AN: The third chapter, let's start right where we left off.

Morning light flooded into the hospital room through the open window, a fresh breeze pouring in alongside it. A comfortable warmth and a soft brightness rested in the room, come from the low-lying sun. The Lone Wanderer sat amongst it in his bed, finishing breakfast. The mutant nurse smiled and took it away. At least, he figured she was a mutant, having a monkey tail and all. Not like there was any other explanation. Explanations... how he longed for them. How were those men able to fight like that? Why was the moon broken? Why did his nurse have a tail? Why did he apparently have a dad again? Why did everyone call him Steve?

All these questions and more consumed his thoughts, and he hadn't the slightest clue how to go about answering any of them. He just needed to roll with things, especially when it came to the 'Steve' bit. Sure, it was definitely strange for everyone to call him that, but correcting them might mean the end of his free food and medicine. He'd gotten a plain yet filling meal for breakfast, and during the past few days, (which was apparently how long he'd been unconscious) he'd been treated quite well. This way of life had long been foreign to him; safety, security. The only apparent cost was that he had to let them call him Steve Branwen.

What a stupid name. Not even 'Steven', he was just listed down as 'Steve' being his full name. Steve Branwen... it just sounded so dumb paired together.

Nomenclature aside, there were plenty of other things to worry about, such as the mysterious 'aura'. Both nurse and doctor had both mentioned it, saying that his aura was large, large enough to gather together and bring him back from the brink of death. Apparently, Birdman had 'unlocked' it for him, saving him at the last moment. Great, twice he'd been saved by the man. Just one instance would've already indebted him towards the man, but two? He owed the guy a lot, especially if aura did everything he thought it might. Superhuman strength and speed. Seemingly supernatural protection. He'd spent a lot of time that morning worrying about what would be demanded in exchange, for certainly he'd demand something. They always did.

When not fretting about debt, he'd been contemplating another question distinct from the ones mentioned prior. Similar in context yet different in nature, it was the most important as well as the only one he may actually be able to answer. How had he gotten here? He'd accepted that this wasn't a dream, but acceptance provided no explanation. This world was completely alien and insane, constituting equal parts vitality and absurdity such that he'd never before seen. This was something that shouldn't have happened, something that wasn't supposed to be able to happen. After devoting a few hours to recollection, however, he finally stumbled upon an answer. It was painfully obvious now that he thought about it, but hindsight is 20/20 after all Still, he should've been able to pick up on it sooner once he'd been dropped off here in this strange new world, instead of stubbornly clinging to the idea of a dream. Not for the first time that morning, he rapped his own forehead for the stupidity. Now that he thought about it, the explanation was perfectly reasonable.

Aliens.

Those little green bastards had taken him off of Earth, again. The last time had been strange enough, and he hadn't been totally sure about its reality until he got back to Earth with alien tech he'd been able to sell to the Brotherhood for a small fortune, and fortunes never came from nothing.

He'd spent weeks on the alien ship, first fighting them, then picking the place apart for a way to escape. Consequently, he was closely acquainted the alien aesthetic. So, when he'd scoured his memory that morning, combing through the moments just before his Earthly departure, he'd been able to see what he'd missed in the heat of the moment. Canisters identical to that on the mothership had rested in the central laboratory, which itself appeared to be a degraded and derelict chunk of an alien ship. Perhaps it was from the ship he'd blown up in that space battle. Alright, actually thinking it through made everything sound a little insane.

Still, it was easily the only feasible explanation he could deduce, especially considering the contraption in the middle of the laboratory. The entire lab had been built in accommodation to this single alien device. There were other labs in different parts of the compound that had contained various alien materials for experimentation, but this central one was the most pertinent. He hadn't recognized it then, but he did now. That lab contained a strange apparatus, a pulsing, whirring cylinder, the top of which was a glowing platform with a handrail. It was one of the teleporters scattered about the alien ship, just exposed and propped up for greater analysis.

Really, he should've noticed it all before, but all the pieces fell into place now that he had the calmness necessary to think and comprehend. It'd all started when he shot Enclave's Bane at them, missing and striking the pillar. Chaos reigned after that. The pillar immediately became unstable, spewing lightning in random directions, taking out chunks from the floor and walls. Everyone had gotten for cover then. Not a minute after the incident, he'd thrown the mini-nuke (an action which had instantly panicked friend and foe alike for its insanity, as the Wanderer himself could very well have been caught in the blast). He'd averted his eyes, but when he turned back, there had been only smoke where once the monster lay. Yet the Wanderer hadn't had time to celebrate. He'd ducked away from a volley of plasma and wound up in the open, exposed to the machine. Then there was another flash of lightning, and here he was.

Here he was, triumphant. A smile broke across his face, for he'd killed Bishop Beauvais. Finally, after so long, that monster was dead. Dead and gone. Thank God for Lyons, who'd decided to ask him if he'd be willing to volunteer for the mission to hunt him down. Willing? Ha, Lyons didn't even finish asking the question before he said yes. He'd said yes, then he'd trekked with the knights across the wasteland to that lab in Richmond. Good thing they'd caught them, for who knows what would've happened once they'd unlocked the secrets of that alien tech, certainly something nefarious.

That was always the case with the Enclave.

Reminiscing aside, he was stuck in an exceptionally peculiar situation. He'd been transported to another planet—possible another universe—by a malfunctioning alien artifact. There were other explanations, of course. They were also all ridiculous in their own way, but a ridiculous cause was necessary for a ridiculous, right? He might still be dreaming, but stubbornly clinging to disbelief wouldn't do him any good, even if it was true. This might be a repeat of the Tranquility Lane fiasco, but how would he have gotten into a pod? Bishop's men would've captured, tortured and murdered him. They wouldn't have wasted time putting him in a virtual reality for no reason. With a similar explanation, he couldn't have been drugged. This was nothing like that experience at Point Lookout, and even if 'trips' differed, then there was as much reason for the Enclave to drug him as there was putting him into a VR pod: none.

This world, with its startling beauty and vitality, might make an interesting interpretation of Heaven, should it be that he'd actually died. He'd dismissed that theory instantly.

So, aliens it was. Aliens, aliens, aliens. He never thought he'd see them in the first place; he certainly never thought he'd see them a second time. That was how things worked, though, wasn't it? Always the unexpected. Still, it was a difficult explanation for him to stomach, so ludicrous it was. This was something he remembered reading in Grognak, with the titular barbarian being transported to Earth by conniving alien conspirators, subsequently battling alongside heroes such as the Silver Shroud, combatting evil and saving gorgeous damsels.

The Wanderer looked at the medical equipment around him, felt the lingering pain in his stomach. Yeah, he'd been pretty heroic thus far. He'd be dead if not for Birdman's intervention. That raider's power was one unmatched by any in the wasteland, except perhaps Bishop himself. He'd need power armor to stand any chance against him. Birdman, however, had been capable of defeating him handily. The warriors of this strange new world were closer to superheroes than soldiers.

Their skill and abilities appeared incredible. He had to have them. If this was warfare in the world, then he'd need it. His life was one endless war that survived from day to day. That was all he'd been doing the last few months in the wasteland, aimlessly surviving.

He'd be able to learn on his own, in time. Already, he'd found himself accidentally shattering the glass of orange juice he'd been given, bending the utensils he was trying to eat with. The last few hours had been an exercise in controlling his newfound strength, which wasn't actually too hard. He'd need to make sure not to crush any of his weapons once he got back to fighting, as he invariably would. Combat was an indomitable certainty. The death of others and the possibility of his own was an indomitable certainty.

He'd get out of this hospital, settle whatever debt Birdman imposed, then get back on the road. He'd restlessly meander from place to place, sleeping and eating and killing on his way, until he himself was eventually claimed, until there was no Birdman to save him, until there were no more stimpaks, until he ran out of breath and blood. Such was his destiny.

Destiny aside, he had a goal: master his new abilities. He'd already managed to learn how to inhibit his incredible strength so that he didn't break everything he touched. A good start, to be sure. He'd also need to go on and unlock whatever other powers may manifest. That raider had been able to summon wind, and Birdman could change into a crow. Perhaps he'd be able to summon fireballs after all.

Before that, he could still do some work right now, and he did. He'd had the nurse give him his pip-boy, which had been left with the rests of his belongings in his duffle bag in the corner of the room. She'd picked it up and passed it to him with her tail, both impressing and unsettling him. They evidently still had mutants here, though the kindly nurse was nothing like the ghouls or super mutants or centaurs or trogs that he'd come across before.

Clasping his Pip-Boy back onto his wrist, he booted it up and found the same information as before. Still at 25 rads, still a blank map screen, still no radio signals. Well, no signals picked up on the usual frequencies, which were reduced to static. A bit of exploring, however, landed him on a what appeared to be a music channel. A bizarre series of high-pitched, unnatural melodies combined with a synthetic female voice accosted his ears for just a few second before he turned it off. He could explore that more later, perhaps a news channel like GNR could tell him more about the world. Maybe they had a functioning library somewhere around where he could find history archives like Arlington. Thankfully, he'd actually be able to read whatever he found, for this world apparently used written and spoken English just like back home. Another piece of evidence pointing to the possibility of some kind of parallel universe... damn aliens.

He glanced back at his Pip-Boy, noticing the date. August 18th, 2228. That meant yesterday was the 17th of August, the exact day he'd left Vault 101 back in 2277. An interesting coincidence.

A sharp knock emanated from the door, taking him from his thoughts. The nurse shuffled in, a bright smile splitting her petite face. "Hello Steve," she said, not noticing how the Wanderer cringed at the name. "Your father's here to see you."

Was that so? Well, this would be interesting. The Lone Wanderer was neither deluded enough nor desperate enough to believe that Dad had come back to life, having seen the man get his brains blown out. He shivered. No, that was impossible. This was someone claiming to be his dad, for one reason or another. He hadn't sought to ask the nurse or the doctor about who this person was, for questioning someone about who your own dad is would only arouse suspicion. And suspicion was the last thing he wanted right after he'd gotten to this bizarre new place. He doubted anyone would believe his story from another universe, but they may make up stories of their own. He had a lot of experience with people fabricating reality, after all. A lot of the time, it wasn't even malicious, just cautious. If he was acting strangely, if he didn't know things he was supposed to know, that would rouse questions, questions that he couldn't answer, questions that would invariably lead to trouble.

So he'd waited all morning for his 'father' to arrive. For who this man was, he had a decent guess.

"I'll let him in now and give you some privacy," the nurse said before dutifully departing, leaving the door conveniently open.

That didn't stop Birdman from slamming past it, swinging it into the wall with a loud crash as he stumbled into the room. He blinked a few times and shook his head, then turned around and grabbed the door, smashing it closed with a crack like thunder, loud enough to wake the dead. As it was, the Wanderer only winced.

"Hey there Stevey, glad to see my little boy all good and healthy again," he said. A tell-tale slur tinged the edge of his voice. The Wanderer checked the clock on the wall, seeing that it was noon. Halfway through the day, this man was already wasted.

He stumbled over beside the Wanderer's bed and patted him on the head like he would a puppy, but that puppy only narrowed his eyes and brushed the hand away. Birdman chuckled, pacing away before dragging back a chair, which screeched achingly across the floor. He fell into it with a sigh and looked at the Wanderer for a few moments, before extending his hand. "The name's Qrow, Qrow Branwen."

After a moment's hesitation, the Wanderer shook it. Leaning back once more onto the pillows, he shifted uncomfortably under the man's lazy gaze, one finger idly beginning to tap against a fold in the blankets.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"What do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

The Wanderer growled under his breath and said, "you saved my life, what do you want in return? If you didn't want anything, you wouldn't have bothered sticking around. Stop playing with me."

Qrow regarded him curiously. His lackadaisical expression melted into one far more placid as he looked at the Wanderer, undoubtedly thinking about what he wanted, or perhaps just trying to figure out the best way to word it. The Wanderer owed him too much, after what he did for him, both in terms of this mysterious aura and his own life. Undoubtedly, the price would be steep—

"I just wanted to wait and make sure you're alright."

What?

"I'm not about to extort a kid for whatever he's worth," Qrow said. The Wanderer looked him in the eyes, where he could find no illegitimacy. There was something about the plain way he spoke, voice containing only a hint of intoxication, no malice. He recalled the way this man had stopped him during the execution, his subsequent lecture on civility. The Wanderer's hand stopped fidgeting and tapping the blankets as he sunk deeper into the sheets; a tension he didn't even realize he'd been maintaining dissipated. Murderer. Smuggler. Entertainer. Mercenary. Qrow could've made him many things with the debt he owed, and the Wanderer would've obliged. It was an unspoken rule in the wasteland that you pay back the debts you accrue, or else. Or else the person you owe hurts you or the people you care about. Or else the person you owe spreads the word that you're an ingrate, and you're cut off from help in the future. With Qrow's incredible strength, the Wanderer wouldn't have dared defy a request. He would've done anything, and his control over his own life would be null, at least for a while.

"Thank you," he said. "For saving me... and for not pushing it."

"No problem kid. Just glad to see you're safe."

"Yeah, those monsters were brutal. I think I might've turned out better, if only my magnum didn't jam. Some timing, huh?"

Qrow winced. "Sorry about that."

The Wanderer brushed away the apology with a wave of his hand. "It wasn't your fault." Qrow didn't seem satisfied, but he didn't continue, either. Instead, he moved on to a different subject, one of health.

"The doc told me you're going to make a full recovery. Anyway, a couple more days of rest and you should be back to normal again," he said, playfully punching the Wanderer's arm. "Hell, you're already in a good enough state that I could have you discharged if you want. You're too young for them to let you go by yourself, but since I'm your dad, I can just say the word and get you out."

"Yeah, why did you tell them that you're my dad, by the way? And why have they been calling me Steve all morning?"

"Meh, I knew that they wouldn't let me know all the stuff that was wrong about you if I told them I was just some random stranger you never met before," he said with a shrug. "So, I just said I'm your dad. Not like there were any records of either of us to disprove it. And being your dad, I'm kind of expected to know your name. So, I went with Steve." He leaned in and slung one hand around the Wanderer's shoulder, bringing him close by his side and pointing towards the horizon, as if marking out a brilliant, previously unknown continent. "A strong name. A noble name. A heroic name. Steve! Steve Branwen! A name for the ages!" Qrow released him and raucously laughed, spewing the scent booze as he did so.

The Wanderer cringed and looked away. His head snapped back, however, when embarrassment was replaced with understanding. "You know that they have rules like that for a reason, right? Pretty sure it's supposed to keep things private. My things private."

"Oh come on, I just wanted to make sure you're okay," Qrow said with a nonchalant shrug and a dismissive wave. "Not like I could contact anyone you actually know. I was just looking out for you. I promise, I'm not interested in your privates, just your safety. You really freaked us out for a second there, since you didn't even have a heartbeat when I brought you here, but a few scans later and, well..."

The Wanderer didn't drop his scowl, it actually deepened into a snarl, but he didn't reply either. He supposed that he should've been flattered by the care. The invasion of his privacy, however, immediately made his skin crawl. They'd taken scans of his heart, for Christ's sake! Alright, calm down. Breath deep. Hold. Release. Breath deep. Hold. Release. Okay, better. Calm. He'd have to tolerate the nosiness, if it was coming from the man who'd saved him and granted him incredible power. On that subject...

"What's aura?"

"Hm?"

"What's aura?" he repeated. "I've heard the nurse and doctor talking about how much aura I've got, but I don't know what that means. They said you unlocked it for me. What is it?"

"You really don't know what aura is?" Qrow asked. The Wanderer only nodded, unease forming in his gut. Judging by the way Qrow's brow was cocked, that was a weird question to ask. Damn it. He needed to avoid suspicion, he was just thinking about that! Alright, save it. Just have to save it. Excuses. Excuses are needed. What's a good excuse? Well... the truth wouldn't be too bad. Selective truth, at least.

"I was raised in a small community. It was pretty weird, no one was allowed to enter or leave." He stopped and judged Qrow's expression for a moment, gaining confidence from the way he didn't seem to be dismissing him. "I only left the place a year ago and I've just been wandering around ever since. I honestly don't know a lot about the world. I've just been out in wild."

He must've said something right, because Qrow seemed to accept the answer, even leaning back in his seat and humming idly. For a minute, Qrow just looked at him, red eyes interested in whatever they saw. "So you grew up in a weird little group?" He nodded. "You've been running around outside the kingdoms, huh?" He nodded. "You've never even been to one of the major cities?" He nodded.

Qrow kept looking at him, before a small smirk crept onto his face. "You know kid, I used to know a guy a lot like that. Grew up with a cruddy bunch outside the kingdoms. Eventually got straight, though, went to a battle-school and became a huntsman. Maybe he still drinks a bit too much, but he's pretty damn awesome in my books." That same cocky smirk slid onto his face again. "He's a certified badass and the greatest uncle on all of Remnant."

Qrow got up from his seat and walked over the Wanderer's dufflebag, stuffed with all his equipment. He grabbed it and threw it at the Wanderer, who caught it with a grunt. It landed on his stomach, where the bandages still lay. He hid a pained gasp and glared at the man.

"Heh, come on kid. We're gonna get out of here. I know this inn around town, with some good drinks, but the innkeeper's skirt length is even better," Qrow said, raising his eyebrows a few times as he did so, his smirk growing larger and taking lecherous edge. He purged that with a light chuckle, before moving on in a more serious tone. "I've got an idea that I've been throwing around for a bit too, and I think I like it even more now. But before that, let's talk about aura and stuff, over some drinks of course. You better get dressed, unless you really want to go out in a hospital gown."

Qrow moved towards the door before stopping and fishing something out of his pocket. "By the way, those villagers scrabbled together a reward for us. They're pretty poor though, so I turned mine down. Figured I'd hold onto your share, though, see if you'd decide the same." He held the money up, flashing some multi-colored cards, perhaps this world's equivalent to caps. "You want it or not? I'm sure they could use it." The Wanderer immediately held his hand out for the money. Qrow obliged and handed it over. He tucked it into a pouch on his duffle bag for later use. Sure, those people at the town could use it, but he could use it too.

Qrow looked a little annoyed, but he didn't say anything, simply leaving the room to let him get changed. However, he stopped and turned around just as he was about to exit. "Sorry I forgot to ask, but what's your name, kid?"

"And the raider's semblance was the ability to control wind?"

"Bingo," Qrow said. "You're a quick learner, kid. After I turned him in, I learned that the guy's a third-rate huntsman from a third-rate school, who turned rogue because he didn't get the glory he was after.

"Real scum," he added. Qrow shook his head and drowned out his disgust with another swig from a full bottle. The Wanderer nursed a small glass of whiskey, which far surpassed anything he'd had in the wasteland, likely because it wasn't produced in a run-down bath-tub or an old bucket.

They were sat across from one another in a small booth nestled in the corner of the small inn. The Wanderer had chosen the seat, which had a good view of the entrance, his gaze flicking there whenever someone new came. People were stuffed inside, lending the stench of their sweat to the already colorful aroma of sour booze and cooked meat. Even though it was just a little past noon, the building was dark, with whatever light that managed to strike in through the few open cracks were strangled by the oppressive atmosphere of smoke and harsh laughter. The Wanderer had his back against the seat, which itself was placed against the wall, such that there was nothing behind but wood.

They'd gone in, placed their orders and proceeded to talk about all of the Wanderer's questions. Qrow had explained aura and semblances. The Lone Wanderer had also made out a few references to various kingdoms, namely that they were currently in the Kingdom of Mistral, near the city of Mistral itself. Just west of it, in fact. There were several things he'd been too afraid to ask of, such as where 'Mistral' was supposed to be, or what those bizarre creatures he fought were. Lacking knowledge due to a strange upbringing was reasonable only to a certain precipice, an edge that loomed over a chasm of suspicion. He would not drive anyone over that edge.

Qrow had also made references to how that man had used 'fire dust' for his spear, but he hadn't gone into detail about what exactly that was. The Wanderer doubted it was gunpowder, possible a term in this world for thermite. It could just as easily be something unique, however. He'd need to do a lot of discreet research in his own time.

Qrow continued to talk about how much training aura required. In fact, he spent several minutes stressing that people with aura needed years of professional training at battle schools in order to master their strength. Training at a good school was necessary, apparently, absolutely necessary.

"Why didn't the rest of his group have aura?" The Wanderer asked.

"Why? Well, power, that's why. Aura's a tough thing to unlock, kid. There are only two ways to get it." He raised one finger in the air. "The first way (which is both the most common way and the most accepted way) is to unlock it yourself through training and meditation. This takes years, but it's the best way, since you get to work with your aura and semblance as it grows. It's also a bit of a rite of passage, since it takes so much work and dedication." He reached for his bottle once more, drawing down a few gulps of whatever liquor waited inside, before sighing contentedly and continuing. "It's also the legal way. Huntsman and Huntresses are a pretty regulated business. Almost all of them are registered with the kingdoms' governments, but some freelancers (like me) manage to work outside of that."

That Qrow was a freelance huntsman didn't surprise the Wanderer in the slightest. This man didn't seem like he'd be willing, or even able, to follow anyone's orders. Who would put up with such a belligerent drunk anyway?

"Then there's the second way," he said, raising another finger in the air. "You can have someone who's already got aura unlock it for you, though they have to be pretty strong to do that. It's also really, really illegal to unlock somebody's aura for them."

The Wanderer sighed. Great, he'd just arrived in this world, and he'd already committed a crime.

"Like I said, they like to keep things regulated, makes sense given how strong we are compared to normal civilians."

The Wanderer thought back to those poor villagers, huddled and frightened. Regulation seemed like a good idea here.

"So, let's just keep the story behind how you got your aura our little secret, okay? Just say you unlocked it real quick when you were in a rough spot, that happens sometimes in desperate situations." Qrow snorted, amused by some unsaid joke. "Well, it doesn't, but that's the classic lie for someone who had theirs unlocked for them. People think it can happen, though, that's the important part. You don't have a problem with lying, right?"

The Wanderer shook his head. Going against the law didn't scratch his conscience in the slightest, especially If it meant he'd still be alive. Then again, if this place actually had jails and Huntsman like Qrow, maybe he should follow them, or at least try.

"But that raider didn't care about the law, and neither do all of the other criminals with aura," Qrow said after another swig. "They don't unlock their goons' aura because then they could be a threat to their own power. They'll only unlock it for people they know will be loyal to them, almost like mentors or something. It's an interesting system of patronage that governs the underworld Hunstman and Huntresses."

He looked fit to continue, but for the innkeeper coming by with their orders, two bowls of beef stew. The innkeeper herself was pretty, and Qrow had been right to say that her skirt length was the main attraction, not that there was anything else worth looking at. Well, nothing pleasant. The inn wasn't dissimilar to the places that the Wanderer had visited in the wasteland. That wasn't a compliment. Sat in the booth, back against the wall, he glared furtively at anyone and everyone who passed by them. The innkeeper, however, got a less harsh gaze. She was nice enough. Sure, she may have spared a lingering look at his face when he first ordered, but it wasn't the sorts of stares that he'd accrued thus far.

"Here you go boys, enjoy the meal," she said.

"You too," the Wanderer replied. He instantly winced at the slight of words. Whether or not the innkeeper noticed, he had no idea. She only smiled and walked away—she also made a point of not looking at his face this time. Nice indeed.

The two men stopped their conversation and started digging in, a comfortable silence falling between them. It was delicious. Compared to seared radroach and molerat jerky, it was one of the best things he'd eaten in his entire life. Chunks of juicy beef, flavorful slices of carrot and cuts of onion intermingled in a steaming broth that lit up his taste buds. It was devoured in a minute.

"Man Steve, looks like you're still growing, huh?"

"Please don't call me Steve..."

"Well, tell me your name and I'll call you that."

The Wanderer looked up at the grizzled man, who stared back. He'd reneged on sharing his name with Qrow. He'd reneged on sharing it with anyone for months. 'The Lone Wanderer' practically was his name. It was a title he carried, a title he'd earned. Everyone in the Capitol Wasteland and beyond would recognize that name. This wasn't the wasteland, however, so he'd simply told Qrow nothing.

"You know, I helped raise two teen girls. I thought I knew what teen angst was, I really did. But you're bringing the edginess to a whole 'nother level with this stuff," Qrow said, shaking his head with a sigh. "Maybe you think you gotta live up to that scar or something, but you don't. Sheesh, when are you going to get that I haven't got anything out for ya? I'm even paying for the drinks"

It was nothing personal, it really wasn't. He could understand why Qrow may be a bit frustrated with the Wanderer's decision not to share his name, but the man honestly didn't understand that he'd already gotten quite far. Qrow was the first person to see his face in months.

He hadn't taken the Filtration Helmet off with people around ever since he got back from the Pitt, which was at least half a year ago. If the Wanderer had had his way, then Qrow still wouldn't have seen his face. He didn't keep it hidden because of the scar, as some might think. It didn't embarrass him, ugly as it was. It was a streak of darkened, gnarled flesh that crept out from the muddy, crimson cesspool that was his right eye. It stretched from his eye out across his cheekbone, a stain on his visage. The eye of itself was just as ugly, both iris and sclera reduced to a murky shade red, like blood spilled in dirty water. Only the pure black pupil had been spared from corruption.

He didn't care about it, though. He'd only ever worn the mask to keep his face hidden from any who may recognize it, but that wouldn't be a relevant concern anymore. Still, the glances it garnered only drew attention, and attention of any kind was inherently bad.

"Alright, alright, you want to keep being mister mysterious, you can. Let me just finish eating and we can get back to talking," Qrow said. He dove back into his stew, while the Wanderer fished out the pack of cigarettes and lighter from his duffle bag. He took one from the pack, put it between his lips and set it ablaze.

"You smoke?"

"Hm? Yeah, why?"

"A kid your age really shouldn't be smoking, that stuff'll kill you."

"Says the man with a rotten liver."

"Hey, I'm well past forty. I get to do some things you can't. Even then, I don't smoke. Come on, I got a niece your age, I can't help myself. You do know that that'll kill you, right?"

"I'll die a long time before these cigarettes get me."

"Is that a fact?"

"It is."

Qrow turned back to his stew and his bottle, letting the cigarette burn. When the Wanderer finished his whiskey, he pulled out the flask from his duffle bag as well. Between the smoke and the alcohol, this was working out to be a nice time. Qrow brought the bottle to his lips once more, only to shoot it a nasty glare, as if it was the bottle's fault for running empty. He let it fall back to the table, but the disappointment in his eyes fled when he caught sight of the Wanderer's flask.

"Oh yeah, I saw that. What's in it anyway?"

"Wait, when did you see it?"

"Ummm... I might've taken a look at your stuff while you were out. Might. Maybe. Just a little." He rubbed his neck and coughed. "I just wanted to see if you had anything that could've ID'd you... or maybe I was just curious. Definitely one of those. Maybe both. Maybe."

The Wanderer had left the flask on the table just a moment before, a good act, given that he would've crushed it had he been holding it. As it were, he settled for splintering the wooden table they were sat at. He would've torn it in two, if not for a quick installation of discipline.

This man had saved his live. This man had saved his life. This man had saved his life. He could also annihilate you at any moment, so just let it slide. Breath deep. Hold. Release. This guy who's seen your face and rooted through your stuff and took it upon himself to act as your dad. This crazy alcoholic who's barged into your private life in a way that you'd never willingly let him.

Asshole.

Asshole who saved your life.

The Wanderer, exasperated, sighed and slumped back into his seat. If his rescuer had no respect for boundaries, then so be it. He'd be off and away from the man soon enough anyway. He'd train with his aura, battling more Grimm and raiders until he became proficient. Who knows, maybe Remnant would know the Lone Wanderer just as the Capital Wasteland had. He'd need to put in a lot of training, though, especially since he wouldn't be attending a battle school. Qrow had actually mentioned those schools a lot...

"So, are you gonna let me have a taste, or what?"

"Huh?"

"What, did you space out again?" Qrow asked, waving his hand in front of the Wanderer's face. "Can I get a taste of whatever you're drinking there?"

"No." He saved your life. "Ugh, fine." He passed the flask over. "Just be careful to only take a sip. It's strong stuff." The Wanderer only ever took sips at a time, cautiously.

"Heh, I'll be the judge of that!" Qrow took a swig, face instantly twisting. He spat it out and shook his head. "Gods, kid! What is that stuff?"

"Point Lookout moonshine. It's got a bit of local fruit in it, yeast and..." He hesitated. Something told him that Qrow wouldn't appreciate the last ingredient.

"What? Come on, you can tell me."

"Battery acid..." he muttered.

"What!?" Qrow looked at the flask incredulously. "You're drinking battery acid here?"

"Hey, it's just a little bit. If you don't want it, hand it back."

"Sheesh, won't argue with that," Qrow said, returning the flask. The Wanderer stashed it back into his bag and got back to his cigarette. Qrow, however, didn't plan on just relaxing. "Steve, why don't you tell me a bit about where you're from?" The Wanderer's fingers tightened around the cigarette, crumpling it. "I'm just a little curious."

Shit.

"Uhhh... uhhh... I-I come from a wasteland..."

"Wasteland, huh? You mean Vacuo? The Vacuo wastes?"

"Yeah..."

"Damn, that must've been rough."

"Oh yeah, I left my home about a year ago, and I've been in the wastes ever since. Well, until I wound up here."

"And how did you wind up here? Mistral's a long way from Vacuo."

Shit.

"I... I woke up on a beach."

"Shipwreck, huh?"

"Yeah..."

"Where were you headed."

"Nowhere in particular."

"Is that still the case?"

"It is."

The Wanderer didn't like the look of Qrow's smile. He was up to something, that much was certain. The alcoholic had mentioned something about an idea before they'd left the clinic, but he'd yet to bring it up. He'd figured that giving the man time to bring it up himself would be for the best, but now he wasn't so sure.

"Kid, when do you consider it okay to kill someone?"

The Wanderer scowled. It was a question from nowhere, and Qrow's smile had dropped. The man was staring at him intensely now, waiting for the answer. Oddly, he was more comfortable talking about this than he was his past. Whereas he couldn't talk about an adequate lie for his past, he could definitely talk about death. It's always easier for people to talk about what they're familiar with.

"I guess it depends on the situation. It doesn't take a lot, honestly." He shrugged. "Back home, people kill and get killed all the time. It's just how things are done. If you steal something and get caught, chances are you'll be murdered."

"Would you do that? Kill someone who stole from you?"

That actually made him think for a moment. "Again, it depends. Depends on who they are and why they're doing it. If it's some raider scum like the guys we ran into before, then yeah, I'll kill him. If it was just someone who was hungry and wanted my food, I'd beat him senseless and leave."

"Really? You'd leave behind someone who's starving?"

"Hey, I've almost starved a couple times myself. I've even had to steal just to get by. I didn't get caught, but I wouldn't blame them for hurting me if I had been."

Qrow raised an eyebrow curiously, and he waved his hand as a gesture for him to continue.

"That's just how things work. I'd at least take the time to analyze the situation first, because not everyone deserves to die. Some people aren't that nice, though." He drew his finger across his neck, miming a fatal cut. "Some people would kill instantly. Others are nicer, maybe give up some food. I'm neither. I'm a mortal. I kill people. I've killed plenty of people, and I've seen plenty of people be killed. I've almost been killed plenty of times myself." He shrugged. "What happened before back in that village is nothing new for me. It's a world of life and death that I come from. I make my decisions and I stick to them."

"So you don't feel bad at all for killing people? For torturing them?"

"No, no I don't."

"Are there any you do feel bad for?"

"Just two."

"Two?"

"Exactly two."

"Are you going to tell me?"

"Hell no."

"Fair enough."

The Wanderer chafed under Qrow's gaze. His bare face being intently studied was a new experience, having his helmet off at all around another was new. It didn't help that Qrow's expression gave no bearing on his thoughts.

"So you've seen a lot, huh?" Qrow finally asked.

"Yeah, yeah I have."

"I could tell. You've got that look on you. You're not the kind to get afraid, are you?"

"No, no I'm not. Not anymore. I've seen dead kids and dead men and dead women." He shrugged. "Not a lot to get afraid of after that."

Qrow continued to stare at him. The Wanderer's fidgeted with his cigarette, twirling the burnt tip, flinging minuscule motes of ash into the air. Why was Qrow asking these questions? Was he trying to write a book about him or something? No, there had to be some sort of purpose now, beyond just curiosity.

"What's your idea?"

"Hmm?"

"Your idea, the one you talked about earlier. What is it? I figure that's why you took me out here, right?"

"You'd figure correctly."

"Well, what is it?"

Qrow brought one hand up to his chin, absentmindedly rubbing his stubble, continuing to study the Wanderer. He was thinking, thinking about him. He was considering, perhaps reconsidering. Who knew what was going on behind those red eyes?

"Kid, things are hard here," he finally answered, hunching over and speaking in a hoarse whisper. "The Grimm are merciless and strong, and there are people out there just as bad. Everybody knows about Grimm and criminals, but I know about them better than damn near anyone else. There are some people out there who are fear." Qrow's brow drooped into a scowl, undoubtedly thinking about this 'fear'. "But I've got a feeling you already know a lot about people like that, huh?"

The Lone Wanderer nodded.

"You've killed people like that?"

He nodded.

"They don't make you afraid?"

"Not anymore."

A smile broke onto Qrow's face, thought it was taut and devoid of mirth. "We need good, strong Huntsman, people who won't flinch when they need to do what's got to be done."

"Okay..."

"Have you ever heard of a place called Beacon Academy?"

"No."

"It's a battle school, the best in all of Vale, one of the best in all of Remnant. How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"That's the age they start accepting first-year applicants."

It wasn't hard to get the picture from here.

"You want me to go to this school?"

"That I do. The deadline for applications was months ago, but I've got a lot of pull with that place. I'm friends with the Headmaster himself." Qrow snapped his fingers for emphasis. "Once you get in, you get free room and board. Everyone who graduates instantly become a registered Huntsman or Huntress. Usually, you have to come from a battle school beforehand, have references, a good record, experience, blah, blah, blah." Qrow made a parodying gesture with one hand, moving his fingers like a talking mouth before stopping and looking at him again. Oddly, he always switched quickly between teasing and seriousness. "I can get you in with a letter."

The Wanderer's eyes narrowed. "Why? Why do you want me in?"

"There's a lot of reasons. You remind me of that guy I mentioned, the awesome one. Remind me of my nieces, too. Besides that, you're a damn good fighter."

The Wanderer took a drag from his cigarette.

"But that's not all. It's because you don't get afraid. Most of the Huntresses and Huntsman going into Beacon are too damn idealistic for their own good. They think they can stop every bad guy and save every person. They don't know fear."

The Wanderer took another drag.

"You do. You've seen war, that much is obvious. You've got what it takes to make it through whatever comes to Remnant. I'm interested in keeping humanity safe, and I think that people like you are needed."

"People like me? They need killers? You know that's what I am, right? I'm no hero."

"Says the guy who attacked bandits and was ready to give his life to save a little kid."

The Wanderer took another drag, fingers once more crumpling the cigarette.

"Listen, you don't need to be a hero. In fact, that's what I'm getting at. You're not. You just know how things work. You won't be fazed by whatever terrible stuff happens, where other people your age will."

"So you want to recruit me because I'm a sociopath?"

"I want to recruit you because you're capable of doing things that other people wouldn't do, that other people couldn't do."

"Like kill and torture?"

Qrow's silence was telling. So that was it, was it? He was unique in his depravity. A hint of a smile formed on his face, a bitter little curl of the lips. He supposed that it was unique, that someone capable of such violence would also have heart enough not to turn it on civilians.

"Come on kid. I won't force you to go, this is completely your decision. Don't feel like you have to, but I'm sure as Hell gonna try and convince you." Qrow leaned forward, hands open as if he was physically offering him something. "This is a premier battle school we're talking about. If you want a testament to how good it is, I'll tell you that I graduated from the place myself."

The Wanderer look at Qrow again. It definitely was a testament. There was no doubting the man's power, not after the incredible display he'd shown against both the raider and the Grimm. Honestly, he was tempted. For a second. He took one more drag.

"No."

"Huh?" Qrow looked honestly confused. "What for?"

"It sounds like you want to make me your pawn. I've already fought in other people's wars for them and it didn't end well for me on any occasion. I don't work for anyone, not anymore."

"Oh come on kid, no one's gonna control you. Hell, once you graduate, you can become a freelancer like me. It's simple."

"Is it?"

"It is."

The Wanderer didn't believe him. "There something else here, I know that. There's always something else. You're trying to manipulate me. You want something."

"I want another Huntsman here in the world, helping to protect it. That's the honest truth." The Wanderer stared at him, but Qrow's face gave no sign of illegitimacy. Still, there was something more here. Something that he wasn't being told.

"What happened?"

"Hm?"

"You're trying to recruit me, like for a war. So, what happened? I doubt this came out of the blue, since you won't let it drop."

Qrow rubbed at his stubble. He rolled his head from side to side, considering the prospects and scrutinizing the Wanderer. Both of them had been doing a lot of that, studying the other. Driven by mutual curiosity—some mutual distrust, as well—they'd each taken in much of the other during their time together. Eventually, however, Qrow sighed and spoke:

"There's been an attack, someone important's been hurt. Someone important to me, important to a lot of people. It happened just a couple weeks ago, and I've been chasing after them ever since." He scowled at his absent foe. "That's what I was doing out there by the village, looking for answers. While you were out, I interviewed some of them but came out empty-handed... again." The scowl faded and a smile sprung in its place. "Though, not really. I got you. You've got a lot of potential kid, and the only reason I want you to go to Beacon is so that you can harness that and keep moving forward. Move forward and never stop. I want you to train and get better, so this same thing doesn't happen again."

"Care to get a little more specific on what happened? Who was attacked? Just so I know a bit more about what's going on?"

"Yeah, yeah I do, actually. That's something I won't share. Hell, I've been pretty damn lenient with you this whole time, considering what I've been saying. But I just want an answer: are you in?"

The Wanderer took another long drag from his cigarette.

"No."

"Oh, come on."

"I said no. I won't get roped into any of this. I just want to go on my way. I'll train with my aura and get better. I'll hit the road just like I always have."

"You're going to train with your aura?"

"Didn't I just say that?"

"Yeah, yeah you did. I'm just wondering: do you even have any idea where to start with that?"

The Wanderer opened his mouth to respond. Nothing came. Honestly, he had no idea where he'd begin. He just supposed that he could try and summon fireballs for a while until something neat finally happened. Maybe fight some more Grimm and raiders, learn from experience.

"I figured. Kid, you had your aura unlocked for you. That means you have no idea how to properly use it. Aura doesn't just exist, it can be used, focused." Qrow's arm snapped and he formed a fist, which flashed red and crackled with energy. "But it takes a lot of training to do that. If you'd unlocked it yourself, then you'd already be pretty close with it, but you didn't. You're gonna need more time to get used to things and master it, and you can only really unlock your full potential if you have the proper training. Go out in the wild, and there's a better chance of you dying than anything else." Now, it was Qrow's turn to draw his finger across his neck.

The Wanderer twirled his cigarette.

"Beacon has some of the best teachers in all of Remnant. They'll work with you every step of the way. They'll help you find and master your semblance. They'll help you learn to manipulate your aura. I'm sure you've already noticed how much stronger you are?" The Wanderer looked down at his hands, noticed the cracked and broken table. "Well, with proper training, you can do even more. Sure, you can go out in the field and learn from experience, but it'll take a Hell of a lot longer, and you might never get as good, either. Training kid, training." Qrow whistled and looked away, letting the Wanderer stew in thought. "You do you, Steve, but whatever you do, you won't do it well without training."

The Wanderer tapped a finger against his cigarette. Training. Training was incredibly important, that much he knew. He'd gotten years of it in the vault ever since he scored "guard" on the GOAT when he was ten. It was only that training which had allowed him to survive in the wasteland. It had formed a base on which all of his experience had been added, building up into a formidable structure of skill and ruthlessness on the battlefield. Perhaps the same would be necessary here. After all, combat here was vastly different from Earth. Aura and semblances changed everything. He'd need training not just to master his own aura, but to build the skills necessary to stand up against other Huntsman and Huntresses. That raider was just one of many, and without proper training, someone like that could destroy him.

But he'd invariably be roped into this little cause of Qrow's. He said he was personal friends with the Headmaster, which meant that this man probably held the same sort of views, views that he would impress upon the Wanderer. Obviously, they wanted to use him for something. Use him as a pawn against whatever 'fear' he'd mentioned. If he went to Beacon, they'd try their hardest to bring him into the fold. Then again... who said he had to put up with it for all four years? He could go there for a while, just long enough to increase his skills. Then, once he'd managed to distinguish himself and reach a level he was comfortable with, he could just leave. He could escape and go back on the road, living one day to the next, until the sun set on his last. He ground his cigarette into the table, putting it out before flicking it away.

"Alright, I'll go."

Qrow broke out into a large smile. "I knew you had it in you kid. Let's see, I'll just whip up a letter of recommendation real quick and send a message to the Headmaster. " He clapped his hands and said, "but there's one last thing you're gonna have to do."

The Wanderer's eyes narrowed.

"Oh come on, don't look at me like that. I just need you to actually tell me your name, unless you want to be Steve Branwen. Though I think my family's already weird enough without me adopting you."

He looked at him, face twisting into a scowl. He'd have to give him his real name, wouldn't he? They certainly wouldn't accept 'Lone Wanderer'. He considered making up a name on the spot, but nothing came to mind. He mulled it over some more, Qrow allowing him to continue in that pensive state. No one had called him by his name in a long time.

He looked away around the inn, still thinking. He saw a few scrubby Huntsman standing together, some dressed in outfits truly ridiculous. The accumulation of interesting attire harkened back to times past, to the Halloweens that he would spend back in the vault. The gruff posturing of some of them also remind him of Butch, who'd bullied him quite harshly on one particular Halloween for his choice of costume.

Qrow's frustration finally bubbled into full exasperation. "Look kid, it's really not a hard question, what's your name?"

Name. Name, name, name. What's in a name? The thought struck him from nowhere. What's in a name? His father had forced him to read plenty of Shakespeare growing up, even outside of official class lessons. What's in a name, indeed. After all, that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. No one had called him by his real name in a long time, if only because he'd hidden behind the mask and refused to say. But did it really matter what he was called? Lone Wanderer was just a title he'd used to be clandestine, a problem no longer relevant. Not like he could take advantage of the reputation anymore, either. It would still feel strange to be called by his real name again. Then again, it was just a set of words used for identification. It was the same with any another name, any other alias. If that's the case, then just give him one.

"My name's Jaune Arc."

AN: And progress is made. Jaune is on his way to Beacon, and it's only a matter of time before he meets up with the main cast and the events of canon begin to occur. In fact, we'll be seeing several more familiar faces next weekend, with Chapter 4. Going by the current plan, which is somewhat tentative, then we should be done with the prologue and at the start of the series in Chapter 5.

We've also now learned a bit more about how he's here, who his 'monster' is, some of his stats and his personality.

As always, any and all reviews and/or questions are encouraged and appreciated!