Qrow, Argus Bar

The bar was dimly lit, a haze of smoke hanging in the air as the scent of alcohol clung to the worn-out wooden walls. The place was nearly empty—just a few regulars nursing their drinks in silence, the occasional clatter of glass breaking the quiet.

Qrow Branwen sat at the farthest corner, hunched over the counter, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. He swirled the amber liquid absently, watching how it clung to the sides before settling again. The bartender had stopped trying to cut him off. They'd seen men like him before—men who drank not for the taste, not for the fun, but to forget.

He exhaled slowly, tapping a finger against the rim of the glass. His other hand idly traced the outline of his flask, the metal cool against his palm. How many nights had he spent like this? How many bars had he stumbled into, looking for the bottom of a bottle like it held the answer to all his problems?

His mind drifted.

Why?

Why was he born with a Semblance like this?

A Semblance that did nothing but bring misfortune, pushing away anyone who got too close.

For years, he had told himself that bad luck wasn't an excuse. That even with a cursed ability, he could still make a difference. Still fight. Still protect the people he cared about.

But how many times had he failed them?

His fingers tightened around the glass as memories surged forward, unbidden.

The day Team STRQ fell apart.

Taiyang, struggling to hold the pieces together.

Raven, abandoning them all.

Summer... Gone.

He sighed.

His mind drifted to the last few days.

The negotiation with Cordovin.

Ruby had done the one thing he never thought she would do.

She had given up the Relic of Knowledge. The very thing they risked their lives for.

Qrow gritted his teeth as he stared into the whiskey.

They had no choice—he understood that. Atlas had locked its borders. They needed a way in, and Cordovin was their only shot. She and her men hadn't fully retreated to the mainland yet. If they played by her rules, if they agreed to conscription, then Cordovin would personally ensure they got to Ironwood.

That was the deal.

Qrow was against it from the start. Giving up the Relic? Trusting Atlas' military to actually follow through? It was insane. The world had taught him enough to know you couldn't trust people blindly.

But Ruby...

Ruby had looked at him with those silver eyes, filled with something he had lost a long time ago.

Hope. And, of course, a bit of doubt.

She had made the choice anyway.

Qrow scoffed, lifting his drink. "Kid's too much like Summer..." he muttered under his breath before downing the rest of the whiskey in one go.

The burn in his throat was nothing compared to the weight in his chest.

The worst part?

He didn't know if she was right.

And that scared him.

Arc-Cotta Residence

Ruby pushed open the backdoor of the Arc-Cotta residence, stepping into the cool evening air. She let out a tired sigh, rolling her stiff shoulders. Another long day of conscription work had drained her energy, but she wasn't done just yet. Crescent Rose rested in her hand, folded into its portable mode. It needed maintenance—badly. She figured now was as good a time as any to fix it up.

She made her way toward the small shack in the backyard, a space Terra and Saphron had generously allowed her to use. They didn't mind, as long as she cleaned up after herself.

The wooden door creaked as she pushed it open, stepping inside. The shack was small and cluttered, filled with tools, spare parts, and half-finished projects. She had expected to be alone.

She wasn't.

Ruby blinked, startled.

Sitting on a worn-out bench, hunched over the worktable, was Oscar.

The dim lighting cast long shadows across his face as he tinkered with something in his hands. He glanced toward the door, equally surprised.

"Oh... Uh... Hi, Ruby."

She hesitated, stepping inside fully. "O-Oscar? What are you...?" Her words trailed off as she noticed what he was working on.

The cane.

Her brows furrowed as she walked closer, peering over his shoulder. The wooden surface of his weapon had been taken apart in sections, revealing inner mechanisms she didn't even realize it had.

Oscar gave a small, sheepish chuckle. "Oh, uh... Just making some improvements. Trial and error. Y'know... all that stuff." He rubbed the back of his head, avoiding her gaze.

Ruby smiled lightly. "I didn't know you were into this kind of stuff."

He shrugged, turning his attention back to the cane. "Well... I've always been interested in mechanics. Just never really got the chance to try to do in with a... cane." He paused, then added with a small smirk, "Figured it's about time expanding my circle."

Ruby watched him for a second before her eyes flickered down to the cane. "The last time I checked, it worked perfectly fine. What gives?"

Oscar stilled.

His fingers hovered over the exposed parts of his weapon, the easygoing air around him fading. He lowered his head slightly, his voice quieter when he finally spoke.

"...I guess I just want to leave something behind."

Ruby's expression shifted. "What do you mean?"

Oscar let out a soft chuckle, but it lacked humor. "Something I built. Something I changed. Something Oscar Pine did... before Ozpin completely takes over my mind."

Ruby's stomach twisted.

There it was. The fear he rarely voiced.

The room felt heavier as silence settled between them.

She watched as his fingers curled slightly against the wood, his shoulders tensed. He was trying to sound casual, but she could see it—the weight pressing down on him, the uncertainty in his eyes.

"...Oscar," she murmured.

He didn't look at her. He just exhaled, shaking his head. "I know I'm still me—for now. But every day, I feel him growing stronger. More memories. More instincts that aren't mine. And I can't stop it." His grip on the cane tightened. "So I just... I want to do something that's mine before I forget what that even means."

Ruby swallowed hard. She wanted to say something—anything—to reassure him. But what could she say? She didn't know what it was like to slowly lose pieces of herself to someone else's past.

So instead, she pulled up a stool and sat beside him, resting her elbows on the worktable.

"Well..." She tried for a small smile. "You won't have to worry about forgetting, 'cause I'll be here to remind you."

Oscar blinked, finally turning to look at her.

She tapped the cane lightly. "And besides... if you are making improvements, you better make them good. Otherwise, I'm totally gonna roast you for it."

For a moment, he just stared at her. Then, finally—finally—he let out a genuine chuckle.

Ruby grinned.

There he was.

Maybe she couldn't stop what was happening to him. But she could remind him that he wasn't alone in it.

And for now, that was enough.

Argus Streets, Qrow

The streets of Argus were quieter than usual. The distant hum of passing Manta ships echoed overhead, and the warm glow of streetlights cast long shadows across the cobbled roads. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and oil from the nearby docks, mixing with the faint aroma of fresh bread from bakeries closing for the night.

Qrow walked with a slow, lazy gait, his boots scuffing against the ground. He held a bottle of whiskey in one hand, the glass cool against his palm, condensation rolling down the sides. He barely noticed.

He turned to the corner as he entered an alleyway.

He knew this path well—a shortcut leading back to Saphron's house. He had taken it many times before, stumbling through the alleyways, either too drunk to care or too tired to find another way.

But tonight felt different.

Something was off.

His grip on the bottle tightened slightly, but he kept walking, taking another long swig of whiskey. The warmth burned down his throat, dulling the ever-present ache in his chest.

Then he saw them.

A small group of street punks loitered near the alley's entrance. Five—no, six of them. Young, maybe late teens, dressed in patched-up jackets, hands tucked into pockets, eyes sharp with a mix of mischief and caution. As Qrow approached, he caught the way they glanced at each other, whispering amongst themselves.

'Great.'

They thought he was an easy mark.

Not that he could blame them. He looked the part—slouched shoulders, slow steps, the unmistakable sway of someone well past his drinking limit. Probably reeked of alcohol too. A perfect target for a gang looking for quick coin.

One of the boys stepped forward, smirking. He was taller than the rest, lean but wiry, the kind that was used to throwing punches in back alleys. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, but Qrow could tell from the slight bulge near his hip—he was carrying a knife.

"You seem drunk, old man," the boy said, voice dripping with false concern. "Need a hand?"

Qrow blinked sluggishly, feigning obliviousness. He took another sip, then burped, barely sparing them a glance.

"Nah," he muttered, rolling his shoulders. "I'm good, kid. How about you head back to your parents before something real bad happens on this peaceful little evening?"

The gang chuckled. A few of them stepped forward, slowly fanning out, surrounding him.

Qrow sighed.

'Of course.'

"Come on now, old-timer," another boy chimed in, cracking his knuckles. "We're just trying to help."

Qrow sighed again, slower this time. He lowered the bottle, rolling it lazily between his fingers, feeling the weight of it. His crimson eyes flicked up from under his bangs, and despite the drunken act, there was something sharp in his gaze.

A warning.

"You kids really wanna do this?" he asked, voice almost bored.

The leader scoffed. "Oh, I know we do."

The air in the alley shifted.

A second of silence stretched between them, the kind that came before a storm. Then, one of the punks made his move, charging forward with all the arrogance of someone who thought they had already won.

Qrow sighed through his nose.

'They really don't know what they're doing.'

The kid barely made it two steps before Qrow sidestepped effortlessly, his movements deceptively fluid for a drunk man. In the same motion, he swung his whiskey bottle in a lazy arc—

CRASH!

The glass shattered against the kid's face, sending shards scattering through the air.

"UGH!" The boy yelped, stumbling backward, his hands flying up to clutch his nose as blood dripped between his fingers.

Qrow blinked at the broken neck of the bottle in his grip.

"Huh," he mused, turning it over as if genuinely surprised. "Did not mean to hit you that hard."

The leader of the gang cursed under his breath. "Get him!"

Rushed footsteps sounded behind him. Qrow didn't turn. Didn't need to. His instincts, sharpened by decades of fighting, did the work for him.

Without looking, he whipped the broken bottle backward. It spun through the air before hitting one of the thugs in the forehead—handle-first.

"GAH!" The boy staggered, clutching his head as he cursed.

Another punk lunged at him.

Qrow ducked, rolling his shoulder back just as a wild punch swung over his head. Before the kid could react, Qrow drove his fist straight up, delivering a nasty uppercut to the punk's chin. The boy's head snapped back, and he crumpled onto the pavement like a rag doll.

Two down.

The next one came from behind. Qrow's fingers twitched, anticipation humming in his veins. He turned, his fist already cocked back.

The moment the punk was in range, he threw a perfectly timed right hook.

CRACK.

The punch landed flush against the kid's jaw. His head snapped to the side, and he crumpled to the ground in a heap, unconscious before he even hit the pavement.

Three down.

Qrow sighed, shaking out his hand. "I gotta say, kids," he muttered, "this is really not worth my time."

The leader took a nervous step back, suddenly realizing what kind of mistake he'd made.

But it was too late for regrets.

Because now Qrow was bored—and that was bad news for them.

A thick silence blanketed the alley, broken only by the distant hum of Argus' streets and the ragged breathing of the downed thugs. The leader, now the last one standing with two of his lackeys, clenched his teeth.

"Charge him at once!" he barked, drawing a dull switchblade from his pocket.

Qrow chuckled, the sound dry and amused. "You call that a knife?"

In one smooth motion, he reached over his shoulder and pulled Harbinger from its sheath. The massive blade screeched as it slid free, its gleaming metal catching the dim light of the streetlamps.

The gang froze.

Realization hit them like a freight train.

Qrow tilted his head, his red eyes glinting with a predatory amusement. "Now this—" he gestured lazily to Harbinger's wickedly curved edge, letting it rest effortlessly on his shoulder, "—is a knife."

The leader audibly gulped.

"Y-you're a Huntsman?!" he stammered, his grip on the switchblade faltering.

Qrow snorted. "Duh. What, did the giant-ass sword on my back not tip you off?" He waved Harbinger slightly for emphasis.

One of the kids on the ground let out a whimper, his hands trembling as he pushed himself away from the scene.

Qrow's gaze flicked toward him, then back to the others. He could see it in their eyes—the realization that they'd messed up. That, out of all the unlucky people they could've picked a fight with, they chose the worst possible one.

And Qrow?

He was bored.

And drunk.

And honestly? A little pissed.

"I could turn you into the authorities," Qrow drawled, tapping Harbinger's flat edge against his shoulder, "y'know, let the nice Argus guards decide what to do with a bunch of street rats trying to mug a Huntsman."

The gang stiffened. That was the last thing they wanted.

"Or..." He let the word hang in the air, giving them just enough hope to latch onto.

The leader straightened, his confidence wavering but still there. "O-or?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of Qrow's lips.

"Or you can run, and maybe—maybe—I'll forget this ever happened."

There was no hesitation.

The thugs bolted.

They scrambled over each other, tripping in their hurry to escape. One even left his knife behind, not even bothering to pick it up. In seconds, they were gone, their panicked footsteps echoing down the alley.

Qrow sighed, running a hand through his unkempt hair before taking another swig from his flask. "Damn kids."

He glanced down at the unconscious ones, briefly considering whether he should drag them somewhere safer. 'Not my problem,' he decided. They'd wake up with bruises and regrets, and that was punishment enough.

With a tired groan, he sheathed Harbinger and resumed his walk back to Saphron's place.

Maybe, just maybe, he'd actually sleep tonight.

[End]