Man… I started this story two years ago. Crazy how time has gone by. I've changed so much since then, and so has the fic. Shout out to any long-time readers!
Some have said that Bishop's appearance was predictable; that was the point. It was supposed to be obvious since chapter 1 that Bishop would appear, and I think I was pretty clear in the last few chapters that it would be here at Mt. Glenn. I just don't think I can hold it off even longer, after 300,000 words with the main antagonist still not directly seen, and what happens next fits well with Volume 3. I like writing with dramatic irony, where the audience knows well in advance that some things are going to happen while the characters are still oblivious. I think it builds a lot more expectation and tension. I wanted the reader to go through all of chapter 35 knowing that Bishop would be at the end. I just hope that I can pull off Bishop well now. I think you'll quickly realize that he's different from what we've seen thus far, which is mostly the caricature Jaune knows from the battlefield and his dreams.
Also, I've referred to Bishop's sword in the past as "Rubrum Mors" which is incorrect. Since I first brought it up, I've taken classes in latin and now know it should be "Rubra Mors", because the adjective has to agree with the gender of the noun, and 'death' in latin (mors) is a feminine noun so you have to use rubra not rubrum—latin is very particular about cases and endings depending on gender and use of the word. Another latin fun fact: Crocea Mors is supposed to be pronounced like "kro-kay-uh mors". That's because c's are always pronounced like k's in classical latin. That's why, in New Vegas, the Legion all pronounce Caesar like 'Kaisar'. It's actually closer to the original latin pronunciation. Also, v's are pronounced like w's in classical latin, so veni vidi vici should be said more like weni widi wiki.
Another nerdy language RWBY tidbit that always bothered me was Weiss's name. I took German lessons for a few years, and her name is supposed to be pronounced in your standard German as "Vice Shnay". It was actually pretty jarring when I first watched the show.
Bishop's face was carved into a vicious snarl as he spoke. Oh, he spoke with the same refined, all-American exact he'd been taught to speak, the carefully engineered Enclave dialect reminiscent of the old mid-Atlantic and southern breeds. And as he took off his helmet, he forced the muscles in his face to prop up that big fake smile of his, the one that had never shown in his eyes.
"I've been waiting for this day," he said as he threw his mask aside. And the anger which had supplanted his initial shock was joined by satisfaction as he saw Maxwell Noble stand before him.
It's times like these that make me glad I decided to use this stupid smile. Look at how pathetic and afraid he is. I hope he's had my smile burned into his nightmares ever since we last met.
God, that almost makes me happy.
I'll rip you to shreds, burn the chum that's left over and spit on your charred, unrecognizable remains; then it will all be better.
What Bishop actually said was more restrained: "It's been quite a while, Maxwell." He brandished Rubra Mors's scorching blade before him. "We never finished what we started back on Earth." He kept his smile propped up, even if he wanted to sneer and snarl; such behavior was improper.
But his heart trembled in his chest, and his hands imperceptibly shook. For this was the roach that had eluded his greatest efforts and ruined so much. Some bizarre amalgam of anxiety, worry, anticipation, rage and even fear flushed through his bloodstream.
And Maxwell now certainly has aura, and Bishop's physical advantage was still great—but would it be enough? A suffocating weight came on him—
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
Fear is the ruiner. To give to fear is to be weak.
Bishop does not give.
He allowed Maxwell not another second to collect himself. The shock of revealing his face had put him completely off guard, and Bishop planned on using that to his advantage. So, he focused and readied himself. As he exhaled, he launched forward.
Rubra Mors cut through the air almost as fast as a bullet. Superhuman muscles and perfect form drove the blade, flames flickering hungrily. It was all Maxwell could do to raise Crocea Mors to try and deflect it.
Crocea Mors. The sister sword to his own chosen weapon.
It doesn't belong to you, scum.
I'll take it off your corpse when this is done.
Bishop's flaming blade collided with its sibling, and a terrible crack rang out as duraframe struck duraframe, and Crocea Mors's chains rattled from the impact. Maxwell couldn't hope to stand up to such a strike. His form was already compromised, and Bishop had been stronger and faster than him by an order of magnitude even before he'd unlocked his aura.
His enemy jolted and stumbled, failing to deflect the attack and barely managing to hold it off, but Bishop stepped forward and followed through with the strike. He smashed the blade into Maxwell's guard, which caved completely; Crocea Mors slammed back into his foe's face and sent the bastard off his feet and flying back into the wall of the train car.
Maxwell had failed to stand up to the volatile strength of his attack.
Bishop's smile widened, real. His heart pumped with a renewed sense of optimism, hope and joy. He said something, part gloat and part personal satisfier: "My forced evolution still puts me a league above you!"
His voice, speaking in that velvety accent, swelled and threatened to break into a shout; normally, it was always a cool, nearly soft dialogue that projected a sense of control. Now, however, Bishop's tone threatened to boil up and over.
Maxwell's eyes widened, and he knew the truth in Bishop's words. Aura has a multiplicative effect, not an additive. Sure, everyone will be made stronger and faster, but not to the same degrees. Aura builds off of the individual's physical condition. A hunter who trained to be a runner would be much faster than one who focused on strength training; the latter would naturally have their strength multiplied and eclipse the former in power.
Bishop had been a paragon of physical ability well before coming to Remnant, comparable even to a seven-foot tall supermutant.
I'm the next step of humanity. The culmination of centuries of work from the greatest minds of the greatest country Earth had ever known. And you're dead, subhuman.
Bishop advanced relentlessly as Maxwell scrambled to his feet and desperately pulled back on his chainsword's trigger. Crocea Mors screamed violently, but the frightening sound didn't bother Bishop a bit. He knew where this fight would go.
He brought Rubra Mors down in quick slashes, batting aside Maxwell's guard easily; his opponent thwarted demise by constantly back up and trying to evade or deflect his strikes, rather than block any directly, completely on the defensive.
Maxwell desperately tried to keep a façade of focus on his face, and maybe some of it was real, the natural result of being engrossed in intense, life-or-death combat. But Bishop saw the fear in his eyes; he could almost taste it.
He drove Crocea Mors up, then redirected a cut downward, slicing into Maxwell's abdomen. His aura flashed and barely kept back the horrific strike, which sent him careening back. The subhuman's shirt smoke and charred where it had been struck.
Maxwell barely threw himself to his feet before Bishop was upon him again.
He slashed out and cut up along Maxwell's arm; his aura flashed but failed to completely keep back the incredibly strong force behind the incredibly sharp blade. Duraframe was one of the few materials that could take the full stress of Bishop's great power, power which Rubra Mors channeled exquisitely.
Maxwell grunted as a gash was torn up along his forearm. Skin charred as it went, shards of fire dust being left behind to form up many scorching blots of flame that burned and ate his clothing and his flesh.
Maxwell looked at it, and his face flashed with panic as he realized his arm was catching fire.
It had taken a while to reconfigure Rubra Mors to use fire dust instead of napalm, but god was it worth it.
Maxwell savagely—desperately—kicked out and hit Bishop's knee. His leg didn't budge, but it did give Maxwell some reverse momentum to launch himself back. He fell and rolled to the ground, smacking his arms against the floor of the train car and putting out some of the fire. He hopped back up just in time to block a strike from Rubra Mors—it again sent him flying.
But Bishop hesitated.
This was too easy. The bastard had to have a semblance, right? What was it? Was he pretending and drawing Bishop into a perfect spot to kill him? He's tricky.
As Maxwell arose, Bishop decided to put down caution and attack once more, taking care to be on guard against any strange or unpredictable movements or actions on his enemy's part.
None occurred.
Maxwell barely managed to stave off his attacks while retreating constantly, twisting and ducking away to not be backed up against the wall and doomed. Always the slippery opponent.
Alright then. Nothing special? Not yet.
Let me end this with something special of my own.
Bishop stepped back and held Rubra Mors aloft.
Breathe in.
His lungs swelled as he called upon the familiar training. Combat Breathing Control. VATS, as Maxwell knew it, was a technique developed by the US military and taught in some Vaults as a way to keep it alive after the apocalypse, so America's military quality would not be lost. It made sense that vault 101, which was designed to test the viability of a specific authoritarianism, would naturally have it for security; it was simply relabeled 'VATS' so credit could be passed on to Vault-Tec and, by extension, the overseer, whose power in vault 101 was absolute.
Outside of vault 101, only the Enclave and the Brotherhood of Steel were trained in the old ways of CBC.
It taught the soldier focus, discipline and control. All traits that Bishop had been molded for, strived for and attained over the course of his life. It would be natural then, that his semblance was an extension of this which he so embodied.
Hold.
As he held his breathe in that nearly meditative move, time slowed; well, at least according to his own perception.
His sclera instantly became bloodshot and a slight burning sensation, a discreet discomfort, formed behind his eyes. Time froze.
His senses focused and sharpened like a clear crystal growing into shape over millennia—except this occurred in an instant. Suddenly, he was able to observe and scrutinize this perfectly preserved still of existence. He saw every detail and his vision crystalized to perfection. He could zone in on any object and see the minute factors of it. All of this, while everything was utterly motionless.
Of course, he himself could not move either. His perception was liberated and brought into hyper focus, but his body was still left on the slow arc of average physics; his mind shot off on an astronomical tangent.
He took the moment to pick apart and consider Maxwell's stance. He already had excellent reflexes and predictive abilities, but with time stopped and his eyesight so focused, he calculated the exact ways that Maxwell's hips and feet were aligned, considered his possible moves and put together the perfect plan of action.
Then he looked inwards. This hyper focus also brought him closer to his own aura, his soul, in a way. That made sense, since this was his own semblance at work, and it was like a kind of super-meditation.
He touched upon his aura and the power it held, channeled greater strength to the exact muscles in his arms and legs that he would need for the attack, and he brought to bear greater spiritual energy near his hand, where he could unleash it into and then through Rubra Mors for a devastating strike.
To his mind, this moment of observation, contemplation and planning went on for at least a couple minutes. In reality, all of this lasted less than second.
Release.
Bishop surged forward inhumanly fast. All the incredible muscles and bones of his body worked in perfect concert to create an indomitable attack—instantly, he was upon Maxwell, and instantly, he broke back Maxwell's guard, and instantly, he pinned the old enemy against the wall.
Maxwell Noble survived barely, holding Crocea Mors's hilt in one hand and the blade in the other, using the inert chainsword as a desperate last defense against Rubra Mors. Bishop pushed against that, and Maxwell's arms shuddered with the immense exertion necessary to counteract Bishop's titanic strength. He'd hit Maxwell with all the power of a speeding semi-truck, and his foe stretched his muscles and his aura to the absolute limit trying to hold that back.
They both knew he couldn't keep it up.
Maxwell's face twisted in a ferocious, animalistic, furious snarl and he spat in Bishops's eyes.
Bishop didn't care. He smiled, because he was stronger, and he pressed his blade forward. Maxwell held Crocea Mors aloft horizontally, and Bishop had Rubra Mors vertically, blade angled toward his enemy's face face. Barely a few inches away.
"Weak," Bishop said. The word came through lips twisted into a huge, excited grin. This one was real. His hands shook from a mixture of exertion and elation. This was it. This was finally it. His heart felt like it was about to crack his ribs and tear through his flesh and out of his chest, so violently was it stammering and beating. This was the moment he'd waited for.
He pushed, and Maxwell's trembling arms gave way another inch. The light of Rubra Mors's flame fell upon his face, was reflected in his eyes; the fires themselves' leapt and flashed, coming closer and closer to scorching his skin.
And Bishop saw it. He saw it in his eyes. He saw fear. Panic. Despair. He saw the snarl melt into a frightened, desperate look. Maxwell Noble realized that he was going to die.
The look on his face was, to Bishop, narcotic. He loved it. All the pain and suffering that this moral degenerate has caused me is finally avenged in this moment—
He heard something behind him.
Bishop snapped his head to the side and saw none other than that other low-life, Neo, rushing through the door and into the cabin. She didn't look overly injured, not aside from a cut along her chin and a red part on her cheek, where she may have been punched.
A moment later, Bishop realized why she'd retreated.
The terrorist fool who ran around with a chainsaw was thrown through the door and landed with a tough thump. Following him, Arthur tumbled through and rolled on the floor—he at least had the dignity and skill to throw himself back up to his feet, panting heavily.
Rage burned in Bishop's stomach. This always happened. That son of a bitch always got out at the last second.
He turned back to Maxwell and saw now a light of hope in his foe's eyes, and that light enraged him all the more; he kept the smile on his face, but Bishop felt like screaming.
He pushed forward again, redoubling his efforts to jam Rubra Mors into his old enemy's head. Maxwell grunted and held back, just barely, as the flaming sword thrust forward and nearly touched his face—so close, his aura flared to keep the flame from burning his skin as the blade pressed against him. Crocea Mors shook in his trembling grasp, arms about to give—
Then Rubra Mors was cloaked in a dense shadow.
The sword jerked back, and it was only through Bishop's quick reflexes that the unexpected movement didn't send the weapon right back into his face. He dodged to the side but kept a hold on his sword, which apparently was trying to fly right out of his grasp.
He looked back to the doorway and saw Maxwell's partner, Pyrrha Nikos, with her hand outstretched, fingers coated in that same shadow.
Cinder had mentioned that she kept her semblance a strict secret due to her competing. Was the runt telekinetic?
Maxwell ran away toward his partner, who whipped her hand to the side.
Rubra Mors jerked to the side Nikos had apparently directed it to. Great pressure was exerted on the sword, as if a beowolf had clamped its jaws on the blade and was pulling back with all its might.
Bishop was stronger than any beowolf.
Nikos's eyes widened in surprise as he kept his grip on Rubra Mors. The sword rattled in his grasp, but he refused to let go. In fact, he fought back against the strength of her semblance, dragging the sword back in front of him and holding it in both hands.
The invisible grip which threatened to steal his prized weapon wouldn't win.
My father gave me this sword, you bitch.
But then the others came. Nora Valkyrie. Lie Ren. Qrow Branwen. Bishop knew them all, having been informed of Maxwell's allies by Cinder. Part of their working relationship involved her passing on information about his most hated enemy.
Bishop kept up his smile, but behind those lying lips, his teeth were grinding together furiously. This bastard always managed to weasel his way away from death. He found people who were strong enough to keep him safe, and they could always swoop in to save him, even dying to do so. How he inspired such insipid loyalty was beyond Bishop—like-minded fools and their petty, stupid friendships seemed the basis for all the suicidal saviors that had protected Maxwell Noble up until this point. That bastard never lived through his own skill; some outside act saved him.
Isn't that the exact thing that happened to you?
Bishop growled mutely. Memories of a mini-nuke and a flash of lightning made his gut roll in fury. Now his heart hammered in rage, more than anything else.
Through it all, he kept up his smile. Always smile. It's creepy, and it affects them.
Branwen swept forward, scythe brandished. Even though Nikos's brow was scrunched in concentration and her hand shook, she still maintained the grip on his sword. Bishop calculated that he wouldn't be able to hold Rubra Mors and dodge Branwen, for the sword solidly tried to get away in the very direction his enemy was coming from.
He let go of the hilt and dodged back. Rubra Mors flew through the air overhead and impaled the cabin wall, where it stayed firmly lodged.
Bishop kept up his smile, but he wished he could put his helmet back on, so then the gas mask would conceal his face and he could let loose the feral sneer of anger and hate that boiled behind his eyes and in his heart and in his stomach, the fuel of wroth and contempt that frothed within him.
He shuddered with rage and frustration, a slight movement disguised only by the trundling train's shake. Every nerve ending on his body went haywire with the desperate need to act, to destroy, a primal wish to crush.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
A second to breathe calmed it slightly, helped him get a grip on the situation.
He, Arthur and the animal were unarmed; with Nikos there, Neo could easily be disarmed as well. But all they really needed to do was last long enough for the train to hit, and there was no doubt in in his mind that he could at least do that. Team JNPR stood fully armed and ready.
Unfair? Perhaps. For them.
Maxwell and his team huddled together, sizing up Bishop and his allies. There were ways to stall that didn't involve fighting, and this lull could be a good time for talk.
"Hello there," Bishop said. He forced his voice to be as calm and genial as it ever was, greeting them as if he were a fond old friend. No onlooker would suspect from his face or tone that fury incarnate raged within him. "I am Bishop Beauvais, son of the late President John Henry Eden, former Secret Service Agent and forever American patriot—"
"Shut up!" Maxwell screamed so loudly it ran his throat raw.
Bishop ignored it and kept talking (though his smile became somewhat more legitimate, made almost giddy by Maxwell's unhinged and panicked state). "I suppose you're Maxwell's new posse. Did he tell you what happened to the last fools who chose to follow him?"
Maxwell Noble shook; and his eyes were wide and feral, but he was utterly silent.
"I killed them," Bishop said. And his smile was wholly real, for he was proud to gut those two Regulator anarchists and behead the supermutant monster. Threats to humanity and America, and his patriotic duty to wipe them out was fulfilled.
He stared down Maxwell's new teammates, and the shock on their faces was exquisite.
"You've gotten a lot farther than you should have," he said. "But then, you haven't met Bishop Beauvais, either. Your ride's over. Time to die."
He feigned a step forward, stomping loudly to shock his foes into action. In kind, they immediately brandished their weapons, and a moment later, they were upon him.
Breathe deep.
The world slowed.
Hold.
The slight burning sensation behind his eyes intensified as Bishop's world became perfectly still. Branwen and team JNPR, Maxwell's new team under his new name. Cinder had told him that they were among the best in Beacon.
Time to humble.
Bishop analyzed their movements; he saw Nikos raise her spear; he saw Lie Ren brandished his knives; he saw Valkyrie wind back her hammer; he saw Branwen rear back his sword for a stab; he saw Maxwell rev Crocea Mors. He determined by the alignment of their eyes and hips just who they planned on attacking. He readied his aura and the right muscles as he planned out his response.
Release.
He sped forward at lightning speed, diving under Valkyrie's swing and hooking an arm up around hers. He pivoted and dodged a stab from Nikos, throwing Valkyrie into her as he did, sending them both flying. They slammed into the wall of the train so hard that it shuddered and dented; at the same time, he backed up and swatted down Lie Ren's guard, the tired huntsman's eyes widening at the great strength and speed of his foe, which had broken his block instantly. Then he stepped in to elbow Ren in the face, sending him straight to the ground.
He hopped to the side, where Branwen, heading for Neo, looked back at him, eyes wide. The man evidently hadn't thought his flank would be exposed almost instantly as the others crumpled, so Bishop jumped and kicked, hitting him right in the stomach. The strike made his aura flash and made the man grunt, as he flew to the side and hit Maxwell, forcing them both to collide into the wall and collapse in a heap.
In a second, Bishop had executed a perfect maneuver, every movement flowing together seamlessly. He was like a flowing river, rushing smooth and indomitably fast, wiping away everything in his path.
His smile widened.
It almost dropped when something smashed into his back.
He grit his teeth and whipped around just in time to see Nikos commanding her spear back to her, which she must have hurled with all her might at him. It was a good hit, taking a bit out of his aura, but he'd kept that on guard.
Just as aura multiples strength and speed, so too does it scale with resilience. Bishop had once been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer by a supermutant back in the wasteland. It would have shattered the sternum of a normal person and turned their inside to goo, but he'd gotten away with just a few cracked ribs.
His aura needed to exert much less defensively, since he didn't need it as much. His bones were naturally harder to break; his skin, harder to pierce. His aura needed to compensate little, and it was siphoned off at a much lower rate than just about any other's.
So Nikos's spear wouldn't even leave a bruise, and it had taken just a sliver of his aura to stop the point from piercing him. Much of the physical trauma, his body could already shrug off with no problem.
His smile widened.
He launched himself towards Nikos, who quickly raised her shield.
He lashed out and punched it dead center. She had readied a stance and prepared herself quickly for the hit. But even the champion's footing couldn't take his strength.
The shield dented before his fist and the great force behind it carried through and into her, once more launching her off her feet as she cried out in surprise. She slammed back into Valkyrie again and, again, they smashed into the wall and collapsed to the floor.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Branwen charge, swinging his sword wickedly fast.
Bishop was faster.
He ducked, letting the sword fly just over his head. Smoothly, he twisted on his feet and sprung back up, driving an uppercut straight into Branwen's solar plexus. He grunted as the air was forced out of him, and the powerful strike hurled him up and threw him into the cabin's roof. Bishop jumped back when he came down, getting beside Neo and Arthur.
The former looked at him, eyes wide with surprise. He'd moved as fast as she could, and he'd hit far, far harder.
They heard a shrill blast from the front of the train, its great siren blaring twice.
Damn it!
Bishop grit his teeth, but the siren's warning could not be ignored.
He, Neo and Arthur looked at each other. Then they crouched down and covered their heads.
Maxwell and his team grouped together again, weapons raised, looking curiously at the three. Realization came to them too late.
The train slammed into rock and rubble; suddenly, the world became nothing but a great cacophony of rending metal and crushing stone amidst a harsh, volatile darkness.
He had once before been covered in rubble, when a training mission went awry and a supermutant with a rocket launcher nearly ended 12-year-old Bishop's fledgling career as a special agent. That was the only time in his life he'd ever broken a bone; large amounts of cement tend to have that effect on the human body.
With aura, the experience was far less unpleasant.
With a grunt and a heave, he braced his back against a giant slab of cement that pinned him to the ground, then pressed like he was doing a push-up. The stone groaned and crumbled but, it rose. Then he got a knee under himself, then the other, and he propped his shoulder against the cement and pushed with his legs. He managed to fully stand, lifting the huge sheet of cement as he did so. He grit his teeth, for this was a bit much for even him.
He shoved his hands up against the cement and pushed up, driving it higher above himself, then he threw himself forward.
He hit the ground and rolled out the way as gravity sent the ton of cement crashing back down, where it cracked the asphalt of the road.
Bishop immediately scanned the area, took stock of the situation.
They were, as planned, in the middle of Vale's downtown square, surrounded by middle to higher-end shops. The nice part of town where tourists and residents alike got their expensive coffee and their glimmering jewelry. Also as planned, today was Saturday. The shops opened earlier and certain sales were on this one day of the week, meaning more people were out and about so early in the morning than would normally be the case.
Now all was far from normal.
Most of the shops had their windows broken, smashed in by flying debris, and many people were screaming and running. Some were bloodied as they fled. Some lay motionless, struck by shrapnel or the like.
Bishop ignored them and reach for something clasped to his waist.
He put on the Grimm mask, and it appeared to any onlooker that he was a member of the White Fang.
The guise sickened him, and an uncomfortable, obstinate shiver ran up his spine, knowing that people were confusing him for one of the animals. But this was part of the plan.
Then he jogged into the middle of the street and squinted, looking far down the road, a few blocks away. People ran desperately around him, and he heard the beginning roars of oncoming Grimm, but a paranoid part of himself demanded that he look and make sure. Relief came with confirmation.
Far down, a building had a large black banner draped above the entrance, with a stylized symbol gleaming upon it—a golden sun.
Bishops head snapped to the side, attracted by a cacophony of collapsing stone. A huge deathstalker forced its way up through the rubble, and a brand new wave of screaming came when the civilians saw it, streaming out through their boutiques and cafes and running as fast as they could as canis and beowolves and smaller Grimm clawed their way up out of the hole.
The original plan had called for a horde, a deluge of monsters that would cause great havoc before Atlas could intervene.
As it was, this was barely a crowd of the creatures. It was still sure to put terror into Vale, but—
God damn Maxwell Noble. Bishop's brief satisfaction withered in an instant and, just as instantaneously, a swell of fury flushed through him like fire charring his blood.
It had only been a few minutes since the crash, so he couldn't be far—
A horn blared, and Bishop turned to see a car racing down the road, its driver desperately pressing on the peddle to get away from the carnage.
Bishop braced himself.
The driver slammed on the brakes, but the car was still going fast when it collided with him. When it did so, the front grill crumpled like paper, and the dust-powered engine sputtered and flashed as his arms crushed it.
Bishop was pushed back, but his feet dug into the asphalt, cracking and shattering the road beneath him as he stood fast.
The car stopped dead before him, having taken a fairly insignificant piece of his braced aura. It might as well have hit a tree.
Bishop snarled under his mask, and it felt good to have his face back.
The driver of the car was obscured by the emergency airbag, but Bishop didn't care. In that moment, enough anger coursed in his veins that he didn't care at all if the person were human or faunus, if they were a potential supporter of the cause, or if they were a single mother of five or whatever. He couldn't care less. An internal rage drove him past a line, one to which he was always near. It was the kind of line-crossing that makes you punch a wall or throw a glass on the floor in rage—it was the kind of angry crossing of a threshold that makes you carelessly destroy something.
Bishop's sneer twisted. He bent down and hooked his hands underneath the front of the car, squatting down. Then he pumped his legs and rose, swinging his arms up as well.
The car flew into the air, and it did two full flips before crashing back down, smashing a beowolf as it landed. Bone, plate, glass and metal all went crunch!
It didn't make him feel any better; urgency breathed down his neck.
Then he heard something else. It was a decidedly unique sound in the chaos. There was screaming, roaring, tearing, crushing and all the other usual tones of mayhem with which Bishop was well familiar by now. But there was also the sound of engines above.
He looked up and saw a bullhead. It came down slowly until it hovered a few yards above the ground. His eyes narrowed.
His forced evolution gave him eyesight between a human and a falcon. He zoned in easily and picked out the four girls who dropped down far on the other side of the square.
Team RWBY. The particularly skilled group from Beacon that had destroyed the primary stolen Paladin and helped foil their stint at the docks. As Cinder had informed him, they were also good friends of Maxwell.
His scowl deepened.
But he was keenly aware of an uncomfortable lack of a specific weight. At his side was an empty scabbard. Somewhere here, Rubra Mors was alone and abandoned.
Compounding that, he needed to reconvene with Arthur and Neo to escape. He also needed to kill Maxwell.
The clock was ticking, and he had even less time than originally planned, given Maxwell and his team had apparently managed to defuse some of their bombs. He always found a way to interfere with plans, to ruin things, like a swarm of rats hiding in the basement, chewing at pipes and foundation with their rotten, diseased little teeth and tearing the whole house out from under itself.
Time for extermination.
He pulled out his scroll and switched to a tracker function. This was specifically linked to the high-powered bug he'd embedded in Rubra Mors's hilt. It took a few seconds for the signal to connect, during which he developed an intense urge to crush his scroll for taking too long.
When the tracker locked on, he ran. The spare Grimm crawled up and out of the hole they'd formed and quickly ran off into the streets, though a look over his shoulder showed that the four huntresses were doing a decent job of stopping them.
Anger fired up inside him.
The entire plan relied on nearby Atlas intervening to put down the incursion, so if these four were able—
A gargantuan snake with black and white scales slithered up through the hole they formed and bore its massive fangs, each nearly as long as an average person was tall.
Alright, the plan was still mostly intact.
Bishop turned back and rushed ahead, dodging the odd Grimm to get towards his sword. He glanced back across the courtyard and saw that the girls had split off. Ruby Rose, whom Cinder had said was an especially close friend to Maxwell, jumped up onto the roof and sniped at smaller Grimm trying to get down an alley, while the heiress and the faunus leapt to engage the snake. Where the blonde one was—
"Hey there pal!" shouted a female voice ahead of him. "Did you do this?"
Bishop's stared down the girl ahead of him. Hands on her hips, she stood triumphant atop a dead ursa, already starting to fizzle out beneath her. She wore a stupid grin on her face, the one worn in battle by those who didn't know war.
This would be quick.
Bishop stashed his scroll in his pocket and rushed forward. The girl's smile widened and she jumped down to meet him. However, he diverted, stopping and suddenly running a perpendicular direction; he even stumbled a bit as he did, making himself look panicked in his suddenness.
He ran, and she laughed and followed, shooting off a few shotgun shells to propel her momentum, as he led her around a particularly large piece of rubble, a pile of stone ground up by a smoldering piece of the train. He ducked behind it, and she followed, and they were both out of view of her teammates.
Instantly, he on her.
Her eyes widened from the sudden move and great speed with which he shot at her, and it clicked in her head that this wasn't the usual White Fang trash.
She was the first to punch, thrusting and lashing out a fist into a vicious jab with enough power to eclipse even that of a supermutant.
Bishop caught it with one hand.
His palm stung from the impact, but he'd prepared his aura for the move. He gripped onto her fist, and her knuckles slackened beneath his crushing grip, and her gauntlet bent and cracked.
He dragged her in and punched her in face simultaneously, the power behind his fist outmatching the force of the car that had run into him earlier.
Her head snapped back, and her entire body would have flown if he didn't have a grip on her. He immediately took the opening to smash more punches into her midrift—
Fire exploded out from her, surprising enough to make him let go and jump back.
Stupid damn semblances.
The girl stumbled for a moment but kept her footing, then glared back at him. Her face was red from where he'd punched, and there would likely be a bruise even through her aura. But her eyes were red, and her hair was on fire, and a nasty snarl crossed her face.
A renewed sense of hate twisted in him, coiled and tightened like a snake trying to strangle itself. An ugly, angry kind of contempt, because this bitch was slowing him down and in his way.
You die.
Bishop rushed in, unconcerned with the flame for his suit was fire-retardant, and even then, his exposed head had enough aura and natural toughness to be little affected.
She yelled and threw her right hand forward, trying to fire a shell. However, he'd jammed it by catching and crushing it. When she realized, she hopped back and fired at him with her left hand.
Moving like a blur, he dodged the shots and threw himself forward again. He ducked and slid to the side, reaching out and snatching a long strand of her hair as he went.
He'd looked over her rather basic stance and the limited style he'd seen and quickly deduced an optimum way to take care of her. No need to waste his semblance on someone so benign as this. Especially not when she had such a ridiculous haircut to help him.
"Let go of my hair!" she screamed at him, winding back another punch.
As if. It was easily the best tactical advantage he had in the fight, even if it was as hot as red embers. He sidestepped and yanked back on her hair with great strength, bringing her off-balance. He rushed in and dodged another flimsy punch from her, then stepped behind her and grabbed another clump of hair. He pulled back and turned her around, pretty thoroughly tangling her in her own hair.
She looked at him furiously, but as she tried to punch forward, he yanked her hair to the side, dragging her off-balance. That let him let go and reach out.
He clutched her left wristed in both hands, then hauled back. He flipped her up into the air then brought her crashing back to the ground, where she fractured the brick pavement of the square. Immediately, she tried to squirm out of her grip, twisting and pulling back. But as strong as she was, Bishop was stronger.
He changed his footing, twisted and pulled as he pivoted on his feet and wrenched her hand up at an odd angle with all his power.
Crack!
Her aura put up a tough resistance, but his sudden and indomitable strength broke her wrist.
She cried out, and he stepped back, hauling her up to her feet while still holding onto her broken wrist in one hand. He got around to her side and jammed a punch into her ribs, right where the liver was.
She gasped and shook, wobbling on her feet from the strike.
The fever of battle made Bishop smile—
"Rah!" She suddenly screamed and another burst of fire consumed them both. Bishop stepped back, allowing her to twist and send a punch straight into his gut.
He fell, out of breath, eyes wide with surprise.
Her hit was just as strong as anything he could muster, and it drove all the air out of him. He gasped and breathed for a moment while the girl shakily stood on her feet.
A fresh snarl came upon his face. This bitch was putting up more a fight than she had any right too. Whatever asinine semblance or desperate expulsion of aura allowed her to get a hit on him like that, he didn't know, but he could feel his own aura dipping down, probably mid green.
He rolled and threw himself back up to his feet.
She instinctively tried to fire off a shot at him, but her one working wrist-gun happened to be strapped to her now broken wrist, and she screamed as the shot went wide and horrific pain shot into her.
Bishop rushed forward, dodging around her side and once more grabbing hold of her hair before she could get away. He wrenched her back, off balance again, then elbowed her in the side. He let go of her hair and got a grip on her good arm. He threw her over his shoulder, and she slammed to the ground; he twisted again and pulled her whole arm back at an odd angle.
Pop!
Her shoulder was wrenched free of its socket, and the girl screamed in pain. But her desperate yell was lost amidst the roar of Grimm, the shouting of civilians and the firing of guns.
He pushed her to the ground, straddled her, and wrapped his hands around her throat, cutting off the screaming completely.
For a second, she looked at him defiantly. Vicious crimson eyes stared up into his own, filled with hate. But that was just a second or so.
His hands squeezed, and he unleashed the full force of his rage on her then, pressing so hard that her eyes instantly widened. She thrashed desperately, but with both arms practically out of commission and him solidly pinning her—she was doomed.
They both knew that. The look in her eyes quickly became panicked, pathetic; she choked and spluttered, desperate for breath.
Bishop started to chuckle. How could he resist the bubbling of joy inside of him? If Maxwell were murdering one of his allies, then the degenerate would surely be laughing maniacally. Who's to say you can never enjoy your work?
"So pathetic in so many ways," Bishop said, smile widening as he taunted. "Without your ridiculous hair, you may have survived a minute more. Thanks for making it easier, fool."
He pressed harder, and her scared eyes rolled back in their sockets—
A red glow shown above them.
Bishop's fast reflexes were all that kept him from getting slashed in the head by a long red blade. He let go of the blond and jumped back, evading the slash by a sliver of an inch.
He backed away as the new figure jumped down, protectively standing over the girl who just barely escaped death, now coughing and wheezing on the ground, face pale and sweaty.
Bishop recognized the woman. How could he not? She was distinctive, with the Grimm bird mask and the sword and the semblance of a red portal. Raven Branwen.
He'd pieced together some basic knowledge of her from the rumors, reports and sightings that a man in his business was constantly surveying. A woman with a reputation so fearsome and far spanning that just about any criminal or mercenary of high caliber knew of her and her clan.
If the talk was valid, then Bishop was facing one of the few people on Remnant who could fight him.
"She gets to live," Raven said, voice gravelly and deep through the mask. "I don't care what you do otherwise. Go kill someone else—it doesn't matter to me." Raven paused and looked down at the girl, then looked back to Bishop. "But she gets to live this day."
Damn it.
Even if he was armed, Bishop knew fighting her would be a longer, harder battle than he had the time for. He was certain the police, hunters and Atlas were scrambling and converging on the location. Meanwhile, he still needed to find Rubra Mors and kill Maxwell.
As much as he desired to kill her, Bishop forced himself to take a step back. The woman made no move to attack him, but she did crouch back into a defensive stance.
He took another step away. Then another.
She didn't move.
Bishop turned and ran. He looked over his shoulder, but the woman simply turned and grabbed the girl by her good shoulder, then pulled her away.
Fine then. Back to work.
Bishop pulled out his scroll and locked on again to the location of Rubra Mors—
"Stop!"
Oh god damn it!
Bishop bit down his anger and looked up, seeing the Schnee and the faunus before him. Looking back, he saw the dissolving corpse of the giant snake not too far away.
"Where's Yang?" the Schnee said. "Our partner, the annoying blonde?"
Bishop looked back, but he didn't see Raven or the girl. She must have dragged her off or teleported completely away.
He wasted no more time on talk; he raised his fists.
Breathe deep. Hold.
Time stopped, and the slight pain behind his eyes intensified. He observed them, their stances, their muscles and their positions. He prepared himself.
Release.
A few minutes later, and it was over.
"Gah!" The Schnee cried out as he threw her away, and she landed on top of her filthy faunus companion, who'd just been trying to get back to her feet.
Bishop looked down at his hand. The tattered remnants of the faunus's ribbon were still wrapped around his wrists; he easily snapped them when she'd tried to tie him up (as strong as they may be, woven with dust). But he also held the Schnee girl's rapier, a fine and deadly piece of equipment, which he snatched from her grasp after barreling through her companion's dust-infused clones.
Bishop grabbed the rapier's blade in two hands, then bent it.
"Myrtenaster!" the Schnee yelled, looking in horror as he dropped her ruined weapon to the ground, now twisted at a right angle.
The faunus beside her struggled to stand, gripping onto the Schnee's skirt to help haul herself up. She spat out a mix of saliva and blood. Nevertheless, she glared at him with dirty, defiant, animal eyes. Like a stupid creature backed in a corner. She raised her sword in the air and readied her stance—
"Blake!" The Schnee yelled at her partner and grabbed the girl by the arm. "He's too much! Let's get out of here!"
"But—"
"There's no way!" The heiress said, tugging the faunus back and away from him. "Our corpses will be food for the Grimm if we keep this up! Let's get to the others!"
The faunus looked between her and Bishop, only to realize that the latter was already running away.
He didn't want to waste even more time on that trash. He couldn't afford it. Not with the situation already as strapped as it was. Even now, he saw bullheads further in the sky, and he heard sirens, and he heard more gunshots.
He glanced down the street and saw two hunters guarding a large road from Grimm. He squinted, and his enhanced sight picked out that each wore two armbands. Black cloth with a single stylized golden sun upon them. Both wore dark green shirts.
Good. The plan was still potent.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the two girls were running away; evidently, the Schnee's reason had prevailed. Better for him, as he could finally draw his scroll again. A quick check showed his aura was still green (the worst tax thus far on his aura had come from the train crash itself), and then he locked onto Rubra Mors's location yet again.
A few ursa tried to stop him, but just as many punches to the skull ended them. Their faceplates cracked and shattered before his fists, which promptly mulched their brains. None of the Grimm here proved a match to him. His blood ran hot as he hunted for his goal.
There it is.
Rubra Mors, imbedded point-down into the ground. The blade seemed to be waiting for him dutifully, like a soldier standing at attention. He pocketed his scroll and reached out.
His fingers grasped the hilt, and an invisible weight that had clung to him suddenly evaporated. The familiar handle settled in his palms as he wrenched the weapon up into the air. He couldn't help but smile, reunited.
"Damn it!"
He cut to attention, immediately brining his gaze to the source of the voice he now recognized. Qrow Branwen, a man of fierce repute, if one eclipsed by his sister's. He was fighting Neo and Art (the latter of whom had armed himself with a street sign he'd torn out of the ground).
He'd been beside the others. Where are they.
He saw something move out the wrecked train cabin.
Bishop's eyes narrowed, and his muscles suddenly twitched and trembled; in his hand, Rubra Mors shuddered as well, perhaps because of his shaky grip, but one wouldn't be too wrong to say that the evil sword had a mind like its master.
There they are.
Bishop ran for them. He saw them. His eyes blazed like two coals burning quietly in a dead fire, still scorching at the touch.
Valkyrie used her hammer like a cane, herself limping. The others were evidently battered but still standing. For now.
Bishop ducked and tore a large brick out of the ground as he sprinted across the square. He formed a plan, and he executed it.
Breathe deep. Hold. Release.
In barely a second, he'd wound his hand back, focused in on Nikos's head, prepared his stance, considered positioning and then thrown—all while ignoring the growing pain behind his eyes.
The brick ripped through the air; if it were more aerodynamic, it may have broken the sound barrier by the time it collided with Nikos's skull.
The brick's velocity would have turned a normal human's head into a red spray, but the champion's strength and aura negated such a dramatic consequence. Instead, it whipped her aside, flipped her and left her crashing onto the ground, unconscious.
Maxwell looked to her, then to him, horrified. The expression on his face fueled Bishop with additional energy, drove his muscles to pump even harder as he rushed forward, Rubra Mors aloft.
"Run!" Maxwell screamed to his team. "Take her and run! He wants me!"
"Can it!" Valkyrie said, brandishing her hammer and charging to meet Bishop head on.
He pivoted on a dime and swiped Rubra Mors up, crashing the blade into her hammer's shaft and opening her guard. He pivoted again and jammed a short punch into her side; her weak aura buckled, and her ribs cracked.
"Ah!" She screamed weakly as his punch broke her bones and flung her aside, where she was haphazardly caught by Lie Ren.
"Run idiot!" Maxwell screamed, voice run coarse and desperate. "Get away—"
He was cut off as Bishop came down upon him again. The bastard didn't even have time to rev Crocea Mors before Bishop brought down the sister sword, careening for his head. He sloppily tried to block the strike, but he utterly failed to contest Bishop's strength, and the attack followed through, bashing the chainsword's teeth into Maxwell own face and flinging him away.
Bishop glanced back, and he smiled when he saw Maxwell's teammates doggedly rush for their fallen comrade. The two had an odd grey coloring to them, but Bishop instantly dismissed it as a trick of the light. Valkyrie had tears rolling down her face, presumably because she'd realized the only hope for survival was abandoning her leader.
Good. So good. As much as he would love to torture and kill Maxwell's new friends before his eyes, time was already winding down, and he was too dangerous to leave alive any longer.
Bishop smiled a wide, manic, brutal and ugly smile hidden by his mask, a wild counterpart to the usual fake, genial grin he put on. Then he rounded on Maxwell.
Each strike was relentless, and his foe barely had the ability to deflect or doge each one as he back peddled, tripping and stumbling away for dear life.
Bishop began to laugh. He laughed a loud, crazed laugh. His head felt light, airy, almost as if he'd been narcotized. A rush went through his pumping heart as a furious kind of joy came upon him, the happiness of rage fulfilled.
Maxwell had withstood for barely a minute when Bishop pulled one of his slashes and side-stepped instead; then he kicked the side of Maxwell's knee.
Crack!
His leg snapped and bent aside at the knee, broken by the superhuman kick and the lack of any more aura to withstand it. Maxwell struggled to contain a scream as he collapsed to the ground.
Bishop stood triumphant, elation in his heart. He felt light and high, as if some ethereal force had its hands on him, pulling him upwards to the heavens.
But defeated as he was, Maxwell didn't writhe, didn't recoil in terror, didn't beg—not that Bishop had expected it. He knew by now the ways in which this scum was strong.
"As long as they live," Maxwell mumbled.
Bishop glanced away and saw his team running, carrying Nikos between them, rushing in the direction of flashing red and blue lights. He sneered and looked back down at his prized prey.
"As long as you die," Bishop said, raising Rubra Mors in the air.
His heart beat so fast, it felt like it was smashing itself into mushy pulp within his chest. His skin bristled and shivered. Fury and happiness mingled as he brought the sword down—
A red blur cut by, struck the sword and sent him to the side, saving Maxwell's life by a mere moment. It caught him off-balance, and he stumbled several feet away.
Surprise shocked him, and he immediately backed up, raising his sword to meet the new threat. He saw it, recognized it, sneered at it.
The acute sense of rage that filled him when Ruby Rose looked back at him—he was filled with the total desire to kill her and make it cruel.
Maxwell was always saved by the barest margins, by the idiots he managed to cultivate around him; it couldn't happen again.
Bishop charged the girl, who stood protectively above Maxwell. He begged her to run, but she was deaf to such demands. Instead, she swiped her scythe at him.
Bishop easily deflected it with a flick of his wrist.
She reacted quickly, however, adjusting to his surprisingly strong hit and spinning around. She shifted her scythe as she did so, forming into more a rifle shape. Then she opened fire.
Bishop was hit square in the chest and driven back, but he furiously swiped his sword to cut down every new shot that the girl sent. Maxwell feebly dragged himself away, jaw tightly bit down, holding in the pain.
Bishop rushed forward, and the girl met him. Her scythe moved wickedly fast, almost too fast to see. But he kept track without difficulty, matching each strike by her and cutting back on her defense. He snaked his sword through her guard and lashed at her arms and chest, forcing her to yelp and wince. Her arms shook every time she tried to deflect each slash, so strong was he. Immediately, she was on the defensive, and she must have known she was outmatched.
That didn't stop her.
Instead, she broke away and leapt back. Flipping through the air, she reached one hand into a pouch on her belt and pulled out a single dust round.
Bishop dashed for Maxwell again; the girl feverishly loaded her rifle; he raised his sword; the girl fired; Bishop blocked her shot—
And then began to float.
The sense of weightlessness overwhelmed immediately, and the power of the gravity dust stalled his advance and instead sent him slowly, harmlessly, floating up into the air.
He seethed. Breathing heavily from sheer rage rather than exertion, he was practically frothing at the mouth behind his mask; the bitch was ruining everything.
She reloaded with normal rounds and shot at him. He blocked each one easily, but his weightlessness meant that each hit still transferred full momentum into him and sent him flying backwards.
By the time the gravity dust wore off and he was back on the ground, he'd strayed twenty feet away. He trembled with rage. He'd been so close. He'd been so, so close, and this bitch—
She fired her rifle behind her as she kicked off, and she instantly became a red blur. A boom rang as she broke the sound barrier and came for him.
Bishop deflected her strike, though the sheer velocity she held nearly put him off-balance.
The girl landed behind him and twirled to face him. She held a fierce scowl on her face, a mean look of determination.
If he hadn't been wearing a mask, Bishop's animalistic snarl would have clearly eclipsed her expression in sheer viciousness and rage.
She wound her rifle back again, fired, kicked off, broke the sound barrier—
Breathe deep. Hold.
Time slowed.
It didn't come quite to a complete stop; Bishop was too angry to focus so acutely now. But he managed to get a bit of a grip on himself, enough to check the surroundings during the moment. Rose hurtled towards him as slowly as a turtle, and the rest of the world was barely as fast a snail. He saw police lights in the distance and bullheads nearing. He saw Atlas escort ships further off coming from the main fleet. The event horizon was nearing, and he had to act.
He observed Rose's posture, her muscles, the way she held her scythe, her positioning, the direction of her hips and even zero'd in on where her eyes were pointed. He did this as he ignored the pain in his head; it now felt like smoldering matches had been lit inside his skull and were pressed against the backs of his eye sockets, and they became hotter with each moment, fire spitting and flaring.
It didn't take him long, however, to deduce exactly where she was going to swing, and how he could capitalize on it. He'd immediately picked up on her style, fast and loose, effective but with lethal openings that could end it all in a moment if the strike was precise enough, fast enough, strong enough.
Release.
Thus prepared, he snapped his body into a position almost immediately, and he braced Rubra Mors at the perfect angle.
Just as instantaneously, Rose swept in and swung for him. She missed. Barely, but she missed.
Bishop did not.
Her incredible velocity collided directly with his swing. Her aura wasn't low, but in this vicious crash against the razor-sharp duraframe edge, something had to give.
Rubra Mors does not give.
"Gah!" She flew by him, immediately smashing down to the ground and tumbling over herself, cape flapping pathetically around her. She only came to a stop when she collided with Maxwell on the ground. A trail of blood led to them both.
Bishop heard her scream. He saw the blood. He saw the horrified look on Maxwell's face.
He laughed. A tumultuous, victorious fury frothed inside him, and he laughed in the moment of enraged, joyous triumph.
Bishop ran forward again, flicking the trigger at Rubra Mors's cross guard. The blade came alive with cruel, red flames that flashed and shuddered in perfect imitation of its master's rage.
He was upon them both in a moment, sword raised. As he brought it down, the girl turned to him with desperate, terrified eyes.
Eyes that glowed silver.
"No!" she screamed, her voice ragged and piercing.
Bishop saw a flash of white.
Jaune couldn't cry. He wouldn't let himself. He had to be strong for her.
"It'll be okay," he said, but his voice was hoarse, quiet and shaky. He doubted it comforted her.
She trembled in his arms, eyes wide and staring into the distance, looking into nothing. She took shallow, rapid breaths and whimpered. Sweat covered her pallid face.
He cradled her gently while doing his best to ignore the horrific sensation from his leg, awful pain numbed and warped by adrenaline.
Around them in the square, Atlas robots began landing from their transport craft and gunning down the Grimm, while reinforcements finally arrived from Beacon to start clearing up what was left.
His two stimpaks weighed heavy in his jacket, but he knew no number of stimpaks would fix what had happened to her, and as awful as it was, it wouldn't be fatal. He'd instead torn off part of his jacket and made a tourniquet on her arm, and now he clamped down and applied pressure to the wound, stemming the bleeding with his sleeve. He didn't dare look at it more. He'd had to swallow a mouthful of his own vomit after seeing it, his own rancid horror and panic making him sick.
Whatever Ruby had done, it had saved their lives. Bishop had been blown far away, and only now was shakily getting to his feet. However, he collapsed to his knees several times, too weak to stand. By pressing the tip of Rubra Mors against the ground, he was able to finally force himself to his feet; but even then, he seemed drained of just about all his strength, swaying uncertainly, as if his body was deciding whether or not it was strong enough not to crumple to the ground.
Then the other one, whom Jaune guessed to be Arthur, Bishop's right-hand man, came to his side along with Neo. She grabbed onto both of them, and then they shattered into fractals of glass, which faded away and dissolved as they fell to the ground. Nothing was left behind.
He heard a growl from behind him.
Oh no…
He turned and saw a huge beowolf. The monster's crimson, bloody eyes bore into him. Its jagged fangs were covered with dripping saliva. Its maw creaked open—
A flash of steel, and its head dropped to the ground.
"Jaune? Ruby!?" Qrow stood above them, scythe in hand. His face was bruised, and his clothes were torn, cut and even singed in parts. But he still stood, burdened more by concern than pain. "What the hell… oh gods..."
Jaune bit back tears as Qrow saw exactly what Bishop had done:
He'd cut off her hand.
Big oof. Sorry Yang but little sis is stealing your role. Bet Weiss wishes she'd given Ruby that high-five now, huh? Ah, all's well that ends well, right? Everybody's alive, so I'm sure this will have no negative consequences, right?
Right?
And if Bishop came off as too op—he's supposed to be. I came up with Bishop while reading other fics where the protagonist is an overpowered oc from fallout who comes into Remnant and whoops ass easily. I got bored and frustrated reading those, and I just wished the authors would put in at least one character to be like a foil to the mc, someone who was strong enough to actually contest them. That's actually where the idea for this whole fic first came from, me being dissatisfied with others I read and wanting to make my own version with a powerful villain like that. I decided to take the initial concept even further by making the op oc, Bishop, the primary antagonist instead of the protagonist. So aside from serving as a way to change the story of RWBY and bring in the Enclave, Bishop is also a subversion of an all too common trope. I think it makes things much more interesting, as the mc really has to fenagle a solution.
Jaune is similar to that, actually. I wanted to subvert the infamous fanfic trope of the edgelord oc. I wanted to show just how hurtful and toxic that sort of edgelordyness is and how it has to be overcome. That's why Yang and Qrow have openly mocked Jaune's older self by straight up calling him an edgelord and why Jaune has renounced that part of himself.
I also hope you liked seeing Bishop's perspective. He's more than just a weird guy who's always smiling. We'll get to see more from his pov soon that will flesh him out further. And yeah, his semblance is essentially vats from in-game. I couldn't figure out what to make it for a while, before I eventually figured that this was pretty perfect. Aside from that, his power level is way up there, on par with the maidens, Orion and the highest level hunters in Remnant. Jaune will have to get some allies to deal with this…