A/N: I haven't played Transistor since 2017 but ever since Hades trailers have been popping up, it's been in the back of my mind. This will be canon-adjacent to the game, but shall focus on developing RWBY canon characters/relationships/dynamics. Let me know what you think!

written in the stars

"Hey, you old crow," the voice rasps, rueful yet stunned. "We're… we're not gonna get away with this, are we?"

His fingers- joints aching and sore, blistered and bruised, his regenerative Aura all but used up after everything- clasp around the hilt of the weapon laid out before him, ready for the taking. He focuses on that- on the red, corded grip leading up to a small clock face which glows in the dim light of the city, up to the smooth metallic handguard that seems to double as a cutting edge. He squeezes down on the grip, grounding himself in the sensation of coarse thread and strong bindings; then, he allows his eyes to trail upwards. There are feather motifs engraved onto the segmented, tapered blade, the giant weapon glinting silver and neon blue as it reflects the lights of flickering storefronts, long having closed down.

Everything has closed down. It is unsettling. He does not know exactly where he is, but based on the symmetrical streets and the peaceful, urban air, he can guess it is a backstreet of Vale.

He has never seen Vale so empty. We're not safe.

"It's okay, Qrow," the voice breathes, its familiar, lilting tenor reassuring and gentle. It is gut-wrenching, realizing just how much shock lingers within that voice despite the fact that the speaker tries his best to remain positive. Qrow steadies his breath in return, nodding, gritting his teeth as he tenses, eyes locking onto where silver blade turns crimson.

He does not look further.

"You can do this." There is no lie in those words.

Qrow snorts, but he cannot respond, even though he opens his mouth. Naught but hoarse breaths and choked gasps slip out of his throat. That is not a problem for now, however; he has bigger issues to take care of, first and foremost.

After all, his first priority is removing this blade which speaks to him with Clover's voice, each word causing the clock face upon the hilt of the blade to glow, the hands ticking forward with each syllable. It is good that Clover talks slowly, he supposes; it is so much easier to focus on the shifting of gears in the open, mystical clock face than to look at just how grotesquely this blade has been embedded through Clover's chest, pinning him into the wall.

He's not dead, though. He's here.

At least, his voice is.

Qrow feels a wave of nausea wash over him as the blade slips out of concrete, only to slide noisily through flesh. He swallows down the urge to gag despite bile rising up into his throat, his entire esophagus burning, the taste acrid and bitter upon his tongue; instead, he simply hunkers down and focuses on removing the blade.

"I'm here, Qrow. Just breathe."

He does not look at crimson staining the blade as it pulls away from flesh. Once upon a time, it would not have bothered him, but he has long since left that life. He was not supposed to keep fighting anymore- that was why he came to Remnant in the first place-

He wishes he could laugh, cry, sing, speak, anything. He simply needs noise to block out the sound of sirens ringing in the distance, of metal sliding through flesh.

With one final heave, the sword is ripped free. Qrow keeps his eyes closed as he feels the tension release, a heavy weight sinking into his hands as the broad, tapered blade fully becomes one with his hold; the tip drags against damp pavement for a moment before he raises it, cracking his neck from side to side, feeling his joints pop and twist before he can straighten his back, brandishing the blade above the corpse below him.

"I knew you had it in you," Clover remarks. "Open your eyes. I've removed the blood."

True to his word, as Qrow opens eyelids, crimson eyes do not see bloodstains upon the blade. The body looks strangely dry, in fact. Qrow does not ask questions- there is no time to.

They need to go.

Kneeling to the right of the slumped-over body leaning against the concrete barrier, Qrow reaches to the man's lapel, unclipping his pin single-handedly. The clover and horseshoe emblem is meant to be worn so that the horseshoe is right-side-up, containing the good luck it holds for the wearer.

He turns it upside down as he clips it onto his own lapel, his blazer tattered, his Singer shroud underneath completely ripped. He is quick to rip off excess material and tuck the tattered hem of what is now ostensibly a sheer shirt into his slacks, for there is no reason to keep hiding who he is from the public. The shroud is useful no longer, nor is any of Clover's luck.

After all, the world is ending, isn't it? The sirens are growing louder. The login count upon the top corner of the nearest billboard is dropping, neon letters glowing upon the holoscreen with no remorse, ticking away like a timer signalling the end of days. Remnant is crumbling, and there is nothing he can do about it.

Without a voice, there is nothing a singer can do but run.

"Run, Qrow," Clover murmurs. "Those things are coming."

He winces, remembering the shadowy figures which had crashed onstage moments after the assault. But-

"Qrow," Clover repeats, almost pleading now, "you have to go. They didn't get what they wanted."

He pauses, looking down at the sword, a chill running down his spine.

After a moment's hesitation, Clover says, "…you. Me. This… thing I'm in. It's us, Qrow."

Qrow reaches down, pressing the trigger underneath the bladed handguard. In an instant, the segmented framework of the blade collapses, the entire thing compressing to a manageable size. He traces one long, callused finger over the clock face, watching as the seconds tick by, the minutes standing still until Clover finally says, "…program files call it 'Harbinger'."

Oh.

"We've gotta go, you old crow. They- those things? They're called the Grimm."

Oh.

"…They're here."

Almost automatically, Qrow grabs the grip of Harbinger with both hands and presses the trigger, extending the blade into its massive form once again. The metal gleams, ready to shred and tear into shadow without remorse.

But is he?

"Watch your back. I'm here with you. We'll figure this out together."

He wishes he could speak. He wants to tell Clover that he'll be okay, too. He wants to tell Clover that he'll find a way to save him.

…he wants to talk to Clover. He knows that Clover loves his voice, after all.