I'm alive, and still on my RWBY kick as you can see. While the Adam short didn't inspire this, it did give me a lot more to play around with when I had the idea for it. If you don't like Tauradonna, this probably isn't for you. It's not a massive part of the fic, but it is evident especially in the beginning. This is a lot more about Adam and his background - or at least what I speculate it could be like, anyway, since we still know virtually nothing about him even with the character short.

All that said, hope you enjoy!

He woke to his eyes burning.

They were dry, lids rasping – idiot. Must have fallen asleep before taking the lenses out.

There was a warm, solid lump under the covers next to him. Blake. Waking up to her was new enough to still be novel. She was curled on her side, ears bared, bow discarded somewhere in the tent they'd started calling 'theirs'.

He sat up slowly, to avoid jostling her, and swung his legs over the edge of the two camp beds they'd shoved together. He rubbed his eyelids in small circles, trying to make the lenses beneath move smoothly over his eye.

No luck. They were too dry; stuck to his eyes – and when he looked, there was a slight distortion where the right lens had shifted off-centre before drying out. Great.

He blinked hard and fast, hoping tears would rehydrate the lenses enough to get them out. He headed to the make-shift washbasin in the corner; a simple plastic bowl of water on a small fold-out table, with a mirror propped up against the canvas wall behind the bowl.

He stared into the mirror, squinting through blurred eyes at the lenses. The right one was still in the wrong place. He rubbed at it again through his lid, felt it slide. A blink re-centred it, his pupils no longer looking lop-sided. They'd started to soften at least. Gingerly, he tested the right lens – it had shifted, but it was still tacky and hard to move. He'd scratch his eye if he tried to take it out.

Sheets rustled. 'Adam? What's wrong?'

Blake had rolled over and was peering at him, rubbing sleep out of her eyes and looking temptingly mussed.

Not now.

'It's nothing. Go back to sleep,' he said, keeping his eyes down so she wouldn't see them in the mirror.

'What happened? Is it your eyes?' She sat up, concern in her voice now. Damn. She must have seen him rubbing at them. Too curious, too compassionate at the wrong times.

He could play it off as just an eyelash in his eye. But she was awake now; she'd see him if he checked both eyes. She'd linger until he said he was fine, or she'd offer to help. Wouldn't be the first time someone in the group had needed to flush their eyes out, or have someone pin their lids open to get something out, especially after fights when the humans used gas or pepper spray, or kicked sand up when they realised they were outclassed and were scrambling for some distance.

A half-truth would have to do.

'I fell asleep with my lenses in, and they'd dried out. Like I said, it's nothing.'

She smiled, relieved but amused. 'I didn't know you needed contacts.'

He summoned up a half-hearted smile in return. Now, only now would he take her laughing at him over the truth. That was something she could never learn. That no one could ever learn.

'I can manage without them, but they help.' He gestured at the mirror, 'when they don't get stuck, anyway.'

She laughed, and reached for her clothes. 'That seems less than ideal. Are you alright taking them out yourself?'

He nodded. 'I'm fine, I just need a minute. Go and get breakfast; I'll join you when I'm done.'

'Alright.'

She didn't take long to dress, but he still needed to play for time. He splashed water on his face and flushed his eyes, finally feeling the lenses start to move freely. He paused when she stepped up behind him and wrapped her arms around him, her cheek against his shoulder blade. She mustn't have her heels on yet. He turned, making her giggle when water dripped from his hair to her face. He wiped the drops away with his thumb, leaned down when she rose on her toes to kiss her. She was soft and pliant against him, and for a moment he was tempted to toss her back onto the bed –

But no. They had a mission today. They had to focus. And he needed to get these lenses out.

He gave her one last kiss to keep her quiet before steering her towards the tent flap. 'Go. I'll be out soon.'

She smiled as she tugged her boots on then headed out, reaching up to tie her bow and hide the happy tilt of her ears.

One day she won't have to. When their work is done, when humanity has paid for all the times she's been made to hide who she is-

And you?

Blue eyes stared back at him.

When will you be able to stop hiding?

The lens moved easily this time. He slid out the right one, dropped it into the case filled with clean solution he'd prepared yesterday morning.

He blinked away the sting of cool air.

A silver eye stared back at him.

The blue lenses were a decent cover. The sliver of silver around his pupil still exposed by the lenses blended in with the blue well enough to look natural unless you were up close. That made this new intimacy challenging – there were only so many excuses for keeping the mask on outside of missions and White Fang business. He was waiting for the day when Blake looked him in the eye and realised the lenses were coloured.

Then would come the questions. Why hide the colour? Why keep it from her? What did having silver eyes mean?

And that would drag her into this mess. This was why he'd wanted to keep the fact he wore lenses a secret. It avoided the likelihood that she would study his eyes closely enough to notice on her own.

Too late now.

He removed the left lens, let them soak in the solution while he got dressed and fixed his hair. It was a familiar routine, easy to let his mind wander.

'Adam, Adam stay in the truck, ok sweetheart? Just stay there-'

The people outside were still yelling. Dad was shouting too. 'There's no need for this, please! All we need is a jump-start, and we'll be gone, we'll never bother you again, just please help us get the truck moving!'

'How dare you speak to my wife you freaks!'

'Sir, all I asked is if you could give us a jump, that's all-'

'You don't deserve to speak to us!'

'Please, please I've got a son, a little boy – we just need to get to the next town. The Grimm-'

'They can have you!'

'No, no wait!'

He heard the engine roar, heard Dad running. Mom shouted for him to come back, shrill and scared.

It was getting dark.

They tried telling him to be brave, to not be scared, but how could he when they were so scared he could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices? They both tried pushing the truck, but it had rained earlier – the ground was muddy. They could barely budge it.

It was night time when they heard the growls.

Dad had a shot gun. They all climbed in the truck and locked the doors. Dad wound the window down enough to stick the gun out.

The first shot was so loud. He clapped his hands over his ears, buried himself in his mother's trembling arms to try and dull the sound.

Dad was a good shot, but he couldn't cover all sides from inside the truck.

Something slammed against the back window. Mom screamed. He twisted in her grip to look into the beowolf's burning eyes.

Everything happened very fast after that.

The gun was yanked out of Dad's hands. He tried to wind the window up; but the fourth-hand old truck's window didn't move very fast. A black arm with white spikes darted in, claws sinking into Dad's chest. It pulled him out the window, skin scraping, body floppy. Mom didn't have a weapon; they'd only been able to afford the one gun. When her window shattered she shoved him down into the foot well, out of reach. She punched and kicked at the limbs reaching in, until a giant ursa clawed the door off its hinges. He watched as the Grimm surged and dragged her out, still fighting, still screaming.

There was only him, heart flying, breathing shallow, head pounding.

Claws reached in again, red eyes staring at him. He kicked at them, like Mom. He ripped at the strong fingers wrapped around his leg, dragging him out of the car, his back scraping against the base of the door frame, cut by the jagged metal.

He sees the moon, broken, bright, pulsing in time with the stabbing pain in his head – then it's blotted out by shadow and bone and red.

Teeth bared, claws descend –

His head splits, and everything goes white.

He hears the rain falling. He knows he is wet and cold, but he cannot feel it hitting him.

'-ra. Ghira, over here. There's a kid. Still breathing.'

'That's a small mercy at least. I've got him.'

There's warmth against his side, but he drifts away again before he can burrow into it.

He woke up in a small room with one bed. There was a candle on an old table next to his bed, and a tiger faunus sitting in a chair in the corner, watching him with piercing golden eyes. She had tiger ears, but there were a couple of stripes on her upper arms. Tattoos – the bottom two looked fresh, still red around the edges.

'You're actually awake. Stay here, I'll get you some water and let the others know.'

He tried to speak, his voice rasped. He tried again, croaky. 'Thank you.'

Her ears turned away from him, awkward. She looked like a teenager, maybe eighteen. 'You're welcome.'

He lay in the quiet, ears straining. There were voices downstairs, the tiger's one of them. Footsteps on the stairs.

The tiger reappeared, a bottle of water in her hands.

The man behind her was huge, but his voice was familiar, somehow.

'I'm glad to see you're awake, young man. You had us worried for a while.' He sat in the chair, the wood creaking.

He took the bottle from the tiger, didn't know what to say so he drank instead. Once he started he realised how thirsty he was, started to glug- but the tiger tilted the bottle back down, shook her head. 'Don't. Drink too much too fast and you'll be sick or worse. Small sips, alright?'

He nodded, made himself put the bottle down. With his throat soothed, talking was easier. 'Who are you?'

The faunus turned to the man, letting him speak.

'My name is Ghira Belladonna, this is Sienna Khan. We found you in the woods when we came through with our convoy.'

His voice was soft, gentle – pitying.

'Mom and Dad are dead.'

Ghira looked down, only for a second, but it was enough. 'Yes. I'm sorry. We gave them the best burial we could.'

He expects it to feel like a punch in the gut, or tears he can't hold back. But it's just… blank. Empty.

He doesn't realise he's staring at nothing until Sienna speaks.

'What happened?'

'We stopped the truck to stretch our legs and check the map. Dad thought we were lost. Then the car wouldn't start again. We were there for hours, but a car came by. We asked the lady driving if they could give us a jump – but they were human. They shouted at us. Called us freaks. They wouldn't help us; they wanted the Grimm to get us. They said so.'

His chest isn't empty anymore. It's hot, and burning, and expanding up into his throat, forcing his voice out and loud.

'They drove off, left us there. Just because we were Faunus – they knew I was there, they knew I was a kid, and they still wanted us dead. Mom and Dad tried pushing the car, but it was stuck. When it was night time the Grimm came. Dad had a gun, but he couldn't get them all. They got him. Then they got Mom. They grabbed me, they-'

He stalls like their truck had. 'They…'

The moon, bright and broken. Teeth, claws, his head-

'I don't know what happened. They dragged me out of the truck, then I… I don't remember. Did you chase them off?'

Ghira and Sienna were looking at each other, the same way Dad and Mom used to when they were making a decision they didn't want him to know about.

'No, we didn't. We found you the next morning, by your truck. Either the Grimm had left, or something killed them.'

His head hurting. The white light.

'The next morning? That wasn't today?'

Sienna shook her head. 'You've been unconscious for nearly a week. We've been trying to get hold of a doctor for you. The nearest hospital is miles away and we didn't want to risk moving you, but finding a doctor willing to treat us outside of the kingdoms has been… difficult.' Her ears were pinned back against her head.

Ghira shot her a look – like he didn't want her to say more. 'But you're awake now,' he said, a little too quickly to just be continuing what Sienna was going to say. More like he was cutting her off. 'So we can get moving again, take you to the hospital in Vale. They'll have a look at you there, make sure you're alright.'

He nodded. What else could he do? He was weak and wobbly, he couldn't exactly run away – and all they'd done so far was help him. That was more than any human had ever done for him.

'And after that?' Sienna asked.

Ghira hesitated. 'They'll try and find the rest of his family at the hospital, I'm sure.'

He shifted, uneasy. 'It's just been me, Mom and Dad. Mom didn't have any brothers or sisters, and Dad doesn't talk to his.' And they lived all the way in Menagerie. He didn't want to get shipped off to a place he'd never been, to people he didn't know and from the conversations he'd eavesdropped on, didn't like.

Ghira's expression flickered, just for a moment. 'Well I'm sure they'll follow procedure and inform whoever is listed as next of kin of what happened-'

'Or they'll turf him out as soon as they can say he's stable and he'll be on the streets. We can't just leave him with humans, especially after what they did to him. The White Fang could help him.'

'The what?'

The adults paused, remembering he was right there. Sienna leaned back against one of the walls, arms folded, while Ghira leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped. 'The White Fang started some time after the war, as a symbol of peace and unity between humanity and Faunus, a way of ensuring the things we'd fought for were followed through with. However things have been declining for years. The White Fang has sat by and done nothing as the rights we died for, that they promised us, were slowly eroded away. We,' he said, nodding at Sienna, waving his hand at the door to indicate whoever was downstairs, 'have decided to change that. The White Fang will campaign to keep our rights, to remind humanity we're equal to them in every way. One day, we won't struggle to find medical help. We won't be abused and abandoned. We will be the voice of the Faunus, until we're no longer needed.'

It sounded nice. A world where being a Faunus didn't matter, because no one would hurt you for it. But how would words do that? And how could they help him?

'So… you're a group. If I go to the hospital, they're going to keep me there. I'm a kid, and you're not my parents. They're not going to let you just walk off with me.' And if they couldn't find his Dad's family, or they didn't want him, then what?

'He's got a point, Ghira. He seems alright now, once he's got some food in him. If you're really worried we can find a doctor in Vale to have a look at him, but I say let him stay.' Sienna was staring at Ghira, challenging.

Ghira looked troubled. 'I still think we should go through the proper channels…'

'And since when has that got us anywhere? If his family say no, he'll get stuck in the foster system, and we all know how well that turned out for me.' Her teeth were bared, ears flat. 'He'd be better off with us, like I was. Like Saber.'

'He's a child,' Ghira argued.

'And? I was fifteen. He's, what are you, eight?'

He flinched at her sharp turn, her anger. 'Nine.'

'All the more reason to take him in. He needs us, Ghira. And we need people.'

Ghira shook his head, but he seemed more tired than angry. 'I won't turn children into activists.'

Sienna scoffed. 'What do you call your daughter?'

Ghira growled. Not like most people did when they were angry, this was real. 'There's a line, Sienna. Don't cross it.'

Sienna shut up, back going straight. She stalked out, glaring at Ghira, and slammed the door behind her.

Ghira sighed, seeming to shrink in his little chair. He looked up, gold eyes weary but honest. 'I promise you, we will do everything we can to help you. I want you to see a doctor, and while Sienna may stoke my temper, she has a valid point. We won't take you to a hospital unless the doctor recommends it. If you want us to find your family, we will. But if you want to stay…' he ran a hand over his face, but then he sat up straighter, resolved. 'Well, I won't turn away a child in need.'

'Thank you.'

Ghira smiled then, his face softening. He looked more like a dad than a fighter then. 'You're welcome. It occurs to me I haven't asked yet; what's your name?'

'Adam Taurus.'

He straightened his jacket, strapped his boots, coaxed his hair back into the overlapping arched spikes rather than the mess of red it had been after sleep.

Ghira had wanted to send him back to one of their safe houses, where his wife and little girl stayed as the vanguard cleared the route. Sienna had argued that it'd stretch their small forces too thin to accompany him back, that so long as he stayed with them and stayed in the truck while they scouted, he'd be fine. Sienna had won.

He'd been very unsteady on his feet for the first few days. Ghira had to help him down the stairs and into their truck.

He'd buckled his seat belt, turned to look out of the window, and hid his trembling hands in his pockets. These trucks were better than his had been; newer, stronger, but he hadn't thought anything could rip a door clean off of his old truck either. They were so flimsy against the Grimm.

The key turned, and his heart froze – but then the engine turned over and the familiar rumble started. It was easier to control his breathing with the thrum of a working engine beneath him.

He grew stronger on the road. His days without food and motionless in bed had sapped him of his energy and his muscle, but under Ghira and Sienna's careful monitoring and small but frequent meals he gradually improved.

They reached Vale after eight days of either stopping at small towns or camping. Sienna sent word to Ghira's wife that the route was clear, while Ghira took him to a walk-in centre that wouldn't ask too many questions about his background and accepted Faunus.

He was given the all clear, told to keep doing what he had been to physically recover, and they were free to go.

He'd taken it easy on Ghira's orders until the rest of the White Fang arrived. He was soon bored with hanging about the motel room, and asked if he could go to the local library. Ghira had accompanied him there, gave him a lunch to take with him, and said if he needed anything he'd just be the next building over. There had already been a crowd of Faunus gathering outside what turned out to be the town hall.

He'd promised to stay in the library, to not wander off. He'd found a free computer and started researching. At first he'd had no luck, just searching 'head hurting' and 'white light' – all he got were results for migraines and other medical problems.

He was pretty sure migraines couldn't kill Grimm.

He'd branched out. Killing Grimm without touching them. Killing Grimm without moving. Killing Grimm head hurting white light.

Nothing useful, nothing relevant.

He'd given up when the sun started to get low, and went out to find Ghira. He found him outside the town hall, in a crowd of Faunus, most of them holding blue flags with a white wolf's head on it, or signs protesting Faunus discrimination. They were chanting, peaceful but hard to ignore. Ghira had a megaphone and was calling for the major to come and talk with them, to discuss the Faunus discrimination the local businesses were engaging in against the law. They must have been at it for hours.

A larger crowd of humans surrounded them. They were shouting abuse, some had their own signs, some were throwing things.

He'd tried to skirt around, to reach Ghira, but there were too many people. He'd tried slipping through the crowd, hoping no one looked down, that no one saw the small horns poking through his hair-

Someone seized his arm, dragged him into view of the Faunus. They were screaming, shaking him. He clawed at their hand, tried to pull free, tried to run for Ghira who was marching over, face like thunder, Sienna at his back with a chain wrapped around her wrist.

Their grip was too tight. They were hurting him, fingers bruising his arm, shaking him so hard his shoulder jarred. 'You don't belong here you freaks!'

The shallow beating of his heart was swamped by that angry burning again. In that moment, he wasn't scared, he was angry. He wanted to hurt them, like they hurt him-

And he had a way to do it.

He planted his feet, stopped struggling. Turned to them, drew his head back, then slammed it forward into the man's stomach, horns-first.

He felt the puncture. Felt the spasm of shock through the man's hand before he let go. Felt the suck as his horns pulled free.

They were only little. The holes were maybe half an inch deep. But blood was blooming through his shirt, he was staggering away in terror, and blood was trickling through his hair and down his face.

Do it again.

He stepped forward, only for a shadow to cross him. Strong arms wrapped around him, lifted him off his feet, pulled him away.

He turned, teeth bared, ready to scream defiance, to stab again – and met Ghira's amber eyes.

Chaos was breaking out. The humans were turning into a mob.

Sienna kept most at bay with her chain, letting the unarmed Faunus protestors flee. A dark-haired woman with cat ears hurried to Ghira's side. Ghira had wordlessly handed him over and ran to help Sienna. The woman carrying him – Ghira's wife? – had ran, helping guide the panicked, scattering Faunus. She was calm, even in the middle of all the shouting and screaming and violence.

She got them out, got them somewhere safe before the police closed in. One of their Vale safe houses, she explained as she cleaned him up and checked his arm to see how badly he was bruised. She introduced herself as Kali Belladonna, and it was obvious from the start that she was a mom.

It was comforting in a way, but it hurt too. His mom should have been here, should have been the one wielding a damp cloth and digging through a first-aid kit for kiddie band-aids that did nothing to help the bruise, only made him stare at the bright colours in mild disgust.

It's what she would have done, and it was only then that his chest went tight and his eyes blurred. Nearly two weeks, and he was finally crying. He ducked his head, tried to hide it, but Kali noticed.

She didn't comment, just held her arms open in offering.

It would be weird. He'd only just met her. She wasn't his mom.

She wasn't his mom.

That was what made him curl up in her arms and stay there for hours.

The lenses would be fine to wear again now. It wasn't the recommended length of time between wears, but it'd have to do.

He'd become so used to seeing blue eyes over the years, the silver were strangely nostalgic. The eyes of a boy, not a man.

They'd salvaged what they could from his parents' truck. Only a few personal items, a few changes of clothes. Dad's shotgun, damaged but not entirely broken. Sienna had said they could get it fixed, even improved. He'd done that eventually, turned it into Blush.

It was around that time when he'd found it. He'd given up his search years ago, had convinced himself the white light had been a delusion after smacking his head on the truck doorframe. He'd stayed with the White Fang, even after Ghira had sent Kali and their young daughter back to their home in menagerie. Ghira was still pushing for peace, but humanity was becoming more violent in their rejection of his pleas.

It was a pity. Ghira was a good man, with good ideals – but this wasn't an idealistic world. Words wouldn't change things.

Sienna had the right idea. She'd cut her hair since that first meeting, had accumulated more tattoos down the length of her arms and legs. Her chain had knives on it now, Dust-infused when she could afford it and able to detach at the peak of a swing to become projectiles. She'd helped train him when he said he wanted to learn how to fight. Ghira hadn't approved, but when he proved too stubborn to be convinced to drop it, Ghira had helped. He was a good mentor, especially for hand-to-hand. He was patient, knew when to push, knew when you'd hit your limit.

Six years later, and he'd grown from the skinny little boy he had been. Tall and growing taller, shoulders broadening, his muscle lean from years of training, his horns grown in – too long and sloped back to stab people with now, but solid enough to daze anyone he head butted. He'd discovered a knack for swordplay, and that gave him a way to incorporate his dad's old gun into his weapon. Dad had been too weak to survive, too poorly equipped – because of humanity. It was a kind of justice that his old weapon, the one that had failed to defend his family, would be the weapon to help liberate and avenge their people on their oppressors.

He was a near-permanent fixture of the vanguard, along with Sienna and Ghira. Ghira was recuperating after an injury during an ambush, when he knocked on his room door. The three of them were staying in a small motel that hadn't cared if they had horns or ears or sharp teeth.

Ghira had waved him in, wincing as he shifted his weight and his leg pained him. It was strapped up and elevated, but still bad. He was reading a book, but he put it down on his knees as Adam pulled up the sole chair in the room.

'How're you feeling?'

Ghira chuckled. 'I've been better. Give me a day or two and my aura will have this healed up.'

'Good. We can't afford to lose you on the way to Haven.'

'Our biggest challenge yet,' Ghira sighed.

Adam glanced at the book, curious. It was a child's book of Remnant's myths and legends.

Ghira saw him looking. 'A present from Blake. She likes sending me her favourite books when she's finished them; she's done it since she was little. No doubt you've seen the picture books in my pack before,' he said with a laugh.

Adam smiled. It explained why Ghira could be seen reading kids books in the evening. He was yet to meet Ghira's daughter, but just last week Kali had written to say she and Blake would be joining them next month. Blake wanted to spend more time with her family together, and wanted to help their cause now that she was getting older. Not that nine was an age to start this life when you had a choice in the matter, but he'd turned out alright. Any daughter of Ghira and Kali's would be fine.

'Here, look,' Ghira said, flipping to the first page and handing it over.

There was a note on the blank page opposite the list of chapters, in a child's handwriting but neat.

'Hope you like this one Daddy! My favourite is the Four Seasons. I'll see you soon, stay safe! Blake xxx'

He grinned and was about to hand it back when the list of chapters caught his eye. The standards – Blake's favourite, the Two Brothers, but then in the middle of the book – The Silver-Eyed Warriors.

He paused, flicked through to the right page – and there, a full illustration, a pair of silver eyes framed by an ancient helmet.

They looked like his.

Each story had a small blurb introducing its history and context. His heart started pounding.

'This is one of the oldest legends in this book; it dates back to before the formation of the Kingdoms, to before Huntsmen and Huntresses, and is arguably the second-oldest after the tale of the Two Brothers, which is a creation myth. These warriors were supposedly able to slay the creatures of Grimm with a glance. In recent times, this myth has become less commonly known in comparison to more popular tales such as The Girl in the Tower and The Shallow Sea.'

'Adam? What's wrong?'

He started, handed the book back. 'Nothing. I'm sorry; I just remembered I'd forgotten something. Get some rest.'

The small town they were passing through had a little library. There weren't many shelves, but they had a few computers and a surprisingly good connection thanks to the nearby CCT substation that hadn't been attacked by Grimm for over five months.

Finally, the results he'd wanted years ago. He found the full legend, though it was very sparse on details and glorified the warriors. It was clear the writer of this particular version had never seen a silver-eyed warrior in person.

No one had. Every resource he found said they were legends, though theorists said that there were too many instances of the story turning up in unconnected areas of the world for it to be a pure fabrication. One of the leading theories was that it was a recurring but vanishingly rare semblance, and that the tales of slaying Grimm 'with a glance' were hyperbole.

But it wasn't. That's what he'd done. It had crippled him, knocked him out for a week, but all he'd done to the Grimm was look at them and fear he was going to die.

But he'd been a child then, untrained, alone.

He wasn't anymore.

He slid the lenses back in, blinking to clear the slight blue blur around his vision until the lenses had settled.

Blue was ordinary. Blue was safe.

Silver was dangerous.

'Go, guard the others! I'll take care of them.'

'Adam-' Blake wasn't a child anymore. She hadn't sent her father books since she was twelve. She'd trained for years under himself and Sienna and was as formidable as a fifteen year old could be. But right now she sounded as scared as a little girl, and that was drawing more Grimm in.

'Just do it!'

A raid gone wrong. A couple of human bandits dead, their blood on his blade. Several injuries, stuck in the middle of a Vale forest, Grimm closing in. They'd been able to get within sight of a cave system the Fang had used for years as a bolt-hole, but moving their wounded was slow and the Grimm were closing fast.

It was Blake's first large-scale mission. The others knew better. Whenever Grimm were trapped alone with him, they ended up as so much smoke.

She was hesitating. He nodded to Bane, who pulled her away. They'd take care of any Grimm that slipped past him.

Red eyes danced in the shadows, stalking towards him, sensing the others' panic. They knew this area; they thought they'd herded them into a kill box.

Tapping into the emotions they liked was as easy as breathing now. All the anger, all the hate, the disgust as the bandit had cowered and begged and sobbed as his guts spilled out. He submersed himself in them, let himself feel, made himself a bigger beacon than the wounded and fleeing Fang members behind him.

He needed a big group.

He aimed Blush, shot two of the beowolves trying to skirt around him. One for Mom. One for Dad. The mantra in his head was quiet now, had been softening for years, drowned out by the stab of satisfaction at the holes he ripped in them before they started to dissipate. That angered the rest – good. They were already gravitating towards him, snarling, slavering smoke.

There had to be thirty, thirty five Grimm. Beowolves, boarbatusks, ursas, creepers.

Perfect.

The mask was smooth under his fingers, the freshly carved pattern a neat line, barely tangible through his glove.

Thankfully this little trick didn't dissolve the lenses he'd taken to wearing to hide his ability. A precaution – paranoia, perhaps, but when the very few records he'd found of suspected Silver-Eyed Warriors throughout history all wound up with the Warrior dead before their time, well, he couldn't be too careful.

The pounding in his head was sharper, more focused – less pain and more pressure, building, controllable.

The last sensation was the sharp sting and burn in his eyes, like looking into a too-bright light. Then that was all there was – light. White, blinding, burning.

He heard the Grimm screaming.

The pressure built, built, stabbed, peaked –

Faded. He gritted his teeth, clinging onto his focus. That had been the hardest part, teaching himself to stay conscious afterwards.

There was always that moment of blindness in the aftermath. Those few seconds of his heart hammering, too loud in the absence of sight – would it come back? Would that be one of the drawbacks to a power he could barely research, that he'd learned and practiced through trial and error?

But slowly light started to register. Then shapes, then colour, then definition. He could make out the leaves on the trees, the dapple of dying sunlight on the ground.

The exhaustion crept up on him, even though he knew it was coming. It was like it delayed until he began to convince himself that he'd gotten used to it, that he'd be fine – then it would hit.

He sank to one knee, shaking, breathing uneven.

Focus. Pull it together. There might be more.

He slid the mask back into place, forced himself to his feet, dusted his trouser leg off.

He couldn't let the others see what it took out of him to defend them. Not when he was their hero.

He picked up Wilt and Blush, checked the tent one last time to make sure they hadn't forgotten anything.

He stepped into the early morning sunlight, fog still decorating the grass. The others were sat around the campfire, bolting down breakfast. Blake looked up at him, cheeks full of the fish Bane had caught that morning. She raised her hand to try and hide how full her mouth was, swallowing hard to try and look like less of a glutton, face bright red. Ilia laughed, elbowing her, but her face fell when Blake barely glanced at her in chagrin before looking back at him, trying to judge his expression behind the mask. Bane was wrangling the late sleepers into getting up. He slung the twins, Ciara and Lonan, one over each shoulder and dumped them near the fire where their breakfast was cooking.

These were his people. These would be the final wave of downtrodden protestors; and the first generation of the new order once humanity had been beaten back and put it its place.

Silver-Eyed Warriors were meant to save humanity from the Grimm. They were heroes, legends –

But the Grimm could have humanity. Let the monsters destroy each other. Let all those who had written those legends and not even included the Faunus as worth saving, as so much as a footnote – let them die, and let the Faunus rise up on top. Let them take ownership of the broken world and rebuild it the way it should be.

Then. Maybe then he'd do what the legends wanted. Maybe then he'd dedicate his life to defending people from Grimm. By then the only people to save would be his own.

Then, he'd be happy to be their hero again.