"You've got really pretty hair," the cab driver said.

"Thank you," Weiss said with a polite smile that the cabbie did not see from the front seat.

"Where'd you get it dyed?"

"I didn't."

The driver glanced at her through the rear-view mirror. "You mean it's naturally white?"

"Of course. It's genetic."

"Then you must be . . ."

"Must be what?"

"Never mind."

The taxi rolled to a stop at a red light. It was a busy intersection, as city hall was right there. The building seemed to draw a lot of attention, even from people who had no business inside. Even now, people still took extra time to pass by the metal statue standing in front of it before continuing on their way.

It depicted a woman with a shield on her back, a sword in her hand, and a helmet tucked under her free arm. She looked as if she was standing guard. The mechanical armor she wore was so intricately detailed you could be fooled into thinking it could come off. The silver surface glimmered in the afternoon sunlight, its reflective sheen showing how young it was. Passersby looked up mournfully at her face and some stopped to stare at the pedestal where a plaque was set. Weiss couldn't read the engraving from this distance. She'd been meaning to get a closer look at it since she first arrived in Vale, but still hadn't found the time.

The light turned green, and the statue vanished behind a building. Weiss turned her gaze away from the window and down to her scroll, where she pulled up a web browser and began mindlessly flicking through random news articles.

"You been in Vale long?" the cabbie asked.

"A few weeks," Weiss said.

"What do you think of the city?"

"It's . . . not Atlas."

"Is that a good thing?"

Weiss hesitated. "I'd rather not talk, if that's alright with you."

"Oh. Right." She said nothing more.

Weiss continued to stare at her scroll. The articles flashed before her eyes, disappearing off the top of the screen almost as soon as they appeared from the bottom. She wasn't expecting any of them to be worth reading, but one title did catch her interest—Mayor Ozpin Comments on Paragons and Vigilantism. She tapped on it.

Yesterday evening, Mayor Ozpin held a press conference where he was asked about the public's concerns regarding paragons and the danger they allegedly pose to our city. This is what the mayor had to say:

"Cleri gemmae natura, more widely referred to as paragons, are not inherently a threat. What too few people understand is that the majority of semblances are incapable of harming another human being. Those rare few paragons who possess potentially lethal semblances are carefully monitored and should not be met with scorn or fear; they are no more dangerous than those licensed to carry firearms. At the end of the day, we're all people—we're all equal—and deserve to be treated as such."

As the discussion on paragons progressed, it naturally veered toward vigilantism, another controversial topic among citizens of Vale. Many look to the example the Protector set and cheer on those who aim to follow in her footsteps. Others are far more wary of unknowns who aim to take the law into their own hands. Mayor Ozpin has never been shy about his views on that matter, as controversial as they are, and unsurprisingly had zero hesitation when sharing them here.

"It saddens me how often the debates on these two topics seem to overlap in the eyes of the public. Not every vigilante has a semblance, just as not every paragon aspires to be a vigilante. These are two entirely different discussions, and to make them out to be one and the same only brings us further away from reaching a common ground.

"But to answer your question, my stance remains unchanged. Vigilantes are criminals that jeopardize the very foundations of our justice system. I will always consider it a priority to take them into custody before they can bring harm to themselves or others. This city owes Pyrrha Nikos an unpayable debt—of that, there is no argument. And were she standing before me today, she'd receive my thanks as well as a pardon. But a line needs to be drawn between reality and fiction. Neither semblances nor access to advanced technology makes people superheroes. To assume that every vigilante will be the next Pyrrha Nikos would be frankly irresponsible and potentially disastrous. Putting on a mask and running around at night does not give you the right to ignore laws. Our police force is more than capable of fighting crime and apprehending even the most dangerous criminals, as was proven four days ago with the arrest of the terrorist, A . . .

Please subscribe to our newsletter to continue reading. For only 300 lien a month—

Weiss sighed and tucked her scroll back into her bag. There was a time when she wouldn't have thought twice about throwing in her credit card information to read the rest of the article, but that was in the past. The cab meter was already up to six hundred lien—a meager amount, but she was already regretting spending it. Even on a good day, Vale's traffic never made the choice to drive herself an easy one to make.

The taxi rolled to a stop on a residential street. There wasn't much activity here save for a group of men chatting on the opposite sidewalk, one eyeing Weiss as she stepped out of the vehicle. She turned her back to them, double-checking she had the right address before approaching the dingy apartment building in front of her. She knew before she even pressed the buzzer that it'd have no elevator, and was quickly proven right upon entering the building. Her client lived on the third floor, so it wasn't the longest climb, but it was still annoying.

Her knuckles knocked on the door, only a couple of minutes early. A tall, blonde man who looked around her age answered. His blue eyes, a darker shade than her own, lingered on her snow-white hair, currently tied back in a long braid.

"Jaune Arc?" Weiss said.

The man nodded. "You're the psychotherapist?"

"I am, for lack of a better term."

She held out a card toward him. He stared at it only long enough to see her name, then motioned for her to follow him inside. She hesitated before putting the card away; people usually like to examine it more thoroughly.

Weiss closed the door behind her once she was over the threshold. She wasn't too surprised by the state of the apartment. Trash was strewn about, the sink was filled with plastic dishes, and what few framed photographs he owned were lying face down. Judging by the papers, textbooks, and broken pencils scattered all over the tables and floor, she guessed he was a student.

"Something to drink?" Jaune offered, staring into the fridge.

Weiss's eyes roved over two dusty glasses in a cabinet that had been left ajar. "No, thank you. Is there . . . somewhere we can sit?"

Jaune closed the fridge without having taken anything from it, then had the decency to look sheepish. "Oh, right. Sorry."

He cleared off his small dining table before pulling out a chair for her. Weiss only sat down after taking a few seconds to ensure there was no refuse on it. She pulled a pen and pad from her bag and set it in front of her, staring at Jaune as he sat down at the other end of the table. He tried to put on an at least somewhat warm demeanor, but it was a half-hearted attempt.

"So, in your email, you said you have depression and PTSD?" said Weiss.

Jaune nodded.

"Has that been professionally diagnosed?"

"No."

She picked up her pen and pad. "How long have you been experiencing symptoms?"

Jaune hesitated. "Two years."

She wrote it down. "Major depressive disorder doesn't typically last that long, so it's more likely to be dysthymia. Less severe, but longer lasting"

He didn't say anything.

"What—?"

"How long is this going to take?" he interrupted.

Weiss pursed her lips. "I suppose that's up to you. I work more effectively when I have a proper understanding of exactly what it is I'm dealing with. If it's acceptable to you, I'd like to ask a few questions—"

"It's not. Can't you just . . . wave your hands and get it over with?"

"It's a lot more complicated than that," she said, annoyed. "But if you insist, I can try it now, though I can't guarantee success."

"Do it," he said. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Please."

"Fine." Weiss put the pad away and held out her hand. "I need to touch your forehead."

He didn't question it. He leaned forward and closed his eyes, braced as if expecting pain. Weiss placed her fingers above his brow, took a deep breath, and felt her eyes roll back into her head.

She was on her feet now. The apartment was gone, as was Jaune. Trees towered above her, and dry leaves littered the ground beneath her feet. A dark sky loomed overhead, a shattered moon shining brightly. But this forest, vivid though it was, wasn't quite right. The ground was stiff beneath her feet, not quite malleable like dirt should be. The trees had an unnatural uniformity to them. Even Weiss's own hand, which was reaching to her waist for the hilt of a silver rapier, lacked texture and detail.

"Forever Fall," she muttered, surprised. It was typically the Emerald Forest that she saw in a person's mind.

Her blade drawn and held at the ready, Weiss waited. She took slow, measured movements, examining her surroundings and listening carefully. She saw nothing, heard nothing. With caution, she began to follow the stars north.

Weiss had only had one previous depression case. It'd been a boy, fifteen, with scars along his arms. His condition had been clinical and taken the form of an Apathy—slender, skeletal Grimm with glowing red eyes, long claws, and a piercing screech that drains the energy out of a person. Weiss wasn't sure if dysthymia would be any different, and PTSD was something she'd never treated before. A lot of unknowns. She really wished she could've gotten more information out of Jaune before coming in here.

A twig snapped under her foot. At that exact moment, the ground vibrated, so briefly and faintly she almost missed it. Off in the distance, a flock of birds rose from the trees. Picking up the pace, Weiss headed in that direction. Every few seconds, she could feel another tremor, carrying more force the further she moved. Eventually, she could hear their source—large, muffled clops.

Weiss came out into a glade and found her adversary towering over her. She'd guessed what it would be before she even saw it. It was a tar-black figure, decorated with pieces of bone, and glowering in her direction with two sets of glowing red eyes. At first glance, you might confuse it for a man riding a horse, but the "man" had no lower body and was fused to the horse's back. The slender humanoid had very long arms ending in claws, dragging along the ground behind it. It had a devilish face and a bone mask with curved horns. The horse's mane was black smoke and its rib cage was exposed. It was one creature, not a centaur, but much more terrifying—Nuckelavee.

Without warning, one of its hands shot out, the arm stretching beyond its already great length to reach her. With faster reactions and greater agility than she could ever have achieved in the real world, Weiss rolled out of the way. She didn't need rigorous training and muscle memory in here; in here, she was a warrior.

She avoided the second hand with a backward somersault, then darted forward and thrust her blade into its wrist. The horse reared and the humanoid let out a blood-curdling scream, withdrawing its arms for another attack. The beast charged toward her, and she dodged at the last second, sending a strike into its flank. Then an arm came down and sent her flying back. Weiss landed on her feet and took a stance, ready to evade the next attack. But as the other arm came flying toward her, another screech brought her to her knees.

This one was different, and it didn't come from the creature in front of her. It was higher-pitched, less croaky. Instead of being deafeningly loud, this one reverberated around Weiss's head, as if it was seeping directly into her soul, draining her. A ringing filled her ears and her limbs grew heavy. The Nuckelavee's hand grabbed her with no resistance and flung her across the clearing, her back slamming against a tree. She felt too weak to even cry out.

As she slowly began to recover from this attack, the ringing began to lessen. She heard the hooves clopping against the dirt, and rustling coming from several directions, like many pairs of legs trudging through the fallen leaves. And when Weiss looked up, she saw a scene straight out of a nightmare. Dysthymia didn't take the form of an Apathy—it took the form of a pack of Apathy.

As soon as she could manage it, Weiss struggled to her feet, turned, and ran. The Apathy screamed again, but Weiss had sheathed her rapier and stuffed her fingers into her ears. The sound, fainter, still slowed her down, but not enough to cripple her. She continued to run, determined to put as much distance as possible between herself and the Grimm. She needed to take some time to regain her wits and think of a strategy to separate the creatures—there was no way she could take them all on at once.

Up ahead she saw a hilly region covered in rocks and boulders. She tried to spot if there were any caves near it, which would make a good refuge, but couldn't tell from this distance. Still, a vantage point would be better than nothing. The Apathy shrieked again, but she could barely hear them now.

Before she could reach the hills, she heard something she'd never heard before within one of these incursions—voices. Weiss skidded to a halt and turned toward them. The sound was coming from a window, floating in midair. On the other side of the glass was a single face—a face identical to that of the statue in front of the City Hall.

"Jaune. I want—"

Weiss didn't get to hear what she wanted. She was so shocked that she stumbled back and fell, but never hit the ground. The artificial world swirled around her and faded into nothingness, and she was back in Jaune's apartment. Her hand fell to the table from where it'd been touching his forehead, and she was sweating.

"P-Pyrrha," Weiss stammered with the same breath she'd inhaled before going in.

The color drained from his face. "What?"

"That was Pyrrha Nikos. You knew her?"

He gripped the edge of the table, his nails trying to dig into the wood. "You read my mind?"

"No!" Weiss said, struggling to process what she'd seen. Her semblance allowed her to heal people's minds, nothing more. Her mother's semblance allowed her to heal people's minds, nothing more. Why should it change now? "I-I don't . . ."

"What did you see?" Jaune asked.

"Nothing. Just her face. And . . . she said your name. That's all. I'm sorry, I didn't— I wasn't trying to see anything."

"Get out."

"Excuse me?"

"Get out!" His chair clattered onto its back behind him as he pushed himself to his feet.

Weiss did not cower under his fury. As affronted as she was, she'd invaded his privacy, unintentional though it may have been. There was enough guilt in that to suppress her compulsion to lash back. She also wanted to try again, to not let this end in a failure, but it was clear that offering to do so wouldn't go over well. With regret, she collected her bag, stood, and left while her dignity was still intact.

The heavy clacking of Weiss's heels echoed off the walls as she stormed down the staircase. That had been the first of only two contracts she had lined up for this week, halving her expected income. Almost worse than that was that she knew she could have done it. She could have slain that Nuckelavee and those Apathy. She'd just needed more time—a second chance. Instead, she walked away with no payment, no new insight, and more questions.

She wanted to resent Jaune for how he'd reacted. It'd be easier, but it wouldn't be fair. It was her semblance that deserved her ire. Why did it have to evolve now, so long after she first discovered it and so early into her attempt to build a career out of it? Why did it have to evolve in that way? It was already difficult enough to find people willing to pay her to poke around in their minds, and it'd only become more so if potential clients knew she could see their memories—their pasts and secrets.

She couldn't exactly hide it, either. It was a crime to not report something like this to the Civil Anomaly Bureau. As soon as she did, they'd issue her an updated paragon registration with her new "ability" printed clear as day. And her clients wouldn't all be like Jaune Arc who only spared the card a single glance.

"See? I told you it wasn't blonde. That's gotta be one."

"Probably his daughter, I think."

The words snaked their way into Weiss's ears. She was surprised to find herself already outside, too preoccupied with her thoughts to pay attention to where she was walking or to hail a cab. Across the street, the group of men from before hadn't moved and were all staring at her now. Their gazes were not curious, friendly, or even salacious—they stared with resentment, malice. She tried to ignore them, continue on her way, but they weren't about to let her get away that easy.

"Hey!" one of the men called after her as they began to jaywalk toward her.

She quickened her gait, hoping to find a crowd of people to blend into, but there was no one. And then they were on her. Rough hands whipped her around and then pinned her shoulders to the wall.

"Not very polite to ignore people, Miss Schnee." Profound loathing etched itself on a face covered in scars. Behind him, three other thugs watched her with just as much animosity in their eyes.

"I'm sorry," Weiss said with as much calmness in her voice as she could muster. "I didn't realize you were talking to me."

One of the men took an exaggerated look around at the empty sidewalk. "Who else would we be talking to?"

"If you don't let me go—"

"You'll what?" said the scarred man. "Daddy's not around no more to keep you out of trouble, now is he?"

"I am—"

"You're nothing!" he spat.

Weiss flinched.

"You're nothing but the spoiled brat of a bastard has-been."

"What do you want from me? My father's already in prison. Is that not enough for you?"

He smacked her, his other hand still pressing her shoulder into the wall. She heard chuckles from the others. After Weiss blinked away the pain, she saw the scarred man had drawn out a knife. The others were excited, making suggestions about what to do with it. Weiss couldn't even tell if they shared the scarred man's specific disdain for her, or if they just reveled in the opportunity to dominate a defenseless woman.

Her eyes focused on the clean, razor-sharp blade as the rest of her courage left her. Her hands shook, and she felt the impulse to reach toward her hip. She couldn't even if it mattered. There was no rapier there. She wasn't a warrior. She was just a paragon with a semblance that could do little more than aggravate her attackers.

The scarred man gently touched the tip of the knife to her forehead. "My face ain't pretty as pretty as yours, is it? Got any idea what happened?"

Weiss said nothing.

"I worked for the STC, see? Me and my brother were on the assembly line. 'Til one day a machine malfunctioned, killed my brother, and left me with this ugly mug. An' you know what your daddy did? He paid Ronnie's funeral to cover his own ass, left me drowning in medical bills, and he fuckin' fired me!"

Weiss chose not to say the words that had almost reached her lips—that she was no more a fan of Jacques Schnee's than he was; that her life had also been ruined by her father's actions; that she was also missing a brother because of him. But she knew how little that information would help her current situation.

"So no," he said. "I don't think prison's quite enough. Not by a long shot."

"I'm sorr—ah!" Her apology was literally cut short. Her knee came up of its own accord, right between the man's legs. The pressure lifted off her shoulder, and her hands came up to her left eye. Her face was searing in pain, a warm fluid running down it.

"Bitch!" The scarred man growled from the ground, his voice an octave higher than before.

One of the others helped him to his feet while the other two closed in, blocking her from running.

"It's not easy down here in the mud with all us peasants, is it?" one said. "One scar won't do, I think."

Scar smiled malevolently, though the effect was hampered by his awkward, bow-legged stance. "I think you're right. How 'bout I keep going 'till your pretty face starts looking a lot more like mine?" He raised the knife again and took another step forward. A car drove by, gone before Weiss could even think to call out to the driver oblivious to her situation.

Thunk!

From the sky an armored figure landed, cracking the asphalt under their boots. The four men whipped around to stare down the tip of a sword leveled in their direction.

"But . . . Y-you're dead!" one of the thugs sputtered when the shock wore off.

"Legends never die," said the figure with a digitally distorted voice. They were full-clad in high-tech armor, a shield strapped to one arm and a helmet hiding their face. Not an inch of skin was visible. It was the same gear sculpted on the statue.

The three goons tried to run, but the Protector was already on top of them. The sword swept two off their feet, and the shield slammed another against the building. Then three ropes sprang from the vigilante's belt to bind them completely. The armored hero turned back to Weiss to see that the scarred man hadn't tried to run—he was holding Weiss in front of him with the knife to her neck. She struggled to pull his arm away from her while also trying to blink the blood out of her eye, but he was too strong.

The vigilante pointed the sword in their direction.

"Stay back!" The scarred man shouted, his voice a mix of anger and fear. "I'll kill her! The whore has it coming!"

The knife was ripped from Scar's grasp. Weiss couldn't see how it happened as he collapsed on top of her in his attempt to keep hold of it. She heard a heavy object drop, and a second later, she felt her assailant's weight lift off of her, shortly followed by a hard thud. Weiss pushed herself to her knees and clutched her bleeding eye again. She looked up and saw all four men bound next to each other, their mouths taped over. The vigilante's sword was lying on the ground next to her, a thin cord connecting the tip of the blade to Scar's knife. An armored hand reached down and picked it up. The cord detached from the knife and reeled back into the sword.

"Thank you," Weiss said, staring up at her savior.

"Paramedic's on the way," was their only response. Then, with an impossible leap, the mysterious stranger caught the edge of the nearest roof and pulled themself up, vanishing from sight.

Weiss hated hospitals. The incessant beeping, that distinct smell in the air, and the way the taste of tongue depressors lingered in her mouth even without one having come anywhere near her. It was all so familiar that she might have been a child again, visiting her sickly grandfather with her mother and siblings back in Atlas. And the way everything was so perfectly clean and pristine also reminded her of the old family manor. It was unnerving how this building she'd never been in before was able to elicit so many unpleasant memories.

As she was lying in bed, watching an old sitcom that she didn't quite see the appeal of for lack of anything better to do, the door to her room opened. From the corner of her eye, she saw someone dressed in white enter. She assumed it was a hospital worker, so paid her no mind.

"Weiss." The voice was so uncharacteristically soft that Weiss almost didn't recognize it. When she did, her head snapped toward the speaker to find not a nurse, but her older sister looking down at her.

She had the same white hair as Weiss, tied back into a bun, and wore a soldier's uniform. Weiss was too surprised to say anything right away. And before she got the chance, Winter descended on her and embraced her in a tight hug. Two seconds later, Weiss hugged her back. Her lip quivered, but despite her jumbled, painkiller-addled mind, she didn't cry.

It was a full minute before Winter pulled away. She tried to resume her usual professional demeanor, but the concern didn't disappear from her face.

"Why are you here?" Weiss asked.

"I'm still your emergency contact. Where else would I be?" Her tone was back to being strict and snappy, which made Weiss smile.

"But what about the military?"

"My sister was attacked. That is all that matters. Enough about me. How are you feeling?"

Weiss raised her fingers to her bandaged face. The eye itself was uninjured, but a deep gash ran in a neat line above and below it, currently sutured. "It stings."

"Of course it does. You know that isn't what I meant."

Weiss took a moment to think of her answer. She couldn't meet her sister's gaze as she said it in a small voice. "I don't think I've ever been so scared."

Winter sat down at Weiss's side and squeezed her hand. "Describe to me what happened."

Weiss almost refused, but then decided that it wasn't fair to leave her sister with a vague idea while the police had a detailed retelling. She started with exiting the apartment building, leaving out her failure of a contract and the evolution of her semblance, and stopped with the paramedics' arrival. When she was finished, she found she didn't feel any different. People say to talk about your problems, but that proved ineffective. She could still vividly recall the fear she'd felt, the vehement pounding of her heart as if it knew each beat could have been its last. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing she could delve into her own mind.

The hatred—that was the worst part. The way the scarred man's eyes bored into her with pure, unadulterated loathing. "The whore has it coming!" he'd said. She deserved this wound; she deserved worse. All because her hair was white.

"You should have run as soon as they began to approach you," Winter scolded.

"I was in heels!"

"Then you should have lied. You should have denied being a Schnee and said your hair is dyed."

"They wouldn't have believed me."

"You don't know that!"

Weiss bowed her head, ashamed. She could have done more. She shouldn't have needed a superhero to drop from the sky to save her. If the Protector of Vale, or whoever was wearing her armor, hadn't shown up . . . Weiss couldn't bring herself to complete the thought.

"You need to be more careful, Weiss," said Winter. "Your life's already difficult enough, being a paragon. You don't need the added challenges of being a Schnee. There are plenty of people unhappy with Father's sentence"

"Don't you think I know that?" Weiss snapped. "Haven't I just received a sharp reminder of that fact?"

Winter's rigid posture sagged, just a little bit. "It was your choice to move to Vale. I can't protect you here."

"I don't need your protection!" As she said it, her wound gave her a twinge of pain that made her wince. She scowled. "So what do you want me to do, exactly?"

Winter took a moment to reply. "I have to be on the next plane back to Atlas, but I want you to call me tomorrow. And you're to take some time to recover from your injury. That means to stay at home. Rest. You can get your groceries delivered."

"But I can't! I have another contract—"

"Then you'll reschedule. Ten days. I won't ask for more than that. I'll give you some money to get by."

"What? No! I can't let you do that."

"You can and you will! I've already covered your hospital bills. I know you're struggling. And without the family fortune, I'm your safety net, and I expect you to take advantage of that when needed. Understood?"

Weiss tried to fight her gaze, but she'd never been very good at that. "Understood."

Weiss had missed her sister a lot, yet she found the next half hour she had with her to be too long. And after Winter was gone, Weiss found herself wishing they'd had more time.

While staring through the muted TV, Weiss's scroll buzzed on the table beside her. She was surprised to see it was a message from her brother. She thought he'd have changed his number by now with how determined he'd been to distance himself after their father's arrest.

The message read: Hello, Sister. I'm sorry to hear what happened to you. I wish you a swift recovery. -Whitley

Weiss read it twice. It was a simple message, but a meaningful gesture. Perhaps he did care after all.

But how did he know? She stared at the door Winter had disappeared through. Had she told him? It didn't seem likely, but Weiss couldn't think of any other explanation. Whitley had ignored Weiss's few attempts to contact him. Why would he answer Winter, whom he hated?

It wasn't worth dwelling on. She responded to her brother with an equally simple thank you message and then pulled up her email. There was nothing new in her inbox. She tapped on the most recent thread so she could change the appointment. As she scrolled to the bottom, her eyes skimmed over the first two lines of the original email.

Patient: Ruby Rose

Disorder: Insomnia

A/N: Credit to my beta readers: Bardothren, I Write Big, and 0neWhoWanders. They're great writers who are a huge help with making this story as good as it can be.

If you'd rather read this story on AO3, you can find me over there as Pterygio.

The cover art was done by mmcmystery on Twitter. Please go check them out as they are an incredibly talented artist and were an absolute pleasure to work with.