(Northern provinces of Vale, near the coastline facing Atlas)

The Badlands.

A virtually uninhabited area of the otherwise prosperous Kingdom of Vale.

While the areas outside the main kingdom cities were virtually uninhabited from the start, this massive plain, miles upon miles of land untouched by the civilizations of humanity, was an enigma almost giving itself over to myth. There was virtually no trace that sentient life had ever existed here.

Well, save for the occasional rusting helmet or discarded rifle cast among the ancient hillocks and waving grasses. The only tombstones the wearers would ever receive.

In the last Great War, one of the largest battles between Vale and Mantle, long since given way to Atlas, had been waged over these lands, said to at one time have been fertile and green, and possessing of vital materials and Dust mines. The views had inspired great art pieces and emotional poetry, the vast distances one could see from the rolling hills growing into mountains at the very edge of the landmass tweaking at the heartstrings of many a melancholy artist. In the evening sunlight, one could still marvel at the panoramic rainbow of colors that lit up the sky as the sun descended on the horizon.

Now, the Grasses were brown and dead. Some of the mountains had been reduced to craters, their valuable minerals ripped from the embrace of nature. The bleached bones of monsters and men could still be found poking from the ground after heavy rains.

Also to be found, here and there, were the crumbling remains of the vast engines of war that man had once used to dominate and decimate his fellow: Land dreadnoughts, airships, flying fortresses, and machines comparable to the creatures of Grimm in size and destructive force. These were scattered, rusting, calcified like the bones of their operators. With the Vytal treaty in effect, these machines had been left where they lay, an everlasting tribute to the fallen.

Would be that their secrets would remain fallen.

"This is the spot."

The tall, gaunt man in the white trench coat, the wind catching his gold-streaked scarlet hair, his jade eyes fierce and piercing, looked up from the ancient maps and images he held. Motioning to the group of men and women surrounding him, he looked to the large rock face that towered above the motley group.

"Alright….start digging."

The rumble of earth movers echoed across the empty plains, as men and machines surged into motion, tearing away at the rock and dirt, searching for buried secrets. The Gaunt man smiled fiercely, his eyes flashing, as, placing his hands in his pockets, he fingered a roughly-made clay figurine of a redheaded young girl in a simple white dress.

"Soon, little sister…soon…"

[=]

"Beat it, failure!"

Rackley Hawker dodged the empty bottles and dirty rocks thrown by the shop owner as she fled deeper into the alleyway, struggling to hold on to the barely-edible scraps she had picked out of his dumpster.

Failure…

Her boots, worn and scuffed beyond any repair, thudded on the concrete as she ran, the shadows closing around her. Her chestnut hair, roughly cut short, ragged and dirty from a lack of washing, caught the breeze, blowing it clear of her face. Her skirt was torn, showing off her legs clad in the shredded and laddered remains of the pearlescent stockings Female academy students wore.

Failure…

Her Atlas academy uniform, blouse stained, vest ragged and falling apart, would get her reamed up one side and down the other were she to present it for inspection.
That is, if she were still a student at the academy.

Slamming her back against a wall, she desperately tried to catch her breath as she listened for any pursuit. It wouldn't be the first time this week she'd had to run from callous abusers: the cuts and scrapes showing through holes in her ragged uniform were testament to it.

Nothing.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Rackley slid down the wall to rest on her backside, simply stopping for a moment. Pulling her knees to her chest, she finally forced herself to look down at her hands, fighting down a wave of revulsion at the sight of the half-eaten sandwich and the pear, missing a bite, that she'd had time to grab before she'd been noticed. Her first real food of any substance in days…at least water was free at the drinking fountains in the park… which was also where she slept, for the moment, under a bridge crossing a decorative stream…

Just two weeks prior, she'd had regular meals, clean clothes, a real bed, friends, respect…

She squeezed her eyes shut and fought back the tears that came more and more frequently these days.

If only she'd tried harder, practiced more…maybe she'd have finally mastered it…..

If only…

If only…

Failure...

Tearing off the bits of the sandwich that had touched someone else's lips, she allowed a few tears to fall as she forced herself to focus on not devouring the sustenance, remembering her survival training…what little she'd had time to receive before being unceremoniously booted out of the Atlas academy. The excuse? "Disciplinary and decorum breaches" yeah, right.

She knew that the fight she'd gotten into with Team ROBN over her inability to properly use her semblance had just been an excuse: her failure to stand and deliver on her promised ability was the real reason.

Sniffing back heavier sobs, she raised a hand and tried to force it again…there, just barely detectable, the traces of electrical bolts arcing between her fingers. And to do that had taken weeks upon weeks of effort and intense training: pathetic, after her discovery of her powers had been a tremendous display, a lightning bolt that had shorted out half the electricity in the school. They'd plucked her into the specialist training as soon as they discovered what she did.

Things wouldn't have been as bad as they were, if a: she were still too young to join the regular army, and the standard military academy didn't want "Specialist dropouts…"

Or B:…her parents hadn't thrown her out….

She'd gotten the letter as she'd been packing her things: her father, a Commander in the armed forces and her Mother, a Specialist herself, had made it clear in no uncertain terms that she was not welcome in their home until she "redeemed" her failure. She'd taken being drummed out of the academy with a strong face, but this….this had left her speechless.
She'd walked out in a fog, no goodbye from her team, who were already getting to know her replacement. She'd received nothing but cold shoulders and scornful looks from everyone except the janitor of her dorm, who'd given her a sympathetic smile and, she'd discovered, a spare 20- lien slipped in her pocket. She needed that money more than she'd realized at the time…

She'd sold what few personal effects she'd had that very day, to a pawn shop, to scrape together some cash, which she had promptly lost when she'd been mugged in the park that very night. Her spare set of clothes had been stolen the next night, and she'd lost her weapon to a mob of academy students who had taken turns beating her with chase-ball sticks while they threw what little she'd had left into the river. She'd defended herself, of course, but being small in stature and outnumbered had left her on the receiving end more than the giving end. It had been the same everywhere she went: it was an open secret that academy washouts were fair game for people to work out any social grievances on, as they were little more than garbage in the eyes of the masses. Police and soldiers would stand by and watch, sometimes even join in, as always-outnumbered victims, usually teenagers like herself, were subjected to grievous tortures, punishments for their "failure."

In Atlas, there was no room for Failure.

That lien from the Janitor, which she'd hidden in her boot, was now all she had left, and she was determined not to spend it until she absolutely needed to. Shivering as a cold wind blew down the alley through the holes in her clothes, she idly wondered if she'd need a coat or medicine first…

"Hey there."

Looking up in surprise-she'd been so lost in thought she hadn't heard the approach of another-she began to run before she saw who had spoken to her.

"Wait, wait!"

Her mind registered the familiarity of the voice before her body's instinctive reaction to run at the approach of another could fully take over. As her mind's eye registered what her facial eyes were showing her, she all but sobbed a ragged sigh of relief as she recognized the Janitor who had been so kind to her standing there, an expression of concern on his face as he looked at her.

"M-Mr. Rosewood!" she gasped, collapsing onto her knees as her adrenaline rush crashed full-speed into the sudden emotional surge brought on by a friendly face. The older man dashed to her side, getting on his own knees as he steadied her. Despite herself, tears flowed unbidden as she wrapped her arms around him, clinging desperately to this man who had been so kind at the school, always encouraging her as her initial wave of euphoria at being accepted into the Academy had been overtaken by growing frustration and finally desperation as her powers failed to live up to her promised potential. He'd always been there to talk when she'd had to run to escape bullying from her peers and her new team had grown more and more distant from her, not wanting to be associated with someone who couldn't perform. She'd passed all her other courses, and been studious, but the higher-ups didn't care: they'd demanded perfection, and she….

Failure….

"There, there, child, it's alright." Mr. Rosewood said as he held the sobbing girl close, patting her back comfortingly.
"How can it be alright?!" Rackley cried, her voice muffled where it was buried in the older man's coat "you're the first person I've come across in two weeks who hasn't tried to beat me to death!"
The Janitor said nothing, merely holding the girl closer as she wept, the fears and despair that had been building ever since she'd realized she wasn't going to succeed finally breaking free.

"m-my parents threw me out, I've lost all my money, my c-clothes, my weapon, and I've been reduced to a punching bag for the p-people's frustration! Some soldier I am! What am I going to do?!" Rackley cried, begging for an answer. Mr. Rosewood smiled sympathetically as she finally pulled away from his chest, her face pinched, and a picture of despair.

"What you're going to do child, for now, is come home and spend a few days with my wife and I, eating some real food and regaining your strength."
Rackley's sobs abruptly stopped, and she looked at the man, who felt like a beloved uncle more than just a janitor, with eyes wide and wet with tears.

"R-really?"

The man's smile never wavered, as he helped Rackley to her feet and, slipping off his jacket, he draped the oversized leather coat over the trembling girl's shoulders. His face suddenly became serious, almost mournful.

"My Daughter was like you, child: a promised Prodigy who failed to deliver when push came to shove. Like you, she was thrown out by the higher ups and immediately became a pariah: she was too ashamed to come home to us a failure, to bring that stigma to our doorstep."
He looked up at the sky, his eyes peering into the past.

"they found her face-down in the harbor, her back and arms broken by a Chase-ball stick, face pummeled, hair torn out at the roots and…" he stopped short, unable to go on. Rackley placed a hand to her mouth in shock: she didn't need to fill in the blank. A fresh shudder ran through her as the realization that she could have ended up the same way suddenly filled her mind.

Mr. Rosewood faced her again, placing an affectionate hand on her cheek.
"There's a hot shower, good food, clean clothes and a warm bed waiting for you, if you'd like."
"Y-yes…yes!" Rackley said, her eyes still leaking tears even as hope, something she'd thought she'd never feel again, began to bubble in her breast 'I'll do anything I need to, cook, clean, I'll-"

Mr. Rosewood waved his hands dismissively.
"No, no child, none of that." He said "this is on me."
Rackley thought if her eyes went any wider they'd burst out of her head.
"w-what?"
Mr. Rosewood smiled at her, his face bright as a beam of sunlight broke through the clouds and highlighted his smile.

"My Wife and I swore that we would never allow another Child to go so unloved and unwanted, just because she wasn't what society calls "perfect." I've been looking for you for the past two weeks."
He placed his strong hands on her shoulders, looking deep into her bright blue eyes.
" You passed all your courses, Rackley: you are not a failure."

Not…a Failure…

Turning and placing an affectionate arm around Rackley's shoulder, he started to slowly lead her out of the dark alleyway.
"Now come on… I think it's time you started to put your life back together. For now, let's get you cleaned up and get you some rest, safe from the mobs out there."

"After that….I think I know someone who can help you."

Rackley allowed herself to lean into Mr. Rosewood's embrace as he led her to his simple pickup truck parked at the end of the alley. No one noticed her bedraggled condition underneath his oversized coat, and, in spite of everything, she felt a…strange feeling flowing through her body.

It wasn't until after she'd been driven to Mr. Rosewood's apartment and his wife had given her a hot bath, cleaned her wounds, all but force-fed her a thick beef stew, dressed her in an impossibly soft silk nightgown and put her to bed in an equally impossibly soft bed swaddled in blankets so plush she thought a bushel of cats were sleeping on her-helped by the purring of the Rosewood's own cat, Pancakes, who had leapt onto the bed and snuggled up next to her cheek-that she realized that the feeling was…relaxation.

As she began to drift off to sleep the first contented sleep she'd had in months, Pancakes' soft purring a sweet lullaby, she heard Mr. Rosewood on his scroll outside her temporary room. He was talking to someone:

"Yes, she's an academy student…no, I don't think she got in that deep. She talked to me, didn't she? Yes, yes, I know….look, I've got a good feeling about her. She's as smart as a whip, quick thinking, she passed all her scholastic courses and her sharpshooting course…yes, sharpshooting, she was in the top five of her class. Not bad for a first year, no?...alright, I'll wait to hear from the Commander. When will he be back from…okay, okay, sorry! The line's secure, relax…alright, alright, I Know. But I need to know soon…no, she's not the only one…Alright, talk to you soon. Good luck."

As Rackley, drifting off to sleep, heard him hang up and walk away from her door, she briefly pondered on what Mr. Rosewood had meant by her not being the "only one."

And who this "Commander' was….

But such thoughts were pushed from her mind as, with the company of Pancakes and the safe enclave of Mr. Rosewood's home, she finally fell asleep, a smile on her face.

[=]

(Alright, having seen what has become of some of the main chars in this story…just consider this an AU Volume 3 where things take a different track.)