AN: Don't own Highschool DxD, don't own RWBY, don't earn anything exchangeable for goods and/or services off of this and am still a broke-ass motherfucker in general.
The locker's thrusters now sputter, flare and spit as it descends towards the ground.
The entire thing lists to the right now, and has for the last half-dozen trips. She'd taken it upon herself to do a bit of research on the things when she took a break for lunch. Apparently, Beacon–along with the other Academies and the Huntsman Guild's district and regional offices–service the rocket-lockers every three—
A hideous shriek cuts off her train of thought abruptly.
Five loud–nearly deafening–staccato bangs echo throughout the cramped interior of the locker. With each report the–totally not–screaming metal death trap kicks further back up into the air. With each stomach-lurching burst of motion it tips further to the left.
Lacey is leaning to the right as hard as she can, pulling the no-longer securely latching harness tight to her chest, hoping beyond hope that the uneven firing of the breaking thrusters hadn't set the locker to tip itself over. Everything goes completely, utterly and terrifyingly silent for a frozen moment as the thrusters cut out for a final time.
Or they'd just failed.
Hopefully it had been a safe failure? Maybe?
Pretty please?
Her stomach rushes to her throat as the lump of metal drops back towards the earth—
It smashes into pavement with enough force that she can feel her bones rattle. The Aura Amp rack falls from its perch, spilling the unused hypo guns to the muddy, dirty grate floor along with the single empty one she'd had to use. A bundle of wires drops out from somewhere above her and would have probably tangled in her hair if any had been severed or more loose.
A low groan is all the warning she gets that the damned contraption hadn't landed squarely before it tips over backwards. Her head raps hard off of the cheap pleather and foam headrest and her teeth clack together. The harness flies from her grasp, yanking her arms up and forcing her to punch herself in the chin–with the fist she's pretty sure she'd managed to break a few fingers on at that–her hiss of pain escalates into an undignified yelp as the heavy steel and pleather harness drops back down and slams into her boobs, hard.
Owie...Ow ow ow ow ow…
Groaning, she blindly reaches her good-right-hand over towards the two buttons.
Well, the button that held on and the hole where the 'not dead' button to open the door had been.
After fishing around for nearly a minute she finds the bit of plastic that's left of the analogue control–by stabbing it between her searching finger and nail hard enough to give herself a hangnail. With a low resonating thunk, the door jumps, but does not open. Growling, Lacey shifts, tucks her knees up into her chest, pushes her Aura and all of the frustration she can muster into the sore appendages and kicks as hard as she can.
The door opens for that.
In fact, it slams against the opposite side of the locker with enough force to bounce back into its frame. Grumbling, Lacey reaches up to gently push, and the door shifts then falls off of the locker entirely, revealing Vale's night sky to her.
She crawls out of the murder/torture implement. Her entire body aches.
More of her is bruised than isn't and she has a slight limp as she crosses the empty lot towards the access door that will let her get to the street, and the safe-house Torchwick is putting her up in. It feels like there's fifteen different channels worth of static and white noise playing in the back of her head, all at different and changing volume, and trying to push their way out through her eyeballs. Her body feels more tired than she has in her entire life. Like she could just curl up and sleep for a year. Her brain and reflexes feel awake and alert enough that if someone asked her she'd probably swear she can keep going for a week without thinking.
Those Amps had probably been the right dosage for an average-sized adult huntsman. Not someone... her size. Being fun-sized isn't always fun. Hopefully she won't have to deal with any of the other long-term side effects from taking the wrong dosage of the stuff.
...Why are there smoke-plumes on the horizon?
She shakes her head and crosses the street. No one is driving down the road at least. She still needs to clean, sharpen and polish Resonant Chord. But first, she is going to shower. Just because she's okay getting dirty outside the Kingdom doing Huntress work-or criminal stuff now–doesn't mean she has to stay that way.
Then, she is going to eat. Hopefully somewhere will still be open. After she's fed herself something other than a cheap MRE she'd gotten from a surplus store for her field pack, she'll call Roman and let him know how her job went.
She lets herself into the second floor apartment, and sets her tuning-fork sword down on the small table. Surprisingly, there is a note on the table. Plain white stationary, with 'there's food in the fridge' written on it in flowery cursive.
Curious, she hobbles over to the fridge and pulls it open. Sure enough, there's a handful of the sort of 'nice' to-go bins frugal people like to keep around for putting their own leftovers in after the restaurant food's been finished. Each one has a different meal written on it in the same writing, along with 'please wash before you bring me downstairs empty.' There's also a big pitcher of what looks like lemonade, and it smells homemade.
Smiling, she closes the fridge and hobbles through the bathroom-her toiletries already set up in the shower–where a poofy, comfy looking robe is hanging from a peg next to a pair of towels. She makes it to the bedroom and is, not really surprised anymore, but grateful to find that her meager possessions had been shifted from her rucksack into the dresser.
Mrs. Aech hadn't been kidding about taking care of whoever Roman puts up in this safehouse, apparently.
Not that Lacey's complaining.
The shower is hot, and she doesn't have to rush through it because someone was waiting to use it next. The robe drapes off her a bit, but when clothes companies are feeling consistent, plain old 'medium' is normally a bit big for her, and it's maternity sized to boot.
She pulls her sword's maintenance kit from the closet it had been shuffled to, pulls some of the offered leftovers from the fridge, reheats them then makes her way into the living room, weapon and tools on one arm, re-heated home cooked meal on the other. She flicks on the TV after plunking down on the floor, head resting against the couch behind her.
Fuck, her everything is sore.
She unrolls the cleaning kit, and then lays the dirty towel that had been holding the assorted whetstones, honing and polishing oils more securely in the soft leather wrap on the table. She takes a bite of the stew she'd picked, grabs one of the finer grit whetstones–none of the nicks or scratches on her weapon being terribly deep, and the edges pretty sharp yet–and flicks the TV over to a newscast for background noise.
"–still speculating as to what, precisely, the White Fang hoped to accomplish with their brazen attack on Downtown Vale today. No official statements have been released from the VPD as of yet, nor has the White Fang revealed anything aside from claiming credit." Lacey looks up to see the screen dominated by shakey, amateur recordings of Terrorists and Grimm spewing from a hole in the ground in downtown Vale most likely captured by scared, fleeing civilians, and grainy high or wide angle shots of the same most likely contributed by businesses that survived the attack.
In the bottom right corner Lisa Lavender is sat at her desk facing the camera, her features calm and professional.
Well. That explains the smoke plumes she'd seen rising from downtown on her way back into the Kingdom. Definitely a good thing Torchwick gave her an out from the Fang when he did.
The screen shifts to a single skyward-facing shot. Huh?
What...What is that? A giant magic circle!?
A terrifying number of golden pillars flaring into existence before—
Oh...Brothers above and below. What…
That... is probably something she should summon Ren to ask about. Her gut is telling her it was nothing good though.
It'd be nice to see a familiar face. Besides, it's not like a devil would judge her for having-temporarily-turned to a life of crime, right? Working with a thief is a few steps above working with a bunch of insane cultists terrorists-he'll get it, and maybe she'll actually have something decent to offer him for completing a contract finally.
Lisa continues, oblivious and probably uncaring of the young prospective Huntress' musings. "However, the biggest question on everyone's minds is who, or what, was responsible for what many people are already calling the..." The reporter trails off, glaring just to the right of the screen. She blinks several times, shuffles the papers kept on the desk more as a prop than anything, and continues.
"I'm sorry, folks, it seems someone here at the station decided to try to play a bit of a prank on me. Here at VCN we pride ourselves on journalistic integrity, responsibility and accurate fact-finding. None of you watching with your kids at home need to worry about them learning any new inappropriate phrases from our broadcasts. I can personally report that–at least when I last checked before we went live– the BrightBarrage and Shimmerstorm were the top two trending names for the dazzling intervention that abruptly and definitively brought the fighting downtown this afternoon to a halt. Whether it was a new piece of military technology or an up and coming Huntsman's Semblance is something a panel of experts will be looking into tomorrow morning on Wake up Vale. This has been Lisa Lavender, with your eight o-clock essentials, I hope to see you all again at ten for our last broadcast of the day."
The screen switches over to commercials
After taking a moment to try to calm her nerves. When that doesn't work, she swallows hard and sets about trying to straighten her thoughts out. After a few more moments she gives up, and gets back to maintaining her weapon. The sight of dozens of Grimm being exterminated in a flash is not an image she thinks will fade from her memory for a good long while.
Almost mercifully, her scroll starts ringing, giving her something else to do to try to order her thoughts.
Huh? That's not any of her ringtones…
Frowning, she makes her way into the bedroom to find the device responsible. She isn't particularly surprised to find the scroll Torchwick had had her use on her job today.
Aww...
Pouting, she cinches the robe a bit tighter to make sure she doesn't fall out of it in front of her boss, and answers. "Not dead, Boss, just trying to put myself together after a long day."
The criminal, looking oddly plain without his makeup, hat or suit-jacket, offers her a wide smile. "The thought never crossed my mind. But, if you don't mind, could you be a dear and send the fruits of your labor over to me. I've recently come into an excess of free time."
Lacey squints at the screen, the space behind Roman is awfully plain. She shakes her head, taps out of fullscreen to open up the app she'd been using all day. More rested and less wired, the 'submit' button is painfully obvious to her now. "Not sure how long you'll need to go over the info I got for you, but the short version is that three of the sites you picked out are surefire fits, and four might work in a pinch."
Roman nods, clearly fidgeting with whatever device he's calling her from while they talk. "Good, good, better than I'd expected. How well did your, ah, transport, hold up?" He caps off with an 'innocent' grin, knowing damn well that thing was a flying health hazard.
She glares at the thief, and something clicks in her head. "You're calling me from a prison cell, aren't you?"
He waves her off, leaning back into, yep, that's a smaller version of the bench she'd been trying to sleep on when Neo had broken her out of the holding cell the VPD had been keeping her in. "Of course not, SnakeSnack. Just a temporary office I don't have any choice but to use while I get set up properly in my new base of operations."
Lacey makes her way back to the small living room. "Brothers above and below, you got caught today didn't you?"
Another, infuriatingly, dismissive wave. "All part of the plan, kiddo. All you need to worry about is what I pay you to worry about. Now, the Transport Pod?"
She rolls her eyes. "That screaming metal deathtrap of a rocket-locker was barely holding itself together by the time I got back to Vale. Putting someone in it and trying to launch would probably qualify you for manslaughter charges now."
Roman rolls his eyes and leans forward, a half-smirk on his face. "You're adorable when you try to act hardened, kid. Glad I haggled the price down on that thing if it's already done for." Lacey shoots another glare at her bastard of a 'Boss.' That just turns his grin into a full blown smile. "One of my people will be in touch once I have another job for you–nothing that could keep you from going to Beacon if things go south of course–And you should try not to leave the safehouse as much as possible outside jobs and getting sundries."
"And whyyyyy would I choose to stay cooped up in this bolt-hole any more than I absolutely have to?" She drawls at him. She'd wanted to add a bit more fire to that, but it's been a long enough day without adding getting put on the streets for antagonizing the guy keeping her either off the streets or from having to crawl back to the White Fang.
Roman shakes his head, "Because the fanatics you fell in with before you started working for me have decided that deserters–and any other Faunus who don't join up when they come calling for that matter–don't deserve to keep whatever animal trait they have. So unless you want those floppy ears of yours keeping some psychopaths hands warm in the winter instead of on your head..."
Roman trails off, and Lacey swallows hard. Yeah, staying in the apartment as much as she can sounds like just what the doctor ordered.
For a few moments the line goes silent. Mostly because her brain is going through the process of matching up the golden glow she'd noticed on the horizon near the end of her job for Roman–the last three or four sites had passed in a bit of a blur to her–with the images she'd just seen on the TV. Whoever had done that must be terrifyingly powerful.
"Roman, about, er–"
Her 'boss' cuts her off, looking shaken for the first time since she met him. "I know what you're about to ask, kid. I don't have any answers, and if you have any clues I don't want 'em. My boss knows something about it, and didn't tell me a bit. If I wanna keep my head attached, it's best I don't know any more than she wants me to until we part ways and y'know what? That's exactly the way I like it. If you decide you want a spot at my new office, we'll talk more then."
She blinks, slowly. "But, wouldn't not knowing about something be more dangerous than knowing about something your boss doesn't want you to?"
"If you wanna live long enough to grow up to be a big bad Huntress, there's a lesson you need to learn early. Not all monsters have pitch black skin and bone plates. If the monster's got human skin and is stronger than you: do not antagonize it. Worst that happens if you piss off a pack of Beowolves is you die." He pauses to breathe in deep and let out a shuddering sigh. "What little I've seen of what the golden-eyed bitch is keeping from me is enough to make me want a drink or ten. So, yeah, until I'm clear and safe, ignorance is bliss as far as I'm concerned."
She shakes her head. That makes no sense. Huntresses help people, they don't let–
The orange-haired man rolls his eyes again with a groan at her stubborn expression. "Don't make me make that an order, SnakeSnack. Whether you're a lawless criminal or a prim and proper law abiding citizen, you don't live forever. That clock's gonna run real short if you start pissing off the wrong people over high-minded morals when you live in reality. Right now, it's the bitch writing my paycheck not wanting me to know about some pretty serious shit that's happening behind the scenes. For you it might be a corrupt mayor with a few too many mercs a few years down the line. Not every fight is worth picking." Lacey's brought up short by his solemn tone.
She isn't about to consider following his advice entirely, but it's clear enough he's speaking from experience, and she isn't dumb enough to pass up on something like that either. Something to think on later.
The thief's attention is drawn away from the screen, and he heaves an entirely too put-on sigh. "Well, looks like my eight-thirty's on his way. I'll be in touch kiddo." At that, the line goes dead. Lacey tosses the scroll onto the table, and flops down onto the couch.
Yeah, this is fine. She can freak out about the Barrage and mull over how morals and practicality can clash later, but for now she can just sleep—
Someone is knocking on the apartment's front door. Oh, what now?
Grumbling, she shoves herself back to her feet, and staggers towards the door. She swings it open, and is somewhat surprised to find the matronly skunk Faunus who owns the building and lives downstairs. "Well, you certainly look better now that you've gotten yourself cleaned up." She states, before shocking the younger Faunus by wrapping her up in a tight hug.
She doesn't struggle all that much or for long. "Wasn't that bad." She mumbles into the plump woman's side.
Aech responds by pushing her back to arms length, and in a tone that's almost painfully similar to Mom's deadpans, "Dearie, I saw you stumbling across the street after you got back to Vale. Half dead would be too generous a description of the state you were in by quite a bit. I don't know what Roman was thinking, sending you outside the Kingdom like that." Before she pulls Lacey back into another tight hug.
This is... nice. It's been a while since someone just held her like this.
"Nothing I wouldn't be doing at Beacon." She weakly protests.
The older woman shakes her head, "Not alone though."
Lacey doesn't respond, she just leans into the hug. Brothers, she hadn't realized just how much she needed or missed this until the older lady had wrapped her up.
_-*R-DxD*-_
Ozpin rounds the last corner to Roman's cell to find an artificially silent hallway.
When Ozpin steps into the ginger thief's line of sight, he doesn't move from where he is sprawled out on the bench he'd be sleeping on tonight. Even if he accepts the deal Ozpin is here with, his release won't be instant or well received by many in Vale. It may be a long shot, but Ozma has learned to take every advantage he can possibly get. He pulls one of the chairs sitting between the cells over and centers it in front of Roman's cell door before seating himself. However slim the chance of the wayward man before him returning to the fold and fighting the good fight–even if he would need to do it in secret and outside the kingdoms–it is well worth his time to put forth the effort. Romans skills and knowledge are too formidable to simply write him off as a lost cause.
The silence holds for several minutes. Roman even goes so far as to close his eyes as if sleeping after they first make eye contact.
Ozpin lets out a gentle sigh. "You showed such promise when I first met you, Roman. Why did you let things come to this?"
"Pretty sure this is what society says happens to all thieves, killers and criminals given enough time, old man." He retorts, emphasizing the 't' of the first word, head still pointed at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head and eyes closed.
Ozpin shakes his head. "You weren't always a thief, Roman. I quite distinctly remember a bright-eyed young man in a Beacon uniform doing an exemplary job leading his team. Full pardon and a Huntsman License aren't out of your reach quite yet, Roman."
That gets a rise out of the ginger. "Ohhh, and which team would that be exactly, old man?" He growls out, pushing himself up to glare at the headmaster. "Team Tangerine? Oh, wait, that one disbanded at the end of my first semester when Gray lost both legs and my left arm took a compound fracture in three places. No worries though, the Academy's insurance got me patched up real good and you let me come back the next year at the start of the second semester. Team Russet was great." He pauses to let out a bitter scoff. "I was pretty sweet on Lye too. Right up until a Beringel smashed her head in at the end of the first month of my sophomore year."
Perhaps this was the wrong angle to play. Or, perhaps affording the man a chance to vent will clear enough air that his requests and overtures will find purchase. Ozma would be the first to admit that he is an unrepentant optimist, sometimes to a fault.
"It's all good, though, you moved Iron over to be my new partner. Great fun, that, right up until the week before first semester's finals. I got to get both hips shattered trying to keep Trixie from buying the farm. Shame she died on the operating table, but hey, no worries little Roman, you can come back again next year! Here's some titanium replacements on the house!" He pushes up and starts pacing his cell. "Two years, three teams and a half dozen fake ribs later and I finally got to actually fight in the Vytal Tourny on some dysfunctional patched-together super-team you cooked up for some ridiculous reason or another you couldn't be bothered to share with the four of us. Me, a grown-ass man, herding a trio of children around day in and day out. Getting knocked out in round one was great by the way. Finding Emert hanging from the taut end of a rope in our dorm room later that week was even better. Sweet, quiet kid, if you can even be bothered to remember. Maybe it was the stress from everyone on Remnant seeing us get our asses handed to us in under two minutes. Maybe it was his parents disowning him. Maybe it was the shame from his abusive ass of a boyfriend making him wear a cage on a day he knew we had combat class and everyone would see it in the locker room, but something broke that poor kid you'd made MY responsibility!" Roman is pacing now, arms gesticulating wildly as he rants.
"Roman–"
"And then you had the gall to expel my best pal when he meted out a bit of justice on the only asshole responsible for a kid taking his own damn life we could get at later that week!" Roman all but howls, cutting him off.
Ozpin tightens his grip on The Long Memory. He had known that certain, grievances, were likely to come to the fore when he decided to try this. Roman's story is, unfortunately for him, one of the most extreme since the establishment of the Huntsman Academies, though the fact that his case had been a rare on is something Ozpin considers a great success for the Academy system as a whole. "What Jaundice Laurent did to that young man was broadcast on live television all across Remnant. Including outlying settlements that do not have the luxury of walls to hold the grimm at bay when they are unexpectedly shown something disturbing. Beating that boy bloody not only nearly killed him, but it very likely did kill innocent civilians who appropriately felt fear, revulsion and I'm certain a number of other negative emotions from that travesty of a fight. Expulsion was a slap on the wrist compared to the criminal charges I very well could have had charged him with. Mr. Lapis was not among those lucky enough to be able to resume their training to become Huntsmen after receiving a serious injury while attending this Academy."
Roman's chest is heaving, and he is glaring down his nose at the still seated Headmaster. "He did nothing the two of us hadn't been trained to."
"Which is not something that you learned at my school."
"You didn't exactly teach us any alternatives either, old man." Roman growls back.
Ozpin takes a deep, calming breath. He had expected old wounds to be bared coming here, but not for them to have festered so. He isn't upset by Roman's attitude, he's dealt with far worse over his many lives. Recalling the series of events that had so deeply marred the ginger-haired man's youth from his own point of view is scarcely any more pleasant than having been in Torchwick's shoes. Though he doubts that Roman would care for his empathy were he to vocalize those thoughts. "I am willing to give many second chances. Even your old friend, who is currently poisoning the minds of dozens of children with that barbarous combat style you two practice."
Roman scoffs, "So you sent Barty then. If you were being honest about looking into what Jaundice's teaching you'd have sent someone that wouldn't have gone cross-eyed at the first mention of history. If you'd sent someone less likely to get their head lost in the clouds you'd already know that aside from the name and core tenets–which he does some pretty impressive mental gymnastics with to modernize–nothing he's teaching resembles what we were put through in the slightest." He pauses, and Ozpin can't help but wonder how much of his current calm is a show, leaning on the crutch of familiarity. "Though, I'm pretty sure we've gotten more than a bit off topic. My tragic past doesn't really have much to do with your ham-fisted recruitment pitch."
Ozpin cocks an eyebrow. "And what makes it so clumsy an attempt, Roman? You are and have been many things, but at the end of the day you are always a survivor. Joining your skill and forces to mine can only end well for you."
The thief rolls his eyes, "The fact that you came here in the first place, old man. Like you said, I'm a survivor. The odds of me and mine being singled out specifically for revenge are pretty damn good if I sell out my current employer and their boss." Ozpin's second eyebrow joins the other, but Roman is pretty sure he knows what the man's about to ask. "And yes, you can take that as confirmation that I've started up my own organization, and a demand for all of my people to get the same pardon you offered me if I were to lose my mind and decide to gamble my life and bank account on your Academy staying standing."
"I assure you, my reach is quite far. Provided you haven't been unscrupulous or rampant in your recruitment, I'm certain that I will be able to work all of your people into an official arm of the Kingdoms government and defence forces."
A scoff, "Even the Silent Blade?"
Ozpin can feel himself go rigid. That is more than enough of an answer from the thief. "I had thought you were a better man, Roman. That you wouldn't lower yourself so far as to kill to line your pockets.
Torchwick shrugs, and flops back down onto his pallet. "Oh, trust me, if you knew what I pulled the Blade up out of you'd be falling all over yourself to get me rewards and medals or whatever it is you hand out to your top performing lapdogs." He pauses for a beat. "And I don't think I've done too bad helping the Blade keep their humanity, not talking and enjoying killing just a bit more than is healthy is pretty light, given the givens."
He squints at Torchwick, the thief sounding almost protective. "You make it sound like you had a hand in raising the most prolific killer Vale has seen in decades."
"Fishing for something to add to the criminal profile then?" Roman tuts and shakes his head. "Shows exactly how far you're willing to go out on a limb for what I could give you. Guess that means the cops still don't have clue one then. And if it will assuage your ruffled conscience I keep the Blade away from marks and innocents. The Blade is deals with ersatz business partners that thought they could try to stiff me on payment, cut me out after I do my part of a job, back out on us during jobs, or start acting out and getting stupid during the bigger scores. What they do on their free time isn't really any of my business."
Ozpin can only sigh in consternation, almost positive that no lecture he could come up with currently would have any real effect on the hardened criminal sitting across from him. And frankly getting into that sort of debate wasn't something he wished to engage in at the moment.
Roman, getting serious, actually deigns to throw him a bone. "Look, we're going in circles here, and live in different worlds with different sets of ethics and morals on top of that. Let me make this quick, clean and clear for you. My part in the job I got hired-on for is more or less over, save collecting my pay; My boss never once gave me a hint as to who they're working for, and all I have on the boss you wouldn't believe me if I told you. Even if I did, it'd be hearsay and circumstantial evidence a goody two-shoes like you can't do anything meaningful with. And to top it all off, things are looking like the boss' plan is going to be going off without a hitch, that big light shower notwithstanding. Don't have a clue what that was about, and frankly, I don't wanna know. So what I am going to do is sit pretty until the cavalry shows for me on payday. Then, my people and I are going to put our plan into motion, get ourselves clear of whatever dick-waving contest you and my Boss have going on, find a good place to go to ground then wait this shit-show out. After the smoke settles it's back to business as usual. So unless you don't have anything better to do..."
Ozpin nods, frowning, and stands back up. "I see. I am sorry to have wasted both of our time." Before turning and striding down the hall he had approached through.
About halfway to the hangar bay, he passes James. "I take it the carrot didn't work then?"
Ozpin shrugs, they both know that his 'attempt' had been a shadow of a pretence. Roman had been entirely correct in regards to how weak Ozpin's 'sale's pitch' had been. The odds of Roman Torchwick actually and honestly joining forces with them at this point are as vanishingly small as those of Raven returning to the fold. Both had committed to their current lives wholly and unrepentantly years ago. Roman reaffirming his position was not unexpected in the least. He had, however, been hoping for more substance to be had in their conversation, slips of the tongue or facts to be winnowed out from context and phrasing. Not a scathing reminder of his past failings.
James claps a hand against his shoulder. "I suppose we'll have to see about the stick then."
Cooperation is not what they need here. What they need is a way to determine what the False Maiden has been plotting, where she has been going and whom she has been in contact with. They have one of the latter in a cell, and if they have to winnow the former two out from scathing insults, crass witticisms and purposeful contrariness, then so be it.
_-*R-DxD*-_
The streets of Vale are eerily deserted for a Sunday night.
Of course, with the chaos that had dominated the latter half of the day that isn't much of a surprise. Doubly so here in the part of the city dominated by gated communities, clusters of ritzy, upscale boutiques and the occasional strip of high-rise apartments that house the less wealthy people working the stores, as house staff or the assorted trades and crafts people living in a major city expect to be able to hire as needed and on demand and as needed that service the people living on the other side of the walls holding the gated communities separate.
All of this is broken up by the occasional fortress-like manor of the wealthier, more storied Huntsman families that had at some point in their histories chosen to live near those of like financial means and political power rather than those they shared a profession with; and small stretches of suburbs where the store managers and heads of staff or staffing agencies that are doing well enough to escape the human filing cabinets the least wealthy of the district are pressed into, but not so well as to own a home or manor of their own inside one of the gated communities.
At first brush it seems chaotic and haphazard. After a bit of research it is blatantly clear to anyone with two brain-cells to rub together that the entire district is about wealth, power, and catering to those who have the most of it. A clean, contained target to either leverage for political gains, attack to sow discord... or claim as a centrally located and well supplied base of operations. There is a sprawling hotel at the heart of it all, with almost as much space given over to conference halls, private offices and other meeting spaces that the only locals who matter can rent out for the myriad facets of the sub-culture of the super-rich has come up with to spend money on over the years.
Cinder and her minions are headed to the hotel in question to meet with the leader of Vale's detachment of the Myriad of Destruction, and they are on foot so she can take the time to tell her minions enough of the supernatural to sate their curiosity. To their left is a wall, to their right a line of dark-windowed storefront with stories of apartments built atop them, light spilling from a good number of the windows visible from the street.
"So... about those crazy black-winged not-Faunus that showed up during the fighting earlier today..." Emerald probes, trailing half a step behind her. Currently she is wearing a confident smile, clean copy of her battle attire, and walking with a sultry strut Cinder knows was born of hours watching and working to imitate her own. If she knew that Cinder had caught her gasping, wide-eyed breakdown in the bathroom a few hours ago, she'd probably have died of mortification.
Cinder glances over her shoulder, confirming that Mercury is still stalking along within earshot of a regular conversational tone, he is–scowling at nothing in particular with his hands crammed into his pockets–before she answers. "There are three factions in the Supernatural world worth concerning yourself with. Now that we are aware that two of them are active on Remnant, it is only a matter of time before the third bumble their way to our world. The Fallen Angels, whom we are aligned with, the Devils, their primary rival to our allies–as well as the species Arc and his team belong to–and finally the Pure Angels."
Mercury scoffs "Before you get into all the boring crap, they look more or less human, they die the same way?" He pauses, then adds "And can they all pull off that crazy light show that cut our plan for today short by an hour or so?"
Emerald's head whips in her partner's direction, long strands of hair flying out behind her. "How can you be so dismissive of something so... so..." The thief trails off, Mercury, once again, having needled her prickly pride and emotions with minimal effort.
He points at the red-eyed girl with both hands "Thief. You have to worry about motivations and beliefs and values and all that crap to know who is gonna have what and if it's worth taking or not." He pauses, and turns his fingers back on himself. "Assassin. If they look human, and die like them, anything else I need to know will be target specific."
Cinder offers him a reassuring smile "Yes, their vital organs and weak points line up with their humanoid forms. However, with their roughly ten-thousand year lifespans and each individual possessing a unique power similar to a semblance that grows as they age, many are–understandably–dismissive of humans. If you encounter Angels of either variety in the field with more than one set of wings–who aren't members of the Myriad of Destruction–you are to prioritize your task and survival over combating them. The same general orders stand if you encounter any devils with a sense of presence, equal or greater to that of a four-winged angel. As to the attack that wiped out the Grimm earlier today, all Angels are able to preform the base technique, but from what I have been told and seen, they lack the power, stamina and precision to use it on such a scale. Most rarely employ more than a half-dozen of the basic construct, at several orders of magnitude less powerful than what you saw today."
Emerald blinks, clearly processing everything she has been told before continuing "So, if we run into Arc during our plans for the end of the Vytal Tournament..."
"Your task, and survival. Happily they will be one and the same at that point." Cinder replies sweetly, emphasizing survival just enough to make it seem like she is more concerned with the latter than former.
Mercury kicks a half-crumpled can down the street. "You're telling me I have to let that nerd go if I catch up with him once we're done keeping our heads down?" At least he had been paying attention to Emeralds report on what she'd seen Teams JNPR and RWBY involved in earlier. Cinder nods, and Mercury scoffs. "Tch. Lame."
Emerald casts a sidelong glance at the gray haired teen. "Your funeral, idiot." She shifts back to focus on Cinder as the assassin starts grumbling to himself. "You mentioned something about a 'Myriad of Destruction' a bit earlier?"
Cinder nods "Are all Humans and Faunus gathered into single, monolithic socio-political bodies?" Emerald blushes a bit, shaking her head at the prompt. "You know the uniform of our allies by now, and will probably see their sigil up close before the night is done, and that is all you need to worry yourself with. Now, as the Fall Maiden, I am something of an outlier amongst humans, so when I am present you will defer to me on what we can and cannot combat." Emerald nods, and Mercury perks up at that. "Now, as we are meeting with my actual equal when it comes to our operations here in Vale, both of you are to kneel, and remain silent once we reach the room this Anael is waiting for us in. Any questions or comments you have can be directed to me after our meeting here is finished.
The building itself is monolithic, towering above the gated communities walls, the manors homes and mansions within, apartment complexes and businesses by at least a dozen stories. Its walls are polished white marble, accented by fluted columns and surrounded by a series of well kept courtyards and busy but not overfull parking lots. The casual opulence is easily enough to remind Cinder of her youth and set her blood boiling. The staff are all garbed in crimson and gold suit-coats with neatly pressed white slacks, and there are plenty of them–not a single slave in all but name wearing threadbare rags–which eases her mood. The building's interior is just as well appointed as its facade. From the tiles to the carpet, to the trim and fixtures set in the walls. Add in a few sneering, petty bitches and an overbearing sow and it would be just like 'home'.
The conference they are led too is well lit, though the table that most would expect to be the rooms core feature is shoved up against the left wall, allowing for a desk with a throne-like chair behind it to dominate the space. The Fallen Angel behind it is an aristocratic looking man, his half dozen wings draped over the back of his chair, neatly combed hair a deep shade of rust-red shot through with black, a neatly trimmed goatee on his chin, equally neatly trimmed sideburns framing his face. Deep crimson eyes lock on Cinders golden as soon as she leads her followers into the room. The lead Fallen Angel is dressed in a deep crimson suit, with a black shirt under the jacket and a white tie with an Eldredge knot hugged up tight to his neck. He has a pair of two winged Fallen behind him to either side, clad in the same charcoal hakama, kosode and polished breastplate that Suriel and his cadre had worn out to play their part in the Breach earlier today.
Both Emerald and Mercury drop to their right knee and lower their heads as Cinder confidently sashays towards her most recent partner from the Myriad. "Cinder Fall." she introduces herself, offering a hand as she reaches the Fallen.
"Anael." The man replies, extending one of his to accept the gesture. Black-lacquered, claw-like nails glinting in the light as he does so. "I trust you didn't have any difficulty finding my base of operations then?" he asks, voice a low rumbling bass.
Lacking anywhere to sit, Cinder ambles over to a drinks tray that had been left on the conference table. She takes her time looking over the offered refreshments before she replies. "It was a simple matter." She replies, before settling on a decent looking Red and pouring herself a glass.
"I am heartened to hear that you are at least able to follow basic directions." Anael drawls, gesturing for her to pick up the pace. "If you would…" It takes every ounce of Cinder's self control to not snarl, sneer or otherwise lash out at the Fallen for both slights. Contrary to what she had told both Mercury and Emerald prior, she cannot afford to make an enemy of anyone even remotely approaching the level of power needed to unleash the attack that halted the Breach in its tracks. At least, not until she has acquired the entirety of her power as the Fall Maiden.
She fills a second glass and walks it to his desk. She sets it down just outside his reach, forcing him to rise–ever so slightly–to take the libation. "An interesting location for a base of operations, I am curious what your reason for choosing it was."
Anael cradles his glass of wine in his left hand, idly swirling the drink before taking a sip. He sets the glass down and leans forwards "I'm hearing mostly Mistral and Atlas from you. With how–disappointing–my subordinates you previously worked with were, I doubt they explained much of actual use to you. This district hosts the ancestral homes of some of Vale's oldest, most wealthy and influential families."
Cinder nods, taking a sip from her drink. "Power, of course, draws power."
"And much of it here is mine. If not directly than through favors owed and debts due." Anael continues, a pleased smirk on plain display beneath darkly glinting eyes. "As to those individuals and families that have not joined our cause, and cannot be convinced to do so when the time comes…" the smirk shifts to something darker, with far more teeth bared. "Well, the contents of the half-dozen shipping crates your pet thiefs hired muscle brought me will deal with those easily enough."
Cinder allows herself a smile. "And with both Beacon and the Capital ablaze, the people will flock to any pillar of stability."
Anael snorts. "Oh, the building itself will remain intact. A hotel for a seat of governance absolutely reeks of either desperation or a military junta. My agents have a list of key officials and pieces of infrastructure to target. After letting the people stew in fear and grief for a few weeks after our night and fire they will happily welcome the old nobility back to power, and cheer as we ascend to the capital." He takes another drink from his glass, before lacing his fingers under his chin.
"Just a list of targets, no proper plan?"
The Fallen Angel waves his hand dismissively. "Please, as if I would be so foolish as to waste precious time and energy on a gambit that would no longer be of any worth after hostilities commence." Cinder shifts, but Anael silences her by holding a hand up. "Suriel and Sanvi were outliers amongst my subordinates. I prefer to surround myself with talent whenever possible."
Cinder takes in a slow, silent breath, and let's it back out. "And what of the third party interference to our operation today? Those were clearly spears of light being used." She isn't about to make accusations. Out loud, at least. She had notified Salem before leaving the dorm room serving as her current base of operations to attend this meeting. If Salem is unhappy with Cinder's most recent Fallen peer's behavior and actions, she can make them known herself.
Anael's eyes darken before he lets out a clearly practiced put-upon sigh. "The losses we suffered is, unfortunately, a debt I shall have to claim as my own for allowing such mediocrity, to fester amongst my subordinates. But a handful of animals and incompetents is a small price to pay to winnow out that weakness. There is no need for you to worry on that, however. You keep to your task, I'll keep to mine and we shall both be rewarded for our efforts in due time."
A well-practiced answer if she has ever heard one. Dissent among the ranks perhaps? No matter. Cinder nods. "I suppose that is for the best. Was there anything else, or can we both return to our business now that we have properly met?"
"There is one final matter." Anael intones before making a strange gesture with his hand that ends with his palm facing his face, fingers clutched around the open air. For a moment, he glances at it expecting to be holding something.
Cinder waits for nearly a minute before asking "And that was…"
Anael scowls at his palm before returning to a more natural position. "Something I will need to speak with my superiors about." He pauses again, offering Cinder a toothy grin "I certainly look forward to working with you, Ms. Fall." He waves in dismissal. Cinder hides her scowl by finishing off her drink, before spinning on her heel and striding from the room. Emerald and Mercury fall in behind her as she pushes the door open.
_-*R-DxD*-_
Night had fallen by the time Ozpin made it back to his office.
Between press conferences, meeting with the various police stations, fire houses and hospitals that had borne the brunt of the load dealing with the Breach's fallout, and acting as an intermediary between the Valean and Atlesian armed forces as well as their civilian counterparts. After adding in the Huntsman Guild and the Insurance Agencies of all four Huntsman Academies, to say the second half of his day had been busy would be the mother of all understatements.
So the chance to simply catch his breath and take in the Kingdom's skyline. Now that darkness has fallen and the last few trailing fingers of smoke rising from the few buildings still burning or recently put out can no longer be seen, it truly does look peaceful.
The elevator up to his office dings–the delayed tone for scheduled visits and non-emergencies–so he makes his way back to his desk and sits down at it. Phanuel–in his guise as Professor Port–enters the office, a quartet of thick manilla folders under his right arm. "I have the initial numbers from this afternoon." He somberly intones, crossing the space between the elevator and desk, setting them out.
Silence falls for the next few minutes as Ozpin leafs through the reports. Civilian, military, police and Huntsmen–professional and in training–it isn't a complete massacre, but the toll had been heavy. He pushes the folders back, more accurate reports will be forthcoming. He sighs "I fear that between this most recent attack and the hardships that have befallen Leonardo's students–current and former–in Mistral I fear that this year, if not this decade may be the harshest on our Huntsman and Huntresses in recent memory."
Port nods somberly. "I must also remind you that the kingdom's reserves of Auric Amps is down by fifty percent after today."
Ozpin suppresses a groan. "I will not beat a dead horse, but I do not like those drugs–developed by your subordinates–being used by our Huntsman corps."
Port's mustache ruffles, rather comically. "If you'd like, I can offer you estimated revisions to today's losses. Casualties and fatalities amongst the Academy students in particular would need to be adjusted up sharply."
The Headmaster holds up a weary hand to forestall a repeat of a by now old rant. "No, I understand the utility and necessity. I simply mislike the defenders of humanity taking what amounts to amphetamines for the soul."
Phanuel–in his guise as Port–offers him a wan smile. "I understand the worry. But if we cannot hold the line, we will never be able to push back against Salem." He forces a chuckle. "Besides, I doubt we will have to contend with the fall-out of a single, desperate Huntsman taking two or three teams worth of Amps at once trying to save the day."
Ozpin shakes his head, but can't quite force a smile at his friend's joke. "Yes, I suppose I can take solace in the fact that the chances of one of my students artificially expanding their Aura so far as to try to challenge the Brothers personally are vanishingly small."
"Especially with how tightly you've been keeping control on the drug." The Fallen disguised as a professor's scroll pings in his pocket. He checks it and sighs. "I'll have more accurate final numbers ready for you tomorrow morning. Many of my people are still either panicking, rallying for war, or checking in with me to swear innocence after Azazel's rather...Ostentatious display earlier today." His twitching eyebrow indicated Phanuel would be having words with their newest comrade at a later time.
"You are not the only one, old friend." Ozpin recalls Qrow's drunkenly bemused scroll call as he lets a gentle smirk cross his face. Normally he would be far more concerned regarding potential escalation between himself and Salem–And Azazel's open demonstration of power was a practical invitation for such a thing–but those thoughts were for later. The idea that the war could be won, at all, never failed to put him in a better mood. "Go, see to your people. I still have reports to go over before I can bring the rest of the Council up to speed. And they are waiting on me."
Phanuel nods, turns and begins striding back towards the elevator. The sole mode of conveyance to or from his office–excluding the teasing proclivities of a certain pair of twins–emits the same pleasant tone that had heralded the arrival of the now departing Fallen Angel in disguise. The door slides open just as Phanuel reaches it. Glynda, a stack of papers and folders tucked under the same arm as her riding crop strides forth. "Peter." She greets the Fallen Angel with a weary smile.
He returns the gesture as they pass each other, the doors sliding shut before his Deputy Headmistress is halfway across the office. As she strolls to a halt in front of Ozpin's desk. "Glynda, it is good to see you well. I take it the situation in the city is well in hand then?"
She sets the folders down on his desk. "The Breach has been sealed both on the street level, where the old subway line once connected Mountain Glenn to Vale, and as of the most recent report at the final surface breach fifteen miles down the line. Ms. Arc, her team and the emergency construction crews bullhead is due to touch-down at Beacon in half an hour."
He nods, and slides the two folders–far thinner than the ones Phanuel had just delivered. "And these are?"
"Briefings on how the general populace, media, and government are taking today's events." She pauses to take a breath and readjust the papers still tucked under her arm so that her riding crop wouldn't dislodge them. "In summary, the rest of the Council has accepted that we did our job and are ready to carry on with theirs. The Media has by and large accepted the official story of a thwarted and one-off extremist attack. That all responsible agencies are maintaining courtesy towards each other and keeping to the story is enhancing that effect."
"And the civilians?"
Glynda shrugs "Also accepting the story as we want them to believe it. But scared, the closer they are to the site of the Breach, the more they have been staying barricaded inside. A few of the more skittish people in some of the more sheltered neighborhoods and demographics are boarding themselves in as well, but…" She trails off raising her free hand in a 'what can you do' sort of gesture.
Ozpin nods"So as well as can be expected all things considered. I take it you still have something for me?"
She slaps a comparatively small stack of papers down on his desk. "Mr. Winchester's expulsion papers. Everything's filled out except for where your signature is required."
Ozpin maintains his professionally polite facade as he slides the papers back across his desk. "Oh, I don't think that is necessary quite yet, Glynda."
Scowling, she slaps her riding crop down, nearly hitting his fingers in the same stroke that immobilized the paperwork he was in the process of rejecting. "How do you not yet think it appropriate to expel that young man? Not only did he not pull Mr. Bronzewing out of sparring after the Academy's medical staff instructed him to do so, but he allowed the poor young man to participate in today's hostilities leading to his death. If you need any further reason to expel him, Mr. Lark's parents also lost a son today because Winchester was unable to keep his team together while on a mission, leading to Sky being killed as well."
Ozpin shifts the crop off the papers and shuffles them to the far side of his desk. "Mr. Winchester is another victim of the abuse that has been heaped upon his team. Perhaps not so much as the friends and families of the recently departed, but he has been at the mercies of a third party which has very little to spare for mortals, and likely has been his entire life."
Glynda's eyes narrow, and her fists come to rest on her hips as she glares down at him. That exact stance had lulled more individuals into a false sense of security and a lowered aura. A quick flick of the wrist could leave a deep welt on any unlucky to be on the recording end of a seat from her crop starting from there. "Explain."
"There is a second supernatural threat on Remnant. One that myself and the sole confidant I have kept on that matter for millennials had thought, until very recently, to be self-contained and dormant." Her face slackens in shock, Ozpin taking the opportunity to continue, "I fully intend to fully brief you on that particular threat. However, I do not wish to repeat myself, so I must ask you to remain patient and trust me, until Huntsman Branwen and Specialist Schnee will be able to travel to Vale once their missions have been completed at the end of the week."
Her scowl returns, "You had better, Ozpin. Especially if this conflicts escalation is beginning to affect our students." She spins on point, cape flaring behind her, and riding crop clanging loudly off his desk as she finishes her rotation. As she stalks from the office, Ozpin suppresses another sigh. He deeply, desperately wishes he could take that same elevator down a level to his personal lodgings.
However, he still has to meet with Azazel before he can even begin to consider whether or not he has accomplished enough for the day to allow himself to rest for the night.
_-*R-DxD*-_
Cardin trudges through Beacon's halls.
He's never been ordered to any of the professors' offices, despite his… antics. He'd been careful to never push things too far when snitchy-looking students or staff had been around. Twice as sure that no one but his team was so much as within earshot when doing whatever it was Suriel had ordered.
Not that any of that matters now.
He'd gotten the notice ordering him to an office deep in the faculty wing of the Academy before their bullhead back up had touched down. It's probably Goodwitch that'll be the one giving him the boot, Ozpin has too much of a 'nice guy' reputation going for him to be the one giving students the boot when they fuck up bad enough.
And Brothers, does it look like he fucked up big time to anyone who doesn't have the whole story. Not that anyone outside a handful of families would believe him if he told them.
He pauses for a moment outside the closed office door to make sure it's the same one he'd been ordered to in the text he'd gotten from the academy. The numbers line up, so he takes a deep breath, knocks hard on the door twice and steps in, announcing himself at the same time.
He is greeted by… Professor Peter "Land-whale" Port's T.A.?
"I trust you know why you're here Cardin?" The youthful grad student asks, face looking out of sorts in it's current somber cast instead of the typical optimistic cheer.
He shrugs back. "Getting expelled. Figured they'd at least have a full professor deliver that news."
The androgynous blonde snorts a laugh at that. "Not necessarily." Half a dozen black-feathered wings unfurl from Rojoa's back, and Cardin reflexively drops to a knee, fist planted on the carpet and head bowed.
That's...that's more wings than he's ever seen on a Fallen Angel.
The Fallen in question heaves a sigh. "Please, none of that. Unlike the crazy warmongers in the Myriad, those of us who work with Remnant's governments actually respect our human allies."
Uncertain, Cardin stands up, looking towards the Fallen to see a notepad, pen, and cup of something hot sitting on the desk now. "What-what is going to happen to me now, my-my Lord?"
"Just Rojoa, please." The Fallen airily corrects him. "And what happens to you is entirely dependant on what you decide to do next." Rojoa's wings flap as they retract into his back and the Fallen pushes a pair of stacks of paper at Cardin. Tapping the right-hand stack first. "You can stay loyal to the Myriad. I call in a few of my subordinates, more Fallen who aren't deluded enough to think the Great War is still active and worth fighting–"
"Not that someone as powerful as you would need the bodyguards to keep me in line if I got suicidal." Cardin cuts the Fallen off. His eyes widen and he swallows as the implications of that realization catch up to him.
Rojoa just shrugs. "I suppose not. But the extra help would let me put all of my focus into properly interrogating you." The chipper tone and ambiguity of that statement send chills down Cardin's spine. After a brief pause, Rojoa continues. "After I'm done extracting the information we need from you in that case, you'd be treated exactly how it looks like you should be. Expulsion, criminal charges from the Lark and Bronzewing families, life in prison blacklisted from working as a huntsman if you ever do manage to get out on parole." The Fallen explains almost disinterestedly.
Cardin winces. If the rumors are to be believed, traitorous Huntsmen do better in prison than pedophiles, snitches and former cops–but not by much. Plus, he is way too pretty for prison. "Option two?" He asks, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants and hoping his voice cracking hadn't been too noticeable.
Rojoa shoots him a cute, toothy smile that he is really not sure how he should feel about. "You sing like a bird, right here, right now. Every last thing you know about the Myriad, their allies and their plans. Even if you don't think we can do anything about it, you tell us. We have any more questions, you go where we tell you to then answer." The Fallen takes a breath, and slides the left-hand stack of paperwork towards him. "You also accept being legally and academically on probation until you either graduate Beacon or we ease off on your restrictions."
Cardin swallows hard. A good chance of being summarily executed by his former masters when they find out. His family and a lot of his old friends probably wanting nothing to do with him anymore once they find out. But he'd be a free man, and hopefully not just another disposable piece on the board to his new masters. "Aside from my freedom, is there anything I get out of working with you people?"
Rojoa gives a little hum and shrug to that question. "Ozpin actually likes the team configurations you and Ryse came up with earlier today, so those will get officially sanctioned." Big whoop. "Oh, and I'll look into whatever spell is on you right now before we start your debriefing."
Wait. What?
"Exactly what it sounds like. There's a piece of Fallen magic clinging pretty tightly to you. Any idea what it might be?" Rojoa quips. He must have said that out loud.
He thinks for a moment, before replying. "Umm, I mean, Suriel put a 'mark of loyalty' on me back on my thirteenth birthday. He had two other fallen standing behind him in ridiculously voluminous robes when he did it. Aside from the wings I couldn't make out a thing about them. The whole mess is kind of a rite of passage in my family and a couple others we're real close with. Not always the same Fallen we're swearing to serve, but…"
A magic circle flares to life in Rojoa's palm, about double the width of his outstretched fingers. He can feel–something–tugging at the space behind his solar plexus and away from Rojoa's magic circle. A second magic circle spins into existence covering most of his torso and—
"Cardin? Hey, Cardin, you okay down there?" Why is the room spinning?
Why does it feel like his entire body just got squeezed through a pastry bag?
And what is that fucking beeping—oh. That's his scrolls 'low aura' alarm. "What?"
"Someone just tried to fire off whatever spell they'd left on you." Rojoa informs him, voice-for once-mostly serious.
Cardin shakes his head, trying to clear it. After a few attempts he gives up, shifts his arms under his body and tries to stand up. His arms and legs give out almost as soon as he tries. Groaning, he rolls over. "Any idea what it did?"
Rojoa shrugs. "Didn't have very long to look at it before it went active. But, considering your Aura being a reflection of your soul, there aren't many options, and none of them would have been good for your health. Probably an attempt to pull your soul from your body if I had to guess–which would have been painfully fatal."
Well, being able to kill him–and probably his whole team if Suriel's tinkering with the Mark after he'd started impersonal Sky is any indicator–would certainly ensure his loyalty if you look at it from a certain point of view. Cardin takes a deep, calming breath. "What do you want me to start with?"
Rojoa helps Cardin to his feet and walks him over to one of the chairs opposite the office's sole desk. "Let's start with who you were working for, their plans and who they were working with."
Cardin shakes his head and lets out a humorless laugh. "Well, Suriel's dead. Arc took him and his shiny new squad of subordinates out earlier today. He was a pretty big fan of mushroom management, but here's what I know…"
_-*R-DxD*-_
Roman rolls over on his cot. Needling the Tin General had been fun, cathartic even. Guy has a stick up his ass a mile long and so many poorly buried complexes and hang-ups that he barely had to try. The way he'd gone off on Ozpin before at first though…
If he had work to take care of right now-wasn't stuck in a cell with barely enough space to pace more than a dozen steps in any direction-he probably never would have noticed just how hung up on the past part of him had been. Yeah, sure, the preachy old headmaster, nominally at least, was responsible for a lot of the crap that had fouled his life up. The Old Man certainly had a hand in how he'd thought it was supposed to turn out once upon a time, but-older and more analytical as he is now-it pretty clearly wasn't Ozpin's fault things went to shit on him. That's just the way life is. And Roman had jumped down the poor bastards throat without any real provocation or warning when he was just trying to do his job.
Not like he'd really known himself that he had that much resentment following him around. Actually being face to face with the old man for the first time in so long had brought it all roaring out into the open before he could get a hold of himself, let alone think before the words had started flying.
Hell, since he'd starting gathering his Matchsticks-even some of the jobs he'd done with old friends he'd been doing for years before that-Lady Lucks capricious touch had messed plenty up on him. He's lost good talent on jobs that were entirely his from mark down to plan, seen enough partners, friends and accomplices get pinched out of a crowd and been powerless to help, and poured out more drinks for the ones not around anymore than he'd care to count.
He gets it.
Ozpin is just one guy. Him and Jaundice had just been a scrap of poor white trailer trash that refused to go back where he'd come from and a yuppy desperate to not just rest on the laurels his parents had set up-respectively. He'd tried-for both of them-probably more than they'd deserved, if he's being totally honest with himself. Brothers screaming the old bastard down had felt good. But dammit if he can honestly-now that the last dregs of all that bottled-up shit had been burnt clean-say that Oz had deserved that. With right around a hundred new freshmen coming in each year it's a miracle Ozpin even remembers him as a student so many years after the fact.
Well, unless the old coot's tastes had really changed over the last few decades, he knows how to make it up to him. Sure, he'll probably end up getting shafted on the price, but with the Pride as his personal ride, getting some of the really good hot cocoa mix out of mistral-the stuff they don't export-and leaving it outside Oz's office won't be that hard to pull off.
Leaving a few cinnamon sticks sticking out of the bag along with a few good cigars thrown in to boot shouldn't make it too hard for Oz to figure out who the parcel was from-or that it was an apology-gotta keep the books balanced and all that.
AN: Right, so, I went into this chapter fully intending to get to the big talk between RWBYJNPR and a few other 'big deal' scenes. Started with the smaller scenes, figured I'd build up to the big deal scenes. Then it was the end of the month, I was already right around my usual target for a chapter and both of my Betas were telling me that trying to fit in that bit would 1)balloon the chapter massively and 2)probably not be something we could get finished to a decent quality before the month ended. So, yea, sorry for pushing back the BIG scene another chapter, but it'll be worth it, I promise. Remember the first Azazel/Ozpin talk/interaction? It's probably gonna look like that, with a few other equally big scenes coupled with it.
That bit of disappointment aside (and I'll make it up to all of you awesome people, I promise!), loved it? Hated it? Currently bleeding out of your ears and pretty sure you need to see a doctor? Drop me a review! That shit motivates the hell out of me!
Beta'd by MasterPrince713 and Hybrid Theory