Chapter 20: How Annoying

The neon flashes begged Qrow back. Downtown Vale was beautiful at dusk, where the sun crowned skyscrapers and the sky wasn't blinding. A nice medium between blinding light and blinding dark. It was his favorite time of day. Snooping was easier. He made his way through busy streets populated by office workers on the commute home, and found himself of the flashy doorstep of The Web.

The bouncer looked at him funny. Right, he was still wearing his Beacon uniform today because the only alternative was a clubbing shirt that exposed too much. Gretchen liked that shirt. He'd have to burn it later today.

"Hey," he told the bouncer.

"Go away, kid. We don't got student discounts here." How could he escape being called kid? He was old enough to take care of himself. Kind of. He only ate on campus for the free food and he had run out of drinks. Huh, he was a kid. A kid who had the capacity to kill and protect cities and made history behind peoples' backs. A kid nonetheless.

"I've been here before. Just need some whiskey."

"Beat it, before I gotta get Junior."

"Get Junior. I can wait," Qrow said. The bouncer was apprehensive, because that sort of confidence only came from people who knew what they were doing. The best bluffing tactic Qrow used at other places, when he wasn't wearing a suit for kids. A dark blazer with gold accents? Yum. It would snatch eyes if it weren't a beacon of Beacon. The bouncer voiced into a walkie-talkie, another man came out, the bouncer explained the situation, the other man went back in, presumably got Junior from behind the bar who must have been making a drink for someone, came back, and then two big dudes with the skinny Junior were sizing Qrow up.

"Wait, I know you! You're the kid that beat Wolfgang Port," he smiled. "Don't tell me: you've decided to take my offer downstairs. C'mon, follow me."

Wait, no. That's not what Qrow wanted. He wanted a drink and a break away from the bullshit therapy Ozpin was forcing on him. He hated it. He wanted to sit at the bar and brood and hate the world, not crack heads. Ugh, this is not what he needed. Whatever. Might as well get a drink and do what he wants. Anything was better than therapy.

"Yeah, yeah. Get me some whiskey first."

"No problem. And take that goddamn suit off. I can't have patrons thinking I'm making kids fight for money." That's exactly what Junior was about to do, but Qrow kept quips stowed away for people he was allowed to make them to. Also, Junior was younger than him. Don't sass the hand that pays you. Qrow took his blazer and tie off. The bouncer shrugged with his face, that half-pout and raised eyebrow toddlers make to question their mom, and watched Junior escort Qrow inside. They crossed the main room towards the large staircase, and he got a better view of The Web. The same chair as last time, Wolfgang Port sat at the bar, ripe for another wallet stealing. Qrow waved, but he wasn't looking.

"Port wants to kick your ass for last time," Junior said, leading him down the stairs.

"Might as well get paid for it," Qrow shrugged.

"Word has it that you asked your sister to flirt with him, you screamed to get away from her, punched him, stole his wallet, and walked away unscathed." Qrow got apprehensive. How did this part of Vale operate? Was he supposed to deny it? He tried stalling for time, but Junior answered his silent questions.

"You're hilarious. I like it. Be careful around him, from now on. Everyone down here has their own agenda, and you added 'Kick that kid's ass' to his. Most of them are here for money. Most of 'em. Some of these weirdos live to beat up other weirdos. But what makes 'em want the money so much they'll turn to fighting rings?... Don't worry about the legality of it. Fight rings are legal. This one isn't, but the cops don't like checking this part of Vale cause Lil' Miss pays them enough. Valean cops are cheap. You get into trouble with them, say Lil' Miss will be Lil' Pissed. I've done that one plenty of times. I'm kind of a big deal." Junior was a kid pleased to finally be above somebody. A little brother interested in being the big brother for once. Why else would he talk before Qrow even hopped into the ring? Poor guy was jumping the gun, he was lucky Qrow was committed. Money was nice, but slamming some heads together would be nicer.

"Rookies fight early because nobody cares about them. We get you guys out of the way so we can use the money matches at night. But hey, I'm sure you'll make your way up quick. Port is a money match guy."

Junior wasn't lying. Underneath The Web was a bunch of humid rooms with rings in the middle. Boards lined the walls and explained how each fight every day was going to go. Rookies' Bracket, there was a man and woman fighting with only six people watching. There was 2,000 lien down on the fight on both sides. Looked like the people betting were close friends or coaches. Like an elementary school's soccer game, the only people watching made the kids or wanted them.

Fists and wits only, two rookies were beating each other senseless. The orange-haired guy had a bit older than Qrow. Like, Oobleck levels of young. Not much meat on his bones. Lean. He had to make each hit count. The woman bopped him in the forehead and the guy staggered back a few steps. She tried to follow it with a straight but he bobbed underneath and backpedaled into a new corner to grab his bearings.

"Another new guy. This is what, his fourth fight? He's funny. Watch this."

She had the momentum and would win in a fair boxing match, which was how the two went about fighting. Both had a proper stance and all. It was only time and a few hits until the guy went down. Wiry frames were wires. Especially without an aura going against someone who had one. The woman pulled out no stops, she had everything on him. The guy smirked, and a switch flipped. He stopped fighting defensively, he aggressed where he shouldn't have and it worked. Nobody would expect the moves he made because they could be punished. Could be punished but they weren't. The orange head went for one final pounce, but the woman wised up and smashed his head in. The guy lost consciousness, and that was it for him and the match. He got up after a minute and stumbled out of the ring. Meanwhile, the winner collected their money and gave a small bit of it to the woman. Orange guy and his friend looked dishevelled and toweled off on a bench. They sulked as the other side left the room.

"Lost every single one, but he gets close. He just needs an aura. Anyways, let's go get you going against someone. You can fight today, right?"

"Yeah," he said, looking at orange head. There wasn't shame. Orange head knew he was going to lose, and he was proud he didn't lose earlier. He walked into that ring expected to have his head beat in.

"No, not against him. That's not fair for either of you. You need to showcase your brains."

Junior paired Qrow against another rookie standing around, waiting to fight. An older dude who spent plenty of time at the gym. Junior didn't seem concerned, though. The old man had another old man with him, wearing a trilby and smokes in his breast pocket. They were happy to oblige Qrow, a kid all alone. Anybody would have kept his company if he asked, but he didn't deserve to have anybody nearby. Gretchen deserved that, and she had created a bubble of wicked mutual exclusivity. She was a better teacher than anyone at Beacon; Peach taught him about the battle for faunus rights, but Gretchen taught him finer points in life. Your sister needs attention too, your friends are your friends and that means more than you think it does, you can be a good person and do fucked up things, you can be a bad person and do good things, you can be a good person and life can still be sucked out of you and vomit blood over the person you kissed earlier that week. She was a good teacher, but he tried not to think about her. She wasn't dead until he remembered she was dead.

Junior explained today was the first day of fighting for Qrow. The old men almost didn't want to fight; they couldn't be sure they were going to make money and beating up a no-name kid didn't do anything for reputation. They stood nothing to gain. Qrow sighed, and bet all the lien he had that he would win. It wasn't much. Just what he could safely steal, and he couldn't steal lien off cards. He could sell wallets, sell scrolls, stuff like that, but cards didn't work. 8,927 lien. It was above 25,000 before he started buying everything Summer told him to. Weapons and fun were expensive. Huntsmen grade clothing was even worse. How all the students paid for their own aura-friendly clothes, he didn't know. He did know, because they had parents rich enough to send them to Beacon. His mom sent him to another country with nothing. Qrow needed money, and to make money, he had to spend money. The bet didn't convince the geezers. They still had nothing to gain; what if Qrow steamrolled them? Qrow sighed and paid the older man to fight him. 1,000 lien. Goodbye, food money.

Junior stayed to watch, but he kept checking his expensive watch to see if he had to go upstairs. It was too early; nobody would be at the bar. Qrow took off his shirt to not get it sweaty. Slacks, dress socks and shoes, and nothing else. The older man had a whole get-up. Red and white, it was atrocious matching. He had worked out in his younger days and it went to his head. That outfit was not good. The brain behind it, however, was still sharp. Wary, didn't want to approach. Junior rang the bell and the rookies were off to the races.

Plan A: learn everything he could and counter. Plan B: Grab, twist, and pull the baby makers. Old school, defensive boxing style. Not good for him. A man who spent years mastering one thing can use it as a crutch, and beat anything Qrow can throw at it head on. He had to force him not to box and hope his Semblance wasn't impressive. The old man was aggressive. Fought close, closer, retreated, bobbed and weaved anything Qrow threw out.

Thing is, boxing is defensive in the upper body. So Qrow tackled the old man's feet and turned it into a grappling match. He wasn't strong like the old man was, but he slithered around to avoid being wailed. After a few chokeholds and bops to the head, the old man went unconscious for half a minute. Qrow won.

The old men slinked off without a handshake, the one who didn't find murmuring to himself that he made a good decision in not betting. Junior was pleased with himself, with that immature glisten of 'I told you I was right.' Qrow didn't like Junior, but he was going to work with him for the next few months. Years. Decades. If this made enough, for the rest of his life. He'd retire from Beacon and find old men in rings until the day he died or the day his liver imploded. Junior wheeled him around for the next few hours and Qrow paid a couple of other fighters to convince them to fight him. He did the same thing every battle: learn what to do, then do it. That was every problem in life. Research the solution, then solve. It's that easy. By the end of the amateur hour, Qrow had four wins under his belt. And those wins only cost him 2,000 lien! What a drag. He needed money, not these small bets. Clothes fit for huntsmen would cost much more than this.

"Champ in the making! You're gonna be worth millions. Want to stay and watch the big boys fight?"

"No, I have something to do tonight."

"You're ghosting me? All right."

"No, no. Let me get your number on my scroll." They exchanged numbers, and Junior begged him to stay a little longer. He didn't. Although Junior had a shift upstairs, Qrow was the first one to leave. Today, he woke up too early to go to a shitty therapist and paid people to let him kick their heads in. It was a bad day.

Qrow made it upstairs and collected himself at the counter. What led him to this horrible spot? In a school for a job he didn't want, working for a Headmaster who sent him on missions that took pieces from him. Every time he stepped on a Bullhead, they had sent them to a new place that wore him down and added bags under his eyes. The last thing he wanted was a bigger burden. He had done little and failed much. Today would have been better if he stayed home. He relaxed his head onto the colorful counter. His face smoothed over the clear plastic that changed colors routinely. Neon blue, to a neon purple. Now to pink. A large color range, it overpowered the grays, but the grays didn't piss him off, didn't stick around in his head when he blinked, didn't bother him when he tried sleeping in the same bed Gretchen sat on while waiting for him. He regretted listening to all of Tai's stupid stories. That's all they were. Stupid stories. Beacon would have been better if he stayed home.

With his face up against the plastic like a beast pushing its bars around, Qrow spent fifteen minutes moping. He wanted to go back to Tsune and check in with Summer. She promised they would do homework together over their scrolls, with this week being too hectic to listen to lectures. Even history sounded dim.

A hand tapped his shoulder, slightly. A scared one, it didn't stay for comfort. It alerted him, and alert he was. Qrow looked up from his tired stupor and saw the orange-hared guy from earlier. Yeah, he was older than Qrow without a doubt. His orange hair was hard to see in the wacky lights. Pensive, uncertain. He came alone, the person he was with no doubt hiding in the stairwell to play guardian angel.

"Hey. I watched your fights today. Incredible work."

"Thanks." That was enough for Qrow, but it wasn't enough for the orange-haired guy. He patiently waited for Qrow to finish the thought, but the thought was done. He begged it to come back, but there was no point in reliving an idea after its time. He pursued a new topic with, "You fought well. Same way as me, I think. Get in the ring, adapt to the person, then solve from what you see."

"It's that simple," the orange head said.

"So, you need aura? I think it would help," Qrow asked.

"You sure? I wouldn't ask that of you. You're supposed to beat me one of these days."

"It's fine, just follow me."

It was too loud to concentrate out there. The bar was too colorful, the music was rang too much, nothing spoke meditative. He hated that word, but that's what unlocking aura was like. Tapping into a person's protective shred of soul was important, and it had to be done right. Mother taught him and he'd been doing it as a symbol of power since he was young. A little speech before opening their door to the big world of not bleeding every time they wanted to fight. She gave him a huge information dump of what it was: allegedly, anything with a soul used its energy as its shield to block it from physical harm. What little work scientists had done on aura couldn't justify that answer, and telling little Timmy his dog has a soul for its brief time on Remnant was too much. The soul excuse was garbage. But whatever. Qrow wished souls were real, it would be nice. You had to use that word unlocking an aura. Soul. Soul. What did that even mean?

The orange head walked in, shifting his eyes to cover every corner of the bathroom. He wanted to be sure he wasn't getting jumped. This guy had seen too much of Vale. Qrow told him what to do. Close the eyes, empty the head. It was clockwork he progressed through before. He had to come up with a speech, something from his fake soul that would unlock another fake soul.

Qrow touched the orange-haired kid. He lit up, his aura flaring. From the soul. Straight from the bottom, whatever soul he had left now. Qrow said the first words that came to mind.

"For it is in Truth that we achieve immortality. Through this, we unveil the lies humanity created and unshackle those unneeded chains. Responsible not for good nor for evil, only burdened by this tiring pursuit, I release your soul, and by my hand doom you." Qrow's aura dipped, and he refused to flinch as it left him to wake up the orange guy's. He glowed orange and smiled back at him.

"It's that easy? I stand here and do nothing? That's all it took?"

"Yeah."

"All this time, my whole life, some person could touch me, say some stupid words that they don't mean, and I would have an aura? Easy, simple? The other guys made it sound hard. I thought you were going to knock me out."

"I meant them, kinda," Qrow said.

"You don't even know me. You don't mean anything. Thanks. Bye." The orange-haired guy walked out of the bathroom and left Qrow worse than he felt before. Here he thought unlocking aura would be an interaction of souls, and he would be setting a man on his personal journey for greatness. Qrow dug deep for that speech. This ritual of unlocking aura was a point of pride in combat schools. Some teachers spent years editing their speech. Qrow bore his heart and connected his soul to this stranger, and all he wanted was a thank you.

Whatever. Qrow turned the right faucet and splashed water in his face. It was the hot water. Damn it, the right side was the cold water at school. Unlucky. He left The Web.

Planning out a memorial service for a student is an awkward business. There's a lot of feelings to take into account. Feelings are the largest variable in the equation of keeping Vale safe. Ozpin needed to keep his spot as Headmaster; making it all the way up the political ladder in this body was hard. His partner in this body was accommodating and gentle, and the two made a great duo.

They had to do it fast, address the problem, and tear it off like a bandaid. She died a warrior's death, one of a hero. She deserved some mourning, but would have liked to seen no time wasted in dethroning the mustached villain that killed her. He should shave it, he hadn't seen that mustache work on women for three whole lifetimes.

Ozpin went through some of the paperwork needed. There would be a memorial of optional attendance midday, where they took the first years in originally. Beacon paid to place Gretchen's body in a coffin and clean it up so the Rainart family wouldn't have their heads. She was already shipped out to their home address after Glynda called them in a grave tone. Apparently, one of the family members wanted to come to the memorial service at school, but they would have their actual funeral at their home. Good. Keeping a dead body near children was a recipe for disaster.

Glynda had the assorted decorations prepared. Beacon banners, Beacon podium, anything to tie Gretchen's life to the cause of a Huntress. She would be a sensation, one to inspire the students to think of their memorial if they ever die in fighting Grimm and Salem. An awe inspiring speech, an open mic for eulogies that he would push STRQ and CRSS to speak at. Then, he would look into filling the holes her death caused. Patching CRSS up with another student since they agreed, among other things. A plethora of problems.

She was a victim. Of who, was a good question. Was Watts working with Salem? Was he with Mantle, who had ties with Merlot? How did that business partnership start? Too many questions, and Ozpin had to sit around and speak at a child's funeral. He'd have to fix the course of history, or it was about to write a bad chapter.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Next chapter is heartbreaking. Prepare yourselves for the depressing part of the narrative. It won't be forever, so enjoy it while it lasts. Shenanigans will return.

-ahugebox, edited by Aeonflux III