AUTHOR'S NOTES: A little bit of an infodump chapter, as Ren and Nora explain what happened at Kuroyuri in this universe and we catch up with Weiss.
Sakhalin being in a radio dead zone is a little far fetched, but not impossible: there were areas like that along eastern Siberia in the 80s. But it is something of a literary device here. Jet fuel can, surprisingly, last for a very long time if it's sealed properly.
Kuroyuri Airfield (Zonalnoye)
Sakhalin, Eastern Siberian Dead Zone
6 June 2001
There were no ladders that they could find at the abandoned airfield, but they did find some ropes. Qrow was able to climb down under his own power, but he collapsed on the tarmac, leaving a trail of blood to the cockpit. Reaper Flight made a makeshift stretcher out of an old cot Ren found, and they got Qrow into an office off the side of the hangar.
Ruby was shaking in fear. I can't lose him, she kept thinking. No more, please. Please, God, no more. Her hands were at her mouth as Ren and Pyrrha gently turned Qrow over. He gritted his teeth and took a drink from his flask. "Does it hurt?" Ruby asked.
"What do you think?" Qrow shot back. He took another drink. "How bad is it?"
Pyrrha looked at Ren. Other than basic first aid, she had no training in this sort of thing. Ren apparently did; at least he'd volunteered for the job. "Looks like shrapnel," Ren finally said. "Cannon shell hit behind the cockpit, and you got hit by fragments."
"Can you get them out?" Qrow asked.
"The biggest ones, maybe." He looked up as Nora came running into the hangar. "No luck," she reported, panting. "No first aid kit I could find."
"We'll have to make do with our vest kits." Using survival knives, they carefully cut Qrow's flight suit off above the waist. He had no wounds from the front, just in the back; Ruby felt the bile in her throat. Qrow was bleeding from at least six places, from pin-sized fragments that had barely broken the skin, to one piece that was sticking out of him about the size of a playing card.
All four of Reaper Flight pooled their survival vest first aid kits, which yielded more than enough bandages and antiseptic; luckily each one came with a needle and thread, and Ren, to their surprise, knew how to stitch. As he unpacked the kits, he turned to Ruby. "Ruby, go and look around for anything we can use. See if there's any fuel left."
"But—"
"Ruby, you're making Ren nervous, and you're making me nervous!" Qrow shouted. "Go do something useful, dammit!"
"O-Okay…" Ruby was shocked at the vehemence in her uncle's voice.
Pyrrha exchanged a look with Nora. "I'll go with you, Ruby." She got up, dusted off the legs of her flight suit, and shooed Ruby out of the hangar.
"I'm sorry," Ruby said as they left. "I'm scared."
"It's all right. I'm sure Qrow isn't angry at you. He's just hurting."
"Sure would like to know where the hell he came from. And what can Ren do?"
Pyrrha massaged her face. The mask and helmet had covered most of it, but parts were still numb from the cold. "Ren and Nora…they came up rather hard. They were refugees. I should imagine that Ren has picked up more than just first aid along the way." She hugged Ruby. "Please don't worry. Let's take stock of what we do have."
It wasn't much. Pyrrha's F-22 was holed behind the cockpit; the shell had gone completely through the aircraft, taking the oxygen system with it. Other than the canopy being gone, there was no further damage, but Pyrrha wasn't going anywhere with the aircraft. Qrow's F-117 had an engine gone. It was still flyable, as the other damage was superficial, but it was by no means combat ready. Ruby's F-16 had a large hole through the rudder, but was otherwise undamaged. Ruby patted Crescent Rose's nose in sympathy; her F-16s seemed to be destined to be shot up. Ren's J-10 and Nora's A-10 were in good shape, though Ren was low on missiles and Nora was low on fuel.
As it grew dark, Reaper Flight gathered around the F-16. Ruby leaned against the fuselage while Nora paced, and Pyrrha and Ren sat crosslegged on the dusty floor of the hangar. Ren bit off the end of a protein bar; it was all they had to eat. "I stopped the bleeding, removed the bigger fragments and the ones that are easy to get at," Ren told them. "And I've stitched him up as best I can. But he's still feeling cold and feverish. I think he might have internal bleeding. There's shrapnel too deep for me to get to." He spread his hands helplessly. "I'm sorry, Ruby. I gave him some painkillers. He's sleeping."
"It's okay. You did your best." Ruby sighed. "We've got to get him to a hospital. Is there any on this island?"
"None," Ren answered, his voice brittle. Nora stopped pacing, walked over, and sat down next to him, putting her head on his shoulder.
"He can't fly," Ruby mused. She ran her hands over the wing. "All right. Here's what we've got to do. We can't radio for help because we're in a radio dead zone. The mountains here block line of sight and we don't have satellite coverage this far west. The good news is that Chitose will realize we're overdue pretty soon and send someone looking for us. The bad news is that they'll give us about three hours before they do, and then it's probably another few hours before they find us. Uncle Qrow might not have that long.
"Ren, Nora…you've got to fly to Chitose. Let the Japanese know what's going on, and they can fly a C-130 or something up here to medevac Qrow out. Pyrrha and I will stay here with Qrow until you come back. Maybe our Air Force has a C-141 or a C-5 or something at Yokota they can send up for Pyrrha's Raptor. My '16 can make it as long as I go slow and don't have to dogfight or anything."
"Sounds good," Nora said, "but I don't have the gas to make Chitose. The nearest tankers are at Kadena. Even if I called them when we're back in radio range, they'd never make it before I'm going swimming."
Pyrrha smiled. "Ruby and I found the fueling station here. If the fuel is still good, we can top off your A-10. There's no power so we'd have to do it by hand, but the Warthog can be refueled by hand, yes?"
Nora grinned. "It's a pain in the ass, but you betcha." The A-10 was designed to operate from pretty much anywhere it could find a decent runway or road. Most modern aircraft had to use computerized systems to refuel, because it was faster and more efficient, but the A-10 could be refueled with jerrycans if necessary. "The question is…is the fuel still good?" She looked at Ren.
"This was a modern airport," he replied quietly. "Modern fuel systems. If the fuel tanks belowground stayed airtight, it still should be good enough. And the JASDF used this as an emergency base for a few years after Kuroyuri…fell."
Ruby squatted down next to him. "Ren," she said gently, "you've been here before."
Ren didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the concrete in front of him. Nora looked at Ruby, her eyes pained. "We both have," she told Ruby. Nora paused, then opened her mouth, but Ren reached out and took her hand, squeezing it. "Do you remember Mountain Glenn?" he asked Ruby.
"I try not to," Ruby replied with a smile.
"During the 1980s, every surviving nation on Earth tried to retake the Dead Zones from the GRIMM and rebuild. Some had better luck than others." Ren gazed around the hangar. "Kuroyuri was a joint Chinese-Japanese attempt to resettle Sakhalin Island…maybe bury some old rivalries at the same time. China was still divided between Communist and Nationalist back then. My father, who was a Major in the People's Liberation Army, was put in charge of the Chinese half of the effort here. He, my mother, and myself moved here in 1981. I was six then."
He smiled. "I wish you could have seen it then. They completely rebuilt the town, renamed it Kuroyuri. It was beautiful. We even had koi ponds—my mother loved koi. We didn't have a large garrison on the island, about a battalion of infantry from China and a squadron of JASDF F-104s and helicopters based at this airport. After the initial landings of troops, the GRIMM went away, and aside from the occasional air attack that the JASDF fended off, it was quiet." He looked at Nora, brought her hand up to his lips, and kissed it. "And that's where I met Nora. That was about, oh, 1984 or so."
"How the hell did you end up here?" Ruby asked. "You're an American, Nora."
Nora shrugged. "Beats me. I'm two years younger than Renny. I don't remember my folks; all I've been able to find was that they lived in China—maybe State Department or something. I'm pretty sure they got killed in a GRIMM raid. Anyway, I ended up in a refugee camp on the south side of the island. It sucked, so I ran away. I ended up here, and Ren's family took me in." They squeezed hands again. It was a summary at best: the refugee camp had been hell itself, where the older children stole food from the younger ones, who starved. Nora had been six herself, and when Ren had found her, starving and suffering from rickets, she had just tried to steal bread and been beaten up for her trouble. Ren's father had gotten Nora some food and medical care, but had insisted that, once she had gotten better, she would have to return to the refugee camp.
"And then the GRIMM came," Pyrrha said. She'd heard snippets of the story back at Beacon.
"Yes," Ren sighed. "The GRIMM came. My father defended Kuroyuri as best he could, but his battalion was wiped out. Nora and I ran, got on a truck, and ended up here. The Japanese evacuated us, and whoever…got out in time. My mother didn't make it. I don't…know…" His face worked, and Nora leaned closer. It was the most emotion Ruby or Pyrrha had ever seen on their friend's face.
"You don't have to say any more." Pyrrha got to her feet. "Time is not with us. We need to refuel Nora's A-10 as quickly as possible." She began jogging towards the fueling station between the two hangars.
Ruby nodded. "I'll go check on Uncle Qrow." Fatigue dogged at her, and she wanted to lay down and sleep. But the longer they waited, the more of a chance Kuroyuri would claim another victim.
Ren and Nora got up and began walking slowly after Pyrrha. "You didn't tell them," she whispered.
"Tell them what?"
"About the Nuckelavee."
He shook his head. "It's been destroyed. Kuroyuri has been destroyed. What would be the point?"
National Theater Munich
Munich, Germany
6 June 2001
"That's precisely my point!" Jacques Schnee said, gesturing with his champagne glass. "We pay Faunus exactly the same wages as human workers. Menagerie's argument is completely invalid, right off the bat."
The man he was speaking to nodded. "Be as that may, Herr Schnee, the bigger issue here is our society as a whole."
"Do you mean Germany?" Jacques made a scoffing noise. "Herr Sleet, please."
"Herr Schnee, you cannot deny the economic disparity between us and the other members of the European Union. And this embargo on the United States is not helping matters."
"Still," a short, middle-aged woman said, "there is opportunity here. We could increase our economic ties with South America. Why, they've hardly had any GRIMM problems."
"An excellent suggestion, Frau Camilla."
Weiss Schnee rolled her eyes. She stood just behind her father. Her throat was a bit sore from singing, her feet hurt in the stupid high heels she was wearing, and the dress she wore ended well above her knees, making her feel chilled, although the reception area of the opera house was warm enough. No, Weiss mused to herself, it was the company that was cold.
The reception was crowded with expensive suits made in Italy and expensive dresses made in France. A cacophony of voices, languages and accents assaulted her ears and drowned out the string quartet's best efforts at Beethoven. Weiss found herself missing the smoke-filled, low ceilinged stag bar at Beacon, with its smells of unwashed bodies and cheap beer, and carrier landings and Ruby's drunken rants. And Yang's boneheaded self-confidence, and Blake's deadpan snarks. And Jaune and Pyrrha and Ren and Nora and all the rest.
"I'm getting something to drink," she told her father. He nodded absently and continued to argue with Reinhard Sleet and Camilla Dias. Both were politicians.
Weiss threaded her way through the crowd and found a waiter. He was carrying a tray of beer and champagne. With a quick glance of defiance at her father, Weiss grabbed a beer, fended off the waiter's offer to open it for her, and tried to find someplace where she felt like she could breathe without smelling cologne and perfume.
That place ended up being the large painting that took up a third of one wall. She pulled the top off the beer and took a drink, while she regarded the painting. It was titled The Fall of Beacon, and it depicted the Wyvern under attack by the fighters of Beacon. The painter had taken liberties—apparently the defenders of Beacon flew nothing but Typhoons, single-seat F-4s, and F-104s, the Wyvern was twice the size it actually was, the GRIMM bore a strange resemblance to TIE fighters, and western Wisconsin looked like Monument Valley, Arizona. Other than that, Weiss snorted softly, it's accurate. It was well painted, at least.
"You two are a good match." Weiss turned at the voice. He was dark-haired and dressed in a nice, if outdated suit, the hair was combed down over one eye. He thumbed at the painting. "You're both beautiful." Weiss chuckled at the obvious pick-up line and took a pull at the beer. When she said nothing afterwards, he smiled. "And that was my attempt to break the ice. How am I doing?" His German was decent.
"Would you like me to be honest?" Weiss asked, in English. He nodded. "You're terrible at it."
"Guess I asked for that." He stuck out a hand. "Henry Marigold." She placed the accent: English public school education.
"Weiss Schnee." She took the hand and gave it a single pump.
"I know. I watched your performance. It was excellent—Carmen, right? 'Micaela's Air'? I was a bit surprised to hear Bizet in a German opera house."
She nodded. "Contrary to popular belief, Mr. Marigold, we Germans do not exclusively listen to Beethoven and Wagner." Weiss didn't feel like adding that her father had wanted her to sing Wagner's Leibestod, but she had refused.
"No, of course not. And I'm not just saying your performance was excellent because you're a beautiful woman."
"A little better," she told him.
"What's that?"
"Your attempts at flattering me."
Marigold laughed self-consciously. "Is it working?"
Weiss took another drink and sized him up. He was not bad looking at all. Much to her chagrin, she felt the temptation to baldly ask Marigold if he wanted to sleep with her, and if he did, finding a convenient corner of the opera house. Schnee security was watching her too much to get a hotel. Weiss had no idea what brought that thought on: she was still a virgin, and she'd only had one beer and a glass of champagne. Then she knew what it was: it was a way to get back at her father. Marigold was a means to an end, nothing more. "What are you here for?" she asked, mainly to buy time as she considered having a one-night stand. One part of her mind was shouting at her, asking what she was doing; the voice oddly sounded like Winter. The other part screamng to take Henry Marigold someplace quiet and bang his brains out sounded distressingly like Yang.
"Honestly? My dad has season tickets, and we're on vacation, so I took in your masterful performance, and now I'm snagging me some free food and drinks. And the nice company." He laughed. "I don't even know what the charity is for."
Weiss' amorous thoughts instantly faded. "Excuse me?"
"Yeah. I mean, it's like UNICEF, right?" Weiss' eyes rounded in shock. She pointed at the sign underneath the painting. It read SHOW WE CARE: ALL PROCEEDS GO TO DISASTER RELIEF FOR WISCONSIN AND THE FAMILIES OF BEACON AIR BASE. It was in three languages. Marigold nodded. "Oh yeah. Okay. Whatever."
"'Whatever'?" Weiss finished the beer. "I was at Beacon. I flew in that battle." She pointed at the painting. "And I lost friends there. Good friends."
Marigold abruptly realized he'd made a mistake. Several of them. "Ah, sorry. Really. I got nothing against the military—my cousin's a mercenary—"
"Get out." Weiss' voice was cold.
"Huh?"
"Get out before I call security and have you thrown out." He opened his mouth and Weiss pointedly looked at the burly security guard about ten paces away. Marigold gave a quick nod and retreated. She watched him until he went out through one of the ornate doors.
"Asshole," Weiss said quietly. She stood there for a moment, emotions roiling, then motioned towards a waiter. She replaced her empty bottle with a full one, and twisted the top off that one as well. She faced the painting, then raised the bottle in salute and took a long drink.
With nothing else to do, Weiss wandered back in the general direction of her father. She was about halfway there when she passed a couple, dressed exquisitely, the woman speaking a shade too loud. It was obvious she'd had a bit too much to drink. Weiss somewhat recognized the woman: she was a mildly famous actress. "But really," she said, "does it come as any surprise, what happened to the Americans?" She said it in English, and to Weiss' surprise, her accent marked her as American herself. "A long time coming, if you ask me."
Her husband had noticed Weiss. "Ah, honey…"
"What?" She laughed. "You said the same thing last night! If they're so arrogant that they think they can violate treaties, then I say they got exactly what they deserved."
"Shut up." The words were out of Weiss' mouth before she realized it.
"Excuse me?" The actress whirled on her. "What did you say to me?"
Weiss took another drink of beer, and faced the actress squarely. She didn't care anymore. "I said, shut up. Are you hard of hearing?" She raised her voice; it easily carried across the room, even through the din of voices. "Shut. Up."
The actress stared at her as if Weiss had turned into a dragon and breathed fire. "How dare you—"
"How dare you?" Weiss snarled. Conversation ceased in the reception, and after one missed chord, so did the string quartet. "What do you know about it?" She looked past the actress, at all the expensive suits and dresses. "What do any of you know about it? You don't have a clue. None of you do!" She stabbed a finger at the painting, like she had with Marigold. "None of you were there! You're all just standing around here talking about nothing! Worrying about your hair, and your money, and your fucking problems that don't mean a goddamned thing!" She kept speaking in English, because she knew that everyone in the room spoke it. Some might not understand German, and she wanted all of them to hear.
"I-I—" the actress stammered.
"I told you to shut up," Weiss ordered. She glared at the room, eyes blazing with blue ice. "Jaune Arc. Dove Bronzewing. Ruth Lionheart. Ciel Soleil. Gwen Darcy. Bolin Hori. Any of you know those names? Any of you?"
Jacques Schnee had finally made his way through the press of the crowd. "Weiss, that's enough!"
"How about Penny Polendina?" Weiss nodded, ignoring her father. "Oh yes, you all know that name, don't you? You know her because she died testing Schnee GmbH equipment—and that's all you care about! The equipment, and how much money you lost!"
"Weiss, that is enough!" Jacques grabbed her arm and began pulling her towards the entrance.
"Let go of me, dammit!" she yelled.
"You are embarrassing the family!" He flung her towards the main doors. Weiss nearly fell, but one of the security men caught her. "Take her to the car and drive her back to Schnee Manor."
Weiss was half-dragged out of the reception, and Jacques turned sheepishly to the crowd, putting his hands up. "My apologies, mein Damen und Herren. My daughter is quite overstressed—combat, you must understand. She lost friends there at Beacon, as she said, and she is…having trouble coming to terms with it. Just overtired." The crowd was looking at each other, and Jacques was not sure if he was reaching them.
He saw a tall blonde woman walking out. She brushed past him with barely a look. "Miss Hill," Jacques said. "There is no reason to leave, because of my daughter's, ah, breakdown—"
"Breakdown? She's the only one making sense around here," the tall woman replied. "Thank you for the party, Herr Schnee."
Schnee Manor (Herrenschiemsee)
Near Munich, Germany
7 June 2001
Weiss sat on her bed, knees drawn up to her chin. Her heels had been hurled into a corner, and her hair, which had pinned on its side in its bun, was now down around her shoulders. She had been tempted to do a lot more than that, to smash everything in the room in an epic rage, but she stopped herself. She was not a teenager; she was a Luftwaffe officer. She would not do that. Crying was not authorized.
The bedroom door opened to admit Jacques. That was not a surprise. What did surprise her was that her mother, Willow, trailed in his wake. She had come to the performance, but not the reception, because there was alcohol around. Weiss wondered how long her mother could keep from drinking. Her record was three months.
Willow closed the door behind her, and Jacques stalked over to stand in front of his youngest daughter. "Unbelievable," he growled. "Absolutely unbelievable. What do you have to say for yourself, Weiss? Do you have any idea how stupid you made me look tonight, and how much you cost us? And I'm not talking about money! I'm talking about reputation!"
"I want to leave," Weiss said evenly.
It stopped Jacques' rant. "What?"
"I want to leave. I don't need to stay here any longer. I want to leave."
Jacques laughed humorlessly. "I don't give a damn what you want, young lady. This isn't about you! This is about the Schnee family name, and you dragging it through the mud, with what you did tonight, and your actions at Beacon, with that damned flight of yours and that Faunus—"
Weiss shot to her feet. "That's enough, Father! I have done nothing but uphold this family name! I did my best at Beacon, and you know it!" She stared up at him, fists clenched. "What do you care, anyway? You married into this family."
Willow gasped at that. Weiss was too busy glaring at her father to notice the slap before it rocketed into her cheek. She nearly fell, and caught herself on her bed. "Jacques, stop!" Willow shouted.
Weiss rubbed her cheek, then got back up, once more staring at her father. "If you touch me again," Weiss snarled, in a voice barely above a whisper, "I'll kill you."
Willow stepped forward, even as Jacques gamely held his ground. "Weiss, please," she pleaded. "This is what we're talking about, this…this behavior. We have to keep this family together. We've already given one daughter to the Fatherland. Do we have to give two? You nearly died at Beacon!"
"I'm doing what I know is right, Mother," Weiss replied, looking at her. "And that does not include wasting my time at charity balls. I am a fighter pilot of the Luftwaffe, and while I am sitting in my room, other people are actually doing something." She waved at the window. "These people—these crass fools that you associated with at that concert tonight. They're not real. They're whistling past the graveyard, thinking that the good times will always continue, while the GRIMM just wait out there for an opportunity. Once they're done with the Americans, they'll come for us." She returned her attention to her father. "You want me to do something with the Schnee name, Father? Fine. Then let me do it as a fighter pilot."
Jacques shook his head slowly. "No, you won't. You're not leaving here, Weiss. Not even the manor grounds. You are going to remain here until you and I can have a civil conversation about your future." He turned on one heel and began to walk to the door. "Your behavior is a clear sign we failed as parents." Weiss let that one go; if her mother hadn't been in the room, she would have had some choice words about that. "If you wanted my attention, Weiss, you have it—and I'm starting by keeping you right where I can see you."
"So I'm a prisoner, then."
Jacques turned back to her. "Yes, if you want to call it that." He held up a finger. "Don't, Willow. This is for her own good." He threw Weiss a look of utter contempt. "You're acting like a child, Weiss. And when children act up, they get grounded." He flung open the door and stalked out.
Weiss took a deep breath, trying to get control of herself. Willow, not sure of what to say, began to leave as well. "Mother," Weiss said, "this is only going to make things worse. I have duties in the Luftwaffe. People will ask questions."
Willow stopped, and turned sadly to her daughter. "Weiss…your father is planning on calling the Luftwaffe high command tomorrow. He's going to ask that you be separated from the service due to post-traumatic stress disorder. It will be an honorable discharge, but a discharge all the same." Her hands twisted in front of her. "And you know your father. He gets what he wants." Willow went back to her, put a hand on Weiss' shoulder. "Please, Weiss. Just go along with him. He'll come around. Once things have calmed down, we will get you reinstated and the whole thing will be forgotten."
"Leave me alone, Mother."
"Weiss—"
"I said—" Weiss reined in control of her voice. "I said leave me alone. Please."
Willow hesitated, then drew her daughter into a hug. Weiss did not return it. Then her mother left, and as the door closed, Weiss could hear her begin to cry. Makes sense, Weiss thought, since I'm going to do the same.
Then the door opened again, and to Weiss' utter astonishment, it was Whitley. "What the hell do you want?" she shouted, feeling the tears on her face.
"Peace, peace." He held up his hands. Whitley shut the door behind him and walked to stand next to his sister, who sank onto the bed. He looked awkward for a moment, then pulled out a hankerchief and handed it to her.
"Thanks," she sniffed. "Come to gloat?"
"Weiss, come on."
"I'm sorry," she said, handing the hankerchief back. "You didn't deserve that."
"No, I didn't. And you didn't deserve that—" he pointed in their parents' direction "—even if you did act like a mad bint at the reception." He nodded. "Yeah, I saw it. I was on the other side of the room. Nice job in scaring the shit out of Henry Marigold, though. We're at Eton together. He's a twit."
Weiss lay back on her bed. She was trapped here. She could live with that, if there was some hope, but now her father was going to sabotage her career on top of it. She was exhausted, she was upset, and she needed a really good cry at the least, and she was not going to cry in front of her brother.
"You serious about wanting to get out of here?"
Weiss sat up at that. "What did you say?"
Whitley was at the window, his back to her. "I said, are you serious about wanting to get out of here?"
"What are you playing at?"
He turned back to her, a faint smile on his lips. "No playing, Weiss. You want to leave? I don't blame you. I can't wait for the next semester to start so I can get the hell out of here. But if you want to leave…" Whitley shrugged. "I'll help you."