So uh… been a while, hasn't it? Look, I don't really have an excuse. Explanations, but no excuses really, so instead I'm just going to jump into this. I'll figure out what to do with my other stories later, but for now, I want to just put pen to paper… figuratively, anyway, and start publishing again. So uh, enjoy.
Obligatory covering my ass: I own nothing but my oc's. Any similarities between my oc's and oc's of another person will be coincidental. Any similarities between my oc's and real people is also coincidental (unless it obviously isn't. There will be swearing, adult themes (no sex, but mentions of it), and violence with mentions of other things that may trigger you. So uh, heads up.
One last thing! There is a lot of contractions and slang, so if English is not your first language (or southern talk ain't your style), I do apologize, but I do still hope you can pull some enjoyment from the story.
Without further ado, I hope you enjoy!
The desert air was dry and hot in a way that squeezed every drop of moisture from your pores and left you panting like a bitch in heat. Wooden buildings were sun-bleached, pale imitations of their darker cousins in the forests thousands of miles away, and chips of paint rolled with the tumble weeds, lost to a desert just as vast as the ocean, with just as little potable water.
Despite the fact that the earth below was less sand and more cracked, dry earth, it was all a desert still, though it was more often called a wasteland than anything else so grand.
The Vacuo Wasteland, officially uninhabitable, yet all too inhabited by those who needed to stay out of the reach of Johnny Law's stern gaze and long arm. Men, women, those who are both and those who are neither, plus all their brats and all the brats they cooked up, you could find 'em all hiding behind the safety of their own grit, spit, and the .357 they keep pointed at the door.
Reprobates of all ages, all genders, no genders, and where each was out for their own.
Home to no good man.
Home… to one John White.
Least that's what he called himself these days. Used to be Jonathan Evergreen at one point, another time he went by Juan Moreno, but for now he was still just John.
Y' see, Johnny boy here was one of a kind in his own special way. It wasn't the blonde hair he kept short, nor the chips of sky he had for eyes. Wasn't his tall gait, or the way he carried hisself. No ser, what made him special wasn't something he had, no no.
No, it was somethin' he was lackin'.
Aura.
Y' see, in the fine land of Vacuo, hell, on the planet Remnant, each living thing had a soul.
'Cept for Grimm, but that's somethin' else entirely.
No, every animal that walked the earth had a soul, and it showed its lil' self in the form of what the people of Remnant called Aura. Made em' tougher, faster, 'n' stronger 'en they had any right bein', least in John's point of view.
The average person had aura, and there were even a few who had it "unlocked".
While the average person was better at things than they should be, someone who's had their soul brought out via the not-so-secret method of "unlocking" could do special things.
These people were basically superheros, or in some cases, supervillains.
In John's eyes, they were super-idiots, but again, that was mostly 'cause he didn't have any.
Nope, John here had no residual Aura what-so-ever. He compensated by being in better shape than any Aura-having-shmuck he ever met, but if he met one of 'em super-idiots?
He'd be screwed in a fistfight.
Hell, even bullets wouldn't do nothin' but crumple after chippin' a little at their Aura.
That's what they wanted to think, anyhow.
Right now, John was restin' his hide on top of a buildin' in the center of a small, nameless town, watching through the scratched lens of a scope as a new feller in town got settled into the inn. The good for nothin' of course had a woman in each arm and was clearly drunk, if his swayin' was anything to go by. On the other hand, the females in the equation looked put off by his false swagger.
Didn't matter much to him anyway.
John glanced down at the paper tucked under his arm, the tattered edges of the yellowed poster lit by the full moon above as his gloved hand traced the name emboldened on its face.
Wanted: C. Hobbes. Dead or Alive
It was a spittin' image of the fucker making cozy in the inn, and if that wasn't enough, the now shirtless man had what looked like a hunk'a metal stickin' outta his chest right where his heart should be, glowing a pale blue.
Least, that's what John thought it was, but seein' as how his scope was a piece of shit, that's what he's going to assume the glow was and that it wasn't the fucker's dick.
It'd be really, really funny, but also really, really gross.
Still, the local sheriff mentioned how the bounty 'ad somethin' or other stickin' out 'is chest, accordin' to reports from civvies 'at seen 'im. Ol' Hobbes prolly thought he was real smart, comin' 'ere to the ass end o' nowhere, but to piss someone off enough to get a bounty on 'is head was pointedly not a smart move.
It didn't really matter to John, he only cared about finding the right moment to put a round right through the fucker's skull.
Which was right about…
Now.
Red mist filled his scope, and a millisecond later the sound of a custom round was echoing across the horizon. He was spared a glance by the few onlookers about this time of night, and more than a few windows would be lit in the coming moments, but that wasn't his business.
Now, the funny thing is, most'a civilization runs off of what's called Dust, a pseudo-scientific substance that can be found charged with one of a variety of elements plus gravity, though that shit was extra 'spensive.
Anyway, this shit could react as it was supposed to, fire dust making fire, 'lectric dust making 'lectricity, the works, but if you put a bit o' Aura into the fuckers, then they go from firecrackers to fireworks. Efficient, 'specially to super-idiots
Thing was, because Aura worked so well, the Dust rounds that many a super-idiot liked to use would react to the passive Aura that animals, humans, 'n' faunas 'ad and blow up before actually hitting the target. Flashy, and did a chunk'a damage to their Aura, sure, but actually made 'em pretty shitty at actually killing people.
Perfect if your job is 'splodin' the soulless creatures of myth, less so if you have a person like Hobbes that needs to be dealt wit'.
So a not-so-little man by the name of John got to tinkerin' way back when, so far back it was before he even done got stuck in this waste, and found the perfect mix of potassium nitrate, sulfur, and ground charcoal to launch a metal bullet without usin' any Dust what-so-ever. Enough Aura will stop it, 'course, but to someone not really expectin' it?
Well, Hobbes can attest to the results.
It was genius, in John's not so humble opinion, and he's sure as Grimm that those on the end of one of 'em bullets would agree, could they talk.
Though that wasn't really his problem.
No ser, 'cause what was his problem was the bounty pendin' 'is collection, the bills to pay, and one unhappy inn-keep to talk reason into.
Shouting was all John really heard when he got to ground level, and on a quiet night like this, it may as well have been a few feet in front of him 'stead of the several yards there were between him and the inn. A few yards closer, and the doors swung open as a man went tumbling out of it.
Real scrawny fellow, Faunus too if the rat tail tucked 'tween his legs were anythin' to go by. Johns bent over 'n' grabbed the man by the pit, helpin' 'im up whilst cocking an eyebrow at 'em, the question of why he had to even do so left unasked.
"Thanks, pard'," the man muttered to 'imself as he dusted off his poncho an' righted the shawl wrapped 'round 'is head. "though the racist running the place won't be so grateful."
Blue eyes widened then narrowed, and John tipped his own hat to the Faunus before headin' inside. He ain't never understood the reason for racism in the first place, 'ell, most folk didn't even bother with it around the wastes. Every now and then though, you'll get some real pieces of work settin' up shop around 'ere, including men like the inn-keep.
Men that really ought to know better than to piss off someone in a land where everyone and they brats got a loaded gun and the only safety is they finger.
He waltzed in, dust blowin' in from behind as he surveyed the place. Faunus in loosely wrapped cloths looked ready to kill the inn-keep, hands by their waists for some, fists balled and ready to fly for others. The inn-keep looked just about ready to bust heads hisself, and was clearly gonna pull somethin' from under the counter.
A shame he had to end the party so quick.
A flash o' light, a sound that had e'ryone ducking under the tables and coverin' they ears, and one inn-keep keeling over later, and everyone had eyes on John.
"You." He pointed a gloved finger at the only visible barmaid, whose striped hair and short tail stood on end when he did.
"M-me-"
"Yes, you," He said sternly, meeting her fearful gaze with one filled with spite. Everyone in the bar tensed, some reaching for holsters both visible and others for somethin' tucked beneath their belt buckle. A few tense moments later, and John broke out in a grin.
"Congratulations miss, you are now the fine owner of this establishment!" He proclaimed, smile holding as the tension in the bar slowly melted away, a wariness still holdin' everyone as they relaxed back into their seats. Situation defused, he sauntered up to the bar, dust fallin' off 'is boots as the maid serving him a drink that he oh so graciously accepted before meanderin' up the stairs.
Countin' the doors as he passed, he finally stopped at the thirteenth room of the second floor and meandered on in. It never got less grisly, and it sure as hell never became pleasant, but a job's a job's a job.
Was he repeating himself? He ain't even drank nothin' yet.
He shook his head, settin' the drink on the nightstand and gettin' to work. Y'see, to turn in a bounty one would need proof of the deed. Sheriff's would only accept the body itself, an' whether that body could still move was up to the poster, the hunter, or both. Right now John was tasked with wrappin' it up in cloth and tyin' off the ends, but the damn piece of metal in the fucker's chest kept gettin' in the damn way..
He reminisced a lil' about how Hobbes' actually got the metal stuck in his chest for a moment. Supposedly, he left a mister or missus awfully disappointed one night, an' he woke up with the damn thing stuck there. He remembered one guy saying that the feller he was railing was actually part machine with one position leadin' to another and…
He shook his head. With Hobbes wrapped up prettier than the queen's birthday present, he tossed 'im over his shoulder, counting several lien from his pocket as he walked out, nodding an apology towards the scared ladies on his way out and thinkin', man is this fucker heavy.
He stepped down the stairs, people clearing the way as he made his way to the bar where he slapped down the money he had been countin'.
"Cleanin' costs, 'n' a lil' extra for the winda." He said with a smirk and a wink towards the cute barmaid before he finally made his way out. There was a sheriff's office 'round the corner, and the sooner he was rid of Hobbes the better.
'Course, that was 'til someone grabbed him by the bicep, halting his progress.
He dropped Hobbes in the dirt, the metal in his chest stickin' up to the night sky as his trusty knife practically flew to his palm and was pointed at the rat faunus from earlier.
He blinked, as did the faunus who slowly raised his hands in the air. John blew a breath he'd been holding out between his teeth as he tucked away the knife, holding out his empty hand towards the faunus, who met it after a moment of hesitation. John smiled, but kept his hand close to his waist.
"Sorry pard', thought you was one of his friends." He nodded his heads towards the body of Hobbes, who thankfully did not respond.
The man chuckled "No, no. A man like him is definitely no friend of mine. But you," he motioned towards John as the rest of the faunus from earlier stepped out from the bar door behind them, all dressed in the same linens as the rat faunus, now that he'd thunk about it. "You are a friend to us all."
"I prefer to call it 'being a decent person,' but sure, friend don't sound too bad." He said slowly as his hand found its way away from where he kept his knife. He couldn't win this fight, not that he wanted one anyhow.
"Good, good, I am Oro, and we," he motioned towards the other faunus, who nodded as his hand swept over them. "have no home; no name besides the one that we choose. We are our own people, restricted by no borders and only our laws. Bound by our own blood and the soul of the desert."
"Wow… that's pretty fuckin' edgy." Foot met mouth as the gathered people glared at him. A bead of sweat dripped down his brow, and he gulped as the moment dragged on until finally, one of the people in the back started to chuckle. Like dominoes, they all started chuckling until they all devolved into laughing fits as the rat faunus himself chuckled a bit.
"Yes, yes, edgy it may be, it is no less true. You are?" He said with a smile, and John wiped the sweat from his brow before matching his grin.
"John White, pleasure to be a friend."
"A good night to ya, ma'am!" John called and waved over his shoulder as he walked out the sheriff's office. A nice lady she was, handled the bounty with an ease that spoke of experience. Of time, blood, 'n' sweat either lockin' away crim'nals, or diggin' 'em graves. Wadn't any o' John's business though, no ser. He had his lien, now all's he had to do was restock an' move on.
After a drink with his new friends, of course.
Oro waved from his spot against the wall, relaxed as can be in the night air. John tipped 'is hat at the man an' leaned up on the open spot on the wall next to 'im. No words were spoken, even as John shook a can of spit in front of Oro, offering him some of the braided tobaccoleaves. Oro shook his head, and shrugging, John pulled a bit out and popped it in his mouth, lettin' himself relax under the light of that shattered moon.
They sat there for a while, watchin' as the few townsfolk still out and about slowly retreated to their homes, staggerin' an' swayin' in a wind not present. For now, life may be tough, but it was good.
Quiet.
Course, Oro had to go and break that silence.
"You in need of new work?" The faunus asked, an' John felt his eyebrow rise as he met Oro's serious gaze.
"I will be, come 'morrow. You offerin'?" John replied, spittin' in the dirt road. "Won't be cheap, but as a friend, I'll ask the boss about gettin' ya a discount. So long as they don't put up too much'a fight, that is."
"It's not a hit, unfortunately," Oro shook his head, though John could pick out how he was lookin' about all careful like beneath the shawl on his head. "It's an escort."
John took a quick glance around, strainin' his ears a lil'. "That ain't too troublesome, where too?" Oro leaned in mighty close, and it was still hard to hear the man when even the crickets seemed to shut up for 'im.
"Out of the Wastes, out of Vacuo"
John's eyes widened to the size o' dinner plates before they narrowed. He nodded slowly, tipping his hat downwards as his gaze flickered to every shadow in earshot. This was now some serious business. One last look around and he motioned for Oro to follow him as he spit out the tobacco an' kicked a bit o' dirt over it.
They made their way down the road all casual like, keeping their glances subtle as they mosied on down to where Oro was stayin'; a large tent outside of town. The faunus nodded to his brethren as they walked in, who all nodded in return as John and Oro made their way into a back room. Oro took with John sittin' across from him, takin' in the plethora of nick-knacks scattered about before settling his eyes on Oro's own golden pair.
"Who's the escort?"
"Friend o' mine."
"How soon they need to be gone?"
"Yesterday."
"How fast can they move by foot?"
"Not very."
"How many people are after 'em?"
"Two at most."
"The tail's got Aura?"
"Unlocked, very familiar."
"The capital an option?"
"Nope."
John nodded, eyes closed as his chin fell to his chest. Two super-idiots were at one point on the ass of his ward, a ward that must have some lingerin' wound if they were slow enough on foot for it to be mentioned, which of course meant that he'd have to deal with both Grimm and the local wildlife. The capital should still be on the other side of the Dunes, but even if it were an option, crossing that sandy ocean would be just as troublesome as crossing the canyon between the Wastes and Vale…
John sighed. "I don't think-"
"Three-hundred K, another two-hundred to be paid by the ones receiving you two."
"We'll leave tomorrow."
Oro grinned a snide smile, and one broke out on John's face at the sight.
"You don't even know her name, hell, you didn't even know it was a woman." Oro chuckled.
"For 500 K, I'd escort an emo through a Beowolf den." John laughed out, and while their laughs settled, they shook calloused hands and both sighed as the tension was erased from their shoulders.
"Your ward will be ready to go tomorrow evening, so you have some time to prepare for the journey, friend." Oro said as he sobered from the laughing fit, though he was still far more lax than he was at the beginning of their talk. John nodded, beginning to think of just what he'd have to bring. He'd have to nab a wagon if he wanted to bring everything with, though he'd be better off destroying some of it and just bringing the essentials. Oh, not to mention food and water to last 'til the next town. The trail of wells don't start til' they're a mite closer to the edge of the wastes…
"Can I see the woman to be my ward?" John asked, and Oro shrugged in an affirmative fashion. They stood and made their way to a different portion of the tent, where some more people were lounging, they're shadowed eyes watchin' John's every step. Oro nodded to them, and John did the same as they walked in. Some tech was here and there, the scribbles upon which were undecipherable to John. A couple of what looked like cartoonishly big knives rested on the tabletop, along with a picture of her and some of her friends.
John nodded to himself in the entrance before leaving the room, his shoulder brushin' by the white cloak hangin' by the door.