Chapter 1

John woke up in the back of a car. He had done this before, but this occasion was novel for several reasons. The first reason being that this was clearly some sort of police car. The second reason was that both he and therefore the car, was on its roof. Which quite cleanly transitioned to the third reason, a large, black animal was currently gnawing on the driver, claws piercing the metal where it grasped onto the body of the car. All in all, it was not a pleasant start to one's day. It was clear that if he was content to wait until the monster finished with its meal it would get considerably worse. That wasn't going to happen.

Carefully, the former spy raised up his head to get a view of the cab. His half of the car was clearly designed to hold suspects or the occasional drunkard, but he did not trust it to hold out against a creature like that for long, worse yet, the flipping of the vehicle had allowed the plexiglass spit-screen between the drivers side and the backseat to disconnect. The rural police department had obviously not been particularly well funded or experienced, or perhaps the contractor had just been lazy. Gazing through the window, Clark laid eyes upon his salvation, a pump-action shotgun's wood-grain finish taunted him from the other side of the increasingly blood-spattered screen. A simple, straightforward plan developed in his mind, his favorite kind.

Slowly Clark maneuvered himself into a crunched up ball, tucking his knees into his chest with his feet pointing towards the plexiglass, and the scattergun behind. Visualizing a cannon, or perhaps a donkey, he kicked his feet into the pane explosively, knocking it completely out of its housing and into the face of a very large and very surprised apex predator. Taking full advantage of the rapidly narrowing window of opportunity Clark reached through and grabbed the gun from its partially released mount, knocking away the hand of the fresh cadaver as he did so. He pumped the gun to chamber a shell, making brief note that a shell ejected, meaning that some limp-dick had up and left a shell in the chamber.

The large creature was very clearly angry now, as it slowly forced its way into the squad car, sticking its bone-plated head through the now empty window. Clark looked into its read, angry eyes and pulled the trigger. At that close a range, there was effectively no spread, not that he knew whether or not it was actually buckshot and not a slug. The result was the same, the bone-plate cracked, while still deflecting the projectile into the "roof" of the car, ruining the upholstery and quite noticeably not killing the creature. His second shot went lower and went through both the creature's wolflike jaw and its upper torso. He did not need a third, which was for the best as the first had deafened him.

The corpse began to smoke, half a century of dealing with jihadists activated reflexively in Clark's mind and with a buttstroke to the passenger side window he was sprinting for the woodline. Throwing himself prone, he laid waiting for an explosion. It never came, even a minute later. Pushing himself out of the soil Clark made his way back to the car to figure out what he was working with.

Starting with the car itself, it was definitely totaled. Whatever flipped it had put a serious dent into whatever equivalent of an engine it had, when followed by what Clark could now definitively could say was buckshot and metal fragments in the driveshaft, it was very clear that if he was driving out of this, it was not in this car. Moving onto the creature, it became obvious that is bore more resemblance to a linebacker in a werewolf costume than an actual animal. It also was very clearly disintegrating, which was alarming on multiple levels.

He made his way to the driver's side door, which had been removed to facilitate the feeding. Taking a knee he took a look inside the utter charnal house that made up the interior of the cabin. There was blood everywhere, and the deputy's shirt and body had been torn open so that the innards could be consumed, taking a glance at the remains of the uniform Clark noted the name of the unfortunate man. Wilhelm, an unusual name by his standards, but at least it confirmed that he could understand the language of the locals, or at least the alphabet. A further glance at the badge confirmed he was in fact a deputy and that the language itself was at least comprehensible, with simple Arabic numbers to boot.

Briefly Clark considered stealing the badge, but discarded the thought just as quickly. Not only did impersonating Law Enforcement not sit well with him, but even if he wanted to it would likely not work in a place as remote as this. The people likely knew each other by name and the Police even more so. It would just get him into even more of a pickle than his current situation.

Giving the cabin another once-over it was revealed that the car also had a radio, the hand-piece as coated in blood as everything else and surrounded by a trio of shell casings from what had likely been a very brief struggle between Wilhelm, and the monster. Clark also found a map and some road flares in the glove compartment. Opening the map, he tried his best to figure out the scale of it. Sadly, the map was large and sparse. There was very clearly a large settlement far to the north, but unless he was fortunate enough to have entered a car right as an officer was attacked at the absolute northern limit of his patrol route, he likely had a long way to go to enter the city. More towards the center of the map was a town called Monument, taking another glace at the exterior of the car, that was clearly where Wilhelm was from, and Clark's next logical destination. Which brought Clark to yet another mystery.

Glancing into the left side mirror, the former spy gave a start, and then a grin. His own youthful features glanced back at him, which explained the ease of his earlier movements. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, with all of the benefits of his SEAL training evident in his every step and twitch. Looking to put an exact number to the age question, he checked his pockets for a wallet, only to find what looked to be gift-cards bound by a rubber band. Pulling one out and examining it carefully he saw a holographic watermark with numerical denominations, ones that were quite large. Either the self-professed "Lord of Light" had made him quite wealthy, or somebody at this worlds mint had made some very serious repeated errors, and just started gluing zeros to the end of the bills. There was also the Japanese model to consider, but that was just splitting hairs. He had cash, a map, no ID of any description, and the corpses of a Sheriff's deputy alongside the Corpse of the monster that had killed him. It was around this time the radio chose to squawk.

"Wilhelm, this is Sheriff Joe, Wilhelm, please respond over." The click as the Sheriff let go of his hand piece was audible. Making up his mind Clark decided to take the initiative, moving to pick up an earpiece he brought it to his mouth responded "This is John Clark to Sheriff Joe, Deputy Wilhelm is dead, so is the thing that got him, over"

"Just who the hell are you 'John' ? And what the hell exactly 'got' him? Can you describe it? "

Ignoring the breach in radio etiquette, and noting that the average civilian would be ignorant of it, he pressed on.

"Large, Wolflike..."

"A Beowolf?"

"Yeah, I think so, it was either alone or it was in a pair with whatever thing we hit that flipped us."

"God dammit, all the trouble 'round the city must be stirrin' up the damn Grimm. You said Wilhelm killed it?"

"No. Looks like he got it a couple of times but when I came-to had to finish it with his shotgun."

"Do you still have it?"

"Yes."

"Good, stay right there John, it was John right? Can you see any landmarks or road markers?"

Glancing around Clark found a wooden sign with stenciled black paint, clearly road safety was not in the budget around here.

"Marker number fifty-three, that's a five and a three" Clark made very sure to ignore his knowledge of radio etiquette, it just wouldn't do for what he had in mind.

"Okay John, just stay put now an' we'll send a car your way to pick you up an' get ya to town."

Either Clark was going to be arrested or the monster problem here was a lot more widespread than he thought. That was going to make his lack of knowledge on them a major issue, they were collectively known as the Grimm, but that was not even close to a full picture. Some digging very clearly needed to be done.

The spy sat down in the shade of the overturned vehicle, briefly, when boredom overtook him he grabbed the shell he had ejected out of prescience. The shotgun itself had clearly seen some fairly heavy neglect but was built far more sturdily than need be, it would definitely explain why it had been stored with a round in the chamber, although the thought of that made the lifetime gun-owner twitch near-violently.

Eventually a police car that seemed to be analogous to what the Australians would call a "ute" rolled up. Clark made to drop the gun.

"What in the name of the Brothers you think you're doin' ?" Twanged a deputy from a rolled-down window.

"Dropping the gun?"

"You some sorta stupid kid? There's Grimm 'bout."

Clark stood up, grabbed the shotgun and got into the back of the car. "Sorry, forgot myself there." He made a show of rubbing the back of his neck.

"Sure did. Get in."

As he slammed the door shut behind him and tried to get himself into a comfortable position, John Clark settled in for a very awkward drive. He was not disappointed.

The best lies have a little truth in them, in fact the best lies are not in fact lies at all. The problem was that the current situation was going to require some bad lies. Clark hoped to buttress them with good ones. It was something he'd done almost all of his life.

Sheriff Amarillo was a man of many contradictions. He seemed lazy, with a relaxed posture and an unkempt outfit, but he was clearly incredibly fit beneath it, and some sort of short lever-gun sat in a worn leather holster on his thigh. His hair, all of it from his scalp to his handlebar mustache, was sculpted and waxed so thoroughly and neatly that it may as well have been a permanent feature of the man's skeleton. His whole demeanor reminded Clark of a large predatory cat, lazing about until it found something or somebody to pounce on. The former spy decided that something would not be him.

"So... you come from a town that's not been in contact with civilization in decades?"

"Yes."

"Have consequently no IDs or identifying paperwork?"

"Also true."

"And just decided to amble into our town for..."

"No future for me there, not for me, not for anybody else either."

The Sheriff smiled "And where exactly is 'There', son?"

Clark thought fast. "Specter." There were not many fictional towns he could think of off the bat that fit the bill, now he had a story to match the lie though.

Amarillo nodded his head slowly. "Okay, and where ya heading?"

"I think Vale's my best shot."

The Sheriff cringed, "Well son, that may be an issue." standing up, he motioned for Clark to follow him.

"This here, is Oswaldo County. We're here, in Monument. Waaay up to the north you can see Vale. In between is a whole host of nastiness, and for once, Grimm ain't the worst of it."

"What is?"

"Bandits."

"Can't you deal with them?"

"Would that I could, but with all my deputies up and dying as of late, it would leave the town virtually undefended." The Sheriff leaned back.

"Guess I'll be here for awhile then. Does Monument have a library?"

Smiling, Amarillo suddenly stood up in his seat. "Now just wait one second. You think I'm just going to send you out into the wider world without some form of documentation?"

Clark put his hands up, "Thanks, but I'm not sure if I've got the money for..."

"No. Charge." The Sheriff interrupted, his grin taking a turn for the vicious. Clark got the distinct impression that this was going to be a point of import for Amarillo. The uptick in the corner of his mustache was not comforting.

It was only when Clark entered the office where a bored looking clerk sat with a card printer and a glass screen that he began to actually worry. Feigning ignorance, he pointed at the glass. "What's that?"

Amarillo's sneer faltered. "That's a fingerprint scanner, if you've got a rap-sheet, and you haven't been entirely honest with us, we'll find out who you really are."

"Impressive, you keep them?"

The Sheriff's smile briefly faltered.

"Only if you get arrested. It's just a precaution, you understand. Some dubious characters come out here after they piss-off Johnny Law back in the city. Of course…" The Sheriff's smile returned. "you have nothing to worry about, Mr. Clark, don't you? There wasn't any particular reason... you were in the back of that there cruiser. Was there?"

Relief settled in Clark's chest. So that was his deal. Clark had been quiet as to how exactly he had ended up inside the squad car. The Sheriff had understandably been skeptical about his "Specter" story, and about just getting a ride to town from Wilhelm. With little actual probable cause, the Sheriff was using this bit of procedure to try and catch him in a lie. The only issue was that Clark was not, in fact, a criminal. Amarillo had sniffed his bullshit accurately, but had drawn a whole host of logical; but useless conclusions. Not that he ever could have guessed the actual nature of the situation. It was Clark's turn to smile, "Thanks. Where do we start?"

Out of the corner of his eye the former spy watched as, one by one, the gears in the feline Sheriff's head stopped violently. Amarillo watched as Clark provided his name, stood in front of a camera which determined his height and estimated his weight. He was almost tripped up by the date of birth, but simply said that his old town used an older date system, and told them he was twenty-two. The nearly bottomless apathy of the clerk, whose name tag read GREY in big, block letters, made this process a great deal easier. Eventually he was handed a plastic card. Gray's chair swiveled away as he set to work at some sort of desktop that was probably older than anybody in the room. Its cooling fan echoed in the wake of the smooth transfer.

The Sheriff looked like he had found something deeply strange and fowl-tasting in his food. "Enjoy your stay in Monument, Mr. Clark." With a backwards wave of his hand and a forced smile, he stalked off find other, less bothersome prey.

"Can you point me to a library?"

Without breaking stride, the sheriff said. "Attached to the building, same as the courtroom, straight down the hall, then take a left." He then vanished around a corner.

Ten hours later, Clark walked out of the front entrance to the library. The situation on Remnant, which was apparently the name of this planet, was clearly dire. While they had the great fortune to have had only one global war, that had been engaged in simultaneously with another throughout most of recorded history. The Grimm were a far greater threat than John had given them credit for. The idea of the clearly supernatural creatures was difficult enough to get his head around, but they were in de-facto control of nearly all of Remnant's surface. That a liberally-minded faction in the great war had come about, nonetheless been victorious was probably as much a sign of divine intervention as his own arrival.

Stepping out into the town, Clark was greeted with a seemingly peculiar sight. The town itself was constructed entirely out of roughly-hewn logs or other varieties of timber. The entire place bore a resemblance to the log forts of the early American colonies, built as they had desperately sought out refuge from Indian raids. This was seemed entirely sensible given the circumstances. Monument was a sizable settlement a fair distance away from this worlds few cities, it had little variety in terms of materials and little hope of outside intervention or rescue in the event of a true emergency. Primitive, if sturdy buildings were a logical choice, at least in the beginning. In fact, as Clark strode out of the public square and began to meander down the street, the buildings began to more closely resemble those of the boom-town days of the American West.

As Clark made his way to what was very clearly a small town square, he observed a two-story green granite obelisk rising from the center of a roundabout. It seemed likely that this was the monument that Monument had been named for. In a moment of morbid curiosity he made he way to the bronze plaque at its base. Crouching in order to better read the weathered words. Clark made out the following inscription.

In memory of the brave citizens of Hazelwood, who gave their lives in defense of their homes and families against the Grimm onslaught of the Great War.

May this town serve as Monument to their courage.

Clark stood up, dusting off his knees and taking in the square beyond the rough geometry that had preoccupied his mind initially. At the corner to his right there was a storefront. Walking over to inspect it he saw a sign over the door. General Store was painted in white flowing script on a blood red floral field. Clark pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Truth be told, the inside was far more impressive than the exterior had led him to believe. Part of this was the fact that both floors were utilized to either store or show wares. As the door closed behind him a chime rang out from a bell hanging over the door frame. At this a wispy man with a carefully sculpted sphere of white hair atop his head swept out from a back room and into view. He was oddly well dressed for a man of the country.

"Why good evening sir. Welcome to Peter's General Store. I'm Peter. Is there anything I can interest you in?"

"Yes, I was hoping to see if you had any gardening supplies."

"Right this way." and with Clark in tow, he headed off across the aisles.

As Clark made his way down the shelves, he took note of the price tags. Distressingly, the Japanese currency hypothesis was looking more and more likely by the aisle. This was not going to make his life any easier.

When arrived at the paltry gardening area, he thanked the shopkeeper and looked down at the wooden pegboard shelving. Picking up a roll of burlap, some sturdy tie-wire, and a light-brown sunhat, Clark turned and began to browse the rest of the store. There were some other useful baubles, a spool of chord, a pair of pliers, some candy bars from a bargain section, a small compass. All told, if it weren't the objective of the trip, he would have been able to tell himself it was just a normal day at the store. Then he came across a glass display case. There, with twelve inches of parkerized steel, was one of the most vicious blades Clark had ever laid eyes upon. It was simple, a Ka-bar but if made by a man with serious insecurities, but Clark's mind whirled with its possible uses for the task ahead.

Stepping out onto a quiet street, arms heavy with a bag of goods, Clark made his way towards the gates. As he stepped out of the square, he came across what appeared to be a bulletin board. Standing nearly ten feet tall and covered in fliers, it reminded Clark of a song that had swirled around the schoolyards of his childhood. So many layers of posters and fliers were piled on and peeled up that it was nearly impossible to tell which deals, jobs, and offers were still available. At about eye level were a set of brownscale wanted posters, mostly generic miscreants and lowlifes, but the three newest ones were all of bandits. As he scanned upwards, Clark made note of the faces, until he came across one that surprised him. The name "Daisy" seemed like an odd fit for a bandit, but the sketched sneer on the page more than made up the difference. Clark recalled from somewhere that women were not as inclined towards violent crime, but when they were, it was often characterized by excess and brutality. This went some way towards explaining the 10,000 Lien bounty stamped in red ink at the bottom of hers. The words "Dead or Alive" were, however; ubiquitous on all of the posters. If brought in alive, they would surely hang.

After a few more minutes browsing the board, Clark made his way to the town gate. An ugly, squat structure built into a reinforced section the settlement's log wall. Placing an olive green gardener's hat on his head, he made his way to the exit, and into the wider world.