A/N: So I was bored one day, and this little gem popped into my head. The introduction is a bit lengthy and will be divided into two parts for convenience's sake. The Intro will be from the POV's of multiple people, but the main story will be from the perspective of 1 or 2 characters.

Also, this is my first Fan-Fiction, so make of it what you will.

Vacuo Nation Hospital: 17 Years Ago

"You sure this is the right one?" The hooded figure said, turning to his co-conspirator.

His partner only shrugged, "Hell is I know, all these little shits look the same to me," Carefully she reached down and lifted up the sleeping infant, careful not to wake it.

"You're not sure?" The first figure asked, "Well you better get sure, last thing we need if for this kid to end up dead before he even reaches the...school," He finished, putting large air-quotes around the term "school". His partner only laughed. She read the serial number off of tag wrapped around the infant's tiny foot. A quick check from her partner confined that they had the infant they were looking for.

"Happy now?" She asked, rolling her eyes "Dust, you can be sooo annoying,"

"Hey don't blame for wanting to protect our asses," he exclaimed trying to keep his voice low, "I don't even want to think about what the boss would do to us if we came back with the wrong kids,"

"You worry too much," The woman shrugged. Her partner just seemed to get angrier at her carelessness,

"Cool down, let's just get this kid to the truck, then we just come back, get the last one, and quick as a whip we're out of here,"

"Fine," the man agreed looking around the darkened nursery, "this place gives me the creeps anyways. I hate hospitals,"

The woman laughed, "I'll add that to the list, now come on," The two figures walked out of the nursery's emergency exit, which had "conveniently" been left ajar, and into the back of a large white truck parked outside. The trailer was large and simple. A few hanging lamps illuminating the rows and rows of nailed down cribs, all but two of which were filled with the sleeping forms of newborn children. A couple of tacky mobiles, and it would have all but matched the nurseries these children had been taken from.

The two figures deposited the child in one of the empty cribs, then exited the truck, going back for the last infant. After a quick search of the remaining children, the two figures found the one they were seeking out.

"Can I ask you something?" the man asked timidly.

"What?" the woman sighed, lifting the sleeping infant from their crib.

The man, ignoring his partners obvious disinterest, continued, "Do you ever feel like what we're doing is...you know...wrong? I mean with the stupid brown robes, and the snatching of sleeping kids, and that big white cliché outside," The woman turned to face him, her hood doing little to obscure her absolute indifference.

"No," she responded flatly, already walking towards the door, "Far as I'm concerned, we're doing these kids a favor. Whoever is willing to sell their own child for some money is probably going to be a crappy parent anyways. Besides, it's not like we're taking them at random. Each of these children have been screened for the proper mental and physical traits for training, it's all for the good of the kingdom," Her point made, she looked back towards her partner, the man could be so silly sometimes.

"Well, when you put it like that," he began, nodding.

"Exactly," his partner finished, "Now come on, we drop these kids off, then I got a little... reward... for you back home," she gave a little sashay to emphasize her point. The man smiled and, previous moral dilemma forgotten, eagerly followed her outside.

Somewhere on the coast, Vacuo: 17 years ago

Vacuo Hunting School for the Especially Gifted, an in-construction school for young boys and girls who possessed particular talents in the art of combat. In time, this school would produce Huntsmen and Huntresses capable of rivaling those of Vale's prestigious Beacon Academy. These young children would help defend the men and women of Remanent from the darkness that sought to overwhelm them.

Well... that was the official story anyways.

Nursemaid Waltina Whit walked through the thin steel halls of the school, or rather, the underside of the school. Just another ordinary day in her life. Making her way to the end of the hall, the raven-haired nurse opened the large steel doors to reveal a nursery full of young babies, all of them just under a year old and already training to be Rangers, an elite group of hunters who were trained from birth to be the ultimate warriors. Passing by one of her fellow nurses-a young man sporting a mass of black curls on his head-she asked about which children required care.

"Ranger 673 is about ready for her feeding," The other nurse replied, looking rather tired, "I caught 1002 crying earlier though, so refrain from feeding him until dusk," Waltina sighed, she hated denying the children food but rules were rules. If you cried, your feedings are reduced. Most of the infants had managed to pick up on that early, but every now and again, another child cried for one reason or another, and they couldn't really make exceptions. The general had said it himself, a creature of Grimm would not bow to a show of weakness, so neither shall they.

"Thank you Florence," Waltina replied, "Now go get some rest, you look exhausted," The male nurse, Florence, nodded appreciatively and walked towards the door.

Just before reaching the door, Florence, remembering something important turned back towards Waltina, "I almost forgot," he began, "We had 5 more deaths today, and Ranger 78 was brought to the infirmary for a high fever,"

Once again, Waltina sighed, "Which of the children died?" She called back.

"Let's see, we lost 556, 1010, 421, 326, and 1," He called back counting on his fingers. Waltina nodded her thanks, and turned back towards the children as Florence slipped out the door, leaving her alone.

"I have seen the death-hours of far to many infants," Waltina began, going about her work. As she filled another bottle with formula, she began to question what was killing what appeared to be perfectly healthy infants. She knew what it was, of course. Looking down at the white liquid in the bottle, she glared.

The nurses knew that the formula they fed the babies wasn't ordinary. While they superiors refused to admit exactly what it was, they had admitted that it was a mixture of dust and other chemicals that were supposed to aid the bone development of the children as well as making them more durable. It had worked, for the most part. However, some infants had suffered reactions to the cocktail, and would end up dying. Some had died early on, but every now and then, one infant would react to it as well. As far as the medical staff knew, it wasn't a painful passing, but at the same time, there was nothing they could really do for the child. Waltina hated knowing that she was playing a part in their deaths, but she knew that the concoctions would be necessary for the children when training started.

She was right.

Vacuo Hunting School for the Especially Gifted, Living Quarters: 14 years ago, 6:00 am

Howard Domnhald walked through the corridors of the Ranger Training Center. Clutching hold of a large stack of books, the balding, scholarly man counted the numbers on each door. Arriving at number 237, the middle-aged instructor adjusted his glasses before walking in.

The room was as plain as one could expect of a bedroom. The walls were all the same, dull beige tone, brightened only by the few pictures of various Grimm that Domnhald had smuggled in at its occupants request. Other than those, the room was bare, the pure white carpet doing little to brighten the room. Tucked in the corner was a single, twin-sized bed, a small wooden closet stood next to it. Of course, Howard wasn't here to admire the scenery. He was here to teach. Glancing towards the small table at the center of the room, his eyes were drawn to his pupil.

A young, three-year old girl sat at the edge of the table, her face a blank slate. Hearing the door open, the child swung her gray eyes around to assess the new figure. Seeing her mentor there, the girl nodded, a smile just barely showing up on her pale face.

"Good morning, Mister Domnhald," she said, not getting up from her seat.

"Good morning, 237," Domnhald replied, sighing. The girl shouldn't be smiling, he constantly told her not to smile, cry, or show any emotion whatsoever, but the girl continued to ignore the orders. Just the previous day, Domnhald had to beat her for giggling during his instructions. The bruises were still evident on her wrist from where his ruler had made contact. Looking towards 237, Domnhald gestured to his mouth, and nodded contentedly when the girl, picking up on the message, let her smile fade back to her usual stoic demeanor. He didn't like to hit his pupils, or in this case pupil, but knew he had a job to do. So he often gave out warnings instead of outright beating the child like some of his colleagues.

Sitting down at the other end of the table, Domnhald opened one of his larger books, "Let's begin with Grimm Studies today," he said.

"Yes sir," 237 responded, pulling out a slightly smaller version of the same book (a student's version, as opposed to Domnhald's teacher's edition). Before Domnhald could continue however, the girl bowed her head, "I am sorry for my conduct during yesterday's lesson, sir, it will not happen again," Domnhald was glad the girl didn't see the smirk on his face at the child's antics, he had to teach by example, of course.

"That's quite alright, 237," he responded, letting his face harden again, "I assume you have learned your lesson, and it will not happen again," The girl nodded her head and sat up straighter in her chair, brushing a stray lock of blond hair from her face.

"Never again, sir," 237 responded.

Domnhald nodded, "Good, now back to the lesson. Now, do you recall the main weak point of a Nevermore?"

The girl grunted, trying to remember the previous day's lesson on the large bird-like Grimm. After a moment, she responded, "Is it the-"

Domnhald cut her off, "I did not ask for a question. I wanted an answer," he scolded the girl on her tone, "Now, go back and phrase it as an answer,"

"Sorry, sir," 237 apologized before restating her answer, "The neck, sir," She said sounding far more confident this time.

Domnhald nodded, "Correct,"

The lesson would continue like that for several hours. Domnhald would lecture the Ranger-in-training on various topics, including Grimm Studies, writing, arithmetic, and history. Occasionally he would stop to ask a question, to which the girl would quickly respond. He was impressed at his young ward's memory, even at such a young age. Of course, he would never show it. If she grew too confident, it would be bad for everyone involved, Domnhald included. The lessons ended at about 6 pm, at which Domnhald would conclude lessons, tell the girl what to study for next time, pick up his book, and leave. Before he left, Domnhald turned towards the girl and, making sure she was not looking, silently nodded in approval.

She would go on to do great things.

Vacuo Hunting School for the Especially Gifted, Headmaster's Office: 12 Years Ago

General Robert Forrester glanced out of his office window at the labyrinth that comprised his school. It had taken years of work to get the King to support the building of a school for elite super-soldiers, and the process had not been without its flaws, but now he was headmaster of a school of over 900 students, all of whom were due to start physical training soon. His staff had been instructed to be ruthless to the children, and with any luck, Forrester hoped that the harsh conditions would bring out a new breed of soldier. A soldier that could-

"General Forrester, sir" Forrester grimaced as his thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.

"Yes," Forrester replied calmly, turning to face the new arrival. Forrester didn't so much mind his first assistant as he did the woman who was almost always with him. As Forrester turned to look at the two hooded figures, he noticed each of them carrying rather large stacks of boxes that obscured their faces (a job which the hoods didn't really do well).

Before his preferred assistant could respond, the other one decided to make her presence known, "We got deliveries for you, boss,"

Forrester nodded, "I'm well aware, now please set those down in the corner over there," Forrester pointed to one end of the room, then watched his two blinded assistants place the boxes on the opposite side of the room. He sighed to himself, but let the mistake slide, it wasn't too terribly important where the boxes went, "I'm assuming these are the new uniforms," he asked, gesturing to the two stacks in the corner.

"Yes sir," the male figure replied, pulling a list from the robes, "945 long shirts, summer vests, and night-clothes of varying colors," he began, reading from a list, Forrester nodded in approval before the man continued, "505 pairs of plaid girl's combat skirts, and 440 pairs of grey boy's battle trousers."

Forrester paused here, "Wait, say that last part again," He asked.

The man repeated, "505 pairs of combat skirts and 440 pairs of battle trousers,"

Forrester's hand was quick to meet his face, "So tell me, who put in this order?" He said, removing his hand from his face. The man raised his hand. Forrester made a mental note to change how he ranked his assistants. "Then, tell me," he continued, trying to contain his anger, "how many boys do we have at this school?"

The woman pulled out her scroll from her robe. She was first to respond, her nervousness edging its way into her voice, "441... sir"

Forrester slammed his hand down onto his chair leg, "Bingo! We have a winner!" he shouted.

The woman quickly turned to her partner, "Why did you order 440 pairs of pants?"

"You told me to round," he replied innocently.

"Up!" she replied, cursing her partner's stupidity.

"But, I thought one to four rounds down" he replied. If looks could kill, the look Forester gave the man would be equivalent to a shotgun to the face. In fact, Forester could of sworn he kept a weapon in here somewhere.

"So here's what we're going to do," Forester said, adopting a cheerful demeanor scarier than when he was angry, "We can't afford to buy many more uniforms, and we all know those assholes at the factory only ship in bulk, so you two are going to take one of those combat skirts to the nurses, and have them adjust it for a boy, then you are going to give these to the students. If the boy who gets the skirt is beaten to death by his classmates, then you two are going to join him. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!" both figures responded at once, taking the boxes and running before Forester could consider replacing them. Forester, in the meantime, was left to his thoughts, one particular one running through his head.

I need new assistants.