(Author's Note: This is a fanmade epilogue to the story Null, by Coeur-Al-Aran on this site, and is not meant to be a stand alone work, thus, it won't make sense if you haven't read that.)
He wasn't sure how long it had been, when he woke up. His body felt sore, but it was normal for him. He reached for his shoulder, his fingers moving over the skin. They'd fed him intravenously again. He could feel the pinpricks where they'd done that. They were forcing him to stay alive...no, they were forcing this body to stay alive, and it galled him that, even if they failed, he'd still be here.
He was trapped, trapped as he never had been before. He'd been a prisoner before, he'd been locked away. He remembered spending a year in an iron mask once, but even then, he'd stayed by choice, because he'd worked on it, and after that year, he'd been able to take control away from those locking him away, and resume his place at the head of the world, been able to take it all back.
Now? No one talked to him. Not for...however long he'd been here. He didn't even know where he was. The walls were soft and padded, the surface of them just smooth enough that even when he tried to dig into them, he couldn't. He was denied any way of killing himself. Even beating himself to death, as he'd pass out long before that, be fed and healed, and then set back here.
This latest hunger strike, not suffering the slop that came from a small vent on the door, was his...eighth or ninth, it was hard to remember now. He bore scratches all over his wrists and shoulders too. His neck was bruised, where he'd tried to strangle himself. His tongue even had stitches in it, from where he'd bitten it off that one time. It hadn't worked, but it seemed to take them longer to heal him from it...he thought.
It was so...boring here. His attempts to end this body's life, his attempts to escape. If he'd just kept one bit of his magic, one bit of the Brother's gifts...but that was a mercy, and the universe didn't have much of that in supply for him. He'd even been unable to go insane. At least let him leave this drab and terrible world behind, at least let him have a fantasy, but no, even that was denied.
He rose, shakily, to his feet, his legs looking bruised, where they'd used machines to keep them moving, keeping his muscles up. He was still weak, still scrawny, but he was well enough that they could leave him here on his own. That was probably the worst part. They knew exactly what to do, probably through experience, to force him to survive all this. It showed how far they'd fallen...how far they would go.
The figure stumbled to the door, and began pounding on it, his fists ringing out against the material, designed to allow him to speak to those outside, even if they never responded. He didn't say anything now though. That had not worked before, and he was too mentally together to think it would work now, so instead he just beat on it, feeling the impacts at least, and wishing this body would age faster so he could leave it behind.
It was...however long it was later, when something happened. Something unexpected. His fist stopped, holding itself against the door, and feeling it. He could 'hear' nothing through it, but things did happen. The door was vibrating, it was showing something going on, and holding it there for a long time, he knew that he was feeling the rattling of alarms, the sound of panicked footsteps.
He smiled, and wondered if finally, at last, someone was escaping, and he took his tongue between his teeth, only to feel the burning sensation from it...a gift to keep him from doing that again. So instead, he stood there, using his fist to feel the world outside his little room, and then the shudder, something that sent him sprawling backwards, as he stared at it, wondering what was going on.
All at once, a hiss, then a spark, then a loud ringing noise. His ears hurt from it, but he was kept in a well enough lit room that the light suddenly pouring in from outside was not blinding. It still was not the same as his cell, and so he was forced to blink, and rub at his eyes, trying to clear his vision, as he heard the once familiar sound of cocking guns, and plates of impact resistant armor clinking against each other, as two figures entered his room.
"Cell check...cell clear. Escort the prisoner," said a radio distorted voice from one of the figures, and without saying a word to him, the one closest walked forward, and picked him up, like he was a sack. He was thrown over a shoulder, and taken out for the first time in his life, and he saw the world outside his cell, and he almost had to laugh about it all, as he looked into the space around him.
The hall was lined with cells, many already busted into, some still being so, teams of two. Corpses were being dragged out of some, and bursts of weapons fire would sometimes come from some as well. He passed one of those, and saw the person...the creature inside, a beowulf mixed with a human, their features distorted, and their eyes already fading, as the bullets had ended their torturous existence.
The one carrying him surged through the place, and he noted others like himself, being carried like this, while some were being more gently escorted. He wondered why, but then noticed they were less pitiful looking. Probably the rescuers thinking them too weak to flee under their own power then...and to be fair, he wasn't certain how far they were going, so it might even have been correct.
They turned a corner, and his sense of smell told him something. Told him he wasn't going to like the next thing he saw, but he kept himself braced, and then as they rushed around a corner, he was greeted with a sight that mimicked so many others he'd seen, and yet, it still left him feeling sick to his stomach. Smoke, fire, death. The smell of burned hair and cooked meat, and above it all, the taste of ash.
The Grimm had come here, they had invaded this place, and that was, perhaps, what this person was taking him from. He would imagine this might be the perfect time to off himself, but he held out hope that this person, given their armor bore a familiar seal on the shoulder, was not going to throw him back into a box, and soon enough, he was proven right, as they ran past the corridor with the devastation, and into one more clinically lit.
There were rows of beds, some of which had obviously been taken from cells on the level below, others were nicer. Those were already filled by people in various uniforms and armor, as doctors in gear, some of which looked much less clean than they would normally work in, literally seemed to dance between the beds, more than one simply placing a hand on the chest, and shaking their head before moving on.
He was soon laid on a bed himself, and one of them walked over to him, her hand placed on his chest, and then nodding, motioning for one of the assistants to get something from a cart moving between the beds, the assistant didn't even ask for what, and instead handed a needle to her, already filled with fluid, and she stabbed it none too gently into his arm, making him squirm for a bit.
"There we go, that should help you recover. When you're able to speak, say something and th-," she stopped as he leaned forward, feeling...reenergized. He had no idea what was in that injection, but it felt nice and light healing...no not healing, he could feel his injuries still, feel his tired body, but it was a distant sensation, one that let him ignore it for the moment, as he got closer to her face.
"I can speak well enough. I need to speak to Ironwood though, I have information for him. Code X...R...Q...9…" he was having to think of each letter and number for the code they'd used, the big one, it only had 9 characters, but he'd not had a reason to ever use them, and his bodily state didn't help his focus. Luckily, she seemed to smirk at him, shaking her head and letting out a barking laugh.
"One of those, huh? You know what, I'll send it down, one of the prisoners asked for him personally. I'm sure he'll want to talk to someone who knows him," she said, and then pressed something on her collar, a radio he realized, and spoke into it. He couldn't make out the words, but in a few seconds, she rose, and walked to the next patient, making him wonder how long he'd wait...only for a guard to come up to him.
"You the one who asked to speak to the General?" he asked, and he nodded at the taller man, who didn't even let him say anything else, simply scooping him up in his arms, and then carrying him through the facility...the long hall, over a hundred beds, all of them filled, many with unmoving bodies...not all of those were dead ones, to be fair, but more than he would have liked to see.
The walk was fast, the guard was obviously doing his best to simply get this simple task done, especially as more gunshots were ringing out, along with roars and hisses. The Grimm were being fought, and he was having to play chafure for someone who wanted to speak to his boss. It must have been quite frustrating, but he didn't say anything, instead seeming to rush up the last few stairs, and then nodding to a guard on the door, as it was opening.
"General, this is the one who wanted to speak with you," he said, and Ironwood nodded, not looking up from his inspection of the farther wall in the room, which had what looked like layout plans for the prison. Not active monitors, but instead just the plans. This office, whomever it belonged to, had wanted to be reminded of this place at all times...not a bad idea, honestly, given the snaking hallways he saw on the blueprints.
James Ironwood, brushing a bit away from one of the plans on the wall, turned to find who had come to him, and raised an eyebrow. At the same time, the boy could see the lines on the man's face. They weren't age lines, but lines of weariness and use. This was a man who had been beaten down, several times, and recently. He was eyeing the boy himself, up and down, before nodding to the soldier.
"I think I can handle this one. Go back to the fight. The western defense needs bolstering," he said, and the man nodded, before rushing out the door, leaving the two of them alone, staring at each other as the boy took a seat, and the man took the desk, placing a small box onto it that he'd been holding in one hand.
"So, you said you wanted to talk to me, personally. That's quite an interesting request. Normally, there'd be a waiting period, but as you can probably tell, that sort of red tape has been cut quite fastidiously by circumstance. That does, however, leave us with the question of why you wanted to see me," he said simply, looking at him, his eyes going cold for a moment, just a moment, as he used his Semblance, and then let it fade.
"I can tell things look bad now, James, but I'm sure between us, we can figure out a way to turn them around, though I'll admit, I'll need a full brief, before I can be of any real assistance," said the boy, and Ironwood stared intently at it for what felt like ages, Mettle coming out once more, to bore holes into the body, before he let that go, and then did the most unexpected thing.
He tossed his head back, and laughed. Not the barking laughter of madness or depression. No tears touched those eyes, no broken soul rattled in his chest. No, this was the laughter of someone who was far, far too sane, the sort of laugh Ozma was quite familiar with, when he'd had one of Salem's pawns at his feet, and needed to intimidate them, and let them know, it was over.
"So, you, you're here, of all the places in the world you could end up, you were here? How long...no, don't tell me, let me guess," he said this without a single bit of mirth, but instead just dry amusement, as he looked the body up and down.
"I'd say, a year, maybe two tops...though you sound odd. Is that simply the new body or…?" he asked this, and Ozma stuck out his tongue, showing the stitch marks in it that had held it together, which made even Ironwood wince. It was not a pleasant sight at all, but at least he pulled it back in quickly enough.
"I'll admit, I can't tell you how long I've been here. I woke up in a cell some distance below this room, and have not been allowed out since. I take it this is some kind of holding cell. Did Salem find me?" he asked, and Ironwood smiled at him, that same, hate filled smile that spoke of the laughter he'd let loose a few moments ago.
"Not at all. In point of fact, this facility was one belonging to Chivalric Arms. One moment," he held up a hand, and then opened a drawer...one that groaned, as it had apparently been locked at some point, and torn open by force...probably by Ironwood himself, and he quickly looked behind him, counting out the blueprints, and then spun back in his chair, and pulled out a stack of file folders.
"Now let's see here...no...no...not the right age...no...female...ah, this sounds like the ticket," he said, and pulled one of the file folders open all the way, rather than just glancing into it as he had with the others, setting that one down, he spread out the contents on the desk. Within, it showed a picture of Ozma's current body, including things like his name, Oscar...it was always an O name wasn't it, and several other statistics.
"Yes, I see. It seems our friends here found you in a morgue. You suffered a cerebral hemorrhage, a bad one by the looks of it. Instant death. But then, six hours later, you just started breathing again. They leapt on that, and bundled you up. Mistral didn't even realize they'd lost the body, before you were in a cell here," he said, this, and then looked rather puzzled, as he pulled a page out, and then just stared at it.
"Odd, seems they made a mistake here...ah, I see. This prison, as you might have guessed, is large enough that I knew of it, as one of Atlas', not CA's. That said, it seems the executive that grabbed you had an unfortunate accident, and thus, the paperwork to have you transferred here was filed correctly, but nothing else," he said the last while slapping the folder shut, and then stuffing it, along with the rest back in the drawer, that he closed with a resounding slam.
"Basically, you were lost in the shuffle. They knew you were important, but not why, and so left you in that cell until someone who knew came to them...or at least someone who could test you properly and find out how your power worked. Then all this started, and you were shifted down the priority list. Far, far down," he said the last with an almost sarcastic tone, as if it was some joke Ozma should know, but he didn't, and so he just sat there.
"I suppose I should be grateful for them, in a way. You would have done a number on our forces, bouncing between bodies as the last one died, given even the six hours it took you to come back this time. Tell me, is the boy you share your body with still in there with you?" he asked after a time, and Ozma shook his head.
"I awoke to a splitting headache, and had assumed it to be something they did, but if I were to hazard a guess, with what you've just said, it seems that, without my own magic to make the insertion gentler, the poor boy's mind was slain on my entrance, leaving the body unoccupied for some time, before I took control," he said, and actually felt slightly sad about. This Oscar had asked for nothing to do with his conflict, and was just one more tragic fatality in it.
"Heh, so Crow was right. I'd suppose I will owe him that drink when I see him after all," James said this while getting up, and then opening his scroll. He ignored Ozma for some time after that, thumbing through reports, and shooting off orders. He was obviously, at least to the immortal, stalling to collect his thoughts, but Ozma had to allow this, as he was in no position to demand anything.
"Yes, that will hold them, so long as everyone does their job," he said, and snapped the scroll closed, before turning back to the boy in the chair, and letting out a long, steady sigh.
"You know, Ozpin...Oscar...whatever you choose to call yourself, you picked a hell of a time to come back into the world. I would complain, we could have used you before, either for that brain of yours, or just to offer someone your head on a silver platter. Not that it matters now," he told this as he took his seat back, and then placed his elbows on the desk, linking his fingers, and showing he had both hands replaced now, the new replacement looking far less advanced than the original.
"Well, I would be willing to offer my brain of course. First we should try and contact the others. Glynda and Qrow would be the first…" he trailed off, mostly because he saw the haunted look in James' eyes. A look that spoke volumes, and made him take in a sharp breath, as he looked back towards the door, and then back towards James, as he realized just what sort of situation they were in.
"I see...did they at least die well?" he asked, and James shook his head.
"Of course not. Thanks to you, they gave their lives, their happiness, and their families, all for nothing, because you abandoned them," he said simply, and this time it was Ozma's turn to go quiet, as he processed that, and tried to think of just what had happened...and then to shake his head.
"Tell me," he said simply, not a question, a command, with all the authority he could put into his voice, and James, loyal and steady James, who was a pain in his ass, but never a bad person, seemed like he might just refuse, only to sigh, and then sucked in a long breath.
"You don't deserve this. You were the one responsible for so much of this, for the fall of Atlas, as much as anything else. We could have survived strife, civil war, or even being attacked by the other Kingdoms. But you had to poke the Beowolf, and now my people died for it," he sat there, and then raised his hand to his coat, pulling out a small case, which Ozma at first assumed would contain some kind of nicotine stick, but instead, had a picture inside, one burned at the edges, and worn, but clearly of them all, on the day he'd first brought James into his graces.