XXXIX: Delia's Gone

Cyan wobbled as Qrow's weight unexpectedly increased. His legs had almost given out again while they were walking. She had to shift about to support him while also keeping on the lookout. There was at least one danger out there.

As they fled, Qrow briefed her on the one pursuing them. Apparently, this Delia was a rogue huntress. Not a falsely accused individual, like he had been, but a Grimm slaughtering machine who had gone into business for herself. For reasons Qrow had not explained, she had set her sights on taking his life.

Cyan's investigator senses went off whenever he cast his reds downward while talking about the assassin. There was a history between the two former colleagues. However, the deputy could not ask about that now. She needed to concentrate on shepherding her huntsman to safety.

Their progress towards their objective had been slow and tedious. As much as possible, they stuck to cover while keeping a steady pace. Staying out of the open air was critical. They could not run in their current condition.

For some reason, an old song about a three-legged dog rang through her mind.

The pair paused for a moment while a mailbox shielded their flank. Diagonally from their spot was the Sheriff's Office. On a normal day, the distance would have been simple to cross. This night, the path forward was treacherous.

"Almost there."

She glanced down the road, gun at the ready, as she took a hesitant step. Clamping down on the situational agoraphobia, she dragged Qrow into the street. The only sounds she could hear was her own increased breathing. When there was no reaction to her movements, she took another stride.

Hobbling as they went, they made it a third of the way to the front entrance before encountering trouble. Qrow leaned hard into her. This time, Cyan was unable to hold him up. They both lurched to the ground.

Only a little further and they could rest. She was about to give more encouragement when Qrow returned to his feet. His sword was once more deployed out in front. The tip was lodged in the ground with the flat side facing outward.

"Wha-"

The question was answered with the ping of a projectile off the blade. Down the lane, she could make out the form of their stalker, not even bothering to obscure herself. Delia's rifle was out and pointed towards them. Reacting rapidly, Cyan sat up on her elbow and fired.

The weapon's kick pushed her down again. Dazed from hitting her head on the pavement, she was able to make out a profanity from the sniper. Cyan had hit the mark. This joy was short lived when Qrow pulled her up and ushered them back.

"Wrong way!"

He tugged her along anyway. "We won't make it."

The Sheriff's Office was a sure bet, but Qrow was irritatingly correct. The promise of continuing was not worth the risk. Delia would mow them down before they got to the steps. They needed to choose another place to hole up.

Of the surrounding buildings, only one was close by. That made the choice simple. Stumbling sideways with Qrow continuing to use his weapon as a shield, they inched towards the Taste of Relay.

Qrow dropped the guarded posture once they were at the see-through door. The restaurant's alcove provided temporary cover. The peace would not last. They needed to get inside. There was just one little issue standing in the way.

"It's locked." She hissed while twisting the knob.

"I got it." Qrow said, moments before bludgeoning the lock with his handle.

The blunt attack dislodged the outer plating. He then jammed his fingers into the underlying mechanism. With a click, the metal bar inside the frame retreated. This allowed the door to be pushed open. The two of them flooded inside, with Cyan giving a kick to the door to shut it.

The huntsman limped to a table before knocking it over on its side. He did similarly with another before pushing them together. Cyan joined in, helping construct a safe space. Within seconds, a chest high barricade was standing proud in the middle of the bakery.

The duo collapsed behind the barrier. Qrow lined up to a small crack in the shielding so he could see the other side. Cyan put her back to the wood and checked her ammo. She had fired two rounds, leaving four in the chamber.

"Now that I've had time to reconsider," Qrow rubbed his swelling calf muscles as he mused. "We really could use that back-up. Maybe not the civilians, but someone else. How about calling that specialist chick? I'm willing to put up with her stuck-up attitude if she can get us out of this."

"I left my Scroll behind. Could we use yours?"

Qrow held up a device with a busted screen. "They, uh, don't make these things with my lifestyle in mind."

"Wonderful." She changed topics to something they could control. "You said you knew the person who is after us. What can you tell me about her?"

"She has a sniper rifle and some kind of short sword."

Cyan side-eyed him. "And?"

"Not much else. I was a little busy getting whipped like a government mule to be able to give you a full run down."

Delia really had done a number on him. Based on his labored breathing, Cyan imagined his breastbone and a few of his ribs were cracked. He was only now starting to put weight back on the injured leg unassisted. That he was conscious after such a beating was a minor miracle.

"Any insight will help." She pressed.

"What do you want? Her measurements? She's changed a lot." He pushed on before she could interrupt. "Back in Beacon, she was the heavy for her team. She'd draw attention and let her teammates pick off the Grimm."

Okay. She gathered they were schoolmates. Although, why had his mind gone immediately to dress sizes? Did he know that? That was not the most pressing of questions, but it did nag at her.

"I assumed she had been a sharpshooter."

"No. That's why I was thrown off. Her old style was built around her..." He trailed off.

"Her what?"

His lip twitched with furrowed brows. Whatever he was pondering brought confusion. The severe contractions lasted until his face finally relaxed.

"Doesn't matter." He settled on. "She's clearly grown as a combatant. Planning around old intel can be worse than not having any."

"If you say so."

They both turned back to the front door. Cyan began to wonder what was taking Delia so long. Waiting was the hardest part. Particularly when they were waiting for a huntress to come and kill them. The deputy's hands started to shake.

"How are you holding up?" Qrow asked abruptly.

"I'll be honest. I've never been this terrified before." Cyan felt the world close in around her. "I twice blasted her with rounds I've seen crack boulders. She fell face-first a distance that would have broken my neck. She survived all of that."

How can people like that exist?

The deputy continued as the trembling increased. "Look what she did to you! How can we stop that?"

How. The word echoed.

Was this what it was like to face a huntress? Cyan felt heat in her eyes. Only once before had she felt this small and powerless. That night she lost something important. Tonight, she was going to lose even more.

Silence persisted in the shop.

And then Qrow broke it. "There was this guy I heard about once."

"What?"

The question came out harsher than intended. All the adrenaline in her system was used up. Her nerves were frayed. A stiff breeze could have pushed her over. He did not seem to notice.

"This guy was walking down the street when he fell in a hole. The walls were too steep and he couldn't get out." Qrow began pantomiming a climb while smirking. "A doctor passed by. The guy shouted up, 'Hey Doc! Can you help me out?' The doctor wrote out a prescription, threw it down the hole, and moved on."

Where is this going? She wondered.

"A priestess comes along. The guy again called out, 'Sister! I'm trapped. Can you save me?'" Qrow lingered on that sentence. Shaking of his head, he started again. "The priestess wrote out a prayer to the God of Light and threw it down. She instructed him to say it aloud before he went to sleep. And then she left without another thought for the guy in the hole."

"I don't-"

"A friend of the guy walks up." The huntsman proceeded with the tale. "He called up one last time. 'Hey, Verde, it's me! Can you get me out of here?'"

Qrow took a long pause. One that filled the void again. She wondered if he was ever going to finish. She demanded a resolution.

"And?"

"The friend jumped in the hole."

"I should've known." Cyan began to massage her eyebrows.

Qrow laughed at her exasperation. "Our guy says, 'Are you stupid!? Now we're both stuck down here.'"

This mirrored Cyan's thoughts as well. This was all a big joke to him. He was incapable of having a serious conversation. She was about to let Qrow know what she really thought of the story if he did not get to the point.

"Now, you should know, the guy has lost all hope. He is afraid he will never get out and that he doomed his friend to the same fate. That is, until the friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before. I know the way out.'"

Cyan looked to Qrow. Really looked at him. He was no longer smiling.

"I've been through this type of thing before. Just have some faith in me."

Those wicked orbs seemed filled with confidence. It was oddly reassuring. Her hands stilled.

"Do you have any plans?"

"A couple. One is that you could sneak out the back while I hold her off." He offered while nodding to the door behind the main stand. "Maybe circle back when you reach help?"

"Not happening." Now she was grinning. "When in a hole, friends stick together."

Apparently.

"Still thought I'd offer." He snorted as he transformed his weapon into its restraining form. "Well then, we need to prepare as best we can. Could you crawl behind that counter and tell me what we have to work with?"

〇-〇-〇

Deep in the heart of Bois d'Arc Acres, a young man toiled away at a keyboard. Yellow was spending his night in a familiar way; Seated in front of a blue and black screen. His only companions were a visualizer and a semantic processor.

It should not have been this way. With a truce negotiated to cease his broadcasts for a week, he could have been doing anything else. The list included drinking, catching up on sleep, or reading a book. Pleasures he had been deprived of since he started running the homestead.

Yet here he was.

The scion had initially been glad for the break. Scripting, recording segments, and creating custom playlists had been eating away at his leisurely pursuits. That time was already squeezed because of his commitments to the family business. While he did have dedicated workers to fall back on, he still needed to be around to direct traffic and pitch in where needed.

Unfortunately, Yellow had become accustomed to the constant busy thrum. The workaholic bug had bitten him like it had his parents before him. After sitting awake in his bed for longer than he would care to admit, he walked the short distance from his bedroom to his back office in the dancehall.

Starting the club had been a pet project his mother had encouraged. She knew he was miserable after leaving his job as a CCT engineer in Argus. Having an outlet to express himself was the only way to stay sane in the middle of nowhere. His gramps had approved the endeavor because he saw the value in providing a safe space for Tocsin and Relay folks to mix.

He had gotten the idea to start up a pirate radio station soon after the barn had been retrofitted. His patrons had been complaining about how only the big time Vale stations bothered broadcasting out to the boonies. All of them were filled with garbage pop with no personality. That left a hole in the market he wanted to fill.

With some leftover funds from the remodel combined with his personal savings, he quietly amassed the tech he needed to transform the grain silo into a transmitter. His old contacts in Mistral even secured a great deal on a decommissioned military grade antenna.

It was hard to keep everything hidden. When eventually asked about his activities, the younger Bois d'Arc had told the elder that he was insulating the silo to protect its contents from extreme weather. While their part of Vale was rather temperate, every few years a deep freeze would threaten their stored crops.

The explanation was a good cover story. And technically not a lie! The installed materials did insulate the building as a side benefit. That it also made the silo into the most powerful broadcasting tower outside of the big cities could be overlooked.

Switching on for the first time had made his hairs stand on end. A single keystroke allowed him to become DJ Yell3r. Overnight he, or rather his alter ego, became a local celebrity. And no one was the wiser!

When his mother passed away, his mission became more urgent as grief fueled his work. Even taking over full time from his Grandfather did not derail the show. It only caused him to become more precise with how he applied himself.

Early hours were spent loading the Radio Free Relay rotation. Morning to Midday was used to gather updates from his managers and security. Lunchtime, he checked in on the broadcast. In the afternoon he floated about as an extra hand until quitting time. Nighttime was when he opened the dance floor and recorded his segments. Finally, he would crash for about six hours of sleep.

His days had played out roughly the same way for three months. It was a tough and demanding schedule, but he was making it work. Exports were on the rise, the nightclub was bustling, and his alter ego was becoming a sensation.

Then the Battle at the Crossroads occurred.

When stories began to circulate, specifically about how the militia had tried to surrender before getting shot at, Yellow got a little heated. He had considered staging a public protest for a while. The news pushed him over the edge.

Taking matters into his own hands, he decided to aggressively expand his share of the airwaves. If the Sheriff's Office was going to use their technology to silence others, then they had no right to it. Yellow could not seize their guns but he could take their ability to give orders to those that wielded them.

He did not regret the act. Someone needed to stand up to Wendeval. What Yellow did regret was not having an exit strategy. The sheriff was never going to give in to any demands. That meant the blockade would continue until the Bois d'Arc ran low on funds or he was captured.

The latter had finally happened, although it came from an unlikely source. A hodgepodge of militia members, a deputy, and a huntsman marched in and asked him to kindly hold off on his protest. The voices of his unyielding ancestors screamed to tell them all to kindly 'shove it.'

But he relented and granted a reprieve instead. They gave a good reason for him to stay his hand. DJ Yell3r had made a brief announcement before cutting the transmission. He was giving the sheriff a week to think on his sins. And then there would be hellfire.

A week of silence was hard to fathom. The absence did give Yellow time to plan his next move. When that week ended, he wanted to make good on the threat. To do so, he was currently navigating the Sheriff's Office's broadcast network.

Although he had promised to stop his offensive maneuvers, he had not said anything about refraining from probing their lines for dirt. The time usually spent on his radio station was now being used to investigate a mystery. One that could prove a challenge to any new action he planned.

Namely, he wanted to understand the 'Orange Thread.'

The Orange Thread was a strange occurrence that affected his equipment. It was so dubbed because the activity would appear as a thin tangerine line on the spectrogram. Occasionally, this sustained radio wave burst would last anywhere from a few seconds to several minutes.

This phenomenon had only started once he had taken over Relay's municipal broadcasts. Whenever it happened, it added a statistically significant delay to his array's output. This caused a syncing error where some parts of the towns received transmissions later than distance alone would dictate.

To account for this, the secret disc jockey had started using a thirty second silent period every few hours during his streams. These blank moments where nothing went out over the airwaves allowed the system to resynchronize. A simple solution, but one that left the underlying issue unresolved. Without an answer, there was the possibility that the problem would scale with his efforts.

And so, he set out to find the cause. He knew the source. Wendeval had to be the cause. What it signified was more worrisome.

The size of the discrepancy had him assuming there were hidden messages within the Orange Thread. Perhaps an image or a text file. If the sheriff was trying to hide his shady business, Yellow was determined to find and expose it. To do this, he had set his rig to automatically record Thread segments throughout the day.

Catching up on the data was a chore. There were over a hundred captures he had to inspect. The Thread did not occur that often, meaning there were plenty of false flags. His tools were a little too sensitive, but the configuration made it less likely that he would miss anything important.

For every twenty false positives, there was an accurate one. These interesting sections were run through a steganographic analysis. The program broke the signal down to its base components and looked for signs of a hidden cache.

The results were conclusive. No elicit messages. No compromising pictures. Not even a treasure map.

To say he was disappointed was an understatement. There was no way the Thread was a coincidence. The event was too uniform to be a fluke or a technical glitch. That had been one of the first things he had checked.

At last, Yellow began to wonder if he was giving Wendeval too much credit. Instead of the Thread being some clandestine file sharing mechanism, maybe there was a simpler answer. He stood from his desk and walked the distance to his bar. Instead of a beverage, he grabbed the donation jar before returning to his bubble.

Upending the contents of the charity collections scattered lien onto the tabletop. Along with the money was a billfold. As Yellow opened the item, the grinning mug of Deputy Mal Dwrg appeared as captured on an identification card in the transparent sleeve.

Something about watching the other man rip off orphans had caused the farmer to decide to pick Mal's pocket. Yellow decided that the crooked deputy was going to make a large donation. While emptying the accessory initially, the Bois d'Arc had also found something peculiar. A slip of paper with gibberish written on it.

Yellow had not recognized it at the time, but holding the paper again, he now realized what the writing represented. Mal had written down a short-wave frequency number. A reminder for what to set his Scroll settings to if he forgot.

What if the Thread was a comms line entangled inside another? If the line had not been set up correctly, the shortwave transmission would cause disruptions to other radio waves along the spectrum. This was doubly true if they were foolishly trying to use video functionality at the same time. The systems were not built to handle that kind of A/V load.

As fate would dictate, an alert went off. Another Orange Thread was occurring right then and there. This was his chance to verify his suspicions. He tuned to the frequency on the paper and began to listen.

"-with me right now, actually." Came wheezy words over the speakers.

"Convenient." That one belonged to Wendeval. "Bring him along. We may need his services before the night is through."

This must have been the Sheriff's private channel. The thrill of being right was squashed by the urgency to learn more. After making sure his microphone was off to not give himself away, Yellow started recording. This was potentially a gold mine.

"I think he's more trouble than he is worth. Hasn't stopped whining since I picked him up. Give me the word and I'll dump him like a bad habit."

"No. It's better to have someone with his credentials in our back pocket."

"Yeah, but-"

"That's an order, Dwrg."

So, the unknown participant was Mal. The eavesdropper should have guessed that. To be fair, Yellow had not interacted that much with the deputy. Other than stealing from him, of course.

Mal grumbled before continuing. "We're about fifteen minutes away. I told the sheep to set up a perimeter 'til a full-timer arrives. Don't want them getting hurt."

Deputy Dwrg's cackle made Yellow's skin crawl.

"Good. Keep it that way until I have had a look. We may have a unique opportunity on our hands."

The line went dead. Yellow leaned back in his chair and wondered what they were talking about. No doubt shady business was going down in Relay. He decided to dig deeper. Something was going on.

He brought up the community website for the volunteers. The instant message boards were being pinged in a large volume. Active guests were arriving in the lobby, swelling the user count. They were all asking questions about an SOS they had received. Many were asking if this was a drill while others said they were on their way.

Yellow searched for the signal using a scanner on all known emergency frequencies. The channel had to be a common one. It did not take long to find what they were chattering about. A siren blared before select phrases started repeating.

"Deputy Cyan Roscoe is requesting immediate assistance." Robotic speech chimed. "Caution is advised. Active shooter on premises. Deputy Cyan Roscoe is-"

Coordinates flashed on his screen. Quick entry of them into a map revealed a location in downtown Relay. Cyan, the nice lady he had met earlier, was being attacked. Wendeval was for some reason leaving her high and dry.

This was big. He needed to tell someone. Luckily, he had just the person in mind.

Going through his contacts list, he found the newest entry. The name Cat Ears was highlighted. He had noticed it that evening and not had a chance to change the name yet. Hitting the call button began the connection process.

"Mmmh. Yeah?" Spoke a groggy voice.

Video capability on her end had been disabled. Yellow flushed when he remembered that it was after midnight. She was probably in bed. Ergo, not in a state to take the call with the camera on.

"Key? It's Yellow."

A tumbling noise came from the other side. He winced at the hard thump that followed and a stifled cry of pain. More shuffling and rustling started to make him nervous. The zipping sound particularly confused him.

He tried again. "Hello?"

The screen filled with the leering visage of the Tocsin commander. Her lidded coal eyes could have burned right through him. The dip of her tank top made him both grateful and disappointed that they were not occupying the same room.

"I was wondering when you would call. Couldn't get enough of me?" She teased before yawning. "Although this does seem a little soon..."

"Sorry about the late hour."

"No no. It's fine. Great even."

He was baffled by what was so great. Wanting to ask, but also not wanting to get bogged down in an unrelated discussion, he redirected the conversation. There was an important reason behind the call after all.

"Could you come to the Acres? Tonight, I mean. There is something I need to show you."

"Wow. You are bold." Her wide-eyed stare let him know that there may have been a misunderstanding. "While I do occasionally flirt, I'm not that easy. You should at least buy me dinner before showing me your-"

"That's not what I meant!" He croaked while trying to place his fierce blush under control. "I think Cyan is in trouble!"

Like a switch being flipped, her jovial demeanor melted. What was left was a true grittiness. Her next words left no debate on what he was to do.

"Stay there. I'm on my way."

〇-〇-〇

Delia rubbed her shoulder as she watched the pastry shoppe. The assassin had paused to observe and assess. From the front stoop of the Sheriff's Office, she could catch shifts and changes in the darkened store's interior.

The building at her back had been where her two runaways were heading. They must have been seeking reinforcements. Delia had been afraid that armed deputies would come pouring out with the commotion they were causing. Luckily, no one seemed to be home.

To be sure, she strolled up casually and peered through the windows. The lights were out. There also did not appear to be any security cameras. No one would interrupt. There was still time to complete her mission and leave town before anyone could stop her.

She sank down onto the porch bench for a moment to rest and lick her wounds. An ugly welt had started to form on her collarbone. Those shells had packed a punch. They must have been armor piercers. Good news was bullet manufacturers had yet to create Aura piercers.

Still hurt to get hit with though. Delia estimated that the law officer had done about as much damage in two blasts as Qrow had done during their entire dust up. Though, there was a difference. The deputy was going for the kill.

Qrow tried to spare you. The voice in the back of her head mocked. He just wanted to help.

"I don't care." She restated for the world to hear.

No point in dwelling on those ideas. There was no way out. Only one of them was going to survive the night. She was going to make damn sure it was her. The price of failure was too high.

This was a cleanup job now. Her two targets were essentially defenseless. She needed to finish this up and then double back to check on Kahlua and Tiny. They were probably dead if the deputy had been allowed to escape, but Delia needed to make sure. There could be no loose ends.

Time was not on her side. The longer she waited, the higher the chance of the assault being turned around on her or someone else interfering. She could afford no more detours. That was when she started planning her last raid.

Pushing herself up, her hands fell to Black Reunion. The lethal tool was not going to be of much help in close quarters. She decided to turn it back into a machete.

Not wanting to risk an incomplete transformation again, she engaged the locking feature. The instinct to blame Joc for the malfunction was high but she stomped it out. That had not been the creator's fault. It was all Qrow.

Although Team STRQ had been tight lipped about how Qrow's Semblance worked, the whole school knew he had negative effects on electronics and machinery. Teachers demanded he turn in all assignments as paper copies. She could have kicked herself for forgetting that crucial information. With the lesson learned, there would be no mishaps.

Scrutinizing the target, she saw an obvious point for entry. The entire front was composed of crystal and metal beams. The blatant insecurity did not make her rule out the possibility. In fact, it was the best way in. If she tried to enter from behind the shop, they could just run out to the safer position she now occupied.

Qrow probably had his attention trained on the door. His girl had to be on standby waiting to fire on whoever came through. They both had to be expecting a breach.

Delia was going to give them one they would never forget.

Hooking her blade to her jeans, she wrapped her fingers around the seat and pulled. A straining groan grew as she increased the strength expended. The stakes that had been holding the bench in place gave way. Concrete particles blew into the air as it came free.

She lifted the whole structure above her head. Turning towards the Taste of Relay, she trudged into the middle of the road. Part of her had been expecting them to open up on her when she approached. They must have decided against it because she encountered no resistance.

The former Grimm hunter judged the distance and effort needed for the next phase. Satisfied with her internal calculations, she took one step forward and heaved. The impromptu battering ram flew and impacted the store front. Glass shattered into many pieces.

Not wanting to waste the advantage, Delia unstrapped her weapon and rushed in.

Her first step inside was accompanied by underfoot crunching. The crash had scattered fragments all over. Again, no gunshots on her arrival. She crouched just in case and scouted her surroundings.

The assassin could see that Qrow had set up defenses. Three small islands of upended tables and chairs obscured the duo. They had to be nearby.

A popping noise from the grouping on the left raised her guard. Licking her lips nervously, she approached them first. As she was about to peak over the edge, another loud bang followed. This caused her to slash the wood and splinter the defensive position in half.

Behind the table were glass bottles set in a chair. Fizzing concoctions leaked from the mouth. A cork beside one of the bottles was rolling around. Suspicious white powder on the floor caught her attention. She kneeled to poke the particles with her ring finger before dabbing her tongue. Her palette identified the heap.

"Baking soda?"

More powder fell in front of her face. Instinctually, she looked up. Clinging to the ceiling was Qrow Branwen. Green bands fastened his torso to the ceiling panels. He disengaged the device and let gravity take over.

The huntsman landed on her before she could react. Despite the suddenness of the confrontation, she managed to hold on to her machete and stay on her feet. In the resulting scuffle, something snapped around her wrist as she tugged against him. He tried to get the other hand before she shut it down with a knee to the gut.

Qrow grabbed his torso as the wind was driven from his lungs. Delia removed the green cuffs from her arm and threw them down. His commitment to trying to take her alive was getting as repetitive as it was annoying.

As the assassin lined up for a death strike, Deputy Roscoe entered the fray. The cowboy hat wearing individual stood from behind the serving counter and fired. Seeing the activity from the corner of her eye, Delia was able to side profile the bullet so that it only grazed her Aura.

The gun's blowback caused the other woman to fall into the display case behind her. The shelves collapsed under the added weight. To her credit, she pulled herself up and tried to line up another shot.

Delia tossed a broken stool in retaliation. Panicking, the deputy brought her forearms up to block. The chair connected, sending her into the display again. One consequence of her attempt to protect her face was that the impact fell upon her shooting arm. The revolver jumped from her hands and out of reach.

One threat removed was replaced with another. The red-eyed opponent shoulder checked Delia, knocking her on her rear. This allowed him to regain the apparatus he had been trying to catch her with and reform the enormous broadsword. With some hesitancy, he charged forward.

Thinking quickly, she grasped a fistful of glass and tossed it in the air. Qrow ran right into the cloud. He cried out in pain as he fell to his knees. His free hand reached up to try and wipe the irritants from his eyes. Delia kipped up to finish him off.

"Stop!" The deputy grabbed the killer's arm.

The absolute idiot had crossed the room to interfere rather than retrieve her gun. A simple backhand knocked her prone. With a little more power, the strike would have killed an Auraless foe instantly. Instead, she was only slightly battered. Her assaulter was nearly spiritually spent.

This realization got Delia's temper roiling. What should have been a simple job had become overly complicated. And at every turn, the woman before her had prevented Delia from completing the contract. Now she was going to pay for the interference.

Before she could get to her knees, Delia pounced on top. The stomp laid the cop out flat. With no small amount of vicious joy, the assassin pressed her heel into her new victim's stomach.

Deputy Roscoe screamed in pain. The shards beneath must have been puncturing her skin like a dozen little knives. Delia could see the fear and anguish on the other's features. Twisted satisfaction accompanied the raising of the machete to attack.

That was as far as Delia got.

An acute pain in the small of her back froze her in place. Nauseating copper spread in her mouth. She glanced down to see the end of a blade sticking out of her torso. She touched the point in shock, not believing reality.

With a slick crunch, the steel was pulled free. Not able to feel her limbs anymore, she fell back into waiting arms. Qrow was now cradling her defenseless body. He had dropped his blood-stained weapon to hold her.

In better times, she would have expected a quip to defuse the tension. He would say 'How did my big sword feel inside you?' before having a laugh. A crass gag for a defeated foe. That was not what happened. Instead, she was treated to a more sobering sight.

Qrow was crying.

Not incidental tears from her previous dirty tactics. Real tears. Over her. Someone who did not deserve them. She wished she could take it all back. He did not deserve guilt over this. But she was forced to watch as he lost his composure.

This was a cruelty unlike any other.

Her eyes closed to spare herself. Instead, she drifted back to a vision of a silver haired babe. One she would never see again. She was so sorry to have failed him.

The father of her child had taken everything. Her dignity. Her child. Even her semblance. The bastard would get away with it now.

The boy was so young when he had been snatched away. Would he even remember her? Remember how much he was loved and wanted? Or would she always be some phantom who did not protect him when he needed her? What chance did he stand in this world all on his own when surrounded by monsters?

My sweet little Mercury.

And then Delia was gone.

Chapter Next: Under the Cover of Darkness