Date written:
(I) Feb. 21, 2016 – Feb. 24, 2016 (3 days) (3,036 words)
(II) Feb. 24, 2016 – Mar. 3, 2016 (8 days) (2,565 words)
(III) Mar. 4, 2016 – Mar. 5, 2016 (1 day) (2,321 words)
(IV) Mar. 6, 2016 – Mar. 12, 2016 (6 days) (2,028 words)
Chapter Word Count: 9,950 words
Total Word Count: 23,857 words
Posted on FanFiction: Mar. 29, 2016
/ — — CHAPTER 3 — — \
Identity
I
She kind of figured her uncle Qrow would make an appearance soon. The fact that his appearance came about a minute after her Dad's was, in truth, irrelevant, because she already had the best ice-breaker on hand.
"Uncle Qrow!" she said, not at all bothering to tone down her excitement. "Please tell me you smuggled in some alcohol."
He stayed in the doorway, blinking, slightly gawking at her, before sighing and closing the door after him. "Sorry, kid," he said, finding his cool in no time, "but alcohol is forbidden in the hospital, so no."
Yang rolled her eyes. "That's why I said smuggled not brought."
"Believe me, if I had something on me, I'd have been drinking from it by now."
"Point."
There was a moment of silence between them, staring, looking away, staring again, as Qrow made his way to the bed and sat himself on the bedside chair her father had used when he visited.
Spotting the differences between this version of her uncle and the one she knew from her time would be difficult if she were to try and look for something beyond superficiality. For one thing, this younger uncle had less of a five o'clock shadow and barely any dark rings under his eyes. His cape, usually dark red and torn and wouldn't be so out of place when in possession of a hobo, was vibrant in color, neat, and presentable, as if it were newly bought. His clothes, however, remained almost the same. She wasn't at all surprised; he had been sporting that style since he was young and a member of the complete team STRQ.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, quite relaxed in his stance, elbows on his knees, arms bent inward with his hands hung down and close to touching. What gave away his nervousness was one-handedly cracking his knuckles with his thumb on each hand. Crack went the forefingers. Crack went the middle fingers. Crack went the ring fingers.
"A lot better than before," she said, mimicking her answer when Dad asked her that same question earlier. Crack went the pinkies. She looked at his hands directly this time, and from the moment she did so, his hands suddenly played possum. "You've always told me you'll kick that habit soon."
"Have I?"
It hurt a little, hearing him say that. He meant nothing about it, of course, but that question alone kind of further cemented the fact that she was stuck in the past somehow. It was shocking to learn it from her Dad—who also hadn't changed much from this time to her own, other than, like Uncle Qrow, the thinner facial hair—and got more surreal as her mind got some time to fully process that bombshell.
"It's a telltale sign you're nervous, you know," she said, trying to smile lopsidedly at him, but her eyes never left those hands and she found her hands clenching. Hands? No, just her left. That sensation in her right was only a phantom.
"Oh."
It was both amazing and odd that there was less… subdue-ness? Was that the right word or even a word? Fuck it. Anyway, less subdue-ness in her uncle's voice. He still sounded gruff and serious, but it was like looking at a red velvet curtain all your life but now, at some point, it had changed into a veil with thin, see-through fabric.
"Yeah. Spoiler alert," she said, and this time her smile, after a little more reminiscing, was slightly more natural, "you never kicked that habit."
The tension in him lessened. He looked at his hands, sighed through his nose. "Am I really that easy to read?"
"Only to your family, maybe. Ruby can read you better than I do, actually."
"Uh huh, right." He took something from his front pocket. "Here, before I forget."
"My Scroll!" She made a grab for it but missed. A moment later she realized why: She had tried to use her right hand again. The hand that was no longer there, nothing more than a phantom. She took a deep breath, looked at the stump, and grabbed the device with her left hand.
Her uncle looked like he had something to say, but at the last second, he leaned back on his chair and stayed silent, his eyes darting away from her.
She was unsure of what to say as well, and she'd rather not talk about the life-changing injury, the one that her mind (and her heart) had the gall to blame it on Qrow because he had arrived too late to save it.
He saved the rest of you, the other half of her thought. That has to count for a lot, right?
But he only managed to save anyone because you were there! You were there to give him enough time to arrive. It cost you an arm for him to save the day, so yes, this sure as fucking hell counts for a lot. Is this sarcasm or not? You fucking decide.
"I'm…" Qrow said, going quiet for a moment, then continuing, "I'm sorry about what happened."
He was cracking his knuckles again, but the joints had nothing left to pop.
"It's not your fault, Qrow," she said almost instantly, and she could tell it held as much sincerity as a haggard-looking nurse giving her condolences. A part of her—and how dismaying it was to realize that it wasn't even a small part of her—absolutely refused to let this go. "I got reckless and paid for it, that's all."
Except she wouldn't have resorted to recklessness if he had gotten there on time as he was supposed to. How she wanted to say this to him right here, right now, the anger in her rising like magma in a volcano that's close to erupting. She wanted to speak out, would've done so, too… if she hadn't had the last three days to think everything over. Waking up minus one arm had been an excruciating emotional roller coaster ride and having to make her non-dominant hand pick up the slack felt like that arm was in the process of being amputated as the muscles screamed for respite, and on the last two sleepless nights she had, trying and failing to close her eyes and open them to the morning sun, there had been plenty of time to really think.
The anger hadn't disappeared. In truth, the thinking helped clear her head, but feeling it trying to sweep away the anger was akin to taking off two floors from a building as tall as the CCT—it was too high for just a few days of cooling off. But at least she regained much of her self-control to realize that screaming at her uncle would not help matters.
Her arm was gone. The sooner she accepted that was irreversible, the better.
Yang got derailed from her musings with Qrow's next question. She didn't know how much the silence between them had gone on for—that subjective experience with time again—but she ironically had no time to think much on it.
Qrow asked, "Then have you encountered time-traveling before?"
"Huh?"
"Do you remember being saved by your future self back then? When you were a kid, I mean?"
"No, you actually got there on time—"
She stopped, said nothing more, but she didn't really need any more words for Qrow to understand the implication.
His eyes were wide as he took in a deep breath. Both hands clenched, and more joints popped. "I was supposed to save you two." Then he looked at her stump, his eyes more expressive than she remembered, more innocent than she remembered, and the way those eyes lost a little bit of its luster made her want to verbally tell him to stop that, this wasn't like him. And that sinister part of her seemed to be smirking, urging her to push the stump right in front of his face because why the fuck not? She snuffed that thought out. Irrational anger was ripping out of its flimsy cage. Take control. Take control. "And I failed."
"No," she said, putting a hand on her bicep (a hand? Why a hand? That implies she still has more than one. So why not the hand or her hand, now that she only had one?), and she stayed calm, in spite of a phantom itch building in her phantom limb, becoming more potent as this conversation dragged on, and the aches—not just from phantoms but also the tired muscles in her
(remaining)
other hand—did their best to breach through her poker face. "I failed. If you hadn't been there, all three of us would've been dead."
"But I was supposed to be on time."
Yang didn't argue past that point. There was a time she would've gone on and on until her uncle gave in, but now with the way she was now, holding anger in a cage that was close to breaking, she found this argument too tiresome to bother continue. Maybe they'd continue at another time at another place, when she had more time to cool off and the anger wasn't doing its best to color her actions.
Silence between them again. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Then: "I'll be handling the paperwork," he said.
She expected the topic change. In fact, she welcomed it wholeheartedly. "What paperwork?"
"Your records, of course," he said, his position and voice relaxed. "Birth certificate and others. Stuff you need for a new identity in this time."
"What? But—"
"Sunshine, do you remember how you ended up in the past?"
"I… no, but—"
"Which is why your identity needs to be established. Now I'm not forcing you to take up a new identity or anything, but with how uncertain this whole situation you're in is, I think it's a lot better if the Kingdom knows you as a legal resident of Vale."
"But why do all this work at all?"
"Because I'd feel better if we can cover all our bases. Right now, you're an unknown, someone outside the system. With this, you can live with little hassle compared to immigrants who move into the city from villages outside."
"I… see." Somewhat. Maybe. She sighed. "I guess I'll have to get used to some new name you picked out for me."
For the first time in a while, Qrow smiled broadly. "Oh that's the beauty of it, Sunshine," he said, chuckling a little. "You don't have to. I already filed some of the first batch of paperwork with your real name."
"Huh? You used my real name? You serious?"
"Very. It's all about simplicity. Simplicity in the paperwork, simplicity in your adaption. Besides, this isn't at all an identity nightmare as you might think. You know your father's side of the family originated from Vacuo, right?"
"Yeah."
"Well, apparently the Xiao Longs have a big and convoluted family tree. It's not even uncommon for cousins within a generation to have the same name. Multiple cousins. First, second, third, how many times removed, what have you. So I wrote down you're Tai's first cousin, who got her name from her Auntie, who happens to lack originality when naming her son, who happens to inherit that naming disability and gave his daughter her mother's name because why not. See? Simple."
"I don't… what—" She paused, then shook her head, waving away the thought. Follow Qrow's example: simplicity. The Xiao Long family loves naming relatives the same, simple as that. "And people will buy that?"
Qrow snorted, then smiled. "Vacuo survived with multiple people having the same name, why can't Vale? What, do you think the Kingdom's unprepared for two Yang Xiao Longs?"
The smile was infectious, and on her face it was almost predatory. "Hmm, they might not be. The question, then, will be... Xiao Long do you think Vale will last? Eh?"
His smile disappeared.
"What?" she asked.
He shook his head, sighing then murmuring something, but her ears failed to pick up the words except for the last one: "… daughter."
"Moving back on topic," Qrow said, scratching the side of his head, "are you okay with this arrangement? Any suggestions or changes you want to make?"
"I'm still trying to get my head wrapped up in all this," she said. She lay down, faced the ceiling, blew off a lone strand of hair on her face. "Heck, I'm still trying to get used to being in the past! Sometimes I feel like I've crash landed on some alien planet."
"Well, at least you won't be alone in this alien planet."
Alone…
It should've been a depressing thought, but…
"Hey, Uncle Qrow," she said, sitting up again, "do you think you can use your network to look for some people?"
He blinked at her. Then said, "What network?"
She rolled her eyes. "Some spy network or something you're involved with. You've always been secretive about your work, but I know some shady activities when I see 'em." She hoped her smile was disarming enough. Ugh, disarming… fucking badum tss, haha. She was going to avoid that word now. "Besides, forging papers and making them legit requires a lot of elbow grease."
"Seriously, Yang, I have no idea what you're talking about," he said without flinching.
She sighed. Of course, he'd still deny its existence if he could still get away with it. Her evidence didn't really stack up because it was, in the first place, mostly circumstantial. "Just… keep an eye out for cases like me."
"Why? You think you're not the only time-traveler?"
A small voice inside her said, No, I'm definitely alone. She ignored it.
"I don't know," she said. "This whole thing is strange in and of itself. Should we discount that possibility from the get-go?"
"No, I guess not." It took another two seconds for him to realize whom she meant. "You suspect it's the rest of your team?"
"And whoever else was on that train. They might've gotten transported here with me."
"And you're sure of that?"
She shook her head. "I can't be. We split up in that train, fighting the bad guys on separate cars. I can't even be sure if it affected just the car I was in or the whole fucking train. But again if this happened to me, then—"
"It could happen to them as well." He put a hand to his mouth, where the gap between the forefinger and thumb was under his nose but above his mouth. "Never considered that before. But wouldn't they also be in Patch if that were the case? Nothing else unusual other than you happened, though."
That voice again said, Of course they would've, but they didn't because they aren't here at all.
She shrugged. "Time-travel is one random mistress, maybe? I was in an underground tunnel between Vale and Mountain Glenn, but then suddenly appeared in the middle of Patch. The others must've appeared somewhere else, too."
"Hopefully it's not the middle of the ocean."
She grimaced.
Noticing her discomfort, he said, "Sorry, Sunshine, but we can't dismiss any and all possibilities. Anyway, I'll look out for them in case they do show up. What're their names?"
"There's Ruby—yes, our Ruby, she skipped two years—Weiss Schnee, and Blake Belladonna. Oh, uh, and Blake's a cat Faunus, by the way."
"A Schnee and a Faunus in the same team together. They must be quite civil with each other."
"They have their ups and downs, but all in all, we're a solid team together."
"I'll take your word for it."
Afterwards, Yang decided to iron out the details of her new identity with Qrow. Officially, she was Yang Xiao Long, cousin to Taiyang Xiao Long, whom she'd have to start calling by name. Well, she already had experience on that front, having a short-lived rebellious stage when she was fifteen, but training herself to do so again without flashing back to that dark spot in her history every time would prove to be quite a challenge.
Qrow's visit lasted only two hours. Each had more to discuss, but after Yang's fifth or so yawn, Qrow told her to get some rest and they'd continue this some other time. She, after all, still had another week stay in this room. They said their goodbyes, and Yang ended up staring at the ceiling, while clenching and unclenching her hand. Tired as she was, sleep would come in time, but right now, she was left alone—
Alone…
—with her thoughts.
There was something she hadn't told her uncle about, something she refused to acknowledge. That quiet little voice was telling her a truth she refused to confront, but now, alone—
Alone…
—in this dark room, the shattered moon at the window showing in full and shining with borrowed, dim light, there was very little in the way of distractions and detours.
When she awoke in that forest, with the mist surrounding her, thick and cold and damp, the fact that she knew right away she was in Patch puzzled her. Then and now. She knew and accepted the fact without reason. It wasn't a hunch, wasn't a spark of recognition, although it did play a part in making her believe it quicker.
I'm not alone…
Which was why she refused to believe that she was the only person to have been sent back here. It was a truth, a fact, she didn't want to admit, even to herself. Something in her head told her she was the sole time-traveler, the only one in that train to have traveled back here in this time, but accepting it would mean—
I'm not alone…
She focused on her hand. Clench, unclench. Clench, unclench. And at some point, she was unsure when, she lifted her hand to her face, its heel pushing the spot between her eyes, just atop the bridge of her nose. Pushing, pushing, as if doing so would hold back the despair wrecking everything inside her to stay where it was.
She allowed herself one sniff, one hitched breath, and one wipe of her eyes. That was all.
I'm not alone…
II
Home sweet home.
A nice phrase to see play out, because home would always have that warmth it alone could provide. It soothes the soul, washes away the aches, the pains, gives a sense of safety within its walls. It was an ideal place to heal.
That should've been the case when Yang checked out of the hospital and traveled to Casa de Xiao Long, but like all the houses and buildings she and Qrow had passed on their way here, seeing the house she grew up in did not invoke the kind of feelings she thought it should. The feel of home was muffled, as if it'd been submerged at the bottom of the ocean.
As her eyes scanned the place, a feeling of wrongness washed over her, a pervasive feeling that was both familiar and unfamiliar, like grabbing a chocolate chip cookie and belatedly realizing it was oatmeal raisin.
They hadn't even stepped in yet and the wrongness had already started. For one thing, the front door was different. When she was fifteen (and stupidly rebellious), she got drunk for the first time and wrecked the foyer. That door she now stood in front of was solid olden oak, stained dark, boasting an intricate little decor Dad had bought as a souvenir from his reunion trip to Vacuo while lamenting the several claw scratches and dents that littered its bottom half, although the damages were far less than she remembered (as it should, because Due the dog had yet to make them). That door on that drunken night had been unsalvageable after Yang was done with it, and she was forced to pay for the repairs, including the replacement door (thank God, Dad took pity and went for something cheap but sturdy). Skip forward a little to her final year in Signal, whenever she came home from school, she recalled a dark cabin door consisting of thin wooden boards standing in file with a square glass window embedded at the top center. Now—in a present that should've been the past—it was back to the solid oak with its Vacuen amulet for warding off bad luck.
Almost without thinking, she grabbed the amulet gently in her hand and pulled down, letting it slide off her palm, like a religious man rubbing a holy item hanging on his rear mirror before driving.
"Careful," Qrow said, hands in his pockets, "you might absorb the bad mojo."
She snorted. "You don't believe in this stuff."
"Do you?"
She hummed before answering. "Half-and-half, actually. Some of that Vacuen superstition rubbed off on me growing up."
"But not enough to avoid incurring bad luck?"
She smirked. "I make my own luck, Uncle Qrow."
He grunted, stepped forward, and knocked on the door. He ignored her look of panic. "Better start dropping the uncle, Sunshine. I'm like your cousin-in-law now."
At the moment she couldn't care less about the correction; she was busy keeping her legs from bolting out of there. She never thought the wrongness would instill a level of fear that made her want to live in seclusion.
"Daddy," a voice from inside said, "someone's at the door!"
Yang gulped, rubbed her right shoulder, and took deep breaths. She felt a hand on her own, squeezing.
"Hey," Qrow said, "it's not the end of the world, kid." He didn't say she should calm down; he knew it was as pointless as people telling him he should sober up. He gestured with his eyes to the door and the approaching footsteps beyond it. "They're family."
Family.
It brought a smile to her face. Small and tense, but a smile all the same. Its existence, however, lasted only until the front door swung open, going inward, her ears picking up the tiny thud the Vacuen amulet made on wood before her father said their names. He, on the other hand, had no trouble smiling at her at all.
"Hey, Da—"
Yang stopped, shook her head, tried again.
"Hey, Tai." She felt like a rebel again. It displeased her, although a part of her still derived pleasure from the act, a kind of taste of freedom only her teen mind would like. Wow, and here she thought she had moved past that stage in her life.
"Come on in," he beckoned, stepping out of the way.
Qrow sauntered forth without hesitation, and Yang, keeping her eyes forward, followed him. It was like… well, like stepping into the past, but she never thought a simile would be literal, and though it was the same home she had lived in for the past seventeen years, the differences were staggering. Old furniture had returned, some picture frames were missing, the height chart on the foyer column didn't have Ruby's growth record yet, and the foyer's flooring had reverted to its original creaky floorboards. She stepped on the squeaky spot a few times and couldn't help laughing.
Dear God I actually missed that creak.
Qrow coughed behind her. Both guys were staring at her.
Cheeks pink, she said, "The foyer got remodeled." She made the floor cry again to hammer home her point.
"Ah," Tai said. "Yeah, I can see why the floorboards'll need changing. They gave out at some point, didn't they?"
She simply nodded, not having the heart to tell him she thrashed the floor while drunk after doing a number on the front door.
"Well, let's not dally. I'll show you to your room, Yang."
Living again in here was Tai's idea, and though Yang at first seemed hesitant, reasoning came forth to smother that thought. Qrow might have done wonders in creating a new identity for her—even going so far as to ensure she keeps her original name—but she realized early on that trying to live alone in Vale or in Patch would require a lot of funds she did not have. Her uncle and even her Dad would chip in to keep her afloat for the next few months or so—that's just how they are, no matter if it's the past or present—but getting a job with her age, her shady credentials, and her disability would be an uphill battle at best. Her stump still gave her pain, both from the still-healing injury and the unforgettable memory of a Beowolf mangling it till she passed out. While pain was no stranger to her, it made it difficult for her to get a prosthetic. Doctor Tushar said that phantom pain was common for amputees, though their intensity varies from person to person, and there was a good chance the pain would subside in the coming months, but at the moment, her injury was too sensitive for anything other than bandages and the best alleviation other than the natural healing of her Aura was some prescribed painkillers.
In a nutshell, she was dependent, and she disliked it.
As they walked through the corridor, Yang took a glance at the living room and saw two kids and a small dog watching Sunday morning cartoons with an old glass television. Hologram technology was still in its infancy during this time, and while holographic televisions were already available, their prices were crippling for anyone below upper-middle class. The kids never noticed them passing, more focused on the action and adventure of a five-man team battling evil in colorful costumes. Oh! She remembered this old episode—but holy shit, she didn't remember the dialogue being this corny!
"Yang?"
She then realized she had stopped at the archway between the corridor and the living room, caught in memories that were replaying in reality. Just as she was about to catch up with Tai and Qrow, someone else mistook the call and saw her at the archway.
Her younger self gasped, startling Ruby and the dog, and dashed towards her like a missile.
"Auntie Yang!" she said, hugging her leg without reservation, and she was so light, so small, that Yang didn't even need to brace for impact. "You're here!"
A smile worked its way to her lips almost unconsciously. Those young lilac eyes shone with wonder and excitement, and though a part of her was still feeling some disconcertion, the innocence and joy of a child—pardon the pun (but not really)—outshone that pessimistic side of her.
The two Yangs had already met yesterday after much insistence from the little one, whose sole recognition of her savior was the bright blonde hair that was the same shade as her own. It made her wonder what reaction she'd have once she realized they also share the same name. And the same eye color. Yang tried to think of the situation in her five-year-old self's shoes, but it was difficult pinning an exact reaction. So many things had happened in the coming years that she'd lost the thoughts and motivations of what made her childhood tick. When Young Yang had her first good look at her, she blew expectations when she still gravitated on her hair and left everything else on the wayside.
It was an impression that stuck, because Young Yang looked doubly amazed after knowing her name and everything else, and though the conversation had gone to Yang's stump, Yang did her best to be positive about it, despite inwardly feeling the opposite. She hated her current state, and though it was a sacrifice she took pride in, she still hated it. Did that make her selfish, wanting to save someone dear without having to sacrifice something dear? She didn't know. Even after more than a week in bed, alone with her thoughts, she barely gave attention to that particular topic.
"You didn't say Auntie Yang will come today," Young Yang said to her dad and uncle, looking peeved. "Why?"
"Surpriiiiise," Qrow replied, but did so with half-hearted excitement, a drawl in his tone that made Yang picture a clown who hated his job. Maybe it was the vodka speaking. "I guess."
Definitely the vodka, Yang thought as she rubbed her younger self's head. The dog, a corgi (naturally), walked cautiously towards her, nose up and sniffing. It tilted his head to the side, whining a bit at her. She could guess the reason—having two scents that smell exactly the same, but coming from two different humans must be confusing as hell for the corgi—but she doubted that was the case. Maybe it was something else, maybe it was the smell of the second-hand clothes Qrow provided from an unknown source (she'd rather not know at all, really). She was unsure, but she knew the dog and knew when and how he died. She couldn't hold back her smile from growing bigger that she could imagine it reaching her ears.
After rubbing the young girl's head, Yang held her hand out to the dog she once knew. "Hey, Due. Come here, boy."
Again, Due remained cautious, sniffing her fingers first before moving closer. Then he enjoyed the expert petting he received. God, how she missed this dog.
"She got out of the hospital early, sweetie," Tai said to Young Yang, looking to the living room and beckoning for the shy little red riding hood to him. "We were surprised as well. And starting today, she'll be living with us."
"Really?!"
"Yep," Qrow said, giving Young Yang his own head rub, which made more of a mess than when Yang did it, not that the kid minded all that much. But in time she would; she saw a glimpse of that spark of annoyance, and it only took a spark to get a fire going, after all. "But you'll have plenty of time to get to know her later. At this rate, you're gonna miss the rest of the show."
Young Yang gasped and dashed straight back into the living room. Due looked between his blonde master and the blonde master petter (hehe). He barked once at her, his version of a welcome greeting, and sauntered back to the couch to watch the rest of the show with Young Yang. Ruby followed her sister's lead without even greeting her new aunt, but that was all right. Yang understood. Ruby was the shyest kid at that age. It'd take a while—days or weeks—for her to come around, but as of this moment, Yang was content to give the girl some space. In truth, she had to force herself to stop staring her retreating figure like a stalker.
Merely relying on half-forgotten memories and old baby pictures to project a toddler Ruby was like watching a live concert recorded through a Scroll with a bad camera and microphone. The records did so little justice at how cute she was in real life that if not for self-restraint, she would've eaten her up right then and there. She was just so dangerously adorable!
"I think you scared her," Qrow said.
"Huh?"
"Ruby. I think she sensed danger from you."
She cocked an eyebrow. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It just means you shouldn't smile like that at her."
Huh?
"Ease up, Qrow," Tai said, hands on his hips. "Ruby just has that effect on people."
"I'll watch myself more closely," Yang said to Qrow. "But you can't deny she's incredibly cute."
Qrow looked away, shifted his weight on the other leg, and tried his best to look like he either disagreed or was neutral about it, but both blondes knew how attached he was to the girl. Sighing, he said, "Yeah, I guess I can't."
"Come on," Tai said, "let's get you to your room. After that I'll give you a tour of the house and—"
"Kind of pointless if she's lived here for seventeen years, Tai," Qrow muttered.
"… Point. But you may never know? The foyer got remodeled—gets remodeled?—will get remodeled? Ah screw it, you know what I mean. Who's to say anything else in the house got a facelift?"
Qrow looked at her, expression hidden from Tai, who was halfway up the stairs but looking down at them. He mouthed facelift with a cocked eyebrow and a lopsided smirk, and she smothered her laughter. Her resistance slowly crumbled when Qrow poked his own cheek and pushed it up, causing his eye to wink at her.
Tai frowned. "What'd I say?"
Yang relented and laughed. This banter between them… she had almost forgotten how friendly they had been in her childhood.
"Nothing," Qrow said, climbing up the steps.
Tai sighed and let the matter drop, and Yang followed them up. She felt that pervasive wrongness come over her again as she ascended, and this time she found a word for it.
The word seemed right—felt right, too, but again, choco chip could be oatmeal raisin—and had accurately echoed her earlier thoughts, as early as when she first came to be in this strange world. The wrongness of everything was still there, but at least she now had something concrete to put the feeling in, something to give it shape, give it a more detailed definition, something to at least wrap up the mixed emotions building up whenever she thought of the door amulet or the creaky floorboard or the old shows she'd see again on TV or even the people she knew and loved de-aged by over a decade.
She sighed. It was official.
"Nostalgia isn't what it used to be."
III
I'm going through changes
The quote smacked at Yang's mind as she looked at her hand. Her only hand now.
She couldn't help responding with, "A lot of changes."
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, picked up the toothpaste, and applied some on the brush that was squeezed under her armpit. Something normally done under five seconds now took ten, and the brushing was awkward. Even after the rinse, Yang felt like she had done the brushing job half-assed. It was a lot worse with her hair. Most first thought of her hair can be the definition of 'untamable,' much like her spirit and personality, but in reality it was a combination of both worlds: taming the untamable, which was a grueling endeavor without time to thoroughly brush every strand from root to end. She did the best she could with one hand, but already a week in and she could see that the pristine she aspired her hair to be every day was gradually moving out of her reach.
Things could go smoother if she started using a prosthesis, but her stump left her… well, stumped. It attracted phantom pains like a flower attracted bees eager for some pollination, but at least real bees could only sting once. The phantom pains were bees with infinite lives. Infinite. Painkillers helped with the aches, but they dulled the rest of her senses, so she never took more than twice a day: one in the morning, another in the late afternoon.
And this was just the start of how much she had taken her dominant hand for granted.
One prime example was dining. Her first dining experience with her family-of-the-past highlighted her as the disabled needing to be treated like a baby. It was easier back in the hospital, because the staff had experience with people who had lost their dominant hand, so her diet was both simple and enjoyable (for hospital food, anyway). Tai, however, had no prior experience to one-handed people and had not thought ahead about the difficulties. His steak dinner was cooked with good intentions—a rushed checking-out-of-the-hospital celebration for a person he never expected to come that day—but she needed two hands to work the fork and knife. Tai actually cringed when he realized it, looking the most shame-faced she had seen him, before offering to cut the meat for her. Things got a little awkward when after cutting a small portion and smothering the top with mashed potatoes, he tried to feed it to her, too, as if she had reverted to a toddler being first introduced to solid foods. God, even Ruby stared at her! Probably wondering why a grown woman needed help feeding herself when a toddler like her could do it already without making a big mess. And while her younger self tried her best to look discreet, curiosity always seemed to win over her better judgment, taking glances when she thought she could get away with it. Dad, too panicked about his steak blunder, realized his other blunder three seconds after he hovered the loaded fork next to her mouth and promptly handed the utensil to her, pink cheeks going red, cringing harder all the while. After her first bite and Tai offering to just cut the rest of the meat, Qrow said he needed to use the bathroom, but both blondes knew the truth, because the drunkard's shoulders shook like mad as he exited the room.
Finished with the bathroom—or at least satisfied with her toothbrushing—Yang walked back to her bedroom and closed the door. The view from the window gave a picturesque depiction of the vast forest of Patch in the very early dawn. Light had yet to fully step into the day, so she took a moment to gaze at the retreating navy blue of the night as the stars blinked dimly before the next hour rendered them invisible. The sun would come above the horizon behind her in time, and despite knowing she needn't rush, she felt she had to. Something about jogging before the coming dawn seemed like a dream come true. A dream that had come true thousands of times, really, thousands of days before this one. So why was today any different?
Stupid question. She only had to look to her right to find the answer. It wasn't a satisfactory answer, much less a detailed one, but something about it rang true in her head, and that mattered most in a way.
A dream come true for a woman deciding to step back into the game. Going through changes, indeed.
She shook her head, smiling lopsidedly, and went on to the arduous task of getting into her jogging wear one-handed. It was nothing fancy and its practicality could be questioned, because when she and Dad went out shopping for clothes, there was very little thought in getting anything for athletics. She was still in the healing period, after all, so that would come at a later time, but a week indoors with nothing to do but play with the kids (which never gets old, unless Young Yang decides to pull on her hair just to see her get mad), watch shows she either watched before or held none of her interest then and now, and do chores in the clumsiest way imaginable, anyone would inevitably become stir-crazy. Yang wanted out, if only for a while to stretch her legs and get some fresh air.
She came downstairs and out the front door wearing an orange wife-beater shirt, black undershorts, and white strap-on sneakers.
Again, nothing fancy, practicality in question. It was early fall already, but the air had yet to reach a temperature that had people pulling out their winter coats from deep in the closet. She was still comfortable out here, despite showing so much skin. In truth, her current getup actually reminded her of the sleepwear she used back in Beacon, but no one else needed to know that. Besides, it wasn't as if people would be out at this hour to ogle at her figure… or if they'd ogle at all, what with the ugly missing-arm issue she had.
She recalled the usual route she took for her morning jogs as she did some of her stretches. It was a six-mile run back-and-forth. Yang thought this was a reasonable start after two weeks of inactivity. When her warm-up stretches were done, she took two deep breaths, letting each out in a quick huff, and started jogging.
Her feet hit the dirt ten times—and just ten times. She stopped because her balance was a little off; it ruined the pacing she was aiming for.
Dammit.
Not thinking ahead must be genetic or something. She should've realized that running with a stump was different from walking with a stump. The latter gave her time to attain an adequate level of coordination for every step she took, thus her walking had her not swaying her hand as much as before. The former offered no such luxury. It wasn't crippling (as if she wasn't crippled enough already, haha, fucking badum tss), but it certainly damaged her rhythm, like trying to play the piano with half of the keys turned silent.
No biggie. She'd adapt. She started jogging again, being more mindful of her balance and keeping her hand glued to the front of her stomach. There was still a bit more sway from her left side than on her right, but she didn't bother doing any more corrections. This was the best she could manage for the moment, so it'd have to do.
By the time she reached what she remembered to be the one-mile mark, her stump started throbbing, a mild jolt in her senses that continued to bring pain as she continued her exercise, but she'd been through worse—heck, the worst cramps she experienced had nothing on this—so she soldiered on.
But as she was halfway to the second mile, the pain had risen exponentially, like a light pitter-patter of rain serving as a welcoming entrance to an unforgiving torrential one. She had to stop, grab her bicep, hiss in a breath.
"Fuuuuuuck," she whispered, wishing she had taken some painkillers before setting out. Her stump felt like she had been simultaneously stung by a horde of bees. Bees with infinite lives. Infinite. Fucking infinite.
What could cause this, though? She understood the ongoing presence of phantom pains for an amputee, but she never thought a simple jog would kick a bee's nest in her injury. Her Aura did wonders with closing up the amputated part and making it look like a several-months-old wound within a fraction of the time, so it couldn't be something like infection or broken stitches. Was it the sudden drop in temperature? Dawn in Patch oftentimes had thick mists sailing through its parts, forest and village alike, retaining within it the coldness of the previous night well after the moon and stars had bowed and let the curtains fall.
Maybe it was the mist. It grew thicker around her despite not moving anymore, and the pain skyrocketed as well.
No more. The pain was too much. Desperate, she channeled her Aura—revving up the engines, so to speak—letting it course around her body more potently, a part of her mind dead-set on the idea that if she could absorb external damages, then she could do the same with internal. Flawed logic, the rest of her mind knew, but it might help with nullifying some of the pain at least and—
She gasped.
Her right arm was back.
"What the f—"
Yang blinked and things started to make a little more sense. Her right arm was there—she wasn't seeing things—but it was a disembodied outline, glowing gold and going back-and-forth between see-through and invisible, like a broken hologram. It was fucking creepy as hell. She tried clenching her right hand and the gold ghost responded, mimicking every individual movement she ordered her fingers to do. Her breath was erratic, going in and out with abandon, each followed closely by tremors that made her even her lips quiver, as if she had been submerged in subzero temperatures. She gulped, tried to calm herself down. She wanted to know it was real, to believe she wasn't seeing an illusion, so her left hand went to touch it and like the phantom it was, her hand went through the forearm without resistance.
But the pain intensified the moment left and right touched, and she couldn't hold back a scream. She took a step back, another, and pulled her left arm away, panting.
"What the fuck? What the fuck?!"
And like how it appeared, it vanished in the same way, without fuss, without warning. The glow stayed for a second longer before vanishing as well, dissipating into nothingness like light robbed of its source. All that was left was her standing in the middle of a dirt path, panting heavily with several beads of sweat trickling down her face, and looking at her stump as if it had started talking. Maybe along the lines of, "Psyche! You're just seeing things, babe! You must be going crazy! Tough luck, babe, haha, tough fucking luck."
Yang thought it'd be over, but her ears picked up a menacing growl behind her.
A Beowolf!
She didn't have weapons on her and her Scroll was back in her room. The growl got louder, muffling the light footsteps on the dirt. Wait, light? Beowolves were anything but light.
Looking behind her, she saw a white and brown Corgi baring its teeth. When she fully turned around, it started barking.
"Due?"
It was definitely the rambunctious dog Dad adopted back before she was born. Due dashed forward, looking like he was about to tackle her, but his direction was askew and that was deliberate. He ran past her, barking all the while, and stopped about five paces from where she stood, aiming his sudden aggressiveness to someone—orsomething—hidden beyond the thickening mist.
She knew about the mists in Patch and how sometimes they could become as thick and touchable as steam, but looking at the one before now seemed to play games with her danger senses. It was safe, it was dangerous, it was safe, it was dangerous, you see a shadow to your right, but that's just a tree, the mist eases up a little and you see the tree some more and realize it was actually a shadow, wait, no, it was a tree all along, you should definitely get your eyes checked or something—
She shook her head. She needed to focus.
"Due," she called, tapping her hand on her thigh, "come on, boy, let's get back home."
Due looked over to her, unsure, but complied after a few more taps.
She cast one final glance at the mist, felt her spine tingle. Something was out there. Maybe Grimm, but… no this didn't feel like Grimm. If it was, it would've attacked by now, and the measly barks from a dog that barely reached her knees was a laughable reason for it to stay in their hiding spots. Whatever this was, it was bad news sending out bad vibes, and she was ill-equipped to face it.
Her right arm itched. Throbbed and itched, as if it were alive and there again. Her left hand went there to scratch it, but her nails ended up scraping the side of her stomach. The throbbing morphed into that all-familiar agonizing pain.
"Race you home, boy!" she said, unable to control the volume, too tense as she was with the dangers and the pain.
She had stopped her jog because the pain got too much. Well, this time, pain and fear became great motivators for a swift dash to home.
Regardless and quite unfortunately, Due won the race.
IV
The sound she heard was rhythmic, reaching her ears in a speed akin to a musical beat. The most basic of beats: One, two, one, two, one, two—
"Now here's where I'm supposed to say you ought to take it easy on the exercise at first…"
The rhythm should've been like that, but with a missing right fist, her left had to face the punching bag alone, bringing forth a beat that was as loud as much as it was silent. One, nothing, one, nothing, one, nothing—
"… but I guess it's a little late for that."
If Yang looked in a mirror, she would've seen a crippled woman on her last leg (more like last arm, haha, badum fucking tss), meticulously beating on a punching bag with a scowl deep enough to start an onset of premature wrinkles on her forehead. Sweat clung on every inch of her body, and each breath blowing through her mouth was as rushed as it was ragged, which bring to mind the sounds an old bellows would make. Her knuckles hurt, the presence of Aura missing since the start of her punching session, because she had depleted it minutes ago and by that point, she was lost to the broken rhythm, imagining that her missing right fist occupied the silent beat with its imaginary punches to the bag.
When Dad—Taiyang, her mind retorted, acting reasonable and rebellious at the same time—entered the miniature gym he and Summer had set up across the living room, she stopped her exercise for a moment, looked at him, and resumed punching the sand out of the bag.
"Is something wrong, Yang?"
She stopped punching again, panting, licking her dried lips. Tongue tasted salt. "What"—she swallowed—"makes you say that?"
"You look tense," he said, coming closer. "And your eyes are red."
"No, I don't," she said, "and my eyes are always red when I work up a sweat."
"That's not what Qrow told me."
"Did he now?"
Tai scowled, opened his mouth, but words refused to come out. He shut his mouth, took a deep breath, and tried talking again. "You still haven't answered my question, Yang. What's wrong?"
She could've kept it to herself, could've stayed quiet and continued her exercise routine with her father still trying to hear her out while lacking the resolve to ask her again, but she couldn't. This morning was excruciating; it felt like she had gone insane. That phantom arm back in the trail… she wanted to see it again, wanted to harness it. More than anything, she wanted to feel her right arm being there again, so she recalled what she felt, what she did, at that moment and replicated it, her Aura burning with the same resolve. Again and again, she failed to produce even a spark. Her whole body glowed, her hair basking fiery warmth on her back, and there was a tinge of red in her vision, but the barrier of her protective Aura ended where her stump began, never extending far beyond her existing flesh. She failed and kept failing, but she was more than determined to make it work. Unfortunately, for every failed try, the angrier she became, and the angrier she became, the more she tried to force this experiment to succeed till she came to a point where she might end up getting hospitalized again for severe Aura exhaustion. She stopped herself in time, but she hadn't even come close to regaining her lost limb.
The time afterwards was all spent dealing punishment at the punching bag, her go-to stress-reliever whenever knocking goons' heads or cracking Grimm skulls were off the table. This should've been calming, she should've been having fun (because she was, after all, a pun-loving person, get it, punishing a punching bag, haha, fucking badum tss), but it was not to be. Pain was constant, now more on her left knuckles than on her right stump, given a beating as much as they gave one to the giant black hotdog hanging from the ceiling, especially with no Aura to protect them.
Dad's eyes locked onto her hand, and he spotted the red tinges on it almost immediately. "Are you…" He took in a breath. "You aren't even wearing protective gear!"
She forewent any sort of protection because it'd take too much time and too much work, and her anger was reaching the boiling point. She needed release right away before she ended up directing it at something she shouldn't.
Dad was beside her in a second, gently taking her hand and inspecting the damage. Two split knuckles, forefinger and middle. Her ring and pinky knuckles were as red as rashes, having taken less of the brunt from her consecutive punches, but they had in no way eluded pain, as now that her mind lost focus of its single-minded objective, the pain receptors she had been successfully ignoring were visiting her in one giant wave.
Her hand shook in her father's own, and she felt like a child again, still wet behind the ears in all things Huntsman-related and taking her first steps into becoming the unstoppable powerhouse she aspired to be. God, that seemed like two lifetimes ago, back when things were great, when things were looking up, when things were… symmetrical, for lack of a better word. Well, now she was back to square one, unable to muster a formidable challenge for any Grimm that came her way.
She felt something press below her right eye, sliding towards the side. Dad's hand hovered inches from her right, the thumb sticking out and glistening like a jewel. Her vision, she realized, was blurry, and she tried to blink it to clarity. Her left cheek felt wet and her breath felt like hitching. She knew what was happening, knew what she was failing to force back, and not even every ounce of her willpower could stop this new wave coming her way, but she tried anyway. Now more than ever, she wanted to stop it. She didn't want to look weak. She didn't want to be that fragile little girl again. She already allowed herself a moment of weakness back at the hospital. Any more than that would mean… would mean—
"Yang."
She looked at her father, the concern reflected in his eyes, and her resistance fell like a house of cards. New tears formed and flowed, cascading down her cheeks in complicated contours, as her face morphed through several expressions—nose snorting a fresh onset of phlegm, cheeks rising to help shut the eyes and their ever-flowing tears, lips trembling in place as the bottom gets pinned down like a caught animal by teeth that couldn't care less if they pierced through the skin or not. The shakes infected her whole body now.
Tai wrapped her in his big arms, buried her face to his shoulder, and didn't so much as grunt when she grabbed his shirt and the flesh behind it. She hitched her breath once, twice, and then cries started bursting out of her mouth like a steaming kettle: low from the start, but gradually got higher and higher in pitch and volume. She dropped to her knees and Dad followed, hugging her like a big bear.
After some time of crying her eyes out, she said, "It was there."
"Hmm?"
"My right arm was there. I'd seen it, felt it, like some… Aura projection." She sniffed. "But now it's gone again. Nothing but a fucking stump!"
"Yang, you're not making sense. When did this happen?"
She took a deep breath, sniffed again, wiped her eyes, and exhaled shakily with gritted teeth. "I… I was out jogging and then my arm started hurting like hell. I gave it some Aura to take away the pain, and then like magic, my right arm suddenly appeared. It shined like gold, like my Aura, but it was real, Dad. I'm not making this up!"
"Hey, hey, it's okay, Yang, it's okay." He patted her back. It wouldn't occur to her, until in hindsight, that his treatment of her as if she were a little kid was done because that was as far as he currently knew about raising a child. Though the papers designated her as a cousin, they held no sway to what Tai felt, and knowing there might well be missteps along the way, he was trying his best to be the father she needed. Hindsight, however, wouldn't be at least until she was back in her bedroom, lying down on her bed and waiting for sleep, so at that moment, his attempt at calming her was met with irritation.
"No, it's not!" she said, almost shouting. "Everything is just… fucked! I'm not supposed to travel back in time, but I did. I wished I didn't lose my arm from those goddamn Beowolves, but I did. And I wished I hadn't gone crazy enough to believe I got my arm back, but I—"
Her words turned muffled when Dad tightened his hug and put one hand behind her head, stroking her hair, again as if she were a child needing protection from the world. She hated it, but she didn't stop it. It was like a drug, harmful but blissful, and she didn't want it to stop.
"I believe you," Dad said, his voice racked with an emotion she knew contained worry and confusion. Her voice suffered the same symptom, after all, projecting word after word the physical and mental pain she was going through. "I believe you, Yang."
"Do you?" she asked, hoping she wasn't being patronized. "Do you really, Dad?"
"Yes." And he meant it. She detected no lie. "If the world decided to bring you here to me—to us, really—then how farfetched does that make your recent experience look?"
She opened her mouth, processed that question, and let out a shaky laugh instead of words. Dad offered a smile, and she offered one back before having to sniff hard.
Dad arched an eyebrow. "Did I ever teach you to blow your nose, little lady?"
She refused to snort. It'd just make the situation with her nose worse. "Yes, you did, but I guess it didn't stick."
"We'll correct that soon." He rubbed the back of her head again. "We all got questions we want answers to, Yang, and we'll get them in time. And there's just so many surrounding you specifically that I don't dare dismiss anything."
She looked to her stump, tried clenching her right fist, but while she felt a very numbed sensation, nothing happened. Her right hand remained a ghost to the naked eye. "It was real. I know it was."
"And we'll figure that out in time." He helped her stand back up, his eyes on the bruised and torn knuckles. "But right now, how about we take care of this first, then you can go freshen up and we'll all have breakfast together. You, me, and the kids."
She wondered if Dad knew the other meaning to what he just said. "I'm not Mom, though."
He snorted, smiling lopsidedly. "But you have a way with kids that you might as well be one. Marriage between cousins is forbidden, though."
"Dear God, Dad, what is wrong with you?" she asked, voice more of mirth than disgust.
"I just wanna hear my Sunshine laugh in the morning, is all. And when you feeling up for it later this afternoon, I'll help you out in your training regime." He paused. "You are planning on getting back into the game, right? I was reading that correctly, right?"
She gave a nod, but then pursed her lips. "Yeah. And I'm really thankful for the support, Dad, but"—she gestured to her missing arm—"what's the use? I can't fight as well as I used to with this."
"Hey now, Sunshine, that's quitters talk. You can't throw in the towel before the match even begins, you know." He then grinned. "And besides, you aren't disabled as you think you are."
She blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
His grin got wider. "You still know how to kick, right?"
-o- -o- -o- -o- —O— -o- -o- -o- -o-
CHAPTER AFTERNOTES
-o- -o- -o- -o- —O— -o- -o- -o- -o-
It's been some time since the season finale of RWBY Vol. 3, and the shock waves are still being felt in the fandom. (Like those Episode 12 captions in YouTube—I mean, really, the "sound of fans screaming" caption. Wow.) Unlike Pyrrha, Yang will keep on living, but her life is basically in shambles right now. Her school, her friends, her team, her fighting style, all in shambles. Yang is, whether we like it or not, in her darkest moment and right now there's no telling if or when she'll come out of it with her fighting spirit reignited and hotter than the sun in the middle of July. This is one of the things I intended to tackle since the first chapter, a look into a person down in the dumps and doing their best to pick up the pieces of a broken life. For this version of Yang, she lost all the aforementioned (in some way) and though the past-selves of people she knew were there and willing to help, they'd still be considered strangers to some point because they don't know what their present-selves were supposed to know. They don't know Yang, and that's what alienates her the most to them, poor imitations of the people she knew and loved. That's not to say she doesn't love them any less at this time, because they have no control over the circumstances, but the loneliness is there. And the pain. A lot of pain.
I had some choices naming the dog before Zwei. My only condition is that the name has to mean 'two,' like Zwei. I would've gone for Ein, but I feel there isn't much of a good back story by using such a name, so I decided for sticking to two. A cute little story is behind that, actually. Anyway, my choices were Futa (I don't know why, okay! It's just, you know, futari meaning 'the two of us' or something), Adwa, Deux, and Dos. Due is pronounced Doo-wei, based on the Italian word for 'two.'