It took little effort to torment herself with every last detail of her mother's first episode. From the moment the wine glass shattered against the wall to the last glimpse of her mother sitting in a trembling heap on the floor as Winter had dragged Weiss out of the room, they came to her mind's eye readily and vividly. She could still hear her mother's shrill rambling. Her skin still prickled at the memory of that cold, paralyzing confusion that had enshrouded her. She could still picture her mother's manic face clearer than she could her smile.

It had been over in less than a minute, yet it was all Weiss could dwell on when she remembered the day of her grandfather's funeral. The next day, when her mother came home with earnest apologies and assurances that it had been a one-time thing? The months of relative peace and calm before the second breakdown at Jacques's birthday feast? Little more than a blur.

Those are the things that stick with people. It's the brain's natural survival instinct—it needs to cache those negative moments to teach itself how to avoid repeating them. The happy times don't matter as much, as far as it's concerned. Happiness is just a respite from the unceasing struggle to stay alive.

Yesterday, Weiss had fled a skyscraper rigged to explode, been arrested, suffered a car crash and a concussion, got abducted by an egomaniac and his pet serial killer, and watched her brother's throat get cut open. Those were the events that jumped to the forefront of her mind. Finding the cure for her mother, finally establishing a true rapport with her brother, and taking the first major step toward mending the rift that had grown between her and her sister felt far less recent. Weiss had to actively steer her thoughts away from the bad and toward the good, away from the feeling of Tyrian's gloved hand on her throat and toward the surge of hope the small-scale semblance inhibitor had granted her.

What would today be, when she thought back on it sometime in the future? A vague memory of a time when she'd experienced elation, or another trauma for her brain to hold onto as a lesson to be learned?

It was weird to say that Weiss hoped she wouldn't remember today all that clearly.

She watched the plane descend upon Atlas from her window seat, a pair of new inhibitors in hand with all the confidence in the world that they were the answer she'd long sought for. It didn't matter that she was about to experience one of the happiest moments of her life. What mattered was that it marked the beginning of many more happy times to come.

The jet touched down and Weiss, for the second time today, was able to breathe a sigh of relief as she set foot on solid ground. Rationally, she knew Arthur Watts was still in custody and both Skeleton Keys were in safe hands. That didn't make flying again so soon any less nerve-wracking.

"Come," Winter said, disembarking after Weiss.

The car was at the edge of the airfield where Winter had parked it. It felt like barely any time had passed since they'd left for Vale, and here they were back already.

"Have you heard back about Whitley yet?" Weiss said.

"I have. The hospital wants to hold him for at least another day, and he acquiesced. He will not be joining us."

Weiss wasn't surprised, but it hurt to hear. "He should be there."

"He should," Winter agreed.

Weiss buckled herself into the passenger seat, and she looked at her sister. For all the effort Weiss had put in yesterday at cracking that rigid exterior, she was still as difficult to read as ever.

Winter was the eldest child by five and a half years. That gave her the most memories of their mother by far, good and bad. She'd seen the most of their mother's decline, and she'd also seen the most of her at her best. Yet, Winter was always the most reluctant to talk about her.

Weiss had long suspected that Winter harbored a bit of resentment toward their mother, as unfair as that was. Their mother's failure meant Winter had needed to step up for Weiss's sake. She'd had to distance herself the worse their mother got, whereas Weiss and Whitley had only clung tighter.

So Weiss had been unable to predict how Winter would react to the news of the cure. She'd tried to come up with every argument she could think of to convince Winter it was real, that this little metal disc was what they'd been waiting for all these years. What Weiss hadn't been ready for was, "I believe you."

Just like that. One explanation and Winter was on board. Even now, Weiss couldn't be sure whether she'd meant it—that Winter wasn't humoring what she believed to be little more than yet another desperate grasp at hope that would yet again end in disappointment.

But she'd pulled this off, hadn't she? Amidst all this messiness and the Vytal Festival right around the corner, Winter had managed to arrange a round trip to Vale on such short notice. That must have taken a lot when this was something that could have waited until the Festival and the Watts investigation were both over with. Would she have done that if she didn't have faith in Weiss?

It didn't matter, one way or another. Weiss could convince herself that the answer was no, and that was enough.

"Weiss," Winter said. "We're here."

Weiss looked up and saw the dull, gray bricks of the psychiatric hospital gleaming under a small patch of sunlight, slowly being overtaken by the shadow the clouds cast upon it. The sky had been mostly clear when they landed what felt like seconds ago. Yesterday had been the day that never seemed to end, and today was flying by like it was trying to make up for that. It can't really have been eight whole hours since she'd woken up agonizing about what to do about Ruby and that kiss, can it?

Klein greeted them at the entrance, his jovialness enough to bring a slight smile to even Winter's face. Weiss's heart rate picked up as he led them through the building, and she couldn't be sure if it was due to excitement, nervousness, or both. She was confident this would work, but nothing was ever a guarantee. Worst case scenario—

No. There was no use thinking about that, not when she was this close.

They arrived and Klein opened the door to Willow Schnee's room.

"Willow, dear?" he said, his voice soothing and gentle. "Your daughters are here to see you. It's been some time since you've seen them both at once, hasn't it?"

Weiss and Winter's mother made no reaction. She sat in a chair facing the window, as if enjoying the view. The room had a handful of paintings hung up that had once decorated her favorite places in Schnee Manor. Accompanying them were plenty of framed pictures of the family, including childhood portraits of herself with her father, but none of her husband.

Klein rolled her chair back and turned her around. Her posture was perfect with her hands folded neatly on her lap, her expression empty and unseeing.

Weiss froze, and a chill swept through her, as if her mother's hollow gaze bore a ray of cold. Her emotional walls, built up and fortified specifically to endure this exact situation, threatened to come crashing down.

Why? A million other times Weiss had been here. A million other times she'd seen her mother in the same, unchanging condition. Why did it strike her so much harder now? Was it because she'd spent so much time today suppressing the bad memories, letting herself get so drunk on hope that she'd been able to forget how awful the reality of it truly was? She'd been psyching herself up for success—for her mother to finally be, after all these years, present and whole—and forgetting that, one last time, she'd have to face . . . this. A hollow, lifeless shell wearing her mother's face that constantly tainted every happy memory Weiss had of her.

Nothing was ever a guarantee. She was more aware of that fact right now than ever—of the possibility that she was wrong, and that this attempt would be no different than all the others, and that—

"Weiss," Winter said, bringing Weiss back from the edge of a mental spiral, speaking with a tone that triggered . . . something within Weiss.

She almost wanted to call it nostalgia. She could suddenly recall those minutes following that first episode, and the second, third, and most of the others. Those moments that usually sat so vague in her memory were now lucid. She remembered feeling scared and confused, and how Winter had comforted her through it—how her soothing voice, usually so strict, steadied a younger Weiss's pounding heart. She could recall the precise words Winter had spoken before a smile had finally crept onto her face, the exact moment she'd been able to believe the assurances that everything would be fine.

Right now, twenty-two years old and standing at the entrance of her mother's room in a psychiatric hospital, Weiss was scared and confused, and Winter—as rocky as their relationship was at the moment—was here with her. She closed her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. Winter placed a hand on her shoulder and Weiss reached up to cover it with her own. Her heart rate began to steady as she felt the unspoken assurances. Whatever happened right now—whatever the outcome—everything would be fine.

It didn't take long for Weiss to spot the Polendinas as she entered the canteen, and it took no longer for them to spot her.

"Salutations!" said Penny.

"Hello, Penny," Weiss said, finding it easier than expected to smile at her as she sat across from them. "Thank you for meeting with me, Dr. Polendina."

"Of course, of course," Pietro said. "I understand you had a rather sensitive topic you wished to discuss?"

"I did. I hope I'm not inconveniencing you too much. I know you're pretty busy right now."

"Yes, well, with the Festival only two days away . . . Never mind that. What's on your mind?"

"I was hoping you could help me understand exactly how semblance inhibition works," Weiss said.

"Semblance inhibition. I see." Pietro paused to cough before continuing. "I'm afraid 'exactly' might be a tall order. There's only so much we understand about how it works, and only so much I can divulge."

"I understand. It's just . . . My mother. She has the same semblance as me. Or I should say I inherited it from her."

"Ah. Quite rare, but not unheard of."

"Right. Penny probably told you, but I can cure mental illness in people's minds, heal psychological damage."

"Indeed I did," Penny said.

"But the thing is," Weiss said, "I've never been able to use my semblance on my mother, or myself. And she's— She isn't well. I need to heal her, but I can't. And yesterday, I thought I finally found the reason why. Tyrian Callows had a semblance that also affects the mind, but it didn't work on me. I really thought it was because my semblance was giving me immunity to other mind-affecting semblances."

Pietro nodded in understanding. "You thought? Meaning you no longer do?"

Weiss bit her lip. She had one hand in her pocket, which was full of tiny metal and glass shards—what remained of the spent semblance inhibitor. She wasn't sure when it had broken, as it had still been intact when she'd pocketed it.

Jaune had told her the inventor of these things wanted them kept secret, or more so the secret of how they worked. Jaune had used two on those twins at Junior's club and it had been mentioned in a news article, but nothing ever came of it because there was nothing supporting a rather outlandish claim—like now, the discs hadn't survived long after being used. But more and more people were learning that they did exist—Winter, Ironwood, Mayor Ozpin, Qrow, Yang, Blake, and the Ace Operatives. Even Watts had probably put two and two together by now, depending on how much of his memory survived Ruby knocking him unconscious.

So did it even matter at this point if she told the Polendinas about them? She'd only known them a few days, but it was enough to say she trusted them a lot more than Ironwood or the Ace Ops—other than Marrow, maybe.

The difference between then and now was that Weiss had told everyone else out of necessity. She couldn't explain why they'd chosen to take on Neo without mentioning the one thing they believed made it possible. She also couldn't explain how the most infamous and effective serial killer in recent history had fallen to close-range gunshots without saying what had rendered him unable to defend himself.

Weiss held her tongue. She'd never had the right to make this choice in the first place. Whoever made the inhibitors had entrusted them to Pyrrha, and Weiss knew neither her nor them. Pyrrha had entrusted them to Jaune, and then Jaune had told Weiss and Ruby. Time was proving that he shouldn't have.

"I don't know," Weiss said. "I might, still, but . . . Am I wrong in thinking that if my semblance is the source of my immunity to other mind-affecting semblances, then inhibiting it would also negate that immunity?"

Pietro lifted his golf cap and scratched his head as he thought. Weiss met Penny's eyes and found a look of sympathy there, which wasn't unappreciated.

"You could be," Pietro finally said.

Weiss stared at him, unsure how to take that.

Pietro opened his mouth to continue, but another coughing fit interrupted him, which lessened as Penny put her hand on his arm.

"May I?" she said.

"Please." Pietro grabbed a cup off the table and began to drink.

"Ruby explained her semblance to me," Penny said to Weiss. "Use of her ability to teleport fatigues her, but abstaining from using it results in an inability to grow tired at all and leaves her in a state of perpetual consciousness. It was your hypothesis that the latter phenomenon is a result of her body adapting to the physical toll that her semblance has on it, correct?"

"It was," Weiss said.

"That is a well-founded theory," Pietro said. "A very common occurrence."

"Indeed," said Penny. "Paragon physiology almost always differs from that of a non-paragon's—I am an exception. The presence of a semblance alters human growth in notable ways both before and after birth. Some are consistent across all paragons, and others are unique results of a semblance's particular nature. Ruby's resistance to sleep is one example of this, and—"

"And my mother and I are another," Weiss finished with a sinking feeling in her chest. "Tyrian not being able to affect me—it wasn't my semblance, it was just . . . me."

"It is not a guarantee that this is the case, but it is very plausible, I'm afraid," said Pietro. "I'm sorry, my dear."

"So even if I could inhibit my mother's semblance, it wouldn't stop her from resisting mine," Weiss said.

"The way a semblance inhibiting chamber works—" Penny started.

Pietro coughed. This one wasn't involuntary, but a warning.

"Right," Penny said. "To put it in simplest terms, the chamber creates an environment that—"

"—suppresses one's ability to activate their anomaly, be it subconsciously or consciously."

Weiss jumped. Caroline Cordovin's short height made her difficult to spot amongst all the other military personnel enjoying their dinner, allowing her to approach unnoticed.

Of course she was here right now.

"Director," Weiss said.

"Good evening," Cordovin said.

"Salutations," said Penny, polite though bemused.

"Good evening," Pietro said. "Caroline, wasn't it?"

"Director Cordovin will do," said Cordovin. "What an intriguing topic of conversation to be having over dinner."

Weiss had no food in front of her—a fact they were both aware of.

"May we help you?" Weiss asked.

"You may indeed, Miss Schnee," Cordovin said. "If you'll come with me, there are a number of things I wish to discuss before you leave again."

"Forgive me, Director, but I'm a little preoccupied at the moment."

"Oh? Your idle chatter regarding highly sensitive technology is more important than the CAB?"

"Yes, it is."

"Might I remind you, Miss Schnee, that you are still under probation. Cooperation is in your best interest if you wish to see your charges dropped." Her attitude toward Weiss was a stark contrast to when last they spoke. It would seem that Jacques was no longer the only exception in their "highly respected family".

"None of my charges have anything to do with your bureau, Director. Am I really your biggest concern right now? There are still escaped Little Sister convicts out there."

Cordovin smiled, a twinkle in her eye. "Ah, that there are, Miss Schnee. In fact, my intel tells me that you have a personal history with one of them."

Weiss tried not to let her confusion show. Maybe she'd meant Tyrian? No, Cordovin would have to know he was dead. But if not him, then . . .

Oh. Oh, no.

"You did attend high school and have a personal relationship with one Miss Blake Belladonna, did you not?" Cordovin said, her smile widening as Weiss's eyes did. "The very same co-founder of the so-called 'peaceful activist group', the White Flame, who got cold feet and turned whistleblower when the people she aligned herself with showed their true colors?"

"Adam Taurus?" Weiss said. "He's one of the escapees?"

Why was this the first time she was hearing about this?

"Indeed," said Cordovin. "Please answer the question, Miss Schnee."

"I— Yes, I was friends with her. But I only ever met him a couple of times."

"And yet the mere mention of him brings you visible discomfort. You do wish to see him recaptured, yes?"

"Of course I do."

"Then I would ask, one more time, that you come with me and answer my questions."

"I promise I know just about as much as you do."

"That will be for me to decide."

Weiss shifted uncomfortably. She looked at Penny and Pietro, both of whom were confused. Weiss had come here to get answers, not give them.

"Who is Adam Taurus?" Penny said.

"A very bad man indeed, young Miss Polendina," Cordovin said. "But rest assured that he will be apprehended post haste. Now. Miss Schnee?"

"Fine," Weiss relented. "Please just give me a couple more minutes and I'll meet you outside."

"I would like to get this done quickly. My time is a valuable thing, Miss Schnee."

"As is his." Weiss gestured to Pietro. "Dr. Polendina is here as General Ironwood's personal guest, and I would hate to have bothered him for nothing."

"Please," Pietro said. "There is no—"

"And what exactly is it that is so important for you to discuss with the General's esteemed guest?" Caroline asked, ignoring him. "I can't imagine what business a civilian has discussing anomaly suppressing technology with the man who invented it."

"With all due respect, Director," Weiss said, "that is none of your concern."

"Is that so? I would hate to learn that you are up to anything untoward."

No you wouldn't, Weiss thought.

"I've already agreed to answer your questions," Weiss said. "I can still change my mind. You can either wait a few minutes for me to finish my conversation with Dr. Polendina, or however long it takes you to get a warrant."

Cordovin leveled a steely gaze at her, still with that fake smile plastered on her face. Finally, with excessive enunciation of each word, she said, "So be it."

"My humblest thanks," Weiss said, barely even trying to veil the sarcasm.

"Dr. Polendina. Miss Polendina. It has been a pleasure." Cordovin turned and marched off.

Weiss breathed a sigh of relief. She would probably come to regret this small victory at some point, but she couldn't bring herself to care right now. She'd already made herself an enemy of Cordovin the second she and Ruby had barged out of that tower. There were much more important things on her mind.

"That woman did not seem very nice," Penny commented.

"She isn't," said Weiss. "She's prejudiced against paragons while also heading the branch of government that oversees paragons and semblances."

Penny frowned. "Well that does not make any sense."

Weiss gave a hollow laugh, unsure how to explain it to her.

"We were discussing your mother?" Pietro said.

"Yes," Weiss said. "Thank you. I guess I just have to ask—if inhibiting her semblance won't bypass her immunity to mine, then . . . what can I do? Is there anything you might know that could help her?"

"I really can't say for sure, my dear." Pietro pulled a cloth from his breast pocket and used it to wipe his glasses, a troubled look on his face. "I . . . There's research. Not my own. I would need to find it. The person who would be of most help is no longer with us."

"What does that mean?"

He shook his head, perching his glasses back onto his nose. "I'm sorry. I can't give you the knowledge you're after. Not now. I will have to look into this, but it will take time."

"You would do that for me?"

He placed his hand on top of Penny's where it sat on the table, a sad smile on his face. "Of course. I know your pain all too well."

Penny met her eyes and nodded, and Weiss felt hope begin to blossom from where it had been shattered earlier.

"Can I just ask—what is it about me?"

"I thought I—"

"Just humor me. Please. I need to know."

Ruby sighed. "I don't know. It's not like I asked to fall in love with my straight best friend."

"Love?"

Ruby shrugged. "Yeah. I don't . . . I mean, I guess it's just the same reasons we're friends in the first place, right? You care about me way more than I deserve and, despite all I put you through, you still stick by me and do your best to keep me in check. You can be sweet when it matters most, and even when you yell at me I know your heart's in the right place. Really, you saved my life way before I ever saved yours.

"And, beyond that . . . You're cute when you get fired up, and you're so ridiculously pretty it's kind of unfair, to be honest."

Ruby was up ahead at the foot of Pyrrha's statue, waving as Weiss approached. Seeing her brought the memory to the forefront of Weiss's mind, and she felt her cheeks growing as hot as they had then. She still wasn't sure why she'd asked, or if she was better off now that she'd gotten her answer.

That was the better part of the memory that came to her—the good better than the bad. It was the latter half of the first conversation they'd shared the morning after the kiss, right before they'd flown back to Vale and Weiss had gone back to Atlas without her. Despite the unexpected hurdle in their friendship, Weiss was glad to see her, and a happy present triggered happier memories.

Happier, but not quite happy, in this instance. As nice as it was to be showered with compliments, they'd come from a problematic place. They'd come after the worse part of the conversation, where Ruby insisted on pretending the kiss never happened and on dealing with her feelings alone.

"Look. It's out there, now, alright? You know. There isn't really anything else to say."

"Ruby—"

"There isn't! I needed to tell you because there's no way I could ever move past this if I kept it bottled up forever. Now you know, so we can go back to acting like everything's normal, and . . . eventually, it will be."

Weiss wasn't satisfied with that in the least, but the stupid girl had refused to let her get a word in edgewise. The thing is, what could she even have said if Ruby wasn't so stubborn? Ruby had a point in saying that anything Weiss did would only make matters worse. Psych degree or not, the person you're in love with isn't exactly the best person to tell you how to fall out of love with them.

Still. Weiss knew Ruby. She'd seen over and over again how Ruby dealt with her emotions. It was the source of ninety percent of their problems. And Weiss had to sit back and let her deal with this by herself, leaving the fate of their friendship in her hands alone?

"Fine. But just promise me that you'll talk to someone else if you won't talk to me. Your sister— Or Blake. Penny. Jaune, whenever he gets released. Anyone."

"Okay. I promise."

"Do you really mean that?"

"Yes. I said I promise. And I did already talk to Whitley—"

"Excuse me?"

"I had time to kill and was kind of losing my mind, so I thought I'd stop by—ask how he was and maybe pick his brain on the Skeleton Key or something."

"And that led to you talking to my brother about me?"

"Well, he called me out, and I guess I just needed to get it off my chest."

Whitley giving love advice. The thought could make Weiss laugh if she didn't feel so helpless.

"Hey," Ruby said. She had her old red hoodie on, unzipped with a t-shirt underneath and simple black leggings.

Weiss took great pride and care in making herself as presentable as befits the Schnee name. Yet Ruby could look that cute with so little effort, and she had the nerve to say it was unfair how pretty Weiss was?

"I got your message," Ruby said. "I'm so sorry. What happened?"

Weiss stopped a few feet away from her, staring up at Pyrrha's face as she waited for the heat to leave her own—it was pretty easy now that her mother was back at the forefront of her mind.

"I asked Dr. Polendina," she said. "He thinks my immunity is separate from my semblance, similar to your resistance to tiredness. So when I used the inhibitor . . . nothing changed."

"I'm so sorry," Ruby said again.

Weiss took her eyes off the statue to meet Ruby's, and she found her words catching her throat.

Confound her, Weiss thought. She was doing so well up until now.

Weiss swallowed and looked away. "Everything's fine. This isn't new."

Ruby took a step forward, then she stopped herself. Weiss wished she hadn't, but was thankful that she did.

"Dr. Polendina told me he'd get in touch after the Festival is over," Weiss said. "He just needs time to look into it, and he might be able to come up with new ideas."

"Really? That's amazing."

"It is. I—" Weiss paused as she caught a glimpse of the tremor in Ruby's injured hand as she stuffed it in her pocket. "We're fortunate to have met them both when we did."

Ruby nodded. She took a few steps forward and turned toward the statue, now standing beside Weiss rather than facing her. It made it easier for Weiss to fight down that lump that had formed in her throat after one sympathetic look from Ruby—a knowing look from someone who well and truly understood what Weiss was going through.

"I keep thinking about that question he asked us," Ruby said. "About legacy."

Weiss glanced at her and saw that her gaze was on the plaque rather than the statue itself—the plaque engraved with the same quote Dr. Polendina had recited to them.

"What do you think he meant by it?" Ruby asked.

"We all nearly died in a plane crash together," Weiss said. "I assumed it was his way of seeing how we were coping."

"Maybe," Ruby said, unconvinced. "Have you figured it out yet? Your answer, I mean?"

"What do you think?" Weiss said bluntly.

Ruby was silent long enough that Weiss thought she was going to let the subject die, until she said, "You know, I still think it could be him."

"What could be him?"

Ruby nodded toward the statue. "The friend of the Protector. He wasn't the one who broke us out, but someone made Pyrrha's armor. And the inhibitors."

"Don't be stupid, Ruby."

"Jaune told us Pyrrha traveled abroad after high school. Who's to say she didn't—?"

"We've got next to nothing supporting that."

After a pause, Ruby said, "Yeah, fine. Just a hunch, I guess."

"Let's just go. We're—" Weiss reached for her pocket to check the time, but there was no scroll there—Watts had destroyed it. "I don't even know if we're late."

"Sure." Ruby let her gaze linger on the statue for a moment longer before starting toward City Hall's entrance. As Weiss fell into stride beside her, Ruby glanced over her shoulder at the parked rental van Weiss had arrived in. "How's she taking it? And Whitley?"

If there was one thing all Schnees were good at, it was putting up a front. Despite that, Weiss had seen it in their eyes as they each had their turn comforting her. They'd had their reservations, but Weiss had gotten their hopes up, even if just a little bit.

"Worse than I thought," Weiss said, her guilt preventing her from expanding any further on that. "Let's not keep the mayor waiting."

A/N: Credit to my beta readers, I Write Big and Bardothren. They're great readers whose feedback has been a huge help with making this story as great as it can be.

It was a far longer hiatus than I expected, but I'm finally back with Volume 3 and I'm really excited for you all to see what I have in store. Thank you to everyone for your patience.