BLOOD-DIMMED

It’s been a long time, or at least—that’s what it feels like. She’s so tired. Her head feels so heavy. She lifts her hand to her forehead as she continues walking unsteadily. Oh god, I feel so sick. Her thoughts drift from Cinder to Pyrrha’s death, to the Pyrrha she knew. It hasn’t crossed her mind yet, what Pyrrha will think of her knowing that some version of her could’ve killed—did, in fact, kill some version Pyrrha. 

Her journey seems to stretch on forever. She’s traveling aimlessly by now, but her clouded mind doesn’t even give her the kindness of realizing that. It’s a miracle that she eventually stumbles upon the red-haired girl, but as fate would have it, this isn’t the Pyrrha she knows. But she has no idea yet, and the absolute joy that overwhelms her propels her forward with a sudden, newfound energy. 

She doesn’t know where she’s going. The one clear thought that rises above the thick fog of confusion is that she has to find Pyrrha and make sure that Pyrrha is safe from Cinder (the real one, at least). Nothing else matters. She staggers, reaching out her arm to support herself against a coarse tree trunk. The pain of the bark pressing against her injuries does not register. Her head spins—she breathes, quickly and shallowly, but tries to deepen each breath. Clarity, she thinks, I need to think clearly. 

She moves closer to the tree slowly and turns around, resting her back against the trunk. I’m tired. The blood on her face, which has already dripped down onto her neck, glistens; it looks worse than it really is, but the pain intermittently pierces through the confusion of her mind. She cannot spare the time to remain still. She pushes herself away from the tree, standing upright as best as she can. The world wanders into a haze—

She thinks she sees someone. It can’t be Pyrrha; the figure is too tall. She opens her mouth, trying to say something, but her thoughts meander and she merely gasps. The figure becomes clearer and clearer, and it takes her some time to realize she has been walking toward him slowly this whole time— silent, disoriented.

@isolidify | event.

she’s cautiously eyeing the girl sitting in her usual sequestered corner of the library with some suspicion before realizing it’s someone she does know, albeit indirectly. weiss doesn’t speak much with those in her classes – much less speak up when she’d like much at all – but she does recognize her as having been decidedly outspoken during their lectures. and so, tentatively, slowly, she approaches.

‘hello.’

‘i… think we share a class together. women and art in contemporary isola?’ granted, it had been an elective choice and she hadn’t wanted to take another boring ancient history in blah-blah sort of class, but at least it had been interesting. she’s not sure where to go from here in the conversation.

“... Hello,” Cinder looks up, narrowing her eye slightly as she tries to place a finger on the other’s familiar face. It is clear to her that this person must be related to Winter, whom she interviewed at one point, given their striking similarities, but the specified class points to— 

“Ah!” She smiles, “You’re Weiss, right? I really admired the question you asked, last class.” She closes the book that she had opened on the table in front of her. “It was really thought-provoking and striking. I hadn’t thought about the pieces that way.” The compliment is more or less genuine, but delicately intoned. 

Cinder (the real Cinder—she assures herself) turns brittle at the impressions of a self that could’ve been—a self that was weak, she insists, weak and without control. (Of course, it is only because she will not—and cannot—admit that the other Cinder was happy despite her early life, that the agency she so desperately desires was held perfectly in the other Cinder’s grasp.) The words of the mysterious voice mail echoes in her thoughts, the risk of death (always a palpable threat) looming larger over her head—an invisible omen of a halo.

If she dies, so will I. If she dies, so will I. If she dies, so will I. In an instant, Cinder slams her fist against the wall, rattling the miscellany in her room, and shouts sharply in frustration. Silence follows, but within it, her loneliness almost begins to speak. Instinct crushes the voice under its heel—her subconscious aware that this was no time to confront her own definitions of agency, of power.

Her rage simmers. She seethes, breathing shakily. She turns her head to stare at the blank screen of her phone. So that they may live a happy life... so that you may preserve whatever happiness you have acquired yourself... What happiness might she have here, knowing now that Ozpin and Pyrrha still live, that in some bastardized form of this world, she cares for them?

How revolting it is, she thinks, for my own life to hinge upon the life of someone I would kill. She moves her hand away from the wall, lets her arm drop to her side. Her hand threatens to shake, so she tightens her fist, bunching the fabric of her dress with her fingers. The headache, which still lingers, reminds her of its presence—and she winces, sucks in air with her teeth. Where would she hide? comes the first thought, and then, comes the answer—as clear as day, as bright as a wildfire, I bet she wouldn’t. She would fight against this instead, like I would.

She feels ill, feverish, running with nowhere in mind, but running madly nonetheless. The alien memory of murdering Pyrrha and delighting in it has pierced her like a violent arrow, the wound of it swelling with obsession. The sound of her friend, wheezing and gasping for life, rings in her ear again and again—endless, like some sick loop of a movie clip. 

Her entire body feels wrong, hot—echoing the sensation of power, wielding all that fire and fear. This Cinder, who she once thought she was, is a monster—she can’t remember much of the self-stranger clearly, but there is no doubt in her mind that Cinder is beyond bitterness, beyond justice-seeking. 

The woman with whom she shares her face is horrific—A murderer, she thinks, and not of people who deserve it, but of innocents, all for power... Her foot catches against something in the ground and she feels herself sent forward, floating almost in the air, until she crashes into the rough dirt. It scrapes against her face, her knees, her hand. She does not make a sound, and simply lies there— Pyrrha’s frightened, pained eyes. Do you believe in destiny?

For once, Pyrrha’s track meeting was able to end early today. She had been running all day, practicing for the next competition. They were rare, but any chance Pyrrha had to run, she would take. It was important to her that she make her name known, and make the man she considered her father proud. The girl wiped herself off with her towel, before catching a familiar shape.

Was that her? The infamous Cinder Fall? It was a rare sight to catch her former neighbor and dear friend outside of her studies. But this was most certainly her! 

“Cinder!” Pyrrha began to wave, her towel swinging around in her free hand. The track star quickly made her way to the bleachers, not wanting to miss a moment with her friend. “I wasn’t expecting you today! You should have texted me, I would have dedicated one of my wins to you.” She chuckled. “I’m kidding, of course. How have you been?”

(You might as well be my sister, @isolidify !)

"Hello, Pyrrha!” Cinder waves back, a beaming smile blooming on her face. “I thought I should surprise you, and so here I am. It’s been far too long since we last caught up!” She laughs just a little bit — a carefree, airy laugh, “I’ve been fine. Well, mostly. College can get to you, you know?” 

There’s a brief moment of silence. Cinder considers if she should even breach the subject of her recent arrest, but in the end, she can’t bring herself to lie (even by omission) to Pyrrha. It’s likely that Pyrrha has probably heard about it anyway, in one form or another.

“...Aside from the recent arrest, that is,” the confession, followed by a quick attempt to divert the conversation elsewhere, “— But, my friends and my associates have been arranging another rally — it’ll be nonviolent, I promise.” 

“... I’ll be speaking there. If you’re interested, you should come.” She quickly adds, “I’d love to see you there. — But there’s no pressure; I know how ... everyone tends to be about my work.” Cinder offers a vaguely apologetic look; it isn’t that she’s sorry for the nature of her activism, but that she’s a little sorry for the worry she likely causes for Pyrrha.

@isolidify

It’s been a very busy day, and, as Oz wearily checks his phone, it hasn’t ended yet. 

He’s running a bit behind; a meeting ran over so long that he’s had to skip lunch, and frantically trying to make up time ever since. Winded as he his, Pyrrha’s event starts soon, and missing anything more than the first few minutes of it would be unforgivable- at least in his own eyes. 

Honestly, he used to be in better shape than this. Or maybe it’s the lack of calories.

Oh well, at least walking across campus gives him plenty of exercise. That, and an opportunity to run into a familiar face.

“Ah, Miss Cinder,” Ozpin calls out in greeting, falling in pace to walk beside her, careful to be on her good side in terms of eyesight. Of course this means she’s in his, but he cants his head a little to compensate and offers a smile. There’s no reason to feel unease. “Here to see Pyrrha compete, I imagine?” 

High school is something of an unfavorable memory for Cinder. Her studies with Ozpin were perhaps among few exceptions, and she has always been rather thankful for her teacher’s support during the rough patches she went through. So, it’s rather nice to see him after some time. She turns her head slightly to face him more fully, smiling in return.

“Hello, Mr. Ozpin.” She reciprocates the greeting, “Of course. Despite my efforts to make time, I rarely have any to visit Pyrrha at all, so whenever I have the chance to support her at one of these events, I try to.” 

             ❛   I remember you.   ❜

      HER  hand is already planted on the table’s surface, leaning forward as her voice lilts — just bordering sing-song. If one looked hard enough, they could see the interest and borderline delight even through her aviator shades. Coco’s fingertips tap impatiently against her own coffee cup, allowing a ( rather dramatic ) pause to settle between them before continuing her train of thought. 

             ❛   I saw you at one of those nonhuman rights rallies a few weeks ago. Normally I’m not good with faces, but I’m pretty sure you handed a guy his own ass.   ❜

@isolidify  //  EVENT CALL : subversion a.

Cinder looks up at Coco and observes her carefully — there’s a brief acknowledgement of vague recognition, and then, a serene look of subtle smugness emerges upon Cinder’s face at the mention of her own rather infamous deeds. There is a profound sense of satisfaction and righteousness in the tone of her voice as she responds, “Well, I hand guys their own asses quite frequently, so it was most likely me that you saw.” 

@isolidify for Subversion starter!

As much as Licht hated the idea of getting tutoring for his psychology class, he needed to pass it. A failing grade would look bad, no matter what. Plus, it was just unacceptable for Licht to make below an A. He was lucky the teacher recommended him a tutor, despite them both not getting along. So now he was wandering the library looking for her. Or at least a table to sit at.

Once he found a decent table away from other people, he set his stuff down and pulled out his psych text book to try to make sense of the assignment for today.

“Hi Licht!” Cinder waves, noticing her student the moment he sits down. She moves toward the table, taking a seat next to him. "How are you doing today? Well, I hope?” She asks, a smile on her face and in her voice as she pulls out a notebook, and then a pen, from her bag. 

isolidify liked for an event starter!

If there is one thing that can stop his almost full sprint to the next classroom, it’s having a leaflet thrust somewhere near his chest.

“Ah, miss- Fall, if I recall correctly?” She was not one of his students, but she was well known around campus for her… questionable actions regarding activism. He takes the paper anyway, brow raising slightly at the contents. “It’s a peaceful protest this time, I hope? Otherwise, the faculty might have some… issues with it. After the last time.” 

Cinder presses a thin smile at the professor. It’s polite enough to seem innocuous, more or less, but the intent behind it is somewhat born out of annoyance and spite. “Of course, Dr. Oobleck,” she begins, “It is an event geared towards solidarity and education. A number of students will be speaking, myself included.”

She stands back up, holding the box in her hand rather delicately. “It’s nothing special...” she pauses, stretching out her arm and offering it to the other, “but I hope you like it.” Then, an abrupt addition, “Oh, it is a fragile object—just a head’s up.”

          His…

                    His chocolate croissant.

          Oscar takes the pastry in a rush, bowing his head a few times and stuttering out an apology to the poor employee. In the end, he’s still juvenile and not the best at acting like a normal human being in public. ( this time around, it’s more in line with a damned teen acting like a damned teen. )

          He could leave right now, having gotten the object of his desires with no problem. But Cinder is here, and, if anything, Oscar is not completely heartless. He thinks of green eyes, cascading scarlet hair, a frown that he could barely find in himself to reject. Pyrrha had always been able to locate his softest spots, albeit unintentionally, and twist his arm behind his back in order to work in her favor. 

          So, slowly, as if approaching a cornered, wildly desperate animal, Oscar practically tip toes over to the woman, gripping his purchase so hard that one might consider it to be a weapon. “ Hi. “ It’s a flat, dull tone, supported only by the smile that he forces upon his own features. “ What brings you here. “

It takes almost all of Cinder’s strength to not giggle as Oscar approaches, but she manages to stifle the friendly laughter before it has the chance to overtake her. “Hi Oscar,” she greets him again, still smiling. She gestures vaguely toward her coffee sitting not too far away from her notebook, “Caffeine.” She says emphatically, twirling the pen in her hand, “And the atmosphere. It’s helpful for studying. What brings anyone to a café, right?”

“Oh!” Cinder remarks suddenly, moving her bag off of the chair next to her and onto the floor, “Sorry, I should’ve moved that while you were coming over. Take a seat! Let’s catch up or something, since—”