Hi all! I just published another RWBY fic that I'm really excited for! Ever wondered what it'd be like if Jaune was an Atlas android hijacked by the forces of Salem? Well wonder no more!

But for real, go check it out! I want it to be more light-hearted and also shorter than this one, employing a lot of the lessons I've learned to make a nice, succinct story.

Check out "Do Androids Dream of Electric Grimm?" today!

"What do you mean you don't know where he is?" Ruby asked. "Somebody saw him but you don't know where he is?" She echoed the thoughts of all the others, both her team and the remaining of JNPR, in her anger.

"I mean," Qrow said, holding his hands up in defense, "that the guy who saw him in Vale doesn't know where he is."

They were all crammed into one of many hotel rooms now used to house those left homeless in the wake of the disaster; blankets and pillows were strewn across the room's bare wine-colored carpet. The beds had been taken out to provide emergency comfort for the injured. The seven kids had been making do with this as a place to get unwanted and unpleasant rest.

Qrow had just come along and told them that he had been asking other hunters if they had seen Jaune, and one had said yes.

"Can we talk with him?" Nora asked.

"Sorry you can't," Qrow said. "The guy got dispatched out of town this morning. I don't think he would have remembered anything else even if you were asking the question." Qrow sighed and guiltily took a drink from his flask.

Ruby flopped down to the floor and sat criss-cross. "Why…" she murmured. "And how soon is soon?" That was what Jaune had promised.

He had also promised her that he wouldn't leave…

"He'll come around soon enough," Qrow said. He stepped back and reached one hand behind him, gripping the doorknob. "That's what he said. Steve's always been… sort of the independent type." Qrow brought a hand up to the bandage on the back of his head and winced when he prodded it. He had told them it came from some criminal who'd gotten a lucky hit in last night when Qrow helped break up some looting.

"I suppose he might be doing something right now not too different from what we did back when we chased down the White Fang and their Paladin," Weiss said. She tapped her foot on the carpet once, twice, three times. "Annoying."

"He was pretty mad at us for that," Yang added. "He always did remind me a bit of Blake."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Blake. She sat against the wall, knees pulled up to her chest and ears perked up.

"It means you're both sorta mysterious and want to do some of your own things," Yang said, exasperated. "The Enclave is to him what the White Fang is to you, I bet. Got a big bone to pick with 'em."

"Well…" Blake's ears twitched nervously. "I'm not exactly the best person to imitate."

"He's stupid like you all, but not too stupid," Qrow said. He gently massaged the aching spot on his skull. "Not too stupid." He sighed and twisted the doorknob. "But anyway, I better go, and you all better get ready.

"Cus soon we're going to retake Beacon."

It was his favorite diner in the city, and he was there with the usual "friend" who accompanied him to places, even to breakfast.

Several days had passed now since the fall of Beacon and the attack on Amity Arena. With each hour the horror of the attack solidified like concrete, cementing itself in everyone's memory; but it also lost its wet cement freshness, its thick viscosity into which one might have been sucked up whole, your scream swallowed by the dark sludge.

The days dragged by as the official death count climbed. Blaire watched the counter tick up on his scroll as he waited for his steak and eggs breakfast. He licked his lips and scanned the list full of thousands of names. All those confirmed dead were on that list. A pitiful lot. The human civilians among them would be well-remembered for their sacrifices.

"Is he going to be alright?" asked the woman sat across from him at the diner booth. They were the only ones there at this early hour in the morning, when the sun had barely risen and the diner had opened only five minutes ago. The lone cook busily coated a lean steak with salt and pepper, readying the deep red meat for a pan sizzling with glistening oil. The huntress barely dared to raise her voice over a whisper.

Blaire licked his lips and did not take his eyes off the scroll in his hands. "We don't talk about business here," he replied matter-of-factly.

She was insistent. "Oh come on, nobody's said anything other than that the Commander got hurt."

"He'll be fine," Blaire said. He licked his lips. "Minor injuries."

He adjusted his glasses, thinking about the awful, corpse-like figure slathered in burn cream, bound up in gauze and connected by wires and hoses to a couple of old machines that beeped coldly. He licked his lips.

"Fine. That's that."

Unsatisfied, the huntress who served as his personal bodyguard simply accepted that she was not going to get any more from him. She instead leaned back and peered outside the window.

At this grey time of day, there wasn't too much light outside and there weren't too many people, either. The polished red and white tiles on the diner's floor were about as interesting as looking outside, where there was a parking lot empty aside from her car and the cars of the cook and the waitress. Squinting and peering across the street, she saw a laundromat, a few apartments and the occasional jogger.

Mostly, she didn't like the view because it was dangerous. The diner was small and nestled beside a dust station. Cars pulled in and left on the other side of the building, getting their nourishment and going. Here, every booth was situated beside the huge glass windows. The only other seats available were the stools along the counter; but that was even worse, their backs to the windows.

If it was up to her, then they wouldn't be eating at a place like this. But Blaire insisted. Almost every morning. Even now, after the Enclave's terror attack. In all the months she had worked with him she knew incredibly little about the man other than that he was a creature owned by his habits. He had a different colored and designed suit for every day of the week, and he never erred from the rigid schedule he had upkept for who-knows-how-long; today was Wednesday, so obviously that called for a blue pinstripe with matching blue tie; tomorrow would be Friday, so of course that would be a solid brown suit and red tie day.

He was annoying, but his talents both in logistics and negotiations made it worth keeping him safe.

Blaire's scroll buzzed with a new notification. He checked this message and licked his lips. "We're leaving tonight," Blaire said suddenly. He did not bother to lower his voice, confident in the waitress and cook being too uncaring of his business and too preoccupied with their own business to hear. "That was decided. You should drop me off at the usual spot and gather your things."

"What?" the huntress asked in a whisper, glancing between Blaire and the others at work in the restaurant. She ducked her head and leaned closer before speaking again. "Wasn't it supposed to be in two days?"

"It was," Blaire said as nonchalantly as before. He licked his lips. "But something happened and we're responding with appropriate haste. I suggest we finish eating quickly and be on our way." He glanced around the diner. "I'll miss this place."

The waitress came by and gave the huntress her coffee. "Your breakfast'll be ready in a few," the old lady said kindly to Blaire. He smiled back and said his thanks. The only time the huntress had ever really seen him spare much emotion for anybody was for the waitress and the cook here at this diner on these early mornings.

The huntress glanced out the window again. She saw a beat-up old car pull into the parking lot just before the diner. Two people occupied the car's front seats, a couple of fat men who turned to face each other after the car was parked, seemingly talking.

She shrugged and blew on her black, fragrant coffee; her breath passed gently through her lips colored lime-green with lipstick. She watched steam swirl and sway. They always made it hot, too hot. She found herself every morning waiting a solid five minutes just to comfortably take her first sip. It would be the last sip of this coffee she would be having in a long time.

That made her a little sad. The coffee here wasn't particularly amazing, nor were the pancakes she sometimes ordered. They were good, but it wasn't the kind of food that stuck in your mind and that you insisted to your friends was one diner of all diners. Not that kind of food, not that kind of restaurant. Perhaps that was what was nice about—just a normal place.

"Guess I'll miss this place too," she found herself saying.

"Indeed," Blaire said. "This was where my wife and I used to come a lot."

"Ah." She wasn't entirely sure how to answer him. He had never veered into any kind of personal talk with her. Even after guarding him for all these months, they were strangers.

The huntress glanced out the window again at the two fat men in the car. They had not moved. She used her semblance, which gave her enhanced eyesight, to seize a close look at them. When she squinted, she saw that their lips were not moving. The two men were simply staring into each other's eyes. Also, the two men were identical save for their clothes and skin color.

Instantly, she reached across the table to grab Blaire by the tie. Ignoring his surprised gasp, she wrenched him out of the seat as she withdrew from the booth, reaching for the mecha-weapon at her hip with her other hand. She put her aura on guard—

Just in time for a shotgun blast to crash through the window and smash into her chest. The breath was knocked straight out of her and she stumbled back. It would leave a nasty bruise, but her aura had stopped a bloody fist-sized hole from forming in her chest.

With one arm she yanked up her weapon and unfolded her lime-green machete; with her other arm, the huntress threw Blaire up and over the diner counter behind her. She swung her machete in time to block another shotgun blast that would have ripped half her face off. Clad in black and wearing a ski-mask and sunglasses, her assailant pumped her shotgun.

She gripped her green machete by its bulky, box-like handle in her left hand—her dominant hand. The huntress deftly blocked the shots coming from her attacker with her machete's wide blade.

Another glass pane shattered as a second attacker cracked into existence, seeming to have smashed through reality itself to suddenly be standing and shooting a pistol right at her. Still, she fiercely swung her broad machete quickly enough to stop much of the gunfire; but a few shots got through, pounding her arm, her chest and even grazing by her face. Each shot that landed gouged out some of her aura, and each one made the flesh there radiate with pain as if she had just been bitten by a viper.

Both of her assailants ran out of ammo.

"My turn," the huntress said as she mecha-shifted her machete into an uzi. As her weapon changed, she spared a glance over her shoulder to check on Blaire on the other side of the counter; she cast another quick flick of her eyes back into the kitchen, where she saw the cook and waitress running out the back door. At least that was good.

"Get going Blaire!" she said before pulling the uzi's trigger. Bright green flashes of dust flew from its short muzzle and sporadically sprayed out as she waved the gun in front of her. The one, larger assailant ducked to the ground immediately, bullets whizzing above him. The other girl had ditched her shotgun and whipped up a cream parasol; she opened it in front of her like a shield, and the dust-lined fibers along the curved surface deflected the bullets, leaving scorch marks where they had landed.

The huntress scowled. They had all been warned that this girl might still be alive; the parasol was the giveaway that Neo had come for her. As for who the other was, anybody else's guess would be as good as hers.

Her uzi ran out of ammo after a quick spray.

The male assailant—at least she assumed he was male from his greater size—brandished a lead pipe pilfered from some musty back alley and covered in rust and grime. He hopped through a broken window and landed both feet firmly on the table; he pounced from there onto the checkerboard floor. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Blaire making a dash out from the counter.

"Stay in the kitchen!" she yelled angrily. Hopefully he'd follow her advice and hide in the kitchen, not run out the building and expose himself to other enemies hanging around.

The second Blaire cleared the counter and dashed for the kitchen door, however, he sealed his fate. Neo whipped out a knife and hurled it all the way across the diner. Just as his hands reached the door to safety, he cried out in pain.

The knife dug into the cramped flesh of his right calf; he collapsed face-first into the door and slid painfully down to the ground.

"Damn it!" the huntress growled, facing Neo and the other one. The latter was closer, but he did not rush in with his pipe. He posed less danger, she decided; he was a random goon with a random pipe serving as fodder for the trained assassin.

She went on the attack, taking advantage of her assailants' relative distance (Neo was outside but moving for the door) from one another to give her at least a few seconds to finish the goon. She swung her green blade, aiming to chop his head off.

He ducked below her machete and skirted to the side, gripping in his pipe in both hands and jabbing it straight into her ribs.

"Gah!" She yelped in pain and swung the machete down, trying to cut his hand at the wrist. Her attack fell short as he stepped back again; her blade sliced through the tip of his lead pipe. It clattered to the floor at her feet.

She lunged again. "Ha!" She drove her machete's serrated point straight for his heart.

He pivoted back and to the side, but he wasn't fast enough to dodge it fully. The razor-edged blade scraped along his arm, fraying the fabric there and making his aura shine.

The huntress stepped back as Neo came into the diner; she sized up both her and the goon. Neo herself wore all black, from the matte sneakers to the hoodie to the ski mask that covered her head; it was an unusual deviation from the assassin's normal cocky display. The goon wore the same black outfit; the huntress was confounded as to why someone evidently skilled in combat and with their aura unlocked fought with a random lead pipe.

She charged the two again; if she was going to be outnumbered, then she would be outnumbered on her own terms.

She swung wide first for Neo, who quickly threw her parasol up; however, the huntress used that block and the reverse momentum it provided to spin around and swing for the goon again.

He barely put up his pipe in time to block her machete, which dug deep into the lead, almost cutting his pipe in half.

The huntress ripped her machete out again and spun on her foot again, slicing back down on Neo.

The assassin unfurled her parasol again to block and hopped back. She unsheathed a thin, needle-like sword from the parasol's shaft. Wielding the parasol itself in her offhand, Neo stepped back and held aloft her slim rapier.

The huntress noticed how she limped slightly as she pulled back into her fencer's stance.

The goon rushed forward with his pipe, waving it frantically this way and that to try and confuse her before committing with a swing to the side of her head. This happened in conjunction with Neo lunging forward with a stab for her gut. The goon attacked from her left while Neo attacked from her right.

The huntress crossed her arms in front of her so that the machete in her left hand could strike the rapier to the side while her free right hand caught hold of the lead pipe. It thwumped into her palm with a sting that would certainly leave her hand looking blue later that night; that was still better than a crack across her temple.

She spun around on her foot yet again—still holding onto the pipe—and delivered a back kick straight into the goon's chest.

"Agh!" The goon let go of the pipe and scrambled back both from the force of the kick and the pain. His legs buckled, and he clutched at his chest in more agony than the huntress had expected. She wasn't going to complain.

She spun around yet again and deflected yet another lunge from Neo as she did—she responded with a spinning kick straight to Neo's face. The agile assassin, however, managed to dodge the huntress's boot.

She didn't dodge the lead pipe that the huntress threw right at Neo's head. The point of the pipe thumped straight into Neo's skull, making the assassin shudder.

The huntress spun on her foot again; but this time, she crouched and swept out her foot. She crashed her boot straight into Neo's ankle—the one she had seen her limp on slightly.

Surely enough, her opponent dropped immediately with a slight spasm that spoke of pain. The huntress spun again, coming to her feet in the twirl and raising her machete to cut back down into Neo. Then she sensed movement in her peripheral vision.

Her head snapped to the goon running towards her. She brandished her machete, prepared to butcher the mad man as he blindly tries to charge her. That wasn't what happened.

He brought around a hand that held a steaming mug and stopped to splash it up into her face. The coffee she had ordered, rich and black and always served too hot. It scalded her face and seeped into her eyes that she closed a split-second too late; the dark brew stung her corneas. Even with aura, the burning drink hurt.

"Fuck!" She reflexively brought a hand to face to wipe the coffee out of her eyes; and just a second after she did that, she realized her mistake.

The goon pressed in, grabbed her lime-green bob-cut in hand and wrenched her close, pinning her left arm between his body and hers. He punched her in her ribs with his free hand. Once. Twice. Three times. He jammed his knuckles hard against her bones.

The huntress glanced to the side, seeing Neo get back to her feet. She gritted her teeth as the goon pounded one, two, three more punches in with quick succession. She planted one foot against the ground and pressed against her attacker to narrowly avoid a lunging stab from Neo, although she could not avoid the proceeding slash across her chest; it cut deep into her aura, shredded the fabric of her protective black cloak and even drew some blood.

"Damn it!" the huntress said. She hopped, planted both feet against the ground when she landed, marshaled her aura and jumped. She kicked a boot out to Neo's face as she did, forcing her to bend back and crash against the diner counter.

She flipped right up and above the goon, freeing her machete-holding hand as she did so. The goon, smart enough to not want an armed enemy right behind him, let go of her hair and spun away. She lashed out with her bright green blade; it cut deep into his aura, sliced through his hoodie and scraped along his skin, drawing a few drops of blood.

The huntress stepped back, and so did the goon. Neo made to press forward, but the goon brought a hand to her shoulder and wrenched her back. She looked at him with unmitigated anger apparent even through her ski mask. He said something to her in a hush.

The huntress charged again, machete held high. Neo came in to meet her. Sparks shone as their blades met. The Goon stood to the side, fists raised, looking for an opening. The huntress deflected a stab from Neo, spun on her foot and again delivered a quick kick to the goon's chest.

"Gah!" He cried out yet again, strangely sensitive in his chest. He stumbled away and fell to his knee as the huntress dueled with Neo. "Fuck this!" he shouted. Then he got back to his feet and ran for the door.

The huntress didn't try to stop him. One less thing to worry about, although she would need to take Blaire and hightail it quickly to avoid whatever backup he might call in, if they had any. The shabby duo were clearly injured already, meaning they may very well be on their own. Certainly, Neo now lacked the acrobatic acumen that the huntress had been warned about.

She smiled, feeling a sudden burst of confidence. It seeped into her skin and down through her flesh, into her bones and further into her bone marrow. Invigorated, she pressed the attack on Neo.

Still, however, the assassin was not an easy mark. She matched each machete chop and evaded each spinning kick. Careful to keep her bad ankle behind her, Neo still limped slightly, impeding her ability to maneuver or attack.

"Ha!" A crack of laughter escaped her lips, confidence building.

Neo put more force into blocking a swipe of a machete, giving herself an opening for a gambit. She jumped up and towards the huntress—feet first—while curling up into a ball. She lashed out with a double kick that channeled her meager aura, both feet against her enemy's chest.

It winded the huntress and sent her reeling back as Neo crashed straight down to the floor.

The huntress smiled, feeling a bloodlust. She would charge her enemy now and slash her throat open, spilling crimson across the floor and claiming victory.

Then a car crashed through the diner's front door, ending that fantasy.

The huntress was stuck—eyes wide—like a deer in the headlights; almost literally. The shabby car she had seen the two come in ripped the doors off their hinges and showered the diner with shattered glass as it careened straight for her.

Its bumper crashed into her hips and drove her back into the diner's counter. The wood there splintered, the tile cracked and the car pinned her down against the half-crushed counter.

The machete fell out of her trembling fingers and clattered to the floor. She couldn't breathe. She stared blankly at the man behind the steering wheel, the faceless and nameless goon in the ski mask. Bile and blood started to well up in her throat.

Neo threw herself to her feet, ignored the pain in her ankle and lunged up across the car's hood. Hush, her razor-sharp rapier, stretched out in front of her.

Neo drove her sword straight into the huntress's eye; it slipped through her pupil, pierced her skull and poked out the back, gleaming red. The woman went limp and settled into her inglorious final spot, pinned between a ruined diner counter and a car.

Her name had been Samantha Tropica. Born and raised to hunter parents back in Vacuo, she was ushered into a life of violence. In her teens, she had been a part of her family's small mercenary band. They were assigned to protect a caravan traveling through dangerous territory. Bandits attacked—there were many of them, too many. Although both humans and faunus alike counted among the bandits, she always remembered the faunus who slew her father in front of her. His yellow eyes. His mangy black ears sticking out his head. She only survived that encounter by playing dead after getting thrown to the ground. When she returned to the city, she was not treated with kindness. Her community swiftly ostracized her, with many even believing she had sold out the caravan. Even those who believed her disrespected her for her dishonorable survival. They told her she should have fought to the end and died with the rest. She quickly began to believe that as well, and it was not long until she hated herself. She left the city and wandered for years, bouncing from place to place, taking protection jobs for meager pay or just a roof to sleep under and food to eat. This continued for a long time as she honed her craft; that would change. One day, the Enclave reached out to her, brought her in, showed her what she had always been missing. Finally, she was with others who shared her mindset, who would not blame her for her pain, who accepted her rage and encouraged her hate. The cruelty and the action electrified her. The sense of purpose was more fulfilling than anything she had known before. She had been happy to accompany the Commander on missions and happy to find more recruits. She had grumbled after being assigned to protect Blaire, but she took on the task dutifully. Just a few days ago, she had felt her blood boil excitedly as she massacred a cell of White Fang as the Commander attacked the weaklings both in Atlas and Beacon. She had been looking forward to joining the ranks of her comrades again and spreading the brutal righteousness that the Enclave had shown to her. But now she was dead, and that was all over.

"Sheesh," Jaune said as he got out the car. "We're out of shape." He gingerly his chest, where the still healing wound and sensitive flesh had been hit.

Neo got off the car hood and hopped a couple times on her good ankle before precariously standing on both feet. She pointed to behind the counter. By the door of the kitchen, their target feebly tried to reach up for the handle; however, the knife in his leg caused so much pain that he could not quite grab it.

"Got it," Jaune replied. When he reached Blaire, he dragged him away from the door and rooted through his pockets. He found his car keys. Then he hauled him out the diner.

Blaire shouted for attention the whole time, but that early in the morning and that soon after a terror attack fewer than normal people were out and about. They stuffed him into the trunk of his own car. Jaune threw the keys to Neo. She put those keys in the ignition and they were gone.

After telling all she could say, Sarah had expected bureaucracy and a lack of belief for her story to consume the words she told and either set her on the slow path toward becoming a part of the Enclave investigation or leave her in the dust; she had not expected a more rigorous interrogation by Winter herself along with a man who did not give his name or position but whom Sarah suspected to be a part of the Atlas Intelligence Service; and she certainly had not expected an invitation to the place she currently was.

That place being a secured meeting room in the bowels of the temporary flagship. She sat around a cool steel table with Winter, several security officers with hard eyes, the aforementioned agent and General Ironwood himself.

"Sarah here has some interesting things to say," the General said, "and we have strong reason to believe that she is telling the truth. After all, she knew that Bishop was heavily modified, that Semper Fi is the Enclave's motto, identified the Book of Revelations as an old legend from Vacuo and presented dates and times that check out."

He nodded to Sarah. "I hope the cut is doing well."

Sarah looked down at a bulkier than usual part of her uniform on her left arm; under the white cloth, they had wrapped tight bandages to protect a bloody wound. A nasty Grimm viper had surprised her. "A full recovery is expected," she said. After an awkwardly quiet moment, she followed up curtly: "Thank you."

"Of course," the General said with a sincere smile. "I always pay respects to soldiers who give it their all. Any lightheadedness from the blood loss?"

"Some. Thank you for asking, sir."

"A very by the book woman," murmured one of the staunch military men at the table; his stars represented a colonel. "Not many Legionnaires have that quality. Least of all the ones from Vacuo."

"She is not a Legionnaire, colonel," said Winter, "but a Specialist."

"Ah, of course."

Ironwood steepled his fingers. "Sarah," he said, "you well deserve these pleasantries for your service. That said, time and effort are of the essence, and we need to get to the main objective of this meeting."

"I understand."

"We wish to know what you know of the Enclave," said Ironwood. He fixed his grey eyes on Sarah's crystalline blue, her legendarily intense irises. "And we wish to tell you what we know."

"Sir?"

"We are assembling those we believe to be most capable and—more importantly—the most loyal. Those who have proven themselves to the cause of Atlas, the cause of the greater good."

She spoke truthfully. "I always aim to serve."

She continued truthfully. "I greatly admire Atlas; and although it is not my home by birth, I believe it the most impressive land in Remnant."

She lied. "I am loyal to Atlas and all it stands for."

"Your actions have proven that," Ironwood said. "Your heroism on the field demonstrates both your ability and your commitment. Naturally, your knowledge of the Enclave makes you even more necessary for this position we are you assigning you to."

Being assigned to. No choice. She would have made the right one anyway.

"We are forming a special unit lead by Winter herself and Agent Sundown here to investigate and eliminate Enclave influence. Both abroad"– Ironwood's frown became grim –"and within our own ranks."

Agent Sundown, the man who had interrogated her with Winter earlier, spoke up. "This is a critical, covert and vicious endeavor that"– he adjusted the thin-rimmed glasses on his short nose –"I hope you will excel at."

"I was also suspicious," Sarah said.

"I'm glad to see you came to the same conclusion as we did," Winter said. She squeezed her fist, and the leather glove creaked.

"There are traitors in our midst," General Ironwood said. "We must end them."

amogus?