So this entire thing began because I wrote a shitty, 2 minute self-insert.
It has now evolved into an epic quest, by me, in order to redeem my writing skills.
This is but the first chapter of that quest.
Also for what the hell happened to all my other work it's just that I didn't plan it out properly and now my story's all over the place. This one, however, has a very clear aim on what to do, so I'm guaranteed at least another four chapters.
Hopefully.
I don't know I mean jesus writing IS kinda tiring eheh.
Team ANMS - Chapter 1: Questionable Deeds Done Rather Cheaply
Three months before the festival, 'he' showed up.
He's a slippery character, they say. He'll pop up when you least expect it and sell you certain objects – a muffler, some parts, some nuts and bolts – and strangely enough, you'll find that you'll always need it. A compelling person, some might say.
Students will openly admit of their association with him – after all, what's the harm in buying some undeniably useful spare parts from a person? He seems reputable enough, got a little dark on his overcoat and fedora, and sure, he seems like he's hunched with a back problem, but let's be honest, black's a very fashionable color that goes with everything and it's not like we're all born lucky. He might be selling drugs. He might be selling 'questionable' spare parts. But as time goes on, the students found that the parts that they purchase, despite being slick and smells a little bit like old oil grease, happen to be a killer bargain for what they bought.
This is, thought Ozpin, very inconvenient.
Oh, they ran tests. The weapon parts that were part of the shady deal were confiscated and brought to attention, but for all the tests that they ran, it seems to function exactly like its store-bought counterparts. Just slightly better. There were no sabotage, no signs of sudden decay. Just pure customer satisfaction.
And they've had hunters and police alike comb the grounds for this shady character, but they didn't call him slippery for nothing, it seems.
And being the experienced man that he is, Ozpin became very, very worried.
It is almost imperceptible, the way his worries show. His hair droops just a little, and there was a slight weariness in his voice, and perhaps the way that he walks and the way that he talks becomes just a bit slower, a little bit more wary. Perhaps his green suit becomes a little duller, being left for just a little too long in the laundry as he is more preoccupied with other thoughts. Perhaps his notes becomes slightly less organized. But these small little changes are imperceptible to anyone but Ozpin himself, and the fact that he noticed them at all irritated him ever so slightly.
Shady characters are shady for a reason. Did he have an ulterior motive in visiting Beacon? Is this a dark sign of things to come? A sort of secret sabotage? Espionage? The mere fact that he could travel through the school without triggering the elaborate (and, he thought furiously as he ground his cigar into grey paste, rather expensive) alarm systems is already cause enough for worry.
What irks him the most, however, is the lack of evidence.
Certain patterns in history tend to repeat themselves, and Ozpin knows this pattern very well: some person shows up, and returns later, more often than not as an enemy, and then reveals the sabotage – a bomb perhaps, or a sudden disabling of all weapons in the academy, or – or-
He sighs. Speculation gets you nowhere, he knows. Lack of evidence even more so.
He glared at the students assembled before him, his tiny spectacles only minutely diluting the intensity of his stare.
"And have any of you told anyone else? Am I correct in assuming that everyone whom encountered our slippery friend is gathered here?"
There were murmurs of 'yes', and a general slight bobbing of heads in a vertical manner. He grounded his teeth. The worst part of being a principal is that for some reason, everyone feels like clamming up when you're speaking.
"Then you are to keep it that way. No sense in causing panic, rumors, or … speculation," he said in a gravelly tone. "I want no panic among the first-years. They have enough to deal with as is. And… return to your daily activities. All of you."
Some miles away, a figure appeared. It wore a black overcoat and black fedora.
And despite the fact that he was standing against the bright colors of green and sky-blue that was emanating from the window, he seems to blend right into the background. It is a figure that, despite all logic indicating otherwise, could never be at the foreground. Even its conversation with the other occupant of the room could be dismissed as simple background noise:
"I told you to get information."
"Yes, but I got a good sale, and that's important."
"Godsdammit, Max, I told you to get in there to spy on rivals, not improve their weapons."
"So? I made great sales. Considering what they're made of, I have gained an incredible amount of money." He rolls the 'I' a little bit around his tongue. It's a nice word to him. Just like the word me. "I have converted so-called 'garbage'-" and despite his face being covered by the shadows underneath the brim of his hat, one could just imagine the sneer on his face – "into money. Aand," he said, shifting into a more satisfied tone, "useful garbage, too. Y'want? Half price, the usual?"
"Yeah, yeah, useful, useful," came the sour reply. "Not like you haven't already tweaked all of our stuff into oblivion." There was a sigh from the other speaker. He was leaning against the corner, practically drowning in papers and holographic displays. It was hard to discern his face underneath all the junk that's flowing over him. "Not useful enough to get the information I need."
Something hit his head. It was a small floppy disc. A pair of glasses peeked out of the mass of holographic displays just long enough to regard the fedora and overcoat with a derisive stare as it loads the ancient artifact in.
"How last… millennium."
"Sure is way stronger than the shitty glass discs today," replied the man. "That'll be another buck outta you."
"Point taken." His partner's voice is reedy, the kind of voice that you would expect behind those commonly associated with the word geek and nerd. "Well, at least you rigged it so that it stores more than today's odd USB."
"Heh."
Ding.
The file loaded, and yet another holographic display popped up. All that can now be seen of the figure behind all the blue holographic display are just faint blue outlines that suggest the shape of spiky hair, and a pair of nerdy glasses.
"This is quite a big file. Let's see… though since we've already seen Team RWBY in action, I can just skip through their files. Saves me some work."
The overcoat grunted. "Tough team to beat, that one." He didn't even move from the table, but somehow, there was already a cup of hot coffee next to him, despite the fact that there are no hot-water dispensers, and for that matter, no packs of coffee in the room.
A hand emerged from the messy pile of papers and holograms. It did a dismissive wave before it sank back in. "Oh, no doubt we'll have trouble. But I'd rather not die from a team we didn't research at all than lose to them –"
'Max' made an exasperated noise. "We still got a week left!"
"You and I haven't practiced at all! We're too busy researching!"
"It's not like we're gonna fight as much as those two. Y'know our usual strats-"
"Sssh. Prying ears are everywhere."
"Oh for fuck's sake… Well, fill me in, why don't you? So? What do you got from the footage I got?"
There were some rapid tapping noises – a keyboard being tapped on at rapid speeds – and then silence. It hung on for a minute. Then two awkward ones.
"Oy." He poked at his coffee cup. It was still a little too hot to drink.
"Hmm? Be patient, I'm still watching. It's not like it takes three seconds to watch a total of fifteen minutes of footage."
Max sighed, and stands up. The fedora shook slightly, so he raised an arm and re-adjusted it firmly on his head. "Then I'm going to go take a look at those two. Try and get it ready by the time I'm back?"
"Yeah, yeah." There was no thought in the response. Obviously, the speaker is highly engrossed in watching whatever information was brought back from Beacon.
"Be right back, then…"
He walked out of the door, leaving some words unspoken between the two.
Put together, they read:
You only took three seconds for everyone else.
Three hours later, the sun disappeared behind the mountains, and night falls on Vale.
The Night Vale is a little bit different than the regular day Vale. It is still relatively safe, and people still walk the streets, looking for wares and talking with each other, eating outside in the face of the gentle breeze that wafts through the cities many alleyways. It was peaceful, that night, and it continues to be peaceful. Maybe a little too peaceful.
There's a reason for that. This is because, unlike Daytime Vale, where people are friendly with each other, socializes, chats a little and above all, find and meet new people, strangers are NOT welcome to Night Vale.
The Night Vale is a closed circuit: nobody interacts with people they don't know. They know what happens when you poke into the shadier side of Vale, the side that robs stores and smuggle dust and prefers their humans dead and roasted. Nothing good will come out of being in Night Vale. And the only reason why Max is here, is because he needed to make a sale among strangers.
He lied a bit, of course. Those two needed no supervision, much less check-ins. And truth be told, he'd be terrified of having to disturb them in the middle of their sparring sessions. It's the only time when they're allowed to go crazy with their skills. Besides, there is money to be made here. And while his personal principles stated that there is always money to be made at any time and at any place, the amount to be made at certain locations vary.
Like here, for example, he thought as he spun smartly into a dead-end alley. It was dark, with but a flickering lightbulb for illumination, and it stank of dampness, of water, clogging up pipes and pooling in little niches beaten in by years of rain splattering on hard concrete. It isn't truly a horrible smell until one realized that the dampness amplifies other bad smells, like thrown cigarettes and rat corpses, and made it heavier with all the moisture.
To Max, it made him nostalgic. It was just like home.
So he strode into the alleyway confidently, gaining the attention of half-sleeping beggars, whom are not welcome in Vale, be it day or night, and had to resort to calling pitiful alleyways their home, and turned and faced the metal door, suspiciously clean of all the mold and rust infesting the rest of the alley and also somehow perfectly aligned with the side of the wall to not protrude at all. In this kind of lighting, you'd have to know the door exists at all to be able to see it while not inside the alley.
He rapped on the door smartly with his black-gloved hand.
It opened inwards, revealing an onyx-black corridor, and the sounds of what can only be a nightclub – no other music would be this repetitive - can be heard in the far distance. A man in a tuxedo and red tie greeted him with a scowl.
"Pass-", he began.
But Max never wasted time, not once, not ever, and before the henchman knew it, he was already talking to empty air. And the henchman could hear it, the sounds of footsteps walking towards the other direction. It was a short corridor, and another door awaits him at the end.
By the time the word "Hey you," had exited the henchman's mouth, Max was already at the door.
He opened it and emerged, shoes wet and clothes slightly damp, into what can only really be described as a mess.
He wasn't wrong – it was a nightclub, just one that appears to be under heavy renovation. People in outfits similar to where he entered from were running to and fro carrying wood, glass, paint, and various other construction materials. The floor tiles were in pieces, covered with wires, or is being broken apart to remove it and so use its spot to place a tile directly on the building concrete. Metallic ladders dot the area, replete with wires hanging low over the ceiling and the stage light gantry being swarmed with men in black tuxedoes.
In the distance, a particularly idiotic henchman decided to try and mess with the audio control system, which explained to Max so many things, particularly his bleeding ears. The man had no idea how to mix, and since the club under renovation anyways, he was less of a DJ and more of a henchman doing things that he shouldn't be.
Over the din, a man's deep voice can be heard.
"Rudolph! Rudolph! RUDOLPH! I said cut that out! You're not a mixer, d'you hear me?! Rudolph!"
The music stopped abruptly, and Max thought he heard an electrical noise, like a cable being unplugged suddenly.
A man strode purposefully out of the crowd of henchmen trying to futilely repair the dancefloor. Black vest. A shiny, clean white shirt. Red tie. Black sideburns and a beard, with slick hair to cut it all off, and his portly – but not, by any means, fat – build that made him stand out from the rest of his henchmen's relatively slender build.
He approached the terrified Rudolph, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him away from the mixer. " I swear to God that if I see you near the mixer one more time…" he muttered under his breath.
Max watched with polite interest as Rudolph was thrown into a different room, which the man closed right after he threw Rudolph in. It said 'closet'.
"Dunno why I bother with him, really," said the man. "Why'd I hire such incompetent help, anyways? Probably being ripped off. Good help – hah!" he said, rubbing his nose with a fat finger.
"Well, whatever it is, you're not being ripped off by me, so that's working out in your favor," said Max, walking forwards.
"Maximillien. You old bastard."
"Still seventeen, really. And on the subject of getting ripped off, Junior, might I interest you in these very interesting cocktail that I've-"
"Save it for some other fool, Max, you made them off bugs and little-" Junior shuddered – "moldy things to cut the costs. God, I don't think I'll ever see blue syrup the same way ever again."
"Oh, that's just the last one. And besides," he added, "they ended up tasting good, don't they?" Max said, with a slight smile.
Junior paused, clearly torn between disgust and disgruntled, fascinated appreciation. "Well," he said after a while, "I suppose they did. Still, ain't feeding MY customers that shit."
They both walked towards the bar counter, which is surprisingly the only part of the bar that remained unscathed and in less dire need of repair. Junior circled behind the bar and grabbed a bottle from behind the counter.
"A drink?"
"I'm underage, I shouldn't be doing that," came Max's curt reply.
"Since when did YOU give two shits?" laughed Junior quietly. The drink was finished now, and the champagne bubbles simmered near the brim, just enough to not overspill.
"Since a customer back in, oh, Haven. Mind you, it took me a while to get the airship to get there."
"Well, you had to board an airship to get to Haven, and God knows how annoying it is to get a ticket for one of those."
"Well, God doesn't appear to have MY connections, then." Max paused. "Junior – let's cut to the chase, there's some… stuff I'd like to know."
Junior frowned. "Ain't free."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. This is a bit more serious…" Max leaned in close, and for just a moment, Junior could see his eyes. They were emerald green, and behind his glasses, even in the shadows of his hat and overcoat, they were hard and serious. He had never seen them like that.
"What do you got on my target?" whispered Max.
"Which target? Max, you're not really into this whole bounty hunting thing again, are you?" he chuckled, which died off in the sudden, localized silence. In fact, the hustle and bustle of his busy henchmen were suddenly distant, as if they were in a room all by themselves.
"Torchwick. He's in town, ain't he? And word on the street is, he's planning something big." The nonchalant, mercantile joy was gone from his face now. Max was now completely serious. "I'm onto him. The stronger he gets, the less profit I get. You know him, Junior. He is a purely greedy capitalist asshole. I know I'm the same, but at least I let the small business run, because that's how economy works. The man doesn't know the meaning of long-term."
He reached into his pocket and took out a small flask. He popped it open, downed it, and stared into Junior's eyes. "I know there's a war coming. More weapon orders in this month than the last three years combined, the drug business is practically exploding, 'cos them soldiers need all the fun they can get. And for some reason, some high-ass general's airship and his army is parked right here, and the Vytal's festival coming up… And since Torchwick is here, and the White Fang's been more active than usual… something's going down. Hard. So tell me the word on the street, man. You know everything. Right now, I need everything."
"Quiet word on the street, then. He's covering his tracks pretty well. Even I got no dirt on him, and he just hired my guys." Junior took a swing.
"That bastard's always careful about covering his tracks, but henchmen-" Max waved his hand vaguely around the establishment – "are never as careful as he is. Doesn't have to be him. Something unusual."
"Y'know-" began Junior. "I have a feeling he knows that, and that's why he's relying on mine, idiots as they are. And there IS something."
Max's eyes gleamed. "Tell me."
"It ain't free."
"Old time's sake?"
Junior snorted. "You've known me for only half a month, and that was to rip me off."
"Aah," Max said, "but they were delicious rip-offs, weren't they?" He paused. "Fine. Tell me." He reached into his coat, and came out with a wad of cash in his hands.
Junior laughed.
"You, paying? What's this, now? What's so important about right now that you, of all of people, would actually try and pay without haggling like a maniac?"
"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to take my money back. Go on, tell me."
Junior paused. Then exhaled. "So y'know about the new mech that came out recently? It's not common knowledge, but a crook like you oughta know." Taking another swig of his drink, he proceeded to take out a piece of paper with some symbols scrawled on it. "It's the Atlesian Paladin, innit? I've heard that one of the shipments in Menagerie got interrupted. Oddly enough, it doesn't seem to be the White Fang, since the attackers are human."
"At the same time, he needed my boys to operate some cranes and pulleys, move around some boxes, the like. Might be that mech, but I don't think Torchwick has that kind of firepower under his command. Now, I don't know if that's anything to do with whatever, but what I do know is that the mech needs a little bit of this to power up its shots."
Max examined the little piece of paper. "C4H4N4. That's common as hell, Junio-"
Then, suddenly, in one, swift, fluid motion he took his fedora and slammed it on the table. "DAMN!"
Junior took a good look at Max's face outside of the shadows. Round, young, and white, but the kind of blackened white that suggests that the person had done their fair share of travel under the sun. That face is also tinged with the red of frustration. He couldn't see his eyes, however – the angle of his glasses caught the light just enough to block his view of his eyes.
"Something's up?" Junior continued nonchalantly.
"That bastard. That conniving, reckless, and above all smart son of a bitch," said Max in between his breaths. "I just sold a bunch of that, just a few weeks ago, and it should have arrived in Vale just… three days ago! That genius bastard. He actually bought it off me? And I've never suspected it!"
Junior whistled. "Takes some balls, for that man, to buy off from his enemies."
"It- it was good money, alright? I never suspected a thing. Should've found out more about the buyer, why the hell would they need so much of a common material. Fuck. Fuck. They got mine. The one that I spiked, too. It's gonna be one strong mech that Torchwick's piloting."
He sighed.
"Well, I guess I know what he has. Still dunno what he's up to. And how much I've just compromised my team."
"Pay me some more, and I'll keep you posted on the going-ons in Vale," volunteered Junior.
"It's dangerous for your man to keep you updated on someone like Torchwick. How 'bout this: you pay me, and I'll keep you updated while my team – well, while my team does their thing."
Junior just laughed some more. "Nice try, slick. You haven't even told me what your team's up to."
"That's because I haven't seen the money."
Junior paused, and then reached into his pockets and slid some money forwards. "That's half the amount you paid me, I reckon. But this information ain't safe, you got it? I'm a broker, after all."
Max hesitated, but forged on. "Troublemakers," he said. "We're hired to test the mettle and capabilities of those young people back in Beacon. Torchwick is just my bonus."
"I don't think you're telling me everything."
"You'll have to triple that amount if you want me to. It's big information, what you're asking me to tell. Besides."
Max paused for a while, picked up his hat, and stood up. "I have a team now. Like it or not, profit or loss, I'll have to take care of those assholes."
Junior waved him away. "Then begone with you. You're a goddamn eyesore for any businessman, y'know that?"
Max smiled. "Only for the ones that can't do business very well."
He turned around and strode away.
Profile: Maximillien C. Finkerton
Affliation: Team ANMS
Specialty: Bargaining merchandise over the speed limit
Combat Role: Trickster
Semblance: Illusive
Equipment: Coat, Fedora, Hexatech Modfiable Revolver
As a young boy, followed his mother and father all over the world in their business ventures as travelling merchants. Learned, from people all over Remnant, various trades and skills as well as local engineering, cooking, chemistry, and various ways of creating things that are better than most 'factory made' wares. A natural at ripping off people. Loves money.
Welp hope i redeemed a bit of myself
next up's the A bit
maybe the S bit
idk im tired
bye
also reviews, more than anything else, is appreciated