written in the stars
At the first bend in the road, there is a drive-by terminal. Qrow does not hesitate to slow to a gradual stop, pulling out his Scroll and scanning the device onto the reader. A smile immediately lights up his face as he realizes just what exactly this terminal is used for in the grand scheme of things; that smile only grows as he realizes that the service it provides is still operational, even at the end of all things.
After a moment of simply taking in Qrow's actions in silence, Clover finally breaks the stillness. "Are you really ordering noodles right now?" Clover gawps, absolutely dumbstruck.
Qrow snorts silently, plugging in his usual order- a House Special with extra beef tendon- set for delivery in twenty minutes. Noodles are good for any occasion, he replies immediately, but he is not offended, for he can perfectly imagine the baffled expression on Clover's face just based on his voice alone. You sound as if I haven't ordered takeout at worse times.
The end of the world was probably the best time to get comfort food from A Simple Wok, after all. His favourite local eatery would do wonders with cheering him up. Hell, if the old shopkeeper who ran the store himself came to deliver it, he'd probably weep.
Once his order is submitted, Clover only sighs, but his voice is amused, gentle, as he says, "…Blake is judging you for not ordering tuna."
I'm not a damn cat, is the immediate thought in response. He does not give any time to trying to convey that message, however; the moment the screen lights up with a small, "Thank you for your response!" he is already back on the bike, driving off into the night.
The road up to Beacon never usually takes that long, but with the way it winds endlessly around the cliff face, silvery railings around the edges reflecting the hellfire and shadowy chaos of the monsters which have spawned to tear Remnant down, time has never seemed to drag on longer. Qrow hates it intensely; no matter which direction the road takes them, he is forced to stare at nothing but the image of the looming destruction in the distance.
The screams from Beacon echo even down here. It is terrifying, just how loudly the snarls of the Grimm and the screams of those still logged in can ring through the air. He wonders whether his voice is lost among them, echoing in the cacophony of empty data and broken homes. There is no way to truly know- not until they have some answers as to what in the world is going on.
His throat does not ache. It does feel empty, though. He needs his voice back.
As they near the top, the Harbinger's clock face lights up again. "This'll have to be quick," Clover murmurs. "You've got to stay away- these things don't exactly have a sense of humour. You've seen what they can do, Qrow. I doubt Amity is even standing properly anymore- I don't know what this blade did, but it sure saved us, got us out of there."
Qrow dares to send a glance upwards, towards the giant stadium built right off the edge of Beacon's cliffs. It stands upon the other side of the main residential area, different layers painted with different colours lightening as it rose towards the heavens. Only a few hours before, Qrow had stood at the foot of the stadium in awe, ready to step into the green room behind the stage- ready to take Remnant by storm, radicals be damned- with Clover by his side.
…Clover had been by his side.
He's still here, he scolded himself. It's gonna break his heart, but I can't leave him like this.
Qrow needed Clover by his side. Physically. He couldn't do this alone, they both knew it. He wouldn't have taken the stage earlier that night without him, after all.
A voice just… wasn't enough.
Now, however, as he looked up at the stadium coming into full view, his heart did flip-flops in his mouth, bile and anxiety rising up to throttle his already-muted voice, choking the air from his lungs. Half of the structure looked to be no longer intact, instead shining a glistening black. Red lights glinted around the edges, patrolling shadows clearly lurking in wait.
"See that? They're already processing the entire stadium. They're looking for us, Songbird. And if they find us, they'll drag you down, take you out- they'll erase you," Clover spits, his voice cracking in time with the ticking of the second hand on the clock face. "Blake says she- she heard someone call them the Circle, whatever that means. Whoever those bastards are, they'll separate us and delete you. They already have what they want."
My voice. He does not understand why they needed it, but he can figure out that much. Why else would he have been targeted, if it were not to leave him as broken as Coco or Blake?
Clover continues, "Then they'll use me. And they'll have their way with this city. We can't be here for that."
The wind rushing through his dark, grey-streaked hair stings his eyes, burns his cheeks, sends shivers racing up his spine. The Singer shroud is simply too sheer to be worn in a situation like this, and his blazer is not enough to stop gooseflesh from overtaking every inch of his skin. He realizes, though, that the road is growing level; after innumerable twists and turns, they have reached the top of the Beacon Cliffs. His home is on the outskirts- they'll be there soon.
"Whatever you do," Clover breathes as they finally reach Main Avenue, "don't let me go, Qrow. Don't let me go."
I never will.
They're almost back home.
And yet, as his grip tightens upon the corded grip of the Harbinger, Qrow feels no joy at that thought.