written in the stars
The Grimm are relentless in their assault- but even more relentless are the familiar faces he finds upon the ground as he makes his way through each tiered level of Mantle, each stricken visage permanently engrained behind his eyelids. Here, he finds Bartholomew Oobleck, a former professor in the Academy; he had been an old drinking buddy, always happy to share a round and a story of his students' stupidity. There, he finds Peter Port, a jolly old war veteran whose antics never failed to make Qrow laugh- whose understanding of what Qrow has been through always provided a silent, unspoken sense of solidarity between the two. Their data traces are barely existent, but he takes them along anyways.
After all, the other faces which he recognizes amongst the bodies are too far gone to take with them. He needs to save those he can.
His lungs burn, arms straining under the weight of the Harbinger by the time they arrive at another terminal. There is a sense of calm in the air; tucked into this quiet nook of town on a small balcony level halfway up Mantle's true height, there are no Grimm here to assault him. The only image which is frightening is the shifting skyline, the seas of black glass and Tar spreading as far as the eye can see.
He snorts as he logs into the CCTS terminal using his Scroll. The smoke, the fire and destruction… it does not even bother him anymore, does it?
It's like I never left the battlefield.
The very thought makes him sick.
The holoscreen lights up, casting sickly green-blue hues upon his face, upon the Harbinger's blade. 'The disappearance of Shade Towers and the thousands of residents within: what could be responsible?'
As his eyes skim the article, Clover voices what haunts Qrow the most. "It's not just us going crazy, Qrow," he murmurs, a tinge of disbelief in his voice. "We're not crazy. That entire housing complex- it's all gone."
The Grimm, no doubt, he thinks, head spinning, growing faint. To have an entire community destroyed so soundlessly like this… it is proof enough of the true power of the Grimm, of the processing that they can do. They are not only corrupting the data of Remnant itself- they are devouring it.
With trembling fingers, he types, 'If anyone's reading this, get out as soon as you can, especially if you're near Shade Towers. You've got to get out. –Q.'
"Songbird," Clover breathes, "you know that if anyone's near there…"
It's too late for them. He grits his teeth, ready to log out of the terminal-
But then, he pauses, glancing at the screen. He has submitted this answer. He has put in his comment. However, instead of receiving the usual, "Thank you for your response!" he instead sees a different message: "Thank you! Your comment has been sent in for moderation."
His heart plunges to the soles of his feet as he logs out, hoisting the Harbinger onto his hip as he begins his journey once again. He does not need to acknowledge it; Clover is always able to pick up exactly what he wants to say, the clock face glowing eerily as he murmurs, "Who the hell is censoring us?"
It is the Circle. It must be. They are responsible for everything.
Thankfully, he is not able to dwell on that topic for too long, for they are finally approaching the gondola station at last. Qrow recognizes these streets; he has run along them over and over again in the past, late-nights after shows in seedy joints always the better for the strange, hilarious company he was always able to find from his audience. It has always been a pleasure to throw off his Singer shroud, to throw away the piece marking his designation and to go as an unassigned person alongside Clover to each small, dimly lit pub which fills this downtown area of Mantle.
At least, once upon a time, it had been a pleasure.
"How many good drinking joints used to be around here?" Clover comments as Qrow unfurls the Harbinger, slicing through predatory Creeps and stalking, fireball-spitting Manticores. He flicks the blade, sending Tar splashing across the street, decomposing the brickwork into obsidian within seconds. "We used to meet all our fans, until…"
Until things went south, Qrow supplies silently, instinctively. Until fans started getting aggressive. Until my voice starting causing them to… to believe in fairy tales, in my songs.
He remembers well, how his singing had begun to grow out of control. It had begun in these shady streets of Mantle, in the pristine halls of Atlas above; perhaps that is why he holds the place in such low regard, for his most recent experiences here- albeit lit up by the few comrades who would always treat him like a person before a Singer- have all been filled with strife, with riots, with crowds growing out of control and people falling out of their uniform, democratic line.
It's… strange, to know that he will never again perform in this district, even in secret performances. He almost misses that chaos of rioting crowds compared to the horrors infesting Remnant tonight.
His feet remain true, though, finally bringing him to the avenue leading up to the gondola station. Even at the end of the road, he can see the lights of the machinery flickering, indicating their activity. With his Scroll, they should be able to activate everything, rising up to the interconnecting stations built up the side of Atlas' floating cityscape until they reach Atlas Academy itself, where James Ironwood houses his offices. They're almost there.
"Qrow, wait," Clover says suddenly. Qrow obeys, slowing to a halt, massaging his aching thighs as he props the Harbinger on the ground, leaning the handle against his chest. Before them stands a giant wall, formerly covered with a large mural painted by the street artist Neon Katt- he remembers the way vivid colours had once shone so brightly that there hadn't been any need to install streetlights upon the street proper, for the distant skylights and the eternal red tint of Mantle itself had always been enough to illuminate this path to Atlas' gondola station.
It is all black now. Nothing but processed, shattered material.
"This is what the Circle wants our town to be, I guess," Clover mutters, voice scathing and bitter. "This is the world they're building- this what they're taking away from us."
Qrow is too tired to be angry, though. He just wants answers. So, he hooks the Harbinger back on his belt, strokes the clock face lovingly, then runs off towards the station. There is no time to waste.