Welcome back. Hope you enjoy this chapter, in which the Lone Wanderer gets his ass whooped multiple times, lol. He really does wind up in the darndest situations.
His heart pumped wildly.
He leapt up the steps two at a time, John and Jane doing the same behind him, with Dogmeat bounding up alongside. They'd been attacked. Project Purity was in jeopardy. He had no idea who these people were, but they were clad in power armor and had weapons more advanced than anything else he'd ever seen. They even had vertibirds! He didn't think any of those still existed, but there they'd been. He didn't know anything about these people, other than that they'd attacked him when they first met in the basement.
If they'd attacked him, then they must've attacked Dad too.
He had his Chinese assault rifle raised. It wouldn't do any good against power armor, but those two they'd fought just a second before had fired plasma at him, striking and ruining his laser rifle. John and Jane had looted the plasma rifles, while he kept his assault rifle, which would be good for pumping out covering fire for his allies, at least until he could get a hold of another plasma rifle for himself.
They emerged from the stairway and were faced by only an empty hallway. Nevertheless, he held his gun up before him, his companions doing the same. They just needed—
The solid concrete wall beside him shattered. Chunks of cement buffeted him, accompanied by bent hunks of rebar. A flash of orange crashed through his vision and, before he knew it, the assault rifle in his hands was cut in half, annihilated in a single strike and ending the fight before it even began.
Something smashed into his side and launched him off his feet, into the wall. He fell and cracked his head against the floor, leaving his vision swimming in a blurry haze. He vaguely heard the twins shouting nearby and a few plasma shots, along with the crunch of more cement; Dogmeat barked and snarled, then whined in pain.
It was that which made him rise up to try and face his attacker, even if he was still barely coherent. No one would hurt his dog! He squinted, vision still clouded with smalls sparks that winked in and out of existence. It was a young man, a teenager no older than himself, dressed in a crisp grey uniform. He was handsome, with slicked blonde hair and striking blue eyes. The two of them actually looked pretty similar, enough to pass as brothers.
His assailant held a long, flaming sword.
Further down the hall, both John and Jane had now been restricted by two soldiers in that strange power armor. They looked like humanoid, metal insects with those big, beady eyes. Less like people and more like aliens. Dogmeat lay on the floor nearby, whining. He didn't seem to be wounded, but a cursory glance revealed the young man had his hand still in the air, and he was the only one with a free hand at all. Dogmeat must have leapt at him, only to be batted back.
That bastard! He was still covered in dust from the broken cement wall, and his uniform, although neat, was ruffled and dirty from his recent crash through the concrete—
Wait, had he gone through the concrete all on his own? Without power armor?
Whatever! The stars were fading, and that bastard was sheathing his sword. He felt less wobbly on his feet, so now was as good a time as any. He roared and charged forward, intent on attacking the prick, then maybe stealing that sidearm of his, a weird looking pistol at his waist. Getting a weapon was key. He threw a punch right at his head.
Just a moment before he struck, however, his foe turned around. For being in a combat situation, he seemed inordinately happy and relaxed, with a polite smile on his face. He continued to smile, as he deftly caught his punch in one hand, easily stopping all of the force behind it. Then the bastard crushed his hand in a vice-like grip, breaking bones with a sickening series of cracking sounds that had him gasping in pain. Then he yanked on his arm, nearly pulling it out of the socket with how all the force, and threw him through the fresh hole in the concrete wall.
He tumbled head over heels and sprawled out on the floor. He wanted to stay there, to cradle his shattered hand and writhe in pain, but this was life or death. He rolled and looked desperately about for a weapon, spotting a lead pipe on the floor nearby, discarded during all the recent maintenance.
He grabbed it with his good hand and jumped back to his feet. His opponent hadn't even bothered to draw his sword again, the cocky bastard. And he still had that stupid damn smile on his face, like he's just heard a polite joke. He snarled at the sight of it. Well, he'd just have to wipe that stupid look right off his face!
He swung the pipe in a short, strong strike against his opponent, aiming right for the head. It'd be enough to break his jaw if it landed, but they guy would surely try to dodge or block it in some way. It was a frustrated, sloppy attack.
Nonetheless, the pipe sailed through the air unimpeded. And just a fraction of a second before it landed, it seemed that it'd land after all...
Right until his foe's hand moved impossible quickly and caught the pipe, putting it to a dead stop. His smile didn't waver. In a blitz, the prick wrenched the pipe out of his hands with a strong tug and pivoted into a short punch that landed right in his gut in one smooth motion.
He stumbled back, feeling like he'd been blasted point-blank with a shotgun. He gasped for breath, which the single punch had robbed him of completely. His entire stomach felt like it was going to turn into one big bruise. He barely stayed on his feet for a few seconds, before crumpling to the floor.
He looked up with watery eyes at his attacker. The teen was chuckling lightly as he examined the weapon in his hands. Then, grabbing it by either end, he folded the pure lead, straight pipe in on itself until it hit a ninety-degree angle. Then he threw it aside, letting it clatter on the floor, now totally warped.
What the Hell.
"Son!"
It was his dad, set up against the wall alongside the other scientists. Several of the power armored soldiers pointed their plasma rifles at the group to keep them in line. Even then, his father took a few steps forward at the sight of his injured son, before stopping as one of the soldiers pointed his rifle at him. He managed to marshal his discipline with a few long, deep breaths. When he was done, the stoic and strong scientist returned. He addressed the nearest soldier.
"What are you doing? Why attack us? The Enclave has no authority here."
Enclave, that was right. That's what Dad had called these people over the intercom, but that still didn't answer his questions. Not like he could ask them, still wheezing on the floor. One of the soldiers came by and picked him up, then frisked him. After finding no more weapons, he was shoved back to the wall with the rest of the scientists. The same treatment was given to John and Jane.
The teenager in the nice uniform casually dusted himself off and righted the various contours set in his outfit by the fight, which had left him no worse for wear. After almost a minute of this silent caretaking, he opened his mouth as if to speak.
Dogmeat stopped that. He limped into the room, growling at the various soldiers. His hackles were raised, teeth bared.
"Dogmeat, no!" he said. His dog would be blasted instantly by these bastards, and his eyes widened in fear as several of them readied their plasma rifles.
"Oh that's adorable, you have a dog." It was the teenager he'd fought. His voice was far too calm and warm for the situation, tinted with a refined southern accent and a friendly tone. "Men, let the hound pass. You can't fault it for wanting to get back to its master, can you?"
The various soldiers in the room looked back at the young man, now revealed as their leader, strangely enough. Why they would listen to a kid, he had no idea. They followed his orders immediately, however, backing off and letting Dogmeat limp over to him. He winced as he bent down to pat Dogmeat on the head. His stomach ached from the blow, but his dog looked to be worse off.
"It's precious, truly, the relationship between a boy and his dog," that bastard said, sounding as if he was genuinely pleased by the sight. Maybe he was, the psycho. "You know, my father used to tell me all sorts of tales about him and his dog, Honey. They grew up in rural Kentucky together and would go on adventures. Those always made for my favorite bedtime stories growing up." He looked away, reminiscing in the nostalgia. "Consequently, I've always desired a dog of my own, but the circumstances never allowed it—"
"Are you going to continue taunting us, or was there a purpose for your invasion?" Dad asked. The room fell silent. Some of the Enclave soldiers turned on the spot and raised their weapons at his father.
"How dare you interrupt Agent Beauvais as he speaks, mutie!" one of them snarled, finger on the trigger of his rifle.
"Arthur, please don't be so rude to such a fine gentleman. He's naturally curious, is all," the one named Beauvais said, reaching out one hand and gesturing the soldier to lower his weapon in the same way one would command a pet to sit.
"Yes sir, sorry sir," Arthur replied, instantly lowering his weapon and returning to his previous guard position.
Strange, such iron-clad discipline and subservience toward a teenager.
"Now sir, before I answer your question, I believe that some introductions are required. May I call you James?" Beauvais looked at his dad, who only nodded curtly. "Excellent," he said warmly, as if he was legitimately excited to be on a first-name basis with a new friend. "Well, I am Special Agent Bishop Beauvais of the United States Secret Service. To continue amicability, you may call me Bishop. I am here acting as a representative of the venerable President Eden. The original representative, one Colonel Autumn, was reappointed." He leaned in and lowered his voice to a faux-whisper that was still audible to all. "Now, I'm not a vain person, but I think you all are lucky. I'm by and large considered the more cordial and understanding man between the two of us."
"That's what you call this, cordial and understanding?" His father asked, voice tinged with anger as he swept his hand gestured at the assembled soldiers and battered civilians.
"Compared to what I could've done, yes," Bishop replied. "I could've come in here, slaughtered most of you and tortured what I needed out of whoever survived."
No one said a word.
"But I won't do that. Instead, I'm being cordial and understanding. The Enclave values all of you for your skill, all you fine people. Honestly, it's a laudable goal you're trying to attain: free, clean water for the wasteland." Bishop brought one hand up to his chin, an exaggerated expression of thinking.
"In fact, I'd say it's rather noble," he said with a chuckle.
"Are you going to continue trying to flatter us, or will you get to the point already?" James asked.
"Oh my, ready to get going. I can respect that." Bishop approached the group. "The Enclave understand the immense value of your efforts here. Accordingly, we've decided to nationalize Project Purity and bring it under our jurisdiction. Of course, you may all continue working on the project, should you comply with us."
"Comply? Comply with a group of murderous fascists?"
"Oh my, those are strong words. Where on Earth did you hear something like that?"
James's eyes narrowed. "I heard plenty about the Enclave during my time working with the Brotherhood. You're monsters." James crossed his arms over his chest. "I refuse to work with you."
The scientists around him echoed his stalwart refusal. Only Dogmeat, growling, made a sound.
"So... no?" Bishop asked.
James nodded.
Bishop's smile didn't fade, not in the slightest. In fact, it seemed to grow a little wider. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that, I really am. Perhaps I can still convince you. See, you're all men and women of science, and I myself am a creation of modern science." Bishop placed one hand over his heart, like he was making an oath. "Just to show you how respectful and serious the Enclave considers scientific pursuits, perhaps I shall give a direct demonstration of my abilities, to prove our commitment to righteous scientific development."
Bishop strolled up to the group, who backed away from him, pressing themselves closer against the wall. He stopped just in front of James, who continued to stare him right in the eyes, unflinching. Then, in a fraction of a second, Bishop pivoted and his hand flashed out to side, striking a nearby scientist in the chest.
A sickening crunch cracked through the room as her sternum gave way to his fist.
The young man who would one day be called the Lone Wanderer looked on in horror as the woman tried to scream, only for the sound to come out as a strangled gurgle. Before she could fall to the floor, Bishop grabbed her by either side of the head.
Then he squeezed.
She beat against him fruitlessly, kicking and punching ferociously. Her strikes didn't faze him in the slightest. He only continued applying pressure—more and more. Her skull fractured and split. Blood and brain matter spurted out in disgusting squelches. Her wild thrashing and squealing did nothing to stop the slow, exponential destruction. She shuddered and twitched, finally becoming limp. He let her fall to the ground, head well and truly crushed. Bishop himself was covered in random splashes of blood and gore. There was even a spot of grey matter on his face.
Nevertheless, he continued to smile all the same, as if he was in the middle of a game.
One of the scientists doubled over and vomited.
"Well, I hope that my display has been sufficient," Bishop said as he walked away from the group. He picked up a stray lab coat from a table and began wiping off the blood and gore. "I don't suppose you've reconsidered your previous statement? If not, then I can continue demonstrating my abilities."
"No!" James shouted. "No... please, no more bloodshed. If you'll just follow me, then I'll show you to the purifier core. I'll turn over everything."
Bishop tilted his head, examining James as if her were some kind of interesting animal, a puppy on the other side of a pet store window who'd finally decided to do the trick he'd wanted it to. "Excellent."
The Enclave soldiers allowed James to break off and lead Bishop to the central rotunda of the memorial. The young man was powerless as he watched his father march away, followed by that... that inhuman... thing.
Beside him, Li carefully shifted aside.
James led Bishop up the steps and into the rotunda itself. He walked up to the main control console and began showing things to Bishop. James leaned over and hit one switch. Then everything went to Hell.
The purifier apparatus at the rotunda exploded. Plumes of grey smog spewed out of the machine, filling up the air alongside the sounds of ripping metal and shattering glass. Instantly, the emergency alarm began to blare, releasing a siren along with a flood of red light into the compound. The emergency doors to the rotunda closed, and his father was sealed away with the monster.
The Enclave soldiers immediately started shouting, but Li sprang into action before them. She grabbed a loose cable from the wall, simultaneously flipping a lever nearby. The end of the cord crackled with electrical energy, and she threw it onto the back of the one of the Enclave soldiers, one clad in Tesla armor. The exposed cable struck the tesla device on his back and instantly made it spark and smoke. The lights in the facility flickered on and off rapidly as the Enclave soldier spasmed and screamed.
Eventually, the soldier collapsed to the floor, and the lights turned off completely.
In the darkness, the young man dashed down to the smoking corpse of the electrocuted soldier, immediately picking up the plasma . The memorial's emergency lights turned on, dim and low on power. Everything was bathed in the color of drying blood, accompanied by the shrill shriek of the alarms.
All Hell broke loose.
The soldiers fired, and the scientists scrambled for whatever cover they could find. The young man instantly took the plasma rifle in his good hand, gripping the handle and putting the end of the rifle in the crook of his elbow, aiming it at the closest soldier. From his vantage on the floor, he shot up and struck the man in his neck, making him stumble and collapse. John dashed in and picked up his plasma rifle before ducking away from a hail of plasma fire and getting back behind a set of lab equipment.
There was chaos as the room filled with screaming, shouting, shooting and running.
He had only one thought on his mind, however. His dad was stuck with that psycho in the rotunda, and he wouldn't stand a chance against that bastard. He braved vicious green globs of energy as he dashed for the purifier. It was filled now with sickly, gray gas. His dad was in there. He had to be in there.
He had to be okay.
He had to be.
Please, please for the love of God let him be okay.
He got up to the glass and peered in. He barely perceived a couple figures, one that was standing still, another lurching about. It stumbled around and eventually up to the glass. His father. It was his dad, coughing his lungs out. For a brief moment, father and son looked one another in the eye.
Then there was a flash of green, and his dad's brains liquified. Grey matter, blood, flesh and shattered skull all formed a revolting amalgam of gore that slapped against the glass, right in front of the son's eyes.
His jaw dropped. The chaotic cacophony in the room died and fell away, leaving him in silence. It felt like a gargantuan snake coiled around him, and was now squeezing and constricting, binding him close and forcing out every last speck of air. The serpent's vice pushed out any feeling, any residual pain from where he'd been punched or even his broken hand—an all-encompassing numbness devoured him.
Then from the smog he came. Bishop Beauvais came close to the glass, even as his father's corpse slid down and away, out of sight. He held a plasma pistol in one hand, which he now holstered. Even when subsumed in toxic, radioactive gas, he had that same smile etched on his face; it looked like he had just come around to say hello to an old friend.
Bishop reared back one hand and struck out at the glass. Li had once explained it was thick glass designed to resist possible explosions or critical failures from the main purifier system, containing the damage to just the rotunda. It could even withstand gunshots.
Bishop's fist hit the glass, which buckled under his knuckles and split into web-work of cracks. It didn't shatter, however, holding firm. But another strike followed, which made the glass shudder and crackle. Another and another, the glass steadily bent outwards, becoming more and more broken and dejected with each hit.
The lost son wanted to do something. He wanted to do many things. He wanted to scream, to cry, to pull up the plasma rifle and fire and fire and fire through the glass until this bastard who'd taken his father away was dead, was reduced to a pile of goo on the ground.
He could do nothing but stand and stare. The world around him had gone dark. Everything ceased to exist. His mind became perfectly, completely, absolutely blank. The only family he'd ever had, his constant companion, the man who'd educated him and raised him and encouraged him his entire life. Gone. All of it.
It all flashed before his eyes. When he was six, he caught pneumonia and his dad took days off to slave over him and see his recovery to health. When he was eight, his dad caught him trying to make his own cherry bombs, with incredibly poor success, then made them with him and they each went out to an abandoned warehouse wing to test them out, laughing the entire time. When he was ten, his dad got him very own BB gun and took him shooting. When he was twelve, he was hurt during guard training and his dad came to pick him up ten minutes within being notified, staying with him day and night after to make sure he was okay. When he was fifteen, he stayed up late with his dad to practice for his first date, and when he was stood up, his father was there to console him.
All of these memories and more flashed through his head, but they came and passed in a moment, too sudden, too like the lightning, which doth cease to be ere one can say, "it lightens."
His father had always loved Shakespeare.
Something struck him in his face, quick and painful. The shock brought him back to reality, and he thrashed away, trying to draw up his rifle to shoot down his attacker.
"Snap out of it!" John yelled. "We've got to get out of here!" John grabbed him by the arm and yanked them away, just as the glass finally shattered behind them. He was hauled away, barely able to stay on his feet, legs as weak as wet paper. They ducked down just as blast of gatling-laser fire passed over them.
They turned around a corner, where Li and the other scientists were huddled. Jane and Dogmeat stood with them.
"Here!" Li shouted. She pulled open a grate in the floor, leading down into a tunnel. "It's the emergency escape, get going, everyone!"
They did. The scientists first, then Dogmeat hopped down, then Jane, then John forced him down, then John himself followed, barely escaping a barrage of energy blasts. John wrenched him along, further down the tunnel, before throwing him away and rooting through his bag.
He pulled out one of his self-declared "trump cards". John had always liked working with explosives, and the mini-nuke was his ultimate interest. Reworking one into a grenade had been insane, but it certainly came in handy at the moment. He threw it and yelled, "Get down and cover your ears!"
Just as a couple Enclave soldiers dropped down the grate after them, the mini-nuke grenade landed at their feet. A few seconds later, it exploded.
They'd all taken John's orders to heart, even the young man had heard the wisdom through his muted state. He pressed his hands against his ears, hugged the floor and screwed his eyes shut. A bright flash pushed through his eyelids. An incredible sound of thunder blasted through the tunnel, making him wince with how hard it hit his ears. He was washed in a wave of heat, followed quickly by a barrage of debris. His pip-boy's Geiger counter crackled with rads.
Then it was over. The awesome roar was replaced with an empty silence; the bright light, replaced by an all-encompassing darkness. The first sounds were that of those around him shuffling as they tried to find their way to their feet in the dark. Then there were whimpers and groans from the pain sustained.
He couldn't manage the power to rise, couldn't even find the strength to cry.
A hand gripped his shoulder, likely John or Jane trying to give him whatever comfort they could. He tried to bat them away, only to find that a kind of paralysis had descended upon him. He must be in shock... or... no... oh no... God no...
Light chuckling echoed through the dark room.
"My, my, my, the first time we ever met," Bishop said. "I suppose that I didn't make the best impression, hm? Killing your father and all." The grip about his arm tightened into that of a steel vice as he hauled him up off of the ground and threw him away with one arm. Bishop's strength in the dark room had always been an accurate representation of his strength in real life.
The Lone Wanderer landed on the floor, ribs aching from the impact.
"Let's make things interesting, why don't we." Bishop snapped his fingers.
Instantly, the Wanderer found his muscles empowered, once more able to speak.
"You bastard!"
Or scream.
He sprung to his feet and charged at the dim figure of Bishop. He couldn't see his face, but he knew for a fact that that bastard had the awful smile on. The same smile he'd worn when he killed his father.
He'd kill him. He'd kill him. He'd kill him.
He threw out one hand at Bishop to punch him in the face, but it was easily swatted aside. Bishop shifted and grabbed the Wanderer by the throat, instantly pulling him up off of his feet.
"Now, now, what's the purpose of such violence?"
The Wanderer struggled to speak with what little air he had through the vice grip, but he wouldn't be forced to shy away from the challenge. "You... killed... my... dad..."
Bishop wrenched him close, so close that their faces must have been only inches apart, even though he couldn't see it. He knew despite the darkness, for that cool breath washed onto him rhythmically, steadily, calmly.
"And you killed mine," Bishop replied. "An eye for an eye, hmm? You took away everything I cared about, and I took away everything you cared about." He tightened his grip on the Wanderer's throat, before hurling away across the dark room.
He hit the ground and rolled back up to his feet. Coughing, he looked back into the darkness, but wasn't able to make out any tangible figure.
"We're actually pretty similar, you and I," Bishop said; his voice seemed to come both from nowhere and everywhere all at once, echoing throughout the dark room.
"We're nothing alike!" The Wanderer shouted. His voice was hoarse, and it hurt to speak, but he wouldn't be cowed. He looked wildly through the dark room, trying to catch a glimpse of where his adversary could possibly be. There was nothing.
"Oh please, don't be like that. You know, my father—"
"He wasn't even your real dad!" The Wanderer shouted.
Something crashed into the side of his head, sending him tumbling to the floor once more. The strike was followed immediately by a snap of the fingers, and the Wanderer lay unmoving, helpless.
"How dare you say that, you scum," Bishop said. Even now, his voice didn't hold a sliver of anger, didn't denote anything but kindness. The juxtaposition between his words and his tone was as bizarre as ever. Undoubtedly, that smile persisted as well. "He's the man who raised me, who gave me my values, who looked after me when I was hurt and afraid. Just the same as yours." The heel of Bishop's boot pressed into the back of his skull, and he pressed down with greater and greater force, squeezing his head into the ground harder and harder until it felt like it was about to break.
"The only difference is that mine didn't abandon me..."
By the time battle class rolled around, he still had a headache. The feeling of Bishop slowly crushing his skull with his boot hadn't faded once he woke up, instead persisting in a dull ache that still reminded him of the dreaded dream and the dreaded memories it had comprised.
He'd woken up in his little cave, as he had the last few days. As he'd expected, his teammates hadn't questioned his absence, nor had anyone else, not like anyone else could've noticed.
Several days had now passed since joining Beacon, since going out with Ruby, since the incident with the fire sword. He'd settled into a routine. He'd go to sleep late and wake up early, getting maybe four or five hours of sleep. While awake, he'd spend all of his time alone in the gym, working out, or alone in the gardens, studying. The important thing was that he was alone. Alone and tired, so that'd he'd be able to get to sleep as quickly as possible without worrying about his team or falling back into the maw of thought.
It... wasn't really working all that well, but he'd keep up the pace, hoping that eventually his exhaustion could let him rest easy once more.
As it was, he sat in Miss Goodwitch's class, hands cradling his aching head.
Team cardinal were up to spar, the leader and his partner. He'd never bothered to learn their names. He'd payed close attention over the last few days to every spar, trying to learn from the other students' successes and failures. Now, however, as it became clear that the big one was going to win, his eyes wandered.
His gaze drifted across the room, passing by Ruby Rose. She sat in the front row, watching with rapt interest, as she had every fight. Undoubtedly, she was fascinated by the performance of each combatant's weapon. Funny, how someone so innocent could be so engrossed by something like weaponry. She'd never use them the way he had.
If Ruby ever found out what terrible things he'd done, she'd never forgive him.
Not that he cared, of course. In fact, he'd been avoiding her completely the past few days, taking roundabout routes to and from class to get around speaking to her. Not only that, but every time she came up to talk, he'd pretend not to hear, or brush her off with a vague statement of some previous commitment. The two hadn't gone back to the armory yet. He just... couldn't quite stand her, in some weird way for whatever weird reason. He just... didn't like the way he felt around her. There was a strange empty feeling in his chest, like something was missing, like there was supposed to be something more.
She reminds you of Max, doesn't she? Those two would've been pretty good friends...
He shook his head to dispel Bishop's words. Bastard. Just refocus away from that girl.
His gaze shifted away, to the three people who were supposed to be his new team. They sat next to each other, not far away from team RWBY, and it appeared that they'd become disinterested in the fight as he had. Pyrrha and Ren were sparing Nora their attention as the bombastic girl told some sort of story. What it was, he had no idea.
But it seemed pretty fun.
Nora had a large smile split across her face, and Pyrrha was hiding her smile and giggles behind her hand. Even the stoic Ren had a warmth in his expression that denoted fondness. Nora acted out whatever she was telling using an apple, tossing it around from hand to hand, pointing at it, making exclamations. Whether the poor little piece of fruit was the hero of her story or the villain, he couldn't tell.
Eventually, Nora's frantic motions got the better of her, and the apple slipped out of her hand and fell aside to the floor, ending her story as the girl looked glumly at the doomed fruit.
The Lone Wanderer was exhausted. Exhausted, with a splitting headache that made him all the more tired. And exhaustion has the inevitable effect of bringing a person's dreams to the forefront of their consciousness, whether through sleep or through idle thought. Accordingly, the Wanderer couldn't help the thoughts that followed.
He imagined for a moment, a different world, a world where he sat beside those three. He was with them, and he knew perfectly well what the story was about. He laughed alongside them. He knew whether or not the apple was the hero or villain. Maybe he even sat in the right spot to catch it when Nora dropped it, then he could laugh and toss it back to her and she could continue her story and the four of them could all be together like a team... like he used to...
That sounded nice...
His musing was cut off by Glynda Goodwitch's sharp voice.
"Match over! Cardin Winchester is the victor. Mr. Thrush, you performed well, but I'd recommend—" She continued like that for a few minutes, critiquing both of them on their fighting styles and offering advice on what to improve. When she finished, she turned her attention back to the crowd. "Now for our final match of partner combat, Pyrrha Nikos and Jaune Arc."
The Lone Wanderer sighed.
The moment had finally come, huh? He'd known this was bound to happen, of course. Every pair had been going at each other since the day class started, and it seemed he'd been saved for last.
He rose from his seat and started shaking out the tense soreness from his muscles. He still felt somewhat weak, a kind of apprehension that felt like it was holding him back, slowing him down. That wouldn't do.
That wouldn't do at all.
Pyrrha Nikos, as he'd come to learn, was easily one of the most skilled and proficient fighter in his grade, perhaps the entire school. He, on the other hand, had no real idea where his skill level was in this world. The only time he'd fought against another person here was the rogue huntsman back on his very first day in Remnant, but that hadn't been a fight at all. If he remembered correctly, it'd taken just one punch to end him.
Now, he had aura. Now, everything was different. He adeptly wielded Crocea Mors back in the wasteland, but the wasteland was the wasteland and Remnant was Remnant. Time to see how things worked.
He shook out his limbs and cracked his neck. He bounced on the heels of his feet. Adrenaline slowly made its way into his system as he saw his opponent make her way up onto the stage. He grasped the hilt of Crocea Mors. He locked eyes with his 'partner'. Her emerald gaze focused on him coldly. She hated him. Good. It'd save everyone a lot of trouble if that was how things were.
The room was utterly silent as he made his way up to—
"Woo-hoo, go Jaune!"
Alright, the room had been utterly silent. Ruby had taken it upon herself to end that peace. He looked over at her, just in time to see the girl flash him a large smile and a thumbs-up. Well would you look at that, he had a fan. Not that he cared, of course. He despised her, after all. He spared her only a curt nod.
He stood a little bit taller as he made his way onto the stage.
He marched the rest of the way up to the stage. As he neared his opponent, the silence began to dissolve as more and more students muttered to one another. Undoubtedly, they were excited to see just what this 'invincible girl' could really do. If they'd been back in the Capitol Wasteland, everyone would've been looking at him, in wary awe of seeing the Lone Wanderer go about his brutal business. But this wasn't the wasteland.
Now, he was no one.
Still, he elicited a few 'oohs' as he drew Crocea Mors on the stage. Of all the bizarre weapons he'd seen since arriving on Remnant, his own sword had managed to remain distinct as the only chainsaw around. It really was a lovely instrument. He looked down at it now. Crocea Mors had dozens of tiny little teeth made of duraframe, latched onto a belt around a duraframe skeleton and casing. It'd stay sharp and durable for decades, even without aura backing it up. They'd been through a lot together... and Pyrrha Nikos would soon learn that.
He'd have to leave the Mysterious Magnum in its holster. It still only had two bullets left, and Ruby had already declared those 'strange'. The ballistics of this world were radically different from his own, and he didn't want to draw additional attention through the distinction.
This wouldn't be too bad. After all, he'd had to rely totally on Crocea Mors plenty of times before, whenever he ran out of MF cells for Metal Blaster or .44 rounds for the Magnum.
He held Crocea Mors out in front of him, both hands on the hilt, finger on the trigger. He set one foot back behind him and settled into an assertive, forward-facing stance.
Pyrrha flashed out her weapon in its sword form, taking her shield in the other hand. She crouched low.
It was a fairly obvious move, that. She'd try and spring up from there, use the force from her legs to give any upwards-going strikes even more power. She could break his guard that way, throw his weapon and arms up in to the air, open him up to future attacks. It wasn't a bad tactic, by any means. It just wouldn't work now that he saw it.
He stared down at his opponent, sword ready.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
The world around him slowed to a crawl as he became completely and totally focused on his opponent. He observed everything about her, drawing in information on her entire body, from her hands to her feet. Now was where his VATS training would come in handy.
"Ready... begin!" Miss Goodwitch called.
Instantly, Pyrrha shot right for him.
In that moment, the exhausted malaise which had hung about him the entire day finally disappeared as adrenaline shot through his blood. His finger instinctively pulled back on Crocea Mors's trigger, and the ripper-sword roared to life. He flashed it up to deflect Pyrrha's first strike, which was more conservative than her breakneck dash would've suggested.
He quickly learned why, as she spun and struck at him with her shield, hitting him while slightly overstretched, since he'd overcompensated after expecting her initial attack to have more strength and follow through, rather than pull back and redirect.
She struck him in the shoulder, but rather than let it put him off-balance, he pivoted his hips and twisted on the balls of his feet to duck into a quick roll and avoid her slash. This girl was tricky. She was good.
The moment he got back to his feet, he had to deflect another strike, only to be put off mid-block as she transformed her sword into a spear and whirled it about, smacking him in the side of the head with the blunt end.
Pain cracked through his skull, and he grit his teeth. His strong aura blunted it, and the Lone Wanderer was used to enduring, so he pushed through what was obviously an attempt to disorient him. He'd been knocked in the head by a supermutant and suffered the resultant concussion well before he ever got aura. Such diversionary tactics weren't likely to work on him anytime soon.
He stepped in her guard and pressed Crocea Mors up to her midriff. He'd saw close and back away.
Pyrrha brought her shield down just in time to block it. The resulting screech as the ripper's serrated edge grinded against the metal had plenty people in the room covering their ears. Even Pyrrha winced. Heh, the Wanderer was well-used to such racket.
He took the initiative and brought Crocea Mors up, creating more of that metallic screaming as he drew it along her shield and took a step back, narrowly avoiding a stab that made his aura flicker, it came so close.
She shifted on her feet, shifting her weapon back into a sword as she did and hopped back away from him, shield raised and sword ready. She didn't move.
Ah, so that's how'd it be, huh? Just a little spate at the beginning to get to know each other a little bit, and now she'd back off to strategize... haha, no.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
He launched himself towards her and unleashed a flurry of blows, a barrage of quick, short slashes to pick apart her defense. The speed of his movements, the blurry edge of the running saw, the roar of the ripper, would all contribute to disorient his opponent and shortly give him an opening where he could step into their guard and press Crocea Mors against their flesh, tearing them apart. It was a common tactic he often used, and it worked on just about anyone.
Pyrrha Nikos wasn't anyone.
She caught each of his strikes in stride, before spinning in place, converting her sword back into a spear and firing from the blunt end of it. The momentum from her spin and her shot sent it careening into him faster than he could react, and the point struck him right in the chest.
He winced as the air was driven out of his lungs.
She followed up quickly, shifting it back into a sword and sidestepping to slash at his flank, bringing her shield around to crack him in the temple as she did.
He ducked under her shield and brought up his sword to block hers.
Pyrrha's hand flashed with power. Her aura. It flowed into her sword and into the strike, which he managed to catch on Crocea Mors, but the additional power behind it sent him stumbling. She spun and kicked out one of her legs, tripping him and sending him falling onto his back.
He rolled out of the way of her downward stab and slashed up again. When he got back up to his feet, he had to evade another few strikes of hers, through either dodging or diverting them. That damned shield of hers added another element to the brawl, too. She used it well to keep up the pressure whenever she was gearing her sword/spear for another strike. With the two weapons in tandem, it was hard for him to find the opportunity to strike, especially since she never left herself open.
He swept out with Crocea Mors against her shield, grunting as he put a bit more strength behind it. He purposefully had struck when in a non-grounded stance, since every action has an equal and opposite reaction. He pushed back off of Pyrrha's shield and afforded himself some extra room.
Fighting with Crocea Mors was a balancing act of staying at a distance and getting close. On the one hand, he could stay at a distance and use its full reach to his advantage, swinging it around like a normal sword. On the other hand, he could get close and use its sawing ability as a ripper to press it up against his enemy. The former was a fine way of fighting, but the latter held the true devastating potential. The only problem was that Crocea Mors was pretty long, a couple feet, thus it became unwieldly in close quarters. This was what set it apart from other rippers—it could work well at a distance because of its length, but it was more difficult to use in close range. That meant he'd need to step in extremely close within his opponent's guard and get them locked. It was an ambush strategy that required complete success to work, but when it did, it worked. A fight would be over in a second if he could pull it off, which he usually did. After all, having someone wave a chainsaw in your face was generally startling enough for him to find the opening necessary to step in and saw through his opponent. He'd believed—incorrectly—that he could translate that tactic to this fight.
It wasn't the case with Pyrrha Nikos. Her discipline was impressive, since she'd taken that opening strike of his in stride. At least he hadn't been foolish enough to press in completely; his attempt at getting close had been more probing than anything else, not expecting it to be so successful, only add another dimension of pressure to the fight. He hadn't expected Pyrrha to capitalize on it as she did. She really was good. He glanced up at the score-board which kept track of their respective aura. Pyrrha hadn't lost any, while he was already missing a significant chunk. Still in the green, but the disparity was telling.
The problem was that she was more accustomed to this world's fighting than he was. She had mastery over her aura that he didn't, and she'd undoubtedly trained with her weapons longer than he had. He was well-versed with Crocea Mors, but he hadn't even been using the ripper for a year. Granted, his extensive field experience gave a kind of skill different from what she had. If this was an all-out fight, he'd have spat in her eyes by now, reached out to claw her face. But he did no such thing, since Miss Goodwitch would've put a stop to that in a second.
Besides that, it would've been unnecessarily mean.
Now that they were further apart, Pyrrha put her shield on her back and extended her weapon out to its full spear form, taking it in both hands. The two traded blows, but the Wanderer didn't press in. Instead, he backpedaled, giving himself the room necessary to block her attacks and mount an effective defense as he collected himself.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
Pyrrha probably had the training and the familiarity, but he and Crocea Mors had been through so much together... she'd know that.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
The vault-tech assisted targeting program, a course designed for vault guards to teach them how to keep a cool head and analyze a situation at a breakneck pace, to coordinate one's movements most effectively. He'd gone through that training course for years. And he'd spent a year in the wasteland refining it.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
He stopped retreating and brought his sword to bare. Crocea Mors blurred as it swung in wide, fast arcs, roaring hungrily as it tore through the air. The room as filled with the metallic clashes of her spear striking against his ripper, though even those sharp cracks were dwarfed by the hearty scream of his sword. He sidestepped around and raked along her flank, his first considerable hit, then ducked under her counter-attack and parried the following thrust.
They batted at one another for another minute, neither quite able to gain an edge. However, that didn't mean it was even. Pyrrha managed to strike out and hit along is arms and even a few times in his torso. They weren't substantial strikes by any means, but each one took another fraction of his aura.
Then he saw his opening. Her spear extended out for just a split-second too long, and he shot one hand from Crocea Mors's hilt to take hold of the shaft just beneath the blade. He wrenched on it, more to pull himself forward than take her off-balance. He swung his ripper down and struck her wrist. Keeping hold of the spear to stop her from pulling away, he ground his sword's teeth into her hand.
A moment later, he realized his mistake.
Pyrrha simply winced and pulled her hand back, then jumped and twirled. He'd left himself off-balance by the gambit, and she was able to deliver a vicious kick to his ribs. He stumbled backwards, barely keeping his balance. Only by virtue of instinct did he get out of the way fast enough to avoid a short volley of shots from Pyrrha's rifle. She let loose a few more, which struck painfully against his aura, before charging in again.
Damn it. He was still thinking in terms of Earth. Back on his own planet, where aura didn't exist, a strike like that would've ended the fight, since she wouldn't have been able to continue wielding her spear with one hand ripped to shreds. Here, she was simply able to pull back and continue.
Stupid aura, ruining all of his tactics.
He was put on the defensive once more as she pressed in close, now with sword and shield. She tried to get in his guard, take advantage of his sword's length. Well, he'd had plenty of time to get used to fighting against people who tried to get in close to him, which was most every decent fighter with short weapons whom he'd faced who was either too disciplined, too stupid or too crazy to not be put off by his chainsaw.
He held Crocea Mors vertically, moving it in quick, deft movements to push aside her strikes from her sword. He used his shoulder to push back against her strikes with her shield.
She spun again, pulling that same move of shifting her sword into her spear and firing into a fast strike. Did she think he was stupid? His eyes narrowed in on her spear. He parried it with a curt cut then flashed it back up to cut along her chest. She started and stumbled back, but recovered before he could capitalize.
Again, they were set at a distance, spear on sword, attacking and counter-attacking blisteringly quickly. He managed another good cut at her stomach and one at her over-extended leg, but for each decent strike he got out, Pyrrha got two on him.
He was panting slightly now, and although he could physically maintain this level of activity for a while, the damage was mounting up. It didn't matter how much stamina you had if you were getting cut to shreds.
For a split-second, he flicked his eyes back to the scoreboard. He'd dropped into the yellow, while Pyrrha was about halfway through green. Fantastic.
The fight continued in a biased stalemate, with the much more well-versed Pyrrha eking out an edge, occasionally putting him off with more of those aura-enhanced strikes. It was frustrating, knowing you were being cut down slowly and not being able to do much about it. Everything about this fight had been frustrating. Primarily his inability to hit her!
It must've been his exhaustion or her skill or some mixture thereof, but something had tinged each of his attacks. Each strike felt a little sluggish, as if there was some sort of resistance pulling at it. A swing went a little too wide, or a little too slow, to connect. She'd react accordingly, as if she already knew where it'd end up. He could feel the fiery adrenaline running through his blood, but it must not have been doing enough to keep him awake and alert. Maybe things would've been more even if only Crocea Mors hadn't decided to become unwieldly.
He couldn't keep this up. Things needed to be equalized. The Wasteland had taught him that, when skill and resourcefulness failed, a little dose of insanity could always work well. If he had aura, then why not use it?
Pyrrha shifted back to her sword and shield to press in close once more, and he crafted a plan.
The next time Pyrrha came in for a stab, he didn't block. All of his instincts screamed at him for the stupidity of letting a fatal blow through, but he let it through nonetheless. He feigned surprise with a gasp and wide eyes. It probably wouldn't win him any acting awards, but it could fool someone in an intense situation. Pyrrha stepped in to drive through with the attack. She did.
Aura or not, it hurt. A lot.
He clenched his teeth through the pain of the direct strike that speared straight into his ribs, but he didn't waste a moment reaching out and locking her arm in under his. When he'd left that opening for her to 'exploit' he'd positioned himself just right to grab hold of her. Sure, he'd had to suffer a brutal, direct blow, but she'd have gotten that in soon enough anyhow.
He yanked them close, close enough that he could feel her hot breath against his face. He saw the surprise on her face as he tilted them both at an awkward angle, nearly off-balance; it would've been a strange and fruitless situation for both of them, little more than a grappling stalemate since neither were really able to Move. But he had Crocea Mors, which didn't require him to put any force behind it to be deadly. He pressed the edge of Crocea Mors into her midriff.
The air of the battle hall was filled with a brutal squeal that sounded like a dying animal, combined with the ever-present dull roar of the ripper itself. Pyrrha thrashed and struggled, but he kept a tight grip and made sure Crocea Mors was held against her. Her aura flashed incessantly as each individual sawtooth cut into it. He kept her sword-arm pinned and ducked so that she wasn't able to crack him hard in the head with her shield.
He had her! For a few seconds, he continued to saw into her, and although she kept squirming and was likely to pry loose soon enough, he could deal enough damage to—
Crocea Mors seemed to become engulfed in a dark shadow, before hurtling back off of Pyrrha and up into his own face. It was a strange feeling, having dozens of little teeth jam into and claw against your skin. Thanks to his aura, his face wasn't ripped in half.
Both the surprise and the strength behind the hit sent him reeling back, and Pyrrha capitalized. She smashed her shield into his face to prolong his daze and got to delivering several brutal slices all across his torso. Then she spun and delivered a backwards spin-kick to his face, sending him falling back.
He crashed to the floor and doggedly rolled and rose again, brandishing his sword in front of him, but Pyrrha had thrown her shield in a wide arc around his peripheral vision. He didn't even see it as it cracked into the side of his head, right against his temple.
He tripped and stumbled to the side as she advanced, barely able to haphazardly block some of her strikes.
What the Hell had happened!? Her hands hadn't been anywhere near Crocea Mors, which now felt somehow even more heavy and unwieldly. He was barely able to block her attacks, let alone launch any of his own.
She furiously cut his sword aside, then did a backflip, sending one of her feet straight into his chin in a backwards axe-kick. He was launched away, falling flat on his ass again.
He was hardly able to rise. As he did, he clumsily slashed Crocea Mors horizontally in front of him, hoping to delay Pyrrha's onslaught long enough for him to get a sense of things.
However, Pyrrha hadn't even come close to him. If anything, she'd stepped back. Her spear was fully extended again, and she'd reared it back like a javelin. She pivoted her hips and flicked a switch so that the butt-end of her spear fired off a shot. Once more, the combined momentum of her own bodily movement and the gunshot sent the spear careening towards him. Towards his face, to be more specific. A vicious, complete finishing move.
Blinding pain cut through his head as it impacted against his forehead and he was sent twirling through the air. The floor became the roof and the roof became and the floor and so and so forth as he spun for what felt like a dozen times before slapping limply to the ground.
"Match over! Pyrrha Nikos is the victor!" Miss Goodwitch called.
He groaned. If he thought his headache had been bad before, then now it was downright killer.
He struggled on the floor for a few seconds more. He heard the heels of both Pyrrha and Goodwitch clicking on the stage as they each neared him. In all the other fights he'd seen, if one partner had been left on the floor, then the other would come to help pick them up. Pyrrha did no such thing. He hadn't expected her to. He wouldn't have accepted even if she had.
Instead, he forced himself up onto his feet. It was only then that he noticed the applause. He looked around at the crowd around the stage. They were all clapping loudly, and some were even cheering. Huh, guess they liked the free show of a champion going to town.
He looked at the scoreboard and scowled. He'd been left well in the red by Pyrrha's brutal final onslaught, while she'd barely fallen into the yellow. It looked like he had a while to go yet, before he'd mastered this world's peculiar fighting.
Miss Goodwitch gave out some advice that he didn't hear, too focused on the pulsing pain in his skull. He'd need to ask her on it later. At that moment he just wanted to get away from this place, to get back to the Beacon gardens.
The bell rang, and class was dismissed. The other students quickly left, his team the quickest amongst them. Nora excitedly congratulated Pyrrha in her usual over-blown manner, while Ren politely nodded to the side. None of them spared a glance in his direction as they left.
He definitely looked at Pyrrha, though. It was a good fight, he'd give her that. She deserved respect for her obvious prowess. The only thing he didn't get was what the Hell happened at the end there? All of the sudden, Crocea Mors had just flung back into his face and then he wasn't even able to swing it right. Maybe it had something to do with her semblance? Or maybe he was just too damn tired to perceive things correctly? Ugh, whatever the case, he'd have to use this as an experience to learn from so that he got as good as possible and left as soon as possible.
He headed off of the stage and towards the locker rooms where he'd changed and left his belongings. On the way, he begrudgingly tolerated a few thumbs-ups and impressed nods from some other students, undoubtedly sufficiently entertained by his little display. Thank God none tried to touch him. Well, none except one.
"You did awesome!" Ruby shouted as she dashed up to him. She playfully punched him in the arm, setting his nerves on fire. She was too happy to notice how he took a few extra steps away, though. "Seriously, that was really cool! You were all like hah! And she was all like heh!" Ruby acted out each exclamation with a punch or karate-chop.
She was just too damn cute...
He shuffled uncomfortably. It felt like some little piece of his chest had suddenly gone missing in the presence of her display. As ever, she was innocent and friendly and kind in a way that was downright oppressive.
Her sparkling eyes came up to meet his. He didn't look away. "Here, give me five!" She said. She raised her hand in the air.
He looked at it for a second. It'd be so easy to leave her hanging. That'd drive a point across, wouldn't it? If he really wanted her to leave him alone, then he could dismiss her right here and now. He looked back at her face, dominated by that pretty smile. He could put her down right now, cruelly, just as he had Pyrrha...
He brought a hand up and slapped it against hers, completing the high-five.
Ruby laughed and smiled. "So, you wanna go to the armory some time and work on your pistol? I bet it could've come in handy this fight!"
He was about to open his mouth to curtly decline once more, before her point sunk in. The fight would've been different if he'd had the Mysterious Magnum.
He bit at the inside of his cheek. He felt... bad around her. Well, he thought he felt bad. He felt something, something strange and unfamiliar that certainly didn't make him feel good. He felt unfulfilled, like there should be something more. There was just a bizarre empty feeling he got that he didn't quite like. It was as if she took something out of him.
Or maybe she just reminded him that there was something missing in the first place.
They were a lot alike... they'd have been good friends...
He winced. And there went Bishop again.
He looked back down at her. Those pretty silver eyes sparkled, filled with hope fueled by his hesitation, hope that he'd say yes this time.
Something contracted in his stomach, and that feeling sent his teetering decision plummeting over the edge. "Sure," he said.
"Awesome!" Ruby said, she excitedly clapped her hands. "We can meet up tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay."
She flashed him another smile and left him behind with only a cloud of rose petals and... was that the scent of strawberry?
He caught one of the petals again and looked at it. Soft and pretty and delicate. Just like her. He brought it up to his nose and experimentally sniffed. Sure enough, he smelled strawberry.
What an interesting girl...
He hated her. He really did. He knew that to be fact, because it's what he kept telling himself. Over and over again, he told himself that he hated her. And he told himself that that she was the cause of that empty feeling he got. She was the cause, and he should hate her and avoid her.
He just had to keep telling himself that.
Nevertheless, he felt a strange anticipation for their next meeting.
It was late at night when he opened the door to team JNPR's room. Grasshoppers chirped outside and the wind lightly rustled the branches and the drapes. The only light came through the window, from the shattered moon.
The Lone Wanderer entered. The rest of his team were long asleep, and he had no interest in joining them. He'd finally finished working out his nutrition program with the Beacon staff and studying for Oobleck's class.
He took special care in closing the door behind him so that he didn't wake them up, since that would've been rude.
He only came here for something he'd forgotten to bring with him out to his cave. He yawned as he carefully plodded over to his bed, being sure not to make any noise. He slowly lifted up the mattress and felt around underneath it.
A pack of cigarettes. He'd managed to steal two before coming to Beacon, and he'd run out in the first one, forgetting to take the second with him when he moved out. He stuffed it into his pocket and turned away, though he looked somewhat longingly at his bed. It sure was a lot more comfortable than the cave floor...
His glare shot over to his team. But they'd certainly—
He was stopped in his thought. His glare softened into something much less combative as he looked at Nora. He didn't know how he hadn't noticed when he came, probably just because he'd actively avoided looking at them. Nora was writhing about under her blankets. Her brow was furrowed, a frown was set on her face, which was covered by a sheen of sweat. She even let out a slight whimper.
She was having a nightmare.
His stomach fell. Instantly, images of the concerned expression she'd shared for him echoed in his mind, how she'd been worried when he woke from the other day's awful nightmare. He glanced at the door. He looked back to her. He chewed at the inside of his cheek. Eventually, he sighed and started to cautiously walk over. Her bed was on the opposite side of the room from him, next to Ren's. As such, he had to walk first past Pyrrha and then Ren before reaching her. One particular step let out a high-pitched squeal from the floorboards.
Ren shuffled slightly under the covers, but aside from that, he seemed successful in his sneaking.
"Hey, hey it's okay..." he gently crooned as he crept near her. An awful sense of powerlessness fell upon him. "It's alright..." He crouched beside her bed. He reached one hand out, but hesitated. What could he do? He knew from experience that being woken up from a nightmare didn't really do any good, since he'd just have more later. It was no solution to the problem. Still, there had to be something he could do... wait, what's that?
One of her hands was twitching, the fingers bending open and closed, as if she was grasping for something, something that wasn't there. His eyes flickered down to the floor.
A hammer. A little toy hammer made of wood, a stark contrast to her usual weapon. It was lying on the floor beside her bed. He looked at it, then back at her. Could this...?
He reached down and took hold of it. He brought it up and gently set into her grasping hand, which immediately closed around it with practiced familiarity. It looked like color drained from Nora's face as she took a firm hold of the little mallet. She slowly stopped writhing, settling into stillness. Her previously erratic breath slowed into a steady rhythm. She fell into rest.
The edges of his lips curled upwards ever so slightly. It felt nice to be able to do little things like this, so long as no one was looking. He couldn't have people see him like this, since then they'd get the wrong impression of who he was. He wasn't the kind of person to perform little niceties; he wasn't the kind of person anyone should get attached to; he wasn't a good person.
He was the Lone Wanderer. He wasn't nice... he hurt people.
He rose up and away from her. He glanced away from her to look at the other two members of his team as well.
"I don't like hurting people," he told them.
Predictably, they didn't respond.
"It's just... what I've always had to do. Ever since I was selected as a guard on the GOAT, that's what I've been supposed to do." A long time ago, he would've framed it as helping people. He once would've said that he protected people from the bad guys. Maybe... maybe that's what he actually used to do.
He sighed.
"It's not what I do anymore..."
He looked individually at each one. He hadn't yet spoken to Ren, not even to just be rude. He'd been mean to Nora. He'd been awful to Pyrrha. His eyes lingered on his partner as the frown on his face, though that wasn't because of her.
"I didn't like hurting any of you, especially since you seem like pretty nice people." He hadn't known that, of course. He still didn't, though literally nothing they'd done had ever suggested they were bad people. Much of his initial paranoia and viciousness upon coming to Vale and Beacon had been largely due to the situation. He was in a totally alien place, surrounded by more people than he'd ever dreamed of seeing, faced with having to get a new team.
He thought back to the good old days, laughing and fighting and living with John and Jane and Fawkes and Dogmeat. Those were good times. He looked at the three of them.
"It looks like you're all having good times without me. That's nice." He uncomfortably shuffled on his feet. "I'm glad I haven't held you back." He chewed on the inside of his cheek. "I wouldn't have done any of you any good, pretending to be your friend. Things are better this way, right?"
They breathed lightly.
"It actually feels kinda good to finally talk to you all." He kept gnawing on his cheek. "You don't seem like bad people, really. I just can't have a new team, or friends or anything like that, since it's not how I live my life." He let out a long, melancholy breath. "I'm just not supposed to."
Life had told him that.
His eyes slid over to Pyrrha, the girl who he'd made so upset when he ruthlessly cut down her attempts at being his friend. He bit down harder on his cheek.
"Maybe I should say sorry, huh? I... I can never actually tell you that, but I guess I can tell you now, right?" He brought up both his hands and slowly massaged his eyes, which felt incredibly tired and heavy. "Well... sorry."
Ren was motionless. Nora snored lightly. Pyrrha shifted slightly under her covers.
"Man, it's really easy to talk to people when they can't hear you or talk back..." He looked at them all. "It's just that, I couldn't trust you then, and I can't trust you now. That's why I was mean, because you could've been dangerous, you still can be... that's why..."
He believed that. He definitely, completely, totally believed that. Certainly.
It was true enough, since he did have a terrible, prickly feeling whenever someone he didn't know came near him, or touched him, or walked behind him, or spoke to him, or... well, a lot of things. That really didn't justify, or even explain, why he'd been more dismissive and cruel to them in particular, whereas he was usually just aloof towards others.
Just keep living this hollow 'life' of yours, just keeping pushing people away, since Lord knows you'd never be able to keep them safe.
God damn Bishop! He shook his head angrily. That bastard, couldn't he just stay in the grave? Or at the very least, couldn't' he just stay in the nightmares?
Anger slowly faded into a hollow, saturnine sensation he looked back at his team. He sighed.
"Alright then... goodnight."
He turned around and walked toward the door. He stopped, however, to turn and spare one last look at Nora. Her face was soft; her breathing, peaceful. Any hint that she'd been having a nightmare had disappeared. That was nice.
He turned away and headed back for the door, before stopping again. He looked back at Nora, then back over at his own bed. It really would be more comfortable to sleep here, wouldn't it? And maybe, if he slept here, then someone would be able to do to him what he'd done for Nora, magically fix his nightmare problem. Or, much more realistically, if he ever woke up from another nightmare like he had before, then they'd all be there. They'd be there and they could spare him those concerning looks he'd been given before. He couldn't get that if he were out in the cave...
He shook his head. Ridiculous! A ridiculous thought! There was no way he would stay here for something like that. He didn't even like these people. In fact, he hated them with a passion!
But... it would be safer to stay here than out in the Emerald Forest, wouldn't it? Yeah, they were a threat, but Grimm were too. Was it really any better for him to be out in that cramped cave than right here? The cave... which had felt so incredibly, overwhelmingly lonel—unsafe! It had felt unsafe! There was no other feeling associated with that cave!
He shook his head. Ridiculous. Ridiculous notions... crazy. He pushed through the door and slowly closed it behind him, taking special care not to wake any of them. With a quiet click, it shut, and the room was left in darkness and silence.
A couple seconds later, Lie Ren sat up in bed, fully awake, looking at the door where the Lone Wanderer had just left.
Well, well, well, it looks like someone failed a sneak check.
Alright, so we finally get to see more of the Lone Wanderer being something other than a huge dick, which really isn't what he is at the core. The only problem is that he has an image he believes he must portray in public and tries to keep up, an image of an unapproachable, aloof asshole. So it's hard for the audience to see how he behaves more naturally. And this really isn't OoC, since I've dropped plenty of hints that he doesn't like being mean and even feels guilty for it afterwards. It's just that some people have been talking about how unlikable he is, with good reason. He really isn't the nicest guy to others, so I've portrayed a more legitimate side of him here. The thing is, his current psyche is a mess, filled with doublethink, cognitive dissonance and lies as he subconsciously knows the truth behind his actions even as he consciously tries to suppress that. Even when there's no one else around to try and convince, he feels the need to convince himself.
Aside from that, we get to see just how critical Bishop is to the Wanderer's history. I wanted to create an antagonist who'd be a perfect foil to the protagonist, and Bishop resulted from that prompt. For those wondering, his name is derived from Pierre Cauchon, the Bishop of Beauvais who helped get Joan of Arc executed. His actual character design is inspired by Frank Horrigan of Fallout 2 and Reinhard Heydrich.
A little Ruby action as well. Now that he's finally bit the bullet and decided to go with her some more, expect their interactions to increase.
Anyway, come back this time next week for the next installment. As always, any reviews and/or questions are both appreciated and encouraged.