AN: And with this the Prologue Arc is over...
Music: The Chaser - The Eulogy Song
"Only when man's life comes to its end in prosperity can one call that man happy."
–Aeschylus
V. GUN AND THUNDER, MAN GONE UNDER, PART TWO
Then…
0458 – December 16th, 2052 – Pittsburgh, Commonwealth of Pennsylvania
The standard issue winter gear was woefully unequipped to the task; it was negative ten degrees out last he checked, and the snow was almost a foot high, even in his dark little corner. Ashley blew onto his hands, rubbing them together in a vain attempt to keep the frostbite at bay. A few poor bastards in other units nearby had passed away, underequipped for the elements.
From behind, Zeke nodded at him; Ashley got into position. Remaining as still as a tortoise, he kept a hawk's eye down Strawberry Way, where the burnt-out wreck of the former UPMC building stood.
Across the ruined road, there were uneven bumps in the snow where frozen bodies were buried cold… highschoolers, press-ganged into the "revolution" by the commie fucks down southside – none of them were a day over sixteen.
Ashley barely stopped himself from grinding his teeth in impotent rage, instead clenching his fist.
It was dead quiet, except for the fluttering snow… except for the whistling wind. That was what this war left behind, a quiet void in the spirit of humanity.
He looked back toward where Jamal parked the humvee a block over, everyone else was sleeping huddled together, seeking some modicum of warmth.
Then, beyond the fog lit under the streetlight, he saw movement. He blinked, making sure it wasn't a trick of the mind, but it was… hobbling.
"The fuck is that?…" Zeke mouthed from behind.
He pulled up his radio, "Bravo Actual, I see movement one-fifty meters on your seven, over." He flicked the safety off the sniper rifle. Technically, Ashley wasn't even a sniper, but he'd found himself in the position on numerous occasions due to the shortage of basically fucking everything. He had seized the rifle from a family of wiggies during a raid just before Thanksgiving.
A few seconds came and went, "Bravo Two, say again, over." Jamal's voice fuzzed through the speaker – the men at the humvee stirred. A gust blew against Ashley's back, making him shiver.
"Bravo Actual, I say again, I see movement on your seven, now…" Ashley squinted, the small shadow becoming discernable to him, "…one-thirty meters, over."
"Bravo Two, I can't confirm," – But it's right there! Adrenaline started to rush through Ashley's veins, his muscles tightening by the minute, "I repeat, can't confirm, over."
The shadow hobbled closer, revealing itself slowly to be…
Zeke started speaking, "Bravo Actual, Target is… white female, around five feet tall, blue coat – fuck, it's an old lady – walking right towards you. One-ten meters, over."
He could see her face… the empty look in her cataract eyes, as she uncaringly limped toward the humvee in the freezing cold. Her skinny legs were nearly black with frostbite and bruises, and her coat… it was thick, as if full of something…
No…
"Bravo Two, Bravo One, please don't tell me y'all're fucking with… oh damn, I see her. Seventy meters–" Jamal's voice turned frantic, "–Fuck! My rifle's frozen. Do you have a shot, Bravo Two?"
Please don't tell me those red fuckers are actually…
"Affirmative, over." Ashley said without emotion, "Fuck me…"
Sixty meters.
"Please, God, no…" He trembled, almost losing sight of her in the blizzard, "Please…"
"Bravo Two, listen to me…" Jamal ordered, biting back a growl, "If she crosses forty meters, drop her, over."
Ashley's heart sank down into his stomach.
Fifty-five meters.
Please, no… Please… Ashley silently prayed to every deity he could name… Yet she kept on shuffling, with those damn lifeless eyes…
Fifty meters.
Closer and closer, she didn't stop. The old woman didn't know where the fuck she was, and if he didn't do anything, she could kill everyone Ashley cared about… Fuck!
His finger snaked around the trigger.
Please, God, PLEASE!
Forty-five meters.
"…pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease," His mouth muttered in a fervent prayer. Salty tears bloomed in his eyes, only to freeze over his red cheeks.
Forty meters.
Bang!
His breath hitched as he fired. The old woman fell limp, like a puppet getting her strings cut, as a hole blasted its way through her chest.
"Jesus…" Zeke flinched
The jacket fluttered open… No bomb. No nothing. Just a hospital gown and a growing pool of blood.
God…
"F-fuck… Ash, I'm sorry… I–" Zeke stumbled through his words, trying to make sense of it all.
Ashley flicked the safety on and stared at his near-frostbitten hands, hiccuping as hot tears dropped onto the rifle. All the training in the world… nothing could have prepared him for this.
It wasn't until after the war, when her middle-aged son appeared at his doorstep, that he would learn the name of the innocent woman he murdered: Dolores Schumacher.
Michael Schumacher may have forgiven him for what he'd done… God may have too, if he existed…
…But Ashley would never forgive himself for what he'd done that day.
Now…
His head throbbed like a war drum… Piercing pain behind the eyes, a dull one on his arm…
Not again…
Salt and rain put a veil on his vision. The dizzying dark, where the old woman was. A shadow, a beowolf growling, looming over…
I can't… I…
Nothing behind those eyes… A lifeless, confused shell hobbling along toward that humvee…
Don't make me do it again! Please, God!
Closer and closer… To J–
Russell…
NO!
The aching feeling in Ashley's chest snapped, his mind now vividly clear. His scars flared up, shining crimson as his tears flash-boiled away to vapor.
The grimm froze, turning their skulls toward him with their maws agape. The scars bled a bright red, itching and burning as Ashley felt a tug on his aura. He focused on that feeling… grappling onto it, burning brighter than the sun.
Bubbles appeared in the toxic tar, under the hides of the beasts; Screams, inhuman screams as the grimm bubbled away. Puddles boiling over the mud, raindrops sizzling into steam – it burned, everything burned twice as hot. Thrice!
He wailed as he cast his ever-living soul into the fire again.
FFFSSSSHHHH!...
The grimm… only bones remained of them, disintegrating in the wind. Ashley and Russell were alone once more.
"Ashley? Is that you?..." The old man trembled, despite the warmth of the steam, "Where… where are we?"
The cooling rain did little to soothe the aches and exhaustion – Ashley pulled himself to his feet. He peeked down at his still faintly glowing scars, and muffled that strange feeling, dimming it down to nothing.
"Was that your semblance?" The old man muttered, before realization and shame flickered behind his lucid eyes, "Oh, fuck… I'm so sorry–"
"Don't say that," Ashley requested, voice devoid of emotion, "Just…don't."
Age 16 – Haricot Village, Southern Vale
That day was the final straw.
The grimm clearing mission across that damned steppe was the final job they ever did. Afterward, Ashley had dragged Russell to the nearest government branch office and made him retire right then and there.
The old didn't even put up a fight, he just… fuck… He just wallowed in self-pity, defeatedly self-flagellating the days he was more… aware. And those days he wasn't, he'd forget the most basic of things, thinking he still was a huntsman, trying to crawl out of bed, or worse, thinking Ashley was his long-dead little brother.
There was no formal diagnosis, as the nearest qualified doctor was hundreds of miles away, but Ashley knew what was happening. It was some sort of dementia, a very aggressive one at that; the sickest disease ever cooked up by Mother Nature, and one that not even aura could help with.
It wasn't long before Ashley was made to be Russell's full-time caretaker. Thankfully, Vale's law system had a way to emancipate a minor, and the fact that Ashley had his diploma a few years early helped his case, otherwise, he would have been shipped to a shithole orphanage, and the old man would rot at some shithole nursing home.
He had used some of their funds to purchase a small cabin near a quiet little hamlet. The locals were nice, if distant – fine by Ashley, the old man didn't need any strangers constantly budging in right now.
So, like embers fading in a dead campfire, the better days were getting fewer and fewer far between. By the time Ashley's sixteenth birthday rolled around, Russell Ocker, formerly a great huntsman, was now a frail, drooling wreck who could barely even feed himself.
Ducking down to avoid the doorframe, Ashley locked the door behind him as he carried in this week's groceries.
"Paul? Du dasch?" [1]
Ashley greeted the eyes of a hollow shell, shrinking under an old woolen blanket on the couch. His hair was pure white and rapidly thinning, the beard was even longer. He had seemed to age two decades within a year.
Orange eyes appraised him with wary confusion…
"Ja, eest meech, Russell…" [2]
Thank god that Ashley took Low Mantalian as his second language for his high school equivalent, he wouldn't know what the hell the old man was saying otherwise.
"Set van beest du scho grossche?" [3]
Ashley set the groceries down on the counter, giving him a smile, "Esch'st een gehemenis.~" [4]
"Aww…" Russell whined and tried to pout, which looked decidedly unappealing on his saggy old face. It was part of the horror of this, whatever it was… watching a grown man revert back into a child over the course of a few months. It was a special kind of hell.
Ashley shook his head, "Schon gut, Schon gut… Eech erschaahle'sch deer, ven eech dasch esschen vertig gerkucht hav…" [5]
"Aber mudder sag, fassche den heerd nicht an." [6]
"Nun, mudder'st nicht da. Eech been glech vedr da." [7]
As Ashley brought the ground meat to the kitchen, Russell crossed his arms, grumbling, "Grr… nur vel er grossche, denkt'r er kan meech kommandeeren…" [8]
Ashley immediately got started on the cooking, sectioning off pieces of meat and rolling them. Mantalian meatballs were fairly easy to cook and they were also Russell's favorite food other than schnitzel. They were a little smaller than their Swedish counterparts on Earth, but they were much sweeter from the addition of a bit of honey into the recipe.
Ten minutes later, he was finished, and he carried two steaming plates of meatballs with the side of sauerkraut back to the living room.
In the air, his now-honed aural sixth sense picked up a bit of the old man's presence, making his ears perk up.
"Ashley?" He nearly dropped the plates on the spot, barely managing to set them on the coffee table. The old man stared at him with complete focus… with tears falling from his eyes, "You've gotten so tall…"
"Old man?…" Ashley slowly lowered himself down to his knees.
"I… I know I haven't always been… well, good to you, and I'm sorry for all the shit I put you through… but…" Reaching out, the old man puts a hand on Ashley's bony shoulder, "I-I'm proud of you, and I love you."
"Wha…?" Ashley's tongue felt stiff in his mouth.
A warm, but feeble orange glow, made him feel safe.
"I couldn't have asked for a better son."
Son. The word gave him whiplash… It was always "brat" or "boy", but never "son".
But in the old man's eyes, Ashley could honestly see it, something he only remembered from his mother's own – that glance that promised unconditional love.
Mom… Oh God…
He'd almost forgotten about her after all these years…
"But…" He spoke uncomprehending "I'm just some random brat you picked up–"
"Don't talk yourself down like that." The old man sternly ordered, "I already get enough of that against myself…"
Ashley felt an ache in his chest. He couldn't, he…
"I…" He summoned up his courage, "I love you too, Dad"
All of a sudden, he was pulled into a bone-crushing bear hug, a burst of happiness washing over his sixth sense. At that moment, Russell had gotten back every bit of his strength, defying the frailty of his body.
"That's all I needed to hear…"
Ashley sniffled, tears running down his face. Second by second, he felt the orange aura wane, weaker and weaker, slipping away from his grasp. He hugged tighter, losing all control, sobbing into Russell's robe.
It was almost time, he knew it and hated it – the weak spark that could be snuffed out any minute. He didn't want the old man to go, not yet!
But… in the face of fate, he did.
The old man went back to being an invalid, losing himself perhaps for the last time. Empty eyes looked over him with hazy concern.
"Paul… Varum venscht du? Und van beest du scho gevorden? Get esch deer gut?" [9]
Ashley wiped the tears off, putting on an act for the old man's sake, "Kene schorge, Russell. Lasscht unsch esschen!" [10]
The next morning, Ashley, honest to God, couldn't remember exactly when he fell asleep. But on waking up, he found the woolen blanket draped over his body, two empty dishes on the table, and a stiff corpse sitting on the couch.
Russell Ocker had died with a relieved smile on his face.
Age 17…
There was no funeral; the old man had always thought those were a waste of money, and he demanded that he be buried in an unmarked grave when he'd finally kicked the bucket. So, he shall spend his eternal rest here, in a thicket twenty meters behind the house, right next to a large rose bush, blooming with orange flowers.
After calling the lawyer the morning Rus- no… Dad passed, it took around a week for the death certificate to arrive in the mail, along with a copy of the will for Ashley's personal viewing. A will that had been kept a secret from him until now.
Now, Ashley knew that his… father wasn't poor by any means – judging from the generous payment from his 552c (Vale's equivalent to a 401k, but for huntsman only), but holy shit, all that money in banks across all four fucking kingdoms!? Lord have mercy, it was enough to pay the APR for an E-2's Dodge Charger!
And this trust fund will be all his and his only… so long as he attended Beacon Academy.
God-fucking-dammit old man!
Ashley gave a bitter laugh as took a drag from his cigarette – an awful habit he picked up again, but thankfully not as risky if you had an aura. Dad knew damn well he wanted to pursue a huntsman license independently, but nope, back to fucking school with you, brat!
Even from beyond the grave, he knows how to press my buttons. – His ears flicked with fond annoyance.
If he'd listened closely, he could almost hear a "It's for your own damn good, brat!" whispered from below.
Another day, another loved one lost…
…Yet, this time, it felt different.
Oh, it hurt certainly, losing the closest thing to a father he had in either of his lives. But, unlike Mom, unlike Mackenzie… unlike Jamal, Jordie, Zeke, and the others…
Unlike them, he actually got to say goodbye.
For once in his life, there was closure, and for a bitter soul like his, that meant something.
Crouching down, he pulled an old glass bottle from the old man's old backpack – the old special occasion whiskey, untouched for years. There were only two shots worth left.
No words needed to be said, he raised the bottle in a silent toast to a life adequately lived. He took a swig of the extra-strong drink, letting the burn creep down his throat, and dumped the rest over the compacted dirt.
Bzzt…
His scroll. A new email from…
Beacon Academy Application Update
Dear Mr. Morgenroth,
Congratulations, you have been accepted for the Class of 82…
…
…
…
…Please see the attached files for further information. Feel free to contact us at XXX-XXX-XXX or reply to this email.
Once again, it is our good fortune that you chose Beacon Academy, and we look forward to welcoming you to campus next fall. We hope the years you spend here will be the most memorable of your life.
Regards,
Glynda Goodwitch,
Professor, Combat Instruction
Head of Student Admissions
XXX-XXX-XXX ext. 126
Ozpin,
Professor
Headmaster of Beacon Academy
XXX-XXX-XXX ext. 000
Well damn, that was fast…
Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, joining the warm feeling that the whiskey left behind. After two lifetimes of hell, he was finally going to college.
And Dad? Well, Ashley was gonna tell all about it when he got back. Not like he's going anywhere, after all…
The wind blew, and the rose bush's branches chittered in cheer.
AN: More Low Mantalian translations…
[1] – "Paul? Du dasch?" – Paul? You there?
[2] – "Ja, eest meech, Russell…" – Yeah, It's me, Russell.
[3] – "Set van beest du scho grossche?" – Since when did you get so big/tall?
[4] – "Esch'st een gehemenis.~" – It's a secret.~
[5] – "Schon gut, Schon gut… Eech erschaahle'sch deer, ven eech dasch esschen vertig gerkucht hav…" – Alright, alright… I'll tell you after I've finished cooking dinner…
[6] – "Aber mudder sag, fassche den heerd nicht an." – But mama said not to touch the stove.
[7] – "Nun, mudder'st nicht da. Eech been glech vedr da." – Well, mom's not here. I'll be right back.
[8] – "Grr… nur vel er grossche, denkt'r er kan meech kommandeeren…" – Grr… just because he's big now, he thinks he can boss me around…
[9] – "Paul… Varum venscht du? Und van beest du scho gevorden? Get esch deer gut?" – Paul, why are you crying? And when did you get so big? Are you okay?
[10] – "Kene schorge, Russell. Lasscht unsch esschen!" – Don't worry about it, Russell. Let's eat!