Before anything else, I own nothing but the original characters. Any content created by RT, or any mentioned artist belongs to them, and them alone. Rest in peace Monty, your vision lives on in us all.

WHITE TRAILER

"And what of that balance? Where can such ideals be found in the hearts of men, so hateful, that they embrace the darkness within them?"

9th of May 79th year after the war.

A small radio hung from a tree stand in the Forever Fall Forest, singing an old song from the war, one not many would consider appropriate anymore. "Look away, look away, look away, Dixie's land." The white sniper sang. Thin cigarillo between his lips, and "Pride of the East," his model of 74 pre Great War falling block rifle in his hands, he sat in wait, his dirtied and greyed outfit was not even remotely concealed in the bright red wood's surrounding him. On the other side of a river to his east, there was a small encampment of animals, too far away for them to notice him.

Placing his cigarillo on the edge of the tree stand, the white sniper took note of the wind, and then looked through the brass scope that ran the length of his rifle. Cheek resting on the padded leather, eye just close enough so that no edge of the sight picture was black, pad of the finger on the trigger, pick from the inside of the herd, the biggest buck of the group, let the sentries on the outside think they are safe, line up a shot through the heart, adjust for wind and distance, exhale, squeeze.

The thunderous boom of a large rifle echoed across the forest, and without so much as a fight, one of the Faunus in the center of camp slumped over, bleeding from both ends of a bullet wound, dead, face first into the fire he'd set. In a panic, the rest of his brothers and sisters hurried about, grabbing weapons and scrambling to what they assumed was cover. They knew the shot came from somewhere west of them, but couldn't pinpoint it. With another thunderous boom, another faunus fell dead, again a bullet piercing their aura then their heart. It was official, they were under attack. Moving low and slow, a mouse faunus crawled towards the radio to inform their leader of the situation, and ask for help from the party due to unload the train.

"Rodents…" Pale-Lee said, spotting the mouse inching towards the radio. With another loud boom, that made three members of the White Fang dead. Three was enough, three was how many he promised to kill that day… Maybe four would do better. He would come back later when their commander or second in command had returned… Whoever they might be… Thankfully the White Fang had a tendency to show off their leadership, which meant any time Pale went on one of his little hunting trips in Anima, he didn't have to put together hit packets, or know their names or faces, or even stalk his prey for more than a minute to find out who the NCOs and officers were, adding more notches to his rifle… By his count, 20 notches… There were plenty of them to cull… Plenty of animals to extract his vengeance upon. Climbing down from the hastily built tree stand, Pale took his radio off the stand, turned it off, and got to walking.

Following the river south, then west as it split, he continued towards the coastal agricultural village just outside of Vale he'd called home as of late. There was a bridge where the river ran under a set of railroad tracks. No doubt the animals had robbed the dust shipment due from Atlas. Pale crossed the tracks, and found the footpath he'd taken out to the Fang Camp. Whistling a tune as he walked, Pale made his way to town, and went to the inn he'd be staying at. Waving casually at the Faunus man at the front desk, Pale went over to the bar out of the desk attendant's line of sight and then sneered. Three kills called for whisky, and Pale had turned 17 that day. Old enough to drink in Vale.

Half in a drunken stupor, Pale made his way up to his room, and struggled to unlock his door, until it opened from the other side, and to his surprise a black haired girl appeared. "Can I help you?" She asked. At first Pale thought she was housekeeping, but then he remembered the inn didn't provide that service while rooms were being rented. The second thought was that she was some sort of escort, mostly by her clothing, but nevermind the fact he hadn't called a prostitute over, she was kind of cute.

"How you doin'?" Pale asked, leaning against the door frame. By that point he looked more closely at the room number and then chuckled. "Wrong room." He said with a slur, before backing up, bumping into the wall, and then heading next door. Once inside his actual room, he stripped down, passed out on the bed, and wouldn't wake up until noon the next day.

The sting of sunlight met the young man's steely gunmetal blue eyes, and with a groan, Pale rolled out of bed, then looked at the clock. Grumbling that he'd missed noon, the perfect time to go out and hunt the Fang. Then he remembered something… Something from the night before… "Fang… Belladonna… Shiiiiiiiiiit." He muttered, pulling himself to his feet. Of all the kingdoms, all the inns in those kingdoms, all the rooms in those inns in those kingdoms, Pale was less than 20 feet away from one of Anima's most wanted terrorists, and a top ten on his personal kill list for the fang members he bothered remembering the names and faces of.

Pulling "Guerrilla Warfare" the model of 58, 6 shot revolver out of it's place in the stock of "Pride of the East," Pale, went next door, and knocked hard three times. Receiving no response. He bent down, and fiddled with the lock. Not a master of subversion tactics, and still hung over, Pale gave up on forcing the door open, went back to his room, leaned out the window, and saw she had left her own window opened.

Shimmying out onto the ledge of the building, Pale managed to make his way inside, and it looked as if the Belladonna had checked out. Overturning the mattress and rooting through all of the drawers got him no information, so he looked in the trash can, again finding nothing. Looking outside, he saw the cleaning lady taking out the trash from the rooms, tossing two small bags in the dumpster. Sighing to himself, Pale, waited until the cleaning lady was gone, then tossed himself into the garbage container. The two bags were right on top, so at least there wasn't too much garbage to sift through.

Ripping the bags open he was met with a few candy wrappers, a crumpled up newspaper, a tampon, used at that, and what looked like sketches from a notebook… Erotic sketches but sketches none the less. It was an easily recognized figure. "Taurus." Pale spat after saying that name. It was Belladonna's trash all right, but the only bit of information Pale was able to get out of his little dumpster dive was that Blake Belladonna had thrown out a pamphlet for Beacon Academy along with everything else. Sitting back in the pile of filth for a second, Pale pondered on that. "Fang's trying to infiltrate a huntsman academy… Shit looks like I'm going to school." Pale said, before a passing hobo looked at him, and laughed. Pale sighed, reminding himself that he was in fact, hung over, locked out of his room, in a dumpster, in his underwear, and his prosthetic leg had fallen off in Belladonna's room. "Fuck."