Hello. I suck at writing blurbs.
This is something I've been planning out for a while. This chapter specifically has been in rewriting hell for like five months.
Not really much else to say, and it's too soon to crack inside jokes in the A/N so I'll save it for later.
Hope you enjoy.
Now.
For one second, Laresa's blood turned to ice. For the next, she spun, checking all her corners for whoever or wherever the voice came from.
Coming out this late was a mistake. Laresa swore — quietly and only to herself — there just had to be some creep around tonight.
Sorry. I have made my decision.
The voice came again, but she was sure no one was around. Not on a swing hanging beside her, not on the slides, not even from the benches across.
It appeared directly in her head, and there was only one person she knew who could do that.
"O-Olson?! This isn't funny!" She called out, nervous, but, still, nothing.
Then again, it wasn't his voice. And she never knew he had the ability to mimic any other's.
This time, I'll end it. I've already made the preparations.
Laresa stood off from her swing and touched the knife on her waist. The plasticky grip comforted her mind, and her eyes jumped from shadow to shadow. "H-hello? Is someone there?"
This is your only chance. Don't blow it.
"H—!" With the dagger drawn and in her hands, the girl yelled one last time. She didn't notice the sensation of her toes freezing in their socks at first, but by the time she did it was too late.
You don't know how long I've been searching for you.
Her skin instantly grew icy cold, like she had jumped feet first into a frozen lake. But she didn't even have the energy to shiver — black spots danced in her vision, and the numbing frost halted her thoughts as they formed.
The very last sensation she could recall was falling, then everything went black.
…
Loneliness speared her soul, little knives stabbing into her back like they were trying to dig all the way through. It didn't hurt. Nothing hurt anymore.
Pyrrha could think, but only barely. Like she was on the very verge of unconsciousness and every moment her mind wasn't entirely focused she would fall asleep. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't remember how she got here. And she did try.
Everything was black, inky, thick, like she'd fallen into a lake of tar without realizing when. But escape was easy, she knew: simply struggle, claw and swim the way up — that's how you escape from a pit. It's common sense. Nothing she hadn't learned before.
The issue was: which way was up? Which way was down? And left and right weren't exactly clear, either. Just blackness that way, any way.
It's like the abyss, and Pyrrha couldn't get out. No matter how hard she swam, how hard she clawed and pulled and twisted the black never gave her anything to grasp. Hopefully she really was grasping and crawling — without any feedback, she didn't know.
Why?
Why was she here, instead of anywhere? As she asked herself this question, something burned in her throat, and some kind of emptiness rang in her chest. It told her that it didn't matter in the slightest. That the best thing to do was to sit here and wait.
But for how long? It already felt like an eternity.
At least it didn't hurt. She felt no pain, no temperature, and not even the sensation of the murk on her skin. Barely she could sense her hands and feet, but anything other than their location at the end of her arms and legs was a mystery. Were they in the shape of a fist? An open hand? She could try and make them move, but she had no idea if they would.
And as she tried to stretch out her hand for the trillionth time, something cold, smooth and flat came in contact with her knuckle.
Immediately, Pyrrha had a better idea on her relative location, rotation and position: she stood, her body parallel to the metallic surface — though perhaps instead of standing, she was laying on her back and the surface was covering her. There wasn't much of a difference.
The cool metal jolted her mind with energy — now she could think, just a little bit more. And now, she felt more than ever before. Behind her head, along her back was more metal, and after reaching on either side she found even more, surrounding her in every direction. It must have always been there, because she couldn't feel an entrance or exit.
Every second the chilly metal touched her skin a little bit more clarity returned to her mind.
She was in a smooth, enclosed box. Roughly two feet wide, a little longer than she was tall, and just deep enough so that if she bent forwards slightly she'd hit her head. Metal on all sides.
A coffin.
Before she could wonder why that thought had come in first, panic began to set in. Her mind was working very well now. Relatively.
A coffin?
Pyrrha wasn't dead, no — she had to get out! She opened her mouth to call for help, but the murk spilled in and drowned out her voice before she could form words. She never heard, and still couldn't hear anything, so likely her voice wouldn't carry anyway.
She tried pushing up, slamming her fists on the metal. But even with all her strength it wouldn't even dent, much less swing open. So she tried again, and again, and again, but the liquid slowed her movements and the tight squeeze kept her from getting any true leverage.
And then Pyrrha realized something she wished she hadn't: she couldn't breathe. It occurred to her that the liquid implied that there wasn't air, and for some reason only now did she feel the need to breathe. Why? was a question to save for later.
The liquid filled her lungs and time was running out. She peeled her eyes open and shot her vision around, but there was only black. It burned against her iris, but that hardly mattered.
Everything she tried was futile.
Not even her semblance worked. She knew that the metal was being affected — it's a certain feeling in her gut that tells her if she's actually pulling something or not — but it wouldn't give an inch. She trusted her gut.
Pyrrha quit with the physical means and focused solely on powering her semblance. Surely it would be stronger than anything she can do in this tight space, anyway. Especially this close to her body.
But her mind was numbing from oxygen deprivation, and her lungs screamed for air. She'd only be able to stay awake for a little longer.
The thought scared her more than it should have. This was her only chance.
Finally, after focusing on tearing away one corner of the lid for too many of her precious seconds, she felt it give. It's another sensation in her gut, but also the sudden and sickening sound of tearing steel cut through the liquid and reached her ears. The noise sent shivers down her spine, but she couldn't remember why.
The metal kept groaning. Now that she tore a corner out, the rest of the lid came off easy.
Pyrrha peeked open an eye and almost didn't comprehend what she saw: light. Yellow light expanded above her like she was staring into someone's house from outside the window — but everything was blurry, out of focus, like she was in deep fog.
The instant that the metal peeled back far enough, Pyrrha shot up out of the liquid and took in air as fast as her lungs allowed. She coughed and sputtered, once to get the liquid out of her throat, then again to get it out of her lungs.
After a few moments to get her heartbeat and breathing under control, she finally had the chance to look around and get her bearings. Any information at all would be better than what she had now.
She was in a windowless room, one doorway in on her left, without any furniture to speak of aside from the bent steel sheet lying on the ground. Above her was a simple light hanging from a wire. It was the only thing to light up the area.
Polished hardwood made up the floor, now splashed with a thin layer of liquid that she managed to spill out when she moved. Speaking of…
Pyrrha looked down and saw herself waist deep in a perfectly nondescript metal box filled with a crystal clear substance. Water, probably, hopefully, but she expected it to be something cloudier. Well, no — it absolutely was cloudier when she was staring out from in it. Was something wrong with her eyes?
Some kind of unrecognized flowy white gown hung off her shoulders, though it was entirely waterlogged and thus not very flowy. Water dripped down the lace as she watched.
Lots of questions spun in her head — far too many to count, but before she could begin to sort through any of them the door slammed open against the wall and an unknown man stomped in.
"The hell's going…!" He started shouting, but trailed off when he caught sight of her sitting there. "Oh… um."
Her heart stopped, it felt like. For a shared second they stared wide-eyed at each other, silent without a sound. There were a hundred thousand ways this could go, hopefully things didn't go south — she didn't have the means or the energy to defend herself right now. Even if the man was skinny and didn't seem to carry a weapon.
Then, he leaped back in fear and hid around the doorway. Pyrrha tried to do the same, but actually only splashed around in her pool a little.
"Whuh… You're alive?!" He shouted out, eyes peering from around the corner.
That exclamation felt stranger than anything for a moment, but a few questions of her own overpowered the feeling. "Who are you?" She asked, voice a little quieter than she intended. Her throat was sore, her jaw was weak — she couldn't really do much about it, anyway. "Where am I?" she said, looking around the room again for some kind of indicator she might recognize..
The man stared for a few more seconds, before what might have been courage grew inside. Without that fearful expression, he stepped into the room and rubbed his hands together. "You don't recognize me…?" he whispered, barely audible to her. "Uh, my name's… well, for now you can call me Quincy."
He looked down and frowned when he stepped in a puddle.
Quincy had dark blue hair and a lab coat on, with a similarly blue undershirt and black pants. Not a particularly striking outfit, but Pyrrha supposed that didn't really matter.
"Now, as for where you are… how about you get out of that pod first?" He pointed to the thing in question. "I bet you're not very comfortable sitting there in it."
Pyrrha stared at the man for a few more seconds. He didn't look evil, she thought — everyone knew what evil people looked like, and he didn't quite make the cut. He couldn't be evil.
Her mental facilities stopped responding there. Maybe the adrenaline was wearing off. For now, trusting him would be her best option. At least until she gets a grip on the situation — something which she still knew next to nothing about. All she knew for sure was that she was Pyrrha Nikos and that she woke up in a pod. Nothing else came to mind.
Slowly, she nodded, and then pulled herself up and out of the pod. Her arms failed her the first time, slipping off the edge, but the second got her out.
The floor was cold against her bare feet. She shivered, but didn't slip.
The man looked awfully concerned as he watched her walk, holding his hands in front of him like he would step in to help at any moment. Not that there wasn't a reason — the floor was slippery, and her legs sometimes didn't move as she wanted them to. Still, she made it out without a fall.
Quincy eventually spoke to her, gesturing down the hallway. "There's a bathroom down and to the left. You'd wanna take a shower and change — I don't want you dripping formalin all over my floor, and you probably don't want to smell like pickles. Also, you really don't want this stuff touching your skin. Aura will protect you, but not forever. We can talk after."
"Formalin?" What's that? And Pyrrha took a few whiffs of herself and didn't smell anything.
"You were fully submerged in it, probably got used to the smell. Also, you should know that you're definitely delirious right now. On a scale, I'd put you at nine-out-of-ten." He crossed his arms. "So just do what I say and don't ask questions. I'm a doctor, so you can trust me. I'll bring you clothes."
A doctor? Pyrrha examined him again, and he definitely looked the part of a doctor. So he must be a doctor. As for whether she was delirious or not, she found it far too difficult to think about it at the moment. Was she? Was she not?
"Okay…"
Well, it didn't matter. A shower would be great now, so Pyrrha hobbled over to the door Quincy pointed at.
She looked back, and Quincy lifted his gaze from the wet trail on the floor to her. Then, he waved a little goodbye and said, "Don't take too long."
She wasn't planning on it.
…
Now Pyrrha was really freaking out.
About halfway through her shower she put together everything she could about the situation — she had been in a mysterious silver pod, then woke up in some stranger's place, and now was using his shower to wash some chemical off her skin. These three things were bad enough alone, but all at once was a legitimately terrible situation to be in.
Also, she could smell the pickles now, and thanks to it really wanted to vomit. If she wasn't in some stranger's shower, maybe she would have.
Pyrrha wrapped up, threw on the random clothes that had been slipped in through the door, stomped out of the room and found Quincy standing around, waiting for her in something that resembled a living room.
"I—" He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut in.
"Excuse me, can you explain what's going on?! Why did I wake up here — for that matter, where is here?! And who are you, really?!" She didn't ever take that tone, and recognized it instantly. Immediate guilt washed over her, but she reasoned within herself that the situation was stressful, and yes, it was called for.
Quincy cocked an eyebrow. "Well, it's good to see you're thinking straight. We're in Mistral, the city."
"M-Mistral?" That word echoed again and again in her head. Mistral? The city? How'd she even get all the way here? The last place she remembered being was… was…
"As for why you're here, um… perhaps you should be sitting for this." He said, scratching behind his ear and gesturing to the sofa in front of him. "It's not something people usually take standing up. Or at all. You really wanna know?"
His interruption snapped her from her thoughts, and Pyrrha stared back. She tried, but why couldn't she remember anything?
"Just… tell me." She said, even though her jaw felt like it was locking up. A sudden headache came from somewhere behind her head, putting pressure on her temples. "Please."
"Well, if you say so." Quincy sat on the sofa in place of her. "I'll make this quick. I'm a mortician, and you were dead. That pod was for your burial, the traditional Mistralian way. Was gonna float you down the river."
Halfway through his sentence, the headache grew exponentially — like a chisel against her skull. And the words were a hammer that slammed down and cut into her brain. It was too sudden. Everything was too sudden.
Pain, unimaginable agony jumped all throughout her body as a hundred thousand memories flashed in her eyes. Of Vale, and Beacon academy. Of JNPR and RWBY. Of Jaune and Ren and Nora and Ruby and Weiss and—
And the Vytal festival and the tournament. And Penny and the Fall of Beacon and the Fall of Beacon! And the maidens and Amber! Thousands of Grimm—
The battle, and her death.
She remembered that feeling, bleeding through a hole in her chest — it's the same thing she felt now, exactly the same. It wasn't only the pain, but also the infinite sense of failure that drowned her with it. Consuming, endlessly.
Now she couldn't stop herself from throwing up, even if all it did was burn her throat with acid and spit up a little bit of formalin.
Was that her screaming, or was it someone else? Was that woman howling at her failure from inches away, or was that only her imagination? Everything happened too fast. There wasn't enough time to process any of it, and even if she had forever there still just wouldn't be enough time.
It took a minute to realize that she was sitting on something soft, and someone else's hand was rubbing her back. She looked at the source, but her tears blurred her vision too much to tell.
"You're shivering," Quincy said, "if I had a blanket on hand I'd give it to you, but I don't. Make do with my hand."
Pyrrha wiped some tears off her face, but they were replaced an instant afterwards. The pain was gone, and all that it left was a reminder carved in her brain. "Quincy…" she whispered, unable to put any strength in her voice even if she wanted to, "Where a-am I, really?"
He frowned at that, though it was hard to tell. "Like I said, Mistral. Big mountainy place… you know." The hand on her back stopped its circle. "And I know what you're gonna ask next — no, you're not dead. In my professional opinion, you are most certainly alive. I mean, your heart's beating fine. Also, you're moving around and breathing. I think it's quite conclusive."
"A-alive? H-how?" No matter how hard she reasoned, she couldn't figure it out. "I… I was shot through the heart! How could I be alive?!" She shouted right at him, something she didn't have the time to feel bad about.
"Oh, were you? That's probably not good." Quincy didn't mind, and resumed drawing circles on her back.
It helped, she thought. A little bit.
"And I have no clue. Really, that's what I want to know. Even if I somehow made a mistake and grabbed your still-living body, dipping you in formaldehyde for six years would have done you in for sure." He shrugged. "So, I really don't know. You were, without a doubt, dead, before today. And yet, here you are."
"Six… six years? You're saying I was in that pod for six years?!" The absurdity of that figure astounded her, no matter how hard she tried to reason it. Six years was… six years. More than two thousand days. That was enough time for her to graduate Beacon, fight Grimm professionally for some time, fight in six more tournaments, and even maybe start a family…
"Yeah, I guess so. You were definitely dead for more than six years, though — I only found your body six years ago. Kept you here waiting for the day that someone shows up and recognizes you. I mean, I didn't know who you were," he said, then paused, realizing something. "Hell, I still don't know who you are! Care to clear that up for me?"
Of the many, many, many confusing issues plaguing her mind, the fact that Quincy didn't recognize her at first glance ranked near the bottom. Sure, she didn't have her armor on and her hair was down, and sure, her voice was hoarse and not at all like how she sounds on TV, but even still it couldn't have been a hard connection to make. Especially in Mistral.
Or… was six years long enough for the public to forget about her? It was an interesting thought, though on some level it saddened her that her legacy only lasted a few years.
And if the populace forgot, then did her friends forget, too? Did Jaune? He's strong, she knows — six whole years and he must have moved on by now, wherever he was. Maybe he didn't forget, but instead just didn't care anymore. Did he ever come back?
Something nudged her and took her out of those depressive thoughts. They still left their mark.
Quincy stared at her, waiting for a response.
"S-sorry. I'm… Pyrrha Nikos." He kept staring, and Pyrrha knew where the conversation was going next. "Yes… the Pyrrha Nikos."
Quincy blinked, then echoed her name. "Pyrrha Nikos… huh? Pyrrha Nikos…"
"You… know who I am, right?"
"Duh. 'Course I know who Pyrrha Nikos is. You think I'm a joke?" He scoffed. "I was there to see you win the regionals four times in a row, you know. We even shook hands… actually, I guess we didn't."
Pyrrha gave some awkward kind of smile. It wasn't representative of how she felt. "Um… thanks…?"
"Yeah, no problem." Then he took his hand back and stood up to walk away somewhere else.
She felt worse immediately. Was that really enough to scare him away? Maybe being in Beacon had spoiled her into forgetting how normal people were.
No, it didn't matter, some part of her told herself. Right now she should be getting the facts straight, thinking the situation through, and not selfishly seeking comfort. Yes, it was hard, but that's what a huntress sometimes had to do.
But a huntress was something she'd never be.
She pulled her knees up to her chin, and buried her face in between.
No, no, no, please. She didn't care about huntresses anymore. Or the festival, maidens, or even the Grimm. Just why can't someone be there for her right now? Why did she always have to be alone?
Her friends, she missed them so much. She'd give anything to see them right now, because she's stewing, stuck in her own thoughts and that was not where she wanted to be.
A cup clinked on the coffee table in front of her. She didn't look up, but the balance of the sofa shifted as something sat beside her. "I made some tea," he said. "Drink it if you want."
She didn't want. She'd probably just throw it up later, and already she'd done enough harm to the flooring.
"Or don't. It's cheap stuff." Said Quincy, sipping from his own steamy mug before putting it down. "Listen, Pyrrha — if you don't mind me calling you that — I'm gonna need you to tell me the very last thing you remember… I mean, the very last thing you remember that I can find on a calendar."
Pyrrha didn't find an issue with the request, but thinking back too hard made her headache worse — she was forced to just bring up more vague, general events that had to be common knowledge by now.
"I remember… the Vytal Festival in Vale, the invasion of Beacon."
Quincy's brows scrunched up in confusion. "The Vytal Festival… in Vale? What?"
"I-it must have been six years ago. It's…" she swallowed, "where I died."
"Yeah, I figured that out. Thing is, six years ago the Vytal Festival was held in Atlas, not Vale. And there's no invasion of Beacon that I've ever heard of. Also, no one your age's died in the festival in… ever." He leaned closer. "Are you sure you're not just confused? I dunno the technicalities of returning from the dead, but maybe your memories are messed up?"
"I-I…" She wanted to deny it. Those memories were too clear to be fake — they had to be real. They were too vivid, too encompassing. She knew, but how did she know?
Because even then, nothing made sense. How did she get to Mistral, why'd she come back to life, how long had it been — all these questions just didn't mesh with what she knew, and it stung.
"I don't know…" Pyrrha buried her head further in between her legs. "I don't…" she missed the blackness in the pod. Back then, nothing hurt and she couldn't think as much as she could now.
"Hey… it's okay. We have plenty of time to figure everything out." Quincy sipped the tea and stood up again. "I'll go get a blanket. I think you'll appreciate it — try not to move around too much. Be right back."
She heard, but forgot to respond.
People can't see her like this — that's a lesson hammered into her time and time again. She hated being idolized, but now she realized she also hated the sense of weakness that swathed every part of her body. Was that it? Guilt and shame and humiliation — did that add up to weakness?
It's yet another new sensation she had to wrap her head around.
…
Pyrrha pried her eyes open, and then she realized that she'd been asleep. Someone wrapped a fuzzy purple blanket around her, so tight that she felt like some sort of small rescue animal.
It was warm — so warm that Pyrrha let go of everything and snuggled deeper inside.
She'd thought she'd only taken a nap, but considering the strange sense of relief and rest she felt right now it must have been something closer to a deep slumber. In fact, that might have been the best night's sleep she's got in many months. The dorm's nice, but it's also so… noisy. Sometimes.
Crickets outside chirped, and while she focused on the song a set of doors nearby creaked open. Quincy stepped in from outside, dragging a small two-wheeler cart behind him. The ground was sloped, so there weren't any problems rolling it all in.
"Oh. You're awake. Sleep well?" He asked, lifting his sight from the floor. "I bet you did."
She really did sleep well, and she really did feel better. So much better than before. Though she was still a little tired, and still a little scared, it didn't feel like everything was ripping her apart anymore.
And the sleep gave her clarity — limitless clarity and lucidity, it felt like. Everything that plagued her just a few hours ago seemed so far away now. Still poking around somewhere, but for the time being it wasn't at the forefront of her mind.
"Yes… um, I did." Pyrrha nodded. "Sorry, but what time is it, Qui… Quincy?" It took a second for her to dig through her recent memories for the man's name. It was Quincy, right?
"Right now it's six in the morning. You've been asleep for… what, sixteen hours? One hell of a nap. You must've been exhausted." Wheeling the cart down the hall, Quincy yawned. "Looking better now, though. Lemme put this gal away and I'll make breakfast. We'll talk then."
For one second Pyrrha wanted to ask what was in that cart he pulled, but by the time she figured out how to word the question he was gone. Later, then.
The blanket wrinkled and fell to her feet as she stood up.
Her head was… numb, but that wasn't quite the right word. Maybe spry, she thought, like a window had opened in her skull and for the first time fresh air could blow in. It's a strange feeling. Like her head was full of bubbles, floating, bouncing.
Not bad at all, but it wasn't necessarily good either. It felt… freeing. Like she's dreaming, or like she'd been dreaming all her life up until now. Like she'd finally woken up from a long nap — which she did, so that might be where the feeling was from.
She breathed in crisp air that only just blew in through the door — the environment was so much nicer the higher up the mountain you were. Pyrrha's been up and down the city enough times that she could tell that Quincy must've been quite well-off to live with such fresh air.
A question she'd almost never had to ask herself popped into her head: what now?
Should she try to contact whatever was left of her team? Was Nora alright? Did she have a way to, and would she even listen? Six years without a word?
And, for that matter, has it really been six years or was there some enormous misunderstanding going on?
The proper answers to these questions were beyond her reach. Right now, at this very moment, she could only guess and theorize. And she'd do that later.
Yes, later. All of her problems could only be solved later, not now. Later. Tomorrow, or the day after. The thought made her giddy, excited, like a naughty little girl doing what she shouldn't.
That's strange, she thought. Something was wrong with her head.
But right now, Pyrrha was curious about the place she'd slumbered in for six years and sixteen hours. Quincy had said he was a mortician, so was this building a funeral parlor? Normally she'd be put off by the thought of… generally being near a place like a funeral parlor, but now she brushed off the thought. Maybe her brain just gave up on processing whatever's going on.
It's possible, she thought. She kind of felt like she gave up, herself.
Hopefully he wouldn't mind her exploring a bit. Pyrrha looked around — the room was simple, stone-walled, with a door on three sides and a hallway on the last. Two windows flanked the front doorway, and through them she could see the particular shade of darkness that comes right before sunrise.
It's a very common floor plan for a house built into the mountain. Maybe eighty percent of subterranean buildings are made this style, and ones that aren't are caved in to be later remade this way.
The room to the left was the bathroom — she already went there to shower in her strange, hazy state, and the one on the right was a kitchen with a cut out in the wall that allowed her to see in from here. The entire building wasn't very big, considering other than that there were only what she assumed to be bedrooms attached to the hallway.
The place was cozy in a familial way. Normally all she felt from the hard rock walls was coldness and alienation, but with all the old tapestries and framed photos lining the walls all she could think about was what must have been generations and generations of people living in this one place. She had to ask about it.
And at that very moment Quincy stepped out of a doorway, peeling off a disposable glove. "Wow," he looked her way, "you sure bounce back quick, Pyrrha."
Quick was an understatement. While Pyrrha was certainly no professional on traumatic experiences, this level of recovery in the timespan of one long sleep couldn't have been normal. It's weird — it had to be unnatural at some level — but it's much better than before. Between this feeling and that feeling, she'd choose this any day.
So for now, she'd embrace it. Until everything was cleared up, she'd embrace it.
"Um… yes, I suppose." She wished she could say more, but she really didn't know anything else. "I… like your house, Quincy. It's very… cozy. How long have you lived here?"
"This place? Cozy?" He pointed down at the floor, with a befuddled look to him. "Pyrrha, I live in a cave. An upscale cave, but a cave nonetheless. I don't consider it cozy."
Automatically, an apology formed in her mouth. Before she could speak it, Quincy interrupted.
"Well, I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. In Mistral, at least." He admitted, walking into the kitchen. She could still see him through the hole carved out of the wall. "This house has been passed down through the generations since… ever. You know the Quincy family? You must have heard of them once before, right?"
Pyrrha searched her brain but came up empty, shaking her head.
Quincy raised a brow. "Really? Well, you're still a kid, so maybe no one's ever told you. We're a family of morticians, and our history extends back a pretty long time."
"Morticians? That's…" kind of bland? Surely there's more interesting jobs to be passed down the generations.
"Obviously not just regular morticians. Who'd want to do that? We're special — we specialize in Grimm victims, huntsmen deaths, unidentifiable corpses, and pretty much anything else that regular folk don't want to deal with." Like it was nothing, Quincy cracked an egg onto a simmering pan. "And we've been doing it for a while. All huntsmen learn about us eventually, since we're probably the ones who'll clean up after them."
Pyrrha paled. She felt better up until now — why'd she have to ask the one thing that would bring her back down?
"It's not too bad, though. I haven't had to bury a Grimm victim in a few days, and a huntsman in maybe a week. People are dying less and less, and I'm starting to run out of work." He shrugged. "I guess that's a good thing."
Anything, change the subject to anything, please. She really didn't want to think about Grimm or victims right now. "I'm sorry, can we… talk about something else?"
Quincy peeked an eye open towards her. He said nothing for a moment that lasted a little too long, then spoke up again. "Anyway, breakfast's ready. Hope you like eggs and toast, since that's all I have."
After walking out, Quincy handed her a plate with an egg and toast. One egg, one toast.
Pyrrha stared at the dish in her hand. Its food, yeah, but it's not huntsman food. This was only enough to get her through maybe a few hours before a crash. Aura takes a lot to keep up.
"I don't have a table, so eat on the sofa or something." He said, grabbing an entire fried egg with his bare hands and slipping it into his mouth. "...I don't ever get visitors, so I put it away. I mean, visitors that I have to feed." The toast met the same fate. "Want a fork? I don't have any utensils other than that."
"Um, yes, please." Was it rude to ask for more? Quincy must have been at least somewhat affluent to be part of a family as famous as he says that his was, she thought. Surely he could provide more, right?
Quincy left before coming back out and handing her the fork. When she took it, he spoke up. "So… now that you're feeling better, I've got to ask — what are you going to do? I don't know if you want to stay in my house forever. I mean, I wouldn't mind. It's nice to have company for once, but someone like you… I bet you've got plenty of things to do."
Pyrrha didn't respond immediately. After walking and getting comfortable on a loveseat, she cut a bit of her egg and took a bite.
Well, she didn't have an answer. What should she do? Beyond the obvious, like check in on everybody and try to reconnect, what should she do? Try and graduate again, some other place? Get put on a different team? Pyrrha's quite familiar with her body — she didn't feel any weaker, and she definitely wasn't much older than before. Not six years older, at least. She'd fit back in, easy.
Then what? Just live her life like nothing happened? She had the strength and the skills to fight, right?
But she tried already, and she failed. Could she do it again? Was it worth another shot?
So, what should she do?
"I… don't know." She mumbled, some mashed toast in her teeth. "I just… want to understand what's going on first. Then I'll see what I'll do. Is that okay?"
Quincy fell on the sofa across from her. "Fine with me. I don't really care what you do. Unless you die, because then I'll be sad."
"No, I definitely won't die." On her great list of potential things to do, dying was an absolute no. It didn't matter what it would take — she must not allow herself to die again. "I'm sure of that."
"Okay. I believe you."
The conversation died down. There wasn't much food, so Pyrrha finished quickly. Quincy sat on his sofa, watching, thinking about something, then a question popped into her brain.
"Hey, Quincy?" She started, and he looked up. "Are you really… okay with all of this? You stored my body for… six years, and all of the sudden I come back to life. Are you really okay?"
"Don't worry about me. Truthfully, I figured something was strange long ago." Quincy leaned forward, putting a finger up every time he made an observation. "First of all, you generally never went through autolysis, and thanks to that never decomposed. Secondly, I poked around here and there for a cause of death, but I never found one. Thirdly, you… well, looked an awful lot like Pyrrha Nikos, which was strange all by itself. And, of course, the big one."
"The big one?" She wasn't sure if she was comfortable hearing about how he poked around.
"Yes, the big one." He folded his hands. "Your aura was still on."
The sentence exploded in her head — at the same time, it wasn't surprising. It clashed with the facts, but it had to be that way for her to use her semblance upon waking up.
Dead bodies didn't have aura. That was just a fact of life. Whether you believed that the soul wasn't real and aura was sourced some other way or not, it was an undeniable fact that dead bodies had no aura. No matter whether it was drained before death or not. No matter if it was unlocked.
"Not only that, but it also regenerated. I had to break it a few times — sorry, by the way — and within a few hours it would regenerate back to normal levels, just like a living person. It didn't heal you, but it definitely kept you safe. Sounds nuts, but I know what I saw."
"Then… even with all that evidence, you still treated me like a corpse?"
Did she yell that? Quincy looked up from the floor. "Don't get so worked up. I'm a professional — you definitely, absolutely, without any doubt, were dead. No blood circulation, no heartbeat, no breathing. Dead. No brain activity, and no metabolism. Your body was room temperature, inside and out. It's like you were… frozen in time, I suppose." He shrugged. "If you can trust me on one thing, it's that. And also that you had your aura up."
It didn't make sense, but it had to. To have been able to come back and then immediately use her semblance like she did… well, the aura had to come from somewhere.
"So, yeah. You put all that together and I was left thinking something weird was definitely going to happen. Coming back to life was… well, it wasn't too far outside my expectations. My other theories were that you would turn into a Grimm or that I was in an accident and fell into a deep coma."
Pyrrha opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Her mouth was dry — too many absurdities to deal with in under twenty-four hours.
Her saliva returned after a moment, and when she could speak again Pyrrha spoke her mind. There was only one thing she wanted.
"I… want to go back to sleep, Quincy. Can I?"
His eyebrows jumped up.
She knows the look. Sometimes interviewers would try and corner her into saying something meaty for the public — always there would be an expression of expectation on their face, waiting for that moment they would cash in on her misspeaks and mistakes at her expense.
Quincy must have been quite interested in what she had to say to also adopt that expression. It's clear: he dropped that huge revelation bomb on her, and now wanted to see her react.
Kind of a sociopathic thing to do, saying something to someone to get a rise out of them, she thought, but if everyone does it maybe it's not like that. Though it did bring her some amount of guilty joy seeing these people get their expectations flipped on them.
"Uh, but you just woke up…" he eventually said. "Nevermind. Sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel worse. I'll get back to work. Goodnight."
Pyrrha nodded, though she wasn't listening, then grabbed the blanket off the ground and wrapped herself entirely. From top to bottom, not a hole in sight — this way, she couldn't see out and the world couldn't see in.
A minute later, a low-rumbling growl sounded out from her stomach.
Blood rushed to her head instantly, and the sudden burn on her face must have been visible for miles. Luckily, no one could see it.
"Oh. Are you still hungry? Wanna get something to eat?" Quincy just had to speak up. "We can probably beat the morning rush if we go right now, you know."
So she made a show of wrapping herself up in a blanket for nothing, then. Pyrrha released a deep sigh and sat up. "Alright."
…
Quincy was a very strange individual. Pyrrha wasn't sure how to feel about him yet.
Something about him sets her off, just a bit, like he radiated the slightest bit of danger that her instincts barely could pick up. It's something about the way he stands, probably. The feeling's mostly gone by now, but every so often it flares up when he looks her way. Even when she's pretending to sleep.
But on the other hand, he's weak. Maybe it's cruel to think, but she was certain she could beat him in a fight with both hands tied behind her back — the thought brought a sense of security to her tired mind. But it's not like he'd done anything wrong so far, and as far as she can tell he seemed to be a kind person. Strange, but kind.
They walked down Main Street of Mistral, and now she finally had a good grasp on her location in the city — somehow, Quincy lived in a mountain house directly below Haven Academy. The platform holding the school was still a good thousand feet up, or so, but at noon it would shade the area. She didn't know they made houses up here.
"It's what I like to call, 'The Asshole of Haven'." Quincy so eloquently clarified. "'Cause tons of shit falls from there and lands in my front yard all the time. Weapons, training equipment, bottles of Dust, even students. Sometimes literal shit. I have a room in my place where I keep some cool goodies I recovered that way."
While that was weird, Pyrrha much preferred thinking about that than anything she'd think of by herself. "So… you're stealing equipment from Haven?"
"What? Stealing? No, of course not. It's not like anyone comes looking for it." Quincy coughed into his fist. "Anyway, I work at Haven so the staff probably don't care."
"Are you a professor?"
He shook his head. "Nah. I'm their undertaker. Actually, I'm all of the major academies' undertaker, so I work everywhere. That means I get to bury kids no matter where they are, yay."
"Really?" Now, while morbid, that explained a lot about his financial situation. Landing a job at one major academy was impressive, but all four at once was something else.
"Yeah. It's 'cause I'm the best there is when it comes to funeral services. Everyone in my family is."
The conversation lulled to a stop there. Pyrrha hated it, but this is always what happens — normally, the respectful thing to do was to ask a few questions in return, for the sake of polite small talk, but her being who she is meant that everyone already knew all about her.
Her agitation would end there, replaced by momentary panic when she spotted a crowd of morning people milling by the street ahead, all looking this way with alarming expressions. Her… her hood, where was it?
Then she realized she had no hood, because either she forgot to ask for one or simply didn't think of that need after so long without having to sneak around.
Quincy's hand clapped her shoulder. "Don't worry about it. You're fine," he said.
And then, he continued walking down the road unabated, and something very strange happened: the crowd parted in two, then at a rate quicker than necessary turned tail and ran the other direction. It was like… some sort of reversed-dream situation. She's probably had a nightmare like this before.
When she caught up to him, she asked, "What was that? Quincy? Did you do something?"
Quincy looked at her for a second, then sighed. "Nah. But as long as you're with me, you don't gotta worry about anyone approaching. I've got… a bad rep around town. It comes with the job… y'know. Mistralians are quite superstitious."
A bad rep was an understatement. Even those times when she went out in full armor without even an attempt of being stealthy — it happens when she's late for a tournament or something — it's never been that everyone comes up to her or calls out. Here, no matter what they were doing before, the moment they caught sight of Quincy they dropped everything and left.
The heavy feeling of pity and sympathy weighed in Pyrrha's heart. Just on the off chance it would make him feel better, she patted him on the back. "It's okay. I know how you feel," she added.
Quincy glanced back for a moment, "Do you, now?" he said, making an expression that also said he didn't believe her at all. Rightfully so — in the end, she had to admit she was extremely fortunate for her life to be the way it is. Between her fame and his infamy she'd take the fame any day. "Forget it, I know a place. Let's just get there quick. I don't like going out too long."
Pyrrha nodded an affirmation.
And without fail, every single person that they came across turned and ran when they saw Quincy walking beside her. No one gave her a second glance. Pyrrha kind of liked it.
Eventually, they arrived at a tiny alleyway-located ramen store in the corner of some complex. The entrance doorway was tighter than it should've been, but that was standard for all small alleyway stores like it. A neon sign flickered above, saying Bo's Ramen.
Someone once said that True Mistralian spirit could be found only in tight alleyways and greasy food made by a suspicious looking man, and to a degree Pyrrha agreed. There was a soul to the city, but it wasn't ever out in the sun — it's here, dark and dank in shadowed over bricks lit by colored neon. In its own way, it was beautiful. Ignore the corpse by the wall.
It's scary, too. Pyrrha can only take so much True Mistralian spirit before she has to excuse herself for some Safe Mistralian spirit, and that bar was now slowly filling. She'd give it a few hours.
Pyrrha looked up at the sign. "This Bo man… does he not mind you?"
"Hmm?" Quincy hummed for a second. "No, he despises me 'cause I cremated his dead son. But he's blind, so if I take a shower and wear a different pair of shoes he'll have no idea. Oh, yeah — I gotta pretend I'm mute, so order for me. I don't care what you get. I'll pay, so go wild."
Slowly, Pyrrha nodded. So they're gonna take advantage of a blind old man whose son was dead and hadn't gotten over it yet. It's awful, but her stomach was begging for food so violently that she might do anything for some kind of meal. To make her feel better, she'd decided to buy the most expensive thing on the menu.
The last thing she needs is some more guilt on her conscience. She already feels like she's barely keeping it together.
Pyrrha pushed open the door. Inside was the small establishment: a long counter with stools, opposite it an equally long row of booths and tables, and behind the counter an old man.
What did a blind old man in mourning look like, anyway? Expecting something, Pyrrha approached the counter and saw… a regular old man, except his eyes were empty. In a blind way.
The old man greeted them, and Pyrrha forced herself out of her mind to respond. He didn't recognize her voice — at least, didn't act like he did.
Behind her, Quincy moved to an empty booth. He spotted Pyrrha looking back, then grinned back and gave a thumbs up. It was a strange expression on him, and the smile failed to reach his tired eyes.
It's all so… surreal. Was she dreaming? Because she always felt that way.
Pyrrha gave up thinking about it, glanced at the menu and made her order.
…
Pyrrha felt better. Much, much better. Better than she felt when she woke up after that sleep, and even better than she felt when she was in that darkness. Was she really starving that bad?
A television blared out above their heads, something obnoxious and loud that she didn't pay any attention to.
She released a deep exhale of relief — it's actually scary how hungry she had truly been without caring. The old man somehow sensed that they had finished and brought the bill, mumbling something about the back, and Quincy, also looking quite stuffed, reached to grab it.
Bo walked out of the room through some back doorway at the same moment that Quincy looked at the bill.
"What…?" Quincy blinked, once, twice, then paled as he took in the number on the paper. "P-Pyrrha… what did you buy?"
"Huh? Did I do something wrong?" It couldn't have been that expensive, right? It's just a small ramen stop.
Quincy worked his jaw, chewing out what to say before settling on: "Okay… no, Pyrrha, it's fine. You're fine. I can handle this. It's no biggie. Really. This much? Pish posh. C'mon."
Near the end there it didn't seem like he was talking to her.
"Thank you for the meal, Quincy." She said, bowing her head a little from across the table. "And… I'm sorry."
A bead of sweat appeared on his brow as he placed a lien card at the edge of the table. "Uh, what for? The money's really not a big deal. I was… joking."
"For being… moody with you, earlier today and yesterday. I know you were just trying to help, but I was… upset and confused at the situation." She paused, gathering her thoughts before continuing, "And while you might not know why… this whole thing is happening to me, I think that I wouldn't be alive now if it weren't for you. If you just had left me… wherever you found me, I mean. So, thank you for that, Quincy. I don't know how I can ever make it up to you."
The air was calm, quiet. A warmth grew in her body, a great load taken off her shoulders.
Quincy sighed in what might have been resignation. "Yeah… no problem, Pyrrha. It's my job, anyway. As long as you're still alive and moving on with your life, I'll be satisfied. You do that, and I'll consider it all made-up. Alright?"
To his strange, awkward grin Pyrrha couldn't resist making a wide smile back. Why did she ever think of him poorly? Such a kind, forgiving person… she couldn't imagine what kind of situation she'd be in if she hadn't met him when she had. "Alright, Quincy. That's a deal."
He nodded back, wiping the sweat off his forehead. Was his food too spicy? She couldn't remember what exactly she ordered for him.
"So…" Quincy drawled out, "I bet you're sick and tired of me asking this, but do you have any sort of idea of what you wanna do? I might have, uh, implied that I would house you forever if it came to it, but… y'know, that just isn't practical. Especially since you eat so much. I mean, I can afford it — it's just… I dunno if I wanna." The last part was barely spoken over a whisper.
"I…" A little bit of a blush grew on her face, but Pyrrha forced it down before she continued, "I haven't completely organized my thoughts yet, but I'm on my way. I'm sorry, but I think I'll have to intrude on you until I have it worked out. It can't take very much longer." And it mustn't. He's already done so much for her.
"As long as you have some kind of plan. I think I've done all I can. The rest is up to you, now." He said, leaning back in his seat.
That's right. It was all up to her now, alone. She wasn't in school, a team, or even in the year she should be in. All her choices were entirely her own, and it's a very odd feeling — exciting, though, and the thought of her absolute freedom got her strangely giddy.
—Pyrrha Nikos.
A voice said. Instinctively, she looked in the direction that the name came from.
The TV screen above them turned white as a transition played. A logo spun, then slid out the edge along with the white background, revealing a camera feed of a pretty young woman with long red hair and green eyes. She stood in the middle of a plaza, someone's microphone being pushed by her chin and smiling towards the camera. A little box in the corner said LIVE.
So, Miss Nikos, you've graduated from Sanctum and the break is nearly over— have you chosen a combat academy to enroll in? Will you be staying local and going to Haven?
It dawned on her.
Quincy must have seen the look of absolute terror stretched on her face, because he averted his eyes somewhere else and scratched his cheek.
"Ah… uh… did I forget to mention that?" Now he was sweating a lot. Much more than before. "Oopsies."
Actually, I've considered all my options with my family, and together we've decided to enroll in Beacon. I feel that there I can best work to improve my talents as a Huntress.
And she felt it.
Her little sandcastle of comprehension of her life and of the world being wiped out, without any resistance, by this typhoon.
There wasn't even a moment to breathe.
You know, there's a lot less Pyrrha time travel after death fics than I thought there would be. At least on this site.
Also, this isn't a fix-it. The amount of things Pyrrha will successfully accomplish before dying is in the title of the fic.