Merit, a rwby fanfic

merit

respect is something earned, not given

(unless you're human, and then it's given freely)

twelve

The rookies from Beacon are pronounced traitors right before his very eyes, and he cannot accept it. He begs, he pleads; these are his friends, his comrades. They've spent far too much time together to turn on them now- how can anyone expect him to-

His allies are- no, the Ace Operatives are stone-faced, determined. General Ironwood is cold, indifferent.

Team RWBY is horrified, terrified; the sheer betrayal shining in their eyes as they look over the Ace Ops, look over him, guts him to the core.

Marrow swallows thickly. Ace Ops, Team RWBY- he has never before felt the need to differentiate between them.

…Everything's going to be different from now on, huh?

It is only halfway through the battle that he realizes just what a tragedy, what a farce, this entire situation beholds, for he suddenly is struck with the realization that Clover is out capturing Tyrian Callows with Qrow Branwen, and now that Qrow Branwen is also a fugitive, Clover will have to take down the man he loves; and the strength of this conviction makes him dizzy, nauseous, causing him to lose his balance with the realization so profound that it quite literally sweeps him off his feet, for he has somehow never realized just how intensely Clover Ebi feels for Qrow Branwen until this very moment- until he starts to miss having Clover's heartbeat echoing in his ears.

Clover has to bring Qrow in.

He verbalizes this thought to Harriet. "Why does it matter?" she cries, dodging an attack from Ruby.

He insists on it to Elm. "Just focus on capturing the fugitives!" she scolds, compassionless in the face of these enemies they themselves have raised.

Vine does not even respond when he whispers it for one last time.

But Marrow knows. Marrow can already sense the tragedy of it all, for Marrow has always been watching, always been listening; and Clover's heartbeat, always calm and steady, has never been the same since he met Qrow Branwen.

Marrow weeps as he fights. "Stay," he whispers. He does not direct his Semblance towards anyone. He is too tired. He just wants someone to listen to him without being forced to. He just wishes he could ease the burden from someone, anyone else's shoulders. He's already earned his place. He just wants to feel that way, too.

one

Dammit, I scuffed my boot- he's going to see it so easily! Oh, did I run a lint roller over this? Did I forget to shave? Oh brothers, I'm so screwed-

But no matter how much Marrow screams internally, he still stands there in his full dress gear upon the pristine parade square within central Atlas Academy, his platoon at attention, ready for inspection. He hates parades in full dress such as this; Faunus body parts never look good here, sticking out from the file and rank like sore thumbs- or in his case, a sorely fluffy tail.

His uniform is always covered in fur. He also loses marks for that.

He has missed who shall be the inspections officer that day, so all he can do is stare straight ahead, chin lifted slightly above the horizon as he watches the banners near the ceiling sway in the air currents circulating warmer air through the room. He does not know who shall be the person coming to tear into his messy uniform that day. He does not care- they're always mildly cantankerous and noisy, coffee-soured breath too close to Marrow's sensitive nose as they reprimand him. He just hopes that whoever comes is pleasant, those prayers growing more and more insistent as the footsteps of the inspections party come to his rank at last.

He is almost free.

Suddenly, his view is filled not by an angry major, as it usually is; instead, he locks eyes with the clearest, most brilliant green he has ever seen in his life, framed by soft brown lashes and thick brows. Wrinkles and laugh lines show hints of fatigue and age, but the strength exuded from a strong jaw, thick neck and incredible physique, built arms strong enough to crush Marrow if he so much as blinks wrong, is terrifying, belying the kind of power that makes his palms clammy and his knees weak despite all of his wishes to appear strong, too.

And then, the man speaks, his voice a pleasant baritone that rings lightly in the air. "A Faunus student?"

Mutely, Marrow nods, focusing solely upon his own raging heartbeat- and the oddly-calm one of the man standing before him, completely unfazed by the intensity of the procedure. He focuses upon the light cologne the man is wearing, so faint that it doesn't bother his nose. He focuses on the glinting pin upon his lapel, a brooch in the shape of a clover, the green matching the man's eyes.

The man smiles and nods, a tinge of curious awe in his eyes. "Alright. Not bad, student."

The tension which lifts off of Marrow's heart is indescribable- for him, at least. The other students immediately growl and protest as his tail begins to wag despite himself. The moment he is aware of it, he freezes, trying to calm down the action, but it is involuntarily, leading to nothing but averted gazes and humiliation.

The man laughs at him, low, throaty chuckles spilling from his lips and straight into Marrow's core. "That's sweet. Keep up the good work," before moving on, leaving Marrow behind to blush and fight back the uncomfortable laughter which longs to spill from his lips in an automatic attempt to divert attention from his tail.

It is only later that he learns that the man's name is Clover Ebi, and that he is the second-highest ranking man- third, if counting General Ironwood himself- in the Atlesian Military, working as the second-in-command of the Ace Operatives. Marrow does not mind that realization as much as he thinks he would have normally- rather than ponder the man's rank, all Marrow can focus upon is the image of green eyes watching him, of that heartbeat so close to his own, yet so profoundly different.

Clover Ebi is no ordinary man, but his curiosity shall have to die there. There are no Faunus in the upper echelons of Atlas' military. Marrow is not going to be the one to change that. Their one brief meeting shall be just that- a brief meeting to be carved into Marrow's sensory memory forever, for that is the first time an inspections officer did not belittle him for his heritage, and he is content to have experienced it at least once.

seven

He has grown to recognize Clover's cadence so precisely coming down the echoing halls of their barracks that he is already in uniform, Fetch upon his back, by the time Clover properly arrives at his door. His leader smiles at him, a quirked brow raised upward in challenge, lip curled into a wry smile expectantly. "Ready to go for your first mission?"

"Yes sir," Marrow replies, breathless, giddy. He does not know what else to say. He is ready, beyond all measure. He shall do General Ironwood proud, and he shall make this man standing before him accept Marrow as an undeniable part of the Ace Ops, no matter what.

"They're not going to go easy on your down there, you know," Clover says, gesturing to Marrow's freshly-brushed tail. "There's likely going to be some… ah, some comments."

Marrow shrugs, holding up his fingers, counting down. "General Ironwood selected me- I passed all the entry exams- I survived training and fitness testing and I passed all the combat exams on the simulated missions." He smiles, straightening his shoulders, showing off his confidence the only way he knows how- with a salute. "If they have an issue, they can take it up with the general, but," and his smile curls up into a smirk, feeling himself grow heady with self-assured truth as he adds, "I'm not going to give them anything to complain about."

There is a thoughtfulness in Clover's eyes that is striking- a look of surprise, of intrigue. A look that speaks volumes, that announces clear as day that Clover has never thought twice about this little brat Faunus kid who has been placed within their ranks; and yet, rather than feeling offended, Marrow finds himself puffing up with pride.

"I like you, kid," Clover murmurs. "Welcome to the team."

The sound of those words almost makes Marrow stop in his tracks. They dance too close to his dreams, and he is not ready to have to sort out the differences between his whimsical, wanton, completely inappropriate fantasies and the realities of Atlas' top military unit, so he merely smiles and nods and waits to follow, clutching onto his tail to prevent it from wagging too hard. He does not need to be spotted now. Not yet.

four

His uniform is everything he never knew he wanted; warm and fleecy to fend off Atlas' frigid temperatures, but breezy enough to be light and keep him fluid, balanced, mobile, with a built-in strap for Fetch. The fit is snug around his body and he smiles as the image in the reflection looks more and more professional, more and more put together, more and more like an actual Huntsman.

He is an actual Huntsman now, though. He has to keep reminding himself of that. He is part of the Ace Operatives.

The officer at the depot explains to him that he can add one bit of red flair, as all the Ace Ops do- it is their calling card, their signal, their one unifying element amongst their array of uniform styles, all suited to their unique fighting styles. He can buy something on his own or he can ask to see what is in their warehouse. It is his choice.

He beams at the thought, for his neck will always feel lonely without his old kerchief from before his Academy days. They manage to find an ascot for him in the same bright vermillion of his new team, and he slips it on with such pride that he does not even bother hiding the wag of his tail.

The officer watches the movement with barely-concealed disgust. He does not care. They can call him a dog all they want; a dog of Atlas is better than a stray, and he shall wear this mantle with honour.

To his utmost surprise, Clover Ebi seems to feel the same. It is but a passing comment the elder Huntsman provides to Marrow- just a simple compliment, a quiet, "Not bad, kid," as he walks on by. Marrow clings to it, though. He clings like he has never clung before, anxiously awaiting the day the uniform feels natural on him- the day he can call himself a member of the Ace Operatives of Atlas, serving by Clover Ebi's side, with confidence.

ten

The rookies indoctrinated as Huntsmen and Huntresses are placed under the Ace Ops' wing, and to Marrow's delight, are also surprisingly fun. He takes charge of them happily- he likes to hum and haw and pretend it is not what he would like to do, but he cannot help but blush and pout and sigh and give in whenever his wagging tail is spotted, for no, he is not unhappy- and that decision is not one which he regrets.

They are something new, after all. Fresh meat saving him from the eternal rookie status; but more than that, they are fun. They go for runs with him after missions, they chat and play games on patrols; they're happy to sneak ice cream and let him into their circles when they've gotten their hands on extra dessert from the mess hall. When he playfully begs and pouts for their extra goodies, they laugh and give in, always in exchange for a touch of his tail. He relents each time, for he does not mind- it's not like he feels much in it anyways, considering bullies in his youth snapped it far too many times for sensation to remain. So they can pet and paw and he can get little snacks, and everyone wins.

He knows his teammates judge him for it. Their role is to mentor the rookies from Beacon Academy, not to befriend them; this is business. And yet, he cannot help it, for he feels an unmistakeable bond with them. He feels safe.

When asked about his relationship with them by Harriet one day, he can only laugh and deflect the question, insisting on continuing their patrol. He does not know how to put it into words- or maybe he is scared to, scared to admit the fact that he likes the rookies more than his teammates, that he likes their jovial nature and their sweet naivety and their kindness.

He would rather admit to those things than tell anyone that he likes the rookies because of the way they treat Blake Belladonna, though; the way they treat her, and the way she treats them back with her feline Faunus ears on full display, is nothing like the way anyone has ever treated him before. A part of him dreams that if he sees it happen enough, perhaps the Ace Ops- perhaps Clover- will treat him that way, too.

She is their equal. He wonders what that feels like, even when he tells himself otherwise.

two

The elimination in the Vytal Festival Tournament stings far more than it should. His teammates take it civilly enough- after all, they cannot be too upset with him, for he is the only one who has managed to survive all this time- but it is clear that their time spent with him is over the moment their final battle draws to a close, ending in their disqualification.

He wonders if it is his Semblance which they dislike. He wouldn't blame them. Being commanded by a Faunus leaves a sour taste in peoples' mouths upon this continent. Being unable to disobey must be even worse.

He pouts, sighing, clutching onto his tail. It is a nervous habit- the fear of allowing it to wag when it should not is too great when he has this many eyes on him. All he can do is trudge down to a seat within Amity Colosseum and watch the rest of the matches, cheering for no one in particular and wishing he could still be upon the battlefield.

The seat he finds is located in a corner, far away from where his teammates are hanging out with their own friends. He does not mind the solitude, for it is his norm; however, it is when people start to chatter around him halfway through a match that he really begins to debate on whether he should just stream it on the CCTS into his dorm room rather than watching it live. His fingers twitch in annoyance upon his lap as he hears voices lilt and laugh down the row, growing louder and louder with each phrase. It is distracting, and his ears are too well-honed to ignore it.

Just as he is about to leave, however, he hears a few words which catch his attention. "He'll be retiring soon, so someone else will be taking over the Ace Ops," one student whispers.

"But who?"

"Probably Clover Ebi. He's the strongest, after all."

Marrow's heart skips a beat in his chest. He knows that name- knows that clover brooch, glittering in the Dust light of his memory.

"So who's taking the empty spot?"

"Probably a new graduate," a third voice muses. "Any Huntsman at that time will probably be allowed to apply, although I doubt how many will even be remotely considered."

"Who do you think they'll cut first?"

One of them laughs. None of them respond. The unspoken words all point fingers at Marrow- at the Faunus.

Marrow does not care, however. He is not looking for confrontation. He just wants to do right by his people, and his people are of Atlas, and he is Marrow Amin, and that is that. His tail has nothing to do with it.

The Ace Operatives, huh?

He smiles. That would be a dream come true- and if Clover Ebi does indeed become the leader, then even better.

six

He goes for a run every morning, and every night. He tells no one; the last time he spoke of it was when he moved into Atlas Academy's student dorms for the first time, and that ended up with people giving him leashes and mocking him for years, insinuating he needed a master. He is not looking for that kind of debasement again.

So to see his superior officer strolling up to him before the break of dawn in jogging pants and a hoodie and a wry, curious smile on his face knocks Marrow off his guard- he does not know how to respond, does not know how to lie. He is not expecting to have to talk to anyone at this hour of the morning.

He does have some sense, however; as he greets Clover and explains what brings him outside so early, keeping his eyes focused upon the horizon behind the man's head to avoid meeting his gaze, Marrow clutches onto his tail, wincing at the instinctive urge to wag it being restrained.

To his surprise, Clover simply murmurs, "Same here. May I join you?"

He gawps, dropping his tail limply in shock. "Um… but-"

"You're my subordinate now. We should get to know one another."

I already know you too well, sir, Marrow longs to confess, but he dares not say a word- it is not like it is true, anyways. Dreams have never shown him that Clover's hair is so long that it swoops into his green eyes from his widow's peak when not gelled. Dreams have never carried his scent, his musk, upon the wind as they both break into long, even strides, wordless despite Clover's initial assertion to break the ice. Dreams have never engrained within Marrow's very being Clover's resting and active heartrates, the sounds pounding in his ears, the rhythm of his footsteps landing perfectly in time, yet differently in weight, from Marrow's.

Dreams have never made Marrow thankful for his Faunus-linked hearing, smell, sight.

They run almost every morning together after that. It becomes routine, normal. Marrow is happy.

eight

With all of their equipment stored in one room during renovations, there is barely any breathing room to manoeuvre around. That is his excuse, Marrow thinks as he slips on his uniform piece by piece. That is the reason for which he peeks out of the corner of his eye at the tall, perfectly-built figure getting dressed across the room, rippling muscles moving like a symphony across the smooth expanse of beige skin; that is the reason for which he allows his eyes to linger, his fingers providing the perfect alibi, the perfect disguise, to the bobbing of his Adam's apple as he swallows, throat parched and desperate for relief, just as he ties his ascot around his neck. No one can see. No one will know. Therefore, it is innocent, isn't it?

Harriet's elbow to his ribs says otherwise. "Why the hell's your tail wagging like that, huh?" she asks, baffled as she slips her pack onto her shoulders.

He winces, both wallowing in pure shame and slowly sinking further into discomfort the longer she stares at him, accusing, unforgiving. He does not like it when they point out his tail. He's never been very good at controlling it, but he knows that no one likes it- especially not Harriet Bree, the woman who has been tasked with mentoring him until his probation is over. He knows she is not fond of him.

Not yet, at least. He does not hold his hopes up, but he cannot help by wonder whether her exasperation will one day grow into camaraderie. It's a tiny wish- even tinier than the silent, yet painfully desperate plea that her distaste for him is due to his clumsiness, or his temperament, or maybe his childish sense of humour… and not his tail.

She always notices the tail, though. Looking past Marrow, her eyes narrow as she spots Clover's broad back, finally covered by his vest. "You better not do anything weird, Amin," she hisses dangerously, jabbing a thumb into his chest. "Watch it."

He holds his hands out innocently. "I'm cool, I swear, it's all good." His lighthearted tone does nothing to ease her distrust, however.

He cannot blame her, though. The second her back is turned, his eyes seek out Clover's broad shoulders, tracing the contours of his muscles through his clothing to the small of his back, that waist-

It is times like this when he is grateful he is the only Faunus in the room. No one else can hear his heartbeat threatening to burst through his ribcage just at the mere sight of Clover. That reprieve is something, at least.

three

He makes it into the Ace Operatives. It has taken years of sweat and blood and tears, but he has done it at last.

"Officer Amin- Marrow," General Ironwood says gently, "this is not an easy time to enter this position. You will be placed in far more danger than anyone could ever imagine. This is not a decision you should make lightly. Yet, knowing this, will you still accept this position?"

He beams, nods. Of course he does. The world has already felt like it was ending after the Fall of Beacon- if he can help make things better, he shall.

"Even though you know you shall face adversity for being a Faunus?"

He wilts slightly- his tail stops wagging. Still, he nods, for this information is nothing new, nothing to be feared. He has always been different. That shall not change now.

He would have thought that the general would be cold; instead, he smiles at Marrow, gratitude clear as day upon his face. "Thank you. You're doing a great thing, you know."

Marrow longs to shrug in response, to blow it off. He is very aware of the social inequity, the discrimination, the marginalization. He knows, but he cannot change the system as a single soul, and he is not responsible for representing his entire people. He just wants to be himself.

Instead, he nods again. "I'll do my best, sir."

And so, the contract is signed, the position accepted, the promotion, granted. He is the fifth member of the Ace Operatives, the specialist unit serving under General Ironwood himself, serving to protect the people of Atlas where no one else can. He is now the elite.

As he basks in the glow of finally fulfilling this strange dream, the inspiration behind it all, the figure he has been longing to see for years, finally steps into the room. Clover Ebi, now his superior officer, smiles at him, all jovial amicability. They go through their introductions and Marrow bites back his cry of amazement, for the elder seems to have grown stronger, prouder, more capable, since the last time Marrow saw him standing upon that parade square.

The joy in his heart is quickly sapped away as he learns the truth behind the Fall of Beacon, behind the Maidens, and behind the war which Marrow has unwittingly joined. By the end of the explanation, Marrow is dizzy and lost, for the general tells him that he is now a key player in a battle no one knows is happening. It is unfathomable, unthinkable.

Clover's hand upon his shoulder brings it all into sharp relief. "It's all true. Prepare yourself, Marrow. Training begins tomorrow."

"Training?"

The grin sent his way is nothing like kindness. "We've got to make sure you're ready to win this war."

nine

He has been in the Ace Ops for nearly a whole year, and yet, he shall always feel like naught more than a rookie. He knows he is better than that; he has captured more successful missions under his belt in the last eleven months than any of the other members had done during their first three years.

No one notices, though. He shall always feel like a rookie, and he accepts that- expects it, even.

Finding out that a bunch of former students from Beacon Academy have not only crash-landed onto Mantle, but have also managed to singlehandedly do the one thing that General Ironwood has been unsure of how to accomplish, is not expected, however- and seeing Clover's face light up with such intrigue for the first time in all the years Marrow has known him is utterly alien in comparison.

With a sinking heart, Marrow slowly begins to realize the truth of the matter. It is not due to the children that Clover beams and strides over to the general's office with such fervour. It is not due to the children that he awaits the doors to open, arms crossed over his chest, hiding away his oddly-excited, fluttering heart from everyone else.

Everyone but Marrow, of course. He has memorized Clover's heartbeat far too long ago to not notice the changes now, the changes which manifest to the nth degree the moment the doors open, only to reveal a gaggle of weary children… and the Huntsman behind Clover's curiosity.

He is handsome- even Marrow has to begrudgingly accept that. His name is Qrow Branwen, and he is a handsome human Huntsman with eyes that shine like rubies in the light, and as his pale lips quirk into a smile at Clover's indulgent introduction, his heartbeat jumps up, too.

Marrow's tail is limp, heavy. He does not wag it on the walk back to his quarters. Clover has never lit up looking at Marrow like that, and Marrow cannot even blame him.

five

There is something so painfully humiliating about dreaming of a person which he knows. It is even more painful to realize that it is a commanding officer. Even more painful than that is to realize that he has to look that officer in the eyes in less than an hour after waking and try to hold it together- to pretend that there is absolutely no reason for the pink on his cheeks, the stutter upon his tongue.

Marrow does not eat before his training that day. He tries, but when he looks at his coffee, all he sees is brown hair streaked with sweat hovering above him; a green smoothie turns into shadowy emerald eyes, half-lidded and wanton and mocking; plain toast transforms into tan skin and heat- and he cannot do this anymore, so he gives up and goes to fight on an empty stomach.

It should be illegal to look like that, he thinks, watching Clover Ebi drink his coffee leisurely in the mess hall. He clutches onto his tail and squeezes tight. He feels nothing.

eleven

"You've become awfully close with the rookies, now haven't you?"

The words are light, teasing, as the rookies file off to their missions for the day, leaving Marrow and Clover to head to continue on their own missions as only they can.

Marrow wishes he could join the rookies. It would be easier than this uncertainty.

Marrow knows that Clover means no harm, no foul- he means nothing at all, really. His words fill the dead air between them, for Clover has never taken him seriously and he knows that, has accepted that since long ago.

"Of course I'm close with them," he replies passively, "because-" if I can't be close to my actual teammates- if you will never respect me, I might as well, although the rookies will never actually think of me as one of them- "they're good kids."

"They are good kids," Clover affirms, clearly amused by Marrow's reflective tone. "They've definitely earned their place here. Who would've thought a bunch of kids would merit a place with the Ace Ops?"

Marrow flashes him a wan smile, keeping his eyes averted away from brilliant green, dun brown, warm beige; he does not need to look, after all. To Clover, the rookies are naught but the accessories to Qrow, and Qrow is an enigma which Marrow does not know how to solve. He has swooped into this academy with grace and bluster and surprising empathy, and Clover has been there every step of the way. Their odd, sudden partnership is almost beginning to resemble the relationship between the rookies- the way Clover and Qrow know exactly how to orbit around, alongside, in tandem with one another is proof enough of that.

Marrow is not one to talk about closeness. He does not truly know what closeness would be. He does know, however, that Clover's eyes seem to sparkle whenever Qrow is around, and his heartbeat never sounds the same when talking to the elder Huntsman as when he is talking to Marrow. Clover is calmer with Marrow, with the rookies, with the rest of the Ace Ops.

Perhaps that is closeness.

He can only sigh and shake his head, for that cannot be it- his heartbeat has never been the same around Clover, either. He doubts Clover notices, for they have not gone for a run together since Qrow's arrival. Marrow knows for a fact that Clover does not think twice of him whenever he is gone.

last

He runs alone.

The sound of his footsteps echoing through the halls is foreign to him; his boots are too clunky, too weighted but not measured enough in his desperation as he claws the air, begging the universe to propel him forward just a little faster. He whimpers and whines, not bothering to hide his anxiety, for no one is around. The world has crumbled too far for anyone to judge him now.

At last, he bursts through the double-wide doors he had detested for so many years. It feels simultaneously as if it has been far too long, and yet, so recent that the scent of his boot polish still wafts up to his nose.

He sneezes. There is no scent there but memory. It is strong enough to ruin him, though.

Before he knows it, his tail is in his hands, just as matted and bloody and coarse as before. It will take him days to sort out the mess of tangles in his fur. He wishes he had days to sit somewhere and detangle, to reflect, to wash and condition and dry and pamper himself, pretending like nothing is going on.

The blood will have to stay.

His nails dig nervously into the scabbed, clotted strands, grimacing as the sounds of dried blood curling up under his fingertips reaches his ears. He wants to gag, but he holds it in, his footsteps carrying him onto the empty parade square determinedly.

It is stiff and cold, as always. The battle has not reached this place today. The banners hang above his head, unrumpled and proud, displaying Atlas' crest and its might; they sway softly in the circulated air, contrasting against blue-tinged walls so perfectly. Everything is so perfect here; it always has been.

Marrow feels anything but perfect as he stands in the corner of the parade square, coming to attention where his platoon used to form. He lifts his chin above the horizon, puffing out his chest, falling back into the routines and rhythms of life as a student which he has not lived out for long enough to have made the entire affair foreign, yet still feel familiar; an old friend with whom he is struggling to reconnect with in the same way.

He tries anyways. All he can do is try. He raises his right hand in salute to an inspections officer who never arrives. His ears are attentive and his heart is steady, but no footsteps ever arrive to fall in rhythm with his own. He keeps his eyes locked onto the horizon, but emerald does not come to interrupt his view.

He does not know if he remembers how to wag his tail. He does not know how it happened- does not know, does not care. It does not matter.

Clover is gone.

And in that moment, Marrow wishes more than anything to go back; just a few weeks, days, hours earlier. Back to when all five of the Ace Ops' Aura gauges, all five heartbeat monitors, were flickering on upon his Scroll. Back to when he could hear Clover's heartbeat thudding proudly in his chest; back to when there was a heartbeat still there at all.

Hell, he would even take Clover's heart beating for Qrow. Marrow would not mind that, to see Clover still here, inspecting his rumpled uniform, only to turn back to Qrow and smile in tandem with the other Huntsman. Marrow would not mind being ignored in favour of Qrow Branwen; after all, Clover has never been different than anyone else in Atlas when it comes to treating Marrow like a person- he was just better at playing pretend.

Marrow's tears fall. He doesn't look like much of an Ace Operative anymore, curled up on his knees at the center of an empty, hollow parade square. He does not care, though, for no one will notice; even if his contribution is respected, Marrow is used to being ignored.

-fin-