A/N: Howdy ya mad bastards. First time writing a RWBY fic, but I've always wanted to so I figured I would give it a shot. It might be dogshit considering I haven't put anything out in months, but whatever.
Shoutout to my buddy Snow_Punk for helping me write this. You're the MVP as always, my friend.
Updates for this won't be coming too fast, since I've got two other stories that will take precedent over this one for the time being. That said, I know this first chapter is short but hopefully you guys like what little you see of Cel, and what is to come for him. He is an unmitigated human disaster.
...
Cel Adonis was your everyday man. You'd see him on the street or at the bar and not give him a second thought. He preferred it that way, truth be told.
He didn't like attention.
Maybe that was because the attention he usually got was negative. But it wasn't all bad. Even if a customer was a real asshole, or his boss yelled at him, or some shlub at the club bumped into him and threatened to kick his ass, there was always liquor and a cigarette to calm him down. So long as he could put his feet up at the end of the day and cool his heels while watching Mistrali cartoons, he could survive.
Maybe not live, but he could survive.
"Fuckin' prick..." He sighs, fishing a pack of darts from his sleeve pocket and lighting it. The pack on his side shifts around as he settles back onto his bike. He takes a draw, flicking the kickstand up and making his way down the block.
'Only one more delivery, then I'm off...' He thinks to himself. His eyes cast to the darkening sky, a beautiful hue of orange and blue coloring the horizon. Or what little he can make out between the buildings at least. 'Maybe I'll stop by the bakery on the way home. Get some muffins.' He ponders. The waitress there was a cute one, he could take her out for a drink... 'Nope. Got work tomorrow. Damnit, work work work.' He grimaces, pulling his bike around the corner to the Lynched Hound café and locking his bike to a concrete barrier.
He shuffles his shoulders to settle his bag, reaching into it to produce the final package of the night. With a grumble he pushes through the door and approaches the woman at the counter. "Delivery for... " He squints, unable to make out his boss' handwriting. "Sear-shuh?"
"Saoirse." The woman deadpans. She's a fish faunus, by the look of the gills on her neck.
"Right." He smiles awkwardly. "Here you are, I'm just gonna need a signature." He holds out a clipboard and pen. She takes it, leaving an elegant signature. "Hey- you guys still taking orders? I know it's late, if you're closing then no problem."
She tries to hide her disdain, but he knows the look of disguised hatred rather well. Hatred for customers, at least. "What can I get you?" She gives a false smile.
If he hadn't seen the same smile in the mirror, he'd probably have been fooled. He orders an omelet. Sausage, mushrooms, and Valean cheese. She looks at him like he's got two heads but ambles off to the back to cook without question.
Hey, protein was protein. Never a bad time for an omelet.
The time passes in a matter of moments, sleep weighing heavy on Cel as he nods off at the counter. He's snapped back to reality by the sound of a plate landing on the table before him. "One Omelet, mushroom and sausage." Saoirse sighs.
"Thank you, ma'am. Sorry to make an order so late, you seem like you're ready to get outta' here." He mutters, shoveling a bite into his mouth. His eyes clamp shut in bliss, and his throat produces something between a groan and a moan.
"You don't know the half of it." The woman drawls, smug at the sight of his delight. "So, how is it?"
"This..." He begins, a tear running down his cheek. "This is the best omelet I've ever had." He cries, mouth still full of shroom and sausage.
"Alright, chill out there dude. It's just an omelet." Saoirse huffs amusedly, cramming the package down below the counter.
"I can't help it, I haven't eaten jack-shit all day." He moans, stuffing the last of the meal in his mouth. "I should come here more often." He notices her glare. "Er... before closing, that is." He grins nervously.
"That's better." She huffs. "At least you aren't a complete asshole." She jokes. At least, he thinks it's a joke.
"Well, I'd ask if you deal with a lot of assholes, but I already know the answer to that." He cracks his fingers, slinging the bag back onto his shoulder. "If people get mad about their packages being 5 minutes late, I can't imagine how they get about food."
"Oh, you don't even know. I had some pompous-ass kid go off on me because I burnt his toast! And he called me an animal!" Saoirse rages. "The worst part? Kid was probably a Beacon student, considering the fact he was wearing armor!"
This gets a laugh from Cel. "Armor? In the city? What a fuckin' nerd!" He chortles, slamming his fist on the counter. They share a good laugh as he rises from his seat, placing a few bills on the counter. "Man, I really am gonna' have to come back here more often, y'know? Just start swingin' on rude customers."
She gives him an unimpressed glance, crossing her arms. "I think the customers would smack you around."
In mock outrage, he rises from his stool and offers a flex. Lithe muscle packaged beneath pale skin is just barely visible beneath his shirt. "Nah, I'm fuckin' invincible!"
"Whatever you say, dude." She rolls her eyes, lips curled into a small smile. "Least you ain't so bad, I guess."
"Well shit, I'll settle for 'ain't-so-bad'." He slides 30 lien onto the counter, making his way to leave.
"W-wait, your bill was only 10 lien!" She stutters, hoping to stop him before he leaves.
Her words reach his ears, but he simply raises his hand as he leaves. "My good deed for today."
Saoirse is speechless. Maybe not all customers are complete assholes.
...
It was quarter to midnight, and Cel was balls-deep in a case of beer. Another night of drinking despite his constant self-assurances that it wouldn't happen again. His poor neighbors. "It's said a man is born to sing, to scare away his woes! And banish all his anger and his pain!" He bellows, his drunken voice shrill and offensive to all those in his apartment complex trying to sleep.
A loud knock sounds at the door. "Hey, it's almost Midnight, asshole! Some of us are tryna' sleep!" His neighbor Blackwater shouts. Cel doesn't take this well.
"Ahh, fuck you, ya' whore! Call the police and I'll kill myself!" He slurs, stumbling over his little coffee table, marred by cigarette butts and stains. "Whoh!" Cel shouts, landing face-first against his stained couch. Next to his face is an empty bottle. His hand reaches out, eager to keep his drunk going. Just as soon as he takes a sip does he begins to splutter and hack, spitting all over the cushion. "Guhh, that's the spit bottle..."
He moans piteously as he climbs onto the sofa (which doubles as his bed, more often than not.) and splays himself across it. His hand reaches out and his fingers find purchase on a cigarette he had left lit in the ashtray. It finds it's way to his lips, and he takes a drag. Reduced to a minor coughing fit, his liquor-soaked brain only produces thoughts of the past.
'Pff, fuck'n Ozpin... fuck'n prick.' He seethes internally. He doesn't remember the last five years in a pleasant light. 'Oughta' go up there... tear him a new assho-'
His thoughts are shaken like his apartment complex as a loud 'Boom!' rings through the neighborhood. He's a bit more sober, but not by much. Cel falls off the couch in a panic, scrambling towards his window as he searches frantically for the source of the sound. A cloud of smoke is visible a block or two away, shrouding the horizon in a dark cloud. Something's blown up.
He perks up, before ambling to his bedroom. His eyes settle on something hanging on a wall.
A Greatlance, about five feet long. The tip of the lance is barbed, and at the end of the grip houses a chamber for dust blanks, with a small winch next to it. "Buzzard Hunt", it's called. Back when it saw use, at least. His shaky hands carefully lift it from it's rack. It whacks against the metal hanger producing a ring, but to Cel it's almost as though the weapon were singing to him of glorious battle. A new purpose.
Time to fucking shine.
He slings it over his shoulder, making sure to grab his belt of dust blanks and harpoons, and sprints to the door. Buzzard Hunt however is too wide, and he bounces clumsily off the doorway.
"Eh... window it is." He mutters, before leaping through the window and landing on his feet.
He may be drunk and out of practice, but he used to be a Huntsman-In-Training. That sort of training doesn't just disappear because you're a washout and a drunk. A smirk creeps across his face, satisfied at the display of athletics. With a loud blast, the tip of Buzzard Hunt hurtles towards the top of a building and finds purchase in a ventilation unit, yanking him towards the rooftop. He disengages the harpoon, and it decouples from the chain with a 'chink!'
From his new vantage point, he can see the commotion below. Four girls doing battle with... an Atlesian mech?!
"Pff. Nah, I'm goin' home." He decides. As he turns his back, the edge he's standing on crumbles, and he falls to the asphalt.
The fall is softer than expected. He realizes why when he is thrown to the side and sees a flaming blonde woman where he was. She dashes towards him with her fist cocked. It lands, and he is thrown another 15 feet.
He is no longer drunk. But he is hungover, and he doesn't like that.
Man, did that girl hit hard. She lunges at him again, but he has enough sense to raise his weapon to block. "'Ey, hold th' fuck up! I'm on your side, kid!"
"Who are you calling 'kid'?!" She rages, eyes blood-red she grits her teeth.
"Not important, who's in the machine?!"
"Roman Torchwick! You a Huntsman?!" She shouts above the clamor of combat. Her eyes seem hopeful. A huntsman would really help lay this fight to rest.
A little lie never hurt nobody.
"Yeah, lemme' jump in!" He nods, eyeing the ongoing battle. A white-haired girl is using her glyphs to propel her red-cloaked teammate towards him. Meanwhile, the black-haired one is swinging to-and-fro landing strikes against the armor as much as she can. He charges into the fray, the blondie jumping over him and pounding fist after fist against the mech. The blows leave dents here and there, but not much else.
Hurriedly, Cel loads a new harpoon into the end of Buzzard Hunt along with a Fire dust blank. Leaping into the air, he fires off a shot at the joint of the right arm of the mech. It strikes true, embedding itself into the hydraulics of the appendage before bursting into a cloud of flame and red-hot shrapnel. The arm is dismantled, falling to the ground uselessly. "COMBAT EFFICIENCY AT 60%." The mech loudly announces.
"Blake!" The blondie yells, and the black-haired one responds. She throws her weapon, leaving a ribbon trailing behind it as the blond one grabs hold of it. At least that's one face he can put a name to, now.
She swings the blonde around in circles and gathers momentum, with the help of the blonde one firing off shots from her gauntlets. She lets go of the ribbon, and flies between the legs of the mech. A shot is fired, and part of the targeting system is blasted off, careening into the distance. "COMBAT EFFICIENCY AT 55%." The synthesized voice of the mech booms.
"Booyah!" Cel hollars, jumping high into the air in an attempt to pierce through the top of the armor's hull. With a loud 'slam!' the machine swats him away, sending him through a window.
He is dazed, his aura failing to fully absorb the blow. It seems that unlike his acrobatics, his aura control is out of practice. The world is fuzzy and gray for a moment, the sounds of fighting outside of the building muffled by the concussive force he took. As his vision clears, he spots a family huddled in the corner. A woman and two children.
His eyes shoot open and his body creaks with disuse as he climbs up off the floor. "Come with me, we gotta get you outta here!" He shouts, rushing towards them. They cry out, huddling closer together, as if they could hide inside the wall.
"No! Get away!" The woman shouts, her children mushing their faces into her sweater in an attempt to hide.
"Look- I'm not here to hurt you, that mech there? It's being piloted by Roman Torchwick! You seen him on the news? Ya' ain't safe here!" He stomps at them, scooping them off the floor and ushering them to the door. "Is there a back exit you can take?!"
"The- there-" The woman stutters, the panic impeding her capability to speak.
"Look, I'm gonna bust down one of the doors on the first floor, you go out through the window, you'll be safe!" He shouts. They follow close behind him as he rushes down the stairs. They reach the bottom, and he promptly donkey-kicks the door off it's hinges. "Go!" He points to the door, before darting out the front door.
He is greeted by a wondrous sight. That sight being the blonde one, set alight as she punches the remaining arm of the mech. It explodes into a pile of shrapnel and debris, leaving hunks of scrap across the neighborhood. "COMBAT EFFICIENCY AT 25%."
Seeing this as an opportunity to end the fight swiftly, Buzzard Hunt levelled at the joints of the leg. It pivots at the last moment, its leg cocks back before soccer-kicking him into a concrete wall.
The world swims as he sits propped up against the cold rough wall. His vision is blurry again, and his aura is most definitely broken. He's got a concussion.
The sound of battle continues for a few moments as he collects himself. He carefully places his hands on the ground, leaning forward and stumbling a bit as he rises and picks up Buzzard. The kids are still fighting the mech. They're at an impasse, with Torchwick managing to fend off attacks and the kids refusing to let up on their assault.
He sways in place for a minute, thinking of a plan of attack. As if he has all the time in the world, he aims his weapon at the roof of a building next to the Paladin, before grappling up. He cuts the grapple halfway through by yanking the harpoon out of the building, hurtling towards the cockpit of the machine.
He'll have to be precise, but he's a better fighter drunk than he is sober anyways. And he's punch-drunk.
Not the same thing, but close enough.
His inertia, combined with the detonation of a dust blank is enough to blast the front of the machine wide open. Though it throws his back to the ground, he's done his job.
'They can handle it from here.' He tells himself as he lies on the asphalt, beginning to doze off.
The world begins to go black, and Cel Adonis falls asleep to the sounds of four kids taking on an Atlesian Mech toe-to-toe.