A/N: Hello, everyone, I've returned with another one. I've been reworking the earlier chapters to make them more readable, I mean, I wrote them two years ago before I even knew what beta-reading even meant. They're rough, to say the least.
Anyway, Chapter 31! This one will act as a set-up for 32, which will finally end this Rubica section, and we can finally get on with Volume 3. After this, the last few pieces will be set in place for the climax. Big things are coming.
RhoMarck: I like my shitty humor :) I'll see what I'll be able to do.
VGBlackwing: ... Do not give me those ideas. I have done some Smut commissions before, so you better stop.
As the call came to an end, Qrow's gaze over the librarian only hardened. The huntsman is now fully awake, and very unhappy. "Who the hell was that?" He asked sourly.
Francisco got up from the bed, his arm already reaching for Downpour. "That's my teammate." He answered.
"And... Was it a prank?" Qrow asked his tone's sourness lessening. "'Cause it sure sounds like one." He said, trying to find an excuse to not leave the comfortable chair.
"Unlikely. Bemaia isn't known for pranks." Francisco declared. "Still, Jacques could have been simply overreacting. I'll go check on the girls and then tell you if Weiss is missing or not." He said, securing Downpour on his back.
"Aye, you do that." Qrow said, slumping back on the chair. "So this is what it feels to have interns... Jimmy was right..." He murmured, pulling his cape and covering his face with it.
Turning the doorknob, Francisco walked into the corridor, eerie silence was all that met him. A thin but long corridor of a yellow-green diamond pattern wallpaper, dingy green roofing, and maroon carpet stretched both ways.
Doors in both directions, each numbered within a pattern. His room was 206, and the room across from his was 207. Even numbers on the right side, odd numbers on the left side. This was the second floor of this building, and the doors were the only way out of the rooms, aside from the window found within. He could see a flight of stairs on one end of the corridor, leading up and down.
If Weiss had truly been kidnapped, then surely a fight broke out. In this hypothesis, there would likely be signs of fighting in the hallway. There wasn't any. So maybe they drugged her? This would allow the hallway to be in its pristine state, they'd have to carry her unconscious body through this corridor, and probably down the stairs.
Those were the thoughts running through Francisco's head.
Still, these would be useless if she hadn't been kidnapped.
His arm reached for the door across the hallway from his. That was the room RWY was in. Without a second of hesitation, he knocked on the door.
Five seconds later, and no response.
So he knocked again, this time, with a closed fist. "Hey, Ruby! Open the door!" He said in an increased volume.
Still, no response.
"Aight." He muttered, shifting his position in front of the door.
With a forceful movement, Francisco's shoe smashed into the wooden door. The door did not open despite the hinges straining against his attack. Yet, his leg has kicked a hole through the door.
Pulling his leg out of the hole, Francisco pushed his hand through the hole and reached for the doorknob to maybe unlock it. His blood froze once he noticed that the door hadn't been locked in the first place. "Ah."
He could have tried turning the knob before kicking the door. Oh well.
With a defeated sigh, Francisco opened the door. "Sorry about that..." He said as he made his way inside. "I didn't wake you up, did..." Francisco stopped himself halfway through his sentence as the scene inside finally settled inside his head.
The room was completely and thoroughly empty. No beds, no wardrobe, no blinds, nothing. Only the marks on the maroon carpet from the now missing furniture.
Slowly and on high alert, Francisco walked into the empty room.
The window was closed, locked. "Did I walk into an empty room...?" The lights were turned on, so at the very least this room was used before. The marks on the carpet also implied it had been used before. "I could swear this was the right room..." Still skeptical, Francisco's gaze turned to the bathroom.
There was a sink, a mirror shelf, a toilet, and a shower. "There is furniture here..." He analyzed the bathroom from top to bottom. The shelf was empty, the toilet was completely clean. Suspiciously so. It even smelt nice...
"I know this is the right room. It's the one right in front of mine! So why is it completely clean?!" He asked himself in frustration. "No way I make a mistake like that!" Frustrated and confused, the librarian wanted to leave the room and return to Qrow, but he couldn't do it empty-handed. True, he could have broken into the incorrect room, but that thought hadn't even run through him yet.
"They were here. I know it. But why is it empty?" He said in an attempt to reassure himself of that notion. "Dammit... This is why I stick with Fred, he's better at this..." He trailed off as he noticed a tiny little thing that might have his answer.
On the corner of his eye, right beneath the shower, sat a very inconspicuous detail. The drain. "Hm." He approached it. It was clean. "What if..." His eyes were focused on the hole itself. "Surely... They had to take a bath after walking for so long... Ruby in particular after I slammed her into the sand... Then..."
Slowly, he undid each of the screws on the drain using the tip of his Downpour as a screwdriver. Once that was done, he removed the drain and eyed the hole. "If my hunch is right, then we have a problem. If I'm just incorrect and just got the wrong door... Then I guess Ruby won't let me forget it ever."
Without a hint of shame or disgust, Francisco plunged his hand inside the drain and found exactly what he wanted. A ball of filth was found on the surface part of the drain. "So someone did use this shower!" A ball of body filth, fat, and hair rested atop his palm. The hair part is important.
Moving towards the sink, Francisco opened it to clean the hair.
"..."
He spoke nothing, he focused on the hair until the color was visible. Since this was taken on the surface of the drain, that means that it's only the most recent filth.
"And there it is." He spoke, glaring at the predominantly long blond hair. If he had any doubt if that could have belonged to any other blonde, long white hair strands told him another story. "I have to thank Yang later; Weiss too." He noted. "They did use this room. Unless they were in another room and came to this room just to shower... Very unlikely." Francisco nodded to himself.
"So they are gone... How though?" He asked himself, dashing back to Qrow.
The corridor was still eerily silent. No staff in sight. His body crashed through the door, forcing Qrow to jump awake. "Holy-" Qrow almost cursed, holding the sides of the chair as he did. "The hell happened?!"
Francisco shouted the answer. "They're gone!"
Qrow jumped to his feet and promptly shouted back. "Fuck!" Instantly, his attention was focused on the hallway, running towards the empty hallway. Francisco couldn't see it, but the sound of his steps indicated that he had gone into their now-vacant room. "Morello, you piece of shit!" He cursed from outside the room, his voice echoing through the tight corridor. That reaction meant that Francisco was correct in his assessment. "Baldie! With me!"
Francisco didn't need to be told that twice, he was already shadowing Qrow. "Any idea why the room was empty?" He asked as they ran down a flight of stairs.
"Morello's Semblance!" He shouted, not really caring for a more detailed explanation as he ran directly towards the hostel counter.
There wasn't anyone there.
"Where the hell are you?!" Qrow shouted in rage, in an attempt to find anyone that worked in the place. "Is there any damn service in this building?!" He shouted once more, but nobody came.
Francisco noticed the door leading to the streets outside was open. Wide open. "Door's open. Think they could have gone far?" The librarian asked, Downpour already on his hand.
"Your buddy called only after Weiss' father received a ransom call, they are already hidden!" Qrow shouted back, as he moved outside the hostel. Francisco followed closely behind.
The duo was washed over by a cold sea breeze, and the night sky was completely devoid of the clouds ever-present in the daytime. The broken moon hung low, illuminating the empty street. It is very late already so the street is empty. Qrow dashed outside, taking in the scene around him, looking both ways and suddenly bolting to the right of the hostel door. "Keep up Baldie!" He shouted as he drew Harbringer from his back.
Francisco had no complaints with Qrow's actions, but he had an inquiry. "I assume you know a place where they could be... So, where are we going?" The librarian followed closely behind at an equal pace.
Turning a sharp right, the duo found themselves running through a street parallel to the shoreline. The winds grew stronger as the sound of waves crashing against sand seemed ever so closer. "I know one of Morello's hiding spots down the street, that's where we're going!" Qrow shouted, and with that Francisco held no more questions.
The cold wind whipped at their faces, carrying the salty scent of the sea and something else, something familiar. Francisco could feel the tension in the air thickening, his instincts screamed at him, but the real alarm rang when Qrow came to a sharp stop.
"Hold up," Qrow muttered, his eyes narrowing as he stared toward the shoreline. Francisco followed his gaze, and his eyes locked onto the grotesque figure emerging from the mist.
From the water's edge, a hulking creature lumbered forward. Clad in a rusted, moss-covered diving suit, the figure was almost human in shape. Tentacles spilled from beneath the metal casing, slithering around the thing's arms. Seaweed clung to its hulking frame, and the dull glow of the visor cast an eerie, sickly light on the wet sand. Its heavy boots sank with each step, and the creature moved with the slow, deliberate gait of a sailor returning to shore.
A deep, guttural voice emerged from the suit, warped and unnatural, as though the sea itself were speaking through it.
"The tide drags you down, no hope remains,
Lost in the depths, consumed by the chains.
With brine and salt, I bind your breath,
To sink beneath the weight of death."
Qrow tensed, gripping Harbinger tightly. His red eyes flicked toward Francisco, the unease clear on his face. "That's the bastard, huh?" he growled.
Francisco nodded, his gaze never leaving the creature. "That's him. The murderer. A Distortion?"
Qrow frowned, unfamiliar with the term. "A what?"
"Not important right now," Francisco answered tersely, his mind already spinning through the details of the situation. He could feel the creeping dread in his gut, but there was something even worse gnawing at him. Where were Ruby, Weiss, and Yang? They were supposed to be nearby, but there had been no sign of them. The knot in his stomach tightened.
"We don't have time for this," Francisco muttered, the urgency in his voice clear. "The girls are still missing."
Qrow's eyes flashed with concern, but his focus snapped back to the distorted figure, which was now moving faster, its tentacles unfurling and snapping at the air. "You run ahead, Baldie, in an old warehouse right down the road. Can't miss it." Qrow ordered, his voice sharp and commanding. "Find the girls and make sure they're safe. I'll hold this thing off... I don't like that idea, but I guess that's just my luck. I can catch up afterward."
Francisco hesitated for a split second. Qrow didn't know what he was facing. He had no idea how dangerous a Distortion could be. But there wasn't time to explain. Qrow had made his decision, and right now, finding the girls took priority. He clenched his jaw and gave a curt nod. "Be careful," was all he said before he turned and sprinted down the street.
Francisco arrived at the edge of the warehouse, his breathing steady despite the sprint through the dark streets. The structure loomed ahead, an old, rusted building that seemed barely held together by its own stubbornness. Its silhouette was barely visible against the night sky, and only the faintest light seeped from the cracks in the boarded-up windows.
As he crouched behind an overturned crate, he could make out shadows moving inside. He wasn't alone. Figures moved through the broken glass panes, their shapes blurred and indistinct, but there was no mistaking it: the warehouse was occupied. Morello's men? Probably.
"Of course, couldn't make it easy for me," he muttered under his breath, his metal fingers tapping against the hilt of Downpour. He could hear distant voices, muffled by the walls, but they were definitely inside.
His lips curled into a grin. Not exactly his specialty, but sometimes you've gotta be flexible. "I have an idea."
As he scanned the area, his eyes caught sight of something that made his stomach churn, a manhole cover just off to the side of the building, tucked away in the shadows. His grin faded into a sigh. The sewers. The last resort for people who couldn't just walk through the front door.
Francisco gave a quick glance over his shoulder, making sure no one was watching, before slipping quietly toward the manhole. With a soft grunt, he pried the cover off, the sound of metal scraping against stone sending a shiver down his spine. The stench hit him immediately, a potent, familiar mix of rot, waste, and dampness. It was the kind of smell that made most people gag.
Most people.
For Francisco, it was almost nostalgic.
He lowered himself into the hole, the chill of the damp metal ladder biting into his skin through the thin fabric of his suit. His shoes hit the wet concrete below with a squelch, and the sewers welcomed him like an old friend. Darkness swallowed him whole, but it wasn't an unwelcome embrace. The air was thick with the scent of decay, and the faint trickle of water echoed off the tunnel walls. Rats scurried in the shadows, their tiny claws scratching against the stone.
Francisco breathed in deep, letting the familiar smell settle into his lungs. It reminded him of the City, of long nights, stalking through the underbelly, navigating the twisted maze of tunnels that stretched beneath the buildings above like a Rat. The stench, the darkness, the claustrophobic spaces... this was where he belonged. There was a strange comfort in it, an odd sense of peace.
He moved with purpose, keeping low as he made his way through the narrow tunnel. The soft sounds of dripping water and his own footsteps echoed around him, but he felt no discomfort.
Moving through the dim sewers, Francisco took a moment to check the Dust reserves on his Downpour. Four vials stood at the ready inside the scabbard. "Hardlight, Hardlight, Hardlight, Fire... Very well." Those ones were the ones he liked the most after testing back on Mount Glemm.
Up ahead, a narrow grate let in a sliver of light from the warehouse above. He crouched low, peering through the bars. He could see boots walking across the floor above him, the men inside pacing back and forth. More voices. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but it didn't matter.
He was getting closer.
Carefully, he pressed his metal arm against the bars of the grate, the rusted metal creaking under the pressure. Slowly, quietly, he forced it open just enough to slip through. His boots hit the wet stone beneath the building, and he crouched low, listening. More voices, louder this time. Closer.
He smirked to himself. "Not bad for an old habit."
Navigating through the sewer was second nature to him, like slipping into an old jacket that had seen too many winters. It felt grimy, it felt filthy, and he felt right at home. As he moved through the damp corridors beneath the warehouse, memories of old prescriptions and relaxing nights after a hard day of work back in his humble abode in the sewers of District 12.
And now, here he was again, back in the muck. Back in the dark. But this time, the stakes felt different. There was no prescript hanging over his head, no threat of a knife in his back for failure. Now, it was just him, his blade, and the creeping desire to hunt the girls back.
Another bend, another stretch of tunnel. If his spatial awareness is to be trusted, he should be beneath the heart of the warehouse. He could hear them clearly now, the murmurs of men above, discussing numbers and logistics, something he didn't care to know about. All that mattered was getting inside, and there was only one way up.
Francisco's hand brushed against the ladder leading up into the warehouse's underbelly, and with a grimace, he started climbing.
However, right as his hand touched the iron bars above, a thought manifested itself inside his head. He stopped for a good minute, staring at the bars, hanging off the ladder.
'Should I kill them?'
He blinked, but he was still in a trance.
'This is... Very familiar. It happened before.'
Still on the fence about how he should proceed, Francisco pushed the iron hatch open, steeling himself for a probable confrontation. 'Not probable, certain.' The iron hatch was very small, yet it was just large enough to fit Francisco's body with great effort if he exhaled all air in his lungs. He first put his sword on the floor next to the hole, then pulled himself up.
The thick smell of the sewers was quickly replaced by the cold yet clean air of the warehouse. This hatch gave Francisco a hidden position behind some containers. Still, he struggled to move out of the tiny cavity in the concrete. His suit was caught by jagged tips in the concrete, it seemed.
Francisco's grunts of effort weren't very loud, but should someone be nearby, they'd surely hear him. It was then that he realized why he couldn't exit through the hole. "The arm..." He whispered. The metal casing surrounding his left arm got stuck by the entrance, preventing him from getting his full torso out.
There was little to no leverage from his feet due to the distance between the ladder and the hatch, so he had only one arm to somehow make this workout.
Tap, Tap, Tap.
Step after step, closing in on his location. Three pairs. Did he make too much noise?
He sighed. Francisco decided he needed to fall to the sewers and wait... Yet his body did not move down as had hoped once his only arm supporting his whole body stopped. Taking his feet off the ladder held the same results.
"Oh, now I'm fucked. Proper." He whispered, trying to make light of the situation. A bead of sweat ran down his bald head.
A voice coming from the other side of the container covering his position reached his ears. "I'm tellin' ya, I heard somethin' back there." A dry feminine voice spoke. "The boss told us to expect visitors, so, if it's not a rat, let's just throw their corpse in the sewers."
Francisco hummed at the comment he overheard.
His eyes quickly fell on his armored, yet useless arm.
Then he eyed Downpour waiting patiently to be used on the ground right next to him.
An Idea was formed.
First, he analyzed the exact location where his arm got stuck.
The metal plates surrounding his stump are shaped like an arm with a hand included. There were places where it was a straight plate of metal such as the biceps and the forearm where the arm wouldn't normally bend. The hand was too low to be the reason why he was stuck, so he ignored it.
The part in the elbow is the only feasible section it can realistically be stuck on. There are too many moving parts there, as that's where all of the movement on the arm comes from. That's where he needed to smash open the casing, going against the General's orders of not taking the casing off. However, the elbow wasn't visible, nor did it look like it was in a spot where Downpour could reach.
His eyes traveled upward, from the elbow to the biceps, then ended on his shoulder. That's where the metal casing stopped. That's where, should he want to wedge something inside the casing, he needs to shove his Downpour.
So, with a deep breath and a serene face, Francisco aligned the blade with his shoulder. The plan is simple: Take off the plate on the biceps to gain access to an opening on the elbow and move on from there. 'Sounds easy enough.' He thinks.
The sword is driven inside, yet he doesn't feel the coldness of the blade nor the pain of the casing straining against his arm. Further observation of the metal casing revealed that he had indeed shoved it inside, Downpour was wedged between the arm and the metal, so why didn't he feel it inside?
It was then that it hit him. "Of course, I don't feel anything on my left arm... I don't have a left arm." And so, with that revelation, all caution was thrown out of the window.
Unfortunately, Francisco doesn't have one of the brightest minds in the world. Quite the opposite. So much so that he had a lapse of memory for the briefest of moments. "Huh?" He grew confused with every inch his Downpour went in.
Wet noises akin to those ones would hear inside a slaughterhouse when meat is dragged across meat. Sickly, disgusting, fleshy sounds from inside the casing. Then another kind of noise caught his attention, one very much like bones being crushed or broken.
Concerned, but undeterred, he kept forcing Downpour inside.
Finally, someone spoke right next to him.
"ARM... S... ShELl... Cool... C... C..."
A sigh escaped his lips as a ship ran down his spine. "Been a while since you acted up." He says. Downpour is static, Francisco dared not to shove it another inch inside.,
How could he have forgotten? Did he really think there was nothing in the metal casing?
Staring at the hole held open by his sword, a single thing line of red material crawled up his arm, through the opening in the casing. "Hm?"
As Francisco stared at the thin red tendril creeping out from the crack in the metal casing, his breath caught, freezing for a moment. The tendril slithered out, slick and wet, glistening like fresh sinew under the faint light. It coiled around his forearm, moving in slow, deliberate motions, almost as if testing its new surroundings like a snake tasting the air.
Then, more began to emerge, each one oozing from the gap like blood from a wound, pulsing with a grotesque life of their own.
Another tendril joined the first, and then another, until a writhing mass of red, fibrous material was spilling out, stretching and curling over the exposed metal plating.
Francisco watched, a grim sense of familiarity creeping over him, as the arm began to peel itself open, the casing bending outward like a shell being pried apart.
"ShELL... Sh... E... SH..." The whisper was louder now, guttural and broken as if it struggled to form each word. "Ne... De... EeD... NEed... Sh..." The voice was a low, hissing croon, echoing through the sewers. It was a sound he hadn't heard in a while, but he recognized it instantly, like an old friend he'd never wanted to see again.
He glanced around nervously, his heart pounding as the wet, fleshy sounds grew louder, mingling with the murmur of voices approaching from the other side of the container. The three figures were getting closer, the rhythm of their footsteps punctuated by the occasional shuffle, the unmistakable sound of someone readying a weapon.
They'd heard him.
Francisco's mind raced, his eyes flicking back to the metal shell being slowly dismantled by the thing inside. He had no time left; whatever was going to happen next, he needed it to happen now. With a frustrated growl, he twisted Downpour, wrenching the casing apart further, ignoring the sickening crunch and squelch that accompanied the movement.
More of the tendrils erupted from the gap, stretching out, questing, until they found purchase and began to pull.
The casing snapped open, and for a moment, everything was still.
Then, with a sudden, violent burst, the metal shell tore apart, and the thing inside surged forward. It spilled out, twisting and snapping into place, arranging itself into the crude shape of an arm.
But it wasn't an arm. It was a mass of muscle, sinew, and sharp, angular bones protruding at odd angles, some jagged and splintered, glistening wetly in the dim light. Multi-colored eyes dotted the surface, half-hidden beneath the fibers, each one darting in a different direction, blinking rapidly, as if adjusting to the world outside its shell.
Francisco recoiled slightly, his eyes widening. The arm flexed, tendons tightening and releasing with a series of wet, snapping sounds.
"Lo... Ve... Sh..." The voice came again, clearer now, like a chorus of whispers echoing in a cave. "ShELL... MET... EtA..." The arm twitched, the fingers curling and uncurling as if testing their new form.
The jagged bones protruding from the muscle scraped against each other, producing a grating, bone-on-bone sound that set Francisco's teeth on edge.
"You're not getting a shell," Francisco hissed, forcing himself to maintain control, though his voice wavered slightly. "You do what I say, understand? We do this my way."
The eyes blinked, the tendrils shifting, and for a moment, it almost seemed like the arm hesitated, the muscles beneath the surface rippling. Then, slowly, it coiled back, settling into a position that could almost be mistaken for something human.
Almost.
Francisco took a deep breath, feeling the cold sweat on his brow. The thing had never responded to him before, not like this. But he had no time to dwell on it. The voices were closer now, loud enough that he could pick up fragments of their conversation.
"...I heard somethin'… probably just a rat…"
"Rats don't make that kind of noise, idiot. Get your gun ready."
He needed to move, but his arm-no, the thing on his arm-was still partially wedged in the narrow hatch, caught on the jagged edge of the concrete. He pulled, but the arm wouldn't budge, the tendrils straining against the opening.
"Ti... TIGhT... StuCK... Do... DoOR… sTUcK… D…" The voice was almost petulant now, the muscles flexing uselessly, the bones scraping against the concrete. "HArd... St... ONE..."
Francisco clenched his jaw, frustration boiling over. "Then get yourself free," he growled, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "Or we're both screwed."
The thing responded, its tendrils tightening, the eyes rolling and swiveling madly, and then, with a sudden lurch, the entire arm contorted, bones snapping and shifting beneath the muscle.
The sharp, jagged ends retracted slightly, just enough for it to slip through the narrow gap. The arm popped free, leaving a smear of dark, viscous fluid behind, and Francisco stumbled forward, finally pulling himself fully into the warehouse.
"Free..." the voice hissed, almost with a sense of satisfaction. "S... HE..."
But before Francisco could even regain his balance, the footsteps rounded the corner, and the three figures appeared, bathed in the dim, flickering light from above.
They froze, their eyes locking onto Francisco, but it wasn't his face they were staring at. It was the arm, his arm, now free from its shell, hanging at his side, the muscle twitching, the eyes rolling and blinking, the tendrils curling and uncurling like the legs of some monstrous insect.
One of them, the one with the dry, feminine voice, took a step back, her face blanching. "What the fuck is that?"
The other two just stared, their weapons lowering slightly, confusion and horror mingling in their expressions. One of them swallowed audibly, his hands trembling as he tried to steady his aim.
Francisco forced a grin, his lips pulling back over clenched teeth. "Not something you want to get close to," he said, his voice low and calm, though he could feel the thing on his arm twitching, straining, almost like it was hungry.
"COoL... Co... LD... Oo... Co..." it murmured, the voices overlapping, echoing off the walls.
The woman shook her head, trying to regain her composure. "I don't know what kind of freak show you're running, but you're not getting past us." She raised her gun, her hands still shaking, but her eyes were hard, determined.
Francisco sighed. "I was really hoping you'd just turn around and leave." He glanced down at the arm, the tendrils coiling tighter, the bones flexing beneath the surface.
The arm moved before he could think, the tendrils snapping out like whips, lashing across the space between them with a speed that made the air hiss. The woman screamed as one of the tendrils wrapped around her wrist, yanking her forward with a violent jerk.
She dropped her gun, her scream cutting off as the tendrils coiled tighter, squeezing until he could hear the crunch of bone.
The other two scrambled back, their fear overtaking any thoughts of resistance, but the arm wasn't done. It reared back, pulling the woman closer, and Francisco could see the panic in her eyes, the realization that there was no escape.
"L... ove... Lo..." the voice crooned, almost tenderly, as the tendrils tightened, the eyes blinking slowly, lazily, as if savoring the moment. "Yo... YoU... I..."
Francisco gritted his teeth, forcing his free hand to grasp the arm, trying to pull it back. "Stop," he ordered, his voice low, harsh. "We're not doing this."
For a moment, the thing hesitated, the tendrils slackening slightly. Then, slowly, reluctantly, it began to retract, pulling back into the semblance of a human arm, the woman collapsing to the ground, gasping for breath, her wrist twisted at an unnatural angle.
Francisco exhaled, his heart pounding, the adrenaline surging through him. He glanced at the two men still standing, their eyes wide, their hands trembling. "Run," he said, his voice cold, final. "Or I won't stop it next time."
They didn't need to be told twice. The men turned and fled, their footsteps echoing off the walls, leaving Francisco alone with the grotesque, writhing thing that had once been hidden beneath the metal.
Francisco tightened his grip on Downpour, his hands slick with sweat, and took a step forward, moving deeper into the warehouse. "They are going to snitch..." He sighed. "No killin'... No fucking killin'." He said, mumbling to himself.
The street was empty, save for the relentless howl of the wind and the eerie glow of the streetlights reflecting off the ocean mist. Qrow stood his ground, Harbinger resting at his side in sword form, as the hulking, moss-covered figure loomed before him. The metal diving suit creaked with each movement, tentacles writhing around it like serpents, ready to strike. The voice of the creature, speaking in its cursed poetry, grated on his nerves.
"The deep calls you home, with whispers unknown,
Where shadows dance, you're never alone..."
Qrow frowned. He had dealt with enough Grimm to know that this thing wasn't a monster like the ones he was used to. Its movements were strangely calculated, not feral.
With the intention of testing the waters, Qrow transformed his Harbinger, the blade snapped backward revealing a metal tube pointing outwards, it became a gun. With a quick motion, he pulled the trigger. Bullets impacted against the Distortions with no resistance. Lead penetrated the softer parts of the worn-out diving suit and blood splattered out. The thing did not waver, but something caught his attention: it didn't have an Aura.
"Damn it," Qrow muttered to himself, his red eyes narrowing as the figure closed in. "What the hell are you?"
He gripped Harbinger tighter, the cold metal of the handle grounding him, but there was hesitation in his movements. Normally, this would be the point where he'd end things quickly, one swift strike to take down the threat. But without an Aura, this wasn't a fight with another Huntsman or Huntress, it was something worse. This was a man, or whatever was left of one.
"Hey, big guy," Qrow called out, sidestepping as one of the tentacles lashed out toward him. He kept his tone even, nonchalant. "I don't know if you're hearing me in there, but you're about two seconds away from getting your ass kicked. How about you just stop now and save us both the trouble?"
The creature didn't respond, at least not in any way Qrow could understand. The tentacles retracted momentarily, then snapped forward again, faster this time. Qrow leaped back, flipping Harbinger into scythe mode mid-air, the blade catching the faint moonlight as he swung it in a wide arc. He sliced through the tentacles with ease, the severed appendages writhing on the ground until they stopped.
"The current pulls, relentless and cold,
Your strength fades, your story untold..."
Qrow sighed, half-exasperated. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. You've got a whole ocean thing going on. Real poetic." He parried another strike with the pole of his scythe, then twirled Harbinger back into sword form for a quick jab at the creature's chest. The blade struck metal, sending sparks flying as it glanced off the diving suit's reinforced plates.
As he landed, Qrow clicked Harbinger's mechanism into shotgun mode, aiming the barrel at the creature's chest. "This is your last warning," Qrow growled. "If you're still in there, you better start talking."
But the creature answered only with another lashing tentacle. Qrow fired, the blast sending the creature stumbling back. The shot hadn't done much more than dent the suit, but it was enough to buy him some space.
His grip tightened on Harbinger. "Alright, then. Guess we're doing this the hard way."
With a practiced motion, he flipped the scythe back out, spinning it in a deadly arc as he advanced on the creature. The metal clang of Harbinger against the diving suit echoed through the narrow street, but despite the sheer size of his opponent, Qrow was quick and nimble. Each swing of his scythe cut through the air with precision, keeping the creature's tentacles at bay.
Still, something gnawed at him. The whole situation felt off. This wasn't like fighting a Grimm, or even a man. It was something else entirely. He could see it in the sluggish movements, the way the creature's body seemed to protest its own existence as if it didn't want to be there. That hesitance made him think, just for a moment, that maybe there was something left of the person inside.
But just as that thought passed through his mind, a surge of energy shifted around him. A sudden gust of wind swept through the street, kicking up dust at his face. His foot slipped on a wet patch of pavement, throwing off his balance for just a second, just long enough for one of the creature's tentacles to coil around his ankle.
"Shit," Qrow cursed his scythe momentarily out of position. The tentacle tightened, yanking him off his feet and dragging him toward the creature.
Thinking fast, Qrow transformed Harbinger again, firing the shotgun point-blank into the tentacle's base. The tentacle released him, writhing as it fell limp, and Qrow flipped back onto his feet. His breath came in sharp gasps, his muscles coiled with tension. Despite the bad luck, he was still in control.
"I've had enough of this," Qrow growled, frustration lacing his words. He readied Harbinger for one final strike. His semblance might cause a few slip-ups, but he wasn't about to let it take him down in a fight like this.
The creature lurched forward, the remaining tentacles flailing wildly. Qrow dodged them with ease, his movements fluid despite the chaos around him. He moved in close, the scythe gleaming as he brought it down in a wide arc. The blade caught the creature right at one of its soft spots, tearing through the cloth underneath the metal plating.
The creature let out a deep, echoing groan. Its body jerked violently, the tentacles spasming as they lost their strength. For a moment, Qrow hesitated again, maybe there was still a way to stop this without killing it.
But then the creature's visor lit up again, and another guttural, broken poem fell from its lips:
"You sink with me, forgotten and lost,
No shore will save you, no matter the cost..."
That was it. There was nothing human left inside. Qrow clenched his jaw, his resolve hardening.
With one final swing of Harbinger, he brought the scythe down, the blade slicing clean through the creature's helmet. The visor shattered, the light inside flickering out, and the hulking body collapsed to the ground, motionless.
Qrow stood over the body, he hadn't even broken a sweat. The wind whipped around him, and for a moment, he just stood there, watching as the last remnants of the creature's tentacles twitched before going still.
"Guess poetry's not your thing after all," he muttered, flipping Harbinger back into sword form and sheathing it.
He looked down at the fallen distortion, frowning. Whatever this thing had once been, it was gone now, lost to the depths of its own madness. He didn't know what a 'distortion' was, but he knew one thing; it had to be stopped.
And with that, Qrow turned back toward the empty street, his mind already shifting to the next task at hand. Finding the girls.
Corridors of metal, repeating without end. Labyrinthine pathways of colorful containers piled on one another, yet there was no sign of Ruby. Footsteps echoed throughout the old warehouse, and the sounds of metal being forced open followed Francisco.
"Not this one too!" He shouted, slamming an empty container's door shut. "Where the hell are they?!" His voice sounded as desperate as he looked. He moved with purpose, yet there didn't seem to be much left for him to do.
With a sigh, Francisco stepped out of the maze of containers, his eyes narrowing as he approached the warehouse entrance. The cold night air swept inside, carrying with it a biting chill. Outside, the faint sound of whimpering and the murmur of muffled voices could be heard.
A dozen figures, guards and workers, huddled together near the entrance, hands bound and eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion. They were slumped against the wall, surrounded by a semicircle of crates Francisco had dragged over to make sure none of them tried to bolt. The moonlight cast long, thin shadows across their faces, accentuating their nervous glances toward the bald man who now approached with a slow, measured stride.
He took a moment to survey the scene. Some of them had bruises on their faces, the result of Francisco's earlier attempts at intimidation. Yet, despite the rough handling, none of them had given him the answers he wanted. His eyes locked onto one of the guards, a wiry man with a cut above his brow, fresh blood trickling down his cheek.
Francisco's fingers twitched, his left arm flexing involuntarily, the grotesque, sinewy limb free for all to see. The thing was restless, as if sensing his agitation, and its murmurings grew louder, more insistent.
"ME... t... sh... SI... L... vr... v... vEr..."
He clenched his jaw, trying to drown out the voices. "Not now," he whispered under his breath, but it was unclear whether he was speaking to the thing on his arm or to himself.
Francisco's gaze shifted to the wiry guard, his lips curling into a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Alright, last chance," he said, crouching down to meet the man's frightened gaze. "You tell me where they are, or we start making this a lot less pleasant for you."
The guard swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. "I-I told you already," he stammered, voice barely above a whisper. "We don't have any girls here, we've never seen them! We just guard the warehouse, that's all!"
Francisco's grin faded his expression hardening. "Wrong answer." He stood up abruptly, grabbing the guard by the collar and dragging him away from the others. The man let out a strangled cry, his feet scraping against the gravel as he tried to resist, but Francisco's grip was unyielding.
The other guards watched, their eyes wide with a mix of horror and resignation. None of them dared to move, knowing full well what had happened to the last person who'd tried to run.
Francisco shoved the guard against one of the crates, pressing his face on the hardwood wood. The wiry guard gasped, his eyes wide, reflecting the moonlight as he struggled to breathe. Francisco's patience had worn thin, and his arm, that grotesque mockery of a limb, twitched with a restless hunger.
"Let's see if you can keep lying when you're missing a few teeth," Francisco muttered, his tone devoid of sympathy. The twisted limb flexed, tendrils shifting beneath the muscle like worms writhing under a damp surface, the multi-colored eyes blinking rapidly, as Francisco willed it to reel itself back.
"He... Ll... o... G...Ood..."
Francisco swallowed hard, trying to block out the voices, but his patience had run thin. He raised his arm, preparing to make good on his threat when a familiar voice cut through the tension like a knife.
"Hey, kid, I think that's enough," Qrow's voice drawled from the shadows.
Francisco's head snapped up, eyes narrowing as he saw Qrow stepping into the dim light of the warehouse entrance. The older Huntsman looked rough around the edges, his clothes were sandy and damp in places, still fresh from his recent fight yet no visible damage was dealt to him. Qrow's presence was imposing, yet his casual demeanor barely concealed the exhaustion in his eyes. He glanced around at the scene, at the guards slumped against the crates, and then at Francisco, a dark eyebrow raised in surprise.
"You killed that thing, right?" Francisco asked, his voice dripping with worry, though he was clearly relieved to see Qrow.
Qrow didn't answer right away. Instead, his eyes drifted to Francisco's left arm, and his face tightened. The sinewy limb, now free from its metal casing, was impossible to ignore.
It twitched, almost as if it had a mind of its own, the grotesque blend of muscle, sharp-edged bone, and too many eyes drawing Qrow's attention. The older Huntsman's lips parted slightly, a look of horror and disbelief crossing his face.
"What in the hell..." Qrow breathed, taking a cautious step forward, his crimson eyes fixed on the monstrous arm. "Baldie, what did you...?"
Francisco's lips twitched into a humorless smile. "Neat, isn't it?" he said, but there was no humor in his voice. "You can thank the General for keeping it wrapped up in an arm-shaped shell all this time."
Qrow's eyes darted back up to Francisco's face, searching for any sign that this was a joke. "You seriously thought this was a good idea?" he said, his voice a low, incredulous growl. "Look at that thing! You look like a Grimm experiment gone wrong."
Francisco's smile faded, his expression hardening. "Grimm are Black, I'm not- Not the time for commentary, old man," he said, pushing the guard harder against the crate, forcing a strangled cry from the man. "I need answers, and he's not giving me any."
Qrow's expression softened slightly. "Look, I get it. You're pissed, I'm too. But you're not gonna get anywhere by scaring these poor bastards half to death. They're not lying, kid. They don't have Ruby, or Yang, or Weiss."
Francisco hesitated, his grip on the guard loosening just a fraction. "How do you know that?" he asked, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice. "They could be hiding something."
Qrow stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Because I've dealt with enough lowlifes to know when they're lying, and these guys... they're not smart enough for that." He glanced over his shoulder at the huddled guards, who were watching the exchange with a mix of fear and hope. "They're just hired help. They don't know anything."
Francisco's arm twitched again, the tendrils shifting beneath the surface, and for a moment, it looked like he might lash out, but he took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "Then where the hell are they?" he said, his voice struggling to keep calm.
Qrow sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "If they're not here, then we've got a bigger problem," he said. "It means Morello is playing this real close to the chest. Probably found something really pricey on them, worth all the mess involved."
Francisco released the guard, letting him slump to the ground, gasping for air. The bald man stepped back, running a hand over his shaved head, his mind racing. "So what now?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "We can't just... stop looking."
Qrow's eyes softened. "I'm not saying we'll stop," he said. "But you're not gonna find them by beating the hell out of them."
He reached into his pocket, pulling out his scroll. The screen lit up, casting a pale glow across his face as he scrolled through his contacts. "There might be someone who can help," he said, though his tone was reluctant, almost as if he hated the idea of what he was about to suggest.
Francisco watched him, frowning. "Who?"
Qrow hesitated, his thumb hovering over a name on the screen. "My sister," he said finally.
"Raven. She's... got ways of finding Yang. But she's not exactly reliable. Or friendly." He glanced up at Francisco, his expression serious. "If I call her, it's gonna be a gamble. There's no telling what she'll do, or if she'll even help."
Francisco's eyes flicked to the scroll, and he could see the name "Raven Branwen" highlighted on the screen, just not read it. "You're saying we don't have any other options?" he asked, his voice grim.
"Not right now, no," Qrow said, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "Morello's semblance allows him to teleport whole houses at very specific points that I don't know of... We're out of leads, and I don't like having to talk to her. But if there's a chance she can help us..." He trailed off.
Francisco's jaw tightened, and he looked down at his left arm, the grotesque limb still twitching, the eyes blinking lazily as if watching the conversation unfold. He felt a chill run down his spine, but he pushed the fear aside, focusing on the only thing that mattered.
"Then make the call," he said, his voice steely. "We don't have time to be picky."
Qrow nodded, though he still looked uneasy. "Alright," he said, his thumb hovering over the contact. "But be warned, if she decides to show up, it's gonna be on her terms, and it's not gonna be pretty."
Francisco watched as Qrow pressed the button, and the scroll began to ring, the sound echoing through the still night air. The guards huddled against the wall, forgotten for the moment, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and curiosity as they watched the two Huntsmen stare at the beeping scroll.