written in the stars
He would have thought it would be harder to re-enter the fray; however, as the very air he breathes seems to glitch and tear, a rift opening up in midair two metres in front of him, blocking his only exit out of this back alley where he has found Clover and the Harbinger, he realizes that his body remembers combat far better than he would have ever liked, already preparing for the battle ahead. His knees bend, muscles tensing, adrenaline pumping through his system immediately, and his eyes hone in on the target to come, already planning different ways to strike down whatever exits this rift.
He had thought his days on the battlefield were over. Yet, the weight of the Harbinger is heavy in the best way- comforting- in his palms. It feels right.
Perhaps that is because Clover is within- perhaps not. All that matters, though, is that the trigger opens the blade with just as much ease as before, leaving him ready to summon up his old skill as the world seems to shift, the rift before him spreading open, leaving naught but darkness in its wake.
Eventually, the darkness solidifies into physical form. He grimaces- the desire to cuss has never been stronger, for this creature is hideous in its hunched, two-legged form, a long, almost reptilian tail flicking out to balance thick, predatory haunches. Claws of shadow form, so long they could rend the very flesh off his bones; he shudders the most, however, as he watches the air around the top of the creature's face twist, snap, glitch into place, until there is a mask of what looks to be white bone settled upon the lizard-like muzzle gnashing and spitting at him.
From within the bone mask, two crimson, glowing eyes flicker, alight.
The clock face lights up, minute hand moving forward. "It's a Creep Grimm," Clover's voice explains. Qrow frowns. Those words mean nothing to him.
"We've got to get out of here, Qrow."
That, he understands.
Qrow's grip tightens upon the corded grip of the Harbinger. There is no way out of this alley aside from where the Creep lurks. As if on cue, the creature roars at him, opening its mouth, revealing a maw filled with an oozing, tar-like substance dripping down fangs, almost like saliva; the same fluid begins to coat its claws, sharp points glistening in the neon glow as its body solidifies completely at last.
There is no way out but to fight.
"Qrow, please don't-"
He pays the voice no heed. Clover does not know his true prowess, his true sins; he does not know the monster of a reaper Qrow had been back in days long past, does not understand that the true creature he should fear is not this Creep.
The monster throws its head back, roaring, spittle flying into the air before it begins to charge.
The battle is swift; he takes hold of the blade and swings it down decisively, cutting through the creature's mask with little struggle once he is within range. The motion feels relaxed, nostalgic, as if he is moving in tandem with his past self.
The blade is a lot lighter to swing than expected. A small smile pulls his lips, despite all of the fatigue and fear. It is almost as if Clover is carrying this blade with him.
As the monster falls, however, Clover's voice whispers, "You- you have to avoid the Tar."
Qrow frowns, glancing around. What is he-
And then, he spots it.
The place where the monster had fallen is now occupied by naught but a pool of black liquid, reflecting neon lights and the gentle streetlamps which illuminate the street. Qrow knees down next to it, reaching out a hand; it looks viscous and thick, so black yet glossy that it seems to simultaneously absorb all light and reflect it all.
His hand suddenly screams in pain as Clover roars, sending a jolting shock through Qrow's body through the Harbinger's grip, "Don't touch it!"
He pulls his hand back, clutching onto the Harbinger in horror. What is-
"Qrow," Clover pleads, "you can't touch it- it'll process your data."
Process? What does that even mean? Qrow swallows thickly, stepping away from the pool of liquid not a moment too soon; the liquid suddenly disappears, almost as if absorbed by the cobblestone pavement upon which is lays. However, the area where it had rested is no longer a warm, grey cobblestone, mortar smooth between each step. Instead, the ground is smooth, flat; not a single speck of light reflects off a plane of pure darkness, almost as if the very essence of that spot of sidewalk has been… deleted.
Qrow trembles, a chill rushing through his body. Without realizing it, he shivers, collapsing the Harbinger and clutching it against his chest, drawing his blazer closer around him. He is cold. He is scared.
This is nothing like he has ever seen in Remnant. Remnant was supposed to be safe.
"Qrow," Clover murmurs gently, "we can't stay here long. We've got to go- if we can get to the highway, we can skip town. Those things-" and he pauses, almost as if scouring for information, "-the Grimm, they're congregating in Atlas. We've got to get out of this. C'mon. Let's go."
There's no point running.
"Qrow, c'mon."
Wordlessly, Qrow stands. However, as he begins to move forward, his eyes latch onto a CCTS terminal still alight by the side of the road. It is naught but a public polling booth; something so menial would never have caught his attention before unless he had needed it for something small, but now, he finds that his heart begins to race at the mere sight of it. Rushing over, he taps his beat-up Scroll from his pocket against the scanner, sighing in relief as he sees Signed on as Q. Branwen appear on the large holoscreen.
The top news story immediately dampens his joy. 'More people leaving for the country in light of last night's attack?' His eyes skim over the article, mouth curling into a sneer as he reads what the reporter has written.
Clover sighs, the clock face lighting up, casting a bright red glow onto the terminal. "I- this is bullshit. They think you're dead? Or that you're responsible for the assault?"
Qrow quickly types into the article's comment box, 'Don't believe what you hear. I'm fine. They can't take me down that easily. –Q.' After submitting it for the masses to see, he snarls silently at the inane, "Thank you for your response!" prompt which appears flashing upon the holoscreen, shrouding his face in a sickly glow.
They won't take me alive, he thinks.
It is always strange, just how easily Clover can tell what he is thinking. "C'mon, Qrow. We'll be fine if we stay moving. The highway's just past the docks, and we can avoid the path to Atlas from there. They won't find us."
Qrow wishes he could believe Clover. As it is, he simply raises the blade, pressing his forehead against the clock face. Let's go.
Where, he doesn't know. Out of this alleyway shall be a start.