Dream.
Summary: Dead men don't dream. They remember.
Tags: future!AU, Grimm War.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. RWBY belongs to Rooster Teeth and the blessed Monty Oum. This is merely a fanwork, and my only profit from this is practice in writings and self-amusement.
Chapter 04: ghost.
"Say, Jaune. Have you ever liked it when it snowed?"
It's been a few years.
A man stood outside Vale Central. Pedestrians passed by him, in all the colorful garbs of a coming winter.
"Uh... No... Not really. It doesn't snow much where I lived, or at all... But... Why?"
Like a ghost the old man's soft pads traveled down the gray sidewalk, revisiting the memories when he was 'alive'. But unlike most ghosts, he was noticed and seen, inviting the occasional curious eyes and widened gazes. His wandering owns glanced around. Focused, but at ease. He had only came back here once in the last twenty years. One more time before that, one last time when the 'he' had been 'they'.
There was no answer to 'why', the question left to hung in the chill of a late afternoon. Her mouth hung half-open, breathing out a cloud of white mist into the air before closing. Silver eyes reflected the color of a gray-blue sky, filled with child-like wonder as she stared at the white particles that drifted down without a sound, before landing on her out-stretched hand.
The city has changed much since the last time he had been here, no longer standing under shadows of rotten, jutting bones from the carcass of a colossus. Those decayed towers of concrete and bricks had been rooted out, replaced with shining spires of glass and metal that pierced into the sky. Light touched and bent, divided and reflected on those surfaces, coronas that shone and glimmered. Light burnt through darkness, like promises of rebirth, piercing a curtain of noises and sound and a veil of smog that lingered in the air. The veil was silken, like a thin white stripe that weaved itself in the gentle breeze, no longer tasting like sulfur or ash but just a slight smoky whiff. The white shadow, unseen or perhaps just unnoticed by those too used to it, danced between people, between street poles and trees, carrying the echoes of soft laughters as it pulled at his free hand. The old man stood in place, feeling the pull that was not there, glancing down at his gloved hands, of flesh and steel that should not - could not - be feeling those. The tug strengthened. A tease, a call to follow. Weary feet walked onward, answering that call.
Aura flowed, and a silver glow briefly washed over her out-stretched hand. The particle stayed for a few brief moments, dancing and giving off a dim glitter on top of the pale, slender palm before completely dissipating. Silver eyes fell with her hand, like curtains that wanted to pull close on whirling thoughts that slipped out the hairline crack on her pink lips.
"I used to. And still do."
The man sat, patiently listening to the staccato notes that escaped. A small part of his mind wondered what she meant by the past tense used and its followed addendum, but another already knew.
It's the same reason that he hate the colors of the setting sun.
The ghost of a hand pulled him along a road that he could not quite recognize till the glimmering silhouttes of taller spires had been replaced by the more colorful lights and storefronts - the last time he had seen it was different. Then, it was strewn with rubbles and broken furnitures pushed together once to create makeshift fences being picked over by scavengers and soldiers alike, in a few spots barbed wires and hastily dug trenches being filled in to make room for reconstruction. Even within the relative peace and safety of the city then, he had walked with one wary eye behind the back of his head as he carefully but purposefully trodded down that street instead of crouching low in the darkness of night. Now, the eye is still there but more to pick out the waiting pickpockets than sleek black shadows of the Grimm. His steps remained weary nonetheless, for he knew he was lost.
"You don't know where you are leading us, do you?" The old man mouthed, a whisper of a smile on his lips. If someone could hear the stifled, troubled giggles that played in his ears, they made no sign.
His boots made clicking noises on concrete pavement, a dirty wrought iron grey with off-colored spots of lighter gray. Above, the old dirt-red structures of once near-endless rows of brick houses and stores were now intermingled with the sterile white of prefabricated apartments - multi-purpose hab-blocks, as they are called. Transparent viewing glasses displayed proudly the products inside. He wasn't quite interested, only giving a quick glance of curiosity, on displays of a lifestyle he felt almost foreign to. He hid a secret shiver at the sight of something labeled 'Summer trunks!', fearing what could happen to him had he been a few years younger now.
...on second thought, let's not think about that.
Jaune stopped before a traffic light, waiting for it to turn red so that he could cross to the other side. Somehow, that wait just seemed so long before it was over. He turned to stare at the colors. The unseen hand nudged at his memories, with the curious scent of flower planted by the road side. Vermilion tulips seemed to bloom in the mid-noon sunlight, the brilliant shade of red oak leaves at end of Fall mixed with green grass that stubbornly refused to yield. Strange, there wasn't any rose, nor sunflower. The scent seemed to come from elsewhere, another spot down this winding street.
The light blinked red. Cars and bikes stopped in front of a white line, and pedestrians resumed their walk. He took off again, this time with more haste in his feet.
"I just hate the death that comes with it."
Silence returned as the white particles continued to drift downward. It's not snow, it doesn't snow in June. Just bone white Dust, used and discarded, lazily falling down in the chilly air always just before it rained.
Orange. Red. White, pink and blue. He was led to a corner down several streets, where the air was cooler and more humid. An automated spray filled the air with thousands of little water particles that glittered in the breeze.
Sunflower. Roses. Lily, lotus and blue crocus, packed knitly on display on a plant pot stand, each blooming under the gentle August sun and releasing their scent into the gentle breeze.
-A florist shop!
Then Jaune's eyes involuntarily twitched when he spotted the yellow sign displaying the shop's name in proud, bold letters: KaBloom.
Shaking off his abhorrence at the terrible pun, he approached the tinted glass door of the shop with the words 'Open'. Through the looking glass, he could spot the owner standing with her gloved hands on her hips, graying platinum hair tied to a bun as she examined a batch of fresh flowers. A sudden wave of familiarity washed over his mind, like subtle bells warning him of unseen dangers. It did not stop him. The door bell chimed, and the old knight hesitantly stepped inside.
"Welcome to KaBloom flower shop! How may I help-" The woman swiveled around, then turned frigid.
Blue eyes stared at lilacs.
In a few short moments, a myriads of emotions showed on her face at once. Surprise. Joy. Regret, another surge of Happiness before even more Surprise came.
Then Murder.
A weak smile. A friendly wave. A nervous sweat broke on his back.
"Hey, Yang- uff!"
An iron fist inside a rubber glove made contact with his nose. Needless to say, he did not remain standing after that.
"Still... It's beautiful, isn't it?" Her twinkling eyes hid the weariness from just moments before. On her face was her best attempt at a cheerful smile that was ever present.
His lips could only twitch upward, cracking open to speak out his agreement. She grinned, they shared a laugh. Moments later a crack of thunder broke in the distance, signaling the coming of a mid-summer monsoon.
"Come on. Let's find some shelter before it rains."
A/N: A bit of levity, for now.
Thanks to my friend Sandiiitos96 for beta-ing.
