"Guess the White Fang and VPD really are working together." Tommy reacted lamely to what he was hearing.

The members of the Torchwick Outfit, minus their leader, had gathered at the bayside hideout. Projected on the attic wall from a Scroll was Cyril Ian's exclusive VNN report entitled 'Vale Under Fire.' It was a live feed of what could have passed for a disaster movie.

Sandbags were piled high next to a raging inferno. Fire trucks valiantly pushed back but were struggling against the heat. Their tires melted as the blaze threatened to escape containment.

Also in rotation was a prerecorded message from the VPD Commissioner of Police. He stood behind a podium marked with the seal of his office. Pictures of dead cops were propped up on a placard board to his left as he spun a yarn.

In his words, a group of officers had stumbled upon a White Fang encampment while following up on an anonymous tip. The policemen were subsequently overwhelmed, resulting in several casualties. The Commissioner then promised 'swift, certain, and severe punishment' for all criminal parties involved.

Many people throughout Vale were likely shocked about this turn of events. Perhaps even saddened. Leroy was not nearly as torn up.

"I'm not surprised."

The photos of the deceased might as well have been an offender line-up. All of the names were present on Torchwick's master list of Division members. Leroy especially recognized one of them from a personal run-in he had at Vale General Hospital.

Learning of Officer Piper's fiery demise shot a particular thrill through Leroy's extremities. It was a bit of satisfaction he was unused to feeling. Like a small slice of karmic justice had been dished out to a deserving recipient.

"None at all?"

"Zilch."

From Leroy's perspective, their alliance made all the sense in the world. The White Fang was filled with power hungry hypocrites. Not as many as in VPD, but close. Of course the Fang would partner with their oppressors, given the right price.

What worried Leroy was what was being traded away for short-term gain. As any cursory reading of the history of the faunus people would reveal, even when they won, they lost. He was not sure they could afford to lose much more.

Tommy grunted. "This is going to make our lives infinitely more complicated."

"That it will." Leroy spoke up to address the others. "Hear anything from Roman?"

"Huh?" Jay looked up.

He stood awkwardly in a corner, fidgeting away in his own little world. Neo hovered nearby, almost fretting over him. Leroy repeated the question.

"Wondering if you had any more contact from the boss."

When Leroy, Tommy, and Neo had returned from their failed talks with the Xiong, they had expected an easy evening before touching base with Roman the next morning. To their great surprise, Jay had arrived, pale and shaking, at their doorstep. Stranger yet, he reeked of smoke and blood.

It only started making sense when they turned on the news. Unreal stories were everywhere. Jay told them his.

The Kingsnake had tried a double cross. Roman had to blast his way out. Jay, who was on getaway duty, had been caught up in the crazy happenings. It was a whole mess.

So, his being frazzled made a ton of sense. "No. But Roman, uh… he did say he was going to lay low for a few weeks. Y'know. To see how everything shakes out."

"Things have shaken. His name has not come up once." Tommy said, referencing the newscast. "He appears to be in the clear."

"Though that could change." Leroy had to admit with a groan.

For the same reason he and Tommy were put on ice after dealing with the High Fly Flows, it was probably for the best that Torchwick ducked the limelight. At least for a little while. Doing so must have been killing the flamboyant thief. He was practically a preening peacock.

"Leaves us in the lurch though." Tommy pointed out. "What do we do about Junior? We can't just sit around with our thumbs up our butts."

Imagery aside, Tom was right. Their enemies were entrenching themselves. To have any shot, they needed access to Junior's knowledge and resources.

"I'll talk to him." The boy said meekly.

"You sure?" Leroy asked skeptically.

"Have to be. I'm the only one who hasn't offended the man."

It was a correct understanding of the situation. Although Junior would likely take Jay appearing before him instead of Roman as an insult. But they had to do something.

"Best get some shut eye, then."

"Shouldn't we talk through what I'm going to say first?"

"We'll do that in the morning."

Jay wobbled in a dead tired stupor. His energy was sapped. He offered token resistance as Neo pushed him down on a cot before quickly lapsing into a deep sleep.

Right after, the tiny terror retreated to her own bed. Since it was next to the power switch, and she had little regard for anyone else, she turned out the lights. The room was filled with darkness except for the dull blue screen of the still projecting Scroll.

"You should do the same." Leroy told Tommy as he powered down the device.

"Sure. Why not?" The Vacuan replied before grumbling under his breath. "Grown-ass man with a bedtime. What has my life become?"

Despite these misgivings, he swiftly withdrew to the thin covers of his cot. Leroy took position for the first watch of guard duty. Peering out the window to the street, he thought about Tommy's question. No answers were forthcoming.

/ / /

The Death Stalker sensed movement.

Slowly, it came alive to listen. If able, it would have struck at whatever was causing this activity. However, the Grimm scorpion could not move. Buried under a half ton of rock, it was incapable of much of anything at all.

As a subterranean, the Death Stalker was used to navigating cramped environments. However, the collapse of its den had debilitated the beast's limbs to a shameful degree. Digging out of the rubble alone had become impossible and the circumstances were unlikely to change.

Rocks prevented the injuries from regenerating. Means of self-terminating and returning to the Origin, such as using its stinger to stab itself in the head, were unavailable. And since the Grimm did not require sustenance, there was also no possibility of starving to death.

It was stuck.

With nothing to be done, the Death Stalker entered a mental stasis. A century could pass while it was in this state, but the Creatures of Grimm were eternal. They could wait. And then they would throw everything they had at achieving freedom.

Which was why the unknown approaching entity had wound the Grimm up. Even a small shift could give it enough space to escape. Vibrations signaled that whatever sat above was steadily reaching below.

Eventually, the earth broke. Moonlight bathed the face of the Grimm. It let out a dreadful shriek.

Then the Death Stalker became quiet. Those that had freed it were not what the elder Grimm had expected. Although shaped like the Soulbound, they did not contain any emotion at all.

There were four of them. The bipedal beings were, much like itself, thickly armored. They were primarily dark red in coloring with black joints. Yet they were not of the Grimm either. Their eyes twinkled like blue gems that pulsed along with an engraving on their lower torso.

Other forms, these in white, arrived carrying a large, rectangular cube. They set the object down before joining in on removing more of the rocks. Soon, the Deathstalker was cleared of all obstructions.

But the automatons did not stop.

Before it could rise, they swarmed the creature. Even in a weakened state, it fought against the would-be captors. The Grimm managed to impale one of them with its freed stinger. This did little to deter them as they quickly restricted the limb.

With their combined strength, they carried the giant monster into the container. A field of immense energy closed off the gateway. When they let go, the Death Stalker threw its bulk against the sides. The artificial Soulbound were crushed but the walls would not give.

Twin roars from above signaled the arrival of a new challenger. A silver bird descended from the sky to land on the cage. There was a loud click as something attached to the top. With prey in hand, it rose again and carried the Death Stalker away to an unknown fate.

XV. Kayfabe

Yori's eyes fluttered open to the view of a cream-colored ceiling. She sat up to rub the sleep away. It took a full minute to recall where she was.

Her last memory was of a man screaming. He was dressed as a policeman, but that could not have been right. The things he had been saying were so cruel. No one had ever spoken to her that way.

And then he pointed a gun.

The girl knew she must have fainted. Her mother had always chastised her for a weak constitution. But that did not explain how she had ended up back in her sublet apartment.

On her feet, she looked around, trying to remember how she had returned. Yori was certain it had not been a dream. Beyond the vividness of the experience, there was also the fact that she was still in her clothes from yesterday and not her pajamas.

Checking her Scroll, Yori saw notifications for a dozen missed calls and messages. She had forgotten to call her family. It had been one of the conditions they had set for letting her work in Vale during the school break.

That break was ending soon. Her ticket was already bought for the return home. It was the reason she had decided to visit the fairgrounds.

Since she would not have a chance to see the Vytal Festival in full swing, Yori wanted a taste of that atmosphere. Having heard about the practice yard from her coworkers, she decided to sneak in during their off hours. Even without people around, she had a great time.

She knew it could be dangerous. Outside the protection of a city or town always was. But she thought any outside problems were remote as long as she was quiet.

Her exploration had not gone as expected. About as far from it as possible. On the plus side, she also got to meet another celebrity. Someone almost as cool as Pyrrha Nikos.

As she plodded around, snippets of memories returned. A voice prodded her with questions. She slurred a response before slipping away again.

It must have been her address. Thankfully, she had gotten that much across. It would have been embarrassing to have woken up in some stranger's apartment.

She also thought about how her rescuer must have carried her back into the city bridal style. Slapping her face a few times dispelled those notions. It was a silly, but fun thought. Her only regret was not being awake to ask him questions.

That and not get his autograph.

The Scroll in her hand began to vibrate. It was her parents again. Specifically, her mother's number. They were probably worried sick. Sighing at having to return to her everyday life after such an adventure, she answered the video call.

"Hi Mo-"

Within moments of connecting, Yori was assailed with chastising shouts. Not expecting this, she juggled the device before dropping it. With an inadvertent kick, her mother's angry face skidded across the floor and under her bed.

"H-hold on!" She squawked, before running over to retrieve the Scroll.

As she bent over to rummage under the box spring, her eye caught something amiss. A subtle change that had not been there the day before. On the wall parallel to her bed were a series of posters she had bought to personalize her temporary bedroom.

Each depicted a unique site around Vale. There was a sky shot from atop the Wall. Another was of Beacon Academy's atrium. Another of the Mountain Glenn memorial statue. And so on. They doubled as souvenirs to take back home as memories.

One of the posters she had acquired was of a certain gentleman thief on a white background. The image had been taken from a security camera he had winked at during one of his escapades. The clerk who sold it to Yori gave her a funny look for even wanting the thing.

Maybe he was a criminal. But he could not be all bad. Especially now after saving her life. Though, she did regret making the purchase if he had seen it hanging near her bed.

That was pretty embarrassing.

What had captured her attention was that the poster had been altered. Crawling on the bedspread to get a closer look, she saw that something was written on the poster in red ink. She gasped as her mom continued to yell beneath her.

'To Yori, my #1 fan. ~RT'

/ / /

It was obnoxiously bright and early when Jaune arrived at the flea market. Having not slept much the previous night, he drifted from stall-to-stall. Roman was there to talk him through their purchases.

"Ooh. This faux leather jacket is delightfully tacky. Take it."

"Okay?" He grabbed the thick, black top.

"And these track pants? Yes please."

The stretchy material was coarse to the touch. A label inside the waistband told him it was made in Vacuo. Jaune hoped they felt better once worn. He placed it under his arm with the other garment.

"What about this t-shirt with a smiley face on the front?"

"Roman…"

"You're right. Too much. Now this tie-dye top on the other hand-"

"What are you-" The old woman minding the register glanced over, forcing him to speak more quietly. "What's up with these choices? Is this really something you would wear?"

Even Jaune could tell that these picks were not high fashion. It was practically anti-style. Yet the spirit was going gaga over them.

"Roman Torchwick prefers designer brands. Jay, however, likes it cheap and affordable."

"Right…" Jaune picked out a dark orange undershirt and received no complaints.

Was that approval? Or disapproval? Either way, he chose to take the win.

Roman materialized beside a rack of headwear. "C'mon. As I've explained already, we are crafting a narrative. Jay is a scrappy lad, making his way in the Underground. He saves his money while looking for a big break."

"Is all of this really necessary?"

As Jaune's most distinguishing feature, they had talked about doing something to his hair. Either coloring it or wearing a wig. However, good dye jobs took too long, and a wig might come off at the most inconvenient of times.

So, they had decided on an accessory to hide it away. "It is if you don't want people connecting a certain schoolboy back to his extracurricular activities."

"I didn't do this for Madam A." Or for Tommy and Leroy, for that matter.

"Our henchmen will handle her from now on. With a bit of luck, she'll forget your face."

"Here's to hoping." Jaune picked up a trucker hat.

Putting it on his head, he checked the mirror. His long hair curled around the brim. It was not a good look. Roman agreed.

"Yikes. Take that off."

A price tag dangling from the brim revealed one virtue. "It's cheap."

"Even Jay has his standards."

For emphasis, Roman merged his ghost hand with Jaune's and returned the hat to its peg. That the thief could do this disturbed the boy. His concern was muted by a lack of sleep.

"I doubt anyone is looking that deep."

"Maybe." Roman admitted. "But you never know what might engender suspicion. The persona needs to be consistent."

"Persona?"

"The outer or assumed aspects of a person." Jaune made a confused sound. "It's all the superficial things: The name; the clothes; the backstory. When those match, we accept it at face value. When they don't, we scrutinize to figure it out. A purple orange turns heads at the supermarket while a ticking clock won't, even if there is secretly a bomb inside."

"Seems rather shallow."

He considered the other hat choices. They were not much better. The only one that might work was an open visor, which defeated the purpose of using a hat in the first place.

Did he need a haircut?

"It's a superficial world. Think about your own circumstances."

Jaune returned the hat. "Me?"

"Yeah. You. Who is 'Jaune Arc' to Beacon?"

"Well, I'm me."

"Work with me here. When you submitted those fake transcripts, what did they think they were getting?" This was clearly rhetorical, as Roman kept speaking. "They thought they were getting a young man who could keep up with their curriculum."

"Yeah…" Jaune did not think he liked where this was going.

"And during Initiation, that's what you were. You arrived armored up and ready to jump on the nearest Grimm. It went so well that they actually made you a team leader! Despite having, what? Less than a month of training?"

His instincts were correct. Jaune did not like this at all.

"But I wasn't faking… everything."

"You weren't." Roman agreed. "But they never would have given you a chance if you hadn't fudged a few details. Dressed up to look palatable. Embraced the persona of a competent huntsman-in-training."

"This isn't making me feel any better."

"Then let's talk about my favorite subject." He did a little twirl. "Me! When someone says to you 'Roman Torchwick,' what do you think?"

There were a few things that came to mind. Most of them were unflattering. But Jaune had a feeling that was not what he was looking for.

He struggled before saying. "Cigars?"

"For the sake of our continued partnership, I'll ignore how long it took for you to find something neutral to say and instead congratulate you in a passive aggressive manner." His voice now dripped with fake cheer. "Why yes! Cigars! Great job there, sport!"

"Hey!"

There was another look from the elderly lady. Jaune coughed and moved over to a display case. Inside was an assortment of flick-knives. Each of the cutters lay on top of a kerchief the same color as their handle.

"Regardless, to most of Remnant, all I am is a fashionable rogue. My persona is a lit cigar, a bowler hat, and some perfectly quaffed red hair. With a bit of acting, anyone could be Roman Torchwick. Or Jaune Arc, for that matter."

"That can't…"

The boy thought the point through. He reflected on all the people he had fooled into believing Roman was still alive. Admittedly, all he did was serve as a stand-in while the ghost of the man did most of the work.

Still, Jaune had essentially taken over Roman's identity. None of his contacts had noticed the switch. There was something profoundly sad about how easily this had occurred without any pushback.

"And now we are determining the accessories for the 'Jay' persona.

"You're acting like we are nothing more than clothing lines at a fashion show." Jaune said to try and lighten the mood.

Roman took this very seriously. "It's true. And a name is just another outfit you wear. So why should anybody stick to one?"

He was not sure he agreed, but Jaune chose to take the council seriously. If he were going to be running more criminal errands, anything that would distance him from what Jay did was welcome. Gazing longer into the cabinet, he had an idea.

The boy called the cashier over. "How much for the switchblade?"

/ / /

"Hey Militia, where do you want these?" Miltiades Malachite looked up from her clipboard.

She was taking inventory to ensure the Club had enough supplies for the coming weekend. It would be their first since having to partially shut down for repairs. Expectations were sky high. Despite this, one of her workers, Bazan, was goofing around by balancing two kegs on his shoulders in an attempt to impress her.

"Over there." She pointed to a cubby beside the main bar.

It was a good spot for the bartenders. Easily accessible when needed, but out of the way of traffic. Also, it was partially hidden from any drunken idiots trying to get a freebee.

"You got it." He winked before nearly tripping.

"Break those and the replacement fee will come out of your paycheck."

"R-right."

She exhaled, before setting aside the paperwork. Other employees were in need of her attention. Checking a nearby digital clock, she found that her four hour-morning shift had just begun. And she still had her ten-hour evening shift to come.

Being in management sucked. First in. Last to leave.

But she was determined. "Time to put on my big girl pants."

Doing the tour, Militia spoke first with the bouncers. There were reminders about being courteous but firm with impatient customers. She handed out an updated 'banned' list of those not allowed in the Club. A particular pimp topped the latest additions.

And then she gave a warning about taking bribes. Junior would be upset with those that broke that rule. No one complained.

Next up were the custodial staff. They talked about the importance of clean bathrooms. It was one of their selling points for their guests. Keeping them that way through a busy night took coordination.

Later on was the bartender meeting. They were the easiest group to talk to. Each of them was a professional that Junior had hand-picked. He had a good eye for such talent. Not much direction was needed. Militia was mostly there to ensure they had what they needed to succeed.

On the opposite end of the spectrum were the entertainers. Every single one of them was a prima donna. Especially the in-house talent, who she had the displeasure of dealing with currently.

"I'm DJing tonight."

"Like hell you are. This is my time to shine, Dag."

"Shove it, Tambour. You just want to pick up chicks."

"Yeah, well…" She thought about it for a moment. "So do you!"

"That's a fringe benefit. Music is my main concern."

They fought over the turntable in the booth overlooking the dance floor. Militia, watching this happen from below, sighed into her hand. She decided to set the record straight. Clearing her throat, she called up to them.

"Neither of you are getting a full set." She informed them.

Both turned to her. Shocked. Dag bent over the balcony to yell down to her.

"What? Why!?"

"Because you're amateurs."

Militia would have preferred to hire a real music mixer. However, the Club had to save money somewhere. Using them, along with a karaoke hour, allowed their business to technically advertise that they had live music.

"How long will we get?" Tambour asked.

"Thirty minutes each. The rest of the night will be curated playlists."

Dag interjected again. "That's barely enough to get going! You're cutting our legs out from under us!"

"We are limiting our risk. Work within these constraints and give us your best. If it goes well, we will talk about extending your stage time."

It was also a test.

If either of them went over their allotted time, Militia would know who could not be trusted with a live mike. Tambour appeared to understand this. She gave a subtle nod. Dag did not. He twitched and gripped the railing hard.

The red Malachite twin knew there was going to be trouble. But this was her boss's plan. She would be ready to shut the power off to the booth if and when either of them stepped out of line.

"Excuse me!" Turning her head, a guy stepped out onto the floor toward her. "I'm looking for Hei Xiong. Is he in?"

"You're in the right place, Mr.…?"

"Jay. Uh, just Jay. Not like 'just' is my name. It's more like-"

"Yes, I know." Militia had met people like him before.

Though, he did not seem all that well-defined. His leather jacket was flaky and ill-fitting. The red bandana he wore over his hair in particular was out of place. She would have thought him to be an addict who had wandered in by accident. Except his body was not nearly as sunken in.

In fact, he was rather fit. Militia had the feeling he would clean up rather nicely. Plus those baby-blues of his were rather mesmerizing.

"Is there something on my face?"

She blinked before redirecting. "Do you have an appointment?"

"He should be expecting me. I'm the neutral stand-in repping the group that was turned away the other day."

Torchwick. He was with Roman Torchwick.

Militia had heard about that debacle. It worried her that another fight had almost broken out in the Club, and she had not been there to help. Especially since Neopolitan had been present. Anyone would have problems taking that little devil alone.

The worst had been avoided. Everyone had backed down. Junior had even felt confident enough to demand a different negotiator. A point no one thought would happen, especially so soon.

Yet here he was.

"Follow me."

They headed for the backroom office. Militia walked up front while Jay took the back. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed his eyes were roaming every detail of the dance area. Given his employer, she would have worried he was casing the joint if there had not been so much naked wonder in his gaze.

"This place is amazing." He gaped as they ascended the stairs.

Curious, she asked. "Never been in a nightclub before?"

"Ah, no. I'm new to big cities like Vale. We didn't have places like this back home."

"Maybe you could…" Militia thought better of inviting him back that weekend. "Never mind. Here we are."

They were outside Junior's office. She pushed the door open and led him inside. He was once again appreciative of the surroundings.

"Wow! This is like something straight out of a Mistrialian mobster movie." Jay then clamped a hand over his mouth, before slowly removing it. "Not that I am implying anything untoward. Mr. Xiong is a legitimate businessman. Wait, that sounds worse. Uh-"

She giggled at the honesty. "Don't worry. I won't tell."

He was also closer to the truth than he realized. Junior had purposefully remodeled his father's old office to follow the Mistrialian design aesthetic. His admiration for it was strange — and misplaced — for someone who was not even from there.

Or maybe that was the only way to admire Mistral. From afar. Growing up there had not given Militia or her sister a strong attachment to the kingdom.

"Thank you, uh!" He scratched the back of his head. "Sorry miss. I didn't catch your name."

"Miltiades. It's a bit of a mouthful, so everyone calls me Militia."

"That's too bad. Miltiades is a pretty name."

She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "You could call me that, if you want."

They stood around for a bit, in an awkward kind of standoff. She could have slapped herself for saying that. The only sounds were from Tambour and Dag practicing downstairs.

He cleared his throat. "So… when might Mr. Xiong be in?"

"Soon. Please, make yourself at home."

Despite hearing this, Militia guessed Jay would not do so. He gave off the energy of someone who would pace rather than settle down. Still, there was a grin of agreement.

"Right. Thank you, Miltiades."

She turned to leave the office before thinking of one last thing. "By the way, our boss does not like being called 'Mr. Xiong.' You are better off referring to him as 'Junior.'"

"Will do."

With that said, she excused herself. On the other side of the office door, she turned on her Scroll. She sent a quick message to Junior informing him of his guest. He responded to say he would be there shortly.

"Poor kid." She opined to herself. "Junior is going to eat him alive."