I: If It Wasn't for Bad Luck

Fear gripped Huang as he paced the room and thought about his dwindling options.

A desk he had been tinkering at was cluttered with half empty magazines and loose bullets. His shaky hands had spilled lubricant everywhere while readying the shotgun he now carried. The keyboard for the security terminal was sticky with a dark grease from his frantic typing.

Flaxen hair that was usually immaculately slicked back was now unruly and stuck up. His baby blue and white leisure suit had pits stained yellow from stress. The two-handed heater in his hand felt heavy and inadequate.

Much like himself.

Taking deep breaths to calm down, 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 instead left it behind. It would only get in the way.

Turning off the lone fluorescent overhead, the moonlight from the barred windows ten feet atop the building side let him see in the darkness. He would have given anything to be able to escape through those panes. Instead, the 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 around his collar. The item would not fit around his sausage fingers, so he bought a matching chain to keep it close. The ring was a simple thing that had been in the family for generations. Besides the money, it was the one keepsake the old man had left him before he died.

Huang used the heirloom to remember better times. Back when he was a child, the old man would thump him on his head with his ring finger when he was up to no-good. Reminiscing always brought him comfort in trying times. Tonight, he would be relying on those recollections to bring him strength.

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.

The picture showed what was left of his defenses. It was a sorry situation they were all in. 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 matching shades to become more comfortable. Huang would usually berate them for breaking the dress code while on the job, but he could not 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. Such weaponry could even the odds. There were certainly enough of them crammed into the many boxes that filled the impromptu bunker.

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

They were too complicated to learn how to use now. Instead, he was left to stew in his own juices. 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. His contacts had located a buyer for the stash of stolen weapons, ammo, and drones. A syndicate known as the Duma were very interested in the swag liberated from their homeland of Atlas.

Why wouldn't they have been? Atlas weaponry of this caliber was beyond anything that the wannabe government-in-exile had at their disposal. The cache originally belonged to the best of the best of Atlas special forces. Money alone could not buy the tools of a Specialist. Legally speaking, anyway.

A bag woman for the Duma had dropped by the warehouse early that morning to examine the goods and authorize a deal. That woman was an unusual one. She had insisted that they all refer to her as Countess. Oddity aside, that was not a problem. He would have called 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 guards moved some of the drones into a van with plans to smuggle them back to their comrades across the border. When the heat died down in a week or so, they could move on the rest of the stockpile.

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 this score.

She deserved the advanced pay. This transaction was going to make Huang a big shot in the family business. There was more potential profit here than what they had earned over the last six months. His new connections to the Duma would at least net him a seat at the table.

In a few years, he could have even surpassed his uncle as the new head honcho. His future looked bright. He should have known better. Nothing was ever that easy. After the deal was when everything went pear-shaped.

First, two of his drug runners missed their handoffs. This was not particularly alarming because they were a couple of teenaged fresh faces. They were most likely sleeping off a bad hangover. There would need to be a punishment handed out, but there was no reason to get too uptight.

Soon after, a new warning sign emerged. The runners' handler, a veteran named Browne, missed a meeting with a supplier. That was when they knew something was wrong. Browne was notorious for punctuality. If he was also missing, there was a serious problem.

Huang assumed a police raid must have grabbed the three. As such, he dispatched Sawyer to the local precinct at noon to ask around about the wayward employees. He had confidence the lawyer could find them. 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?"

"Maybe they are trying to sweat them out. Make them turn on us for racketeering."

Sawyer had laughed at the notion. If anyone else had done that, Huang would have had them beaten to a pulp. Luckily for the attorney, he had earned the privilege with his hard work.

"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 youngsters are know-nothings and Mr. Browne knows not to talk. He has hazard pay for this kind of situation. They must be somewhere else."

Huang did not feel as sure, but he trusted the man knew what he was talking about. The lawyer said he would go check the other precincts in case there was a filing error. Those happened from time to time. 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 for a better contract, Huang called the bag woman using his burner Scroll to lodge a complaint. He was going to let her have it when she answered the video call. A million words, most of them obscene, would have spilled from his mouth at the so-called Countess.

When the call was answered, he instead saw blackness and heard heavy breathing on the other end. At first, he did not understand what was going on. Then he overheard the woman pleading for help. She was sobbing, a noise he did not know she could make. Huang immediately hung up, dropped the Scroll, and stomped on it for good measure. He decided it was time to go to the mattresses.

And so, he instructed his guys to retreat and regroup to the warehouse he was storing the weapons at. Huang had the building 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 had answered the order.

If he could last until morning, Huang thought he might be able to get reinforcements from his uncle. Maybe he could reason with whoever was after him and offer the weapons as a trade. No amount was worth this. Failing that, he would try to get out of the Kingdom of Vale entirely.

Huang started to doze off in the chair. He felt the adrenaline high from a tense day begin to fade. If he rested his eyes, his sleep deprived mind argued, he might be able to think more clearly.

If only this were a nightmare I could wake from.

Closing his eyes, he focused on the past by rubbing the chain. The meditation finally brought his heart back to a steady pace. With that, he felt sleep overtake him. He slumbered with an uncertain future.

〇-〇-〇

A reddish moon peaked over Vale.

This was a sign for Officer Shoat of the local police department to hit his usual beat of patrolling down Lime street to the docks. His cruiser sat at the top of the street near a cozy flower shop. They had just closed for the night, but the fragrant aromas persisted, making it his favorite spot to park.

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 cooling light breeze he instead experienced brushed up his brown hair.

His evening so far had 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.

Whistling a shanty to forget his troubles, Shoat stopped at the Nuts to That! donut shop for a bear claw and coffee. After about a year of this schedule, he was still not quite used to sleeping during the day and working at night. The sugar and caffeine helped him get through it.

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. It figured. Cops often got that reaction. Even the good ones.

At the checkout counter, his special issued communication Scroll began to vibrate. While asking for patience from the clerk, he pulled the gadget from his pocket. The screen read that there was a new all-points bulletin issued from central of the highest priority.

Opening the message, Shoat was greeted with the image of a person on the display. The face of the individual held 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. He immediately clicked on it to bring up its contents.

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 donut 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 taking 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 younger, his grandmother would tell him and his siblings' spooky stories about nights like this. Under this color of moonlight, she said, an unseen deluge of blood would spill. Only in the morning would the deeds done at night become evident.

Shivering at the memory, Shoat read the synopsis on the front page again. All the information could be condensed down to three worrisome lines. This chunk of information alone would have everyone in his profession on edge until the criminal was caught.

Name: Qrow Branwen

Occupation: Huntsman

Status: Rogue

〇-〇-〇

Huang awoke to gunfire.

Scrambling to his feet, he turned to face the closed-circuit feed on the monitor. The screen was filled with nothing but static. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the window above him exploded inwardly, showering him with cubes of glass.

He raised his piece at the new opening before cursing at his stupidity. Nothing could get past the bars. It was too small and high up. Whatever was coming for him would do so through the door. Even as he figured this out, howls of pain and rage came from the other side.

Huang needed more 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 he had witnessed before his nap. Then everything changed.

The men were alert when a semi-truck with an attached trailer approached the entrance to the warehouse. The black-tinted windshield made it impossible to see who was inside. It came to a full stop a few feet from where his wise guys stood.

Tommy Two-Guns was the first to approach slowly. His machine-pistols were raised and ready. Huang saw the way his fingers twitched in agitation. Oddly, he lowered the weapons and stepped up to the driver's side. Reaching in through the window, he seemingly turned off the truck. Apparently, 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 figure was that the Specialists had figured out that he had stolen the weapons. This was too organized to be anything less than a government operation. Although, that really did not fit either. He did not think that Vale would allow a foreign government to operate inside their borders. Allies or not, the local Council representatives would have insisted Atlas let the local police handle finding the thieves.

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 or whoever 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. So much was happening that Huang could not focus.

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.

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

There was no reply.

He stared at the door waiting for something to happen. Anything. A black shape blocked out the red light for a second, prompting him to unload a shell in that direction. His terrible aim only managed to hit sheet metal right below the window. The echo from the shot in the enclosed space nearly deafened him.

Maybe it was a bird? Or was it a distraction?

The gang leader was tired of the uncertainty. He approached the entrance and unbolted the gate. Opening the left door, he pulled his gun up and pointed out at an empty night. Scanning the outside with an itchy trigger finger, he found nothing except for the truck from the video.

None of his men were around. Not even their dead 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 scattered shell casings from their machine guns on the gravel. That was somehow even freakier.

Squinting at the eighteen-wheeler, he tried to make out the markings on the hood. At last, he found that it read Mantle Courier. That was unanticipated and sent his mind racing at the implications.

Isn't that a Duma owned company?

He could not dwell for too long. A hand suddenly gripped Huang's shoulder. With a yelp, he was pulled back inside the building and thrown to the floor. The shotgun flew from his hand and slid across the concrete floor.

Crawling after his only chance of salvation, he was soon stopped by a boot on the back of his neck. Huang was forced to kiss the surface below him from the pressure. The boot was removed and then slid under his belly. The steel toe dug into his skin, forcing him to roll over and look up at the ceiling.

A demon with red eyes now stood over him.

"Hey there friend." It spoke with a deep, masculine, voice. The stench of death radiated from the devil. An absurdly long, bladed instrument was balanced comfortably on its shoulders. "I think we need to have words."

Huang's scream echoed in the metal enclosure.

〇-〇-〇

The rumbling of the motorcycle onto the embankment was only matched by the tune that was blaring out over the speakers. The woman driving the vehicle was barely listening. It was only on to keep her awake.

"And that was Pretend We're Dead by the unapologetic band known only as L8." The sounds of a heavy guitar lick faded as the speaker spun his yarn. "Next up on Radio Free Relay is a little tune that your pal, DJ Yell3r, picked up while…"

The disc jockey's speech was cut off when she stopped and shut the engine down. She easily found what she was looking for. A white tent had been propped up. It really stood out as a landmark on the beach before her. She dismounted her machine 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 beams from above to work with, 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. They were careful to both be ready and to not accidentally shoot any friendlies.

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

The woman who called out to her stood near the tent while two others in similar uniforms to those conducting the search sat together a significant distance away. She placed one hand on top of the brick top hat she wore and jogged to the congregation near where the water met sand. Silica crunched under her boots with each step forward. Cyan approached the woman first to learn more.

"Maggie. Do we know what happened?"

"The Medical Examiner is in there now. We should have a preliminary analysis ready for you soon."

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 to her chest 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. 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?" Cyan whispered, recognizing the other female.

"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 to help muffle the sounds. Cyan led Maggie to the other side of the tent to give them more privacy. It also allowed her to ask more direct questions.

"What else can you tell me about the deceased?"

"I saw a bit before the tent went up. This could be bad."

"Worse than a corpse washing up on a beach?"

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

Cursing under her breath, Cyan tried one more time to call the Sheriff. 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 be the one to make the decisions tonight.

The tent flap opened. A man in white medical scrubs exited the structure. His hands and feet were covered in a blue wrap. 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 badge pinned to the band of the hat. Teal eyes reflected an obvious doubt. Everything seemed heavier. Except for her head.

That felt light.

〇-〇-〇

The inside lights were thrown on, disorienting Huang as his eyes adjusted to the sudden flash. He now sat in the same chair he was in previously. This time, however, it was in front of the terminal desk. The monster was on the other side, watching his movements.

Qrow Branwen, the man Huang had hoped to never meet, was seated with steepled hands in front of a stubbled face. A white dress shirt hung loosely over a black tank top on the wiry Huntsman. His red-lined cape flowed over his shoulders and the back of the chair. The sword from before leaned against the wall. It was seemingly as tall as Huang was.

"So, Han…" He began.

"It's, uh, Huang, 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 cockroach does in their spare time. Compared to what I normally deal with, finding and dismantling your little 'criminal empire' was a waste of my time and energy."

Huang's eyes began searching for anything to help him get away. 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 people?"

"With that said, you did not really give me a choice in the matter." Branwen ignored the question.

Suddenly, he reached below the table. Fearing what he would come up with, Huang 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 screen, expecting something to appear.

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."

Huang again eyed the pistol on the desk. This was his chance to turn the encounter around. Leaning forward, he reached for the gun slowly. He had to quickly retract his arm when an image of a teal room appeared on the screen.

"There we go. Now check this out." The Huntsman said as he sat back up and hit play on his Scroll.

The picture began to move as a dull buzz came out over the audio. Suddenly, a man in white and grey was tossed into the scene by an unknown force. Small cuts in the fabric ran up and down the back of his torn uniform. The man tried to push himself up but collapsed.

A caped figure followed them. Although their 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.

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 to 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. The maniac clapped his hands and laughed truly, deeply, and darkly.

"I got to say, that was a good impression of me. No notes!" He rose from his seat. Picking up his blade, he rounded the desk and approached Huang, clicking a button on the grip.

The Huntsman pulled Huang to his feet and twirled him in place. He came to a stop facing the opposite direction of the Nightmare. Huang felt the evil presence directly behind him. His fears were confirmed when Branwen spoke into his ear.

"Well, maybe one." A cold sharpness pressed against the apple in the gangster's throat. Warm breath tickled the back of his neck. "I don't leave shallow cuts on someone when using my scythe. I remove body parts."

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 one. Then, as fast as it was there, the curved blade was taken away, 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. He moved on over to another box.

As the Monster talked and refused to pay him any mind, Huang slid over to the desk. Ice filled his veins and sweat poured down his face as he inched closer to the pistol. There were murmurs coming from his stomach that he feared would give him away.

"Talked to some of the guards at the depot. They put me on to a rough looking customer they saw talking to the guy who was killed. Said his name was Bean? I think? The names 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 enough. Shame I had to cut them loose."

Huang thought for sure that any moment the walking disaster would turn around and end him. That moment never came. Instead, he was able to palm the pistol. It was sticky from the grease he had used on the shotgun but otherwise felt operational. His blood pressure increased as he mentally prepared for what he was going to do. He would only have 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. Huang could hear the nails pop as the Huntsman began to tug at it. With one more stiff pull, the wood gave way. Dropping the siding to the ground, a bit of dust was kicked up into the air.

Inside were revealed to be several metal boxes stamped with the seal of the Kingdom of Atlas. It was at that moment that Huang made his move. He lifted the gun to point it at his enemy. Seeing the movement in the corner of his eye, the dead man turned around.

Not fast enough! Huang screamed internally as he pulled the trigger.

Instead of firing, the gun's hammer jammed with a click. He panicked and tried again. Pulling the trigger did nothing. Instead, the chamber began to billow a dark smoke.

All at once, roaring flames erupted from the pistol and licked his arm. Huang dropped it with a squeal. He began waving his arm in the air to put out the fire on his jacket. The blaze 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. The 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. Instead of a painful stab, he felt a tug around his neck.

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

Huang opened his lids to the sight of his grandfather's ring being pulled up on the edge of the Huntsman's weapon. The chain was severed, tossing the heirloom into the air. With a flourish, Branwen snatched it out of the air with unnatural grace. He then 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. There will be plenty of twists and turns. See you next week!

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