A/N: Shortest thing I've written in a while, but… nothing more needed to be said.
"Gonna get mine, get outta my way
There's gonna be (gonna be)
Gonna be hell to pay."
-Miracle of Sound, Hell to Pay
Black Fang
Vann Lionheart liked to think he was a good man. Sure, he was what some would call a terrorist; he preferred the synonym "freedom fighter." It wasn't as thought the terror was the goal, just the means.
"You're being all meditative again," Anne said, beside him. Anne Byss was a jackal faunus, and an old friend. "Stop it."
Vann took off his mask to rub his tired eyes. "Sorry," he muttered, shaking out his wild mane of hair while the mask was off, his lion's ears flicking about in the brief respite from constraint. "I philosophize when I'm tired."
Anne didn't remove her Grimm mask, but Vann was certain she was rolling her eyes. "Stay awake, buddy," she ordered. "We've got a while on patrol yet."
They were in a ruined corner of Vale, in one of the sectors that had come under the control of the White Fang during the chaos. With luck, they'd be able to maintain a foothold. Lieutenant Rivi was the only major officer in this camp, and he was doing his best to keep the area patrolled around the clock until Commander Taurus could get the cells organized.
Vann reattached his mask and shifted his grip on his RD repeater. He sighed, the sound unnaturally loud in the night.
"Quit it," Anne grumbled. "Your contemplating is getting annoying."
Vann snorted. "Sorry, sorry." He glanced up towards the human-controlled center of the city, and the great, dragon-tipped tower in the center. "You think it's dead?" he asked quietly.
"The dragon?" Anne asked with a chuckle. "Not likely. You know there are still cults in Mistral that worship dragons?"
Vann shook his head. "That's crazy," he mumbled. "They're Grimm; Grimm that spawn more Grimm."
Anne nodded, her face hidden behind the mask. "It's bizarre," she agreed. "I wonder if it's still spawning?"
Vann twitched. "Oum, I hope not," he muttered.
Anne glanced at him. "Why?" she asked blankly. "It'll be dropping Grimm in the middle of them!"
"Yeah," he agreed, "but… well, I don't know. Surely there's a line, somewhere?"
Anne turned to face him fully. "A line?" she asked blankly.
Vann nodded. "Like, a point where we go too far," he said. "I'm worried we might've crossed already, actually. I mean, we did unleash Grimm on a civilian population."
"No we didn't." said Anne flatly. "We dropped them in the middle of a Huntsman's competitive tournament; if any civilians didn't get out, that's on them."
Vann shook his head. "How do you do that?" he asked softly. "How do you just… not worry about it? About whether what we're doing is right?"
There was a pause. Then Anne turned away slightly and hugged herself. "I remember what Dad looked like when they dragged him out of that Dust mine for the last time," she whispered. "I remember how no one would even take your mom's case about how the SDC guards treated us. I remember how not one of those Huntsman," she spat the word as she pointed at Beacon Academy, "even showed up when Nightlight—when home—was overrun by the Grimm. I remember that it's because not one of those people ever cared enough to do anything about it." She hissed. "The key's to hate them," she told Vann grimly. "Hate every last one of them."
Vann looked away. "They're mostly just people," he mumbled feebly. "Would we be any different?"
"Yes," Anne said sharply. "Because we're not scum!"
There was a beat of silence as they rounded a corner in their patrol. Suddenly, Vann heard a buzzing sound from an alley to their left.
"Mech!" he called out sharply, diving for cover even as the lone Atlas mech began to fire.
He and Anne took cover on opposite sides of the entrance to the alley; he was on the left, Anne was on the right. Risking a glance inward, he saw that the robot was advancing slowly and steadily, it's painfully basic combat algorithms almost making him cringe. He ducked out to fire off a couple of rounds into the things chassis; they pinged off of its metal casing uselessly. He had to duck back into cover almost immediately as it sent a barrage his way.
Even as it began to shoot at him, Anne demonstrated the teamwork they'd spent years perfecting, taking advantage of its distraction to launch a few rounds towards it; by the electric hiss that Vann suddenly heard, at least one bullet had made contact with a weak point. The mech didn't fall, though. It redirected its fire at Anne's hiding spot, and Vann noticed its aim was a touch off. Anne had damaged its optics.
He leaned out and fired a burst into its cranium. It crackled for a moment with electricity, bolts of free voltage arcing between components of the mechanical soldier. Vann had just enough time to lean back into cover before it detonated.
Anne laughed. "By the numbers!" she crowed. "Nice shooting, Vann!"
He grinned over at her, knowing she couldn't see his smile. "You hit it first," he said. "Not a bad fight; save, and in cover, the way I like it."
She shook her head at him. "You're boring," she complained. "That's one thing I have to hand those Huntsmen; they've got style. They just run in without a care in the world; they can dodge or block bullets, and then they just—"
She never finished whatever she was going to say; her head snapped forward with the force of the impacting .38-caliber burst, the retort of the automatic pistol cracking like a whip in the night.
Vann watched, transfixed, as his first, oldest, and only remaining friend fell forward, blood seeming to spray in slow motion from the point of impact in the back of her skull.
A dark shadow flashed from behind the still-warm corpse, and Vann barely had time to bring his rifle back up before it was shorn in half by a heavy buster sword.
The shadowy figure—too fast for him to really see—was behind him, and then there was a knee in his back, and he was face-down in the ground.
"Where's Adam Taurus," a cold female voice asked from behind—no, above; he was on the ground—him.
"I don't know," he babbled. "Lieutenant Rivi's in charge of this sector and oh Oum you killed her Anne—"
"Thanks for your cooperation," said the voice, and he was roughly turned over onto his back.
He had only a moment to catch a glimpse of glacial golden eyes, a black bow on black hair, and a black and white battleskirt before the blade came down.
"Hello, Darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence."
-Simon and Garfunkel, The Sound of Silence
A/N: I feel for—and worry about—Blake. We don't really know what she's doing following the battle, but she hasn't come out of all this unscathed.
Adam has cut her; she, I'm sure, intends to cut back.