Chapter Text
Rain fell hard that, even with the umbrellas, everyone gathered at the funeral was soaking wet. The young son, a child that had yet to reach puberty, so used to having one of his parents shield him from the rain, had no protection from the elements this time. With his pale skin, you would think he was ill. But the crimson red eyes marked him as something other in the eyes of Mistral. This boy was Vance Dracul, third of his name, and he just had to bury his parents.
It was a private affair despite the number of people around, housed within their own estate, for Dracul was an old name, stripped of their noble titles some generations ago. Vance's parents were put in a mausoleum within the confines of their land, walled off from the rest of the common citizenry. To put them anywhere else was to risk vandals destroying the memory of good people born from a bad lineage. The only ones gathered here were the guilt-ridden faces of the estate servants, guilty that they failed to serve and protect their kind employers. None of them left until Vance himself would give an order; he was to take over the estate's affairs, but he was too young and no child should ever shoulder such responsibility this soon.
Puddle splashes were heard as an old man approached the young Vance from behind. His stern face but gentle hands were familiar to the young boy. "Uncle?" Vance asked, "what are you doing here?"
"I wouldn't be your uncle if I didn't come, boy," he replied, "my own son loved you like a brother and your parents loved him like he was their own son. I'd be remiss if I did not take you in as my own. I cannot take their place, but they'd not want you to be alone, not at this age."
Little Vance turned back to the mausoleum. He shook his head repeatedly. Sniffing and trembling, but not because of the cold, Vance fell to his knees, sobbing. "It's my fault. It's all my fault. If I didn't, then… then…"
"Boy." His uncle, Dr. Van Helsing, got to one knee. "You're a good kid, and your parents raised you well. You cared for your servants so much that you gave them the night off. It took you this long to learn the harsh truth about Mistral. And for that, your parents did an amazing job keeping you safe." From behind them, another doctor felt the weight of guilt.
"But isn't that all in the past? Why does great-great-grandmother still have sway when the Great War was ages ago. Why must we suffer for what Carmine Dracul did?"
"Mistral holds tradition longer than most; they hold the past to never forget, even when doing so means compromising their own future. Your parents understood that and still made it their mission to do the impossible: to give you a better chance of a better tomorrow."
Vance wiped the tears from his eyes, lips still trembling. "What about the huntsmen? Nobody hates them; they fight Grimm, don't they?"
"Not always." Dr. Van shook his head. "Sometimes, you deal with criminals, some of them being other huntsmen. But for the most part, yes."
The young boy nodded. He turned around, head raised but still shaking from the cold rain. "I will be a huntsman. I'll finish what father and mother started." He sounded uncertain, uncomposed, unrefined, unconfident. At any moment, he would fall back down.
There was only silence that followed, sans the rain on the ground and on umbrellas. But one by one, they began to nod. Every servant here was chosen and cared for by Mr. and Mrs. Dracul. And the young boy would always find time to watch them work, took pleasure and amazement in seeing them immersed in their crafts. They will continue their service until the wish left behind would become reality.
For years, through private tutoring, Vance Dracul III went through training. Refining himself through the arts and science of combat and leadership. In that time, he had tried many weapons but none of those early ones had fit him in the slightest, too clunky, too heavy, not elegant. It was later that he managed to find a path that best fit him: a spear that could collapse into a sword. Over the course of his study, he discovered his semblance: Moonlight Mist. And he learned of the history of his family, a noble house, Count of Fair Verona.
To the loyal, Vance Dracul was shaping to be a great hero in their eyes, a noble of older days that had returned to bring back that honorable glory unto house Dracul. To the hateful, it was as though a monstrous Grimm had taken human form, with those red eyes and pale skin. But at the end of it all, it was still the same boy, one who would see to it that his parents' wishes would be fulfilled.
Soon enough, the time had come, and Vance Dracul had just received the letter from Mistral's Haven Academy. But when he read the contents, he wanted to tear it apart. He tried and tried, yet time and time again, he could not bring the name of Dracul outside of Carmine. "Even Haven?" he asked. "Why would they, Mr. Harker?"
"According to rumors," Mr. Harker, one of their newest hires, a lawyer, replied, "there was a last-minute application. Apparently, this Cinder Fall was quite exceptional that Headmaster Lionheart just had to accept her. I could not find any evidence that he was pressured to not accept your own."
He would have despaired in that moment. Everything that he had worked for was for this moment. And he was sure that his servants would march straight into Haven Academy. But Mr. Harker had given him another letter. Much like Haven, this too was a reply from a huntsman academy, but the seal was different. "Beacon of Vale?"
Mr. Harker nodded. "I suspect foul play but cannot prove it. I've taken the liberty to send copies of your application to the other kingdoms. Thus far, only Beacon has come back with this acceptance."
The last word took Vance's attention; he tore the envelope and read the letter inside. True enough, Beacon Academy had accepted him. But it did not bring him the joy that he expected. "Why must it have to be Vale?"
"If I may, Master Vance," Mr. Harker said, "perhaps this is the better option. Show Mistral they've made a mistake in rejecting your application. They will not admit it, but they will talk. Word has it that the competitor from Argus is also attending Beacon. Add yourself to that number and they will begin to ask why they're not worthy enough in our eyes."
Vance leaned back into his chair, face unreadable, mind contemplating. After a minute of silence, he said in a neutral tone: "very well. I shall leave the handling of the estate to godfather."
"Understood, Master Vance." Mr. Harker bowed.
A bit of a smile was on Vance's face. Not in front of him, or anyone else for that matter. "You are a good worker, Mr. Harker. But you work yourself too hard."
"Only doing my duties, sir."
"Do consider settling down sometime, you have done more than enough in your short time here. And I am certain that many of the maids here would accept your hand."
"If that is the Shepherd's Will, sir. But I must first focus on my duties."
Vance nodded. He already had his things prepared. But now, he had to make some changes; he'll need more clothes if he was to travel further. It was a setback, but one that he will make do with.
Beacon Academy. There, he will realize his parents' wishes.
/-/
Phospora Arsinoe sighed for the last time. Down below, the rest of them were celebrating at her sister's acceptance into Shade Academy. Phospora's sister was to go to the toughest academy across the four kingdoms, a sign that she was strong. And here in the kingdom of Vacuo, it was be strong or be left behind.
As for Phospora herself, besides the necessities, she brought with her all the things that was expected for a proper academy: books, notepads, pens, pencils, and the like. Hanging on the back of her hips were large gourds, filled with sand. Resting to the side of her is her staff, made of gold.
She was also accepted into an academy: Beacon Academy. But Vacuo valued strength above all others. To the people here, the tough dessert wastelands had supposedly shaped them into tougher, stronger, more capable individuals, while the other kingdoms had their luxuries and comforts; it made them weaker in Vacuo's eyes. Phospora had applied for Vacuo's Shade Academy but her family made a suggestion that she withdraw her application. It wouldn't do well if her weakness was shown and the rest would know of her affiliation with her more capable sister.
Phospora didn't need to reach far for anything; her room was smaller in space and had more things in them. It was a less a bedroom and more of a storage room that had a bed in it. Barely anything inside was her own. Most of it belonged to whomever didn't need it or had no other space in their own rooms. One would think that she was in a poor household. But the reality was that she never belonged there in the first place, and she treated that room as nothing more than a place to sleep, spending more time outside of it, in the library where she harnessed a strength of a different kind: her mind.
But few people, if at all, would have anything to do with reading. Oh, they'd read alright. But they'd be focused on the more practical things: strategies and combat. None of them found time for the arts, the very foundation of which this world of Remnant is founded on. No time for philosophies, for literature, for music, or anything that doesn't involve the hundred plus ways to kill of a Grimm with a rock. No. All they cared about is pure strength and power.
What good did it do to contemplate about their places in the universe when there is constant danger around. They cared more about survival and they never went further than that. The base desires for food, water, and shelter were the only things that mattered to these people. Even with the advancement of technology that made their lives easier; none of them cared for the higher things in live that really make one live. Instead, there was only survival, there was only the so-called harsh realities of chaos with little, if any around here, attempts at finding an order to it all. Had they bothered, they'd have easier lives by now.
That was what made Phospora separate from the others. She put time on it and in their eyes, it made her seem weak. Even with her semblance, a sand-based form of Geomancy, the capacity to command the sand that literary everywhere in the desert kingdom, she was still treated as weak, especially when put next to her sister, the stronger one, the more agile one, the more beautiful one.
When she walked down the stairs, nobody even noticed her presence, not even a passing glance. Phospora didn't leave behind a letter and quietly left the room. She already had her ticket with her as she walked her way towards the airship docks. She didn't bring much lien with her and time under that roof still meant that she was put into physical training; she walked the whole way instead of taking any form of transportation.
On the docks most of the others there were tourists, seeking these luxuries of the other kingdoms while others were returning home. Very few, if any, were from Vacuo looking for another home. Those that did were usually deemed too weak to handle Vacuo's harsher landscapes. The only one she recognized was a monkey faunus, and judging from his conversations, he was headed for Mistral, not Vale.
Phospora waited for her airship and when it came, she found her seat. She ignored everyone else, too focused on their own things just as she opened her book again and began to read. All the others had their own seats, their own companions. Their conversations nothing more than mundane nonsense that bore people like her.
They don't understand that it is people like her that really shape what was to come. It was marked in the histories; those that left a great impact, one that is really felt by all peoples, are those willing to put order. Those figures didn't merely understand the chaos, they fought against it, controlled it, and molded it to their will. The tale of Remnant's history is one marked by the ongoing order over the chaos. Each new discovery, technique, and invention would shape that which came after, making things easier, turning hardship into simplicity.
Vacuo was a kingdom that cared more for strength and power. Yet it falls behind to the other kingdoms in terms of quality education. Instead of admitting their faults, they believed that the other kingdoms are far too lax with their grades and that Vacuo is just that tough; those that excel are those that proved their worth beyond. Phospora would never grow past base desires if she remained here; she'll go elsewhere to reach that actualization she knew she was meant for.
She shook her head. Mindless brutes, all of them. She was glad to leave them all behind. She ignored the little tinged pain in her chest. She sighed; it would have been nice if they looked at her even once. She shook her head. They made their choice and she'll show them that there's more to it than that, and she'll have a chance to prove it soon, in Vale.
Beacon Academy. There, she will prove that brain beats brawn.
/-/
"Why me? Why spare me?" Marian Reed demanded. But she couldn't do anything, tied by her wrists, forced to watch the rest of her crewmates, even her own captain, tossed over the ship and sunk into the depths. "I don't got nothing for you, mate! We're bloody pirates, we don't got nothing!"
The huntsman standing before her, with a pegleg and a dangerous air about him, was Captain John Silver, the seafaring huntsman. Few huntsmen ever make it their profession to be at sea and Captain Silver had put himself at the top of it all, serving that niche and aid for any and many of the seafarers, striking fear to any pirate that were unfortunate enough to meet him on any water.
The man was rich, so much so. Marian and her crew? Hardly. They only had a few speedboats and the ship was their latest addition; it wasn't even one of Captain Silver's. No matter how one looks at it, there was nothing in it for him besides a few coins and the investment to take this mission was greater than whatever bounty they have gathered, bounty forever loss with the drowning deaths of her crewmates.
Captain Silver was ignoring her. His focus was on the rusted sword, a hanger sword with a longer blade, that she had with her. He initially had them all spared before taking their weapons, each time returning them to their owners and have said owner tied to something heavy and dropped into the waters. Only Marian had been spared. He gestured his crew to bring her to his ship.
She was brought to his quarters. Many luxurious things, portraits, silk, maps, compasses, and other things filled the room. Her fears buried any amazement and envy that she might have had. To specialize in a given field meant that Captain John Silver had many customers and was the go-to for advice. At sea, there was a lot of money to be made in protecting people from Grimm and from pirates. Everything inside was more expensive than anything she had.
A crate of sugar was her seat. In front of her, across the ebony wooden desk, Captain John Silver took a sip of his ivory teacup, savoring the sugar he put in it. Gently, he pulled out the contents of his drawer. Unlike the rest of his quarters, he tossed the envelope, stacked among other important-looking documents, without a care in the world.
Marian dropped the letter when she saw the emblem of on the seal: Beacon Academy.
"You were supposed to read it," Captain Silver said, "you know, not many people get into the prestigious Beacon Academy through recommendations."
"What transcripts?"
"Well, I had to pull some strings in order to get you in, it's what she wanted."
"She?" Marian's eyes widened and she felt she could break the crate and fall through the ship. There was only one she that Marian recognized.
Captain Silver nodded, almost grinning. "Knowingly harboring a criminal is a crime in of itself you know. Even if that criminal is her own daughter."
For a moment, Marian was excited to anger. She didn't care for anything else and nearly leapt for Captain Silver's throat, only to be stopped by the other huntsman, pinning her down. "You leave her out of this! She did nothing! I promised her a better life."
"Better life? Through dishonest means?" He raised a single eyebrow. He poured another cup and put more sugar. "Well, I suppose congratulations are in order. You can now earn your keep through honest means; you mother was certainly persuasive." He raised a hand. "Ah, ah, ah, anything you do will make this agreement between us null and void, and you will never find her again."
"Where did you keep her?"
"Where else? She harbored a criminal, remember? And that is a crime in of itself; she's in prison."
"She only has to pay fine, don't she?"
"Can she afford it? Can you?"
Marian had no words; she sat back down on the crate.
He filled a third cup, again with sugar. "I'm feeling rather good today, so I decided to at least prevent a criminal from continuing her crimes. I've made the recommendations myself so remember who put you there."
"Why?"
"Your mother believed that you'd take a chance at a more honest life, and here I am giving you that chance. And when that happens, I'd want you to remember that it was me that gave you that chance." He gently put down the teacup. "You are to attend Beacon and make that honest life. Afterwards, you will work off the debt you owe me."
She looked down. Captain John Silver's reputation was known among pirates; ruthless, conniving, gambler, and has amassed a grand amount of wealth. There was nothing in it for him; he'd be working at a loss with her.
But then again, what can she do? She was powerless. She had no training and even if she did, the man in front of her was a professional. It didn't help that she was a faunus, an aquatic faunus out of the water.
"Alright," she said, "I'll take it."
"Good." He turned around. "You are dismissed. Oh, and I've taken the liberty of granting you four pistols; your mother insisted that I help you for an additional cost."
She was brought to the brig. There she remained until she had to go to Beacon. Her weapons, a rusty sword, a gift from a father that never came back. Anger infiltrated her thoughts as she saw the new pistols that was to be hers. That father of hers had promised to return and give her and her mother a better life. But he never returned, only leaving behind that sword. Yet, her mother insisted that she never pawn off that sword, so it was left to rust.
Now here she was, a pirate at the end of her criminal career. It should have been better; she's getting a chance for an honest life now. But she never felt more dishonest before now.
And how was she supposed to pass Beacon? She had her aura but that was it. She might as apply with false transcripts. There was no way it would work; Beacon would have noticed it and kick her out. But what can she do? But it doesn't change anything, doesn't it?
Beacon Academy. There, she'll find a way to save her mom.
/-/
It had only little time. Breaking into the most heavily secured facilities of Atlas, especially that which houses government secrets, could not possibly be given enough time. But it had to do it, for them. For the people that tried to bring him back, it had to do it.
Vector Frankenstein had been a child with promise. A gifted mind held back by a failing body. That body eventually gave in and Vector died.
But Alphonse and Caroline, grieving parents, couldn't bear to lose their precious one. They had the means. They had the resources. They had the connections. Thus, they committed a crime most heinous in the eyes of life itself.
When they nearly finished, it seemed as though the brother gods were angered at this transgression. The skies had darkened that day as if into night. Storms went rampant and lighting bolts targeted them. Yet, those very bolts had given it life.
That was when the dead walked again.
Such a crime would catch up to them eventually. But the proof of that crime's existence was gone; it had been long gone. It had returned to the very origin, the very source of the its creators' demise: in Atlas' research facilities.
Atlas soldiers were laid on their backs, unconscious after enduring a blow to the head. They would regain their senses soon, if any passing guard hadn't noticed them already. No alarm sounded yet. The silence could not last for it was a hulking creature, too big in sizes impossible to not notice.
Outside, it seems that the clouds were its ally, shielding it from the moonlight's gaze.
It kept going. It memorized the path. It had downloaded it into its memories. It was not quite human. It could not quite call itself machine either. It had been built with steel and flesh, with thoughts and memories of a young boy taken away too early.
A thing it was, walking evidence of its creators' crimes. There was an inherent wrongness etched into the soul of this thing, a longing for rest when it had been forced back into the land of the living. But it could not go just yet.
Then, it found the place.
A pod contained a machine inside. Much like itself, the thing inside not quite human.
But the thing outside was too vengeful. The thing inside had been the reason for the death of the creators of the thing outside. It picked up a chair. It will be by its own hands. There was little time left. It had to move soon after.
Safety was not guaranteed. It approached the pod. The chair was raised high. It even got to its toes to gain as much height as it could before the chair would come down like a rock.
Then the clouds gave way to moonlight.
The thing outside had saw the thing inside with its own eyes. The thing inside was smaller than it was, more delicately made. On its head was short, curly, orange hair. The thing outside remained in its place, still and unmoving.
The thing inside—no—she was asleep. The thing outside—it—could see its own reflection in the glass.
Alarms blared. It had hesitated. It still had the desire to survive, like the living. It jumped out the window. Atlas soldiers came rushing in, guns raised. But it was already gone.
It ran. It had to hide. It was looking for someplace to hide. It knew where to go. It found him still there.
The vehicle visibly shifted because of its weight. The driver then drove off at fastest speed the vehicle afforded them.
"So," he asked. "I take it you finished the job?"
It shook its head. "The alarms sounded before I could finish."
"Except you were on the right floor."
"Reinforced glass."
He tutted. "Very well then. Better luck next time."
"Next time?"
"You seem to be built of that age, albeit older and uglier. And with the next Vytal Festival being held at Beacon, it is without a doubt that Atlas would perform a test run with their Polendina project. You'll have a chance there. If things go well, it will be delivered to you during the tournament."
"Why can't I go with you?"
"You serve no purpose to me nor anyone else's machinations. You are a pawn on the wrong chessboard. I've done what I did out one last ounce of good graces I had for your makers, thing."
The vehicle underwent a sharp turn. Its weight was so great that the vehicle was under threat of rolling over.
"I have some means of getting you inside. There will be time before your chance will come. Use that to assimilate into human society. The memories uploaded into you are limiting; you must develop your own experiences, thing."
It nodded. He man was a good friend to its makers. "Thank you, doctor Watts."
"One last piece of advice: leave behind your old name." Watts made another sharp turn. "Take up another and by the brother gods, do not even think about linking yourself to Atlas; it would be absolutely stupid to do so. Stick with Mantle, if you must."
It followed instructions.
When Vector Frankenstein died, his parents had built a machine using his corpse and stolen schematics meant for another. It had been made to make up for the physical deficiencies of Vector while retaining as much of that wondrous mind as it had been built.
That crime against humanity had soon caught up Vector's parents and they paid for it with their lives, through fire.
Their creation had sought vengeance against that which was allowed to live, the cause of its own existence. But it hesitated for the cause had been a girl. But it? It was simply a thing.
The girl inside was a real girl. It was a machine. It was unnatural. It was a crime against the laws of life itself, as if a balance between life and death, creation and destruction, had been upset because of its existence. Records of its existence, the one with it at any rate, had archived its own birth: in the middle of a freak thunderstorm, a sign, perhaps, that the gods of this world were angered by its makers playing at that prestigious office.
Beacon Academy. There it bears the name Cain Shelly, a dead man that walked again.