Artemis was used to being firmly at the top of his classes. They had utterly failed to challenge him, not being prepared for a genius of his caliber. Here at Signal, he found himself vying to match Ruby's grades in every class that involved sparring, weapons, gymnastics, anything that involved the slightest coordination or acrobatics... which is to say that he had the worst grades in the class. He sighed as he read a note from his teacher... he had been 'excused' from this lesson, alongside a number of equally disappointing classmates.

"Artemis Fowl,
Due to your difficulties with combat oriented classes, you've been transferred from Close Quarters 1 to Remedial Practice. This course is designed to expose you to tools and techniques you may not have considered, in the hopes that you can find a fighting style that suits you. Please report to the marked location on your campus map during this period from now on.
-Dean Grayson"

Ruby was looking sadly at a similar note, her eyes glistening with a stubborn refusal to cry in the most adorable- 'Focus, Fowl' he chastised himself.
"Well... at least they haven't given up on us entirely yet," Artemis heaved a sigh. His first taste of academic failure was rather bitter. He hadn't even done this poorly in Physical Education at his old private school. Though, even at St. Bartlebys, that was a difficult class to fail.

"But we won't get to train with Carmine and Burgundy anymore!" Ruby whined. "What if we don't do any better here? What if they flunk us out? What if we don't get to be hunters?"

'What would a friend do here?' Artemis thought as Ruby began to fret. It wasn't that he was completely ignorant of social norms, but this was a few steps removed from a mathematically perfect romance novel. 'Reassurance through physical contact,' Artemis' brain eventually supplied. He moved to put a hand on her shoulder, to cut off her train of thought. And he would have succeeded if she hadn't moved, already a few paces ahead of him. He jogged to catch up. "And what if we do just fine? There's no use panicking sight unseen."

Ruby took a steadying breath. "You're right... Just... you know how important this is to me."

"I know, Miss Rose." He began to walk, leading the way. "Come on. We shouldn't be any later than we have to be."

They made their way to a building on the far side of campus, a large structure not unlike a gymnasium. Inside however, was a sunken pit filled with a hoarder's junkyard. There were stands on the outside, looking down into a basement, what once was a gym floor clearly cut away to reveal the floor beneath. Artemis could see the remnants of basement walls at the edges of the pit, an entire building crudely repurposed.

"Nice of you to show up," the teacher said from somewhere behind them. "Now that everyone's here, we can get on with the lesson."

"Uncle Qrow!" Ruby gasped, suddenly excited. "I didn't know you taught this class!"
"Not while we're at school," he said, firmly.
"Sorry unc- Mister Qrow," Ruby corrected herself, still giddy from the surprise
"Take a seat," He pointed at the wall behind them, another where another dozen students sat in the stands; some of whom Artemis could vaguely recognize. Once Artemis and Ruby took their seats, he began to lecture.
"Alright, listen up, 'cause I'm only going to say this once. You have been selected for this class because every weapon we've put in your hands has obviously been a waste of time." He paused a minute, and Artemis caught the very edge of a suppressed smile. Everyone else in the class was cringing, or staring at their shoes. When Qrow caught his gaze, the edge of a smile tugged at his jaw. A subtle nod. 'He's going to be interesting to work with.'

"But that ain't your fault," he said, seizing everyone's attention.
'Induce doubt, then provide hope. Very clever.' Artemis thought. This was a teacher he could work with, a teacher that understood the value of subtlety and guile.
The huntsman drew the blade on his hip, held on by what could only be magnets. The giant blade grew, shifting itself into a massive scythe. He could hear Ruby desperately suppressing the urge to leap to her feet and fawn over the weapon.
"You're not gonna find something like this off the shelf. This is what this class is for. Standard doesn't work for you, so you're gonna figure out what does." He turns his whole body pointing down into the basement with an infectious grin. "This here is the Pit! The finest collection of useless crap in all of Vale. Thousands of lien worth of assorted knick-knacks, castoffs, and broken shit. This is your arena and your armory! Everyone spread out around the edge. When I call your name, you hop down and find something to fight with!"

"Sir, I beg your pardon," Artemis said, "Shouldn't we change into our gym uniforms?" He was wearing what he found comfortable, a business casual three piece suit that most students would balk at. Hardly fitting garb for a sparring match.
"The world's not going to wait for you to find your shorts, Fowl." Qrow growls as the class begins to spread out nervously. They weren't expecting to be thrown into it quite so quickly. "Alright, the usual rules! You fight until your Aura's in the red. I'll keep an eye on it, so if I say to stop you stop. There's ladders on all four walls to climb back out. If you get thrown out of the Pit, hop right back down. You're not done until you're in the red. When one of you's out, I'll tag someone else in. Pay attention to your classmates, go with your gut, and remember that the last one standing gets an A! Rose, Silver, Tundra, and Shales, down you go!"

The Pit was chaos incarnate, it was a maze of low tables, unstable mounds, and high furniture. Ruby had started by bracing against a cabinet and pulling off one of its doors for a makeshift shield, but then the other girl, Shales, was on her with a rusty kitchen knife, hacking wildly like she could chop her way through. At the other side of the maze the other two were seizing random detritus and hurling them at each other from a distance like a madman's version of dodgeball. Ruby was on the defensive the entire time, eventually ditching her sundered shield and picking up a yardstick, a dustpan, a frying pan, endlessly backpedaling while the chef's knife either sundered them or dashed them out of your hands.
"Rose!" Qrow barked "Use your aura, strengthen your tools!" . Ruby makes a desperate grab, chipping the old knife on a hastily reinforced wiffle bat.

The fights rolled on, both Silver and Tundra knocking each other into the red when they went for the same projectile and knocked over a bookcase, someone named Sanders replaced Ruby when Shales caught her in the back with a steel ladle. Then the moment Artemis was dreading arrived as Qrow snapped, "Fowl!" He'd wisely ditched the jacket and the tie and un-tucked his shirt for mobility. He landed hard on stiff, unforgiving leather shoes and made a beeline for the first candidate he'd picked out, a rusty fire axe. Unfortunately for Artemis, the head of the axe fell off as he brought it to bear, crashing against something glass on the floor and giving away his position. Shales was on him in seconds, flashing a fanged faunus grin as she rushed toward him, seizing the handle of a steel travel mug and drawing back like it was a set of brass knuckles. The axe's handle splintered as he used it to block, barely in time. He jumped back reflexively, grabbing the side of a bookshelf and tipping it down into her path. He darted around a table of magazines, casting his eyes around for anything he could use. Unfortunately, he never got the chance. He'd run right into one of the other students, swinging a length of steel chain like a bullwhip. Between the chain and the mug, he was bludgeoned quickly into the red, limping his way gratefully to the ladder. Yet, in spite of the thrashing he'd just endured, he found himself smiling as he sat down next to Ruby, leaning back into the stands behind him.
"Well... that was different," He panted.

~o~o~

Far away, but not terribly so, a bell jingled as a shop door opened and shut. "Welcome to Tukson's Book Trade! Home to every book under the sun!" A young voice sang from the back room. "I'll be with you forthwith- er, just a moment!"
Dr. Bartholomew Oobleck raised an eyebrow. He was a regular here, he knew the slogan by heart, but the voice was new. As was the face that greeted him as he stepped out of the back room doors. A faunus with prominent horns and a wide, welcoming smile... and the most peculiar tattoo draped across his face. It almost looked like-
"How may I help you today, good sir?" Ifrit asked cheerily. His accent was strange, as if someone had filed a sharp edge onto old atlesian
"Good afternoon!" The doctor smiled, his words tumbling out of his mouth with familiar speed. "Mr. Tukson said that my order was in. 'A History of Frontier Warfare' by Dr. Argent Hues?"
The youth nodded, reaching under the counter. "Let's see... Oh! You're 'Oobleck'?"
"Doctor Oobleck," he said with barely restrained annoyance.
"Oh? I took you for a scholar or a businessman from your attire... but then I suppose that would be quite out of place for a trip to the bookstore. Hardly room for a novel in a medical bag..." The young faunus rambled as he wrapped up the book, his every word continuing to fascinate the professor. He spoke like a character from a bad period novel, but so earnestly that he couldn't believe that he meant to mock him.
"Pardon me for asking," Dr. Oobleck began. "But why are you talking like that?"
"I'll not bore you with my life story, but I will say my education has been woefully lacking until very recently," Ifrit understated. "Will that be debit, credit, or lien?"

"...Lien, here." The good doctor managed, handing over a stack of colorful plastic. The youth's fingers were swift, quickly making change and presenting the bag... only to snatch it back.
"Pardon me, one moment!" He opened the bag again, and scanned the book. He printed the receipt without looking at the total, and tucked it into the bag with the book. Oobleck glanced at the register and did some quick math in his head. The total was correct, tax included.
"Interesting. Young man, why do you call yourself uneducated?" He asked.
"Because it's true!" Ifrit chortled. "I've only been attending Four Colors High for about three fortnights, and my former settlement had but a single book for the whole island. Truth be told it wasn't a very good one."

"Young man, do you expect me to believe you can calculate an algebra problem in your head without breaking conversation with less than two months of formal education?" The good doctor's voice had the subtle weight of authority to it. Many students had folded beneath it, flimsy excuses for neglected homework falling apart before his eyes. Yet never before had he witnessed a child so young be so utterly unimpressed. He didn't even blink.

"I don't particularly care what you choose to believe," Ifrit shrugged. "My story is strange, but I've not said a false word to you. Make of that what you will. Can I help you find anything else today?"
"I-" Oobleck faltered awkwardly. "No, I suppose not. Well, good day Mr...?"
"Monochrome."
"Mr. Monochrome," Oobleck nodded. "Good day!"

Hours later, the days errands done and his new book completely forgotten in his quarters, Dr. Oobleck zipped around Beacon's library, fueled by his semblance and whatever the hell was in his flask. He rushed from section to section, each blurred dash bringing another few books to the table he'd claimed. He knew he had seen characters like the ones on that faunus' face before, and the mystery itched in his overclocked brain. Historical texts were long forgotten at the bottom of his stacks. He'd checked fiction books from all four of the major kingdoms, collected tomes of legends, he'd even started looking through that old book of stories Ozpin had insisted on adding to the curriculum. Even at the utterly ridiculous pace at which he could study, the pace that had let him claim a doctorate before his thirtieth birthday, it took him hours to sort through the possibilities. He began to wonder if he'd imagined it, or if it was some new gang mark that he'd seen a bulletin for and forgotten. Beacon's library was one of the largest for a considerable distance, and his list of possibilities shrunk with each passing hour despite the additions that trickled across it as they occurred to him. Eventually, as his flask ran dry and the librarian's pestering shifted from "Go home, Barty," to "Some of us sleep, Bartholomew."

Admitting defeat, he returned to his quarters. It wasn't quite tomorrow yet, but he could see it from here. He set some instant noodles to steep, having long since missed last call at the cafeteria, and started scrolling through the news on his phone. He was halfway through said noodles when he choked in surprise. After catching his breath, and cleaning the remnants of mostly masticated noodles from his scroll, he looked at the photo again. A faunus speaking before a crowd, with tattoos just like Monochromes across his face; strange runes bordered by razor thin lines in a striking scarlet. It was tabloid, the kind of newsprint that he wasn't fit to line a basket of fries. It couldn't be where he'd seen those tattoos before, he wouldn't spare media like this a passing glance. But it's a poor huntsman that would ignore a lead, no matter how tenuous. He rolled his eyes as he took in the headline: 'The Eighth Family: Cult or Congregation?' The article was less than credible. It was alarmist, utterly failing to conceal the author's racism behind a paper thin veneer of neutrality. He'd write to the editor if he thought they'd bother to read it, something he doubted after the third grammar error. He'd scoff and write it off entirely if not for the photograph. A few passages stuck out at him, the few grains of what could be truth that propped up the article.

"... the so-called 'Warlock' that leads this organization had a strange way of speaking, and maintained this affectation even when he wasn't giving his sermon..."
"...followers wear henna tattoos to imitate the ancient writings this 'Warlock' was supposedly born with..."
"... a charming example of racial equality, faunus and humans are supposedly equally welcome in the nomadic tent city..."
"...spreading alarmingly fast, thanks to Preachers who wander from village to village, spreading lies and corrupting the youth..."

The article rambled on about unsubstantiated claims of healing injuries and sickness through some kind of 'dark semblance', which was about when he realized he wasn't going to get much useful out of it. Oobleck scoffed, trying his best to put the article out of his mind. And yet, it lingered even as he laid down to sleep. And when brushing his teeth in the morning. And proctoring a test. It lingered all the way into the teacher's lounge after lunch, when he poured himself yet another cup of coffee.

"It's not like you to leave the coffee pot empty, Barty," Professor Port chided. Oobleck blinked, only just realizing his mistake. It wasn't just rude to leave the pot empty, he drank more coffee than any of his colleagues. When the coffee flow stopped, people noticed. "Something on your mind?"

"Yes, though I'm not sure it's something I should be wasting my time on," he replied smoothly, as his hands blurred in front of him to set up a new pot. Filter, grounds, cinnamon, nutmeg, more grounds, lid, start. "I met the most peculiar young man at the bookstore yesterday, he had this tattoo I could swear I'd seen before," He began, his speech accelerating as his semblance synced his mouth with his mind. "And I spent all day trying to figure it out and now I have to apologize to Angela because I kept her late at the library, but that's not the point, where was I? Ah, then I found where I might have seen it, but the source was garbage, and the only reason I even read the article was the photograph of a different man with the same kind of tattoo as the one I saw at the bookstore. I've got this nagging feeling that it means something but I don't know what-"

"And is there a reason you can't just ask him?" Port asked, his moustache tilted in a wry smile.

Oobleck rolled his eyes. "What am I supposed to do? Just waltz back into the bookstore and say-"
~o~o~
"Excuse me, are you in a cult?"

Ifrit could only gawk in utter confusion, while Port lingered near the shop door trying not to laugh. His first impression couldn't have been that poor, could it?

Tukson broke the silence. "Doc, what the f-"

Author's Note:
Well, it's certainly been a while. Five months, if I have the dates right. I'd like to apologize, between writer's block and summer classes there just wasn't much getting done. So I'm going to continue to try to get monthly updates done, but from here on out there are officially no promises. There are authors out there who can keep up monthly schedules, weekly schedules, even some that are almost daily. I'm just going to have to accept that I'm not one of them and keep practicing so I don't wind up with an annual schedule.

Also, to all my readers on fanfiction dot net, I have a question for you specifically. I'm not happy with the restrictions that this site uses, to the point of editing my text automatically. I've tried to work around it but I'm honestly getting tired of doing it, when it works at all, and it's borderline impossible to advertise the discord server which is still very quiet. I am considering just no longer posting here and moving entirely to AO3. The problem is that most of my readers are here, by orders of magnitude. So the question is; if I go entirely to AO3, will you follow?