BRING a WAND to a KNIFE-GUN FIGHT

[ACT 1]: Bucket List

[CHAPTER 3]: Prologue x10 Combo (Part 2)

In Which Chains Are Reforged and Beginnings Born Anew


A flash of white danced around gunmetal gray. A thick blade of Dust-forged steel swung down, crashing into the stone where she had once stood. A thin line of silver whirled about, slashing through a thick, inky-black hamstring before plunging straight into the shadowy not-flesh that made up the back of the monster's knee.

The Armor Gigas ignored what should have been two debilitating attacks and instead launched its leg back in a sickeningly fluid motion. Despite its knightly appearance, it fought like anything but; its movements were jerky, unrefined, and unconstrained by the concept of form or anatomy. She threw herself backwards rather than take the hit.

Weiss Schnee grit her teeth in frustration. Her Aura was likely somewhere into the yellow at this point; not that her opponent was giving her the chance to pull out her Scroll and check.

Not that she'd spend that chance to do it. She would rather spend it on something constructive, like attacking the accursed thing.

Not that that had turned out to be all that constructive either. She'd been throwing herself at that Oum-be-damned Grimm for half an hour now and it was no worse for the wear. And Weiss herself was rapidly coming to terms with the fact that she was not an endurance fighter.

She was precision, she was grace, she was the raw fury of the very elements themselves.

She had Dust and a rapier, and was up against a gigantic, armored beast.

By all logic, she should have already won.

Unfortunately, she faced the slight complication that even if she could dance circles around the Armor Gigas and lance as many hits through the joints as her father had Lien, that didn't really matter when her enemy was the armor itself rather than someone inside it.

This was unfair! It'd probably take a full team of Huntsmen to kill this blasted thing!

But of course it was unfair, she realized as her eyes drifted to the mirrored glass of the observation room looking out over the arena. It was one of her father's challenges. The point wasn't to give her a chance, the point was to beat her down until she gave up.

She snarled, long past maintaining any semblance of decorum, and wrenched her eyes back to the fight. Perhaps this would let off some steam; A bright red glyph shone in the air before her, unleashing a torrent of fire on the Armor Gigas.

It didn't do anything, of course. The flames washed across the steel plating, leaving behind a few soot marks and not much else.

It swung its blade at her with that inhuman not-form, its joints twisting and stretching like elastic. She kicked off a Glyph and bounced up behind it, slicing through the stringy black un-flesh of the thing's elbow with the point of Myrtenaster.

It faltered for a moment, before thick tendrils shot out from the severed joints and reconnected the arm. It shifted and swung the blade at her new position, and Weiss dodged once more.

There was a heat in the air, now, lingering from her gout of flames. A click of Myrtenaster's cylinder, and another Glyph heralded a rush of ice, twisting up one leg of her foe, wrapping around the chestplate, and spreading all the way to the opposite arm.

The cool air was a blessed relief to her skin, even as the Gigas shattered the ice by simply moving. That had also been about as effective as she'd dared to expect.

But- but what was that sound? The tortured groan of metal? Why…?

She thought back to when she'd created Myrtenaster. The finest Dust-forged steel, the finest weaponsmiths, the finest teachers. She'd insisted on creating it herself; despite what Father thought, a weapon was a deeply personal thing for a Huntress. And she remembered the first thing the (SDC-vetted) blacksmith had told her: "Be careful with temperatures. Carelessly heating and cooling your metal will weaken it."

And this time… that's what she wanted.

She danced backwards away from the Armor Gigas, rummaging through the pocket of her combat skirt. When she gained the distance she needed, she stopped.

Front foot pointed straight at the target. Back foot at a 90 degree angle. Body held low, blade drawn back to her chest.

Four glimmering red and blue crystals, held between the fingers of her off-hand.

A single, massive Glyph appeared on the floor below the Armor Gigas.

It flared red. The monster was engulfed in a whirlwind of fire. A sweltering wave of heat blew back her hair.

The Glyph flared blue. A pillar of ice snapped into existence, edges already melting from the leftover heat, but that didn't matter because with a flex from her foe, it shattered.

The Glyph flared red. Another torrent of flame, melting the fragments of ice into water, boiling the water into steam. The metal of the Armor Gigas began to glow with a dull heat.

The Glyph flared blue. Another mountain of ice. More fragments of ice on the ground as the Grimm freed itself from its elemental prison.

Her Aura was low, now. Deep in the red. Enough to take a single hit at most.

(Up in the observation room, a scientist moved to stop the fight. To re-enable the Gigas' restraints. To end this cruel, cruel charade.

A single, pale hand stopped him.

"She's not done yet," said Jaques Schnee, ice-cold eyes fixed on the fight in front of him.)

Weiss focused on her foe's breastplate. Jagged patterns of frost criss-crossed the once-polished metal surface. Cold, misty air clung to it like an ethereal cloak.

Not yet, not yet.

The monster stepped closer. The surface of the armor was mottled. Marked with soot and ash and crystalline ice.

And most importantly of all, it was cracked.

She gathered what remained of her Aura; enough to take one single hit.

Or, enough to make one single Glyph.

A brilliant white circle appeared behind her.

She shot forwards, the fragments of her broken Aura streaming behind her as she sailed through the air.

The monster drew back its sword.

Myrtenaster, unerringly, found its mark.

And the Armor Gigas shattered.

Broken shards of steel fell down on the arena, and Weiss stood tall among them. Bereft of Aura, bereft of the energy to even dodge, she grit her teeth and withstood the rain of razor-sharp fragments.

This was nothing next to the despair her father had intended to inflict with this challenge. This was nothing compared to the thought of being forced to dance on his strings for the next four years. This was nothing, when it paid for her freedom.

Eventually she dragged herself into something close to a dignified stance and, with a flourish born more from habit than intent, sheathed Myrtenaster at her side. Tired, covered in cuts, and bleeding more than was probably safe, she turned to give a final, venomous glare at the mirrored window of the observation room.

Her father had set her against an impossible challenge; a challenge that now lay broken on the floor around her. She was no longer a pawn. She was Weiss Schnee, Heiress to the Schnee Dust Company.

And she was going to Beacon Academy.

( "Sir," said the scientist into the silence that followed. "Sir, you said she wouldn't break it."

Jaques Schnee gave a self-satisfied nod. "It seems my daughter has steel in her yet."

"Sir. That was a very expensive Grimm experiment. We needed that." )


The sun had long since set on the Camp of the Khan Tribe, but the bonfire burned bright and ale flowed freely. Tribesmen belted out drinking songs, clapping in time or letting out raucous laughter. Nora herself seemed to be leading one of these songs, a foot on the bench and a tankard waved in the air.

Lie Ren simply nursed his own drink, gently swaying alongside her. They would be leaving soon, he knew, and the boisterousness of his friend was her way of showing she would be missing these people. Better to cry on the road than waste precious time, she would say. A lesson he could likely still stand to learn.

A piercing whistle cut through the song, and the tribesmen quieted down quickly. A tall, dark-skinned woman with golden eyes and tiger stripes running down her arms stepped up onto the table.

"Tribesmen," shouted Sienna Khan, leader of the Khan Tribe, "Tonight is a night for celebration!"

"Isn't every night?" teased a beefy redhead.

Sienna laughed. "You got me there, Desmond. But tonight is special! Because tomorrow morning, our favorite wanderers will be leaving for Beacon!"

Whoops and clapping filled the air of the camp.

"Yes! They are strong! They have conviction! No doubt next time we see them, they'll be well on their way to being Huntsmen!"

The laughter and hollers rang out once more. Nora held up her hands, basking in the praise as Ren sunk further into the shadows next to her.

Sienna turned to face them directly. "Nora Valkyrie. Lie Ren. Your strength and integrity have proven you worthy of the Nomads. I hereby declare you friends of the Khan Tribe!"

A deafening cheer roared out from the tribe. Nora simply grinned.

"And…" Sienna trailed off for a moment. "And if you should want something more… We would welcome you as family, with open arms. You will always have a home here with us."

The camp held its breath as Ren and Nora stared at each other. The latter with hope in her eyes, the former with wariness. He glanced up at Sienna, then sighed and gave a single, small nod.

Nora immediately jumped onto the table and tackled Sienna in a Huntress-grade hug. The tribe went wild, and Ren, hiding behind his rough wooden tankard, gave the gentlest of smiles.


Jaune knelt, bent over the toilet in the dinky little Bullhead bathroom, wiping vomit from his lips. He'd spent his whole life out in the frontier town of Ansel, learning the ropes of being a Huntsman from his father, and his first trip to the big city was being spent locked in an aerial porta-potty! Truly, Jaune Arc was spared no indignity.

At least this Bullhead had a bathroom; the volume he was… let's say dispensing… would have certainly left more than one barf bag full, and he hadn't packed more than one. He hadn't known that the true enemy all Huntsmen face wasn't Grimm, but their own blasted vehicles!

An impatient knocking on the thin metal door had Jaune sighing and straightening up. There couldn't be more than two hours of the flight left, could there be? He'd be fine. Everything would be fine. He still had the barf bag.

He slipped out of the bathroom, leaving it vacant for the peeved-looking businessman who was his only companion on the flight- besides the pilot, Jaune supposed, but it wasn't like he'd even seen them since liftoff.

He carefully sat down on one of the seats, pulling his guitar case onto his lap. He wouldn't play it; he was feeling far too ill for that. But hugging it brought him comfort; it was a going-away gift from his younger sister Obsidian Arc- woe betide any who call her anything but Sid. The mere thought of her brought to mind her piercing voice, telling him not to even touch the instrument before taking real lessons and then calling him a loser for the thousandth time. Truly, she was his sixth-favorite sister out of seven for a reason.

His favorite was Bianca, of course. She was the eldest, and the one who had inspired him down the path of the Huntsman. She was a true Huntress, with grace and dignity and understated but overwhelming lethality. The white armor adorning his chest was a gift from her, and the unfamiliar weight was reassuring in more ways than one.

He also had five other sisters, but those two were the important ones. The ones that were (or were going to be) Huntresses. Sure, Lavender could bake a mean crepe and Olivia was a professor of anthropology, but it wasn't like analyzing the archaeological significance of a cup made of dirt could stop Grimm in their tracks.

No, that was the job of Huntsmen. Killing things. Something Jaune hoped to actually learn at Beacon; right now, he had the whole 'not dying' step down but everything past that was a little fuzzy. Dad said he had a pretty big Aura, so during hunts he'd just piss off the Grimm and block with his shield until someone else killed it.

Yeah, you heard him right. He'd already gone on hunts with his Dad. He was basically an expert Grimmslayer already. Beacon just had to draw out his latent potential for incredible violence- something Bianca assured him was completely normal.

Sid called him a loser over that, too. She'd never gotten her hands on a mechashift weapon of her own, but she was always flipping her combat knife around and explaining what she'd do to any Grimm that got any funny ideas. Even if the one time she went on a hunt with him and dad she'd spent the entire time hanging on to his back screaming into his ear to 'KILL IT KILL IT KILL IT.'

That particular memory resurfacing had Jaune consider moving Sid all the way down to the least favorite spot. No, no, that wouldn't do; Hazel was way too much of a bitch to get dethroned as Worst Sister. Seriously. She worked for the SDC.

Ugh. Just thinking about her had his stomach threatening to start on filling that barf bag.

Suddenly, the door to the pilot's cockpit slid open. "Hey, Arc. You're a Huntsman, right?"

Jaune blinked. "Uh, not yet, sir. I'll be going to Beacon this year, though."

"Shit," said the pilot. "Think you can take on, say, a flock of Nevermore?"

Jaune blinked again. "No, I don't think so. Sorry."

"Shit," said the pilot again, but with more feeling. "Wanna give it a try anyway?"

Jaune looked down at Crocea Mors, then back up. "With a sword?"

Silence.

"Yeah but, like. It has a gun in it too, right?" said the pilot.

"No," said Jaune. "Just a sword. The sheath turns into a shield, though. It's pretty cool."

"Fuck this," said the pilot. "I'm out."

"What?" squawked Jaune. "What do you mean you're out?"

The pilot pulled the eject lever and launched himself out of the vehicle.

"Oh come on," complained Jaune, "It can't be that bad-"

He entered the cockpit and cut himself off. A whirling black maelstrom that was only recognizable as Grimm by the occasional white mask was headed right towards the Bullhead. Or rather, the Bullhead was headed straight towards it.

"Oh, for Oum's sake," said the peeved-looking businessman. "I am going to be so behind schedule."

"WHO CARES ABOUT YOUR SCHEDULE?" shrieked Jaune. "DO SOMETHING!"

"If you insist," said the businessman. He walked over to the rear of the ship and opened the exit ramp, letting the deafening sound of a lot of air moving very fast reverberate through the Bullhead. "Au revoir," he said, barely intelligible over the roaring wind. And then he picked up his briefcase and stepped out of the Bullhead. Into the two thousand foot gap between the vehicle and the Grimm-infested forest on the ground.

Jaune stared.

The rear door beeped three times, then closed automatically.

"That's not what I meant," Jaune finally said.

"NO PILOT DETECTED," said the computer built into the cockpit controls. "ENGAGING AUTOPILOT."

"Oh, thank Oum. Someone hasn't abandoned me. Computer, take me to Beacon," said Jaune.

"EXCESSIVE GRIMM PRESENCE DETECTED. DISENGAGING AUTOPILOT. PLEASE AVOID GRIMM WITH MANUAL PILOTING BEFORE REENGAGING."

"Yeah," sighed Jaune as he reached for the Bullhead's yoke. "I figured."

It wasn't like he had any other options now, did he? Besides, how hard could piloting a Bullhead through a swarm of Nevermore even be?


Adam stalked into the central tent of the Taurus Tribe, coat flaring dramatically behind him. "Deery. We've got a group of 40 refugees coming in. See to their needs," he commanded with no preamble.

The small faunus nodded and slipped out of the tent, leaving him alone with a thin, tan-skinned girl and a hulking behemoth of a man peacefully sorting through papers scattered across a desk. Adam nodded to the former before addressing the latter.

"Bane, status report on the camp."

Bane cleared his throat. "Grimm Patrols A,B, and D went as expected, with group C encountering more resistance than usual. No injuries, we're just lower on Dust than we'd hoped for. Hunting teams report that we'll need to move camp by the end of the month or risk over-hunting the locale. If we're looking to send the refugees somewhere, the Mulberry Tribe is willing to support up to two dozen of them. The Borelis Tribe down south is a little overcrowded, they're actually hoping to send ten of theirs over to us."

Adam nodded slowly, looking over the map on the table. It was covered in a rainbow of color-coded pins and carefully carved figurines- Blake's handiwork, the lot of it. "Any news from further out?"

"SDC scouts have been more active on the eastern fringe of Forever Fall; The Vermeil Tribe is moving to their winter location a few months early to avoid them. Other than that, business as usual."

Adam frowned; Grimm were one thing, but the SDC was a different beast entirely. Perhaps the increased activity was in anticipation of the Vytal Festival, in hopes of defending the rail route better? They could fight, but the SDC numbered thousands and each tribe had only two or three hundred at most. Much safer to retreat for the time being, let it pass.

Maybe if he had teams of fighters on par with himself, but every Huntsman-grade nomad worth their salt was out running a Tribe of their own. He was practically bending over backwards to keep Ilia and Bane, let alone anyone in the big leagues. Oh, what he'd do to get some real combat power…

I wish we could actually stop this. I wish we could march up to Atlas and make the SDC stop this. I wish we were strong enough.

Hmmmm. An idealistic pipe dream for sure, but Blake truly was the best of them. For all that they followed the Rule of Strength, she rarely put it to use for her own benefit. But then again, that was what he was for. He glanced down at the map once more and frowned. "Bane. What's the combat power of the Borelis tribe?"

He reached into a drawer on the desk and flattened out a piece of paper from it. "They're 230 strong, but probably about half of that is real combat power. About a dozen really trained in Aura, with their leader personally Huntsman-grade."

Adam picked up a sleekly carved wooden bull and slid it across the map, knocking over a truncated bat figurine- 'chibi,' Blake had called the style? "How about the Vermeil Tribe?"

Bane fished out another document. "About 300 tribesmen, but they are more militaristic, so a round 200 fighters. 30 trained in Aura, 3 Huntsmen grade including the leader."

Adam twisted his mouth, then straightened the bat piece back up, placing it next to the bull. "Mulberry?"

Bane glanced up at him. "Sir? Is there something I should know?"

"Not at all," demurred the Leader of the Taurus Tribe as he ran his fingers down the side of a furry, eight-eyed piece- was this what Blake thought spiders looked like? Ridiculous. "I'm just thinking. The numbers, please."

And so Bane read them out. And Adam sketched out a line. A thick, red line that zigzagged between each of the local Nomad camps before following the map's own arrow labeled "to Mistral."

Bane and Ilia stared at the map with confusion. Adam was surprised, too. Surprised at how viable it seemed. It wasn't a guarantee, and it certainly wouldn't be easy, but it could work. "Your wish is my command," he whispered to himself, before turning to Ilia. "Get the men ready. We march in three days."

Ilia glanced at Bane for a moment before speaking. "To our winter camp?"

"No, no. First, we march on our neighbors. Next, our brothers and sisters in Mistral. After that?" Adam laughed, the happiest and most carefree he'd sounded in years- since he'd taken leadership of the tribe. "Blake would simply say 'the sky's the limit,' but I've never been one for delicacy. After that, we drag the heavens back down to earth and paint our would-be gods the colors of their own flesh."

Bane stared at him, eyebrows raised high. "Sir?"

"For all their laws and governments, the people of Atlas have forgotten the one true rule," he said. "That by which they won the lives they spend so cruelly, that by which they won the food and shelter they now take for granted, that by which they pried Remnant from the very jaws of the Grimm." His hand fell to the blade at his hip. "The Rule of Strength governs all, and it's high time someone reminded the Schnee of that."

Ilia let a toothy grin mar her face. "I look forward to seeing that, Sir."


Sweat dripped down Harry's forehead as his spellwork flew hard and fast. Flames flared up and died down at his command, and silver blades spun through the air with unerring precision. Dozens of eyes watched him hungrily, but he would not be cowed. This was his domain, and he would never surrender that.

"Three orders of the Deluxe Noodle Bowl, one with extra beef," came a shout from one of the servers.

A flick of his wand had another three woks spin out onto the stove as vegetables flew through the air, dancing between knives and utensils in an intricate pattern. Onions were diced, garlic was minced, noodles were rinsed- a handful of simple tasks weaving together into what could only be called entertainment. The patrons crowding up at the wide glass window to the small restaurant's kitchen certainly seemed to think so, at least.

Eventually a glance at the clock told Harry his shift would be over soon, so with a light smirk he set up the finale.

A swing of his wand had the dozens of pans jump up off the stove, whirling through the air as they plated their precious cargo onto the dishes balanced precariously on his arms. With a spin, they shot out onto the counter, ready for the servers to take them to their tables.

He turned back to the stove and hammered his wand arm down on the handle of the final wok, flipping it through the air over him and catching it in his off-hand, pointed straight at the window. He tossed the noodles into the air, where they formed a miniature dragon complete with a burst of fire breath before landing perfectly into the bowl Harry had switched out the wok for.

He set the bowl firmly on the counter with a cheerful "Order up!"

After a few final waves to the crowd, Harry slipped out of the kitchen and hung up his apron. A quick visit to the boss' office had him clutching an envelope stuffed thick with Lien- the week's tips. He quickly counted through it before nodding with satisfaction. He tucked it safely into his pocket, grabbed his bag from his locker, then stepped back out into the busy streets of Vale.

It had been an interesting few weeks for him since arriving on Remnant. He'd expected to run into some problems from apparently being some kind of dimension traveler, but with most of the planet under the rule of mindless demons the local government didn't seem to really care where he was from as long as he wasn't a wanted criminal. And even if he technically was wanted back in Wizarding Britain it wasn't like anyone here would know that, so things had gone pretty smoothly, all things considered.

And then he'd seen a shop with a chaingun / battleaxe / electric guitar hybrid in the display window, and everything had gone downhill- sorry, no, uphill- from there. Huntsmen; a special class of super-warriors whose duty it was to stave off the impending threat of the Creatures Grimm. Dust; the fury of the elements, crystalized and refined into a usable form. The aforementioned wack as hell weapons.

After hearing about that, Harry knew in his heart of hearts that he just absolutely had to be one of those "Huntsmen." So he'd applied to Beacon Academy and somehow got accepted? He had literally written down that he went to wizard school and they let him in, so either the person in charge thought he was funny or nobody actually read those applications.

A tiny bell rang as Harry opened the door to the shop he'd found three weeks ago, and the girl behind the counter looked up from her Scroll. "Welcome. What can I do for you today?"

The front of the shop was rows upon rows of display clothes; shirts, pants, dresses, jackets, scarves, hats, corsets- if you could name it, they had it in at least eight different styles. The walls were lined with what seemed to be thousands of swathes of fabric, sorted by durability, breathability, stiffness, and texture. Mannequins of all shapes and sizes dotted the rear of the store- much more complicated than basic plastic statues, they had a full range of motion and dozens of preprogrammed poses.

This was apparently considered 'quaint' for a tailor that fitted Huntsmen.

Harry wound his way to the counter and grinned at the girl waiting behind it. "Hey, Coco! Is my order in?"

"Potter, right?" She flipped through a few pages on a nearby clipboard before nodding. "Yeah, it came in last night. Wanna try it on?"

He nodded. "That would be wonderful."

She hefted a thick case emblazoned with a thin lightning bolt over the counter and passed it over to him. "Changing rooms are over there," she indicated the far wall of the shop. "Let me know if you need any alterations."

"Alright then," Harry mumbled to himself in the privacy of the changing room, "let's see how this looks."

First came a black sleeveless bodysuit, made of a pleasantly stretchy but fairly durable material. It was a snug fit but comfortably so, leaving him with a full range of motion. This was followed by gloves of the same material, running from his hands down to just before his elbows.

Next was a strangely cut green tunic that failed to cover the upper right quarter of his chest, seemingly having invested that fabric in a single loose sleeve that went down to his left elbow. He cinched it at the waist with a broad leather belt before facing the bulk of the case; the armor.

A set of coppery vambraces and greaves, each tapering inwards at the center and stretching up to guard his knees and elbows. They were lighter than he'd expected, but still something he'd have to get used to.

He slipped on the green shoes- too sturdy to be trainers but too light and flexible to be boots- and strapped a leather pouch to his left leg before throwing on the Invisibility Cloak as the finishing touch.

It had taken a while for Harry to notice, but ever since he'd arrived on Remnant, the Cloak was acting strangely. It still worked when he wanted it to, but he could also just… wear it. Its ethereal, silvery fabric definitely helped to offset the relative plainness of his new outfit.

He looked at himself in the mirror, twisting and turning to try and catch more angles. Eventually satisfied, he walked out of the changing room.

He held out his arms and struck a pose. "So, whaddya think?"

She looked him over and smirked. "Not half bad, kid. Everything fit alright?"

Harry did some quick stretches before nodding. "Like a really nice glove."

She nodded. "Good to hear. Now, we have a couple of options for payment; if you wanna pay over the next few weeks-"

Harry pulled the envelope out of his pocket and tossed it to her. "That should about cover it."

Her eyebrows rose as she flipped through the Lien, before finally stopping. She pulled out a small stack of the cards and slid them back to him. "That's your change."

He slid it back over to her. "Consider it a tip. I wouldn't look a quarter this good without you pretty much designing this whole fit for me."

She rolled her eyes but took the money. "Brother, you came in here and asked for a sports jersey with coattails and leather lacrosse gear. That was a cry for help if I've ever heard one."

"I was on the sports team in school, it's what I was used to," he mumbled defensively, fully knowing she was 100% correct.

And judging by the laughter in her eyes she knew he knew, too. Ah well. If he couldn't handle people being better than him at things he never would have been friends with Hermione. He knew when he was outmatched.

"Well, uh, thanks again! See you around."

"Good luck with Initiation," Coco called as he walked out the door. "You're going to need it."

Well, then. That wasn't ominous at all.


A/N: Drip Acquired!

I'm pretty happy with how the PROLOGUE x10 COMBO turned out but with all due respect I am never doing this again. Somehow, while coming up with the idea, I failed to realize that it meant I actually had to write ten entire prologues. Hindsight is 20/20, ect.