Authors Note:
After a disappointing amount of feedback on AO3 exclusive chapters, I've decided to resume posting on both sites. From now on if this site significantly alters my text, I'll make a note that its been abridged and that those interested can look at the unaltered version on AO3.

~o~o~

Blake was doing well for being homeless. When most people find themselves on the street, they go where they don't need money. Libraries, parks, tents, and other such uncomfortable places. Either that, or they'd pick somewhere cheap to bleed cash as slowly as they could, like a motel or a hostel. But Blake was smart; it was the off season for tourism, and you could get away with a lot if you could avoid being seen. She'd gone to an old hotel, the kind that still used keys instead of electronic locks, in a ritzier part of town. The penthouse suite was the most expensive room, which meant that it was also the least used. Two minutes with a bobby pin had gotten her in, and she'd barred the door with a chair just in case. Safe, secure, and unlikely to be noticed. At the very least, nobody could get into the room without her hearing it.

Now, she wasn't exactly living in luxury. Room service wasn't an option, and she couldn't order delivery either. In fact, leaving at all was a risk she couldn't afford. This room was supposed to be vacant, and she'd have to leave the moment someone realized it wasn't. She had her own supplies in her backpack, and the minibar, to last her for a few weeks before she'd have to make a run, and she was perfectly content to cook for herself in the hotel's kitchenette. Better beans and rice for a few weeks than getting busted over a tuna melt. ' Mmm... tuna melt...'

For now life was more or less routine. Look up the news in the morning, read, practice her blade katas or listen to music around noon while nobody was around to hear it, and stay silent for the few hours guests could check in. Just in case she heard a key in the lock and had to grab her things and abscond out the fire escape.

It wasn't the most comfortable life, but it wasn't nearly as unpleasant as it could be. She'd had more than her share of bad nights working with the White Fang. Sleeping on a technically stolen bed was leagues better than sleeping on a cardboard mat, or sharing barracks with a dozen other people. Besides, she often reminded herself, it wasn't forever. Just had to wait until the heat died down, then she could go find some work to tide her over until Beacon held their entrance exams. With real world experience under her belt, getting in would be easy. Staying hidden would be much harder. Just as long as she wasn't placed in a dorm.

Sometimes she wondered how Ifrit was doing. That faunus she'd stumbled into when she initially escaped. He was such a bright, sunny person. Surely he'd be doing well for himself. She did leave him with someone to look after him. Though Tukson probably knew she was a traitor by now. But he wouldn't take that out on a child. At least, Blake hoped he wouldn't.

Maybe she'd pay him a visit the next time she went out for supplies. Sooner rather than later... and she really could go for that tuna melt.

~o~o~

Ifrit didn't know what to make of Doctor Oobleck. He was fairly certain he wasn't part of the family. Not only did he lack the tattoos, he didn't carry himself like a demon. Abbot had gone to drastic lengths to make sure they were all aggressive, rude, uneducated people. Even if they'd had a school, no self-respecting demon would have the patience to earn a doctorate. So where was this coming from?

"Doctor Oobleck," Ifrit began with surprising calm. "Before I answer your question, I feel I must ascertain your intent. This is a most curious accusation, after all."

"I wouldn't call it an accusation-" he began, fumbling for his scroll.

"Well I certainly would. It took me considerable time to clear the air at school. Between my horns and my marks, my classmates were depressingly hostile at first. Though they did come around once I had the opportunity to explain that I wasn't associated with some nefarious sect."

"That's why actually... here." He handed Ifrit his scroll, the tabloid article on display. "Loathe as I am to cite a questionable source, your tattoos are distinctive." Ifrit scrolled through the photos, scrutinizing the marks. They were crude forgeries, at best. The ribbons of script were clearly emulating demon marking, but they weren't consistent. In some places the patterns took odd turns or sharp angles, others had clear smudges on the line work, and several had runes drawn backwards or upside down.

"Well these are hardly Names. There are many mistakes. Odd angles, inverted runes, smudges. These aren't genuine, but it's quite concerning that they were clearly working from genuine examples."

"Names?" Tukson asked. "So your tattoos are supposed to be your name?"

"Yes, it was a noble and ancient tradition where I come from," Ifrit lied. It was easier now, after he'd had to trip over his words to explain it at school. In truth, a demon's true name was something they had from birth. One of Abbot's first edicts was to forget the old language, to replace their Names with human numbers and monikers. If anyone could still read them, they had been wise enough to hide it since before Ifrit had been born.

"I never learned to read it, but I can at least tell you these markings aren't like mine. Who are these imposters anywuh-" Ifrit's jaw dropped as he found the title of the article. His brain locked up in disbelief and confusion. "The Eighth Family!?" He fumbled the scroll, dropping it against the counter with a clatter. His ears filled with uncountable jeers and insults as the world seemed to fall away. He stood frozen as the memories ripped through him, every swift kick, every claw mark, every bite from his peers and better searing across his skin as his breath caught in his chest. He remembered that last day... the day Abbot looked into his eyes and his voice took on that musical, layered quality that painted over his mind with foreign will... but the voice never came. As soon as he opened his fanged mouth, pain like a dagger between his horns pulled him back to the real world clutching at his temples as he hunched over.

"...breathe Ifrit! Breathe!" Tukson was holding his shoulders firmly, trying to catch his gaze. Realizing he was hyperventilating, he forced himself to take a deep breath.

"What-what-" he wheezed, unable to force the words through chattering teeth.

"Focus on your senses," Oobleck's voice was different. Calm, firm, and with a slowness that must have taken him a lot of effort. "Tell me something you can see."

"Tukson?" He questioned, his eyes drawn to his boss' concerned face. "I see Tukson."

"Good, something you can hear?" The teacher pressed.

"Automobiles... on the road..." Ifrit's breathing was beginning to slow.

"Good, now touch?" Oobleck's tone never wavered, though his eyebrow arched upwards.

"The carpet." When did he fall to the floor? He looked around, realizing that Tukson's grip on his shoulders were the only thing keeping him upright. His breathing calmed, his chest heaving deeply as he stood up. "What on earth happened just now?"

"A flashback," Tukson sighed. "They're not that uncommon if you're warstained."

"Professionals call it PTSD nowadays," Oobleck commented at Ifrit's confused expression. "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder." Ifrit nodded, resolving to look it up as soon as he could. Whatever a 'flashback' was, he had no desire to experience it again.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Tukson offered, apprehensively. Ifrit frowned, staring at the ground as he massaged his temples in a vain attempt to banish the splitting headache. If he was honest with himself, he did want to talk about it. Still, Blake's warning rang in his ears. He liked his life, more or less. There was plenty to learn, his job wasn't demanding, even the bullies at school were nothing compared to demons. Compared to his old life he was treated like a prince, and he wasn't about to give it up. But this was too important. He couldn't just say nothing.

"No," he declared. "I daresay I do not. But I must inform you that these folk are imitating something that ought not be. The Eighth Family were dangerous, violent people, and they were led by a rather sinister character." He looked the teacher in the eye. "You must take great care if you find a fellow with marks like mine. They are unlikely to be quite so well-mannered."

Dr. Oobleck took the child's words in, verbose as they were. He could only imagine the past this child had endured, one he clearly thought he could escape if he hadn't tried to get his tattoos removed or covered up. He didn't think the young man would trust him, not mere moments after he handed him a panic attack, but he had to make it right. He pulled out his wallet, and fished out one of his business cards. Borrowing the pen Tuskon kept at the register, he scribbled a phone number on the back, and a name; Prof. Thumbelina Peach.

"Here," he handed Ifrit the card. "One of my colleagues at Beacon. In addition to botany electives, she's the school's counselor. Licensed psychologist and therapist, she deals with PTSD cases a lot. An occupational hazard. I recommend you speak with her, at least. Anything you tell her would be protected by doctor/patient confidentiality."

"Sir, I must protest. I am quite certain I have no desire-" Ifrit began.

"I understand, young man. But you should still have the option." Oobleck said, firmly. "It's an injury of the mind, and like any other injury it may fester if left untreated. I must ask you to consider it at the very least. It may be more helpful than you think."

Ifrit was taken aback. "I- I'm unsure of what to say. Thank you kindly, doctor."

"I can close up on my own today, if you want to take the rest of the day off." Tukson offered.

"No," Ifrit refused without a moment's thought. "I need to keep my mind occupied, I'm sure of it. I would much rather have the work, at least until my shift ends."

"Alright," Tukson sighed. "Let me know if you change your mind."

Oobleck nodded wordlessly to the both of them and left the store, finding Port outside. He rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the help, Peter," he huffed with caustic sarcasm as he started walking.

"You had it handled," he defended. "Besides, more people would have just overwhelmed him. I advised several customers to come back later." He heaved a sigh. "This is almost nostalgic. We haven't caused this much trouble since before you needed glasses."

In spite of himself, Oobleck chuckled. "Ah yes, before your moustache fossilized."

"Hey! It's distinguished!" Port smiled in mock protest before the levity faded. "So, how are we going to fix this?"

"I gave him Thumbelina's number," Oobleck said. "Mr. Monochrome needs professional help."

"You know she only sees students," Port raised a bushy eyebrow. "She's not nearly as fond of her degrees as you are."

Oobleck sighed. "I'll have to owe her a favor."

"Barty, you know that wasn't your fault," Port bristled. "You had no way of knowing what would happen."

"That's a flimsy excuse at best," Oobleck sighed. "I was too concerned with getting an answer to properly consider the question. This is why I'm an archeologist. I'm no good with people while they're alive."

"And you're a teacher because you know that's bullshit," Port was having none of it. "Look at the positives. If he has history with them, he was going to find out eventually. There are far worse places to have an episode than an empty bookstore. It could have gone better, but it also could have gone a lot worse. "

Oobleck felt a knot of tension somewhere in his chest loosen, and he let it out with a sigh. "Thank you Peter."

"Anytime, Barty," he smiled through his moustache. "Now, I think we could both use a cup of coffee. How do you take it again? Double espresso and eleven sugars?"

"Triple and twelve," Oobleck chuckled. "It has been a day."