A Second Chance
A RWBY Fanfic
Author's Note:
This is my first story so A) I know it's not going to be perfect and B) help me make it less imperfect by offering any (preferably constructive) criticism! At the time of posting this, I have about ten chapters or so written, so those will go up soon-ish. After that, updates will happen whenever I get a chapter done which means infrequently as I am a teenager with Important Things To Do. Above all, thanks for taking any time at all to read this story and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have writing it.
Chapter 1 - A Matter Of Chance
A boy walked alone through the streets of Vale. At seventeen, he was above average height with dark brown hair and blue eyes. A few street lamps were the only source of light besides the moon, flickering just often enough to give the run down side street an eerie atmosphere. It was late. Or early, depending on your perspective. Running on one in the morning, judging from the position of the moon.
Why Are You Looking At The Moon, the boy asked himself, When You Have A Scroll?
Guess it's habit, he answered himself. He pulled out his scroll and saw that it was, indeed, 12:50 AM.
He wasn't afraid to admit that he was lost. Had been for a few hours at least. He wasn't very familiar with the city of Vale. But if he was going to be stuck there for the foreseeable future, he should learn his way around better. He thought he should stop somewhere for the night, try to find his way back to a main road in the morning. Daylight would help.
The question was, where could he crash for the night? He didn't know any people in the city. He couldn't remember why, because he was sure he had been to Vale before. It was bad enough that he couldn't remember how he wound up on Patch early that morning.
What did he remember? The memory of who he had been seemed just out of grasp. It wasn't something good, that much he was certain of. He remembered knowing people, having friends, but couldn't put a name or face to most of them. Hell, he couldn't remember his own name. It was as if someone, or something, had systematically erased every memory for the last five years or so, and some before.
Curious, Indeed, he thought dryly.
Also, he finally realized, that wasn't actually his own thought.
Finally Figured It Out, Have You?
He was hearing voices now. Great. He mentally kicked himself as he realized that the voice had been there all day, providing sarcastic commentary over his activities. Why did he realize it nearly twenty hours later?
Madmen Rarely Realize Their Own Insanity.
The voice spoke- if you could call it speaking- slowly, enunciating every word precisely. And if it wasn't using blunt sarcasm, it was usually condescending. It was kind of annoying.
Would You Rather Never Learn What Happened, Human?
Damn it. He would have to watch his thoughts if this voice was going to be a permanent thing. It would be nice to know what was going on, though. Twenty hours of wandering the city had gotten him nothing but the date and a lot of strange looks.
What Is, As You Humans Say, The Password?
You mean magic word?
Whatever. I Do Not Concern Myself With Silly Human Things.
Then don't bother, if it appals you that much.
You Have No Power Over Me, Human. Our Arrangement Is Quite The Opposite.
You don't seem to be able to control me, the boy thought smugly.
I Can Control Your Memory.
Then let me have it back. If this was how it would be, the boy could get used to this mystery voice. Please, he added, putting as much sarcasm as he could into the thought.
And just like that, he remembered. Everything.
None of it was good.
"Oh god," he whispered, sinking to his knees in the middle of the street. "Oh god," he repeated. The memories came so fast he almost couldn't process them. Fire. Screams. Fighting. Blood. So much blood. Five years of it. His vision began to flicker. He put a hand to his sternum, half expecting it to come away red. Slowly, almost painfully, the flood of memory slowed to a stream, then a trickle, and finally dried up. The flow ended with the better memories, the things he wanted to remember- friends, a girlfriend. Then he remembered that he couldn't go to his friends. Anyone who he could trust enough didn't ever go near Vale.
Are You Happy?
"I don't think that's an applicable word," he spoke aloud, his voice hollow.
Then Are You Satisfied?
"Maybe. Few questions. One, why hold that back for so long?"
Because Your Brain Needed Time To Recover Or The Recent Past Would Repeat Itself. I Do Not Believe That Is In Either Of Our Interests.
"Okay, fair enough. Question two, who the hell are you?"
"I should be askin' the same question." This was a different voice, not from inside the boy's mind. He turned around and saw a man standing in a nearby alley. He could make out few details in the gloom, but the boy knew this was trouble. The man stepped into the glow of a street lamp, and he knew why. There were tattoos all over his bare chest and arms, most of them tell-tale marks of a mercenary.
The boy put his hands up calmly. "I'm just a kid. New in town; got lost on my way home."
"Yeah, and I'm a Beowulf. Why you sittin' in the street talkin' to yourself?"
The boy didn't have a good answer for that. What could he say? He was talking to the voices in his head? That would start a fight for sure.
What's One More?
Shut up. He'd had enough violence in his life. He resolved then and there to avoid as much as possible for the rest of it.
"What? Cat got your tongue, little lost boy?"
On to plan B: threaten. "Look, you don't want to fight me. I'm not afraid to kill you. Just tell me where I can crash for the night, and I'll be out of your... um... way." He noticed a little too late that the man was bald.
How Tactful.
"Hah! A little runt like you? Kill a guy like me?" The man flexed his muscles for emphasis. "I'll tell you where you can sleep, all right." He pulled out an ornate knife, holding it backhanded and admiring it like it was his favorite knife for stabbing teenagers. "You can sleep six feet underground!"
The mercenary charged, and the boy reacted. He easily dodged a swipe and the man retaliated with a quick lunge. He blocked and grabbed the man's wrist. The boy twisted the arm around and brought the knife into the man's shoulder. The man screamed in pain, likely regretting going shirtless. The boy grabbed the knife and stabbed it into the man's other shoulder, and at either hip for good measure. Kicking the man down so his face hit the asphalt, knife still stuck in his right hip, the boy finished with a brutal curb stomp, knocking the unfortunate mercenary unconscious. It was sloppy, but it got the job one.
Rousing Success With The Pacifist Resolution.
You still need to answer my second question, he replied in his mind. If you're gonna be in my head for any significant length of time, I think I have a right to know who or what you are.
With Time, Human. With Time.
The boy shrugged. He didn't need to know right then, as long as he would find out eventually. He looked down on the unconscious merc. He could kill the man, put an end to his miserable life. He was one of the most well-known members of a group calling themselves The Merchants of Death. The group practically started wars for money, haggled until they got every last lien out of their client, and still complained about how much they got for the job. They were despicable, even thieves had more honor, and they liked it like that.
On the other hand, his death would cause a big splash in the media. It wouldn't even be close to unnoticed by The Merchants, either. The group would use all of their resources to find the killer, and it would not be pleasant when he got caught. The man also probably had a family. Friends, a day job probably at a tattoo parlor or somewhere where the tattoos would be innocuous. No matter what he did at night when nobody was watching, the man had a life. He deserved to live it.
Barely.
The boy walked away stiffly, his every fiber telling him to go back, finish the job. But he didn't. He wasn't going to kill anyone unless he absolutely had to.
Slowly, beginning as a small noise and echoing to fill the street, a new sound reverberated through the street. Applause?
"Bravo, young man! Bravo, indeed!"
The boy looked for the source of the voice and saw a portly man, with Gray hair and a jovial grin across his features, approach from a nearby intersection. He would have been comforted by the sight if it wasn't for the weapon strapped at the man's side. It looked like a blunderbuss crossed with a battleaxe, and he did not want it pointed at him.
"That was a fine display, young man," the man continued. "You're a fine combatant. Now tell me, where did you learn to counter like that?" He spoke with a certain grandeur, like he was preforming for a crowd.
"Um," the boy began. What the hell? He had nearly killed a man, and this guy was complimenting him on his fighting style?
Why Not Go With It? Unless You Would Rather Live On The Streets.
"Self taught?" the boy tried. "I mean, I haven't had any formal-"
"Ah, so you grew up on the streets!"
"Something like that."
"Now tell me, young man, what is your name?"
"Uh." He floundered for a minute. What was his name? He knew what name he went by, but he hadn't used his real name in a few years. It was embarrassing that he had to think about it. Thankfully, it surfaced in a reasonable amount of time to not be suspicious. "Jack Zaffre."
"Well, Mr. Zaffre, I think you have the makings of a fine huntsman if you hone your skills properly. Might I ask how old you are?"
"Seventeen," Jack said hesitantly. Did that guy say huntsman?
"Well then, why don't you take your fighting off the streets and apply at Beacon Academy? We will certainly steer you right and make a fine huntsman out of you."
He definitely said huntsman there. Did this man just suggest he apply at one of the most prestegious combat academies in the world? "What?" he asked aloud.
"Why yes! We are proud to accept students from all walks of life, provided they can pass the entrance exam. I'm certain that with your skill, you'll be a shoo-in!"
Jack wasn't sure his particular walk of life was one anyone wanted anything to do with. But a huntsman? A life of violence and adventure? It may not be the peaceful existence he had resolved to have, but he had already butchered that anyways. It was probably more fun too. He was good at killing things as it was, so why not make an honest living out of it? He had to give the mystery voice some credit: it was a good way off the streets.
"How do I sign up?" he asked. He needed a second chance at life, and hoped that he wasn't wasting it.