DISCLAIMER: I don't own RWBY. Big surprise there eh? All rights go to Rooster Teeth.

NEO Scavenger belongs to Blue Bottle Games. So I own absolutely nothing, except maybe the idea for this crossover.

A prologue of sorts.

(Minor spoilers for NEO Scavenger involved, skip if you want.)

The Merga Wraith. A terrifying mass of phantasmal energy, a specter, and an aberration of nature that did not belong in the world. To many it was a myth, a horror story unneeded when there were already more then enough things to be scared of in the broken shell that was once Michigan. The Dogmen, massive werewolf like creatures of pure bloodlust and aggression. The Melonheads, what may have once been people, now misshapen things with no higher consciousness. Marauding packs of raiders, bandits, slavers, and worst of all the cannibals. And of course, the wildlife. Wolves, Bears, feral dogs and more. All that and more, why even old military death-bots were not unheard of, if rare.

Few knew that the Wraiths were real. Those that did know didn't for long, as the sight of them would cause a lesser man to falter. Then the cold grasp of its ethereal claws would latch onto them and they would feel the life fade away from them. Others who did know of them ran at the mere mention. But there was one man that the Wraiths hunted. Protected by old Native American mysticism in the form of a bronze talisman on a braided leather string. Locked away in a Cryo-facility, his memories wiped, perhaps by the old-world government. Whatever the cause of his amnesia, Philip Kindred knew his name. When he awoke one day cold, and naked but for a medical gown and a strange necklace, to the sound of a Dogman seeking its next meal from the suspension pods, he reacted not knowing what is was he was doing. His body was Strong, and his muscles remembered some form of training even if his mind did not. Melee prowess and adrenaline combined, breaking the post sleep haze.

His body reacted, and he struck down the Dogman. Brutally. He'ed repeatedly slammed its head into the doorframe until it died. It was so awesome he grabbed the recording from the facility's security cameras. Mind there was a bit of trouble when he tried to skin the thing with only a few shards of broken glass. And yet the ragged crude cloak he made from that single dead monster became his calling card. Over the course of several months Philip made his way around Michigan seeking answers. He learned skills to improve his chances of survival. How to Hide, to Track. How to pick locks, and how to read the land. While he sought his memories, or some sign of what had happened to the world he had once known, some knowledge came back to him. He remembered plants, Botany, and how to sew and Tailor his own clothes. He remembered how computers worked, the ins and outs. How to hack into computers, phones, and tablets, as they often had valuable files stored inside he could sell.

Yes, the new world was harsh, and it's lessons unforgiving. A lost eye, broken bones, and scars tell the tale of a man who has fought tooth and nail, with ridiculous amounts of ingenuity to even survive. And find Cigarettes. And get clean water. Or hell even a working lighter would be nice to find every now and then. Ragged knives made of scrap metal, spears made with jagged plastic points, and rags for shoes. Over time his legend grew. The story of this one man, who sought out and slew an entire band of Bad Muthas, intent upon raiding and eating a small caravan of DMC outcasts. The battle was long and yet seemed over so soon. He stood bleeding from many wounds, an arm hanging limply at his side, and blood dripping from his mouth. The leader had had a hefty club, but it had mattered little to Phillip. He was not just Tough, he was entirely Unstoppable. Normal wounds and some that would be fatal to a lesser man he could just shrug off and keep fighting on. His reputation grew across the land, and he became known as 'Cannibals Bane'. Soon and after many near death experiences he sought out the ATN Enclave. A stronghold of the Anishinaabe nation. They were what remained of the land's Native American tribes and many other earnest souls seeking only to survive.

There he learned why he wore the Talisman, and why his subconscious mind screamed danger whenever he thought to take it off. He was once an online archivist, collecting legends and all manner of supernatural, or seemingly occult happenings throughout the world. It was meticulous and not at all something done lightly. He had researched, cross-referenced and fact checked all of the information upon the site. With this knowledge and the recipe for a drink called Tanin tea, he went back to where it all began. The Gyges Cyro Facility. There he checked the records once more, but this time with his rememberings of how to hack into the place's databanks. He found he was awakened not by chance, but that the funds in a bank account in Detroit connected to the pod had ran out. He then set out for the DMC. After a harrowing trip across the wilds once more he learned he could not even enter the walled city, with its massive security forces and gates. A man called Hatter approached him, and offered him a job, having heard of his exploits. In return he offered a security bracelet which acted as an ID to get into the city's walls. Philip said no. Instead he offered the all but forgotten footage of his awakening.

The clip of film was well received. As a matter of course, hatter muttered that his guards would need some more training. They muttered about in awe as they saw what others had only heard of, a near-naked man fighting down what was regarded as the most fearsome beast with seeming ease. Afterwards he made to enter the city. Hatter asked if more work turned up would Philip consider it? He agreed that if a different job turned up, and if the pay was right, he might. And so, he entered the city seeking the bank which only might hold answers. But who was he to let a trip the city be without a restock on supplies? There he found the Haggerty Health Clinic and found out that he could get a new eye there. After performing many more trips back and forth into and out of the wilds to scavenge what valuables he could, bartering and haggling for every penny he could scrounge up he bought one. And after he patented and sold the recipe for that antibiotic wonder called Tanin tea, which was only made with tree bark, he got some upgrades on that eye too. Telescoping lenses and a setting for Night Vision, he found his natural eye lacking. So, he had that fixed up as well, getting his Myopia cured.

With his vision unhindered, and a slow mutation occurring unknowst to him in his natural eye, he returned to the bank. He'd gotten a little side tracked. He approached the teller and began asking about his account. After a rather unhelpful conversation and a misunderstanding that caused him to nearly be arrested later, he learned about an apartment linked to the account's other holder. There he found teenage angst in a 20-something and another bout with the cops. This time they seemed to want him dead. Not bothering to try and learn why Philip fled, barley managing to escape. After grabbing a bite to eat at a particularly delightful diner, that had real food! Leaving a tip, he snuck out of the city figuring he might get out while the getting good. He then sold the bracelet, knowing that there was a tracker in it. When they tried to track him down all they would find would be just another random ruin looter. With a nice sum for the bracelet lining his pocket he was once more approached by Hatter.

In a bout of coincidence that could not possibly be unconnected, Hatter needed him to go the military camp over in Grayling. There he would have to put a small thumb drive into the main server and the rest would be history. Finding this suspicious but kind of owing the guy Philip agreed to do this. Halfway there and after well over a year and a half of surviving, fighting, bleeding and nearly starving to death multiple times, the Talisman on his neck loosened. During his escape from the city he had weaved through passerby like a mad man. At some point a person had shoved him back as he ran past, grabbing at his neck. Not bothering to think about at the time or since he hadn't noticed that the tie on the back of the braided leather had been slightly torn.

Philip scratches at his neck, pushing aside the full-head rag mask he has on. Hope there's not a rash there again. He'll need to wash the sweat from it again soon. Spying a small creek nearby he shrugs, adjusting the straps on his backpack, careful not to jostle the sieve of crude pilums attached to the side. Walking over to the crick he surveys the area. Nothing in sight except a rabbit and some birds. He contemplates loosing a ball bearing from his sling at the small critter, perhaps an early lunch? Nah, he thinks, watching it hop away at his approach. Pulling the crudely stitched-almost-a-balaclava off he runs a hand though his greasy, crimson hair. It's getting long again, but he hesitates in the idea of hacking at it with a knife. Almost lost an ear last time when the knife snapped in half. Putting the mask in the water he starts scrubbing at it trying to get the blood out of it. Freaking Bad Muthas. You'd have thought that with how many of them he's killed they would avoid someone with his description. But no, only seems that more of them turn up now than ever.

Idlily scrubbing away Philips is completely oblivious as the jostling motion causes the weakened leather cord to finally give way. The world seems to slow to a crawl as he watches the small bronze symbol fall into the water. Behind him there is a roar of sound, and a blast of wind. "SHIT!" he bellows as he whirls around grabbing at one of the spears on the opposite side of his bag in particular. A mass of darkness is forming, a white and orange blaze at its center. The mass begins moving before it even fully forms, a slow steady approach, filled with emotionless menace. "Come on then! You've been hunting me for a long time, then haven't you? I didn't spend my time idle you monster! I prepared for this day." Philip taunts the phantasm. He hurls his spear at it, a smirk forming on his scarred face. This one is special. Along the haft of the spear are old Norse runes carved into the wood as well as several Japanese Kanji's. The blade is old industrial bronze he found at an abandoned construction site, that he forged and quenched in water infused with sage, and garlic. As the spear flies toward the Merga Wraith he reaches around to his back sheathe and pulls out his machete. Settling into a defensive stance he readies himself to dodge any form of retaliation.

As the spear impacts he feels more than hears it's cry of pain. The formless thing seems to recoil from the weapon that is now lodged in its mass. It groans, the chalk white mask that is its face shifting down to look at the spear. An arm seems to form and plucks the weapon from its from mass tossing aside as if it were naught but an inconvenience. The grin on Philips face fades. It had been a long shot to begin with, but it was worth the effort, on the off chance it did kill it. Could it even be killed? The Phantasm seems to purr as if it could sense his fear. It seemed content to just float over to him, either not being very fast or not caring now that it could harm him without the protection of the talisman. Philip reaches toward his belt with his left hand grasping at a holster and pulls out a .357 revolver. "Maybe lead will do you one better." He quickly fires off all four shots he had aiming at center mass, while sheathing the blade held in his other hand. Two rounds go just to right of it, missing and causing no damage at all. One seems to ping off its mask, but the last hits the glowing core in its center. Trying to coordinate long range combat with different eyes has been even harder than when he'd only had the one. (At least that's what Philip tells himself. As a rule of thumb, he's just a dangerously bad shot)

It staggers back at the impact, wisps like black ink seem to bleed out of the wound in its core. Unbidden Philips left eye seems to glow with a dull silver light, his right a toxic, sick looking green the former being his remaining natural eye. With a bellow of sudden, murderous rage he charges the phantom, its weak spot revealed. Grabbing a pair of long knives from the sheathes stitched into the calves of his pants, he leaps at the specter, a trail of silver mist leaking from his left eye. It recovers quickly and arms that were not entirely there, reach out and slash at him cutting clean through one of the knives and gashing his left forearm open to the bone. It seems to melt though the three layers hardened leather sewn to overlap the heavy grey long shirt he's wearing. The other arm Philip parries to the side with his knife and then jams the blade held in his right through one of the empty eyeholes of its mask. He leaps back leaving the blade inside and grabs at his wounded arm, trying to stem the gouts of blood pouring out.

He back-peddles heavily and tosses his bag to the ground. He looks over at the Wraith checking the distance he's made. It reaches up and pulls the knife from its face and regards it for a moment, before tossing it aside. It's slow, unceasing approach is foreboding in the extreme. He pulls the bag open disconnecting the zipper which he knows will bug him later, but only if he manages to survive this encounter. Grabbing at an unopened pack of emergency bandages he looted from an old medkit, and his sheathe of pilums and spears, he races off into the woods off the side of the stream. Leaving his kit might be the death of him later, but that's preferable to the nearly immediate death of the now.

Tearing the package open with his teeth he draws another knife from the pouch on the side of his belt. Or at least he tried to anyway. Instead he glances at the multi-tool in his hand only long enough to pull out the tiny blade from its side. Raggedly cutting the now blood-soaked sleeve off at the elbow nicking a few cuts on his upper arm in the process he then wraps the bandages right over the wound. The adhesive compound that coats it makes sure that it doesn't fall off, but this will only hold for a little while.

Grunting at the sting he mutters. "Knew I should have worn my leather shirt today…" He looks back and sees the wraith still just floating towards him, unwavering and unrelenting. "Dam it. How do I kill this thing?" He looks straight at it and thinks. If only his eye wasn't hurting so much it would be easier to do that! A sudden Jab of pain stabs him directly behind the afore mentioned eye. Philip gasps at the suddenness of it and smacks himself on the side of his head. The pain gets sharper after he does that. Grabbing his head in both hands he screams. The pain grows until it seems to explode like a wave of daggers protruding from behind his left eye. He screams out and instinctively gazes over at the Wraith unaware due to the pain. The ground around him shudders and the trees sway and the grass seems to burn and grow anew all in one instance. And then it stops. Shaking his head, now only a dull, throbbing ache remaining he looks over at the wraith, only to see it nearly half petrified. Realizing he fell over he stands up, steadying himself against the side of a tree. "The fuck?"

It's mask-like face turns toward him, ever emotionless and blank. A roar echoes out of the Wraith, shaking the ground again although to a much lesser degree. The stone-like substance slowly flakes off it, scattering on the ground or drifting off into the wind. The creature shudders, its mass reduced by nearly a third, until more off the inky blackness seems to spring forth from the glowing core at its center. "Like hell I'll let you heal!" Philip cries grabbing up a spear. Grasping it with both hands and setting his stance he looks right at where he's gonna jam the blade at the end. 'Needs to be that glowing core else, it won't do much if anything at all. It floats, so weightless? Either way drive it back over to where my pack is, don't, can't leave that here. Think about stone skin thing later.'

With a reasonable sounding plan Philip charges at the Merga Wraith a war cry upon his lips. The plan immediately goes wrong. Unquestionably, inevitably unavoidably wrong. As he charges he slips on a patch of gravel or sand or something of that sort. His mind tends to wander all over when that sort of thing happens or when his death is imminent it seems. How odd is that. Why even now he's wondering about that wondering that he does as if he's about to die. And que potential pre-death headache about existential thinking.

As his mind gains a different sort of headache, the spear slips from his hands and flies true all the same. It whistles through the air and pierces the corrupt 'heart' of the specter. However, the thing had gotten close in the small bout of thought and planning Philip had delegated to himself about how to kill it. It lands a thin gash on his back, several lines cutting through the toughed skin of his Dogman cloak, and the insulated layers of cloth that made up a crude gambeson-like vest. He crashes to the ground, both his pride and his back wounded. Gathering his bearings Philip back somersaults and flips up into the air landing on the balls of his feet, reaching around his back once more ignoring the spike of pain the twisting motion causes. From across his back he once more pulls his machete, only then does he see the blind shot he managed to make out of sheer luck.

"Well at least no one saw that. My rep would be crippled." He thinks for a second. "then again," he says walking over to the dissolving mass of ichor that is feebly clawing at the haft trying to pull it out of its core. "Maybe knowing even my up fucks can kill things would help." He pauses as he nears the mass and checks his mental backlogs. He shrugs, once again glad no one was around to see this. He might have to get his head checked.

He approaches the phantom again and stands over it. It looks dead. Doesn't have a smell so that's a non-sequencer for a check. He's not dumb enough to touch it with his hands. But a kick or two? Does that even count as dumb? Nah, it's fun. Never listen to those people that call you a sociopath. If they're wrong who cares, and if they are right then you don't care anyway. This'll teach that ghost thing to mess with me! But first the bag, of stuff! That is his! Wow this headache is extremely debilitating!

After grabbing his pack, Philip strolled over to the 'corpse?' of the Merga wraith. However much to his displeasure, the body, term being used lightly since it was partially incorporeal, was gone. All that was there was a… a portal… That's a portal.

'Well I'm suffering perhaps a mild concussion, Low-moderate levels of blood loss…' Philip looks over at his arm. He then reaches around to his back with his uninjured are wincing silently at the pain. The blood seems to have crusted over somewhat due to his seemingly accelerated healing rate, but he can feel it still oozing out from the narrow, deep cuts. 'Correction, High-Moderate blood-loss, I'm out of bullets, my super-awesome-hyper-mystic-rune spear of extra-awesome didn't do piss to that thing… … … wow does my head hurt… …and why is everything spinning'

Why does it all look so slow and… shapeeeyish? Ish? Is that even a word? Hey, looks like I'm falling over now. That whole in space-time looks like fun. Let's aim for it.

Blackness fades over his vision as his consciousness fades. As he slumps down his eyes closing his mind has a flash of clarity, and a lightning bolts worth of momentary insanity. That fight. It seemed more like a test than anything else. But that couldn't possibly be what it was, right? As he descends into Morpheus all he can feel is the sense of vertigo that comes from falling, and trepidation.

The whistling of wind, the sound of the wildlife, why even the Grimm are slumbering in this great lull. The kind of lull known as…summer vacation! It doesn't matter whether you were just fresh out of combat school, or a soon to be returning forth year student at one of the huntsman academes. When the hottest days of the year hit you got a break. Especially if you lived in Vacuo. But here in Vale, over the Emerald forest the quiet sounds of sleeping Beowolves and snoring Ursa are undisturbed. With the camera installation crews having finished their work two weeks prior no nearby humans have let the creatures of darkness rest. That was until a massive explosion occurred right smack dab in the middle of the old stone ruins. A low *boom* that echoed not through the air but in their essence. One of their kind, different but the same, had been slain. It was old, and even arrogant in its power. That had been its undoing. But the Grimm here? They were young, dumb, relativity weak, and eager. A good combo for aspiring young Huntsman and Huntresses, who were unlikely to run into anything they couldn't handle.

But for a dimensional displaced man with no Aura, who was wounded no less? They could be his end in a heartbeat. Normally that is. But in the case of one Philip Kindred, being surrounded on all sides by murderous beasts all seeking your end? That was just a Thursday. He hated Thursdays. And Tuesdays. And any other day that entailed waking in an unknown location with severe wounds, a headache worse than the time he downed an entire bottle of 140-year-old whisky, and probably only a third of his proper kit. Mismatched eyes, one of silver that was shedding tears of blood, and one of steel, copper and a toxic, vibrant green that had been knocked loose of its housing. The silver one opens, the other sparks. "Uggghh." Philip sits up.

Bringing his uninjured arm up to his face he probes at the external metal plating fused to his skull. Seems the optic has been shaken out of it housing. Popping the optic orb back in caused his tunnel vision to clear, and relieved part of the throbbing pain behind his frontal lobe. The eyes internal systems were intact, and they began syncing up to his nerve endings once more, cycling through the various modes: Night vision, Telescopic magnifications 2x–5x, Normal sight, Thermal… well that's new. He didn't remember getting the thermal package software unlocked. Maybe getting knocked around some had rattled it. Despite making no sense as to why it was unlocked Philip just shrugged, and then winced as the pain returned. Standing up he checks the area for foes. Not a single thing in sight. 'Make use of the lull, it won't last if my luck keeps as it is right now.'

Memories of the previous fight run around his mind. Pulling his pack down he looks the busted zipper. Grumbling as he jams the thing back into place he begins to run inventory: A dozen and a half cigarettes. Two books of strike matches, and three lighters, one a third full. Machete. Two knives left. Crowbar on a shoulder strap. One good spear left for melee use, two so-so ones for throwing. .357 Revolver, no bullets. Sling, 13 ball bearings, 20 some odd stones at the bottom of the bag. Seven bottles of Water purified for drinking. Three packs of unopened, sterile bandages. Half a bottle of whisky, antiseptic use. Flare gun, three flares for use in gun, 4 for signaling if needed.

Tin can with… a lot of berries and mushrooms inside. Other can with… Lockpicks and sewing needles. Six feet of misc. string and thread. Gas mask, two half used filter cartridges. And all my clothes that I'm wearing, fairly ruined by now. Dogman fur cloak, still ragged, still warm and still metal AF. Good gloves, fingerless. Sturdy boots from the City, actual matching pair. In the pockets, 4 memory sticks, can't remember what's on them.

Pulling off his cloak, the thickened cloth vest and finally his shirt Philip opens one of the other packs of bandages and starts running them around his chest and back, the built-in adhesive sticking clean over the sweat, dirt, and dried blood. It's gonna smart like none other when he has to take it off, chest hair and all that. Bruises of all shapes and sizes litter his exposed torso in all stages of healing, some new, others faded. A dozen scars cover his chest, stab wounds, bullet scars, bites and burns. His arms are no better off, even worse in fact. A man can live without an arm, but organs need to be protected. So, when the options are to get disemboweled or get your arm chewed on we all know which option he'd take.

Dense, compact muscle is his form, as bulk would only get in the way. He looks over the gash on his wounded arm, seeing it scabbed up on the bandage leaves it there. Pull it off in a week and a new scar will add to the road-map of scar tissue he has everywhere. Another thing Philip is not the best at. Medicine. Most of the scars he has could have been avoided with proper stitching and care but that is not a thing he's very capable with.

His face is blocky, and as some would say, rather square jawed. A weeks' worth of dark ginger stubble is broken up by a scar that leads from the bottom of his right check, under the metal plate and cybernetic eye, and up to his forehead, where it stops a good inch into his hairline. It is not an ugly face, but is angular and rugged, with cold ruthless eyes. Those same eyes look over his once intact shirt, missing half a sleeve. To be fair it was a size to small even before he added the boiled-leather plates over it, but now might at well just lose both the sleeves. Reaching into one the ever-helpful pouches he pulls out the multi-tool once more. Unfolding it to the plier configuration he starts plucking the stitching on the plates to see if he can save some of the material.

About seven minutes later he stares down at a long-sleeved shirt missing half of an arm. Carefully cutting just after the seam he removes the sleeves from it and tries placing the leather in a few different configurations before settling on just re-enforcing the shoulders and the upper chest, similar to how football pads used to look. Not that football has existed for nearly, maybe two centuries? The man doesn't have an exact number of years he was in stasis for. Nearly half an hour later and with a finished set of pseudo-pauldrons he stands up and puts them on. Little snug but still has full range of motion.

Nodding once he begins placing all of the items back into his bag, bar two cigs, and a lighter. Lighting up he takes a long drag on the dry, old tobacco. Drawing on the cigarette again he pulls on his cloak, the dark brown fur matted and covered in blood and detritus from travel. Exhaling smoke out his nose he shoulders his pack, placing the unlit tube behind an ear. The sun is still high in the sky, he's in a wide-open space with no cover. Has been for nearly an hour now in fact. Seems strange nothings attacked him yet.

He sighs. "Probably just jinxed myself on that one." He surveys the area around him. Stone structures, derelict, old. Walking up to a pillar nearby he runs his hand over it and pulls it back feeling dust, and smooth weather-worn stone. Correction, ancient. Style, appears old roman work, but the stone is different, possibly local. Forest, deciduous, unknown species of tree. Seems similar to oak, vines noted and some tall grasses. Low to chest height shrubbery and bushes, Giant Dogman with bone-spikes protruding from everywhere. Native wildlife seems to be hostile, more murderous versions of the stuff from home. Guess I went to hell. "Ah, shit."

"I shall name you Murphey, for you are the testament to my ability to ruin a perfectly good day." The mutant Dogman, now Murphey, lefts out a huff of air and cocks its head to the side. "What, were you hoping I'd be scared? All I see is a better, newer cloak!" The beast howls into the sky, and he relies that taunting it may have been a bad idea, as many more howls are heard in reply. A low tenor voice of pure and utter loathing and contempt, with a side of adrenaline mutters, "I hate Thursdays." As he spits the spent cigarette onto the ground the mutant Dogman charges blindly. As he grabs up a spear more appear from the undergrowth nearby. "Time for a party then, with blood confetti!"

-Meanwhile, in Beacons security room, ten minutes later-

Loud snoring fills the room, as a large man with a mustache far bigger then his face, sits back in a chair. Many camera feeds lead to the screens in front of him, and a series of alert pings are flashing red and blinking. But down toward the bottom left corner of each screen shows a small little speaker icon with a line through it. Nothing would disturb this mighty hunters' escapades in his search for the elusive albino Goliath! Not even the pesky flashing of the cops' lights behind him. Or were they in front of him? Why were there cops in the Grimmlands? Wait a moment…

*POP*

"WHaaa? Who dares interrupt the mighty hunt for albino goliath?!" Grumbling as he straightens out his shirt, Peter Port wipes some drool from his chin. "Almost had it that time no less. Well then let us see what the ruckus is." Giggling to himself, Peter spins the chair as he pushes off with his feet. Laughing his way over to the flashing screens his mirth dies instantly. Narrow eyes widen until even his pupils are visible. Fumbling for a few seconds he opens his scroll and selects the option in his contact list "Teacher's Conference" Across campus rings are heard. It might be summer break for the students, but half the job of a Beacon Professor is making sure the Grimm from the Emerald forest don't make it over the cliffs. That and to keep the numbers relatively culled, so as the students aren't killed instantly when they are sent into it for initiation.

The first to pick up was the icon know as 'Barty Boy' "Yes peter? What is it I'm rather busy setting up my lesson plans." "Forget your lessons Oobleck! We have a code yellow at the ruins with what appears to be..." Port pauses and look back the screens. "I think it's a homeless man of some sort. He's surrounded by nearly five dozen Beowolves and is fighting them off with a stick! Or no, that's a spear."

"Is this one of your pranks Port? I have better things to do than listen to you retell your dreams." "No, it is not a dream!" another caller profile shows up, this one nicknamed 'The real boss' "Yes Port? Hello Bartholomew." Goodwitch nods at the screen. "Port was just regaling me with another of his 'missions' weren't you Peter?" "GAH! I am not joking! We have a code yellow that is turning into a code orange as we speak!" Port slides the chair over to the command console and fiddles with a few dials and knobs. "Look!" Forwarding the video feed over to the call the other professors of Beacon seem to be jostled into action. On the feed is what appears to be some type of self-taught amateur, judging by his skill. The cameras show him wielding a spear and a machete with crude technique, but terrible precision and Strength, stabbing and hacking at limbs and joints. However, he is surrounded, his back against a curved stone wall with multiple pedestals around. Many Beowolves lie fading on the ground as more swarm over each other trying to get at him.

"That's the artifact location for this year's initiation correct?" Goodwitch asks. "Yes, it is. I'll prep up a Bullhead for transport. Port keep us updates on what's happening down there." Oobleck orders. "Right." "If he moves lets us know. Glynda?" "I'll meet you at the airfield." She glances down at the screen just in time to see a Beowolf lunge at the man. He intersects the movement with his spear, letting the immature Grimm spit itself on it. It slides down the haft (is that a wooden handle?) till it reaches him. Faster than he can react it lands a blow with its claws, drawing deep gouges over his upper arm, blood flying out. "His Auras out! If we want more than a body, we need to go."

A final icon connects to the call, this one 'Oz'. "What's this about peter…" Ozpin begins only to catch the video being streamed. His normally passive face hardens as he gazes at the images. He sees something flash. A thing so sudden he thinks he may have imagined it. Shocked he zooms in on the film, toward the man's face. "Silver eyes." "What was that headmaster? Are you aware of the situation?" Peter asks. Shaking his head no Port fills him in. "See to it that man survives. I am rather curious as to why he is here, and whom he might be."

Ozpin sinks down into his own thoughts. Another with the silver eyes. I thought Summer was the last, with Ruby being the only hope remaining. That another should appear here and now. What does it mean? Who are you, and where do you come from? Are there more out there? He pulls a mug up to his lips, grimacing, the coffee cold. A loud rush of air and noise signify the Bullhead flying by out to the Emerald forest. He tracks it as it moves, noticing that it is moving at speeds well over the recommended maximum, a faint purple glow surrounding it. It would seem that he is not the only one who has noticed his eyes. Despite the severity of the situation at hand he let's a tiny fraction of a smirk grace his face. Letting Glynda in the know seems to have been a good choice.

Panting with exertion Philip hacks off another arm that just tried to pull his head off. The red wound taunts him, as no blood spews out, only with another yipe of pain. Loosing a cry of rage, and of pain, he chops through the external skull of the strange, bloodless Dogman. They. Just. Don't. Stop! He's getting dizzy again, his own blood dripping having turned into a literal puddle below him. He'd tried to make a wall of corpses to funnel the dam things, but the bodies disappeared, fading away into the wind. They are just like the Merga Wraith, yet unrelenting and with numbers in the dozens. His is mind hyper-focused into combat mode, just enough of his active consciousness remains to keep him aware of his surroundings. He's never had to deal with this many opponents at once since the dammed Fairgrounds way up in Allegan. MellonHeads are also a hell of a lot easier to kill than Dogmen mind you. But mutated Merga-Dogman Hybrid monstrosities that dissipate when killed? "If this is Hell it needs to try better!" Philip blusters.

The sound and rational part of his mind can hear something other than his ragged breathing and the howls of the Merga-Wolves. Merga-Wolves? Seems a good name for the dam things. That buzzing turns into a rumble. Maybe it's a drone? At least bullets would kill him faster. The only ones that have that kind of tech are the DMC. Death by a literal thousand cuts, or death by Railgun? Time seems to slow as he reaches around and into his back pack. His hand searches before coming to rest on the handle of the fare gun. Pulling it out and aiming it into the air he fires, the blinding light seeming to stun the Merga-Wolves for a moment. But it was only a moment. A claw slashes down his back drawing bloody furrows, hitting bone. The slash of the Wraith was clean, surgical. This one is ragged the talons serrated feeling. His bag with all his supplies is ripped off and sent flying into the mass of bodies.

He can feel the horrid pain shock his system back into over drive. "rrrRRraaaaaaGHHHHHH!" Philip explodes in rage, a wave of fear spreading from him at the sound. He chucks the empty flare gun at the nearest beast. Some of the bigger ones seem to hesitate, the ones with more plating. An even greater bellow lurches forward, through the mass of Merga-Wolves, smaller specimens being flung into the air or driven into the ground. A massive boar, nearly eight feet tall at the shoulder, white bone plating layered overtop its front. It snorts, and the lesser creatures recede before its might. Philip looks at the thing. Its plating is pitted, even chipped in some places. It tears at the ground, a challenge so ingrained into its base species, even its corrupt nature cannot overrule it. Philip shakes his head, as he strikes down another of the smaller mutated Dogmen, without its plating yet.

'Big Bacon' his mind tells him as he looks at the massive boar. He's bled so much his skin is beginning to pale. All he has left is the machete and a crude scrap knife. His shirt is in tatters, left arm useless. Even his mighty Dogman Fur cloak has been torn to pieces. (To be fair it was all but toast already). Sweat drips down his body, the salt stinging the ridiculous number of wounds he has sustained. He's exhausted and has been fighting for almost fifteen minutes against a type of foe that, all things considered, is considerably less deadly than a standard Dogman one-on-one. But you know, they were like, unlimited. He looks behind it to see his pack on the ground. The thing huffs, then moves to block the bag from his sight. 'It's smart, older. Not good, I'm burning fumes here. Scratch that not even fumes left. I'm gonna probably here. Huh. Wonder what's that's like. Dying that is.' A tremor shakes through his left hand. The knife drops from it as he brings it up to his ear. Pulling the last Cigarette from it he puts it to his lips.

He eyes the Piggy warily. It seems content to just let him be. As if it knows he can't escape. "Cocky piece of shit you are." Forcing the arm to cooperate he reaches into a pants pocket pulling out a lighter. A spark later he drops it, his arm giving out, blood thinly streaming down his fingers to join the pool below. Puffing on the last smoke he'll ever have he glares at the Boar-thing. Smoke streams out his nose, and his left ear. 'Must have a ruptured eardrum' his brain slogs out. 'The sound from before its much louder now.' Philip looks up to see a hovercraft that is most certainly not a DMC drone. As he is distracted the boar charges forward. He turns toward it at the last second and falls to the side, barely managing to dodge the rush. As he turns to look up at the Boarbatusk a wave of purple energy surrounds it. It squeals as it is picked up into the air and then slammed down into the ground. Repeatedly. After about what seems a solid minute of this it begins to dissipate. Philip struggles to look up at the hovercraft only to see it land next to him. A figure walks out, only for him to wish he had the energy to facepalm. As his consciousness fades it seems he has been rescued by a maid. "What kind of hell did I fall into? What the helllllll…"

A/N: This is the first story of it's kind as far as I know, so feel free to look up NEO Scavenger on Y outube. It is a turn based survival game based on a hex grid RNG system. As for my version of Philip Kindred in this story, he is based off of several different play-throughs worth of attempts to beat said game. He has more Skills than he would otherwise have in the Base game, or even the modded version I am currently playing with The Extended Mod. This is so he even has a chance to survive in the world of Remnant. As for the story I plan on him becoming a teacher at Beacon. I gave him Silver eyes for reason that will be delved into later on, so drop a follow/Fav if you are interested in the story and want to find out why a guy from a different version of Earth has them. You'll also note that he only has one on top of that, so the power itself will be diminished proportionately.

If you want to review with feedback, or your thoughts on this first chapter please do so. Until next post, enjoy.

Fight and Flight will have an update before March is out so stay on the lookout for my other story!