The Shield of Vale Chapter 7

On Therapy, Thugs, and Threats

Hola, so I'm back. I already announced this in my other fic but thought I should here as well.

I'm back, I'm writing regularly, my chapter length might change, and I'll try to have a firmer update schedule. I've been gone because works been crazy—not because I hate writing or lost interest or have writer's block or am abandoning these projects.

That said, I sometimes can't resist writing long chapters—it's in my nature. So, I don't really know how often I will be shortening my chapter lengths and how often I'll be 11, 12, 13, 14 thousand words.

Also, as another part of my initiative to not drop off the fanfic grid for four or five months I set up a Pa t r eon which is "Pa t r eon dotcomforward-slash vronsurd" It's just so, eventually, I might be able to spend more time writing fiction and less writing the other boring stuff I write for work.

Okay, so I've gotten a few messages from people noticing that the Semblance I wrote for Jaune in this story, starting in the Fall of 2017 is pretty similar to the one Jaune has in the show that wasn't revealed until the very last episode of the volume.

That's because…

Drumroll.

It is the same.

I figured the most obvious thing the show could do was give Jaune a defensive Semblance—given the fact that he's the only hero with a shield and his offense is pretty pathetic. And then I figured the most obvious way to have a defensive semblance in the world of Remnant was to be able to share aura.

Pyrrha established in Volume 1 that Jaune has a healthy supply of aura. So, I figured, oh, the most obvious power to give Jaune is the ability to heal wounds and protect people—that sort of thing.

That's how he healed Vul. In Shield of Vale. And I had a suspicion it would become cannon appropriate.

Viola.

To be honest, I was actually hoping beyond hope that Jaune's power wouldn't be sharing his aura in the show—because I'm not a fan of overly predictable writing.

But I've learned to stem that disappointment ever since the death of Pyrrha.

I mean, Pyrrha is the name Achilles used on Skyros in the Achilleid. He later was slain in battle despite his strength. Red flag. Then it seemed like the only point of her character was in relation to Jaune. Red flag. And then they threw death flags for her all third season. Red flag. And then she shares a goodbye kiss with Jaune. Red flag. Then She faces Cinder alone. Red flag. And then the writers shot her in the ankle like Achilles. Red flag. And then they killed her. Red…

I was watching that like…surely, they're not going to have this play out so predictably. They're making her into a plot contrivance.

Everyone said Pyrrha's death proved that no one in RWBY had plot armor because she was the strongest fighter. But to me she had a plot bullseye planted on her back from day one.

I wanted Jaune to show up and die instead so badly. That would have proven no one has plot armor.

Not even the characters voiced by the show's head writer.

Alas.

Arkos shippers must simply accept that JaunexPyrrha was DOA.

The most unexpected thing that has happened in this show since then was when they opened season 4 with…

JAUNE MELTED PYRRHA'S WEAPONS AND/OR CROWN AND ADDED IT TO HIS WEAPONS.

WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!?

YOU DON'T THINK HER FAMILY'S GOING TO WANT THAT SHIT?

BOI YOU BEEN IGNORING HER ADVANCES FOR NEARLY A YEAR AND NOW YOU GET HER MOST PRECIOUS HEIRLOOMS AND YOU FRIGGIN SMELT THEM DOWN!?

SHE WON FREAKING CHAMPIONSHIPS WITH THOSE WEAPONS. THOSE THINGS ARE WORTH ACTUAL CASH TO COLLECTORS AND SENTIMENTAL VALUE TO PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY LOVED PYRRHA!

WHO THE HELL THOUGHT THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA?

IM NOT JUST SAYING REN AND RUBY SHOULDA BEEN LIKE, TIME TO STOP, TO JAUNE

SO, SHOULD THE WRITERS OF THE DAMN SHOW!

THIS IS LITERALLY LIKE RUBY DYING AND WEISS TURNING HER CLOAK INTO SOCKS WITHOUT CONSULTING YANG, QROW, OR TAIYANG.

THAT SHIT IS BROKEN AF.

Anyway.

Moving on,

I dedicate this chapter to Against Fate.

He's been wondering if I'm dead.

Only on the inside man.

Didn't have time to proofread thoroughly. Content beta'd by Mystery Beta

Enjoy:

Life was the worst.

It always had been.

That's just what it meant to be Qrow Branwen, huntsman extraordinaire…

And the unluckiest man to have ever lived.

Between a crippling semblance, some crippling addiction, and more guilt and regrets than he cared to think about, Qrow's life had never been a box of chocolates.

It was more like a box of mouse traps.

And the latest discovery in that package of pain?

A man named John.

No last name.

No explanation as to why he'd just popped out of a portal while Qrow was transporting the most important cargo of his entire hunting career.

There was just John, the dangerous huntsman, covered in blood. And the two kids, also huntsman trained.

"Are you traveling by truck because you already have some bullheads flying ahead of you?" asked the blond huntsman. "Are they the decoys?"

Qrow didn't answer John—if that was his real name.

He just stared.

He hated being on his back foot like this.

"How long do you think it will take to get to Vale in this vehicle—a couple of hours?" John tried again.

Qrow, again, didn't bother answering. Instead he continued to study John.

John, seeming to realize that Qrow wasn't quite ready to answer his inane questions, pressed his lips and glanced around the truck interior.

It didn't take long for Qrow to finish assessing John as a threat.

He was clearly dangerous.

To someone.

Somewhere.

The question that remained was if he was a dangerous to Qrow. To the Atlas lackies. To the dying maiden barely alive in that humming contraption a few feet away.

Qrow wasn't so concerned about himself. But could he protect the soldiers? Could he at least protect the one who hadn't stopped talking about his newborn daughter the entire damn trip?

And then there was the maiden…shit.

Was he supposed to prioritize a mostly dead girl over living men with newborn daughters?

Yes.

He hated the answer. But of its veracity he was certain.

"So…" Qrow drifted off. He glanced at the kids awkwardly sleeping on the truck floor. He glanced at Ironwood's men that had all gravitated towards the dying maiden and away from their mysterious new huntsman guest. "How's Raven?"

John met his eyes with the practiced ease of a man who had learned to remain unfazed in every situation. "She's the worst."

Qrow looked back at the kids.

They didn't seem to be sleeping because they were comfortable—after all, the truck's metal floor was hardly a bed…

And they didn't appear to be sleeping because they were relaxed or felt safe—after all, a fight between him and John could breakout at any moment…

As far as Qrow could tell, the kids were sleeping out of pure exhaustion.

They were sleeping because they'd been through hell.

He hated the certainty with which he knew that his sister was probably the lead demon in that hell.

"That she is…" he finally responded.

"She's recruiting," said John.

"Recruiting?" Qrow repeated, exhaling sharply. "Any chance it's a volunteer system?"

"No," replied John. "It wouldn't be a big deal if she was just snatching up thugs and criminals but…" he motioned to the kids on the ground. "…she killed their teammates. I barely got these two out."

Qrow grimaced. Raven had never been the compassionate sort. She didn't even show much empathy towards young children.

Children over the age of ten?

In Raven's mind those brats were practically soldiers already.

"How'd you convince Raven to let the kids go, and give you a ride?"

Jaune exhaled roughly before answering. "I can be pretty persuasive, when I want to be."

Qrow was sorely tempted to dig deeper on the Raven issue. But he couldn't make that his priority. Not right now.

"We'll definitely come back to that but—"

"You want to know why I'm here," interrupted John.

"No shit," said Qrow. "You were with Raven. You convinced her to let the kids go. She opens a portal to me. That all makes sense. If she was going to open a portal to one of us and send some random-ass person through it would be me…"

Qrow realized John probably didn't know what he was talking about in that last part, but he wasn't the one who needed to explain himself. Nor did he need to get into the finer details of Raven's obnoxious powers. He was supposed to be here. And Raven

"…but that doesn't explain how you knew about Amber. How you knew she was in danger."

The blond huntsman sighed, running his fingers through his dirty hair.

A few seconds passed. Then half a minute. Then two minutes. Qrow watched the huntsman's expression closely.

He seemed to be deep in thought, trying to figure out what to reveal.

Made sense.

No matter who he was or who he worked for, the man was obviously dripping in secrets.

The very fact that John knew about Amber meant there were three distinct possibilities.

First, John was part of some other secret society type of deal, independent from Ozpin. Some group that believed the old tales and legends—stories that predated even The Church.

This was…unlikely, to say the least.

Qrow had been working with Ozpin for years. One would think if there was some other group working on the Salem problem, he would have run into them by now.

The second possibility was that John was an ally of Ozpin, just one that Qrow had never met or heard of.

This didn't seem all that likely either, but it wasn't impossible. Ozpin wasn't exactly an open book. Maybe he kept a few cards so close to his chest that even Qrow couldn't see them.

Number three was, by far, the likeliest.

John was working with Salem.

Since Amber had just been attacked, it made sense that Salem would have someone on standby to finish the job.

It was the most likely possibility, all things considered.

But…

At the same time, Qrow didn't buy it.

Not because John had a particularly truthful look about him. No, he had the look of someone who would do whatever it took to get the job done, to accomplish his mission, an attribute that didn't really lend itself towards honesty.

No, Qrow didn't believe John was working with Salem…

Because of Raven.

Raven was many things, but an ally of Salem?

No.

Raven would never work alongside the Grimm Queen—at least not willingly.

And that was Raven's portal John had just popped out of.

Perhaps he was working with Salem secretly?

Perhaps Raven was assisting him, ignorant of his true intentions?

That seemed unlikely too.

Because, if so, who the hell were these children with him?

They were obviously huntsman trained, that much was obvious. But the way they fell asleep almost immediately—defenselessly. They weren't experienced rogues. They were probably students. Two of them, without the rest of their team.

And given how terrorized they looked and whose portal they had just stepped out of…

Well, John's explanation felt about right.

Sure, they could have been props, an effort to make Qrow lower his guard.

But what a strangely roundabout method that would be.

It would make more sense to bring two well trained warriors. That way, two of them could engage him while one finished off the maiden.

Two of them pretending to fall asleep while one remained awake, as a distraction…

It could have been a ploy.

But—well—it was a really bad one.

The kids' prone positions and lack of movement would allow him to train his attention on John. He trusted his peripheral vision to pick up any sudden motion should the kids be less innocent than they appeared. Which meant he could focus on getting answers from the huntsman before him.

Qrow refocused on John's face.

God.

Damn.

It.

The man's chin had drifted to his chest. His eyes were closed, and his breathing had evened.

He was asleep now too?

I*I*I

Jaune felt bad for pretending to fall asleep.

And for ignoring Qrow shouting "hey!" over and over.

And for snoring even louder when Qrow started nudging him.

Jaune knew Qrow.

He felt comfortable in his presence. Comfortable enough to close his eyes and let his guard down—just a little.

Qrow, on the other hand, had no idea who he was or what he wanted. All he knew was Jaune's alias—which, to be honest, was essentially his name—and that Jaune was dangerous.

Jaune wished he could set Qrow at ease, let him relax a little, same as him.

But…

He had no idea how.

Qrow wanted answers. And he deserved them too.

But what could Jaune say?

What information could he provide that Qrow would believe?

What lies could he tell that would set the huntsman's mind at ease?

Jaune's thoughts drifted idly towards the small journal sewn into his clothes, every page filled Weiss's meticulous writing.

He remembered the plan.

He remembered what he was supposed to say to Qrow. How he was supposed to garner the cynical man's trust.

But that was all out the window now, wasn't it?

Because the circumstances were all wrong.

He wasn't supposed to have popped out of one of Raven's portals.

He wasn't supposed to be covered in blood.

He wasn't supposed to have two brutalized children with him.

And he wasn't supposed to have let Amber die.

Saving Amber's life. Fighting off her assailant's side by side…

Not to mention, alongside Ruby and Weiss.

Things would be different if it had all gone down how it was supposed to.

He, Ruby, and Weiss would have pretended to be passing by. A few wandering huntsmen, looking for a cause.

By the time the day was over, Qrow would have no doubt that they were from the future.

How could Qrow ignore the fact that Ruby looked identical to his niece? How could he ignore how she sounded? What she knew?

Jaune would have knocked heads in Vale. Meanwhile, Ruby and Weiss would have gone to Beacon—to Ozpin.

Jaune tasted bile as he remembered that, had Weiss's deception succeeded as intended, Ruby would have been going to Beacon alone.

Best not to think too much about that. Only depression and regret laid in that direction.

As it was, everything was different now.

There was no easy way to get Qrow to trust him.

There was no easy way to convince Ozpin and Glynda and Qrow that he was from the future—not without Ruby's hardly changed face and personal connection to Qrow.

Hell, Jaune wasn't even sure which part of the plan he should be enacting next.

Without Ruby here he had twice the work cut out for him. Everything the two of them were supposed to be doing simultaneously was now a matter of prioritization.

He was heading to Beacon now. No doubt Qrow was on his way to the school to drop off the half-dead maiden.

Should Jaune travel with him until he arrived at the academy? Should he immediately meet with Ozpin? Should he focus on Ruby's part of the plan first?

Or should Jaune part ways with Qrow once they were in Vale, accomplishing his own section of the plan and then circling back to Ruby's?

He'd need to do both eventually.

But which would come first?

It was with all this in mind that Jaune kept his eyes firmly closed.

He had no idea how he should answer Qrow's questions. So, he didn't leave himself open to being asked.

"Hey!"

Jaune heard the whistle of a weapon, carving through the air. He felt the burst of air as the blade approached his neck.

He didn't move.

And, as expected, the weapon stopped short, just a few inches from him.

Jaune resisted the urge to smile as he continued his fake slumber. Qrow would believe that he was deeply asleep now.

He didn't know that Jaune had fought alongside him for years…

He didn't know that Jaune already knew he wasn't the type to kill a stranger in their sleep…

And he also didn't know that Jaune's thick aura wells would have stopped his scythe-sword short…

Not knowing any of that, he had no choice but to accept that Jaune might have been fast asleep.

And Jaune planned to keep it that way.

At least until he figured out his next move.

I*I*I

It had been a few hours since Jaune began to fake sleep, when the texture of the road beneath them began to change. Most of the trip had been a bumpy ride. The paths and trails from the outer villages back to the citadel were well-maintained dirt at their best and nearly straight wilderness at their worst.

Jaune knew they were near Vale once they were on real paved roads and the truck's chassis stopped bemoaning its fate.

In fact, if Jaune remembered correctly, they were probably practically in Vale. The first paved roads they would encounter coming from those villages would be the narrow tunnel that stretched under Vale's wall to the north.

Jaune had fought in that tunnel once. He'd started just a few minutes before the Grimm horde formed a massive pile of writhing bodies outside the wall, large enough for the ones on top to throw themselves over.

It was at that point that holding the tunnel became a suicide mission. After all, the Grimm would soon close in from behind.

So, Weiss and Glynda collapsed the cramped passage, allowing the huntsmen who were previously defending it to refocus on the monsters crashing down from atop the walls.

Jaune yawned and stretched. He opened his eyes slowly, as if he had actually been sleeping the entire trip.

He had fallen asleep for a little while there—lightly drifting off—but, for the most part, he'd been awake and thinking, albeit with his eyes closed and a light snore escaping his lips.

"You sleep well?" asked Qrow, an obvious bite in his tone.

Jaune ignored it. "Yeah, how about you?"

"Didn't get quite as much sleep as I thought I'd be getting on this trip."

Jaune struggled to prevent himself from grinning at Qrow's grousing. The man had to stay awake and sober a few hours to keep an eye on Jaune.

Boo-freakin-hoo.

"Are we in Vale?"

Qrow's eyes narrowed at the question. "Feels like it. Or at least were close. Why?"

"Why?" repeated Jaune. "Because that's my stop."

Qrow's eyes narrowed further. Almost into slits. His voice was less biting now, but it had a more serious edge. "You mean you're not riding to the end of the line with me?"

"Oh, come on Qrow, you really want me to know where you're taking the maiden?"

"No, I don't," replied Branwen. "But I'd love to hear how you know what a maiden is. And if you're working for the monster that tried to kill her."

"Ah," said Jaune. "You wanna know if I'm a Salem flunky."

Qrow flinched. It was barely visible. But it was enough to indicate to Jaune that knowing the Grimm Queen's name was enough to set the older huntsman on edge.

"I would like to know that very much."

"And I would love to prove that I'm on your side right now. And it's great that you're asking. But you sort of missed your window of opportunity to get answers on the ride here—"

"You wouldn't wake up!" interjected Qrow.

Jaune continued without missing a beat. "Now we're in Vale. And I'm on a very short schedule. Plus, I'll be visiting Ozpin soon anyway. So, if you stick around you'll get your explanation eventually—"

"I don't want an explanation eventually!" Qrow growled.

"Also, the kids know a bit about me and what your sister is up to. So, I'll just give you some time to digest all of that information and by the time you're done with—"

Qrow cut him off with even more force. "You want to leave the kids with me!?"

"Of course," replied Jaune. "I mean, there gonna need some serious therapy. No better place than Beacon am I right?"

"So, you do know where I'm taking the maiden."

"If it was only a guess then you just confirmed it."

Qrow glowered at him.

Jaune sighed. He wasn't trying to piss Qrow off. It was just…

Jaune had a relationship with him, a relationship built off years of training, combat, and friendship.

He'd lost that relationship to Salem.

But now, seeing Qrow alive, speaking and breathing and scowling, he was falling into old habits.

It was too easy to speak with him in the same easygoing manner they had adapted when they fought alongside each other.

"Look, saving the maiden was part of my mission. And I'm sure you'd trust me a bit more if I had helped you capture Salem's maiden candidate. But your sister screwed that up for everybody when she locked me in a cage and force me into blood-sport."

Qrow's eyes became moons at that admission.

"All that said, I have business to take care of in Vale—business I need to handle before I meet with Ozpin."

Jaune sighed. Before all their best-laid plans went awry Qrow might have even trusted Ruby to finish the delivery of the maiden alone, instead joining him on his mission in Vale.

"Listen," began Qrow. "I'm sorry my asshole of a sister pulled some messed up shit on you and the kids. But that doesn't mean I can just let you go without asking some questions. Unfortunately, I don't have all the questions that need to be asked. Ozpin does. So "

"I get that, I do," replied Jaune. "But can you actually stop me? If I decide to go?"

Qrow's hand eased toward his weapon.

Jaune didn't move.

"I mean, I don't know which of us is stronger…"

A blatant lie.

"…but I'm no pushover…"

The understatement of the century.

"…and don't you think the two of us fighting would endanger this convoy? Endanger the maiden?"

Qrow's gaze flitted towards the machine housing Amber's semi-lifeless body.

"Your mission is to deliver her safely, right? You should focus on that. I'll do what I have to and then, when I'm done, I'll come visit you all at Beacon."

Qrow's silence spoke volumes. He just needed a push.

"Besides, if I was working for Salem, and I was after the maiden, it'd make more sense for me to try something now, wouldn't it? Instead of letting you take her to one of the most defensible locations on Remnant—a huntsman academy."

"That's true," replied Qrow, uncertain.

Jaune decided to keep him off balance. He stood, moving towards the back of the truck. "How do you open this thing anyway?"

Jaune inspected the panel on the far wall. It looked like all he had to do was flip the locking mechanism and hit the big green button to open the bay doors.

"You're not even going to say goodbye to the kids?" Qrow motioned to the kids who were still comatose on the floor.

Jaune studied Clint and Vul for a moment. He felt responsible for them. But he couldn't take them with him. Besides, there was no safer place than Beacon.

For now, at least.

He shook his head. "I'll see them when I come to Beacon in a bit." Jaune flipped the switch and pressed the button. The cargo doors began to open. "Which reminds me. Don't let them go back to Haven. Tell Ozpin that Lionheart is a rat. He might even be killing off huntsman and huntresses."

Qrows hand was suddenly on his shoulder, spinning him around. His voice was a growl. "What!?"

Jaune held his gaze for a moment.

He spoke slowly and clearly. "Lionheart. The headmaster of Haven. Is a rat. He's Salem's pawn."

If Qrow's face was any indication, he had questions. A lot of them.

More than Jaune had time for right now.

"We'll discuss it when I get back to Beacon."

"Wa—"

Qrow tried to get a better grip on him. He tried to tell him to stop.

But Jaune didn't give him the chance to finish either attempt.

Jaune flung himself, back first, towards the hard pavement, flowing like a river below.

I*I*I

It had been a long time.

Jaune took in the building looming over him.

He didn't waste much time admiring the familiar structure. Just as he hadn't wasted much time gawking at the happy vibrant city of Vale.

Sure, the last time he had walked down these streets the city was war torn and ravaged, just barely holding out against waves of Grimm that were growing in both size and frequency…

So, seeing the roads alive and thriving…

The sidewalks maintained and bustling…

It felt good. Really good.

But he didn't have time for reminiscence or appreciation.

He had a job to do.

Two jobs really.

His and Ruby's.

Between dinner with his family and Raven's recruitment insanity he had wasted more than enough time.

So, without another thought, he pushed open the door and entered the club.

Jaune had been under the impression that he wouldn't be allowed to enter the establishment as he pleased. That Junior's men would stop him at the door.

After all, it was still a few hours away from evening proper, and the club was practically empty during the day. Plus, he probably didn't look much like a businessman—the type who would request an audience with Hei during the day

But Jaune had underestimated just how intimidating he looked with the scar across his face and his torn and bloodied clothing. Junior's men took a single look at him and then thought better of it.

Their reaction put Jaune in a bit of a quandary. On the one hand, he really wanted a shower and a change of clothes.

On the other, it seemed his mission in Vale might go much faster if he looked like he could kill fifty Beowolves with his bare hands.

Perhaps that would prevent him from having to prove it.

I*I*I

Junior swore as he found yet another empty bottle of, what once was, expensive liquor beneath his counter. There were only two people in Vale who would disrespect him like this, three if you counted Roman's psychopathic pet. Stealing from him and leaving the evidence right here? Screaming at him? Mocking him?

He'd yell at the twins later.

But it wouldn't change anything.

It never did.

Those girls already knew most of his threats were idle—when it came to them.

Junior stroked the bottle's label forlornly.

How the hell did he wind up charged with the only two near-teenage girls in the world with a taste for expensive scotch?

Junior scowled when he discovered a fourth empty bottle. He would have tended the bar personally, 24/7, if he could have. Unfortunately, that just wasn't possible.

A man had to sleep after all.

Junior was drawn from his thoughts by the sound of someone clearing their throat. He growled as he straightened.

This had better be good.

He was surprised to find a pair of azure eyes locked onto him, rather than the dark lenses of one of his men.

The stranger across the counter was a mess.

His light hair was caked in dirt and blood. His sweat-jacket had several tears. The garment's color was probably blue—at one point. But it had long since become one giant stain, a collage of earthy reds and browns.

The odor was…less than pleasant. He stunk of death and wilderness. Like a mixture of rotting flesh and manure.

Junior's eyes drifted to the man's hands. He had a healthy abundance of sword callouses. Dirt and dried blood colored the edges of every fingernail.

Junior leaned forward and glanced down—subtlety damned—hoping to see what weapon this newest customer was packing—because there was no way he wasn't.

A broken sword.

He eyed the large scar stretching across the man's face.

Junior immediately decided that the stranger's sword wasn't broken by neglect or disuse—but by having been through some serious shit.

Normally when he had a serious huntsman at his bar he had to tell his own men to back the hell up and keep from bothering them.

Because, for some reason, the help never had functioning brains.

They couldn't tell by the countenance, by the way a warrior carried themselves, that they weren't the kind to be messed with.

Didn't look like that would be much of a problem with this one.

He hadn't even heard his guys at the door try to stop this one.

"Huntsman?"

The question was barely necessary.

Most huntsmen didn't walk around their home city openly armed, dressed in clothes that had been shredded by Grimm, covered in the blood of their enemies.

But anyone who did do that shit was a huntsman.

No doubt about it.

The stranger dipped his head, answering Junior's mostly rhetorical question quietly.

"You look like hell."

The man spoke, "Been in the Grimmlands for more than a year now. Just got back."

Shit. He had spoken too soon.

For a man who had been living in the Grimmlands for a year, he didn't look so bad.

Of course, that could have been a lie. Junior had no way of confirming or denying that possibility. But this guy didn't strike Junior as the type to bullshit. Bullshitting was for bitches who wanted to be something more than what they were.

"You got a name?"

The man nodded. "John."

"I'm Hei. Most people call me Junior though."

It had been a long time since Junior had bothered introducing himself to someone—much less someone in his club, seated at his bar.

But it felt appropriate this time around.

Sure, most anyone who was anyone in Vale knew his name…

But one could never assume with these hardcore huntsman types.

The kind that spent more time around Grimm than people.

The kind that lived off roots and mushrooms and bark and bugs and whatever-the-hell-else was barely edible in the wilderness.

No.

Assuming John knew of him was practically the same as assuming an Ursa knew of him—or perhaps even a tree.

"Nice to meet you Junior."

"Pleasure is mine, I'm sure." Junior reached under the counter, producing a glass. "What's your poison?"

John stared at the glass for a moment and then looked up at him. "Sorry, no money. I was hoping for some water."

Junior blinked.

The huntsman's honesty was surprising.

John had to know that Junior wouldn't try anything. Even if John managed to drink a few hundred bucks' worth of liquor, there was no way Junior would stop him if he walked without paying.

It was a simple inequality.

There was the money he'd be out because John had guzzled his wares.

And then there was the money he'd be out if John started cutting up his guys and flinging aura-hardened bodies around.

Only one of those losses stood to be three figures.

Junior fished out a glass from below and went for the tap. Upon his return, the huntsman guzzled the liquid greedily.

Junior watched the last vestiges of liquid fade from the cup.

The man was thirsty.

"That hit the spot," said John, setting down the cup.

"You want something else?" asked Junior. "On the house?" he added, after remembering that John had already told him he was strapped for cash.

"Maybe," said John. "Let's talk business first. If you're still feeling generous afterward, I might take you up on your offer."

Junior tensed.

Of course.

It was too much to hope that the huntsman was only looking for a sip of water.

Normally, Junior was amenable to a bit of extra business—of the tax-free variety.

But John wasn't the type of person Junior did business with. He avoided the hunstman's kind like the plague.

It wasn't because he was a huntsman. It was more than that. It was…well…

Everything could be bought. It was part of Junior's philosophy. Part of his way of life.

He dealt in booze and information.

It didn't matter if he had the finest wine on Remnant. Or a secret that could set the world aflame.

There was always a price. A figure. An amount.

There was always a sum for which he was willing to part with well…anything.

Well, almost always.

When it came down to it, the only thing more important than money was life.

And that was why he stayed away from business deals with men like John.

Because dead men didn't need cash.

And men like John dealt in death.

It wasn't just because he was a huntsman.

There were civilians who bestowed death to those involved them like part favors—albeit with less intense certainty.

And there were also huntsmen who viewed themselves as more lover than killer—although that didn't stop them from killing Grimm.

So, no. Being a huntsman wasn't what made John a death-dealer.

There was something else. Something…broken inside him.

There was no way to know what it was that had broken him, not really. But Junior had still learned to detect the type.

To see it in their eyes.

To hear it in their voice.

It didn't mean that John was going to kill him.

No.

Not personally.

He didn't have to.

Men like him were like a living breathing magnet for death. And it was normally the people standing next to death magnets that got hit by the shrapnel.

There were thousands of deals, crimes, and jobs taking place in the underbelly of the city. Death-dealers like John were only interested in the most volatile, the most deadly.

Junior had no doubt that the moment John concluded his "business" here, he'd go piss off the most murderous most dangerous individuals in Vale.

Of course, none of this had to be Junior's concern. John could do whatever the hell he pleased.

Junior certainly wasn't going to stop him.

Unless…

Unless John wanted his help to do it.

Junior didn't give a shit what sadistic powerhouse criminals John screwed over

As long as he wasn't the man who sold the information necessary for the screwing to commence.

Because when heads started rolling down the hills and blood started flowing in the streets, the first to die wouldn't be the huntsman who spent the last year living with Grimm.

They'd kill everyone who helped him—since they'd all likely be a bit more killable.

Junior cleared his throat.

"I thought you didn't have any money."

As Junior spoke he made eye contact with Jasper, one of the few capable men on his payroll. Jasper stood across the dance floor, leaning against an empty table, watching his boss from behind white shades.

Most of Junior's men were too dumb to realize how Junior's dress code functioned. The grunts. The stupid ones. The rent-a-thugs.

They wore red.

The few men on which Junior could actually rely wore white.

Jasper though, he was a step above. So much so that Junior was considering implementing a third color just for him. And perhaps the twins, if he could convince the ornery girls to get in a uniform.

Jasper gave him a slight nod, indication that he had received his boss's silent message.

"I don't," said John.

"I see," replied Junior. "Well, I suppose business doesn't require money. It can be conducted with the direct exchange of goods or services. Do you have either?"

"Definitely no goods," replied John. "And I don't have much time for services either."

Junior exhaled.

Of course.

"What do you want?"

"You know Roman Torchwick."

It wasn't a question.

"I do. What's he to you?"

John laced his fingers. "Roman stole something from me. And I need to find him. It's been a long time since I've spent more than a couple of days in Vale. If I tried to track down Roman by myself, I'd have to start from the beginning. I don't have time to work the streets."

"So, you want the location of Roman Torchwick," began Junior. He produced a cup from beneath the counter, popping in a couple of ice cubes.

John nodded along with him.

"You don't have money, goods, or services."

John continued to nod.

"Yet you have every expectation that I'll help you—for free."

"Yes."

Junior sighed. Of every criminal in Vale, Roman was the one he worked the closest with. Not to mention he was one of the most dangerous. Yeah, there was still a sum for which Junior would sell him out.

But it was high as hell.

If John expected to attain his cooperation any other way…

Well, the huntsman better have an army waiting outside this club.

"Are you threatening me John?"

"No." The force and emphasis with which John responded almost convinced Junior that he was telling the truth.

Almost

"Well," continued John. "Not yet."

There it was.

"I was hoping to convince you that telling me Roman's location was in your best interest—peacefully."

"Peacefully huh?"

"Yes."

"This ought to be interesting." Junior kept track of the motion occurring behind the huntsman from the corners of his vision. He kept the brunt of his attention focused on John, willing the huntsman not to turn. "Proceed."

I*I*I

Jaune sighed. Was there really any chance of him convincing Junior to talk without even a small display of strength?

Probably not.

It would take a perfect mix of lies and truth to convince Junior to spill.

Jaune had grown proficient at lying over the years. But that didn't mean he was great at weaving a web of deceit.

Telling a lie was all about a burst of imagination, keeping a straight face, and making it sound convincing.

A web of deceit involved keeping track of one's story, and adding compelling details, and making sure none of the facts contradicted each other—plus it required everything a simple lie took—only repeatedly, until the victim's questions and suspicions were assuaged.

Weiss was a masterclass at this sort of thing.

Jaune wasn't certain he'd be able to replicate her success.

Which was fine.

Jaune wasn't that opposed to using force here.

Junior was a criminal after all.

Still, if he could avoid it. He would.

He just didn't have that much against the man. He was a far cry from good. He'd done some horrible things. And he'd likely continue to do horrible things.

But after facing real monsters like Salem, Tyrian, and even Cinder…

It was hard to see small-time crooks as a source of significant evil. If Jaune remembered correctly, in the end, Junior and the twins had fought in the defense of Vale—not that it mattered at that point.

Yes, Junior had played a role in ending the world.

But how was Junior to know the role he was playing in the apocalypse years before it began? If he'd been aware his actions would, eventually, lead to the end of the human race…well,

"I know you work with Roman. I know you've been renting your guys out to him."

Junior's face gave away nothing. "Can't say I know what you're talking about."

"They wear your club's uniform on Roman's jobs."

Junior didn't respond to Jaune directly. He did mutter something about "disappointing morons" under his breath.

Jaune held off the urge to chuckle at that. He'd been thrust into the role of a general of sorts in the war. He knew the struggle of finding good men.

"Look, I'm not one of those huntsmen who fight organized crime as well as Grimm. I wouldn't be talking to you if it wasn't a matter of national security."

"I didn't know huntsmen handled national security," said Junior.

"We do when it involves Grimm," replied Jaune.

"I thought this was about Roman. You said he took something from you?"

Jaune nodded. It was time to weave that web.

"Yeah. He did. But…I'm not actually after Roman. I've been tracking a terrorist for the past year. Not White Fang. Not a basement bomber. A real cultish nutjob. Roman's fallen in with her. I don't think he knows her endgame. But I do. And it isn't pretty. Not for Vale. Not for Atlas or Mistral or Vacuo. Not for humanity—"

"So, what he'd take from you?" Junior interrupted him.

Jaune watched Junior's eyes flicker past him. No doubt, he was assessing his gathering defenses. Considering the man had just cut him off, rather than let him drone on, Melanie and Militia and the rest of the club's guards were probably almost ready.

If he was going to do this without violence, he'd need to speed things up.

"A weapon," Jaune lied. "An ancient weapon. One capable of summoning Grimm hordes."

Ah. That got Junior's attention. Even if there was an obvious swirl of disbelief in the criminal's pupils.

"Roman is messing with forces he doesn't understand. And he's helping start a shitstorm that this city—no, this kingdom—won't survive."

Jaune drummed his fingers on the counter. He stole a glance at a reflective mixer on the other side of the bar, taking note of the spread of the guards fanning out behind him.

His gaze didn't linger. Instead, he swerved his attention back to Junior. "You don't strike me as the kind of guy to do much out of the kindness of your heart. But you also strike me as someone who isn't looking to watch the world burn. I need Roman to get to his master. And I don't know how long I've got to get to that madwoman before there are Grimm running through the streets."

Junior was silent for a moment, considering Jaune's hodgepodge collection of twisted truths and flat out lies. Then he spoke.

"Sounds like war. War's good business."

"It won't be war," corrected Jaune. "It'll be anarchy. Just Grimm and mobs and dying children and burning hospitals—business will never have been worse."

"I see," said Junior.

Jaune saw a flash of…something in Junior's eyes as he glanced over Jaune's shoulder. It was obvious, to Jaune at least, that he was silently communicating with someone over Jaune's shoulder. Jaune didn't bother turning because…well…

Did it really matter who or how many were behind him?

Junior continued. "I admit, if I believed a word you just said, I might—might—consider talking. As it is, I don't. Which concludes our business. So, if you'd like that free drink I offered. You can have it to-go."

Jaune watched Junior bend a little, almost imperceptibly, and then straighten. He had picked something up just now.

Probably a weapon.

"How about I forgo the drink and you give me another minute to convince you?"

Junior stared at him. "Fine, I'll listen. But in the meantime, mind if I look at your sword?"

Jaune agreed with only a half second's consideration.

It was a smart move on Junior's part.

Junior wanted Jaune out of his bar yesterday.

Jaune had politely requested a minute more of his time.

By asking for Jaune's sword in return, Junior had structured the exchange as a sort of pro quid pro. If Jaune acquiesced, then Junior would likely give him a minute more to argue his case—albeit without his weapon. If Jaune refused, negotiations ended there.

Jaune was careful to grasp Crocea Mors by the blade and not the handle. No sense, setting off the group forming behind him—a group he had yet to directly observe.

Junior accepted the broken blade gingerly, clearly surprised that Jaune had given it up so readily in, what was quickly becoming, hostile territory.

His eyes widened further as he inspected the jagged metal. "Is this Old Valesian steel?"

"Impressive. My friend is a weapon nut and it still took her more than two years to recognize that."

"I have one," said Junior. "It's just ornamental now but…" He trailed off.

Jaune spoke after a few seconds of silence. "My grandfather fought with that blade. Then my father."

Junior didn't look up as he replied. "My grandfather fought with mine too. But it passed down to my uncle. Not my father. My grandfather didn't agree with my father's…business choices."

Junior inspected the shattered top of the weapon. "I thought Old Valesian steel was hard as diamond and required minimal maintenance. How'd you manage to break it like this?"

Salem at the height of her strength. After the fall of all four kingdoms. When Remnant itself trembled under her dark power.

But he couldn't quite say that could he?

"The woman I'm after has some very dangerous semblance users under her control."

"Semblances powerful enough to break Valesian steel?" asked Junior dubiously.

"Powerful enough to break Valesian walls," replied Jaune.

It wasn't true. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Neither Mercury nor Emerald had the power to bring down Vale's walls with their semblance alone.

But, this conversation with Junior was never really about the truth was it? It was about convincing Junior to tell him where Roman was—without having to destroy the man's club and decimate some gangster wannabes.

Jaune watched Junior admire Crocea Mors and examine the damage the old blade had acquired. After a few seconds Jaune spoke up—not wanting to waste the moment Junior had given him. "I understand that you don't believe me Junior. If I was in your shoes I wouldn't believe me either. An ancient weapon that can summon Grimm… A mysterious terrorist controlling Roman… Semblances that could destroy the only barrier between this city and the Grimm hordes…" Jaune scratched his cheek. Crusty dried blood fell on the counter.

Right, he'd almost forgotten that he looked like shit.

Was that helping or hurting him here?

"It sounds like a B-movie plot doesn't it?"

Junior didn't reply, eyes still trained on Crocea Mors.

Jaune exhaled.

Plan A was having no effect.

Time for Plan B.

"Junior."

For this plan, it was important that Junior focused. He needed Junior's undivided attention.

Junior continued to scrutinize his weapon.

"Junior."

"Hm?"

Jaune still didn't have the man's eyes.

"Junior!"

Jaune didn't quite shout. But there was a force to his tone and volume.

Junior's head jerked up.

"Sorry," began Jaune. "I didn't mean to startle you. But I need you to look me in the eyes for this and listen closely, because I won't be repeating myself." He leaned forward a bit and lowered his voice, forcing Junior to subconsciously lean forward too so he could hear him. "You may not believe what I'm telling your about Roman, about Vale, about the psycho who's made Torchwick her bitch. And that's totally fine."

Jaune shrugged loosely, as if that couldn't matter less to him.

"What you need to do right now, Junior, is look into my eyes and decide whether I believe all that."

Junior didn't look away from him. He couldn't.

Good.

Jaune was vaguely aware of several individuals approaching him from behind. Most of the footfall was muted but two clacked loudly on the dance floor.

The twins.

There was no great rush in their gait—probably because he wasn't acting in a very threatening manner and he'd already handed over his sword.

So Jaune kept talking as if he wasn't aware of the potential aggressors approaching.

"See Junior, I didn't come here to destroy your club. I didn't come here to kill your boys. I didn't come here to torture you. And I certainly didn't come here to put down two girls who look like their level is about that of a first or second year at Beacon."

Junior swallowed.

It was involuntary, and he obviously fought it and, failing that, attempted to make it subtle.

But Jaune caught the motion.

He spotted the telltale rise and fall of the Adam's apple. It was a sure sign that his gambit was working. So, he continued.

"You seem like a good judge of character Junior. I think you've sized me up. And you're probably not that far off. Underestimating me a bit, sure. But everyone does that."

"I—" Junior began to speak.

Jaune interrupted him. "Don't speak yet Junior. I'm not done. In fact, I'd recommend that you don't even think about what you want to say next while I'm speaking. Because, like I said, I'm not going to repeat this. Any of it. And you're going to need all this information to make an informed and wise decision in about thirty seconds."

Jaune paused, waiting to see if Junior would follow his advice or attempt to speak again. He noticed that the footfall behind him had come to a halt, about fifteen feet away.

He leaned forward a bit more, voice even lower. He and Junior probably looked like coconspirators in some devious plot.

"Now you don't believe my reasons for going after Roman. You don't believe how important my success here is for the city. That's fine. I don't mind that at all. You know why?"

Junior didn't speak.

Another good sign.

The question was rhetorical anyway.

"Because your belief doesn't matter here. Mine does. I believe Roman is working with a dangerous monster. I believe she'll lead an army of Grimm into this city. And I believe my fastest way to that monster is Roman and my fastest way to Roman is you."

Jaune leaned in even closer. This time Junior took a partial step back. "Now, do you believe—that I believe all of that?"

Jaune waited for Junior to answer this time.

Junior took a few seconds to realize that his input was required. He nodded his head.

"Great. So. Tell me. Given what you can see of me—and keeping in mind the things I don't want to do here—and taking into consideration what I believe—even if you don't reciprocate that belief—what do you think I'm willing to do to you…your employees…and this establishment to get what I want?"

Junior's pupils were dilated. His hand, holding Jaune's sword, had a slight tremor to it.

There was a temptation to revel in the effect he could have on people now that he was a fully trained, battler-scarred, weathered huntsman. But Jaune never felt much like reveling when he threw down the gauntlet like this.

It had become necessary in his war-ravaged post-apocalyptic world. Hell—it was necessary a few hours ago in Raven's goddamn post-apocalyptic bandit camp.

Still, it drew a line between himself and most other people.

If Junior, a hardened criminal, feared him?

What civvy wouldn't?

Junior finally spoke. "You're out—"

Jaune cut him off. "I didn't ask if I was outnumbered Junior." He shook his head. "I asked—very clearly, I might add—what do you think I'm willing to do, to get what I want? If you want to answer a different question, that's fine too. I've got one for you. How many guys will it take to mop up the all the blood that's gonna be on that expensive looking dancefloor? Hm? Oh! Here's another. What accelerant will I use when I burn this place to the ground? Guess that solves the mop quandary, huh? Mm! Here's a doozy. Where will I take you to extract Roman's location, finger by finger?"

Junior was frozen, eyes locked on Jaune's unflinching expression.

"If you've got an answer to that third one I'd really appreciate it, because it's been a while since I've been in Vale and I do not remember the good torture spots."

Jaune watched Junior waver. His eyes flicked down to Jaune's sword, as if confirming that it was still in his hand and not in the huntsman's. Then his gaze transitioned to the backup stationed behind Jaune—that Jaune had yet to even glance at. Then he looked down at his own weapon, still concealed behind the bar.

Jaune could see what Junior was considering. He'd drop Jaune's sword or throw it or something. That would serve as the perfect signal for attack. Jaune would turn to face his attackers. And Junior would blow him away with whatever weapon he possessed that almost certainly had some sort of gun feature.

It was a decent plan.

But it wouldn't work.

Not on Jaune.

But was Junior duly convinced of that fact?

It was time to put the final nail in the gangster's coffin.

Jaune glanced at the reflective mixer on the bar, giving him a sense of the layout behind him. "There's a girl behind me," said Jaune, keeping his eyes locked on Junior's. "She's about fourteen feet behind? Maybe…three to my left? Wearing the white?"

Mentioning one of the twins broke Junior out of his daze, his brow drifted downwards.

Jaune continued. Conversationally. As if he was talking about the weather. "I bet. By the time you drop my sword and level whatever high-powered explosive…gun…weapon…thing you've got back there. I'll have snapped her neck."

That got Junior's attention. His eyes were like saucers.

Jaune plodded forward, as if he were discussing his favorite sports team in a whisper. "She'd be first because she looks like she relies on her legs. Kicks aren't a great defense when someone's got you around the neck. Aura, no aura. I'd break her like kindling."

Jaune watched horror blossom on Junior's face. Not in a comically large way. But it was still plain-to-see.

"You wouldn't have a great shot after that, what with whitey's corpse between me and you. The other girl looks a lot like her. Are they sisters? Wait. Are they twins?"

Jaune made a sucking noise.

"Now that's a shame. For you, that is. I have twin sisters and if one of them saw the other get brutally killed right in front of her…I mean…sure, after a while she'd be angry. Furious. Enraged. But first she'd feel like a piece of her heart was ripped out. Like her life just lost all meaning. She'd just stop functioning. Freeze."

Jaune shook his head as if that was a damn shame.

"Snapping her neck would be even easier than her sister's. You know, an unmoving target and all that—"

Jaune was cut off by the clatter of his sword falling.

On the counter, between them.

"Jasper, get me a piece of paper and a pen! Melanie, Militia out! The rest of you, get back to your posts!"

One of the twins, Jaune couldn't tell which, began to reply, "aw…can't we have a bit of fun with mister bl—"

Junior cut her off with a roar that shook the glass in front of Jaune. "I said get the fuck out Melanie! Now!"

Jaune listened to most of the crowd behind him disperse. The girl, Melanie, was swearing under her breath. He still didn't turn.

A minute or so later. Jasper appeared beside him. He handed his boss a pad and pen, taking a position a little off to the side.

"Thanks Jasper. You can go back."

"Are you sure boss?"

Junior nodded tersely.

Jaune stood, sliding Crocea Mors back into his makeshift belt holster.

"Can't believe I'm doing this shit," muttered Junior as he, presumably, wrote down Roman's address.

Jaune watched the subtle shaking of Junior's writing hand.

Should he have felt bad? For impacting Junior like this?

Maybe...

But then again.

That trembling could have been caused by anything.

Maybe he just had low blood sugar.

No sense in feeling bad about that, right?

I*I*I

Roman rapped his knuckle against the car window in a methodic tempo.

He watched the dark scenery smoothly transition, lit by automobile headlights and street lamps. It wasn't quite night, more dusk. There were still hints of daylight in the sky. But none of those solar morsels provided much real illumination for the world below.

The ride over had been smooth. The turns were precise. Road laws had been followed. And Roman hadn't been asked for follow-up directions—not even once.

This driver wasn't half bad.

It was a refreshing realization.

His.

Driver.

Wasn't.

Bad.

It felt like a miracle.

He was gliding down the streets of Vale without a single damn thing going tragically wrong.

It was telling that this one skill—chauffeuring—from this one grunt—Gary—was, so far, the most useful talent any of Junior's men possessed.

God, he hated working with incompetent fools.

He hadn't always had to work under these conditions.

A few months prior, they had their pick of the jobs.

Back then, he and Neo personally selected the best to work alongside them, carefully vetting for their experience, talent, and professionalism.

Back in those blissful days, the two struck and vanished like the master-thieves they were, never leaving behind so much as a shred of evidence—although sometimes a slightly unnecessary line of bodies. A twist Roman preferred to avoid but—hey—who could reign in Neo every single time?

It didn't matter.

Back then they were king and queen of the goddamn castle. Neo could indulge in her torrid love affair with coldblooded murder and it didn't affect business much.

Things had…changed over the last few months.

When it came time to pick their jobs they had…lost quite a bit of independence.

And as for working with the best, well, it was all quantity over quality with their new slave-driver. Between Junior's morons-for-hire and the fanatic-blind-animals of the White Fang, Roman's daily routine now consisted almost entirely of dealing with the foibles of his people.

And looking at the quality of his own work these days…

His jobs were clunky, rushed, and obvious. It wasn't really his fault, after all, there was no element of surprise to be found in robbing every dust shop in Vale. And it wasn't as if his new work force could pull off a heist with any sense of elegance or panache—so why bother trying to integrate his signature flair into their plans?

It was bullshit, plain and simple.

The bullshit would have been tolerable, if he was putting up with the two groups' daily shitshow for some brilliant personal scheme...

If he and Neo were looking at the score of a lifetime…

But no.

What did he and Neo stand to gain from all this?

Their lives.

Maybe.

If they played their cards right.

And Cinder wasn't feeling feisty.

In the beginning, Neo had some ideas about their peculiar situation. She had far fewer ideas now.

Her first suggestion was that they kill Cinder. It was Neo's go-to plan for just about any problem—and not necessarily a bad one. They could bide their time, strike from the shadows, and take out Cinder when she was most defenseless.

Fortunately for them, before the two could set anything into action, Cinder gave them the opportunity to watch her dispatch three White Fang traitors. With a light touch from her fingers the three faunus were reduced to…well cinders.

The psycho had stared at he and Neo the entire time—before and after setting the faunus alight—just to make certain they understood her crystal message:

That was what happened to traitors.

It was difficult for Roman to express how grateful he was to Cinder for her little power display. It made the stakes clear before he or Neo could make a tragic error in judgement.

Neo's next idea was a little more reasonable.

Get the hell out of Vale.

Would running still be viewed as a betrayal of Cinder's trust?

Almost certainly.

But, with Neo's semblance, they could easily make themselves so scarce Cinder wouldn't even bother to try and find them.

After that, it would be a simple matter of lying low…

And that's where that idea ended.

Roman didn't do "lying low." Not after he had poured years—years—into cultivating his criminal empire. Vale was his. It was his to run. It was his to play like a…damn fiddle.

The idea of fading into the shadows…

Of leaving his town…

Of giving up his kingdom…

Preposterous.

He glanced to his left, at Neo. The girl was sucking a lollypop, kicking their driver's seat, attempting to garner a reaction.

Gary, though…

Gary was a smart cookie.

He refused to take Neo's bait, having witnessed firsthand what happened when people allowed themselves to be drawn into the diminutive girl's games.

Another reason Roman liked this one.

He was a survivor.

"Sir," called their driver.

Gary's voice was a little nasally and Roman found that irritating but not unbearably so.

Not when Gary could at least do his damn job. He'd gladly embrace a hundred employees who sounded like Gary—if they could each claim bare-minimum competency in some area of their life.

"What is it Gary?"

"We're about to arrive. Is there anything I'll need to approach? Like an ID card or a password?"

Roman laughed. "Will the animals have properly secured our base of operation?" He muttered the question more rhetorically than any other way.

Of course, the answer was a resounding "no."

The animals could not have done an actual decent job.

No.

That was impossible.

That would require the animals to, for once—for one goddamn time—have avoided critical errors that would exponentially increase his workload.

"We're here," announced Gary. "Is there anyth—"

Roman interrupted the driver. "Quiet!"

His eyes were focused on the massive warehouse before them. He stole a glance at Neo. The building had her rapt attention as well.

Something was up.

Something was wrong.

A minute passed and not a single guard came to check on the car idling outside the building.

Roman didn't even see a guard looking at the vehicle.

In fact, Roman didn't see a single guard at all.

"C'mon," he said, opening his door and sliding out of the vehicle.

Neo follow suit.

Everything was eerily quiet as they made their way across the lot. There wasn't a single guard here.

Roman was struck with an overwhelming sense of wrongness, the kind of sensation that forced a man to move a little slower and proceed with a little more caution.

Neo was probably feeling something similar. Only, wrongness was what the psychopathic girl thrived on. Which meant it put a little pep into her gait—rather than slowing her down. Fortunately, Neo's skipping stride was still only equal to about half of Roman's normal one.

There was no sign of forced entry at the front door. The metal barrier was locked and the light above it was still very much functional.

A good sign.

He reached for the numeric keypad to the right of the door. His fingers found a sticky note. He reluctantly pulled off the piece of paper. It read Code change-12345678.

Was someone screwing with him?

Roman reluctantly keyed in the new code.

Sure enough, the door opened.

What Roman noticed first was the dust—the dust he had spent months collecting. It was all still there. The shipping containers hadn't been moved or opened and it appeared as if the locks were still intact.

Roman exhaled roughly when he concluded that the fruits of his labor had, primarily, remained untouched.

Perhaps those church goers weren't completely off base.

Perhaps there was a god.

The second thing that Roman noticed was a shirtless faunus, mask broken, bound and gagged, hanging from the prong of a raised forklift. After noticing the first incapacitated animal, he couldn't help but notice the rest. They were all in various states of undress, bound with the remains of their own clothing. Some were slumped against containers, others were prone on the ground, and still others hung from fixtures, like human art. Most were unconscious, some with broken limbs. A few others were awake and struggling unsuccessfully against their bonds.

A low whistle sounded from behind them.

It was Gary.

"What the hell happened here?"

"Good question Gary."

It was nice to have someone along for the ride who spoke. He'd have to look at Neo to gauge her reaction to all this, and he really didn't feel like taking his eyes off the scene before him.

Roman strode towards the nearest struggling faunus. He yanked the gag roughly out of her mouth. "What the hell happened here?" questioned Roman, echoing his driver's line of questioning.

The dog faunus sucked air for a few seconds before answering in a whimper, "I don't know. We were attacked."

"By who?" asked Roman.

The girl shuddered. "The White Fang!"

Roman stared at her for a few seconds. "You are the White Fang."

"So was he!" exclaimed the girl. "He had a mask and everything!"

Right.

All it took to pass yourself off as a White Fang member was a mask. Infiltration level: easiest.

Then again, whoever had done this had left all the animals breathing. So, maybe he was a White Fang member—or an anti White Fang faunus lover.

Oh god.

Roman blanched.

Did his extremist terrorist organization have an extremist terrorist organization against it?

Was there some Blue Tooth group, dedicated to the downfall of the White Fang?

That would be just his luck.

"Wait—did you say, 'he had a mask'? As in, there was only one of them?"

The girl nodded. "He was so scary!" She was clearly on the verge of tears. "I thought I was going to die when he was tying me up!"

"You weren't unconscious while he was tying you?" said Roman, eyes narrowed.

"W-well…" the girl trailed off. "He was smashing people's faces in. I just thought…maybe he wouldn't do that to me if I laid down and cried…?"

Part of Roman was angry that she hadn't fought to defend the dust. The other part thought she was probably the smartest one in this room.

She likely didn't have aura or combat training, and she watched those who did get absolutely stomped, so she played dead as shit and escaped a beating. In a way, she was one of the few people in the room who had actually come out on top of the battle with this mysterious intruder. At least she didn't get her ass kicked.

Roman straightened. First things first. He needed to do a complete inventory check. Figure out what the…

Roman's train of thought trailed off when the warehouse lights, the bright ones they never used at night because the animals didn't need the brightness, flickered on and off. There was only one place in the building from which those lights could be controlled.

Roman exchanged a look with Neo. They both took off towards the control room. The control room was an office, of sorts, that overlooked the warehouse floors from behind a one-way glass pane.

Roman and Neo laid claim to the room the moment they realized they could separate themselves from the rabble below.

The pair took the dark stairway two steps at a time.

They arrived at the short hall that led to the control room. Roman's eyes widened when he spotted Chainsaw Chet—a White Fang member who Roman had not wanted to remember the name of but had little choice. Chet was…difficult to forget, because of his mass, alliterative nickname, and…extreme weapon choices.

The other reason Roman remembered him because he was one of the most competent.

Yes, he was dumb, and fanatical, and crazy.

But at least he could fight and follow orders.

That was more than could be said about a lot of others around here.

The guy was no huntsman.

But he wasn't a pushover either. At least, he had never looked like one…

Until now.

Perry had been sent through the wall, across from the control room door.

His body was stretched uncomfortably.

His butt, thighs, and most of his back had disappeared into the drywall. He was bent over double, as if he were stretching, reaching for his toes.

And then he was hog-tied in that position—and with the chain from his own chainsaw too.

Roman almost felt bad for the man. As it was, he was mostly just happy for the warning.

Anyone who could put someone Chet's size through a wall, simultaneously knocking the massive faunus out…

Well, it may not have been the ultimate indicator of prowess as a warrior, but it certainly indicated an overwhelming brute strength.

He exchanged a quick glance with Neo. She nodded.

Her umbrella was ready to go.

They both turned to the cracked door of the control room.

Roman leveled Melodic Cudgel.

He opened the door with a kick.

He was immediately assaulted with the most wonderful and most offensive smell.

The scent of his custom cigars—only he wasn't smoking.

Which meant that the bastard had raided his desk drawer.

"You're here!"

It was a voice Roman didn't recognize. The man finished a rotation in the office chair.

It wasn't a face he recognized either.

The man was seated behind the control room desk, covered in monitors.

After a moment of sizing them up, the man spun in the seat with a carefree ease.

"I was beginning to think the two of you might be taking a sick day."

His tone was light, as was his expression—a direct contrast to his scarred face.

"Who the hell are you?" asked Roman. Keeping his weapon trained on the man.

"I'm John."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

The man stopped twirling. His blue eyes latched onto them with a suffocating grip. "Isn't that obvious?" He motioned to the monitors in front of him. They depicted the havoc he had wreaked on the warehouse floor. "I thought the message was pretty clear…"

"You couldn't have been less clear if you were mute and angry all the time."

John grinned at that. "Oh, my bad. You know, the plan was a little vague here, I was just supposed to make an impression—but what the hell does that even mean really? So, originally, I was just going to kill every single White Fang member here, and set this place on fire…"

Roman twitched.

He couldn't help it.

He envisioned months of labor going up in flames.

He envisioned Cinder reducing him and Neo to ashes.

"But then I realized," continued John. "I can't kill all these people. I can't burn all your dust. These are your employees. This is your stock,"

John's voice sounded friendly, compassionate—harmless.

"Which, obviously…"

He shrugged.

Roman stared at John incredulously. He had him fixed down his sights, his finger pulsing, itching to pull the trigger.

John didn't seem all that concerned that he was on the wrong end of Roman's weapon.

"…makes them my employees. And my stock…"

John smiled, as if it was his wedding night.

"…since you work for me now."

There you go.

TSOV back in action.

John—I mean Jaune, finally getting that plan moving. I know he's a bit OOC but once we get to some more consistent friendly character relations, I'll be working through some of that OOCness. My next update shall be The Navigator. And then…well…I had this idea for another RWBY story I really want to write but I'm trying to resist the urge—because I mean, finish what I've got right?

But what if the story just bursts out of me like in Alien?

What then?

Beta'd by: Mystery Beta

I got a now: "Pa t r eon dotcomforward-slash vronsurd."

Kay, till next time.

-Vronsurd