I: If It Wasn't for Bad Luck

Fear gripped Huang as he paced the room.

The desk he had tinkered at was cluttered with half empty magazines and loose bullets. A keyboard for the security terminal was sticky with dark grease. His shaky hands spilled lubricant everywhere while readying the shotgun he now carried. The baby blue and white leisure suit he wore had pits stained stress yellow. Flaxen hair that was usually immaculately slicked back was now unruly and stuck up. The two-handed heater in his hand felt heavy and inadequate. Much like himself.

Taking deep breaths when he could, the man decided to take charge. He grabbed one of two chairs from the desk and placed it near the steel reinforced double-door. There was another pistol on the table he considered grabbing but left it behind. It would just get in the way. Turning off the lone fluorescent overhead, only the moonlight from the barred windows ten feet atop the wall let him see in the darkness. Thin shadows extended down over his body as he sat with his back to the wall.

In his nervousness, he fiddled with the gold chain that looped his grandfather's ring. It was the only thing the old man had left him before he died. It would not fit around his sausage fingers, so he bought a matching chain to keep it close. It was a simple thing that had been in the family for generations. It always brought him comfort in trying times.

He rested the shotgun on his knees, perpendicular to the door on his right. To his left was a large closed-circuit television. It was connected to a single camera perched outside atop his haven. A black and white, soundless image was on the screen, showing what was left of his men. From the almost two platoons of underlings he had started with that morning, he was now down to a baker's half-dozen.

The men shifted nervously from foot to foot, sharing cigarettes and alcohol. Many of them had loosened their navy ties and ditched their dress jackets and matching sapphire shades to become more comfortable. Huang would usually berate them for breaking the dress code while on the job, but he couldn't find it in him to argue anymore. Armed with machine guns, switchblades, and a case of grenades, they still looked unprepared.

If Huang knew how to use any of the stolen military depot weapons, he would have grabbed one. His men as well. There were certainly enough of them crammed into the many boxes that filled the impromptu bunker. Such weaponry could even the odds.

"Stupid mech-shift crap." He muttered under his breath.

Instead, he was left to stew in his own juice. Suffocating were the thoughts of what was coming for him. That was the problem though. He had no idea who or what that was!

The day had started promisingly enough. They had located a buyer for the stash of stolen weapons, ammo, and drones. The Duma were very interested in the swag liberated from their homeland. Why wouldn't they? Atlas weaponry of this caliber was beyond anything that the wannabe government in exile had. The cache originally belonged to the best of the best of Atlas special forces. Money alone could not buy the tools of an Altesian Specialist. Legally speaking, anyway.

A bag woman for the Duma had dropped by the warehouse earlier that morning to examine the goods and authorize a deal. That woman was an odd one. She had insisted that they all refer to her as Countess. Oddity aside, that was not a problem.

He would call her daddy if she paid him enough.

The lady's dainty face with brown hair and lavender eyes was offset by a deep scowl. She wore a modified Mantle officer uniform. He recognized it from a museum he had been forced to go to as a kid by his mother. The uniform's charcoal black color helped her cut a dangerous figure. Also helping were the tough guys in cream muscle shirts she surrounded herself with.

Once Countess authenticated the weapons as legit, her cream bodyguards handed over four briefcases filled with a down-payment. The rest would be held in escrow by a local bank both parties trusted. The bodyguards moved some of the drones into a van with plans to smuggle it back to their comrades. When the heat died down in a week or so, they could move on the rest of the stash.

Feeling generous, Huang arranged for his deal maker, Sawyer the lawyer, to deliver the briefcases to other interested parties ahead of schedule. One briefcase was taken to his uncle as tribute. The other three went to the planner who had put them on the score. This transaction was going to make Huang. His new connections to the Duma would at least net him a seat at the table. In a few years, he may even surpass his uncle as the new leader.

After the deal was over was when everything went pear-shaped.

First, two of his runners did not report in. This was not alarming because they were a couple of teenaged fresh faces. They were most likely sleeping off a bad hangover or something. Then their handler, a veteran named Browne, missed a meeting with a supplier. That was when they knew something was wrong. Browne was notorious for punctuality.

Huang figured a police raid must have grabbed them. He dispatched Sawyer at noon to the local precinct to ask around. See if he could find a few wayward employees. An hour later, Sawyer reported that the cops did not have them.

"Not sure what is going on. They claim they haven't picked up any of our guys." Sawyer had said.

"You think it's a shake-down?"

"No. I think they honestly don't know. What sense does it make to arrest them and not let us know?"

Huang remembered pondering this point for a while. "Maybe they are trying to sweat 'em. Make them turn on us for racketeering."

Sawyer had laughed at that. "If they were trying to build a case, not letting them see their lawyer would be a good way to have it thrown out. Besides, the kids are know-nothings and Browne knows not to talk. He has hazard pay for this kind of situation. It must be something else."

Huang didn't like it, but he trusted the lawyer's words. Sawyer said he would go check the other precincts, in case there was a filing error. He promised to call back as soon as he did. Half an hour at the most. Sawyer never called back.

Thinking it was the Duma making a play, Huang called the bag woman using his burner to lodge a complaint. He was going to let them have it. A million words, most obscene, would have spilled from his mouth at the Countess when he saw her again.

He instead saw darkness and heard heavy breathing on the other end of the call. At first, he didn't understand what was going on until he heard the woman pleading for help. Huang immediately hung up, dropped the scroll, and stomped it for good measure.

He decided it was time to go to the mattresses and so ordered a retreat and regroup at the warehouse he was storing the weapons at. Huang had it converted into a bunker years ago for a situation such as this. With only one entrance and a single road leading to it, the warehouse seemed as good a place as any to make a stand. Only the men with him now answered the order.

If he could last until morning, Huang thought he might be able to get reinforcements from his uncle. Or get out of the Vale entirely. Maybe he could even reason with whoever was after him and offer the weapons as a trade.

Huang started to doze. He felt the adrenaline he had been riding all day fade. Maybe, he thought, if he rested his eyes, he might be able to think clearer. If only this were a nightmare I could wake from. He slumbered with an uncertain future.

〇-〇-〇

A reddish moon peaked in Vale. Officer Shoat hit his usual beat of Lime street to the docks. His cruiser sat parked at the top of the street near a cozy flower shop.

His evening consisted of the regular affair. He waved hello to the butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers of the industrial district as they headed home. This was the start of a twelve-hour night shift, thanks to a recent hiring freeze on new police officers. It was times like this that Shoat lamented his fixed salary.

There was no overtime pay.

A bond measure was being considered by the Council for more officers, but it was unlikely to pass. Those funds would most likely get sucked up by Beacon, the local huntsman academy. Not helping his cause was that the headmaster of the academy had an advisory seat on the Council. The upside to working nights was that he did not have to patrol during the hot part of the day. Whoever thought blue corduroy was a good look for an officer of the law should be arrested on principle. The light breeze bushed up his brown hair which he had to push back down.

Whistling a shanty from his glory days, Shoat stopped at the Nuts to That! donut shop for a cruller and bear claw. He was not quite used to sleeping during the day and working at night. The sugar and caffeine helped in the evenings.

While opening the door to the shop, a rather handsome woman with short black hair pushed past him in a hurry. A heavy suitcase hit his side as she shuffled on by. He tried for a friendly smile, but she passed with a ducked head and averted hazel eyes. He could only shake his head. Cops often got that reaction.

At checkout, his special issued communication scroll began to vibrate. While asking for patience from the clerk, he pulled it from his pocket. The screen read there was a new all-points bulletin from central. High priority. Opening the message, Shoat was greeted with the image of a face on the screen. Red eyes, black hair, and the cockiest smile he had ever seen.

Above the image was written Wanted for Armed Robbery and Murder. Below the picture was a link to a compressed database file that contained detailed biographical information on the suspect. The link was marked as QB_Dossier.

Absently paying the man behind the counter with his free hand, he read through the data file with his scroll in the other. Shoat whistled again in surprise. It was very detailed. If Central already had this information compiled, it meant that the suspect was already being scrutinized before the bulletin was issued. They had been waiting for him to step out of line for a while.

Devouring the fritter in three bites, he took his coffee with him as he left the bakery. He opened the door with a push from his backside. Sitting at a nearby bench, he continued his reading. There was even a video of the crime. After a few minutes to digest the information and the food, he looked up into the sky. A full moon hung there. Even its broken pieces were full. Every surface had a red tint to it.

When he was a child, his grandmother would tell him and his siblings scary stories about nights like this. Under that pale light, unseen blood will spill. A deluge in crimson. Only in the morning would the deeds done in night become obvious.

Shivering at the memory, Shoat returned to read the synopsis on the front page.

Name: Qrow Branwen
Occupation: Huntsman
Status: Rogue
Notes: Approach with Extreme Caution

〇-〇-〇

Huang awoke to gunfire.

Scrambling to his feet, he turned to face the CCTV. The screen was filled with nothing but static. The top window exploded inward showering him with cubes of glass. He raised his scatter-gun at the window before cursing. Nothing could get through there. Whatever was coming through that door.

Howls of pain and rage came from the other side.

Huang needed information on what was out there. He returned to the desk and accessed the computer to roll back the recorded footage by five minutes. The screen came back to a familiar scene. His men were alert when a semi-truck with an attached trailer approached the entrance to the warehouse. It came to a full stop a few feet from his men and parked. The black-tinted windshield made it impossible to see inside.

Tommy Two-Guns approached the driver's side slowly. His machine-pistols were raised. Huang saw the way his fingers twitched in agitation. Oddly, he stepped up to reach in through the window to turn off the truck. There was no driver.

That was when the video feed ended and the screaming began.

What is this? Who is this? The only thing he could think of was that the Specialists had figured out that he had stolen the weapons. Although, that really didn't fit. Would Vale really allow a foreign government to operate in our borders like this? Allies or not, the local Council would have insisted Atlas let the local police handle it.

Besides, the police should already have a fall guy for this scenario. Huang had made sure that any evidence would point to someone else. The plan had been perfect. At the very least, the cops should not have figured out that Huang was behind it so fast! It had been only two days since the heist.

This was insanity. There had to be something else he was missing. Maybe it was an old feud he had forgotten about or some new outfit making a play. Or this was an unintended consequence of one of his moves.

It was at that moment that the sounds of fighting finally stopped. There was no cheer of victory nor groans of pain. Nothing. Dread filled Huang. The sweat on his brow grew and threatened to spill into his eyes.

He called out to his men with an unsteady voice. "F-fellas! We get 'em? Did we win?"

There was no reply.

He stared at the door waiting for something. Anything. A black shape blocked out the moonlight for a second, making him jump and fire. His terrible aim only managed to hit sheet metal right below the window. Maybe it was a bird? Or a distraction.

Huang was tired of the uncertainty. He approached the door and unbolted it. Opening the left door, he pulled his gun up and pointed out at an empty night. Scanning the outside with an itchy trigger finger, there was nothing out there except for the truck from the video. None of his men were around. Not even bodies.

The ground was scorched and torn. A battle had taken place, but the only evidence his men had been there at all were the shell casings from the machine guns. Squinting at the eighteen-wheeler, he tried to make out the markings on the hood. It read Mantle Courier. That was unexpected. Isn't that a Duma owned company?

A hand gripped Huang's shoulder. With a yelp, he was pulled back inside and thrown to the ground. The shotgun flew from his hand and slid across the concrete floor. He tried to crawl for it but was stopped by a boot on the back of his neck. Huang kissed the floor from the pressure. The boot was removed and placed under his belly. The steel toe dug into his skin, forcing him to roll over.

A demon with red eyes stood over him. Waiting.

"Hey there friend." It spoke with a deep, masculine, voice. A stench of death radiated from the Beast. An absurdly long, bladed instrument was balanced comfortably on its shoulders by a single hand. "I think we need to have words." It crouched to grab at the scared man.

Haung's scream echoed in the metal enclosure.

〇-〇-〇

"And that was 'Pretend We're Dead' by the unapologetic L8." The sounds of a heavy guitar lick faded as she parked on the shore-front. "Next up on Radio Free Relay is a little tune by a band from Atlas that your pal, DJ Yell3r, picked up while…" The speaker's deep voice was cut off when she shut the engine down. She easily found what she was looking for. It really stood out as a landmark on the beach before her.

A white tent had been propped up.

She dismounted her motorcycle and stepped onto the gravelly sand. The smell of brackish water lingered and invited on the top of a windy night. A full score of individuals wearing green and brown fatigues walked in straight lines on the beach. Despite only having the angry moonlight to work off of, the grid search continued with an odd precision. They moved carefully, left to right, as if coordinated by an invisible force. Automatic rifles swept the ground before them, carefully, to both be ready and to not accidentally shoot friendlies.

"Cyan! Over here!" A voice called out to her over the roar of the waves.

She placed one hand on the top of her white, brick top hat and jogged to the congregation near where water met sand. The tent stood beside them. Silica crunched under boot with each step. A woman stood near the tent while two others in similar uniforms to those conducting the search sat together a significant distance away.

Cyan approached the woman first. "Maggie. We know what happened?"

"Sawbones is in there now. We should have a preliminary in a bit." Maggie looked haggard, clearly awoken from a restful sleep. Her makeup was splotchy in places. Despite that, she wore her usual steam-pressed grey uniform. Not a single strand of magenta hair was out of place. The deputy badge pinned above her heart sparkled red with each breath she took.

The seated duo consisted of a woman and a man. The man was an ashen-faced teen who looked to be barely holding it together. He drew lines in the sand in distraction. The woman had an arm over him, whispering words of comfort while rubbing circles in his neck. Her red beret was in her lap, letting black hair form a curtain around her face.

"Cora's here?"

"Yes. It was one of her militiamen that made the discovery. She called the rest of them in to start a search." The teen began to sob loudly. Cora pulled him in closer. Cyan led them to the other side of the tent to give them privacy. "I saw a bit before the tent went up. This could be bad."

"Badder than a dead body on a beach?" That was hard for her to believe.

Maggie paused, searching for the right words. "The body had a slash across the chest. It could have been claw marks."

Cursing under her breath, Cyan tried one more time to call the Sheriff on her scroll. He really should have been there already. When he did not pick up after the eighth ring, she finally gave up on trying to reach him. The radio silence from her superior meant she would have to make the decisions tonight. That did not bode well for her tomorrow.

The tent flap opened. A man in white medical scrubs exited the structure. His hands and feet were covered in latex. Sand clung to every inch of his body. The medical examiner, Dr. Sképsis, removed his face mask to reveal a dark expression. As if to answer an unasked question, he said only one word.

"Grimm."

The Deputy Sheriff took off her hat, parting honey brown locks from her face. She looked down at her own deputy badge. Teal eyes were reflected back. Doubt was obvious in them. Everything seemed heavier. Except for her head. That felt light.

〇-〇-〇

The lights were thrown on, disorienting Haung as his eyes adjusted.

He now sat in the same chair he was in previously, this time in front of the terminal desk. Qrow Branwen was seated behind it with steepled hands in front of a stubbled face. The sword leaned against the wall, seemingly as tall as Haung was. A white dress shirt hung loosely on the wiry Huntsman over a black tank top. A red-lined cape flowed over his shoulders and the back of the chair. Huang felt like he was back at boarding school, about to be thrown out by the principal for the fifth time.

"So, Han..."

"It's, uh, Haung, actually."

"I called this meeting to register a complaint." Branwen continued, moving his hands to the table to grip the edge. A scraping noise arose from his nails running across the lacquer. "You see, I don't generally care what some two-bit, stick up artist of a cockroach does in their spare time. Compared to what I normally deal with, finding and dismantling your 'criminal empire' was a waste of my time and energy."

"I-." Huang began again, eyes searching for an escape. Anything to get him away from here. They landed on the loaded pistol he had set down earlier. It lay with its barrel pointing at the man who had decimated his organization, as if calling out for revenge. "What did you do with my guards?"

The question was ignored.

"With that said, you did not really give me a choice in the matter, didja?" Branwen suddenly reached below the table. Fearing what he would come up with, Haung reared back, ready to duck. Instead, the Terror pulled out his scroll and connected it to an open slot on the face of the terminal. With a twirl of his hands, he pointed at the CCTV screen, expecting something.

Nothing happened.

"Uh…"

"Hold on, hold on. Technical difficulties." Looking a bit put off, the Huntsman dived under the desk to root around in the wiring. "I really hate technology sometimes. Never seems to work when I need it to. My nieces tell me it's because I am getting old, but I think it's much more likely the world is conspiring against me. Now which of these ports accepts scroll inputs?"

Huang again eyed the pistol on the desk. Why didn't Branwen remove it? Did he not see it? Does he think that I am that harmless?! He bit down on the anger that arose in him at the thought. This was his chance to turn this around. Leaning forward, he reached for the piece slowly but pulled back when an image of a teal room appeared on the screen.

The Huntsman sat back up. "There we go. Now check this out." He hit play on his scroll. The image began to move as a dull buzz came from the speakers. Suddenly, a man in white and grey was tossed into the scene by an unknown force. Cuts in the fabric and skin ran up and down the back of his torn uniform. The man tried to push himself up but collapsed.

A caped figure followed. Although the back was turned, the hair on the head was a familiar dark color. A long pole with a wicked, sickle blade was dragged along the floor leaving a red trail behind it. Slowly, the shape bent over, reaching into the holster of the man on the ground and pulled out a gun. The man reached up as if to plead for mercy before the gun was discharged into the man's back. With the dirty deed complete, the figure tilted to the camera, revealing red eyes.

The tableau was broken when the figure finally spoke. "That is what you get for messing with Qrow Branwen!" It declared with a high-pitched, obnoxious, female voice. She then aimed the pistol at the camera. With a shout of "Yee-Haw" the muzzle flashed thrice before the image went static.

Huang could only let out a low whine. His fingernails dug into his palm. Blood flowed freely down his fingers to his knuckles.

Branwen ignored the sound. "I got to say, that was a good impression of me. No notes!" The Maniac clapped his hands and laughed. Truly, deeply, and darkly. He rose from his seat. Picking up his blade, he rounded the desk and approached Huang, clicking something on the grip. "Well, maybe one."

The Huntsman pulled Huang to his feet and twirled him in place. Huang came to a stop facing the opposite direction of the Nightmare. Huang felt a presence directly behind him. "See, I don't leave shallow cuts on someone when using my scythe. I remove body parts." Something cold and sharp pressed against the apple in the gangster's throat. Warm breath tickled the back of his neck.

Huang stilled his body and tried not to breathe. So many thoughts and plans and contingencies fizzled in his head. He had made a mistake. A fatal mistake. Then, as fast as it was there, the curved blade was removed from his neck and the presence retreated. It was only after a few seconds that he dared turn around.

Branwen was now examining the crates in the warehouse. His ear was pressed against the side of one box while he rapped the side of it with his knuckles. "I will admit, it took a while to get my first lead. It was tedious ducking cops while conducting interrogations." His nose wrinkled, indicating that he was not pleased with the sound, moving over to another box.

"Talked to some of the guards at the depot. I found someone who gave me the name of a rough looking customer they saw talking to the guard who was killed. Said his name was Bean? I think? They all kind of blur together after a while." Another box was passed over. "To find him, I had to have a chat with these kids. They seemed decent. Shame I had to cut them loose."

As the Monster moved to another box, Huang slid over to the desk. Ice filled his veins and sweet poured down his face as he inched closer. There were palpitations and murmurs in his stomach. He thought any moment the Disaster would turn around and end him. That moment never came. Instead, Huang palmed the pistol. It was sticky from the grease he had used on the shotgun but otherwise felt operational. He would only get one chance to get even.

"You should be proud. Bean would not talk, no matter how much I leaned on him. It would have been a dead end if I hadn't found that lawyer. Now he was a squealer. Gave you and that chick up with only a little bit of trouble." Branwen seemed to like the sound of the container he was currently knocking on. He placed his hands on the seams.

"I really hope the goods are in this thing. Otherwise, I am going to look really silly." With a stiff pull, the wood gave way. Dropping the siding to the ground, a bit of dust was kicked up into the air. Inside were metal boxes stamped with the Kingdom of Atlas seal.

It was at that moment that Huang made his move by lifting the gun to point at the Huntsman. Seeing the movement in the corner of his eye, the dead man turned. Not fast enough! Huang screamed internally as he pulled the trigger.

Instead of firing, the gun's hammer jammed with a click. Pulling the trigger again did nothing. Instead, the chamber began to billow a dark smoke. All at once, roaring flames erupted from the pistol and licked his arm. Haung dropped it with a yelp, waving his arm in the air to put out his jacket. The fire was put out soon enough, but the distraction cost him.

"Unlucky." The Dreaded appeared in Huang's personal space. Before he could reply, Huang felt the air driven out of his lungs by a knee to his abdomen. He crumpled to the floor. Gasping for air, he rolled onto his back. A blade was once again pressed to his throat. Huang knew this was the end with his final gambit's failure and so closed his eyes. He instead felt a tug around his neck.

"Ooh, what's this?" Its voice dripped with curiosity.

Huang opened his eyes to the sight of his grandfather's chained ring being pulled up on the edge of the Huntsman's weapon. Before he could say anything, the chain was severed. The ring was tossed into the air with a flourish allowing Branwen to snatch it out of the air with unnatural grace. He proceeded to hold it up to the light in examination.

"H-hey. You can't have that!" Huang pleaded.

"Really now? Do you honestly think you're in a position to make demands?" the Thief stated before slipping the ring into his breast pocket. His frown looked more disappointed than upset.

"But-."

"Happy trails, Han." Pain bloomed as a filthy boot stomped on Huang's face.

Author Notes: Hey there! Welcome to my first story. For those curious, this tale will mostly revolve around Qrow and his actions as a Huntsman. If you are looking for a retelling of season one of RWBY, well, there are plenty of other stories by talented folks you can read for that fix. For this story, there will be quite a few original characters. This is mostly out of my want for more control over what I can do with them. It lets me not not have to worry about keeping them "in-character" with how they are presented in cannon. This is not to say that no one else from the series proper will be showing up. Rather, they will be sprinkled in. Remnant is a big world so Qrow will not meet everyone. For those new readers I have not lost at this point, enjoy the ride! Exits are on your left, right, and that big red "X" in the corner of your browser.

Chapter Next: You Know My Name (4/3/20)