Weiss's head pounded. Everything hurt. Her memory failed her. Her eyes could just barely make out things during brief moments of awareness. Why was everything so bright?

She was being dragged. She didn't know why or by whom. Something to do with a bird?

Darkness.

A van, crumpled and ablaze. Laughing, sinister.

Darkness.

She needed something, desperately. A device. The Skeleton Key? No, her scroll. Help. Winter.

Darkness.

She was in the back of another vehicle. Whitley and Ruby were unconscious. Weiss's pockets were empty, almost. Her scroll wasn't there. Something else was.

Darkness.

Time passed. She wasn't sure how much. It felt like seconds, and it felt like hours. A door opened.

Light. So much light.

"Not her, you imbecile! Grab the other two." A man's voice. Familiar, but unfamiliar.

Darkness.

She was being dragged again. Ahead of her, a prisoner—in his arms, a girl. Weiss couldn't remember who she was, but she was important—important to her in a way no one else ever had been. She felt longing. She raised her hand, and another swatted it back down.

Contact—the slightest bit of skin, briefly, but enough.

It didn't even take a conscious effort, and she was in the Emerald Forest. The dizziness was gone, the pain faint. It was fleeting, but she knew clarity. But she still couldn't remember anything. Whose mind was she in? How did she get here?

It didn't matter. She knew what to do. She set forward, and she searched—for Grimm or memories. After about a minute, she found—

Her memory failed her.

A window. Narcissism—flee. Another window. So many windows. They all blended together. No resistance. Why?

Darkness.


The smell of vomit was the first thing she noticed as she came to, then the accompanying taste in her mouth. Her shirt was wet. The dim lights were blinding. The room wouldn't stop spinning and her temple throbbed incessantly. Some small sense of cognizance found purchase in her brain, though she understood so little. She wanted water.

Ropes tied her arms and legs to a chair, her hands numb with the way they were positioned behind her. Ruby sat next to her in an identical state, asleep. Weiss wished for the same bliss, but she wasn't so fortunate. Every tiny movement of her head came with an intense wave of vertigo, which made her feel like throwing up again. She was slowly becoming more lucid, but the pain in her head was so intense she could barely focus on anything else.

She groaned, and someone behind her reacted to it. "Sister?"

She winced at the sound—it was barely more than a whisper, but painful to her ears. "Whitley?"

"You're injured," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Where are we?" She meant to growl the words, but they came out weak. "What are you going to do to us?"

"I'm sorry?" He sounded genuinely perplexed.

She looked at Ruby's still form. "Did you hurt her?"

"Weiss, this wasn't my doing," Whitley said. "This was Arthur Watts—Partridge. Don't you remember?"

"Ah. What have you brought me this time, Hazel?"

"Arthur Watts, an engineer. Used to work for the STC. Caught him trying to 'recruit' some of my people."

"Is that so? Tell me, Arthur—what business have you in Vacuo?"

"Recompense," Weiss muttered. Memories were coming back to her in flashes, but they weren't hers.

"Weiss," Whitley said with more urgency.

"You're not Partridge." Weiss said the words, then believed them. "I'm sorry. My head . . ."

"You're concussed. Don't strain yourself."

She laughed and immediately regretted it.

Whitley sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, sister. I should have known he'd be able to track the Skeleton Key. I was too caught up with too many other trains of thought to consider the possibility sooner."

She was able to recall the crash, the moments leading up to it. "We were the ones—" She had to pause to fight down the bile rising in her throat. "We brought it to you."

"You had no way of knowing. I knew it was dangerous, and I took no precautions."

Weiss didn't respond.

"It's finished?"

"It is."

"You've done well, Arthur. Very well. After Vale has fallen, you will have all you desire and more."

"You have my humblest gratitude. But if I may be so bold, what exactly is it that you desire from unleashing my creation on Vale?"

With a smile, cold and hungry, "Recompense."

"Monstra," Weiss said.

"Pardon?" said Whitley.

"That's what he called it—Salem's weapon, that he built for her."

A prolonged pause. "Of course. It could only have been him."

Weiss took a moment to take in her surroundings now that her eyes had adjusted enough for her to do so. They were in . . . No, the concussion was playing tricks on her. This was a wine cellar, all racks empty, but it wasn't the one in Schnee Manor like she'd initially thought. It was very similar, but she could spot the differences. And there was no way the military wasn't watching the manor—even in her confused state, she was sure of that much.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"Upstairs, I presume," Whitley said. "He and Callows left after they bound us here."

Giggling. "Ooh, if it isn't the Good Doctor. Exactly the first face I wanted to see once I was freed from the red box."

"You have me to thank—for that and what more I have to offer."

"Thank you? Thank the one who failed to put an end to the queenslayer?"

"I did not fail. Betrayal undid my work. You already suspect as much, or else I'd be petrified where I stand."

"So you admit you feel fear."

"Let's negotiate, Tyrian. I know exactly who betrayed us—the real person whose blood you thirst for."

"Tyrian," Weiss muttered. "The inhibitor."

"Weiss, please," said Whitley. "Speaking is only causing yourself more pain."

"No," Weiss said with as much firmness as she could muster. "In my pocket. The inhibitor."

His doubt was palpable. Nevertheless, after a few moments— Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Each hop of the chair behind her was thunderous. She felt a hand clumsily try to slip into her pocket—Whitley must have managed to loosen his binds at least a little bit.

"Other one," she said.

He moved to the other pocket, then eventually found the small metal object.

"I don't understand what this is," he said.

"Semblance inhibitor," Weiss snapped, more annoyed than was rational. "Partridge . . . Watts doesn't know about it. Meant for Mother."

There was a weight to his silence before he said, "Mother?"

"It's the cure," Weiss said. "Didn't get the chance to tell you. Use it on Tyrian. There are others."

Whitley didn't respond.

Ping! A news report. Jacques Schnee attacked in prison.

"No." Worry.

The Key. In little time, it revealed the truth. It was the tattooed mercenary—a false start.

"That cretin!" Anger.

A calming breath. This was not a foil, but it was cause to reassess. Plans would have to change. The Key would find new angles.

Searching.

Results.

The eldest child was in Vale. It was a personal trip, but she'd be returning with a charge—the fat imbecile who falsely bore the title of one of the most brilliant minds in the world. Ironwood wanted his input on security technology for the Vytal Festival, with suspiciously short notice. Something must have spooked the tin man.

Polendina and a Schnee on the same plane, bound for Atlas . . .

How fortuitous.

"Ruby?" Whitley said, having noticed something Weiss hadn't.

Weiss looked over to the girl. Her eyes were now open, wide and terrified. She said nothing. Weiss sighed in despair and waited for the worst. A minute later a door opened and two pairs of footsteps descended a staircase.

"Mmm. They're all finally awake." Tyrian still wore his prison clothes, a pair of rubber yellow gloves stuffed in the hem of his pants, clashing with the red fabric. If Weiss were in a better state of mind, she might have theorized whether he had some sort of attachment to the attire or if he just didn't care to find something to change into.

"It's about time." Arthur Watts wore a purple, fur-lined coat that had a poofy collar and extended down to his ankles. An ornate, gold-trimmed revolver was holstered at his waist and his hands—adorned by fingerless gloves—held an open laptop which he placed down on a nearby table, screen open and facing away from them. "Bring the boy over here."

Tyrian trained a hungry gaze on Weiss. "I want that one."

"I know. Have patience, Tyrian. The boy. Now. And don't let her touch you."

"I know," Tyrian snarled.

Giving Weiss a wide berth, he stalked around the room and then dragged Whitley's chair toward the cellar entrance. Now that Whitley was facing her, Weiss could see a bit of blood covering the left side of his face, but he otherwise looked unscathed. His eyes, unlike Ruby's, were hard—Tyrian wasn't using his semblance on him.

"I must commend you on breaking your sister out of custody," Watts said to Whitley. "That saved me the trouble of doing it myself and really expedited the process of tracking you down. By way of gratitude, I'll keep this brief."

"What do you want with her?" Whitley said.

"Leverage. I would have grabbed Willow, but the girl was the path of least resistance."

"Cinder."

"Arthur."

A flickering fireplace.

"You know, if you're trying to intimidate me the same way she did, you're doing a horrendous job of it. You don't command nearly the same presence."

"No?" Shrug. "Care for some wine?"

"I'll pass."

"Come, now, Arthur. You don't think I brought you here just to poison you, do you?"

"No, I'm here because you aim to recruit me, I surmise. You have goals, I have talents. Hurry on and get your proposal over with—something about finishing what she started, offering all she did and more, and whatnot?"

"In a sense. I also know what thwarted her."

"Oh, do pray tell."

"Not so fast. Let's negotiate."

"Could have just used Cinder's semblance," Weiss said weakly. "You're working for her, after all."

Watts looked at her with mild interest. "Incorrect. I've worked with her in the past. I cut ties because she didn't meet my standards. Were she only so amenable, things would indeed be simpler for everyone in this room."

Tyrian paced back and forth, never taking his eyes off of Weiss as he pulled out the long pair of gloves. He put them on, slowly.

"As I was saying—brevity," Watts said, his focus back on Whitley. "My desires are simple. You are me—there's no disproving that at this point, I'm afraid. Your father now sits in prison convicted for only a fraction of the contemptible things he's done over the course of his career. Your final action in this recent string of events will be to force him to confess to the rest of them—every last one, in great detail."

Whitley took some time before he responded. "I already offered you what you wanted. I attempted to rectify what he did to you."

"What was stolen can only be returned by he who committed the theft. A job offer to your doomed-to-fail startup is no path to absolution."

"I don't know what you expect here. My fa—" Whitley quieted when he momentarily caught Weiss's gaze. His resolve strengthened. "Jacques has only ever cared about himself. He'd allow Weiss—all of us—to die without deliberation."

"Oh, I'm well aware. The girl is here to motivate you, not him, and the other one still breathes so as to motivate her."

"Not her, you imbecile! Grab the other two."

"Fine. But we don't need this one. I should just kill her now."

"We'll need something to pique Cinder's interest if you aim to have your face-to-face meeting with her, and this one would make a fine addition to her collection."

"Bringing her is dangerous."

"We can consider it a calculated risk, but that's only if you're saying there's a chance you can't keep her under your influence."

Silence.

"We're taking all three."

Giggle. "On your head be it, doctor."

"Are you trying to convince me you'll let them live if I acquiesce to your demands?" said Whitley.

"Of course not," Watts said. "I'm promising you that they'll suffer greatly leading up to their final moments if you don't."

Whitley swallowed. "Torture or no—it matters not if they aren't alive to endure those memories."

"How pragmatic. Let's find out if you mean that, shall we?"

"No!" Whitley blurted. His shoulders slumped and his voice fell. "No . . . I'll do it. Just keep him away from her."

Tyrian gave Watts a warning look. "You promised me I'd get to have my fun."

"Wouldn't be the first time he lied to you," Weiss said. All heads turned to her, Ruby excluded. "Cinder never betrayed you."

"Is that so?" Tyrian said.

"Nonsense," Watts said dismissively. "She's suffered a head trauma, Tyrian."

"Ozpin let Pyrrha go," Weiss said. "He knew the assault was coming."

"Because Cinder warned him," Watts said.

Weiss shook her head, which brought on a fresh pang of nausea. "Had a scout—paragon who can shapeshift into animals. Vacuo was quiet. Ozpin sent him to check why. No one betrayed Salem."

Watts drew his gun and leveled it at Weiss's forehead, causing her to wince. "Your yammering isn't accomplishing anything. Gag her so we can continue without unnecessary interruptions."

"Where's your patience, doctor?" Tyrian said. "I want to hear what she has to say."

"It's a waste of our time. She can barely string two words together."

"Then at the very least they'll amuse me."

"The longer this takes, the longer you'll have to wait for your end of the bargain."

"This isn't about you," Weiss said, bracing herself. She was lucid enough to know it was reckless, but not enough to stop herself.

Watts pulled back the hammer.

Whitley looked like he wanted to say something to her, the fear on his face showing more clearly than ever.

"Let her speak," Tyrian said.

Watts sighed and lowered the gun—Weiss felt the tension leave her shoulders as the barrel moved away from her face. He made a "get on with it" gesture with his other hand.

It took her a few seconds to recover her train of thought. "It was never about either of you. Or Cinder, or Hazel. It's only ever been her. Even now, after what happened—you're still just her pawns."

"Is there a point you're attempting to make here?" said Watts.

Was there? She'd hoped she could prompt him into saying something that would upset Tyrian. She tried to think of something to add, but . . . Why was it still so bright in here?

"Does that satisfy your curiosity?" Watts asked.

"She knows not my fear," Tyrian said.

"She resists your semblance, nothing more. She isn't special. She's as afraid of you as anybody, and will bleed all the same."

"Not if you want me to cooperate," Whitley said.

"Don't overestimate your value to me," said Watts. "You continue to draw breath for the sake of expediency, not necessity. You're not in a position to negotiate."

An amused puff of air escaped Weiss's nose. Only Tyrian noticed.

"If my sister isn't here as ransom then how do you expect me to get what you want out of our fa— out of Jacques?" Whitley asked.

"That's for you to tell me," said Watts. "You know the man better than anyone."

"You're telling me you didn't plan this far ahead?" Whitley said dubiously.

"Of course I have. I'm eager to hear what you can come up with. Whitley Schnee's grand finale should bear his personal touch."

Whitley maintained eye contact for several seconds, then looked at Weiss, and finally bowed his head in defeat. "An ultimatum, then."

"Yes, that much was a given," Watts said. "Employ a bit more creativity."

Whitley watched the ground as he considered his options.

"What will you do after you kill her?" Weiss whispered as quietly as possible.

Tyrian, having heard every word, narrowed his eyes.

"Vengeance drives you," Weiss said to him. "It drives him. It drove your goddess. What will you have once Cinder's dead?"

Tyrian crouched down in front of her, low enough that she could still see his face even with her chin pressed to her chest. Her brother began proposing his plan, but Weiss didn't listen.

"Back to stalking rooftops?" she continued. "More mindless killing with no purpose?"

For a while, Tyrian didn't respond. Then, in a low voice, "I will honor her memory."

Watts turned his head ever so slightly, but otherwise continued listening to Whitley. He said something in response to him, but Weiss had no room in her muddled brain to devote to their conversation. She was busy thinking about Tyrian's answer.

The last memory she'd seen in Tyrian's head—it had been abnormal. It had warped to accommodate his self-delusions, to convince himself Salem was still alive. She decided she should comment on it, despite the reasoning for doing so eluding her. "You accept that she's gone, then?"

In an instant, his gloved hand gripped her throat and pushed her until the chair was leaning on its rear legs. Her head exploded in pain from the rapid movement and her vision went white. She struggled to breathe and it took all her effort to not lose whatever was left in her stomach.

"No!" someone yelled—her brother.

"You. Are. Not. Her," Tyrian growled. "And you cannot manipulate me."

"Cin- . . . der . . . can," she choked out. "Mind . . . control . . . be- . . . fore . . . you . . . draw . . . knife."

"Stop him!" said Whitley.

"Tyrian," Watts said lazily. "Do try to keep her alive for the time being."

Tyrian gave it a few more seconds, then let her go. The chair slammed back down onto all four legs and Weiss gasped, taking in deep, raspy breaths.

"And you were lecturing me on patience," Watts remarked.

Weiss looked at her brother through teary eyes, his . . . not as light a shade as their mother's, but nearly identical in size and shape. She'd never noticed before.

"I love you, sister," he said to her, then locked a steely gaze on Watts. "Have your lackey untie me and let's get this over with."

"Let's," Watts agreed. "Tyrian. If you will. Don't touch his face if you aim to punish him for that comment—he's got a message to record."

Tyrian didn't even seem to have noticed what he was referring to. He was just staring at Weiss like a child would their presents right before the holidays. One thing did seem to register with him, and it was that the time to tear open the wrapping paper was imminent. He drew a knife from his back pocket without breaking eye contact with her, then walked over to Whitley and began hacking at his binds—he started with the ankles, then moved around to do his wrists.

Then he recoiled.

Whitley remained in his seat, acting like nothing had happened. Tyrian raised his hand and picked at it. A clinking noise echoed throughout the room as something small and metal fell to the ground—Weiss had no idea what it was.

Tyrian, tiny droplets of blood forming a ring on the back of his hand, tilted his head as he looked at the object—confused, but not in pain. Watts, though equally perplexed, didn't seem all that concerned. All the same, he began to raise his gun in response to whatever futile play had just been made.

Whoosh. Immediately after, the sound of ropes hitting the floor.

Arthur Watts, as intelligent as he was, did not possess the same reflexes as Marrow. In a blur of motion, he was disarmed and then struck in the head with his own gun. He crumpled. Ruby, standing over him, leveled the weapon at Tyrian with a practiced grip. Her finger was on the trigger. Weiss looked into her silver eyes and saw in them the resolve to pull it—the will to end a life without hesitation.

But her arm quivered.

Her aim suffered, and the risk of hitting Whitley instead was high. Tyrian grinned and dropped to a knee behind Whitley's chair, bringing the knife up to his throat. Blood began to trickle from a shallow cut.

"No!" Weiss screamed, fighting against her restraints with all her might. Her head punished her for it, but she didn't care.

"There's the fear," said Tyrian.

He giggled. Then he laughed. Then it slowly evolved into a full-on cackle. Whitley gritted his teeth as the blade pressed harder against his neck, clawing helplessly at Tyrian's forearm.

"Weiss," Ruby whispered shakily, unable to say or do anything else.

A stillness fell upon the room, Tyrian ceasing his laughter. The smile, however, did not go away as he—in a flash of steel—opened another one on Whitley's throat. A river of red began to seep from it. Weiss stared, motionless, unable to believe what she was seeing. She was dazed and confused—the concussion was trying to convince her something unthinkable had happened, when there was no way it could have.

"Do take care of the good doctor for me, won't you?" Tyrian said gleefully, then turned and fled.

Bang!

Ruby shot and hit a wall, and then the serial killer was out of sight. She dropped the gun and rushed to Whitley, slumped in his chair and gazing through the ceiling, unseeing, as he clutched feebly at his neck. He made a horrible croaking noise in his attempts to breathe. Ruby pulled off her hoodie and pressed it to the wound, applying as much pressure as she could. She looked to Weiss, mouth open but no words coming out. Weiss, still immobilized by rope, could only watch the life slowly draining away from her brother's eyes.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

More gunshots—muffled—coming from upstairs.

Bang!

One more, and no others.

"Help!" Weiss shouted in desperation, putting as much volume as she could into her voice. "Please!"

There was a barrage of footsteps from above, and moments later, several people came marching downstairs with weapons drawn. In the lead was Marrow, then Winter, with two of the remaining three Ace Operatives at the tail—Elm and Harriet.

"Please!" Weiss cried before anyone could even take in the scene. "Help him!"

Winter's eyes found Weiss immediately, then fell onto Whitley—the three siblings back together at last . . . perhaps for the final time.

"Get the girl," Harriet ordered. "Now!"

"What?" Weiss said. "No, help him! He's innocent. It was Arthur Watts."

Harriet didn't acknowledge her, having already spotted the unconscious Partridge on her own. She knelt to check his pulse. Elm turned and ran back upstairs. Marrow holstered his weapon and began to pull first aid supplies out of a pouch, attending to Whitley. Ruby gave him space, unsure of what else to do. Winter rushed forward, her expression unreadable, and started cutting away Weiss's ropes.

"It was all Watts," Weiss said, probably sounding crazed and delirious. "Framed Whitley. Freed Tyrian. Worked for Salem. Built her weapon."

"Silence," Winter commanded, checking her over for injuries.

Harriet looked interested in Weiss's words but said nothing.

An eternity passed. Then another. At some point, Watts began to stir and Harriet proceeded to cuff him and haul him upstairs—presumably for questioning, as there was nothing confirming Weiss's claims. Finally, Elm returned with a familiar orange-haired girl in tow.

Weiss sank into Winter's arms and sobbed, wondering how much of this she would remember come tomorrow.


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