The whiskey tasted like a raccoon had died in his mouth. When he swallowed, it was like its putrefied remains were sliding down his throat – maybe the vilest drink he'd ever had the displeasure of imbibing. By the time he was finished, it was a mystery to him how he had come out the other side still alive and breathing.

Qrow slammed the glass on the counter and flagged the bartender for another shot.

He was ignored. Apparently, the act of wiping the already spotless shelves was more important than attending to his sorry joint's sole customer. Grumbling, Qrow reached over and grabbed the bottle himself from behind the counter. Lifting it with painstaking care, he filled his glass to the brim, then set the bottle back down even more gingerly.

Something rattled. Qrow lifted his eyes from the glass even as he brought it to his lips, finding the culprit. A bottle on the shelves, shaking, slowly sliding towards the edge, propelled by vibrations produced by some unseen force. Maybe a car driving down the street, maybe the pipes within the walls. Maybe.

Qrow glared at the bottle.

"Don't."

The bottle stopped.

The bartender pushed it back into its nook, giving Qrow a funny look.

"Talking to myself," Qrow grunted.

He took a sip and nearly gagged. Atlesians had shit taste in alcohol. Still, dead raccoon was better than nothing.

"You're lucky," the bartender told him, apropos of nothing. "I was about to close up the place before you showed up."

"What, you telling me you don't get day drinkers at the top of the world?" Qrow drawled.

"People show up, just not in this weather," the bartender said. "Rather stay at home than venture out in this cold. Not worth it. Dangerous, even, on days like these."

Qrow took another sip. "Sounds to me like those people aren't miserable enough."

The shelves seemingly finished, the bartender turned around and grabbed a mug to rub at instead. He should have been better at disguising it, what with how he earned his bread, but the way he stared at Qrow was hardly subtle. Or maybe Qrow had gotten too good at spotting that universal is-this-guy-gonna-cause-trouble-and-how-much-is-it-going-to-cost-me look.

"I won't stay very long," Qrow said. "Just meeting someone, then I'll be out of your hair."

"That's alright. You're a paying customer." The bartender paused, as if to note that, in fact, Qrow hadn't paid for anything just yet. "You sure this person you're meeting won't stand you up? Weather being what it is."

"That's funny." Qrow grinned to himself. "He'll show."

The little joke didn't help his standing, but that was fine. Qrow had known he was well out of the man's good graces when he'd stepped inside his establishment and in the next fifteen minutes, a chair broke on its own, a sink stopped working, and a truck splashed dirty snow all over the frontside windows. The guy had no real way to connect Qrow to any of those incidents, but some people were just bad to have around, and that was something everyone had a sense for.

Speak of the devil.

The front door opened with a chime, letting a gust of cold wind blow through the establishment for a few seconds before it closed. The wooden floor creaked under heavy footsteps. Qrow didn't raise his head, but he watched as the bartender turned to face his new patron and froze.

"Citizen."

"General Ironwood!" The bartender started to raise his hand in a salute, before he seemingly realized the absurdity of that. He stopped and let go of the mug he'd been cleaning, and it went rolling across the counter. Qrow caught it before it rolled off the edge and slid it back towards the bartender.

"Jimmy," he rasped.

James nodded to him. "Director Branwen."

The bartender looked between the two of them, his eyes going wide. After a few seconds, he remembered himself and grabbed the bottle Qrow had been nursing.

"Hey!" Qrow groused, but he was ignored again.

"How may I serve you, sir?" the bartender asked his new patron. "Everything's on the house."

"Thank you. I won't be drinking," James said, raising a hand politely, "but we would appreciate some privacy. If that is an issue, we can relocate."

"No issue at all, sir."

The bartender returned the bottle to the counter, then quickly scurried off into a backroom.

Qrow leaned back on his stool, turning to take stock of the man standing beside him.

The explosion in Vale had destroyed half of James Ironwood's body. Most of his right arm, his leg, his torso, neck and face. The internal damage had been fatal. Would have been fatal.

Beacon's doctors had kept him alive, them and Jaune Arc - Qrow really ought to dedicate one of his rancid shots to that daft, heroic kid. But it had been Atlas' specialists who truly brought James back from the brink. Qrow wasn't privy to the details – he had been rather more occupied with matters of rogue half-Maidens and soul-stealing serial killers at the time – but they had substituted charred flesh with metal, damaged nerves with circuits and wiring and who knew what else.

The first time Qrow had met him post-surgery, it had been a month after the whole fiasco had died down, and James had seemed ill at ease with his new body then. Two months after that, he looked no more comfortable. But James had always been stiff, even before this.

Still more man than machine, Qrow mused to himself. By some margin.

"Are you waiting for an invitation?" he asked, pointing at the empty stool beside him.

James looked at the chair, the lines of his face twisting with repulsion for a split second before he sat down. The wood squealed under his weight.

"This could have been done in my office," he stated, all business-like from the get-go.

"Could have, but then we'd be missing something vital." Qrow grabbed the whiskey bottle and shook it. "You sure you won't partake? A drink between colleagues, come on."

"I find alcohol doesn't agree with me anymore," James said, which was probably true and also a load of bullshit. Qrow would bet his left foot that James Ironwood had never touched any booze in his life, except to confiscate it from any cadets stupid enough to drink within a mile radius of him. "Moreover, I have other matters to see to after this."

"And I don't?" Qrow topped off his glass again. "Suit yourself."

He downed half the glass and grimaced. The taste had yet to improve.

From the corner of his eye, he studied James, wondering what this was all about.

For two months, James Ironwood, and in turn, Atlas, had been largely radio silent. The bare minimum of cooperation with Beacon was afforded when it came to tracking and managing Grimm excursions, but outside of that, Atlas might as well have been on a different planet. All stemming from the Hunt's refusal to let Atlas keep the Relic of Knowledge, which they had recovered in the Haven crisis.

Qrow had agreed with that decision. James hadn't liked that. To add salt to the wound, Penny Polendina had defected in the same meeting, and Qrow hadn't stepped in to stop that either. James really hadn't liked that.

So that's how things were. A whole nation, the most powerful military in the world, refusing to play ball because the man in charge felt slighted. And maybe he was right to feel that way, even if he took the grudge a little too far.

Qrow had made his peace with the fact that this would probably be the status quo for the foreseeable future, until he got James' message. A request for an in-person meeting. And Qrow, maybe foolishly – probably very foolishly – hadn't thought twice before taking off to Atlas.

The new head of Beacon, stumbling over himself to comply with a world leader's wish as if he were at their beck and call. It wasn't a good look. But James could have insisted Qrow meet him at his office, rather than acquiesce to come down from his ivory tower and meet him in some dingy watering hole.

There was something there. An olive branch, maybe. Qrow hoped he wasn't just seeing what he wanted to see.

"Shall we get to the matter at hand?" James asked. He'd never been one for pleasantries.

"I was hoping we could gaze into each other's eyes for a while first." Qrow sighed. "But if we must. Let's talk business."

Unphased, James produced an enveloped file from his coat and put it on the counter. He placed a hand over it, not yet sliding it over.

"To start," he said, "I'm interested in hearing where Beacon stands in the search for Cinder Fall. I've not been informed of any updates on that matter for some time."

Qrow fought back a scowl. Images flashed in his mind, of Ruby lying on a surgery table, so much blood on her that he couldn't tell it apart from the red of her cloak. And years before that, Summer.

Summer hadn't been as lucky as her daughter.

Qrow flexed his hand, telling himself to breathe. His Semblance was rearing its head again, and he had broken enough things today.

"No progress on that front," Qrow said. It was a tremendous effort to keep the thickness out of his voice. "I've got every resource we can spare on her capture, but Fall's in the wind. We're still looking. I've been hunting for her myself, often as I can. But there's always something else."

"Naturally. I understand that," James said. "You'll update me if anything changes?"

"When I catch her, James, I'll shout the news for all the world to hear. But sure, I'll remember to call you first."

"I would greatly appreciate that. And her accomplices?"

"You mean Sustrai and Black? They're in the wind too." Qrow frowned. "Why the concern?"

James didn't smile. If he was capable of it, Qrow had never seen it, but he could detect a glint of satisfaction in the general's eyes as James tapped the envelope and pushed it towards him. "I may have something that will change your luck, Director."

Qrow tried not to grumble at the choice of words. He opened the envelope and pulled out the papers inside. A dossier on Emerald Sustrai and Mercury Black each – substantial intelligence, but from what Qrow skimmed, nothing that Beacon wasn't privy to already.

He closed the files and opened his mouth, but stopped as something fell loose from the pages. He grabbed the photo. A woman standing in front of a broken down house, while a crowd behind her worked on clearing away the rubble. Haven, he recognized instantly.

He had seen many pictures just like this the past few months, and if he didn't know to be looking for something, he would have taken it for just another sad record of the city's current state of affairs. But when he squinted, he spotted two figures ducking into an alleyway in the background. A shock of green hair, a half-turned face.

Qrow cursed under his breath, turning the photo over before studying it again, because there was always the possibility his brain was playing tricks on him. "Where did you get this, James?"

"The photo was posted on social media two weeks ago," James supplied. "However, further investigation uncovered that the photo itself was taken three months ago, just after the crisis in Haven. It's possible our culprits have left the city during this time, but I am hopeful they have not."

Beacon had people monitoring social media. They hadn't caught this, while James' people had? And this was a recent find, unless he had waited two weeks to share this information, and Qrow couldn't imagine James would do something like that. Something smelled fishy there, but Qrow kept that to himself for now.

"Haven, huh. Interesting choice." Qrow dropped the photo on the counter. "Big place, but with those two's history, that narrows down the search."

"I thought it might," James said. "Your people will have them in custody by the end of the month, I imagine?"

"Sooner if I can help it. Hell, I'll track them down and arrest them myself. I have to, with the kind of trouble they are."

Qrow idly rubbed at the spot on his forehead where Mercury Black had kicked him. Sometimes he could swear he still felt a bump there. And Sustrai. The less said about her mind tricks, the better.

"I thought you might call on the Hunt's help to capture them," James said. "The security of the world does resemble a family business these days, after all. But I'm gratified to see you taking this matter into your own hands."

Qrow had to bite his tongue, or else something foul might have come out. The worst part was James hadn't changed his tone in the slightest. There was something especially infuriating about a snide insult hidden behind twenty layers of cordiality. Qrow had never quite mastered that form of combat, and he was even less equipped to counter it.

"I'll get on it," he said. Qrow leaned back and crossed his arms. "What do you want for this, James?"

Not the smoothest response, but he wasn't about to pretend he believed James Ironwood was sharing precious intel out of the goodness of his heart. Oh, he would have sent this Qrow's way nonetheless, he was far too principled to keep something like that to himself, but not too principled not to lay out a catch with it.

"Not much, Director," James said. "I have one request only, that once you have the fugitives in custody, they be transferred to Atlas to be sentenced and detained."

Qrow quirked his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Atlas has jurisdiction on this," James replied, metal fingers tapping on the wood of the counter. "The criminals abducted and aided in the assassination of a high-ranking officer of the Atlesian Army, on Atlesian soil."

Qrow didn't need the dossiers, or to recall Beacon's intelligence, to know what the General was talking about. "That was eight years ago, before Vale."

"Correct, and when Fall's attack was thwarted and Beacon took her and her underlings into your custody, Atlas did not press the issue of due process and of who should keep them," James said. "But that was then, and this is now. It is only right that Sergeant Rhodes' family see his murderers face the law's judgment in a proper trial. Unless you would disagree?"

"I wouldn't. All those words, though, and you didn't really answer the question."

Qrow brought his glass up to his lips, thought twice about it, and set it back down. James was stock still, watching him with such an intensity that for a moment Qrow worried the man had short-circuited.

"Come on, James. I'm no fool. You're a man of principles, but that's not all of it," Qrow said. "What are you expecting to get out of them? Because if it's an interrogation you have in mind, I think you'll be very disappointed."

"They operated under Fall for years. They must know something about Salem's plans."

The thick walls kept the cold winds from blowing in, yet Qrow still felt a shiver run through him. He looked towards the door of the backroom to where the bartender had absconded, hoping that the man didn't have his ear pressed up against it.

"If Sustrai and Black knew anything about her, then trust me, we wouldn't have even this little clue of where they are." Qrow pressed a finger atop the photo. "We would never find them, because they'd be chopped bits resting on the bottom of the ocean."

"Or shot in the back of the head, perhaps. Their bodies left in an undignified ditch," James said. "Like Leonardo."

"Yes, James. Exactly like Leonardo." Qrow scowled. "See, we're on the same wavelength then."

"It would seem we are not, for that is the very crux of the issue you do not seem to grasp." James, with his already immaculate posture, seemed to somehow grow taller, his eyes as cold as the blizzard outside. "Remnant is under siege. The enemy is beating at our gates, and worst of all, her agents move behind our walls, picking us off one by one and planting the seeds of our destruction. The rest of the world might be content to fight them off until the end comes, but not Atlas. Not I. When the gates crash open and the walls come tumbling down, I will make sure the full might of Atlas is poised to face Salem."

Qrow rubbed the corner of his eyes. The temptation to down that whole bottle was coming back in full force. Why, why did he have to be here.

"It's true that Sustrai and Black are unlikely to know anything of use," James said, his tone just a smidge softer. "But if there is anything at all we can glean from them of Salem's intentions, then we would be fools not to try."

"I hear you," Qrow muttered. "Alright. I'll think about it."

"That's a good start." James smoothed his coat. "Your predecessor could be stubborn. It was a challenge to have him see my perspective of things at the best of times – Ozpin was set in his ways, and I will admit that caused me no end of frustration. I'm glad you and I can see eye to eye more easily, Qrow."

He stood, while Qrow remained seated, his hands curling into fists as he finally saw the General's trap close its teeth around him.

"I appreciate that apprehending the fugitives will be no easy task," James said. "Which is why I'd like to offer Atlas' aid, beyond the intelligence already shared. I can lend you two of my best operatives. I think you'll find them suitable for the task."

"I'll consider it," Qrow said, forcing the words out of his mouth. They tasted worse than the whiskey.

"Keep the files. And give me a call if you decide to take me up on my offer."

James offered his hand for Qrow to shake. When that went ignored, he simply nodded his head and turned to leave.

The moment the door closed, a bottle rolled off one of the highest shelves, shattering on the floor with a crimson splash. Somewhere in the back, there was a yelp and another crash, then a conspicuous silence.

Qrow sighed and reached for his wallet.

"It's a goddamn test," Qrow professed to his hotel room.

He should have seen it right away. Should have picked up on the General's machinations the moment he'd answered that phone call. Of course it was a test all along.

Yes, James wanted Sustrai and Black in his custody. Yes, he probably did intend to milk them for all the information they had on Salem and Fall. But what he really wanted was to see if Qrow was willing to play ball. As if Beacon was being the difficult party in this relationship.

"Smug bastard. I'm the Director of mother-flipping Beacon."

Which was the whole issue, wasn't it? Because Ozpin had been good at this sort of thing. James called him stubborn and difficult, but Ozpin had always smoothed things out with Atlas, and with the rest of the world to boot. Compromises made in the name of the bigger picture – and he was so good at it, the compromises seemed to never weigh that heavily against Beacon.

And somehow Qrow was supposed to follow his lead. Supposed to do better, in fact. That was the whole reason Ozpin had appointed him as his successor.

That's what Ozpin had told him, anyway, when he'd first broached the topic, to see if Qrow was comfortable with the proposition. Qrow wasn't, but he'd agreed anyway. Nowadays, he wasn't so sure why he'd done that.

Ozpin's lapdog, James had called him, months ago when Ozpin had informed him and the rest of the Council of his decision. He hadn't been the first person to say that – hell, his sister called him that to his face pretty much every time they saw each other. In all those occasions, the insult had rolled off his back, nothing to lose any sleep over.

But he was starting to lose sleep now. The memories stung. Maybe because now that Ozpin was six feet under, Qrow could start to admit to himself that perhaps the man's flaws weren't so excusable in the grand scheme of things.

He couldn't have started that any time earlier, of course.

That would have been inconvenient.

"Any word of advice from the audience?" Qrow asked the bed. "None at all?" He gestured at the clock on the nightstand, then at the wardrobe. "One at a time, please. Don't speak all at once."

He had the damnedest urge to call Ruby, of all people. Embarrassing as turning to his niece for advice would be, he had come to accept that she could see a thing or two his bitter old eyes were blind to. The kids would be the ones to save the world, if the adults didn't send it hurling to oblivion first – honestly, he blamed Arc for making that idea sink in.

But Ruby, Yang, and the others had their own problems to deal with. A talking lamp, namely.

Their lives were strange.

His next option was Glynda, but he didn't even bother with that avenue. She never picked up when he called. The woman had stuck around for a few days after Qrow took over, and once she was sure Beacon wasn't about to crumble to dust the moment she looked away, she had bid her leave.

"It would be bad optics for Ozpin's right-hand woman to stay after he stepped down," she had told him, making no mention that Ozpin stepping down had come in the form of his being lowered into an early grave. "I've a few loose threads to check on, too."

She had refused to elaborate on what those loose threads were, beyond that they were matters Ozpin had kept close to the chest.. A less inspiring vote of confidence, Qrow had never known.

Day by day, he was starting to realize that Glynda had played just as big a role as Ozpin in keeping Beacon functioning as well as it did, for as long as it did. Perhaps an ever bigger role. Qrow hadn't appreciated her enough before, which was just right, because he missed her dearly now.

He was a field guy. He didn't know how to run things on a day-to-day basis. It wasn't just Atlas, relations with the other countries were straining too. Worst of all, Beacon was losing people by the handful – good agents that were going for an early retirement so they could protect their own families from the ever-growing threat of the Grimm, or defecting to government forces for much the same reason.

Qrow had been able to convince some of them to stay. For as much as he lacked connections, he still had his charm. But that wasn't enough to staunch the bleeding. In a year's time, he didn't know if there would be a Beacon at all.

"Need another drink," he grumbled to himself, sitting down at the edge of the bed. "No, you don't. You're spiraling."

Unbidden, his hand went under his jacket, closing around that familiar, cylindrical piece of metal he always kept in his pocket.

"Don't take the fucking cane out."

He took the cane out.

It rested heavily in the palm of his hand. A press on a well-hidden button, and the cylinder expanded to thrice its length, springs and mechanisms rotating and shifting into place so neatly that Ruby would have salivated at the sight of it. It was a beautiful cane, with not a scratch on it despite its who-knows-how-many years of use. Outside of that, it looked like a cane like any other.

Qrow didn't buy that for a second.

He ran his hand along the length of the cane, tapping and pulling and prodding at it, then spun it and did the same on the other side. Nothing happened. Furrowing his brow, he brought the tip up to his mouth and breathed on it.

"Yield me your secrets," he whispered. Rudely, the cane didn't respond. "Reveal!" he exclaimed, then repeated the command in old Mistrali, then hoity-toity Atlesian. No better luck.

But that wouldn't have made sense. If Ozpin were to have hidden the cane's real purpose behind a passphrase, surely it would have been in an even older language. Probably a dead one. Shit, he hadn't considered that before. Stuff to toss to the research department later.

Qrow thrust the cane away from his face and glared at it. When they had buried Oz, Ruby had given him his cane, saying that it just felt right that he should have it. And Qrow had agreed – it had felt right. Up until the point that Beacon's lawyers had read him and Glynda the will, and wouldn't you know it, Ozpin had intended for Qrow to have the cane all along in the case of his untimely demise.

Suddenly it had felt too right.

"What's your game, old man?" he asked the cane. "Is this a joke? If so, I hope you're having a good laugh at my expense, wherever you are."

Qrow rubbed his forehead. Gods, he did not want to think about that right now. That was one thing too many.

"So what would you do, in my situation? Not that I'm going to mimic you. I wasn't your lapdog. And I'm not going to be Jimmy's, either. I'm just looking for some perspective."

As usual, the cane ignored him, and the ghost of his former employer failed to materialize out of thin air and impart upon him precisely the wisdom he needed. For a moment Qrow was filled with boiling rage, and the next second, he was just exhausted.

To hell with Atlas, he wanted to say. To hell with anyone who was going to be difficult while an immortal hag from a horror dimension was plotting to kill everyone. If they weren't going to save themselves, Qrow would just do it for them. He had always worked best alone, anyway.

But somehow, he had the feeling that Ozpin hadn't handed him the reins of his life's work just so Qrow could burn it all to the ground. A few of his lives' works, that is. Oz had trusted him. Trusted him more than any sane person should.

"Drown me in the fucking ocean," he muttered. "Fine, you win."

He shrank the cane and put it away. A few drinks down in the hotel lobby, and maybe he would hate this decision a little less by the time he gave James that call.

The drinks didn't help, but showing up to the Atlesian hangar the following morning and seeing the top operative James was so generously lending him for this mission?

That helped a little.

"You're early," Winter Schnee told him, her voice as imperious as ever. She stood beside the lowered ramp of a jet, posture flawless, expression perfectly trained to betray no emotion, yet all of that did little to disguise the scorn in her eyes as he approached.

Qrow couldn't help but grin.

"You sure about that?" he asked, glancing at his Scroll. "And here I was aiming to be fashionably late."

"You would have been, were I not knowledgeable of your proclivities, and thus took into account that you would be at least a half hour late," Winter said. "So yes, by my estimations, you are early." Her lips quirked in displeasure. "Though not by much."

"Would you look at that," Qrow said. "Well, I'm happy to impress. If there's one thing I excel at, it's taking a lady by surprise."

Winter's face remained impassive.

"I gotta admit, I didn't expect Jimmy to send you, of all people," Qrow said. "The way he's on edge about the Grimm, and with Polendina jumping ship, I thought he would sooner chop his other arm off than let you outside his borders."

"I am but one cog in Atlas' defenses," Winter replied, wrists crossed behind her back. "And General Ironwood knows the importance and peril of this task. Did you think he was not serious?"

"Old Jimmy, not serious? Right." Qrow looked her up and down. "So does that mean I've finally poached the Ice Queen to Beacon's side? The one thing Glynda could never pull off. She's gonna pop a vessel when I tell her."

The way her lips thinned ever so slightly, Qrow knew she had a few choice responses to that, all of which she kept to herself. Impressive restraint, he had to admit.

"I'm under your command for the duration of this mission, Director," she settled on, perfectly poised. "However long that entails."

"Good. This trip might not turn out so miserable, after all," Qrow said, burying his hands in the pockets of his coat. "To be less flippant for a moment, Winter, I am glad to have you. There's a reason Glynda was dead set on recruiting you for so long. Hell, I'd chop my arm off to have you in our ranks these days."

To that, Winter gave only the barest resemblance of a nod. Qrow was of the belief that no one was immune to flattery, but Winter Schnee came as close as it gets, second only to her boss, perhaps.

"Shall we set off, then? Unless you have any business remaining in Atlas," Winter said.

Qrow shook his head. "Lead the way."

She turned and walked up the ramp into the jet. Qrow followed behind appreciatively.

He was so appreciative, in fact, that for a moment it completely slipped his mind that James had said he'd be lending two of his top operatives. He was only reminded of that fact when the back of the jet closed behind him and he laid eyes on the other person inside.

The man was sitting on one of the retractable seats, mindlessly scrolling on his phone, though once he noticed their presence, he immediately stood up, looking at once alert and uncannily at ease. Clean shaven, stock-standard Atlas military attire. A fair bit older than Winter, but not quite Qrow's age. He extended his hand for a shake, an easy smile on his lips.

"I take it you're the legendary Qrow Branwen," he said. "It's an honor to meet you, Director. Special Operative Clover Ebi, sir, at your disposal."

Qrow had a roguishly charming response at the tip of his tongue, but that was swiftly lost as he took the man's hand and shook it. A shockwave ran up his arm, the air seeming to become lighter around him, and suddenly he was blubbering something that wasn't quite intelligible.

Clover Ebi continued to shake his hand for the good part of a minute. When he let go, he was still smiling at Qrow, but with a hint of bemusement in his expression. Qrow blinked. What the hell just happened?

"Likewise," he replied. Were his teeth chattering? "Special Operative, huh? If you're the same rank as Schnee, how come we've never met before?"

"That'd be because I only recently got promoted. I was a mere sergeant up until a couple months ago, sir," Clover said, his tone as smooth as his smile.

"That would explain it."

Not all of it, though. Qrow didn't exactly keep track of each and every high ranking Atlesian officer, but seeing as James evidently trusted this Ebi fellow enough to stick him on this mission, Qrow would think he'd have been aware of him much earlier. He was missing something.

"I assume your boss filled you in on the job already?" he asked, and Clover answered with a nod. "Good. I'm sure he stressed this enough, but this isn't gonna be a walk in the park. So are you any good in a fight? Or did you get that Special added to your title for some other reason?"

"Oh, I'm not a force to be reckoned with like Operative Schnee," Clover replied, "but I think you'll find me very useful to have around."

Still, his smile didn't waver, and for the life of him, Qrow couldn't tell if that was because he was seeing straight through his attempts to get any info out of him, or if it was because Clover Ebi was just that comfortable with himself. Either way, it was extremely aggravating.

Qrow found himself smiling back.

"I guess I'll have to see for myself," he said. "You've got one point in your favor. No one's ever called me legendary before."

"Really?" Clover raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm happy to point out the obvious. I'm sure I can find a couple more things to add to that, if you give me a little time."

Qrow laughed. He looked behind him at Winter, who was watching the conversation with all the enthusiastic interest of an ancient Valean bust. "Hear that, Ice Queen? You should try and follow Clover's example. Fostering camaraderie among your partners through words of affirmation is vital to a successful mission."

Winter shrugged one shoulder. "I'll reflect on that, Director, while I get us ready for take off."

She walked off to the cockpit, her footsteps ringing loudly on the floor of the jet.

"Oh." Clover leaned towards Qrow, cupping a hand around his mouth. "You two have history, do you?"

Qrow snorted. "Something like that."

He looked around, pretending to take an interest in the inside of the aircraft while he thought. Winter was to be his babysitter, that much was obvious. Someone to keep him in line and report back to James. But Ebi, what was his role in this?

"I used to have a jet like this, you know. Sleeker, though," Qrow said. "Was sort of a midlife crisis thing, I'll admit. Not that I'm old."

"No sir, you don't look a year over forty," Clover said, and Qrow smirked. He wasn't immune. "You used to, you said? If the Director of Beacon doesn't have his own private aircraft, how does he get around?"

Qrow smirked. "Public transportation."

The jet started to thrum as the engines came alive. There was a small bump as Winter maneuvered them into the runway. Clover sat down and Qrow took the seat opposite his, eyeing the buzzing walls with suspicion. He had yet to cause an aircraft to come apart or explode in midair, but there was a first time for everything.

"Winter is well aware already, but I should let you know," Qrow said. "Catching Sustrai and Black, that'll be hard, but that might be the least of your worries for the next few days. I bring misfortune. If things can go wrong around me, they very likely will."

The words felt like acid on his tongue. They always did. Suddenly he found himself wishing for that terrible whiskey again.

For once, Clover wasn't smiling. He studied Qrow from across the floor, a frown on his forehead like he was putting things together in his mind. It was a more subdued reaction than what Qrow was used to.

"Misfortune. You mean like a bad luck charm?"

"Yeah, exactly that," Qrow said. "Broken mirrors, black cats. The works. Except a hundred times worse."

Clover regarded Qrow for a moment longer, then nodded. "That's alright. I'm good luck."

Qrow stared at him.

"You're kidding."

Winter's voice came from the cockpit, announcing that they were taking flight, and before Qrow could get another word out, they were off.