The guard moaned softly before collapsing onto the floor. He wasn't dead, but when he awoke hours later, he'd have what felt like one hell of a hangover. That's why Quincy had volunteered as the operation's locksmith. They were one of the few who could— and would— manage the task without actually killing anybody. Quincy systematically patted the guard's pockets until finding the needed security key-card. Soon, they would grant their brethren access and the operation could begin.
Ironic, Quincy thought, rising. A semblance that was almost useless for aspiring huntsmen against Grimm was so incredibly effective against humans.
At the nearby control terminal embedded into hallway wall, they doused the lights and ran the key-card through the scanner. The adjacent door slid open with a quiet hiss. They moved noiselessly, back against the entrance, tasting the air with a long, forked tongue. Their other senses more than compensated for relatively sub-par night vision (all the more obscured by their fanged, red and white Grimm mask). Only traces of Dust powder and machine oil— nothing unusual for a Schnee Dust processing plant. They rounded the door, advancing only a few feet, before...
"Halt! You are trespassing on private Schnee property! Promptly disarm and..."
Damn! Damn damn damn. The skeletal silhouettes were just visible via the faint backlight of various electronics, their smells intertwined with those of the processing machinery. The Schnees were really upping their security presence if they were willing to shell out for Atlas security androids. Quincy couldn't pause for the androids' simultaneous monotone monologues to conclude— training told them the androids' rifles would already be raising. They drew their sword from the sheath on their back and pointed it at the nearest android.
Lacuna— Quincy's sword, held in a wood-patterned sheath that hung magnetized across their back. Modeled after a Han jian, its thin, double-edged blade extended three feet from an ornate but diminutive guard. Its pommel was a revolver-like barrel and hammer, capped below by ornate loops from which hung twin celadon tassels. Against the threaded grip lay the hammer's trigger and trigger-guard. Around the trigger, Quincy's index finger squeezed tightly.
The hammer cocked backwards, the pommel-barrel turned, and the hammer dropped. In a heartbeat, Lacuna's blade exploded forward, extending in segments across six, twelve, eighteen feet along thin cable. A shower of sparks indicated that the android had been hit, but the blue-white glow of its still-charging rifle proved the strike non-critical. Quincy snapped their arm whip-like and released the trigger. More sparks flew, and the entire pommel mechanism spun wildly, reeling in the collapsible cable, reassembling the sword segments at the hilt. The two halves of the android's body, sawed cleanly through the middle, hit the metal floor with resounding thunks, its unfinished monologue trailing into silence.
Quincy dropped into a full split as two blue-white concussive bolts narrowly passed overhead. Such energy weapons took time to recharge between shots, so only two androids must remain. Sensing motion in their periphery, Quincy exited the split in a forward tumble, raising their sword arm, firing again. As the blade segmented, they tugged the hilt horizontally, first to one side, then the other, and were rewarded by the head of the second android rolling independently across the floor.
Where was the third? Quincy glanced wildly to each side, standing cautiously. Nested in this machinery, against machinery, Quincy was practically blind. Still, security androids weren't exactly renown for stealth. Perhaps they'd miscounted?
The world went white.
Quincy lay sprawled in a daze against upturned drums, ears ringing, Grimm mask scattered in pieces across the floor. Under their hands they felt fine, sand-like grains. Over Quincy towered the final security android, Quincy's orange eyes reflected in its blank, dark faceplate, its rifle aimed and charging. It'd been some time since Quincy had felt a concussive bolt. They knew that at this range another could be lethal.
"Halt! You are trespassing on priv..."
In a sheen of arcing electricity and golden sparks, the robot came to an abrupt and unexpected halt. Quincy let out a deep breath they hadn't realized they'd been holding.
Aura-siphoning— Quincy's semblance. Against a human, they could drain an aura like a cold beer on a mid-summer day. Or, if needed, they could transfer some aura to another Faunus— so long as they were touching. Which was entirely useless against beings without auras, such as Grimm or security androids. Unless channeled through Dust.
Through Dust, an aura acquired some of the Dust's properties— which Quincy discovered when trying to replenish their own aura only to be singed by sudden flames. Judging by the shorted-out robot standing above Quincy, it must be yellow Dust on which they lay. Quincy's pinkie finger still rested against the android's cold, metal boot.
Outside of the processing facility, Roman Torchwick, in his signature white coat and bowler hat, Cinder Fall, in a scarlet tunic laced with golden dust lines, and dozens of mask-clad White Fang mulled under an overcast night sky. Numerous Bullhead aircraft backgrounded the group, their engines tilted and glowing on standby. Occasionally, Torchwick or another would glance impatiently at the Schnee facility's loading docks, until— with the hum of mechanical motors and the clinking of chains— the array of bay doors all began rising. In a door frame at the far end leaned Quincy, battered but whole.
"Well, kid," started Torchwick in his typically condescending musical tone, "looks like you had a bit of fun while we were waiting... and waiting. Have a seat and let the grown-ups take over from here." He turned to address the others. "Go! Remember, anything not bolted down is ours!" The mass of White Fang soldiers hurried in unison into the building, carts in tow, trucks following closely behind.
Quincy hissed under their breath. They didn't trust Torchwick farther than Lacuna could strike. Why were the White Fang working with— working for— that disgusting human? How did this possibly advance their cause? If Quincy's superiors— and Quincy still trusted them— had an explanation, they certainly hadn't proffered it.
Quincy headed towards the loading ramp of the nearest Bullhead, stopping to assess their reflection in the window of a Schnee cargo truck. Their usually straight, bistre hair was matted twistedly to their olive skin. Their open, black Zhongshan jacket and white undershirt were caked with sweat and yellow Dust, obscuring the embroidery they favored. And, of course, their Grimm mask— the modern symbol of the White Fang— was missing, destroyed. At least Lacuna faired well. They'd take time to clean it properly while the others worked, lest the invasive dust cause any undesired effects.
It was some hours later when Quincy was awakened, Lacuna and a polishing cloth in their lap, by the sound of their returning brethren. A trail of carts and trucks carried crates of raw Dust crystals, barrels of processed Dust powder, and a variety of unidentifiable machinery into the various Bullheads. Cinder shouted, clearly exasperated, directing each load to its appropriate aircraft while Torchwick paced about impatiently.
Eventually, the loading concluded and the aircraft engines began to whine, preparing for ascent. Quincy purposely took a seat near the already-buckled Torchwick and Cinder, hoping to assess their intentions. Later, Quincy would wish they'd chosen any other aircraft. They didn't expect to watch Torchwick snap his fingers, asking "Would you do the honors?", or to watch Cinder raise her hands into the air, the Dust lines in her clothing glowing ablaze. Through the closing cargo ramp, Quincy stared agape as the processing plant, and everybody they had left inside, evaporated in a blinding fireball.