A/N: Hello and welcome to the second- okay, actually this is the first chapter. I lied before. I didn't mean to, I swear!

Before I begin, I'll explain just what exactly the character Branson is meant to deconstruct. There have been quite a few stories in which I've seen the generic "loner". He doesn't like talking to others, stays by himself and is often seen by other people as off-putting. However, in the times that I've seen, these characters come off as unnecessarily antagonistic and, to put it bluntly, complete d'bags. With Branson, I'm hoping to express a cause and effect for this brooding and damaged character type. Feel free to tell me how much I've succeeded in the review section.

The conditioned chill of the hospital was nothing compared to the psychological cold of the interrogation room. As still as he sat, Branson couldn't help the goosebumps rising on his skin. He stared at the only door with contained trepidation, his fingers softly clawing at the wooden table he sat behind. Cuffed wrists trembled from time to time, earning a faint jingle from the chain link and keeping his wariness from being relieved. It was one of two factors keeping him on edge, the other being the gluttonous silence consuming the room. There wasn't even the ticking of a wall clock to keep him company.

It had only taken four days. After coming out of the hospital with a healed form, he was confronted and apprehended by police. They had been firm in their approach. But because he had just recovered his strength, they didn't subject him to any rough treatment – something reinforced by his compliance. He was confused – at least, initially. But he didn't resist, even when they had relieved him of his weapon. The one inside him urged and complained, but went no farther than that.

It hadn't given up on trying to sway Branson, however. "You know." It said off-handedly. "It would be easy for us to leave."

"I'm aware." Branson replied flatly, keeping his eyes on the door.

"Then why are we here?" The voice pressed, allowing a little irritation to seep through. "Why do you submit?"

Branson shut his eyes tightly, taking in a breath and trying to keep his voice neutral. "Because this is what I've been striving for from the beginning."

"To become the law's pet?" The voice demanded.

"To get away from the Grimm!" Branson's eyes snapped open, his voice raising upon speaking this sentence. The rise of anger was stopped only when he realized where he was, and he lowered his volume. The terse tone didn't fade, however. "Even if I succeeded, all I'd be doing is marking myself as a criminal. Even getting past that wouldn't do anything but put us back on the outside." He slowly closed his eyes again. "Where do you expect for me to go once we're back out there? What do you expect me to do? Continue fighting countless Grimm until I drop dead?"

The voice huffed. "You seem to perform excellently thus far."

"At what cost?" Branson shot back. "Every encounter up to this point was something I barely got out of with my life. There were more times luck got me out of problems than skill. What if that luck ends up running out? Sooner or later, I'd slip. One slip up would be everything needed to put the nail in my coffin." He shook his head firmly. "No, I'm not going back out there if I can help it."

There was a moment of silence. Branson could feel his resident's displeasure, but he held firm. His hands had clenched into fists, with his shaking lessening to a less-than-noticeable twitch. His eyelids raised to a half-opened position, his gaze drifting down to the table. He waited patiently, resisting the urge to tap his fingers against the wooden surface.

It seemed like an eternity before the voice spoke again, its bitterness clear. "Of course. How easily I forget. You humans, weak and wasteful, have your limits. Despite your successes. You are still nothing but an insect." It took minute amusement when Branson let out an annoyed growl. "I supposed the last extermination got my hopes up."

"Go to hell." Branson hissed, baring his teeth and narrowing his eyes.

"I don't have that luxury." The voice hissed back.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Branson's eyes snapped to the door entrance, fixing themselves of the new voice's source. What he saw was a woman with peach hair kept in a chic stacked bob and heterochromia-afflicted eyes – the left blue and the right green – that regarded him with bemusement. Her attire seemed simple, what with a peach sweater, dark blue cargo pants and brown moccasins. Imprinted on her left bicep were two crossed axes silhouetted by a laurel wreath, both of which were colored brown. In her hands was a Scroll, which she had apparently been reading until this point.

Branson's innards tightened. He found his voice, terse and clipped as he spoke back. "No. Nothing."

Another handful of silent seconds passed. With each one, Branson felt discomfort rise within him bit by bit. Upon registering his response, the woman had taken to peering at him in analysis. But he did his best not to let it show. The last thing he wanted an interrogator to see was weakness.

But thankfully, the seconds passed quicker than he anticipated; after giving a satisfied hum and a nod, she approached and slid into the seat opposite of his own. She set the Scroll down and folded her hands on the table, looking him in the eyes. "First of all," She began, a hint of warmth in an otherwise reserved tone. "The reason you're here has nothing to do with your actions outside of the kingdoms." Branson's eyes wavered in surprise. "We're all fully aware what it's like for people out there, the ones who don't have our protection. In addition, the majority of what happens in those lawless zones is outside of our jurisdiction."

"How did you-?" Branson began, but was cut off.

"Those scars say more about you than you think, apparently." The woman offered a teasing smile. It faded when she saw Branson's face retract into guarded neutrality. "You are here because your actions in getting here just so happen to be in the minority. We received reports from Mistral about a peculiar pattern of villages being destroyed – a pattern leading to and through Sanus. Some villages were even investigated. While the results were the same all around – ninety percent of buildings in complete ruin, bodies everywhere – most if not all casualties recorded were caused by the creatures of Grimm."

Branson's lips twitched. "And just what does that have to do with me?" He asked, covering anxiety with a dry and flat tone.

His eyes immediately snapped to one of her hands, which moved over to pick up the Scroll. After checking it herself and running a finger over it a few times, she turned it around so that he could see the screen. Image after image of burning villages and Grimm movement were displayed, with each image lasting long enough for Branson to get a good look. His guarded expression immediately gave way to horror, his mouth parting open in his shock.

"These are photos taken during rampages in progress." She explained, pausing to tilt the Scroll back for her own brief look. "I'm sure that some of them look familiar to you... some moreso than others."

Beyond the images of death and destruction was something that caused Branson's gaze to flicker. They were clear pictures of him in various states and positions. In one, he was actively fighting off a horde of Grimm. In another, he was leaving the village, bloodied and battered. In yet another, he was fleeing on horseback with Grimm chasing after him. At face value, he could simply be seen as a lucky lone survivor. But the hard look in the woman's eye made it clear she knew what really happened. His eyes drifted away from the Scroll and his head turned away from her.

"While I don't like taking interest in such an idea," She continued, turning the screen off and setting the Scroll down. "It's become a thing in the heads of witnesses that you are somehow leading the Grimm to these villages. They are wary that you are trying to use the Grimm to attack Vale. It sounds ridiculous, I know. But there have been more ridiculous things in this world that happen to be very true." She leaned forward, frowning and staring intensely at him. "What is said and done in this room will be what decides your fate. So I suggest that you come clean and explain yourself as best as you can."

Her words snapped Branson out of his shame. After briefly regarding her with surprise, he hardened his expression once more. "Come clean?" He asked, scoffing and shrugging. "In other words, tell you what you want to hear and the punishment'll be easier? What do you want me to say?" He gave a snide shrug. "I brought the Grimm there on purpose? I wanted to destroy those villages? Sorry, lady. But it's a policy for me not to speak anything outside of the truth."

"What?" The woman's glare immediately let up. She raised a hand up in placation, shaking her head slightly. "No, that'not what I-"

"Save it!" Branson snapped, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not gonna give you an excuse to throw me into jail, lady. All I want is a good shelter from out there. I'm not here to harm your precious kingdom or city. Just..." He paused, rescinding his harsh tone for a tired one. "Just let me go, give me back Bloodhound and I'll be on my way."

There was a glimpse of frustration on the lady's face. She closed her eyes and sighed, hanging her head down in thought. After a few silent seconds, she nodded – presumably to herself – and raised her head back up to meet his gaze. Her lips parted, but it took another second for her to find her voice. "...I couldn't help but notice the way you dealt with your Grimm encounters."

Branson raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

"I'm no master of knowledge when it comes to the psychology of people," The woman explained. "But the majority of other people put in your shoes at those points would've taken the time to escape. There were only rare exceptions for you to do the same. You preferred staying where you were and fighting until every last Grimm perished. You succeeded, but you always came out in critical condition." Her eyes expressed confusion and concern. "Why put yourself at such needless risk?"

"Needless?" Branson repeated the word as if she had just diagnosed him with a terrible disease. He glared at her, although it was more out of disbelief than anger. "The Grimm are nothing more than mindless monsters. They kill and destroy without reason or any regard for the lives they take. Not one of them would ever consider the thought of sparing me. Why should I have spared any of them?"

"A fair point." The woman hummed. "But with that being said, do you really believe you're making the right choice wanting to stay here?" She folded her hands together, taking in Branson's confusion with a grain of salt. "I understand why you came to the kingdoms for shelter against the Grimm. But you must understand that it's no permanent heaven. The Grimm are relentless, merciless, dominating and barely stoppable in their conquest over mankind. We've suffered many losses against them and, despite our advances, we will suffer many more over the course of time. What's to say this kingdom won't be one of them?"

Branson slowly exhaled through his teeth. "Are you saying I wasted my time coming here?"

"I'm saying that if peace is what you're really wanting," The woman corrected, unfolding her hands and placing her palms against the table. "You'll have to work for it. I happen to have something that just might suit your interest." She tilted her head to the side, smiling a little. "How would you feel at being a student at Beacon Academy?"

Branson's guarded look shattered under the immense shock that washed over him. The look he gave the woman was so priceless, it was difficult resisting laughter. "...what."

"A student, at Beacon Academy." She replied patiently. "Normally, you'd need to spend two years at a combat school to prepare for our entrance exam. But after evaluating the information collected about your activity up to this point, I can safely say that you've already earned your place."

"I-" Branson started, shifting uncomfortably and uncertainly. He raised his hands up in seeming placation. "Look, lady. That's a really nice offer and all, but I don't think I'm cut out to be-"

"Nonsense, child." The woman cut off, a mild look of reprimand in her eyes. She wagged a chiding finger at him. "You are more than cut out. You have exceptional expertise in the slaying of Grimm and the drive for doing so. It would be a shame to let all of that go to waste, especially when you might need such skills in the near or late future. Wouldn't it?"

Branson slowly shut his eyes, clenching his hands into fists. He squeezed and relaxed them, keeping himself in quiet thoughtfulness.

"No one will fault you if you refuse." The woman added, her voice growing soft. "But I believe that someone like you wouldn't want to sit by and wait until the monsters are outside your doorstep."

Branson kept quiet for a few more seconds before giving a harsh sigh. He opened his eyes up to give a look of resignation. "All right, fine. I'll accept. Now that you put it like that, it doesn't seem I have much choice, anyway." He reeled back slightly when he saw her face brighten up, losing most of the seriousness it held during the conversation. "What happens now?"

"Now?" The woman repeated, rising up out of her chair. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a silver key and holding it in preparation. "Now I'll undo those cuffs around your hands. Your sword is just outside. You'll grab it, I'll escort you out of the station and..." She paused, frowning. "Well, you don't have a home to go to, do you?"

The image of a raven flashed through Branson's vision.

He tensed and grimaced, his teeth clenching and his eyes shutting once again. He exhaled slowly, opening them back up to spot the woman's concerned face. He stood up, approaching her and holding his hands out. "No," He said, clipped and curt. "I don't."

The woman hummed thoughtfully, gently taking one of Branson's hands. She paused when she felt a light flinch from him, but continued when she saw he wasn't going to do anything else. She quickly unlocked the first cuff, then captured his other hand to undo the other. Once the cuffs were open, she slid them off his hands and put the key back into her pocket. "Well, you're free to come stay at my home if you wish." She said, giving him a warm and inviting smile. "I'd hate to leave you out in the cold after giving you so much hassle."

"I think she wants a piece of you, Branson." The voice piped in, its smugness causing Branson's eye to twitch. "And she does look like quite the specimen. Would you really let this go to pass?"

"Sure, no problem." Branson's eyes widened when he realized his tone sounded a little more annoyed than he intended. He extended his hand out, raising an eyebrow. "Thank you, miss...?"

"Alyssa Peach." The woman answered, clasping his hand and giving it a firm shake. "Professor Alyssa Peach. And your name?"

"Branson."

"Splendid! I look forward to your contributions to Beacon." With a nod, the proclaimed Peach turned herself to the exit and gestured for him to follow her. "This way, please!"

It was a few days later, when the airships came to pick up the hopefuls of Beacon.

Branson was staring down at the city of Vale in mild interest, his arms folded across his chest. Compared to what he had seen prior to this moment, it was a rather welcome sight. From where he stood, the city looked like a massive neighborhood more than a place of industry and business. Under a sky only partially obscured by the clouds, plenty of people were walking and driving down the streets. Clouds occasionally slid across his field of vision, temporarily obscuring the view.

The voice let out an annoyed groan. "Everything down there is so orderly." It grumbled, pulling Branson out of his trance. "So calm. So peaceful. If only I had my body. I could make it so much better." It huffed. "Unfortunate. But there's no sense complaining. At the very least. An opportunity is presented."

Branson raised an eyebrow, but remained silent – there were too many people around for him to speak openly.

"Beacon Academy is a place of knowledge, correct?" The voice asked rhetorically. "It may have crucial information. Information about our current," It paused, looking for the correct word to say. "Predicament. Information on how to adapt. Information on how to adjust. Who knows?" Its tone began to turn hopeful. "If we pursue it. Unexpected benefits might occur. Something good may come out of this yet."

"Yeah..." He muttered under his breath, his gaze drifting downward. "I can only hope-"

"Hey!"

The chirp of a female voice triggered instinct and reflex. The elbow nearest to the source was bent and thrust backwards, his body twisting with the movement. He connected with something, earning the startled yell of pain from the trigger. He spun around with a glare, his hands balled into fists and his body ready to defend against potential assault.

But his defenses were immediately lowered when reason kicked in. His eyes widened as they locked on the one he had knocked away – a ginger-haired girl. Faintly aware of the eyes that suddenly fell on him, he raised his hand to her and stepped cautiously towards her rising form. "H-hey, are you-?"

The girl groaned, rubbing the cheek that had been hit before dropping her arm. Turquoise eyes opened up to give him a glare that stopped him in his tracks. It wasn't a glare of anger, but anticipation. She grinned toothily, cracking the knuckles on each hand. "Oh," She drawled. "So you're looking for a fight, huh?"

"What?" Branson hissed, taking a few steps back with newfound wariness. Instincts commanded him to curl his fingers and tense his body. "I'm not-"

"In that case," The girl continued, working her neck from side to side. "Let's roll the tape back."

Without warning, she threw herself at him. Branson's eyes widened in alarm, and he threw his arms up as she threw a punch at his face. Her motion was emphasized with one word – a word that, unbeknownst to him, would stick by him for the rest of his time at Beacon.

"Boop!"

Enter Nora Valkyrie, ladies and gentlemen! And it seems like a bad crossing of wires for both her and Branson. Whatever will happen next?

Onto the details of this chapter. As you may or may not have noticed, Professor Peach has a face, a character and a more prominent role in this story than she did in canon. I'm only going off the idea that Peach is a "she" due to it being mentioned in RWBY Chibi. Haven't the slightest clue how much weight that holds in the actual storyline.

I still haven't the slightest idea as to what to name Branson's "resident". Don't hesitate to shoot ideas about that in my direction. I promise I'm wearing a vest!

Matter of fact, if you have potential ideas or ways that the story could be improved, shoot those at me, too! Don't be afraid to review, either; I'm a busy one, but I try and take the time to respond to each one... at least, if it's constructive and detailed enough. One-sentence reviews are something that I'm just... unable to work with.

Thanks for reading, and I will see you in the next chapter!