The following message was drafted at 06:48 AM 2/14, and queued to post at 00:00 AM 2/15.
Hello, everyone! Apologies for the nature of this message, but there is some important housekeeping to take care of.
First of all, I am dead! If I wasn't, I would've discarded this draft. Once more, I apologize for the inconvenience, but it is what it is. Please do not panic! This is not the work of Maul-san. I simply realized while I was in the middle of mincing my left leg that I had likely crossed the point of no return for Mother Mercy's curse, and should likely make preparations for my inevitable complete dismemberment and reduction to chunky red paste.
As of the time of this writing, I am hacking through my right leg with a saw, so I cannot make any of the proper preparations myself. Therefore, I would greatly appreciate it if someone could prepare an appropriate receptacle of water within my room, and someone insensitive to gore and violent death to take what there is of my remains and deposit it inside before locking the door from the outside. I have left the key a few feet away from what will soon be my dead body, so it should be outside the radius of any blood or organ splatter and easy to find.
For the third time, I apologize for asking this favor of you, but I will require some time to myself after I resurrect. A lady needs her privacy, after all! And don't worry, I believe the curse will have run its course once this is over and through with, so this isn't simply a pretext to start the work again uninterrupted once I get the chance.
Thank you for your cooperation! -Shannon
P.S. I'd appreciate it if all of you could keep mum about this to Ruby-san and Ange-san for some time so they can properly enjoy their anniversary. Congratulations to the two of them, by the way!
Edited 2022-02-15 01:39 (UTC)
closed to ozpin. let's pretend this wasn't a whole month late.
[Qrow misses this text entirely. He's on a couch in the living room, watching some kind of trashy mindless action movie when he has one of those sudden zone outs, witnessing the young woman who's come to stay at their home hacking herself into pieces with a saw. The ding of the Omni is outright ignored, bowl of popcorn overturned on the floor as he fumbles with standing up before giving up on limbs entirely, flying up to Sayo's room before he shoves her door open. He won't be too late this time, he tells himself, he'll make it in time. What's the point in having these visions if he can't prevent the misfortunes he sees within them? Just to torture him? No. He'll make it. He has to.
...
The sight that awaits him when the door opens is a more gruesome one than he was even prepared for, and only the fact that he's seen Huntsmen torn apart by Grimm before keeps him from being sick on the spot. He sinks to his knees regardless, bowing his head. He should do something, he knows, but he can't bring himself to move. Qrow remains frozen there until he hears the distinctive clicking of a cane, and then he looks up, eyes wet.]
...Oz?
[Unconsciously, he shifts as though to block the sight within the room from view. He should offer a warning first, but he can't quite find the words.]
[ Ozpin, dressed in silk pyjamas and holding a mug of tea, opens the message with a vague interest; it's rare to see Shannon starting her own conversational threads on their little shared network. He raises the mug to his lips.
He chokes at I am dead, and sets the mug down with a messy clunk at mincing my left leg. The situation does not improve from there.
He does read the rest before he rises from bed, slowly and deliberately. He flicks an eddy of thought at Oscar— a Do stay calm, an I will handle it from here— and goes, still barefoot and dressed in green silk, to Sayo's room.
It is a particular sort of sinking feeling, to find Qrow on his knees in the doorway.
(He should have anticipated this, given the events surrounding his last birthday.) ]
[ He exhales a long breath, and the grip on Qrow's shoulder tightens, as though using him for support. ]
Thank you for coming, Qrow.
[ He speaks low, and looks down at the man, away from the puddle of gore. He hopes it might coax Qrow to do the same. This— they will have to take this moment by moment. ]
[The hand on his shoulder is a comfort he hadn't truly realized he needed until it was there, and he leans into it a bit, his own hand coming up over it without thinking as though to hold Oz there. It's one of those rare moments where Qrow seems young, rather than someone who is old for a Huntsman and often feels older, as a man--where the eyeblink of his life stands out in sharp relief with Ozpin's eons.
But then, thank you for coming is a remark that startles him; he'd simply thought Oz was passing by when he saw Qrow on his knees. He draws his eyes away from the mess toward Oz, confusion sparked within them to go with the horror.]
...You already knew?
[Qrow had forgotten the noise his Omni had made as he was dashing to Sayo's room. It lays abandoned on the couch along with the popcorn that didn't wind up on the floor. He thinks of it now, and it all makes sense. She'd set the device to announce this when she was finished. And he had the vision too late to stop her. It's like November, but worse. At least back then, the people he saw were still alive by the time he found them.
He sees, now. This power that he had hoped might be useful, might offset the inescapable burden of his Semblance, is nothing more than a cruel prank of something like gods, yet again. He shakes his head as Oz offers to take care of this by himself.]
No, I'll help.
[He doesn't think he could handle leaving after seeing this. It's better to clean it up together and then maybe Oz will make cocoa and they can pretend none of this ever happened until Sayo comes back.]
[ Qrow looks at him, wide-eyed and crumpled here as though Ozpin himself had swung the blow. For a horrible beat, he is silent. He can think of no good way to say it. Then: ]
I saw the message.
[ That is all he gives. The silence settles between them again, and Ozpin breaks it by releasing his grip on Qrow's shoulder and rising back up to his full height. He folks his hands carefully over the head of his cane and says, in that steady professorial voice he only falls back on when things are very bad: ]
I suppose... we will tidy up together, as she asked. Will you fetch the cleaning basket and the mop?
[ One of them will need to step away down the hall, into fresher air, for however brief a moment. He'd like it to be Qrow. ]
[The confirmation is a blow, but one he'd managed to brace for; it's more like hitting a familiar pothole in the street than having sudden cold water dumped in one's lap, and yet it's still unpleasant. One of the great miseries of Qrow's existence has always been an inability to predict the sort of misfortunes that might come of being in proximity to his Semblance. The idea of being granted the ability to be forewarned would be too good to be true, so of course it was. He sighs, but says no more on it -- especially when Oz takes on that professor tone he always does when he is trying to convince everyone else that things are okay.
They both know it's a lie, but as in November, Qrow allows it to stand, because it conceals a lie of his own. Truthfully, gruesome as this scenario is, it's not her death that has knocked the air out of his lungs. He does not know Sayo well enough to suffer from her absence, and knows already that she will likely be fine in a few days--Trench does not even seem to bear the burden of the Death Flu like back in Deerington.
...No, it is that he has become a harbinger of misfortune twice over now, and to add insult upon injury he must now witness even those misfortunes he will not cause by being in the victim's physical proximity, with no opportunity to help.
Qrow acknowledges none of this in front of Oz. He doesn't dare; were any compassion to be leveled at his direction right now, he might just turn the Brothers-damned chainsaw upon himself. He's quiet a beat too long before he nods.]
Yeah, be right back.
[Limbs are yet again abandoned outright as he flies off toward the broom closet to get the requested cleaning supplies. For the most part, the cleanup is uneventful. It's far from the first mess they've had to clean up together, be the situation literal or metaphorical, and there's something almost comforting in the rhythm of scrubbing at the floor by Oz's side.
Almost ... until a misbalanced mop falls over onto the bucket collecting all that soapy water and blood, sending at least half of it soaking all over the ground again. Qrow can't help an exhausted sigh. This whole ordeal feels like a spectacular cosmic joke at this point, honestly. He returns to their work quietly, but after a time, he speaks up again, an air of forced casualness to his tone.]
...Hey Oz. You ever figure out how your blood magic works around here?
[Apropos of nothing in particular. There is nothing to see here. Pay no heed to the bird anxiety behind the curtain.]
[ He doesn't ask. Whatever Qrow knew of this— however he knew it— it was clearly not enough, and Ozpin knows this man too well to ever draw attention to a moment where he has fallen short. Where he has tried to help and come up against only a pool of blood for his trouble.
He is mostly silent as they clean.
It is almost a relief when the bucket tips, when that hanging tension breaks. There is always another shoe ready to drop, around Qrow, and it's never the inconvenience of the thing itself he fears; the far more volatile element is how Qrow reacts to it. Ozpin skirts a glance to the set of his shoulders, watches them crumple with a sigh. Silently, he stands to help right the mess.
The question breaks the silence, which he had expected; the question itself he had not. But it isn't difficult to trace the thought to a logical conclusion. ]
It seems everyone here has suffered significant changes. [ This he says levelly, mildly, still halfway into that professor's tone. ] I have retained a few of my prior abilities... but always altered by this world's whims. Even now I am working to uncover what might still be hidden.
[Qrow listens to him carefully, seemingly focused on cleaning but Oz can catch the way Qrow's motions have become half-hearted and robotic, how he's hanging on his every word while pretending to be distracted, as he used to when he was young and embarrassed by how much he craved Oz's attention. The situation is different now, with what he seeks to hide being more along the lines of how deeply troubled he is by his new abilities, how desperately he wants to make them of use. Qrow may have a better poker face than he did at seventeen, but he forgets that Ozpin knows him so much longer, by now.]
--How?
[He looks up, perhaps a little more hopefully than he intended to reveal. Reminiscent of the look he'd held back when he was first offered a hint of real magic, to become Ozpin's eyes.]
[ Qrow looks at him with open hope, blood and soap on his hands. For the first time in a long while, Ozpin carefully weighs truth against kindness. He looks back down to the sheen of blood on the floor. ]
I'm afraid it's not quite so simple.
It is... [ And here is the part he so hesitates to say, the matter which must be handled so delicately. ] ...more akin to developing one's Semblance. Learning the boundaries of that power... and gaining some measure of control, however limited. These abilities are a part of ourselves, even if it may be a part we do not fully understand. Like a limb you don't yet know how to use... or a scar whose edges you've not yet felt out.
[ He remembers. The fierce, wound-tight desperation in a gangly teenager as he tried to manage his influence on the world around him— as he tried to keep it bundled in close to his chest and not let the secret slip. ]
Some convey terrible drawbacks. [ He remembers the day Qrow looked up at him, the way he'd uncurled in open shock, when it became clear that Ozpin knew. ] Mine seem to be particularly demanding, as we've discovered. I am still coming to understand that burden. But I trust that I can master it all the same, given enough time.
[For all of Oz's best efforts, there is still a moment where Qrow seems to deflate when Oz says that it is like mastering a Semblance. He is forty-two years old, and he does not have full control over his own. Useless is the word that bubbles up in his mind, and there's a certain sense of exhaustion to it. If he is careful not to go down the path of suspecting his powers cause the events he sees in his visions, then he can at least take solace in the notion that this power isn't hurting anyone, whether or not he has it managed, but he is so tired. He doesn't want to go through this a second time. Through accepting that the powers that reflect his soul are only tied to pain and suffering, and anything he is beyond that is because he is too stubbornly desperate to be needed anyway.
He sighs, after a minute. There's a heaviness to it that Oz may recognize from his own darker moments, that specific one of wondering what the point of so much meaningless effort is, and then ... it would be inaccurate to say it passes, so much as the mood shifts to the other side of that coin -- of getting back up again, to return to the task of uselessly pushing the rock up the hill again, again and again for the rest of existence because there's no other choice but to be crushed by the rock.]
...Guess it figures it wouldn't be that easy. But if anyone can figure it out, it'd be you.
[He goes back to working in silence. Eventually, the spill from the overturned bucket is cleaned up, all the contents returned to appropriate receptacles, door locked from the outside as per Sayo's request. It would be a great time to sit together with cocoa and pretend none of this ever happened. That's what he thought he wanted, at the beginning.
Now his blood just burns underneath his skin with the first tendrils of corruption, itching to be shed, and he wonders if Oz would spill it if he asked.
He doesn't.]
M'gonna go to bed, I think. Been a long night.
[They both know, perhaps, that he's not going to sleep -- or at least not well. But Qrow has always had a bad habit of drawing himself deeper into his own spirals, withdrawing from things and people who could help so as not to drag anyone down with him. Ironically, he's not unlike Oz in that way. At least for right now, he cannot bear to be comforted further and needs some time to lick his wounds in private.]
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text, exactly midnight on 2/15, cw: suicide, self-mutilation, implied gore, locked to ruby and ange
Hello, everyone! Apologies for the nature of this message, but there is some important housekeeping to take care of.
First of all, I am dead! If I wasn't, I would've discarded this draft. Once more, I apologize for the inconvenience, but it is what it is. Please do not panic! This is not the work of Maul-san. I simply realized while I was in the middle of mincing my left leg that I had likely crossed the point of no return for Mother Mercy's curse, and should likely make preparations for my inevitable complete dismemberment and reduction to chunky red paste.
As of the time of this writing, I am hacking through my right leg with a saw, so I cannot make any of the proper preparations myself. Therefore, I would greatly appreciate it if someone could prepare an appropriate receptacle of water within my room, and someone insensitive to gore and violent death to take what there is of my remains and deposit it inside before locking the door from the outside. I have left the key a few feet away from what will soon be my dead body, so it should be outside the radius of any blood or organ splatter and easy to find.
For the third time, I apologize for asking this favor of you, but I will require some time to myself after I resurrect. A lady needs her privacy, after all! And don't worry, I believe the curse will have run its course once this is over and through with, so this isn't simply a pretext to start the work again uninterrupted once I get the chance.
Thank you for your cooperation!
-Shannon
P.S.
I'd appreciate it if all of you could keep mum about this to Ruby-san and Ange-san for some time so they can properly enjoy their anniversary. Congratulations to the two of them, by the way!
closed to ozpin. let's pretend this wasn't a whole month late.
...
The sight that awaits him when the door opens is a more gruesome one than he was even prepared for, and only the fact that he's seen Huntsmen torn apart by Grimm before keeps him from being sick on the spot. He sinks to his knees regardless, bowing his head. He should do something, he knows, but he can't bring himself to move. Qrow remains frozen there until he hears the distinctive clicking of a cane, and then he looks up, eyes wet.]
...Oz?
[Unconsciously, he shifts as though to block the sight within the room from view. He should offer a warning first, but he can't quite find the words.]
1/2
He chokes at I am dead, and sets the mug down with a messy clunk at mincing my left leg. The situation does not improve from there.
He does read the rest before he rises from bed, slowly and deliberately. He flicks an eddy of thought at Oscar— a Do stay calm, an I will handle it from here— and goes, still barefoot and dressed in green silk, to Sayo's room.
It is a particular sort of sinking feeling, to find Qrow on his knees in the doorway.
(He should have anticipated this, given the events surrounding his last birthday.) ]
2/3
Oh.
Well.
Ozpin has died a hundred deaths and witnessed a thousand more. His throat still bobs with a sudden, startled swallow. That is— very thorough. ]
3/3
Thank you for coming, Qrow.
[ He speaks low, and looks down at the man, away from the puddle of gore. He hopes it might coax Qrow to do the same. This— they will have to take this moment by moment. ]
I can look after things from here.
no subject
But then, thank you for coming is a remark that startles him; he'd simply thought Oz was passing by when he saw Qrow on his knees. He draws his eyes away from the mess toward Oz, confusion sparked within them to go with the horror.]
...You already knew?
[Qrow had forgotten the noise his Omni had made as he was dashing to Sayo's room. It lays abandoned on the couch along with the popcorn that didn't wind up on the floor. He thinks of it now, and it all makes sense. She'd set the device to announce this when she was finished. And he had the vision too late to stop her. It's like November, but worse. At least back then, the people he saw were still alive by the time he found them.
He sees, now. This power that he had hoped might be useful, might offset the inescapable burden of his Semblance, is nothing more than a cruel prank of something like gods, yet again. He shakes his head as Oz offers to take care of this by himself.]
No, I'll help.
[He doesn't think he could handle leaving after seeing this. It's better to clean it up together and then maybe Oz will make cocoa and they can pretend none of this ever happened until Sayo comes back.]
no subject
I saw the message.
[ That is all he gives. The silence settles between them again, and Ozpin breaks it by releasing his grip on Qrow's shoulder and rising back up to his full height. He folks his hands carefully over the head of his cane and says, in that steady professorial voice he only falls back on when things are very bad: ]
I suppose... we will tidy up together, as she asked. Will you fetch the cleaning basket and the mop?
[ One of them will need to step away down the hall, into fresher air, for however brief a moment. He'd like it to be Qrow. ]
no subject
They both know it's a lie, but as in November, Qrow allows it to stand, because it conceals a lie of his own. Truthfully, gruesome as this scenario is, it's not her death that has knocked the air out of his lungs. He does not know Sayo well enough to suffer from her absence, and knows already that she will likely be fine in a few days--Trench does not even seem to bear the burden of the Death Flu like back in Deerington.
...No, it is that he has become a harbinger of misfortune twice over now, and to add insult upon injury he must now witness even those misfortunes he will not cause by being in the victim's physical proximity, with no opportunity to help.
Qrow acknowledges none of this in front of Oz. He doesn't dare; were any compassion to be leveled at his direction right now, he might just turn the Brothers-damned chainsaw upon himself. He's quiet a beat too long before he nods.]
Yeah, be right back.
[Limbs are yet again abandoned outright as he flies off toward the broom closet to get the requested cleaning supplies. For the most part, the cleanup is uneventful. It's far from the first mess they've had to clean up together, be the situation literal or metaphorical, and there's something almost comforting in the rhythm of scrubbing at the floor by Oz's side.
Almost ... until a misbalanced mop falls over onto the bucket collecting all that soapy water and blood, sending at least half of it soaking all over the ground again. Qrow can't help an exhausted sigh. This whole ordeal feels like a spectacular cosmic joke at this point, honestly. He returns to their work quietly, but after a time, he speaks up again, an air of forced casualness to his tone.]
...Hey Oz. You ever figure out how your blood magic works around here?
[Apropos of nothing in particular. There is nothing to see here. Pay no heed to the bird anxiety behind the curtain.]
no subject
He is mostly silent as they clean.
It is almost a relief when the bucket tips, when that hanging tension breaks. There is always another shoe ready to drop, around Qrow, and it's never the inconvenience of the thing itself he fears; the far more volatile element is how Qrow reacts to it. Ozpin skirts a glance to the set of his shoulders, watches them crumple with a sigh. Silently, he stands to help right the mess.
The question breaks the silence, which he had expected; the question itself he had not. But it isn't difficult to trace the thought to a logical conclusion. ]
It seems everyone here has suffered significant changes. [ This he says levelly, mildly, still halfway into that professor's tone. ] I have retained a few of my prior abilities... but always altered by this world's whims. Even now I am working to uncover what might still be hidden.
no subject
--How?
[He looks up, perhaps a little more hopefully than he intended to reveal. Reminiscent of the look he'd held back when he was first offered a hint of real magic, to become Ozpin's eyes.]
Just...by bleeding?
no subject
I'm afraid it's not quite so simple.
It is... [ And here is the part he so hesitates to say, the matter which must be handled so delicately. ] ...more akin to developing one's Semblance. Learning the boundaries of that power... and gaining some measure of control, however limited. These abilities are a part of ourselves, even if it may be a part we do not fully understand. Like a limb you don't yet know how to use... or a scar whose edges you've not yet felt out.
[ He remembers. The fierce, wound-tight desperation in a gangly teenager as he tried to manage his influence on the world around him— as he tried to keep it bundled in close to his chest and not let the secret slip. ]
Some convey terrible drawbacks. [ He remembers the day Qrow looked up at him, the way he'd uncurled in open shock, when it became clear that Ozpin knew. ] Mine seem to be particularly demanding, as we've discovered. I am still coming to understand that burden. But I trust that I can master it all the same, given enough time.
no subject
He sighs, after a minute. There's a heaviness to it that Oz may recognize from his own darker moments, that specific one of wondering what the point of so much meaningless effort is, and then ... it would be inaccurate to say it passes, so much as the mood shifts to the other side of that coin -- of getting back up again, to return to the task of uselessly pushing the rock up the hill again, again and again for the rest of existence because there's no other choice but to be crushed by the rock.]
...Guess it figures it wouldn't be that easy. But if anyone can figure it out, it'd be you.
[He goes back to working in silence. Eventually, the spill from the overturned bucket is cleaned up, all the contents returned to appropriate receptacles, door locked from the outside as per Sayo's request. It would be a great time to sit together with cocoa and pretend none of this ever happened. That's what he thought he wanted, at the beginning.
Now his blood just burns underneath his skin with the first tendrils of corruption, itching to be shed, and he wonders if Oz would spill it if he asked.
He doesn't.]
M'gonna go to bed, I think. Been a long night.
[They both know, perhaps, that he's not going to sleep -- or at least not well. But Qrow has always had a bad habit of drawing himself deeper into his own spirals, withdrawing from things and people who could help so as not to drag anyone down with him. Ironically, he's not unlike Oz in that way. At least for right now, he cannot bear to be comforted further and needs some time to lick his wounds in private.]