Chapter Text
There is a quiet click, and then a low red glow of an emergency light turns on, bathing Weiss and the space around her in sudden luminescence, before suddenly plunging her back into darkness. The light returns, the unearthly crimson staining everything once more, before disappearing just as fast.
In this small metal enclosure, the flashing red light is one of Weiss’ very few comforts. The light doesn’t actually serve a practical purpose; her night vision is strong enough to guide her way even in the pitch black. Yet the light makes her feel less trapped, less like she’s locked away in a metal cell, unable to escape.
Of course, she also needed to address her wounds and take stock of her supplies. Even with her superior senses, the idea of doing so in complete darkness felt unwise, so she chose to turn on the light instead. The actual activation was relatively easy, emergency systems are meant to activate after all, but there had been some challenges, mainly avoiding the rest of the over-eager system.
She needed to be careful not to trigger the alarms and notifications that would usually accompany the light, as their activation would alert others to her presence. Fortuitously, she does know the basics of handling physical systems, even if she prefers locks or software, and was able to deftly disable the connections with practiced ease. That, or she cut every wire except the ones actually powering the light, the exact details are unimportant.
The end result was the same, the sudden pulsing glow is enough for her to comfortably work in the otherwise dark container, even if ‘comfortable' is rather subjective in this case. The flash of red coming and going would have been distracting to most, but to her it’s like a lifeline.
Without a scroll, it’s also the only option available to track time. The light would turn on, and the low red glow would flood the space, before vanishing once more, leaving her in the chill darkness. On for three seconds, off for three seconds.
On,
and off.
On,
and off.
On,
and off.
Each time accompanied by the faint click, as the bulb hisses back to life, humming with faint electric resonance, before being snuffed out once more. A rhythmic heartbeat of metal and Dust, steadily beating as time passes. On and off, ten times per minute, sixty minutes per hour. Hours that turn to days, that go on and on.
Sometimes, especially when Weiss first woke up after the fight, the container would jolt or move, swaying in a way that made her feel motion sick, and memories unbidden would take these moments and attempt to claw their way out of the recesses of her mind. Dragging nightmarish talons across her psyche, trying to escape that mental prison she’d constructed.
The persistent sounds of the red light would be dreadfully distracting to most, but Weiss finds comfort in anything that can distract her rampant mind, shoving those slithering thoughts back into the depths of her consciousness, locking them inside and tossing the key. Counting each blink, tracking the flashes as best she can. Focusing on one of only two things that’s keeping her mind stable.
On,
and off.
On,
and off.
On,
and off.
In between each flash, there is only one other sound: an odd hum that reverberates throughout the metal hull of the cargo container, a quiet sound that doesn’t draw attention like the light, yet grows ever more noticeable as times passes, until the sound suffuses one's entire being, and there is no choice but to grant it notice.
The slow and almost arduous drawl of the ventilation system has captured Weiss’ attention: the only other distraction in this oversized coffin of Dust. Constantly regurgitating old air back into the metal enclosure, a small lifeline no larger than a foot across, and her only salvation from slow suffocation.
Without it, she knows she would die, and it would be a quiet affair: one that she would hardly even notice. Unaware until it would be far too late. Because so long as her body is able to exhale carbon dioxide and inhale another gas, it would never realize that she wasn’t breathing in oxygen. Without the ventilation, she would just get dizzy, eventually close her eyes, fall asleep, and then never wake up again.
She hadn’t been sleeping much. Filled with an almost desperate need to stay tuned to that ever present humming, her heart stopping at every stutter or pause, every minuscule deviation, as every single one ignites her veins with fire, electric adrenaline pulsing through her, before ebbing away when the ventilation evens out.
Outside of these jolts of acute awareness, she can feel that she is exhausted . Weary to the bone, and aching in body and soul. She’d managed to eat and keep down the travel rations Joanna had provided, and after some internal debate, had relented and used some of the Dust in the surrounding crates. With it, she could form water to drink, and ice to press on the dull pain of her wound.
She’d had to replace the medical eye patch with one of the spare ones Joanna packed, the previous one had been thoroughly soaked in her blood when the wound reopened, courtesy of that operative. A small amount of ice Dust helped cool the pain and cease the bleeding until her aura regenerated enough to redo the stitching.
She had felt oddly conflicted about using the Dust. Or rather, she had felt odd that she wasn’t more conflicted. Part of her couldn’t help but hear her Father’s words, his rants, all his tirades about the White Fang, how faunus are criminals by nature, who steal the Dust needed by mankind to benefit themselves.
Once upon a time, it would’ve made her feel ashamed. Would have brought bile to her throat, and a desire to be anything but. To be one of the good ones. To cut away all of her flaws, to round every sharp corner or unpleasant edge, to fit neatly into that box, the label that would protect her. To be human.
What a farce, she was never going to be good enough. He hated what was in her blood, her soul, and in the end his words had the opposite effect on her. Because even in this space, alternating between soft crimson and utter darkness, she still finds more comfort in the iridescent softness of her tail than being ‘human’ ever provided. What good has her humanity done for her?
The moment she gave up on being human, was the moment she began wanting to live instead of to survive. To exist and walk her own path, not for her father, but for herself. No, her hesitance had nothing to do with her upbringing, quite the contrary, but rather the voice in her head had whispered a simple question.
“Who will be blamed for this?”
If half the Dust went missing, if she resupplied fully, if she took all she wanted, who would suffer the consequences? Which worker would take the blame, be the scapegoat that lost their job because of her. Because someone would be, that was a fact. Someone would be blamed for not properly checking for stowaways, or securing the cargo, or some other reason.
Would it be some racist security guard, getting off on a power trip, and so cruel even the police saw the potential PR nightmare? A person who wouldn’t hesitate to hurt her? Or would it be some dock worker, a Mantleborn citizen working hard to support their family for the coming winter? Could she look that person in the eye, and say her life was more important?
That made her hesitate. She’d been hurt by the SDC for all of her life, taking for herself or for others wouldn’t be an issue if it only affected the company. But hurting others, hurting innocent people, because she’d been hurt first?
She truly couldn’t say.
In the end, her fear had won. Without water, she would die, and everything she’d been through would be for nothing. Nothing would change, the world would hurt people like her all the same, and her pain would have been pointless.
The mere concept was repulsive enough to make her moral quandary evaporate. She couldn’t hurt someone just to take supplies for herself, but she could do it to save a life, even if that life was her own. As a mental compromise, she took sparsely, didn’t refill her Dust stores, didn’t use any for comfort, nothing beyond pain relief and hydration.
She hopes the consequences would be mild. But that hope diminishes the more she uses, an amount that only increases with each hour that passes by.
But to focus on that, she’d end up focusing on the container she’s still bound to. So she doesn’t, counting flickering lights instead, letting the glow wash over her like the rising tide, and the darkness retract with her fears trailing behind. A steady heartbeat to match her own, as she breathes in three-second intervals.
On,
and off.
In,
and out.
On,
and–
Suddenly there’s a lurch, a horrific jolt of movement shaking the container, creaking metal and rustling cargo. But no sound from outside, the container built resilient enough that it’s effectively soundproof, as each jolt and stutter conjures scenes in her mind, probabilities of what goes on outside.
It’s a radio show on mute, a picture without visuals. A narrative unfolds, but she is blind to the proceedings, as her senses thrum with anxious anticipation reaching out: trying to discern anything . The movements continue, violently swaying, but she cannot feel further than her own world of two by six storage.
Cannot see beyond the metal walls, beyond which her existence ends, a miniature universe unaware of the cosmic pull. She feels like an ant experiencing an earthquake, so beyond the scale of her reality, she holds her breath and waits.
It could be nothing, simple turbulence or heavy waves. Whatever vehicle carries her could simply have experienced a number of completely normal occurrences.
Or it could be so much more, so much worse, be it the White Fang deciding to raid this particular transport, and hopefully missing her, or perhaps a grimm suddenly attacking, a Leviathan of the depths drawn to her fear, terror barely hidden beneath veneers of distraction, as if light and air could ever truly obscure her nightmares.
Because contrary to what Weiss may have alluded to, the inside of this cramped and cold cargo container could be so much worse. Weiss knows, she’d seen the changes her father made, and saw the consequences of the previous iteration. She’d had a front row seat to the news that would haunt her sleep for months, and still lingers in the back of her mind, like an infestation that never quite went away.
The containers had been designed with the precious cargo in mind. Airtight seals ensured safety for the Dust held within, that even if a container was somehow dropped into the ocean, it could be fished out without a drop ever making its way inside. The walls were resilient enough that most minor explosives would hardly scratch the paint, and dense enough that alternative entry was a fool's errand.
Even the locks themselves, predating the Schnee touchpad that became commonplace, were complicated and intricate things, exclusive to the outside door, as to ensure that no thief would get any wise ideas about circumventing the protections in place.
She had been eleven years old when the story first broke.
The horror story of a worker getting trapped within a container, unable to be heard through the reinforced walls, unable to breathe through the airtight seals– it spread as quick as wildfire, as did the slew of lawsuits that would plague her father, and the nightmares that would plague herself.
Some of the stories tried to lessen the tragedy of it all, reciting medical sources that proved how, in the final moments, he’d have simply fallen asleep as the oxygen ran out, and his body would have continued to inhale the plentiful nitrogen used in Dust storage, unaware of his slow suffocation.
To Weiss, that was so much worse. To slowly lose the grasp of life, to feel sleep pull you into an embrace, and then break the promise that you would wake up again. Would the final moment be as peaceful as they tried to make it sound, or would it be torture clawing at the mind, knowing this cramped metal sarcophagous would never release them, but being too weak to fight anymore?
Weiss shudders, the thoughts she’d tried to suppress crawling free, skittering in a mind no longer distracted, breaking the flimsy locks that could never have held them.
It hadn’t even been a matter of size, the cramped nature was the least of her worries. Weiss had never minded tight spaces, more than comfortable in crevices and recluses, hidden away within alcoves and crawl spaces. Winter could attest to the amount of times she’d found Weiss happily curled up in some nook or cranny.
No, it was the fear of being trapped, stuck and unable to escape, withering slowly and being powerless to stop it. It’s why the story haunted her dreams, why even luxurious mansions felt suffocating when locked and barred, and why she couldn’t allow herself to be captured, lest her life would be reduced to the walls of a cell.
Because that would have been the end result, she is under no illusion to the contrary. Maybe if she’d been human, or if her Mother had been present enough to defend her, then maybe she could convince the world it was self defense.
But that isn’t reality, because she knows what people would see. Knew that there wasn’t a world where Atlas decided a faunus was innocent after killing one of their own. Not with General Ironwood’s crusade against the White Fang, not when she escaped from– and fought against– an ace operative, and especially not when… when she saw how Winter really felt about her.
That emotionless glare as she calmly broke every promise she’d ever made to Weiss, staring into space like this of all moments didn’t warrant even the slightest unprofessionalism. Maybe family does still matter to Winter, but Weiss knows she’s not part of that family. Not anymore, at least.
There is no place for her left in Atlas, and no place safe for her in Mantle, but she’ll find her way, even if it means facing her nightmare. Even if it meant locking herself in a container, and waiting desperately for wherever the currents would take her.
Logically, she knows the containers are safer now. Knows about all the changes that were made, all the security measures ensuring no accident could be repeated. The ventilation, the emergency system that she’d gutted for a source of light, and of course the internal release handle. Logically, she knows that she can get out at any time, that it’s just a matter of waiting until their arrival and her solitude, or risk being caught again. Logically, she knows all of this, but then fear isn’t a logical emotion.
Part of her is still that scared little girl, desperately clutching her tail and fearing a metal tomb she could never escape from.
Weiss focuses back on what she can feel, distracting her mind from its temporary spiral, focusing on counting the flashes of red, and listening to the hum of the ventilation. Breathing in tandem with the light, calming herself, focusing on reality around her. What she can see, what she can hear, what she can feel–
She can’t feel the shaking. In fact, as far as she can feel, the container is completely stable, devoid of even the subtle sway that had been present for most of her journey.
Whatever happened outside has finished, leaving just the question of what occurred. It was too much to be simple turbulence, far too long lasting for it to be a brief jolt, yet too short to be a storm. Was it then really an attack, then?
Crawling forward, standing up on unsteady legs, she makes her way to the cargo door, desperately pressing her ear to the metal, hoping for some vague sound to tell her what to make of this. Not for the first time, she wishes her trait had been ears, though knows if she had them she’d hate the noise most of the time. That, and she is really fond of her tail.
But she can’t hear anything, not the sounds of an engine, the struggles of a battle, or even the screech of sea birds. Maybe she can hear the faint sound of the ocean, or maybe it’s just the sounds of the air around her, like putting one’s ear to a shell.
There is, of course, another option. One that sparks that most dangerous hope: she could have landed. She could have finally arrived to wherever this cargo was going, finally able to leave this Brother’s forsaken container, breathe fresh air, and be free.
She feels almost giddy.
No, she needs to calm herself, carry this out professionally, and not get her hopes up. It’s not proper for a Schnee to– actually yeah no, nevermind. She indulges herself, letting her body sway in delight, as she gently dances whilst collecting her backpack, cleaning up after herself, and all around making her previous presence be more or less unnoticeable.
With the exception of the Dust she’d used, obviously.
Nearing the entrance, she places an ear to the door, waiting to ensure no external sound, prepared to leave when the coast is clear. Despite her trait not being ears, her faunus heritage still ensures her senses are sharper than the average human, sharp enough at least that she’d hear if someone walked by, or if containers are still being moved. Waiting to ensure she is completely isolated.
The metal door opened without any difficulty.
Somehow that was what had surprised Weiss the most. Her successful escape from Atlas, the total collapse of her entire life, the betrayal of her family, the blood staining her hands … None of it really hit her as hard as the exit to her nightmare simply opening. No fanfare, no desperate escape, she simply messed with the Schnee Smart Lock, and she was released unceremoniously.
Granted, she knows those other things, those monumental revelations, are simply waiting their turn. Waiting until she’s out of survival mode to lambast her into the ground. Her childhood nightmare, however, had been immediate and actionable enough to take presence in her mind.
Maybe the lesser fear had been a distraction of its own in a twisted way. Huh.
Her childhood nightmare, suddenly conquered without any real difficulty– or rather, no difficulty that wasn’t self imposed. Like an immature fear being proven unfounded and harmless. It’s a strange feeling, to be sure, but not a bad one.
The shattered moon hangs high in the sky, illuminating the surrounding dockyard in vibrant pale light, much brighter than a tampered emergency light, at the very least. It’s the middle of the night, and Weiss has no doubts that she has waited multiple hours for complete silence beyond the cargo container. Counting to a thousand and resetting every time she thought she heard anything.
Was it excessive? Probably, but she was, and still is, unwilling to take any risks to her freedom, hence her current surveillance of the dockyard. With long sweeping glares, she takes in every detail, night vision and moon light revealing secrets normally only exposed under midday light.
The large container terminal, all but abandoned to the eerie silence of night, stands uncannily empty. Given the late hour, the otherwise bustling workplace is void of movement. The surrounding buildings, simple white structures that look exceedingly cheap, are also empty. The myriad of windows revealing darkened interiors: no late night workers or night shift employees.
The only movement is in the distance, a scattering of guards watching over the chain link fences, surveilling the surroundings to ensure no one gets in. Even from a distance, they look exceedingly bored and nearly falling asleep. Moreover, they are watching for threats making their way in, not a stowaway making her way out.
This is as ideal as it gets, it gives Weiss a chance to get a lay of the land, to figure out where she even is, and then find out where she can go from here. Ideally, she’d recognize this place as Argus, and easily be able to collect her lien before making her escape to… wherever she’ll go. She doubts she’s so fortunate.
Truthfully, without calling attention to herself as a stowaway, she’ll need to be subtle in piecing together her location, scanning the skyline for any hints, checking local businesses to get a sense for the culture, observing– oh that’s Beacon Tower in the distance. So nevermind then.
She’s in Vale.
That… isn’t ideal, but frankly it could’ve been much worse. She’s not in Mistral, no, but she’s also not somewhere like Vacuo, so small victories and all that.
That does make her next course of action somewhat simpler, she’ll need to use the lien Joanna gave her, and travel to Mistral, before finding her way onto the Argus Limited. A nice, easy, actionable plan.
If only it were that easy.
Everything had been going just fine, really. Her escape from the dockyards was laughably easy, having practiced escaping and infiltrating a secure mansion dozens of times, and the sleep deprived guards barely ever saw the white blur leaving the premises.
She’d found a public bathroom and made sure she didn’t look like a bloodied mess, changed her eye patch, and conveniently not focused on the girl in her reflection. The slow, yet constantly rising tide of emotions kept at bay for a while longer.
She had moved with determination and drive, the Vale Air Terminal finally in sight, and not a single hurdle to be found. And then suddenly a strong hand had clasped around her arm, capturing it in an iron grip.
Weiss whirls towards her adversary, hand already reaching for her concealed dagger, whilst examining her newfound foe. A tall man, built with well toned muscle and adorned in lightweight and breathable clothing, stands before her. An outfit well suited to warmer climates, like parts of Mistral or even Menagerie.
Most notably, however, are the large round spectacles, the floppy ears, and the very apologetic expression, and the grip that immediately loosens, as he takes a step back, hands raised in a non-threatening display. Well then.
“Woah, sorry!” Exclaims the faunus, and Weiss cautiously lowers her raised dagger, “didn’t mean to startle you, that’s on me, just uhh…” The man gestures in the general direction of the air terminal. “Since you’re heading in that direction, you should know they’re searching and checking the IDs of any faunus that go through, looking for someone with a weasel trait, just thought you might like a warning, is all.”
A small flicker of anger ignites in her chest, not necessarily at the man, but at the situation itself. Within a scant few days, an international alert has already been issued, just in the off-chance she somehow would have made her way to Vale, yet actual cooperation between countries is nearly impossible, marred in red tape and bureaucracy. All of which gets conveniently lifted for those at the top. And not only that, but how they describe her… She shakes her head, she needs to focus.
The man looks a bit sheepish from her delayed response, rubbing the back of his head apologetically, and Weiss realizes something. He might have just saved her life. Of course, she can't say that, so instead she responds: “Ah, thank you. Apologizes for drawing my weapon on you.” And bows her head respectfully.
“Oh, none of that. I should've known a fighter when I saw one, and besides we gotta stick together, y’know?” he nods his head at her pearlescent tail. She nods back in agreement. "Now more than ever."
“Perry, are you coming or what?” A distant voice calls out to the man.
“Ah, that’s me. Safe travels, sister.” And he turns, waving to her from over his should, and walking towards the voice, whilst shouting back a reply. Weiss watches him leave, a strange feeling settling in her chest. Joanna had been kind to her, but when was the last time a stranger treated her well? Treated her like a companion instead of an obstacle or challenge?
She honestly couldn’t say. Yet the mild jubilation is unceremoniously cut short, beheaded by the knowledge imparted. It’s unlikely they’d expect her to already be in Vale, and even then, Vale only has an extradition treaty with Vacuo. Yet that doesn’t change the fun legal gray zone that is international travel, or Mistral’s very present extradition laws with Atlas.
So she’s trapped. Maybe she could stowaway on another vessel, one she knows is heading for Argus, but there’s about a hundred different ways that could go wrong, and given her track record, it isn’t worth the risk. There is always the option of traveling on foot, a great idea if it weren’t for her negative survival experience, her recognizable features, and the boiling well of negativity within her, that is sure to alert every grimm on Anima.
So Vale it is, at least until things settle down. That just leaves one final burning question. What now?
She has barely any funds, her life encapsulated in a backpack and hidden within her coat, with no family or friends in a foreign city, and the only people she knows are the vile kind that wouldn’t hesitate to turn her over, the kind of people her father would invite to galas and dinners.
In such a situation, she knows from experience where she should go. After all, she’d volunteered at just such a location herself.
She knows that a younger, dumber, so much dumber, version of herself would have scoffed at the idea. Schnee pride simply falls apart at the idea of asking for help, let alone going to a shelter. But Schnee pride has never been her savior, and she’s met so many of the people who needed the shelter in Mantle. She could never consider it weak, when she knows the people who need it most.
People like her, she supposes.
It doesn’t take long for her to figure out the time, at a little over eleven at night, and some shelters should still be serving food, which would be an actual godsend. Whether or not she can get a place to sleep, as she’s undoubtedly past the curfew, is another question entirely. One struggle at a time, she supposes.
Finding the actual shelter isn’t particularly difficult, Joanna had explained exactly what went into her choice of location, and it was simply a matter of time before Weiss found the exact kind of neighborhood she was looking for. Buildings with cracked and peeling paint in off-colors, damaged windows and worn street furniture. A place deemed unprofitable to maintain, with ‘unprofitable’ people living in every apartment.
Joanna had explained it best, the goal is to help those who society refused to help first. And sure enough, she finds a shelter only moments later, and despite the late hour, a handful of people are enjoying a late dinner. The kinds of people Weiss has no doubt just got done working two full shifts, and have neither the time nor lien to cook for themselves. It’s the same reason Joanna kept the kitchen open so late, to serve the miners who had to work inhumanely long shifts.
Perry had said she looks like fighter, and that much is true, her build is mostly lithe muscle, the scar poking out from under her eye-patch speaks of combat experience, and even her concealed weapon is a sign for those that know what to look for. It all speaks of a huntress in training at best, and someone not to be messed with at worst.
But she’s also a fifteen year old girl with matted and dirty hair (washing her hair wasn’t exactly a priority), a nasty scar, a hunched in disposition, a burden on her shoulders, and a mostly clean and snow white tail (washing her tail was absolutely a priority.)
In a sense, she'd fit right in.
“What do you mean you’re unable to let me in?!” Weiss demands, the small spark of anger having grown exponentially the longer this waste of a conversation drags on.
“Ma’am, it’s just like I’m saying. I can’t risk the other people here, so you’ll have to leave, I’m sorry for the inconvenience. There’s probably another shelter that will take you, but it won't be this one.” Miss Hoar explains with the same attitude one uses for petulant children. Except, Weiss knows that’s untrue, because this is the third shelter she’s gone to.
She had assumed she’d just been unlucky, going to shelters that didn’t allow faunus to use their services, and sure she could have hidden her tail, but frankly she’s tired of hiding who she is. She knows quite a few places in Mantle that also refused to help faunus, given Atlas’ propriety for smiting anything that even twitches like it might be a White Fang supporter. So she had wondered if the political situation was just as bad in Vale.
But no, because she can see multiple faunus at this location.
So what is it then?! She seemingly can’t get a straight answer, just vague notions as if she should just know why she’s being turned away. But she doesn’t! She’s tired, hungry, emotionally and physically exhausted and frankly just barely keeping everything together.
So. Why?!
“Why– just tell me why. It’s clearly not because I’m a faunus,” she says, gesturing wildly to the people inside the shelter, quite a few of whom are watching this spectacle unfold, “so just– Tell. Me. Why.”
Miss Hoar simply looks at Weiss, her posture tense like she expects Weiss to lash out like an angry animal, and at the rate this night is going, Weiss can’t even fault her, as everything just feels conspired against her.
Miss Hoar gives a long suffering sigh, “You really don’t know?” Weiss shakes her head in the negative, and Miss Hoar just looks at her incredulously. “You somehow missed the news that Jacques Schnee’s own daughter went and offed him, before escaping soon after?”
Internally a bolt of panic shoots through her, but years of keeping facades kicks in, and she simply makes a confused scoffing sound. “I don’t exactly see what some brat has to do with me.” Weiss replied flippantly, lancing a challenging glare at Miss Hoar.
Miss Hoar is unimpressed. “Really? You don’t see why me harboring a white haired weasel faunus might be a bad idea? Especially with every cop being up in a twist, ‘case she somehow got to Vale?”
And doesn’t that just sting. Like smothering her spark of angry fire, by dousing it in gasoline. Somehow, she’s surprised by the legal bullshittery, not that she can’t piece it together quickly. Jacques Schnee might have been an Atlesian citizen, but the SDC was a near-global corporation, and if they label her murder as an assassination, that would change things. It’s dubiously legal, but in just enough of a gray-zone that they could argue it's case. It’s not particularly surprising, many on Vale’s council have strong ties with the SDC and benefited greatly from its dealings.
Somehow she had expected better of humanity, and once again, she was left wanting. And yet, that isn’t even the part that infuriates her the most. No, that honor goes to the steadily growing and red-hot rage that had been building since her father’s office, since Winter’s announcement, since every single person that talks about her or to her. That self-same and completely incorrect assumption.
Miss Hoar doesn’t deserve that vitriol, but Weiss also doesn’t deserve to stand out here, hungry and cold and miserable, and frankly? She has had a long couple days at this point, and her ability to keep emotions at bay has been getting increasingly frayed.
And there Miss Hoar stands, a self-satisfied expression like she was the only reasonable one in this argument, but she forgot one crucial aspect. “I am not a fucking weasel faunus. I am a stoat! ” She nearly bellows, grabbing her tail and gesturing aggressively to the black tip. “Weasel tails don’t have black tips! That’s a trait unique to stoats. Do you also go around banning any lion faunus passing through, if a lynx faunus happened to commit a crime? Do all traits just look the same to you?!” Weiss demands, and a part of her deeply enjoys watching the color drain from Miss Hoar’s face.
Yes, the last comment was a low-blow, but oh how she deserves the way the every faunus in the shelter turn to look at her, as she scrambles for an excuse. Weiss is damn tired of people calling her a weasel, when she simply isn’t.
In any case, Miss Hoar immediately draws Weiss close and speaks in a low tone, no longer confident enough to let anyone overhear. Granted, those with ear traits can undoubtedly still hear their conversation, but it’s the thought that counts.
“Alright I’m sorry,” Miss Hoar hisses in a much lower voice, “but be that as it may, I still can’t let you in. Your situation is unfortunate, but without a way to verify your identity, others may still assume you’re her, and I refuse to risk the people I’m meant to look after.” She explains, her voice seemingly filled with genuine remorse.
And Weiss… understands, and can feel the anger draining from her. It’s unfortunate, but what can she do? She knows Miss Hoar is more right than she realizes, and she truly doesn’t want to hurt those already so hurt. That sinking feeling comes, as her blue eyes stare despondently at the ground, that feeling that there might just not be anything she can do.
Realization strikes like lightning, and her blue eyes flash with a solution. And she looks at Miss Hoar, Weiss’ deep blue staring into Miss Hoar’s gray, and she quickly reaches into her coat, ignoring the way Miss Hoar tenses slightly, before finally Weiss takes out a photo.
A photo of a self-satisfied seven year old girl, posing proudly next to her elated butler, her tail in mid swing, and the butlers fond blue eyes looking down at her.
“Just, wait, look here.” Weiss says, shoving the photo into Miss Hoar’s hands. “This is me and my dad, my trait is from an ermine specifically, so it made my hair white as well.” She lies, yet the deception rolls easily off of her tongue, more true than the actual reality. Because when was the last time father had cared for her the way Klein had?
And to anyone else, anyone not familiar with their actual relation, it is but an older man with deep blue eyes and immense fondness for a young girl with eyes the same vibrant blue.
“So just…” Weiss continues, her tone much softer than the earlier anger, “I’m not her. I’m just a girl in need, so please?”
She feels a little bad, Miss Hoar despite her earlier attitude, does seem to genuinely want to help people, and she was correct, Weiss is in fact wanted for murder. But the world lied about what she’d done, so it’s only fair that she lies about who she is. As soon as she finds something more stable, she’ll get out of Miss Hoar’s hair, and in the meantime, she knows how to help out in a shelter. It's the best option in a bad situation.
Miss Hoar looks at the photo, and then looks back up at Weiss, handing back the piece of paper. “Well then,” she says with a genuine smile, “come on in, Miss..?” she trails off expectantly.
“Sieben. Blanche Sieben.” Weiss says with a smile. And she enters.