Chapter 1
There were two different sets of alarm in the cold boxes. The first was the incessant ringing of bells that went up and down the floors, installed in every single room, mine included. When it rang, it meant that there were Grimm coming to party, uninvited and about as welcome as frozen pipes and clogged toilets. It meant that they were getting close, and by close I meant 'got inside the 100 m kill zone' kind of close. The fact that it was the bells, and not the second kind of alarm rousing us from sleep, likely meant it wasn't anything too serious, but those assigned to sentry duties today were going to pull some overtime, while the rest of us would still keep our gears on, guns loaded, safety off, just in case things went to shit. In other words, no one was going to get much sleep tonight.
I wasn't rostered for sentry duties that day – not that I ever was, since I wasn't officially one of the border guards – but I went up the wall anyway, just to see what we were dealing with.
I followed the soldiers up the stairs, feeling the railings shake ever so slightly while the thunderous cracks of gun turrets bolted on the roof unloading 127mm payload after payload could be heard this far down. Good thing industry grade ear muffs were standards issued to all border patrols, including semi-permanent visitors.
By the time I stepped out into the freezing cold, most of the Grimm were dead, torn to shreds small enough to make soup. White-furred sabyrs, beowolves, even fat ursa minors, now decorated with new holes to piss black blood through. The few remaining unriddled with bullets swiftly joined the rest as the sentries shot them down with their rifles. Search lights were on and sweeping the kill zones and beyond, in case any more of them were skulking about behind the thick snowstorm and fog so thick you could almost knit with them.
Minutes, then probably an hour passed, and we didn't hear any more snarls or growls, just the wind picking up and howling louder. I could still hear the quiet hums of the gun turret, now docile as if it wasn't just spitting storm of lead and dispensing indiscriminate justice a moment ago. It was a beast of blackened metal, blocky in appearance, like the rest of the cold box, slightly turning back and forth, guided by ones and zeros within its terminal.
The techs back in HQ told us it was a new model, one that didn't need an operator to pick targets and let hell break loose. They brought it to this cold box because it needed some field testing, to work out the kinks and tighten screws that were loose and whatnot. Judging by its handiwork though, a scattered pile of Grimm remains, the edges still aglow from the heat of the rounds, I'd say all this thing needed was some maintenance now and then and little else. Hell, those Grimm didn't even make the final stretch, the closest one, what probably was a beowolf (hard to tell, they were messed up pretty bad) just past the halfway mark of the kill zone.
The squad commander was barking orders, all the sentries taking their posts above the walls, albeit with curses under breath, while the remaining few, myself included, was told to fuck off back down, a command I was all too happy to oblige. The cold boxes were still cold as a witch's tit, but at least there were heaters where you could warm up, and the kind of slop they served down in the mess hall, while neither rich nor diverse in flavours, were at least hot enough to warm you up from the insides. I didn't envy those bastards up there out in the snow, even with all their thick coats. Those on sentry duties paced back and forth not because they were told to, but because it kept them at least somewhat warm. That was the first thing they told every newcomer unlucky enough to be stuck in cold boxes.
My scroll buzzed, a message from the station commander. It was the usual song and dance – when Grimm led suicidal charges into range stations it meant there was a spawning pool out there somewhere. Fire was effective enough getting rid of it, but the winds were often too fierce to even set a decent-sized fire in the first place, and gasoline was damn heavy and costly to transport all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. What was a man to do, but to get an Arc to sort it out? In any case, I'd be given a snow buggy, and a whole squad to fill it to act as armed escorts, and come morning we'll find the damn thing and hope they won't re-emerge someplace else, because honestly, for some reason, it was getting more and more frequent.
But that was future Jaune's problem, not present Jaune's, so I made my way back to my room, a small thing just big enough for essentials, and little else for frivolous decorations. I didn't exactly claim ownership of this tiny slice of the range station per se, rather it was one of few guest quarters I was allowed to take during my stay here. Most of the range stations, or 'cold boxes' as they were more commonly known, was built more or less the same, as if someone replicated the original and planted about several dozen or so of them in a rough line across the span of northern wasteland. Because of that, this guest room looked more or less the same elsewhere, so it was like a bizarre case of déjà vu every time I hopped from one cold box to another.
Before killing the lights, I took out the map of the northern wasteland, the 'roof of the worlds' as some called it. Its age was clear to see, creases and wrinkles and hastily scribbled notes and a lot, a lot of x's in red ink. Places I searched, sometimes with a squad of armed guards, mostly on my own, up and down the hills and frozen rivers and snow-covered woods. Co-ordinates I approached with hope blossoming in my chest, crossed out with bitterness when I found nothing, then doing the same thing all over again, repeating cycle of hope and disappointment, up and down this frozen godsdamned and godsforsaken middle of nowhere.
There were only a few places left, close to this station 32. I didn't expect to find anything, and I didn't want to think about what I'd do when the rest of the blanks were crossed off.
I hopped under the blanket, then fell asleep almost immediately.
oOoOo
They were still there, come morning.
"What the fuck?" One of the guards said, beating me to it.
They were frozen now, left out in the snow since the night, but usually they disintegrated sometime after death. Sure, out here in wintry wilderness of Solitas they took longer to degrade to ash compared to places like Vale, but it was by minutes usually. It's been hours since the firework last night, and there were still some decent chunks of the Grimm left. That, and the black tar-like blood they shed.
Definitely odd.
An inquisitive soul would've had a field day here, digging through the cold remains of creatures they could only prod and annoy when they were dead. I recalled one time when Professor Oobleck gave us lectures about Grimm biology, or what little we knew about them anyway. No petri dishes could stop any samples taken from fallen Grimm from evaporating into nothingness, if they were lucky enough to get any samples in the first place. No microscopes managed to peer into the microcosm of Grimm tissue, so much of the information within textbooks were theories and conjectures, some wilder than others. Did the Grimm have any circulatory systems? Lymph nodes? Internal organs that worked in harmony to keep the body functioning and in one piece? Who fucking knows?
It's been years since then, and scientific communities around the world continued to bemoan the lack of breakthroughs. People like us though, Hunters and soldiers alike, cared less about Grimm physiology, and more about having enough bullets to kill them. If it bled, it could be killed, and that was simple enough to understand.
We made our way to one of the snow buggies, the squad leader taking the wheel. We drove past the poor sods who were on snow-shovelling duties that day, across the kill zone and out into the tundra. Radio signals were non-existent, and none of us were big on small talks, so most of the trip was silent save for the loud whir of the engine, with me giving directions over the noise. About an hour in, I felt the pull getting stronger – it's a hard thing to put into words, this pulsating sense I get when one of those Grimm spawning pool is nearby, but it's never failed me before, and it was pointing us deeper into the woods that sat at the foot of a Pale Mountain.
The trees this far up north were all bereft of leaves, if they ever grew any to begin with, coated instead in snow and ice. When a harsh blizzard hit, the icicles sometimes grew like thorns, sharp enough to bite through thick layers of clothes if you weren't careful. With so many trees huddled in such close proximity, it'd be like walking through a dense field of shredders. Even the damn trees out here were out for blood.
I didn't have a lot of options. I asked for the only snowmobile they had loaded in the trunk, then told them to essentially stay back with thumbs up their arses. Extra guns would've been nice, since I didn't know what I'd find in there, but I'd make do on my own. They tossed me the key, told me to watch my arse, and told me I had three hours, before they called for back-ups. One of them also threw a flare gun my way, in case I was stranded out there. I had no need for it, but took it all the same – it was a nice enough gesture, I suppose.
Progress was a little on the slow side, mostly because I couldn't see past the screen clearly. Whoever added their personal touches to the snowmobile definitely had these trees in mind, the thin steel dome acting as a carapace to make sure the rider didn't suffer deaths by a thousand cuts. The trade-off was the smaller window of vision, and peripheral sight was pretty much non-existent, so if a tree decided to randomly fall from the side, or, say, a lone ursa major barrelling into the side with the concussive force of a small battering ram, the rider wouldn't have had a fucking clue until they found the world suddenly doing a topsy-turvy. Which is exactly what happened.
"Fuck!" Landing on my arse in the snow, I drew Crocea Mors free from its sheath, just in time for the damned ursine Grimm to charge with a roar, dark spittle flying about from its open maw. Light instantly burst from my outstretched hand, cutting its charge short as it flailed about, smoke rising from its face. I took that moment to cut off its trunk-thick arm, Crocea Mors' absurdly sharp blade meeting no resistance even as it cut through the Grimm's thick bone plates. A quick thrush under its jaw made the opening, and I slammed my off-hand in, willing light to flow around my hand.
You don't often hear the sound of Grimm flesh sizzling and blood boiling, and it's the kind of sound that makes you never look at barbeques the same way again. The first time I heard it, it took me a while to get my appetite back. Nowadays, it's just a necessary work, albeit a dirty one.
The ursa major fell with a heavy thump, and I wiped my arm clean of its black blood on the snow, the rest burned away by my Semblance. I was still going to take a long shower afterwards, though.
That brief interruption ate up a good few minutes, but the real problem was with the snowmobile. The damn Grimm bull-rushed it headfirst into a thick tree, and left behind this scrap heap for me to deal with. There was no force in this world powerful enough to make it run again, that was for sure. Looks like I was gonna have the leg it the rest of the way there, and back again.
Fucking great.
I don't know how much time has passed since then, though it was still bright out, so likely wasn't too long. Whether my allotted hours were up or not, I didn't know. One thing I knew though was that the pool was near, and sure enough, behind the groves, in the small clearing, a bubbling black tar-like pond, very much out of place, surrounded by frostbitten trees.
These pools were just as enigmatic as the Grimm they shat out – they looked not unlike tar and oil leaking out of steel drums and just as viscous, yet strangely vanished like mists when anyone attempted to contain it. There were no patterns to their appearances, so no clear way to predict when and where they'd pop up next. All we knew was that Grimm spawned from its inky depth, and destroying it was the only way we'd get to sleep in peace, until they cracked open elsewhere and repeat this tango dance all over again.
Sheathing Crocea Mors, I took a deep breath, then plunged both hands into the pool. Wasn't the first time doing it, but could never get used to the sensation. The chill felt like a living thing, the way it leapt through the skin and burrowed deep into your bones, filling the porous gaps in between with ice crystals. Not even the coldest Winter days in Solitas could match that.
Then, warmth flooded my arms as I put my Semblance to work. At first, the pool stayed unchanged, then its mirror-like sheen dimmed as the pool hardened, cracks running through its rapidly drying surface, until it turned to ash, slowly fading into nothing, even as my hands shone like two miniature suns. 'The power of stars in your hands,' indeed.
Earlier I mentioned fire was one way to get rid of this crap, essentially burning and boiling the thing until it cracked and turned to soot. Apply liberal amount of gasoline, then go to town with a flamethrower or few until only charred earth was left. Another way was to get an Ember like me to sort it out, since an Arc's Semblance was only ever effective against the Grimm and everything to do with them, including whatever unnatural phenomenon that bred more of them.
Wave of exhaustion hit me then, and I found myself leaning against a rock, trying catch my breaths. It never got easier, expending so much Aura in one sitting, even with a large Aura reserves like mine. I was lucky there wasn't any other Grimm nearby, I didn't think I had much gas left in the tank to put up much of a fight if one did jump out of nowhere. It was a careless mistake, heading out on my own. I'd have to make sure this wouldn't happen again.
Aside from that, though, with the immediate threat neutralised and I had time to let my mind wonder, it really was quite peaceful, then. The wind abated to a slight breeze, and for once I could actually see the sun past the thick clouds. If you looked past the icy thorns, it would've been a scene right out of a fairy tale, I suppos. Maybe if I were to head deeper into the woods, would I have chanced upon first the good God, then the Devil, and finally Death striding up to me on its withered legs, offering himself as my godfather? 'I am Death, and I make all equal. I will make you rich and famous, for he who has me for a friend can lack nothing.'
'Fuck wealth, and to hell with fame,' I would've said. 'Give me my family back. Give me back my sister, at least.'
"If not her, then at least tell me how she died and where. It's been fucking years. Years!" I didn't realise I was talking aloud, until I was back on my feet, fists clenched.
I saw in my mind the crumpled map sitting in my bag, back in the cold box, only a few blank spots left to cross out with red ink. I wanted to put it off as long as I could, but at the same time I wanted to hurry out there and search them up and down. I would've turned over all the rocks, uprooted all those damned trees, shovel all the fucking snow if I had to. I didn't want to think what I'd do when I crossed out the final blank spot.
I made my way back, pausing momentarily to rummage through the mangled heap the snowmobile has been reduced to, and to give the still smoking corpse of ursa major a firm kick. I know, beating a literal dead horse (Grimm) and all that, but I needed an outlet, and it did wreck my ride and forced me to walk the rest of the way. I vaguely noted this one too, was slow to disintegrate, but I didn't much care about it at that time.
As for the snowmobile, I had to leave it behind in the end – it was too heavy to carry, and at this point it was just an expensive junk pile. I would just have to report its loss as a collateral damage – anything could happen out here, after all.
Just then, I heard shouting from the distance, in the direction of where the rest of the squad was with the snow buggy, then sharp cracks of gunfire. Then, there was an ear-splitting shriek loud enough to rouse the dead, and made me pause in fear.
You spend long enough time up here in the roof of the world, you eventually reach a stage where you can tell the local fauna apart by the noise they make long before you can see them, which is a crucial skill to have in the tundra here, since visibility can be pretty shit even during daytime. Beowolves' growls are deep and in packs, while the sabyrs' howls are of higher pitch. Achlis let out these low whines, and they're unusually timid for a Grimm, so they're rarely encountered in the wild. Ursa majors and minors just grunt and huff a lot, as if they're suffering from a bad case of asthma.
This, this bone-chilling banshee cry I've never heard before in my life, not even back in Midgard all those years ago, when a black tidal wave of Grimm crashed against the city's walls broke through, and there were a lot of different types of Grimm that day.
The scream ceased, and so did the gunshots, which was worse. I picked up the pace, ignoring the ice needles poking holes through my coats as I ran as fast as I could without accidentally running headfirst into the branches. Were I an optimistic soul, I would've bet on the soldiers putting down whatever Grimm made that hellish noise, but life has a habit of forcing you against a belt sander and file down all that round, smooth optimism, and you walk way a pessimist with blocky edges and bitterness like tea left to steep too long.
When I finally got there, I caught a glimpse of the Grimm; pale, impossibly tall with wiry frame, with long, gangly limbs, blood and bits of gristle clinging to its hooked claws. It moved with a supernatural grace, scaling up a cliff without even sparing a glance in my direction. Chunks of meat dribbled from its long jaw and fell into the rocks below with wet splats, although it didn't seem to notice. Then, as swiftly as it came, it disappeared.
The buggy was on its back like an upturned beetle, flattened to half its size with its insides leaking out. I'd imagine the Grimm leapt from atop the cliff and landed squarely on the buggy, crushing the poor bastards within, and turning them into paste. The rest of the squad who were out at the time then probably opened fire, only for the thing to carve them up like Christmas turkey and scattering them like plucked flower petals. There wasn't much of the soldiers left, and it was impossible to tell whose body parts belonged to whom.
Judging by the area, we were closer to the next station over, cold box 28, one that I stayed for several months before transferring to the current one, and I still had the number, so I wasted little time calling them, only the phone kept ringing, ten, twenty, thirty, and no one picked up. It was strange – the number was for the station's general line, so someone should've been nearby to pick it up. Curious, I tried again, still no answer.
Bad signs. Something felt off, and I hope I was wrong.
I contacted station 32, almost sighed with relief when someone picked up, one of the privates on snow shovelling duty that morning. I told them about the buggy and the dead soldiers, and was the comm link down in cold box 28? There was an anxious edge in her voice when the soldier told me she'd let the station commander know, and that something did happen in that station while we were out. When I asked what happened, she just told me to stay where I was, and get back inside as soon as I was able to.
I didn't have to wait long, fortunately, another buggy with fresh bloods, horrified at what befell on their fellow guards. Bad way to go, even out here. I helped with the shovelling, packing all the remains we could find in body bags, to cremate later and have the ashes sent out to their respective family members. They didn't say, but I understood all the same – where the hell was I, when these soldiers were gobbled up like thanksgiving dinner? I didn't have the answer they wanted, and if I was being frank, I was sure as hell glad I wasn't around when that thing turned up. For all my Semblance and its potency against the Grimm, there was only so much I could do. Maybe Iris could've done something, but she was gone, and I wasn't my sister.
We worked fast, left the buggy and what we couldn't wipe down for the snow, then drove back. Storm was picking up again just as we reached the gate.
Now, for some answers.
oOoOo
Cold box 28 was hit.
The mess hall was unusually full that afternoon, soldiers and janitors and technicians and cooks and all huddled within the small confines like packed sardines, conversations in hushed tones as the wide monitor screen replayed the security footages that captured the last moments of station 28 and all the doomed souls within.
Like this one, cold box 28 had the same layouts – the 100 m kill zone, the search lights, thick iron gates, the gun turrets, the whole nine yards. It was a good enough setup for handling small fries like occasional packs of beowolves and sabyrs. A horde of ursa majors might've been a cause for concern, but that almost never happened, and minors weren't even worth mentioning.
There is something that needs to be mentioned – the northernmost area of Solitas, the roof of the world, far from the civilised parts of the frozen continent, was a place of secrets. Like most wildlands untouched by civilisation around Remnant, if you looked closely enough, you could sometimes see the kind of Grimm that rarely saw spotlight. That tall, gangly Grimm with ear-rending scream, for one.
The Grimm we saw on the monitor was just as tall, but easily several times wider, big enough to dwarf even the largest ursa major, with thick corded muscles and fat and pure aggression. There were about half a dozen of them, and they crossed the entire span of kill zone within seconds, bodily threw themselves at the thick iron gate until it broke open. One heaved itself up to the top, and seconds later the twisted remnant of the gun turret came crashing down. Just behind them, as if on cue, multi-legged creeps swarmed into the place.
I later learned they were Yetis – hits like a truck and moves faster than one, and their last sightings were so many years ago hopeful academics proposed they went extinct. Not only were they not extinct, they were very much alive and far too many in numbers, and I had a feeling we were going to need bigger guns if we wanted a shot at taking these things down.
I won't cover the rest of the footage – suffice to say, it reminded me of a saying border guards often joked about. These stations weren't just called 'cold boxes' because of their rather unimaginative blocky appearances, but also because it wasn't much warmer inside. If you squinted hard enough from a distance, the main structures kind of resembled refrigerators, which I suppose made everyone inside meats, kept cool for maximum freshness, raided whenever the local Grimm population felt like indulging in a little late night snacks.
This was the second station overrun within this year alone. The last time a station went offline was years ago, back when border patrols had practically no funding for equipment and upkeep. There was a pattern emerging here, and I would've bet we were all thinking the same thing:
Which station would be the next to go? And when?