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 Two, Chapter Five—The Highs, the lows
8-8
"Foxtrot to GH. Got critically injured aboard and inbound. Prep your operation rooms, they are critical. Coming to your roof pad. Will need gurneys. Over."
"GH to Foxtrot. Sending a team up now. Do you have numbers and injuries? Over."
"Two with missing limbs. Still bleeding last I checked. One spine injury, crushed legs and lost a lot of blood, patient unconscious. Four with unidentified injuries, including one paediatric. Over."
I put everything I have into speed, knowing time is of the essence. Thank fuck it's a short flight. Don't you fucking dare dying on me!
Tawny clings to me, clutching any part of me she can, sobbing into my chest. She's covered in blood, dunno if she's injured or not, but I don't think she is.
I ease us onto the hospital roof and click down the ramp as three gurneys are wheeled out with accompanying staff in all white.
"Tawny, baby. Look at me," I say as I nudge her back. She clings to me even more frantic, her tears pouring down my neck. "Baby, are you hurt?"
"Daddy. Daddy is." She bawls, her little hands clutching any little fabric she can. I grab my seatbelt and phase only that, so I don't drop her, and stand with her in my embrace. Four of the white-coats work together to lift Mr Bruin up onto the collapsed gurney. His legs are mangled. His face frozen in agony, rivulets of blood streaked from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth. It helps, knowing he shielded his daughter from whatever fucked him up, but it does little to quiet the familiar pain.
Wenge just sits there, in the corner, covered in blood, staring at the spot his father just laid. His face is blank, his gaze hollow. I squat down in front of him, capture his chin, and nudge for him to look up at me. His nose points to me, his eyes out of focus.
"Wenge. Do you want to stay here or do you need a distraction?" I ask.
"I." He makes to stand, almost slumping upwards against the hull. "I'll. Go. See how. Uh. I'll. Stay with him. Here."
I nod, knowing he won't notice. Another white-jacket comes to me, asking to take Tawny.
"No. It's. I'll. I'll take. My sister." There's nothing in his voice just now. No inflection, no emotion. Just words.
I carefully untangle Tawny from my embrace and hand her to Wenge. The white-jacket goes with them, peppering Tawny with questions to see if she's alright. Her cries echo out into the distance, fading a little more as they leave me.
"You should go with them," Em says. "I can handle the flight back to Beacon."
"I can't," I say, my voice breaking. Tiff nods and heads out after our teammate. I phase and shake off the blood, and walk back into the cockpit, working myself back into my seatbelt.
I grab my scroll from the dash and dial Mrs Bruin, burying my face in my hand as I half slump on the armrest.
"Ivy baby, Sage and I were just talking about you," Mrs Bruin says. The laughter in her tone cuts just a little deeper, knowing I'm about to kill all the joy her world. "I'm so glad you called. Listen. I know you have a thing going on, but I just sent your father and Tawny to the store to pick up sugar. I'm baking you and Wenge a cake to—"
"Mrs Bee." My voice cracks. The Bullhead lifts off, no doubt en route to Beacon.
"Ivory." Dread replaces her usual singsongy cadence. "Baby, what's wrong. You sound like you're ready to. Baby, are you crying?"
Tears jerk free, pouring down my quivering chin. I struggle to swallow the frog in my throat before asking, "Are you sitting down?"
8-8
One foot in front of the other, I trudge down the corridor best I can. White walls and flooring echo my footsteps, even with white-jackets rushing about. The group I've come for is just up ahead, taking up a cluster of hard chairs in the waiting area.
Tawny comes running, the right half of her face covered in red-stained gauze. I scoop her up, careful to not drop the tote bag of groceries I brought, but doubly careful to not hurt her—gods know she's been through enough. Mrs Bruin comes running just the same and throws her arms around me. Words are said; none seep through the haze.
Wenge and I wind up seated together, somehow, sipping a cold one while the talking heads on the news get all the facts exactly backwards. Roman Torchwick is brought up, a lot. Apparently he's currently in Atlas custody. But there's no way he's behind this, not with all the White Fang corpses that were at the breech.
The current death toll is just over a hundred souls. The majority were White Fang members, thankfully. Fuck them.
"Thanks to a slew of up and coming Valean huntsmen teams, it isn't higher," the silverette talking-head says, her nasal voice filling the otherwise quiet waiting hall. "Teams Coffee, Juniper, Ruby, and White, along with Beacon Professor Glynda Goodwitch were all sighted on the scene. Sources have disclosed that a single M-Fifty-Two Bullhead was seen ferrying huntsmen teams in and civilians and the injured to Vale General Hospital, even while offering their comrades cover fire. The spokesman of Vale Airport identified the Bullhead as Tee Ef Four, though everyone's taken to calling the rookie pilot, Foxtrot."
I upend my beer, drowning a derisive snort best I can.
"Most notably, this huntsmen team made no distinction who they rescued. Faunus, Human, rich, poor. Every single life they could save, they did. The elusive Foxtrot was not available for comment, but I'm told she will be taking part in this year's Vytal Festival Tournament. So keep an eye out for Beacon's own Team White, and the star member Ivory DeWitt." And, of course, they put up my school ID picture, just to say they're 'reporting'. "This is Lisa Lavender, signing off."
Footsteps rankle down the hall, coming our way. A white-coat with a serious look on her face.
"Mrs Bruin?" the woman says. "I'm Dr Chroma. I operated on your husband."
"How…" Mrs Bruin swallows. "Is he…?"
"He's weak. He lost a lot of blood, and there may be complications we can't predict just yet. But, he's stable and calm. You can go see him if you'd like. Only two at a time, and for no longer than five minutes per visit. He needs to rest."
8-8
I shake my head.
"It's alright, Ivy. He's been asking for you."
Head shakes violently.
There's. No. I. I can't. I can't face this. Not again.
The door. No matter how violently my head shakes, the door won't go out of focus.
ICU Unit 1016-b.
The hallway is quiet, but the silence is deafening. Mrs Bruin opens the door.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The heart monitor is all I can hear. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Our eyes meet. Yellow eyes, hollow and struggling to smile. I blink and the ghost is gone, leaving Mr Bruin attached to many of the same apparatuses. A mask covers his mouth and nose. His hand reaches out for me, and falls.
I find myself at his bedside, catch his hand before he wastes more energy. A gentle squeeze, weak…cold as ice.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The hand is bigger. More calloused. But it's the same. Exactly the same.
Exactly the same.
No matter how I blink it away, those eyes. Yellow eyes, broken and no longer smiling.
"I…" Lips struggle to form words, tongue labours mightily to nudge them out into the world. The same upside-down frown. The same attempt to ease my pain, to mend the shattered heart worn on my sleeve.
Beep. … Beep.
Exactly the same.
"I'm. So…rry."
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.
8-8
I'm sorry.
Two words.
Three syllables.
Shot glass upends, pouring another round down the hatch, trying to drown out the pain in Mr Bruin's eyes when he recognized me. He looked so…fucked. His usually rosy cheeks were pale and slack. His warm and protective eyes were hollow and out of focus. His strong and gentle hand was as ice; he had just enough kick in him to meekly squeeze my hand and mutter those two words, muffled by the breathing mask, before he flat-lined.
They resuscitated him, thank the gods. Or, at least Mrs Bruin's text claims as much. I wouldn't know. When the white-coats chased me out I stumbled into the nearest bar.
"Hey, doll. Lemme buy you a drink?" the latest doe-eyed fuck asks.
Funny. You sit in a corner by yourself, away from the crowd, armed to the teeth, hunched over a shot glass in one hand, and a half empty bottle in the other. Yet, people think you want to talk. Or maybe he's looking for an easy fuck; a cheap one, too.
"If I look up," I say, pouring myself another round and getting a wet hand for my effort. "It'll be to decide between stabbing, shooting, or grenading."
"Whoa. Alright, take it easy," the same voice says. "I'm going."
The only thing that was different. Was that I didn't have to get wheeled out. Wheeled out by the same soldiers that brought mum and me in. 'Saved your lives', or so they claimed.
A tale that changes every time they opened their…
Fuck this place. I upend the glass and grab the bottle, stumbling out without a fucking word. Paid my tab before he gave me this thing, so fuck him. Don't owe his stupid ass a goodbye or nothing.
"Thought I'd find you here," a familiar voice says the second I'm outside. He looks so much like Mr Bruin, crossing the street and rushing over to me. Makes sense, of course, but the similarity is too much just now. Wenge grabs my bottle and takes a long pull as he wraps an arm around my shoulder. "Sage is staying with ma and Tawny. They'll be alright."
Dunno where the fuck we are just now. Don't care where we're going. "I'm sorry."
"Not your fault. You did everything you could."
No, I didn't. I should have cooperated in Atlas, we could have stayed longer. I knew Vale wasn't safe, but I was such a bitch that I hurried everything along. But Wenge'll just disagree, so I grab the bottle instead and take a pull.
"Ive" Wenge's arm tense around me.
"Mm."
"Could you." Desperation creeps into his voice; a need to have something, anything, that will keep his family safe. "Maybe make some bracers. That could act as a force field or something."
"Only if we back outta the tournament."
He takes the bottle back and empties it. "You know we can't do that." Sigh.
"I'll come up with something."
8-8
Sigh. I press the button for Ozpin's office and cross my arms behind me. I can't tell if it's being hung-over or a pre-emptive migraine for the tomfuckery about to unfold, but this is the only thing I can think of. I am not losing my family.
The door slides open, revealing Ozpin, Goodwitch, and…sigh. I soldier on, measuring my steps and keeping them as quiet as possible.
"Thank you for coming, Ivory." Ozpin motions for me to take a seat. I'm not sure I can stand through this clusterfuck, so I slump into the chair opposite him. Four Lien cards slide over his desk, the hologram already showing they each have twenty-five thousand Lien—no doubt the bounties along with a bonus for helping with the evacuation efforts.
I pick them up and stuff them into my pocket. "Ironwood. You want me as a specialist, right?"
"Are you drunk?" Goodwitch gets on my case.
"Not nearly drunk enough." The office goes quiet, leaving only the melodic tock-tock-tocking of the seventy-eleven gears to keep me sane. "Answer the question, general."
Goodwitch glares at Ironwood, almost daring him to say something stupid, but Ozpin's gaze is transfixed on me, dissecting me and my angle.
"Yes, Ms DeWitt. The Atlesian—"
"Didn't ask about them. Here are my terms. You transfer Mr Bruin to the best Atlesian hospital and front the bill until I can pay you back. Team White will escort him, and I will be the pilot of whichever airship he's on. You arrange housing for Mrs Bruin, Tawny, and Sage Deltenaar until I have the resources to make other arrangements. Mr Bruin will be under twenty-four hour armed guard, but Mrs Bruin or myself must sign off on any soldiers in his vicinity, and we are to sign off on any visitors he's allowed.
"I get paid based on assignment, and will turn down any I disapprove of. I won't answer to anyone but you personally. I am not taking any subordinates that I do not personally approve of. There will be no airship assigned to me, because I will arrange my own. No weapons will be assigned to me, because I'll be granted unlimited access to three-dee printers to make my own, as long as I provide the materials. The second any of your fuckwits does something, anything, I disapprove of, I leave. No warning, no questions, no explanations.
"And I will make it crystal clear here and now. You get the huntress. R&D can go fuck themselves. Atlesian elites can go fuck themselves. No marriage talks. And no one tells me where the fuck I am going to live. These terms are non-negotiable."
I struggle to my feet, cross my arms behind my back, and stumble towards the lift. "You have until the first match of the tournament to decide," I say over my shoulder.
"You think this was just the first strike." Ozpin's gaze burns into me, as if trying to bore into my skull and put my brain in a jar. "And the next will occur during the tournament?"
"Oh no," I intone and press the button for the lift. "I'm just so eager to move back to Solitas and deal with those ass-backwards cunts on a regular basis."
8-8
Calligraphy brush dips into cyan dust-solution and drags against the inside of the beer bottle's mouth, to syphon the excess. Scribble after scribble is drawn onto the inside of the jacket-hoodie, drawing the matrix it needs.
Unlike the cloth hoodies I already made, these white leather hoodies with carbon fibre inner lining should work perfectly in Atlas, so they're designed to integrate with the already present seals matrixes—should up my range and resolution considerably. And with a bigger budget, I won't have to use micro-crystals. Sigh.
"Sorry," Wenge says, hunched over another crystal he's cutting for me.
"I chose this path." With a final stroke of the brush, I focus my aura into the matrix, burning the seal into the leather to mask the design. Knowing those incorrigible fucks, they'll spy on every little fucking thing I do, to see what they can piece together and try to make their own bastardized version of my family heritage. No doubt the true reason those arrogant pissants want me back. I swear, if Mistral or Vacuo could offer the Bruins what they need, I wouldn't piss on Atlas.
Sigh. The die is cast.
Nine fire and twenty-seven hard-light crystals, each hexagonal and roughly thick as my thumb, are lodged into their receptacles on the inside of the hoodie. Three ice and three hard-light crystals, each long and thick as my pinkie finger, come next; one for inside the cuff of each sleeve, the last as a toggles for the raised collars. I fasten them all into place, locking them into their receptacles so they won't budge.
I should probably add titanium plate armour to her, but really, I'm not frontlines. While it wouldn't make it too much heavier, all added weight is added weight—and that will cost me in how far I can move in it. Besides, the extra force field should remove the need of it.
I slip into my new jacket and fasten the toggles from the raised collar down to the hem, and pat the flap to keep the snow and cold from getting past the toggles. It reaches my upper-thigh, so it shouldn't affect my stride. I stretch this way and that—she doesn't hamper me any more than any arctic-quality jacket I've ever worked with, so that's good. And the carbon composite inner lining should do wonders for keeping me nice and toasty in the worst of it.
Satisfied, I loop my new jacket-hoodie onto a heavy-duty hanger and stow it in my closet for now. I'll test if everything works later.
I sit back to my desk, and grab the remnants of the leather pelt I butchered for my hoodie, and slap my left hand onto it. Using my pen knife, I cut an outline of my hand into the material for my glove.
I'm gonna need better jackboots—I'm definitely going to figure out a way to stick to surfaces like Em. Need a better sash, too, with larger pouches. Proper bracers, maybe with a few built-in dust-based weapons, so I'll never be unarmed. And a proper knapsack that can integrate into my new seals.
8-8
I flip up my cloth hoodie, covering my eyes. The regular frame-wire rendering comes into view of everyone sitting down to dinner in the mess hall. Squiggles are all I can make out of my meal, half-eaten as it is.
My jacket-hoodie flips up, covering the cloth hoodie. The rendering comes in far sharper, allowing me to see individual hairs on my hand and…suddenly things are…uncomfortable. I loosen my focus, spreading out the area rendered—seeing that many of my classmates naked is not desirable.
I zoom out to the same wire-frame resolution, and the whole academy comes into focus. Every person on campus lights up in my infrared seals, so sharp that I can tell them apart from their heat signature. Even Ozpin's tea set glows warm on his office desk. The walls are all rendered in my mind. While I can't tell what material they're made of, I can see how thick they are—it's kind of a guessing game where the doors are this way.
Alright. Now I just need to get my team some infrared lamps, so I can tell it's them. And we should be golden. Hmm. Can I track what's under me?
…
What the fuck is that?
There's an entire city block of shit going on under the school. Looks like there's a…yes, definitely a woman in some kind of container with all kinds of shit hooked up to her. It looks almost like…she's in hospital, but the prison security kind. There's also a corridor of sorts. Huge, to be sure. With a door that doesn't lead anywhere, like it runs right into hard stone, and that's it.
Fuck, there's an Atlesian marching-gait type coming my way. I zoom back down, finding…
I didn't know the assassin had prosthetic legs? And mint-hair, beside him, she was more Lien cards on her that is practical—if that doesn't point to a thief, I don't know what does. But what's even more curious, is the brunette. The boss-lady with the pair. She has a curious little beetle nestled up her sleeve as she eats. Her eyes keep flicking to me, as if subtly studying me.
"Ms DeWi'," Noir says, standing at attention in front of me. If the Mantellian accent didn't give him away, his markings on his rifle certainly do. Why would Ironwood send this one? Does he really think I wouldn't remember one of dad's subordinates? Or is he here because he was dad's subordinate? "General Ironwood would like a word. If you like, ma'am, I could be your wings."
I zoom back out, focusing on Ozpin's office. There are three people there. One standing at attention, Ironwood. One with arms crossed under her bust, Goodwitch. And one sitting at the desk sipping coffee—or tea, but it makes no difference.
So why is he offering to fly me there?
Whatever. "Tell him I'll be along as soon as I'm done eating," I say as I grab my fork and get back down to it.
He presses his finger to his ear. That's ineffective. "Noir to Blue-Two. Inform the general she'll meet with him Over…Roger. Noir, out." Ah, so he's been ordered to be amicable with me.
8-8
The lift door opens. Noir marches out ahead of me, his back to me and arms draped beside him. He salutes to Ironwood and moves out of the way to show he isn't including himself in the discussion.
"General," I say, standing at attention. No salute or any of that. Fuck that.
"Ms DeWitt. Thank you for coming." Ironwood turns fully to me, his arms crossed behind his back, much like my own. "I've considered your terms and discussed them and the ramifications with the council."
Finger taps against my biceps, patiently awaiting modifications. Don't know what he'll want to demand/add, but it won't be nothing.
"Your terms are reasonable. So I wish to expand upon them, as a show of goodwill." Ironwood's ocean blue eyes stare unblinking. "First, the offer of an Arfiftytwo Hornet. Not issued, not sold. Offered. It would be a welcoming gift, and therefore your possession to do with as you please."
Don't know much about it, but I'm sure that'll come with time. And he's careful to not tie me down with that, too much. I nod.
"Second. A class of newly graduated privates to train, which you'll be paid for. This allows the military higher quality soldiers, and you may select of them whomever you please for your personal team, within reason. Of course, this would only be on offer once you graduate."
I nod. Not perfect, of course, but it gives me the leeway I demanded. So, fair.
"Third. You'll be given one Ayzeesixteen molecular reconstructor." A three-dee printer of my very own. What's the price tag? "With an open invitation to design prototype weapons and support items for the troops."
I bite back a snort.
"You will, of course, be paid handsomely for any and every prototype sold to us, provided the Atlesian military is your sole patron. And if you were to desire a modest budget, you may put in a request for funding and/or materials."
Sigh. It's not strictly going against my terms, since I'll have 'the option', instead of standing orders. Whatever.
"And lastly. I will require that you continue your schooling. Whether here, or at Atlas Academy. Are these added stipulations agreeable, Ms DeWitt?"
"Yes. When are we flying him out?"
"The transfer is scheduled for tomorrow at thirteen-hundred hours. You'll be given unrestricted access to the dropship he'll be transferred on as of oh-nine-hundred hours. Lieutenant Sergeant Noir will be assigned to you for the duration of the transfer, your stay in Atlas, and the return trip. He can work you in for piloting the dropship, and has strict orders that no one is to approach you without my say-so. Will you require a full escort while in Atlas, Ms DeWitt?"
"No. Will that be all, general?"
8-8
Completely different. Each and every fucking cockpit is completely different. Whatever. I strap myself into the pilot's seat, looking around to see what I can recognize. Two throttles, a fuckton of buttons and switches, and a dashboard with more lights and gadgets than a pinball machine.
"Engine primers are…" Noir trails off as I flick up the three engine primers on the dash, run my finger over every marking and flick up every system boot I recognize. They look different, but they are marked just the same as every other gods-damned airship I've ever seen.
Three screens blink to life, showing the dreadnaught 's hangar floor and the dropship's two ramps. Another click and the twin ramps retract.
"Not too different from a Bullhead," Em says as he dons his headset and goggles. He turns his head this way and that and flicks up what I assume are the nightvision and infrared systems, obviously getting a feel for the targeting system. "I can control both Gatlings."
My headset and goggles slip on, I grab the steering. Three buttons just like the Bullhead. I hold the right top in, and the rotation symbol flickers on, to the right. I hold the left top button in, and both rotation symbols come on. I nod, understanding all I need to about that.
Different, but similar all the same.
Goggles slip up. Hmm, that one should be the mic.
"What's our callsign?" I ask.
"Green-Four." Figures.
"Em. We're running two laps. I take the first." This is going to be the mother of all migraines.
8-8
"Green-Four to Atlas Airport. Requesting final approach to Veterans Hospital. Over." It doesn't take more than a second to be 'welcomed' to Atlas, and given my approach vector. Once it's keyed in, it gives me an almost direct path to where I need to be. They aren't being a bunch of cunts, for once.
It's not more than ten minutes later that we're flying into the Vet Hospital's hangar, finding a team of medic-styled white-coats, with a handful of the military-styled white-coats and their usual cortège. Sigh. They aren't even pretending they learned from our last encounter.
I touch down, open the port bay door so they can start getting Mr Bruin into a more peaceful environment, and take my precious motherfucking time going through my post-flights. I even go out of my way to check how much fuel the flight took and call one of the greens from Green-Six. It takes almost ten minutes of back and forth, with them explaining in detail why I don't have to report that at all, before they just give up and report to Blue-Two's command deck and get the major on duty on the line.
"Ms DeWitt?" an unfamiliar voice asks. "Is there. Something I can do for you?"
"Just reporting in. The flight took eight hours and—"
"Ms DeWitt. Are you calling me as an excuse to keep the council waiting?" From the amused tone and the clear smile, I'm guessing he doesn't much like dealing with those…people either.
"I would never." I roll my eyes. "How's your shift going?"
A breathy chuckle hints that he has his answer. "I could patch you through to General Ironwood, if you prefer?"
"Killjoy. Foxtrot, out." I hang up and meticulously update the ship's log, adding clearly unneeded details that no one else bothered to fill in—I'm not sure why no one thinks atmospheric pressure and a detailed weather map during the flight were left out of variables required for maintenance, so I add all that in the field 'additional notes'. The cockpit door opens.
Wenge leans against the doorway, arms crossed and a knowing smile aimed at me. "Come on. Everyone's waiting."
Sigh.
We make our way down the ramp, finding Atlas's infamous councilmembers. But, instead of all that, I walk right over to Mr Bruin's contingent.
"Hey, what's wrong?" I ask.
"Nothing, sweetie." Mrs Bruin grins, eyes lit up like Tawny's on Christmas morning. She and Sage wrap their arms around my elbows and drag me along. "There, see. She's with us, Serge. Can Team White escort you to your room?"
Mr Bruin sports a worn shit-eating grin as he nods. So that's where Wenge gets it from. Noted.
8-8
I slump onto the couch, plopping my head into Sage's lap as I stare through the door at the doctors discuss something with Mrs Bruin. It's…not the kind of 'room' I expected, to be honest. That Mr Bruin has three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a living room, separate dining room, and a fully furnished kitchen to himself is…odd. This is a hospital, right?
Not complaining, given Mrs Bruin, Tawny, and Sage could comfortably call this place home until something else is arrange. But that doesn't make it less peculiar.
Wenge has eight Atlesian soldiers lined up, at attention, as he paces back and forth, addressing them and issuing their current orders and rotation and all that. All of them wear modified soldiers' uniforms, but that isn't too surprising. Faunus, the lot of them. I only recognize Sgt Katt and Lt Usagi, though I'm sure Mrs Bruin requested all of them by name. I'm…not too sure about the feathery-winged one, though. The canary yellow hair and feathers is…awkward. Mostly because she reminds me of the dreadful bird Aunt Petunia would always visit us with.
"That means whenever mom, Sage, or Tawny wishes to go out into the city, they will have at least two of you as armed escort." It's all fairly standard stuff, really, but Wenge isn't leaving anything to the imagination. "We don't know how long before the situation changes, but once dad's released from the hospital, Ivory and I will likely come to make preparations. Until then, you will be our eyes, our ears, our hands. Betray this trust, and it will not be extended to you a second time. Is that clear?"
Sage's tail taps me, her tail hairs tickle my nose and face. Her smiling gaze meets mine, an air of calm surrounding her and pouring into me as she runs her fingers over my scalp. The room is chilly, just the way I like it, but this is…this feels wrong, somehow. It's strange to not be bothered by asskissing fuckwits while in this city.
There's a knock at the door. Ah. I don't want to say that's better, but it certainly is more familiar.
Wenge saunters over to the front door.
"How much do you want to bet that's either Schnee or one of the generals here to pester me about something or other?" I murmur, getting an amused chuckle from everyone present.
"Ms Schnee." Wenge's amused tone has each soldier before me puff up their cheeks as they purse their reddening lips to keep from laughing. But they are even more amused with how Wenge stands right in the doorway to not give her the chance to 'invite herself in'. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"Mr Bruin. It's good to see you again." I roll my eyes. Why is it no one ever just answer the fucking question? It's not hard. Question is posed; answer is given that directly relates to said question. It's only the basis for fucking communication. "I've come to welcome Ms DeWitt to Atlas, and to lend my aid, should Dr Bruin's guard desire it. We both know much of the brass will…selectively listen to orders upon Ms DeWitt's departure."
"Funny you should mention that, Ms Schnee. I was just issuing dad's guard their orders. And that includes shoot to kill and using extreme prejudice." There isn't a Faunus present that doesn't sport a shit-eating grin. "It might be wise to inform the ranks that Team WITE places a lot of stock in the wellbeing of my family and Ms Delftenaar."
I drag myself to my feet and walk over to Wenge. He looks at me over his shoulder, eyes drawn, but he moves out of the way when I motion for as much. I grab my jacket from the coat rack and slip into it.
"I'm heading out," is all I say.
8-8
Of course the hospital doesn't have a fucking bar. Nor does the entire fucking base. So I head out into the gods-damned city and into the first fucking bar I find. The bartender, a Faunus I knew from around the way, his eyes widen on seeing me. I walk over to a quiet booth in the back, away from the other patrons.
A waitress comes to me, her eyes wide and jaw low.
"Bottle of bourbon. House brand is fine," is all I say as I slip out of my jacket and lay my rifle and Sun on her to keep them handy.
As her flats click on the linoleum flooring, every gaze in this place finds me. Not that they weren't already fucking staring as I walked in. I fish out my wallet and scroll, taking my drinking funds card and check the balance. Two-hundred Lien.
"Lady De—"
Don't know who the fuck that is. Don't much care. For some reason, unholstering Moon and slamming her onto the table is enough to shut them up. For a time.
"You have three seconds to walk away," I say, still not looking up.
"Of. Of course, My…My Lady. Welcome home." Heels click together. A shuffling sound, as if they turned heel. And the stead clapping of jackboots fade into the distance. Fucking cockroaches.
Home. I snort derisively.
"Of course this is where I find you." Wenge struts over and plops into the booth, across the table from me. Tiff and Em are not on his heels, but only Sage dares sit beside me. And just in time for the waitress to come back and set the bottle in front of me with an empty lowball glass, a box of thin cigars, and one of those throw-away match boxes bars tend to have.
"From the gentleman at the bar." I glare, finding Schnee there. Of fucking course.
Sage pops open the bottle and pours me a drink as everyone places their orders.
8-8
"Ahh." Sage brings another offering of kibbeling for me. Never did like battered and fried fish bits, but I bite it off her fork all the same and chase it with another swig of bourbon.
The reedy staccato of whatever the fuck passes for music in this place isn't nearly obnoxious enough to drown out the fucking crowd come to gawk at the freak that returned to Atlas at long last, nor their murmurs of 'princess' and 'DeWitt' and other things I really don't want to fucking make out.
I grab some fries and prop them into my mouth.
"Spoke to mom," Wenge says, pouring himself and me another drink. "She secured a—"
"You should stay with them," I say and down another drink.
The table grows quiet. So it's back to this. I grab the bottle, refill, and down that one too. Even without looking, the guilt on Wenge's face is more than obvious. No one ever listens, even as they proclaim otherwise. I down my drink, refill, and down it again.
No one ever fucking listens.
8-8
The transcontinental flight was boring. Just how I like it. But, of course, the first thing I need to face is landing this bird on Blue-Two. I go through the post-flights with Sage on the line, to let the family know we've arrived safe, and so she can keep me sane long enough to deal with the headache I just fucking know is coming.
Once the ship's log is once again painstakingly up to date, I hand it to Noir and leave without a word. With a little luck, either whoever decided I needed 'an official welcome' already left, or I'll have an excuse that it took much longer than I anticipated and I need to report in—or some shit.
Em and I exit the dropship together, finding Wenge and Tiff talking to Ironwood. I roll my eyes.
"I trust everything went well," Ironwood says. I nod and walk right passed, heading towards the hangar bay. Tiff waves us over. But Wenge…
Wenge stares off into the setting sun, his hands in his pockets. As I approach, I wrap my arms around his elbow and lean my head against his bicep.
"The longest night, huh," he murmurs. I nod. What point is there in denying it? The signs are all there, plain as day. "You got my back?"
Don't come at me with your pipedreams, you little shit!
Ha! Shows what you know. I'll have you back on your feet in no time.
"Always," I say. No matter how things change, baby bear. You've always stayed exactly the same.
Not missing a beat, the four of us jump down to the treetops of Forever Fall. Come what may, we face it together.
8-8
End Chapter Five
8-8
End Volume Two
8-8
A/N: Two things to note here.
First. I wasn't happy with what chapter 6 was turning into, so I slashed all the useless scenes and condensed both chapters 5 and 6 into this chapter. I see no point in the things I wanted to fit in just yet. They'll come with time.
Second. For those who noticed, Sage said that Ivory's parents both died in the fire. And yet, Ivory has a flashback of her mother in an ICU unit. This isn't contradicting what really happened, but the scenes that explain it in depth are simply out of place here. I don't want to bog it down, especially since pushing to far just now isn't needed.
So. I'm going to start on Volume 3. It's going to be where things start diverging from cannon. In what ways? You'll just have to wait and see.
