It was cold. Her breath fogged the window she leaned her head against. The chill from outside nipped at her skin, but she didn't mind. It felt nice.
In the distance, waves crashed on the shore where the military boats still worked to clean the mess left from the battle from the months before. Little toy soldiers marching along the rocky beach, picking up bits of stone and moving them from one place to another and from there to someplace else.
Weiss lifted a hand before her face, positioning a little robot man between a finger and thumb. The robot man made to walk away from her grasp, but she was quick to crush him to dust between her fingers.
And then she moved her hand away and the robot man was whole again, working like nothing ever happened.
The glossy red polish on her fingernails was chipping away. Her nails grew out and she would lazily cut at the length, rather than take care to remove the polish. The act pushed the beautiful red away from her, losing it piece by piece until eventually it would be only her left. Just her and no red.
Oh, but she shouldn't be so dramatic about it. It was just nail polish. Mrs. Arc would paint them again if she asked. Maybe she should ask, just for a thing to do. Something to take her mind off other things.
But then if taking her mind off Ruby had been the goal, she'd have not asked for red in the first place.
She missed her team. Her friends. Her real family.
Ruby hadn't been back to Argus in days, always on the hunt outside the walls. After all that happened, her services as a huntress were very in demand to keep the city safe.
Blake was still in Argus, lurking around somewhere. She came back to talk to Weiss on occasion, but mostly stuck to the shadows of the city and doing little jobs here and there.
She told herself she had stayed for them, abandoned her mission for them, left Yang the other to go on ahead for them. But Ruby and Blake hadn't stayed for her.
A low rumble momentarily brought her heart to stop. Her mind briefly lost all control and emptied logic from its folds and flooded her instead with adrenaline. Were it not the corresponding pang of hunger that too rumbled in her belly, she could see that once again she'd been letting her panic get the best of her.
The first was on the ship- when she decided to stay in Argus- and she'd not been able to remember afterwards how she got back to the city. Obviously, the ship was turned around, but logic had been failing Weiss as of late. Gaps in her memory sowed doubt into everything she did, erasing the confidence she was once had.
A Grimm she could kill. With Myrtenaster she could cut it down and rid the world of it.
A girl she could chase. Maybe successfully, maybe not- but she could woo and flirt to the best (and worst, as is often the case) of her romancing ability.
Swordsmanship she could practice and excel at. She could write sappy poems to varying degrees of quality. On the rare occasion she might even engage in portraiture, though to only one degree of quality and not a particularly good one.
The point was that all things in Weiss' life thus far were just as conquerable as they were easy to fail at.
But this new foe- herself (or her brain more precisely)- was not one that could be killed, wooed, or lost to. The panic would come like waves on a rising tide; stronger and stronger until it flooded and submerged her thoughts. There in the inky blackness of it, she could only wait until it had come to pass. A new morning would come and the tide would retreat, but she'd be left in its wake, soaked through and shivering alone. Maybe, if she was lucky, a passerby would come by to poke and prod at her vibrating form, speaking things that she wouldn't hear through water logged ears.
It had been eight days since the last tide came in. Not that anyone was counting.
Her stomach protested to its audience of one, once again. Though she'd been content to lazily stare out at the continuing cleanup efforts, it was becoming clear that she'd need to eat something or else let her body be rocked by her stomach until she passed out.
Oh but what a chore it would be...
Weiss pulled her head away from the window and her skin offered a weak resistance as it stuck to the cold glass. Lazy blue eyes wandered over to the heavy wooden door at the far end of the room. Between here and there laid piles of clothes, many with tags still attached. Whether worn once or never worn at all, they all faced the same tired end of being discarded on an old hardwood floor that creaked whenever walked on.
Between here and there was such a tiresome distance. Before Weiss could even get to walking across that dreadful flooring, she'd have to leave the bed. A bed big enough for three that she slept in alone. Where she sat, still leaned against the window sill, she'd have to not only climb out from under those covers, but also crawl over the many quilts and sheets that sit in piles on the mattress. Her legs would protest, having fallen asleep from being sat on for so long with no relief or movement.
Supposing she could even cross the distance between the window and the door, she'd have to then struggle with that old wooden thing. It was far taller than a door needed to be, and far heavier than a residential place like this warranted. Maybe as the front door of an aging bank it would fit in, but here in this house it was merely a hindrance. Weather and years warped it to the point of an awkward fit in its frame. The edges caught the frame and the base scraped across the floor. Tawny arches were etched on the rotting floor at its base, like monuments to its inconvenience.
And the stairs, oh how she hated those stairs. Creaking and screaming and groaning with each step, she would descend them with her body pressed to the wall so as to avoid stressing them so. A slow descent from one staircase to the next, where the women who owned the home might be there to watch Weiss' curious gate down to the main floor.
They were lovely women, Terra and Saphron Cotta-Arc, Weiss was certain. Nothing but kindness and understanding had been offered to her since she asked to stay with them. And yet Weiss still found offense in their hospitality. Intentions were always pure and good, with not an ounce of judgment or pity hidden within. Their words were ones of love and their questions of genuine concern.
Oh but what an exhausting experience it was to be asked again and again, over and over, if she was 'holding up okay.' Like a daily rehearsal for the next day when they would certainly ask again, Weiss would offer the same gratitudes, platitudes, and pleasant attitudes that she did each time they did ask. It grated at her nerves and brewed guilt in the back of her mind for feeling so inconvenienced, annoyed even, that they would have the audacity to care about her well-being.
All of that work, just for a bite to eat.
Though the cold was still present, so was the sun that day. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to get lunch somewhere in the city. Such a greater distance to go, but it sure beat the hell out of having to talk about herself.
She'd do just about anything these days to avoid herself.
Nothing was hers any longer.
Her heart was taken to Atlas. Her time was taken by the man in the apron. Her freedom was taken by herself.
If there was any silver lining to be found, she was getting rather good with fileting all manner of fish. Even those giant ocean fish like tuna and sword were no match for her skill with a blade.
She was kind of enjoying herself, on occasions when she allowed herself to do so.
Day in and day out, Blake worked tirelessly at that butcher shop by the docks. Gutting fish, fileting them, and laying them out on the ice for eventual sale and consumption. Had she not enjoyed fish as much as she did, she'd probably have grown tired (or disgusted) by the work early on. An added bonus was her allowance of several choice cuts of meat and gifts from surrounding vendors she'd be given at the end of each day. That at least made up for the pathetic pay she received.
Of course, staying in Argus to work as a butcher had not exactly been her plan when she stayed behind all those months ago. It was by chance that she'd stumbled across the opening while searching for a boat to take her far away from Ruby and Weiss.
The docks had sustained a massive amount of damage from flooding caused by the leviathan's approach. In the chaos that remained, she made to help the citizens of the district clean up the docks and repair the damage. She did so of obligation and necessity, not kindness, at first. A means to end that would see her very far away from there.
The butcher had noticed her sleeping the nights away in dark alleyways with Gambol Shroud in her hands and her fingers rested by its trigger. Perhaps he too did so out of obligation or necessity, not kindness, but he offered his home and shop to her as a place to stay until repairs were done.
And so repairs eventually were done and Blake would have left had the butcher not extended his offer. A job offer that was far beneath that of a huntress like Blake, but she took nonetheless. She was always uncertain as to why she accepted. Was it the promise of fresh food? An honorable wage? Or was it that she never actually wanted to leave Argus? Or to leave Weiss and Ruby?
If anyone were to ask her, she would simply say that she enjoyed the mundanity of the position after all she'd been through. But that's just what she'd say.
Though, it wasn't always so mundane.
The docks district wasn't so upscale as the area that Jaune's sister lived in. Many a criminal lurked about in the shadows, some hoping only to snag some unwatched scraps and some looking for even more. It had become just a part of the daily minutiae that things were stolen, people mugged, and blades drawn on passerbys.
From behind the butcher counter, her eyes watched blades glide through flesh and scale with elegance, but her ears on top of her head swiveled constantly. Every hushed whisper and whistled signal would bring pause to her cutting and drag her eyes toward their sources.
Rhythmic thudding on rotting wood caught Blake's attention. Without looking down, she continued the practised motion of tweezing pin bones from a salmon. Her eyes instead panned across the dock before the butcher shop, searching for the rapidly approaching footsteps.
A flurry of movement caught her attention. Even in the overcast weather of Argus, the sun caught on falling coins and left a glimmering trail behind the woman that sprinted across the dock.
Blake made no move but to tweeze the last of the salmon's pin bones. She traded the metal tweezers for a long fileting knife and slid it gently along the fish's spine and removed a perfectly cut filet.
Men and women shouted as several among them took chase after the thief. One among them held several rocks in their lifted shirt while the others would reach into the pile for a few to toss at the fleeing woman.
With whetstone and water, Blake took very good care of her knives. They were an old set given to her by the butcher, but after some time and work she had their edges back to such a point that they'd cut skin from a simple touch. Her knife cut through the flesh connecting the filet to the spine like a sword sliced through air. There was next to no resistance as the blade produced yet another perfectly sized cut of meat.
The thief stumbled and tripped on a loose plank on the boardwalk. Coins scattered across the dock, and the woman scrambled to pick them up again. But as those who chased her came closer, she let the coins go and climbed to her feet.
Just as she was about to stand back up, a sharp tug on her jacket pulled her right back down the ground. She looked at her jacket, expecting to see it snagged on a jagged bit of the boardwalk.
At that moment, two things competed to be the main source of the thief's concern. The first was the shining chromed knife lodged into the boardwalk with her jacket pinned underneath. The second was the calm approach of a woman in black carrying another knife just like the one that held her down.
Blake crouched by the thief's side and looked into her eyes. Even over the background noise of the docks, she could hear the woman's heart beating so fast it might stop. The thief didn't dare to move as Blake loomed over her.
"I didn't-" the thief made a half attempt to speak. Maybe to defend herself or explain, but all that she ended up saying was, "I'm s-sorry."
Blake said nothing to the thief as she reached her blood covered hand toward the thief.
The thief panicked. She tugged at her jacket, ripping it but still not tearing it free. The bloody hand was reaching for her and no matter how she struggled, she would not escape. Tears flooded from her eyes as she clenched them shut, awaiting whatever would come to her.
But nothing happened.
Her eyes opened slowly, expecting to see Blake still looming over her, but instead found herself alone. The knife that had held her to the ground was gone and a single coin sat in its place. Without the blade to hold her down, she scrambled to her feet, sure to grab the coin as she did. She looked around, but found no pursuers and no vigilante hunting her any longer.
The thief made her first smart decision of that day and left.
Blake had let the thief go and returned to her place behind the butcher counter. She ran her hands and her knife she'd thrown under the bitter cold water of the prep sink. Fish blood swirled beneath as it sank into the drain carried by current and soap. Her skin stung as the water ran along it in the freezing cold of Argus in the winter.
Her ears twitched. Behind her, the butcher sat and watched silently. Whether he'd witnessed the entire scene or not, it didn't matter to Blake. After all, that scene and the many others like it were the very thing that kept her fed full with gifts from the dock's grateful merchants.
If he had any qualms with her appropriation of work tools, he didn't say. Just so long as her work was finished by the day's end. And so the butcher left her alone; a fishmonger with her fish and her knives.
It wasn't exactly work worthy of a huntress, but being a fishmonger had so far come with far less casualties.
All eyes were on the sky, empty of movement but not of threats.
In the days following the leviathan's attack, they'd started to appear. Awful things with wings, but not like the Nevermore. A bastard creation that was the worst of the wyverns and beringels. Winged beasts that were just as potent in the air as on the ground.
Though their numbers had been few, they posed such a threat that it was all hands on deck for months. Hunters and huntresses came from far and wide to protect Argus, either being called as reinforcements or having come alongside the refugees from villages that'd fallen victim to the winged apes.
The Warrior had her work cut out for her. She had barely slept in days despite spending every waking hour of the day fighting off every Grimm that sought to attack Argus. Though she fought for Argus, she'd not even been within the city walls in a full month.
Though she fought to protect, she hadn't seen them in months.
A tracker among their ranks had been helping them plan an attack on a conglomeration of Grimm in a small town along the road to Argus. From what they'd been told, it was little more than Beowolves and Ursa in the town. With the ever present threat of the flying Berengils, it became more and more important to be forward in their offensives.
The town had been evacuated and abandoned a week earlier and its people now resided in shelters built for them in Argus. With the influx of hunters that had sought shelter in the city, the defense effort had found enough manpower to form scouting teams. One such team had led the Warrior and two others to the town to clean house.
But through the scope of Crescent Rose, the Warrior could see nothing other than the occasional lethargic Grimm wander about. Far less than the aforementioned dozens she'd been warned about. A surprise, certainly, but not wholly unwelcome.
There was little more than a light breeze and a trail of brown rose petals that followed the Warrior as she slithered into the town.
In the evening light, the empty buildings cast long shadows over the town. Where people would once walk the streets, now that sat barren and painted by the dark and the light in streaks. An occasional creak of settling buildings or crumbling homes would echo out like a scream into the void.
Uncleared roofs collapsed into the structures below, having given way to the weight of the gradually collecting snow. Farm vehicles and bicycles sat rusted where they'd been left. Despite the cold, the broken wood from fallen barns were rotted and moist. Steam rose from the corpses of the building, given off by the fungus and rot that worked to reclaim the rubble.
The town certainly appeared to have been abandoned and left to die ages ago. Which was strange given it was evacuated days ago.
The sound of metal on metal rang out across the town as the Warrior unfurled her scythe. Its blade dragged on the ground behind her as she continued to walk through the town. Her head moved on a swivel, searching for the inevitable attack from the Grimm remaining in the town.
The peculiarity of the town grew, because the Grimm were still apparently unaware they had company.
A flash of green in the distance caught the Warrior's eye. One of the other hunters moved along the far end of the road, equally as confused as the Warrior. Just as the Grimm ignored her, they too ignored the other hunters.
Even as the Warrior walked right up next to a staggering Beowulf, it didn't even look her way. It's legs dragged through the snow, like a starving dog might drag it's malnourished body along to wherever it planned on dying.
The Warrior swung her scythe around, sinking the point into the ground on the other side of the Grimm's neck. In the distance, the other Hunter watched as she pulled the trigger on Crescent Rose and cleaved the Beowulf's head clean off.
As the Grimm slowly dissipated into a fine black dust, the gunshot's echoes continued to ring through the empty. And yet, no Grimm would come. Gunfire continued, not from Crescent Rose's echoes, but from the other two hunters methodically eliminating the remaining Grimm.
As easy as it would be to write it all off as an easy win, the Warrior did not let her guard down.
The Warrior kept her eyes sharp as she pulled Crescent Rose's blade from the ground. With a flick of lever, the weapon began to fold back up, but the Warrior stopped it mid-transformation when she caught a glimpse of dirty brown. Along the edge of the blade was a thin and uneven line of rust that made the scythe look as though it'd been left to the elements for days.
It was becoming more and more obvious to the Warrior that something far more dangerous was happening in the town.
She wandered along the road, crossing between the black shadows and white streaks of sunlit snow. Dust from fallen Grimm drifted lazily past her, carried by the light breeze that whistled through hollowed buildings.
A crash made her jump and she spun around with her weapon pointed toward the source of the noise. Wooden boards crumbled into a mushy pile inside the shell of a decaying building and the ceiling fell down on top of it. There was no apparent force causing it to happen, but as the breeze blew through what remained of the building it continued to collapse in on itself.
The Warrior shivered as the wind picked up speed, changing direction and blowing the snow in her face. Behind her, she could hear more buildings groan and creak in the path of the breeze. One by one, they began to collapse just like the one she'd watched.
She thought to call out to the other hunters and so she did.
Neither responded to her call.
She gripped the handle of Crescent Rose tightly, but reeled back in pain. The handle of her weapon had rusted over and its newly jagged grip ripped at her skin. Blood ran from her palm down her arm, soaking her sleeves for only a moment before staining them brown.
The evidence had made itself clear by then, but the Warrior realized what she was facing too late.