'Seriously? You're really doin' that?'

'Yeah. I guess I am. Do you think you could keep an eye on her? Just till the games are over, I know you're—'

'Rae, seriously? You don't have to say anything, I'm more than happy to have an excuse to see the fledgeling.'

'Yeah… yeah, of course. Just… thanks, Qrow. You're a good brother.'

'What?'

'You're a good brother. And I love you.'

'Who the fuck are you and what've you done with my sister?'

'Oh, shut up.'

Honestly, I fucking hate whiskey. It's nasty as shit— like drinking a campfire— and it kinda makes me want to vomit, but it's making me drunk and the bartender guy is a generous pourer. I'd really like a daiquiri right now— something sweet and girly— but I'm pretty sure his bushy eyebrows would judge me. Eh. It's cool. I'll keep drinking this fermented wood pulp.

Winterfaire ads are up on the TV. Guess it's on the Vytal platform this year, which is pretty cool. Back in my day they just hosted it at the academies— I'd say 'ah, simpler times' if I hadn't been slugged enough to quit acting old. Yang's got too good of an arm to be testing that now, and not nearly as much control as her dad. The bartender flips the TV to something else. I slur some kind of objection— turns out I'm way drunker than I am in my head. Whoops. Whatever. Place blows anyway. I drop some Lien (probably close to the right amount) and steal the whiskey glass.

It's a bit of a walk between the mini-district serving Beacon, growing off its side like a commercial cancer. That should be deep, or something, but it's not. I'm too drunk. To do philosophy, that is, not to function. I mean, I am too drunk to function, but functioning hasn't been good for me in a long time. I manage not to pass out or piss myself most of the way there, though the sight of an Atlassed-out airship gives me a jump that nearly trips the latter. There's a vibe about it— a vibe I don't like. It's an Atlas ship so of course I don't like it, but it's not painted with slurs and shit. It's more unsettling than outright bad.

Whatever. I waddle my drunk ass to it because my body's doing more thinking than my brain. It lands on the long and wide stretch of white brick path that leads from the mini-district to the school. I'm pretty sure that's against aviation code, landing on a public space like that, and I'm also pretty sure my body's taking me there with intent to pretend I'm some local authority out to ticket them. It'd be smart to stop myself, and I know that, but I don't. Seems like it'll be funny, honestly.

The airship's really loud as it lands and the thrust pushing off it nearly blows my feathers outta my head. I keep going forward, though (like an idiot, I really shouldn't be doing this), and slip my left hand behind my back where it belongs. My right hand gets the rest of the whiskey down my gullet as the airship's bay door opens, a bunch of goons filing out. Four military meat-people (soldiers, some would say; bootlickers, I'd say) line up at the sides of the bay door while a buncha people-sized robots move out to establish a perimeter. Two come my way— a goon and a bot— so I chuck my whiskey glass in the guy's face and use the now-free hand to grab the blank black cruciform over the robot's face. The thing's got a steel neck, but I've ripped off harder, and the brawn of booze inspires me enough to pop the thing's dome and huck it into the airship. Guns are raised at me, but a voice like a quartz wine glass rings out over the clamor:

"Hold your fire! Put your weapons down."

The robots put their weapons down immediately, but the meat-people give each other confused looks for a second, conferring another sharp order that makes them stiffen up and aim down. An odd slapping sound plaps out from inside the airship— footsteps? Weird footsteps, but I can't see who's making 'em from my angle. Not until their feet are visible.

Flip-flops. Manicured toes painted with blue and white stripes like a barber pole. Dainty ankles. Long, toned legs dusted in bright white hair that stands out against the sun-tanned skin. Khaki… shorts? No belt? A button-down, short-sleeved shirt with a tropical pattern like a technicolor war-crime on the beach? In January? And for god's sake the shirt is, like, three buttons open— hey, wait a goddamn second there are titties in there! With no bra! What in the fuck?

"Herrrr— hey. Llllady." I squint. "Yeah. Hey."

She comes the rest of the way down, her flip-flops flipping and flopping until she's stood at the bottom of the ramp. She's got a young face— late 20s or nascent 30s— and her white hair's parted perfectly down the middle, tight against her head in a low ponytail. Despite the abhorrent dad-look (which I could never be attracted to on anyone, ever), she looks much too self-respecting for my taste.

She bends down and picks up the sparking robot-head, frowning, and I feel kinda like an asshole now. Whoops.

"Uh… sorry," I mumble. "I mean, 'm not sorry, but, uh… sorry."

She hums. "Mhm. Lieutenant Zieliński?"

A voice comes from deeper in the airship, saying something in another language— Mantell, I'm pretty sure, lotta sounds bunching up in ways a tongue shouldn't make— before something dark and thin flies towards her. She catches it out of the air, flicking it off to the side hard enough that it unsheathes itself: a curved saber with a right-angled knuckle guard. She holds her free left hand out and back expectantly, but nothing comes to fill it. She turns again, barking something in that language, and a thick leather glove falls into her hand, followed by tall black boots with notably raised heels. She kicks her flip-flops off at me and I smack 'em away (I'm drunk, not slow), but I don't do anything as she puts her bare, manicured feet into the polished boots.

The boots complete a look that is incongruent at best and inconceivable at worst. I blink heavily at it, but the illusion doesn't shatter— she really is just wearing that— and she's got a hefty leather glove with something complicated on it over her left hand, hovering above her chest, palm in. She bends her knees, stance wide sorta like a crab walk, and shadows a horizontal cut into high guard, hanging parry, then a flicking counter with a mull of her wrist. She dances back and forth, testing her boots, then nods to herself.

"Alright," she affirms, meeting my eyes with a weird kind of smile. I can't tell if it's an excited grin (like, 'ah, we finally meet!' or 'I've heard of you, great warrior!') or a really tight grimace (like, 'I can't look bloodthirsty in front of my guys,' or 'I'm trying to be polite, but seriously, fuck you'), so I return a grin of my own that I hope looks comforting (like, 'hey, I'd wanna fight me, too,' or 'I won't judge an insatiable lust for violence'). I slip my left hand out from behind my back and take up the boxing stance Tai taught me— the dirty one, not the fair one (fair one's lame, anyways)— and I'm pretty sure he'd be kicking my legs to widen my stance (quit it), then he'd (stopstopstop) put his hands on my waist and (shutupshutup) pivot me around like an action figure (godfuckingdammit), but he's dead now and I'm 100% past that and I don't drink myself to sleep anymore so I'm sure the stance is fine.

She raises one of her blindingly white eyebrows as if she can see my internal homoerotic conflict of self-loathing, but she doesn't pity me enough to give me a rehab pamphlet. Instead, she nods, egging me on— not necessary, mind you, I'm fully egged— to which I do something that's probably also a nod, judging by how my brain sloshes back and forth in my skull.

She's got confident footing, and her men (as well as her sex-ambiguous robots [as in I can't tell what they are {though if they were sex-positive I'd be down}]) spread out to form a wide circle. She slowly inches around, her eyes sharp but relaxed as she paces, sword held out to catch me if I encroach.

I stick my tongue out at her, which she takes as an opportunity to lunge towards me— a weird sort of lean over her leading foot, falling towards me before catching up in a rush that makes me reel, off kilter at the awkward advance and how smoothly she recovered. She starts bringing down a vertical cut, but it's a feint that my dumb ass falls for, my left fist darting forward to catch the edge on my knuckle-dusters before she leans forward over her hips, torquing her arm so the slash comes across from my right. I'm not guarding there so I take her full blade across my Aura, but my right hand's not just sitting there doing nothing, it's grabbing one of my four Lupare from the dual holsters on that side, whipping the squat, sawed-off gun up and level with the lady's torso. I jerk the trigger and the thing kicks nearly outta my hand, thundering as its sole shot strikes her right in the chest with the knockback of a world-champ heavyweight boxer, only if that boxer also happened to moonlight as a freight train. The round's tipped with fire dust that bursts as soon as it impacts her Aura, washing her in flame just for a little added spice as she wheels back, arms windmilling, but manages not to be knocked fully ass-wise by the blow. Her Aura's glowing a bright, infuriated blue as she stands up straight again, cracks her neck, and grins my way.

The grin's contagious and I catch it, holstering the Lupara without even breaking the barrel— she'd jump on me if I got caught reloading— but I've got three more for a reason. She circles me again; I circle her. In the back of my mind, my logical side tries to tell me that I shouldn't be enjoying this— this lady's probably racist as shit and itching to pluck my feathers for a fancy officer's cap— but I stopped listening to that part a long time ago. I stretch my neck, cracking my knuckle—

"Omigod! Uncle Qrow!"

Oh, right, I'm here for a reason. Shit.

"That's my uncle! Eeeeeeeee!"

Ah, dammit, I love that little fledgeling, but I'm too drunk and way too into this to back out of the fight now.

"Flor-Ruby! I have been hunting thee for—"

Oh, someone knows my niece. I look over and see another chick with super white hair (god, even from here she looks downright ghoulish), then two realizations hit me: first, these two white-haired chicks are clearly siblings; second, holy shit they're Schnees, and now I really hope neither of them know Ruby. My dreams are crushed when the skinny little sister slots in naturally beside my niece, but I'm a little bit reassured by the slightly scared, slightly bewildered look that Ruby gives her. Regardless, her eyes aren't on Ruby or me, they're on—

"Winter! Whyfor art thou— who is that drunk old man!"

"That's my uncle! He's kicking that lady's—"

"He can do no such thing to my sister! Teach him a lesson, Winter!"

I look back at the lady— Winter, I guess, which reminds me that the other girl's name is probably Weiss— only to catch her already in my face, her saber flashing out at me. I bob and weave under the attacks as best as my drunk ass can, doing surprisingly well until she manages to feint me into blocking, at which point she smoothly shuffles in and uppercuts me with her knuckleguard. I stumble back, but manage to boot her in the stomach before she's outta range. I can feel that my Aura's pretty stinkin' low, so I push before she can get both her feet down, meeting each attempt at a warding slash with my knuckle-dusters. She keeps trying to back up, her left hand twitching impatiently over her chest, but I keep pushing in until I'm damn-near kissing her, then I eat a cut to the face that's too close, too awkwardly angled to get through my Aura, just so I can get my right leg around her back one as I shoulder-check her. She falls back, but doesn't hesitate to drop her saber in favor of grabbing my collar, popping one button right off before the fabric fully catches on my back and shoulders, supporting her. Her left hand flies to my face and I'm looking right down the barrel of a raw dust crystal, backed by what I'd guess are miniaturized explosives that'd do just enough to crack it into criticality, which would probably shear all the meat off my face and would also blow off her hand in the process. I hear some part of it whirring, about to blow me away, but I poke her in the ribs with the Lupara I'd drawn as she was falling. She doesn't even acknowledge the threat. The glove keeps whirring. I try to give her an 'are you sure you wanna do this?' look, but her expression remains one of focus and barely-disguised relief. The glove whirrs faster, reaching a crescendo, so I pull the trigger.

Vvvvhrrrrr— kkzht— her glove sparks.

Thok— my hammer falls.

Our weapons remain mutually impotent.

Then, since I'm not allowed to ever have any good things, I hear his godforsaken voice.

"Qrow!" Ozpin commands sharply, and I immediately drop both the lady and my Lupara. The gun clunks against Winter's face as they both fall, making her scoff, scandalized. Ozpin, the little bitch he is, helps her up and pats off her awful tropical shirt.

"A million apologies, General," Ozpin hisses, emphasizing the lady's rank towards me as if I could be paid to give a shit. "Qrow's one of our more, eh… protective Huntsmen. I'm sure he was just testing you, making sure you'd be an able body in case of an emergency—" his eyes pierce me, then slide to Ruby in an undisguised threat. "His niece goes here, after all. He wouldn't want to see her hurt."

I consider murdering Ozpin then and there, but I'm not really sure that cunt can die, so instead I mock-bow to The Great General Winter Schnee, Her Holiness, Her Highness, Her Bitchness, Go Fuck Yourselfness. "Apologies, madame," I lie, picking up my gun while I'm bent double. "He's totally right, and you're very fit to protect us all."

I'm pretty sure that's what I say, at least, because Ozpin's glare seems to soften a little as he motions the lady to walk with him towards Beacon proper. I know I'm also being silently ordered to follow, so I stick my hands in my pockets, hunch forward, and lope coolly behind the—

I trip flat on my drunk idiot face, courtesy of one bird-leg hooked around my ankle. I groan as I eat bleached brick, flopping on my back to meet the (glowing? Nah, I'm drunk) silver eyes of my favorite niece— sorry, Yang. "Hey, shitbird," I groan, extending a silent request of 'help me up' with my hand. "Miss me?"

She grins widely. "Not a goddamn bit!"

I'm actually taken aback at the sound of Ruby Rose cursing so easily (despite her being, what, 18 now?), so I completely fail to execute my plan to leverage the fortune of my birth against hers. With the shit luck of the draw, Ruby got all the raven-traits that her mom and grandma got, meanwhile her sister got precisely zero traits and the most I have is a little handsome feather-action going back from my temples. She yanks me up to my feet before I can pull back against her hollow-ass bones, then hugs me tightly around my shoulders (god, she got tall). I also feel a side of cold shame crawl down from my throat to my toes at how much I probably smell like alcohol. Fuck.

But Ruby doesn't care— that, or she's really good at making it look that way— because she's a good kid. "O-okay," she mumbles, hugging me more tightly. "Maybe I missed you a bit."

I chuckle awkwardly— I'm not good at feelings until I'm too drunk to even remember what I say— but I'm not such a piece of ass that I can't hug her back, so I do. I hug her, and she… she tightens her grip on me. I almost instinctively pull back— Ruby's not usually such a touchy-feely girl, she gets that from my sister— but her fingers dig into my shoulder blades and I decide against it. I hug her back, really hug her back, and she tenses up. Her shoulders hitch once, twice— not crying but doing something close— and I pat her back.

I remember why her mom sent me here. I remember everything she told me, and it's almost enough to sober me. Fuck. "I'm here for you, kid," I hope I say without slurring, just so she knows every word of it's true. "I've got you, okay?"

Ruby pulls away and her eyes are a little red. She didn't cry— not fully— but there's no denying that at least one or two tears squeaked out. She looks at me. Her eyes are glowing, definitely, but I can't even notice that. I can't notice anything but the way her gaze softens, her pursed lips ease, and the crease of her brow goes away. I've seen her look like this before, but it was never for me. Not me, not Raven, not Summer. She'd looked at Yang this way once or twice, I think, but it's almost exclusively the way she's looked at Tai. I almost cry.

"Qrow!"

Fuck, it's Oz. He still needs me to follow. I really don't want to. I want to stay here and keep an eye on Ruby, to catch up with her and maybe ask why her eyes are glowing, maybe ask how many weapons she's built and wrecked since I last saw her, but I can't. It's probably something important— definitely something important, judging by the 'this is something important' look in Ozpin's eye— and it's not like I don't trust Ruby to stay safe. God knows that girl's kicked my ass enough times to remind me of that. Honestly, following Ozpin's probably the best thing I can do for that right now. Long as I know he's not fucking with my niece, everything'll be alright.