I own nothing. Big surprise, all rights to the respective owners you all know the drill.

The apartment building is relatively intact, that fact paramount given the detritus and ruination surrounding the area. Whatever name this town was once known by is long forgotten to time. That and the apocalypse. Double glass doors stand a silent lonely vigil, over what was at one time a home for dozens of souls. Now however, it is little more than a place to find anything remotely of worth.

The hallways are quiet, and it would seem that he is alone. Perfect. Now to see if this place still has running water. Or maybe even electricity. Philip snorts. That'd be the day. Next thing you know he'd even find some toilet paper too. The front service desk is as good as any place to start. Rummaging through the drawers Philip finds nothing. The desk has already been picked clean long ago. "Gah. Whatever. This whole building has to have something of worth right?" Pushing away from the desk Philip shivers. It had started raining about an hour ago and his doubled-up T-shirts had been soaked through after only 20 minutes. The Dogman cloak was all fine and good, but it only covered one side at a time.

The first floor was almost entirely a bust, all the apartments having little of use. 108 had had a decent selection of shirts, but they were all double XL. Way too big. The stairs up to the next floor were creaky, and dry rotted. Why was Philip taking the stairs? Turns out that while this place did have electricity, the elevator was busted and stuck up on the fourth floor. The boards creak and groan under his weight, but they hold on the way up to the next floor. The first room on the right-hand side didn't have a door. Didn't have a wall either. In fact, the entire the room seemed to have been demolished with a prybar. That same prybar is embedded into the rotted corpse pinned to the wall on the opposite side. "Oh, hell." Philip gags, looking at the body. It's just a fucking KID!

Entering the room, he looks around, searching for any sort of answers. Approaching the body, he crosses around a couch. Slumped up against it is another body, this one far larger than the eight-year-old looking one pinned to the Freaking WALL! Philip takes a breath, ignoring the rank air. 'Calm. I need to calm myself. Figure it all out, then channel it into something productive.' The other body was a man and judging from the gaping wreckage that was once a ribcage he got blasted with a shotgun. Philip leans down checking the pockets on the corpse's pants. Decent blue jeans, all considered. But, there is a prize to be had within. In the back-left pocket is a small rectangular package, sealed and covered in plastic. An entire pack of cigarettes. With proper rationing this could last an entire week. But now? Pulling a lighter from one of his own pockets Philip fumbles open the package, pulling one thin tube out and setting it between his lips. The small sparks manage to barely catch aflame the cigarette. "Outa fluid. Shit. This always happens! Either I find more cigarettes and or matches and a lighter, but God forbid that I have both at the same time!" He sighs, exhaling a puff of smoke, the nicotine doing much to settle his nerves. He glances at the body pinned to the wall once more.

Cold rage burns inside his soul at the sight. He stumbles over to the body, the injury to his leg acting up again. 'Must have been more than a bruise. Minor fracture? Hell if I know. Will need to make a splint. Later.' Wrenching the metal bar from the wall causes the body to fall as well. As it slumps to the floor Philip catches a sight of green on the floor. His hand closes on a spent shell. 12 Gauge, bird shot. What a way to go. Scanning over the floor he finds three more empty shells. 'No other bodies. Where were his parents I wonder? Or perhaps that was once? The shotgun is missing either way.' He glances over at the other body maggots crawling in the hollow that was once a torso. 'Either way, the kid got one of them.' Philip looks at the prybar in his hands. As much as he wants to just… just tear this thing in half he hesitates. He lets out another puff of smoke, the cigarette about half gone. The dam thing is in pretty good shape. Peeling off his back pack he rummages around inside it. Pulling out a knotted rope woven from string and braided together for strength, he wraps it around the bar, securing it in place.

No matter how tainted it might be, to refuse gear of this caliber would be foolish. Putting the bandoliered apparatus through a belt loop he hangs it at his side, before setting the bag back on his back. A flash of pain, and a wince that seems to not be there follows. He reaches up to touch the cloth covering his… what was once his right eye. Now it was just ruined socket, covered with nothing but pain, and a scar that drags into his scalp. It seemed worse now than before. Almost as if, as if it were sparking? But why would it be doing that? What?

*POP*

Philip jolts awake. The library, Beacon, Ozpin. Remnant, Aura, the Fuanus, the Grimm, and Dust. Random-ass abilities that can break all known laws of physics being seen as normal. He pulls his face from the keyboard that he had fallen asleep on. He rubs his hand over the side of his face feeling the indentations from the keys. It was so much to take in. He shakes his head, trying to stir the sleep out. He tries to wipe the drool from his face, but his hand doesn't seem to want to respond very well. The shakes are back. 'Need a smoke. Where did they put my gear anyway? I know I had at least a dozen or so left.' He pushed himself away from the terminal, the piles of books around him teetering precariously with many lying opened and cross referenced with the others.

So many things that he had researched, and how long has that been? He glances over at one of the clocks on the walls. It reads 5 in the afternoon so that would make this, what 18 hours? And yet he's scarcely even scratched the surface of this world's knowledge. But that needs to be waylaid for now. Food is once again required. Easy access to such will be taken advantage of maliciously. Now where was that cafeteria located again? He takes a few steps over to the side, and glances around. Nobody seems to have even tried to come near him during his restless slumber. Good.

Disarming the noise traps around him he sighs. Old habits die hard, and it is always better to be safe than sorry. He touches the scar that runs under the metal plate affixed to his skull. That lesson came at a cost. He looks at the stacks of books so very primed to tip and fall at the slightest touch. Shaking his head, he looks at the covers at he begins putting them back on the shelves. 'Aura Manipulation for Dummies' 'Your Semblance and You!' 'Dust! What is it really?' 'Dust and how it changed the World' All so very full of information, yet little of it understood. A shame, but further study could yet bring about new revelations. 'At least I hope it does.' Philip thinks. 'None of this helps me if I am incapable of figuring it out.' With the last of the books placed upon shelves that he had gone through Philip leaves the Library.

Wandering the empty halls of Beacon Philip thinks on what it is he means to do. The wilderness seems a fair idea, after more research into the capabilities of the Grimm. It's not like that giant pig thing, er, Boarbatusk was that common a foe, was it? In either case the fact that he can do research is not going to be squandered. Half of any given fight is determined by who has the best preparations. Chance has a factor, and skill as well, not to mention luck, but one's gear and knowledge of the opponent can't be ignored.

And yet without proper kit an undertaking such as braving the wilds of Remnant like that would be suicide. Then again that's people said about the Allegan Fairgrounds. "Fucking Melonheads…" A spear made of broken glass and tied to a maple shaft with a torn off shirt sleeve worked then, but it might not suffice to kill Grimm any bigger than a Beowolf. His machete did fine, but that was an actual weapon he bought from the junk market outside the DMC gates. Maybe the headmaster would let him buy a weapon? 'He does run the school though. Maybe there is a forge here?' A low rumble makes the walls shake and small bits of dust (not to be confused with Dust) fall from the rafters above. 'But food first.'

After a meal of rather ludicrous proportions, Philip retraces his steps to Ozpin's office. The elevator is in the same place as before. He notices a call button opposite a voice thing. 'Never could remember what those bloody thing were called.' Pressing the button, he waits for a response.

"Yes? Mr. Kindred? Did you have more questions?" "Nah, just wanted to ask where all my stuff was put. I forgot about it before, that tends to happen sometimes, but where can I find my kit?" The loud static hides the thoughts of the mysterious man that lives in a tower. "You will find most of your gear didn't survive the fight with the Grimm, but all that we recovered is in the armory. I'll page Peter Port, one of the professors here, to show you to it. I'll also have him get you a scroll. If you are going to be here for a while the least that I can do to assist you is to supply you with one. And feel free to help yourself to some of simpler gear if you so choose, lest you be under equipped."

'More than I expected' Philip thinks. He presses the button again, "Thanks. I aim to find a way to repay you yet Headmaster. You've done more for me in the past, (what three days?) than anyone that I ever met out in the wastes I once called home." Turing away from the intercom, 'Oh yeah, it's called an intercom!' He moves over and eases into one of the chairs adjacent to the wall. 'one, two, three, four, five, six…'

'three-hundred-forty-six, three-hundred-forty-seven, and there he is. Oh, this man is fat.' Philip looks at who could only be this Port (Is that a running joke or is that the man's name? Never mind he'd never be in a running joke. The joke would be him running.) approaches. Grey hair parted down the middle, styled in a wave-like shape, and a giant mustache which hides his mouth. A dark burgundy suit with golden buttons and stitching sits atop his rotund frame. "What ho! You must be Philip. Pleased to meet you, young man." Port reaches out a hand to shake. Philip puts forth his own, noting the callouses on the older man's hands. "I'm think I'm 30 I'll have you know. So not that young, you geezer." Ports raises an eyebrow. "Banter already? Ah but you are a sharp one. Follow me then."

The large man sets off at fair speed, despite not seeming to do more than walk. "I say, you put up quite the fight against the Grimm before we pulled you out of the flames, so to speak. You are self-taught?" Philip shrugs. "More or less. Where I come from you either learned fast or died the same." Port shivers. "Yes, Ozpin forwarded to us a summarization of your," Here he puts up some air-quotes, disbelieving the tale. "adventures shall we call them." He waggles one eyebrow at Philip. "I'll get the truth out of you one day."

Philip glares at him. "I told nothing but the truth. If you choose to disbelieve me then may you proceed in ignorance!" he spits. Port backs up. "I was jesting. My word. I meant no offense Philip." Philip grunts.

"We are here anyway." Port motions to a large set of double doors, set in a reinforced frame. He pulls a small device from his pocket and hands it over to Philip. "This is a scroll. They are used for practically everything. They are a communication device, they can read your Aura levels, or at least the huntsman grade ones can. They can also…" Port pauses suddenly. Philip has the device open and is rapidly skimming over its functions. A small smile might have been seen, but that would be a lie. Philip looks up from the device. "Oh. Do continue." Port sputters, "Buh, what? How are you doing that? You've never even seen such a device before. Have you?" Philips' hands are moving of their own accord, the number of files and the software of the device being optimized before his eyes. Philip shrugs. "I have a way with computers and Hacking. Given my memory loss I could have been a hacker, or an IT specialist with a military or something. No idea."

"Oh. Well that is interesting. Seems you know more than me anyway." Philip shrugs again and slides the modified device over the door panel. With a muted hiss the doors part. Philip enters and stops. Port stares wondering just how he managed to lock his Bio-Metrics into the device and gain security clearance so quickly, but then chuckles. A small idea is forming in the back of his head, one that could be just what is needed. He boasts, striding into the room. "Ah yes. I remember the first time that I entered Beacons armory. Mind that was many years ago, and in fact that reminds me of a story from that time. Why it was mild day, but underneath the bland start such strange things were to happen."

Philip ignores the droning sound of the old man. It's only making the withdrawal headaches worse. Whatever starts with three pounds of table salt, half a gallon of liquid nitrogen and a fur coat that had no sleeves and ends with a dead Grimm shaped as a pool floatie sounds too far-fetched to even be considered as humor.

He looks at the walls laden with weapons, mundane and exotic, both melee and ranged, firearms and even explosives. Warhammers, massive axes, and swords sit in racks, both hilt and haft ready to be grabbed at a moments notice. Tables litter the area, half constructed devices and mecha-shift weapons placed haphazardly all over. Crates are stacked high with munitions of all calibers and even some unfamiliar to Philip. Large reinforced glass cases hold Dust of all colors and grades. It was just… so much! And then, lying in a small pile near the door, is a battered .38 revolver with no ammo, a scuffed leathern sling, and a wickedly sharp, if plain, machete. And a pile of broken spears. And some bent scrap metal knives. Looking over the rest of the clutter reveals a stack of cans filled with gone off berries. No thumb drives though. And a…

"I don't even remember having a water tester." Philip says pointing at the device before pulling it from the tidy pile. He motions with the device trying to get Port attention, but he seems too caught up in his story to even notice that someone is trying to speak with him. He looks through the pile searching for that little carboard box of relief, but alas. It would seem that they didn't survive the brawl. 'Or maybe this place has a no tobacco policy? It is a school. Shit!' "… and then I strode forth, clad in only my undergarments and armed with little more than a toothbrush, and the scissors from my mustache grooming kit, although at the time it was not nearly as magnificent, and yet there I was bravely facing the…"

Philips cybernetic eye cycles through its many vision modes as he takes in a deep breath, repressing the urge to either pummel the windbag or slump down to the ground and pass out. "And people have said that I have a tendency to lose touch with reality." He grumbles. At this point both seemed just as likely as the other as a means of getting Port to shut up. Philip searches around the room spying a section of holsters and sheathes. Coincidently located next to another door. Grabbing a few belts and adjusting them to his frame he glances at the name plate on the door. -ARMOR- A pinched grin stretches across his face as he palms his scroll against the reader, entering the room.

-Several minutes later-

Philip emerges from the room, a pleased look upon his face. The plain attire he had on has been supplemented by a new tactical vest, gloves and a sturdy ballistic helmet. Attaching the sheathes and holsters from before he nods satisfied with himself. "This ought to work just fine."

He looks over at Port who is still talking, even with no one there. "Hey, Peter!" Walking up to the man he snaps his fingers. "And then after I had saved the villages mayor, both her and her identical twin, I…" Port breaks from his story. He coughs. "Ahh, well I see that you have found your gear then." Port looks him up and down. "And even made yourself use of some old surplus we keep in the back rooms." Port raises an eyebrow so bushy it could put a caterpillar to shame. "However, that equipment isn't rated for use against the Grimm." Port strokes his mustache. "That is some old Vale Police gear that was outmoded a few years back."

Philip shrugs, adjusting a strap on the shoulder. "It was in my size. Besides it's light, sturdy, and doesn't impede my movement." He then grins. "Plus, pockets are always useful. A knife here, some ammo there, and even a spot for a snack or two." Ports chuckles mildly. "And what of your weaponry? Are you content with so little? The footage from before…" Philip shakes his head. "Nah. If I need anything else I'll just make it. At least this time it won't be made of scrap. You have a forge room somewhere around here, right?"

The cybernetic eye whirs, the focus switching over to the door to the armory. The plain off-white glow, turning a toxic green, then a cool, muted purple hue. His thermal vision shows a human shape on the other side of the door. He points to it drawing Port's attention. Port turns to look just as the door opens, a scruffy looking man in a white coat looking shirt, the sleeves rolled up to just before his elbows. A ragged red cape hangs from his shoulders, the dark hue matching his eyes. A thick blade rests across the back of his waist, a reverse grip draw perhaps? He doesn't look to have shaven in a few days. Philip looks at the man, sensing loss, and pain in his slouched stance. 'And his eyes.' Philip stares him down, searching for a weakness. 'He knows my paranoia.' A smell of cheap liquor permeates the air surrounding him.

"Hey pal, I don't swing that way." The man blurts out, Philips stare unnerving him. "Names Qrow." He reaches out a hand. Philip grabs hold and notes the calluses on the inside of his fingers, and on the tops of his knuckles. "Does he work here too?" He asks, glancing sidelong at Port. "Nah, I work at Signal."

Port stirs from his silence. "Ah Mr. Branwen! Good to see you again, though it seems that you are catching up to me then, hmmm?" he chuckles, pointing at his silver-grey hair. Qrow reaches up touching the tops of his short yet ragged side burns, the few grey hairs showing this man has been around a while. "Like I'll live that long. I swear the only reason your alive Petey boy, is because your stories make the Grimm kill themselves from embarrassment and boredom. It's a wonder none your students have done the same." Philip sighs. This seems to be the start of a series of banter. Time to just fade into the background. People did say he could be Elusive when he wanted to be. So very many people. They didn't say much after though. He was elusive for a purpose.

The two go back and forth with the banter for around three. Whole. Minutes. "Well it was nice catching up with you Peter, but Oz asked me to take Ol' Phil here into the city proper." Port nods. Turing around he tries to grab hold of Philips shoulder. With Philip no longer being there he whiffs the air and stumbles. "What?" Philip laughs at the near fall. The two seasoned Huntsman turn around to face the sound of the laughter only to see a rack of swords hanging on the wall.

Philip taps Qrow on the shoulder. "We going or what? Also, why?" Qrow jumps forward, hand reaching for his sword. "Dust man. How did you do that?" Philip shrugs. "I just moved. If you can't follow that's not my problem. Now why are we going to Vale?"

Qrow glares at him, "Hold on now. You don't just get to do something like that and pull out a lame-ass excuse like that. How the hell did you manage that?" Philip sighs. He motions with his hand over to a corner of the room, where there is a shadow behind a shelf of unfilled dust containers. "See that shadow over there?" Qrow nods, as does Port, both men intrigued as to what might happen. Philip grunts. "Now watch me. I'm going to move over there, and you won't see a dam thing. No matter how much you or I want to." Qrow scoffs as Port furrows his brow, the action making the beast seem alive.

Qrow watches Philip as he takes a step. Then another, and another after that. Then Philip is gone. "What the fuck?" Port, however was watching the shadow. At first nothing, but then the dim light darkens, twisting into wisps of what could almost be called smoke, then coalescing into a human shape. "Tada." Announces Philip, emerging from the shadow, wisps of smoke seeming to peel from his visible skin, before dissipating. Port lets out a hearty laugh, clapping his hands. "Well bravo then Mr. Kindred. It would seem you have found your semblance. Perhaps some type of short-range teleportation? Hmmm?"

Philip shakes his head. "Nah." He point to his cybernetic eye and the visible metal around it. "I did a little bit of research on Aura. Turns out what this little miracle is made of doesn't conduct Aura. If that was a semblance, well then let's just say it wouldn't be sparks streaming from the hole in my skull." He reaches up and taps the optic on the lens. "You would need a mop, and a bucket for blood."

Qrow and Port grimace. "Well if your done with that, Ozzie seems to think that I would be the best person to show you around, help you figure Lien out." Philip nods. 'Seems fair. Still though…' "What's the catch?" Qrow grins. "You'll find out."

Qrow leaves the room, Philip following grumbling under his breath. Port stands alone left alone in the armory, the quiet drone of the lights barely registering in his ears. "That wasn't a semblance? Then how? What?" He thinks back to when he first saw Philip on the cameras fighting the Grimm alone. Before Glynda got there, he did something. A wave of energy had seemed to explode around him, and he began to attack more ruthlessly than before. "Why I dare say the Grimm even began to show caution. But if the shadow jump wasn't his semblance was that? Or perhaps something else?" He strokes his chin humming.

The thing that many seem to forget about Peter Port, is that he can be serious. Rather that he is serious most of the time, it just doesn't show through the outright jovial demeanor. And yet while not a front, it more than allows him to analyze people through the outright asinine tales he regales them with, many of which are mostly true. A little embellishment never hurt anyone. "What then are your powers, Mr. Kindred? What sway will you hold in the times to come?"

Port thinks back to what Peach said about Philip, or Phil as he seems to prefer. "His Aura is there and yet not…" Port shrugs. "Oh well. Not like anyone ever listens to old Peter Port anyway." He laughs. Just the way he likes it. What better way to confuse your enemies! But he must tell the headmaster at once! Forget about the crazy abilities! "I can finally get out of that dam computer room! No more, 'Well how do I fix this' or 'Make sure that the firewalls are up to standard'. No more 'Port, don't forget to update the system.' I can finally go back to my classroom full time!" He exclaims. "Beacon has found it's new head of Technology!"

Elsewhere

The walk over to the Bullhead landing pads is an awkward silence. To Qrow anyway. "So…" He starts. Philips' right eye swivels with a dull whir, the orb coming to rest on Qrow, while the left one stays looking ahead. "Yeah?" Qrow shudders. He's seen some crazy things, even pushes the buttons on Ironwood for shits and giggles, but the Cybernetics on this guy are almost alien in their crudity. "Where you from? Can't say I recognize that accent of yours. And I've been everywhere." Philip grunts. "Wish I knew. Amnesia and whatnot."

Qrow scowls. "Listen pal that might work on Ozpin, but I'm not so easy to convince." Philip turns to look at him entirely. Both men stop. They are outside now, near the main entryway of the campus. Dozens of pillars dot the scape, with benches and trees accenting the paths. Lampposts are set every dozen feet or so ensuing plenty of light in the night hours.

Philip eyes him. That sense is going off again. Danger exudes from the man before him, a sort of pressure in the air. 'He's slouched. Confidence or arrogance? No, he can beat me.' "And what would you rather hear? A lie? One that might make logical sense? Not one bit of this world makes any sense to me. Super shields that are powered by the soul? Near mystic powers that are unlocked from having your soul released? Beast-Folk?! Those Merga demons in the guise of animals?" Philip tenses up. "This place isn't my home. It is wonderous and somehow worse!"

Qrow laughs. "Oh, listen to me. Wah, wah, wah. I think I'm some badass because I fought off a bunch of Grimm. You're a Brothers dammed psychopath! Hundreds of people, and you just drop that statement like it's some badge of honor! I don't care what you say buddy, somebody needs to put you in the ground."

"You think I don't know I'm screwed up in the head?!" Philip roars. "You haven't seen the hell I woke up to every single day of almost two years! Never knowing when the next time I get food is. I went Weeks! WEEKS without anything more than berries and mushrooms, half the time which were poisonous! Then you throw in the Bandits, the Slavers! The FUCKIN CANNIBALS!" Energy seems to radiate from Philip, intangible without any clear color, the air around him distorting. "And then a blight assed Drunk going through his mid-life crisis feels the need to point this out to me? That's rich. I thought I saw a kindred-" He sneers at the link in his name to the bastard before him. "A kindred soul when I looked upon you. One who might know my pain."

"Your pain? I've lost friends and people I thought family to freaks like you. Yeah, I've had to kill, but I never liked it!" Philip trembles, rage seething through his body. "You think I liked it?" he whispers. "I never liked it, no I didn't." His voice rises in volume, until it thunders across the courtyard. "I STILL SEE THE FACES! Every time I sleep, I do not rest. I am haunted by the wraiths of those who've I've slain and the memories of that which never were!"

"I see them, and I feel nothing! A blank, void of compassion that I knew I once had in excess. They all blur into a mass of rage and fear, whose it is being lost upon me. Is it mine or theirs? Who weeps? Me or them?!" He draws his machete. The blade glistens in the sun, the edge sharp as ever. "I won't be judged by you." His body seems to swell ever so slightly, muscles growing taunt and bulging under his clothes, veins protruding from his forehead.

Play 'Right Left Wrong by Three days Grace'

"I won't be judged by ANYONE!"

He steps back, watching Qrow with both eyes. His stance is relaxed. Far too relaxed. "I told Ozpin you were gonna be a problem. I told him you would snap." He reaches back and draws his blade. Philip watches as it expands, the short blade lengthening to one near four feet long. He stands knees bent, posture stooped. Then he lunges. Philips left eye widens instinctively at the absolute speed. But he's still ready to Parry, with his other eye processing faster than the biological one can. While this causes increased fatigue and a headache after the adrenaline wears off it is well worth it in the middle of a fight.

His left arm blurs and bashes the side of the blade off target missing his heart, and instead piercing through the Kevlar layers on his shoulder. Qrows' eyes widen in shock only in time for a headbutt to the face. With a helmet. *CRACK* Aura flaring, he jumps back, little harm done, but still surprised. He smirks. "Well this just got interesting."

Philip rushes him energy wisps bleeding from his charge. Qrow sidesteps the tackle and elbows Philip in the middle of his back. He hits the ground, the tile breaking from the force, spit flying from his mouth. Qrow shunts back, making some distance. Groaning Philip braces his arms, pushing himself off the ground. "Dam it." he chokes out. His left hand punches the ground, tiny cracks appearing in the stone. That fucking hurt. He stands up lopsided. He looks over noticing his left arm is dislocated. 'Must have happened at impact.' Qrow watches as he grunts and slams himself back into the ground. He stands up again rotating his left shoulder. He glances over at Qrow, eyes glowing in disharmonic colors. He turns his head, neck cracking in the motion. He shivers as he reaches for that power once more, the one that turned the Merga Wraith to partial stone. His left eye turns from a dark grey to a vibrant silver, a mist of power leaking from the tear duct.

He pictures his inner mind and a hand reaching inside. He tries to focus and grasp that light. And nothing happens. Outside of his mind in the real world it looks like he's lost interest and entirely spaced out. Body twitching and sweating in the effort, he lets out a cry of exertion. Qrow shrugs, and with a grinding sound his sword reconfigures into it's ranged form. Lining up a shot he fires forth a slew of buckshot at Philip. It hits full force in his chest knocking him to the ground once more, his machete flying from his hand.

"FUCK!" Philip cries. A hand touches his chest then chuckles. The chuckles grow to a full blow laugh. "Bullet proof vest asswipe!" He throws his legs back and surges to his feet, landing on the pads of his feet. He doesn't notice the streams of blood beading up from the punctures. He laughs and lopes at Qrow. He grabs his machete from the ground on the way there and holds it angled to parry another blow.

Qrow watches disgusted. No sense of self preservation, even if he has sped up somehow. A berserker? He readies himself to swing, no sense in wasting movement if this numb skull is just going to waste himself. But then Oz did just say to push his buttons and see how he fights. Philip strikes out a slash at Qrows head, only for it to be blocked. A follow up punch with Philips other hand however catches the former bandit off guard, impacting his jaw. Qrow moves with the momentum slashing upward in a strike that would bifurcate a weaker opponent. Philip reaches with the power that he knows works. Qrow blinks, his opponent no longer in front of him. Philip lurches into Qrows very shadow. A whirling kick jars into Qrow side from behind staggering him. Qrow backs up racing around in circles raining blows enhanced with velocity on Philip, who barely parries them aside.

Philip takes a breath, focusing, his perception of time slowing by a hair. There must be a weakness he can exploit in this drunks' defenses. He's arrogant that's for sure, but to Philips chagrin it's warranted. But maybe that's it? He leaves himself open on his left side knowing that it may be obvious. But to his luck, and pain, it seems to Qrow that it was an obvious weak point in his defense, rather than a obvious trap. Qrow swings in with his blade and Philip twists his body, trapping the sword in his armpit. Long term a bad move, possible loss of his arm, but the satisfying smack of a second head-butt directly to Qrows forehead is music to Philips ears. Even if the ringing would make it hard to hear. He leaps back, and begins circling, eye warry and watching.

So far Qrow has found a few things about Philips combat style. He is more than willing, almost eager to take a hit, if it means that he can land one of his own. Very brawl-like, almost reminds him of a certain niece of his. Then there is that extreme durability considering he apparently has no aura. Oh SHIT. Qrow backpedals. Philip raises his machete and swings down at Qrow hurling the blade. It whistles through the air, narrowly sailing past Qrow to embed itself in one of the stone pillars. Philip leaps into the air roaring. A wave of primal rage bursts from his body impacting Qrow before the balled hammer blow does to his brainpan. Aura flaring a again the combination staggers Qrow, but there is no time for such a thing. He swings his blade at Philip only for Philip to block it with an arm. It sinks through the thin button up shirt into his flesh, the massive amounts of scar tissue as thick and durable as hardened leather. It stops an inch into his arm, and Philip rages at the pain, before he ignores it in favor of yanking the arm towards himself, the embedded blade pulled from the grasp of the foe in front of him.

The Mecha shift blade wrenched out of his hands Qrow begins to reconsider his approach. His semblance seems to have it out for him right now, and he's been disarmed in a brutal fashion. "Hey Philip, enough man! Oz just wanted me to test your skills he-" A solid knee to the gut knocks the wind from his lungs. Qrows aura blocks the blow, but it does little to mitigate the effect of the air leaving his lungs without his consent. Philip goes low and grabbing an arm with his left hand he then hoops his arm between Qrows' legs. Lifting with his legs, he flips Qrow back first into the pavement. Philip roars again, a silver hued energy billowing off his arms and upper torso, as he grabs Qrows' leg and lifts him off the ground. He draws him up into the air and slams him down opposite himself. Qrow leans into the grab kicking Philip in the face and pushing off loosening the grip, the ballistic helmet getting knocked lose in the process. He spins in the air righting himself landing on his own two feet, whilst Philip reels from the newly broken nose, blood spewing down his front.

Qrow moves advance instantly. A right jab straight to the face, followed by a left cross, right jab, left haymaker combo slam into Philip. His left eye flashes silver light, and a dim light suffuses his body, muted by the rapid pace of the brawl. Qrow watches the light rethinking about how Oz said no Aura. What had he really said? 'Mr. Kindred is in a rather difficult to define state with his Aura. Yes, he has one, and it may be unlocked, but that may be only to a degree. With the Aura boosters Peach injected him with seeming to have no effect, we can discern that it may just be incapable of manifesting. I want you to test him if you will. You possess a unique ability to, let's say, to get through to people.'

Philip stomps his right foot down, fracturing some of the tile beneath it. "Graaaagggghhhhhh!" He bounds forward, arms in a modified boxer's stance and launches an explosive jab with his right. Qrow backhands the blow to the side, and Philip spins with momentum and toss a left elbow. The Branwen raises his right forearm catching the blow wincing. Every bloody punch just keeps getting harder and faster. The cybernetic-eyed man whirls around again wrapping his right arm under black-haired left armpit. Bring his fist up opposite the other shoulder Philip locks his hands into a headlock and tries to throw Qrow to the ground. Qrow weaves out of the grapple and sweeps out his leg to trip the other man. Philip loses his balance having one of his legs knocked out from beneath him.

His arms spin at his sides trying to catch his himself but he stumbles on some destroyed tilework. "Cut it out Phil, I don't want to get serious with you. Ozpin really did just want me to test your combat skill." Philip groans from the ground, the fall having nixed his berserker bloodlust. "Some test jackass." He sits up some debris sliding off his shoulders. "You used live ammo on me." He sighs. "Least the vest worked on that scatter gun you have." He thumps himself in the chest only to wince. "Must be bruised."

Qrow stares at him outright confused. "You don't feel that?" "Feel what?" Philip looks at the hand that he hit himself in the chest with. The blood coating says what the lack of pain doesn't. "Holy shit!" The man looks down at his chest to see dozens of holes in the reinforced fabric, tiny streams of blood seeping through. He frantically begins pulling at the straps and buckles on the armor trying to pull it off in order to check his wounds. "Dam it all! It looked the same but even this is different!" Qrow holds up his hands placatingly. "Let me help. Least I can do since I, uh… well shot you." Philip grunts.

It takes far longer than it should, much longer than it took to put it on in the first place Philip seems to think, before the ruined vest is torn off his bruised and bleeding form. He rips the shirt off, button popping from their respective holes, and several newer ones. "Gods above." Qrow whispers. Hearing it from Oz was one thing but seeing it? It was mortifying.

Malformed scars, and bruises in all levels of fading and fresh litter the torso of Philip, the newly made divots in his flesh adding to a tapestry near two years in the making. The wounds are shallow, and the blood is seeping slower now, the streams more of a trickle. "Ah fuck." Philip looks over at Qrow. "What did you load those things with anyway? Fléchettes? Or just lead?"

Qrow shakes his head. "Just low-grade Burn Dust and Aluminum pellets." Philip nods, the worry of lead poisoning no longer a concern. But here comes the hard part. Tracking the flow of one wounds he brings his hands up to injury. Like one would a zit or pimple he pushes at either side until the pellet comes out with a sickening *pop*. The two make small talk, while Philip does the process a total forty-six times, comparing the wastes of Michigan to Qrows' own upbringing.

"So you were born in a bandit tribe?" "Nah, The bandit tribe. The Branwen tribe, same as the name. The strong survive the weak die, and all that dumb shit." He pulls out a flask and downs a gulp before passing it to Philip. He nods. He takes a gulp, an ale of some nature. It burns on the way down. But when he pours the rest on his bleeding chest? That burns. "Aghhhh." Through grit teeth a hiss escapes as he passes the flask back to Qrow. "I left some in before you get pissy."

Qrow raises a finger to object, but then gets a complicated look in his eyes, before he shrugs and puts it away. "Disinfectant?" Philip nods. "If I had money, I'd buy you more, but as of yet still nil." Qrow waves a hand. "Nah, after this we both need a drink and I'll buy. I'll even toss in some for your particular vice." Philips' eyes widen open. "You mean this world does have tobacco?! I'd thought myself having to cease cold turkey! What a magnanimous joy is thus! I can finally stop the blighted twitching!" A true laugh, without cynicism or angst bubbles up from his lips.

"We might be good friends yet you bandit bastard!" "OI! Like I need to be reminded on either part of that." Philips laugh dies down some. "Turnabout and what not as they say." Qrow glares at him, only to start chuckling himself. "You're even more crazy than half of my students at signal combined!" The laughter rings through the now quiet mid-afternoon sunshine. Philip runs a hand across his chest expecting blood to still be leaking from the wounds. To his amazement barely any comes off. Only the residue and scabs remain among the dark red hair that sparsely dots his chest. "The hells this? Aura?" Qrow looks over at him. He shrugs. "Maybe. Ozpin told me you didn't have it unlocked. At least properly. You sure as hell used type of muscle boosting technique during that scrap."

Philip nods. "Yeah, I did the research, I saw my medical charts. It's there and unlocked. I'm thinking it isn't exactly normal though." Qrow scoffs but reconsiders his own hidden powers. "You don't say? Maybe you got it unlocked too late in life. I know that's a thing. There's a reason Hunter training starts as early as it does. Or maybe that other world of yours works different? That would make sense." It's Philips turn to scoff now. "The hell it does. But you know what? This whole situation is so FUBARed that this is the most logical thing I've heard yet. I mean really!"

He stands up and gestures wildly with his hands. "Two worlds so like each other and yet so very different! Humankind existing on two separate worlds, with the same language and near identical culture and technology, the only separating factor the strange and esoteric. That of legend, myth and mysticism, and even then, both have found far darker things that lurk and go bump in the night to fear! I would say that such is impossible, but my very life proves it only improbable, or the proof of the meddling of higher forces that go unseen!"

A silver light, with dark-purple gradients whirls around him, as his impromptu speech reaches a climax. The glow coats his body, before it sinks into his skin, the hue changing slightly, becoming paler as sunburn and tan alike fade with the rapid restorative properties of Aura, magnified by the strange, mutated, and augmented nature of the massively hyper-adapted body of Philip Kindred.

Qrow shields his eyes from the glow, the color vibrant. As the light fades, he looks at the guy who just managed to force out his own Aura by blathering some philosophical nonsense that sounded like a mix of Port and Ozpin. "I call bullshit! You did too have a fully unlocked Aura you jackass! Why the hell didn't you use it in the fight?" Philip looks over at Qrow. He shrugs. "I didn't know how. Watching you utilize your own gave me an idea of how I was supposed to channel it. Besides books are great, but they explained almost nothing in a practical sense."

He grunts in exertion holding his bleeding arm in front of his face. A silver and purple energy suffuses the gash, muscle fibers knitting themselves back together. "Don't think I'll be able to do that shielding thing though. My gut tells me that might be asking for too much too soon." He looks over his body, the wear and tear of the most brutal time of his life evident all over it. "You know if this can help with scars?"

Qrow shrugs. "Most of the time yeah, but you may have too many bud. It could thin them out, or maybe get the newer ones, but shit if I know." Qrow stands up dusting himself off. "You want to grab a new shirt? Then we can go get wasted." Philip grins. "I don't need to get a new one. Just give me about five minutes, I have my sewing kit with me." Qrow quirks an eyebrow. "A sewing kit? You know how to sew? Doesn't surprise me at any rate."

Phillip tears off the sleeves from his shirt, noting that the material is actually very durable, and it resists the effort. Taking up his machete he cuts several strips from the material before lining it up the rags on his body. Pulling the rest of the shirt off he reaches into one of the pockets over on the vest. Drawing out a needle and tying several loose threads together he carefully stiches the shirt back together. The buttons are a bit of a struggle, but soon Philip triumphs. With the last strips of cloth from the sleeves Philip made sure not to leaves the rip marks along the seams along the arms. And thus, the result is a button up shirt, plain, white but with no sleeves. Hauling the vest back on he looks at the helmet. Several cracks run through the ceramic material rendering it nigh worthless. "Dam. I'd liked the look of this thing. Hides the shaved head."

"So, you aren't balding then? Go figure." "Qrow, I can and will go grab a weapon that I know how to use and kick your grey-haired ass!" "Hold up! You don't know how to use that knife thing? I would have never guessed, since you were just swinging it all over the place." Philip sighs, exhaustion subjectively mental at this juncture. His body feels more powerful than ever, but his mind is as the tumultuous nature of a raging hurricane. "All considered, I don't specialize my weapons like you folks have. Most of the stuff I could make myself broke after a while, or the good stuff was in terrible condition. I suppose you could call me a combat generalist."

"So that means what? You half suck at a bunch of weapons? Instead of being mediocre at one?" Qrow badgers. "Whatever. We going to this bar of yours or not?" Qrow smirks. "Yeah I think you'll like it. It's called the Crow Bar" Philip takes a deep breath. He then slams his head into a pillar, cracking the stone. Qrow pulls out his scroll while Philip is distracted by the terrible pun. His Aura reads at 74%. 'Dam that guy hits hard. He's on par with a third-year student from Beacon, minimum.' Qrow glances over at the guy slamming his face into a pillar. He continues to repeat this, intent to do it ad infinitum, until Qrow grabs his arm. "Ah come on it wasn't that bad! Let's go." He drags Philip away from the pillar, off to a place of booze, brotherhood, and most likely hangovers.

On the Bullhead ride into Vale however, he messages Ozpin about Philips ability.

'He has this shadow jumping thing he can do. Oz, I think it might be magic. He just moved and then he was behind me. Port was there too, ask him if you dare.'

'He hits like a truck. Large amount of raw physical power, and he's brutal. Hand-to-hand style is grapple heavy. No idea on semblances, but he heals faster than anyone I've ever seen. I watched this guy as he pulled his arm back together from a blow of my sword. And that too. He blocked my Sword with his ARM! No aura in it or anything that I could tell. His skin is like thick leather or something it's crazy.'

'How is beyond me, but he has this as childish as it sounds, roar thing. He screams and it's like I'm trying to face down a Goliath. Literal killer intent. I don't trust him, but I don't think he could lie to save his life.'

'He's dead inside. All those laughs and shit is fake. He says to me 'Eyes are the windows to the soul' Well his have no light in them. I don't doubt him anymore.'

'Going to try and get him drunk, see if he'll loosen up some. See if he can keep up with me. Will message later. Or will stagger back to the grounds and pass out on a bench. Either or.'

A/N: Yeah this was delayed a bit. I got a new job, and have been working more, and with better pay. Mix that with D&D having a new schedule tacked onto it and a tiny mess appears. Either way, hope you all enjoyed, and until next update folks.

DRINK COFFEE It's AWESOME!