Infamous to Infallible
Headlights.
His eyes shoot open, air rushing into his lungs desperately, the sudden burst of oxygen in his veins just as dizzying as the stinging pain which erupts upon his cheek. Wincing, his hand flies up to cup his face, but what he finds instead feels icy and warm and wet all at once; with trembling fingers, he pulls his hand away from his cheek, only to feel his entire world narrowing, vision tunneling in to focus upon his palm, now bloody and glistening in the moonlight.
He lifts his head, realizing for the first time that he is no longer in his car. The grass beneath his knees is cushioning, the night air cooling the sweat which drips down his cheeks. His body aches from exertion, lungs begging to find respite- from what, he doesn't know. As he searches his surroundings, however, all he finds is that his clothes- no, not clothes, but armour- shine underneath the stars, and that a few metres out of his reach lays what looks to be a long, two-handed blade, the gems inlaid into the hilt glimmering and sparkling, surrounded by blades of grass that have been kicked-up and torn and crushed into oblivion and mud.
His knees ache. He has been resting upon them for too long; his limbs shudder as he attempts to lift himself to his feet, desperate to find some modicum of normalcy around him. He does not make it past a low crouch before he topples forward yet again, too weak to carry on.
The drive home hadn't been past any parks, and his office is in the heart of the downtown metropolis- where had he managed to end up that had so much greenery? He had turned the corner, focusing on changing the radio station since his usual one kept playing romantic Christmas hits despite it only being the beginning of November, and then he-
Headlights. They had been blinding.
He looks up. The moon is just as brilliant, shining with an almost blue glow; it seems far bigger than what he is used to, only ever getting to look at it through the gaps between skyscrapers and high-rise condominiums. Here, the moon dominates the sky, a veritable force to be reckoned with hovering over the earth.
Unlike the headlights he remembers, however, there is something blocking the light, silhouetted so starkly that the figure's shape is unmistakeable.
Is… is this what death looks like?
The silhouette of a man walking slowly towards him, backlit by the moonlight, is something out of a movie. He blinks once, twice, three times to reaffirm what he is witnessing, for the figure stalks towards him with what can only be a giant scythe resting over his right shoulder, the curved blade jagged and segmented on its outer edge. It gleams in the light, silvery metal almost glowing from within, pulling light out of the wielder itself as he takes step after step, silent as the wind, hunched shoulders giving the aura of a predator approaching their prey after a long hunt.
He takes in a shuddering breath, realizing faintly that the sword laying just out of reach would probably be a good thing to carry; his fingers scrabble to the side, arm slowly reaching out, but the distance is insurmountable. Numbly, he notes that through the joints of his breastplate and greaves and gauntlets, the cloth is stained with what must be his blood. That is likely the reason he feels like the entire world is deathly still, yet spinning at the same time, the rushing in his ears absolutely deafening in its silence.
After what feels like an eternity, the moonlight falling across his body is blocked by the immediate presence of this grim figure which has come to rest before him. He cannot stop the shivers which course up his spine as he slowly raises his head, looking up into the face of the stranger before him.
Oh god. I'm actually going to die here, aren't I?
The man's eyes glow crimson.
The moment his eyes meet this strange man's, he closes his eyes, almost praying to disappear from sight, his heart pounding in his ears. He holds his breath like a child trying not to be caught in a game of hide-and-seek; just like a child, however, he has picked the worst hiding spot, and his assailant has already found him.
He does not need to open his eyes to feel the scythe's kiss against his neck, pressing hard enough to elicit a yelp from him. The heat from his blood burns in contrast to the night air, the sensation dizzying.
Suddenly, the man speaks. "Where did all your willingness to fight go, sir knight? For someone sent to take my life, you're a little pathetic. Is this the best that your beloved King Ironwood has in that over-funded armoury of his?" The words are spat out in a husky, yet melodic baritone, but each syllable is laced with such condescension and vitriol that Clover cannot breathe.
This has to be a dream. I was sent to kill someone? That doesn't make any sense! Gasping for air, Clover whispers, "I don't know what-"
The scythe presses harder against his neck, the wound widening. Clover grits his teeth, but no matter how much he wills his legs to move, there is no more strength left in his body. It takes all he has to remain upright; anything more would be impossible. "If you don't wanna die like the mangy dog of Atlas that you are, then beg."
Fear has never raced through his body so irrevocably before. This is just a dream. Fuck pride.
Without hesitation, Clover lowers his head. "Please don't kill me. I-I don't know what's going on. Who are you?"
His straightforward fear cuts through the stranger's killer aura like a knife, the tension in the air which had oppressed Clover's very heartbeat suddenly lifting in tandem with the scythe's edge against his neck. Clover peeks out through one eyelid, looking up at the figure before him.
This man- this murderer- fights back laughter.
"What- you- did you hit your head?" the man finally gasps out, propping himself up on his scythe for support. "You can't be serious; a nobleman like you cannot remember who your liege is?" When all Clover can do is give him a blank, baffled stare through puffy, swollen eyelids, the man begins to laugh aloud properly, his voice ringing through the field surrounding them both. "Look at that, another Atlesian Knight falling without me even needing to finish him off."
Clover's blood runs cold in his veins, freezing him to the core. He is not meant to be going through any of this- he doesn't even understand how he got here! "I don't know what's going on," he mutters, feeling his head loll forward as the blood loss truly begins to wreak havoc on his alertness. "I- I didn't do anything- don't kill me."
The other man finally ceases his laughter, squatting down in front of Clover to look him directly in the eyes. Clover sucks in a breath, finally getting a proper look at the man's face. He is oddly beautiful, Clover finds; rough, angular features blend together with just enough softness to give the stranger a delicate, but deadly air, dark hair falling into those crimson eyes shrouding his true intentions. Those eyes search Clover's face coldly, hiding away any hint of what his intentions are for Clover.
"…Fine," the man says, standing up at last. "I'll spare you." The relief which blossoms through Clover's chest is immediately tamped down by dread and confusion as he adds, "But only if…"
Only if?
"…only if you work for me, sir knight." He smiles, the sight enough to drop Clover's stomach into the dirt. "I'd love to see James' face when he finds out."
His mind races through possibilities so quickly that the entire world goes dark for a moment, all of his energy put into figuring out his next steps. If he says no, he'll surely die, and even if this is a dream, death is not an experience he wants to go through; but if he says yes, he might actually survive long enough to figure out what is going on….
There is only one choice.
"Okay." Then, in his baffled stupor, Clover automatically adds after years of job hunting, "…Are there any health benefits to the position, or-"
The words disappear in his mouth as he realizes the stupidity of what he is saying. He is truly delirious at this point, his body beginning to burn and freeze at the same time thanks to the night air and the blood loss, the pain growing almost excruciating in every joint, every muscle, every pore.
The man blinks owlishly at him, then relaxes, those crimson, narrow eyes creasing into bloody crescent moons, shining with just as much brilliance as the moon behind him. "You're not normal, knight. What's your name?"
"Clover."
"Clover, Knight of Atlas. I've heard of you." A thoughtful pause, as if expecting Clover to address him. "What, you really don't even know my name? Weren't you sent to kill me?" Before Clover can get a chance to respond, however, Qrow's eyes crease with mirth once again. "Ah, right. Your injury."
As if by magic, Qrow's scythe begins to shift and transform, the segments of the curved blade collapsing in on itself and straightening out. Clover watches in awe, faintly noticing the sound of whirring gears underneath the clinking of each segment; however, that awe quickly disappears when the blade returns to Clover's neck, but this time, lifting his chin upwards in the form of a large, menacing sword. "You're different from the rumours, but no matter. Your idiotic kingdom has a way of exaggerating its own strengths, after all. My name, since you've forgotten it, is Qrow Branwen."
"You… you hate the Kingdom of- of Atlas?" Clover attempts, desperate to hold onto any piece of even remotely-coherent information as his world continues to spin, shadows creeping onto the edges of his vision with every breath.
"That's right," Qrow murmurs, finally pulling the sword away from Clover's neck. There must be a hidden switch upon the grip, for suddenly, the entire blade begins to shift once again, mechanical whirring filling the air until the weapon has been compacted into a smaller, folded form and hung upon Qrow's belt. Then, without prompting, Qrow reaches out his hand.
It is a surreal moment, looking up at Qrow's face up-close, the blue-tinged moonlight filtering through hair so dark it looks like the night sky itself in the way it glitters. Qrow's red eyes are piercing, focused solely upon Clover's battered, bruised face.
Staggering to his feet, Clover can barely retain his balance. To his surprise, Qrow's hands are immediately there to steady him, one arm looping around Clover's waist before he can protest. For a brief second, Clover thinks of pushing away- there's no way any of this is a good idea, and perhaps it really would be better to just allow this murderous creature to kill him off and let him be done with this nightmarish, unbelievable situation- but there is something which stops him. A sense of calm, of safety, that comes with the other man's presence so clearly having accepted Clover as one of his own, despite all logical reasoning.
Swallowing thickly, Clover finally dares to murmur, "So… what are you going to do to the kingdom?"
That wicked smile widens, and before Clover's very eyes, Qrow's entire body begins to glow, his very pores emanating a deep, sickening red light which seems to ooze upwards like poisoned trails of smoke painting the sky in swirling, menacing strokes. He gulps, watching Qrow's eyes shimmer with that same light, a sense of dread and foreboding filling his gut so purely that he almost gags.
"I'm going to destroy it, of course," Qrow whispers, his teeth shining brighter than the moonlight.
Then, the moon morphs back into the headlights, which morphs into the thoughtful, curious gleam in Qrow's eyes, and Clover's world goes dark once more.