Ire.
Summary: A moment meeting between two once friends. Tag: After the War AU, fallen heroes, bad end, somewhat friendship, oneshot.
Disclaimer: RWBY belongs to the blessed Monty Oum and Rooster Teeth. What happens inside this story, if matches with future story lines, are only coincidental - and hopefully will never happen at all.
"Nice to meet you here."
"Nice to meet you here." A reply much less enthusiastic, words not even bothered to be animated enough to say out the 'not' before.
A dull sound of empty glass placed on the counter, metal screeching on wood. Another dull thud, accompanied by a tired groan. The man unclasped his sheathed sword from his hip, placing it down on the floor, a plea for truce, although still well within arm's reach. Gauntleted hand gestured for a shot of whiskey, the bartender nodding before pouring the man in plate armor a stiff short glass of whiskey.
The television in a corner of the small bar droned on, its flickering screen and the pour of liquor into glass the only source of sound in the room. Tension slowly built as the silence prolonged to an unhealthy degree.
The man, however, took that as as much a welcome he would get. Scar tissue morphed into a smile. "So... how's it been going?" The huntsman started.
"Aren't you supposed to be on work, General? A workaholic as you surely wouldn't just pick a Monday of all days for a drink at the bar." The huntswoman spoke coldly, a flash of silver fires flaring from beneath her dark hooded cloak at the word 'work'. A subtle warning. Irritated and annoyed.
"Thanks for the compliment, but no. I've been getting a few days off." The man shrugged, brushing off her non-physical glare. Still wearing that implacable smile on face, gold arrows on badge shone just briefly when he put his now empty glass down. "Comm'on, you haven't answered the question."
"Crap, apprently." Another glare, not too subtly telling the older, scarred man whose fault was that. Of all the days...
Jaune Arc called for another shot of whiskey, before sliding on the counter top the glass he recieved to the woman. Another non-subtle glare, ire rising at the transparent attempt to bribe her (but she took the glass regardless.)
A low grumble was all her reply to his smirk.
Silence. The bartender cracked open a new bottle, refilling each of their empty glasses.
"Never knew you drink." The smirk fell.
"Nor do you." A quiet grunt, eyebrows twitching when the woman found her voice softening for just a fraction.
"Time changes, I guess." The smile hardened for just a bit. Gauntleted hand brought up the glass of burgundy liquid, blue eyes melancholic, if followed by that a hard gaze.
"Time, huh." The woman slowly said, finger stirring the glass of whiskey before emptying it down again.
Silence. The television droned on and on, images on screen changing to the news about the recent string of disruptive protests in various Outer Colonies in Vacuo and Menagerie, demanding more autonomy and how the Council are contemplating solutions such as sending the Peacekeepers in.
"How did you find me?" She asked, eyes turning up at the screen.
"I was in town." He said. Not exactly an answer, they noted.
Luck, the man thought. And Time.
Yang, the woman thought. Or Oscar.
Cloth squeaked on glass, polishing crystalized material. The silent bartender diligently continueing his job in silence as his only two customers brooded over their drinks.
"It's been a few years." He spoke.
"It has." She said, jaws and fist clenching for just a moment. A decade. Almost long enough for some axes to be burried, some hatred forgotten. Almost.
"Do you still hate me?" The man exhaled. Ever since that day.
"Do I?" That day. She asked, gritting her teeth at the living, still-breathing reminder of someone that was once her friend.
The past buried, ires rose. A civil war snuffed from the wombs with blood, heated arguements with blades drawn. Bridges were burned and spat on, when each went their way with inferno raging inside over the burning cinders of friendship without ever looking back.
Silence reigned, triumphant and tyranious. A clenched iron fist hung over them, crushing puny words that dared to rise from stagnant vocal cord - had they been but normal men.
"It's... different," the commander said. The smile was no longer there. It was not really there in the begining. "Fighting other human and faunus."
"Let me guess; the bodies, the dead, the wounded, the calls for help that echoed in blood-curling screams. Souls fading to dusts and the blood staining your hands that does not." The Silver-eyed said in a voice for a long second was filled with contempt and disdain, before they had faded away into pity. "Too many, right?"
"And blank, dead eyes that searched for the slightest glimpse of hope, never to find any." He drained his glass of whiskey in one short gulp. "Too many. And it never gets any easier."
"Easier." She mouthed out the words. "For me, it has."
The droning noises of the news station continued, white noise playing in the background. She didn't need to look up to know that being reported was a local leader of a crime family, found strung up and mutilated beyond all recognization except for his hands - among with piles of evidence of the dead man's wrong doing at his feet.
"A bit excessive, don't you think?" Jaune Arc finally said, eyeing her.
"You of all people don't get to judge me." She coldly hissed, sitting up straight.
"No, not judging." The man huffed, the jagged, crisscrossing scars on the man's right cheek morphing into a smile again. "Just commenting. And wondering what he did to receive the... 'me-treatment.'"
Somehow, she couldn't keep a glint of amusement from showing on her lips at his words - before the woman growled, glaring. But it was too late, and the man was smiling even harder now. Before a dark chuckle came from her lips, a small desire to wipe it off his.
"Nothing as bad as you did, I assure you..."
"Hmph. I don't doubt that." He shrugged, but the hardening of his laugh was enough for her. "What did he do? Trying to rob you? Some drug baron? Or was he a cultist?"
"Slaves." She gritted out the single word. "He traded in lives. And now, he has paid in his." The woman's eyes bore into the general's like twin drills as she slowly spoke. "Women. Children, Jaune."
The man shrunk, and fell silent under her glare, just a bit. Before he straightened and spoke, almost ruefully.
"...It seemed like the right thing to do, then."
"'Right?'" Snapped her shaken, bitter voice. She all but ripped off the cowl of her hood, like the facade of politeness between them, and showed him her glowing red eyes.
"It is... Right." He repeated, the word hollow to his own ears. She gave him a disgusted glare, her teeth snarled back almost like a predator preparing to lunge. The tense moment passed away, however, when she forced her lungs to draw in a deep calming breath
"Right...?" She hollowly repeated. Her eyes burned as she stared him down. "Is what I did 'right', murder and torturing and intimidating...? Bribery and blackmail, planted evidences and bullets under pillows, agreements made with knives pressed to throats? Do you call it 'right', unfortunate accidents that befall insurgents or those you called dissidents? Do you call it 'right', entire syndicates and cults uprooted in the middle of the night, strung up bodies of leaders and pieces of evidence at their feet all that's left? Is it 'right', that slip of poison that took care of Goldbeck, and the high-powered anti-material round that ended preemptively Madison's May Uprisings?"
"It certainly is better than kicked down doors in the middle of the night, my soldiers filing in with handcuffs and black bags or guns blazing." The general pointed out in a flippant tone, unfazed before her threat even as the woman's hand twitched closer to the hilt on her belt. "It absolutely is better than what happened that day."
"Ha, 'better.'" The woman shook her head, voice bristling with unreserved ire. "Do you really think that being better than a mass-murderer... ah, no, a hero like you would wash it all away so easily?"
The general's nose scrounged up for a flicker of second before he returned the facade of righteousness. Her teeth gritted. "Then ask yourself this: is it worth it, the blood on your hand, versus the blood of millions that would flow if you do not?"
"Stop... stop patronizing me!" There was the sound of metal scraping on leather; a rosen hilted dagger unsheated and pressed to the exposed neck of the general. The bartender became very still behind his counter. "My hands are no less stained than yours!'"
"You haven't answered my question, Ruby." Jaune's spoke, unflinching before the outburst and making no motion to reach for the sword on the floor. Her There was silence as their eyes stared, blues and silvers, resolves clashing to see whom will blink first. It could be said that neither did, but the truth was that one already had, since a long time ago. Pressure on the man's neck steadily increased, until it hovered at a point just below aura activation.
"Yes. Yes, it's worth it." Ruby finally spoke. "It's worth sending myself, my innocence to damnation even if I can save the live of one other who deserves it." Her lips quivered, her silver eyes burning with the cinders of something he could recognize. Contempt. Hatred unbriddled, directed at them both. Aura crackled in that flame, along the length of her exposed arm, herself just a hair from the point of snapping. "I understand it now, why you did it. Are you happy now?" Now that I'm as much a monster as you?
"No. No, I never thought so. Not for a single second." The line never snapped. Jaune stated with a firm shake of his head. His voice softened, if just marginally. "But I know that you gave them a choice. You always do. I did not."
There was a spell of silence, before a broken laugh came from the hoarse throat of the huntswoman.
"Was that supposed to make me feel better?" Ruby clicked her tongue, brows furrowing in confused anger. "That instead of me sending pawns to their deaths like your and Weiss and Oscar's grand chess game versus the Great Evil I go by myself and give the pawns a chance to walk themselves out of the board?"
"Yes. Because anyone can see that you're lying." The man said, his eyes boring back into her silvers. "It hasn't got any bit easier for you."
A moment passed, before the Aura faded away with a fizz. Without a word, the blade lifted from his neck. The man said nothing, merely cocking his head back to the glass of drink.
The bartender let out a sigh of relief. It would be beyond bad, if two class-S Hunters, let alone Huntswoman Ruby Rose and General Jaune Arc -the Red Reaper and the Butcher of Vytal- were to come to blows in his bar.
The hands of the clock on the wall turned, and the two of them continued drinking their drinks in silence.
"...I hate you." She growled out, after some time.
"I know." The man sighed, a trace of regret almost slipping into his voice.
Her voice softened to a whisper. "I loved you."
"...I know." And regret did. Tears prickled at the corner of the Reaper's eyes.
"Then why."
"...I..." the man opened his mouth.
'-I will not let Remnant burn again because of your weakness!' Metal rung with every strike, faces inches from one another over the clash of steel. Burning hot tears fell, red with the ashes of a burning city, a glacial and holocaust-like fire just like the man's reflection on their blade-locked arms.
'Not burn?! You call this- Not burning?!' Her voice was raw and unbriddled with cinder-red ashes, as petals of flame fell before their eyes. Fire reflected in the man's blue eyes, and for a brief second his arms faltered-
He blinked, feeling a hand touch his face. Not strong enough to be a punch, unlike then. Just a hand, pale and calloused yet surprisingly soft, slowly turning his head to face her, hand examining, tracing over the deep, jagged scars over his right cheek.
"You still keep the scar I gave you." She spoke, on her face a small scowl torn between guilt and scorn.
"I deserved worse."
"Maybe." You are. Already.
The hand fell from his face.
"Why are you here, Jaune Arc? Surely you are not here only to deliver an 'I'm sorry', are you." The woman turned back to her glass. There wasn't any hostility left in her voice, ire nor contempt. The fire had burnt out, leaving only an ashen weariness and resignment.
"You're right. I do require your... no, the Red Reaper's service." The man admitted in a similarly weary tone mixed with self-contempt. He pulled from his armor a yellow file and handed it to her, his tone switching back one of detached indifference. Like the mask he wears whenever he was dealing with something he finds especially harrowing, or distasteful, the huntswoman took the file, staring at it for a brief second before pulling the content from inside. Silver eyes widened. Before the 'what's the meaning of this' could be said, the man continued. "There was a Code Black meeting, 8 days ago. The Council is so much more than just contemplating sending in the Peacekeepers. They want to send me in."
"They are?" Came her chilly voice. Sending the army in to disperse peaceful protests. Her hand curled up into a fist. Pure madness, or another thinly veiled pretext for a massacre.
"It is going to be voted on 'publicly' at next month's end, but the outcome had already been decided." The man paid her question no mind, blue eyes staring straight ahead at the droning TV, glazed like seeing a ghost. A hard swallow, he shook his head of any doubts of what he was suggesting. "Stop the vote. Convince them of their follies, at any cost. For the sake of us all, that day can not happen again."
Any cost, closed silver eyes thought, scraping together the last of her ires and resolves. She knew what needs to be done now. She understood, far too much, what needs to be done now. The fire flickered to life, again. Just one more time. "You was never here, correct?"
"I never was." The man nodded curtly and drained the last of his glass before paying their bills - along with a rather hefty tip to the beleagued bartender - and picking up his sword to leave. He glanced back at her for one last time, furrowed brows speaking of something else that he wanted to say, before he decided agaisnt it.
"I wonder why you do this, unlike so many other times, but... Thank you." Ruby tentatively said after the back of the retreating man. Jaune halted on his feet, turning back to her. "For trying to do something." His mask slipped, and came to his face was what amounted to a crestfallen smile.
"I made a mistake, Ruby. I'll do whatever it takes to fix it."
The twin doors of the bar swung open and closed. The woman stared at where the man had disappeared through before she downed the last of her drink.
As do I, Jaune. As do I.