written in the stars
Just how easily Clover's voice can cut through anything else in Qrow's mind will always be fascinating to the elder. The moment he begins to speak once they have gotten halfway down the side of the cliff's leading back into Vale, Qrow's thoughts, which had been drowned out by distant screeches and roars and the growling of Yang's bike engine, focus solely upon Clover.
He sounds more coherent, more like himself, as he says, "Qrow… there's another one of those dragons, I guess." When Qrow hums in affirmation, Clover continues, "Well that's stupid. There was only one statue. Not exactly a fair game if they can just make more of them."
Nothing about any of this is fair.
Clover sighs, then murmurs, "About what I said back there, about wanting to see you face-to-face… I want you to know I meant it."
I know, he thinks wearily.
"You're everything to me, you know that, right?"
His lip trembles. I know, Clo.
"I love you."
I love you, too. He spurs the bike on faster.
Once they arrive at the bottom, however, there is little they can do; familiar streets and well-known walkways are naught but Grimm ash and rancid, foul air and processed obsidian. The bike does not travel across the processed pathways very well, so he presses a kiss onto the dash out of a strange sense of sentimentality before he leaves it behind where he had found it at the depot at the foot of the cliffs before continuing on foot.
The Tar pools littering the streets are far larger, far deeper, than he remembers them to be. Not an inch of the homey, comfortable cobblestone which had been Vale's trademark is left; instead, puddles of viscous black Tar run so deep that Grimm no longer appear through rifts in the air, but from the pools themselves, their white bone masks and glowing red eyes emerging from the blackness with such similarity to the Apathy that it makes Qrow tremble.
Retracing his steps is surprisingly easy, however. For some reason, the vast majority of the Grimm he sees do not interact with him; instead, they focus on spraying Tar upon unprocessed walls, consuming bodies still halfway-left to rot upon the sidewalks. It is as if Qrow is nothing anymore in Vale. It is as if he isn't even here anymore.
He may as well not be. What even is the point?
Eventually, he turns the corner into the little walkway where he had found his poster earlier that night. His heart leaps into his throat as he sees a crowd of floating, ghostly Grimm peering up curiously at his visage still displayed proudly upon the wall; Clover murmurs exhaustedly, "They… I think they like you, Songbird. Why aren't they processing your picture?"
The rest of this square is completely black, after all. Qrow shudders at the implications and runs past them without a sound. He is too tired to needlessly fight.
While most of the terminals no longer function, he manages to find one still glowing and active upon the side of the road a few blocks down. Surprised, he glances around; no Grimm seem to be paying him any mind, so he quickly trots over and unlocks it. Strangely enough, the CCTS terminal does not project the holoscreen when he taps his Scroll onto the scanner.
"Qrow," Clover says, "try holding me up."
Confused, Qrow lifts up the Harbinger's clock face so that the scanner can read Clover's faux visage. He jumps back slightly when the terminal somehow unlocks; a familiar vote appears onscreen, the sight of it enough to bring back a wave of bittersweet nostalgia.
It's been less than twelve hours, and we've come so far, he thinks in disbelief, only to be back here?
'And what would YOU like Remnant's beautiful morning weather to be today? Light rain or gentle snow?'
Clover's chuckles sound painfully close to becoming sobs. "You know… I really love snow," he whispers.
Qrow clicks that option wordlessly, but alarm bells begin to ring in his mind as he waits for the vote to be tallied. However, there is no vote. There are no numbers onscreen. The response message simply says, 'Affirmative', before the sky seems to glitch, and suddenly, there are tiny snowflakes kissing the tip of his nose despite the absolute carnage around them.
It's not a vote, he realizes dimly. It's a choice.
"…It's beautiful," Clover murmurs after a moment.
Qrow nods, slowly bringing the Harbinger up to his chest, clutching the clock face against his aching heart. It used to be ours, he thinks. I mean- I guess in a way… it still is.
There is no joy in that thought, though. He is not James Ironwood; he never wanted this power.