Alright, here we are, hope you enjoy!
It appeared that Professor Oobleck's class would actually be substantive. The exact opposite of Ports, an incredible amount of information was crammed into an incredibly short amount of time, with not a moment's break afforded. It all fascinated the Lone Wanderer, come from a different world. This place was so different in so many ways, so digging into its history and culture could be a great experience.
Now if only he was able to keep his eyes open.
He couldn't remember it, the nightmare that had kept him awake the night before. He didn't remember all of them, but he knew that he had one when he woke with a strange stiffness diffused throughout his muscles. Or more obviously, more painfully, he'd wake up with a full-blown panic attack as he had just the other night. As it was, a lingering sense of unease infected him, even though he had no idea what exactly had caused that.
However, he was certain that, in some way, shape or form, it involved Bishop Beauvais. It always did.
Whatever the content, it'd robbed him of the restful sleep he'd been hoping for. The last few days had been exhausting in ways he hadn't had to face in a long time. In the past, he'd been forced to run for hours, to stay awake for days, to go with next-to-no food or water for upwards of a week
He hadn't been forced to talk this much in a long time.
His eyes drifted open again, but instead of trying to focus on the lecture, his gaze drifted to Ruby Rose, the greatest talker he'd yet faced. She seemed to have taken his advice to heart, as she was diligently scrabbling in her notebook, trying desperately to keep up with the Professor's ridiculous pace and actually managing it with some fair success. Maybe it was because of her semblance? Who knew, certainly not him.
All he knew was that he hated her. He hated her for that awful time at the armory the night before. She'd... she'd just kept talking. She'd kept talking, and then she'd started smiling, and then she'd gotten back to exuding her innate innocence. It had felt like ants were crawling around under his skin, scratching his flesh with their tiny legs and jaws. He'd needed to leave, so leave he did. He hated her. He absolutely hated her. He truly, powerfully, passionately despised her.
He knew that to be fact, for it's what he kept telling himself.
He hated everyone else, too. They kept making him talk. They made him talk and they made him remember.
He continued glaring at Ruby. Her brow was furrowed as she tried to keep up with her notes, a look of determination matched only by her partner, sat beside her. The two girls furiously scribbled and even exchanged a few words as they kept up. Blake did something similar, though in an independent, fluid manner distinct from her team. Yang, meanwhile, was putting all her effort into keeping her forehead off of the table.
Well, at least he wasn't alone.
Yang Xiao-Long. Sister to Ruby Rose. That was weird. It also explained a few things. For example, why she'd gotten up in the middle of the night to come over and say hi to him. Maybe she and Ruby had just been talking about him, and she decided that then was as good a time as ever to introduce herself to her sister's new friend. He started gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Maybe she'd just been trying to be friendly, when he'd savagely rebuffed her.
He shook his head. Whatever the reason, it was her fault. Everything about their interaction was firmly her fault, and he couldn't be assigned an ounce of blame for how he'd acted. Certainly not. Something uncomfortable turned in his stomach. No! No, he wasn't to blame. Besides, there were still a whole host of other possible motives. She could still have been planning something nefarious. Even if her intentions were honest, it would be pointless for everyone to try and befriend him. He'd be leaving as soon as he could. He'd get his weapons and training sorted out, then he'd leave one night and never come back.
He needed to leave quickly. This place was already beginning to wear him out in a way that he hadn't expected. If he continued on this pace, then he'd have to consistently talk to more people than he had in months. He hated all of them. Ruby most of all.
She just... she made him feel bad. He didn't know why. She made him feel empty. Emptier than usual.
He clenched his teeth and gripped his pen with a strange fury. Just get back to the lesson. Try and get back to the lesson. Ignore all of them. Once things get into full swing here, then it'd be easier to avoid them if only because he'd naturally be busier. He could immerse himself in his studies and additional training. It was important distance oneself both physically and mentally. Being busy would keep away the thoughts of these people. It always kept away other thoughts, too. These bastard pieces of shit here all kept talking about teams, about their friends, about leadership.
He wanted none of it.
He focused on Oobleck's manic speech, instead. For a while, at least. His eyelids were heavy from a form of exhaustion that he hadn't had to stomach for a long time. He hadn't had a casual conversation with anyone in months—months!
The Lone Wanderer was known for his silence. He'd swoop in, kill what needed to be killed, then collect whatever reward was offered. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. He got a vicious rush from fighting and killing and surviving that couldn't be replicated, especially not by note-taking. It wasn't that he enjoyed the rush, so much as he enjoyed the distraction it afforded. Living like he had back in the wasteland was exhaustive, always worrying about food, water, shelter, ammo, medicine and enemies.
It was an anti-peace that was peaceful unto itself, driving away existential thought. His lack of constant exhaustion was a form of exhaustion on its own.
He was too tired to continue keeping up with the teacher, a pointless endeavor. What little he actually managed to transcribe simply went from the teacher's words to the ink on the paper, passing straight through him as a middle man, without him retaining any actual knowledge. Maybe he could gleam something from the notes later, but they were already somewhat haphazard and unintelligible. Screw it, just stop taking notes and listen for a bit.
Professor Oobleck had decided to start off his history lessons with a lecture on the conclusion of the Great War, a title which he honestly found amusing, given it paled in comparison to the Great War of Earth. Nevertheless, Oobleck had declared it a good starting point for huntsman and huntresses, who were supposed to be Remnant's peacekeepers, since it was the Vytal Treaty that ended the war which formally mandated each kingdom to set up their own national battle schools.
By this point in the lecture, however, he'd progressed from just talking about the role of huntsman and huntresses, to other, more general parts of the treaty. Oobleck currently talked about the various rules of war set forth by the treaty, designed to limit the destructiveness and cruelty caused by conflict. Rules for war, what a funny concept. The Lone Wanderer started marking tallies in his notebook, counting all the ones he'd broken, as Oobleck shouted them out.
"Don't execute prisoners!
Heh, done that too many times to count.
"Don't deprive prisoners of food, water or medicinal supplies!"
Hey, grass and spit made for a decent dinner. And the tried-and-true method of just 'toughing out' fatal injuries always seemed to work, at least up until the moment of death.
"Don't subject prisoners to unhealthy living conditions!"
Did tying people up and leaving them to rot in radioactive sludge count as unhealthy? Probably.
"Don't punish prisoners without a fair trial!"
He did an excellent job as judge, jury and executioner, thank you very much.
"No cruel or unusual punishment!"
Cruel and unusual was the standard for wasteland justice.
"Don't use chemical weapons!"
Hey, there's nothing wrong with a little sarin gas... or a lot of sarin gas.
"Don't use torture!"
Oh please, now you're just being pedantic.
"Anyone who would ever even consider committing such heinous acts as these is a despicable, immoral person!"
Whoops.
The Lone Wanderer yawned and looked down at the tally in his notebook. Thirteen. That was good for at least a few life times in prison. Should he feel proud? Well, he felt as proud as he did guilty: not at all. There was no room for such petty things as war crimes in the brutal Hellscape that was the Capitol Wasteland. Sure, there'd been a time where he would never have considered doing the things he did now, but times change.
He sighed and let his head fall down, crossing his arms to use as a pillow. Screw this. He didn't want to be lectured about how awful a person he was, even if that wasn't the lesson's intent. He wanted to go to sleep, but the presence of people all around him prevented that. He sat in the back corner of the class, as usual, with no one around, but that didn't mean others couldn't sneak up. He couldn't risk sleep.
God decided to answer his prayers, however, and the bell rung.
He immediately gathered his things and dashed from the room. Eyes flicking about constantly, back turned towards the wall, he left quickly left the others behind on his way to his dorm. It was lunch time, so the others would all be going to the cafeteria instead of their dorm. He'd skip lunch for a chance at rest.
He opened the door and immediately slammed it behind him. He flopped on his bed with a groan. A short nap, that was all he needed. Just a little nap to rejuvenate himself. His team wouldn't be coming by and class didn't start again for another hour, so he could set a short alarm and close his eyes for maybe twenty minutes or so. Then he could quickly grab some fruit or something from the cafeteria on his way to combat class.
He closed his eyes. Just a short rest... hopefully short enough to spare him from any nightmares...
A shrill shriek erupted from speakers alongside bright red lights, flashing violently. The two together constituted Raven Rock's emergency alarm, now flooding every room and hallway in the complex, alerting them all that an escaped prisoner was on the loose.
He really should have gotten moving. It was only through Eden's timely intervention in locking certain doors that had kept the troops at bay, but that wouldn't last. Their plasma weapons and strong power armor would get them through soon enough, and he'd be done.
As it was, he stood in a lab, unmoving. Any thought of escaping had been crushed. His mind was on murder.
"You... you bitch!" The rage and volume in his voice easily outmatched the banshee-scream of the alarms. He raised the Enclave plasma rifle at her. "My dad died back there; he killed him! Now you're working with them! With him!"
The woman held up her hands. "Please, young man, you have to understand... I loved your father very much, Li as well, all of them! B-but the Enclave have such incredible technology here... I never dreamed I'd have the chance to work with this." The look in her eyes was pleading, afraid. "You have to understand..."
She'd worked with them at Project Purity. She was one of Dad's trusted friends, a fellow scientist, a fellow humanitarian working for the good of the wasteland. Now, after Bishop had attacked them, she'd turned in the blink of an eye and started working with the people who'd killed his father.
His grip tightened around the plasma rifle. She was a traitor. These people, that bastard, had killed his dad, and she turned for them the second she saw their shiny equipment? His vision was blurry, filled with unceasing scarlet, and he wasn't sure if that was because of the alarms or his own fury bleeding over into his sight. Tears stung the edge of his eyes as images of his father's brains being liquified by a point-blank plasma shot forced themselves into his mind like daggers driven deep. His hands shook. His blood was gasoline that had been set ablaze.
She was unarmed. She was no threat. She was begging for her life.
He pulled the trigger.
Suddenly, an incredible darkness engulfed him. There was no more screeching. No more red lights. Nothing, except for a terrible smile that pierced through the darkness.
Once more, he was trapped and paralyzed in the dark room.
"Well, well, well, that was brutal. I wonder what your father would think, what your friends would think, if they'd ever known you did that." A gentle chuckle floated from some unseen source in the dark, an echo that reverberated all around him; it mixed with the blackness, mixed with the terrible sensation of his kindly smile, to create a sickening miasma that pressed close against him, strangely warm and strangely cold. "The regulators might have had your finger for that, you know? Your honorary knighthood would have been revoked. Neither group was ever partial to civilian execution.
"Funny, even back then, you could get an inkling of what you'd become, even before the Battle at Adams Air Force Base, the Lone Wanderer was manifesting." A cool breeze washed over him, goosebumps creeping all over his skin, accompanied by the sound of a great exhalation. "But this was nothing compared to what you would one day become, isn't it?"
It wasn't.
"You succumbed completely to the wasteland's savagery, falling prey to that viral depravity of the soul that infected our world after the bombs fell. You're filth. You're a savage. You're disgusting. No one will ever love you, the real you, because the real you is a despicable monster."
The sound of silence drifted throughout the dark room. It felt like something was suffocating him, even as something also separated from him and pulled away, leaving him naked and cold and hardly able to breathe.
"That was just the beginning, you morally deprived subhuman, you worthless excuse for a person. You got worse and worse and worse because you're weak and pathetic. Let's see just how bad you got, shall we?"
A sickeningly sharp snap struck through the dark room, and everything changed.
"No, no, no!"
It was a terrible scene. A massacre had taken place just a moment before, with several mutilated bodies lying on the ground, blood still dark and runny, slowly seeping across the dusty ground. Only one man stood. Another man kneeled.
"Please, I swear, I'll be good!"
These raiders had attacked a nearby homestead while their militia was away. They'd killed women and children and struck off with the loot. As the grief-stricken militia tended to the wounded, he'd followed them.
The ripper sword roared to life.
"No, no, no!"
Crocea Mors came down, slowly, so that the man could know fear before he died.
The screaming was shrill and brief as the Lone Wanderer sawed into his skull.
A snap rang and the scene changed again.
The Lone Wanderer had just finished setting up a roaring fire. He was in the middle of Canterbury Commons. The strong flames pushed back the nightly chill. Several of the many traders had come by to warm up and gain a reprieve from the cold that fell upon the ruined old village. He hadn't made the fire for them, or even for himself. No one knew who he'd made it for—yet.
As he walked away, one of Canterbury's guards approached him. "Thanks again for taking care of those raiders, they'd been doing a number on us for a while," the guard said.
The Wanderer didn't even look at the man as he marched towards the tied-up prisoner he'd dragged back. She was covered in cuts and bruises from the various residents of Canterbury letting out a little steam.
"Yeah, we'll hold a vote tomorrow to see what to do with her. She'll probably be forced into indentured servitude. Finally, she'll be able to contribute to society for once, eh?"
The Wanderer grabbed the prisoner by her neck and hauled her up. She choked and spluttered as he hauled her back towards the fire.
He'd never planned on letting them vote.
He'd always planned on sending his own message.
The fire had further swelled now, snapping and hissing cruelly like a wild animal.
With a single shove, he propped the raider up and threw her into the flames. Those nearby shouted and rushed away. Most covered their ears at the sound of her muffled screams and crackling skin.
In the wasteland, there was a certain line, a threshold of savagery that people didn't cross, even for raiders. Forced into indentured servitude? Executed? Perfectly acceptable, depending on the severity of the crime.
Publicly burning someone alive?
The traders of Canterbury Commons would trek out across the wasteland after that night, telling the story of the Lone Wanderer's brutality, how he stood and watched silently as the burning woman screamed and screamed.
A brutal snap cut through the scene, changing it once more.
The Wanderer had killed off the water bandits, just as the Brotherhood had asked him too. Even better than that, he'd captured their leader: Split Jack. He hadn't informed the Brotherhood of his prisoner, knowing they'd immediately take him away and enforce their own judgement, which would be something far too tame.
The Lone Wanderer was a man with a message. A message for the entire wasteland; the wasteland, which had taken everything from him.
A sizeable town stood outside of Jefferson Memorial now, built there for immediate access to the water and trade with all the caravans that passed through, a distinct suburb of Rivet City protected by the Brotherhood and Rivet Security alike. There, he could rent out a few brahmin, and he'd have a good audience.
He got four brahmin and tied each of Jack's limbs to a different one. When he was done, he undid his binding until he was held down only by the brahmin. Then he gave them the order to pull. When they stretched him all the way out, he ordered them to keep pulling. They did.
Until all of his limbs were ripped off.
The crowd was horrified; the Brotherhood, aghast.
The scene changed again.
He was outside of Fort Bannister. He'd rallied with the Brotherhood to finally strike at the Talon Company's main fortress, finally cutting out that cancer from the Wasteland. It had been a tough, yet winnable fight to defeat them and secure the surface of the base, but most of it was underground. It would be arduous and brutal, trying to dislodge the Talon mercenaries who would surely fight to the death rather than have to deal with the Brotherhood and face judgement for their crimes.
Or worse, face the Lone Wanderer's punishment. By then, everyone knew who he was.
The Lone Wanderer hadn't wanted any more knights and paladins being hurt than was necessary, so he told the Brotherhood he had an idea. They asked what it was and he refused to tell them, knowing full well they'd never stoop to such a low. Out of everyone, the Brotherhood under Lyons were the goody-two-shoes, the ones who wanted to be civilized, even though nonoe of their enemies would be.
The Brotherhood set up a siege as he departed for his safe house. Within, he'd kept several canisters he'd looted from an old US army base that he'd explored and reported to the Brotherhood, after taking some material for himself, of course. He'd known that these would eventually come in handy.
Then there he was, stooped over one of Fort Bannister's many vents that provided the underground base with necessary air. This was their first attempt at stepping up pressure on the besieged, trying to block the vents. There were far too many that were hidden, however. It'd been deemed a lost cause.
The Lone Wanderer now stood above one, which he'd ripped open. He cracked each canister open with a swipe of Crocea Mors and quickly threw them down. He had no reason to fear; the filtration helmet would keep him safe.
When he was finished, he sealed the vent once more to stop anything from leaking up. Then he went back to the Brotherhood base. He informed them that the siege was as good as won.
Of course, they were horrified to know that he'd won it with copious amounts of sarin gas, but war was war, after all. They even gave him the knife of the Talon Company's general. They'd then promptly told him to leave and never work with them again.
The scene cracked and changed again.
Sarah Lyons was debating with Sonora Cruz. The Brotherhood and the Regulators had always been at odds, but they'd all managed to come together to strike against Paradise Falls. They'd even worked with the Lone Wanderer. He'd been banned from ever entering the Citadel again after Fort Bannister, the latest in a succession of 'unacceptable acts'. No Brothers were even supposed to speak to him. The Regulators were ordered to keep their distance from him, too. Still, they'd been willing to take in his talent for such a major mission. Besides, his reputation was a weapon all on its own by that time.
When he first walked into the coalition's camp, people recognized him immediately. The ripper-sword, the filtration mask, the rough steel armor, a distinctive visage. They'd all given him his space. The civilian support workers even seemed a little afraid when he passed near.
It had been like that all the way up to the battle, which they'd won, of course. Slavers were nothing compared to power-armored knights and skilled, determined regulators.
They'd won, and the Lone Wanderer had left the two leaders behind so that they could bicker. Part of their argument involved what to do with all of the prisoners. Sarah wanted to force them into servitude. Sonora wanted to execute them. The Wanderer had something else in mind.
He took one of the looted flamers, then made his way to the building in which the prisoners were held. He opened the door. Inside was Eulogy Jones and all of his cronies. The Wanderer pulled the trigger.
They all burned and screamed.
There was another snap, and the dark room invaded the scene, forcing out everything colored or tangible until there was nothing but an all-encompassing blackness, with a single vague figure standing before him.
"You are disgusting, you know that?" He said, voice as soft and charismatic and nice as ever. "You're pathetic. You know how they say, 'if you can't beat them, join them?' Well, you joined them. You morally deprived scum." The hazy figure shook its head. "You're broken, you know that? Any normal person wouldn't do this. You're trash, and trash needs to be thrown away before it starts to rot."
The figure walked close, and the Lone Wanderer, as always, couldn't even move, couldn't even speak, couldn't do anything to stop him. He couldn't even run away.
"That's what you're doing right now: rotting. You should do the world a favor and throw yourself away." The figure leaned in. "You don't even feel bad, do you? You don't feel bad at all for everything you've done."
He didn't. The wasteland had been immeasurably cruel to him, so why shouldn't he repay it in kind?
"Well, do you feel bad about this?"
Bishop Beauvais snapped his fingers. Two more figures appeared. Despite the darkness, their visage was perfectly sharp and clear, shining with agonizing clarity. They were kids, both of them. No more than ten or twelve, certainly. One was a girl, with pretty blue eyes and blonde hair, skin radiating a youthful glow. The other was a boy, even younger, with dark brown hair and chocolate eyes that glimmered.
They stared at him.
The Lone Wanderer jolted awake. He sat bolt-upright in his bed and thrashed his arms about, warding away whatever heinous thing came close. His eyes were wild and wide and glanced about in a panic. His breath came in ragged gasps as his looked back and forth, back and forth. Wherever he looked, he was still able to see them. Those two. They kept looking at him. He could feel it, as if they were still there. He could see them, even though there was no one else in the room with him. They were there.
His breath chugged light and quick, like fire from a machine gun. Sweat accrued on his skin, as if the room was baking at a million degrees. His throat was tight, feeling like someone had wrapped their hand around his neck and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.
Breath deep. Hold. Release.
"Are you okay?"
His head snapped to the direction of Nora, standing in the bathroom doorway. For some reason, she'd come back to the room, but her original purpose was now abandoned. The sink still ran behind her. She'd forgotten to turn it off, instead coming off to check on him. Her mouth was slightly agape, as if she wanted to say something but was frozen by an inability to think of the right thing. Her eyes were wide and sparkling; her brow was furrowed. It was concern, framed on her face. Legitimate, good-natured concern that was born despite her hatred for him. Empathy. Empathy for the man who'd obviously woken up in a panic from something disturbing. Empathy for him.
He hadn't seen that kind of concern expressed for him in a long time. No one. No one ever cared for the Lone Wanderer. They looked at him cautiously, fearfully. They were never concerned. Now here it was, a sight for sore eyes.
It felt nice.
An immediate urge rose within him, something basic and natural and surprisingly desperate. An urge to say something, anything. He wanted to prompt some sort of conversation. He wanted to prolong that concerned expression. He wanted that care. He wanted something that would make the turmoil boiling inside his chest die down.
He shook his head and pushed out those treacherous demands, reminding himself of how much he hated her. He hated her with a passion, of course. He hated her because... because! She mentioned his team! She'd tried to talk to him! Yes... he hated her... absolutely... she was awful...
He didn't say a word as he collected his things and stormed past her, into the hallway. He'd need to find a way to make sure something like that didn't happen again. No one could be privy to his life.
Combat class would hopefully take the edge off of things. His nap should've revitalize him, but his muscles were more worn and his eyes were heavier. Still, he was now much less likely to fall asleep. Whenever his eyes closed for more than a few seconds, they snapped back open and erratically looked around.
He hadn't felt this terrible in a while, not in months. The idiots here kept talking and needling and bringing up things that really shouldn't be brought up. He hadn't thought about his team this much in a long, long time.
He shook his head. And he wouldn't keep thinking about them, either!
He trudged through the halls and into class. It was a stadium of sorts, with a sizeable arena for students to spar in while the rest of the class looked on. There was nothing flashy about it, just a room designed for fighting. Good, fighting was what he needed.
Things were too boring here, that was the problem. Things were safe, safe and calm. Normally, his life was filled with worry and paranoia. He'd be too busy thinking about food, water, enemies or shelter to think about anything else. Sometimes, he'd have gone so long with no water that his mouth felt like it was lined with sandpaper. Other times, he'd be so hungry, it felt like someone was driving a knife into his gut. Hard to get nostalgic when that was the life you lived.
He'd just need to do his best to recreate that here. He'd need to get busy, very busy. That should be easy enough. Between hunting in the Emerald forest, working out and studying, he could fill up virtually every hour of his day with something to do. Perhaps it wouldn't be so harrowing (thus, not so effective) as the life or death situations he had to endure back in the wasteland, but it'd do. He could work himself to exhaustion during the day and fall asleep studying at night. That way, he wouldn't have a minute of free time. He also wouldn't have to spend time around other people, talking.
"Hey Jaune!" Ruby said with a wave and smile.
Speaking of talking...
"So, when do you want to go to the armory again?" she asked.
She was the exception, the one exception he'd have to endure.
"Not today."
But he wouldn't endure her right now. Even just being around her made his skin crawl, though he didn't know why. It was an intense sense of unease that coalesced in his stomach and grew there like a maggot, slowly expanding into some sort of noxious insect.
He hated her, he really did.
"Oh, alright. We can do it some other time, yeah?"
"Sure." He had the halfhearted desire to tell her to take a long walk on short pier, to find a nice ditch and throw herself into it, to just go and hop into a volcano—he just didn't want to deal with her again.
Strangely, he found himself unable to say any such thing.
Ruby smiled and hummed happily as she swung back to her team, a carefree spirit following her every movement. Somehow, someway, she managed to make every action she did seem carefree, fun. It reminded him of things he instantly pushed from his mind.
Ruby plopped down beside her partner. He made his way in the exact opposite direction of his own, sitting in the back corner as usual. He eyed his team warily as he stalked his way away from them. The three were sat together, happily chatting with one another. It seemed that his aloof behavior hadn't stopped them from becoming friends, forming their own team without him.
Good for them.
Nora actually spared him a few furtive glances. He looked away, unable to meet them.
Miss Goodwitch appeared and cracked her whip, rendering the class instantly silent and attentive.
"We will begin our sparring matches today, going on for every day of class moving forward. This will be a way to test your person-to-person sparring ability. You will be fighting Grimm with Professor Port, but with me, you will be fighting each other."
The only response she received were a few tell-tale ticks of nervousness, from awkward coughs to taps of nails against desks.
"As per tradition, we will be cycling through the entire class, having each pair of partners fight against one another."
The Lone Wanderer's eyes shot toward Pyrrha Nikos. Her eyes met his. Red and blue touched upon green, a harsh, cold force forming between the two. So that was how this would be, huh? Well then, he'd really gotten unlucky when it came to getting a partner, hadn't he?
Pyrrha whipped her head around and turned her back to him, and he turned his attention back to Miss Goodwitch.
"This is to teach you one another's skills and provide a basis for your future sparring practice with each other, which you will be expected to do while training on your own time," Miss Goodwitch continued. "These fights, as well as every fight henceforth, will be done with tact and discipline. Fights will end when one combatant's aura descends into the red, no further. There will be nothing such as spitting, biting, cursing or attacks at the groin." She whipped her crop into her hand, sending a resounding crack throughout the entire room that made everyone jump in their seat. Well, everyone besides the Wanderer. "If you break any of these rules, then I will personally end the spar and levy a suitable punishment on the transgressor."
Her glare was so sharp, her voice so edged, that even the Wanderer winced at the thought of crossing her. Not that he'd been planning on doing anything like that in the first place. These were just spars, no point to get too intense. It was probably just meant to give these kids some experience fighting other people.
This was honestly what he was looking forward to the most. More than anything else, he wished to be adept at fighting others. He'd come to be excellent with Crocea Mors back in the wasteland, but the kind of melee fighting on Earth was radically different from the sort here on Remnant, all due to aura. That would be the most important thing, training for fighting against well-armed and trained combatants, using aura as he did so. That was all this class was for. He could shrug off adding his particular sort of viciousness for now, only needing it in real fights. Real fights, which he'd undoubtedly have plenty of once he got away and on the road.
"Now, let us begin." Miss Goodwitch called up a pair of students he's seen but wasn't familiar with. Despite this, the Lone Wanderer payed rapt attention to them. After all, one could learn a great deal just from watching.
The two young men smiled, shook hands, then stepped back. They seemed to have an amicable relationship already. Just the second day and the two of them were friends.
Good for them.
Both of them drew their weapons; one had a simple-seeming longsword and the other held a spiked mace with what looked like a gun barrel extending from one end. Of course. It was a breath of fresh air, seeing the other one's regular sword—
The student flicked a switch and the sword erupted into flame. It wasn't the first fire-sword the Wanderer had ever seen.
The Wanderer's lungs froze. Every muscle in his body tensed and shook. A sheen of sweat smattered all across his skin. His entire ribcage felt like it was being crushed inwards. An awful, terrible, disgusting, violating sensation spawned within his chest, right where his heart was supposed to be. He felt so brittle and fragile, like he could shatter at any moment.
The world before him winked out of existence, and a blur of things long left behind accosted him. A smile, a wickedly kind smile. A flaming sword, moving so fast it was just a cruel, orange haze. Each strike was incredibly, impossible strong. There were screams and shouts, people afraid and astounded. Impossible. It should have been impossible to do those things! No one can be that strong! No one! Get away from him, get away! All you can do is run!
A sword, long and curved and murderous, covered in rippling orange flame. It swung through the air, crackling and hissing and spitting as it bit and burned through flesh. Propelled by such an incredible strength, it easily smashed through bone and metal and whatever dared to stand in its way, scorching flesh as it went.
It flashed and blocked a super-sledge wielded by a supermutant. Had any other person done that, then their arms would've buckled and snapped. The man only smiled, flicking the fire-sword and striking out as those nearby screamed. Impossibly fast, impossible strong. Monstrous strength and speed only befitting of a monster.
The sword moved quickly, fluidly, masterfully through the air, with grace and skill rarely seen in the rest of the brutal wasteland. It was a total outlier. A strange weapon in and of itself, wielded by a man inhuman in more ways than one, possessing a deftness of ability rarely seen.
That sword, that flaming sword which struck fear in the Lone Wanderer like nothing else, which struck fear into the hearts and mind of every regulator and every knight and every paladin. It even made Elder Lyons afraid. It made everyone afraid, for it was a weapon of mass destruction when in the hands of Bishop Beauvais.
That sword had done many, many things in front of the Wanderer's eyes, and in that moment, he saw them all over again:
The sword flashed and hissed, stabbing into a joint of power armor and killing the Brotherhood knight inside.
The sword cut straight through a deathclaw's arm like It'd been made of butter, quickly flicking back and slicing its head open as well.
The sword sheared straight through a wall of concrete to cut into the regulator on the other end.
The sword annihilated the Wanderer's assault rifle with a single strike, leaving him helpless and ending the fight before it even began.
The sword rallied Enclave soldiers to fight on.
The sword skewered Maxwell Noble.
"Mr. Arc?"
The Lone Wanderer started and looked around. The classroom was empty besides himself and Miss Goodwitch, who had set her hand on his shoulder. She was also looking at him with that stern expression of hers, an expression now tinged with a hint of something else.
"Class is over, Mr. Arc, you're free to leave, as has everyone else."
Understanding slowly seeped back into him. The first thing he realized was that she was touching him, and he instantly shied away to once more be completely alone. His eyes flicked about erratically, noticing that they were indeed alone in the room.
"Class ended a few minutes ago, Mr. Arc. Is there are reason for you staying behind?"
He shook his head, more to clear his own mind than to answer her, though it served both purposes. He abruptly rose from his seat and collected his things, then tried to push past his teacher and towards the exit.
She stopped him with her words. "Mr. Arc, now that we have a moment, could you stay for a talk?"
Fuck! Fuck you! Fuck all of you! That's all he'd been doing since he got here, was talk and talk and talk and fucking talk! He hated it! He hadn't talked this much to other people in so long, and he hated every damn second of it!
Back in the wasteland, the Lone Wanderer was infamous for speaking little, if at all. Well, that was just one part of his greater infamy. Still, the silence which had long characterized him was an important part of his actions, his life, and now it had been ripped away.
Talking, too much Godforsaken talking. If it had been anyone else, literally anyone else in Beacon, he would've told her to go die in a hole. She was lucky for her position, which kept him from losing his temper.
"Sure," he said. His hands shook as he pulled them into tight fists.
"I just wanted to make sure you're alright. You were sitting there for several minutes after the bell rang, looking quite distant."
"I'm sleepy."
"Your eyes were perfectly open."
"Sleepy, not asleep."
She adjusted her glasses and tilted her head slightly to look at him. After a moment's observation, she settled back and sighed. "It would do you well to get a better hold of sleep, Mr. Arc. You're obviously exhausted."
It was obvious. His eyes were bloodshot and dark bags rested under them. His hair was also disheveled, adding to the scraggly look. Lines along his face were gaunt despite the fact that he'd been eating better than he had in a year.
"I just need a little time to settle." That much was true. He just needed to set up that schedule, needed to get back to working. There was too much free time for him to think.
"Well, see to it that exhaustion doesn't get the better of you," she said.
He waited for her to give some indication that he could leave, but she gave none.
"Mr. Arc, how is your time going with your team?"
God damn it, can people just shut up already? For the fucking love of God!
"It's fine."
"Is that so? You told me that you had some reservations when it came to getting onto a team."
He shrugged. "Well, I'm getting along."
"You didn't sit with them during class."
"I was just giving them some space. Now, can I get going?" He grit his teeth and stiffened his shoulders. Could she just shut up? Could everyone please just shut up? Could every just stop fucking talking about his team!?
"You seem quite agitated Mr. Arc."
"I'm just really tired; like you said, I need to get some sleep."
Miss Goodwitch tapped one finger against her crop. The sound of nail on the leather was light and near inaudible, but it was the only sound in the room.
The Lone Wanderer stood still and silent.
"You may go, Mr. Arc. It would serve you well to get some sleep, especially since I won't be as lenient the next time you nod off in class."
"Of course, Miss Goodwitch."
He'd been wading through the Emerald Forest for about half an hour now. The sun hung lower in the sky, which was beginning to drain into a dark shade of orange. Evening was on the horizon, advancing quickly.
A cigarette was jammed between his lips, lazily sending smoke into the air. One hand tightly gripped Crocea Mors, ready always to cut down whatever Grimm came near. A few did, but none lasted more than a few seconds. The monsters of this world were nothing, not if he had aura. Aura and a semblance...
He stopped and looked down at one hand. It really should manifest soon, right? People always got their semblances fairly early on in training, so surely his must be revealed soon as well? Perhaps he should've brought that up with Miss Goodwitch. She was a teacher, after all. If anyone would be able to help him find it, then she would.
He scowled. But the way she'd been talking to him... something about it was suspicious. There was something suspicious about everyone, naturally, since people cannot be trusted, but Goodwitch had seemed... disappointed, almost. He couldn't exactly tell what it was, but there was something. Something in her voice and her look.
Since she seemed to be the only combat teacher, then he may have to look around for someone else to tutor him. Damn, that could take more time than was necessary, and he already wanted to get out of this Hellish place.
He sneered.
Ugh, the people were bad for his health. It was like water on steel—they were slowly eroding him and destroying the quality of his person, making him rust. He needed to get away.
He looked down at one hand. Still, he'd have to get his semblance before then. He'd have to get his semblance and master it, or at least rise through the ranks of battle class. It was his semblance more than anything else that he wanted.
He kept staring at his hand. Maybe, maybe this time? He imagined a burst of flame forming, a perfect fireball that he could summon and throw, throw to vanquish his enemies!
Nothing happened.
Ugh, eventually, eventually he'd have his fire-hands. That was what he always imagined his superpower would be, growing up. Amata had claimed the ability to summon ice and freezing cold, so he'd gone for the compliment. The two of them would be partners against crime, fighting alongside the likes of the Silver Shroud and Grognak to save the world. They even had superhero names too. He was Flame-Man and she was Ice-Woman. They were very creative children.
He smiled at the memory. Amata had been a good friend.
Get out! Get out of my sight, you monster!
The smile died.
He got back to the task at hand, which was scrutinizing the forest. He needed to find a place to sleep. This forest was filled with Grimm that would rip him to pieces if they could, but that was better than having to sleep with those people. Besides, the added danger would do him some good. It'd be just like back in the wasteland, when the uncertainty of death hung over him always. That uncertainty had always done a great job of keep him preoccupied.
That was happening right at that moment. He kept looking over his shoulders, kept on his guard, focused on staying alive. It was much, much easier to refocus like he just had when in a situation like this, as opposed to sitting around in class or in his room. He needed something to do.
Out here, the danger pressed on him in a familiar way. It was almost comfortable; at least, more comfortable than having to be around people. He just needed to get out of that room because it was too dangerous. They were skilled people who held a grudge against him, and it simply wasn't safe for him to stay with them. That was his reason.
He kept telling it to himself. Again and again, he made sure to tell himself that he was acting purely out of the rational caution for danger.
Eventually, he found what he'd been looking for. It was the very same cave that the deathstalker had been hiding in back when he and Pyrrha were in initiation. With any luck, that giant monster would have pushed out any other possible threats that could've resided in there. Then he could swoop in and take it for himself.
Turning on the pip-boy light and cautiously advancing, he went into the cave, Crocea Mors up and ready. The cave was still scratched and scoured from the deathstalker's violent eruption, with rubble and cracks littering the floor. He swallowed. It really did remind him of the tunnels back in the wasteland, the ones filled with deathclaws and ants and yaoi-gui. The ones that were actually quite safe after you cleared out whatever Hellspawn resided within.
Thankfully, it seemed that his gambit had payed off, since there was nothing else left in the cavern anymore. It ran deep into the mountain, well past even the point where the deathstalker had been. Eventually he found a crack just large enough for him to get into. On the other side was a small, residual cave. It was cramped and dry, just large enough to give him the room he needed to lay out his mat.
His team might question where he went at night, but he sincerely doubted that they would ever bring their concerns to the teachers, since such an action would require that any concern existed in the first place.
He thought back to way that Nora had looked at him when he woke up from his nightmare, an innocent and natural reaction to his pain. He thought back to Ruby's kind smile and compassion for him which had already flowered. They might be concerned... they might care...
That knowledge placed a strange sensation in his face, one that tried to make his lips curl upwards.
He batted one hand against the side of his head to get rid of those stupid, stupid thoughts.
He set down his pack and sleeping mat, before lying down and shutting off the light on his pip boy. This place was unexpectedly perfect. The entrance was a narrow, tight fit that none of the Grimm he'd yet met could fit into. Not only that, but the ground outside was littered with rock and debris, guaranteeing an audible approach.
He yawned and put out his cigarette, flicking it into the corner of the cave. He then stretched out on the mat. The sun hadn't even set, but he was exhausted. The past few days had been so stressful, so tiring and so bereft of sleep that he fell asleep immediately.
Maybe, maybe, just maybe, he'd finally be able to get some good rest tonight...
He was wrenched up from the ground and thrown against the wall. The back of his head cracked against the stone, and his vision descended into a hazy blur. He collapsed back to ground, world spinning, before something smashed into the side of his head.
He was sent sprawling to the floor. Before he could even react again, a hand wrapped around his throat and hoisted him up off his feet. It was dark, and there was no way for him to see his opponent. Even through the darkness, he could feel that kind smile cutting into him.
With a genial laugh, Bishop Beauvais threw him away like a discarded piece of trash.
"Oh my, look at that. Too pathetic to even stay in the same room with those people, so you come all the way out here?"
The Wanderer gasped for air within the dark room, hands massaging his throat as he coughed.
Bishop laughed again. "To be honest, though, I didn't expect anything more from you. How could I?" The tone of his voice held that familiar kindliness that made the Wanderer want to vomit. "But it really is just like you? Isn't it? Unable to deal with a problem, you don't deal with it at all. You just run away." Bishop walked closer to the still panting Wanderer and placed his boot against the back of his head, forcing his face down against the cold, hard ground. "And the lies you've been telling yourself... 'danger', huh? You're telling yourself that you're only avoiding them for all the danger they possess? If that was the case, then you wouldn't have gone out of your way to make them enemies in the first place. No, you're just running, running because you can't handle getting close to anyone, not anymore."
Bishop twisted his boot, grinding it into the Wanderer's skull.
"That's all you've been doing for a long time: running. You ran after the Battle at Adams Air Force Base, even took a new name when you did. Lone Wanderer. You ran and ran and ran, all the way here to Remnant. You ran so far you wound up in a different world." Bishop leaned down and lowered his voice to something barely above a whisper. "But even here, you continue to run."
Once again, the Wanderer was picked up off the ground and hurled through the air. Once again, he fell with a crash rolling to a dead stop. Normally, he would've sprung up to his feet at that moment, but that same peculiar paralysis struck him. He could do nothing more than lay there, sprawled out helplessly on the ground of the dark room as Bishop approached once more.
"You run from your new team; you run from that girl Ruby. You know, it was your idea to start going to the armory with her. No need to hate her for something where the blame resides solely with you, as does the blame for everything else." Bishop sighed. "But that's just what you do, isn't it? You fail, time and time again. I'm not surprised you've started to take it all out on everyone around you, since Lord knows you're too weak to handle it yourself."
Bishop walked around him slowly, the hells of his boots clicking against the dark room's floor. "You can't even stomach talking to anyone—pathetic. They just bring up your old team too much, isn't that it?"
Even if the Wanderer could have talked, he wouldn't have been able to say a word to that.
"Everyone wants to know how you're getting along with your team... and none of them can understand, huh? Every time they ask that, you think back to them don't you? And you don't want to think about them. That's the whole point for you running, after all."
Bishop stopped walking. Now that his resounding footfalls were gone, the dark room was filled with complete, unnerving silence.
"I think I know why you hate Ruby the most. It's because she reminds you of someone you used to know, right?"
Anger boiled up within the Wanderer. Anger, mixed with something else as well. Something worse, something caustic, something painful and frightening that roiled in his stomach.
"Oh yes, she reminds you of him."
Shut up!
"She reminds you of Max, doesn't she?"
Just shut the fuck up already!
"Maxwell Noble? You remember him, right?"
Please, just shut up!
"Heh, he was nice, wasn't he? Always optimistic, a real go-getter, something truly unique in the Wasteland. He was just like Ruby."
Be quiet!
"Both so hopeful, right? As long as you've been the Lone Wanderer, you've always wished that you could have the sort of outlook that he had. Looks like you found it again in Ruby. Nora has the same sort of thing, but her aloof and near insane nature just isn't quite like what Max's was, now is it? Ruby is exactly the same."
Be quiet...
"Heh, Ruby and Max would've been pretty good friends., huh?"
Just be quiet...
"Not like you're friends with anyone, though. You haven't had a friend since the day you were born, Lone Wanderer. No one loves you, no matter how much you wish they did."
Please...
"Please? Please what? Please be quiet?"
The Lone Wanderer's eyes widened.
"Oh come on, don't be surprised. You can't keep anything secret from me in here. This is my domain. You belong to me." Something clicked and hissed in the darkness. A sword was being drawn from its sheath.
Suddenly, a flume of fire erupted and spread up the blade. Rubrum Mors, in all its terrible glory. The metal seethed red hot as flames writhed and coiled all along it. A long, tapered blade that was of exquisite make, perfectly balanced, perfectly forged. Perfectly engineered for killing, just like its wielder.
Bishop Beauvais's smiled widened. "Fantastic, isn't she? Made of duraframe, just like Crocea Mors. They're sisters, you know? Part of the same melee-weapon development program the Enclave was undertaking before you ruined everything." The hot flames' light glinted in Bishop's cold eyes. "The only difference is that I earned mine. It was bestowed to me by the President as a way to commend my service. Yours was stolen, then given to you by Lyons as a way to say sorry." Bishop waved the sword deftly through the air, which it cut and consumed to feed those vicious flames. "Sure, you already know all of that, but I can't help but remind you. Remind you of your crippling inadequacy."
Bishop raised the sword well above his head.
The Lone Wanderer was powerless to do anything but stare in horror, just as he had all those months ago.
Rubrum Mors came careening down, the hissing of the sword mixing with the soft beat of Bishop's laugh. The furious orange flame was the last thing he saw—
He shot bolt upright in the cave. His skin was covered in sweat, and for a moment, he was terrified that he was still dreaming. But the musty smell of the cave and the coarse sensation of bare stone sat at odds with the utter lack of sensation that characterized the dark room. He was awake. Thank God.
He was also cold, very much so. Whether that was because the cave itself was actually cold or just the lingering sense of unease from the nightmare playing tricks on him, he had no idea. It didn't matter though, since he shivered all the same. He curled up for warmth and nestled his head in his arms. He'd come all the way out there to try and get away from that. He hadn't had nightmares this bad in a long time. He'd hoped that pressing himself into the dangerous forest would alleviate this, but it didn't.
Why couldn't it? He just wanted to have quiet. He just wanted to have calm. He just wanted to have relaxation.
He brought his legs in against his chest and rested his head on his knees. Everything had come crashing down on him in the last few days... because he'd settled. He'd dared to stop, to live in a situation that was dangerously safe. His life had to have turmoil in it. If there was no outer turmoil, then there would be inner turmoil. His shoulders started to shake as tears slowly rolled down his cheeks. He was alone, perfectly so, thus there was no danger of his weakness being revealed.
"Why are things like this?" he asked to someone, to anyone, to no one. "What... what did I do... what did I do to deserve this..." His breath hitched in his throat. "W-why? What did I do... why does everything have to hurt so much..." He brought his legs in close, forming a tight ball that shuddered against the rock wall. "Things used to be nice... I used to be a good person..." Words abandoned him as he started sobbing.
He just wanted to have peace.
Finally we see a moment of weakness. All that stress from having to reintegrate into society and face his past is really taking a toll. We see a bit more of Bishop and a bit more of the Wanderer's lore. Indeed, both he and Bishop possess different prototype swords from the same program, though they obviously had very different development paths.
Not much else to say this time around, so, as always, feel free to post a review or a question!