Chapter 1

The plan was that he'd rob this dust shop, strip it of all the dust that the decrepit old dude in charge owned. Then, he'd slip out while the cops remained unaware, and then proceed to the next stage of his own employer's grand ambitions once she'd wrapped her delicately manicured hands around enough dust. And, as a side benefit, he'd get to live through whatever she had in mind for Vale.

And now, thought Roman Torchwick, it's at risk of being put back by a little girl. Sure, he could probably take her. It wouldn't be too hard. But, it wouldn't do to get his hands dirty when his minions (who he had bought at great expense) were supposed to be able to handle threats like this.

Well, supposed to.

Looking at them groaning, beaten, on the dirty road, Torchwick inwardly sighed. What a rip-off. He hoped that the next time he had to rob a dust store, he'd have the luxury of competent goons. One of them landed face-first on the ground at his feet after being launched by an airborne bash with the head of her giant scythe.

"You were worth every cent." Roman mumbled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Truly, you were."

He narrowed his eyes at the red-hooded girl in front of him. From the look of her, she was clearly ready to fight him. In a dimly lamplit street, surrounded by high residential buildings, with incredibly convenient ladders climbing their brick sides. The girl was certainly skilled, yes, but she didn't even try to assess her opponents and their surroundings before engaging - she was talented, but a novice.

How ironic. Little Red was still green.

"Well, Red, I think we can all say it's been an eventful evening!" he dropped his cigar to the ground, and snubbed it out with Melodic Cudgel, "And, as much as I'd love to stick around, I'm afraid this…"

He raised his cane, the bottom of it flipping up to reveal a scope, and the weapon's true nature.

"... Is where we part ways."

He fired, and a flash of colour lit up the surrounding street as the firework exploded at the girl's feet. She managed to dodge it with an expert backflip - Roman, however, was already on the move.

Taking the opportunity, he dashed across the road to the nearest pavement and scaled the escape ladder he'd eyed earlier.

The girl had obviously expected a confrontation - he could tell just by looking at her that she would expect him to run in and attempt to attack her. She was the heroic type - fighting with flair and grace and expecting nothing in return, and she would near undoubtedly guess that he'd fight her simply due to being a "bad guy".

He let a coy smirk spread across his face. This girl clearly didn't seem to know bad guys very well.

He hoisted himself up onto the top of the building and began to run over to the agreed escape route. Just a moment, and he'd be out of here, with the authorities clamouring in his wake.

A shot rang out, followed by the thud of a scythe-wielding annoyance's feet.

"Persistent…" he muttered under his breath.

Well, his bullhead out was going to arrive any moment now. It shouldn't have been much of an inconvenience if the little girl wanted to run to her own doom. He turned around, and raised his cane.

A blur of rose petals filled the air as the girl rushed to attack him. The scythe flashed passed him as he sidestepped it artfully, responding in turn with a swipe with Melodic Cudgel. Steel met steel, and the two were knocked back.

The girl narrowed her eyes.

Yeah, unfortunately I'm not quite as incompetent as this lot, Red. Torchwick mused, smiling.

"Is that all you have to offer? I thought you were better than that, Red!"

The air above him swished as her weapon slashed the air right where his head had been. The blow would've taken a chunk out of his aura, had he failed to dodge it.

She followed up into a swipe across his midriff, which he batted aside with his cane, followed up by an attempt at jabbing him with the blunt end of her weapon. He sidestepped it, and smashed the back of his hand into her face.

There was a satisfying smack as the girl was sent onto the ground.

Yes, the girl was very much outclassed. She was soon back up on her feet, and raised her weapon, firing a number of shots at the ground beneath him.

So, sweet little Red wanted to sweep him off of his feet, did she? How adorable.

He began to dance his way through the bullets - stepping erratically, and in random directions, sometimes slow, sometimes fast in response to the chaotic time her gunfire set. He was closing in, and there was little the girl could do to stop him.

Well, he could take his time. His getaway craft was about to arrive at any coming moment…

He frowned.

Where the hell was his employer? If things went south, she was supposed to be the one coming to bail him out. So why hadn't she already arrived?

He was snapped out of his thoughts by the close proximity between him and the girl in red. From the way she frowned and her eyes narrowed, he could tell she knew she was running out of options.

She leaped back in the air to regain the distance she found comfortable. Right into a lovely, predictable arc.

"End of the line, Red."

She looked down, just in time to notice the small red crystal rolling across the ground.

Right underneath where she was about to land.

Right in front of Torchwick, with his weapon primed and ready to fire.

And she couldn't do anything to stop it - not while reloading that scythe.

There was a flash, as an explosion bloomed across the rooftops; a rose upon the grave of Little Red.

Unfortunately, someone had decided to intervene. Standing in front of the small girl was an imposing blonde, with a bitchy face and glasses to complement. And in front of the blonde was a glowing purple circle.

How frustrating. Red could've been dead, but Purple had hopped in just in the nick of time.

"Where do they get you all from?" he tutted.

He could really have used that escape vehicle about now.

The shrapnel dislodged from the explosion began to float in the air in circles.

So, Purple was a telekinetic, hm? The rocks were moving around in random circles, twisting and turning unpredictably. Each time he tried to follow the path of one, he would promptly lose track of it, instead having his gaze drawn to another one. There was no discernable pattern in their movements, even to the most experienced of eyes.

Shit. She was good. He couldn't tell which rocks she was going to launch at him at a glance.

She raised her wand (or, wait, was that a riding crop?) in the air, and the rocks dove at him.

Each one came from a different direction, trying to cut off any of his potential routes of escape. He dodged aside, and deflected one stone with his cane. But, there were simply too many - he was trapped within a stone tempest, and the only thing he could do was hold back and let himself be pelted. And his aura felt every hit.

Unless…

He gazed behind him.

The edge of the building presented itself invitingly back at him. His aura was clearly depleted, and he might not've been able to land the fall unscathed, but one look back at the stone-storm the blondie was throwing at him made the choice seem all but obvious.

He was trapped between a rock and a hard place, and to Torchwick the rock had always been more appealing.

After all, rocks provided great cover.

He rushed backwards, and dove off the side of the building with a tip of his hat. The huntress soon rushed in pursuit.

She probably wouldn't be quick enough to keep up with him, would she - ? And Cinder could probably find him before he'd get captured; he'd be able to survive the end of another day, and could return to business as usual.

He looked behind him, only to see the top end of one of the many lamp-posts that dotted the darkened streets of Vale growing before his eyes.

Oh, you have got to be kidding -

Torchwick only had time to register intense pain spreading throughout his skull, before the world closed its curtains and cut his thoughts short for the intermission.

*X*

Roman sat in his darkened cell with his head in his hands.

Of course, it was only natural that a criminal of his caliber had been kept alone in his cell - he was too dangerous to be simply left with company.

Still, having company, however idiotic, was better than only having the dull, grey, concrete wall to talk to. He thrived when there were others to boss around, and if they were trying to get to him with this isolation, they were beginning to succeed. As much as he wouldn't admit it to their faces.

The lack of a cigar was beginning to frustrate him, too.

How the fuck had he let himself get locked up in here?

If it wasn't for the shackles around his hands, he'd have attempted to punch a hole through the wall. He'd have probably left a sizeable hole in it, too, if it were any normal prison. But, knowing the kind of cell they'd have locked Roman Torchwick in, there was no way it was going to be that simple to escape.

He could wait for someone else to break him out, he supposed. Neo? She'd probably turn up in due time, but Torchwick wasn't sure if she'd arrive to him sitting in a dust-powered electric chair for a less than soothing shock massage or not.

Cinder?

Well, given her current track record at helping him escape, he couldn't hedge his bets just yet. It would be nice to have her repay him this humiliation, though. He had, after all, been knocked after landing on a lamp-post. Or, had that telekinetic chick managed to bend it and smash his head?

… That would've been a much less embarrassing explanation, for certain. But, something told him that a bad landing would've been just fucking perfect enough to be true. Like him destroying a brand new pair of shoes after a guy swerved and ran them over by accident. Or him dying anticlimactically, eaten by a gryphon.

He couldn't quite explain the sudden chill that ran down his spine.

He was broken from his thoughts as a dull thud emanated from the reinforced door that held him apart from the people he'd really have liked to kill right now.

"You don't need to knock, babe, I'm always ready for you." Torchwick smiled, and winked at the door suggestively.

The door creaked open slowly, and his face fell when on the other side lay the same woman who'd been responsible for him being sent to the slammer in the first place.

It was all he could do to try and stop himself from walking up and strangling her. Luckily, Torchwick was a master of self-restraint. Trying to keep away from the authorities for most of your life will do that to you.

"A shame, because I can certainly say I'm not interested, Torchwick." the woman said. Her words didn't seem to say enough compared to the glare she shot him, which he was pretty sure could probably puncture a lesser man's skull.

"That's what they all say at first, darling." Roman said. The coyness that he wanted to drape his anger in was held back by his gritting teeth.

There was no noticeable change in the woman's expression. It was almost as if she was a statue.

"For whatever reason," she continued, "You're going to be taken out of this cell."

Wait, what?

Torchwick raised an eyebrow.

"I knew the public would come around eventually. I mean, Roman Torchwick? A criminal? How ridiculous!" he joked.

Nope, still no change in expression.

"Make no mistake." She continued, unfazed by any of Torchwick's comments, "You're not going to just be let out. If I'd had my way, you'd have been left to rot in that cell forever - but for whatever reason, my superior wants to have a talk with you."

Her… Superior?

If he was correct, this was Glynda Goodwitch, the deputy headmistress of Beacon Academy - the sanctuary for the ever-so-sickeningly heroic, brave, and kind. So, the person she was answering to would be exactly the kind of person Torchwick would want to avoid.

One of the suits. The bureaucrats. The administrators of the mess of a society Torchwick tried to escape from. And, for whatever reason, they were interested enough to talk to him directly instead of sweep him under the rug like they did the rest of the things they didn't want to deal with.

He frowned. An idea of who it could be had already begun to form in his mind, and he didn't like it one bit.

She wasn't leading him directly to where she wanted to take him - bringing him through random corridors only to come back to the one they were at originally. An attempt to disorient him, no doubt - to prevent him from memorising the layout of the building.

The corridors looked the same, for sure. Long, clean and white - the floors were tiled, and the only noticeable features on the walls were the occasional barred doors. Torchwick could hear the occasional insane cackle coming from within them. The walls were clearly soundproof, however - apart from the aforementioned cackles and the odd conversation between the guards, there was nothing to be heard from outside. No cars, no bullheads, no crowds, nothing.

Didn't really matter. He'd seen the blueprints for this building before, and from the layouts of the passages Glynda was so graciously leading him through, could tell where it was with ease.

The Vale Police Department's maximum security detention center. He had a rough idea of the surrounding area - it was kept close to the inside of the city, near the council. As much as they'd likely have preferred to distance the most dangerous criminals in the country from them, the negative emotions of the worst criminals Vale had to offer were more than likely to attract a few Grimm; so, they'd chosen the next best option and brought them as close to their centre of power as they possibly could.

It was annoying that he was having to waste all this time getting to wherever the heck she wanted him to go, but who was he to complain if she wanted to show him the building's security? It would come in handy when he almost inevitably made his way out. By the time she had finally stopped, Torchwick knew half the posts of the guards throughout the entire complex they'd left him in.

In front of them was a small door with a brass handle, the only one thus far that wasn't reinforced with the strongest metal in Remnant.

Glynda opened the door, and gestured for him to enter.

He smiled and walked in.

The room he found himself in was small and stuffy. A fire was burning in a fancy-looking marble stove on the left, with a few ornaments strewn on top of the mantelpiece above. The walls encasing him were painted with a soothing green he despised, with wallpaper that looked like climbing ivy.

The oak floor creaked under his feet, causing the leaves of the nearby potted plants to rustle a small amount. A few paintings, of long-dead wardens, were hung from the walls and their eyes seeming to stare disapprovingly at him. Perhaps they were envious that a criminal like him was still alive and they weren't.

Within the centre of the room, there was a sleek and polished desk, with a surface that shone in a way only doable with antique mahogany. It seemed to dominate the rest of the room, and the random objects left around on it were almost elevated to a higher caste than those around them.

One of these objects was a small steaming mug, with Vale's emblem on it, likely filled with coffee. And from the scent it gave off, Torchwick could tell it was of extremely high quality; likely a Menagerie import.

The kind of coffee that suited the man drinking it.

Sat at the desk was the headmaster of Beacon Academy, Professor Ozpin.