Weiss had something stupid in her pocket. It was a small, flat tin— something one would take a breath mint from— and in it she kept exactly what one would expect a member of the infamous food-service closing shift to keep: drugs. Tame ones: five joints rolled fat with what Arell had called 'green' the first time Weiss had asked. She'd stuffed them in her dress pocket to celebrate her and Florabel's tournament duel, regardless of how it went.

But now she'd been keeping them in her slacks for… something. Anything. To smoke and ash out on her mother's corpse, firstly, but…

The thing in Willow's skin sipped her wine, dismissing Klein with a thankful nod. He bowed, taking his platter back and closing the door behind him, leaving a room full of people but absent of anything between them. Only when Weiss locked the door did Winter let her fear show, and it was real fear: shaking hands, wide eyes, her noble sipping turned to a desperate guzzling. The wine glass quickly emptied, its stem cracking when Willow set it down too quickly. Weiss' hand whipped out to snatch the cup before it could hit the desk and shatter. Willow flinched as if shot.

Weiss sat at the desk, laying her knife in front of her along with the broken cup. She slid her own wine glass across to her mother. Willow's eyebrows rose as Weiss extracted her stupid little tin, drew a joint, and set it between her lips.

"Do you have a light?"

Willow flinched, opening her mouth.

"Don't ask Klein."

Willow shut her mouth and cautiously rifled through the desk's many drawers. She extracted a tiny metal bottle some seconds later, rolling it shakily to Weiss. The younger girl took it, pulled out a dust-amalgam-tipped match, and wiped her mouth on her cuff before striking the tip against her front teeth.

"Explain yourself," she demanded, puffing like a dragon as she pulled the joint into an even burn. "And quickly; as soon as I finish this, you— whatever you are, or think you are— are dead."

Willow gasped, as if Weiss threatening her were a surprise after she had come charging in with a knife. "I— I am your mother!" she spluttered, taking a feverish breath before drowning it in wine. "I am here, what more matters!"

Weiss puffed. She crossed her arms over her chest and kicked her legs up, admiring her dress shoes as if the polish were interesting. She asked offhandedly, "Say, where is Whitley? I have words for that boy."

"Whitley?" the thing squawked. "Whi— Whitley? He has nothing to do with this!"

"Nothing to do with what, precisely?" Weiss probed, blowing thick gouts of herbal black smoke that she very nearly choked on.

"This!" Willow cried.

Whitley was a little shit who cursed her with an idiot scholar's vernacular, he was a stupid little boy, he was an arrogant egotist, and he deserved a good punch to the teeth. He was also her brother. Weiss dropped her feet back down from the desk, leaning forward, elbows on knees. Whitley— a joke, an afterthought, a throwaway memory— glared now in the forefront. "But where is my brother?"

"He is downstairs!" Willow yelped. "Probably with your father, tending to the spawn!"

"The what?"

"The— the Faunus!"

Weiss grabbed her knife and stabbed it into the table, using it to push herself up over the desk. She drew and exhaled, drew again, exhaled again. Her fingers felt so real around the handle, like the kitchen knife held her soul. Her eyes felt like they would bleed from the pressure behind them.

"And what are you doing with them?" she interrogated. "You gussy up our butler, but he is the only one I have seen around. Where are the others?"

Willow lifted her glass to drink, but Weiss backhanded it out of her hand.

"You stupid, drunk cunt," she hissed. "They got one thing right: your vice."

"I don't—"

"The spawn!" Weiss reiterated, biting the joint' s filter between her teeth. "What are you doing to them! Where are they!"

"The pens!" Willow yelped. "They're in the pens!"

Weiss growled. "Why are they in the pens?"

Willow, her expression like Weiss had peeled her face off and eaten a baby in front of her, made the noises of a fat fish out of water. Her eyes flicked to the bottle.

Perhaps, if Weiss had not eaten her mother, she would pause. If she were normal, she wouldn't have come here knife-in-hand in the first place. If she had not personally dissolved her mother's being into the rest of her own, she would hesitate to strike down the thing that dared wear the woman's skin.

Weiss shot forward. Her knife sank deep between her not-mother's clavicles, making Willow hemorrhage blood with a thick, wet cough. This didn't stop the older woman from smashing Weiss' temple with the wine bottle.

Ruby held the gargantuan scythe at a low outside stance. The head drooped too far. She wasn't strong enough for it. Ruby grit her teeth and held it anyways.

"So… the clan, what's it actually like?" Ruby asked, preferring to hear mom's voice than mum's.

Raven wore a thick, warm-looking poncho of simple and patternless grey, covering most of her upper half while her lower half was covered by a dark skirt like her daughter's. She'd tied a bright red sash around her waist, followed by a thick, strappy hip-harness that she mounted her sheath assembly on. Her voice came quiet, unsure, as if she hadn't been expecting to speak. It still felt wrong to hear Raven like that, but it was a wrong Ruby had started to appreciate.

"It's… rough," Raven answered. "We eat a lot of meat raw off the corpse, if that gives you an idea of what to expect."

'Oh,' Ruby wanted to say, 'well that's kinda disappointing; I ate Weiss' thumb while she was still alive, so…'

Instead, Ruby said: "Oh, like a carrion thing?"

Raven nodded. "Precisely."

"Returning to the primal root?" Ruby teased, waggling her fingers and brows, earning a scolding look that made her flinch.

"Yes, Ruby, that is exactly what it's supposed to be," Raven said slowly, with dark warning in her voice. "And you will be respectful of our culture if you want to participate in it."

Our. Our. That one word meant more than Ruby ever could've guessed it would. "R-right. Sorry," she said, meaning it. "Is it all… us?"

"Corvids, yes. Mostly. Others are few and far between."

"So when do you want to, uh…"

"Well, I was planning on taking you after you got out of Beacon, but…" she broke her gaze away from Ruby's, her red eyes instead panning down to her hands. "Now I have to arrange for the funeral."

"Oh," was all Ruby had to say.

'You'd do that?' Summer dared, rising up fetid through the cracks in Ruby's mental floorboards like brackish floodwater. 'You'd leave my name with no one to carry it?'

Ruby would gladly do it, and she could only hope that Raven wouldn't change her mind as soon as Summer's soul found some way to speak to her, too.

They stayed in silence as Ruby tried to practice her forms. Summer mentally berated her about her footing, her stance, the head drooping, or a million things that were damn-near impossible to do right when your weapon was at least 50% god-damn autocannon. How the fuck did Summer wield this stupid thing?

Mum's advice, which was (for once), not something that made Ruby want to punch her soul: 'Just channel your Aura.'

"Just… what?"

Raven perked up. "Sorry, what? You say something?"

Ruby's heart leapt into her throat, but her voice came out coaxing and easy for both her sake and mom's. "N-no, no, nothing. Sorry. I just… I remembered something."

Summer conveyed a haughty snort, for which Ruby actively tried to push her under her mental pier.

Shit. When was the last time she'd channeled her Aura? God, when did she learn how to do that?

'May fifteenth was your first lesson. I started you at five.'

Right. How the hell did she remember that to the day?

'I wouldn't forget your training. Ever.'

Well, shit, Ruby definitely forgot her own training. She'd probably bowled through that lesson and never done it again— better to focus on swift, light things you don't have to exert your Aura just to use— and it's not like anybody else actually did that. It was like a gimmick trick, something you teach a kid to help them understand how Aura is supposed to feel, not generally useful outside of that.

'It'd be useful now, wouldn't it?'

"Hey, mom?"

Raven hummed, keeping her eyes on her sword as she fastidiously wiped it.

"Do you remember how to channel your Aura?"

Raven looked at her like she was stupid, and she quickly realized that she probably was. "Of course I do. Everyone does. Why?"

Shit. "I… may have forgotten, and I'm pretty sure that's the only way I could possibly swing this thing around."

Raven gave her a look of disappointment that, surprising Ruby, turned much softer after a quick glance to the side— as if she were actively correcting herself into not being an asshole mom. She stood, two fingers pressing Summer's stupidly named scythe down from its middle outside guard. She told Ruby to set it aside, which she did, then had her stand in the middle of her hotel room with her arms straight out from her sides. She proceeded to poke Ruby, and with each poke, Ruby felt the memories of Summer doing this to her in return— except they weren't the memories of Summer doing this to her, they were Summer's memories of doing this to Raven.

Raven had stretched out her arms and stood up to her fullest, just to show off. Summer had been too short to work with that. 'Down, warrior girl,' she'd told her. 'You can't try to show off when you're asking me for this.'

'I was raised in the woods, bitch,' Raven had countered. 'Aura channeling is for kids.'

'Which makes you less capable than a ten-year-old.'

'As if. I could beat up a ten-year-old.'

Summer had pursed her lips, and Ruby could feel the look of severe disappointment lingering somewhere in her own facial muscles. Raven had lowered, and Summer had placed her index and middle fingers on her temples. 'Feel it here?' Summer had asked.

'I feel your fingers,' Raven had answered unhelpfully.

'Can you feel me touching your Aura?'

Summer had touched her with ease, because Raven was a girl considerably below anything she could consider as a threat. She'd felt Raven warming at the touch, the weak girl stuttering to say, 'I-I guess.'

Raven moved her fingers down her daughter's arms, just as Summer had moved them down hers. Ruby could feel her soul warbling above the surface. Remembering the process, she urged her Aura to follow the touch and shrugged herself away from Raven as quickly as possible. "Th-thanks mom," she said, her own face hot. "I think I remembered— lemme just—"

Like stripping back a loose membrane, Ruby pooled her soul's energy to her arms, thinning the barrier as she hefted the giant scythe again. It wasn't much easier, and focusing it more on her arms would leave her back to suffer, but she could take mid and high outside guard without feeling much more than a sneer from her mother.

Despite herself, despite how awful this stupid hunk of weapon was, she smiled.

It was time to get her Weiss back.

Weiss gurgled awake. Her head felt, as Ruby had said one eve (after a coffeeless morning), 'like pure fuck.' Her face was warm, probably with blood. From the wound. The wound that thing gave her when it smashed an entire wine bottle into her skull.

What she'd give for a Ruby to siphon. Or just Ruby in general. It took real effort for Weiss to open her eyes.

The situation was not ideal.

Weiss was—

"You're awake. Great."

She wrenched her head aside, unable to move from the bolted-down chair she was tied to. She was met with a mop of bright ginger hair, a white trench coat, a stupid hat; Roman Torchwick, for some stupid reason. "Roman," she growled.

The man in question cringed, raising his hands as if to catch her blame. "Ey, look, man's gotta get paid, okay? I got a kid to put through school, and it's not like I can work at the local grocery store."

That cleared a nook in Weiss' brain like smelling salts. "Thy… child," she murmured concussedly, grabbing whatever would keep her awake and talking. "Thou placest…" she couldn't remember if the kid was a boy or girl— what was that thing Ruby said about nouns? Pronouns? She grasped for the words in Valish, having to fish through a thick mental fog. "Them into a school? Are they not… distempered?"

He cocked his head and raised one brow. "They're not a dog."

Weiss became equally confused.

"Are you asking if they have behavioral issues?" Roman clarified, ashing his big cigar on the floor— the wood floor, the basement floor, she was in the basement complex. She nodded. "No, they don't. They actually love it, grades're good so far and everything."

Weiss nodded, despite not caring in the least. "Whyfor watchest me? Ironwood, where is he? What has become of my mother?"

"In order," Roman listed on his fingers: "One: because you're gonna try and bust out; two: I don't know and I wouldn't tell you if I did; three: why the hell do you think I would know?"

"My brother?"

Roman couldn't hide the tiny wince in his eyes. "He's not far," he conceded.

"Is he okay?"

"Not really, no."

Weiss growled. "If thou'st—"

"Kill me, burn me, yeah yeah," he tapped his cane and rolled his ember-tipped cigar. "Look, kid, just be quiet and sit still, alright? It'll make it easier for both of us."

Weiss squirmed and made noise, which Torchwick scowled at. She continued verbally berating him, only for the older man to put in earbuds and start nodding along to music, ignoring her completely. Weiss eventually ceased. Instead, she focused on keeping herself awake by mumbling old prayers to herself. The spiritual sentiment didn't help, but the physical repetition was enough to keep her eyes open, at least.

"He'll be here soon," Roman said after a while, so quiet that Weiss nearly missed it. "I'll do what I can, okay? I like you guys."

Weiss glared at him, but Roman had already turned away.

weiss schnee

Search results for: 'weiss schnee' [44,139 results]

"Huh," Raven said. "Guess we shoulda led with that."

Ruby leaned back from the Atlas CCT terminal and whistled. "No kidding."

There were articles, posts, weird websites, videos, things with titles like 'FOURTH SCION SURVIVES HER MOTHER' from a Valish publication, and plenty of Mantell publications that probably read much the same. Ruby managed to find her mother's name, Willow, along with details of the incident: a fatal head-on collision, Willow Schnee's sky-high blood-alcohol levels found post-mortem, the funeral service being held at their mansion.

Their mansion in the central district— the flying one.

"Fuck," Raven cursed. "How're we supposed to get up there?"

Ruby started to quietly laugh.

"The rest of your team is coming with Qrow— they should be here tomorrow. We can wait and figure it out."

Ruby laughed more loudly.

"Ruby?"

She shot out of her chair and started to march out, her huge scythe feeling good as it slapped against her waist, her buckler's weight sitting on her lower back like an old friend's promise. "Come on, mom," she said, not even over her shoulder— just straight ahead, the only way that mattered.

"We should wait—"

"I'm done waiting," Ruby said easily, lightly, no anger or frustration at her mother's hesitant tone. It was smart to be hesitant. Logical. It would be rational to wait.

But Ruby didn't want to be rational. She wanted Weiss.

"I've got her address," the younger Faunus stated, her smile audible. "You can wait— I'm sure I'll need the backup— but right now, I'm going."

Raven grabbed her upper arm. Her free arm twitched, her hand immediately in a tight fist, and Ruby couldn't tell if it was her that wanted to punch her mom in the face, or if it was Summer who wanted to ground to dust whoever dared to stop her. Thankfully, she managed to blink away without punching her mother and still maintaining her good attitude.

She smiled at Raven. "Alright, wish me luck!"

Miss Schnee.

Weiss craned her neck around towards the boy— Ironwood. Winter was behind him, hands on the handles of his wheelchair, but he slowly pushed himself up, wobbling on his own two legs. He limped towards Weiss, his left arm folded in a sling and cast in front of him. Beneath that, Weiss could see a complete cover of bandages disappearing under his pastoral shirt. More than half of his face was bandaged much the same, his right eye and torn lips left uncovered. Roman stepped back against the wall and watched Ironwood warily.

"My brother," Weiss demanded. "Where is he? What hast thou done to my mother, my sister— what thinkest thou'rt doing!"

Ironwood raised his hands as if to ease her pain.

I understand you've experienced quite the paradigm shift, so let us take a moment in peace to collect ourselves. Perhaps you'd spare me a prayer?

Weiss spat on him. He nodded as if she hadn't.

I see.

You know, I thought you would be grateful to see your mother again. I know your father has been.

Weiss shuddered. "Tell me the nature of that… abomination."

Ignoring her, Ironwood took a knee with great difficulty, folding his good hand close to his chest as he prayed:

Let us give grace to the one who made us. Let us thank Him. Let us thank His children: the First and his flock, the Second and his flock, the Third and his flock, the Fourth and his flock. Let us thank them for taking us from that deep, dark time. Let us thank them, and each other, as one. Let us join hands and sing with hearts and souls interlinked. Let us shed these barriers, let us become unified. Let us love as one.

Praise be.

Ironwood looked up. Nobody joined his prayer. This didn't seem to bother him. Weiss sneered. Thou'rt no Fourth; thou prayest in blasphemies."

Ironwood stood back up on his shoddy legs, pulling something small, thin, and square out of his back pocket to show off smugly, then pass to Torchwick like a filthy rag.

And the Fourth's Tenants demand you respect the perfection of your human form, yet here I find you with a little box full of drugs.

"That matters none. No one—" Weiss blinked hard as a wave of concussed nausea swept over her. "Nobody follows such dogma to the letter."

Ironwood grinned.

Fourths do. They should, at least, and you are supposed to be a Fourth among Fourths, are you not?

"Thou knowest me not."

Irksomely, the boy leaned forward and patted her shoulder.

I don't judge, friend. I point your vices out not to shame you, but to enlighten you to your own hypocrisy.

What would Ruby say? "Thou shouldst enlighten my cock with thy lips," Weiss suggested. "Bitch."

Now you're starting to sound like that girl— the not-Second. The Faunus.

Though, I suppose you've been spending more time with her as well, haven't you?

Only now did his veneer of cordiality crack. He squinted slightly, his torn lip curling with disgust.

"I would do no such thing," Weiss claimed, pouring all the hate she could muster into her words. "Were we not forced into partnership, I would have killed her."

James Ironwood did not believe her. He deadpanned.

I've heard you had an unfortunate little run-in with one Adam Taurus.

James tilted his head towards Roman, who shriveled. "He's, uh… one of my guys," Roman confessed, laughing with false confidence. "Guess I should start providing my own ammo, huh?"

What exactly happened to your thumb, Weiss?

Weiss wouldn't be phased. Ruby had a wide selection of unique curses to inspire her to remain steadfast. "'Twas lost in thy mother's bung."

Ironwood rolled his visible eye. It was the first thing Weiss had seen him do that seemed to fit his age. He sighed.

Oh well. You're clearly not interested in making a better world, but I don't need you to be. Your purpose is already served. Now we just have to wait.

Roman scowled. Ironwood shrugged. From the back of the room, Winter didn't make a sound. She remained perfectly still.

"Wait for what?" Weiss asked, as if they'd actually answer. Ironwood ignored her and rounded back to his wheelchair. Winter took him away.

"What did he mean?" Weiss asked the remaining ginger in the room. His scowl creased doubly, and he looked at Weiss like she really should get it by now.

Torchwick, instead of immediately responding, simply popped open her tin of joints and took out two. Cautiously, with a 'don't bite me' expression, he placed one of them in her mouth and lit it, then did the same with his own. They smoked for a while in tense silence, not at all comforted by the shared high.

"God," Torchwick muttered after a while, shaking his head. "College kids these days. Might as well be smoking Mistralian seasoning."