The plan had run into some snags.
Well-armed, unfriendly, wastrel-related snags.
Yes, the Train Station would be a lovely place to get to, wouldn't it? It certainly sounded like a lovely place, with its nice, safe, clear-of-debris tunnels out of the city, and the lack of Bobbies, Doctors, Spankers, or other nasty surprises nearby. It would make a beautiful last stop on his one-way trip out of Wellington Wells.
But then came the problem that the bridge between Barrow Holm and Eel Pie Holm was locked shut, as the security gate was completely immovable without a power cell. Because of course the motilene pipes that quite clearly led to the island wouldn't power the security gates to the island's only bridge.
…Where was the motilene being sent to, anyways? The only electrical devices that were running on this island were some radios and a handful of still-functioning streetlights. Surely they didn't need an entire pipeline of motilene to keep those running!
And then came the Headboys, and their fortified bunker, and the arena, and good old Danny Defoe with his lead pipe and hypocritical accusations. Really, it was his fault that he had gotten fired from the O Courant in the first place. Plagiarizing news articles is a serious crime! Besides, it wasn't like Arthur knew Danny would end up driven out of the Village when he reported it!
Of course, the Headboys didn't like their 'champion arena fighter' getting knocked about with an umbrella, did they? Instead of simply letting him go, like civilized human beings, they'd dropped him in a pit to starve! He'd had to sneak his way through that entire bunker by himself! All to get some old medals for an old man, who just so happened to have the only filled power cell on the whole damned island!
But noooo, that hadn't been enough for today. When he'd tried to meet up with the old man after escaping, he'd been chased halfway around the island by an angry mob of wastrels! All because his clothes were too new for their tastes! They had been holiday presents from his uncle, too! At least, they had been before he'd been forced to tear them up into tattered rags.
The entire journey to the Train Station should only have taken half an hour from the maintenance bunker. Instead, it had taken over seven hours simply to get onto the bridge, let alone get to the Station.
It had been a pleasantly sunny day when he'd first gotten out of that maintenance room, with clear skies and an admittedly nice view along the coastlines. Now it was practically pitch-black outside, with only the stars and the shattered moon offering any light. It was cold, and miserable, and most certainly not a lovely day for it.
grrrrrwllll
Clutching his rumbling stomach, Arthur couldn't help but focus on how hungry he was. It felt like it'd been days since he'd eaten properly, and there didn't seem to be much in the way of sustenance on Barrow Holm. The wastrels had practically been walking sacks of bone and skin, and the Headboys were only somewhat better in that regard. That didn't make the weapons they wielded any less intimidating, but it did put a rather gloomy outlook on the situation.
After all, if the locals couldn't find enough food to keep themselves fed, what luck did he have?
"But we don't need to worry about that, do we, Arthur?" Arthur murmured to himself, taking care to avoid the chunks of concrete and other debris along the way. "Because you'll be out of the city in no time at all, and there'll be plenty of food waiting for you just across the Bridge. The Train Station's right ahead, just past…the…"
Just past the wrought-iron archway in front of him.
The same wrought-iron archway where they'd hanged the 'traitors', all those long years ago.
Three figures swing slightly in the breeze, only a few inches apart from each other. Their clothes are frayed and torn, and bloody wounds cover what sections of skin are visible. Wooden signs are strapped on each of their chests, the word 'Traitor!' proudly emblazoned in black ink.
They had broken into the police station, nearly stealing the register of the town's children. Supposedly they had wanted to burn it, keeping the occupation authorities from knowing which kids to take.
And in response, the townspeople themselves had killed them. They were strung up along the iron archway for days, only being cut down the day before the children were set to leave. All in the hope of appeasing their occupiers and sending a message to other civilians who had thoughts about fighting back.
The nearby townspeople look on, with most appearing stone-faced and impassive. A handful seem to be on the brink of tears, while a few others glare at the corpses with fury.
…Would things be different if they had fought to protect the children, instead of willingly leading them to the station? Would people still be popping their Joy if the regret wasn't there? Would there even be a Wellington Wells left if they had tried to fight back?
Despite not having eaten all day, a sudden burst of nausea struck Arthur. Doubling over, he rushed to the side of the bridge, heaving onto the rocky outcroppings below. He wasn't sure there was anything he could throw up, but he remained by the railing, retching until the feeling of queasiness finally left him.
Slumping down against the wooden railing, Arthur sighed. First Percy, and now the hangings. Memories continued to trickle back into his head, now that the Joy was leaving his system and he was back in the old neighborhood.
"…This is going to be even worse at the Train Station, isn't it?" Arthur moaned, rubbing his head. "I'm sure the memories there will be just splendid."
Still, it was somewhat refreshing to be able to dwell on the past, even in a limited fashion. Back in the Parade, he'd barely been able to remember what had happened a few hours before the most recent stop to a Joy Booth. Everything beyond that point had simply faded away into a pleasant, warm, drug-induced haze.
Now, with his head clearing up, he had no such trouble remembering. It was just a shame that the bad memories seemed to be the ones to come back first.
'If only the past wasn't so horribly, painfully unpleasant.' Arthur thought. 'Then again, if that were the case, I wouldn't need to skip town, would I?'
Sighing once more, Arthur slowly got onto his feet, swaying slightly. He wasn't entirely certain how he was still standing, after hours of running, and climbing, and fighting, and more running. The years of cushy desk work in the Parade, while extremely comfortable, certainly hadn't helped much with his endurance.
"Well, there's got to be a place to lie down nearby. Maybe in the station." Arthur said, yawning. There had certainly been enough beds left in the ruined hamlets and homes behind him to sleep on, and there were bound to be more ahead. One more night in Wellington Wells wouldn't kill him. Probably. Possibly.
Shaking his head, Arthur leaned against the railing, staring out towards the ocean. It was strange, looking out at the expanse beyond the city without hearing the noise and hustle of the Parade around. It had always been so busy there, with people running to and fro, greeting each other, heading to work, and listening to the constant broadcasts of Uncle Jack.
Out here, practically in the wilderness, there was only the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shoals so very far below his feet.
It was peaceful, in an odd way. There was no one looking at him, making sure he fit in, keeping track of every little thing he was doing. The Wellies and wastrels seemed a world away, stuck in their ivory towers and collapsing hovels. There was no Victoria Byng, or Clive Birtwhistle, or Danny Defoe.
The past was closer than ever, and yet the only one around to judge him was himself.
'And I'm sure the final verdict will be grand, won't it?'
Taking one last look at the stars, Arthur finally turned around, slowly walking towards the Train Station. One last stroll through memory lane, and he'd finally be free from this horrible place.
Unnoticed by Arthur, one of those stars moved slightly, gradually growing larger and larger.
"Hey, guys! I'm seeing lights up ahead! I think it might be the place we're looking for!"
Pyrrha breathed a sigh of relief at Ruby's announcement. While traveling by airship was certainly a good way to save time while traveling, there was only so much that could be withstood on an hours-long trip in a flying metal box. She'd lost count of the number of theories about the mission that Nora had come up with after the first hour, or how many times Jaune had tried to stave off his…condition.
It hadn't helped that the CCT signal had, as expected, been growing weaker and weaker as the trip went on. The signal had finally cut out about two hours ago, and unless Wellington Wells had a support tower for the network, they wouldn't be able to call back to Beacon anytime soon.
All of which had left them with nothing to do for the nearly eight-hour flight besides sleeping, looking out the windows, reading, or trying to ignore Jaune's less than pleasant state. The number of buckets he had brought along definitely didn't help with that last job.
Standing up, Pyrrha moved over to one of the Bullhead's windows, joining Ruby and Yang. Indeed, off in the distance, many miles away, clusters of lights had started to appear along the coastline.
"I dunno, Rubes, it's kinda hard to tell from this distance." Yang said, rolling her shoulders. "It would be nice if we could finally touch down, though."
"Actually, I think she's right." Pyrrha said. "According to the flight plan, we should be reaching Wellington Wells about now. It could be the islands."
"Are you sure? There aren't that many lights down there. Wasn't this place supposed to be pretty big for a town on the frontier?" Yang asked, raising an eyebrow.
As the Bullhead continued to draw nearer to the settlement, Pyrrha realized what Yang meant. If the town ahead was supposed to be Wellington Wells, it appeared far smaller than the maps had indicated. Most of the lights were only concentrated around four different clusters, with only a handful of lights coming from other areas in the town.
'Did we arrive too late? What happened to the other islands?' Pyrrha wondered, frowning.
Granted, it wasn't that much of a surprise that the skyline was different that what they had anticipated. The maps they had used for reference were older than every person in the Bullhead besides the pilot.
But that didn't change that, for whatever reason, the lights on six of the islands weren't on at night.
"Wait…what is this?" Weiss murmured, breaking Pyrrha out of her thoughts. Turning to look at her, Pyrrha saw that Weiss was staring confusedly at her scroll, poking around at some unseen app. A second later, her eyes opened wide, eyebrows raised in shock.
"What's going on?" Blake asked, shifting closer towards Weiss.
"I managed to pick up a signal, but…it's not from the main CCT network. It's some sort of local broadcast, and…I don't even know what this is supposed to be." Weiss muttered. As she said this, the other occupants of the Bullhead either clustered around her or pulled out their own scrolls to see what Weiss was talking about. Even Jaune managed to overcome his airsickness for long enough to bring out his own scroll.
Glancing over Weiss's shoulder, Pyrrha tried to get a good look at the video on the screen-
And blinked. Looked closer. Blinked again.
'…What the hell?'
The broadcast, which was being filmed in black and white for some reason, was focused on a single man sitting behind a small desk. Dressed in some sort of bathrobe or nightgown, he looked completely at home, reading out of a massive book in his hands with a serene smile on his face.
Unfortunately, the incredibly creepy, bizarre white mask the man wore ruined whatever calming effect he might have been going for.
It wasn't like the thick masks that members of the White Fang wore, where they were usually stylized after the armored faceplates of the Grimm. This man's mask was incredibly thin, to the point where she wasn't entirely certain that they hadn't painted it on. It looked like a blank human face save for the lips, which stretched out into a horrifyingly wide smile even as the man continued to talk.
"…And he reaches Little Red Riding Hood's house, long before Little Red Riding Hood was even within shouting distance, and while the sun was still high in the sky." The strange man stated in a smooth voice, calmly flipping his book over to the next page.
"Who is this guy? And…is he reading fairy tales?" Blake asked, staring at Weiss's scroll over her other shoulder.
"I don't know." Weiss shrugged. "My scroll just got a notification that the 'WWBC' was in range, whatever that is. I opened it up, and it just showed…well, this."
"Maybe it's just a kid's show? I mean, if he's just reading stories, then…it could just be an act?" Blake asked uncertainly.
Pyrrha wanted to interject, to say that someone with that mask should never be let onto a show for children. However, as she caught what the man was saying, she paused.
"-And the Wolf quickly cut her throat, and poured her blood into a bottle." The strange man paused, frowning at the screen exaggeratedly before continuing. "He ate most of her, but saved some of the juiciest cuts. Those he sliced onto a platter, for he was very good with a knife." He paused again, this time smiling gleefully at the camera.
"…Yeah, no, that's just creepy." Blake murmured, still staring at the screen. Glancing around the rest of the Bullhead, Pyrrha noticed that the others were all staring at different scrolls, their expressions fixed in either confusion or concern.
The rest of the broadcast didn't help with either of those feelings.
"…And so Little Red Riding Hood…drank her mother's blood…"
"…So Little Red Riding Hood made a ham sandwich out of her mother's ham…and she ate it right up!"
"'Take off your clothes, and…get in the bed with me.' Said the Wolf."
The story just kept going on and on, getting creepier and creepier with each page the strange man turned to. Even as it got worse, the broadcaster, far from appearing uneasy at the story's contents, almost seemed to delight in the disturbing way the tale played out, with his grin growing slightly larger with each sentence.
Pyrrha vaguely remembered the story of Little Red Riding Hood, back before she had started training at Sanctum. The version she had been told was of a young girl being stalked through the woods by a particularly clever Beowolf on the way to her grandmother's house. Although she had nearly been tricked, a passing Huntsman heard her cries for help and killed the Grimm, saving her and her grandmother.
It definitely did not involve cannibalism, or murder, or the Beowolf actually succeeding in eating the young girl and the grandmother.
"…And I'm afraid we've come to the end of our time." The strange man finally said, softly closing the book. "Tune in tomorrow for another bedtime story. Good night all. I'll see you soon." He finished, staring directly at the camera with a small smile. A small jingle played out, and the video finally turned off.
Blinking several times in confusion, Pyrrha looked towards the others. Jaune's face had gone worryingly pale, and he looked like he was on the verge of passing out. Ren was staring at the blank screen of his scroll with a small frown, while even Nora had lost her normal cheerfulness. Weiss was staring at her screen with a much larger frown, Blake looked like she was trying to think about something, and Ruby and Yang were glancing between their scrolls and each other in alarm.
"…Wasn't that the story we used for that play a few weeks ago?" Blake asked, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.
"That's what you got out of that?""Now you finally care about that?" Weiss and Ruby shouted simultaneously, each sending glares towards Blake.
"W-what was that show even supposed to be?" Jaune blurted out, shuddering. "Who reads something like that as a bedtime story?!"
"I guess it could've been a prank, or an art project, or something. Wasn't there some viral video series a few months ago that was like this?" Ren asked.
"If that was the case, wouldn't we be picking up another channel, or signal, or something? This 'WWBC' is the only station I'm able to access out here." Weiss said, frowning at her scroll once more. "I can't even pick up VNN anymore."
"Well, if the flight plan's right, it probably came from Wellington Wells. If it's a local station, we could just ask about it once we get down there." Pyrrha interjected, trying to get the others to calm down. Having everyone riled up and on edge before they even got to the town would only make things worse, especially when eight Huntsmen-in-training were involved.
Pyrrha sighed, taking another glance outside the window. Even with the dim light outside, she could start to make out the different islands getting closer. The well-lit islands were fairly easy to look over, showing thick clusters of houses centered away from the coastlines of the islands. On the other islands, all that she could make out were the outlines of some of the larger buildings, like a mansion, what appeared to be a military outpost, and-
booom
The train station that they were hoping to land near, which was currently being rocked by an explosion.
'Wow, that was a lot faster than I expected.'
"Guys? Something's happening at where we wanted to land. I think they're trying to blow up the train station." Pyrrha said, turning towards the others.
"Wait, already? We just got here!" Jaune cried.
"Come on, Jaunnie-boy, it'll be fun!" Yang shouted, moving towards the Bullhead's exit. "Besides, that just means we'll get out of the air sooner!"
Jaune groaned but got out of his seat regardless. The others moved with more enthusiasm, quickly gathering their weapons and what gear they needed for a rapid insertion. After spending hours in the air, Pyrrha could almost feel their anticipation of finally leaving the aircraft and getting some actual answers.
Gripping Miló and Akoúo̱ tightly, Pyrrha couldn't help but agree with those sentiments.
"Are you certain, Sergeant?"
"A-absolutely, sir! A single aircraft on approach, headed towards the Train Station!"
General Byng groaned, pacing back and forth across his office. This wasn't what he needed. This wasn't what anyone needed at the moment.
Aircraft, flying into Wellington Wells for the first time in two decades, in the midst of all the other problems currently gripping the town. At best, it was a handful of meddlesome outsiders trying to take a vacation to the islands. But then there were worse possibilities, like the Atlesians, or the Schnees, or…them.
The town, and subsequently Byng, would not survive another occupation. The first one had already nearly caused Wellington Wells to fall apart, and the situation had only grown more dire since then.
That left only one option available to him.
"Sergeant, gather three squads together and prepare to move out at dawn. Figure out who's landing on the island. Capture them if possible, but no matter what, make sure they do not escape. You are not to tell anyone outside of this room about the aircraft until you leave the base. Is that understood?" Byng asked, sending the most authoritative stare he could muster at the hapless soldier. The man quickly stammered out a 'yes', before hastily saluting and retreating from the building.
Unfortunately, it was unlikely that the men would succeed in their duty. Even with thirty soldiers moving out to meet the enemy, all they had to deal with the newcomers were their bayonets and their grenades. An excellent force for dealing with wastrels and plague victims, but not much else.
'Good thing I still have some other strings to pull,' he mused, moving over towards his telephone. Even if his men failed to capture or eliminate the newcomers, the damage could be mitigated if they could be contained on the island. The aircraft was the biggest problem out of the lot.
Thankfully, he had just the means of dealing with that particular issue.
'With how long it's taken him to build, the damn cannon had better be ready,' he thought, quickly dialing the number for Richard Arkwright.