Break of Dawn

Huntress Viridia Volkova had seen many unusual things in her life as a protector against the vile scourge that plagued faunas and mankind. The Grimm, and usually anything pertaining to the dark creatures, was not without peculiarity. They came in many familiar shapes and abnormal sizes. She had saved towns out in the deepest depths of the wildlands and lost quite a few good friends along the way.

Yet, even her vast experience in the last four years had not wholly equipped her to deal with the man currently kneeling aside her table.

In a world full to bursting with unusual phenomena and inexplicable ambiguities, this… Lucan, mystified her. He was certainly not what she had expected when young Raldo came bursting into her room in the middle of the night. Thankfully she had been able to learn of the situation despite the bumbled words of Team Dark's youngest member, and had hurried to the walls fully expecting yet another attack.

Brittle Peak was no stranger to Grimm assaults. Despite its above average security and heavy huntsman presence, the town was routinely besieged by the local populations. However what Raldo had failed to clarify in his panicked haste, was the inciting factor behind the Grimm's uproar. And so when she had learned the town had a new visitor, and an… irregular one at that, she had readied to greet them. Her role as supervisory huntsman did not necessarily entail such perfunctory duties, but she preferred to be involved in some token aspect in regards to the town's day-to-day.

However the sight of the armored colossus standing in the tavern's doorway was something she had been entirely unprepared for.

Lucan was a giant by every definition of the word and then some, by far the largest and most instinctively threatening figure she had met in person. Every minute detail lit up her inherent faunus danger sense across the board. His shoulders were as broad and squared as industrial sheet metal, his legs and arms thick with concealed muscle underneath solid sections of heavy armor.

The man was also - more than her first inspection already detailed - an anomaly. His suit did not match altesian designs, or anything that might exist on the open market. She had doubts that Atlas even had black projects as unusual as what currently encased her outlandish visitor.

It was, for a lack of a better term, monstrous. His size, what was in no way shape or form inconsiderable, heightened the intimidation of his foreign panoply. Overlapping plates, thick black metal, and whole body coverage, made his armor more reminiscent of Atlas' paladins rather than anything that could or should be strapped onto a man. She did not understand how a man, of any strength or size, could move with such complexity and ease underneath what had to be hundreds of pounds of steel.

The physical endurance required to operate it would be immense… beyond human limitations, perhaps made possible by his semblance.

Viridia, drawing her gaze away from her gossiping subordinates, sent a polite eye across the table to subtly examine the form of her guest in greater detail, searching for anything that she might have missed in her disbelief. Focused on his chest, she could see no ostensible movement that would specify breathing, though the inherent bulkiness of his suit might be reason enough for any lack of indication.

His arms, from what she could see and had noticed, were protected by a metallic weave of some form, underneath the more prominent coverings below his shoulder and around his forearm. And she did admit, that he moved with a natural elegance that any modern machine could never hope to emulate. The fact he could speak so concisely and with such awareness did much to dismiss her theory of his machine-like origin.

His helmet, secured as tightly as the rest of his body by a seal around his neck, was large in an established thematic appearance that followed the powerfulness of his physique, and any discerning features were concealed underneath an impervious, narrowed faceplate of deep crimson. From her observation she could only decide that there was indeed a man underneath all that metal, though his origin remained a mystery.

In summary, she had no idea what, or who, it was she found herself dealing with.

Before she could devote more time to speculation, she heard the incessant clamor of her rambunctious charges come to a standstill. Looking to them, she followed their hungry eyes to the backroom of the tavern to see that the owner and a few of his hired help had returned, bearing several large trays piled with fried potatoes, fatty steaks, and various other items that would no doubt be unadvisable to those who did not need the high caloric intake of the average huntsmen.

A silence descended upon the table, though the impatient trembling was indication enough that the brief moment of welcomed peace would be fleeting.

Viridia smiled and shook her head, reminiscing her own halcyon days as a student at Beacon. Things had been so much simpler back then, no higher stakes then classes and training. And she would not deny that she did feel slightly envious of the young team.

She also hoped that it would be a little longer before they came face to face with the blunt reality of the life they had eagerly signed up for.

"Ah heck yeah!" Reg exclaimed excitedly, the boy being first to break the silence as a plate of steak and fries was placed in front of him, his bright blue eyes glued to the aromatic steam wafting up from his meal.

His team followed in the footsteps of the red haired powerhouse, each reacting in a way that was to be expected from growing huntsmen and huntresses, though it would be not unalike to a starving man placed before a feast.

Viridia, well accustomed to her provisionary students, did not pay them much attention as they fell upon their food with reckless abandon, all sense of table manners or outside awareness forgone. Instead she looked to the giant armored warrior across the table, watching silently and with bated breath as a similar plate was laid hesitantly before him by the noticeably nervous tavern keep. The man seemed overtly apprehensive as he catered to the silent soldier, who as she had noted, remained largely unspoken throughout the duration.

Her vigil continued as the owner of the building bid a hasty retreat to the safety of the kitchen, leaving the faunus woman, and now her students who had by then noticed the peculiar image, to watch interestedly as the man's helmet inclined ever so slowly towards the meal. The sight was strange, like observing a machine attempt to calculate an impossible equation, and she swore she could almost see the gears churning in his head.

And then, with little pomp or ceremony, he pulled his helm from his head with a sharp twist at the chin. Her second set of ears flicked at the subtle sound of released air, and her keen eyes were locked upon the focal point of his mirrored visor as he lifted the great hunk of wrought metal from his shoulders.

She watched, wordlessly and in silent shock, as he set the cumbersome piece of armor upon the table slowly and with significant care. Her blatant stare was then ignored, as he, with the etiquette and precision of a mistralian noble, tended to his meal.

And despite all truth that dictated her prolonged examination was in ill behavior, Viridia found she could not tear her gaze away from the face of the man underneath that armor. The faunus huntress had expected many things from what she had seen and heard, a grizzled veteran, a roughish noble, even, despite all possibility, a featureless machine.

What she had not expected, was to be greeted with the face of a teenager.

Pale skin as bleached as a shard of the broken moon, shortened hair cut to military regulation, and a pair of distant, grey eyes. His cheeks and chin, hard edged and defined, were dusted with a moderate stubble that spoke of days of hard living out in the field, and he was in all appearance a man only by a few years, if not months. Yet his gaze, the vacant expression his smoky stare assumed as he focused on his food like the mindless automaton she had once thought him to be, had her heart clench tight. She had seen such looks before in many huntsman that had lost everything in their service to civilized society.

He was far too young to bear that burden.

Yet as she dwelled in such thoughts, the young man seemed to finally notice the intense scrutiny he had been subjected to, and his attention dragged up from his meal, the inert animation behind his eyes cold and silent as he regarded the woman and children that sought to distract.

"Is there… issue here?" He inquired hesitantly, his words spoken in that same tired baritone, and she could see his throat flex and strain to produce comprehensible vocabulary. Her eyes caught on the thin white scars straining against his throat, the marks thin, abundant, and bearing a… surgical precision.

"No… no forgive my stare." She assured him with a tone as guilt ridden as her conscience. "I have just not seen someone with grey eyes." She fabricated her excuse on the spot, though that must have been blatantly apparent to everyone involved.

However the man offered a simple nod, innocent and unassuming. "They had been blue… once." Though his reply was stilted and rough, there was a certain distance that spoke of memories painfully readdressed, and her focus was temporarily attracted to the silverware that looked to belong with a little girl's tea set when held in such gargantuan hands.

She watched as, after a moment, he set it down, the groove of his gauntlet etched into the thick metal meant to endure rigorous usage by brittle peak's less esteemed and roughened populace.

Viridia, nor her young protégés, could find the ability to reply. The female faunus had thought Lucan to be a powerful presence, with his full plate and soaring height. But the composed severity of his tone, and the stark uniqueness of his features, did more to affix her than his hulking raiment. There was a peculiarity in his paradoxism, visually a child, but in all aspects a man who had shouldered many hardships, she had never before encountered his like before.

And so she realized, as the meal resumed in reflective silence, that she had been unable to draw any meaningful answers, and instead, was only wracked with more questions. Viridia knew that she would not find easy sleep that night.

B170 stood silent in the pitch darkness of the small tavern accommodation; his shoulders hunched low to avoid brushing his head against the truncated ceiling. He stared blankly at the bed aligned alongside the square windowsill protruding from the east wall, and studied with grim intent, the wood frame no longer than his accumulative arm length, and the thin, down feather stuffed mattress atop it.

And somewhere, in the lingering silence and unassuming darkness, there was a muted sigh.

The spartan drew aside the wall by the bedstead, using the sturdy wood to rest the weight of his arms and armor. The oak partition creaked precariously, but held.

Another terse exhalation occupied the muted chambers.

This world continued relentlessly to defy all logic, reason, or simple common sense, and B170 felt so very, very lost. Remnant, as these strange locals called this planet, was a world beset by fantasy and scientific impossibility. Terms such as the UNSC or the Covenant were unrecognized nomenclature. Grimm, Dust, SDC… Faunus… these were the household terminologies that he was not privy towards.

That was not even to speak of his experience with one of the features of this world's alien lexicon. The Grimm were creatures that disregarded all rationality in favor of absurd, abstract concepts. How could an animal of animate shadow even exist? Where was the science? Where was the rationality?

Yet regardless of the ludicrousness of these creatures, he knew them to be very real and of a credible threat, even to a spartan. All he need do was brush a hand across the deep surface scaring on his pectoral plate.

B170 was, as he had been since his arrival, baffled by the endless tirade of inconsistencies. He knew not where or when, or even the how that had sent him to this place. He had been questioning everything since he departed the forerunner ruins, and he wondered if it had really been the best decision to leave. His memoirs had been bent and twisted like frayed twine by the otherworldly machinations of the forerunner archelogy and its strange machines. And there were stark gaps in his remembrance, from the first day he had arrived on site to protect the research staff, to the moment the small Covenant fleet jumped in system.

For a man with vastly superior retention capabilities compared to the average human, he found the scattered and blurred recollections to be of significant concern. He could recall entering the ruins with the remaining scientists and guard detail, but everything after that was… distorted, a slipshod slideshow of incoherent images and sporadic flashes of light and sound. Clarity only returned to his memories after he had stumbled out of the forerunner complex, alone and disorientated.

He, quite briefly, considered the possibility of returning to find answers, but after his experience with the highly aggressive native species, he did not think much of his chances on a month long journey across Grimm infested wildlands.

He also reflected, for a much longer length of introspection in the darkened, silent bedchamber offered to him by the… wolf eared woman, if he had been followed.

With that notion, the spartan knew he would not be finding easy rest that night, or any night in the conceivable future.

"And is that… everything you have to report?" The question, phrased so innocuously, was undercut by the mild tone of disappointment in the speaker's voice. And with consideration to who they were, even that was enough.

"I am afraid so, my Queen." The man known as Arthur Watts, bowed low to the woman upon the throne, his tone courteous, respectful, and above all, repentant. One did not show anything less when addressing the Empress of the Grimm. "I was unable to glean any information about this… armored huntsman, from any of my sources."

In the lingering silence of his undesirable declaration, Arthur risked a slow look up towards the set of eyes arrayed against him, as bright red as freshly spilled blood. They were cold, calculative, and gave no notion of her opinion on his lack of information. Under that gaze, he could feel his continued existence upon Remnant balance on a knife's edge.

Yet it seemed luck favored Arthur Watts.

"This is an… unfortunate setback." She mused leisurely, seeming neither angered nor bothered by his lack of results. "Very well, you will continue to search for information in regards to this new huntsman and I do so hope that this time your work will be more… fruitful."

"Of course, my Queen." His bow deepened, and he felt the barest trace of sweat bead on his forehead. "I shall not disappoint."

"Oh I know you will not, Watts." She assured him kindly, though the saccharine pleasantness of her words seemed more poisoned than sweet.

With another sweeping bow that nearly threw out his back, Watts was quick to excuse himself with polite expedience, aware as to how close it was he courted with a scenario that was quite unpleasant, and that she might forego her leniency if he lingered.

Outside the throne room, he allowed himself to finally relax, as much as one could inside the heart of Salem's fortress, dusting off the lapels of his suit as he glanced around the antechamber. Quiet and dark, much like the many rooms scattered about the sprawling citadel, he briefly wondered, as he always did whenever he visited her territories, who it was that had built this place. Whoever they might have been, he was certain they had not enjoyed the fruit of their labor overlong.

With that dour thought reminding him once more of the make and measure of the woman that held his allegiance, he made to depart, intent on gathering the information he lacked as soon as possible. One did not disappoint the Grimm Queen more than once, and he was not so over-fond of failure.

"Hmm… did things not go as expected?" The voice of a young woman, smug and vindictive, broke him from his planning. Leaning against the wall beside the door, it seemed as though she had been waiting for him, or perhaps… eavesdropping.

"Not at all my dear." He replied, turning to address her with a twisted smile that was far from friendly. "In fact, our meeting was quite productive." In a sense, this was true. He had learned a great deal from their conversation. For whatever reason, Salem was quite vested in this new huntsman. And he knew from experience, that her interests were never to be taken lightly.

If she desired to know more about this individual, he would give her all she desired and more.

"That is good to hear." The young woman continued, not privy to the thoughts drifting through his head. "We both know that the Queen does to those who disappoint. And I'd hate to see you share a fate with the other failures."

Watts stooped theatrically in his best mockery of a bow, his unpleasant smile shifting into an unkind grin at the girl in the red dress. "I appreciate your concern, Cinder. But I assure you, Salem will be most pleased upon my return. If I have your leave…" Giving her little time to speak, he turned and departed with a stiffened back and a proud gait.

There was much work to be done, and little time in which to do it.

After all, Arthur Watts was no failure.

The first thing to shake him from his deep contemplation, was the rather irritating glint of the early morning sun peeking through the blinds of his room, the second, and far more bothersome, came not minutes after as a soft knock on his door.

B170, issuing a heavy, protracted sigh, reaffixed his helmet, locked the environmental seals, and rose from his seated posture, ignoring the protest of his stiffened muscles that had only just begun to relax after his harrowing flight from the mad creatures of this world. The ceiling came towards him too fast, and the spartan felt the onset of another sigh approach as he leaned forward to prevent the crest of his helmet from bumping the rafters.

Of all the things he missed about being in a rational world, the universally high ceilings were perhaps the top of that ever increasing list. Taking a moment to run a quick examination of his equipment, the spartan was grimly reminded of the rather sorry state of his supplies. Something told him that he would not be finding UNSC ammunition in the near future.

Finished, but wholly unsatisfied, he crossed the distance of the room in three steps and opened the door. His vigilant side advocated the wisdom and prudence of hesitation, warning that there might be a potential ambush on the other side of the door, however common sense dictated that the chance of the local population desirous of his death to be in the lower margin of the tenth percentile.

Unsurprisingly, there was no improvised or otherwise professionally made explosive, nor raving mob of unruly townsfolk. Conversely, there was an increasingly familiar woman waiting in their stead. As always, the first thing his eyes were drawn to was the pointed animal ears atop her head, poking out from her long red hair, in deliberate defiance of plausible biology. Her blank expression transformed into a pleased smile as she looked to him, though he did note that her happy demeanor seemed to flicker briefly as she stared into the reflective surface of his visor.

"Miss Volkova…" He greeted her as pleasantly as he was able, inclining his head even further as a gesture of common courtesy. After all, she was in some as of yet understood capacity, a local official. And since he was uncertain of the extent of this world's governance, he saw no reason to treat them as he would the insurrection. Indeed things would have gone much differently much quicker if that had been the case. As it was now, he was confident in his assumption that she was here to keep an eye on him.

Judicious, sensible, and oh so very unwanted.

"Good morning, Lucan."

"Morning." He as of yet had no reason to think of it as a good one.

There was a notable lapse between them, before she cleared her throat and reaffirmed her pleasant demeanor. "Would you care to walk with me?" She prompted suddenly, her request coming off at first as unexpected by the spartan who nodded slowly. That was at least, until realization dawned upon him.

Their talk last night had been rather informal, and he could only assume that her purpose here today was to simply conclude her investigation, under a more pleasant methodology.

Perhaps sensing his initial confusion she was quick to blurt out an explanation, he did not focus on the whole of it, and through selective focus, he learned she wished to show him the town, seeing as he did not seem to remember it in their conversation the night prior.

He was uncertain as to how to take her request, but considering his very real lack of information, he did ultimately accept. It would be unwise to ignore this opportunity, however unusual it seemed. There was much he would need to learn about this world if he was to survive long enough to figure where exactly he had been placed, and how he might be able to return to the familiarity he desired.

Or so he told himself as he was suddenly whisked away by the whirlwind of activity that was this strange woman and her entourage of loyal children, where he soon discovered he would be in for an interesting day.

The mood aboard The Valiant was… tense. Ironwood was able to sense the unease the moment he stepped off the bullhead ramp and was met by the dour visage of Captain Bronze. The hoary crags in the man's face had deepened considerably since they last met in person during preparations for the 40th Vytal Festival, and he looked as if he had aged ten years.

"General…" Bronze offered a stiff salute to his superior, and he was quick to reciprocate the accustomed niceties of command, although in moments like this he found their necessity to be somewhat worn-out. "Thank you for meeting me on such short notice."

"Of course, Captain. I can always make time for my people, especially old friends." James allowed the smallest trace of a smile to break past his guard before returning to the business at hand. "Specialist Schnee informed me of your request."

"Yes…." The older man nodded slowly, running a hand through his thinning hair. "I thought it prudent that you might see for yourself what has happened to our people."

"Your intuition was well placed." Ironwood was in agreement with Bronze's forethought, and gestured for the old captain to show him the way, more as a courtesy than of any actual need. A man of his experience and position knew well the ins and outs of every altesian vessel, from the smallest bullhead to the mightiest battleship.

Bronze was quiet as he led them deep into the bowels of the airship, and the general made note that his crew was similarly withdrawn. He of course would have expected a tighter ship upon his arrival, back in his own days as an ensign there was always a certain… indolence that arose from endless days aboard what often felt like a flying prison barge. After all there was only so much entertainment to be sought when on tasking. But the manner in which the men and women aboard this ship held themselves was solemn, and he was under the impression that this was more a hearse than a warship.

Of course there was reason to be grave, they were after all transporting the bodies of their fellow soldiers, but war was a bad business, and death was an expected reality for soldiers. The Grimm and more recently, the White Fang, had taken their fair share of good altesian lives. But life for the average soldier went on regardless. The somberness shown by the crew of the entire ship was… unexpected.

Ironwood gave a side glance to Specialist Schnee, to see if she had noted the peculiarity as well, and was relieved that she appeared just as concerned as he felt on the inside.

Eventually, they arrived in the bowels of Bronze's ship, down below were the less visually appealing necessities of an altesian warship, the engine core, the waste disposal facilities, and more importantly in this case, the morgue.

The general, upon turning the corner, was surprised to see the pair of guards stationed by the door, grim faced and armed with rifles. He looked to the captain for explanation.

"The crew was getting curious, so I had some men take shifts to keep the riffraff out." Bronze explained as he motioned for the guards to step aside, to which they complied with suitable alacrity.

A sigh passed through the old man as he opened the door and turned back to Ironwood and Winter.

"Ain't no need for them to see this."

The town of Brittle Peak was an impressive fortress. Though primitive in form, it was not so in function. The walls were solid stone, three meters deep, and nine tall, interspersed with fixed weapon emplacements and bristling with spiked parapets. It was certainly no UNSC firebase, lacking the significantly more advanced metallurgy and automated weapon systems, but considering the enemy it had been designed to repel, it was functional enough to suit its purpose.

Behind the wall was a city larger than he had at first estimated, with well over three thousand inhabitants, mostly miners he reckoned, both from the information Miss Volkova had given and from what he could see by the simple grace of his keen vision. As she had said, this was an important industrial territory for the… kingdom.

B170 hesitated to use the term. It still did not sit right with him, nothing about this place did. He did not understand how this entire world was possible. How could something this preposterous exist underneath the UNSC's radar? How did a planet of kingdoms, fantastical monsters and anomalous humans, manage to go unnoticed for so long?

Everything he had seen felt more at home in the storybook his mother used to read to him as a child. Even the sky was different here, bluer than any world he had visited, and the air was… pure, cleaner than a summer breeze on the beaches of Arcadia.

For the first time in his life, he had removed his helmet voluntarily, letting it hang from his waist as he took a deep draft of the cool morning wind atop the town's battlements. Below he could hear the rattle and chatter of the settlement's occupants going about their daily lives, peddlers hawking wares, workers coming to and from the mines, children out at play, and guards chatting lazily as they walked the streets, all blissfully unaware of the war, or even the fact that one existed.

The spartan sighed heavily, brushing a gauntlet across his scalp and through his tousled hair as he stared out into the sprawling forest outside the city gates, to a whole world that had no idea who or what he was.

And he waited, for what was soon to come.

They called this world Remnant, and he had to wonder, as he looked upon this strange place… just what exactly was it a remnant of.

"So… how'd you like your tour of the town?"

B170 withdrew from his musing, brought back to the reality of the present by the more and more familiar tone and voice of the Volkova woman. He turned from his contemplative introspection, eyes lingering for the barest trace of a moment upon her extra appendages before centering on her face. Her features were soft, and well rounded, fitting more in line with an upper-class noblewoman or a politician of weighted pedigree, than what he had learned her job to be.

In point of fact, he had made note, that all the women, and even the men of this world were of fairer face and build than those of the usual human physiology he was accustomed to. They were almost all universally taller, and more physically fit as well. He as of yet had no answer for this inexplicable phenomenon, though he was unlikely to ever find it. By trade he was unquestionably no scientist. He lacked the skills to pursue the issue, and so he left it unresolved, if begrudgingly.

"Interesting…" He rattled off after his noticeable silence, his gaze drawing back outward, towards the dangers and mysteries of the unknown.

"Different…"

The reply he received was mostly nonverbal, a hummed exhale that lingered in the wind as she leaned forward on the rampart. They were alone, the team of adolescents off somewhere causing trouble no doubt, and this particular stretch of wall bereft of guards till their next rotation. He had already made note of their timetables and composition, more a force of habit than of any genuine concern. Regardless, it proved useful for his desires for solitude, at least until she had arrived to disrupt his carefully won equilibrium.

Now the once welcomed silence had turned… uneasy.

B170, by the nature of his existence, did not socialize.

Yet here he was, trapped in an increasingly complex social snare. B170 was at the moment entirely unguided. He had no leadership, no Intel, and no understanding of his environment. This town offered safe harbor, though its longevity was soon to be in question. He could not stay here. He did not want to stay here. There had to be an explanation for why he had been brought to this world, and he would not find it in Brittle Peak.

And as he lingered on his worried thoughts, the unsubstantiated silence was broken.

"You are a curious man, Lucan."

The spartan, lacking more the will than the means, left her statement to hang unmet in the air, brokered and unanswered.

Noticing that he was content to remain mute, she decided to voice her thoughts, and the conclusion she had reached after many hours of internal debate.

"You're… not from around here, are ya? I mean not to be rude, but there are a few inconsistencies with your story. You're military, that's obvious. That's about the only thing I'm certain of. But you are definitely not altesian, and they're the only ones advanced enough to even have a chance at making the armor you're wearing."

She huffed softly as she looked him up and down. "And that symbol on your chest, that doesn't belong to any kingdom, at least not one I know of. You're no faunus either. You don't smell like us. In fact you don't smell like any human I've met either. So in all, yeah, I'd say you're quite a ways from home."

Her words, bearing the slightest hint of accusation, were rebuffed by the silent spartan. Viridia looked upon the towering figure beside her, his gaze still drawn out to the vast swath of forest outside the town, and she sighed heavily in irritation.

"So… you're just not going to say anything?"

She waited then, for several minutes, standing and staring, and growing increasingly frustrated with his brick wall routine. She had many questions, and she would be damned if he wouldn't give her the answers. "Listen, Lucan. I've been very accommodating given the circumstances. But in return there has to be some kind of reciprocation here."

"Are you even paying attention?" She demanded after his continued disregard, a lupine ear flicking in agitation as she glared at the impassive countenance of the man next to her.

And at that, finally, she was able to produce some kind of reaction out of him. Her glare lessened as he turned to face her, though it shifted into an uncertain frown when she noticed his expression. His jaw was clenched tight, and there was a flicker of… something in the dull greyness of his eyes that stroked the primal chord of fear buried in her animal instinct.

"I cannot give the answers you seek." The giant intoned softly, and were it not for the underlining growl that seemed an integral part of his speech pattern, he might have sounded somewhat apologetic.

The faunus woman huffed. "Classified?" She muttered in a growl all her own.

Lucan shrugged the width of his considerable shoulders in a reply that was less than comforting for the increasingly cross huntress. There were no more words that needed to be said. And she could see from the impassive nature of his expression, that he had the resolve to make good on his silence.

"Farewell, Miss Volkova." He grunted dismissively, somehow able to sound both condescending and sympathetic as he effectively told her to fuck off.

She watched the gigantic man beside her as he donned his helmet in a dexterous motion that implied practiced familiarity, and showed in that brief moment, a flicker of the lengthy tenure he had spent under the accruements of his profession. He turned, his lissome stride putting distance between them in a matter of moments.

Viridia let him go, as frustrated as he made her.

There was only so much blood you could draw from a stone.

B170 stepped off the battlements and into the crowds with a determined stride that saw the bulk of the throng disperse, like a tiger shark prowling through a shoal of fish. He marched with resolute purpose, though he had no destination in mind other than to put as much distance between himself and the huntress as possible, and there was not one in the multitude with the will to match him.

The spartan masked his contempt of the pusillanimous mob around him, knowing his scorn was born of unreasonable disdain. He was of a different breed than those he had given everything to protect. They were soft and meek willed, as they should be, he calculated with some difficulty. Their role was not to be the vanguard of humanity's salvation. That was a mantle he had taken with little regret, and it was unfair to uphold the common man to the same onerous principles.

And if his most recent hypothesis on the true disparity between him and the people of this world was correct, he had even less reason to be so contemptuous. Nevertheless, whatever his opinions were, he had worn out his stay here.

The spartan flicked open his TACPAD, scanning the newly downloaded GPS he had ripped from the woman's communications device while she had been distracted on their visitation of the city's prominent landmarks.

The technology was unfamiliar, but considering his substantial field knowledge in data mining and electronic warfare against the technologically superior Covenant, it had proven to be little challenge. And while he had been unable to glean any significant information from her comms device, he had copied the files for the local search engine and slaved it to his personal computing system. The patch was crude, but functional, and despite the rather unusual search history he had unwittingly recovered as residual records, there was no genuine drawback from his pirated download.

Now, he had everything he needed to move on the next phase of his most recent plan. Using the GPS and with a brief search, he was able to pinpoint his next objective. A border settlement like this would not provide the answers he was searching for. In order to have a chance at learning just where it was he had ended up, B170 intended to make for the capital city of this kingdom on the assumption that, as history had come to show, that the greatest stores of knowledge would be found in the heart of an empire.

"Excuse me sir, could I have a moment of your time?"

Both the kingdom and the capitol shared the same name, though he could not see the logic in such conventions. Yet his opinion was inconsequential. This world could keep its impossibilities and irregular naming proclivities. He had no intention pf staying here for longer than it took to reconnect with his superiors. The spartan diverted his efforts into the far more important process of planning the logistics of his expedition. He would need supplies. Food, weapons, ammunition, everything a soldier needed out in the field.

"Oh um… pardon me?"

However, there was a significant complication that interfered with his plans, stemming from a stark reality he had not considered.

B170 was destitute.

All provisioning and armaments had been provided and supplanted by the military, or unwilling aliens as the situation called. As a spartan operative, an individual that was not supposed to exist in public record, he never had a need for money before, and since he was the equivalent of a conscript, or insofar as much as a multibillion dollar investment could be called such a thing. B170 had never been a beneficiary of the economic system. It could be said, that his understanding of economics was only slightly less vague then his grasp of society as a whole.

"Oh jeez… uh… hello? Excuse me?"

To further complicate matters, he was entirely certain that he could be classified as an unregistered inhabitant of this abnormal world. He did not exist in whatever citizen registry they might have, and there was very real concern that by appearance alone he could be recognized as foreign, an issue that the Volkova woman had just brought to the forefront of his attention.

He was not unfamiliar with covert operations. His experience with the insurrection and extensive counter-terrorism background would be critical in his future operations on this planet. As ever however, there were complications. B170 knew what he would need, false identification, access to black-market dealers, and perhaps most importantly, an information broker. In the past he had relied on UNSC contacts and the far-reaching intelligence network provided by ONI.

Here, on this world, he had no such connections. This left him in somewhat of a difficult predicament.

The abrupt, and theatrically forced clearing of a nearby throat, dragged the spartan from his spiraling introspection. B170, a gauntlet brushing instinctively against his thigh for a sidearm that was not there, turned to the individual that had deliberately beckoned for his attention. He scanned immediately for any visible suggestion of a weapon, both with his own eyes and a quick switch of his VISR's software. Once verified that they were unarmed, he relaxed his shoulders and took a moment for a closer examination of the man that had gathered the nerve to interrupt his train of thought.

First impressions were not entirely kind, short for a local, frail figure on the border of sickly, and of a rather timid disposition. He was also, to B170's continued perplexity, a member of one of the seemingly endless faunus species, as made obvious by his second set of round ears and the ringed tail that weaved lazily behind him. Though what manner of animal lineage he bore, B170 failed to recognize. What he did recognize, was his unnecessary distraction.

The spartan turned away and continued walking down the street.

"Wait, please good sir!" The young man shouted his plea as he stumbled after the retreating figure of the armored giant, making a rather pitiable and conspicuous fool of himself in the morning crowd. The sight of the frail, small bodied faunus pursuing the armored colossus was indeed an uncommon vision to see in the tranquil streets of the small settlement.

B170, after a second appeal for his attention by the increasingly relentless faunus male, and upon noticing the attention this was garnering from the local populace, slowed his pace and turned. His stride lessened until he stood motionless, the crowd dispersing around him like waves crashing against a stone. He waited there, in the open, for the young man to reach him in an affronted huff.

And as he approached, the spartan crossed his arms, leaving a hand ready to grab the blade sheathed into his tactical harness. Appearance alone did not necessitate lowered guard. Often the worst terrorist actions had been performed by the most unassuming of individuals. However the idea of hacking down a random citizen was one he concluded that this town's law enforcement might take offense with.

"Oh… thank you… thank you." He gasped breathily, coming to a stop with his hands resting on his knees, back bent forward. "Not many people bother to even give the time of day to a faunus."

To that the spartan grunted bemusedly. "You were rather… persistent."

"Yes well…" The faunus muttered abashedly as he scrubbed his unruly mop of blonde hair. He trailed off, growing meeker under the silent, expressionless stare of the spartan's helmet. "A-Are you a huntsman, Sir?" He stuttered hopefully.

The spartan tilted his head back at the unadulterated presumptuousness of this man, even as he considered what he had been asked. Insofar as his limited knowledge came in to play, huntsmen were some form of specialized militia force, though what made them so exceptional he did not yet know. The man's question made him wary, if not curious as well.

"If I were?" He purposed inquisitively.

"I would ask for your services, if so." The faunus replied steadily, his precarious resolve affirmed as he exhumed a sheaf of paper from within his voluminous coat, flouncing it tentatively in B170's general direction.

Allowing his arms to uncross from their guarded posture under the impression that this was not a poorly conceived ambush, the spartan accepted the proffered documents with a raised brow, giving them a cursory examination as the man waited anxiously. The phrasing of the article was familiar, sparking faint memories of the compliance waiver he had signed as a child, although he had a far better understanding of litigation then he had twelve years ago.

If he was interpreting this correctly, and he was fairly confident he was, then the paperwork was a terms of service agreement for chartered protection. This led B170 to consider the increasingly dubious nature of these huntsmen. Were they protectors or simply guns for hire? The terms of the agreement as inscribed upon the form were of a more mercenary posture as one would expect to find with freelance ONI operatives.

For that only he was of a mind to disregard this man and his request. B170 was no huntsman, and he was certainly not a mercenary. He had his duty, and more obligations then could be sorted with a judicious application of an M41 LAAG. His priority was to return to his command and make a report of his findings on this world, however possible.

Yet as he noticed that there was a price to be paid upon completion, in foreign currency no less. He was reminded of his timorous position on Remnant, and his stark absence of inherent information about this planet and it population. If he was to survive he would need assets and connections. He needed access to resources and a solid base of support. And so it was, that with substantial disinclination, and a heavy sigh, he answered.

"Very well…"

"You'll take it? My request?" The faunus asked hopefully, not quite believing that the massive, obviously accomplished huntsman was willing to accept a request from someone like him. It'd been a shot in the dark at best.

"So it would seem." B170 relented with a decidedly fatalistic recognition of his fate. He didn't care to read into the terms too closely, both uninterested in the specifics and under the impression that it would not do him any favors regardless. All that concerned him, was that the man and his party would be traveling in the vague direction of the capital city of this kingdom, a fact he had gathered from his brief skim of the paper.

This would, as it were, kill two birds with one stone. And while the timing of this all stunk of foul play, he had no reason to actually be suspicious of this little man and his offer. There was no way the faunas could have known who he was, and if this was some attempt to kill him… well he had dealt with this sort before.

He glanced at the small, rail thin faunas, and nodded.

It would not take overlong.

"Well… uh, that's great!" The faunus exclaimed excitedly. "When… uh, when would you be ready to leave?"

The spartan arrived upon his answer as he turned his gaze to the walls of the small settlement, and the distant figure he had left behind.

"Immediately."

AN: Here we are again with another chapter, I hope it continues to satisfy expectations. As For the LOTP Revision, I should have the next part out no later than next week., with maybe a little surprise for Until it is Done if I can squeeze that in there somehow. Also, I am near to closing up the next chapter for Faded Light, though that doesn't have a projected release confirmation.

As always, I am humbled for the interest you all take in my fan works, and any reviews, favs, and follows are always greatly appreciated. Does my heart nice and warm to read your input.

Till Next time

Drake