I never use the Oxford comma. It's a waste of space. Lists look cleaner without it.
Winter stood in the control room of her ship, looking down at the city of Vale. Around them hung more Atlas battleships, all ready to protect against grimm and deploy their soldiers—both live and robotic—in the event of attack.
The control room bustled with activity. Busy and overworked personnel leaned over computer terminals to analyze data, orders and logistics. The boring chatter about food, regulations, protocols and whatnot all droned on, sounding like the buzzing of bees dutifully working in their hive.
Winter looked out the window for a moment longer, before turning. Before her stood six Atlas specialists, the team under her command.
"We're finally here," she addressed them all. "Obviously, I expect you all to be on your best behavior. So long as you are in Vale, you are setting an impression not only of the Atlesian Specialists but of Atlas itself."
She looked each specialist in the eye, then nodded to the group as a whole.
"I have the greatest confidence in you and your professionalism, your attention to duty and your strength of character," Winter assured. "As such, I have no worry that you will behave exceptionally both on and off duty. May we make our country proud."
With that, she turned to one of the specialists in particular. She was a tall woman with a broad stance, a strong jaw, bright eyes and a huge claymore on her back.
"Specialist Pride," Winter said to her. "I cannot grant your request for shore leave immediately, I regret to say; however, you will be able to have a free afternoon in three days."
The woman nodded curtly.
"Thank you, Miss Schnee. There is someone I very much wish to meet again."
"Have you been sleeping better?" Peach asked.
"Yeah, a bit," Jaune replied. He sighed and sunk back into the sofa, lazily twisting around the slinky in his hands. The day had been a hard one, full of training for the upcoming tournament. His hair was still wet from the shower he had taken after their practice matches.
His eyes suddenly felt a bit heavier, and he yawned; Peach's office and voice always had that effect on him now. Maybe it was her semblance…
"Hey, what's your semblance? Don't think you ever told me," Jaune asked with plain curiosity. He let his head laze back against the couch. "Can you sense emotions or something like that? Calm people down?"
Peach chuckled lightly, her charcoal black lips curling up into a smile. "I wish, I certainly wish. That would make my job a lot easier. No, any sense of relaxation, calm or trust you have here is purely because of the work we've had together." Peach had taken to putting her office chair away in the center of her small office, nearer to Jaune. Now, however, she kicked again the floor and wheeled back to her desk. There she rummaged around in one of its compartments, pulling up what appeared to be a utility belt.
The belt had at least ten pouches along it. Peach pulled back some heavy velcro to open one of them. Then she plucked out a dark crystal, the deepest brown; its brown color was visible only around the edges, where light more easily penetrated. Otherwise, it was nearly black.
"I'm empower by earth dust," Peach explained. "If I were to crush this in my fist and activate it, I'd be able to refuel my aura from it, toughen my skin and hit harder for a bit. To an extent, I can even control dust like this." Peach patted the chains that wrapped around her midriff, which clinked and rattled. "This isn't just for decoration, either. All the runes carved into it are actually embedded earth dust. It makes it a tougher weapon. In a fight, I'll wrap this around one of my arms so I can with it like a truck. Combined with my club—which has studs of earth dust—I can smash just about anything."
"Damn," Jaune said. "Sounds pretty badass."
"I would like to think I am," Peach said with an amused smile.
Jaune nodded quietly. He wasn't entirely sure what else to say. Honestly, not much had been happening. He had been taking his medication, including a new over the counter one that helped him sleep a bit. A couple more weeks had gone by since he promised to get more rest … a promise that Peach had grilled him for incessantly in their weekly meetings. And yes, she had decided to reduce the number of times they met to just once a week again. He was hardly in need of so many appointments now, especially compared to when his treatment began.
There had been no new developments about the Enclave or White Fang, either—that was not comforting. Jaune knew they were just biding their time and that there was nothing he could do about it. Blake had been happy to go off and fight robots on the highway and infiltrate the White Fang, but Jaune was not nearly so reckless. Bishop also certainly ran a tighter operation than the White Fang. For them to infiltrate Bishop's organization would be simply impossible, and trying to track them down with only public resources available was impossible. After all, the Enclave was a far more reclusive group than the White Fang, which was actively recruiting, holding meetings and preaching.
Jaune also believed that if he stepped foot out of Beacon or any area with heavy security, then his life would be in grave danger. He would be unsurprised if Enclave agents were waiting in the Emerald Forest with binoculars, ready to pounce.
His own research had also hit nothing more than dead ends. He still read all he could about the Englo and archaeology about them. He still read through every report of someone who claimed to be from another world. He was even doing deep dives into conspiracy theories about aliens. Nothing new had come up. He had picked up a few scraps in the first weeks and nothing since.
All that disappointment and frustration was burned out during the furious drills, routines and spars that he and his friends engaged in for hours every day. The physical exertion was intense, pushing him to his limits time after time; that gave him a nice outlet to take his mind off things, pump endorphins and let loose.
Honestly, the most stressful thing had been the crowds and the attention he was getting. He and Peach had spent a lot of last session talking about how he can deal with the presence of people all around.
"You look like you want to take a nap," Peach said.
"Yup," he replied. "Not much new to talk about, and I'm pretty tired."
"Indeed," Peach said. She tapped a finger against the arm of her chair. Her black nail clicked lightly against the plastic. After a second, she chuckled.
"What's funny?" he asked her.
"Oh, I was just watching some old tv shows last night out of nostalgia," Peach said. "Just flipping through stuff from my childhood. Eventually, I saw an anime I used to really like, and I skipped through some of the episodes. Then I got to the training arc."
"Training arc?" Jaune asked.
"Yeah, it's a trope where the hero takes time off from advancing the plot and fighting things to work on their own skills. I'd like to think that's sort of what you and I were doing for a while."
Jaune laughed at that. "Well, I've never really watched anime before. Ruby has tried to get me into it, but I dunno. They all look like kids, they talk too cutesy and their eyes are massive. Like aliens or something. Weirds me out."
Peach giggled and shook her head. "I think it's an acquired taste. Those artists out of Mistral can be weird. Mistral as a whole can be weird."
They both chuckled.
"Yeah, I've never been there. The rest of my team grew up there, though, and they say it's all pretty nice," Jaune said. He looked up at the ceiling, imagining some of the places he would go to. "Pyrrha once told me about this giant arch made of rock that's near the coast. It's called the Arch of the Rising Sun because sailors heading east would see it. I really want to go there someday."
I could never fathom seeing something so beautiful back on Earth.
"Yes, I've heard of it," Peach said. "My girlfriend said she was there once for a mission in Mistral, and I'm certainly jealous." She leaned back and linked her hands behind her head. "I've only been out to Vacuo. Have to say that there's not much more than desert… though the rock formations and mountains look cool. Most places aren't safe enough for sight-seeing, though."
"Yeah, I heard it ain't great," Jaune replied.
"Nope," Peach said sadly. "It's been ripped up ever since the Great War. My dad said he had to do a long mission there. Not fun." She sighed and looked up at the ceiling, also musing a bit about some of the places she would like to see.
Jaune, however, felt some new curiosity. "Your dad's a huntsman?"
"Yup," Peach said. She grabbed a picture frame from off her desk. "Here's me and my family."
Jaune had noticed the picture before, as well as another on her desk with just Peach and another woman (he presumed the latter to be her and her girlfriend). Peach wheeled over and passed it him, and he looked at it closely for the first time.
It showed a family. There was a father and a mother. The former wore an orange tunic; the latter, a cream dress. They had three daughters before them. Two looked to be in their late teens, with a younger one in the middle. Jaune easily recognized the youngest as Peach. This was because her two sisters wore outfits that mixed white, light orange and cream.
Peach wore all black, with a leather jacket, black jeans, combat boots and dark makeup.
Jaune lost it. He tossed his head back and laughed at the top of his lungs. After many seconds of this, he flopped over on his side, falling on the couch as he kept laughing. His wide smile made his face hurt, and his stomach became sore, and even a few tears brimmed up in his eyes.
Peach chuckled quietly. Despite her trying not to act too embarrassed, some red crept up on her cheeks.
Jaune was stuck in his fit for more a full minute before quieting down a bit. Still chuckling, he wiped his eyes and sat up straight again. Grinning wide, he looked back at the picture.
"You… how old are you here?" he asked through a smile.
"I was twelve in that picture," Peach said, "so about eighteen years ago." She scowled pensively for a second, then suddenly grimaced in disgust. "Oh gods, that picture is older than you are. I feel like a frickin' grandma."
"It's little baby Peach," he said, laughing again.
"Sheesh, now I'm regretting this," Peach said. She leaned over and snatched the picture out of his hands. "Little me went way overboard on the makeup, and I thought listening to metal out loud in public made me look cool. Those are just a couple of the cringey things I did." She sighed and kicked her chair back to her desk. She set the picture frame right back where it had been before.
"Why do you still have that, if you don't like it?" Jaune asked.
"It's not like I don't like it," Peach said, straightening the frame a bit until it was propped up to her liking. "I think it's funny. Mainly I'm just a but miffed right now at how old I am."
"Nah, you don't look old."
Peach smiled and turned away from the picture after finally putting it just right. "That's nice of you to say. If you had started getting cheeky, I might have needed to show you how strong my semblance is."
As kind as Peach was, Jaune had no doubt that fighting her would be a rather unpleasant experience.
So instead he just asked, "I guess you've been like this your whole life, huh?"
"Mostly," Peach replied. "When I was ten, I watched a movie at a friend's house, and the main character was a killer robot who wore all black. I thought they looked cool, so I asked my parents to take me shopping. They figured it was just a phase and obliged me but…" She shrugged and pointed at herself. "Here we are."
"Were they okay with it?"
"Well, there were definitely arguments about me needing to look more professional and this and that, not to mention fights over family photos. I always managed to be stubborn enough to get my way." She barked out a laugh. "My dad looks tough, but he would always melt when I started going on about how much I love him. Still does."
"A little manipulative," Jaune half-joked.
"Oh certainly," Peach said, "but also completely true. My dad inspired me to be a huntress."
"He must be proud."
A very sweet, very genuine smile came to Peach's lips. "Yes, he tells me he is."
Peach grinned for a moment longer and nodded.
"Even though I was sorta the black sheep sometimes," Peach said. "I've always been grateful for my family. They always put up with me, even through my cringier phases, yuck." Peach shivered in disgust for a second. "Though they'll never let me live some of that down. Like when I discovered my semblance in Signal. I was just thirteen, and I started going around trying to get people to give me a cool new nickname. I went through a bunch, like Miss Stone, Miss Boulder or whatever."
"Miss Boulder?" Jaune asked. "I dunno, that one sorta suits you."
"Oh shut up," Peach dismissed with a wave of her hand.
"What about Rock Woman?" Jaune asked. "That also ties into your music."
"For the last time, Metal and Rock are not the same thing you musically illiterate little twerp…"
The rest of their session went on like that. Everything proceeded like a lighthearted conversation between friends—which, in a way, it was. Peach was his therapist, and a therapist is something like a professional friend with a specific purpose.
She veered naturally into talking about things that were still stressing him out, like the bizarre and uncomfortable sensation of being a celebrity, or all the anxiety he still dealt with just from being in crowds.
Jaune needed to be prepared for things.
Vacuo was abuzz. The stubborn city and its strong walls stood proudly in the midst of a mountain range, surrounded by peaks and valleys that had help fend off invaders both human and grimm for centuries. Now, however, the city was alight not with armed fervor but with revelry.
Families huddled together in their mansions, houses, apartments and tenements; thousands turned out into cramped and colorful markets, bazaars and plazas; bars and restaurants operated at full capacity, pouring out beer and wine while frying and sizzling all manner of spiced chicken, pork, beef and vegetables; people chattered excitedly; pickpockets delighted in the less attentive; salesman dumped off their snacks and merchandise; music from speakers and strings and drums and cymbals echoed through the narrow streets; the atmosphere was electric for the whole of its million inhabitants, from the shacks beyond the city walls to the great imposing ziggurat that was Shade Academy, on the tallest hill in the city.
Today was the first day of the Vytal Tournament. The people of Vacuo much loved their holidays: they could unite and celebrate and forget about an otherwise exceptionally hostile world. The Amity Coliseum floated in the sky above Vale, inspiring millions across all of Remnant to awe and anticipation.
There was a small room on the top floor of the ziggurat of Shade Academy in which one would not have been able to tell that there was any holiday at all.
The top floor of the ziggurat was reserved for the academy masters, those who held the most senior positions in training the next generation of students, those who deserved the greatest amount of respect. Here was a cramped, secluded room with no windows. Lit only by a few candles, the dim place did not seem pleasant. A tough bed near the wall. A simple wooden desk covered with paperwork. A shelf full of books and more stacks of dozens of books in front of it. A tattered rug on the middle of the floor.
On that rug knelt a single man. His helmet—shaped with the face of a lion—lay on the floor beside him. On his other side was a stone plate with smoldering sticks of incense that released a smell of charred flowers. No sound penetrated here. The flickering candles afforded just the barest amount of light. The man's eyes were closed.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
His meditation had been going on for an hour. In it, he had focused on detaching himself from the distractions of the days. All the worry about how his students would perform in the tournament, the concern for safety as the city turned itself out for celebrations, the need to take care of some bandits and other thoughts dissolved. He was left with only the feeling of himself, the smell of the incense and the sound of the candles' occasional crackle.
There was a knock at the heavy steel door. A few moments, and it creaked open. Only one person in Vacuo had the second key to his room. They were also the only other person who would ever dare to use it.
"Is it time to begin?" the man asked. He had not moved from meditative position. He had not even opened his eyes. His voice sounded grating and rough, like the kind of jagged gravel that would certainly scrape and cut if you fell on it.
"Yes," said the headmaster of Shade. Her boots clomped heavily against the bare stone floor as she stepped into the room. "Most of the students are assembled in the main hall to watch."
"Alright," he said simply.
The horned woman watched him as he reached for his helmet. It was certainly a point of mystery that inspired some of his fame—and infamy—throughout Vacuo and beyond. He never took off his helmet around others. People did not know if he was a faunus or his skin color. They only knew that he was very old. Some speculated that he wore it to hide his identity, that he did not want to be recognized. Others theorized he had a terribly malformed face.
The headmaster of shade academy looked at the man from behind; she was one of the few who got to see him without his helmet. His head was bald, pale and wrinkled, with just a few liver spots and some extraordinarily stubborn wisps of ghastly white hair. The headmaster herself was treated as an elder—and an elder she was, with grey hair along with scars and calluses from decades of experience—but she could not claim the same advanced age as the man before her, not even close.
Most striking about him, however, was the nasty, lumpy, mangled scar that ran back around his skull. Not even those who had seen it knew how he had gotten it.
The man put on his helmet, then rose to his feet. He had to stop for a moment once he stood up, reassuring his balance. After a second's preparation, he turned around and limped to the door.
"So Fatu," he said, "has Sunrise responded yet?"
"Yes," she replied as she back out of the room. "He said he agrees to the ransom."
"A smart bastard," the old executioner said. He limped up to the doorway and grabbed his sword, which leaned against the wall beside it. "None of the other warlords play nice as well as he does."
"Indeed."
"Makes me hate him even more."
"Indeed."
The two stepped out of his room and closed the heavy steel door. He jammed in a large key and twisted; the door locked with a tough clunk.
The outside hall was quite different from the inside of his bare quarters. Every inch of the walls and roof were covered in colorful murals of leopards, rhinos, monkeys, flowers, birds and even fish. Painted stones made geometric spirals on the floor. Potted plants hung from the ceiling alongside dust-powered lamps. Through this hall the two marched wordlessly.
When they reached a staircase, the headmaster walked down slowly, keeping pace with the limping man beside her.
"When are you going to get a cane?" she asked.
"When are you going to get a cane?" he replied flatly.
"When I need one."
"Exactly," the man with the lion mask said. His voice came out through a layer of cloth behind a grill in the mask, muffling his words. "When I need one, I'll get one."
"Fair enough," Fatu replied.
The pair continued walking and chatting dryly as they came down the stairs—their conversation was interrupted by an unhealthy, throaty cough from the old master.
In short time they reached the ground floor of the ziggurat. Here a muffled cacophony echoed around the mural-filled hallways.
The headmaster and the executioner walked through the building, closer and closer to the sound which became more evidently the noise of a great crowd, one that radiated anticipation. They eventually reached a huge set of double doors. Molded out of bronze, the doors depicted two dragons about to clash. Fatu pushed them open.
Immediately, they were hit with the full force of the sound, sight and smell of a big room full of teenagers who were eating, talking, laughing and waiting excitedly. The grand hall of Shade Academy was used for speeches and (as on this occasion) celebrations. Tables covered with fried meats, sliced fruits and fresh breads were dispersed throughout the crowd, snacks for them to take and eat while they stood and mingled. Huge televisions had been set up on the walls, with massive old speakers propped up beside them.
Most students stood, although those who had come early secured seats on the small wall around a shallow pool in the middle of the room; in it swam several lazy, bright orange eels. They happily nibbled at bits of food tossed in by the students who also reached in to pet their sleek skin.
The students wore all manner of clothes in all manner of colors, at least those which could afford it. Once could tell the difference easily between one wearing drab linens and another in a brightly colored dress. The masters themselves all wore dull robes; their station was a duty, not a luxury. Similarly, they curbed the greatest excesses from how their students dressed and acted. To express oneself, especially so young, was encouraged, but overtly flaunting oneself or acting with superiority to others was not allowed in a place of learning, a place of duty, a place of service.
Nobody turned to look at the drably dressed headmaster or executioner as they came in, for everyone was engrossed in their own conversation or were looking up at the bombastic and humorous commercials blasting from the televisions. The two were quite alright with this, and they simply skirted along the wall to stand by a group of a dozen other masters who were huddled in the corner, conversing and killing time before coverage of the tournament began.
The executioner looked up to observe a particularly garish ad for grape soda that boomed from the televisions—
"Master! Master!" yelled a high-pitched voice.
The executioner turned as a short dark-skinned girl excitedly dashed through the crowd and stopped just before him, looking up with a big smile and energetic eyes. A young teenager with a youthful and vital demeanor.
"Yes?" the executioner asked. His voice was harsh and muffled, scary by all accounts.
The girl giggled. "My bro is gonna be on tv!"
"Yes," he said. "Yes he is."
"He's gonna kick ass!"
"Yes," he said. "Yes he will."
The girl before the executioner came from Shade's smaller companion school, Oasis, which taught younger upcoming hunters. It was essentially to Shade what Signal was to Beacon. Some of them had been allowed to come; this student was permitted because her brother was fighting in the tournament.
A few of the young friends she had brought with her hung back, not quite brave enough to come near him. The girl smiled.
"Palmyra, a pleasure to see you again," said Fatu with an amused grin.
"Ah!" Palmyra quickly bowed deeply. "Headmaster Nijan!"
The executioner noted grimly that he had not been afforded any such formality…
There was no more time for chit-chat or complaining, however, as the television suddenly switched away from ads. The very floor seemed to vibrate as the speakers boomed an overbearing theme of trumpets. The sudden blast of noise was matched in kind by a swelling uproar of cheers from all the students who yelled, waved their arms and jumped in excitement.
The trumpets continued as the television switched to sweeping, beautiful aerial shots of Vale, from the city itself to the Emerald Forest, to Forever Falls, to villages along the outskirts. Eventually, a final shot of the Amity Coliseum prompted another round of cheers.
"Remnant, are you prepared for the great Vytal Tournament?" asked a jolly voice. "If not, too bad!" The televisions switched to a view of two men, one smiley rotund and another skinny and neurotic. The former was armed with a massive mustache, and he spoke just a bit too loudly into the microphone. Granted, nobody cared that he wasn't using an inside voice. Now was the time for yelling, and he yelled, "The greatest contestants from all the four great academies have to come to duke it out in the greatest competition known to the people of Remnant! Huzzah!"
Cameras placed in Amity Coliseum showed the crowd yell, "Huzzah!"
"Huzzah!" the man cheered again.
The entire crowd in the hall responded in kind: "Huzzah!"
"Huzzah!"
"Huzzah!" roared crowds all across Remnant.
"Huzzah!"
"Huzzah!" yelled Palmyra, hopping and throwing a fist in the air,
"Huzzah!"
"Huzzah!" declared Headmaster Najin, who indulged in the excitement.
"Huzzah!"
At no point did the old master huzzah.
"Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes," said the skinny green-haired announcer. "I am Doctor Oobleck, this is Professor Port and we will be commentating this year's tournament! Without further time wasted, let's look at the teams!"
"First up comes the competitors from Vacuo!" announced Port.
The cheering in the hall was so loud that the speakers were completely drowned out; the paltry trumpet tunes were flattened by the excited shouts of a thousand students all jammed together in one room. Their cacophony nearly shook the roof, and it made the executioner wince as his old ears were accosted.
"Here comes team BRNZ!" said Oobleck.
The students in Shade continued to cheer as they watched their comrades walk out onto the field in the middle of the Amity Coliseum.
Palmyra jumped up and down and shouted, "Roy! Roy! Roy!"
Under his mask, the executioner smiled.
The cheering and applause took a while to die down after the teams from Vacuo were introduced. From there, the competitors from all across Remnant came out onto the field and waved and smiled at the crowd and the cameras. The Shade students fell relatively quiet as their rivals were revealed. The final contestants to come out were those from Vale. Introduced were some teams like CFVY and RWBY, before reaching the final group.
"And last but certainly not least," said Port, "is our heroic team JNPR! Like RWBY, they're sporting medals of valor for their heroism at the Breach! Give a big round of applause to Pyrrha Nikos, Nora Valkyrie, Lie Ren and Jaune Arc!"
The final four walked out on the field. The executioner knew about the red-headed champion, who gracefully waved and smiled. The orange-haired girl bounced and skipped and smile and waved her hands through the air like a five-year-old on their birthday. The young man in green simply nodded politely when the camera zoomed in on him. The last…
The old master's eyes widened when he saw Jaune Arc.
The young man looked extraordinarily uncomfortable. He hesitantly waved his hand just once. He wore a half-hearted and conspicuously forced smile. He barely looked up at the cameras, instead mostly marching along while looking down at the ground.
Nevertheless, he garnered more applause, whistles and cheers from the Shade students than any other competitor from Vale.
"I heard about him!" Palmyra said, clapping and looking back with a smile to the executioner. "He's from the badlands! He's one of ours!"
No.
No, he most certainly is not from Vacuo.
The executioner squeezed his fists and felt a tight knot in his gut as he looked at the one who apparently now went by the name of Jaune Arc. Recognition bashed into his mind like a roundhouse punch. With it came memories that were decades old, unpleasant recollections of a place far, far away.
It might not be him…
The executioner's doubts were wiped away when Arc drew his chainsword. It was Crocea Mors. Arc revved it a few times, and the excited crowd applauded for the interesting weapon.
The old master looked down at the sword he had strapped to his hip. He looked back up to the screen.
"So he got here after all…"
Through this initial shock and confusion, an additional thought had been lurking in the back of his mind. It was a scrounging, thin wisp of recognition that the executioner was not quite able to grasp. When Jaune Arc swung his sword to make the crowd cheer again, however, the executioner was hit by the full force of that thought.
A searing pain blasted through his brain; it felt like a flaming knife had been violently shoved into his skull.
He gripped his head in both hands. First came the realization. He saw again the vision from not long ago, the sight of a young man swinging his sword, practicing, ready for training. The sight of a student.
The executioner veered off and quickly rushed to the exit. The only ones who noticed were Headmaster Nijan and Palmyra; they each shared a worried looked with one another, before quickly following him.
He shoved the doors open and stumbled outside of the room. He limped down the hall a few yards, swaying unevenly before falling to his knees.
Images were seared into his mind, and it felt like red-hot brands pressed into flesh. He groaned but bit down hard and repressed the urge to yell out from the pain.
He saw a massive archway. At first the shape was blurry, but over the course of agonizing seconds the vision more fully materialized. It was a huge stone arch covered in jungle. Below it sprawled a lively town. The swelling blue ocean stretched out from a white, sandy coast.
Just as quickly as the vision came, so too did it disappear. It had dominated his sense of perception and all mental faculties, so its sudden absence left him in a vacuum. A dizzying sense of disorientation nearly made him vomit as he leaned forward and almost collapsed on the floor.
Fatu, however, grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back up. She knelt beside him silently and simply made sure he did not fall over. When Palmyra tried to ask something, she quickly held a finger to her lips and silenced the girl.
The executioner groaned and blinked wearily. The vision felt like a single scene out of a dream that otherwise went unremembered. It was a fraction of something much, much bigger. Nevertheless, it was a crucial shred that seemed to bring everything together. As he regained his senses, he also felt a kind of… finality.
He tried to breathe deeply, but that only made his obstinate lungs shudder, which forced him into a brutal coughing fit. Palmyra looked on, terrified and rooted to where she stood. Fatu remained silent, patiently waiting for him to recover.
Another minute passed, before finally—
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
The executioner sighed and managed to get his breathing level once more. He looked to Fatu and nodded. She grabbed him by the arm and helped him back up to his feet.
"What did you see?" she whispered to him.
He looked down at the ground. The weight of recent revelation hung heavy. He at once felt clarity and confusion. Sorting through the recent thoughts and epiphanies, some things were left shrouded in mystery while others were brutally exposed.
Slowly, he turned to Fatu. The old master spoke with a quiet, tired voice:
"I know what I need to do, and I know where I need to go."
I had fun coming up with my own version of Vacuo. I originally included some more about the city itself, but it felt more like a Wikipedia entry than a fit for the story right now, so I cut it. I like world-building though… wonder how different canon will be. Fair warning, it will be a while yet until it's revealed who this dude is, but he is not an oc.