Chapter Text
– Mistral -
The world was cold. Well, chill was a more apt word for it as the sleeping form in a crib rustled to get deeper under his covers. That was, until the infant shot upward with a start, breathing heavily with a cold sheen of sweat clinging to his chubby body.
What? The child blinked against the dark as he held his hands in front of his face, slowly opening and closing them. The baby had blue eyes, the color of ice-covered slate with pale skin and a tuft of soft blonde hair on his head. The baby reached over and grabbed a piece of skin on his arm and pinched it before wincing at the action. Okay. Not a dream. How did this–
The child paused and sucked in a sharp breath as memory poured back. Fire. Burning. Legs crushed. Head on a steering wheel. Phone shattered in the charging port. Pain. So much pain. Blood on his hands and face. Sirens. Darkness.
The child put a hand against his face, feeling the damp and cold sweat once more. I died. Car crash from what I remember. He frowned and looked at his hands. Reincarnation? Damn. That’s annoying. The child looked around the room. It was fairly standard for a baby’s room. A window let the bright moonlight cascade on the dark floor. There was a starry nightlight projecting on the ceiling with several constellations. The baby looked at it for any constellation he could recall, but none were familiar. I remember Dad was really into astronomy and board games, too. He frowned again. No Big Dipper, Scorpio, Pisces, or anything. Must be a crappy kid’s toy then.
Further examination of the room netted only a few details. Color was absent minus the twinkling blue lights on the ceiling. Don’t they know that blue light messes up the circadian rhythm? That’s elementary-level science. They should’ve gone for yellow or red for the lights, but I guess that doesn’t match the aesthetic.
There was a poster on the wall, but again, it was too dark to really tell what any of it said. The child could see alphabet blocks on the floor, scattered about wherever, and a shelf with a variety of books. At least there’s some reading material. The baby squinted to see if he could see any of the titles, perhaps even recognize them. I was a literature major, though I doubt there’ll be any Lord Byron, Homer, Yeats, or Shakespeare here. With any luck, I’ll at least be able to read Hans Christian Anderson and complain to myself about his blatant message that children should obey their parents. He chuckled but it sounded more like a gurgle. I guess my instincts as a wannabe film critique haven’t diminished since I died.
The baby blinked. Huh. I’m taking this better than I’d expect. He shook his head. Maybe I’m still in shock. Regardless, I doubt I can even discuss with people anything about my past life. That’s hard to prove, and, being a baby, I’ll just get blown off as having an overactive imagination.
The child returned to squinting at the bookshelf, trying to recognize any of the stories. What even are these books? “The Warrior in the Woods?” “The Gift of the Moon?” What even are these stories? I mean, sure, I don’t know every single one, but I feel I’d at least know some of these–
His eyes stopped on a set of books closest to him. “The Grimm Child,” “The Story of the Four Seasons,” “The Girl in the Tower,” and The Girl Who Fell Through the World .
Oh no. The child suddenly and shakily got to his feet, leaning close against the cradle's bars and twisting his head to look out the window. Outside, he could see a looming shape in the sky as well as a bustling city built into the walls of the rocky mountains and what looked to be either a lake or sea down below. But the unfamiliar terrain was not what the child lingered his attention on. Instead, he watched in horror as the distant satellite of the planet traversed the sky: a moon many times closer than Earth’s Luna and one that was shattered across the night sky creating a stained-glass window of only white and silver.
I’m on Remnant .
The next morning, the child stayed in bed, pondering everything that he could think of. Remnant. That was the planet that Internet show RWBY was based in. He frowned. He had watched all of the show despite it not being really in his alley of stories. Most of the time, he enjoyed reading or watching about grand plots of politics or heroes using cunning and words to outmaneuver their opponents. However, during the pandemic period, the eighteen-year-old high school student subsequently ran out of books in his retinue, and the library was closed until further notice. His friend put him and his brother on the show, and the two watched it out of sheer desperation for any content to break the monotony of a quarantine lockdown world.
And I remember how many plotholes it had.
The door to the room opened and the child sat on his bed, patiently waiting. An ancient woman entered the room with gray hair turning white at the roots and tan skin riddled with deep creases of age. She wore a maroon and white dress that gave the child several indications of it being a uniform. Is she a grandparent? Maid? Caretaker? The last ideas left a bitter taste in his mouth. He found himself recalling how much more the social elite in the four kingdoms postured themselves no matter where they are from. And, judging from the architecture outside, I suspect I’m in Mistral. Wonderful. Perhaps my family has connections to the mafia.
“Oh! Hello, little one,” the old woman smiled. “You’re not up so early normally.” She shuffled over to crib, starting to make cooing sounds and a baby voice. “Did you sleep well? Do you want out?”
The baby frowned but nodded his head. His eyes widened when he realized the look of shock on the old woman’s face. Shit, shit, shit! Babies aren’t supposed to respond as easily like that, you dunce! God, you can’t even be two years old! The child could hear his heart pounding hard in his chest.
The old woman gasped then made an almost crying sound as she laughed gleefully. “Oh! You’re such a smart baby boy, Scotty!” She suddenly scooped up the child, now realizing his name was probably Scott, and held him tight to her chest. “There, there, you must’ve not slept well last night if you’re up this early. Nana Tasha has you.”
Scott opened his mouth and tried to speak, “T-thank y-you.”
Nana Tasha squealed with delight. “YOUR FIRST WORDS! Oh my, we must bring you to your parents! They’ll be so excited!”
Tasha dashed through the house, something which Scott noted had many more corridors than he was expecting. Being someone who lived in an apartment for his entire four years in college, he was beginning to realize that, yes, the family he was born to here was of the wealthy establishment. Let’s hope that wealth includes morality as well.
The caretaker came to a halt before a pair of large, red, and gold doors as she straightened herself out. She took a deep breath and opened them with a smile. Scott’s eyes widened at the sheer size of the room, though he knew his perspective was skewed being less than two feet tall. From what he could determine, the high ceilings were about three to five meters tall, each wall decorated with dozens of paintings and an incredibly ornate glass and gold chandelier hanging from the ceiling. They really like their gold.
The room itself reminded Scott of those British TV shows his old parents watched, the table in the center of the room clearly capable of sitting at least a dozen people, perhaps more, but it currently only served two. The first was a man sitting at the head of the table with dark brown hair elegantly speckled with strands of gray. He had a short beard with a twirled mustache with a matching color to his hair, something Scott internally thought was comical were it not for the piercing stare of the man’s hazel eyes. They lacked any amusement. He wore a red and gold turncoat with a gold watch on his left hand.
Ah, damn, did I get saddled with the Mistrali equivalent of Jacques?
A woman sat to his right and had long, curled, blonde hair with sharp blue eyes wearing a slim red and gold dress that looked to be a strange cross of Terran eastern and western styles. She had a perfect face, not a single spec of a freckle or blemish, so Scott assumed there was some makeup involved, but being a single college student, former single college student, that was a facet of society he had no knowledge of.
“Tasha,” the man said, his expression stony. “I was not expecting you to be interrupting our breakfast. What could possibly be so important?”
“My apologies, Mister Ishvaltar,” the old woman said with a curtsey. “I was busy taking care of little Scott here when I found him awake and aware and he even said his first words!”
The man stood, his expression still frozen, as he approached the two. “What were they?”
“Thank you.” The old woman smiled. “He thanked me for taking him out of his crib. He even nodded when I asked him if he wanted to be taken out of his crib!”
The man stared at Scott. Normally, he wouldn’t be as intimidated by someone watching him like this. Three years of customer service in a restaurant tended to make you nigh impervious to the death glares and contorted screaming faces of angry customers when their salad wasn’t chopped or their fries weren’t crispy enough. However, being trapped in the body of a baby with a man, presumably his father, staring at you like a zoo exhibit had a certain effect of anxiety. Scott’s underdeveloped brain sent warnings and made him feel tempted to cry, but his years of experience tempered him to instead raise his hand and wave at the man.
“Interesting,” he whispered. “I suppose this one isn’t as dull as we’d were expecting.”
“Issac?” The woman rose from the table and came to approach.
“Can you understand me?” Issac Ishvaltar asked.
Scott didn’t know how to answer that question. Yes, he can understand what the adults were saying. However, being that, from the subtext he was gathering, Scott was supposed to have…lacking mental faculties, any sudden change in his personality could promote strange reactions in the people around him.
Then again, trying to pretend to be a baby and not having any way to express himself would likely drive the boy insane.
So, Scott firmly nodded.
“Very interesting.” Issac (Father? Definitely not Dad) stroked his beard. “You did well to bring this to our attention, Tasha. I was beginning to think our son, our heir , was going to be a retarded invalid. I am pleased to know that is not the case.”
Scott cringed internally. Fucking hell. The dude doesn’t pull his punches. Not really a good first impression .
“Issac, darling, there’s no need for such language in front of our son,” the woman, Mother presumably, said as she gently laid her hand on his shoulder. “This is a blessing to us. Let’s treat it as such.”
“Hmph. Indeed, Sylah, indeed.” Issac turned and returned to his seat at the table as Tasha placed Scott in a booster seat and tried to feed him. “I suppose our luck is beginning to turn this year. Already, we’ve secured a contract to build new training equipment for Haven and we are winning the bid for selling our new line of bullheads to the Mistral government just in time for the 32nd Vytal Festival.”
Scott’s head turned to his father. 32nd Vytal Festival. That’s held, what, every two years, right? I’m around one year old and… Scott’s face turned slightly pale but he hid it. Sixteen years from now, it’ll be held at Beacon in Vale. Shit, shit, shit. That’s when Beacon falls!
“And having an heir that’s the same age as the Schnee’s newest daughter as well?” Issac chuckled. It was a rich sound, but also sterile, practiced. “Yes, I do believe things are looking up for us.”
Weiss. Scott stopped really paying attention to the conversation and took the spoon Tasha was going to feed him with and began eating for himself. He didn’t even care about the squeals of delight from his caretaker, nor the now excited talks from his new parents. No. Scott had only one thought on his mind.
By the time I’m nineteen, Salem will have taken Remnant to its knees.