Okay, people, a few things. I know I missed my deadline, by the better half of a week. If you keep up with Puppeteer of the Realms, you'll see that he posted a short note explaining what happened. For those of you that don't: My computer crapped up on me for a few days and I had to fix it. After that, it was getting this beast of a chapter done all while working around work, my masochistic need of Dark Souls 2, and trying to finally start working out again.
Shitty excuses, I know, but that's what happened. Any-who-ha, I hope you all can forgive me with the sheer size of this baby. This is by far the largest chapter I've ever written for any of my projects.
With that said, let's get on to the show. And I hope you enjoy!
January 2nd, 07:15AM, 451 A.G.
"Excuse me, Headmaster Ozpin?" Leon asked in disbelief as he and Kazue caught their breath. Abel and Alastair had been left behind as Leon's long legs and Kazue's nimble heritage carried them both far ahead of the two remaining members of BLWK. Kazue leaned against the wall quietly, her sniper rifle left behind in exchange for her close quarters weapons, tucked neatly away under her jacket.
"I said, you must devise a trial for your charges," Ozpin repeated himself calmly, sipping from his ever present coffee mug to hide a grin at the look on Leon's face. "You will need to understand their abilities, Team REPR especially so, and so you must orchestrate a test for them."
"Hmmm," Leon sighed into his hand, as the sound of hurried footsteps echoed closer down the hall. "I suppose I'll just have them bag the biggest, meanest beast they can," he shrugged.
"Really, Leon? 'Kill the biggest monster you can'?" Kazue said, as she stood straight as her improved hearing caught Alastair and Abel only a little ways down the hallways, just before they rounded the corner.
"That will do," Ozpin said with a rueful smile, moving towards the door. "Enter at your own leisure, though time is of the essence."
"Yes, sir," Leon inclined his head in salute. The titanic warrior noticed his comrades had finally caught up, both slightly winded as they had been forced to sprint to catch up to Leon and Kazue.
"Let's get this over with," Kazue sighed, strolling towards the door and shoving both doors open. Kazue wasn't exactly fond of meeting new people, especially not in spades. As a result the doors practically exploded in, shocking the occupants of the room out of their conversations…
Team BLWK had gone straight to the Emerald Forest launch area as soon as they had left the main training hall. In lieu of Leon's sudden exam idea of 'Kill the biggest baddie', the team of second years was now required to stir up the local Grimm in the forest below. Alastair had been charged with clearing out some of the weaker Grimm to keep this exercise from taking all day.
"You just had to pick a bag-and-tag," Alastair sighed into his comm-link ear-piece as he walked beneath the canopy of the Emerald Forest. Small birds chirped above him, and the sounds of insects moving about the foliage chittered through the air. Alastair's left hand rested casually on the scabbard of his sword, just under the cross-guard as he walked.
"Oh, stop whining. You and I both know you won't pass up the chance to use Tempest a bit," Leon's voice came through his comm-line. A mile behind Alastair, up on the edge of the cliff lined with launch pads, Leon sat on a large stone with a specialty black Scroll in his left hand, a thermos lid full of warm coffee in his right.
Leon could clearly see most of the forest with the aid of the swarms of watcher drones that Beacon kept for these situations. The small hovering robots could move undetected about the forest, tracking people to ensure their safety and monitor their progress. Leon had one of these drones following Alastair now, watching as the gray-clad swordsman strode confidently through the green forest.
"This is Kazue, I'm in position," came a quick line over the comm. Kazue had been sent to find a nice, high place that she could snipe from to provide support. Swiping away the window that showed Alastair's path through the woods, Leon opened an above-view map to see Kazue's exact location.
"Abel?" Alastair's voice rang across the comm as Leon saw that Kazue was about two miles out and up on a small plateau. Leave it to her to cover that much ground and find the perfect spot to plink at things for miles, Leon thought to himself with a smirk.
"Abel's here with me, doing his spirit walker thing," Leon joked. Looking to his left, Abel was sprawled out under a tree with his feet kicked up and his hands behind his head. If one glanced at him, it would appear as if he was napping. However, if you let your gaze sweep over him properly, you would see the fine, pale outline of his Aura and notice the near death-like stillness of his chest.
"Copy that," Alastair nodded to himself, a habit he had never shaken when using the comm-lines. He had made it another quarter mile further into the forest during their small conversation and check. Thus, it came as little surprise to the young Hunter as the sounds of wildlife in the area gradually faded until there was nothing but silence around him.
No birds chirped in the trees. No insects chittered along the ground. Even the wind seemed to fear making a sound, the breeze that just moments ago stirred the leaves having gone dead still. Here they come, Alastair thought to himself as he flicked his left thumb, loosening the catch on his sword scabbard and showing a single inch of bright steel.
As if to answer his thoughts, four Beowolves sprung from around him. Thick saliva ran from their jaws as they flew towards him. Eyes, red as coals burned in the fires of Hell, locked upon Alastair as the young man's feet spread out second-naturedly into a combat stance. Black fur was suddenly met with pale steel as Alastair's blade bit into the Beowolf in front of him, electrical energy arcing along the blade and letting the high-quality steel slice through cursed flesh like a hot knife through butter.
One down…, came the thought from somewhere deep in Alastair's mind. He did not know true thought at the moment, only instinct, as his body moved through motions so practiced and honed that he could have performed them blind. The Beowolf in front of him dropped dead, throat cut clean through as Alastair pivoted on his rear left foot and dropped his blade straight down. Again, electrified steel carved through the Grimm before it, cleaving the unsuspecting beast's skull in half right down the middle.
Alastair let his right foot slide out beneath him, spinning onto his back and kicking the next Beowolf in the chest and launching it over him towards the trees. The beast landed on all fours as the fourth Beowolf pounced on Alastair. But instead of the sickening crunch of a throat being bitten out or the wet ripping sound of innards being spilled, a frantic yelp skipped out of the monster's throat.
The last living Beowolf cocked its head in wonder. Surely its comrade could defeat the tiny, squishy human. But even as the last monster pondered this its former comrade's body shifted and the human rolled out from under it. The human's left hand was clutching its former comrade's throat tightly, small sparks of blue energy arcing along his fingers and into the downed Beowolf's body until the hellish light faded from its eyes.
"Alright, c'mon, you ugly son of a bitch," Alastair taunted the last Beowolf as he rolled to his feet. He held his sword in a comfortable grip in his right hand, arcs of electricity pulsing across the fingers of his left hand as he waited for the Grimm to attack.
Like most Beowolves, this one was not the sharpest knife in the block. The beast charged straight at Alastair, guttural roar emanating from its throat as its jaws spread wide to take in the throat of its victim. Alastair was no victim, however, side-stepping to the right and avoiding the Beowolf easily. His left hand flickered out, and a single thin bolt of lightning shot from his palm and struck the Beowolf squarely in the chest.
The monster hit the ground with a loud thud, a single pathetic whimper rising up from its chest before the light of its eyes also faded.
"And then there were none," Alastair breathed out slowly, right arm twirling the blade of Tempest's Edge in a single counter-clockwise circle before jerking down sharply, casting the dark, ichor-like blood of the Grimm off of the blade and onto the ground. In practiced form, Alastair sheathed his sword and let out a loud sigh.
It's almost easy now…. I can remember when this sword felt like the weight of the world on my hands…..
November 4th, 440 A.G.
Alastair Wintergale, eight years old, moved his feet quickly along the pale, sandy beach just beyond the backyard of the large mansion he called home. It was a cold day, warm for the later half of November, and the frosty winds coming off the ocean only added to Alastair's difficulty.
The young boy's left shoe caught in the sand as he stepped to the side to dodge another chunk of ice, just about the size of a ping-pong ball, that would have struck him in the center of the chest if not for his movement. He hadn't expected his shoe to get caught, however, and ended up face down in the sand.
The blue eyed little boy groaned into the sand, as he pushed his hands into the pale grainy stuff. His black hair was a trim and proper cut, close cut to the curvature of his head while still keeping with the latest style seen in noble children at the time. He wore a light gray t-shirt, just slightly too big for him, and baggy gray pants that allowed for good leg movement. Despite his appropriate apparel for the colder climate and brisk breeze, this did not help him avoid the ground beneath his feet.
"You need to keep better eye on your surroundings," a strong voice chided, as a hand came down and grabbed Alastair by the scruff of his collar. The boy was heaved to his feet and the same hand ran along the edges of his face to inspect for injury.
"Yes, sir," Alastair, his voice tiny and apologetic, answered as he followed the large hand holding his chin up the connecting arm to his father's right shoulder. Alastair's father was an intimidating man, With his close-cut black hair, piercing hazel eyes, and strong features, Alastair's father Tristan looked every bit the descendant of a noble line of warriors that he was.
Tristan Wintergale was clad much the same as his son, though his shirt was more fitting and his left hand still maintained the frosty vapor that had surrounded it for the past half-hour. Alastair's eyes flicked down to his own left hand, the beginnings of a frown forming on his face before his father's grip tightened just enough to grab Alastair's attention.
"Listen, son," Tristan Wintergale spoke with a small undertone of impatience in his voice. "You must focus not only on your opponent, but also on the environment around you. Where is the footing bad? Are there environmental hazards like cliffs or lakes? Are there things nearby that you can use to your advantage? You must think of all of these things while fighting."
"But, Dad," the young heir of the Wintergale's whined, "It's hard to think about all that while trying to not get hit in the face." The young boy pouted as his father's same hand left his chin and patted him twice upon the top of the head before Tristan stood.
"That's why you have to train hard, Alastair. Fighting well rarely comes naturally, and even then those who it does must practice to hone their instincts," Tristan explained, hoping his young son understood. "Do you understand what I mean?"
"I think so," Alastair responded, right forefinger ideally scratching his chin as he stared at the ground. Tristan sighed audibly, shaking his head at his son. The head of the Wintergale Household and Chief Developer of Wintergale Technologies forced a smile onto his face, as he gazed down at his boy.
"Why don't we call it quits for today and you go see your mom, hmm?" he told young Alastair. "I'm going to have to go down to the office and take care of some things anyway."
"Okay!" Alastair beamed up at his father, giving him a tight hug around the waist before running towards the manor.
"And be sure to take a shower before you see her! She won't want you smelling like sweat and sea-water!" Tristan called after his son. "What will I do with that boy…" he sighed.
May 6th, 441 A.G.
"How was your training with your father this morning, Alastair?" Sandra Wintergale asked her son during their lunch. She was a beautiful woman with long chocolate brown hair that she kept in an elegantly styled ponytail, a flattering dark blue blouse and dark gray skirt complimenting her as she sat across from her son on the patio at the back of the mansion. Her forest green eyes sparkled as she looked over her boy.
"I think I made Dad angry," Alastair said quietly, his strictly taught manners set aside as he idly pushed his food around on his plate. "You remember how he unlocked my Aura ?"
Sandra frowned slightly, reaching her right hand out to stroke the back of Alastair's left, "Of course I do. You were so excited that it was the same color as your father's. Why, what's the matter?"
"Dad says my Sem-by-lants," Alastair began, struggling with the word.
"Semblance, sweetie," Sandra supplied with a smile, the look of focus on her son's face absolutely adorable.
"Yeah, Sem..bl...ance. Dad says my Semblance should have shown up by now," Alastair said, looking down at his plate again and absently scooping up a forkful of the gourmet macaroni and cheese on the plate and eating it. "He said that's what his ice powers are. Dad told me that all the great fighters and heroes in our family had an ice Semblance."
Sandra's frown returned at these words, but she forced it away to give an encouraging smile to her beloved boy, "Don't fret about it, Alastair. I'm sure your Semblance will show up soon. And when it does I'll make sure your father can see it."
"Okay, Mom," little Alastair smiled up at his mother, happy that she believed in him. With his spirits raised slightly, Alastair began to eat with more gusto. He almost began to shovel food into his mouth before he remembered his manners and took quick, measured bites. His father always said to present the image of nobility, even when eating.
Sandra smiled warmly at her son's actions. Little Alastair always tried so hard to be like his father that one couldn't find it anything other than cute. Though he was only nearing his tenth birthday, the little boy would try and dress in miniature or younger-designed versions of his father's clothes whenever they went out and would always look at Tristan for cues of what to do.
It was that very same sheer admiration that made it so hard for Sandra to watch her son walk in his father's footsteps. Despite how much Alastair tried, it seemed that Tristan was never satisfied. Alastair's manners could always be better, his fighting skills were too poor, even the boy's grades from his tutors never seemed to lighten the load that was Tristan Wintergale's expectations.
"Mom… Mommy!" Alastair's voice snapped his mother out of her musings.
"What is it, sweetie?" Sandra asked, raising an eyebrow at her son. Judging by the slightly miffed look on his face, he must have been trying to get her attention for a few moments.
"I finished my meal. Can I- May I please be excused?" Alastair spoke, correcting his grammar partway through his sentence. Sandra's bright green eyes moved down to the now empty plate, along with the glass that had contained juice a moment before. Both were totally empty and Alastair looked at his mother expectantly.
"Go ahead, Alastair," Sandra consented. A bright smile bloomed on Alastair's face as he got up from his seat at the patio table, pushing the chair in when he was clear of it.
"I'm going to go practice my Aura some more," Alastair told his mother, before the small boy ran off towards the inside of the house, missing the sad expression that darkened Sandra's beautiful features.
The mansion was large and extravagant, yet still tasteful enough to avoid becoming gaudy. The walls of the mansion were painted a light, muted gray that was more forgiving than a stark white building without being dark enough to be foreboding. Off white paint contrasted against the gray at all the windowsills and banisters around the exterior, drawing one's eye comfortably.
The interior walls of main corridors of the manor were the same gray as the exterior, with silver light fixtures tastefully placed evenly along the hallways and walkways to give the place a lively feeling. Decor changed from room to room, with the large living room having a classical style of couches and recliners spaced aesthetically around a large flat-screen television. The kitchens were large and industrial, as the servants of the home went about their duties cleaning up after the midday meal and preparing their own late lunches. The door to Tristan's study was open, revealing a modest desk stacked with papers and profit manifests. Next to the desk was a wide and tall drafting table, the most basic stages of a design for a new prototype automaton discernible from the quick sketches and notes.
Alastair sped past all these things, making his way straight to his bedroom. His room was big, almost a suite in and of itself really. His bed took up one corner of the room, the four posts of its frame holding back the drapes around it until it was time for him to go to sleep that evening. His sheets were pale blue, like that of a mid-morning sky, as were the drapes hung on the bed-frame's upper section. The walls of the room were a lighter gray, closer to off white than black, with a polished oak floor stretching across the entire room. A desk with a neat stack of shelves next to it occupied another corner of the room, his school books and supplies organized and tucked away as he had already finished his lessons for the day. A toy chest sat unopened, filled with many odds and ends that the boy enjoyed playing with whenever he wasn't doing anything else. Several dark light oak dressers lined the eastern wall next to his closet, both filled with the many outfits he wore both at home and out in public appearance.
The thing Alastair was most interested at the moment, however,was the plain black and dark blue roll-out mat that he spread out in the middle of the floor. It was padded to allow someone to sit in a proper meditative position for long amounts of time without growing sore, and was also large enough for Alastair to lay out on if he so chose. The young boy quickly changed into a set of his designated training clothes, the loose shirt and pants, and sat cross legged in the center of the mat with his hands on his knees.
"Dad said to close my eyes, focus on bringing out my Aura, and try and find the place in it that seems most powerful," Alastair repeated to himself, before his head drooped.
"But what does that mean? I only learned how to bring out my Aura a few months ago," he sighed to himself. For a nine, soon to be ten year old boy, he felt awfully more stressed than he should.
But, there was a reason for that. Even if Alastair was too young to pick up on it directly, part of him still knew that his father was disappointed in him. He didn't know or understand why, with as hard as he tried, but he knew that Tristan was. So, Alastair had made the silent vow to himself to discover his Semblance by his tenth birthday. His own father had found his Semblance at ten, so if Alastair could do just as good or better, he was sure Tristan would be proud.
"Okay, Alastair, focus," he breathed to himself, getting back into proper meditation position again.
The young boy closed his eyes and concentrated. His breathing gradually slowed, as the muscles of his young body relaxed. He looked into himself, his mind clear, as he felt for the power that was Aura.
It did not take long to find it, and was getting easier every time he did. He found what felt like a deep well within himself, a small candle-flame's worth of light. In his mind's eye, he walked to the edge of the well and fell forward. His mind's eye, his mental self, dropped rapidly down this increasingly bright tunnel until he hit the brilliantly glowing pool of pale blue energy at the bottom.
Power suffused his entire being as he tapped into his Aura. He could feel the energy moving through his body, a warm, happy sensation as it brought to life all of his nerves and brought the world into greater focus. He felt the energy pour into every last cell in his body, and a pleasant sensation bloomed just behind his eyes.
Slowly cracking open his eyes, Alastair's entire body was now wrapped in a pale blue Aura, the shade just a few tones off from aqua. He felt the pleasant sensation behind his eyes again and turned his head to look at the mirror on one of his dressers. Just like the last time he had used his Aura, his normally cerulean irises now glowed the same color as his Aura. It had scared him the first time it happened, but now it was comforting. It made Alastair feel rooted, powerful. A strange feeling for a nine year old boy.
"Now, concentrate," he reminded himself as he turned over his left hand, palm facing the ceiling as he rested it on his left knee. "Dad uses his Semblance with his hands, I should try that."
And so Alastair focused…..
Later the evening…
The Wintergales had just concluded dinner an hour ago. The meal had gone well, if not slightly tense as Sandra and Tristan discussed how work went for Tristan that day. Alastair had sat and listened obediently, eating his meal as he listened to his parents talk. When it had come to his turn to speak of his day, he had looked down and softly spoken about practicing with his Aura. Tristan had seemed pleased by this, though Sandra had frowned and told Alastair that he should play from time to time.
Now, Tristan and Sandra Wintergale lounged in their large bedroom suite, taking the time they so seldom got to speak to one another. The room was styled very similarly to Alastair's, with dressers and such along the walls. Though, in difference, the couple's bed was positioned in the center of the northern wall, This is where the couple was currently sprawled out, Sandra curled up next to her husband as they spoke.
"I'm worried about Alastair," Sandra spoke up after several minutes of silence, her face pressed against Tristan's robe-clad chest as they lay in their sleep attire.
"What do you mean?" Tristan asked as he propped himself up on his elbow, looking at his wife. A subtle downturn of his lips, not deep enough to be a true frown but not his normal expression, was on his face.
"I know you just want what's best for him. I do. But I get the feeling sometimes that he's missing out on being a child," Sandra said, not meeting her husband's eyes. "Today he said he thought you were angry at him because he hadn't found his Semblance yet."
Tristan sighed at this, his free left hand wiping upwards over his face and pushing back his hair, "I didn't realize it was bothering him that much. While it's true that I'm frustrated, I'm not angry at him. It just seems like he has stopped improving since we first started this training for him. He avoids most of the fake attacks I throw at him now, but he is still too skittish to attempt to counter in any way. And if he can't unlock his Semblance, I fear that he'll get stuck in a rut. He's my son, a Wintergale. We've been warriors for as far back as anyone can remember."
"I know that, my love," Sandra said, finally locking eyes with her husband. A fierce light, that of a mother's love, shimmered in the emerald depths of her eyes. "But our family is also one of the leading groups in technology now. I know it is tradition, but maybe Alastair doesn't have to be a warrio-"
A sudden knock at the door startled both of them, stopping Sandra's sentence as they both looked at the entrance to the room. "Enter," Tristan called, sitting up properly to see who could be bothering them at this time of night. The non-live-in servants should have all gone home by now and the live-ins all went to their quarters at nine.
To both adult Wintergales's great surprise, the door opened to a pajama-clad Alastair. A smile like a blooming ray of sunshine lit up his face as he practically sprinted into the room, laughing happily.
"I did it! I did it!" he cheered, hurrying across the room to his parents. All discipline and regiment forgotten in his mirth, Alastair leapt into the bed and hugged his mother and father, laughing merrily.
"Did what?" Sandra asked, thrown off by her son's sudden behavior. At dinner he had been so demure and quiet it had been almost sad. Why now was he so excited and happy when he knew he should be in bed asleep at this hour?
"My Semblance! I finally found my Semblance!" the blue-eyed boy beamed up at his parents, a quiet gasp echoing from both of them.
"That's wonderful, son!" Tristan's face broke into a smile, as Sandra gave her son a happy pat on the head. "Let's see it!"
"Okay!" Alastair said, crawling off the bed and hopping to his feet. "Here it is," he said, as he turned to face them and held up his left hand, palm facing the ceiling.
Young Alastair closed his eyes as his parents stared expectantly. His Aura, bright as a pale blue star in the dimly-lit bedroom, shined from his very being and slowly moved across his body and down his left arm. There it settled into his left hand and seemed to fade for several moments. Just as Tristan and Sandra were about console their son for trying, a quiet hum came from Alastair. The hum got progressively louder then suddenly stopped, as light bloomed and settled in Alastair's hand again. There, above the thin veil of his pale blue Aura, a single arc of energy jumped from his thumb to his pinkie finger. First one, then another from his thumb to index finger, then from his pinkie to his index finger, and in moments a small storm of electrical sparks arced all along his hand. It was then that Tristan and Sandra Wintergale realized that their son's Aura was not the pale blue commonly associated with Ice Semblance users, but different. It was the bright, radiant blue of lightning in the night sky. The blue of electricity.
A look of horror marred Sandra's face, eyes wide as her mouth hung slightly open. Tristan's eyes widened like saucers as a his jaw tightened and his gaze turned dark. It shifted from their son to his wife, as Alastair opened his eyes.
The boy's smile faltered as he saw the terrible looks on his parents' faces, his Aura and the electricity fading as his smile disappeared and was replaced by an increasingly worried expression, "Mommy….? Daddy….?"
September 9th, 441 A.G.
Alastair opened his eyes to the painfully white ceiling, bright florescent lights shining down through a thin mesh above him. He moved to sit up, but found he was unable. He turned his head, looking down at his arms. Wrapped tightly around his forearms and elbows were several straps, keeping them bound down to the bed. Straining to lean his head forward, he saw that his waist and legs were similarly bound.
Attempt thirty-five, failed. He thought to himself dryly as he let his head fall back against the plain white pillow beneath it. Casting his gaze at the corner of his eye, he saw the white sheets and comforter that he lay on top off. Beyond that the white bedframe, white floor, white walls. Too much white.
"-id actually busted the pipes?"
The sudden voice both terrified and excited Alastair. He raised his pale blue eyes up from the floor to look across the room. His eyes had never gone back to cerulean after he unlocked his Semblance.
The room was thirty feet by thirty feet, large and open with a high ceiling. Normally this would be wanted, but not in this case. In all of the massive room,. there existed only a stark white bed with white sheets, comforter and pillow, a white trunk stuffed with plain white t-shirts and loose-legged white pants, a white desk without drawers or cabinets, and a white bookshelf loaded with textbooks and school supplies. In the corner of the room completely opposite and across from the bed, was a small walled-off area.
This was Alastair's bathroom. Where the voice had come from. Where he had used his Semblance yesterday to electrify all the water in the pipes and make them explode. His latest attempt at getting either some form of attention or an opening to escape.
He had been thrown in here the week after he showed his parents his Semblance, by no less than Tristan Wintergale himself. Alastair forced back the memory of his father's enraged face as he noticed the door to the room was open.
Normally the door slid up from the floor to the ceiling and making a makeshift wall, almost appearing as if there were no door at all. At meal times a small slot would open along the bottom of the door, allowing a tray of simple bread, cheese, and an awful tasting soup that supposedly held all the other nutrients he needed to stay healthy.
"Yeah. Apparently the kid has a destructive Semblance," another voice said. Alastair's eyes locked on the bathroom again, seeing a man with blonde hair wearing a plain blue plumber's jumpsuit walk out holding a clipboard.
"Destructive? Looked like a bomb went off in there," came the first voice, as another man carried a small tool bag into the large room and walked into the tiny bath area. He had had brown hair and wore the same coverall as the first.
"Shut up and finish tightening off the last bits for the faucet," the blonde said, noticing Alastair was awake and making a point to turn his back to the boy.
Just like every other time, huh? They never look at me. Never talk to me. Just ignore me…. the thoughts came unbidden to his head.
Every time he had tried to get someone's attention or to escape, he had been left alone until he finally passed out from exhaustion. And every time he awoke afterwards, he would be strapped to the bed as he was now, while whatever needed repaired or replaced was taken care of. Then the workers would leave, just like every time before.
As Alastair recounted his first attempt, shredding his textbooks, the two plumbers left the room. The advanced door slid up behind them, and Alastair was left alone. Shredding textbooks, blocking the toilet in the small bath with unholy amounts of toilet paper, smashing the desk and chair, etcetera etcetera etcetera, until his latest attempt: Channeling electricity into the water in the pipes to make them burst. What he hadn't accounted for was the pressure shift as all the water in the pipes turned to steam, the sudden plume of hot air from every pipe mildly burning him as he was propelled out of the basic bathroom. If not for his Aura, he surely would have had second and third degree burns.
Just go back to sleep… You never get to see them untie you anyway… he told himself as he closed his eyes.
September 10th, 441 A.G.
When he awoke again, the restraints were gone. Alastair groaned quietly at the soreness of his limbs from being kept immobile so long, shaking his legs and rotating his arms to work the stiffness out. He stood from the plain white bed and made his way to the bathroom across the large, nearly empty expanse that was his cell.
He wore one of the several sets of white t-shirts, loose-legged pants, and white boxers. Shoes and socks were a comfort he was no longer allowed, as he walked across the smooth floor to the bathroom so far yet so near.
The nine-year-old boy reached the bathroom in less than a minute, walking through the empty threshold and into the tiny area. A small, single-unit shower stall was in one corner, the most basic of soaps and shampoos inside. A toilet, six rolls of toilet paper stacked neatly into two columns atop the back, was next to the shower. And finally a small faucet occupied the space directly next to the door. The most basic of modern living.
Alastair relieved himself and flushed the toilet once done, washing his hands thoroughly with one of the coarse, basic bars of soap on the small counter. Exiting the bathroom area, he walked away from the walled off corner that was the bath area and went back to his bed. He sprawled out on the plain white furniture, once again staring at the bright ceiling.
What did I do? The thought came to him before. It had visited him the first night he had spent in this abysmal room. And every night after. Though now, after almost four months in the never dimmed room, night and day were indifferential.
A small chime came from a speaker hidden amongst the lights in the ceiling, signalling that the door was going to open soon. Alastair did not even bother trying to rush the door as he had the first time he realized what this chime meant. It originally signaled that he was about to be given one of his meals. This signal changed meanings, however, after he had tried wedging his arm in the food-tray slot of the door to escape. A boot, for that's all he could see, had kicked his arm back through the small opening and it had promptly shut. For the next week after that, he had gotten only water.
Thus it came as a great surprise to him when the door actually opened, from upper wall to floor, and his mother stood in the door. Alastair's eyes widened at the sight, for the beautiful woman he seen in his memories, in the dreams he had of being set free from this awful place, was not the woman in the doorway.
Her hair was not in the elegant ponytail it normally was, instead it was messily draped down her shoulders. Her eyes, once vibrant with life, were now filled with a deeply haunted look. The smile that Alastair had missed more than anything, was instead replaced by a desperately held back grimace as the woman who was his mother sprinted into the room. Her clothes, still the deep blue blouse and gray skirt, were disheveled as though she had dressed quickly. The door shut behind her as soon as she was clear.
Before Alastair could even utter a word, he was being smashed into his mother's strong hug. She held him tightly, wracking sobs shaking the both of them as she chanted, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry." over and over. The young boy was shell-shocked at the sudden display. Shouldn't he be the one apologizing for whatever it was he'd done. Shouldn't he be the one looking haggard, broken and disheveled as he pleaded forgiveness?
It was Alastair's complete stillness in his mother's arms that pulled Sandra from her woe filled mantra, releasing the vice-like grip she had to wipe her eyes quickly and look at him. His now pale blue eyes gazed unbelieving at her, as the hair which had formerly been so well kept stopped just above his eyebrows. He had lost some weight during his time in what he had called The Room, his formerly full, youthful cheeks having grown slightly gaunt.
"Alastair?" she spoke, looking her son in the eye. "Alastair please say something."
"...You aren't a dream, again, are you?" came the quiet, desperate voice of Alastair as his arms locked around his mother's waist. "Please don't just be another dream!"
Tears welled up in Sandra's eyes anew, as she held her son close, "No, honey. I'm not a dream. I'm right here." Alastair's only inclination that he heard her at all was to squeeze her middle tighter, his small arms clinging with all their strength.
"Why did Daddy put me here?" his quiet sobs stabbed at Sandra's heart. "What did I do to make him so mad at me? Why does he hate me?"
"It's my fault, Alastair, it's all my fault," Sandra spoke quietly, fighting to keep from breaking down again as she stroked her son's messy hair.
"What? How is it your fault?" Alastair said slowly, pulling back to look his mother in the eye as much as he could without letting go of her. In the end, his hands clung to her shirt, fistfuls of fabric clenched tightly in his little hands.
"Your father," Sandra began, stroking Alastair's hair again as a lump suddenly formed in her throat. "Your father, isn't actually your daddy, Alastair."
"...What? Of course he is. He's your husband. My Daddy," Alastair said, eyes wide that his mother would ever say such a thing.
"No, Alastair, he isn't," Sandra repeated, this time more firmly. "Did you read the books I made them leave you? The ones about how babies are born?"
Alastair looked confused for a moment, before realization dawned on him as he remembered the books he'd read. Books of biology and anatomy, toned down to make them more understandable for children. Books that explained what exactly happened to make a baby.
"So….. you… and Daddy…. didn't… make me?" he finally said, looking deeply hurt as his eyes lost focus. Sandra had to bite the edge of her lip as she felt yet another heart-string break at her son's horrified look.
"No, Alastair. We didn't. I and another man, named Hector Strom, we… made you," Sandra said, forcing the words out.
"It had happened in our last year at Beacon Academy. We were teammates, along with Hector and a girl named Meredith. We had gone on a mission, to exterminate a colony of Grimm near a small village. A King Taijitsu, a big two-headed snake Grimm, hurt your father badly. He was hospitalized for over a month."
"I didn't know what to do. Your father was laying in a hospital bed, floating between life and death, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do. I found myself breaking into a teacher's office, taking the whiskey that every student knew he kept in his drawer for after hours. Hector found me hours later, trying to drown my sorrows in the bottom of a bottle. I was far beyond drunk, and needed someone to help me, hold me, comfort me. And Hector had always been so nice to me, in a flirty friend kind of way. He had stopped when your father and I started dating, because I had asked him to."
"I don't hold it against him for what happened…. The girl he'd been flirting with for two years threw herself at him, and I'd forced him to have a couple drinks too. He wouldn't have been a normal young guy if he hadn't done what he did. But when we woke up in the morning, we both immediately regretted it."
"Is that when I was…." Alastair's voice, even more distant now, paused as the shell-shocked boy looked for the word that the books had used. "When I was conceived?"
"Yes," Sandra nodded, worry weighing down upon her like a pile of bricks on her chest. "Your father got better not long after that, and as soon as he was able to walk, he proposed to me. I accepted, but not without my doubts, especially when I found out a month later I was pregnant with you."
"Hector agreed not to mention our drunken night together, and we kept it from your father all the way up until the day you were born. That was one of the most heart-warming and terrifying days of my life."
"Why?" Alastair said, glassy electric blue eyes staring into his mother's own green orbs. "Didn't you want me?"
Sandra fought back a sob as she hugged Alastair closely, "Of course I did, dear. I love you with every ounce of my being. It wasn't that I didn't want you, it was my fear that your father would shun you. You have your hair and looks from me, but your eyes were that deep, cerulean blue from the moment you first opened them. Neither myself or your father had blue eyes, but Hector did. His eyes were the same electric-blue yours are now."
"Thankfully, your father believed me when I said that my grandfather had blue eyes, and never worried. Hector knew, of course, that you were his son, but kept his promise. Your father and I took you home, and raised you just like the Wintergale you were. But, about a year after we brought you home we got a letter from Headmaster Ozpin of Beacon Academy. Hector had gone on a mission alone, and never came back."
Alastair's mind swam with this sudden rush of new information. His young mind struggled to wrap about the fact that his father, the man he had known as "Daddy" for as long as he could remember, was not actually his father. Some blue-eyed stranger, a man Alastair had never even seen or heard of before, was actually his father. It seemed impossible.
"Honey, I know this is a lot to take in," Sandra spoke softly, holding her one and only son close as she stroked the messy locks atop his head again. "And I know I don't deserve to say this after all that I've put you through by lying to your father all these years, but please don't hate me, please forgive me." Tears rolled down her cheeks again as she waited for the hate-filled words, the screaming and scorn from her son. It had been all she received from her husband these last few months….
"I don't hate you, Mommy," Alastair spoke up quietly, his small, pale hands pulling her face down so he could kiss her cheek. The new light in his eyes startled Sandra. A great deal of the glimmer of innocence had been wiped out inside the boy in the short half hour that she'd been in the room. A sadness, dull but strong, seemed seated in his bright blue eyes.
"You're my Mommy. The person who's always been there for me. I could never hate you," he told her, his very voice sounding as though it had been burned with some new force. It rang with a quiet emotion, what exactly Sandra couldn't identify, that made Alastair seem so much older than his nine years.
"I'm so glad to hear that," Sandra weeped as she wiped Alastair's hair out of his face to and stared intently at his appearance. She burned every last detail, from how his own drying tears clung to his black eyelashes, the way his veins had begun to show faintly against his skin as he'd turned deathly pale from lack of sunshine, all the way down to the few small flecks of darker blue amidst the sea of lightning blue that made up his eyes.
A fast, triple repeat of the earlier chime rang again, and a look of anguish settled over Sandra's face. "I can't stay much longer. Your father is coming to talk to you. No matter what he says or does, remember, Alastair. Remember that I love you more than anything in this world," Sandra hiccuped as she kissed her son's forehead one last time and stood. Alastair's eyes widened as she began walking back to the door. The boy hurried to his feet, chasing after her and firmly wrapping his arms around her waist.
"You can't go! I miss you! I miss how things were! Please don't go, Mommy. I can't stand it. I can't stand to be by myself in this room again!" Sandra looked at Alastair with a look that could only be made by that of a mother in pure agony for her child, as she forced his arms from around her waist and sat the boy down.
The door slid down to admit her through as she neared it. Sandra turned and gave Alastair one last look before she left. The teary eyed boy stared at her in disbelief. Even as he rushed to his feet again and sprinted towards the door, the specialized material of the motorized door slid back up to form a tangible barrier between them.
"Mom! Mom! Mommy! Mommy!" Sandra's green eyes stayed focused on the ground as a pair of gray slacks ending in a pair of black dress shoes entered the top of her vision.
"Take her back to her quarters," the spite filled voice of Tristan Wintergale ordered the guards stationed in the hallway outside the room. Two men in rubberized security gear stood on either side of Sandra, coaching her to the far end of the hallway to the exit. Watching his wife's fading form reach the door, Tristan Wintergale clenched his teeth for a moment before he gave the command to open the door.
Alastair fell back from the door as it suddenly descended, looking up at the man that towered over him. Gone was the slightly irritable, patient man that had been his father five months ago. Instead was a man scoured raw by lies and rage, his hazel gaze burning into Alastair's eyes like hot coals.
"Get away from the door." The voice was so gruff, so blunt with its barely constrained anger that it took Alastair a moment to realize it was his father's. He quickly pushed himself backwards on hands and feet until he was clear of the door, Tristan stepping in before the door shut swiftly behind him.
"Daddy, I-" Alastair began as he found his voice, wanting so desperately to apologize to the man he knew as his father, even if he now knew that it was not actually his fault.
"Shut. Up." The two words, heavy and cold, rang throughout the empty room and silenced Alastair immediately.
"Now you listen, and you listen well," Tristan said, stepping forward to loom over Alastair and grabbing the scruff of the boy's white collar. He yanked the boy to his feet, glowering hazel eyes inches from Alastair's own electric blue.
"The only reason your mother and I aren't having a divorce. The only reason you two are not rotting out in the streets, is because my own father, my actual father, advised me not to," he told Alastair in a voice so hateful, so full of cold and hurt and malice that Alastair had to find a chill from running down his spine. "And the only reason he told me not to is because it would look bad on the family, and on the company. So, here is exactly what is going to happen: You are going to stay here, alone, and work those textbooks and everything else you are given until you are old enough to apply for a low-level engineering position at the head developement center where I can keep an eye on you. Your whore mother will continue to live with me, keeping up the appearance of a happy married couple with an overly studious and shy son. You, all of this," Tristan paused to indicate the hellish white room around them, "is because of her. So if you want to be mad at anyone, or blame anymore, blame her and that fucking bastard she slept with."
"What about Mom?" Alastair spoke, his heart burning with an emotion most nine-year-olds did not know: Rage. 'How dare he call her a whore! How dare he treat us like this! We're his family! His wife and son!'
"Didn't I tell you to shut up and sit quiet!?" Tristan said, pale blue Aura flaring along the outline of his presence.
"What. About. Mom?" Alastair repeated, childish eyes narrowing in anger as his own Aura began to glow. 'The eyes are the same! Those same damn glowing, laughing , disgusting eyes!' Tristan thought to himself as he held his son's gaze.
"Your mother will live in a separate wing of the mansion. She will only be with me during required social events and nothing more. And the only reason she isn't kept under lock and key as well is because of her socialite status," Tristan bit out, resisting the urge to strike Alastair. "I hope you enjoyed seeing her, you little bastard, because you won't again until your tenth birthday."
With that, Tristan turned on his heel and left the room, the door sliding down then back up rapidly to stop the young boy that had been right on his heels. Alastair smashed into the mobile section of the wall a fraction of a second after it closed, pale blue eyes glowering with rage as he slammed his tiny fists against the door.
"Give her back! Give her back!" he screamed, his Aura flaring more brightly than ever before.
"GIVE HER BAAAACCCK!" the little boy practically roared, reaching into himself and finding his Semblance. The emotions he felt, the rage and energy and hate, culminated into an explosion of electricity loosely funneled towards the door.
The sheer brightness of it all stunned Alastair for a moment, as his massive expenditure of energy caught up with him immediately. As his vision blurred, he managed to see through the bleary haze that he had done no damage to the door. In his final thoughts before the darkness at the edge of his vision took him, Alastair Wintergale cursed his father.
November 15th, 444.A.G.
Alastair cracked his eyes open to view the ceiling above his bed. The same ceiling that had been the sky of his personal Hell for the past three years. His hair, trim and proper so long ago, was shaggy and unkempt, falling to his shoulder blades in the back and covering most of his face in the front. His electric blue eyes blinked apathetically behind his long raven locks. He raised his hand up to block the light from his face, marveling at how his skin was now so pale the blue of his veins was visible against it.
'If it wasn't for all the crap they put in my food, I'd probably be dead by now,' the morbid thought bloomed into his mind of its own volition. He'd been having a lot of those lately. Being alone all the time does that to a person.
Alastair swung his legs out of his bed and stood, stretching to unkink his muscles and joints. His body was almost wispy beneath his clothes, his under-worked muscles giving his frame an almost starved appearance, despite his diet keeping him well nourished. His clothes, the same blank white they were years ago, hung loosely on his frame. He looked at the door to see a tray of food already in front of the door.
'Seems I slept in,' Alastair thought again. He didn't think out loud like he used to, trying to make himself feel better about the accursed silence of The Room. Now, speaking aloud just made him saddened again.
The somber boy passed his desk and school supplies, crossing the large room and stopping in front of the tray. A fair sized chunk of multi-grain bread, a bowl of the nutrient-loaded soup, a wedge of cheese, and a glass of water. The same thing every day, for the past three years.
'At least the soup doesn't taste like it came out of a trashcan now,' he thought to himself as he sat down cross-legged just in front of the door and pulled the tray into his lap. He began eating calmly, spooning the bland soup into his mouth.
Eating didn't take long at all, and he put the empty tray down before the slot in the door. Then Alastair stood and walked into the small alcove that was his restroom, relieving himself after his breakfast. Another short walk across the room brought him to his trunk full of blank white clothes. He grabbed a full set, boxers, loose-legged pants, white shirt, the same bland clothes.
As he was passing his desk again, he caught sight of the makeshift calendar he'd made, peeking out from under one of his closed textbooks. As his eyes came to rest on the partially hidden calendar, realization dawned on him.
"It's the fifteenth!" he blurted out loudly, his voice cracking as pain shot through his throat. He winced and clenched his teeth as he swallowed several times, trying to soothe the pain in his throat. Guess that's what happens when you scream after being quiet for seven months….
Alastair did his best to ignore the pain in his throat as he rushed to the shower. He didn't even bother trying to get the water to a very comfortable temperature, leaving it scalding hot as he threw off his clothes and jumped into the small stall. A short yelp of pain escaped him as he quickly increased the amount of cold water.
He scrubbed his hair with the minimalistic shampoo and rinsed it, eyes shut tight to avoid getting the soap in them. Then he soaped himself up and rinsed, stepping out of the shower and drying himself with one of the two towels that were regularly set out for him every week. He brushed his teeth with the somewhat bad tasting toothpaste he was provided, and attempted to bring some semblance of order to his long,wild hair.
'I wish I had a clock…' he mentally whined as he pulled his clothes on. His still damp feet made a quick smacking sound as he moved about the room. For the first time in almost a year, Alastair went through the once practiced motions of making his bed, tidying his desk and organizing his meager allotted belongings.
'I have to make everything as perfect as I can. She's coming today!'
It took Alastair only thirty minutes to get The Room completely set. He sat on his bed, the first glimmering spark of hope and excitement in almost a year burning in his heart. The boy nervously fiddling with his fingers as he waited.
'It's been a year. How has she changed? What will she think of how I changed? What's been happening in the world outside?' he pondered as he subconsciously ignited his Aura, a spark of energy jumping from his left hand to his right.
'Stop that,' he chided himself, forcing his Aura back down and dismissing his Semblance completely. He had taken to using his Aura to restore some sense of peace. The pale blue glow and the crackling of the electricity a comforting sound, like the crackling of a campfire in the middle of the dark night.
Alastair subconsciously let the spark come to point again, a single point of blue in the endless white of The Room. He smiled as he watched it, the warmth and radiating energy calming his nerves. As he caught himself playing with the spark again, he let out a slow breathe and quenched the energy back into himself.
Bing!
The chime snapped Alastair to attention. Eagerness burst throughout his being and got to his feet. The smile on his face could have lit up a black hole, as he took quick strides towards the door. He was halfway to the door when it opened.
Alastair's smile faltered and vanished when it was not the slightly aged appearance of Sandra Wintergale that greeted him. Instead it was a girl, one only a few years older than him by the looks of it. Alastair felt himself slide into a center of balance left unattended for three years, as his feet fell into stance and his hands raised up closer to his face.
The girl looked about sixteen or seventeen. She had a fair, heart shaped face with large chocolate brown eyes. Her hair was a brighter hazelnut brown, with symmetrical black and white streaks in her hair just near her temples. Her skin was a slightly darkened peach tone, not quite tan but still somewhat darker than the typical skin tone of citizens of Vale. Most intriguing to Alastair was the pair of four inch long horns that peaked out of her hair on either sides of her forehead, a spiralling ridge wrapping around them. The near black horns curled backwards slightly, arching towards the back of her head.
A Faunus!? Why is a Faunus here!?
Alastair's gaze finally dropped from her face as he peered over her body. She wore a pale beige blouse and black slacks, a pair of rather high-class leather sandals wrapped around her feet. Her figure was just slightly curvy, highlighting against the somewhat masculine clothes that she was female.
"It's impolite to stare, Alastair. And put your hands down, she isn't going to hurt you," The chiding voice of Alastair's mother snapped him out of his trance as the mystery girl stepped into the room and to the left, showing that Sandra had indeed shown up.
She wore her now classic blue blouse and dark skirt, along with a matching dark gray business jacket. Her green eyes radiated almost as much joy as the smile on her face, and Alastair noticed the first inclination of lines from aging beginning to appear on her face. She moved forward quickly, covering the gap between herself and her son in seconds and scooping her son up into a hug.
"Oh, I've missed you," she spoke into her son's ear, hugging him tightly. Alastair's thin arms clutched at his mother almost defensively, pressing himself into her embrace as he felt the beginnings of tears in his eyes.
"I missed you, too, Mom," he breathed as he held his mother, before his eyes snapped open as he realized they had an audience. "Mom, who is she?" he asked, pulling out of her hug to look at the mystery girl.
Sandra smiled as she looked over her shoulder at the mystery girl and then back to Alastair, waving the girl over to them. She approached slowly, keeping her chocolate eyes on Alastair as she came within arms' reach of Sandra. She was very light on her feet, almost as if she didn't need to touch the ground to walk.
"Alastair, this is Amora Duskveld," his mother introduced, flourishing her arm a bit to indicate the mystery girl, Amora.
"Amora," Sandra said, the girl almost flinching under the unblinking gaze of Alastair. His eyes glowed with suspicion and mistrust, the almost unnatural blue sending a single strand of worry spreading through the girl. She didn't know if it was the wild yet manicured appearance, what with his unkempt hair and stark white clothes, or the look on his face like he and his mother were the last people on Remnant and she had just invaded. "This is Alastair, my son."
Alastair's gaze never left Amora even for an instant as he got to his feet and simply stared at Amora. The simple glow that dwelled behind the boy's eyes was almost intimidating as he looked Amora over once more. An odd sort of power rested in those eyes. The power of one ready to do anything and everything to keep what little they had to cling to. A power Amora could sympathize with.
"Introduce yourself properly, Alastair," Sandra reprimanded her son, who spun on his heel to look at his mother. He blinked at her twice, the casual radiant presence he had a moment ago disappearing as he looked at his mother.
"S-Sorry, Mom," he stuttered, brushing his hands against his shirt before he turned and extended his hand to Amora. "So-sorry for being rude. I'm Alastair Wint-," he began, stopping partway through. "I'm Alastair," he corrected himself.
Amora's face lit up with a smile as she saw the formerly quiet, intense wraith of the person in white before degenerate back into a nervous, now twelve-year-old boy, "Nice to meet you, Alastair," she spoke in a happy tone as she took his hand and shook it twice. "You, Alastair, need a haircut," she broke the handshake and ruffled his head.
In the blink of an eye Alastair went from beneath Amora's hand to behind his mother, eyes wide as he clung to her blouse. Amora couldn't stifle the giggle that sprung up at his antics. Alastair stared at her still, a slight blush blooming on his ghostly pale cheeks as Sandra joined Amora in laughter.
"I think Alastair deserves a bit of an explanation," Sandra chuckled as she managed to calm back down. Alastair looked up at his mother's face, curiosity plain about his pale features. Sandra gave Amora an inquisitive look of her own, to which Amora nodded slowly, almost as if to say 'it's alright'.
"Amora's family died in one of the Faunus Rights Riots last year. She was in care of the state until a few months ago. When I found out what happened, I took her in," Sandra began, seeing the look on Alastair's face turn from curiosity to sadness as he looked at Amora. Amora's gaze wandered around The Room, her hand flickering to her eye for a moment to wipe what looked like a tear.
"Tristan was furious, of course. Ranting and raving the way he does now," Sandra spoke as if she was brushing dust under a rug. "But, I couldn't just let her be. So, after one of many fights, we had to come to a conclusion. And after I broached it to Amora and explained a few things, she liked it."
Alastair's eyes darted from his mother to Amora in confusion, before finally settling back on Sandra, "I don't understand."
Amora took initiative this time, stepping forward and crouching so that she was level with Alastair, "I'm going to be staying with you, Alastair. As a… well, I guess a maid would be the technical name for it. Maid, nanny, guest, all those things. But I'd like to think we could be friends."
"Wha….? Friends?" Alastair said, eyes wide with shock. Thoughts ran through his head a mile a minute, from why to how, from everything about his isolation these past three years to now, and finally his brain addressed the one thing that his upbringing and age thought would be a problem.
"But we can't both live in The Room. You're a girl," he said, brows knit with confusion. Again Sandra and Amora pealed with laughter. Sandra's right hand mussed Alastair's already messy hair, and the boy gave them both a glare of frustration.
"What she's saying, dear, is that I managed after all these years to convince Tristan to let you out of this damned room," Sandra told her son. The effect of these words. These mere amalgamations of sounds had the most profound effect on Alastair that Sandra had ever seen on a human being.
Tears welled up and ran down Alastair's face, as his lips quivered and the first shake took him. He let out a low, quiet breath as the tears continued to run down his face, before he smiled at both of them, "Really?" It sounded to good to be true. It's a lie, a dream. 'There's no way this is actually happening. Any minute I'll wake up strapped to the bed for trying to burn my desk to char or something. It'll just be another one of God's cruel jokes.' he thought to himself, daring against all his worries to hope it true.
"Really, really," Sandra and Amora spoke together.
"We're going to have to leave now, honey. Tristan refused to let you know where this room is. A gas is going to be pumped into the room to make you sleepy, but when you wake up you'll be at your new home with Amora. And one of the servants tells me Tristan has even had something sent there for you," Sandra explained, stroking her son's hair. "I'll be there too, for the rest of our visit. I love you, Alastair."
"I love you too, Mom," Alastair forced out as he began to sob with relief. Sandra stood and Amora rose from her crouch, both of the women leaving the room. Alastair almost didn't catch the smile and wave Amora gave him, right before the door closed.
As he sat there trying not to cry, a low hissing sound reached his ears. He looked up near the lights of the ceiling to see cloudy white vapor pouring into the room. As his eyes watched the vapor pour in, he realized his vision started to blur. Darkness began swimming at the edge of his vision, his body going weak. A small, wan smile touched his face as he fell sideways and crashed onto the floor.
The world came back to Alastair drastically and immediately. He lurched forwards from his place on what he assumed was the ground to get his surroundings. He was in a large, open living room. His eyes flickered about, taking in the luxurious black leather furniture scattered tastefully about the room. He felt the smoothness of the floor beneath his hands, a wooden, polished floor. His nose caught a scent, natural and pleasant.
Turning his head to the right he noticed wall-to-wall windows along the southern wall, a forest expanding beyond an equally polished patio. The ceiling arched a fair ways above him, a black fan with five arms spinning slowly.
Leaves… I'm smelling leaves. I'M SMELLING LEAVES!
A whoop of pure jubilance rippled out from Alastair's chest as he shot to his feet. Part of his brain acknowledged the green walls around him, the stylish lights hidden partially up into the ceiling. Next thing he was in a kitchen. Black marble counter-tops lining the walls in under dark oak cabinetry, chromed appliances here and there, shining clean sinks. And most importantly…..
Alastair tore open the door of the fridge, his eyes falling upon the pitcher of tea sitting therein, the lunch meats, the cheeses. Moving like a man, or rather boy, possessed he moved quickly around the kitchen, finding plates and glasses. He poured himself a large glass of the sweet smelling tea, along with grabbing a loaf of bread and making several sandwiches.
He ate with gusto, taking a large bite out of the first sandwich in a stack of seven. He nearly choked as he took one bite after another, taking a gulp of tea to push the food down. He let out a great sigh of content, taking a slower sip of the tea and a smaller bite.
First bite of solid meat in years!
"And the first thing he does after being outside of that room is go and make himself sandwiches and tea. He's going to be a man alright." Amora's voice echoed throughout the kitchen.
Alastair's head snapped to see Sandra and Amora standing in the doorway that he had passed through a moment ago. The young boy blushed slightly as he swallowed his current mouthful of food, before grinning sheepishly. He set down the glass of tea and the sandwich, then moved over to the two of them.
"We get to live here?" Alastair asked as he hugged his mother again. Sandra's smile turned sad, as she hugged her boy tighter. Amora saw the sadness in Sandra's stare, and moved back into the hallway to give them some privacy.
"You and Amora get to, honey," Sandra told her son as she crouched down herself and kissed Alastair's forehead. "That was the main condition to get you out. I'm still not allowed to see you, and you still aren't allowed to leave the wall that surrounds the grounds here, but its better than that room."
Alastair frowned at the news, as he felt a small part of himself be crushed by the words. That tiny hope, that weak, happy spark of hope that he'd get to be with his mom again disappeared and left a void in its place. He swept his eyes over his mother, staring intently as he tried desperately to memorize every small feature.
"But, we're going to set that aside now," Sandra told Alastair with a smile. "Because first things first is your presents."
"Presents?" Alastair's eyes lit up. He hadn't gotten presents on his birthday since his ninth birthday, the arrival of his Semblance and the aftermath having tarnished his tenth.
"Yes. I arranged to have it delivered to the courtyard," Sandra's eyes twinkled at her son's joy, as she let the boy through the intricate villa to the courtyard outside. From the outside the villa was a dark brown, overlapping of many natural hues along with black metal here and there and large windows. It was a vaguely modernistic Asian design,with a touch of western influence. A dark wooden patio encircled the entire perimeter of the villa, allowing one to travel all the way around it without actually setting foot inside.
The courtyard consisted of a large garden that rimmed the area, taking away the foreboding feeling that the eight foot tall stone-work wall around the villa and courtyard that kept Alastair enclosed. In truth, the boy was still caged, just in a bigger one, but he pushed this from his mind as his eyes fell on the center of the courtyard.
In the center was a large concrete platform, with steps on each of the four sides leading down. It was obviously intended as a heliport of some sort, as a bullhead airship sat waiting on one side, taking up half of the platform. On the free half of the raised area were two crates: One large and normally rectangular, standing just taller than a full grown man. The other was smaller and longer, laying along the ground. It was just under four feet long and appeared to only be a foot wide. In truth it almost looked more like an old style trunk than a shipping crate.
Alastair and Sandra made their way to the large platform from the villa, finding Amora sitting at the bottom of the stairs at the villa's front door. She smiled up at them as they passed and joined them, dusting off her backside as she stood. She ruffled Alastair's hair as they walked up the stairs to the platform, getting an irritated look from the boy.
Once they reached the two crates on the platform, Sandra pointed at the smaller, longer one, 'That one's from me."
Alastair walked to the box and crouched down, thin fingers fumbling with the lock for a few moments before getting it unlocked. He tossed the lock aside and lifted the large lit, revealing that the interior of the crate was lined with plush, dark blue fabric. Resting in the middle of the box and running most of its length was a long sword. The modern appearance of it contrasted greatly with the old-fashioned feeling the box gave off, and Alastair withdrew it from the box carefully.
The black and silver hilt felt slightly cumbersome as he held it in his right hand. He gripped the matching sheath, being careful of the spike-shaped crossguard, and pulled the sword free. It was a modified katana, the blade notched just slightly after the crossguard before smoothing. The spine of the blade was straight, unlike that of a traditional katana. The blade itself was what entranced Alastair the most. It was as a strange steel alloy, a soft, dull silver that shimmered as he held it.
"This is incredible," Alastair breathed as he held the weapon carefully. Sandra came forward to stand next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder as she crouched slightly to kiss his cheek.
"It was Hector's. He left that with me a week before his disappearance. He said that he wanted to you have it, something to remember your blood father by," Sandra explained as she brushed her fingers through Alastair's long black locks, sadness dancing in her emerald orbs.
"So this is your last keepsake from him?" Sandra expected the question from her son, wiping his bangs away from his eyes. The eyes that matched Hector's. "Does it have a name?"
"No, it's your keepsake of him. And when he wielded it, he called it 'Tempest'," Sandra smiled. "And you remind me of him, more and more every time I see you."
"Thank you, Mom," Alastair said, hugging his mother tightly and burying his face against her.
Sandra smiled as she continued to stroke his hair, noting how the boy had still not put down the sword that was came up to his shoulder, "You're welcome. The large crate appears to be from Tristan. Though, I don't know what he would send you."
Alastair's electric blue eyes trailed from his mother to the large crate that loomed just a few feet away. His smile shrunk into a flat line across his face, as he walked over to the large crate. Tempest's sheath was still clutched tightly in Alastair's left hand as he used his right to pop off the lock on the larger crate.
The front panel of the crate fell forward, revealing a dull gray machine with a vaguely humanoid shape. It was strapped securely to the back of the crate, while another smaller package sat at its feet. Alastair picked up the small package, opening it to find a letter inside.
'Alastair,
This is the model AKS-One-Two-Zero combat android. Since you bear that bastard's blood and not that of a Wintergale, I have no expectations of you to be a true Hunter. You will learn the ins and outs of this model and will be sent parts to replicate it. If it seems you can complete this simple task that we have machines doing currently, I will give you the privilege of working in one of our factories as a minor engineer, as I said when last we spoke.
Signed,
Tristan Wintergale."
"Oh, honey, I'm sorry," Sandra spoke as she finished reading the letter over Alastair's shoulder. The boy stood stock still after finishing the letter, his hand holding it loosely as his left gripped the sheath of Tempest tighter.
"It's okay, Mom," he finally spoke after almost a full minute. His voice was distant again, as it had been during his isolation. "I'm just going to have to disappoint him some more," he said, a new edge of determination in his voice as he crushed the letter in his hand.
March 22nd, 449 A.G.
Tristan Wintergale sat in his office at the Wintergale Technologies main office. It was a lavish room, hued in many shades of gray and blue. He leaned back in his expensive office chair, staring at the items on his mahogany desk with disdain. The years had been kind to the head of the Wintergale Family, the only great sign of his aging being the gray in his hair that now matched his business suit. Though the years had been kind to him, it did not stop the dark glare from tarnishing his face with heavy creases and hard eyes.
On his desk sat the heads of five AKS-130 Combat Androids, or rather what was left of them. It had arrived just moments ago, sent from the villa where he had tucked away his family's greatest disgrace and his wife's favorite charity case. It had come as a great surprise, as he dumped out the broken parts and charred wires onto his desk, to see that the five newest top-of-the-line androids he had sent the boy to study had come back in shattered pieces. What had him truly infuriated at the moment, was not the damaged state of his very expensive robots, but the note that fell out along with the damaged machinery.
"Oops, they're broken. Thanks for the toy soldiers, Tristan, they helped me impress Professor Ozpin. I'll be leaving this little villa in the summer to go to the Academy. Don't bother trying to move me or drug me, we both remember what Amora and I did to the last goons you sent. Professor Ozpin will be sending a Bullhead here to pick me up, and he knows what you've done.
Amora is going to stay with Mom.
With me luck, you pissy old fart,
Alastair Wintergale…."
Tristan growled in rage as he read the note again, flipping his desk over as he rose from the chair. Somehow the damn boy had gotten into contact with Headmaster Ozpin of Beacon, and the brat had the audacity to destroy his androids! The audacity to send this note! And the audacity to use his family's name.
When the janitorial staff had found the office that early morning, it had been in tatters…
The corner of Alastair's mouth curled in a silent smirk as he remembered Tristan Wintergale's reaction to his provoking little note. He absently spun Tempest's Edge in his right hand, flinging off the blood of Grimm still clinging to it.
"Alastair, do you copy?" Leon's stern voice cut through the earpiece, suddenly so loud it made Alastair wince.
"What? Yeah, I'm here," Alastair said, peering around the clearing he stood in. All around him the bodies of Grimm lay in pieces. Several Ursai cut to ribbons, countless Beowolves chopped into tiny bits. There was even a King Tajitsu, slashed neatly in half where the light and dark sides met and riddled with dozens of lacerations.
"We've been calling for five minutes. What have you been doing," Leon questioned over the comm-line. Alastair almost shrugged, before remembering that it would have been useless. He was barely out from beneath the heavy canopy of trees, so no doubt Kazue was having plenty of trouble trying to spot him.
"Sorry, Leon. Just lost in a few memories. The forest always brings a few back. Like the first time we met as Hunters instead of just as teenagers," Alastair chuckled as he scanned the edges of the treeline, fetching his Scroll from his pocket. His Aura was almost in the red from so much use, and he still had to watch over the first years.
"I remember that day. Glad you finally learned to relax, but how about staying in communication? Abel was about to fly over to make sure you were still alive," Leon's deep tones boomed across the comm-line as the armored warrior chuckled miles back at his place on the cliffs. "ETA?"
"I'm fine, if not a little tired. I'm only coming halfway back. I'll stay down here with the newbies," Alastair responded as he began walking at a casual pace back towards the cliffs of Beacon. His left hand dropped his Scroll back into his pants pocket, while his right comfortably held Tempest's Edge to his side and angled towards the ground. His left hand absently slipped into his coat pocket, extracting a tube of round candies. The gray swordsman flicked one of the treats into his mouth as he walked.
His childhood may have not been pleasant. It might have been Hell by many people's standards. But that wasn't going to stop him from living in the moment now and doing himself, his mother, and his lost blood-father proud by being the best Hunter he could be. That was the goal he'd set for himself on his twelfth birthday, to defy all pre-made plans for him and just do what he wanted with his life.
"Damn, that's sour!" he cursed with a laugh as he bit into the candy.
And we're back. Whoooo shit, that was a big one. I hope you all liked it. I know this chapter is really long, and actually feels a little rushed, and I apologize for that. But what I'm doing as I reveal the backstories of Team BLWK is showing the main events in their lives that made them who they are today. It just so happens that in Alastair's case, it was the majority of his childhood.
I had actually had it suggested to me a few times by Puppeteer to divide it into two chapters, but I couldn't find a decent way to make Alastair go into another flashback to cover the second half of his youth. So instead you get a giant monster of a chapter.
I've learned my mistake about deadlines, though. From now on, A Wall Against the Dark will be posted as regularly as I am able. No more breaking all these promises for me.
On the other hand I've got a little request for you guys, as a fun thing to try: Puppeteer and I have been tossing around the idea of an Ask BLWK And REPR fic. Not that title obviously because that's rubbish, but you get the point. This is obviously inspired by Ask RWBY Characters by otakuroy. If you haven't read the fic check it out, it's pretty funny. At the same time, I had an idea of dragging BLWK, REPR, RWBY and JNPR out to a karaoke place as a fun little side project to make them sing songs that relate to them. However I've scrapped this idea as I've heard fanfiction is now getting a lot more strict when it comes to putting song lyrics into a fanfic. If any of you guys know the exact details on that, I would love to know. Part of me is saying f!% # it and right it anyways, but I don't want to take the chance of writing this one short project, and it getting my account eradicated. I'm rambling, so I'll just say what's-what: We aren't doing the side project immediately, as we want to develop the characters more to you, the readers, first, but I want you guys to think about some questions you'd like to ask our OC Teams, or even some of the main characters as portrayed through our filters. Again, it's just a fun little idea we had, and no one has to participate if they don't want to.
But enough with the long-windedness. This has been Relks The Disturbed, comin' at you LIVE from the WILD WILD WEB!
Va-le, my readers, and see you soon!