Music: clipping. – Story


"If we can forgive what's been done to us... If we can forgive what we've done to others... If we can leave our stories behind. Our being victims and villains. Only then can we maybe rescue the world."

–Chuck Palahniuk, Haunted, Chapter 21


III. EXPEDIENT HOMEMADE PROBLEMS: 9MM REARING


Then…

The asscrack of dawn was stuffy and humid, as expected of an August day of basic. Led by a creatively sadistic loudmouth, fifty boys in green marched, voices united in wheezing misery.

"Lil' Jeb Shetland grew up on a farm,"

"Lil' Jeb Shetland grew up on a farm,"

"Suckin' Tyrone Bull, from dusk till dawn!"

"Suckin' Tyrone Bull, from dusk till dawn!"

"Then, o'er the pasture, on a rainy day,"

"Then, o'er the pasture, on a rainy day,"

"Mr. Bull came over, n' played with Annie May!"

"Mr. Bull came over, n' played with Annie May!"

"He said, 'Oh, Hitler! Aw, shucks!'"

"'That damn spade!'"

"'He put his thick, White Power,'"

"'In my Annie May!'"

"Lil' Jeb Shetland couldn't get up hard…"

Ashley forced himself to keep singing along, to distract from the dry needles poking at his throat and lungs. Step by step, his legs were turning jelly; the only reason they moved anymore instead of melting was barebone instinct and the healthy fear of an ass-chewing from his much-beloved drill sergeant.

Thank God he hadn't been drafted a fucking marine like a few poor bastards at his old school. Those guys had it even harder, to the point that they were forced to lose brain cells to cope. Still, Jamal wasn't lying – the National Guard really did go through the same shit as the army during training.

In fact, he shared everything with the army, even his fucking toothbrush. Welcome to Fort Haupt: newly built, and already overcrowded and undersupplied because it was making up for the loss of Fort Moore down south.

They say that misery loves company, and what better company was the one deep in the shit with him, sweating their balls off, and suffering day in, day out. Somehow, someway, by some weird trick of the human mind, that counted as encouragement and positive reinforcement.

To Ashley's right, Jamal stubbornly struggled on, looking worse for wear, and to his left was his assigned battle buddy, Jordan – or Jordie to those who knew him well.

The guy didn't even break a fucking sweat in the heat, he shouted the cadence with the body language equivalent to a shit-eating grin. And he was one built motherfucker too. Sure, Ashley may have been head and shoulders over the man, but goddamn if Jordie wasn't an Abrams-made-flesh, guns big and strong.

For that reason, Jordie was his clock. With every step Jordie took, Ashley would follow to the edge of the world, or at least the barracks. That was the weird thing about the military, you hated every second being Uncle Sam's bitch, but the people you meet, the men by your side…

You wouldn't trade them for the world.

"He said, 'Oh, Hitler! Aw, shucks!'"

"'That damn 'groid!'"

"'He put his thick, White Power,'"

"'In my boy toy!'"


After some nice and healthy PT, part of a nutritious diet of misery, everyone was made to wipe the barracks spick and span. Normally, it was a half-hour affair, but of course, Murphy's law had to come in the form of Private Fuck-Up.

"GODDAMN IT, OWENS!" Sarnt screamed at the bumblefuck, cleaning solution spilled over his boots.

Thus, they were forced to clean up all over again, screaming-induced tinnitus free of charge.

Another half hour later, they were dragged out and forced to march to one of the shitty classrooms to get their eyes PowerPointed out. Literally nobody paid any attention, they were all half trying to stay awake and half trying to look focused as an officer who hadn't held a gun since the fucking Biden Administration lectured them on what to expect out in the field.

Right now, Ashley was secretly chatting on a hidden IRC chat on his government-issued laptop while "typing notes". One of the army guys on the other side of the base figured out how to jailbreak the PCs and get around the spyware, and was so kind as to share it with the greenhorns. Another rule of military life, when there's a will, some guy will eventually find a way.

Ashley freely admitted it, he was a bit of a nosy motherfucker. It was just a shame that this great power was used responsibly, and by responsibly, he meant it was flooded with the most pointless, inane bullshit known to mankind.

Oh, So-and-So's girl got a visit from Jodie last week? Golly, what a surprise!

Andrew Tate's thinking about running for POTUS for the ten-thousandth time? Who fucking cares, the guy's a loser!

The current governor had a FurAffinity account and drew inflation porn back in the day? Funny, but not what he was looking for.

C'mon! Where's the good shit at!?

"And d-d-d-dewe's how you…" The whole time, the old officer up front was babbling over a Graphic-Design-is-my-Passion tier slide, sounding like a Pittburghese Elmer Fudd having an epileptic seizure.

But then, when he had finally given up all hope of obtaining some good tea…

Ding.

…Zeke from the third row saved the day with a precious little golden nugget of a rumor.

Oh shit…

Apparently, the media blackout from the West Coast was due to the fact that Communists had taken over Seattle, Portland, and Los Angeles… With the help of Chinese "volunteers". It appeared that Chairman Yin just couldn't help himself, the slippery bastard.

But alas, all not-quite-good things must come to an end. Before Ashley had time to process this information, Private Fuck-Up was caught sleeping again.

Sarnt cordially invited them all to a long, long smoke session outside. By 2100 hours, they came back to the barracks smelling like charred barbecue.


Now…

It was tough keeping this rifle steady on the shot; being a big, bulky thing, it looked like the rusted bastard child between an old M4 and the XM7-35 he lugged around back during the war. In Ashley's itty-bitty little hands, it was hilariously oversized.

There was an odd, distant familiarity to holding an instrument death again, but it was twinged by the discrete shape of the weapon. Sort of like meeting your estranged brother for the first time; you could see a resemblance to everyone else in your family and the face you see in the mirror every day. But something was just slightly off, and you didn't have the slightest gauge on what the guy's personality was like.

He had an idea in theory, but Ashley couldn't tell you practically what was gonna happen when he pulled this trigger.

"C'mon, boy, we don't have all day." Russell griped.

The old man had been hovering over Ashley for a while now, keeping a hawk's eye for the slightest mistake. This was his precious rifle after all – an old Atlas Army standard issue RAM-25 – he understandably didn't want some dumb brat shitting it up.

Instinctively, Ashley fell into his natural stance, built from years of service and a little touch of arthritis that wasn't covered on the GI medical insurance plan. He lined the paper target with the iron sights – Russell was an old-fashioned grognard who hated scopes like little kids hated their mommy's brussel sprouts – and then squeezed the trigger.

Bang! Bang!

The dirt kicked up twice in front of the target. He tried again

Bang! Bang!

Another one hit the ground, but this time, the other shot grazed the paper – nowhere near the actual target, though. With a sigh, he lowered the rifle and flicked the safety on. Evidently, muscle memory was doing him no favors here.

"Your stance is good, but you're undershooting, and overcompensating for the recoil," Russell instructed, "Relax a little, this isn't a Goliath gun. It's not going to break your shoulder unless you're a dumbass or a chickenshit – I know you're neither. Try again."

Taking a deep breath, Ashley flicked off the safety and raised the rifle again

Bang! Bang!

Two on the paper.

Bang! Bang!

Both hit the outer rings.

Bang! Bang!

He was getting it now… Two rings closer

Bang! Bang!

Almost…

Bang!

Bullseye!

Click.

Out of ammo.

Russell sat back, looking slightly impressed, "Shit, boy, you're a natural…"

Ashley, relishing the slight boost to his ego, handed the rifle back to its rightful owner. He didn't elect to disclose his previous years of practical experience, nor did he speak about the sharpshooter badge he earned in his service despite barely putting in any effort.

Silently, the old man signaled him to pay attention – he was about to go over how to disassemble, clean, and maintain each part of the weapon. When he was made to clean the barrel, there was a slight bit of red residue on the cotton cleaning patch. Russell snatched it off the rod, tossed it away and it instantly burst to ash and embers when he flared his aura.

Despite that, most of the components were familiar to everyone who ever owned a rifle, and the whole process was old news to Ashley. The only differences he could truly spot were that the barrel was a bit thinner than normal and that the bullets used a crimson mixture that was eighty percent made up of something called fire dust.

Dust. That's what they called the magical MacGuffin substance used in everything. Apparently, it was something mined out of the earth using… questionable labor practices, and Ashley has yet to see something that didn't at least use some combination of it indirectly.

Strange world he lived, where literal combat wizards used magic crystals as gunpowder for good ol' fashioned boomsticks. Wayne LaPierre must have been smiling somewhere up in purgatory.

Russell was done with his cleaning after a few minutes, and quickly put it back together smooth as butter. He gently placed it back into its case and locked it away for future lessons. Packing up, they retrieved their things and spent casings, and even picked up the targets for later burning at the camp.

One of the things that stood out in being Russell's ward was that the man was a nomad, or in less polite terms, a hobo. It wasn't because he was poor – the grimm-hunting business was well paying for the risk – nor was it for any hippie bohemian ideals. The man just wasn't one to ever put down roots anywhere – a true wandering soul.

However, that meant wherever the old man went, Ashley had to follow, be it a little tent in the grimm-infested woods, a shoddy motel off the highway, or a rustic inn where the locals did their damndest to make you feel unwelcome as hell.

It was quite the change from the usual trailer park life; whether it was a good one, that remained to be seen.

Still, with how much of a lone wolf (heh) Russell was at times, one had to wonder… Why did he bother bringing Ashley along?

After all, there was certainly no shortage of orphanages, with the reality of grimm attacks being frequent in these parts. Russell could've easily dumped Ashley off at any of the dozen they walked past these past few months. It wasn't like Ashley could do anything if the man did – the body he was stuck in was around 7-8-ish years old at most. What could a weaksauce pissbaby like him do to an experienced huntsman?

So, when they were almost back to camp, Ashley popped the question, "Not that I'm not thankful or anything, but… Why do you give a shit about me? It's not like you…" Ashley trailed off at the look in the old man's eyes

Russell paused for a second, before sighing. He didn't even bother scolding about cussing like he usually did, instead keeping his peace the rest of the way back.

Back at the camp, Russell retrieved his hiking backpack, digging deep into one of the secondary pockets. After a few seconds of rustling, he pulled out an old, slightly scuffed, silver locket; he popped it open, revealing a 1x1 inch hand-colored photo of two smiling young men.

The one on the left immediately caught his eye; if that one wasn't Russell he would eat his damn shoe. The young man was older and seemed to be around his mid-twenties. Cream orange hair clipped short, clean-shaven, with burning, motivated orange eyes. Without the big bushy Duck Dynasty beard and all those extra years weighing him down, Russell didn't look half bad. Certainly must have pulled a lot of gals back in the day. He wore a white military uniform of some kind too – and the gun on his back was exactly the same as the one he just fired out in the field.

While Ashley was entranced by the sight, the old man got down on one knee and put a hand on his shoulder, getting his attention, "I'm going to be honest with you… I took you in because I pitied you. The world out here isn't kind to children, especially faunus children, and…" Subconsciously, both their gazes tracked toward the angry red burns scars that splotted Ashley's alabaster skin. It looked straight out of one of those photos of the victims of the bombing of Hiroshima that Mr. Farouk casually showed during 10th-grade social studies class, "… I didn't want yet another dead child in my conscience, not when I was able to do something about it."

Wait…

Ashley glanced back at the locket, taking a close look at the one on the right. A younger man, a teenager most likely – very much rebellious with all the black clothing and piercings. Yet, it was obvious they were related, with the same general facial structure if a little more feminine.

But, what stuck out most of all were the colors… Bright red hair, vibrant blue eyes. The resemblance was uncanny.

Am I–? Did he really…

"I know what you're thinking, brat – no, you're not my little brother's secret love child," Russell immediately disabused the notion, "You're too young. He's long dead. And he didn't bat for the right team for that kind of fuck-up."

Batting for the right–? Oh, gay. Got it.

Russell shook his head, continuing, "But, when you look at something and they look like someone you cared about… well… The mind can play some funny tricks, you know?"

Ashley knew the feeling all too well.

One time, when he was patrolling near Erie, in January '53. There was a homeless girl who looked exactly like his little sister Mackenzie, eating straight out of the dumpster, thinner than a chicken bone.

It took every bit of his willpower not to break orders and take her in. Both the wignats and the commies loved to use child soldiers in their fucking rahowa and revolution… Ashley sincerely hoped they all suffered a long, agonizing death in the irradiated hell they created.

"How did he die?"

Russell's face turned hard, "Grimm attack. I was deployed up in the far north, fighting bandits, when a pack of grimm snuck into the village he lived at. A couple of apathies broke into his house, and he and his… friend were…" He stopped, wiping his eyes, "Ask again when you're older. You're too young for this shit," He ordered, not leaving any room for protest.

So it wasn't a pretty death, then… Jesus…

"And well, it messed me up. It messed me up real bad." Russell sat down fully, slumping a slight bit, "I started acting out, being angry at everyone and everything. Eventually, it got to the point where kicked out of the army for screaming at and punching my superior officer in the face. Brothers, he really knew how to press my damn buttons."

The tale continued in much the same way, detailing his descent to rock bottom until, "…One day, I had enough, and took the first flight to Vale to start all over again. Did a few years of odd jobs to tide me over… and soon enough, after ten or so tries, I finally passed that damn huntsman exam,"

He turned on his scroll, showing a blue colored ID, with a Unabomber-like photo of him plastered on the left above a barcode:


HUNTSMAN LICENSE – VALE

Name: Ocker, Russell

ID: 31200-00059-10268

Place of Issue: Vale

Authority: N/A

Restrictions: Class A


"Three decades of making a living smashing grimm and bandit heads, and here we are. There's my tragic backstory. Happy now?" Russell finished.

"Uh… not really," Ashley blurted honestly.

"Good. Life isn't some happy-go-lucky hero's tale where everything is right at the end. It's long, boring, miserable at parts, and with some good moments sprinkled in to almost make it worth it. That's your old man wisdom for the day," Russell scratched at his beard, before suddenly perking up, "Oh right! I gotta sign you up for school."

"Ugh! Do I have to?" Ashley whined, befitting his physical age, "I already know how to–"

"Nope! Not getting out of this one, brat," A hint of malice appeared in Russell's grin, "I'm not raising a Gods-damned illiterate…"

Damnit, man! You're not my dad!

Some things were just inescapable. Death, taxes, and the incompetent local education system.


Age 9 – At an unnamed forest…

Ashley perched himself high up in the trees. His eyes were strained from looking at a scroll all day. Yes, scroll – that's what they called these weird holographic smartphone things here.

The old man had followed through in his educational thread, and he was forced to attend online classes… Well, not "attend" per se; it was more watching boring videos all day and taking tests in between.

Right now, he had made it to this world's equivalent to sixth grade, and already, he was sick and tired of it. Russell had been impressed by how "bright" he was, but really, it was just him losing his patience with the endless slog of shit he already knew, and speedrunning the damn thing.

He wrote answer after answer with his stylus, each math problem taking at most thirty seconds. All of it being very simple PEMDAS-type shit.

"GRAAAHH!"Slash! Slash! Boom! "Grrr…"

Oh, right. Russell was fighting grimm down below while Ashley was busy taking this test.

It was funny how fast one could get used to the existence of literal shadow demons. Seeing those things get constantly hacked and slashed day in and day out by a scruffy old man did wonders for getting over his initial fears.

Of course, grimm were still freaky as shit to look at and their eyes creeped him out at the lizard brain level… But he wasn't pissing himself at every little encounter anymore. Progress!

Question ninety-eight, he was almost done now… Then, suddenly, the whole damn thing froze up on him. It lost connection for a few seconds.

Warily, he slid his finger down the screen to refresh…

Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease…

It successfully reloaded… but every one of his answers was wiped clean. He had to start the entire damn hundred-something-question math test all. over. again.

"FUCK!" Ashley shouted to the uncaring heaven, his self-control barely restraining him from smashing the scroll against the rough trunk.

"Grrrwwwwrrr…"

Unfortunately, it seemed his anger attracted a few uninvited guests to his tree. Looking down, it seemed that a few ursae were about to start climbing up his tree.

Fwip-Fwip-Fwip!

Until multiple orange arrows appeared mid-air, stabbing into each one's nape– Squelch! – then the arrows morphed into longswords, slashing and decapitating all the grimm, dissolving them into a sludgy, oily mess.

Seconds later, Russell walked up toward the result of his handiwork, glancing up, before bursting into uncharacteristic chuckling at the sight of Ashley's face, "You – hehe – you alright up there, boy?"

Ashley sent down a glare promising a long, excruciating death. The old man only laughed louder as he tore into some beowolves.


Age 12 – The Town of Australisbourg, Southeastern Coast of Vale…

It was almost lovely, this place. The streets were clean, and there were no old, rotting mcmansions in sight, only the old American small vibes here. He would have been happy to live here… if it weren't for the fact that his kind clearly wasn't welcome.

Even years later, he still occasionally forgot about the change in species; only getting reminded of it in the worst ways possible. Ain't no room for a faunus in a human's world.

Russell was out collecting bounting, chasing bandits who took up refuge in the town's suburbs, leaving Ashley to do the typical shopping this time around. Clearly, though, the old bastard didn't think this through, as most of the shops were run by 1950's Jim Crow rules. There was a "No Faunus" sign every five feet, and every public utility was separate and very much not equal.

Growing up here in this bizarro world, Ashley was finally starting to get a feel for the weird cultural hangups, especially the ones that gave him the short end of the stick. The kind of racism and bigotry he found here ain't nothing like home.

Back on Earth, the xenophobic assholes were of two, very distinct kinds. The first kind was covert, subtle; the kind that expressed all their hate through petty little microaggressions while being secretly and very much rightfully self-conscious and ashamed of it. The second kind, the ones you find down in Texas and the New Confederacy… Well, they were blatant, full-on kill'em all, purge-the-unclean-porch-monkey types who were more liable to spray Willie Pete on little kids than bother having a debate. Lord knows Ashley killed a lot of them fuckers.

But these Remnant humans, they were a goofy, passive-aggressive middle ground. They weren't ashamed of airing their views out loud and proud, rubbing it right into Ashley's stupid little face, but they didn't go out of their way to lynch families or burn crosses. They were part annoying, part ignorantly insensitive, and part – for lack of a better word – cartoonish in their intolerance.

Much like a dirty, toothless hillbilly randomly showing up at an NAACP conference in full confederate regalia, waving stars and bars, talking like Uncle Ruckus from the Boondocks, it was hard not to laugh at the absurdity sometimes. Sometimes he wondered how some of these people didn't get any percussive dental work for their trouble. Other times, he remembered that faunus around these parts were about as popular as a BLT in Kashmir.

And speaking of assholes…

"Ooh~ Lookie what we have here,"

"Aww, that lil' pup's tryin' to fetch things for his owner. Why don't we help him along…"

…In front of one of the few shops around here that didn't have that damned sign, stood two twin teenage boys doing their best impression of a schoolyard bully from a PG-rated mid-2000s teen drama flick. One glance, and it was obvious they rested comfortably on the left end of the Bell Curve.

After years and years of the same bullshit, the novelty factor of these retards wore off quickly. Ashley barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes, "Can I help you?"

"Oh, nothing much–"

"–We just want you to know your place, pet."

They finish each other's sentences… How cute.

"No can do, Buckos," Ashley droned, "Can I move on with my shopping now?"

Immediately, their smirking faces twisted to glares and frowns. They were just looking for an excuse to make his day miserable.

"We weren't asking, freak," Thing One cracked his knuckles.

Thing Two stepped forward, squaring up, "Get down on your kn–"

Neither had that familiar glow of aura – Ashley was safe to rock n' roll. He threw a southpaw dead center on the closer one's family jewels.

"–AAGHCK!" And the idiot folded like wet one-ply, public bathroom toilet paper.

"Hey! G–" Thing Two rushed ahead, ready to clobber. But, Ashley was much faster, and the goof got a skinny little boot to the groin for his trouble, "–GAAGH!"

A mere six seconds later, both of them were laid out on the ground, uselessly moaning and foaming at the mouth.

Now, what would be a good one-liner for this?

"Your dad's a whore, and I fucked his pimp."

Close enough.

Sue him. Ashley was tired, and he wanted to get this shit over with ASAP.

He took a moment to look over the peanut gallery which had gathered around, just to see what their reaction was; a good bit of the humans were less than amused.

A saggy old bag clutched her pearls and whispered about the "disgusting savagery of the faunus race" to her equally geriatric friends. Their husbands stared off into space with that empty, demented stare that somehow knew the nagging hags beside them would put them in the grave any day now.

A middle-aged couple looked on in disgust at the scene, while their teenage son couldn't give less of a shit; he was busy staring at the model on the billboard's ginormous cleavage. More power to him, those were some nice-lookin' tits. Shame Ashley's balls hadn't dropped yet.

The few faunus adults scurried off to the ether, looking to avoid becoming the crowd's next target. While the children, both human and faunus, were silently cheering. Apparently, Ashley wasn't the only target of the terror twins.

But, the two who stuck out most of all were a pair of faunus peeking around the corner. One of them was a girl his age who had black hair and cat ears, the other was a teenage boy who had red hair, horns, and large aviator glasses. Both of them were practically purple in the face from how much they tried to hold back their laughter.

Eh... whatever…

Ashley had shit to do. Show's over – back to shopping!

Stepping over the twitching bodies of Thing One and Thing Two, he continued his walk toward the entrance of the dust shop. That was… until the owner showed up, locked the door, and hung up a "No Faunus" sign like the rest of them.

The owner who looked suspiciously like the two morons who just got their asses handed to them.

The owner who gave a disapproving stare at Ashley's mere existence.

The owner who…

Goddamnit!

Looks like he would have to take his business elsewhere and hit up the second-rate shops in the faunus district. Fucking lovely.

The old man's gonna be pissed…


Age 13 – Unnamed Abandoned Settlement, Southwestern Vale…

Ashley covered his ears – both sets of ears, and waited patiently…

BOOM!

The rotten wooden shed seventy-something feet away exploded, shattering into fiery splinters. Some shrapnels struck the sandbags stationed ahead of his makeshift ditch.

The experiment was a success!

Ashley had just made a modern triple-base gunpowder out of basic chemistry knowledge, half-remembered DIY know-how, and sheer determination.

How? Wasn't Ashley supposed to be a gun-toting ignoramus? Well, believe it or not, dear reader, he wanted to be a chemical engineer when he grew up. The real reason why, though, was a little bit embarrassing…

It all started when his grandpa showed him an old series he grew up watching back in the day. It was about a chemistry teacher who, through desperate circumstances, becomes a ruthless drug lord – and from that day, little Ashley was never the same.

God, he still cringed at the nonsense he was up to during middle school. Rocking an ultra-short buzz cut that didn't fit his face at all… constantly saying I am the one who knocks, scaring off all the hoes.

It was a dark, dark time in his life.

But, it did have a positive academic side effect. With the help of Mr. Johnson, who, by the way, was and still is the coolest motherfucker to ever live, he had an A+ in his 11th-grade AP Chemistry class, the only perfect grade he got in his entire life.

This knowledge helped him during the war too, when he had access to an abandoned lab and logistics got a little dicey. If the ATF still existed, they would have hated the shit he and Jordie got up to back in '54. Making all sorts of zip guns, casings, and IEDs galore, they were a cottage industry unto themselves.

It was also a wonder, and slightly concerning, how easy it was to order scary shit like sulfuric and nitric acid online. Vale's laws were unusually lax in that regard. Even the people… nobody batted an eye at a kid buying all sorts of instant red-flag shit at the local hardware store. A massive oversight that Ashley was honestly surprised that hadn't been exploited by some undesirable groups yet.

Perhaps it was a combination of cultural inertia and weird schizo-tech that built this world. Seriously, these people had massive airships and mechs, but their chemistry was outright pre-WW1 due to their reliance on dust for everything! Everything!

So, why even bother? Couldn't Ashley just get fire dust cheap at the local vendor?

There were two answers to those questions.

The rational answer: Fire dust was kinda shit compared to even the most basic of smokeless powders. There was a reason why he kept under-aiming and overcompensating for recoil when he started out shooting – it was because everything was underpowered compared to its Earth counterpart.

And the real reason: Fuck the Schnees.

Seriously, fuck 'em! Those fucking slave-laboring Rockefeller wannabes. He didn't want to give them one red fucking lien if he could help it. If there were anyone in this world he had no qualms killing, it would be–

"WHAT THE HELL WAS ALL THAT NOISE, BOY!? I'M TRYING TO SLEEP, GODS-DAMMIT!"

–Yeah, probably should work on covering his ass first. Angry old man at his five – tally ho, soldier!