AN: If you were wondering what the delay was, it was because my professors were all paid by the Clintons and the Rothschilds to have every single quiz and assignment due last week. Worry not, fellow Americans, the globalist elite shall not stop us!
Music: Terry Jacks - In My Father's Footsteps
"I pray for no more youth
perish before its prime;
That Revenge and Iron-heated War
May fade with all that has gone before
Into the night of time."
–Aeschylus
IV. GUN AND THUNDER, MAN GONE UNDER, PART ONE
Then…
Bang!
"MISS!"
Bang!
"MISS"
Bang! Bang!
"MISS-AND-FUCKING-MISS!"
Bang!
No, that wasn't for one Private Morgenroth…
"MISS AGAIN! OWENS WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?"
…Some other poor bastard had attracted Sarnt's ire from their limpdick shooting, and he was getting an earful by proxy. The outdoor range was full of the pops and cracks of second-hand XM7s and M4s – the campaign cover mafia circling around the other dumb recruits like sharks smelling blood.
Thankfully, shooting was one of the few things that came naturally to Ashley. Once he had gotten used to the kinks of his issued rifle, he had been hitting bullseye after bullseye. Some called him a natural, but really, it was more a combination of good eyesight and keeping his hands steady.
Bang!
Bullseye again.
At this rate, he was probably going to be pigeonholed into being a sniper. There was a reason why he was one of the few who were issued the fancy, relatively new XM7-35s in his platoon.
"Sorry, Drill Sergeant!"
Not that it mattered though… Sarnt always found a reason to cook everyone, no matter how small…
"DON'T 'SORRY' ME – 'SORRY' THE FUCKING BROTHERS YOU LET DIE WITH THAT GIMPY FUCKING HANDLING OF YOURS! YOU CAN'T EVEN HARPOON A BEACHED WHALE IN WISCONSIN – HOW THE HELL ARE YOU GONNA SURVIVE OUT IN THE FIELD!?"
…even if he preferred some greenies more charred than others. At least nobody had pulled a Full Metal on Sarnt… yet.
God, that would have been one ginormous shitshow to pile on top of his already shitty time in basic.
But, if there was any redeeming quality to boot camp, it was that once things got browbeaten into muscle memory, the long periods of boredom and the repetitive movements proved to be therapeutic at times. Everything had its order. Everything had its place. Ashley only needed to do and follow, no thinking required.
It was alien to his existence as a civilian mere months ago, but in some sort of fucked-up, eldritch way, military life had fit perfectly into his life like a brain tumor. Verily, the Big Green Dick of Uncle Sam had buck-broken him
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bullseye. Near-bullseye. Bullseye.
Hot damn, I'm on fire today!
But, if one were to extend the metaphor, getting fucked in the ass by a terminal cancer patient was kind of awkward. Despite the strict, First Amendment violating media blackouts and the ironclad filter on what goes in and out of Fort Haupt, it was no secret that the Federal government was on life support.
It started out with the little things: the occasional missed shipment, the chow hall being more ratfucked than usual. But over the course of a month, it seemed that the entire supply chain was infested by gremlins, treating everyone with the WW2 Soviet logistics experience.
The officers pretended that everything was fine, but the food and bullets were getting rationed more and more. Something fucky was going on in the outside world, but nobody other than probably Zeke knew if it was missionary-level, or outright clown orgy.
What states had seceded? Fuck if they knew!
Did the commies break out of their west-coast pockets? Probably.
What did he sign his life away for?...
Fuck… He was still working on that question. All he knew was that he hadn't gotten a letter from his mother or sister in weeks…
"MORGENROTH! GET YOUR THUMB OUT OF YOUR METH-ADDICT JACK SKELLINGTON-LOOKING ASS AND GIVE ME FIFTY!"
It was no use worrying – Sarnt knew best. Ashley switched his brain back to autopilot and dropped down, straight as a board.
Yes, sir! Whatever you say, sir!
Now…
Age 13 – Junkyard, Abandoned Settlement, Southern Vale…
A little tighter… Ashley twisted the bolt with what strength he could summon in his still-skinny arms. A turned another couple of degrees before it outright refused to budge – And there we go.
Setting it down on the folded aluminum table, he took a step back to fully take in his creation, or rather, the cobbled-together monstrosity made of scrap and prayers. Holy sweet mother of Jesus, it was an ugly fucking gun – Ashley already loved it!
Coming from a shared heritage of junkyard logistics, this yet-to-be-named weapon was cut from the same cloth as the jury-rigged DIY zip guns he and Jordie cooked up later in the war. Of course, why they even bothered was a different story… having to do with nobody being willing to manufacture the "supah speeshul" bullets while the commies aimed a death squad at anyone with more than a dime and a half-pack of gum in their pockets… or the wignats seizing every Raytheon factory south of the Mason-Dixon and killing all the–
Ashley was getting off track.
Back to the gun, it was technically a submachine gun, in the same sense that a Gerald R. Ford-class aircraft carrier was technically a boat. Huge, with an almost comically oversized barrel, heavy as hell since most of the parts and metal were sourced from an abandoned Atlesian tank left rotting nearby.
Other than the trigger and the handle, there were almost zero actual gun parts in the thing. It wasn't because of the price – Lord knows the old man's huntsman is a huge ass coupon in itself – it was simply due to the fact that all the parts are cripplingly overspecialized for dust. Sure, smokeless powder had more bang for its buck, but the parts and barrels didn't know that – they were built for dust tolerances.
One time, he nearly destroyed the old man's old rifle when he tried testing one of his bullets with it. It was almost enough to dissuade Ashley off the whole project… until he remembered that the Schnee Dust Company existed.
To paraphrase a time-honored faunus saying: Fuck the Schnees!
Ashley may have been a capitalist at heart, like many other former Americans who got a taste of the Commies, but he would gladly suck an International's-worth of red throbbing proletariat cocks if it meant that son of a bitch Jacques Schnee stubbed his toe.
Every day, he hoped those White Fang terrorist bastards and Jacques' goons would kill each other in the middle of the woods in a botched robbery. Every night, he prayed to the ghost of William Tecumseh Sherman to make the SDC stock tank the morning after.
What man with a functioning moral compass wouldn't? And to anyone who disagreed, they could shove a Vacuan cactus up their cockhole for all he cared.
Besides, even taking spite out of the equation, there was nothing more patriotic than good ol'-fashioned working-class American ingenuity.
He shunted a makeshift magazine-full of gunpowder bullets into the rifle and trained it down the temporary range. At the end, between the piles of scrap and abandoned cars, stood a scarecrow with a crappy off-white toupee for a wig.
With a huff, he squeezed the trigger.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
What scarecrow? There certainly ain't no scarecrow here no more. The bullets shredded the thing into a loose pile of straw and fabric within seconds, the cherry on top being the silly little toupee, perfectly intact on top of the mess.
Ashley's ears rang like church bells through death metal speakers, and his wrist and shoulder were killing him from the brutal kickback… Yet, spread across his face was a manic grin, straight ear to ear.
Flicking the safety on, he set it back down on the table; the only big problem left was that the trigger was too stiff for his liking, nothing a little knock-off WD-40 couldn't fix.
That meant there was only one thing left on the agenda: the name.
Russell had insisted that naming your weapon important, something-something reputation, something-something huntsman's best friend…
Hmm… That book Jordie took everywhere, Expedient-something Weapons… What was the author's name again?
Ashley couldn't be arsed, He went with the first thing that came to mind.
Oh, right!
"Luty…" Ashley muttered, christening his demented creation, "I'm gonna name you Mr. Luty."
Age 14 – Jura Mountains, Central Vale…
Ugh, Jesus… Another year already? Time flies by so fast…
Adolescence finally decided to come kicking around the past year after a delayed appearance, and boy did it hit him with a sledgehammer. Puberty, in all its acne-inducing, hair-growing, ball-dropping, voice-cracking glory spared not a modicum of mercy – it was hell on Remnant, even compared to the embarrassing ordeal he dealt with the first time around.
The constant, ever-present aches made it feel like he was being run through a taffy factory. Nothing grew in proportion to each other, leaving him as a spindly little alien with a 12-year-old's face, and a body that makes an anorexic look like Lou Ferrigno. And he was hungry – constantly fucking hungry day in and day out, making him burn through the rations a month ahead of schedule. Russell was mighty pissed about that one.
Speaking of Russell, they were close to eye level. Eye-level! Eight months ago, Ashley had been headbutting the old man's solar plexus at best. But now, he was fixing to shoot up like juiced-up bamboo.
He knew there would be changes, but what the fuck!?
The only consolation was that the equipment downstairs worked again, and was promising to be a little bigger this time around. Small mercies, as the monkey's paw curled – harder to hide it in jeans now.
And don't even get him started on the horniness! It was like his body wanted him to stick his dick into anything with a pulse. Fucking hormones – gimme back my rationality!
Jerking off aside, today was a special day for Ashley. For it was his birthday… on paper at least. Technically, he didn't know this body's real birthday, but August 15th was good enough for Ashley on Earth, so it was good enough for Remnant too, goddamnit! Shivering around the fire, he celebrated it half-heartedly by tearing off a piece of turkey jerky.
With the weather, you wouldn't know it was summer up high in the mountains. There was more snow blowing on their campsite than what went up Artie Lange's nose. How auspicious…
So there they both sat, asses sharing a log that threatened to splinter their asses to Sunday, munching on jerky supplemented by a nutritious diet of near-expired rations.
"No cake this year," The old man said, not sorry in the slightest.
No shit!
There was never any cake any year. Ashley knew it but Russell never admitted; he hated sweet things with a passion, always preferring tangy or sour things. How fitting for a bitter ass like him.
"So, where's the singing, old man? I thought it was supposed to be my birthday?"
Giving Ashley the stink-eye, the old man pulled out an old Atlas Army knock-off zippo lighter, holding it alight a foot from Ashley's lips. He then began to sing unenthusiastically in a gravelly baritone:
"~Happy Birthday to you,~"
"~Happy Birthday to you,~"
"~Happy Birthday you damn hanger-dodging brat~"
Ashley barely held back a snort.
"~Happy Birthday to you…~"
"Make a wish,"
Sure thing!
He blew out the lighter, and the old man gave him a funny look.
Ashley smirked, "…I wished for a chance to fuck Glynda Goodwitch."
"Really?" Russell raised an eyebrow.
Oops, Freudian slip! Though, to be fair, in that press conference…
"Yeah, she kinda my type. Tall, blonde, glasses, pouty lips, big ol' pair of hooters – Brothers have mercy, I would run her through the whole…" Ashley trailed off, taking a swig of the old man's special occasion whiskey; burning harshly all the way down. He was starting to feel a slight buzz now. Nothing too much, though.
"I see…" Russell pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, "But she is a little young for my tastes. I prefer someone more… experienced."
"Of course…" Ashley rolled his eyes, "You ain't the type of dirty old man to rob the cradle. You be hitting up them nursing homes for them double-G GILFs."
"Oh, shaddup before I cut your balls off, you damn leg-humper," Russell lit up a cig in his mouth, taking a few puffs, "Not like you're any better,"
"No shit! I got it from you!" Ashley gulped another swig, before handing the bottle over – Gimme! – and stealing some tobacco for himself. The old man tried to pull the pack away, but Ashley was too fast and stubborn, catching one and using the dying campfire to light it up, "You, sir, are a terrible, terrible role model…"
"You, son, were fucked up right from your mother's box. It's not my fault," Russell grumbled.
"Don't I know it," Ashley chuckled, raising an invisible glass, blowing smoke through his nostrils "Cheers to the unfiltered truth!" – and unfiltered cancer sticks…
…
…Russell didn't raise his glass. In fact, he didn't do anything at all; he just… stared, blankly toward nothing.
"Remnant to Russell… Hello?" Ashley snapped his fingers.
The old man remained deathly still as if he were a lifeless corpse. The empty, uncomprehending look in his eyes… To be honest, it freaked Ashley the fuck out.
"Uh… You good?" The lit cigarette fell out of Ashley's mouth, extinguished in the snow. He reached out, gently touching the old man in the shoulder…
"Huh?..." Hazily, Russell's eyes came back to focus, looking around in confusion before meeting Ashley's own, "Oh, right! The presents!"
What the fuck was that?
Not even acknowledging the strange episode and ignoring Ashley's concerned gaze, the old man dug into one of the bags, pulling out a long and skinny cardboard box, which he immediately tore apart with his bare hands.
The present was revealed to be a sword and scabbard, "Now, I know you're shit at melee despite my best efforts, but a huntsman needs a blade." The old man stated bluntly, "What if that rickety-shit hand cannon of yours blows up on you when you got grimm on your ass?"
"Hey! Don't bring Mr. Luty into this!" Ashley squeaked, offended. The voice cracks were only getting worse as the months went by, "He's the best damn gun this side of the continent!" And nothing was going to change Ashley's mind.
"It's an abomination," Can't deny that, but still- "And in case you forgot, a huntsman's weapon tends to be female, as she is her wielder's only companion on most occasions," Russell quirked an eyebrow, "Now… unless you have something to tell me, boy…"
"I mean, how else am I supposed to explain how Mr. Luty has a bigger dick than you?" Ashley kept a poker face, but his ears betrayed a smug twitch.
The old man rolled his eyes, "Still, my point stands – you need a backup weapon. And besides, with your body finally starting to go through changes," He scratched his big, bushy beard, which only grew greyer, "you might need to have a shaving razor soon." He held the sword up, pointing the handle end toward the faunus boy.
Shaving Razor? That's certainly a name.
Reluctantly, Ashley accepted it... and found that the grip felt strangely natural in his hands. He pulled the blade out of its poplar wood and brass scabbard and gave it a few test swings; it cut through the blizzarding air like butter. The weight of it was perfectly balanced, as all things should be.
Overall… Not bad.
It wasn't an impressive-looking blade by any means, just your standard issue medium-length arming sword: all monochrome, with its dull grey blade, black crossguard, and black pommel. Indeed, the only real color on it was the brown of the leather handle.
Yet, there was just something with this sword, Ashley didn't know what…
Having seen enough, he sheathed it. The blade slid down smoothly, making a snug fit. Then, out of instinct borne from training, he tried handing the weapon back to the gifter.
Russell swatted it away, "The hell you giving it back for? It's yours!"
"Oh, right, uh… Thanks," Ashley stuttered, ears flattening in embarrassment.
"No problem."
"Well… It's getting a bit late, we should probably go to bed soon–" Ashley got up and started to gather his things.
"–Wait!" Russell suddenly grabbed Ashley by the sleeve, almost tipping the toothpick of a boy over, "Hold your horses, I'm not done with you. I haven't even gotten around to the second present yet!"
Second present?
The old man gave a cryptic smirk, not bothering to surrender the slightest hint of an answer…
Fwoosh!
…until he flared his aura out, flooding the area with a blinding orange. At the same time, there was a strange tightness growing inside of Ashley's chest.
Ashley jerked back, trying to break free, but Russell held on strong, "What the fuck are you doing!?"
"Keep still, you'll see."
Tighter and tighter, like a rope being stretched to its breaking point, the air around Ashley's breast grew denser. The old man gritted his teeth, suddenly sweating like he just ran a marathon; the orange glow grew even more blinding.
At this point, Ashley had given up trying to break free; he just waited, and doubled over as the strange feeling inside turned almost painful.
Then, in the blink of an eye, it snapped. A rush of endorphins.
Pock-Fwoosh!
The orange was replaced with an assault of deep crimson. The old man let go, but Ashley's skin felt prickly all around. A relieved fluttering in his chest soothed him, as did the strange new warmth he felt in his bones. It was as if he were suddenly relieved of a lifelong cold in a snap, taking in the cool air; the fatigue and lethargy giving way to new vigor.
Quickly though, the lightshow dimmed down – he'd focused on that feeling inside and pulled it back. A strange new sensation, like growing a new limb, but more… inside than a mere pair of fluffy ears. He knew his control over it was clumsy at best.
"Heh, figured it was about damn time I unlocked it for you." Russell commented, standing up, "My old man did the same for me when I was your age.
Unlock? Wait…
Ashley reached down and lifted, picking up one of the logs with ease – it felt about as light as one of his traveling packs.
Aura! Holy shit, he just…
"Happy birthday, brat," A new sense picked up a twinge of pride and joy. Ashley was pulled into a side hug, derailing his train of thought, "Try not to destroy the camp, okay?"
"Yessir…"
But, this sixth sense… there was fear too, deep down, when the old man looked down. A fear of what, though? Ashley hadn't a clue.
Age 15 – Southwestern Steppe, ~250 kilometers from the Vale-Vacuo Border…
Mission: Clear out grimm.
Time: Middle of the night.
Place: Middle of nowhere.
Weather: God taking a drunken piss all over central Sanus.
Visibility: Fuck all.
Operating Conditions: Shin deep in mud, bison shit, and…
"Grrr-rrRAH!" The beowolf disintegrated after being decapitated by a quick slice from Shaving Razor.
…other substances.
Comments… Why the fuck did we take this job again?
Back to back against each other, Ashley and Russell stood ready, facing off against the creeping darkness circumjacent. Even with the superpowered vision that aura allowed, neither could make heads or tails of anything beyond twenty or so meters. There were only the sounds of their breathing, the rain striking against puddles of mud, and the vague sense of a few dozen grimm poised to strike.
The flare flickered, almost out of dust fuel. Ashley's shoulders tensed, holding onto Mr. Luty with a death grip, the harsh edges a source of comfort to his aching palms.
He breathed in…
The flare fizzled out – four sets of glowing red eyes, eyeing him hungrily.
His breath hitched; he squeezed the trigger.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
In mayfly bursts, the muzzle flashes shone upon the field with glorious light, allowing Ashley glimpses of the grimm ahead being blown to pieces.
Meanwhile, behind him, the old man waved his hand – the world erupted into a flurry of orange, hundreds of arrows twirling in the whirlwind, striking true and shredding their targets into ribbons.
Old instincts took control. Wherever there was movement, Ashley fired.
The storm above flashed a half-second gift of lightning, briefly revealing a group of creeps. His arm moved before his mind, dispatching them with surgical precision. The thunder of Mr. Luty had long stopped by the time the thunder up above finally rolled.
More grimm – more targets in this target-rich environment. A cycle had formed: move, take cover, fire, reload, fire, move.
Left and right, the annihilating herd was thinned through lead and fire. Before he knew it, his spot grew empty; with only mudprints and disintegrating sludge to show for his work.
But, something was off. The absence of that familiar orange glow did not go unnoticed.
Where the hell's the old man? – Ashley lit up another flare.
A prickling feeling down his spine. Searching… Searching…
There! Russell stood in place, shivering yet unreactive to what was going on around him. Ashley caught sight of a griffon swooping down, eager to take a bit off the old man's balding scalp.
It was only through sheer luck that Ashley had a bullet in the chamber and that he was able to fire it on time. It struck dead center on the grimm's eye – it plummetted, missing the old man's head by a hair.
Ashley rushed over as fast as his aura-powered legs could take him.
"What the hell was that!?" He nearly crashed into Russell. He grappled the old man's shoulders, trying to shake some sense into him, "Come on!"
A dead-eyed, confused stare, drooling out the mouth…
Fuck, not again… Not now!
Panicked, Ashley reloaded, scanning around. The opaque rain and fog thinned slightly, revealing more, revealing yet more beowolves, boarbatusks, creeps, and even some ursae, their tarry hackles raised, glaring malevolently at their existence. The creatures all stared deep into his soul, honing in from smelling his fear, feasting upon it.
Ashley acted first, he raised Mr. Luty and picked them off one by one in short bursts of fire. But, just as the Germans found out on the eastern front, the grimm had more bodies than there were bullets. There were too many, all rushing over like an endless flooding river.
"Old man, any time now…"
Only incomprehensible muttering and mumbling… the confused feeling hit his sixth sense with a vengeance.
BOOM-BOOM-Click.
"Fuck!" Ashley cursed. He was out.
He reached for a new magazine before realizing that it wasn't there.
Mr. Luty was dead weight now, he dropped the gun, letting the strap hold it as he raised Shaving Razor.
"Come on, snap out of it!" Ashley growled.
"Who… Wha… Paul, vo schind veer?" [1] A frail voice, with a child-like cadence, slipping into Low Mantalian. It was eerie, such an innocent expression on such a weathered face…
A creep launched itself toward the old man, Ashley decapitated it with a swing, remains flying in two different directions. A boarbatusk charged to gore them both – he kicked it, shattering one of its tusks, and lanced it with his sword.
More and more appeared from the dark, overwhelming him. Ashley swung all around desperately as training surrendered to that primal, fight-or-flight part of his mind.
He could taste blood and ash on his tongue… the distant firing of artillery…
"Mudder! Hilve meer! Hilve!" [2] Russell cried, slipping in the mud and putrid oil, flailing around, "Grimm! Schie verd'n unsch toten! Bitte Hilve!" [3]
So deep was he that he didn't see the beringel strike him on the back of hea–
AN: "Low Mantalian" is basically distorted Google Translate German, why I did it? Dunno, but I ain't gonna change it. Here's the translations below.
[1] – "Paul, vo schind veer?" – Paul, where are we?
[2] – "Mudder! Hilve meer! Hilve!" – Mama! Help me! Help!
[3] – "Grimm! Schee verd'n unsch toten! Bitte Hilve!" – Grimm! They're gonna kill us! Please help!