(GMR) CHAPTER FIFTEEN: DOUBTS

The bus rumbled beneath him, its worn shocks groaning with every pothole, but doing nothing to soothe Greg’s nerves. He sat near the back, h

The bus rumbled beneath him, its worn shocks groaning with every pothole, but doing nothing to soothe Greg's nerves. He sat near the back, hood drawn up and head leaning against the cool, grimy window. The world outside passed in streaks of dull orange and yellow, streetlights smeared across wet glass. But none of it registered.

All he could hear was that damn phrase repeating in his mind no matter how much he tried to push them down.

"Master/Stranger risk."

Armsmaster hadn't said it with malice. There hadn't even been fear in his voice either, or anger. Just certainty. Cold, hard, and objective certainty, as if labeling Greg a threat was no different than cataloguing a new piece of Tinker tech.

The words had gutted him all the same.

In his head, he'd imagined himself standing alongside the city's heroes. He'd dreamed of banter with the Wards, strategy meetings with the director herself, maybe even getting invited to fight alongside them against villains. Saving lives, not being labeled a potential threat himself. But with the way things were going, the Protectorate's armored team leader had made one thing clear: until they understood what was happening with his powers, Greg Veder was just as likely to be a danger as an asset.

He swallowed, throat tight and dry.

He'd thought about a lot of things since his trigger: what kind of costume he'd wear, what alias he'd use, which villains he'd take down, and whether he'd be famous, respected, or admired. But he'd never, not for once, stopped to ask if what he had was normal. If he was.

Four distinct powers. Four distinct voices. And he'd never questioned it.

It had not seemed strange at first because he'd chalked it all up to being special, like he was the protagonist in a video game and had unlocked a rare multi-path build. It had all clicked so perfectly to him, it had to be destiny.

Now?

Now he was starting to wonder if he was the antagonist in someone else's story.

And the girls… the girls were still unnervingly quiet, though not in the 'taking a break' way, or 'simmering with judgment'. Gone quiet. That was what scared him most; not the diagnosis, or the guarded expressions from the PRT staff, or even Armsmaster's final warning.

It was the silence.

No Ruby's bubbly cheer, no Weiss with her critiques at the ready, no Blake's calm counsel or cautiousness, no Yang egging him on. It was like someone had flipped a switch that sent them all into hiding since the conversation with Armsmaster, leaving him alone with his own spiraling thoughts.

Are they real? Greg wondered, stomach twisting. Were they ever?

He'd never asked what they were. He didn't want to. Because if he asked the question, he might not like the answer. It might ruin the fantasy he unconsciously created. What if they weren't just voices, but fragments of his own mind born from his trauma.

Or worse…

The Butcher had been just a name to him before. A footnote in cape forums despite their infamy. Now, the comparison tasted like bile. The Butcher was a terrifying parahuman who carried the minds of every host of their power, each one just as violent and deranged and unstable as the next.

Was he like that?

Was he carrying something? Someone? Four someones?

He didn't remember killing anyone when he triggered. Didn't remember much of anything really, apart from the panic and overwhelming need to survive. But he didn't understand how his power worked or came to be, either—apart from its general mechanics—and ignorance wasn't innocence.

Did the RWBY team even exist anymore, or had they died somewhere in the void that spat him out his powers?

The bus jolted over a pothole, snapping him out of his thoughts. He clenched his fists, willing any of the four to speak.

"Say something," he whispered under his breath, barely audible over the engine's whine. "Please."

But the silence remained, and his hands trembled in his lap from uncertainty.

He glanced at his reflection in the window: pale and exhausted, and eyes wide with something that looked suspiciously like panic.

"Guys… please." His voice cracked. "I need you."

Still nothing.

The silence stretched, and with it came a deep, gnawing pit in his chest. The kind that didn't go away when your injuries were healed, that couldn't be dodged or deflected or punched through.

His stop neared. Greg pulled the cord, the bus hissing as it came to a stop two blocks from his house. Greg stood up on shaky legs, ignoring the sidelong glance from an elderly woman clutching a shopping bag.

The driver called after him. "You good, kid?"

Greg nodded too quickly, not trusting himself to speak, and stepped off into the night air, the quiet of the darkened street pressing down on him like a tangible weight.

He made it halfway to his front door before he couldn't take it anymore.

"Ruby?" he tried, voice hoarse. "Weiss? Blake? Yang?"

Nothing.

The night seemed emptier without them.

He pushed his way inside, locking the door behind him with fumbling fingers. He leaned back against the wood, exhaling shakily as Armsmaster's words repeated itself over and over and over again.

Master/Stranger risk.

He hadn't felt like he was being controlled. They had never forcedhim to do anything, merely advised, argued, joked, and pushed. But what if they could? What if that was part of the manipulation? What if he'd never truly been in control since the moment he Triggered?

He slid to the floor, head in his hands.

"Guys," his breath hitched. "I need you to tell me I won't go insane."

Still nothing from any of the girls.

Just him.

Just Greg.

He closed his eyes, and for the first time since getting his powers, he didn't feel special.