XVIII: The Masterplan

There were many choices that lay before Delia. The arbiter of the transaction watched her patiently, waiting for her word to continue his ghastly business. The merchandise that was displayed before her had been lovingly arranged by the seller. The staging was done to entice and show off what was being offered. It was working a little too well.

Indecision wrecked her thoughts with worry and self-doubt. The heat of the moment gnawed at her nerves. Butterflies flapped furiously in her abdomen. A wrong pick could spell disaster. She wondered how anyone could possibly only choose. All the options were promising, but there was only one selection that would satisfy her baser needs. Eying her prey with a hungry eye, the Assassin made her final answer to the blood-stained man before her. Finding the resolve within, she rendered her verdict for the rest of time.

"I'll take a pastrami on rye." The words tumbled out of her mouth sheepishly. The butcher nodded and called back to his assistant with what had been ordered. A flurry of activity began in the back to complete her selection. Her part in the system was over. It was now time for the next one to begin.

Delia grabbed a little slip of translucent paper held out by the greasy cutter of meat. Written on the transactional slip was the number eleven in dark red ink. The color of coagulation. An image of a man crumpled at a desk flashed in her thoughts. Pools of liquid spilt out of a head wound and onto the carpet. She shook it away before it could overstay its welcome. No time to look back now in anger. No time at all. It was far too late for her to grow a conscience now after everything she had done. After everything she was planning on doing.

Moving around the next patron who stood behind her, she noticed that the line she had stood in had grown exponentially in length. The little shop towards the outskirts of town she stood in was starting to fill up with hungry consumers. They were all shifty and appropriately in a hurry to grab a late lunch or early supper. Some had the zombified look of those who still had another few working hours ahead of them. It seemed as if the death-dealer had arrived at the delicatessen just in time. Only seconds before she had ordered her sandwich, they had called on number seven to receive their food order. That meant she would not be waiting long to sate her own appetite.

Slipping through the growing crowd, she met little resistance. The mumbling and shambling undead let her by with only a few jealous glances. She rocked and squeezed herself between the warm bodies while looking for a proper place to wait for her deliverance. In the distance she found what she was looking for.

A small and unoccupied table. Before it could be claimed by anyone else, she sat at one of a pair of chairs next to the platform. The arrangement of furniture was located near the entryway and only exit. This positioning would allow her to slip out of the eatery once she had what she was after. And not a second sooner.

Her stomach growled angrily with a demand to be fed. The smells of edible materials made the protests grow. The other fortunate souls who had arrived before her were already enjoying their meals. Lucky number seven bit into his reuben hoagie and let out a noise of pure contentment. The sight of this caused another protest to go up in her bowels. Soon enough they would be satisfied. Until then, she would have to wait.

She had not had anything substantial to consume since she had been smuggled out of Atlas in the underside of a Bullhead. Between the long flight, the enthusiastic walk through the Emerald forest, and the set up for her new hit, there had not been any time for a bite to eat. Even before that adventure, she had been eating irregularly. Performing contracted murder was also an appetite killer. While she could operate for days at a time without sustenance thanks to her advanced huntress training, it was not an ideal state to be in. The Assassin would need all the energy she could muster for what was coming. It did not sound like she needed to force the issue.

Her body was ready for it.

Dropping by a stash house earlier in the day, she had picked up some funding to pay for her newest assignment. While she could have used her own lien to buy what she needed, Delia figured the organization could take on some of the burden of paying for her 'business expenses.' It was a job she was performing for them, after all. The very least they could do was buy her a couple of meals and a new sniper rifle.

The Exchequer representative for the Duma she had talked to was not impressed with her reasoning. There was much ranting and raving about expenses being too high as it was. He did not want to pony up the means to let her continue the operation as she envisioned it. Apparently, even crime syndicates had bureaucratic cheapskates in high places. Those types of people that were more interested in balancing a budget than getting the job done were not just limited to the government or big business. The overzealous accountant gave in after she brow beat him into submission.

Taking the payoff, her first action after receiving the flat payment was to find a little place out of the way to chow down. That was how she had ended up in this fine establishment. It had called out to her. A certain part of her anatomy would not let her pass it by without stopping inside. The greedy thing pushed her through the entrance and into the order lane.

To distract her rumbling stomach while she waited, she pulled out her new scroll to look up where she was heading. It was a burner device she had also picked up at the stash house. Slipping it out of the banker's pocket had been easy enough. He had been too busy fuming about her demands to notice the simple sleight of hand. It was a disposable business machine that the bean counter had been conducting Duma transactions on, so it did not have a passcode to keep her out. Ignoring the spreadsheets and porn, she brought up a new window in the browser.

She needed a refresher on directions to her destination. Many years had passed since she was last in Vale. It was possible they had moved the operation. Looking up the place in the city's online directory brought up an address. They had relocated, but it was only a few blocks away from where she remembered it being. Fantastic news. She was already in the area. It was only a brisk walk away from her current location. Once she had her food, she could go and check it out. A quick smash and grab would give her the information she needed to find her elusive target.

"Hello hello." Danced a sing-song voice from beyond her line of vision.

Looking up from her borrowed scroll revealed a new addition to her little party of one. A man slightly taller than herself, in dark jeans and a leather jacket, was lingering beside the other pulled-out chair. Well, 'man' was a generous term to describe him. He looked to have just graduated from his teenage years. All lank and fading acne scars. His long and modish hair was parted to the side to reveal dark eyes behind a pair of thick glasses.

"Are you talking to me?" She asked while putting away the screen to pay more attention to her surroundings. It was not often that someone could sneak up on her. Another indication that she needed to increase her caloric intake.

"Of course!" The other individual smiled down at her. The look caused the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. "New to the area? I have not seen you hanging around these parts before."

"Are you in the habit of people watching around here regularly?" Delia deflected.

"No. Not at all. If I were, I think I would have noticed you sooner." He took her question as an invitation to steal the empty seat across from her. "It is not often I find such an exotic beauty sitting in my favorite place."

Well this was certainly bold. There were few out there that had the nerve to try this sort of thing on her. Especially in this kind of social context. Bars were fair game. Waiting for food in a restaurant? That was new. He was not bad looking. There was a charming facade there that she might have been interested in roughing up for a single evening. A distraction from her troubles. She was working, though. That meant she could not afford any diversions. Too bad. She might have been willing otherwise.

"Look, uh…" She left a blank for him to fill in.

"Randy." He provided eagerly.

"Randy." Delia nodded. It was a perfect name for him. An encapsulation of his current elevated state. "I'm flattered, but I'm afraid that I'm not interested in all of this at the moment."

The man forced a laugh while she gestured all over his body. They stared awkwardly at each other for a few minutes. The slight put down did not have the effect she was hoping for. In fact, it seemed to embolden him. He rocked the chair a bit to get closer to the table.

"Where are you from?" He asked to try and continue the failing conversation.

She frowned that he would not take the hint to beat it but decided to humor him. There was nowhere to go until her sandwich was ready. Her belly would not allow her to leave the bistro without her prize and she did not want the one in front of her to cause a scene. Flying under the radar was still a priority. She would have to try and run the clock out on this meeting.

"Argus." She lied. Because the fortress city was the last location she had spent a long time living in for a job, it was still fresh on her mind. The fresh kill lingered in her veins. Another stain on her cast aside honor and dignity.

"I thought so. You have a rather rimy look to you."

"Thanks?" Delia was not sure what that was supposed to mean. It was awkwardly phrased. She was going to take it as a compliment. For his sake. "I try my best."

"Although you are not in Argus anymore. Vale is a whole other beast compared to that place. Much warmer and with a bigger nightlife." He explained while wiggling his eyebrows. She nodded along, knowing both of those things were true. People came from all over Remnant to party down in this city. "I know people. They can get us into some fancy places for the right price if you are interested."

"I'm not." She said quite truthfully. It was his turn to frown. This charade had gone on long enough, and she was done with it. Done with him. The intruder was going to say something when a loud voice called out the words she had been dying to hear for the last few minutes.

"Number eleven! Order's up!"

"That's me. Gotta go." The agitated woman let out in relief.

Standing from the chair, she turned and walked the short distance to the counter. The seated would-be man made a squeak of disapproval but did not attempt to follow her. A paper bag with Delia's number written on the side in black marker was waiting. She grasped it with one hand while leaving behind some hastily grabbed lien from her pockets with the other. There was more than enough in the stack to cover the order plus a tip. She signaled that she did not want to wait around for change and a receipt. The cashier barely had time to thank her before being swamped by another customer.

Her serpentine path through the mob to exit hit a snag at the doorway. The path to escape was blocked by her unwanted paramour. Randy had turned his chair in anticipation of her movements so he could stand up and talk to her on the way out. She attempted to push by him. The evasion was stopped by the feeling of resistance. There was now a firm grip around her elbow. The one that did not have her meal in it. Delia glanced back at the guy who had a hold of her. He still had that smile on him. It had turned cruel.

"I know you are new here." He practically snarled. Whatever boyish magnetism that might have been there in the beginning of their interaction had faded. "But I think you should reconsider my offer. They call me the piranha of these streets for a reason. Just ask around."

She really did know how to attract the wrong sort. It must have been a curse. Delia looked around the establishment to see if anyone was watching. Everyone else was too absorbed in what they were doing to pay attention. That worked to her advantage. She could take the kiddy gloves off to deal with this pest.

"Really now. That is interesting." She fluttered her eyelashes and let her arm go limp in his hands. The action caused the tension to fall. It took a second for him to process her words before the grin on his face went back to self-confident. "You are a real tough guy?"

"I am." He asserted with pride.

His hands fell to her waist and squeezed. She subtly moved the arm with the bag that contained her sandwich behind her back. The action brought her chest closer to his. That was something he noticed with excitement. He licked his lips in preparation. She leaned forward with half closed eyes. Randy did similarly.

Before they could connect, she brought her knee up into his stomach. The man let out a gasp of pain and let go of her body. His eyes were filled with pain and rage. There was also bewilderment at the way the tables had turned on him so quickly. It was something he had never considered. His game was fighting back.

In the next moment, before he could react, she swept his leg out from under him. This blitz of movement caused him to sit back down in the chair he had risen from. She could have broken his leg but pulled back at the last minute. The screams of agony that would have been brought out of his mouth would have also earned unwanted attention. No one could have ignored it. Instead, she gave him a light charley horse. The way his eyes watered let her know that she hit the right nerve.

"If you are a piranha, then I'm a shark." She leaned over and breathed out to him.

He looked up in fury but could do nothing else about it as she moved away. He massaged his cramped calve and watched her go. Once outside, she created some more distance with a light jog. The brown bag with her food in it was still clutched in her hands. It was important to leave the scene before something else happened.

Play time was over. Time to get back to work.

〇-〇-〇

When Mead looked through the peephole of the motel room door, he found an odd scene. Tiny was on the other side of the divide. He had the look of a house cat that had caught the canary. His wide and toothy smile screamed in smug satisfaction. A black strap was visible around the front of his torso.

Opening the door, Mead ushered the hired muscle back into the accommodation to learn more. As the other man passed, the bouncer got a good look at what he carried. Looped around the bruiser's thick shoulder was a heavy looking backpack. It was lumpy with sharp triangular bulges in the fabric. There was also a clear outline of three rectangular boxes.

Normally, Mead would be critical of one of his workers carrying around such an obvious pack filled with weaponry. Doing that out in the open was like hanging out a sign that said to cops, 'stop-and-frisk me.' In other words, it was a disaster waiting to happen. Any private dick worth a lick of salt would know that the one carrying it was up to no good.

Out here on the edge of society and decency, however, Mead would let it slide. He figured such a display was commonplace and unlikely to draw attention. Guns probably flooded in and out of the area on the regular. People needed to defend themselves from the Grimm. Besides, it had been a while since the Fixer had seen his compatriot in such a good mood. Tiny had so few good days lately, that it ultimately would not hurt to let him have this win.

"I got 'em." Tiny slung the backpack on to the bed. The hefty sack sunk with a squeaking noise into the mattress. "Where is the other guy?"

"Kahlua is getting ready for a night out dancing and information gathering." Mead thumbed back at the closed door to the bathroom. There was some stumbling, shuffling, and a concerning number of cursing noises coming from behind the door. What she could possibly be fighting with while getting dressed, he had no idea. He chose to ignore it for his own sanity. "What did you bring me, big guy?"

"The motherload." Tiny breathed with a heavy tone while unzipping the bag, clearly enthusiastic about his success. He took a step back from the bed and gestured for the other man to check out the opened pack. "Have a look. You can have first dibs. Take whatever."

Mead walked over to open it up further for an inspection. He whistled in appreciation before pulling out the goods for a closer look. Two heavy duty black pistols were brought out and set down on the bed followed by the parts for a silver rifle. He also extracted twelve boxes of Dust rounds. Not Dust propelled ammo, but Dust-tipped shells that were made to explode on contact. They were the kind usually reserved for huntsmen or the military. It was not something a civilian would usually be able to get a hold of. The presence of this type of ammo meant that the weapons themselves were probably modified to use them. It was a good haul.

They appeared to be in business.

"Dang. Where did you get all of this?" Mead asked in amazement. The older man was not a gun connoisseur, but he knew right away that these were high quality and cost more than he made in a year. They were perhaps only a step down from huntsman weaponry. All they really lacked were a mech-shifting capability. He turned the pistol around just to make sure. Sadly, there were no obvious buttons or switches to click.

"I know a guy. He set me up with a discount as long as we return them undamaged." The boxer claimed vaguely. Mead wondered about his avoidance of answering the question, but again decided to let it go. There was no need for specifics. He asked for a task to be completed and Tiny had provided.

"Can these be traced back to them? Are we sure we want these?"

His curiosity got the best of him. These weapons having serial numbers, or other identifying markings, would be a good reason for why their mysterious benefactor would want them back at all. Usually, sellers removed ID information from guns before selling them to other people or they took them apart and sold the unregulated components. Custom weapon shops were a big business. They did not tend to look too hard at the parts that they bought. You could rob a bank with a machine gun, scrap it that evening, and the gun parts could end up in a huntress weapon by the end of the week.

"Maybe." Tiny scratched his cheek. "But we ain't going to have them for very long, are we?"

That was a good point. Mead had a good feeling that he could talk the huntsman into handing over what he took. What Qrow Branwen had in his possession was something he had no reason to want to hold on to. Plan A was to ask for it nicely. Plan B was to pay the man. Everyone had a price, after all. These guns were for show. They were for Plan C if things got complicated.

"You did good. I wish our end of the operation went as smoothly as yours." Mead sighed while handling one of the pistols.

It had a nice weight to it. Perfectly balanced in all the right places and devastatingly simple to operate. This was the gun for him. After checking its chamber to make sure it was empty, he pulled his jacket open and slid the weapon into the empty holster under his left armpit. It was a snug fit. The barrel was larger than what he usually carried, but it seemed secure for the time being. He would need to test it out when he had a chance to make sure he could handle the kick that the new weapon would give off. Dust ammo was notoriously powerful.

"What do you mean?"

"Our efforts to find our huntsman pal produced a fistful of nothing."

"Too bad."

"Ain't it though?"

While rewarding for Mead on a personal level, they were not any closer to locating Branwen. The most they had learned was of other places to ask around. He was now betting it all on Kahlua finding something out at the dance hall she would be going to that night. Otherwise, he would need to stake out the Sheriff's Office again the next morning. Spending more time in that bakery was appealing, but it was also more time he spent away from his responsibilities in Vale. Things tended to blow up when he was away from the club for too long.

"We are not done with the day yet, boys." The Golden Child reminded them while stepping out of the bathroom. She rejoined the conversation in a new suit. It was a crisp, slender, and grey number. The white shirt under the jacket lacked a tie and was open at the top to show off a black tank top. Dark shades and diamond cufflinks sparkled in the light whenever she turned. "How do I look?"

"You will definitely stand out." Mead was not sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. It would attract a lot of attention. She would not be able to subtly listen in on conversations in that get-up. Maybe she was not going for sly at all. The ensemble would instead bring people to her. High rollers always attracted a crowd. "You sure you don't want me to come along?"

"Nah. You will cramp my style." She dismissed the notion. Really, he wanted to go to make sure she stayed on target. But he also realized she was a professional who could take care of business. Huang's crew would not have put up with her nonsense otherwise. There was also the fact that him going to a bar at night could also distract from the task at hand. He was liable to automatically go into work mode and start scanning the bar for people to throw out. It was better to let the expert party girl handle things from here on out.

"I don't get it." Rumbled the big man as he looked her up and down. "You are going dancing. Won't you sweat through all that clothing? Something more comfortable would make sense to me."

"I guess I can't expect you to understand the sophisticated taste of a woman such as myself." Kahlua responded while checking herself out in the room's vanity mirror. She patted a few leg seams to soften them. Mead wondered why she bothered ironing the suit if she was going to do something like that.

He tilted his head and squinted at her figure. It was as if he were in a museum and trying to figure out an abstract painting. His eyes crawled up and down. They lingered on her chest and went back to her shaved head. The big guy did not seem to recognize the danger of his actions. His next words were practically a declaration of war.

"You're a woman?" Asked a confused Tiny.

"Why you-." Kahlua made a growl and an aggressive step towards the insensitive lout.

"Hey, come check out these bad boys." Mead interrupted as he stepped into the rapidly forming demilitarized zone between the two. He pointed her towards the weapons spread out on the mattress before things could get violent. The shiny distraction worked and carried her over to the bed in curiosity. New guns tended to do that in their profession.

"Ooh. Me likey." Kahlua gravitated to the pulled apart weapon. Assembling it together easily, she hefted the completed rifle to look down its iron sights. Impressed by what she saw and felt, she decided on it without even checking out the other pistol. "I call this one."

"Fine by me."

Mead had already picked his pistol out. Rifles seemed too unwieldy to use properly in a pinch. On top of that, they were difficult to conceal. Although, for what was coming up, they most likely would not get the element of surprise nor the time to pull and fire. Plan C also stood for crapshoot. Huntsmen were inhumanly fast and tough. If things went bad, Branwen would be on them before they could clear the holster. Determining who had what weapons was ultimately a pointless exercise. Still, it never hurt to be prepared. Lady luck could be on their side.

"What are you two going to get up to while I'm gone?" She asked while resting the gun barrel on her shoulder. The careless gesture was exacerbated by her finger being on the trigger. Mead was glad that they were not loaded. A trip to an emergency room was never a pleasant experience. He did not even know if the little town had a hospital.

"We will hang out and catch up. Probably head over to Tiny's place for some drinks. What do you think of that plan?" He asked the former boxer. Tiny seemed to have drifted off in his attention while the two associates were discussing plans for the evening. He shook it off and hummed in agreement despite the fact he was not listening. It did not matter. Mead knew the other man would be up for it.

"Alright. Don't you wait up for me." She began to strut away while swinging her arms in a dramatic fashion. Mead coughed to get her attention back before she left the hotel room. There was a very important thing she needed to do before leaving. Something that if she forgot, would bring all sorts of bad attention to her.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

"I know you want to turn heads, but I'm pretty sure a semi-automatic weapon won't fly where you are going." He pointed to the rifle still clutched in her right hand. Her other arm came around it protectively to shield her new toy from being taken by the playground bully.

"I mean, you never know. It might help me score." She reasoned.

"Leave the gun, Baby."

"Spoilsport."

〇-〇-〇

Sheriff Wendeval sat alone in his office while ruminating over the day that was passing him by. Half-finished paperwork lay before him that needed his signature. It could wait. There was so much to do now.

He flipped a gold lighter around in his hand given to him by his old supervisor at SWORD. It was rare. One of the few lighters that remained from the defunct Zeppo! personal heating company. They were bought out by the SDC a few years ago and rebranded as part of the trans-kingdom conglomeration. With that purchase, the SDC phased out the refillable, hand crafted lighters and started putting out cheap plastic substitutes that were impossible to refill with fire Dust.

They referred to it in the business world as 'vertical integration.' Most saw it as another ugly corporate raid fueled by greed and an obsessive need to grow the bottom line. Wendeval was different. He saw the beauty and potential of the maneuver. It was fascinating. The ability to purchase something and remake it in their own image. In a way, it was what he wanted to do for Relay. Instead of creating some gilded empire, he strived to create something greater. A shining city upon the coast. Using the resources of his benefactor, he was almost there except for a few problem areas that needed to be ironed out.

The first and most obvious problem was this business with Tocsin. At any other time, the incident between his department and the armed insurgents masquerading as a militia would have been a huge boon for his plans. Many of the people who lived in Relay were older and had experienced either personally or through a family member the horrors of the Faunus Rebellions. That made them inherently distrustful of the regiment that patrolled the outer parts of Relay. Ordinarily, he could use what had happened in Zone One as a wedge issue to shore up support with his constituency. The issue was that he could not capitalize on it.

With his support in the Vale Council, he was only weeks away from gaining official recognition. It was a done deal unless something spooked them into delaying or outright refusing to grant a charter. A full-blown civil war was something that would make them and any business he tried to attract to the area antsy. Vale, lacking a military force to deploy, would have little recourse other than to push for a truce with the animals as a contingency to full recognition of Relay. Wendeval knew that any type of deal would require a power sharing arrangement. That no good Stella Lee would raise a stink otherwise.

He refused to share anything.

The arrangement he kept with those beasts served his purposes. They gave him a boogeyman to rally against and a meat shield against Grimm incursions. Relay was not able to protect itself yet. It was the only reason he allowed that silly little treaty to be renewed a while back. It was a delicate balance between antagonism and exploitation that kept things running smoothly. In a few years, he could drop the farce. Quietly annexing Tocsin and forcing the mongrels back to whatever den they crawled out of would be child's play. Until then, there could be no open warfare with them. That much needed to be made clear to 'Ms. Lee.' He would need to have a sit down with her soon to guarantee that the truce was upheld.

Feeling a craving coming on, he brought forth a cigar from his humidor. He held it up to his face for a closer inspection. It was an import from the famous Mistral tobacco fields in the northern region. The sweet smell of nutmeg entered his nostrils as he sighed. Placing it under the guillotine cutter on his desk, he pulled a tiny rope to let the sharp blade fall, severing the fat end of it. The cut rubbish pinged against the wall before falling into the trash can.

There was the other obstacle that stood in his way. Just when things were going great, he showed up. A specter from his past. Qrow Branwen.

It was a surprise when Deputy Roscoe had returned with Branwen. Of course, the one time she followed his directions to the letter, it was at a time he wished she had not. The Sheriff had not been briefed on the name of the Grimm slayer that had impugned their dignity. He would have gladly let it slide if that meant he never had to deal with that walking disaster again.

Wherever that huntsman went, misfortune followed. That red-eyed bandit had the potential to ruin everything. The Sheriff's career at SWORD had ended because of him. It had taken years to land in another position of power. Wendeval was going to make damn sure that it did not happen again.

He was not sure how to deal with the Huntsman yet, but he had some ideas. The metal ring around Branwen's neck would give them a way of tracking the man and a way of disabling him. Unfortunately, Deputy Roscoe would get in the way if he tried anything untoward. Wendeval would need to bide his time and wait for the perfect opportunity to present itself.

Lighting the cigar in his hand to puff on it, he leaned back to take it easy. The peace was disturbed by a thud at his closed door. Someone needed to talk to him. The Sheriff slicked back his hair and arranged himself with his cigar in his dominant hand. While leaning forward in his executive chair and squaring his shoulders, he felt his confidence surge. Projecting power was an important aspect of leadership. That was what they all said.

"Enter." The door swung open to reveal the source of one of his recent problems.

"I got something you'll want to see." Answered Deputy Mal Dwrg.

The Sheriff frowned at the man as he made his way inside and slammed the door behind him. Wendeval's patience with the junior deputy had almost run out. He had hired the youth straight out of the Vale police academy with the idea of grooming the deputy to be his successor. He was an idiot, but a useful idiot. Much less idealistic than Deputy Roscoe. It was too bad he was not as competent as her. That would have made his choice easy.

Mal's mishandling of the Tocsin affair was just another indication that he was not someone that Wendeval could invest in long term. The moron had a win in his hands and bungled it. From the reports he had skimmed, they had captured an entire squad that had invaded Relay sovereignty and assaulted a human family, but somehow turned it into a shootout.

And then they lost said shootout!

If Deputy Mae and that ditsy bimbo of a commander had not intervened, the story would have been how his Office had failed to protect citizens. He would have been perceived as a loser, cast against his will as a field lieutenant for the gang that could not shoot straight. No one liked losers. That would have forced Wendeval to deal with Tocsin permanently, completely wrecking his master plan.

No. Mal could never be the next Sheriff of Relay. He was too unstable and unpredictable. There was nothing wrong with throwing your weight around, but you had to be smart about it. Wendeval would have to look elsewhere for a malleable puppet. Thankfully, there was a contingency already in place.

"I checked our inbox from SWORD. Looks like they have cleared Branwen of all charges." The subordinate held out a printed paper towards his boss while unaware of his decided professional future. Wendeval took it before Dwrg sat down in the chair opposite him and let out a long breathy air of disappointment.

"Looks like his story was true." The Sheriff grunted.

"Isn't that a kick in the head? We can't do anything to him legally if he is not a Rogue anymore." He stomped the floor in frustration. "Legal immunity and all that junk."

"Good thing he is still a Rogue then."

"Huh? What about the message?" Mal looked at his direct supervisor in confusion.

The Sheriff flicked the Zeppo! lighter to bring forth the orange light once again. He placed the open flame under the piece of paper to catch it on fire. Deputy Dwrg was surprised at the gesture until he caught on. Then it was all smiles as the SWORD missive saying Qrow Branwen was innocent went up in flames. Wendeval let go of the burnt effigy and let it fall into the empty bin beside his desk.

"Message? What message?"

Author Notes: The next two weeks are going to be odd. I will be in an area with very little internet access on vacation, so I may not be able to post an update. To be safe, I am targeting the next chapter for the Friday after I return. If possible, I will post sooner. Thanks in advance for the understanding!

Chapter Next: She's Lost Control (8/21/20)