GOMU GOMU NO!~ Wassup everyone, hope you didn't miss me too much.
To start things off, I have read the comments and I appreciate the feedback immensely. I won't be redoing the story from a post-time skip perspective, but I will do my best to quicken the pacing and get Hawkins to similar strength to when he was in Wano. I apologize to that one guest reviewer as I can't really quote your comment seeing that it's labeled as a guest. But your input is appreciated nonetheless!
Anyhow, this sub-arc marks the turning point for a time skip where I make Jaune six years old. And I know that in Canon Hawkins was 29 years old when he arrived in Sabaody Archipeligo, but for the sake of keeping most of the adults in RWBY and Hawkins around the same age, I made him 22 when he arrived in Remnant. Pls don't hate meh.
With that, cheers everyone, and have a wonderful day, Searoar.
*Port's Visit. Sub Arc Begins.*
"Alright, we've waited the entire night for this Oobleck, and now it's time to deliver." Qrow shot his partner in crime a devilish grin.
Gathered atop the auditorium's beams once more, two trained huntsman prepared their glorious prank with giddy pride. And though his cheeks were still flushed, Oobleck had sobered a great deal after a few stomach-churning rounds in the men's bathroom.
"It's a shame Port couldn't stick around for the great finale, I'm sure he would've loved to see the fruits of our labor come to fruition." Oobleck sighed.
"Given the reason why he's leaving, I can give our mustached general a free pass." The ravenette scratched his cheek and peered at the ground floor.
Tai and Summer were huddled by the empty punchbowls. Their arms entwined and cheeks brightly pink, Qrow could only come to the conclusion that his partner's proposal had been a success. Shifting sights to the windows that gave him a clear view of the gardens, a duet of blondes sat side by side, indulged in meticulous conversation.
However, Qrow's attention felt most focused on a certain woman with green hair and amber eyes. Though she scored a straight nine out of ten on the attractive scale, at least in Qrow's opinion, he couldn't say the same applied to her motives.
The ravenette cupped his chin. She'd spilled a great deal of information about Hawkins' past, and truth be told Qrow didn't trust that stoic card reader all that much. Though Summer did speak on his behalf in a positive light, there were too many variables to come to a sound conclusion.
Maybe he'd conveniently drop by the noodle shop this Friday and find himself a really close seat to Hawkins and Monet's date...
"Hm, but what am I gonna say if we run into each other?"
"Pardon?" Oobleck's fingers slowed.
"Nothing, just thinking out loud... so is the box thing ready yet?"
"Just one more tweak... and that's done it! Shall we press the gleaming red button together, oh great partner of mine?" The history enthusiast stepped aside with his hand on said button.
"It'd be my pleasure!" Qrow smirked. Their efforts combined, the white box shook violently and broke into a sputtering frenzy.
With aid of a megaphone, which Oobleck somehow managed to pull out of thin air, he announced to the populace below to prepare themselves for the greatest light show on Remnant.
"Hey, Oobleck, is the machine supposed to be sputtering like that?" Qrow pointed to a hissing stray of steam that surged from the back.
"...No I don't believe so." The spectacled man replied with a questioning hum.
"You know, now that I think about it, maybe I should've dipped out then came back once things went full swing. Given my semblance and all that comes with it..."
"An excellent deduction, my dear comrade..."
Turning to face one another, the two pranking gents scampered to the ladder and climbed down as fast as they could.
"Qrow? Oobleck? What's wrong, weren't you boasting about your great show just a minute ago?" Summer called, a worried expression plastered on her fair visage.
"We gotta move guys, the doctor's device blew a gasket and I have no idea what's gonna become of it!" Qrow spluttered. Taking the wrists of his teammates, despite their protests, he led them to the exit where his green-haired ally would meet him.
"Flee while thy can!" Oobleck whizzed past the crowds of bewildered guests and picked up his girlfriend in an old-fashioned bridal style.
"Ooberry?! What are you doing?!" Thumbelina squeaked. She'd just gotten herself to a presentable state, but her boyfriend's sudden movements did not settle with her weakened stomach.
"No time to chat!" Her companion slurred and made a break for the auditorium's main entrance.
Sipping a fresh mug of late-night coffee, Ozpin eyed the scampering group of the few members of STTQ and GPPO with a puzzled expression.
"Hm, what's gotten them in such a rush?"
His answer came with the sudden cries of staff and hunters alike. From the ceiling, a metallic box came crashing down leaving a great impact on the floor below. Showing no signs of stability, the sounds of crunching metal and hissing water leaks echoed across the room bringing both a feeling of dread and a twinkle of humored excitement.
"Well, I can't say I expected anything less from the prankster trio." Ozpin laughed, taking to the sidelines to observe the impending outcome from afar.
"I knew we should have done the prank when Port was still around!" Oobleck yelled as the room was engulfed in a grand explosion of red dust.
"Yeah, maybe he could take a third of the blame!" Qrow screamed back.
/-/
The metallic hums of the engines rattled through the steel planks and iron frames of the Atlesian ship as it passed the Mantle border. Peeking through the misty window panes, the city bellow felt small, no longer bearing its proud size after splitting with its northern brother leaving its lower citizens to fend from themselves.
Port blinked, his bushy eyebrows lifting to see a massive stretch of bolted iron, the Mantlesian wall held strong, fastened with heavy artillery ready for a Grimm siege at any moment. However, the dependency on its defensive power proved to be a double-edged sword.
To maintain such a daunting structure was taxing, both on the people it protected and its kingdom's economy. Port's head tilted towards the floor. Years ago Mantle was the epitome of industry and production, but the moment the separation act of 1995 took effect, the north held onto the kingdom's prosperity with an iron grip thus abandoning its lesser half for the Grimm.
The ship reaching a sluggish pace, an announcement rung over the ship's passenger seats that it had reached its destination. Port let out a weary yawn as he adjusted the straps of his backpack. His gaze lingering to an old woman in need, he assisted in retrieving her luggage from the upper compartments and bid her a polite adieu.
Stroking his chin, the former Mantlesian was met with a familiar sight of ebony hair. His uniform free of any blemish, James Ironwood greeted his friend with a gentle smile and firm handshake.
"Are you sure that you don't want a free ride? It's only a slight detour for my ship." James offered.
"No that's alright, it's been some time since I've visited my home kingdom, and I'd like some time to myself. Thank you for everything, James." Port replied with a weighted grin of his own.
"Then I guess I'll take my leave. You have my condolences, Port, and remember that you always have friends in both Mantle and Atlas alike."
Sharing a strong handshake, the two went their separate ways leaving the stout gentleman to tread his former stomping grounds.
"Phew, it's a tad chilly for a summer's day isn't it?" Port chuckled as he fastened the thick buttons of his red suit.
Given Mantle's climate, the sun tucked itself for bed rather early, never staying over the soil past six o'clock. Nevertheless, this frost-claimed territory was the place Port was born and raised, so he greeted the city's chilling welcome with open arms.
Strutting down the wide roads, a three-storied building stood by a corner with a large sign that read: Michel's wondrous concoctions. Bearing his teeth against the nipping weather, Port hurried his steps to the red-bricked establishment and eagerly pushed through the wooden doors.
Inside, he was greeted with the sight of wooden stools huddled around a circular table where a single bartender poured a glass of whiskey. His skin a dark ebony, a grizzled beard joined his thick mustache underneath a long nose and hazel pupils.
"Long time no see friend." The bartender chuckled.
"Charles, it's been a while hasn't it?" Port's lips stretched from ear to ear.
The man known as Charles had been a dear friend since their shared years in Mantle's military academy. From the days of never-ending paperwork to the excursions on the field where sweat and blood wed hand in hand, it was nice to see that Charles was still prospering. Though by the gray hairs that marred his brown locks, time had not been friendly.
Slumping onto a stool, Port leaned onto the table with crossed arms. "This place is smaller than I remember."
His cohort laughed. "Well, the separation act took a heavy toll on my prosperous establishment. Though I can't really complain seeing that my business is still standing. But I do miss the usual rush hours... Hah! Do you remember the time when you had to literally throw a bunch of drunkards out of my bar? Those were the days..."
"So the bar has been regulated to only the ground floor?"
Charles nodded. "Yep, I couldn't afford to keep paying for the space, so I cashed out when I could. I'm not sure what the contractor wants to do with the place, but at least he was nice enough to spare my bar."
Pouring himself a drink, the two men tapped their glasses against one another and downed the spicy alcohol with vigor.
"Hah! That's the spot!" Port grinned.
"Yep, the nobles in Atlas don't know what they're missing!" Charles beamed.
"Hm? Have I finally found a place where the people running it aren't Atlas suck-ups?"
The men at the table whipped around. The sign on the window stated that the bar was closed, but the stranger at the door decided to enter anyway. His eyes a pool of judging gray, he observed the humble bar with an expression of interest.
However, Port and Charles stumped the stranger on the subject of curiosity. From the furred olive coat that covered his broad shoulders to the stitched scar that ran across his grayish visage to the large golden hook that replaced his left hand; the stranger emanated an ominous aura that lingered with each step he took.
"Pour me a glass of that whiskey you're so proud of." The scarred man smirked.
Not one to deny a sale, Charles hurried to the shelves asking the stranger for his preference.
"Surprise me." The tall man said dryly.
Charles gulped. Eyeing the many rings on the stranger's right hand, he knew he was dealing with someone of great influence and if impressed, he'd net himself a much-needed boost to counter his downtrodden bank account.
Selecting a brand of expensive whiskey, he offered it to the hooked man free of charge, as both an advertising scheme and due to today being a special celebration with his good friend Port.
"Hm, not bad." The hooked man gave a slight nod in appreciation. Droplets of spicy alcohol trailing down the edge of his lower lip.
"I've been told this place used to be a place for gossip," the stranger's hook dragged across the counter leaving a small indent in the already rough wood frame.
"That depends," Charles said as he poured another round of whiskey, "there's plenty of words being thrown around nowadays and I can't say that all of them are true."
"Fair enough," the stranger downed his glass with exaggerated slowness, "but I'm on a tight timetable and would appreciate it if we could skip past all the useless banter."
The natural way his eyes slanted left a one-of-a-kind condescending expression that sent chills down Port's and Charles' spines.
"Very well, what would you like to know stranger?" Charles straightened his posture and picked up an empty glass to clean.
"I've heard that Atlas plan to hold their own council," the scarred man said, "one that's completely independent of Mantle's."
"That is correct," Port replied firmly. "It's been debated ever since the separation act was drafted, and despite the protests of many, the laws were passed within a week."
"I see, and what about the constant dilemma with those animal-based citizens?"
"You mean the Faunus?" Port asked.
"Sure, whatever they're called."
Charles and Port paused. Trading glances, the former spoke with as clear a voice he could muster.
"The Faunus have been scrutinized since day one. If you want a clear layout of their situation in Mantle, all you have to do is look at the bums huddled around the sketchy parts of the city. The majority of them are citizens who were dealt a poor hand, but I'd be lying if that was the case for all of them."
The stranger's fingers tapped against the counter.
"On another note, how would a guy get a seat among the new Atlesian council of snobs and greedy bastards?"
Charles crossed his arms and Port furrowed his brows. The latter answered the scarred man's question.
"And why would we know that? I'm not too indulged in the world of politics, and they've never done anything to help me in the long run either."
The hooked man shrugged. "I'll take a bottle of this whiskey to go."
The legs of his stool screeching across the cracked tiles, he pulled out his wallet and left a sum much too generous for his less than stellar beverage. Charles moved to protest.
"The tip is appreciated, but I can't take this much-"
"Don't worry about it." The stranger quipped. "I don't plan on coming back for a while so I don't really give a damn about a few extra bills."
"There you are." Spoke another voice from across the room.
His head clean-shaven and frame muscular, he wore a standard black suit with a white undershirt and black tie.
"Roman and Neo won't stop complaining about the weather and they keep asking me when we're going to leave." The newcomer sighed.
"Those brats can freeze to death for all I care. If they can't handle a little snow and ice then they won't last more than a week in the real world." The hooked man chuckled.
Shifting his focus back to the bartender and his mustached compadre, he smirked at their muddled faces and lit a cigar. His footsteps thudding across the polished tile, he handed the bottle of whiskey to the suited man at the entrance and left it at that.
"Well, he was a strange one wasn't he Port?" Charles wiped his forehead which was surprisingly damp.
The Mantlesian soldier nodded in agreement and stroked his chin. With a calm hand, he finished his last drink then bid his good friend a polite adieu.
"I'll be in touch, Charles, we really should find some time to properly catch up."
"Agreed." The bartender hummed with a pearly smile.
/-/
"That'll be ten lien on the dot sir." Said the cashier as he handed the stout gentleman three small bouquets of white roses.
Paying his dues, Port whistled a merry tune as the sun settled midway behind the horizon. He'd lost his original flowers after the encounter with Tai and Qrow but was fortunate to find a store still selling the Mantlesian specialty.
As he walked, the nipping at his fingers had turned to hungry bites of frost as he tucked the flowers closer to his chest to spare them a frozen fate.
His pacing along the cities borders took about a half-hour, but he managed to arrive at his destination before the last bullhead to Vale was due out. Presented with a pair of pointed iron gates, the rusted sign of the cemetery hung loosely on the cobblestone walls that surrounded the premises.
The lock long past its use, Port gently nudged the iron gates with a cautious hand as he felt the slightest provocation could loosen its dated hinges.
The cemetery was no more than a humble hillside, but despite the reclaiming efforts of snow and ice, a single plain remained clear. Gravestones, stacked evenly in size and seldom separated, stood firm against the cold as if challenging it to rouse the deceased who laid there.
Port's whistling slowed to a meek breath of air. He came here every year, yet each visit always nicked at his nerves. Nevertheless, he marched on, eager to see his former comrades and pay his respects.
"Ah, there you all are, then again I wouldn't expect your lot to be anywhere else." Port chuckled weakly.
Three gravestones with six behind them, they remained at the center of the cemetery while bearing the Mantlesian emblem bellow their names.
"Your son has grown into quite a fine soldier, Shamrock. Why, I've heard from James that he's become a candidate to lead the Ace-Ops, one of Atlas' new special regiments!"
Port bellowed, but his loud voice did nothing to hide the hollow pride beneath. His fingers curled around the necks of his bouquets, the flowers wilted slightly at the increased tension.
"And you, Maxwell, I'm not sure if it's what you expected but I'd bet my top dollar that you'd be proud nonetheless. Your niece has grown into quite the huntress, but I'm worried about the questionable decisions she and her teammates agree on to make ends meet."
This time a warm tear streamed down his cold cheek.
The last gravestone, centered among the three, was that of the most peculiar man Port had ever met. He wasn't a bad man mind you, in fact, he was one of the most upright individuals to ever immigrate to Mantle.
But that was the crucial detail that set the compassionate man apart from his teammates. Port had dug through every map of every age with the aid of his best friend Dr. Oobleck, but no information in regards to the Drum Kingdom or Bighorn village ever surfaced.
Not only that, the man's strange semblance to transform into a mighty bison and bison hybrid puzzled the Atlesian captain to no end. Not to mention he lacked aura, a trait every hunter or huntress required to be in their position.
Port shook his head. Now was not the time to question his fallen comrade's abilities, it was time to pay his respects for his wisdom and service.
"Dalton, I may not know of where you came, but the words and actions you left behind tell more than a great tale of righteous servitude."
Placing a bouquet at the base of each gravestone, Port sucked in a deep breath and exhaled a white puff of air. His trembling lips, now a thin line of solitude, opened to begin the Mantlesian Academy's anthem.
"With-"
Cut before he could start, the knocking of a pebble across the plateau roused the captain's suspicions.
"Hm?"
No person, animal, or Grimm in sight the captain curled a single brow.
"If you plan on hiding all night it's none of my business, but if you intend to besmirch these honorable grounds there will be a grave price to pay."
His tone absolute, the sounds of crunching snow grew closer after a single woman peeked past the lesser gravestones.
Her hair a grayish blue, it contrasted her bright amber eyes and fair complexion along with the long yellow jacket and thick brown slacks which ended with silver combat boots.
"Oh, well color me surprised." Port smiled as the huntress awkwardly rubbed her arm.
The young woman being none other than May Marigold, her sights shifted from Port to her uncle's gravestone then back to him.
"Pardon my intrusion, if you wish to bear your respects first I'd be more than happy to give you some space."
"No... it's alright. Despite being born from the northern parts of Mantle, my uncle spoke rather highly of you and if he trusted your command then I'm in no position to turn you away." May replied swiftly with her hands clasped firmly together behind her back.
"Really now? Maxwell was definitely the most vocal of our group, but I can't say all of his opinions about me were swell." Port laughed lightly.
"Those are, Mantlesian blooms aren't they?" May strolled up beside the stout gentleman and gestured to the bouquets he had placed.
"Yes, I thought they'd be the most fitting seeing they were the preferred flower during Mantle celebrations."
Port's eyes flicked to the humble package May had brought along with her. "Have you also brought a special gift?"
The huntress visibly shuddered. Her cheeks dusted in light pink, she coughed to the side and held out the package with worried eyes.
"It's not much, but I brought my uncle's favorite fruits and some extra for his former teammates." She opened the cardboard box to reveal a shiny red apple, a bunch of purple grapes, and last but not least a small watermelon one could carry with a single hand.
"That's very thoughtful of you." Port beamed. Though his words brought a frown on May's visage.
"It's pretty pathetic if you ask me. I wanted to bring something better, but given how tight my wallet's been with the rising issues of Mantle... No that's just a lame excuse no matter how I look at it." She lamented.
"Nonsense!" Port's raised voice bellowed over the cemetery.
Her heart startled, May nearly fell over, almost dropping the precious delectables she had brought with her.
"The fact that you remember those who protected your kingdom and its people out of their own honest volition is something that must be commended! I wouldn't be able to face those who fell before me if I believed otherwise."
"Sheesh, my uncle wasn't lying when he said you were really straightforward..." May said with a hint of a smile.
"Yes I am," Port calmly replied. "After all, sweet fruits are an excellent addition to elegant flowers wouldn't you say?"
"That I can definitely get behind." The young Marigold said as her lips spread to a cheerful smile.
Bending down, May put a shiny apple beneath the grave of Shamrock Ebi; then a bundle of grapes below that of Maxwell Marigold, and finally the melon below that of Dalton Bighorn.
"Would you care to join this old captain in song?" Port patted his chest and faced forward in perfect form.
May stood and followed the captain's example, but before either of them could utter a single word, their attention was forced down to the odd behavior of Dalton's melon. Twitching back and forth, the fruit's exterior faded from a dark green to a charcoal black.
A green T-shaped stem poking atop a green tuft of leaves, two white protrusions extended from the fruit's sides that mimicked the shape of horns. Its base shrinking and stretching, the melon round shape no longer existed and in its place was what appeared to be a black bison head with thick swirls.
May blinked dumbly and turned to her elder for answers.
"I have no idea." Port scratched his head, completely dumbfounded by what he'd just witnessed.