Pyrrha woke up early the next morning, earlier than usual, before even the sun had finished rising. The streets of New York were still dark, silent save for the occasional car horn echoing between sleeping buildings. She sat at the edge of her bed with the same tense energy she used to feel before a tournament match. Pyrrha barely slept at all.

Weiss Schnee was here. Not in the same city, not even in the same country, but she was here. On Earth, singing songs Pyrrha remembered from Beacon, and wearing clothes tailored like she used to wear. She was still scarred and graceful.

She was still Weiss.

Pyrrha clutched her phone in both hands, the screen open to the same fanpage she'd fallen asleep to. A thousand fan posts, hundreds of photos, links to concerts, stylized animations, and dozens of captions written in too many languages for her to understand, but none of them told her what she needed to know.

No agency address, no contact email, no personal account. Just a wall of curated content and glittering PR that made the white-haired girl look more like a legend than someone real.

Pyrrha stared at the only tag that might lead her somewhere, @OfficialSchneeMusic. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard for several minutes. She had fought Grimm that moved faster than this.

Hello Weiss. It's Pyrrha Nikos. I don't know if you remember me, but we went to Beacon together. I'm here too. Please respond.

She read it again, and again, then deleted it.

She sounded too desperate.

She tried again.

Hey Weiss. I saw your performance, it was beautiful. I'm glad you're doing okay.

No. Too impersonal. It sounded like she was a fan and not a long lost friend, not someone who'd fought and bled and died for the same world.

Weiss. It's Pyrrha. From Beacon.

Pyrrha stared at that one the longest. Her fingers hovered over the send button. Just three short sentences, short enough to be ignored. Short enough to disappear into the ocean of comments and digital noise, but also short enough to maybe get through. If Weiss saw it, if she remembered, if she believed.

Send.

Pyrrha's heart dropped the moment her finger tapped the screen. She stared, waiting for a sign. A notification, a read receipt, anything.

Nothing.

She refreshed the page and waited and waited even longer.

The post disappeared into the void.

She tried again later that day, this time messaging every official-looking email address listed under Weiss's music label. All of her messages bounced.

Blocked domains. Auto-responses only. This inbox is not monitored.

Even when she tried sending a message through a fan site's "submit your letter to Weiss!" page, it redirected her to a payment portal. A letter would be printed on decorative card stock, for a small fee of $39.99.

"Of course." Pyrrha whispered, bitterly amused.

Pyrrha even downloaded a social media app that Cathleen had sworn was "what all the kids are using," despite her own account having zero posts. She tried tagging Weiss there too.

Still nothing. Pyrrha's notifications were drowned under algorithmic sludge and aggressive sponsorships for skincare products she didn't use.

She tried watching more live concert videos that night, hoping Weiss would say something, mention anything, anything from Beacon.

But Weiss never did. She talked about studio lights, about writing music, about Tokyo and train rides and how much she loved ice cream.

Not a single word about Dust, or swords, or about the sister.

Nor anyone from her past.

Pyrrha closed her laptop at midnight and leaned back against her pillow, her red hoodie still wrapped around her like armor. The videos had blurred together, dozens of Weiss', all smiling into cameras, all laughing, all just a little too bright. A little too clean.

It was like she had scrubbed Remnant off her skin.

"I don't get it." Pyrrha said aloud, even though no one was around to hear her. "Why won't you answer me?"

The question wasn't angry. Just, small, it made her feel small. Like a little girl waiting at the wrong train station for a ride that would never come. She pulled her legs close to her chest, tucking her chin down. It was easier than sitting up straight, easier than being hopeful.

Maybe Weiss didn't remember her, or maybe she was trying to move on. Maybe she'd changed in this world too, perhaps the Weiss on stage, surrounded by lights and fans and magazines, really was someone else now.

Someone who had buried the past.

Pyrrha closed her eyes and breathed through her nose. She wasn't going to give up.

But she did cry again, quietly, this time, without the strength to stop it.

The smell of Chinese takeout drifted through the apartment, heavy with the scent of fried rice, dumplings, and sweet and sour chicken. Cathleen whistled to herself as she nudged the door open with her shoulder, her arms full with two overloaded paper bags and a six-pack of imported soda. She didn't usually go all out, but this was a special case.

She still hadn't stopped smiling since last night.

"Pyrrha?" She called, toeing off her boots by the door. "I brought dumplings and egg rolls and get this, deep fried cheesecake. You really can fry anything!"

Still no answer.

Cathleen frowned slightly. She had expected an eager shout from the bedroom, maybe the sound of someone tripping over herself trying to get to the kitchen. Not silence.

She carried the bags into the kitchen, unloading their contents with practiced ease. "Hey, Kid?" She tried again, softer this time.

Still nothing.

Something was wrong.

Cathleen crossed the apartment in three long strides, gently tapping her knuckles against Pyrrha's door. "You good?"

"...I'm fine." Was the reply, it wasn't even a lie. Not really, but it wasn't the voice of someone who was fine, either.

Cathleen opened the door anyway.

Pyrrha sat at the edge of her bed, still dressed in the same hoodie from the night before. Her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail that had mostly come undone. She was clutching her phone like it was a lifeline, but the screen was dark.

She didn't look up.

Cathleen shut the door behind her and leaned against it, arms crossed.

"So," She said casually, "you wanna tell me what's got your soul halfway sucked out your nose, or do I have to guess?"

Pyrrha didn't laugh, she didn't even crack a smile.

That was when Cathleen dropped the humor.

She crossed the room and sat beside her, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal.

"Talk to me Piera." Cathleen gave her a small smile.

Pyrrha's voice cracked when she finally spoke. "She didn't answer."

Cathleen waited.

"I tried everything! Her agency, her website, social media. I even paid some guy online twenty dollars to forward a message." A weak, bitter laugh escaped her lips. "Guess what happened?"

Cathleen blinked. "Let me guess. He blocked you?"

"He sent me a picture of his cat wearing a hat and then disappeared." Pyrrha released a sigh.

Cathleen exhaled through her nose. "God, people are garbage."

"I don't get it." Pyrrha whispered. Her voice was small again, fragile in a way that had nothing to do with her age. "Why wouldn't she answer? Doesn't she remember me?"

"I'd remember you," Cathleen said, without a beat of hesitation.

Pyrrha looked at her, surprised.

Cathleen shrugged. "You made a mark on my life in less than a year, Pyrrha. If this Weiss person spent even half the time with you you've told me about, she remembers. Maybe she just hasn't seen your messages? She does have thousands of fans."

"But if she did see it, then why-" Pyrrha started, her thoughts dark.

"Because people deal with pain in different ways." Cathleen's voice was steady, heavy with something more serious than her usual bluster. "Some people face it head-on, like you. Some people charge into a burning building, and others? They shut everything out, they move on because it hurts too much to look back."

Pyrrha looked down at her lap. "But I don't want to be forgotten."

"You're not." Cathleen bumped the redhead's shoulder with her own.

"I just thought…" Pyrrha trailed off, holding back tears again. "I thought maybe if I could see her, if she remembered Beacon, or Jaune, or even just one song, I'd know I wasn't alone."

Cathleen's hand came down gently on her shoulder. It was a big hand, warm, solid, the kind that made Pyrrha feel small but safe.

"You're not alone," Cathleen said. "You've got me, and I'm not going anywhere."

Pyrrha let out a breath that shuddered as it left her lips. "I know."

Cathleen gave her a moment to breathe, then added, "Now, I brought enough Chinese food to kill a mid-sized villain. You're gonna help me make a dent in it, or I swear to God I'm calling in backup."

Pyrrha smiled, small, but real. "You mean the backup that got beat up by three drunk college kids last week?"

"They were in sports jackets, Pyrrha. That's like armor for frat boys. Totally unfair." Cathleen teased.

She laughed then, a real laugh and not one of those fake ones Pyrrha used when she was uncomfortable. It was short and weak and a little teary, but it was real.

Cathleen stood up and offered her a hand. "Come on, food now. Existential dread later. We'll keep trying until this Weiss girl answers, or we'll go to Japan ourselves!"

Pyrrha took her hand with a small smile. "Thanks, Cathleen."

"Don't thank me yet." The World's Strongest Woman said with a grin. "You haven't tried the cheesecake."

A/N

Sorry this took too long! I'm on a roll with all these story updates