"You've got really pretty hair," said the cab driver.

"Thank you," Weiss said with a polite smile, before remembering the cabbie couldn't see her.

"Where'd you get it dyed?"

"I didn't."

The cabbie's eyes glanced at her through the rear-view mirror. "You mean it's naturally white?"

"Of course. It's genetic."

"Then you must be . . ."

Weiss frowned. "Must be what?"

"Never mind."

The taxi rolled to a stop at a red light. It was a busy intersection, as city hall was right there. The building seemed to draw a lot of attention, even from people who had no business inside. The metal statue built in front of it probably had something to do with that.

It depicted an armored woman—a shield on her back, a sword in her hand, and a helmet tucked under her free arm. She looked like she was standing guard. The armor was so intricately detailed you could be fooled into thinking it could come off. The statue's surface glimmered in the afternoon sunlight, its reflective sheen showing how young it was. Passersby looked up mournfully at her face and some stopped to stare at the pedestal where a plaque was set. From where Weiss sat, she couldn't read the engraving—she'd been meaning to get a closer look at it since she first arrived in Vale, but still hadn't found the time.

The light turned green, and the statue vanished behind a building. Weiss turned her gaze away from the window and down to her scroll, where she pulled up a web browser and began mindlessly flicking through random news articles.

"You been in Vale long?" said the cabbie.

"A few weeks," Weiss answered.

"What do you think of the city?"

"It's . . . not Atlas."

"Is that a good thing?"

Weiss hesitated. "I'd rather not talk, if that's alright with you."

"Oh. Right." She said nothing more.

Weiss continued to stare at her scroll. The articles flashed before her eyes, disappearing off the top of the screen almost as soon as they appeared from the bottom. She wasn't planning on reading any of them; she just wanted something to do. But then one title caught her attention—Mayor Ozpin Comments on Paragons and Vigilantism. Her thumb tapped on it and she began to read.

Yesterday evening, Mayor Ozpin held a press conference to answer the public's concerns about paragons and the danger they allegedly pose to our city. When asked for his stance on the topic, this is what the mayor had to say:

"I do not believe that cleri gemma natura, more widely referred to as paragons, are in any way a threat. What too few people understand is that the majority of semblances are incapable of harming another human being. Those rare few paragons who possess potentially lethal semblances are carefully monitored and should not be met with scorn or fear; they are no more dangerous than those licensed to carry firearms. At the end of the day, we're all people—we're all equal—and deserve to be treated as such."

As the discussion on paragons progressed, it naturally veered toward vigilantism. Mayor Ozpin shared his rather controversial views on this subject.

"It saddens me how often the debates on these two topics seem to overlap in the eyes of the public. Not every vigilante has a semblance, just as not every paragon aspires to be a vigilante. These are two entirely different discussions, and to make them out to be one and the same only brings us further away from reaching a common ground.

"But to answer your question, my stance remains unchanged. Vigilantes are criminals and should be apprehended. This city owes Pyrrha Nikos an unpayable debt—of that, there is no argument. And were she standing before me today, she'd receive my thanks as well as a pardon. But a line needs to be drawn between reality and fiction. Semblances or advanced technology do not make us superheroes. To assume that every vigilante will be the next Pyrrha Nikos would be frankly irresponsible and potentially disastrous. Putting on a mask and running around at night does not give you the right to ignore laws. Our police force is more than capable of fighting crime and apprehending even the most dangerous criminals, as was proven four days ago with the arrest of the terrorist, A . . .

Please subscribe to our newsletter to continue reading. For only 300 lien a month—

Weiss sighed and tucked her scroll back into her bag. It'd be so easy just to give it her credit card information and read the rest of the article, but she couldn't. The cab meter was already up to six hundred lien. A meager amount, but she was already regretting spending it. She should've driven herself, she knew that, but the traffic was so busy today that she couldn't stomach the thought.

The taxi rolled to a stop a couple of minutes later. There were a few men across the street, chatting animatedly. One watched Weiss as she stepped out of the vehicle, but she paid him no mind. She turned her attention to the dingy apartment building, double-checking that the address was right.

She knew before she even pressed the buzzer that it'd have no elevator, but couldn't help feeling a sense of dread as she entered the building. Her suspicions were quickly confirmed. Weiss suppressed a groan and looked for the staircase.

Fortunately, her client lived on the third floor, so it was a short climb. Her knuckles rapped against a door, three seconds passed, then it opened. A tall, blonde man that looked around her age stood inside the apartment. His blue eyes, a darker shade than her own, lingered on her snow-white hair, currently tied back in a long braid.

"Jaune Arc?" said Weiss.

The man nodded. "You're the psychotherapist?"

"I am, for lack of a better term."

She held out a card toward him. Jaune stared at it only long enough to see her name, then motioned for her to follow him inside. She hesitated before putting the card away; people usually like to examine it thoroughly.

Weiss closed the door behind her once she was over the threshold. She wasn't surprised to see the state of the apartment. Trash was strewn about, the sink was filled with plastic dishes, and what few framed photographs he owned were lying face down. Judging by the papers, textbooks, and broken pencils scattered all over the tables and floor, she guessed he was a student.

"Something to drink?" Jaune offered, staring into the fridge.

Weiss's eyes roved over two dusty glasses in a cabinet that had been left ajar, and said, "No, thank you. Is there . . . somewhere we can sit?"

Jaune closed the fridge without having taken anything from it, then had the decency to look sheepish. "Oh, right. Sorry."

He cleared off his small dining table before pulling out a chair for her. Weiss only sat down after taking a few seconds to ensure there was no refuse on it. She pulled a pen and pad from her bag and set it in front of her, staring at Jaune as he sat down at the opposite end of the table. He wasn't even trying to fake a happy mien.

"So, in your email, you said you have depression and PTSD?" said Weiss.

Jaune nodded.

"Has that been professionally diagnosed?"

"No."

She picked up her pen and pad. "How long have you been experiencing symptoms?"

Jaune hesitated. "Two years."

She wrote it down. "Major depression doesn't typically last that long, so it's likely dysthymia. Less severe, but longer lasting"

He didn't say anything.

"What—?"

"How long is this going to take?" he interrupted.

Weiss pursed her lips, affronted. "I suppose that's up to you. I work more effectively when I have a proper understanding of exactly what it is I'm dealing with. If it's acceptable to you, I'd like to ask a few questions—"

"It's not. Can't you just . . . wave your hands and get it over with?"

"It's a lot more complicated than that," she said through gritted teeth. "But if you insist, I can try it now, but I can't guarantee success."

"Do it," he said. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Please."

"Fine." Weiss put the pad away and held out her hand. "I need to touch your forehead."

He didn't question it. He leaned forward and closed his eyes, braced as if expecting pain. Weiss placed her fingers above his brow, took a deep breath, then felt her eyes roll back into her head.

She was on her feet now. The apartment was gone, as was Jaune. Trees towered above her, and dry leaves littered the ground beneath her feet. A dark sky loomed overhead, a shattered moon shining brightly. But this forest, vivid though it was, wasn't quite right. The ground was stiff beneath her feet, like she was standing on plastic. The trees had an unnatural uniformity to them. Even Weiss's own hand, which was reaching to her waist for the hilt of a silver rapier, lacked texture and detail.

"Forever Fall," she muttered, surprised. It was typically the Emerald Forest that she saw in a person's mind.

Her blade drawn and held at the ready, Weiss waited. She took slow, measured movements, examining her surroundings and listening carefully. She saw nothing, heard nothing. So, she began to walk, using the stars to guide her north.

Weiss remembered her only depression case. It'd been a boy, fifteen, with scars along his arms. His condition had been clinical and taken the form of an Apathy—slender, skeletal Grimm with glowing red eyes, long claws, and a piercing screech that drains the energy out of a person. But Weiss wasn't sure if dysthymia would be any different. Then there was the PTSD, which she'd never encountered before.

Her foot came down and snapped a twig. At that exact moment, the ground shook, so faintly that she almost missed it. Then, off in the distance, a flock of birds rose up from the trees. Picking up the pace, Weiss began to move in that direction. Every three seconds, she could feel another tremor, and they were becoming more noticeable as time went on. And eventually, she could hear their source—large, muffled clops.

Weiss came out into a glade and found her adversary towering over her. She'd guessed what it would be before she even saw it. It was a tar-black figure, decorated with pieces of bone, and glowering in her direction with two sets of glowing red eyes. At first glance, you might confuse it for a man riding a horse, but the "man" had no lower body and was fused to the horse's back. The humanoid had long, dangling arms and a mask with curved horns. The horse's mane was black smoke and its rib cage was exposed. It was one creature, much more terrifying than a centaur—Nuckelavee.

Without warning, one of its hands shot out, the arm stretching beyond its already great length to reach her. With faster reactions and greater agility than she could ever have achieved in the real world, Weiss rolled out of the way. She didn't need rigorous training and muscle memory in here; in here, she was a warrior.

She avoided the second hand with a backward somersault, then darted forward and thrust her blade into its wrist. The horse reared and the humanoid let out a blood-curdling scream, withdrawing its arms for another attack. The beast charged toward her, and she dodged at the last second, sending a strike into its flank. Then an arm came down and sent her flying back, but she landed on her feet. Weiss took a stance, ready to evade the next attack. But as the other arm came flying toward her, another screech brought her to her knees.

This was one was different, and it didn't come from the creature in front of her. It was higher-pitched, less croaky. Instead of being deafeningly loud, this one reverberated around Weiss's head, as if it was seeping directly into her soul, draining her. Her ears started ringing, and her limbs grew heavy. The Nuckelavee's hand grabbed her with no resistance and flung her across the clearing, her back slamming against a tree. She felt too weak to even cry out.

As she slowly began to recover from this attack, the ringing began to lessen. She heard the hooves clopping against the dirt, and rustling coming from several directions, like many pairs of legs trudging through the fallen leaves. And when Weiss looked up, she saw a scene straight out of a nightmare. Dysthymia didn't take the form of an Apathy—it took the form of a pack of Apathy.

As soon as she could manage it, Weiss struggled to her feet, turned, and ran. The Apathy screamed again, but Weiss had sheathed her rapier and stuffed her fingers into her ears. The sound was muffled, but it still slowed her down—not enough to cripple her, though. She continued to run, determined to put as much distance as possible between herself and the Grimm. She needed to take a break, regain her wits, and think of a strategy to separate the creatures—there was no way she could take them all on at once.

Up ahead she saw a hilly region covered in rocks and boulders. She tried to spot if there were any caves near it, which would make a good refuge, but couldn't tell from this distance. Still, a vantage point would be better than nothing. The Apathy shrieked again, but she could barely hear them now.

But before she could reach the hills, she heard something she'd never heard before in a mental incursion—voices. Weiss skidded to a halt and turned toward them. The sound was coming from a window, floating in midair. On the other side of the glass was a single face, the same one from the statue. But this face was made of flesh instead of metal.

"Jaune. I want—"

But Weiss didn't get to hear what she wanted. Weiss was so shocked that she stumbled back, but never hit the ground. The artificial world swirled around her and faded into nothingness, and then she was suddenly back in Jaune's apartment. Her hand fell to the table from where it'd been touching his face, and she was sweating.

"P-Pyrrha," Weiss stammered with the same breath she'd inhaled before going in.

Jaune blanched. "What?"

"That was Pyrrha Nikos. You . . . You knew her?"

He gaped at her. Then his look of fear turned to fury. "You read my mind?"

"No!" said Weiss. "I-I don't . . ."

She couldn't find the right words; she'd lost all composure. Her semblance allowed her to heal people's minds, nothing more. Her mother's semblance allowed her to heal people's minds, nothing more. Why should it change now?

"What did you see?" Jaune demanded.

"Nothing! Just her face. And . . . she said your name. That's all. I didn't mean to see anything."

He clenched his fists and took a shaky breath, then said, "Get out."

"Excuse me? But I didn't cure you. I can still try again."

"Get out!"

He was on his feet now, his chair knocked flat on its back. Weiss did not cower under his rage, but the guilt clawing at her heart stopped her from lashing back, as she might normally have done. So, calmly, she grabbed her bag, stood, and left without another word.


As she descended the staircase, Weiss was fuming. One of only two contracts she'd received this week had just gone unfulfilled, and therefore would go unpaid. But she wasn't angry with Jaune, though she did hold a bit of resentment toward him for his sour attitude. Weiss was angry with herself—namely, her stupid semblance. Why did it have to evolve now? Why did it have to evolve in that way? It was already difficult enough to find people willing to pay her to poke around in their minds, and it'd only become more so if potential patients knew she could see their memories.

And it wasn't as if she could hide this development, either. As soon as she reported it to the Civil Anomaly Bureau, as was required by law, they'd issue a new license with it written quite plainly for her clients to see. And they wouldn't all be like Jaune Arc, who only spared the card a single glance.

Weiss was out of the building and proceeding along the sidewalk, too preoccupied with her thoughts to wonder where she was going or hail another cab. There were little to no pedestrians on this street, but she barely even noticed them. Then words she couldn't ignore snaked their way into her ears.

"See? I told you it wasn't blonde. That's gotta be one."

"Probably his daughter."

Weiss glanced across the empty street. The group of men from before hadn't moved. They were all staring at her now, scowls on their faces. She tried to ignore them, continue on her way, but then they jaywalked toward her.

"Hey!" One of the men called after her, not an ounce of friendliness in his tone.

She quickened her gait, hoping to find a crowd of people to blend into, but there was no one. And then they were on her. Rough hands whipped her around and then pinned her shoulders to the wall.

"It's not polite to ignore people who are tryna talk to ya, Schnee." His face was covered in scars, and he stared at her with profound loathing. Three other thugs stood behind him, looking equally mean.

"I thought you were talking to someone else," Weiss lied, trying to keep a look of dignity about her.

"Who else would we be talking to?" said one of the thugs.

"If you don't let me go—"

"You'll what?" said the scarred man. "Daddy's not around no more to keep you out of trouble, now is he?"

"I am—"

"You're nothing!" he spat.

Weiss flinched.

"You're nothing but the spoiled brat of some disgraced has-been."

"If you hate my father, then what do you want with me? Is his imprisonment not enough for you?"

Scar smacked her, his other hand still pressing her against the wall. She heard chuckles from the others. After Weiss blinked away the pain, she saw the man had drawn out a knife. One of the other thugs was rubbing his hands together in excitement, and another was making suggestions about where Scar should put it.

The color drained from Weiss's face as the rest of her courage left her. Her eyes couldn't leave the clean, razor-sharp blade. Her heart began beating faster and faster in her chest. Her hand had the impulse to reach toward her hip, but she couldn't move it. Not that it mattered. There was no rapier there; she wasn't a warrior. She was just a defenseless woman with a semblance that could do little more than aggravate her attackers.

"My face ain't pretty like yours, is it?" said Scar. "Wanna know what happened?"

Weiss didn't say anything.

He gently touched the tip of the blade to her forehead. "I worked for the STC, see? Me and my brother were on the assembly line. 'Til one day a machine malfunctioned, killed my brother, and left me with this ugly mug. An' you know what daddy did? He paid Ronnie's funeral to cover his own ass, left me drowning in medical bills, and he fuckin' fired me!"

Weiss chose not to say the words that had almost reached her lips—that she was no more a fan of Jacques Schnee's than he was. That her life had also been ruined by her father's actions. That she was also missing a brother because of him. But she knew how little that information would help her current situation. The thugs would probably even revel in it.

"I'm sor—ah!" Her apology was literally cut short. Her knee came up, seemingly of its own accord, right between the man's legs. The pressure lifted off her shoulder, and her hands came up to her left eye. Her face was searing in pain, a warm liquid running down it.

"Bitch!" Scar yelled, on the ground, his voice an octave higher than before.

One of the others helped him to his feet while the other two closed in, blocking her from running.

"It's not easy down here in the mud with all us peasants, is it?" one said. "One scar won't do, I think."

Scar smiled malevolently, though the effect was hampered by his awkward, bow-legged stance. "I think you're right. How 'bout I keep going 'till your pretty face starts looking a lot more like mine?" He raised the knife again and took another step forward. But then all three men whipped around as a loud thunk sounded behind them. A sword was aimed in their direction, its owner an armored figure that suddenly stood in the street, the asphalt cracked under their boots.

"But . . . Y-you're dead!" one of the thugs sputtered as soon as the shock wore off.

"Legends never die," said the newcomer with a digitally-distorted voice. They were fully clad in high-tech armor, a shield strapped to one arm and a helmet hiding their face—not an inch of skin was visible. It was the same gear sculpted on the statue.

The three goons tried to run, but the Protector was already on top of them. The sword swept two off their feet, and the shield slammed another against the building. Then three ropes sprang from the vigilante's belt to bind them completely. The armored hero turned back to Weiss to discover that Scar hadn't tried to run—he was holding Weiss in front of him with the knife to her neck, both blood and agony pouring from her wound. She was struggling to pull his arm away from her, but he was too strong.

The vigilante pointed the sword in their direction.

"Stay back!" Scar shouted, his fear evident. "I'll kill her! The whore has it coming!"

Then—Weiss couldn't see how it happened—the knife was ripped from Scar's grasp. He collapsed on top of her while trying to hold on to it. She heard a heavy object drop, and a second later, she felt her assailant's weight lift off of her, shortly followed by a hard thud. Weiss pushed herself to her knees and clutched her bleeding eye again. She looked up and saw all four men bound next to each other, their mouths gagged. The vigilante's sword was lying on the ground next to her, a thin cord connecting the tip of the blade to Scar's knife. An armored hand reached down and picked it up. The cord detached from the knife and reeled back into the sword.

"Thank you," Weiss said, staring up at her savior.

"Paramedic's on the way," was their only response. Then, with an impossible leap, the mysterious stranger landed on the roof of a building and vanished from sight.


Weiss hated hospitals. The incessant beeping, that distinct smell in the air, and the way the taste of popsicle sticks lingered in her mouth even without one having come anywhere near her. It was all so familiar that she might have been a child again, visiting her grandfather with her mother and siblings back in Atlas. And the way everything was so perfectly clean and pristine was also reminiscent, but of the old family manor. It was unnerving how this building she'd never been in before was able to elicit so many unpleasant memories.

As Weiss was lying in bed, watching an old sitcom that she didn't quite see the appeal of for lack of anything better to do, the door to her room opened. From the corner of her eye, she saw someone dressed in white enter. She assumed it was the nurse, so paid her no mind.

"Weiss." The voice was so uncharacteristically soft that Weiss almost didn't recognize it. When she did, her head snapped toward the speaker to find not a nurse, but her sister looking down at her.

She had the same white hair as Weiss, tied back into a bun, and wore an officer's uniform. Weiss was too surprised to say anything right away. And before she got the chance, Winter was descending on her and embracing her in a tight hug. Two seconds later, Weiss hugged her back. Her lip was quivering. But despite her jumbled, painkiller-addled mind, she didn't cry.

The siblings stayed like that for a full minute until Winter pulled away. She tried to resume her usual professional demeanor, but the concern didn't disappear from her face.

"Why are you here?" Weiss asked.

"I'm still your emergency contact. Where else would I be?" Her tone was back to being strict and snappy, which made Weiss smile.

"But what about the military?"

"My sister was attacked. They can do without me for a day. Now enough about me. How are you feeling?"

Weiss raised her fingers to her bandaged face. The eye itself was uninjured, but a deep gash ran in a neat line above and below it, currently sutured. "It . . . stings."

"Of course it does. You know that isn't what I meant."

Weiss took a moment to think of her answer. She couldn't meet her sister's gaze as she said it in a small voice. "I don't think I've ever been so scared."

Winter sat down at Weiss's side and squeezed her hand. "Describe to me what happened."

Weiss almost refused, but then decided that it wasn't fair to leave her sister with a vague idea while the police had a detailed retelling. She started with exiting the apartment building, leaving out her failure of a contract and the evolution of her semblance, and stopped with the paramedics' arrival. When she was finished, she found she didn't feel any different. People say to talk about your problems, but this proved ineffective. She could still vividly recall the fear she'd felt, the vehement pounding of her heart as if it knew each beat could have been its last. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing she could dive into her own mind.

And the hatred. That was the worst part. The way the scarred man's eyes bored into her with pure, unadulterated loathing. "The whore has it coming!" he'd said. She deserved this wound; she deserved more wounds. Just because her hair was white.

"You should have run as soon as they began to approach you," Winter scolded.

"I was in heels!"

"Then you should have lied. You should have denied being a Schnee and said your hair is dyed."

"They wouldn't have believed me."

"You don't know that!"

Weiss bowed her head, ashamed. She could have done more. She shouldn't have needed a superhero to drop from the sky to save her. If the Protector of Vale, or whoever was wearing her armor, hadn't shown up . . . Weiss couldn't bring herself to complete the thought.

"You need to be more careful, Weiss," said Winter. "Your life's already difficult enough, being a paragon. You don't need the added challenges of being a Schnee. There are plenty of people unhappy with Father's sentence"

"Don't you think I know that?" Weiss retorted. "Haven't I just received a sharp reminder of that fact?"

Winter sighed. "It was your choice to move to Vale. I can't protect you here."

"I don't need your protection!" Even as she said it, her wound gave her a twinge of pain that made her wince. "So what do you want me to do, exactly?"

Winter took a moment to reply. "I have to be on the next plane back to Atlas. But I want you to call me tomorrow. And you're to take some time to recover from your injury. That means to stay at home; don't go anywhere. You can get your groceries delivered."

"But I can't! I have another contract—"

"Then you'll reschedule! Ten days. I won't ask for more than that. I'll give you some money to get by."

"What? No! I can't let you do that!"

"You can and you will! I've already covered your hospital bills. I know you're struggling. And without the family fortune, I'm your safety net, and I expect you to take advantage of that when needed. Understood?"

Weiss tried to fight her gaze, but failed. "Understood."

Half an hour later, Winter gave her one last hug and then left. Weiss pulled out her scroll and was surprised to see an unread message from her brother. She thought he'd have changed his number by now with how determined he'd been to distance himself after their father's arrest.

The message read: Hello, Sister. I'm sorry to hear what happened to you. I wish you a swift recovery. -Whitley

Weiss read it twice. It was a simple message, but a meaningful gesture. Perhaps he did care after all.

But how did he know? Weiss stared at the door Winter had just disappeared through. Had she told him? It didn't seem likely, but Weiss couldn't think of any other explanation. Whitley had ignored Weiss's few attempts to contact him. Why would he answer Winter, who he hated?

Weiss pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She responded to her brother with an equally simple thank you message and then pulled up her email. There was nothing new in her inbox. She tapped on the most recent thread so she could change the appointment. As she scrolled to the bottom, her eyes skimmed over the first two lines of the original email.

Patient: Ruby Rose

Affliction: Insomnia


A/N: Credit to my beta readers: Bardothren, I Write Big, and 0neWhoWanders. They're great writers who are a huge help with making this story as good as it can be.

If you'd rather read this story on AO3, you can find me over there as Pterygio.

Cover art by mmcmystery on Twitter. Please go check them out as they are an incredibly talented artist and are an absolute pleasure to work with.