Disclaimer - I don't own anything that doesn't belong to me

[GOFLAO]

It was, in Ruby Rose's not-so-humble opinion, an awful day to be a sniper. Yes, the sun was out and the birds were chirping, but the Westerly wind was inconvenient and fact that the only way to get a clear shot of 'Doctor' Merlot on his way to work - though even she would hesitate to call it that - was by dangling upside down from a tree branch.

So, yeah, a bad day to be a sniper. This wasn't even the first time she'd cursed the skyline along this particular stretch of tar, the convoluted mess of trees and rooftops making for an irksome line-of-sight.

However, this not-so-innocent, and even less little, Rose was a professional – she wouldn't miss, not in 50 lifetimes.

Now, if only one were able to spot her, they would see an … interesting sight – a 22-year-old hanging high in a tree, on a high rooftop, holding what would have to be the most eccentric sniper rifle in existence, though you should never voice that thought, or even think it particularly loudly – Ruby was the ultimate enraged mother-bear, when it came to her sweetheart, her precious Vanquish Multicalibre. The last poor bastard who had so much as touched it was quickly made worthy of a hospital, though no one cared or was stupid enough to make the call.

Also, she had taken the time to colour-code it to her suit, a black jacket and slacks, though a red tie hung around her neck, matching the rifle's details' tone.

It had taken her the better part of two years to build her first-born, and even more time to design it - and all without accepting even one iota of help or advice. With a pair of interchangeable scopes and interchangeable barrels - the other one in the sheath on her back - one for .50 BMG cartridges and the other for .308 Matchking bullets, it was an impressive sight, the skeletal frame causing wonder that the rifle could even fire. But I digress.

In this particular moment, she was lining up the sights on the spot the so-called 'Doctor', a relatively unimportant scientist with a conspicuous lack of morals that her … co-workers? … want to cease being a nuisance, would appear in, and with a shot well under 700 meters, well …

She could see it now – in three seconds, his driver would take the turn, bringing the car onto the M4 Western Motorway; in four seconds, she would pull the trigger, causing a slight crack in the front windscreen and a reasonably-sized hole to appear in his chest; in five seconds, the driver would bring his head up from behind the wheel and notice his rapidly dying boss in the back seat and pull over, cutting across several lanes in the process and causing untold mayhem . Simple as that.

Also in five seconds, she would be able to drop from this God-forsaken tree and get some circulation to return to her legs.

A moment later, her prediction came true. Show time, she grinned.

Her finger tightened around the trigger. She adjusted the rifle slightly, bringing the barrel ever-so-slightly to the left. She halted her breathing. She pulled the trigger.

Seeing the shot was a good one, what with the driver's panicked pulling-over, she shifted the rifle in her arms and dropped, not ungracefully, to the rooftop below. She ejected the spent cartridge, and caught it in the air, with the unconscious ease of thousands of repetitions.

She set the rifle on the ground, next to the duffel bag she had brought with her, and fished her Scroll from within its cloth confines. Pulling up her contacts list and selecting one, she let it ring, waiting for the answering machine.

"Sis, this is Ruby," she said. "The job's done. I'm heading back."

Maybe it wasn't such a bad day - she had the rest of it to eat and drink and sleep, after all.

There had been a time where people said what they thought, Weiss Schnee groused, having spent the better part of an hour assuring the simpleton across from her that "Yes, you will be free to make your own profitts" and "Yes, the Schnee family will provide weapons and transport."

Oh, how Weiss itched - itched to slit their throats and be done with it, that is. But no, they needed to know who's backing him, who's attempting to gain a foothold in Vale. Even with that restriction – ''No killing the fool until you're done with him," her colleagues remended her - her hands would still twitch, attempting to inch closer to each other, to the daggers she had hidden under the cloth of her suits pearly sleeves.

"I mean, without Mr Winchester ..." The rest of his statement was ignored, even as the golden nugget of knowledge was ruthlessly devoured.

Cardin Winchester? Weiss mentally inquired, not quite disbelieving. My, you are moving up in the world.

He reached across the table. When she made no move to shake his hand, his brows furrowed in confusion. He'd thought this was going so well. "What's going on?" He wasn't worried, not yet. Even so, the relentless march of unease was certainly under way.

"What's going on is you, and all your men, are going to die." She paused for a beat, and her smile grew larger, almost beatific. "Auf wiedersehen." Goodbye.

He took a moment too long to flee the table. Not that it would a difference – running would only earn him a dagger through in the back, instead of a knife to the throat.

Finally able to scratch that unforgiving itch, a knife gleefully flew into Weiss' waiting hand, before almost launching itself into the waiting throat of the unfortunate fool. He toppled, blood seeping seeping between his fingers and running down his front.

Beautiful.

As the goons reached for their guns, she palmed another pair of knives. She wasn't quite as skilled with knives as she was with Myrtenaster, her rapier, but they're so much easier to conceal. She sliced two of the henchmen's throats before they'd even realised she'd moved. They fell to their knees, clutching pitifully at their throats. It was beautiful.

A flick of her wrists felled two more of them. Her knives cut through the air in perfect, shining lines and found a home in a throat and an eye respectively. The asymmetry bothered her. It wasn't perfect. It should have been.

There was still one left, though. But she didn't even bother drawing another knife, or even turning. As he raised his gun to fire, there was the first gunshot of the morning. He dropped like all the others, though a hole replaced his left eye.

Stepping around the mess, Weiss stalked out the door, breezing past her driver. Let the police find these lowlifes. At least that way, the other scum who thought moving in on her turf was good idea would find out what awaits those who cross the Schnee family. In a way, they were lucky – she had a schedule to keep, else she would have delivered something more … creative.

She reached into her breast-pocket, and withdrew her Scroll. Flicking through her contacts, she selected one in particular. There was no answer from the other end, but that was to be expected. She wasn't the only busy woman in their coalition.

"Blake, Imp Brans was working for Cardin Winchester. Be so kind and pay him a visit, will you," she said, only half-ordering.

Dove Bronzewing fell with a wet gurgle, the slit throat finally sending him on his way. And yes, finally – the killer had been quite careful to prolong the man's demise. In her opinion, he deserved more, what with being a member of Cardin Winchester's inner-circle, but she was on a clock. The information he'd known made the exercise worth it, though.

She had to have finished with the man himself by morning, after all. She took a moment to think, That's three hours from … two-and-a-half minutes ago. Her timetable in her head, she took off, darting back into the night, knives sliding back into sheaths hidden in various pockets.

After all, in this society, a Faunus caught with weapons was more likely to be shot on sight than arrested, and that was a complication she just didn't have time for. She was on a clock, after all.

She flitted through alleyways, dodging left and right, and made her way to the residential district, leaving the spacious warehouses and factories behind, running till they were just a blur against the skyline.

Two-and-a-half hours until morning.

Finally, after another half-hour of traversing Vale's darkened streets, the cat Faunus arrived at her destination – a skyscraping apartment building. Within it, her mark lay, peacefully sleeping, unknowing of his approaching appointment with Lady Death.

Walking towards the inviting front-door, she reached into her sleeves, a half-dozen lock-picks revealing themselves in her receding hands. Walking up to the door, she leaned down to the lock, an old-fashioned key lock, ill-befitting some of this particular abode. Convenient, though.

She made short work of the lock, and made her way, stalking through the vacant hallways, towards her mark's room. "Room 217," her earlier victim had said, right before "I told you what you what you want. Let me go now. Please."

Pausing outside her corpse's room, she took a moment to plan. Window or stairs? she pondered. Window it is, she decided.

Her trusty lock-picks reappearing in her hands, she opened the door. Gliding through the waiting room, she searched for the bedroom she would find 'poor' Cardin Winchester in. Turns out, it was the upstairs, window-side room.

He was sprawled, wrapped in blankets and sheets, on his queen-sized bed, mouth open and snoring away. If she were anyone else, she might have noted just how ordinary he appeared. Since she wasn't 'anyone else', though, she merely checked he wasn't waking, made her way back to the kitchen, in search of a half-emptied a bottle of wine.

And, lo and behold, there one was. She promtly half-filled a glass. Both in hand, she made her way back to the bedroom.

Her plan was simple: make Winchester's demise appear to be a drunken accident. The half-filled bottle and glass would cover the 'drunken' part. Now all she had to do was throw the sleeping pimp off a balcony. It wasn't as satisfying as crucifying him and using his drying blood as paint, but she'll make do.

Conveniently, the balcony door was unlocked. It seems, he doesn't expect killers who can climb. Walking out and placing the props in place, she noted how the gathering wind would only add to the credibility her … 'accident' will require.

She then proceeded to drag her slowly waking mark from his cosy bed, ignoring his slurred protests.

"Hey," he mumbled, feeling the floor's cold bite against his naked feet. "What are you doing?"

Still ignoring, she leaned him against the railing, letting him sway for a moment. Reaching for the glass, she grasped it in her gloved hand and threw a considerable portion down his dressing-gown clad front.

"Hey!" Ah, so you're finally awake?

With the moment she had been waiting for now upon her, she raised her arms and gave the bastard an almighty shove.

He fell, screaming.

Watching him hit the ground with a dull thud, she slipped her Scroll from her pocket, quickly dialling. "Weiss, this is Blake," she told the listener. "The job's done."

"Hey, Amaranth," the busty blonde chirped.

She'd strolled in through the open door of the downtown bar, the regular customers quick to make way. All eyes - well, the ones with enough self preservation to avoid leering at her chest, that is - were drawn to the twin metal gauntlets she carried on her wrists. The man behind the bar, Amaranth, seemed to be having a heart attack.

Enormous grin plastered to her face, she strolled right up and sat against the bar. The patrons near her were quick to flee. "Now," and here her voice grew serious - well, less chirpy - and she reached for an unopened drink, "you've been a very bad boy, Amy, " she scolded, despite the effect her mere presence was having on the unfortunate bartender. "This is Junior's turf, and it's our town."

"I -" the man started.

There was no kindness in her voice. "Don't talk, Amaranth," she ordered. "Just listen."

He did. And quickly.

"As I said," the woman reiterated, popping the drink's cap off with a thumb, "this is our city - ours - and what we goes!" There was a pause, and she took a sip. "So, imagine our surprise, when dear, little Junior tells us that you're bringing the 'Fang into Vale. Imagine. Our. Surprise, Amaranth," she crooned, her grin turning downright nasty.

Ugh, too much talking, she mentally complained. She put the bottle back on the counter.

Standing up, she reached across the bar and latched onto the terrified man's collar, dragging him across the counter and dropping him. As he fell, she watched him narrowly avoid a broken neck on the hard, timber flooring. Then he just laid there, not making a sound.

Sighing slightly, she looped an arm under a nearby barstool and brought it up over her head. Then she brought it down on his knees. "Wake up!"

"Please!" He put both arms up. "Please - I've got money -"

"Money?" Yang chuckled, the stool hanging lightly at her side. "Do you seriously think think this is about money?" she asked. "No. You've been dealing with White Fang, and you know what that means."

The stool went up, dented top pointed skyward, and she made sure to avoid his head. If he passed out, it would be a pain to wake him up after all

"No," he whimpered.

The stool came down.

The stool went up.

The stool came down.

He stopped screaming after five minutes, and he'd already screamed his threat raw, by then. Then he moved onto his fingers, grabbing

With a satisfied expression, she grabbed his limp form and strolled out into the street, the man's not insignificant weight barely a distraction. Making it to the dark footpath, she was quite sight, what with the beaten man she was dragging by his only unbroken ankle. But she wasn't fazed - in fact, she simply slipped a hand in and out of one her pockets, and with it came her Scroll.

"Hey, Weiss, this is Yang," she greeted. "Amaranth won't be a problem any longer." With that said, she looked down at the bartender and, as if she expected him to answer, asked, "Now, what should I do with you?"

[GOFLAO]

Ten points to anyone who understands the chapter titles without Googling them.