A/N: Hello, everyone. First, I'd like to apologize for the lack of uploads. I wanted to take a month-long break... And uh, it turned out to become a two-month-long break. Oops. Don't worry, I put that break to good use.
I have something gotta get outta my chest. It's the mandatory 'Writer to reader moment' y'know? Happens on all long fics. Feel free to ignore this next paragraph, but please answer the question right after it.
Here's a bit about me. I am a 21-year-old university student. Currently, I study Law and Chemistry at two different universities. A month after I began University, in March of 2022, my sister died due to a complication with her heart and kidneys. In April of that year, I began to write this fic because I wanted to get my mind away from that issue. It worked so well, that I never actually mourned her properly, and these last two months gave me time to think about things and straighten those feelings out. That is to say that I love this fic very much, and I found myself loving to write. I don't plan on stopping this any time soon.
That said, why write a fic in the first place? Well, at the time I kind of stopped writing one cause of a douchebag. Then, a good friend of mine, who at the time, was playing Lob Corp, using our friend's names as the nugget's names, simply said 'Why not this?', and, three years later, here we are. Yes, that is why one of the co-writers of the fic on AO3 is 'Bemaia'. Sorry about that.
With that unscripted shit out of the way, here's a question that may or may not influence the next chapter; Do we want lemons?
Now, you might read this chapter, return up here, and ask yourself, 'What the fuck do you mean by that?'
To that, I say, 'Answer the question.'
Cause, the lemons will happen, which is expected due to the setup with Blake. If you say no, It'll only be implied. If you say yes, It'll be explicit.
Wanted to get freaky as a way to celebrate the April's chapter, which will mark three years of this hot piece of shit of a fic.
GUEST: Why do people keep referring to this as 'Peak'. My brother in Christ, this is an RWBY fanfic, that word has no room here. Either way, I won't stop thanking you for your support. Yang, Yang, Yang... I have some things planned for her. It'll take some time though. It will come. Eventually.
Atomicboo131: Yah! I never once understood why the FUCK Cinder's number one priority wasn't dealing with the Silver Eyes issue... Weird stuff. Also, Uhhhh... About that...
Anywho, here's your chapter. I'm quite proud of this one. Enjoy.
Pulling the unconscious body of the girl closer to his, Francisco gives her forehead the most gentle of kisses. "Alright... I got you." The hastily put-together bandages over the girl's missing eye were no longer white, a red spot covered the whole socket.
The smell of iron filled the elevator, luckily that was a short-lived concern, as the smell of oil and steel invaded the enclosed space of the elevator.
Steeling themselves, the elevator door opened. Francisco quickly pulled Ruby's body over his shoulder. Vance promptly stepped out of the elevator.
The "top" floor, here it was in all of its barren glory. Francisco took a slow breath, scanning his surroundings.
He was inside of that warehouse again... No, above it. A second level is suspended above the storage units below. Shipping containers were stacked in rows beneath him, their surfaces worn and dented from years of use. The catwalk he stood on stretched across the space, metal grates, and railings the only things keeping him from a deadly fall.
Below, movement. Silhouettes shift between the containers. Armed personnel, rifles gripped tight, scanning every corner. They were looking for someone. Looking for him.
"Hm... Morello must really want me dead." Francisco mused as if he wasn't sure of that already. He grips the railing of the catwalk.
Vance doesn't respond, he simply eyes the very end of the catwalk, noticing something Francisco likely failed to notice.
A breath of steel and oil whispered through the air as gloved fingers closed around the grip of a pistol. Vance moved slowly, deliberately. No sudden jerks, no noise, just a practiced fluidity that came from years of repetition.
The weapon was old, but not neglected. The matte black frame bore the signs of age, small scuffs along the slide, and worn edges where time and use had smoothed the metal to a dull sheen. But there was no rust, no dirt. It had been cleaned, oiled, and maintained with the kind of care only a professional gave their tools. The grip, wrapped in a textured polymer, was molded to fit his hand perfectly. The trigger? Light. Responsive. A whisper of pressure was all it would take.
The hammer eased back with a muted click, lost beneath the hum of distant machinery. The barrel, long enough to balance precision and stopping power, lifted in a slow, steady rise. The muzzle, dark as a dead man's eye, leveled itself at the broad shape ahead.
Francisco.
He stood at the edge of the catwalk, unaware, his stance weighted from the unconscious body slung over his shoulder. Strands of dark red hair spilled from the medical gown of the girl he carried.
The man tightened his grip, exhaled through his nose, and steadied his aim.
Francisco, only then does he notice a small glimmer at the edge of the catwalk. A glimmer, near imperceptible, of a light reflecting off a smooth surface, in this case, someone's widow's peak.
He looks back at the old man behind him, not at all shocked when he sees the very end of a barrel pointed at him. "I'm guessing the guy over there is... Morello."
The figure at the far end of the catwalk moved. The glint of light across the man's widow's peak disappeared as he stepped forward, emerging from the shadows.
Morello.
He was an older man, but not frail, not by any means. His frame was lean, and compact, the kind of build that spoke of efficiency rather than brute strength. His suit was crisp despite the current location, the deep navy fabric pressed to perfection, save for a slight looseness at the collar, as if he had just stepped away from a long conversation he didn't particularly enjoy.
A slow smirk curled his lips. "You're the one making all this trouble," he mused, voice smooth but carrying an unmistakable weight. He didn't sound particularly angry. More curious.
Before Francisco could respond, another figure stepped forward from the shadows beside Morello.
Taller.
Less intimidating.
Yet somehow... infinitely worse.
The man in the hoodie moved with a quiet, almost unnatural stillness, like a shadow drifting where it shouldn't. The hood obscured most of his face, but what little Francisco could see was a sharp chin's edge.
But it wasn't his appearance that set Francisco's nerves on edge.
It was something else. A gut feeling.
Something about this man was wrong.
Francisco's fucked up arm twitched, the embedded eyes shifting frantically, their erratic movements betraying some primal unease, sensing a danger even his own mind hadn't yet registered.
The man in the hoodie simply stared at him.
Long.
Unblinking.
Then, in a voice as even and unshaken as still water, he spoke.
"He doesn't have it."
Francisco frowned. "What?"
The hooded man turned his gaze slightly toward Morello, the movement subtle, almost lazy. "He doesn't have a semblance. I'm not needed here."
There was no emotion in his words. No frustration. No irritation at being called for something that had turned out to be a waste of time. Just a simple, neutral statement of fact.
Morello tilted his head slightly, studying Francisco with renewed interest. Then, after a moment, he gave a small nod of understanding.
"Fine," he said simply, dismissing the hooded man with the same nonchalance one might dismiss a waiter.
Without a word, the taller man turned and walked away, disappearing back into the darkened corridors without so much as a backward glance.
Francisco didn't move. Didn't relax. His fingers dug slightly into Ruby's form, adjusting her weight on his shoulder, but his eyes remained on Morello.
"Well, that was weird," Francisco muttered, though his tone was wary. His arm continued to twitch, the embedded eyes darting in every direction as if still searching for something.
Morello didn't reply at first. He simply stood there, observing.
Vance took this as his cue.
The sharp click of a safety being flicked off echoed in the stillness. Francisco shifted his gaze just enough to see Vance, weapon trained squarely on his skull, the grip in his hands firm, unwavering.
The silence stretched.
Then, ever so slowly, Morello took a step forward.
Francisco met his gaze head-on, refusing to be the first to flinch.
Morello smirked.
Vance's grip on his pistol didn't waver.
The only sound in the vast, empty warehouse was the distant hum of machinery and the steady, rhythmic breathing of two men locked in a silent battle of wills.
Francisco's eyes flicked downward, away from Morello's face, toward the weapon resting loosely in his grip.
A halberd.
Elegant. Heavy. Purpose-built.
It was an odd choice for a man like Morello. Not because of its weight, nor its complexity, those were manageable with the right training. No, what struck Francisco as wrong was how well it fit him.
Morello wasn't a brute. He wasn't some raging beast swinging wildly in the heat of battle, at least that's what Francisco thought. He was measured, and controlled. And yet, this weapon, a thing of raw power and momentum, looked as though it had been forged for his hands alone.
The shaft was polished steel, reinforced with subtle etchings that ran the length of the weapon, not decorative, no. Practical. He'd seen similar engravings before, tiny channels where Dust could be inserted, feeding energy through the weapon, like veins beneath the skin.
The blade? Sharp. Too sharp. Not just honed but meticulously maintained, its edge gleaming even in the dim lighting of the warehouse. It wasn't just built for killing. It was built for efficiency.
Francisco could tell, immediately, that this wasn't a collector's piece. This wasn't some ceremonial trinket carried for show.
This was a tool, designed to kill things, really, really fast.
Francisco had built weapons like this before.
For the Index.
The thought made his jaw tighten. His arm twitched.
The Index had their own philosophy when it came to arms. They weren't content with simple blades. They needed weapons that were divine. Instruments without a soul, with the intent to follow their wielder's motions.
And that's what this halberd felt like.
Like a tool.
Francisco swallowed.
/Now Playing: Rough And Decent (Bad Joke); Armored Core 6: Fires of Rubicon OST/
The dull ding of the second elevator rang out behind them. The moment the doors slid open, Francisco moved.
With Ruby's unconscious form secured over his shoulder, he lunged.
His grotesque arm lashed forward, tendrils coiling, muscles tightening as he aimed to rip through Morello's guard before the old man could fully react.
"Vance, hold him down!" Morello barked, already moving, his grip tightening around the halberd.
Vance's gunmen reacted instantly, weapons snapping toward Francisco, fingers on the triggers.
But Morello's next words came just as quickly.
"Don't shoot unless I say! If she dies, you all die!"
The mercenaries froze, tense but obedient, guns tracking Francisco's every move, but no one fired.
Francisco was already in motion, momentum carrying him forward, his grotesque arm lashing out, a monstrous arc of writhing flesh and claw aimed to tear into Morello's ribs.
Morello moved fast.
Too fast.
The halberd twisted in his grip, the shaft snapping upward, a controlled, precise block, deflecting Francisco's strike just enough to divert its power away from his body.
CLANG!
The impact shook the catwalk, metal groaning under the sheer force behind Francisco's blow. A lesser weapon might have cracked. Morello's didn't budge.
Francisco's jaw tightened. He'd hit hard, and Morello had absorbed it like it was nothing.
'No time to think. Move.'
He twisted, his grotesque arm pulling back as he swung again, this time aiming for Morello's legs.
The old man sidestepped, fluid, effortless. His halberd snapped down, the blunt end driving toward Francisco's ribs.
Francisco barely had time to react, his monstrous arm twisting unnaturally, tendrils pulling at his body, dragging him out of the weapon's direct path.
WHAM!
Aura flared. The strike grazed his side, but even the glancing hit hurt, forcing him to stumble, his boots screeching against the grated metal.
Ruby shifted against his back, her body lolling limply, and Francisco's entire focus honed in.
Don't drop her. Don't let her get hit.
Vance and his men kept their rifles trained, but Morello hadn't given the order to fire. He was watching. Testing.
And Francisco? He was running out of time.
His grotesque arm tensed, the embedded eyes rolling wildly, tracking every movement in the room. He had no way of getting to Qrow, Weiss, or Yang below. No way of calling for help.
This was his fight. His alone.
Morello exhaled sharply. "Never fought an actual Huntsman before?"
Francisco's head snapped up, teeth bared. "I've fought worst!"
He lunged again, his monstrous arm whipping high, then feinting low at the last second, a deceptive strike meant to bypass Morello's defense.
Morello wasn't fooled.
The halberd moved like it was weightless in his hands. The blade snapped outward, slicing the air between them.
Francisco barely avoided losing an arm. Again.
The shockwave of the blade passing too close made his skin tingle. The sheer precision of the attack told him everything.
Morello didn't just fight. He dissected.
He wasn't just swinging a weapon. He was carving up opportunities, setting up the next three moves ahead.
Francisco gritted his teeth, his fleshy arm still whipping around, trying to find an opening. Nothing. The bastard had him figured out.
Morello smoke. "Sloppy."
Francisco growled, stepping forward to swing again. The moment his weight shifted, Morello acted.
A sudden, forceful kick.
Francisco barely had time to adjust before Morello's boot slammed against his center of mass, striking right at Ruby's weight.
The impact threw him off-balance.
Francisco staggered back, barely catching himself before he could fall over the railing.
Ruby made a soft sound, a weak, barely-there murmur.
Morello's eyes flicked to her. "Careful," he mused, his grip steady on his halberd. "Wouldn't want to drop her."
Francisco's entire body coiled with frustration, his arm shuddering at his side, fingers twitching.
'This isn't working.'
Morello had control over the battlefield. He had Vance's men at his back, an entire warehouse at his disposal, and the luxury of time.
Francisco had none of that.
He had seconds to change the course of this fight. Seconds before Morello found a way to finish it.
His mind raced.
Morello's smirk faded, his grip on the halberd tightening. He had tested Francisco. Measured him. Now, he moved in for the kill. Or, in this case, for the Aura break.
His stance shifted. A subtle lean forward, weight distributing to the balls of his feet. No wasted movement. No theatrics.
Then, like a coiled spring, he struck.
The halberd shot forward like a spear, aimed directly at Francisco's skull. The sheer force behind the thrust sent a sharp whistle through the air with the power Morello could generate in a single motion.
Francisco's body was slow, but the eyes embedded in his arm and cheek saw faster than he ever could.
The fleshy tendrils coiling around his left leg moved instinctively, without thought, reacting before his mind could even register the incoming death strike.
His mutated limb wrenched his leg upward, slamming his boot down onto the incoming halberd shaft in a vicious counter-stomp.
The metal clashed against leather, the force of the impact cratering the catwalk beneath them. Metal groaned under the pressure as the halberd was slammed down mid-thrust, killing Morello's momentum before the blade could skewer Francisco's head.
For the first time in this fight, Morello's eyes narrowed. It wasn't frustration. It wasn't anger.
It was surprise.
A mistake.
A small one, fleeting, but it was all Francisco needed.
The grotesque mass of writhing flesh on his arm quivered, the shifting sinew and muscle convulsing, reshaping itself. The fingers retracted, the wrist twisted, and bone and tendons snapped together into something denser, heavier.
A sphere of jagged bone and muscle, grotesque in its structure but undeniably brutal in its function.
A mace.
And it was already swinging.
Morello's instincts screamed at him to move, to pivot away, but he was still locked in the contest for control of his weapon.
Francisco's mutated limb struck square into Morello's face.
The force behind the blow was monstrous.
Morello's head snapped to the side, the impact forcing him a full step back. The shock rippled through his body, Aura flared against the blow.
For the first time, Morello staggered. Even dropped his weapon as he took a few steps back.
Francisco felt it. Saw it.
The bastard wasn't untouchable.
A feral grin tugged at the corner of Francisco's lips as he pulled Ruby's weight closer to him. His mutated limb throbbed with energy, the embedded eyes flickering wildly.
"That one looked like it hurt, old man."
Morello wiped his cheek with the back of his glove, nothing but spit was removed from his face. Then, ever so slowly, he turned back toward Francisco.
His smirk was gone.
And for the first time in this fight, he looked pissed.
Vance, still training his gun on Francisco, exhaled through his nose. He had seen Morello fight plenty of times. He knew what was coming next.
"Bad move, baldie," Vance muttered under his breath.
Francisco didn't have time to process those words. Morello's stance had already shifted.
"Right..." Morello sighed as he straightened his posture. "It's been miserable knowing you..." And so, Morello extended his right hand forward, curling his fingers ever so slightly.
Francisco watched, confused, as Morello, with the snap of a finger, had his halberd back into his hand. He did not see it moving, no, it was in one place then it was on his hand.
Francisco's foot no longer pressed against a weapon, and so stomped the metallic ground of the catwalk with a loud clanking sound.
"You're a complete mystery, y'know?" Morello began as he took a singular step backward. "I thought you were with Team RWBY... But you're no girl, you're not a faunus, nor are you named Blake. In short, you're not with team RWBY."
Francisco's hold tightened around Ruby's torso. He was beginning to struggle with her continued weight over his shoulder. "You're pretty smart, no?" He said, his voice drowning in sarcasm.
"A bit," Morello spoke, as another snap of his fingers echoed throughout the warehouse.
Francisco's instincts screamed at him. His arm twitched, the embedded eyes shifting wildly as an immense, unnatural force tore through the air.
The next second, metal groaned.
A shadow loomed over him.
Something huge. Something fast.
Francisco barely had time to process it before a fucking car materialized out of nowhere, mid-air, coming straight for him.
"OPEN FIRE!" Morello bellowed.
Time slowed.
The car was moving before it had even arrived. Morello had teleported it straight from the road, mid-momentum.
Francisco barely had a fraction of a second.
His grotesque arm moved on instinct. The mass of bone and sinew convulsed, snapped, and twisted into something new. A shield of hardened tendrils burst outward, a last-second, desperate defense.
The car slammed into him.
The impact nearly tore Francisco's body apart.
The sheer weight and speed behind the metal monstrosity sent him hurtling backward, his boots screeching against the catwalk as he braced against it. The reinforced metal beneath him buckled, denting inward. His arm screamed in agony, its unnatural mass groaning under the force.
His fingers locked tight around her limp form, his entire body coiling, muscles burning, every fiber of his being focused on one thing, do not let her go.
Then, the gunfire started.
Mercenaries unloaded their clips into the chaos.
Bullets ripped through the air, hot lead shrieked past his ears, slamming into the car still in the air, ricocheting against the metal flooring, pinging off the catwalk's railings. Sparks flew.
But above all, the majority of the shots hit Francisco's back. His aura flared again for a singular second, attempting to withstand the onslaught, even if for a moment.
Right then, when the first second passed, after Morello teleported a whole fucking vehicle at Francisco, was when the car hit the catwalk and completely broke apart.
The moment the catwalk gave out, Francisco felt it first. The sickening lurch of metal snapping apart beneath his feet. A groan so deep and metallic that it vibrated up through his legs, his teeth, his bones.
Then, the world disappeared from under him.
There was no bracing for impact.
No plan.
No saving grace.
Only falling.
Faster than he could react.
He hit the air hard, the wind ripping past him as he plunged down, the weight of Ruby's unconscious body pressing heavier, her form slamming against his shoulder like dead weight.
Too fast. Too high. Too fucking high.
The catwalk crumbled above, jagged slabs of metal and debris twisting violently mid-air, shadowing his descent like falling wreckage. Somewhere in the chaos, Vance and his men screamed. Their voices barely lasted a second before they too were consumed by the fall, by the relentless pull of gravity.
Then...
Impact.
A soundless explosion shattered through Francisco's body. A thousand pounds of force in a single moment.
The ground met him with bone-cracking finality.
The first thing to go was his Aura.
It wasn't gradual. No slow flicker, no weakening resistance. It snapped.
Like glass under a hammer.
A dim red flash erupted from his skin, shattering outward as his last line of defense gave way.
Then, pain. Real, unfiltered pain.
The sheer momentum of the fall drove him into the warehouse floor with crushing force. He barely had the mind to twist his body at the last second, shielding Ruby with his torso, his arms, anything but her.
A sharp, hot burst of agony ignited across his ribs as something inside him cracked. The impact traveled up his spine, a brutal shockwave that sent his skull bouncing against the concrete with a deafening crack.
His vision erupted into static. The world jerked sideways.
Sound flattened, muffled, distant. Like someone had stuffed his head inside a vacuum.
'Breathe.'
He tried, but the air wasn't there.
'Breathe, damn it.'
His lungs stuttered. The world trembled in a blur of movement. His fingers spasmed, still clenched too tight around Ruby's limp form. The weight of her was the only thing that felt real as the rest of the world fractured around him.
Above, screams.
Around him, impact after impact.
Bodies hit the ground like broken dolls.
Vance's men.
They weren't built for this.
No Aura.
No defense.
Nothing to stop gravity from breaking them apart.
The first crunch barely registered through the fog in Francisco's head. But the second? The third?
He felt those.
The sick, organic snap of bones collapsing under their own weight. The muffled gargle of men whose insides had been turned inside out. Their bodies struck the floor with wet, final thuds. No bouncing. No movement. No more screaming.
Felt like home.
Francisco groaned, his body refusing to move as he stared past the stars in his vision.
He caught a glimpse of Vance.
He had landed wrong.
Arms twisted at a sickening angle.
Neck limp.
Eyes still open.
Dead.
Francisco tried to move. Pain locked his body in place. His brain screamed at his limbs, but nothing responded.
He barely even registered that he was bleeding. Warmth dripped down his forehead, pooling at his brow before spilling over, trailing down his face, into his mouth, into his throat. It tasted like iron.
Something above creaked. Francisco blinked, forcing the world into focus.
The wreckage of the car teetered on the catwalk's remains above him.
His breath hitched.
His fingers refused to work properly. His arm twitched, sluggish, unresponsive.
His grotesque limb spasmed. The embedded eyes, all of them, were flicking wildly in different directions. The trauma of the fall had sent his mutation into panic. The fleshy mass convulsed in strange, erratic bursts, tendrils snapping open and closed, desperate for stability.
The car tilted. It was going to fall. Right on top of him.
Francisco gritted his teeth, finally wrenching control of his body.
With everything left in him, he rolled.
The wreckage slammed down inches from where he had just been, shards of glass and burning metal skidding across the floor. Heat licked at his skin as an explosion of dust and debris billowed outward.
His ears rang. His body howled in agony.
But he was alive.
Ruby.
His grip on her hadn't wavered. His fingers dug into her jacket, white-knuckled, refusing to let go.
She was still unconscious. Still breathing. But for how much longer?
A silhouette stood atop of him.
Francisco's battered vision tilted upward.
Morello.
Still standing on the wrecked catwalk, looking down on him.
Through the haze of pain, Francisco could still see the expression etched into that bastard's face.
Amusement. Satisfaction. Like a god staring down at a broken thing.
Morello smirked. "That looked painful."
Francisco spat blood onto the ground. Didn't even have the strength to cuss him out.
The old man sighed, rolling his shoulders as he rested his halberd against his side. "Well, that was fun." He nodded toward the remains of his men. "Shame about them."
Francisco could barely hear him. The ringing in his ears was still too loud, his heartbeat still hammering in his skull.
"Still... They did their job... Softened up your aura just enough for the fall to get you." He hummed at that, which was enough to know that he had seconds before Morello decided to finish the job.
Before he snapped his fingers again.
Francisco tried to move.
Nothing.
Fuck.
Morello tilted his head, taking a slow step forward. His boots clanked against the damaged railing. "You got a hell of a chin, kid. Most people don't survive getting hit with a sedan at full speed."
Another step.
"But, between you and me? I think that's about all you've got left."
Another step.
Morello raised his halberd. His arm twitched.
Francisco's pulse spiked. His arm, his fucked-up arm, twitched violently.
'Do something. Please.'
His limb jerked. The blood-red mass of organic matter returned to a humanoid arm-like shape. A palm outstretched upwards, towards Morello.
"An attempt at mercy?" Morello scoffed at the motion. "Not happening..."
Morelly reeled the halberd back. His aim is directed toward Francisco's head. He doesn't aim at his center mass, thankfully. That means Ruby won't get hit by this particular attack.
"I hope the Grimm can eat that fucked up arm of yours... Ah... Well..." Morello's grip tightened.
Time slowed down.
That last word Morello spoke, made Francisco shudder. Not because it meant that Morello just declared the end of his life, no, not that at all. He shuddered at what that sudden thought he had.
'What if...'
It was simple in theory, what he thought of. So simple in fact, that he had already done it once before, back in Mount Glemm, against some poor Faunus. Issue number one, he had done it accidentally, when the arm was completely out of control. Issue 2, Francisco hasn't the slightest clue how to properly control the thing that replaced his left arm.
It was an attack he had observed the original abnormality using.
He was on the receiving end of it more than once.
His left arm was already pointing at Morello, and his palm was also open, facing the man.
A second had yet to pass.
Francisco doesn't have the luxury to think right now.
So, he simply reproduced what he thought was the way Nothing There did it.
The left biceps, all meat in it, turn to gas and compress it in a small container.
There is very acute pain originating at the stump of his arm, where the shoulder turns into living flesh. Once Francisco's mind begins to work normally again, he's sure to feel a kind of pain never before felt by another human being.
The next step of the attack is the creation of a projectile. That part is easy. Bone makes up for a pretty nice shrapnel, however, that wouldn't do too much damage, not in this situation at least. Shrapnel is great against targets without armor, but does jack shit against something nice and hard like Aura. No, what he needed was a singular, heavy, projectile. To really test Morello's Aura.
There is no need to hold back, after all, if this fails, he's dead anyway.
Any damage dealt to himself is nothing compared to dying right now.
The projectile is found rather easily. Two of his ribs were broken, yet one of them was completely separated from the root. That is a good enough size of a projectile, now for the shape.
A second passes.
He's too focused to notice a weight being lifted off of his chest.
Morello's halberd was already moving at a pretty high speed toward his face.
The rib, as if possessed, rose from his chest m through his neck, and into his left shoulder.
The length of the arm would do for a pretty good barrel for this glorified BB gun.
A hollowed-out arm would be the least of Francisco's concerns should he get decapitated.
First, blood shot out from the palm of the fleshy hand, directly into Morello's face. More importantly, his eyes.
A searing pain echoes on his head. A deafening explosion right by his left ear. His temple was split open. Grime, sweat, blood, dust, Dust, and powdered concrete all merge together in the quickly forming pool in the hole the halberd just opened on the ground.
That mattered little, however.
The pressured gasified flesh was already quickly expanding through the length of the arm, that was where the blood that hit Morello's face came from, it came from the role the pressured gas punched through the palm.
Then, like a bullet, a pointed and straightened chunk of bone was shot out of the arm. A fine red mist followed the bullet's trail. The eyes on the arm remained unblinking, staring at the improvised projectile as it moved through the air.
Then, a loud noise, akin to an explosion, echoed throughout the warehouse.
Contact was assured.
All that is left, is to watch how much damage was done.
Morello is hit by the rib on the very center of his throat, yet no real damage is done to the skin and the fragile organ beneath it.
A dark gray barrier protected him from the attack, yet the strength behind it was enough to lift his body off of the ground. Before he landed on the ground, that gray barrier suddenly shattered like glass as the rib zipped past him, impaling a nearby container.
The sound of Morello's aura shattering was unlike anything Francisco had ever heard.
Not a crack. A snap. It was music to his ears. Francisco didn't have the energy to smirk, but deep in his bones, what was left of them, he felt satisfaction.
Morello landed hard, his back hitting the concrete with a dull, heavy thud. He didn't cry out. Didn't curse.
Then, ever so slowly, Morello pushed himself up. His gloved hand pressed against the cold floor, shoes grinding against the dirt and scattered debris as he rose to his full height. His face remained neutral, no rage, no shock. Just annoyance.
Morello exhaled sharply through his nose and tilted his head slightly, rolling his shoulders. "Well," he muttered. "That was fucking rude." Morello spoke. "And extremely dangerous..."
Francisco barely heard him.
His pulse hammered in his skull. Each beat sent a fresh surge of pain through his temple, radiating outward like lightning spiderwebbing through his nerves. He tasted something metallic and warm. Blood. It wasn't just on his lips, it was everywhere. His left eye blurred as something thick ran down his face.
He blinked. Tried to clear his vision. No use.
He raised his free hand, the normal one, not the mass of writhing flesh that still twitched and convulsed, residual energy from the attack making the embedded eyes roll in every direction. His fingers came away dark and slick, coated in the same crimson warmth he had been tasting.
Francisco knew head wounds bled like a bitch, but this?
This was bad.
He turned his head ever so slightly and felt his entire world tilt.
The ground wasn't stable. The world wasn't stable.
His breath hitched as nausea lurched up from his gut. His balance was off, his depth perception was wrong. The pain in his temple wasn't just a surface wound, it was something deeper, something wrong inside his skull.
Shit.
His aura was already gone. There was no magic auto-fix, no built-in Huntsman bullshit to keep him standing.
Francisco inhaled sharply through his nose and forced himself to push through the haze. He clenched his jaw, suppressing the instinct to retch from the nausea clawing at his insides.
He was still alive, and Morello wasn't done yet.
Francisco blinked hard, forcing his one good eye to focus on Morello. The old man rolled his shoulders, neck popping as he tested his limbs, flexing his fingers.
No limp. No hesitation.
Francisco had shattered his aura, but Morello's body was untouched.
That realization hit like a gut punch. He had given everything to that attack, burned bone and blood, torn himself apart just for one chance to bring that bastard down.
And all he had done was break the shield. Morello was still fresh.
Francisco, meanwhile? He was hanging on by threads.
Then he realized something else, considerably worse.
Ruby wasn't beside him anymore.
His body moved before his mind could catch up. His fingers dug against the concrete, his grotesque arm jerking and convulsing as he tried to push himself upright, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
"Where? Where the fuck-"
His vision blurred, dizziness crashing over him like a wave. The moment he lifted his head too quickly, his stomach twisted, and he nearly collapsed again. He forced himself to breathe.
The world stabilized just enough for his eye to lock onto the space where Ruby had been. Nothing.
No red cloak. No pale form. Just bloodstains.
His throat clenched. "No, no, no-"
Then, he saw it. A trail.
Of red petals.
Red petals, drifting in the still air of the warehouse, weightless, fading like embers in the wind. They led away from him, past the carnage of twisted metal and shattered bodies, past the wreckage of his own broken body.
His breath hitched. Ruby's Semblance.
She ran.
For a moment, the pain, the nausea, the splintering agony behind his eye, all of it dulled beneath one singular thought: She's alive.
And she left on her own.
But why? Why now? She had been unconscious, limp, deadweight in his arms not moments ago. And now? She was gone, moving under her own power, fleeing, leaving behind nothing but a trail of rose-hued fragments in her wake.
His gut twisted. He had no way of knowing how much of this was her choice and how much was something else entirely.
His fingers twitched, instinctively tightening as if he could still feel the weight of her against his chest. But the warmth was gone. Just cold air, dust, and the phantom sting of her absence.
He pushed against the floor, ignoring the violent protests of his body. Every joint felt shredded, every bone screaming. But he had no time. His grotesque arm quivered, erratic spasms running through the embedded eyes, each one flicking, searching, struggling to process the reality of his situation.
Then, something shifted in the darkness.
A glint.
A shape, half-hidden in the gloom, barely visible past the overturned wreckage and flickering warehouse lights.
His sword.
It lay discarded in the shadow of a fallen container, its hilt jutting out, barely visible in the half-light.
Francisco sucked in a breath. His fingers dug into the dirt, preparing to move.
Morello took a step forward.
Francisco felt it before he saw it. A weight in the air, a shift in the atmosphere. Morello didn't rush. He didn't need to. His boots struck the concrete with slow, deliberate force, closing the distance one measured step at a time. There was no urgency in his stride. No rush to finish what he started.
No, Morello knew he had already won. He wasn't approaching as a man closing in on a threat. He was a predator stepping over an already broken body.
Francisco's muscles coiled, his grotesque arm twitching, but his eyes remained locked on his sword. Just a few feet. Just a little further.
Morello exhaled sharply, amused. "You know, I was going to give you a moment to think about how fucking stupid that little stunt of yours was."
Francisco barely had time to register the words before Morello moved.
A blur of motion.
A shoe swung forward.
The impact was instant. Unrelenting. White-hot pain detonated across Francisco's face as Morello's foot drove into his jaw like a battering ram. His skull snapped backward. His already-battered vision exploded into white static. His teeth clacked together so violently he swore he felt something crack. The world reeled.
Then, his body hit the ground.
Hard.
The taste of blood filled his mouth. He coughed, choked, and gasped for air that refused to come. His limbs convulsed, the grotesque arm curling inward, twitching violently as his nerves fired in chaos. A sharp, piercing agony radiated from his temple, his skull screaming as if something inside had been rattled loose.
Morello exhaled sharply. "Yeah. I'll just kill you. No more theatrics."
Francisco struggled to push himself up, but his body refused. His muscles felt like water, bones like lead. He barely had the strength to lift his head, let alone move. His breathing came ragged, and uneven, his ribs burning with each inhale.
He turned his head ever so slightly, just enough to see through the haze of pain.
Morello was already moving past him, toward his halberd.
Francisco's pulse spiked. Move. Now.
He gritted his teeth, every ounce of willpower forcing his muscles to obey. His grotesque arm convulsed, tendrils coiling and tightening. The embedded eyes flicked wildly, tracking Morello's every step.
His sword. He still had a chance.
Morello's fingers curled around the shaft of the halberd, the movement as casual as retrieving a misplaced cane. No urgency. No caution. Just absolute confidence.
Francisco clenched his jaw, forcing his weight onto his hands, onto his knees. His body screamed, every nerve alight with agony. But he moved. A slow, painful inch forward.
Morello sighed. "Please die."
Time dilated in the aftermath of Morello's words.
Please die.
A simple sentence. No grandiose speech, no sneering bravado. Just a statement of fact. A death sentence, delivered as casually as a man ordering his morning coffee.
Francisco had no energy left. His body refused him, trembling against the warehouse floor, nerves screaming. Morello had already turned away.
His fingers curled around the shaft of his halberd, casual, effortless. Like it was never meant to be anywhere but in his grip. The steel glinted in the dim warehouse light, tainted by the former librarian's blood.
Francisco clenched his teeth, forcing his body to move, inching toward the only thing left that could even the odds. His sword. Downpour.
It was there, just past Morello's shoulder, barely peeking from the wreckage. If he could just get his fingers around it-
A blur of motion.
Fast. Too fast.
Francisco barely saw it. A streak of red tore through the air behind Morello's back.
Before Francisco's mind could even register what was happening, it was already over.
Morello lurched forward.
A sickening sound followed. Wet. Deep. The sound of steel punching through flesh, through bone, through something important.
Morello gasped.
A moment ago, his posture had been pristine, and composed. Now? His shoulders hunched forward. His breath hitched in his throat. His fingers spasmed against the halberd's shaft, no longer holding it with the careless arrogance of a victor, but with the frozen stiffness of a man whose body had just betrayed him.
Francisco's vision still blurred and swimming in pain, locked onto the unmistakable sight of his sword. Downpour, not where he had last seen it, discarded in the shadows, but somewhere far better.
Impaled through Morello's chest.
Morello staggered. His boots scraped against the warehouse floor. His grip loosened. The halberd dipped slightly, no longer the extension of an executioner's will, but just a thing, a weight in his grasp, meaningless compared to the sudden, agonizing realization of what had just happened.
Francisco barely had time to process it before his gaze traveled upward. His breath hitched in his throat.
Ruby.
She stood behind Morello, her small frame barely visible past the taller man's collapsing form, her hands still gripping the hilt of Downpour, still pushing the blade deeper, still driving it through the old bastard's spine.
Her expression... Francisco had never seen her like this before.
She was shaking. Not with fear. Her mouth was set in a grim, tight line, her eye wide, burning, frantic. There was no triumph in them. No relief. Just anger. And grief.
Tears welled at the corners of her uninjured eye, clinging desperately to her lashes. Blood smeared across her pale skin, not just her own, but Morello's, Francisco's. Her hands trembled on the hilt of the sword, knuckles white with how hard she was gripping it, as if she was afraid to let go, afraid that if she loosened her hold for even a second, Morello would keep moving.
But he wasn't moving anymore.
Not well, at least.
Morello gasped again, this time wet, ragged. His body shuddered, his knees buckling beneath him. One hand instinctively flew to his chest, gripping the blade as if sheer will alone could undo what had just been done to him.
His eyes, the same eyes that had glared at Francisco with amusement, with detachment, were now wild. Confused. Pissed.
He tried to turn his head, to see her, to process what had happened. The arrogant, measured bastard needed to understand how this had happened, how his perfect control had been shattered in an instant.
His lips parted, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.
"...You..."
Ruby yanked the sword out.
Morello choked. He fell.
Blood sprayed against the cold concrete floor as he collapsed to one knee, a violent, rattling cough shaking through his chest. His hand, still pressed to his wound, came away slick, and soaked. His fingers trembled as he tried to hold himself up, tried to breathe.
Francisco blinked. His mind, still sluggish, still staggered by pain, struggled to make sense of what he had just witnessed.
The silence was suffocating.
Francisco's breath hitched in his throat as he stared at the scene in front of him, his battered body frozen in place. His mind struggled to catch up, to make sense of the sheer weight of what had just happened.
Ruby stood there, still gripping Downpour, its blade glistening with fresh blood. The sword shook in her hands, whether from the weight of the weapon or from something else entirely, Francisco couldn't tell. But she wasn't moving. Wasn't speaking.
Morello's body twitched. A slow, ragged exhale left his lips. His hand, slick with blood, clutched weakly at the gaping wound in his chest. But he wasn't getting up.
Francisco finally forced his body to move. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, every nerve in his body screaming in protest. The agony in his ribs, his skull, his mutated arm, none of it mattered. Not right now.
"Ruby," he rasped. His throat burned, dry, and hoarse. "What... what did you do?"
She blinked. Slowly.
Her single eye, wide and unfocused, turned toward him. She looked... lost. Like she had just woken up in the middle of a nightmare and wasn't sure if she was still dreaming.
"I..." Her voice was small.
She looked down at her hands, at the blood coating her fingers, smeared across her palms. Her breathing hitched, uneven, and her grip on Downpour loosened. "I... I killed him."
Her words barely carried through the warehouse, but Francisco heard them as if she had screamed them into his skull.
She looked back at Francisco, and for a brief moment, something flickered behind her expression.
"I wanted to be more like you."
Francisco felt the world tilt beneath him.
His stomach twisted violently, but it wasn't from pain. Not from his wounds, not from exhaustion. No. This was something else.
The air in his lungs turned to ice.
"Ruby..."
She was still staring at him, still holding onto his sword, still covered in Morello's blood. But her hands were trembling now. So was her voice. "I thought... I thought I had to."
Francisco pushed himself up further, ignoring the fire licking up his spine, the sheer weight pressing against his skull. "Ruby-"
"I thought that's what I was supposed to do!" she snapped suddenly, and for the first time, her voice cracked. Her eye was still wild, unfocused, flitting between him, her hands, the body crumpled on the floor. She looked down at Morello, at the way his blood seeped across the cold concrete, pooling in the cracks, staining everything it touched.
"I-" her breath hitched. "He was going to kill you. He was- he was going to kill you!"
"I know."
Her grip tightened again, her knuckles white. She was shaking, trembling from something far worse than exhaustion. She hadn't even realized she had let the sword slip from her hands. It clattered to the ground, the sound ringing through the warehouse, sharp and deafening.
She took a step back. Then another.
Francisco forced himself to move, staggering as he pulled himself onto his knees. "Ruby, look at me."
She didn't.
Her gaze was locked onto her hands again, fingers curling, flexing as if trying to confirm they were still hers. That they hadn't turned into something else.
Her breathing quickened. Her shoulders heaved, shallow and erratic. Panic clawed at the edges of her face, but she was fighting it.
But she wasn't fine. And Francisco knew it.
She had never killed before. There laid a man, flesh and blood, who had a life, and probably had hopes and dreams too. And now, he was gone. And Ruby had put him there.
Francisco reached out, moving slowly, carefully, like he was trying not to startle a wounded animal. "Ruby-"
"I should feel different," she whispered, her voice barely there. "Shouldn't I?"
His chest tightened.
She finally looked at him. "It doesn't feel real."
Francisco swallowed hard. "It is."
She blinked rapidly, and he saw it, the moment it hit her. The realization. The undeniable, irreversible truth of what she had just done. She inhaled sharply, her lips parting as if to say something, but nothing came out.
Then, her legs buckled.
Francisco moved before he could think, catching her before she collapsed. She wasn't crying. Not yet. But her body was trembling violently, her breaths shallow and uneven against his shoulder. He held onto her, his grip steady, grounding her.
"It's okay," he murmured, even though they both knew it wasn't.
She shook her head against him. "I don't-"
"You did what you had to."
She stilled. Her breath hitched. Then, ever so slowly, her fingers curled against his torn suit, gripping the fabric like a lifeline.
Francisco closed his eyes. He had no idea how to fix this. Worse yet, she began to wail like a child, clutching his suit.
But for now, he just held onto her.
For now, that is all he could do.