Chapter 2: Hungry Like the Beowolf
"When you're cornered, there are two things you can do: Move or Fight."-Josh Fox
"...No...no, please... Miles, we've suffered enough...don't kill them... Nora... Ren... YANG!"
He bolted awake, heart pounding in his chest, seeking an escape route to a less-claustrophobic realm. Sunlight burned his eyes—he always was more of a night owl—making him recoil in his perch.
Right OFF his perch, as a matter of fact.
Amazingly he hit the ground ass-first, the shockwave of the impact sending a cry of pain out his mouth. Fortunately, the pain was more or less momentary as it was more that the initial shock initiated the cry. His backpack and sketchpad came tumbling down after him, the pack almost hitting the ground unceremoniously had he not scrambled to his feet to catch it. The sketchpad was not so lucky, but being paper was a fortuitous boon for it.
"Note to self, strap myself to the branch next time. Fucking A..."
It took 3 minutes give or take for him to get back on his feet, the pain mostly gone and the early morning adrenaline surplus well and used. Even then his stomach growled in anger, the lack of food over the last 12 hours or so more than evident; He hadn't skipped a meal since he was a tyke, ignoring lunch on occasion when he was caught up in a book or a movie.
"So, this is what's it's like to starve. Note to self: donate half my next paycheck to the local food bank." As if on queue his stomach roared again, seeking out sustenance in some form. Now, he was not a well-versed outdoorsman, so berries and fruits were more than likely out of the question. Certainly there would be some game in this forest; a pistol, as loud as it may be in regards to attracting predators would be very handy in hunting. Then again, despite wanting to go on a hunt, he had never experienced the long crawl of time waiting for a target to make itself known, so he knew he'd fuck up somewhere along the line. "Maybe I'll find something along the way," he grumbled under his breath, though he wondered to himself if he meant that as a grumble or a plea.
Fortunately, his watch was still accessible and accurate; 8:30 in the morning. Normally he would have berated himself for sleeping as long as he did, though now in all honesty he didn't give to shakes of a cherry tree. He'd been hiking about for God knows how long yesterday and by the time he had climbed into that tree he had walked as far as he normally would walk during a Disney trip. Tired didn't begin to describe how he felt by the time he had crawled up there, yet somehow he had avoided falling asleep until he was done with his drawing.
Speaking of which, he scooped up the work-in-progress artwork with a groan of pain. Heh, I'm getting to be an ol' codger he joked to himself in his mind. I'm 20, I'm not supposed to be complaining about my joints yet. No biffs to the paper, fortunately, and the impact avoided smudging it in any sense. Closing the sketchpad back up he set to work figuring out his directions. Fortunately, the sun was still at an angle he could figure out a rough estimate of directions, settling on heading north-by-northwest—or at least by his guess.
A half hour into his hike and he was already about ready to munch down on the nearest animal within arm's reach. Chance of rabies or whatever disease or not, Hunger was his main focus. He had finally reached a spot where the cliffside he had climbed levelled out with the ground, and the forest had thinned out some. He was hungry first and foremost, as he had discovered that his tea tumbler had made it into his pack as well, loaded with a now-cold earl grey brew. With thirst quenched for now he had to keep moving, otherwise he'd never find food, and neither was he likely to find civilization in those circumstances.
It was at this point something in the back of his mind told him to watch his 6.
...What's following me? And why does it feel like...
Nothingness.
He about-faced, drawing the pistol from its loose hoster in his belt. 7 shots from a .380 should kill most things, but he wasn't ready to find out how right he was.
But what he did see following him shattered his very reality.
Standing out from the forest he had just passed through, about 50 meters out from his position was a...creature. It was of vaguely lupine design, bipedal, probably stood about 5-6 feet tall at the shoulders, baring teeth as dazzlingly white as ceramic under the midday sun. Massive claws sprung forth from its paws—no, HANDS was the better term by and large—amounting to 5 a limb. Bony protrusions sprung forth from the arms and legs, equally white as the claws and teeth. Its head was covered in a similar carapace, as if it wore the skull of a deformed wolf. But the biggest characteristics of its appearance were two-fold; One, it was pitch-black in color, as if it were shadows coalesced into a singular mass. And reason number two was the glowing blood red eyes gazing into him from behind the armored skull.
To your average person this thing was a demon. Hell, if this were Warhammer it would have been called a daemon and purged by an Inquisitor long ago.
But he was well aware of the creature standing before him.
Beowolf.
Grimm.
RWBY.
Fear gripped his heart with icy embrace as his trigger discipline vanished out the metaphorical window. 2 rounds let fly, seeking purchase in its blackened body. Both missed their mark by feet. Shit, shit, shit, SHIT, What the actual flying fuck, his mind screamed to the heavens as his terror began to overcome him. Backpedalling seemed like the logical thing to do in a scenario like this, even then logic was a very difficult thing to maintain when you're staring down a BEAST THAT SHOULD NOT EXIST.
The Beowolf was charging now, running on all fours like the mangled beast it was, teeth flashing, a wild grin alight its face oh God it's gonna kill me this is where and how I fucking die oh sweet Jesus-!
2 more rounds flew loose, one zooming past the beast's head and into a nearby tree, the other glancing off the bony spikes. The Beowolf didn't flinch, it just kept running at him. 20 meters to go, it would reach him in probably 10 seconds if his mental math was correct.
10 seconds at worst to live.
Well fuck.
His aim steadied as he lined the shot with the beast's head; clearly it was either inexperienced or it was mindless as it refused to alter course or juke or anything really. Just a forward rush that would leave a Khornate Berserker clapping in delight at the spectacle.
First shot was let loose, the recoil cursing his name and sending the bullet speeding over the Beowolf's head. 5 seconds at best.
He steadied his breath, the fear still making his hand quiver and quake.
4 seconds.
Steady on, fucking A steady up, hands...
3 seconds.
Hold... h-hold...
2 seconds, the red glow threatening to consume his soul.
Let slip the dogs of war.
1 second.
The Beowolf lunged, maw agape and seeking purchase—no doubt in his throat.
The last 2 rounds escaped the chamber at a heartbeat's pace, trailing one another by fractions of a second.
The first careened into the back of the Beowolf's maw, the profane beast's head exploding out the back of its skull. The second bullet by sheer luck found purchase in its left eye, the red glow snuffed out by lead and gunpowder.
The Beowolf was dead before it even realized it.
Unfortunately, however, the beast's body—and by extension the laws of physics—were not aware of the creature's existential destruction, and the beast's body was still flying at him with all the force remaining in its body.
The two made impact, the creature's body colliding with his torso and sending them both flying. The two slammed into the ground with enough force for a nice bout of blinding pain to course through his body, sending a cry of agony through his system. He felt the teeth—or maybe it was the claws—skin the edge of his neck, still looking to kill even in the absence of its consciousness. His world was a mass of black and death and teeth and more.
His world was pain and shadow and bones and fear and OH GOD SOMEBODY HELP ME GET ME OUT OF HERE FOR FUCK'S SAKE SOMEBODY HELP ME!
He scrambled out from underneath the corpse, clawing desperately for air and freedom. He managed to squirm free of his own volition before turning back to the body, heart pounding, breath heaving, stomach churning.
After a brief few seconds he let slip a bloodcurdling scream, one he didn't even realize he was holding in.
Sitting in the dirt and grass before him was a corpse of a Beowolf.
A Beowolf. As in the beast of the Grimm from RWBY.
Something that should NOT, repeat, should NOT exist in reality.
The very idea brought on another bout of screams from his throat for a solid 2 minutes or so. After the initial panic was out of his system by way of his throat, he sat there for what felt like hours staring at the beast, taking every detail so as to remember it for all time. His throat was raw and angry, but his mental priority was on rationalizing what he was seeing.
Not a replica or an animatronic, no fucking way that was an animatronic, too mobile, too agile, too EVERYTHING really... Am I dreaming? Oh Jesus, am I dead, did I really get the Raw Deal and this is my Purgatory!? No, no, get a hold of yourself shit-for-brains, there has to be a logical explanation...
He slapped himself in the face, hoping the shock of pain would wake him up, that it was just a regular timber wolf, that he was experiencing hunger-induced hallucinations and he was just losing his mind.
Nope, said the Beowolf's corpse, metaphorically thumbing its nose at him, this is real.
He felt a need to pass out. No way in the Seven Hells he could compartmentalize fast enough what he was seeing while still being awake.
Too bad that Beowolves come in packs of 3 or more. Well fuck.
The panic in his heart gripped tighter and tighter. Run, run, RUN FUCKNUGGET, RUN!
He bolted onto his feet and made a mad scramble for the trees; just because they have opposable thumbs didn't mean they had the capacity to climb, right? Then again, all info he had on Grimm was kind of buried at the moment by the overriding surge of survival instinct kicking him into overdrive.
He hit the treeline seconds later, the other 2 Beowolves hot on his 6:00. If he didn't get into the foliage right now, he was going to die.
Now if only he wasn't 5'5" and the punchline of a "white guys can't jump" joke.
SHITSHITSHITSHIT!
Screw it, he decided, just run!
And run he did. For all of about 10 seconds before his eyesight caught the silhouettes of the Beowolves attempting to encircle him, a pincer hold if he ever saw one.
Fortunately, he remembered his fair share of movie car chases and dogfights; when one is caught between oncoming enemies trying a Pincer... simply hit the brakes.
He skidded to a halt just as the Beowolves lunged at one another, unable to course-correct in time to not overshoot him. Their heads collided with an audible THUD, both flopping to the ground snout-first. He picked up the pace again, noting that the Wolves were at best out cold, at worst merely stunned. Honestly, he didn't care; in a moment of survival, it was all about how many seconds you could save. Vaulting over the Beowolves, he broke into a full sprint. He didn't hear the Wolves growling; maybe Grimm could be knocked out. If that's the case, what fortune! He looked back behind himself to check if they were still tailing him, part of him hoping that his hunch was right...
Only to trip on something.
A rock, at twig, whatever it was, he was sent tumbling.
He hit the ground with a painful THUD, sending pain through his left arm as it caught the brunt of the impact. He swore he heard a person cry out. Still reeling from the collision, his eyes instinctively retrained on where—or at least where he thought—the Beowolves were. Sure enough, they had both gotten up and were charging him now, the distance between them closing terribly quickly.
It was at this point he remembered he had more magazines for the Bersa.
Shaking like a jumping bean soaked in espresso he pulled a magazine from the side pocket of his pack, clumsily trying to reload. They really had him now, no way I can kill them both.
No way I'm surviving this one.
Clip loaded. Time to die standing.
Up from the ground he sprung, fear and anger in his eyes, his voice raising and prepared to deliver what he thought were his final words.
"Eat Lead and Die, lobo!"
3 rounds escaped their casings, planting themselves in the lead Beowolf before the beast dropped dead.
Yet he had fired only two.
Before he could explain what happened, something went flying past him at ludicrous speeds.
Something gold and red.
Without warning the Beowolf dropped dead, tumbling forward through the inertia of its sprint. Out of its clavicle—or rather his rough guestimate of its clavicle—poked a massive javelin, regal and golden. Red metal gizmos and parts marked the weapon, intricate details adorning the weapon's whole body.
He had seen that before.
It was supposed to have been destroyed when Beacon feel in Season 3.
"...M-m...Miló..." "Speak".
He wheeled around to see who would be crazy enough to wield a fictional character's weapon in a live-or-die scenario like this.
And the world came to a terrifying halt.
Standing about 10 yards out from him were a pair of teens, both at least passing 6' tall. The taller one, the boy, wore a black and orange hoodie and faded blue jeans under what looked like basic armor, not particularly sturdy-looking all things considered. Pale complexion, blonde hair, blue eyes, looked relatively strong in comparison to himself.
And the other... Oh sweet Merciful Christ-Father Above...
She was about 6' exact, probably thanks to the heels she wore. Her outfit was a two layer, a light-brown—dare he say leather—strapless top and a v-neck of some kind; Honestly it looked like a very ornate choker to him, but it was probably how much the color of it looked like skin to him. A black miniskirt peaked out, bronze greaves protecting her legs. A drapery of crimson-red adorned her waist, a buckle of some form emblazoned with an arrow piercing a shield holding it up. Black opera gloves covered small but strong hands. Atop her head a bronze-gold circlet adorned her crimson hair done back in a long elegant ponytail.
Emerald green eyes stared back into his dark brown orbs, for a terrifying hot-second he could read her and she could practically read him. What he saw prickled the hair on his back.
No... no... it's just a dream, she can't be real, THIS can't be real-
And then she spoke.
The voice of Jen Brown escaped her mouth, ringing clear in his ears. His heart beating like a wardrum on a charge, his mind overclocking to rationalize what he was seeing, what he was hearing.
Because he was staring at a character that was both fictional... and was supposed to be DEAD.
"Are you alright, sir?" asked Pyrrha Nikos.
Welp, that's chapter 2. Looks like I've just met a ghost... and had my first asskicking from the Grimm.
Chapter 3, Things truly do enter a world of "Bloody Evolution".
(Goddamnit, Yang.)
As usual, reviews are more than welcome around here.
Later!