AUTHOR'S NOTES: A somewhat quiet chapter this time, centered mostly around Taiyang, Yang, Qrow and Raven.

The Xiao Long-Rose Residence

Patch, North Carolina, United States of Canada

3 June 2001

Ember Celica was in a flat spin. Yang felt herself pressed against the sides of the cockpit. She knew she had to get out of the spin. Warning lights were coming on all over the instrument panel, warning of oil pressure dropping, airspeed gone, fire lights in both engines. But she had to get out of the spin first. She reached down to shove the stick forward as far as it would go, get the nose down, get airspeed, get air flowing over the wings. But the stick didn't move, which was no surprise, since her right hand was gone. She moved the stump helplessly, but she was about a foot short. It would have struck her as uproariously funny if she wasn't about to die.

Okay, time to go, Yang told herself. The ground was getting altogether too close, and she remembered her instructors in flight school: when the aircraft was no longer able to be saved, it was time to cut your losses and bail out. With her left hand, she reached down and pulled the handle between her legs, bracing her back. Nothing happened. She pulled the handle again, and this time the seat fired. Everything went into slow motion as the rocket motor shot her free of the dying F-15; even through her helmet and the blast of a 300 mile an hour slipstream, she could hear the sound of tearing metal, as if Ember Celica was screaming in her death throes. The F-15 fell away, and she watched it crash and explode far below her. Then Yang was pressed down as the parachute opened with a whumpf.

And then she saw Adam turning towards her. Her eyes narrowed. Moonslice had been a small aircraft, half the size of her F-15, but this version looked twice as big. Instead of a rounded nose, it was chiseled, like a stealth aircraft, and it had two engines instead of one, with split tails and the intakes above the fuselage instead of below…that looks like Raven's plane, not Adam—

Then the cannons in the nose sparkled, and Yang felt the cannon shells hit her body. It didn't hurt, which was odd, even as her body came apart, even as her remaining hand detached, reaching up, there was someone there, with red hair and silver eyes—

Yang came awake, hyperventilating, unable to get her breath, her heart pounding. She tried to scream for help, but she couldn't get enough breath to even do that. Her right hand flew outwards and hit the headboard of her bed, and the pain was just enough to focus her thoughts.

Fuck! Panic attack! Yang tried to remember what she'd read on the internet. She tried to calm herself down, tried to find something to focus on. Her darting eyes fell on her artificial arm. The hand had involuntarily closed, bunched up in the covers. Okay. Focus on that. Focus on the arm. How it feels attached to your body. It hurts a little, doesn't it? Okay. Focus on the pain. She closed her eyes. Breathe, Yang. Think of something nice. Something good. Like…sex or something. That thought brought a smile to her lips, and her breathing slowed back to a near normal rate. Her real hand stopped shaking so much. Her heart was still pounding like it wanted out of her chest, so Yang sat up in bed, cross-legged, and took deep, ragged breaths. Finally, after what seemed to be very long minutes, she felt in control of herself again.

"God," she said aloud. With a still-shaking hand, she wiped her forehead, then hugged herself. She was soaked in sweat. Though she didn't quite trust her feet, Yang got out of bed, stripped naked, tossed her clothes in a hamper—one-handed; she was getting good at hitting three-pointers—and opened the window some. A breeze drifted in; it was a bit humid, but it dried her all the same. A half-moon was in the dark sky, the shadows of the Great Smoky Mountains in the near distance. It felt good.

Yang heard voices downstairs as she got dressed, throwing on fresh underwear, a T-shirt that loudly proclaimed EUROPEAN HEALTH BATHS—though she'd never been to the place; she'd stolen the T-shirt from Pyrrha Nikos—and cutoff shorts. Then she quietly opened her door and went to the stairwell landing. A booming laugh resounded through the house, and it was unmistakably Wing Commander (Retired) Peter Port, of Her Majesty's Royal Air Force.

She crept down the stairs. The door to the kitchen was just ajar, and light streamed out from it. "Funniest damn thing I ever saw!" Taiyang was saying. "You were there, Pete."

"Wasn't I, though?" Port laughed. "Barty, you're not going to believe this. This was during that Norway business. Strike Flight had gotten a night off, and we were in Menagerie, so this sod convinces Qrow Branwen that the locals wore kilts to pubs. And then they gave him one."

"What was the tartan?" Yang recognized Bartholomew Oobleck's voice. He's here too?

"Only you would ask that," Port snorted.

"That's the funny part," Taiyang said. "It wasn't a kilt. It was one of Raven's skirts. But Qrow fell for it hook, line and boat. So he comes stroking into the local pub, like he's the original ladies' man, and all the lassies there are just snickering at him." There was more laughter as Yang crept closer to the door. "The girls did say he had nice legs, so I did that jerk a favor."

"Oh, you haven't even gotten to the good part yet," Port put in.

"Hold on a minute. This is my story, Pete." Taiyang paused, and Yang heard the clink of a beer bottle. "All right. So Qrow realizes he's been had, because Summer can't keep a straight face and neither can I. But this is Qrow we're talking about, so he goes up to a table full of girls, and puts a boot up—"

Yang glanced in, just in time for Port to get up and, despite his bulk, somehow get a foot up on the kitchen table. "'Like what you see, ladies?'" Port's back was to Yang, but she could see him shaking with laughter. "And it was then we realized—" Port broke off, he was laughing too hard "—that Qrow was a true Scotsman!"

"You mean?" Oobleck was sitting across from Port, leaning back in his chair, dressed as he always was—white shirt, yellow tie askew—but holding a bottle of beer himself.

"Yep!" Taiyang exclaimed, taking the story back from Port, who was slowly subsiding to the kitchen floor in mirth. "Qrow was wearing nothing beneath the kilt, and every one of those gals could see right up the kilt. Qrow had it all hanging out. I thought Kali Belladonna—she was Kali Radpoor then—I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head!"

Oobleck shook his head, laughing, as Port was nearly pounding the floor at this point. Taiyang, leaning on the kitchen counter, took a pull from his beer, looked through the bottle, and saw Yang grinning through the open door. He put the beer down and motioned her in. "Hey there, pumpkin. Come on in."

Yang walked into the kitchen. Port scrambled to his feet, as fast as he could, and Oobleck stood as well, with far more dignity. "Captain Long!" Port said, adjusting his tie; he was wearing his RAF uniform. "Pardon me, miss." He walked to her and took both her hands on one beefy paw. "How are you, my dear?"

"I'm good," Yang said, and it was only half a lie. She accepted a handshake from Oobleck, whose eyes went to the artificial arm that hung from her shoulder. Yang shook her head, reached into the refrigerator and grabbed a beer for herself, then pulled herself onto the kitchen counter next to her father. She popped the top off on the bottle opener attached to the fridge. "What brings you guys out here?"

"Contrary to popular belief, Miss Long, we professors do not sit around all day waiting to teach and grade papers," Oobleck replied. He ran a finger over the top of his beer. "Especially when the school's been burned down."

"And we wanted to see how you were getting along." Port sat back down and took a pull at his beer, wincing at it. Like most Englishmen, he considered American beer to be too weak. "We were surprised to find that Lieutenant Rose was not here, at least."

"Captain Rose," Taiyang amended. "Ruby's coming up fast in the world. And you know I can't talk about that, Peter."

"No…of course not." Port decided to change the subject. "Captain Long, you will be interested to know that Colonel Goodwitch was moved out of the ICU yesterday. She is expected to survive, assuming her condition doesn't deteriorate again."

"That's good." Yang remembered, almost as if in another dream, being brought into the medical tent outside of Beacon, and seeing the unconscious Glynda Goodwitch. She'd heard in the hospital that Cinder Fall had shot Goodwitch in the stomach. She'd lost a great deal of blood, but Yang was convinced that Goodwitch was too mean to die.

"And when can we expect for you to get back in the cockpit?" Oobleck asked, with typical lack of tact.

"She's not ready yet," Taiyang replied.

"'She' is in the room," Yang pointed out, "and can be talked directly to."

"Hmm." Taiyang took a drink. "Well, you're not ready yet."

"Who says?"

"I says. And I'm your father."

"No shit, Dad." Yang slid off the kitchen counter and faced her father, while Port and Oobleck began to wonder if they should retreat. "Why is it you keep acting like I'm still twelve?"

"Because you still act like you are twelve. If you think you're ready to jump in an airplane," Taiyang told her with a sideways smile, "then you lost some brain cells along with that arm."

Dead silence suddenly reigned in the Xiao Long household. Oobleck nearly dropped his beer, and Port slid his chair back, preparing to give father and daughter fighting room. Yang stared at her father. He stared back. Then she slowly brought up her artificial hand, concentrated, made a fist, and then extended the middle finger. "Fuck. You. Dad."

"Oh dear," Oobleck said into the silence.

Then neither Yang nor Taiyang could hold it any longer. Both burst into laughter. She playfully punched her father in the shoulder. "You're such an asshole, Dad."

"Must be where you get it from." They both finished off their beers.

Oobleck and Port relaxed. "So," the former professor said, "we are talking about the elephant in the room, then."

Yang turned around and raised the arm. "It's taking some getting used to, I guess. But I can use it, at least."

"To flip off her father," Taiyang put in.

"Among other things," Yang said, shooting him a smirk over her shoulder. "I'm going to get back in the saddle, guys. It's just going to take awhile." She hesitated. Should she admit it? Then Yang regarded each man in turn. There was probably near a hundred years of combat experience in this room. They would know. If anyone knew, Taiyang Xiao Long, Bartholomew Oobleck, and Peter Port would know. "I'm still a bit scared to get into the cockpit. I've been having panic attacks."

"Fear is like any other emotion," Port observed solemnly. "It comes and goes. It's all how you handle it. None of us have ever not been scared. Even I admit to fear now and then."

Oobleck nodded. "He's afraid of rats."

Port slammed a fist on the table. "You're damned right I am! They carry only pestilence and disease, Barty! They are evil, unnatural things!"

Oobleck ignored him and leaned forward, whispering, though Port could hear every word. "My understanding is that one of them crawled into his Jaguar in India back in 1971."

"It was as big as my hand!" Port held up one hand, as if Yang had forgotten how large his hands were. She started snickering, and realized that had been the two men's intention. She shrugged to herself, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out another round of beers.

Taiyang waved one last goodbye as Oobleck and Port pulled out of the driveway. Oobleck had stopped after his first beer, but Port was pleasantly tight, and he was singing as the car drove off. Taiyang hoped they'd be all right; it was a narrow mountain road back to town. Tai had put away three beers himself, and was feeling a little lightheaded. He waited patiently for Zwei to do his business and waddle back in, then shut the door and headed up the stairs to Yang's room.

Yang had put away three beers herself, and it had been awhile since she'd had alcohol, so she was feeling rather pleasant herself. She climbed into bed as her father walked in. Yang smiled up at him, and Taiyang smiled back, feeling a little wistful. Whatever else had gone wrong between himself and Raven Branwen, they'd made a beautiful baby. And now that baby was grown up. She'd been wounded, physically and mentally, but Yang was strong. He hoped.

"Dad," Yang said, coming to a decision. "We should try to fly tomorrow."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, Dad." Yang scooted her feet under the covers. "But I'm not going to fly. I'm just going to ride along and let you fly. Then we'll see." She shrugged. "Like you said. Baby steps."

"Okay. We'll let you drive, too."

Yang shuddered. "I don't know if I'm ready for the Asheville traffic yet."

"I don't know if anyone is. I swear, driving with Summer was scarier than combat." Despite her peaches and cream exterior, Summer Rose was a maniac driver, with road rage issues; even Raven had been terrified to drive with her. Taiyang walked over to the bed and pulled the covers up. Yang pushed his hands away. "Dad! I'm not an invalid."

"I know. But you are my little sun dragon, and I'm your dad, and by God I'm going to tuck you in." Yang snorted, but let him. Then he handed Yang her teddy bear, and kissed her on the forehead. "Want me to read you a story?" he asked jokingly.

"Actually, yeah, I do." Alcohol had taken just enough off of Yang's inhibitions, what little she had to begin with. "Dad…can you tell me about Raven?"

The End of the Line Bar

Juneau, Alaska, United States of Canada

4 June 2001

Qrow Branwen leaned against the back of the bar. He was tired. It had been another eight-hour day in the cockpit, and even a modified F-117 Nighthawk was not built for crew comfort.

Unknown to Reaper Flight, he had been tailing them since they'd left Signal. For every GRIMM Reaper had encountered, there were two or three that they hadn't, because Qrow had quietly shot them down. The GRIMM had tailed Reaper Flight—though Qrow was sure it was just because there had been more GRIMM activity as of late, rather than an actual effort by Salem to hunt down Reaper Flight—stalking them, but Qrow had stalked them in turn. The F-117's stealth had served him well; the GRIMM never knew he'd been there until they were destroyed. He figured he'd probably destroyed a dozen in the past two weeks, but Qrow had long since stopped keeping count of how many kills he had. When he was younger, with Strike Flight and determined to be the guy who would top Maria Calavera's record, that sort of thing had concerned him. He and Summer Rose had a friendly rivalry. But then she had disappeared, and it wasn't fun anymore.

Now the Reapers should be safely to Eielson AFB outside Fairbanks, while he had landed at Juneau. Alaska was in something of a state of siege when it came to GRIMM, but with squadron-level combat air patrols around the central area of what had been America's largest state, they would be safe there. The passage across the Pacific was a different story, but for now, Qrow could relax. As much as he ever could, especially in Juneau.

Once the capitol of Alaska—it had since been moved to the more defensible Anchorage—Juneau had returned to its Wild West roots. It was the last outpost between Alaska and the British Columbia interior, where Canadians still held on in the face of GRIMM attacks; Vancouver and Victoria were long gone. As a result, it was filled with a wild mix of salvagers getting ready to fly out to the abandoned areas, of workers from the Prince George aluminum works trying to have some fun before retreating back to their fortresslike workplaces, fishermen still plying their trade, and air pirates and bounty hunters taking a quick rest before returning to their jobs. A place like Patch was still quiet, still civilized, where one could forget there had ever been a world war that had killed millions. Juneau, on the other hand, was the frontier, where death was never far away, and GRIMM were actually the least threatening thing around. Qrow actually liked places like this; it made him feel alive again.

He was sitting content, nursing a local beer that tasted like something from a horse, listening to the rain outside, when a waitress walked up and placed a glass of whiskey in front of him. That was the other reason to come to the End of the Line: they had the cutest waitresses in town, and Qrow was a regular. The girls liked regulars, and big tippers. He smiled at her. "Thanks. What do I owe you?"

"It's not on the house," the waitress said. "From the woman upstairs. Red eyes. Said you wouldn't mind bottom shelf." She winked; her eyes were stripping him. "Though I went ahead and gave you top."

Qrow's good mood instantly evaporated, and he glanced around the bar. "Jesus," he breathed. He nodded at the confused waitress, levered himself out of the seat, grabbed the whiskey, and headed up the stairs.

She was in the rear of the bar's balcony, the one table on the bar's upper balcony that would put her back to two walls. Even in the half-light of the bar, Qrow knew his own twin sister.

Raven Branwen was also sitting in a chair, her feet up on the table, her own whiskey in front of her. Even if there was any doubt, even if there were other women dressed in tailored red flight suits with black hair that made her look like she'd just been electrocuted, the white and red helmet sitting on the table left no doubt at all. The End of the Line was two short blocks from the airport. Qrow had shown his government ID and gotten a secluded hangar, where no one would notice the odd shape of the F-117. Raven could buy or threaten her way to having the same, to hide her Night Raven where people like Qrow couldn't see it.

"Hello, brother." Raven made no move to get up.

"Hello, sister." He dropped into a chair and set down his whiskey. "Good to see you."

"And you." Qrow thought there might be genuine affection there, but wasn't sure if it was wishful thinking on his part. Brother and sister had never quite hated each other, but neither had they quite ever loved each other, not since they were children—and Raven's abandonment of Yang had killed what love was left. He took a sip of the whiskey; it was indeed the good stuff. "So what do you want?"

"Same old Qrow." Raven smiled. "No chitchat, no idle talk, just out with it." She toyed with her whiskey glass. "You don't think that it's mere coincidence that we ended up in the same bar, and I just wanted to say hi? Catch up with the family?"

"What family?" Qrow tossed back the whiskey. "Unless you're planning on keeping these coming, let's just get this over with."

"All right. Does she have it?"

"Gee, that narrows it down," Qrow said. "Who she and what it?"

Raven leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. "Salem. The Fall Maiden."

Qrow had figured that was what she had meant, but he wasn't done baiting his sister. "You know Yang lost her arm, right?" Before she could answer, he continued. "Rhetorical question. Of course you know; you have your sources and your hackers. Funny that you mention family and then act like Yang doesn't even exist. Not that it's anything new. You're just Mom of the Year, aren't you?"

Raven glared at him. Her eyes weren't really red, Qrow thought; they were a shade of brown that tended towards the reddish. "I saved her life once, Qrow."

"Ah, so you do acknowledge she exists."

"The feeling's not mutual." Raven stared at her whiskey for a moment, then drank half of it. "You know what Yang said to me when I met her at Beacon? That Summer was her real mother."

"Which you deserved."

"I'm not here to talk about the past, Qrow," Raven snapped. "I knew I couldn't be there for her, and I knew Summer would be a better fit for Tai. Our romance was a mistake. End of story."

"Yang was a mistake?" Qrow needled her.

Raven drank the rest of the whiskey and sat up straight. "Look, you son of a bitch. I fucking tried. I warned you—and Yang—that Beacon would fall. It did. I warned that Ozpin would fail. He did. Now I'm going to ask just once more, Qrow, and then I'm going to forget you're my brother. Does. She. Have. It?"

Qrow knew he'd pushed far enough. Yang had inherited her mother's temper, and Raven could get homicidal when she was pushed too far. "All right. No. Not that I know of. She would've used it by now." He leaned back in the chair. "Why do you care?"

"I want to know what we're up against."

"Who's 'we'? The tribe?" He shook his head. "You know, the US government would shit if they knew just how much you've rebuilt California. You've done a lot there, Raven. You would be a big help if you joined us."

"You should've thought of that before you left the tribe," Raven replied.

"Maybe I got tired of all the murdering and thieving."

"It's your family."

Qrow snorted. "Strike Flight was my family. And now that you and Summer are gone, Tai is my family. Ruby is my family. Yang is my family."

Raven shot out of her chair, one hand on the long-bladed knife that never left her side, not even in the cockpit. "God damn you, Qrow! You think it's been easy being tribal leader? We have to survive! It's the only way and you know it."

"Oh, I know. So do the people of Cardston."

She looked at him, then slowly sat back down. "I had nothing to do with that. That was a Nucklelavee. Which, I should mention, won't be bothering the good people of former Canada any longer."

"You destroyed it?" Qrow was impressed. Only one Nucklelavee had ever been sighted, twenty years previously, and there had never been any indication it had been destroyed. "That must have been difficult."

"It wasn't easy," Raven answered.

"And I'm sure you did it out of the goodness of your heart, because you care so much."

Raven chuckled. "Of course not. I just knew that if one of those things got loose, the government would move more assets up north, and they might just come after me when they were done with the Nucklelavee. And I don't like mecha-GRIMM running around near places that I'm interested in." She shrugged. "The weak die, the strong live. You know that."

"Uh huh. What did you use, a nuke?" He leaned forward across the table. "Or was it something else? You know, I thought I saw a glow on the horizon the other day."

Raven said nothing for a moment, then got back to her feet, picking up her helmet. "I guess there's really nothing more to talk about." She began to walk away, but Qrow grabbed her arm as she walked past.

"Raven," he said. "If you know where the Spring Maiden is—if you have the damn thing—you need to tell me."

Her mouth quirked into a smile. "And why the hell would I do that?"

"Because we're going to die without it."

"Who's 'we'?" She threw his words back in his face, and pulled away her arm. "Take care of yourself, Qrow." Without a backward glance, she went down the stairs and was gone, passing the waitress along the way. The waitress looked towards the sister, then back to the brother. Qrow held up his glass and rattled the ice. "Make this one a double."