go to Twinkles." Well, that waitress has been asking why she hasn't seen us lately. Why can I never remember her name?

Sigh. Fuck it. Fine.

I trudge over to the stairs, and lumber up them. Scroll slips up out of my pocket and opens, loading my aura monitoring app. Hoodie pulls up over my buzz cut, and blots my vision. My physical vision, at least.

"Ms DeWitt," Goodwitch sounds as exasperated as I feel, "I will start this match whether you're paying attention or not."

"Hey, Neon," I intone and turn my nose in my team's direction. "Gum me?" A little silver wrapper flies my way, even though I shouldn't technically be able to see it. I catch it between my fingers, hold my hand up, and phase the wrapper off the watermelon flavoured rubber so it falls into my mouth. The wrapper itself crumbles and gets stuffed in my pocket for later.

I should do something nice for Neon. He's an asshole, to be sure, but an asshole I can depend on.

An annoyed sigh. Goodwitch seems more than a little irritated with me, again. "Begin!"

Winchester practically flies at me, mace swinging up for an uppercut. I jump and spin, lashing a roundhouse kick right against his chin and spinning him like a top, sending him tumbling away from me. And just to make sure he understands his place in the world, I close the aura monitoring app, and switch to a game of Sudoku.

Let's see. Three, six, two. The first block has only the top three filled in, so it's impossible to guess the other slots. But, that does mean the first line should have some clues for the other blocks…

A jab, right for the sternum. Hmm. Maybe Winchester is more skilled that his poor attitude lets on. A shame I let him phase right through me, and kick his ankle just as he's about to put his weight on it. He goes tumbling again, not making so much as a grunt of complaint or pain.

The scene around me flickers monochrome green, everything rendered in an utterly uninspired wire-mesh style that barely gives me any information at all. Still, it's enough to sense where all the moving parts are—maybe I should switch out the…

My opponent rockets towards me, faster this time and making an exaggerated grunt of exertion along with a baseball bat swing, so I kick him right in the throat and send him right back into his little corner he just crawled out of, just as fast.

I press the cell and input a five as the whole class starts murmuring about something. Don't much care what. Hmm. I haven't blown a bubble since my piercing—does the tongue piercing make it impossible? It shouldn't.

8-8


What in the flying fuck did I do this time?

Stepping into the lift, finger presses the button for Ozpin's office, and the door slides closed. The 'room' shivers as the sinking feeling in my gut tells me I'm on my way up. Soft eggshell white metal laid bare, with a soft violet carpet underfoot. Not sure why everyone so loves these odd colours everywhere, but it's better than the unending snow, or the grimm we've been dealing with. Smells better than grimm, too.

Door slides open, revealing Ozpin in his weird chair, fingering his strangely shaped dark glasses up onto his nose-perch. "Thank you for coming, Ms DeWitt. Please." He motions to the empty seat opposite him. The room is spacious—the penthouse office usually is, but this place is fit for royalty. Pillars hold up the lofty ceiling, the desk looks like it's part of the clock looming behind him as it tick-tick-ticks into infinity.

Jackboots clap on the marble-like floor as I march over to him and plop into my seat. There's no one here—none but us, that is. And I'm, unfortunately, unarmed. If this one turns out to be some perverted old man looking for cheap thrills, I'll rip his throat out. Or maybe test how effective my hard-light crystal's attack is on human flesh.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you here. Especially on a Saturday afternoon." Ozpin peers over his shades, his dispassionate gaze piercing right through me. Silver hair with ebon highlights seems to dance from his every little motion.

I cross my legs at the knees and sandwich my hands between my thighs. "Professor Peach complaining about my foul mouth, Professor Goodwitch complaining about me manhandling Winchester again, Professor Oobleck complaining about calling him out on the incorrect assertion that Mantle was built on the slave trade. Winchester complaining about my continually besting him in combat training, Schnee complaining that I don't grovel at her feet, the usual random plebe making up stories I can easily disprove."

"None of the above." He cocks an eyebrow ever so slightly and takes a long pull at his coffee. Mug clanks onto the glass desktop; he props his elbows up and folds his hands. "I have three riddles."

He's the headmaster. Cooperating now is for the Lien of tomorrow. "Alright."

"You're in a sealed room with six people. A Menagerie Faunus, an Atlesian general, a Vale baker, a Vacuo peddler, a Mistral debutant, and yourself. You were pickpocketed. Who did it?"

"Not enough information," I say. Fucking no-brainer, but his blank look tells me he needs more than that. I shrug, unsure what else there is to say.

"Second riddle. You're in a room with four doors. One is locked, the second is unlocked, the third is open. The final is the door you entered and has armed guards on the other side. You're unarmed and need to escape. What's your plan?"

"What're the parameters of me being there?"

He cocks an eyebrow and drags his mug in front of him, raising it to his lips and taking another long pull. His green eyes never waver from me. "Third riddle." That wasn't my answer, asshole. "A known philanthropist offers you more Lien than you could spend in your lifetime, in exchange for one job. No details are offered, no questions will be entertained. Do you take the job, and why?"

"No. Any offer that sounds too good to be true, is."

Ozpin rights his wire-framed shades and slurps from his mug. This man is way too fucking good at making no sense. "Interesting."

For the Lien of tomorrow, for the Lien of tomorrow, for the Lien of tomorrow.

"Violet informs me you're her best pilot."

Eyes narrow, head jerks back. Professor Peach? What does me being a quick learner have to do with…? Huntsmen academy, headmaster is interested in me being a good pilot, asking questions to gauge my personality. This asshole has me on his radar for some serious bullshit. No doubt in my mind. "Professor?"

"Yes, Ms DeWitt?"

"Have you ever heard of a Mantle Breakfast?" I ask, meeting his unblinking gaze.

"Is that where you eat what you've killed the night before?" He seems, if anything, amused with me. The lift pings, doors open. The clicking of heels on the floor; I know that staccato.

"This," I glance over my shoulder, finding Goodwitch's familiar form sauntering over, "is where you start explaining. Correct?"

"Ms DeWitt," Ozpin clanks his mug on his desk again, somehow the sound grates on me this time, "if I didn't summon you. Who do you think I would have summoned in your stead?"

Huntsmen Academy. He would've selected the absolute best. Nikos is the only one I can imagine he'd send for instead of me. It's the why he isn't telling me. And yet, Goodwitch sits on the edge of Ozpin's desk, facing me, peering over her glasses at me in much the same way as the man himself.

"Your face is always kept blank, Ms DeWitt," Ozpin says, smiling, "but your eyes tell the most epic of tales as to where you are mentally. You know it's Ms Nikos I would have summoned. You know you're not in trouble, but that this meeting represents trouble. And, you've already weighed risk versus reward and haven't left. Am I right?"

I glare at Ozpin. He chuckles, somehow finding humour where there ought be none.

"Tell me, Ivory." Ozpin pours himself more coffee, the fancy pot almost reminding me of those old tales grandma used to tell me—of the good ol' days, of better times. "How does choosing between wearing shoes and eating relate to me?"

My eyebrow cocks, the corners of my mouth curl down.

"That is what Mantle Breakfast really means," he continues, "is it not? Eating one's shoes, choosing between one necessity and another?"

The hard-light crystal rubs against the roof of my mouth, soothing my irritation best I can. "Why did you summon me, professor?"

"What's your favourite fairy tale?" Ozpin asks, as if it's the most natural question in the world. My eyes narrow. "Fairy tale? Surely you remember one from your childhood."

"The longest night," I say. How will you handle that, oh uninspired one?

"Curious, that you should mention that one." I jerk back, but Ozpin only looks more amused. "Hailing from Mantle, I sure you have your own variant. Would you regale us?"

I shake my head, trying to figure out what reality I woke up in this morning. A tale of cannibalism, raping grimm, and a perverse race we call the Atlesian. Not something told in polite company. "I am entirely too sober." Ozpin and Goodwitch share a look, but not one I can decode. I stand. "Will that be all, Professor?"

"What if I told you." Ozpin can't read social cues to save his life. I cross my arms, shifting my weight to one leg. "That story is entirely true?"

"The Kingdom of Atlas is only—"

"Sixty years old," he cuts me off, "but that story has been around, in one form or another, for the better part of two thousand years. Is that right, Ms DeWitt?"

My jaw squares, fists ball.

"The events of that story took place long ago, as you well know. In fact, I'd bet you know more about it than any, considering your lineage?" Nobility means fuck-all in the slums; it neither puts food on the table nor lines people's wallets. "Would you believe me if I told you I was there?" He says that with a straight face? Oh, come the fuck off it.

Another I-was-your-ancestor-in-another-life claimant. Wow, never dealt with one of those before. Now I know I'm entirely too sober. "There are no riches to inherit. No lands to lay claim to. I am noble in name only, and in Atlas that's not worth the paper it's written on."

Ozpin smiles and pulls out a mug from nowhere and pours it half-full from that fanciful china teapot. "Coffee?"

I don't ask; I leave.

8-8


"Ms DeWitt." Professor Goodwitch puts her hand on her hip and shifts her weight to the same leg. I phase Moon and Sun through my locker, hanging them in the little hooks by feel alone. "A word, if I may?"

"Cunnilingus," I intone. Wenge snickers, elbowing me for some reason. I roll my eyes as I phase my uniform out of my locker, and turn my full attention to the blonde. "Yes, professor?"

Soft green eyes flicker right to left, over and over, as if searching for something in my gaze. "Where did you learn to fly?"

"Here at Beacon." I thought it was obvious. In my first lesson, I crashed seconds after take-off—no doubt thanks to that incessant ass. Peach surely would have reviewed that shit-show.

Her eyes narrow, lips curl downwards. She thinks I'm lying. Of course. What's the excuse this time? That it should take X hours to get that good, and my logged time is Y fraction thereof? That a Mantle guttersnipe could never amount to anything? That the fortunes I never had must have paid for lessons I didn't take elsewhere?

I shake my head and walk off. People like that seriously piss me off.

8-8


The Forever Fall Forest. Most of our year is here, meandering along behind Goodwitch. Not really sure what this whole 'sap collecting thing' is about, but it seems to have gone so poorly that Winchester had a run-in with an ursai—a single fucking ursai. And for some reason Arc's cheek is bruised.

Fucking idiots.

We walk along, the sun low on the horizon. It's Friday, so we'll probably do a Vale trip tonight. Get some booze in my system, maybe get a clit on my tongue. That'd be nice. And hopefully that waitress really is into girls—definitely plan on finding out.

"What'd you sign up for?" I ask Wenge as we enter the school.

"Huh?" A bushy eyebrow cocks, but we don't break stride as we make our way

"Well. You picked flying for me. What'd you pick?"

"I picked…? Ive. When have I ever picked your electives?" I roll my eyes; certainly don't remember picking it myself. "Anyway. Didn't pick any. Figure I need to focus on coming up with strategies for us during team training."

"Tch." Tiff shakes her head, disgusted. Oh boy. That means she picked flying for me and likely Neon as well. Not that she could ever admit openly that's what happened—hacking is, strictly speaking, highly illegal.

"Lemme guess," Neon smirks at the team's…mascot, "you picked cheerleading." I snort, not disagreeing with him. Tiff's great in a fight, as long as she doesn't get in over her head; and her fucking modus operandi is just that—fuck shit up and the team'll bail her the fuck out.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tiff sneers, ready to grow horns and forked tail.

Sigh. Whatever. "I say we hit Twinkles tonight," I suggest. "Get shitfaced. Get laid. And take tomorrow easy. Get back to training day after."

"Ivory." A familiar blonde saunters my way. Her hands, and no doubt that riding prong of hers, are held behind her back, with me in her crosshairs. Professor Goodwitch looks pissed, for some reason. And I certainly did nothing to earn that. "My office. Right now."

Sigh. Always more bullshit in my life.

8-8

End Chapter Four

8-8


A/N: Thank you for your patience, guys. I'm not very far with it, so it's been slow going.

At any rate. Lemme know what you think ^_^