written in the stars
The terminal which he spots on another street corner as he exits the back alleys of Vale, finally nearing the main streets, flickers on as he approaches, sensing the signal from his Scroll. "We should keep going," Clover urges. "We don't know when they're going to come back."
Qrow shakes his head, pressing towards the CCTS anyways, for even though Clover wants to skip town as soon as possible, there is still value in finding these terminals. After all, how in the world are they supposed to be able to watch over their current situation if they're so quick to run away, to cut themselves off from the rest of the world?
He does not want to be alone. This silence is more terrifying than the monsters stalking them.
Ignoring Clover's protests, Qrow tucks the Harbinger back onto his belt and jogs over to the terminal, tapping his old Scroll against the machine. The holoscreen springs to life, not yet corrupted by whatever ill has invaded Remnant; the message Signed on as Q. Branwen pops up immediately, its neon glow shimmering off of the Harbinger's smooth blade hanging at his hip in its condensed form.
A new poll catches his attention. They are always quick to pop up; after all, immediate polls are how everything is decided upon in Remnant, so Qrow has long since grown used to opening up the options and mindlessly picking from whatever benign options await him.
He rolls his eyes instinctively when he sees that the headline is nothing useful in their current state of affairs, instead simply reading, 'And what would YOU like Remnant's beautiful morning weather to be today? Light rain or gentle snow?' Glancing down at the Harbinger, he brushes his fingers lightly against the clock face.
Clover chuckles, his laughter lighting up the blade. It's almost beautiful, Qrow thinks. "You know I'm a sucker for snow," he says lightly.
Damn northern boy, Qrow responds in his mind.
…will he ever be able to visit Clover's family again in the northern snowy peaks ever again? He hopes so. His fingers trace the clock face lovingly. I'll make it so, don't worry.
He taps the option for snow with little delay. The message, "Thank you for your response!" pops up instantly, showing off the current results of the poll. It is in his favour, he finds; with 66% of the population wanting snow, the sky seems to darken for a moment before tiny flecks of white begin to fall from the sky, the air chilling. Within moments, his breath escapes his lips in little puffs of steam, drying out his skin and leaving him shivering.
"Maybe we should stop off at your place first and get another jacket," Clover says worriedly. "You're going to get sick if you stay like this."
Qrow rolls his eyes and logs off from the CCTS terminal. He takes in a deep breath before turning on his heel, jogging down the road and around the corner. All they need to do is pass the nearby waterway, cross the short bridge, and then, they will be well on their way to finding freedom.
That jog is cut short by the sight which greets them upon the pier, however. The water, which is normally so beautiful and tranquil- Qrow cannot count just how many times he and Clover had gone to the piers of Vale in the early morn to watch the fog roll in, the sun's rays reflecting off blissfully-calm waters, the two of them standing with coffee in one hand and the other interlocked with the other man's fingers- is anything but. The water mirrors ash and fire, the blue seas a brilliant, burning red. Qrow lifts his gaze up to look at the distant city where he had been just a few hours before. How he had gotten all the way to the outskirts of Vale, he still does not understand; it had to have been the Harbinger's doing, to take him off the stage and send him to suffer out here.
No, he realizes distantly, it sent me to safety. Look at what's happening.
In the distance, he can see Beacon covered in flames, shadows racing up the roads that can only belong to the Grimm. Beyond the waterway, he can see Mantle's tiered city rising higher and higher into a dense cloud of smoke caused by the chaotic flames which engulf so much of their once-peaceful world.
He lifts his head. Atlas floats in the distance, the magnificent, pristine white floating city now naught but a pyre burning starkly in the grey, grim sky. It does not match the neon glow of Mantle below, nor the gentle snowfall which continues to dance across his vision here in Vale.
Clover is looking, too. How, Qrow does not know, but he quietly murmurs, "The moment we get to the highway travelling out of Beacon, we're home free. We can do this, Songbird."
His heart aches. He takes in a deep breath, then exhales, his breathing steady and slow as he unfurls the Harbinger again.
"There's no Grimm nearby," Clover breathes. Qrow does not care. He presses his forehead against the clock face and closes his eyes, relishing in the silence, the tranquility as the world slows to a stop around him, the only sounds remaining consisting of his breath and Clover's disembodied voice coming from the blade in his hands as he adds, "Oh. You just want a break?"
I just want you back.
Then, the moment is over. He opens his eyes, gritting his teeth as the chill sends another shiver rushing through his body. He has to keep moving if he does not want to freeze; his home in Beacon will have a jacket, but first things first, he has to make it there.
As the air rips open again, he knows that it shall take a long while to get back home.