Hey, had to reupload this because I accidentally submitted the rough draft first, not the final version. Sorry for any confusion.
Also, after rewatching some of the show, I realized that I got the timing wrong. Apparently, Blake left on a friday, not a saturday like I had it here. Oh well. I know that such a small detail like that doesn't matter, but the little things always bug me -_-
Anyway, let's see what fresh trouble Jaune has fallen into this time.
Team JNPR—subtract their leader—sat in their room. They lounged on their beds, Ren reading a book while Nora and Pyrrha each browsed over sets of notes. A fourth bed lay beside, unkempt and coated in dust.
"Hey Pyr, what part of the brain controls seeing? Is it the 'ock' one?" Nora asked.
"The occipital lobe, yes," Pyrrha replied.
"Is that for Peach's psychology lectures?" Ren asked.
"Yup!"
"It is."
"I'll be taking that next quarter; how do you like it?"
"Peach is pretty cool," Nora said, smiling wide. "She wants us to have fun and do stuff and stuff, so we play games, like 'pin the tail on the brain' and 'spot that mental illness' and things. She's nice!"
"And the material is interesting," Pyrrha said, "And she's definitely passionate about her work. It shines through. Though she's not exactly what I expected..."
Ren nodded. "Yes, I heard that she's a little strange—"
Loud knocking at the door sounded into/ their room, ending the conversation.
Pyrrha got up, strolled over and opened it a crack. Her eyes that widened as the door was shoved open and she was accosted by Ruby Rose. The girl practically pounced upon her and grabbed her by the lapel of her uniform. The champion would've quickly and easily thrown her off in fear of an attack, had it not been for panicked look in Ruby's innocent eyes.
"Jaune's in trouble!" Ruby shouted.
"Wha-?"
"I called him and then there was an explosion or something and he just hung up! I don't know what to do! I dunno!"
"Calm down, calm down," Weiss said as she stepped in and pried Ruby off the champion. "You're not making any sense like that, just calm down for a moment. Breathe. Do that silly breathing thing Jaune taught you."
Ruby nodded and shakily started to take gulps of air.
Pyrrha turned behind her and looked back at both Ren and Nora, who'd both risen from their beds and approached, wondering just what was going on.
"Friend Ruby has lost two of her friends," said a ginger girl that Pyrrha failed to recognize.
"Jaune and Blake are both missing," Yang said, trying to finally interject some clarity into the situation. "We were wondering if you had any idea where to find Jaune and if you wanted to help us."
"Yeah!" Ruby said, after finally managing to get some hold of herself. "You're his team, so you must know more about what's going on with him, right?"
Pyrrha scowled.
"You know more than we ever could," she said, promptly slamming the door shut.
Pyrrha turned around and left the door behind her, crossing her arms with a huff. Jaune… that bastard!
Although… her scowl softened and she glanced at Ren. That was only a few days ago, when he'd intervened for them at Forever Fall. He'd done something for their team… he'd done quite a bit, actually. He cared for them… he'd practically said so himself.
Shouldn't she care in return?
More banging on their door.
"Please!" Ruby shouted. "I think he's in trouble!"
Pyrrha bit down on her cheek. Ren and Nora. They hated him. She knew that. They hated him, and they certainly wouldn't want to spare a single second of their time helping him. But she had to go against that. She had to convince them. If he'd been there for them, then they'd have to be there for him. And if they didn't want to help? Then she'd just have to do it alone. She'd repay the favor, and maybe get some answers out of him, put the whole situation to rest.
Pyrrha opened her mouth.
Nora beat her to it.
"Guys…"
Pyrrha looked to her teammate, who seemed more distraught than she'd ever seen her before. Nora nervously clutched her hands together and shifted her weight from foot to foot, anxiety making it impossible to stay still.
"If he's in trouble… I think we should really go and find him… he… I think there's a lot more here than you know."
"What do you mean?" Ren and Pyrrha asked at once.
"He… I never told you, because it confused me and I didn't know how to say it, but he looked out for Pyrrha a while back, with that creep I was telling you about."
"The same…" Pyrrha whispered.
Nora and Ren each spared her a quizzical look. She had to explain.
"The same for me," Pyrrha said. "Just now, at Forever Fall, he fought off CRDL when they were trying to fight Ren—neither of you noticed, but I did." Pyrrha shook her head. "I could hardly believe it… and I've been thinking it over in my head ever since. I was going to tell you soon but… I didn't even know… I've just been watching him and trying to think it over… since I know you hate him so much, I didn't want to risk anything… but he's been looking out for us." Pyrrha leaned back behind and rested her back against the door. "He said he was protecting his team... I heard him…"
"Then he's a man of his word," Ren said. "I overheard him say some things a while ago… I didn't understand them then; I didn't believe him, or I just didn't want to believe him." Ren closed his eyes, thinking. "But if he's been looking over us this whole time…?
"Well, then I still don't understand it…"
"We don't have to!" Nora shouted.
She charged for the door, but Pyrrha had already opened it and rushed through.
"…yes, yes, I'm absolutely certain it's him," said the man in the gas mask.
"Excellent," said a voice on the other end of his scroll. "Fortune serves us well. Keep him safe and unharmed for now. My mission is almost complete; once I return, bring him to me. Justice will finally prevail."
"It will be done, Leader."
With that, the call ended.
"Not gonna lie, he doesn't really look like much," Torchwick said.
He stood beside the man in the gas mask, and each of them were standing in the middle of an empty warehouse. Well, previously empty. Now, they had all the workers bound and gagged, lined up against the wall, aside from one in particular. The blonde boy that Art had smacked around, tied up and bound to a chair, still unconscious.
"He's capable of terrible things," Art replied.
Roman shrugged. "If you say so. We'll bundle him along with the rest of the dust, then your 'Leader' can have his fun with him."
"There will be no 'fun'. Only justice."
"Right, whatever, we just need to—"
A door to the room creaked open, and one of the white fang 'soldiers' that he'd been ordering around peered into the room. "Hey Torchwick," he said, "which ones are the SDC crates, again?"
Roman brought one hand up and pinched the bridge of his nose, then he sighed and shook his head. "They're the ones that say 'SDC' on them in big letters."
"Well, we can't find them."
"For the love of—fine, just go back out and I'll be there in a moment."
The grunt nodded and left, and Torchwick could only grumble.
"Stupid animals, can't do anything right…"
"Filthy, disgusting creatures," Art said, spitting out the words with such malice that Torchwick could feel the unseen sneer on his face. "It's demeaning, that we have to work with them."
Roman waved a hand. "Yeah well, they're good for hauling stuff around; at least the animals have some muscle."
"Awful abominations of nature. Their elimination will make the world a better place."
Roman was silent. He looked at Art from the corner of his eye, before clearing his throat to dispel the awkward quiet.
"Yeaaaahhhh… right, I'm gonna go now," he said, moving out of the warehouse. "Though I think you ought to come with, if only to shout at those braindead grunts and keep better watch over them."
Art nodded. "Let's get this done."
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet," Bishop said. He brought one finger to his chin and tapped it, thinking; likely, he was just feigning thought, dragging out the silence and sadistically enjoying the way that the Lone Wanderer burned.
He burned. He seethed. His nerves were on fire and every thought going through his head demanded that he take some sort of action, demanded that he fight, demanded that he do something.
As it was, he could do nothing. He was trapped, motionless, speechless, within the dark room.
"Goodness, it's really been a convoluted mess that you've gone through, when it comes to names. Lone Wanderer… Jaune…" Bishop smiled. "I wonder, don't you ever wish sometimes, that people would call you Max? Maxwell Noble… now that had been a person, right? A hero. He'd been better than you. You… who killed him."
No!
"Yes!" Bishop said, laughing. "Yes, yes it's true. You did it, and you did everything else as well. All of it… it's all your fault. Max's casket lies six feet under, because of you." Bishop approached and rested his hand against the Wanderer's chest. Immediately, a sick feeling amassed in the spot where his heart was supposed to be. It was a heavy, unnatural feeling, a foreign presence.
"And now here you are… about to ruin it all again. Or, you were. Who knows what these people have planned for you?" Bishop shook his head as he pressed his palm harder against the Wanderer's chest, and in the spot where is heart was supposed to be, he felt a scorching. "But you and I… we haven't talked for a little while, haven't we?
"I was beginning to miss you, to think that you didn't want to see me," Bishop said, chuckling lightly. "But I'm back again… back to shove all your mistakes and all the truth and all the feelings that you want to avoid, right back into your face."
Bishop leaned forward, so close that the Wanderer felt his cold breath against his face.
"I am everything to you. I'm everything you hate… everything you fear… and I love that, I really do. I love being your nightmare." Bishop hummed, thinking again, or maybe just dragging out the moment, delighting in the Wanderer's discomfort. "Max never would have abandoned them, you know? Never would have left Ruby behind, never would have treated his team like that. But you're no Max, are you? You can never be… though you've been thinking back to him a lot recently, haven't you? Thinking back to the times when he was alive, and you had your team, your knighthood, your badge, your purpose."
Bishop shook his head.
"But… you're you, and you're nothing."
Blake Belladonna brought a finger to her lips, motioning for Sun to be quiet.
She could just barely spot figures scurrying around the docks, along with some bullheads that were coming in to land. Odd, wasn't it, that bullheads would come in the middle of the night, on a holiday, to land in a place they had no business being?
This was it. It had to be.
"Come on," she whispered. She waved her hand and Sun nodded, following her. They needed to get closer. As it was, she'd been perched on top of a roof not too far away from the district, but she needed a good view.
She needed to know. If only to prove the Schnee bitch wrong…
She shook her head. She'd never quite trusted Weiss—how could she? A Schnee, the greatest enemy of the White Fang. And although she'd left the organization, some residual distaste for the SDC was prominent. Weiss had… not been as bad as she'd thought she would be, at least not after she managed to overcome her despicable snobiness in the first few weeks.
But she… she was just being plain racist!
And it couldn't be true, that the White Fang had fallen so far as to commit acts of dishonorable burglary against random stores, not even targeting the SDC or Atlas specifically. It was impossible, that they'd ever assort with someone like Torchwick. It couldn't be.
She didn't want it to be. If it was… then her entire life, all the years she'd contributed to the cause… would all be a waste, a terrible waste that had only ended in petty thievery and an abandonment of the ideals they'd once cherished.
And if it were true?
Well… then she'd have to give Weiss and apology…
She narrowed her eyes and picked up her pace, with Sun doing the same, thank goodness. She wouldn't be slowing down, not for anyone.
"Hey Blake, slow down," Sun said.
She growled and turned on the spot. "What is it?" she asked.
Whereas she'd been running with some abandon, Sun had been looking through the windows and alleys that they passed by, not quite as consumed in the chase as Blake was. They'd been running along the roof of a warehouse, just beside the docks now. She was just about to drop down and get a better view of what was going on, but now Sun was pointing down through a window set into the roof.
"Look, prisoners!"
Blake scowled and rushed up to the window, looking into the warehouse below. Sure enough, someone was bound and gagged on a chair, set in the middle of the room, along with a crowd of others tired up and sitting against the wall beside him.
There were two guards… both clad in White Fang uniforms.
Blake wasn't sure how to feel. "We've stumbled right into the middle of an operation, and they've got hostages."
"We need to get them out of here," Sun said.
"Definitely, before we try to go any further."
"Shouldn't we call the police?"
"And risk a bloodbath? Listen Sun, I think I may still be able to defuse this."
Blake took of her bow, revealing her cat ears, which twitched in the cold night air. She unhitched the window and jumped down.
"Do you remember what they used to say about you?" Bishop asked.
"They used to praise you, used to tell you that you were a good kid. They even scrounged together what little they had to give you gifts."
Bishop shook his head.
"Those times are long gone, though. Aren't they?"
They are.
"I bet you wish you could go back to them."
I do.
"It's all gone… and the way you're headed, this will all be gone, too." Bishop snapped his fingers.
A vague apparition appeared, a short, hazy, red figure that was barely discernible as human. Hardly audible giggles emanated from the form, then quivered delightedly in the air. It danced around happily, in fluid motion.
He snapped his fingers again. The apparition dissolved, and Jaune felt colder, missing a warmth he hadn't even noticed was there.
"You're running away from it, fool. You're afraid and pathetic and you're running away, just like you always do. Ran and ran and ran, all the way to another universe, and then you kept running." Bishop poked him in the chest, causing the terrible feeling to burn once more, tense and painful, right where his heart was supposed to be.
"And then here you are, passed out, attacked out of the blue. Who knows what'll happen to you?" Bishop snapped his fingers, and forms of Torchwick and Art appeared from the darkness, hovering just on the edge of visibility.
"And as for your strength. Well, this is one situation you won't be able to fight your way out of.
"You try and perceive the world around you as best as you can… but this doesn't look right, not right at all.
"Better endure. Keep it up, you're almost there, wherever 'there' may be… probably nowhere.
"You never were the most charismatic person, where you? If you were… maybe things would be different. Sarah. Amata. Your Team. Your dad. All left. Blech. If my kid looked like that, I'd abandon it too.
"What intelligence you have, winding up here at Beacon, getting wrapped up in the stuff you've been avoiding ever since Adams Air Force Base. Tsk. Tsk. Walked right into another trap. Exactly how stupid are you?
"You've got to be agile, got to keep on the right track with the right people. Isn't it funny how everyone you get close to ends up leaving?
"But that's just your luck, isn't it? Dead mother, life in a post-nuclear wasteland and not a friend in it. Yeah, you aren't exactly blessed."
Bishop cruel smile widened, and opened his mouth as if he were about to say something more, but in a flash, the dark room receded. The Lone Wanderer opened his eyes.
"Jaune, are you alright? What are you even doing here?"
"Huh… wha…?"
Blake scowled, decided it was best to give him a moment to collect himself and drew Gambol Shroud. She carefully sliced through the rope that bound him.
The Lone Wanderer blinked groggily, trying his best to push through the haze that permeated his mind. He'd been hit… hard. Like, really hard. That guy had packed a punch, and so had Torchwick. Once his hands were free, he brought them up to massages his temples and forehead.
Breathe deep. Hold Release.
"Jaune, what happened here?"
Jaune blinked blearily, and the first thing to notice was something he had never quite expected… though in hindsight, it should have been obvious.
"Holy shit… you have cat ears…"
Blake sighed, exasperated. "Yes, I do."
He had a brilliant idea.
Blake smacked his hands away. "No, you can't touch them!"
His hopes died.
"Listen Jaune, this is serious. I need you to answer my question. Now, what happened here?"
This time, he was actually able to pick up her words through the receding disorientation. "I… I work here." He scowled as a fresh wave of pain pulsed in his skull, then died down after just a few seconds. "Yeah… I work here, and I was about to leave, then the wall just exploded, and Torchwick and the White Fang burst in… along with some other asshole."
"Wait… Torchwick and the White Fang? They were working side by side?"
He nodded.
"Are you sure?"
"They looked just like the pictures in the news." Jaune shook his head, then winced when he found that the movements hurt his still-addled mind. "Yeah I'm sure it was them."
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
He finally felt right enough in the head to look around at his surroundings. Some other faunus with blonde hair and a tail was attending to the other prisoners. Two bodies lay on the floor, both of them, White Fang. Though by the way their chests were rising and falling, neither were dead.
Dead…
Fighting…
"I need to get my weapons," the Lone Wanderer said. "They're in my locker here, I'll pick them up quick."
"Wait, they're not in your rocket-locker back at Beacon?"
"I don't trust those stupid things, want to have them close by." The Wanderer looked over at the prisoners, right at his supervisor. "Though someone forbade me from keeping them on me while working…"
The supervisor cringed and looked away.
"Alright, listen, we need to get these people out of here, then go in and stop whatever operation the White Fang are up to, and make sure they really are working with Torchwick," Blake said.
"Didn't I already tell you they are?"
"I need to see it for myself."
"Sheesh, fine…" the Lone Wanderer, and Jaune sighed as he remembered, through the fog that was fast dissipating, the moments before the attack… the words, as well. "Wait a minute, Ruby said something about you, are you alright?"
"What, what did Ruby say?"
"She said you were in trouble or something, asked me for help finding you."
Blake scowled. "I'm fine… or at least, I will be, once we get to the bottom of this."
"Well, we need to call the cops and get these people safe," Jaune said, pointing at the assembled prisoners. "Once the cops get here, we can get the hell out of here."
"No way. Like I said, I need to see this for myself. Besides, getting the police involved now will guarantee violence. They never get anything right."
Now it was Jaune's turn to scowl. "Listen Blake, I've always liked you—"
"We've literally never talked before now."
"Exactly! We've never bugged each other, and I love you for that, I really do. But Ruby cares about you, and she asked me for help, so by god, I'm gonna give it." Jaune put his hands on his hips and squared his shoulders, leaving no uncertainty as to his conviction. "Where you go, I go. I'm keeping an eye on you."
Blake's scowl deepened. "What, like a baby-sitter?"
"Yup. We need to get back to Beacon—"
"I'll go there after I get to the bottom of what's going on here," Blake interrupted. "I swear it, I'll go back and talk to them. I… I just can't do that right now."
She averted her eyes, and for a moment, Jaune recognized her behavior as being not altogether dissimilar from his own. They always had been comparable. Quiet, brooding, dark and somewhat mysterious in their own ways. He hadn't been lying when he'd said he'd always felt at least some small spark of affinity for her.
"Hey buddy, I've been trying to convince her to do the same thing all day, but she won't budge," the other faunus said with a shrug of his shoulders.
"And who the hell are you?" Jaune asked.
"Name's Sun," he said with a cocky smirk, "Sun Wukong."
"Is that supposed to mean something? I didn't ask for your name, I asked for who you are."
Sun's smirk turned brittle.
"He's a friend," Blake said, "He's helping me with this."
"Yup!" Sun said cheerily.
Jaune sighed. "Fine," he said, "we look around for a bit, then we pull back. Call in the authorities, call in the rest of your team." Jaune looked to the side, at the now freed group of hostages who were nervously huddled together. "Sun, cover these people and get them out of here." He turned and addressed the group more broadly. "Once you all escape, call the police, tell them what's happening." He glanced at Blake, saw she was about to protest and decided to cut her off, "We'll need the police to get involved, alright? We'll go in and scope things out, stop them ourselves if we can, tie them down til the cops come. We'll keep hold of the situation ourselves, no matter what." He shook his head. "I want to take head of things as much as you do, but there are some tough guys out there, and we'll need the backup in case things go wrong."
Blake didn't look too happy, but after a few tense moment, she didn't argue.
Jaune turned back to the hostages. "Stay outside, or run away. But make sure that one of you calls this in."
There were several nods, and Jaune addressed Blake again.
"I need to get my weapons, and Sun needs to get these people out of here. If you can wait, then the rest of us can meet back here in, like, ten minutes. From there, we'll look into what's going on."
Blake nodded. "Sounds good, but hurry up. I doubt the White Fang or Torchwick will be staying here for long. "
Jaune didn't say another word; he turned and sprinted for the locker room.
He dashed through the facility and reached his lockers quickly and easily. Thankfully, he didn't possess the misfortune to run into anyone. He quite literally ripped off the door to his locker and pulled out his weapons. That time for finesse was over. He needed to be as fast as possible, if the way that Blake was twitching when he left was any indication. She was obviously on edge and felt strongly about what was going on—though he had no idea why. Wait… maybe it had something to do with her cat ears? Did she have sort of history with the White Fang?
Holy shit, maybe if he helped her out, she'd let him pet her ears. He'd always wanted to pet a faunus—wait, did that make him racist?
The Lone Wanderer shook his head and finished strapping both Crocea Mors and the Mysterious Magnum at his waist. This wasn't the time for thought. He needed to act, to look over Blake and make sure that she got back to Ruby. He left behind his normal blue outfit in the locker, remaining clad in the jeans and white shirt that his work required.
He turned away, before a thought struck him and he went back to the locker. He pulled out a stimpak, one of the three he possessed, one of the three in all of Remnant. He always kept one on his person, and it wouldn't do to go into a fight without it.
He bolted back through the facility, headed straight for the room where he'd left Blake. He was brash and drove headlong through doors, his footsteps echoing through the halls, hoping that the White Fang would be too preoccupied outside. He heard the roar of bullheads outside, along with grinding machinery, hopefully enough to distract his enemies and keep his own movements covered. Throw caution to the wind; get back to Blake and Sun, then get to work. He sprinted through the loading section of a warehouse.
In that moment, misfortune finally made itself known.
The large warehouse door just beside him rattled open.
"Alright animals, loot whatever dust is in there, then get back out. We got a timetable, so hurry it up! I want things wrapped up in ten min—"
Roman Torchwick stopped mid-sentence. The several White Fang grunts he'd been ordering also stopped. They all looked straight at the Lone Wanderer.
Shit.
"Well would you look at what we have here… get him!"
There were three grunts, one of whom carried a rifle, while the others each had large, cleaver-like swords. The two rushed him, and the third immediately opened fire. Torchwick leaned back and smiled, content to watch the show.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
Blake had been incredibly tempted to go on without them. She'd wanted to get ahead and take a look for herself, make sure that it really was Torchwick, as Jaune had testified.
So that's what she'd done.
Listen, she was a girl of her word, alright… but that didn't mean she couldn't take slight discretion. She'd simply snuck up ahead, stuck to the unnoticed corners and hard-to-see places. She was wary not to take comfort in the shadow, well aware of her kin's ability to see through the night. Nevertheless, she practiced stealth and got close enough to clearly see the unmistakable figure that was Roman Torchwick: flamboyant and arrogant, there was no mistaking him.
Her knees felt weak. Her face fell into a sad frown. It was true, then. Weiss was right… the White Fang had resorted to petty thievery and even found it befitting to work alongside a human. Not only that, but a human as scrupulous and despicable as Roman Torchwick, who easily represented the worst that humanity had to offer, who was an incarnation of everything that the White Fang hated.
But why? Why!?
She gripped the hilt of Gambol Shroud and grit her teeth. Her whole body tensed and she was a fraction of a second away from pouncing out and demanding answers.
She clenched her eyes shut. No. You have no backup. If there was at least someone behind her, then she'd take the leap and jump into the fray, but there was no one. She had no support… she'd just wait a second for Jaune and Sun to get back, and the very moment they were together, or even just one of them was back, she'd fulfill that burning itch that scrambled around in her mind, that demanded she rush in and get to the bottom of things.
She opened her eyes again, and her gaze focused in on the hated figure of Torchwick, who was pressing a button beside the storage bay and ordering some of the White Fang operatives to come near. That in itself was absurd, that they'd ever be taking orders from the likes of him.
The door opened, then there was a pregnant pause. For just a moment, Torchwick and the White Fang hesitated, before they rushed in and shooting rang out.
Blake's eyes widened. Had it been Jaune or Sun? Or just a dock-worker who'd been fortunate enough to escape the initial attack, then now had the misfortune of being caught. Well, no matter what it was, the die had been cast and she was called to action.
She rushed out while drawing Gambol Shroud. She'd try a gamble first. These were her people. She could reason with them, certainly, get to the bottom of this, figure something out.
"Brothers! Sisters!" she shouted, drawing the attention of the nearby White Fang. "What's happening here? What are you doing, working with the likes of Roman Torchwic-ack!"
And just like that, her attempt at diplomacy fell apart, as her former comrades opened fired, filling the night with colorful blasts of dust rounds and the vapid cracks of their guns jolting off. She feverishly flashed Gambol Shroud before her, batting back the dust rounds as she scrambled to dart to the side and weave away from their line of fire. She leapt and flipped through the air, landing behind a crate and giving herself the chance to duck out and around stacks of machinery and more crates, losing them, if just for a moment. But a moment was all she needed to dash toward Torchwick and the open door, where the fight had first sparked off.
The moment she got there… her eyes widened.
Let's say you went to Signal Academy. This is a school that trains future huntsman and huntresses for five-years' time, usually from the age of 12 to 17. At this school, the huntsman and huntresses would learn about the Grimm, their future duties, as well as basic history, science, literature and mathematics, as a typical school would demand. They would also develop their own unique fighting styles and craft their weapons. The students would hone their skills and abilities to be wickedly lethal against the Grimm. However, these battle schools took great care when teaching their students to fight other people. They stressed altering one's style to be non-lethal, as it is their duty to hunt Grimm, not people. Not only that, but the Vytal treaty expressly forbids the use of designated huntsman and huntresses in military matters: they are only to fight against the Grimm and also enforce law within a state's sovereign territory, and law enforcement always attempts to end situations non-lethally. As such, a student who went to Signal would have been well-versed in a non-lethal type of fighting for subduing enemies, both with and without aura. By pulling the strength behind attacks and directing ones' strikes at certain parts of the body, one can still fight with devastating effect, while avoiding lethality.
The Lone Wanderer did not go to Signal Academy. He did not go to any battle school, actually. He learned to fight in the wasteland. It showed.
The corpse of the rifle-armed White Fang grunt lay sprawled on the floor, riddle with three bullet holes in the chest and an additional one in the face, which had ripped through his skull. The body lay in a pool of its own blood, a pool which was slowly seeping outward and growing. At the Wanderer's feet, lay the mangled corpse of one of the sword-bearers, who's arm he'd torn through in one deft strike, then disemboweled with another slash, before tearing his throat open with Crocea Mors's many vicious teeth, letting the body fall to the ground as he dealt with the last. He'd caught the man's sword with his own, then ground Crocea Mors down along the blade and chewed into his hand with the saw, disarming his opponent. Then, he'd spun and kicked his legs out from under him, sending the man down to the floor, cradling his mauled hand.
The fight had ended in mere moments.
Now, he grabbed the man by the hair and wrenched him up to his knees, placing the edge of Crocea Mors against his throat. He'd taken his finger off the trigger, and the ripper-sword had revved down, becoming quiet save for a slow rumble, ready at any moment to fly back into action.
"What the hell are you doing here?" the Lone Wanderer asked, though he directed the question at Torchwick.
"Why, I'm just a busy entrepreneur, working to better his business," Torchwick said with a smile.
"Why are you working with the White Fang? How are you working with them?"
"Like I said: I'm a busy entrepreneur. I found some interested business partners, and here we are," Torchwick said with a shrug. He took a cigar out of his pocket, placed it in his mouth and lit it. "Now kid, I got to ask, just what the hell are they teaching in Beacon these days?" Torchwick said, gesturing at the corpses. "Aren't you all supposed to be goody-two-shoes?"
"Don't test me," the Lone Wanderer warned.
Torchwick chuckled and took the cigar out of his mouth, blowing a cloud of smoke as he did so. "Oh really now? You think you're hot stuff?"
"You have no idea who I am."
"Eh, I think I've got a decent clue. What, you think you're slick because you got a funny-looking face and enough of a backbone to stick it where it matters in a fight?" Torchwick shrugged. "By the way, it's actually pretty cute, seeing you try and take a hostage like that. You know, a hostage situation only works if you're willing to go through with the threat—"
The Lone Wanderer pulled Crocea Mors's trigger and wrenched back. The ripper-sword screamed madly, as did the hostage; the latter's screams were shortly overcome by the former's. Blood sprayed across the floor while the White Fang grunt thrashed pitifully, pathetically, before becoming extremely still after not more than a second. With a grunt, the Wander yanked up just as Crocea Mors was most of the way through the man's neck.
The body slumped to the side onto the floor, still spewing incredible amount of blood from all the slashed arteries. Meanwhile, the Lone Wanderer held the head in one hand. He dropped it, then kicked it mid-air, sending it spiraling towards Torchwick. It missed the man by a few feet, but in its tumbling, several splashes of blood spilled on the criminal's previously pristine suit. A streak of blood even landed on his cheek.
There was a silence.
Slowly, Torchwick brought a napkin out from his coat pocket, which he brought up to his face, which now held a stoic expression that was etched from stone, the mocking demeanor gone. He wiped off the blood which had landed on his skin. Not for a second, did he take his eyes off the Wanderer, not even to blink.
He threw the napkin aside, then brought up his hand again to take a few more puffs of his cigar. Smoke clouded just in front of his face, dissipating slowly. He eyed the Wanderer not with fear, not at all, but with serious caution that hadn't been present prior.
"You know," he eventually said, "I haven't seen anything like that since the last time I made a trip to Vacuo. You from Vacuo, by chance?"
"The wasteland… the Vacuo Wasteland."
"Hmph, that would explain it." Torchwick placed the cigar back into his mouth. "At least I got a nice idea of what I'm dealing with now." Without warning, he swung his cane up, and the iron-sights on the end flipped away, revealing the barrel's opening. He fired.
The Wanderer's eyes widened, but he reacted fast enough to roll to the side, narrowly avoiding the large dust round which careened past him and caused an explosion further within the building. Hot air buffeted him from behind, and he stumbled forward. Desperate to stay on his feet, he went with the stumbling and rushed outside, wheeling around Torchwick, sword brandished.
The cool night air pressed against his skin, but he didn't have any time to enjoy the sensation. Torchwick launched himself against him in a swift barrage of attacks, deftly swinging his cane. The man was skilled, that was for sure. He and the Lone Wanderer fought to a stalemate at first, before the Wanderer managed to get close enough to spit in his eyes, allowing for a brief opening where he raked Crocea Mors along the man's abdomen's.
Torchwick cried out and back away, but brought his guard up quickly once more, staving off the Wanderer's follow-up attacks.
The Wanderer heard a commotion. Never taking his attention off of Torchwick, but observing through his blurry peripheral sight, he saw the rest of Torchwick's White Fang goons engaged by a speedy, dark figure that could on be Blake. A moment later, the color of gold alerted him to Sun's arrival.
Good, if he could just hold off Torchwick until those two finished up…
Easier said than done.
Torchwick was a fighter unlike any that the Wanderer had faced since coming to Remnant. In a way, the Wanderer had gotten complacent, gotten used to people fighting with honor or playing by rules. Torchwick, however, didn't abide by those standards. He'd learned in the field, just like the Wanderer, and he wasn't above the scrappy, dirty tricks that many others shunned.
Torchwick managed to hook the handle of his cane around Crocea Mors as the Wanderer stabbed out for his throat, whipping it aside and giving him the opportunity to lash out with his fist. While close, he spat the cigar out of his mouth and blew a gust of smoke right into the wanderer's eyes, reducing him to a squint.
The end of his cane whipped up into his face, snapping his head back and staggering him. The Wanderer sneered and lashed out in a wide, horizontal slash to keep his opponent at a distance while he was dazed. That attack wasn't necessary.
Torchwick had already stepped back and, with a cocky smile, twirled his cane and pointed it straight at the Wanderer, who's eyes weren't yet adjusted from the smoke and the strike. For just a moment, he was a sitting duck, and Torchwick planned on taking full advantage of the moment. He fired.
The Lone Wanderer pried his eyes open just in time for them to widen as he saw the explosive dust headed right for him. Its red glare cut through the night and stabbed into his retinas, filling his brain with panicked jolts of electricity as the light was sent in and interpreted as the grave threat it was. Commands were sent out into his muscles, but they'd have time to do little else than tighten in preparation to evade, never getting the chance to actually dodge before the missile struck.
Suddenly, something tightened about his ankles, and the world flipped.
The projectile missed him a razor's edge as Blake yanked back on her ribbon and wrenched him at an odd angle, such that Torchwick missed him by a no more than an inch. He felt the dust round's het against his flesh, before it careened past him through the night until it hit a large container. A container filled with dust, which promptly exploded into a massive plume of confused elements, from lightning to fire to gusts of wind and gouts of steam. The explosion proved the first of several dominoes, as nearby containers and crates were agitated and propelled into instability.
The Wanderer winced as the shockwave washed over him, bashed against his eardrums, buffeted his eyes with gusts of dusty wind, haphazardly chucked scraps of shrapnel against him and forcing his aura to flare all over him.
When it was done, an inferno had taken hold of a chunk of the docks, spewing smoke into the sky.
"God damn it!" Torchwick shouted. "Hey, you idiots, get the bullheads loaded and get out here, asap! We're out of time!"
The Lone Wanderer tugged off Blake's ribbon, and she quickly pulled it back to herself… keeping her distance from him, not even offering him a hand to help him up. Behind he saw the grunts she'd been fighting left on the ground, while the rest were fleeing for the bullheads, trying to finish loading them.
"Here man, get up!" Sun said, reaching out and helping the Wanderer get back to his feet. "Alright, we got this guy on the ropes—"
"Look out!" Blake shouted. It was too late.
Something flew through the air and smashed into Sun's face, sending him flying back with a short, pained grunt.
The Wanderer's eyes widened but quickly snapped to the direction where the attack had come from. He raised Crocea Mors. The man with the gas mask had hurled his supersledge straight at Sun, nailing him dead-on. Now he brandished his power-fist, arming it and the vicious piston that held so much power.
"I'll take care of him, beat down Torchwick!" The Wanderer shouted to Blake, who nodded and quickly dashed towards the criminal, Gambol Shroud raised. A glance over his shoulder confirmed that Sun was dazed and weak, but rising to his feet. When he glanced back, the man in the gas mask was charging—fast closing the distance.
The Lone Wanderer brandished Crocea Mors.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
The moment that the man in the gas mask — Art — came close, he revved the ripper blade and pressed in with a flurry of sawing slashes.
Art batted back each strike with the back of his gauntlet, striking out with his power-fist to beat back every attack. The Wanderer stabbed out for his face, and instead of block it, he slightly shifted his head, such that the edge of the saw scraped against his mask while he stepped close into the Wanderer's guard and delivered a short, punishing punch to the gut.
The Wanderer grunted and bit his teeth, but adapted to the momentum of the strike and shifted out, taking advantage of his ripper's ever-moving teeth to rake it against the man's arm. A normal sword would've barely made a cut, but with a brief application of pressure, Crocea Mors was able to chew into his aura, if only for a moment, before the Wanderer disengaged.
Art didn't spare a second for respite. He stomped forward and tried to get into the Wanderer's guard once more, hoping to take advantage of the sword's comparative disadvantage against the power-fist: reach.
But the Lone Wanderer was well-practiced in countering close-range strikes by those crafty enough to employ them. He held Crocea Mors vertically and tucked it close to himself, bracing the hilt with both hands to keep good control of the sword as he flashed it back and forth in front of himself, the roaring teeth just inches away from his own skin. A risky tactic, to be sure, but not so for one who'd wielded the weapon so well for so long.
Nevertheless, Art had power behind each strike, expertly shifting his stocky body to pivot as much energy as he could using as many muscles in his body as was available, such that then, even his legs and hips and shoulders were working with his arms to delivering brutal punch after brutal punch, and not just with the fist clad in the gauntlet. His unarmored fist struck out as well, with not discountable strength behind those knuckles, smacking at his side and his arms, trying to wrest Crocea Mors out of position as he wielded his power-fist deftly and threateningly. Quick, choppy movements with all the efficiency and power of a machine characterized Art's fighting: disciplined and skilled to such a degree that a military background was all but confirmed.
The Lone Wanderer snarled and barely kept his pace in the grueling, close-quarters fight. He'd take a few steps back, then stomp a few steps forward, trading the tactical advantage with Art as each clashed against the other's defense with short, calculated offenses.
He clenched his teeth and bore on through the fight, which was hard and, if he was being honest, deteriorating for him. Art was pragmatic and vicious, and he'd already landed some substantial blows on the Wanderer, who could not say the same in return. He was merely treading water, in such a way that he was reminded of his fight with Pyrrha. At any moment, a single miniscule infraction would give all the advantage to Art, and it would be over. His strategy was a patient one, cruelly effective. Victory would be hard fought… if it was to be won at all.
Then Sun got involved.
The faunus chose his moment of striking perfectly. Just as Art and the Wanderer took a few steps away from one another, he leapt through the air with a whoop, striking at Art from above in a wide downward strike with his staff.
The suddenness of the attack, not to mention the surprising height that the faunus had managed to gain with but a single jump, took Art by surprise for a moment. He had to pivot and block the staff with his gauntlet, lest he receive a crushing strike to the skull.
But it was an opening, an opportunity, and the Lone Wanderer was quick to take it. He slashed out at Art's ribs in a tight, powerful arc, sending the man grunting and stumbling. From there, the man in the gas mask was on the back foot.
The Wanderer and Sun struck at him quickly and without impunity, one on either side of his guard, such that he had to constantly backpedal to avoid encirclement. Both of them pressed, but made sure to stay at a distance, lest they give him the chance to retaliate with his gauntlet.
Art managed to deflect their strikes as he backpedaled. In one moment, however, he stopped and pressed forward to strike out at them. His attacks were frenzied, and his offensive easily evaded. He was quickly retreating again—just in a different direction.
Again, he was forced back and back, until Sun spun up and caught him in the mask with his staff. The man dramatically spiraled backwards and crumpled to the floor, and the Wanderer was impressed with the amount of strength that Sun had managed to put into the hit. But he didn't slow down. He advanced around the side, intent to cut off Art's escape, while Sun dashed in front from the front.
Art suddenly thrust himself up— supersledge in hand.
Sun's eyes widened, but he wasn't able to bring his guard up fast enough to block the head of the hammer coming up and catching him under the chin. The Wanderer winced as the faunus's teeth audibly cracked together and he was hurled back by the brutal blow.
The Lone Wanderer put thoughts aside and attacked Art once more, but the man pivoted on a dime and jammed the end of his hammer's long hilt straight into the Wanderer's gut, cutting off his attack, before he jolted forward and crashed his the cold steel of his gas mask against the Wanderer's forehead, whipping his head back and leaving him open for a tight jab with the power-fist straight to his ribs, which crushed what was left of his guard and enabled Art to swing in a wide Arc, crashing the head of his hammer right in the Wanderer's side and sending him flying back.
As he collapsed to the ground and skidded several feet, he was aware of one thing: there was pain. A good bit of it. From his skull to his chest to his stomach, he was in pain. He forced himself to his feet nonetheless. The assault had been brutal, throwing him down into the yellow.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
He wielded Crocea Mors in front of him; Sun staggered up by his side, cradling his jaw in one hand, staff in the other.
"This guy's no joke," he said.
The Wanderer only grunted.
Art swung his super-sledge about in a flourish, before settling into a combative stance and slowly advancing. The Wanderer scrutinized him all the while, trying to catch his breath.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
He was strong, disciplined and well-trained, to such a degree that the word 'expert' hardly did him any justice. He'd held his own against him with just his power-fist, which was now evidently a secondary weapon, used only in conjunction with the supersledge. So that meant he now had his main weapon, that he was fully armed and no longer held back.
The Wanderer's eyes narrowed.
He'd played them… his earlier attack hadn't been an attack at all, just a move designed for him to change the direction of his retreat, until he could feign an over-dramatic reaction to Sun's attack and retrieve his supersledge.
This man was dangerous, more than anyone else the Wanderer had yet fought, except perhaps that rogue huntsman he'd faced all that long ago. He hadn't had his aura back then, but even now, that might not matter. Clearly, this man was on another level.
This… this was bad.
"Ack!" A strangled, pained cry caught the Wanderer's attention, but any curiosity was immediately satisfied as Blake was thrown to the ground not far away from them, covered in grim and breathing heavily. She quickly tore herself back to her feet and rushed for the both of them, standing by their side and facing against their opponents.
"Well Art, it looks like the kiddos bit off more than they could chew, huh?" Torchwick said. For all the arrogance in his voice, he was panting and dirtied, showing that Blake hadn't slouched in her share of the fight. "Hey animals!" Torchwick shouted over his shoulder. "Finish loading the bullheads! I want us out in five, before the cavalry gets here!"
Torchwick turned back to the three of them, Art beside him. He brandished his cane; Art, his hammer. The two sides couldn't have been more than twenty feet apart from one another.
"We need to get out of here," the Wanderer said in a low voice. "These guys are too much for us."
"Yeah," Sun said, "I don't think I can take much more of this."
"Then the White Fang will get away…" Blake muttered. Her eyes narrowed into slits, containing a lot of anger and not a little hurt. She clenched her teeth together and scowled… before letting out a sigh. "But you're right..."
The Lone Wanderer nodded, and the three of them started to cautiously back away.
"That's the spirit!" Torchwick said with a smile. "Finally, some brats with sense. Let's get the dust and get out of here Art—"
"No!" The man in the gas mask roared. "I won't let you run away, coward! The Leader must have you!"
He charged forward, headed straight for the middle of the group, straight for the Lone Wanderer.
"Wha-? No! You son of a bitch!" Torchwick shouted, exasperation palpable. Again, he turned around and yelled to the White Fang: "Animals, pick up the pace, we'll be right there!" Then the crook growled and chased after his companion.
Tired and out-matched, the Lone Wanderer did his best. A shame, that it wasn't good enough.
Art smashed into him, and Torchwick came not long after. The former was focused solely on him, while the latter took the attention of Blake and Sun, who manage to hold him off fairly well. The Lone Wanderer was not so lucky.
Art's offensive was merciless and blisteringly quick, with the seemingly unwieldly supersledge being deftly commanded. The power-fist lingered behind each swing of the hammer, ready to crack into the Wanderer's guard at any moment.
He could hardly step back fast enough, with how quickly his defense was being crushed. The man in the gas mask was inexorable, and the Lone Wanderer was only able to do well enough to not be totally beaten immediately. But an upwards swing from his foe crashed up into his haphazard block and sent Crocea Mors out of his hands, while he was tossed back, landing flat on his back.
His eyes widened as the man in the gas mask leapt in the air and brandished his supersledge above him, preparing to deliver a brutal blow—a final blow. It was all the Wanderer could do to shield himself with his arms and close his eyes, wait for the pain.
It didn't come.
Instead, there was an incredibly loud ringing sound, the sound of metal striking metal.
Slowly, he cracked open his eyes. There was figure stood above him, and for a moment, he could see nothing but the strong bronze of their armored legs. Then he looked up, saw that the figure had a shield raised and braced, had stopped the attack dead. Then he looked more. A wash of long, scarlet hair, that could belong to only one person he knew. The figure glanced down to him, and her emerald eyes were filled with the steely resolve of one committed to combat… but there was something softer there, a kind of relief as her gaze fell upon him.
Pyrrha Nikos smiled down at her partner.
An explosion rocked off not far away, and a pink blur shot into the scene.
"BONZZZZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!" Nora screamed as she hurtled herself toward the enemy with reckless abandon, smashing into Art like a bubblegum cannonball and rocketing him away. He flew through the air and crashed into a shipping container, tearing a hole through the sheet metal and collapsing inside.
Nora dropped to the floor and rolled, before springing up to her feet with a cheerful smile. "Ta-da!" she cried, throwing her arms up into the air and brandishing Magnhild. The smile on her face, as usual, was radiant and, given the present context, a little psychotic.
The Wanderer felt hands on his shoulders, and he quickly realized that Ren had grabbed hold of him and was propping him up. With his help, the Wanderer got back to his feet.
"W-what are you guys doing here?" he asked.
"We saw the explosion, then rushed over. Figured we should return the favor," Pyrrha replied.
"Favors," Ren said, stressing the final letter.
"Yup!" Nora said.
Several familiar cracks rang out, and Jaune smiled when he saw Ruby rip through the air, firing Crescent Rose behind her, reaching ridiculous speeds as she flew through the air, then striking down against Torchwick with a blindingly quick swing of the scythe. The crook cried out as he was sent flying back. Just behind her, Weiss and Yang ran in, along with a ginger-haired girl the Wanderer had never seen before.
They… they'd all come?
"You've… you've all come?" he asked.
"It would appear so," Pyrrha said with a dry chuckle. "Are you having a hard time believing it?"
"We're just doing for you, what you did for us!" Nora said, skipping up beside him.
"After all, we're good people. Isn't that what you said?" Ren said.
The Wanderer looked at him curiously.
"What you said, when you thought we were asleep?"
The Lone Wanderer stared blankly for a moment, before a memory almost two months gone returned to him. Jaune's eyes widened.
"I think we should talk through everything after we get out of a warzone," Pyrrha said.
"Yeah, but you've got a LOT of explaining to do, mister!" Nora said with a huff, outstretching an accusatory finger toward him, mere inches from his face. "Like, a TON! The most explaining that anyone has ever explained, EVER!"
"A little dramatic, but yes," Ren said.
Their conversation was interrupted when the shipping container Art had been thrown into rattled. The locked doors were ripped off their hinges as he tore out with an angry roar.
"Art, you idiot!" Torchwick called as he ran away from a fresh onslaught by RWBY, "this is the cavalry I was talking about!" He whipped around just in time to hastily block a barrage fists by Yang, but Weiss ducked around and snuck a quick stab under his guard. The pain made him flinch, and Yang took the chance to smash a fist into his face.
He flew backwards, but was caught by Art, who quickly propped him up beside him. The two criminals stood side-by-side, while JNPR, RWBY, Sun and the ginger faced off against them. Two versus three had been rough, but two versus ten?
Ren handed Jaune Crocea Mors, which he must've picked up earlier. Still in shock, his weak fingers curled around the weapon's handle. He glanced up and looked around him, saw his team, saw his best friend and her team, saw the beleaguered but determined Sun, saw that bright young ginger girl who just looked so darn happy to be there… despite the fact that 'there' was a warzone. Nevertheless… they were all together.
He smiled and revved the ripper sword to life.
In the distance, both of the White Fang's bullheads took the sky.
"Worry not, friends, for I am combat ready!" the ginger girl said. Suddenly, swords started flying out of her backpack, and they quickly whirred in a circle and… and… and…
Jaune had thought he'd seen it all. He really had. He'd though he'd seen all the strangeness Remnant had to offer, from eldritch monsters to crazy weapons to magic powers to a complete disregard for the basic laws of physics. But as she twirled her swords around and summoned a massive laser beam which cut through both the bullheads like they were butter…?
Well, his jaw dropped as he watched this teenage girl exert all the strength of Liberty Prime.
"God damn it Art! You stupid bastard! We've lost all the dust and all those animal louts!"
"Shut up! I called in some of my own cavalry when I heard the fighting start, we'll be fine."
Police sirens sounded in the distance. Rapidly approaching.
"Oh boy, is that them!?" Roman shouted. "Damn it, we could've been out of here with the dust, but you just had to drag it on, huh?"
Art lashed out, his discipline finally dissipating.
"A greedy street-rat like yourself cannot judge my convictions!"
"Ahem."
"Convictions? Convictions!? Whatever grudge you and your Leader have, just ruined this whole job!"
"Ahem."
"There will be more dust, but this chance was too great to let go!"
"Ahem!"
"Why you dumb—"
"AHEM!"
The two criminals stopped fighting and looked over.
Weiss had taken a step forward, the only one in the group capable of anything close to a kind of diplomatic outreach. She massaged her throat, recently ripped slightly raw by her efforts to get the criminals' attention.
"I think," Weiss said, "that this is the part where you two surrender." She placed her hands on her hips and tossed back her shoulders imperiously. "And I think we shall graciously accept taking you into custody."
Art looked to the side, then chuckled bitterly. "I don't think that'll be happening, kid."
In the distance, there was a rumbling. It was light, barely hovering on the edge of perception, but it shortly grew. It sounded like a growl, one which originated quietly in the back of a beast's throat, only to increase and rise and become empowered, until finally, the monster opens its jaws and lets loose its fury.
Shortly, a bullhead was upon them. It wasn't bulky like most models, however. No, this one was streamlined and jet black, noticeable only through the twin crimson glows of its engines, which were roaring louder than an angry ursa.
It screeched forward in seconds, flying low and opening fire without a moment's hesitation. Twin guns on its nose blasted fire on the teens, strafing them with a hail of bullets.
Jaune grit his teeth as he felt a few rounds smash into his aura, which by now must have been beaten into the red. His comrades cried out in similar pain, ducking away and scrambling for cover as the attack bullhead pulled up and flipped through the air, slowing down and falling into a hover mode.
The bullhead slowly descended to the ground, above Art and Torchwick, as it continued to unleash fire onto the young huntresses and huntsman, who were barely able to dash away and find cover under the relentless barrage.
"That is a Class-55 Atlesian Combat Craft, codenamed Bullhorn! Outdate by years, it is nevertheless a vicious weapon!" the ginger shouted as she ducked behind a crate. "Criminals should not possess those!"
"Can't agree with you more, Penny!" Yang shouted back.
Jaune had to concur. That bullhorn was more like a weapon than a vehicle, which reminded him much of the Enclave's assault vertibirds. But reminiscing here would serve no one anything, so Jaune was quick to duck his head and dash behind a forklift.
He heard next to nothing aside from the roar of the engines and the roar of the machine guns, but he braved a peak around his cover to look at what was happening. He scowled. The bullhorn had gotten closer to the ground. Its side door opened. Inside, he saw another man clad in black and donning a gas mask, beckoning Art and Torchwick. The two leapt up and grabbed hold of the railing on the sides of the bullhorn, and they were quickly helped up by the man inside.
They were going to get away.
The man closed the door, and the bullhorn rose once more into the air. It stopped firing and turned away, and only then, was Jaune able to tell just how close to the police sirens had gotten. If those bastards got away, then it was barely by the skin of their teeth, if they even managed to avoid the pursuit that would be close behind them.
"Oh no you don't!" said the ginger girl—Penny. She hopped up on top of the crate she'd been hiding behind, once more summoning her swords. She wouldn't have the time to summon another laser, but she had something else in mind.
She sent her swords hurtling through the air, until they struck the bullhorn, which was just about to accelerate and speed away. Just like that, she ensnared the vehicle and stopped it from getting the momentum that it needed. The aircraft tried press forward anyway, threatening to tear Penny off of her feet, but again, Jaune was astonished by the girl's sheer strength as she grit her teeth and held her ground.
Suddenly, the bullhorn twisted in the air, turned back to them. Penny struggled to keep her footing, but adjusted well enough to the wrenching. It was shortly evident, however, that the bullhorn's pilot had more in mind than just trying to shake her loose. Compartments in the bullhorn's underbelly slid open, and racks of rockets extended out.
Penny's eyes widened, as did Jaune's, as did just about everyone's, as the rockets suddenly rattled and roared to life, streaking through the air towards them.
Immediately, Penny loosened her sword and hopped away as the container underneath her exploded, sending her flying, though hopefully her aura would be enough to keep her well. However, the bullhorn's pilot obviously wasn't concerned about precision when unleashing his barrage, for a full salvo hurtled out towards not just Penny, but the entire swathe of the docks they'd taken refuge at, and both RWBY and JNPR were sent desperately scrambling to avoid the rockets as they fell upon them.
Immediately, an inferno sprung to life, as the rockets exploded and ignited all the facility's remaining dust, annihilating the containers and machinery around them as well as the building behind them. Debris, smoke and confusion was the order of the day.
Jaune had managed to dodge away and avoid a direct strike from any explosive, but that wasn't to say he was untouched. For one, his poor aura was having a hard time keeping all the shockwaves and debris from tearing him apart. All he could hear was a constant, tinny ring; and he could barely stand, with how shaky his legs were; and he could hardly breath, with how much oxygen was being consumed by the fast-growing flames and how winded he was by the fight and how hurt his chest and lungs must be by the beating he'd received; and every muscle in him felt worn and overstretched.
With no small measure of difficulty, he managed to stay on his feet and look around as the smoke cleared. He rubbed the ash out of his eyes and blinked, trying to dispel the blur which had corrupted his vision. Firstly, he noticed the bullhorn, now free, turn and shoot away, picking up speed faster and faster until it was nearly out of sight. A compliment of bullheads flew overhead after it, likely from the police and the news, but he could already tell that they wouldn't be catching up.
"Damn it!" he cursed, stomping his foot into the ground, exhaustion temporarily overcome by his sheer anger. He shook his head. It was gone…
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
That's better, do it again.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
Okay, now where are the others?
His eyes widened. The others! How could he be so stupid? Everyone else! What had become of them? He looked around frantically, but his panic was quickly put to rest.
Nora was helping Ren off the floor. Penny was limping back towards them from wherever she'd been thrown. Blake stood stumbled towards Weiss, Ruby and Yang, clinging to Sun for support. And Pyrrha…
Well, she was gingerly rising to her feet. It seemed that she'd caught a blast more directly, since her bronze armor was thoroughly burned and blackened, her skin covered in soot and small scrapes and bruises. Nevertheless, she seemed able to stand. However, she cradled her head, likely even more dazed than he was, if she'd taken a rocket head-on.
He dragged one foot in front in front of the other, then another in front of that, determined to reach her, to help her get a hold of her senses, to make sure that she'd be okay. He'd make sure she was okay.
His own disorientation was receding, and besides being able to see, his hearing was also returning to him. Enough, that he could vaguely perceive the hideous screech of ripping metal just beside him. He looked to the side.
It was one of the cranes they kept at the dock, to haul up the larger shipping containers for loading. A rocket must have strayed and hit near it, for the base of it was warped and smoking, a large chunk of the bottom struts torn out. The rivets that had been keeping it down tore out and the steel holding the crane up was shredded under its own weight as it crumpled and collapsed.
It fell over… and his eyes widened as he traced the path of its descent.
She was still dazed. She hadn't noticed a thing. She would be crushed.
His feet moved. He got close.
His hands moved. He pushed her.
Pyrrha was knocked several feet away, just barely into safety…
But it was all Jaune could do, to close his eyes as the wreck of steel crushed him.
Things became dark.
"But he's gonna be okay?"
"For the last time: yes," Miss Goodwitch said with a sigh. "Your care is admirable, but don't let it cloud your senses so much that I need to repeat everything I say."
"Sorry…" Ruby muttered as she looked away. "It's just that… I really want him to be okay." She stood at the front of RWBY, with the other three members of JNPR just beside her, with Sun standing near Blake. Penny had been whisked away, though not too willingly. Those who remained, waited in the lobby of the Vale Central Hospital.
Others in the lobby looked at the group in awe, recognizing them as none other than the people whose faces were plastered on the news at that very moment, the skirmish at the docks having occurred just a few hours earlier.
All of them had some bandages over their skin, but nothing major. Their aura would take care of cuts and bruises in a matter of hours, certainly no more than a few days. Only one person had made exception to this. A big exception.
"We all do," Pyrrha added, placing a comforting hand on Ruby's shoulder.
"Yeah, and once he feels better, we can get our explanations!" Nora said.
The remote edges of Glynda Goodwitch's lips curved upwards slightly, so slightly that it was nigh imperceptible and nearly required a microscope to be viewed. But it was there. She always loved seeing her students care for each other. In this case, even more so. She'd long had her worries about team JNPR, but it seems they'd finally managed to work things out. Now, if only this 'working out' didn't involve a deadly confrontation with criminals and a harrowing trip to the hospital.
"Well, the doctor assured me that he'll be able to recover, especially with his significant well of aura. A couple weeks of rest and physical therapy should have him in acceptable shape again—just in time for finals." The students cringed as the dreaded tests were mentioned, and Miss Goodwitch enjoyed that particular kind of good-natured amusement that all teachers are privy to, when they make their students miserable in benign ways.
"I'm surprised he'll be able to recover so quickly," Ren said. "We were certain he wouldn't make it, given we weren't able to find any heartbeat." The others become solemn, faces dropping at the recent memory of panic and hopelessness.
Miss Goodwitch gave herself a moment to come up with a lie by adjusting her glasses. "The doctor said that his pulse was simply weak. Without training, it's unsurprising that you weren't able to find it."
"But even the medics weren't able to find one."
"Then they likely weren't too experienced. Rest assured, Mr. Arc's heart is beating soundly."
They all nodded and accepted the excuse. She didn't like lying to her students, but she liked giving out their personal information even less.
"Can we at least see him? To make sure he's okay?" Ruby asked.
"The doctor said that you may, but silence is required. You cannot disturb his rest; right now, he needs as much sleep as he can get."
They all nodded or muttered their own assents. Undoubtedly, they'd rather talk with him, but that was simply impossible. They'd just have to temper their youthful impatience, if only for a moment. Even the likes of Ren and Blake, both known for being exceptionally cool-headed, seemed anxious to see him.
Miss Goodwitch lead them all down the halls of the hospital, back to Jaune Arc's room. He'd been moved from emergency care to a regular unit to recuperate. His aura had been annihilated, with not so much as a sliver remaining when he'd been brought to the hospital. Now, it had managed to recover somewhat, though it'd be a while before it crawled its way out of the red.
She stopped just outside of his room, then turned back to face the rest of the students. "Again, you must all be silent. No touching, either." Nora visibly deflated at that last note, likely having planned to give him some helpful cuddles.
Satisfied with their promises, Miss Goodwitch opened the door, only for her eyes to widen.
The bed was empty; the window, open.
The Lone Wanderer staggered haphazardly down the street. Each step took a monumental effort, as every muscle in his body cried out in pain and exhaustion. He wanted to do nothing other than crumple down to the floor and sleep, sleep and sleep and sleep until it was all gone.
He looked over his shoulder, blearily saw the hospital in the distance. Then he sighed. He needed to get away, get out of sight.
Thank goodness it was so late at night, otherwise any pedestrians out would have given curious looks to the boy dressed in a hospital gown, painfully, slowly, laboriously limping down the street.
He wheezed with each step, barely able to keep himself upright, barely able to keep hold of what was in his arms. His clothes, folded, as well as his weapons and equipment. This included an empty stimpak syringe.
He never would have been able to make it this far, had it not been for the stimpak. He'd barely managed to crawl out of bed, then drag himself across the floor to his where his belongings were, lying on a chair in the corner of the room. Every ounce of strength had been required to haul his arm in the air and drag the needle down, then press it through his weak aura, which receded without so much as a flicker before the needle's sharp point. From there, the adrenaline and restorative chemicals had gotten him out the window and down the street.
He only had two more stimpaks, left in Beacon, along with the other materials. He'd need all that too. He'd need it. He'd need it… now that he was leaving.
He looked back over his shoulder, at the hospital, barely perceivable in the distance. Did they know by now, that he'd gone? Were they looking for him at this very moment?
He turned around and forced himself to go faster, though that resulted in him tripping over and collapsing to the sidewalk after just a few strides. He forced himself back up, feeling like he weighed a couple hundred pounds more than he did.
He picked up his things and dragged them up into his grasp, then limped off of the sidewalk, away from the road into an alley. From there, he lost himself. That was kind of the point, though. He wanted to be lost amidst the twisting, dark, grimy alleys.
He tripped again, falling and smacking his face painfully against the dirty ground. He couldn't even see in the alley, but that wasn't the reason for his fall. He hadn't tripped over anything, so much as succumbed to the exhaustion. He was too weak, to uncoordinated. He just couldn't go any further.
Nevertheless, he persisted. He stayed on the ground for a little while, before drawing in a shaky, beleaguered breath. He dragged himself up to his feet once more, then blinked and tried to make out a place where he could hunker down. A dumpster caught his eye.
With a painful grunt, he pried the lid open, happy to see that it was empty, aside from a few rats, some leftover trash and a terrible smell. He didn't care. He'd dealt with worse in the wasteland.
He threw in his things, then, with great labor and greater pain, hauled himself over the edge, falling in with a clang. With the last of his strength, he reached back up and closed the lid once more, sealing himself off from the world.
His breathing, hot and heavy, mingled with the squeaking and scurrying of the rats to create and uncomfortable din, which itself mingled with the uncompromising darkness and disgusting stench to create an atmosphere wholly unpleasant and claustrophobic. Again, he didn't care. Again, he'd been through worse in the wasteland. He was safe enough, and he'd be able to sleep for a while, which was all he needed.
His eyes shut. They wouldn't be able to find him.
They.
His friends.
Ruby.
He was running away from them…
"Not again... never again..." he weakly whispered to himself. It was familiar, too familiar. Waking up in a hospital, gravely injured, just after a battle with his comrades, with his team, with the people he cared about, people who'd all been endangered, people he'd nearly failed, who he could fail. Who he would fail. That was all he did anymore.
With a lingering sense of melancholy and shame, he fell into an uneasy slumber.
Jaune, you stupid asshole, what are you doing!? I didn't write over a hundred-thousand words of this crap just for you to run away the moment everything seems to be coming together! Oh well, nothing can ever be easy for our hero. If it was, then we wouldn't have much of a story, now would we? Rest assured, next chapter will reveal a lot, about the present, as well as the past.
You know, I initially wanted to make this story rated T, if only for the sake of greater visibility. But that just isn't possible, given the dark world I want to build. Like, in T, I couldn't freely have him rip people's heads off and kick them like soccer balls, for which there is a reason beyond just being cool. Jaune's casual commitment to ultra-violence goes along with a major theme of this story: innocence. I don't think I could cover that as well if I was unable to depict the sort of depravity that has plagued the Lone Wanderer.
Anyways, sorry for such a long update time with this one, but I've been busy with a lot, and this is also the longest chapter yet. I considered splitting it into two, but I didn't like that pacing as much as just one chapter to wrap up the whole docks business. Glad to finally have it out.
Also, I included a nice little reference to Point Lookout in this chapter with some of what Bishop said. I want to get back into referencing more from Fallout, take advantage of the nature of a crossover.
So this is the climax of the story thus far. Think of this as the first of several books. We've gotten into the climax of this book, and the next few chapters will finish that and then be the cool down and resolution. Then, the next book begins with volume 2, and it starts all over!
But for now, the future is unknown. Will Jaune finally stop being an idiot? Will he overcome his crushing emotional insecurity? Will he ever reconcile with his team? What happened to his old team? Why does he run away? Who the hell is Maxwell Noble? Who's Art? Who's this 'Leader' that's been mentioned? What will the ship be?
Find out the answers to *most* of these questions, in the next thrilling installment of NATWWAL!