Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Don't."

You stare disobediently at the drab concrete. On both sides, two young adults around your age struggle to look ahead but manage. Their breathing is strained, and you're not sure if yours isn't. The wall to your back looms over. An AC unit dangles from the bespectacled ceiling. It looks cheap, and rust resides at its edges. It fails to stop the sweat.

A mosquito lands on the backside of your neck. It's buzzing pushes you to look away and splatter it.

The voice orders again.

"Don't look away."

It’s another fight, but the tone is far more defeatist. It’s not like the half-assed beatdowns he used to enact on you with his midget assistant that he would call “training.” He typically enjoys those. No humor dances in his grin this time. The burning street outside closes in on you two.

Despite the swelling of your tongue, you open your mouth to speak. You feel like you should say more, but nothing comes to mind. You don’t hear what words escape you.

“Don’t give me that shit. You’re an adult now.” He twirls his cane as if it were a toy. “You never did answer the question I asked when we first met.”

The sweat pours down your face in a steady stream. The grip on your weapon faintly digs into your palms. It's uncomfortable, but you assure yourself that you're used to it.

"Are you actually happier like this? Being part of a story like this?"

You know the answer already, but you won't admit it to him.

And it begins.

There comes a point in any career that involves many high-stress life-or-death situations when the danger starts to grow addicting. Gorging itself on blood, sweat, and tears, this hunger empties any hunter afflicted if left malnourished, leaving naught but an animal in the place of a man. In the business, veteran hunters called them "gnats"–people who underwent the toils of being a hunter and came out worse. Like baptisms by fire, huntership changes one for the better or for the worse, and–having partook in the feast–a hunter can't ever wash off the desire for that same rush from his or her soul. Not fully anyway. Never fully.

The sensation of bullets, claws, and blades across your skin as aura barely stops the attacks from severely maiming you. Heat from the sparks of crossing swords. Knuckles colliding with flesh. Arms and fingers getting cleaved off in exchange for preventing decapitation. Dangling your life above a fire pit and overcoming the danger only by the skin of your teeth.

Utter euphoria. The greatest high imaginable.

While many of the few huntresses and huntsmen that actually manage to retire typically settle down and start a family, the unspoken truth shared among hunters is that–deep down–they still crave for action at some level. Otherwise, gnats would not exist. Once you embrace violence as a part of your way of life, it never lets you go. You never let it go. From that point onward, you find yourself more inclined to it as a solution.

Then again, violence and suffering are an integral part of human nature, so maybe those who do embrace it find themselves ironically more at peace internally than those who repress such urges all their lives. God knows if he were to have to sit at an office desk, he'd probably lose his mind.

Of course, he wouldn't know that was like either. He had been fighting ever since he came out of the womb. A form of magnetism or gravity drew him into conflict–into the action. Like a piece of driftwood floating downstream, he just went with the flow. Better for him to not despair over his inclinations and to just accept them. At least that way, he can use them that way for something more beneficial and productive. Fighting is fun, but if you were to just fight all the time without purpose outside of hedonistic pleasure, then you might as well just be dead.

Ronald "Ronnie" James Arc sharpened Stargazer on the grindstone he kept out in his backyard as his family slept. Sparks scattered across the stone driveway, orange light dancing across his safety equipment. He pulled back to inspect the now fine edge of the Damascus steel blade and went on with his morning routine.

Hot steam poured out from his mouth along with his yawn. Unlike Crocea Mors, the zweihander didn't have a sheath, so he strapped it to his back with leather. The morning light began to peek out from behind the green mountainside, so he needed to hurry up.

Removed from the leather holster at his side, Neon Knight was quickly disassembled and cleaned. The revolver deserved to be treated well. It had carried him and his team through some of the worst moments of his life.

"Do you really have to do that right now?" A voice interrupted his train of thought. Her left hand pointed apathetically in the direction of the grindstone. "You could have woken up the girls with this noise."

The shaggy, bearded blond man looked over his shoulder and gently placed Neon Knight back into its holster. His yellow pupils dilated and shrank as they adjusted to the morning sunrise. Behind him, Auri Arc stood at the backyard entrance. Her left hand rested on her distended stomach.

"Sorry about that." The man took out and spun Neon Knight before loading six shots into it, taking extra caution to fill up the cartridge box on his belt with spare gunpowder ammunition, a rarity nowadays given how dust dominated the market. "I have another mission with Marcus this week. We'll probably be gone for a month or two."

The corners of her lips bent back, but he knew she would be fine. "The girls want to spend more time with their father, you know. You could at least offer them the courtesy of saying goodbye first, especially if you're going on a dangerous mission. They'll be mad that they missed you."

"And you? Are you also going to miss me? Most of the girls are now old enough to help you, you know." Ronnie James turned to face her, his spine straightening. The backpack next to him was already packed with enough ammunition, dust, and hunter rations to last for the next few weeks. Up until he and Marcus reached civilization at least. "Besides, they were raised tough. They can hold the fort in the meantime."

"The girls and I aren't the only ones you should be worried about. We're used to you taking on these missions." Auri gently touched her belly.

His stern expression softened instantly, transforming him from a battle-hardened warrior to a parent with extreme ease. He carefully walked over to his wife and placed his metal hand on her shoulder. "You know I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't have to."

His wife relented at his touch and sighed. "I know… it's just that it's a lot of work without you around, and it is really nice to have you at the house."

His lips turned upwards. "So you are going to miss me?" His grin got wider. "You must have been getting soft with age. The Auri I know would have never admitted to that."

"Well, having seven children typically changes a person in many cases."

"Hmm." Ronnie nodded in agreement. She wasn't wrong. It sure as Hell changed him. He coughed into his hand, and his eyes sharpened. "I'm meeting Marcus in the outskirts of Ansel soon. I should be heading out now."

"Just try to be safe and back here soon." Her azure eyes and lips turned downcast even as he brought her into an embrace.

"I will." He kissed the top of her forehead before pulling back. "Tell you what, I'll try to get some souvenirs for the girls before I come back. Marcus is in the same boat as me, so I'm sure he doesn't want this to go poorly either."

"Is he happy at least?" Her brow furrowed. "It's been a long time since we've talked."

"He's doing well for himself from what I can tell. Despite his side-job." He plastered another grin on his face. "You should really see him with his wife. He's a completely different man with her around." He smiled back at her. "Tell the girls I love them, and tell Saphron to try to mess around with less boys in the future unless she wants me to pay for Marcus's side-services. I'll try to keep in touch in the meantime."

Auri rubbed her stomach again. "You better."

Serving as the backbone of society, the hunter's code strongly stresses the importance of not trivializing human life into mere statistics. Innocent life has innate value and is therefore naturally precious. Those who break the hunter's code would in turn lose their life's value on a social level, depreciating until they were worth no more than those they had ironically buried in the ground.

Marcus Black firmly agreed. He slicked his silver hair back with his sweaty hands. The hunter's code could just be interpreted in many different ways

So in accordance to the hunter's code's emphasis on human life's innate value, one could put a price on a life. A steep price too depending on the significance of the target. For example, his most recent hit was a Mistralian tournament celebrity who pissed off the wrong people. Apparently, the idiot got too big for his britches and won a fight he shouldn't have.

1,125,000 lien for just one man's life. The normal huntsmen missions would only fetch a fraction of that, and those actually involved defending innocent life.

That hit paid him far more than any missions as a hunter ever did. Being a hunter was just another job. The hunter's code was just another paper document. And Beacon was just another school. Those dumb enough to drift along and not form their own set of guiding principles were no better either. Not worthy of praise nor worthy of scorn.

It wasn't as if he took pleasure in ending the lives of others either. The assassination gig was just a temporary thing. It may have driven a wedge between him and his sister, but that heals with time too. Or so he hoped. Besides, after this mission, he'd officially be much busier at home. No better time than now to go legit again. Hell, maybe after that, he could meet up with the rest of his surviving team members and get a drink at the local tavern. Maybe he would also go back on the straight and narrow–if Marcus showed him how much happier he could be, turning away from the criminal underworld.

Marcus Black sat against the railings of Ansel's entrance as he carved at a wooden block. A new hobby of his. Something about cutting away all the wood to create a gift granted him some deep satisfaction.

The mission paid well this time, at the very least. Operating a two man team was much more dangerous, but it certainly paid better not having to split the money four ways. And it wasn't like he had a choice at this point. Life sometimes just gives you the short end of the stick.

Though, he'd say things were going pretty well for him nowadays. All things considered. Break a few politicians here, kill a few terrorists there, and soon, he'll have enough lien to not have to keep doing this anymore thanks to his side hustle. His big break. With this, he'd be able to secure the best life possible for his wife and kid.

After that, he could sit back and relax on a beach in Vacuo or somewhere nice without a care in the world. He could train his kid for a better life in his free time–carpentry would be best for him. That's paradise. Big-ass house. Fast cars. That'd be his life.

"You look like you've gained weight." Ronnie James Arc joked as he approached the assassin. "I see the Dad bod has finally hit you too."

A laugh escaped from his lips, and his carving knife lazily spun around in his hand. "Go fuck yourself, Arc. Don't think I've forgiven you for plowing my sister."

Ronnie's approach slowed, and he raised his hands defensively in jest.

"Okay, okay. I get it. Touchy subject. Sheesh." Ronnie unstrapped the first pouch on the backpack before pulling out a map. "I'll try not to mention your ginormous beer belly, I guess…"

"My body fat percentage is at fucking ten percent, and you can literally grate cheese off of my six-pack abs." Marcus deadpanned. "Just because you feel like you're getting old doesn't mean you need to project your Dad bod insecurities onto me."

Much to his personal horror, Ronnie winked. "A Dad bod is more of a vibe than anything, trust me." He flexed his bicep smugly. "I'm a professional on the subject." His knuckles cracked. "Plus, women dig the DILF vibes."

"Yeah, women with parental issues would be all over you." Marcus closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose, disgust evident. "Why are we having this conversation? You're married. Plus, do you even know what that word means?"

"I'll be completely honest. No. I just heard it on TV once."

"Well, thank Christ you don't. I don't want to explain it to you." The assassin's hand gestured to the paper map in his friend's hand. "So what's the game plan and the pay?"

"We'll be crossing through some Grimm territory with no CCT access, so it's probably a good idea to load up whatever dust and rations right now in case you haven't. We'll just be protecting some bigwig from Ansel as they travel to central Vale from possible bandit attacks. Apparently, they're trying to industrialize the shithole and make it into a nicer city as some form of humanitarian effort, but God knows how long that will take." He checked his watch. "Our guy will hopefully show up soon." Ronnie James's expression sharpened. "As for the pay, we'll be splitting the upfront 2,470,500 lien and another 3,235,250 lien after we complete it, expenses accounted for and everything. Other than that, how the Hell have you been?"

Walking down the dirt path ahead of them, Marcus whistled, clearly impressed. "Jesus Christ, 2,352,875 lien for just one measly protection job? What kind of bandits are they expecting, a whole army of completely jacked Mistralian huntsmen and huntresses? It's surprising a job like this hasn't already been picked up from some other Beacon alumni like team STRQ."

Well, Marcus also had his own mission, but that was neither here nor there.

"Yeah, it's really suspicious, but I think the pay is worth it. Plus, the initial upfront pay is enough to get at least one of my kids into Signal and then Beacon. Potentially all of them if I just invest that money right. Thinking long term about schooling costs and whatnot is very important for raising children." Playfully kicking a rock off of the path, Ronnie's tone became more lower pitched and tense. "I think that reason alone is enough to justify taking it. Besides, worse comes to worst, I trust Auri enough to be responsible. She's already used to me not being around." He laughed. "She's probably pissed at me already."

Marcus elbowed his friend in the side. "C'mon man. No woman would have more than three kids with any man if she wasn't absolutely in love with him. Don't talk like that."

"Well, I suppose she's just been in a bad mood lately." He cleared his voice. "Anyways, speaking of, how are things going with Momo?"

"Same old, same old. The missus has been busting my ass recently though when it comes to the baby. We're currently hoping it's a girl, but I do have a name in mind if it's a boy." Marcus continued. "Did you ever have to deal with some of the crazy food combos with Auri? I swear, last night, my wife made me go out to get dark chocolate and pickles. She wanted to blend them together in some kind of unholy display."

"To be fair, they are pregnant. Their hormones are all out of whack." Ronnie shrugged flippantly. "And before you ask, yes, Auri once made me go get peanut butter and steak."

"That sounds disgusting."

"It's actually pretty good as long as you like the taste of actual feces. Sadly, I do not."

Marcus raised an eyebrow.

"And Auri does?"

Ronnie paused before he could insult his wife, and his index finger waved in the air to stop himself.

"Touché." He finished.

Marcus had enough of the subject. "So what are the details on the target?"

"Some local quack researcher from what I investigated." Ronnie continued. "I don't know where he got the dough, so something tells me it's pretty covert if the SDC is shoveling this much cash for something like this. He's supposed to be meeting us here soon."

"Probably some new strain of dust or dust weaponry." Marcus spoke up. "Or some other way to abuse faunus workers."

"Yeah…" Ronnie trailed off. "You'd think Willow would change something, but you know how Jacques is…"

"You mean a total prick?"

"I was actually thinking dickhead would apply better to him."

"But prick works better for someone as snobby as him. Dickhead applies to someone like Qrow better. Someone who is more explicitly vulgar." Marcus shook his head in disagreement. "Dickhead also feels like it implies some measure of redeemability or endearment."

"Now that you say it…" Ronnie scratched his chin in thought. "Yeah, comparing him to a penis is too offensive to penises."

"Yeah! Like Qrow!" Marcus barked in excitement.

A voice coughed into his hand from behind them.

"I'd hate to interrupt, gentlemen." A white-haired man in a red button-down tapped on Ronnie's shoulder. "But you wouldn't happen to Ronald James Arc, would you? I'm your client, Avion."

Marcus's eyes examined the target up and down. Nothing special. If anything, he looked like the average civilian or standard nerd type. His lanky limbs hung lazily from his bony shoulders. No wonder this guy was paying out the ass for protection money. He probably couldn't even intimidate a stuffed animal. The fact that he announced his identity before confirming theirs betrayed his amateurism.

"No, you got the right guys." Marcus turned around to shake his hand. "Happy to be working with you. We've already plotted out the safest route to Vale from here. Now for the upfront payment…"

"1,235,250 lien will be placed into each of your digital Winchester bank accounts immediately." Avion's hand promptly pulled out his scroll from his back pocket. "I'll have my people take care of that immediately."

"While we appreciate that…" Ronnie’s eyes looked Avion up and down. "If you don't mind, out of all the applicants for the mission, why exactly did you choose us? Surely, it'd be safer to get a proper four person team for a job this expensive. It's not like you can't afford it. And why not just take a bullhead? I know Ansel is out of the way, but they do run from here to Vale every two weeks or so."

"Thanks to the nature of what I'm delivering, the less people the better. And public transportation could just endanger other civilians." Despite the weather, sweat dropped from Avion's forehead and nearly made Ronnie pause. "And for company reasons, I cannot fully disclose that information. I'm sorry."

Marcus interrupted before Ronnie could protest. "That's fine so long as it doesn't affect our mission."

"It won't." Avion smiled. "And as to what you guys were talking about before… You do realize prick is also a phallic insult too, right?"

"Well, dang." Ronnie frowned and turned to his friend. "Guess we can't use that either."

"Hmmm…" Marcus closed his eyes in thought. "Why don't we call him a jerk then and leave it at that?"

"But that's not quite snobby enough, ain't it?"

Deep into the redwood forest of towering trees, nightfall came earlier than expected, and fortunately, the trio hadn't crossed any grimm nor bandits yet. An oddity, surely. Typically, one would start to see grimm after about 10 miles from a small town like Ansel, but it was an oddity they were thankful for regardless. The three sat around a campfire Marcus had started as Ronnie began to prepare their tents and to pass out rations.

Marcus's face immediately recoiled in disgust. "Ugh, this tasteless chicken and dried food again? Man, I got enough rations back when we were at Beacon. Why do you have these, Ronnie?"

"I actually like them." Marcus's face recoiled further. "They're better than anything I can make on my own. Plus, if you add a little water and cook them longer over an open fire, they're much better."

"Yeah, but that's because everything is better cooked on an open fire than being cooked on a stove. That still doesn't excuse it from having no taste and being drier than Goodwitch's sex life."

"Is Glynda still single? I thought most people from our class have already gotten hitched? Didn't Taiyang and Raven recently tie the knot?" Ronnie flicked some water over his chicken before placing it above the fire for it to cook with Avion apparently following suit. "It's not like Glynda's unattractive, and she does seem to really like taking care of kids with her teaching job. You'd think she'd want to settle down and start a family."

Marcus shrugged absentmindedly as he chewed his food and struggled to swallow. "Yeah, last time I ran into her at my wedding, she showed up with no partner or significant other. So either she's just that career-focused–which is unlikely considering she wants to be a teacher–or she just can't find anyone who's interested."

Surprisingly enough, despite being mostly silent throughout the trip, Avion spoke up. "That's complete baloney. If this is the same Glynda Goodwitch I know, I can name several people who would gladly kill to just have a one-night-stand with her. Not that I can blame them. Either way, rumors about how she might be seeing Lieutenant General Ironwood have been floating around the office now."

The two huntsmen turned their heads towards Avion in shock. Jaws dropped. As if he had told them that he killed their dog, their horrified appearance spoke to a prior trauma.

"Did you seriously use the word 'baloney' in a sentence?" The silver-haired man's gaze wandered back to Ronnie. "I think he's the first person I've met other than Summer to do that unironically, and she stopped after Raven teased her too much."

"Wait, Lieutenant General Ironwood? Shoot, he must've been promoted since the last time we saw him. And with Glynda too? I could have sworn that those two hated each other too." Ronnie took his food off from the fire and bit into his chicken, grinning. "12 lien says it's a friends with benefits thing or a hate-sex relationship. Glynda has great legs, but her personality is way too stern. Given Ironwood's own personality, the two would go together like water and oil."

Eyes like fish, Marcus deadpanned. "Why would I take that bet when the answer is completely obvious."

"Don't tell him this, but I always thought Ironwood swung a different way. Color me surprised." Ronnie moved over to Avion. "So, what's your story, buddy? How do you know Goodbitch? You got a family?"

Avion shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Something like that." Avion pushed up his glasses before pulling out a book from his pack. "As for Miss Goodwitch, my group was originally a small organization centered in Ansel that was a subsidiary of the SDC. We communicated a lot with Beacon and plan on using funds for tax write-offs by helping build central Vale into a proper city. Rather than just being an impoverished area near Beacon." Opening the cover, he continued, in a quieter voice. "I also don't think it's very professional for two hunters to talk about a woman like that."

"Well, shit, no wonder you paid us so much to keep this hush-hush." Marcus leaned in closer in interest. "There probably are some bandits who'd really want whatever research you've got. Everyone knows that the academies are pouring in a lot of their budget into weapons development."

Avion's head nodded in confirmation. "There's a little more than that, but I couldn't even tell you if I wanted to. Some lives are relying on this, you do realize that?"

"Yeah, I suppose so." Marcus stiffened, and his face fell. A newborn tension grew between the two before Marcus got up and headed for the woods nearby. "I'm gonna take a piss and head to bed. Good night."

"You didn't need to tell us that." Ronnie's eyes rolled. "But good night anyways."

The hunters slept peacefully under the starry skies, ready for whatever may come tomorrow.

A month passed, and with the exception of a few grimm, the duo had yet to run into any real action.

"Is that the last of them?" The dagger had been lodged in a Beowulf's skull, forcing Marcus to pull as hard as possible.

"Yeah, that looks to be the end of it." Ronnie strapped Stargazer to his back and placed Neon Knight into its holster.

Panting, Marcus gestured to the revolver. "You still hold onto that thing? Doesn't it just remind you of… you know?"

"It saved me many times."

"Yeah, but still. If you want to talk about anything, I'm here for you. We are brothers now after all."

Ronnie's mouth opened. "I appreciate it, but I'm good for now. Besides, we've almost reached central Vale anyhow."

Soot covered the ground along with the dissolving corpses of hundreds of grimm. A desolate battlefield once surrounded by life. Green vegetation formerly ran along the floor of this forest. Deers and rabbits used to prance about naturally, undisturbed.

"That works with me." From inside a bush nearby, Avion popped out from his hiding spot. His clothes were filthy, and sweat had turned his red button down into a maroon one. "You guys don't need to do anything else once we reach the gates. I'm supposed to work from there on my own."

Ronnie and Marcus both sighed in relief. A mission well done according to Ronnie. No casualties, no problems.

"Are you sure you got everything? Not missing anything?" Ronnie's eyes scanned Avion from head to toe. He had freshened up immensely, but he still hadn't had time to take a shower. "I want to be sure you got everything covered."

"Yeah, yeah, don't worry. I got my documentation in my back pocket." His glasses were cleaned using the fabric of his shirt. "Corporate ought to have handled your payment now. Thanks so much."

"Don't worry about it." Satisfied, Ronnie turned away before a cold dread built from the back of his spine.

As soon as they entered the worn-down white gates of Vale, they did the only reasonable action they could after leaving Avion to fend for himself. Though it was far more terrifying than facing down any Grimm or bandits.

They hadn't contacted their wives in over a month.

But that was a problem for after they returned to them.

"It was nice seeing you again for a little team reunion, even if not much came from it." Ronnie hugged Marcus goodbye. "Call me if you need anything, man."

"Likewise. I sort of miss it, you know." Marcus pulled back. "We should do this again sometimes, working together like old times. I sort of need to get my business in order."

"So you're going legit from now on?"

Marcus breathed in, deeply satisfied, and a giant smile stretched across his face. "After today, that's the plan."

"She may not say it, but Auri and I are so proud of you. You've really gone a long way." Ronnie grabbed him into another hug. "And I know she would have been proud of you too."

Marcus patted his friend as they broke apart. "You too, man. It's gonna be lonely. It was really nice hanging out with you again. I'll catch you later."

"See you, man. I gotta call my wife. And if you need anything at all, feel free to call us anytime. You're always gonna be one of my best friends."

Marcus held out his fist one last time. The two huntsmen shared a final fistbump.

Avion knew something was amiss as soon as he turned away into the nearest alleyway to escape the brothers-in-law. They were good people, sure, but as a civilian, it's hard to relate to any of the huntresses or huntsmen. Who willfully enjoys fighting and killing other people and grimm? What kind of psycho can handle all that stress? He slid his hands down the sides of his face in relief. It was honestly surprising how little action they saw on the month-long trip.

Though, he knew one thing for sure, those guys got overpaid for the job. He'd already sent over the lien they were owed digitally. It wasn't like it was his money to begin with.

His scroll buzzed, and he scrambled to pick it out from his pocket.

"Avion! Buddy! How are you doing? How was the trip?" An intense friendliness answered the call, but he could tell it was empty. "All limbs still on? No missing eyes or anything?"

His boss didn't actually care how he was doing. The real question was obvious. He was asking if he still had that.

"I'm doing fine sir. Everything is still on my person."

"And your guards? Is everything alright with them?" A nervous click of the tongue could be heard from the other side. "Should we give them a tip?"

"No tip is necessary, sir. They completed their duty to the fullest extent without going over the top."

In other words, yes, they were still in the dark.

"How are the wife and kids by the way?"

Avion's fist tightened.

"I wouldn't know. I haven't seen them in a while."

Laughter. Fucking laughter escaped from the scroll. "Well, you're in luck! They'll be meeting you near the docks once you finish your work today. They've been very worried about you, you know."

"Yeah, well–"

"Hold on, I'm getting another call! See you later today, buddy!" The man's tone sharpened. "Don't leave me waiting."

He exhaled in anger. They were playing him and his family like a damn fiddle, and all he could do was twiddle his thumbs to their beck and call.

Footsteps echoed from behind him. A sharp pain.

The next thing he knew, a barrel pointed at his forehead. His eyes crossed. A dagger had been lodged in his guts.

"Why?..."

"Sorry, man." The assailant twisted the dagger, pressing a button that extended the knife through the basis of his spine. "For what it's worth, you don't seem like a bad person. It's just company policy. You clean up once you're done."

"I only really played along to spend some time with a friend and make some more cash. I honestly could have done this anytime." He pulled the trigger on the revolver currently laying on Avion's forehead. "I'm just doing what I need to."

A gunshot echoed through the streets.

"He has your hair."

"He has your eyes." Ronnie fired back at his wife.

The miracle of childbirth always floored Ronnie James whenever he witnessed it. To think he helped bring new life into the world despite all of the hurt and suffering he had caused others. It was crazy enough to make him cry, and he had witnessed it eight times now. Like twin waterfalls, tears pooled down his cheeks.

"Do you have a name in mind, Dad?" Saphron looks over his shoulder along with Indigo and Cyan.

"..." Ronnie looked at his wife, who simply nodded. "I want to name him after my favorite story growing up."

"Which one?" Auri raised an eyebrow. "You mean the Rusted Knight?"

He nodded.

"The name is a pretty common one, but it means so much to me." After his time in the Great War, Ronnie's grandfather retired as a hunter and became an author. His many stories, both fiction and non-fiction, inspired him to become a huntsman. A man like his grandfather deserved to be honored. It made sense to name the newborn after his great grandparent's favorite character. Ronnie brushed the top of the baby's forehead. "Jaune Arc. Our little Jauney."

"I wanna hold him!" The youngest, Indigo yelled.

The infant started crying, surrounded by his family.

"She didn't make it." The nurse delivers the news. "I'm sorry, sir."

Same as always, he supposed. One new life in exchange for another. Trading lives happened daily. He squeezed the bridge of his nose as tightly as possible to keep the tears back. "What about my son?"

"He fortunately survived, but he was born prematurely. We're going to have to hold onto him for the next week or so. His lungs haven't fully developed." She put her hand on his shoulder. "I know this must be so hard on you right now, but it's better to hold on to the last gift Momo Black gave this world."

All this money, and nothing to show for it. All the people he's killed, and he hadn't truly gained anything. All this violence, and he's still a loser.

So much for the straight and narrow.

What a joke.

He supposed he could go leech off of Ronnie James Arc again, but being near his family would just make him resentful and jealous over things he could never have anymore. Don't get him wrong, he loved Ronnie. Ronnie was all he really had left, but Ronnie's a winner. He had a big family. A big house. And things to look forward to. His friend deserved better.

But this? This wasn't the life of winners after all.

"I don’t care anymore." He drew a long breath in anticipation. Frustrated, his lips released a current of hot air. "I'll name him Mercury."

The baby behind the glass started crying, separated from anyone who loved him.

A steady stream of smoke blew out from the man's lips. The cigar in his mouth lit up the alleyway. He carefully avoided the puddle of blood near the woman's body. His boots were pricey. Then again, he supposed he could just rob someone and get the money back.

She couldn't have been younger than at least 30–around his age. She was a pretty thing too. Her pink and brown hair was rare in Remnant. The dress she wore looked inexpensive, clearly handmade. He could respect that, even though he preferred higher brand clothes himself. Though, her beauty didn't stop the rats and cockroaches from nibbling the body.

Crouched, he couldn't tell what killed her. No noticeable external wounds made themselves obvious at a first glance. He pushed back his bangs to check for any valuables, but her pockets were empty. It was like her heart just exploded on its own.

Standing back up, his feet carried him deeper into the underbelly of Vale, only for something to reach out and grab his ankle. A quiet stillness took over him and slowly dragged his head in the direction of what held him back.

It was a tiny little thing. She couldn't have been over 4 years old, but she must have kept silent for the longest time if an experienced thief like him couldn't notice her. And although she reached out for his attention with her feeble hands, her eyes stayed on the corpse.

Her hair told him that the body must have been her relative. Most likely her mother.

So she didn't have anyone either.

He took another puff and blew out more smoke before staring to the starry sky. Wordlessly, he leaned down to her and veiled her eyes with his hand.

"A brat shouldn't have an image like this etched into her memory." Roman Torchwick sighed. "Though it may be a little too late for that."

Her stomach growled as he turned her towards him.

"Come, let's get you out of here and something to eat." He pointed to the nearest food stand. Some late-night ice cream parlor.

Sure, it wasn't healthy food, but he wasn't a healthy influence. Besides, kids liked ice cream, right?

The little girl finally relented her gaze and nodded, but her eyes stayed lifeless.

His cigar fell out of his mouth, and he smothered it with his boots. It probably was for the best, considering his company.

It'd be fine, so long as he doesn't get attached this time. It was better she didn't have a name either.

At the edge of Vanguard. At the ruins of a failed place of learning.

A field of graves stood like small grains of rice across a green landscape. Honoring those who valiantly lost their lives during the tragedy. But he knew the truth.

They were all children who had been taught to fight and had their stories all cruelly cut short because of some conflict between an ex-husband and an ex-wife.

Bullshit.

The air was thick and humid, blatant indicators of rain. Mud covered his combat boots.

The ground in front of him was cold, but that was fitting.

Even if his blood was red hot.

His sister would probably be chastising him. Telling him to move on and live his own life, not to be inhibited by a loss that occurred about ten years ago.

He could have, you know? He knew that. He had an opportunity to settle down and have a kid. Probably would've named them after her too. Probably would have been happier too. At least for a while.

Unfortunately, the memory always felt fresh.

He had been fighting since he came out of the womb. Violence was the only way he knew how to honor his sister.

Or well, it was the only thing he was ever good at.

And the only way to rid himself of this incinerating hunger for blood in his heart.

Maybe it was a want for justice. Maybe it was spurred on by his rage. Maybe the reasons didn't matter.

Vengeance took hold of him.

With a heavy heart, Hazel Rainart began his march into the land of monsters.

Chapter Text

He woke up at the crack of dawn before any of the others could stop him.

Contrary to popular belief and perhaps common sense, most hunters only practice techniques and spar to train thanks to their ability to use aura to boost their strength and endurance. If one can lift boulders and run miles already with aura, why would one train to do so without it? The very same logic also explained why most hunters prefer fashion over protection, choosing colorful outfits over the safety of armor or camouflage. If one could endure Grimm attacks with aura, why would one need it? To most hunters, aura made strength training and armor redundant.

Silently, he grabbed a water bottle from the end of the kitchen counter.

Most hunters are also arrogant and naive. Stripped of their aura by a bizarre semblance or by simple depletion, these hunters become useless at best and a liability at worst. Potentially costing their teams their lives. Or more.

Scowling, he found the bottle empty and went to the fridge for the water filter, before sighing at the also-empty water filter. He took it out and brought it to the sink.

His mind rewound to memories of a fellow Beaconite team from his undergrad years. Team SKIN. They were a group of obnoxiously flamboyant upperclassmen who–against their peers' advice–decided to try their hand at fighting the Branwen tribe. Supposedly, Qrow and Raven had humiliated them so terribly during a spar that they thought the only way to regain their pride was to go after the twins' family. Even after Qrow went out of his way to apologize in an attempt to dissuade them, team SKIN was dead set on the tribe of bandits.

Slowly, water poured into the filter until it reached max capacity.

So blind were they that SKIN failed to realize that Qrow had done so in order to protect them–not his relatives.

He then began to fill the bottle.

Upon their return three months later, Jaime Scarlatina and Karmine Adel would never speak of what happened to their team, but the search for the males of SKIN was fruitful enough. Images of flayed flesh haunted him even now. Their team name became–at least–gruesomely fitting.

The water overflowed onto his hand, and he broke out of his stupor, quickly turning off the filter and putting it back into the fridge.

Of course, stories like that were often not talked about–for purely recruitment purposes, he imagined. Becoming a hunter needed to be depicted as being possible for any single citizen. The population of Grimm was forever growing after all, and humanity needed more soldiers to throw at it.

But he wouldn't think of that now.

His metal arm crossed over his head as he stepped outside.

Ronnie would not be one of those arrogant hunters again.

Stretching his old joints out, the satisfying pops in his neck and spine made him feel alive. The cold mountain air felt refreshing on his sleep-deprived skin. His hands slapped both sides of his face to further energize him. Then, his morning ritual began.

After throwing a mat onto the cement in front of him and sliding a foam roller under his quads, he put himself into a forearm plank position and braced his core.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Fighting against the knots and sore spots in his body, he moved slowly down the roller until it hit the area just above his knees and rolled in the opposite direction until it reached his hip flexors. In his head, the countdown from thirty kicked off.

Ronnie wished he had remembered how loud babies were before agreeing with his wife to have another kid. Having been absent for many of the girls’ early lives, he had forgotten that fact.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He slid the roller underneath the left hip flexor and bent his right leg to his slide, repeating the process for thirty seconds.

A few days later following the birth of his son, a news article from ‘Central Vale Now’ detailed the death of a civilian researcher who had a familiar description. Glasses, white hair, and a crimson button-down.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He swapped to the other hip flexor for thirty seconds.

A knife-wound in the gut that penetrated the spine and a bullet in the skull.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He flipped over, crossed his legs, and slid the roller under his calves. Another thirty seconds.

After Central Vale was rebuilt following the Great War, it became a cesspit unable to fully recover–with exception of Vale’s government, militia, and main academy. Civilians had lost homes, family members, and jobs. And with loss, came the Grimm. And with the Grimm, came more loss.

Even more so after Mount Glenn.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He swapped to the other leg. Another thirty seconds.

It became public knowledge that Central Vale was not a safe place, so crime was expected. However, two facts disturbed about the murder of Avion disturbed Ronnie.

He slid the foam roller under his left hamstring and bent his right leg for support.

One, the bullet had trace amounts of gunpowder, and most guns today were only able to fire dust-based ammunition.

He swapped sides.

That raised his suspicions. Out of all the hunters he knew in Vale, he only knew six with guns that could use gunpowder. Out of those six, two had guns that exclusively used gunpowder. Himself and his former partner. Of course, there was a potential third, but he had never seen Marcus use his own Neon Knight and assumed he threw it out in grief when the wound was fresh. In spite of that, Marcus was in Vale at the time of Avion’s death.

He hit his glutes next.

Two, he had a responsibility to protect the victim at the time of death–despite already having been paid for his services.

In the books, it was a successful mission.

In his book, he failed again.

Standing up, he put the mat and the roller away. Arm stretches were next.

Marcus met Momo Black during the peak of his depression after the incident at Mount Glenn. A wonderful woman who accepted Marcus for all of his faults and helped him heal when neither Ronnie nor Auri couldn’t. Her death was too cruel. Ronnie had attempted to comfort Marcus, but again, his efforts often fell flat. He was never good with this kind of stuff.

“Ugh.” He groaned as his metal hand pushed his long hair out of his face.

The weights were already set up on the bench.

Marcus was already suffering. Any accusations at this point would only help worsen his mental state and their friendship. He didn't deserve to lose the woman he loves again. But what about the feelings of everyone who cared for Avion?

He shook his head and took out a pair of headphones before plugging them into his scroll.

Stop thinking about it.

Just focus on the feeling of adrenaline and the pleasant burn in his muscles.

Browsing his playlists, Ronnie settled on one named "RRGM Favs."

Auri had compiled the playlist for him years back.

He pressed ‘Play.’

The distorted screeching of guitars blared in his ears, and lyrics echoed.

“Ohhh no, here it comes again!”

Stop thinking about it.

“Can't remember when we came so close to love before!”

Just put yourself under those weights.

“Hold on, good things never last!”

And press your burden up to the sky.

“Nothing's in the past, it always seems to come againnn!”

"Why did he cry so much last night?" With her tiny hands, Saphron tugged on Auri's plaid pajama bottoms to get her mother's attention. "Even Indigo didn't cry as much."

In the corner of the kitchen, baby Jaune happily gurgled in his light blue chair. Unaware of the trouble he had caused his family the night before.

"Well, Jaune is a special case, Saphron," Auri–not turning her eyes away from the scrambled eggs she was cooking–responded. "He's not like you. Ronnie actually showed up for his birth."

"Is that why Daddy has been acting weird?" Having already procured a bowl, the second grader moved away towards the fridge to grab the milk. "Does he not like Jaune?"

"No, it's not that," Auri corrected quickly, "he's just scared."

"But why would Daddy be afraid?"

“Well, he's his first son.” She sighed at her eldest daughter's enthusiastic response. “That’s a special connection."

Dejected, Saphron brought out her Pumpkin Pete cereal box before pouring it into the bowl along with the milk. "So, if I was born a boy, then Dad would love me more?"

“Of course not, sweetie!” Auri gasped. “How could you even think that? You know your Daddy loves you very much!”

Quiet, Saphron looked up to her Mom. “If you say so…”

“Are you planning on walking with Jaime to school again?”

Saphron shook her head. “Not today. I was hoping to get to class early.”

“Well, could you? I don't trust her to get there safely by herself.”

“But she's always late? That's so not fair.”

“Then go wake her up.”

Her oldest grumbled away.

From the window, she could see Ronnie exercise silently.

Alone, Auri's eyes move to Jaune, sitting happily in his high chair.

"...Now, what am I going to do with you?"

Jaune burped, playfully smacking his curled-up fists up to the ceiling.

A slight smile grew on Auri's lips. The sounds of small feet rushing downstairs echoed.

“Can we play with him Mama?” A small voice pulled on her pajamas, and another joined. “Pally's clothes fit him!!”

“Oh, so I don't get a ‘good morning’ first?” Auri teased her overly excited daughter's.

The twins, Cobalt and Vert, had snuck up on her, both carrying a raggedy doll larger than either of them. The doll, Pally, was covered in spit stains and had one of its button eyes removed. Well-loved, it had seen better days.

The calmer of the two, Cobalt, pried herself off her mother. “Oh, good morning Mama!! Could we please play with Jaune?”

Again, Auri sighed but cooed at her daughter's infectious energy. “Only if you're good and promise to be gentle.”

“Yippee!!!” In their little sunflower and star pajamas respectively, Vert and Cobalt did a little spinning dance.

Well, dance might have not been the right word. It was more like they had flailed her arms up and shook them as they bounced in a circle.

She didn't know where they learned it, but it was too cute to care.

Having brought her twin, Saphron returned with a yawning Jaime to the kitchen.

As she platted the eggs, Auri glanced at the clock. "Alright, girls, breakfast is ready. Saphron, Jaime, can you set the table?"

"Okay, Mom," Saphron replied, still a bit sullen but eager to help. She grabbed the plates and silverware and began arranging them on the table. Jaime, on the other hand, grumbled but helped nonetheless by grabbing the glassware from their respective cabinets.
Cobalt and Vert climbed onto their chairs, still buzzing with excitement. "Can we feed Jaune, too?" Vert asked.
"After you eat your breakfast," Auri said, placing a plate in front of each girl. "He needs his milk first."

Ronnie entered the kitchen, wiping sweat from his brow. He glanced at Jaune and then at Auri, who gave him a reassuring smile.

"Morning, everyone," he said, ruffling Saphron's hair as he passed by.

"Morning, Daddy," the girls chorused.

Ronnie poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. "How's our little man today?" he asked, nodding towards Jaune.

"Happy as ever," Auri replied, taking a seat herself. "Unlike last night."

Ronnie sighed. "Yeah, that was rough. But we'll get through it."

Auri reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "We will."

Ronnie looked again. “Hey, where are Indigo, Haden, and Tang? Why aren't they eating with us?”

“Oh, well, Indigo hasn't woken up yet, but don't you remember? Haden and Tang are over at a friend's birthday sleepover.”

“Oh, I must have missed it last night.” Ronnie winced guiltily.

“No, it's okay. Last night was hectic anyways.” Auri squeezed his metal hand this time instead. “It was probably for the best for them to be out of the house anyways.”

After breakfast, Auri helped the twins get Jaune out of his high chair and into a playpen nearby. The girls carefully placed Pally beside him and started playing gently.

Saphron watched them for a moment, then turned to her mother. "Mom, can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure, honey," Auri said, guiding her to a quieter corner of the kitchen. "What's on your mind?"

"I just... I don't understand why Daddy is so different with Jaune. It's like he's a different person."

Auri knelt down to Saphron's level, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's a big change for him, Saphron. Having a son brings up a lot of emotions and fears he didn't expect. But it doesn't mean he loves you any less. You and your siblings are all special to him in different ways."

Saphron nodded slowly. "I guess so. I just miss how things were."

"I know, sweetie," Auri said softly. "Change is hard, but it's also a part of life. And sometimes, it brings us closer together."

Saphron hugged her mom tightly. "Thanks, Mom."

Auri hugged her back. "You're welcome, honey. Now, go finish your breakfast. School starts soon."

As Saphron returned to the table, Auri glanced at Ronnie, who was watching them with a thoughtful expression. He gave her a small, grateful smile, and she returned it with one of her own.

The morning continued with the usual hustle and bustle, but there was a sense of calm amidst the chaos. Auri felt a renewed sense of hope that, despite the challenges, their family would be just fine.

“You're a piece of work, you know that?” The babysitter pointed at the baby with the silver wafts of hair on his head. “He’s only two months old and without a mother. You can’t just leave him like this.”

Her orange hair was done up in a bun. The snake scales near her eyes were parted back. His hair was oiled back and graying with stress.

“It's just a small bandit camp wipeout nearby. I'll be back before sundown.” Marcus justified. “I don't know why you're complaining. You'll get more pay anyways.”

The young woman rolled her eyes. “Whatever. When he winds up a nutcase like you, he'll be your problem.”

A wooden door slammed in anger. Wailing could be heard from inside the cabin.

What did she know anyways?

He needed this.

The camp was up in flames within an hour.

The town nearby would complain about the smell of burnt meat, but that was just it, wasn’t it? Always taking him and people like him for granted.

Brats.

“So do you like TV or movies or something, kiddo?” Roman asked dejectedly, as those blank pink and brown eyes continued to uncomfortably stare at him.

Clutter filled his apartment. Trash desperately needed to be taken out, and his dirty laundry pile was absurdly tall. Empty liquor bottles lined kitchen counters, a testament to Roman's many nights spent remembering times he'd rather not. In the corner, a broken violin sat atop a dusty lockbox. A pastime he long-since fell out of love with.

The girl had been silent ever since they met. Roman appreciated how he didn't have to deal with some brat crying, but the silence had gotten to be intolerable at this point.

“Can you even talk at all?”

Suddenly, the girl moved, her stubby arm pointing at a cat laying outside his window sill. Its orange fur reflected nicely with the setting sun.

He shook his head again. “Yes, kiddo, it's a nice kitty cat, but can you talk or not?”

She simply just pointed at the cat again before pretending to pet an imaginary cat in her arms.

“At least I know you can understand me. You could at least nod or shake your head.” His hand rested on his face. “Were you always like this?”

Life seemingly sprung back into the girl's eyes as she gestured to the cat with newfound aggression.

Finally, Roman put the two together.

“You're not going to answer me until I bring that cat inside for you to play with, are you?”

The girl nodded her head passionately, causing Roman to chuckle. “A little brat who knows how to get what she wants. A kiddo after my own heart truly.”

In truth, he could tell if her stubbornness made him want to praise the girl or throttle her. His patience ran thin, but she was just a kid anyways. No use in getting angry at her.

All kids were annoying by default anyways.

He got up from his worn-down couch and walked up to the window. Like an expert surgeon, he silently grabbed the tabby before it could notice the window opening.

“MEOWWWW!!” The cat hissed in frustration as it struggled in Roman's arms, trying to seemingly scratch at one of his eyeballs but failing thanks to the orange glow around him.

“That little fu–” Roman interrupted himself with a cough. “That little scoundrel just tried to blind me. Can we just grab another one?”

The girl stomped her feet in place and huffed.

“Fine. But you have to help take care of it too.” He relented before handing the feline over to the child. Once upon making eye contact with the little girl, the cat instantly calmed down. Not out of curiosity, no, but out of fear, as Roman felt its hair bristle and it freeze in place.

Maybe he could use this brat after all.

A smug smile curled on his face as he handed the cat over.

“Hey, kid, what do you think about papa Roman teaching you a few things about his trade?”

A vengeful grin grew on the child's face as she deviously petted the fear-stricken feline.

You know, upon further inspection, maybe his place needed some more tidying up. This was no place for a little girl.

Oh this was going to be a lucrative investment indeed. He'd show both of those bastards that he was just as great as them. His former teammates won't even know what hit them.

His name in lights: ‘Roman Torchwick, criminal extraordinaire, a man ahead of his time, truly.’

He can see the headlines already.

Maria Nikos considered herself to be a religious woman, fully devoted to the church of the Mistralian pantheon. Her gods could be cruel, yes, but they loved their followers, even if they sought to test them time and time again.

After her fourth miscarriage, she was not sure if she could handle being tested once more, even if her husband was optimistic.

Then a baby with a beautiful tuff of red hair was born, and her faith was rewarded.

Her friends from church saw it as a sign--as did her husband, Dion Nikos.

They were relatively well-off, a farm girl and a business man whose only claim to fame was Pumpkin Pete's cereal.

Chapter Text

“You know Jonas, with how your grandfather treated the faunus during the Great War, we thought you would be…”

“Like the second coming of Jacques Schnee?” Jonas Winchester finished for Ghira. His voice was light, but there was a hidden edge to it.

“I wasn’t going to say that.” Ghira Belladonna paused. The low rumble of the gala’s live jazz performance filled the silence between them. “It’s a welcome surprise, admittedly.”

“Let’s just say my father and I disagreed on a lot of things.” The broad-shouldered man laughed. As his tailored white suit caught the light, he raised a delicate crystal flute to his lips. “He basically tried to force me to be a huntsman before I ran away, but he’s still family–warts and all. You know how it is. Fathers, right?”

“I never met mine.”

Jonas cringed, guilt flashing along his face. He ran his hands through his tousled auburn hair, more to collect himself than smooth it. “Apologies, old sport. That was insensitive of me.”

“It’s alright.” Ghira waved the comment off with a practiced diplomacy. “Either way, we in the White Fang really appreciate this charity gala. Winchester Holdings deciding to set up a humanitarian relief effort for Menagerie’s overcrowding should help.”

The chieftain’s golden eyes narrowed slightly with curiosity, eyebrows raised. “I wonder, however, is this out of some misplaced guilt?”

“I’m not a believer in the sins of the father.” Jonas replied, his voice now firm. The relaxed smile he had previously waned into something sterner. “What my father did was his own responsibility.” He let the moment settle before continuing. “That said, I have the opportunity to do good, so I’ll take it.”

“And the tax benefits? The PR benefits?” The panther faunus teased.

“Well,” he winked–Jonas’s usual charm returning, “those might just have something to do with it too.”

“Hey, not all acts of charity are entirely selfless.” A soft voice interjected. A very pregnant woman slipped into the conversation. Her long dark hair draped over one shoulder. She rested her hands on Ghira’s shoulders with practiced grace as she circled around him. Her glowing amber eyes danced with mischief.

“Not that we can complain,” she added. “We have the most to benefit from the work programs.”

Ghira nodded with his wife, reaffirming her statement. “Most of Menagerie is overpopulated, so work opportunities are few and far between. That’s why the SDC has often hired overseas workers. It's cheap labor with no unions behind it, plus it's pretty easy to exploit the Atlas work visas.”

“I’m glad it’ll be helping then,” Jonas said earnestly, though his words cut off as he felt a soft vibration from his suit pocket. He fished out his scroll and glanced at the name on the display.

“Do you mind if I go take this?”

Ghira gave a slight wave of approval, already turning back towards the buffet and live jazz with his wife.

Slipping out onto his mansion’s marble balcony, Jonas inhaled the cool air before he picked up the device and brought it to his right ear, closing the door behind him to offer himself a moment’s peace.

Huh, the stars looked dim compared to the electric glow of his estate. Who would have thought?

“What?”

“Wow? Just ‘what?’ No ‘hey, honey? How are you?’ It’s almost like you want to sleep on the couch tonight.”

“I–” Jonas blinked and caught himself, the tension melting into a warmer tone. “Sorry, Ventress, honey, I just have my hands full with the gala. How’s Cardy?”

“Cardin’s great! You’re not going to believe this?”

“Oh?” He leaned against the cast stone balustrades.

“He said his first words!!”

A small fire lit in Jonas’s gut–excitement, then a pang of another feeling arose.

He squashed it.

“What was it?’”

“It was actually ‘Mama’!!! He’ll be a Momma’s boy, I just know it!!”

Made sense at least. He hadn’t even held the kid.

“I hear most women don’t like that in a guy.”

“Yeah, yeah, go back to your stuffy parties, mister busybody. Just don’t forget who really runs this household.”

“You’re right.” Jonas sighed as he stared into the night sky. “I need to get back to my guests, but do give Cardin a kiss for me, okay?”

“I’ll tell him his father says hi. Doubt he knows who that is though.”

Jonas ended the call and continued gazing into the open horizon. The laughter from the ballroom floated faintly through the doors, but he still didn’t move. He sighed as he tried to shake the guilt off.

“Lady troubles, mister?” came a voice to his left.

Startled, Jonas turned to find a brown-skinned teenager standing behind him just outside the shadows. Her dark lion ears twitched above her sleek black hair. She leaned against a column with the coolness of someone twice her age.

Jonas quickly put on the mask back on. “Haha! Not quite. Just the baby having trouble going back to bed. Nothing a kid like you has to worry about, Miss…?”

“Khan. Sienna Khan. I’m here with my adoptive parents–the Belladonnas.”

“Ah yes, the chieftains! Wonderful folks. I was just talking to them earlier.”

Sienna hummed and studied him with a sharper gaze. “Good folks, but I fear they’re a bit too optimistic. Some things just require a stronger hand, like with parenting.”

Jonas sensed he made a misstep. Tensing, he chose his next words with care. “I suppose so. But I don’t agree with stifling my child with rules and regulations or helicoptering him. He ought to be free to figure things out on his own. Have the childhood I never had. Make his own responsibilities.”

Sienna shrugged, the kind of dispassionate gesture that felt more like a dismissal of his own problems than an agreement. She pushed off the column and walked back towards the ballroom doors.

“Whatever you tell yourself, sir.”

Alone on the balcony, Jonas looked back at the stars.

They were still too dim.

The ballroom shined brighter on him anyways.

Days turned to months, months turned to years, and Ronnie now paced around his kitchen in contemplation. Sunlight laid a warm stripe across the wooden dining table, motes of dust catching the light.

A call from the vice principle buzzed in his ears as the man ranted at him. Words like “unprovoked aggression,” “parent conference,” and “liability” echoed in his mind as he walked to the school to pick up his son. The dirt crinkled under his boots.

But now, sitting across from the boy, whose feet didn’t quite meet the floor, Ronnie couldn’t help but think that Auri would be better suited for a meeting like this.

However, Ronnie knew that Jaune always looked up to him more.

“Tell me exactly what he said.” Ronnie asked, voice even. “And be honest.”

Jaune’s jaw opened. “He called Indigo a bitch. Said that she owed him a date because he was nice to her, and that she deserved a nerd of a little brother. Her friends laughed at her.” He glanced down to his red knuckles. “I told him to apologize.”

Ronnie sat in silence for a moment.

“And when he didn’t?”

“I made him.”

“Jaune…” A muscle in Ronnie’s cheek ticked. “While I’m proud of you for defending your sister’s honor, there’s a difference between making someone stop and making them pay.”

Jaune frowned. “He deserved it.”

Ronnie relented. “Maybe.” He leaned forward. “But that’s not the point. You want to be a huntsman, right? To be like me?”

The boy nodded eagerly but shyly.

Figures.

“Well, despite what’s on TV, a huntsman steps in to protect. He doesn’t escalate immediately to violence when someone insults his pride or another person. He doesn’t turn a playground into an arena. Do you know what we call huntsmen who do that? Who jumps to violence instantly?”

Ronnie knew the term well, he often called himself that in his own head, and it was probably true too.

Jaune looked down, relenting, but only a tiny bit.

“They’re called gnats, Jaune.”

The boy’s eyes turned glassy. “I just… I didn’t want Indigo to feel hurt.”

“You probably hurt her worse than that other boy, Jaune.” Ronnie softened. “Being a huntsman is about choosing the road less taken and making the hard choices.” He held the silence long enough to try to get the lesson to sink in, and then sighed. “We’ll talk to the school tomorrow, and you’ll apologize to the boy and to Indigo for making a scene about her.”

Jaune winced, but nodded.

“Are we…” Jaune hesitated, “still going to train today?”

Ronnie reassured him. “Out back in an hour. We’ll do footwork and breathing together. Control starts with your stance. Get some of that nervous energy out. If you have to be violent or have urges, we’ll vent them through training.”

A shaky smile crept onto Jaune’s face, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Exiting from an auto-pilot limo, Cardin Winchester got home from school again today to an empty household. Bruises from school adorned his face, but that was nothing new.

The car’s door sighed shut behind him and rolled away, leaving Cardin staring at a mansion that felt too big for any young boy to live in and felt even bigger when his Dad was gone. The foyer lights turned on automatically, greeting him like polite strangers.

He toed off his shoes as he entered, and listened for signs of life. Only the hum of an AC and the tick of a designer clock echoed.

His dad was on another Menagerie relief effort PR campaign, apparently working with Ghira Belladonna again. Like he had been last year at this time. And the year before that, as well as the year before that one too.

At this point, Cardin was sick of hearing about it.

It was always: “Building bridges takes time.” “I have an important meeting.” “We’re changing things for the better.” As though there weren’t Valeans who suffered too that wouldn’t appreciate his generosity being shown overseas and not at home.

The pictures his father sent him were always smiling–handshakes between diplomats, ribbon cuttings, shots of sunset over crowded docks with captions about hope.

Personally, Cardin never felt more angry than when his Dad sent him a picture of him at the Belladonna holiday party, but other times, Cardin would double-tap them anyways. Then, sometimes, Jonas Winchester would heart his text hours later with a thumbs-up emoji.

But it was fine. He had his grandfather’s journals to keep him company, and those were full of adventures with comrades who lived in his mind. The friends on the pages were almost always nicer than the ones at his school.

He ate at a kitchen island, legs swinging, as he brought a spoonful of soggy cereal for dinner. He didn’t know how to cook anything beyond the microwave dinners his nanny bought, and he ran out of those last Wednesday.

The leather-bound volumes smelled of iron and dust. Names marched across lines–men who joked cruelly and laughed loudly, who gave each other endearing nicknames that still stung.

The journals called them brave, even when they made mistakes. Winners even when they lost. And Cardin wanted that too.

At age ten, Cardin Winchester wished himself a happy birthday while browsing image boards online. They used mean words he didn't understand, but he saw those words often in his grandpa's journal, so they couldn't be that bad. And those online were always nice to him. And when they weren't, at least they were there for him.

The screen lit his face blue in the dim mansion. Anonymous threads moved fast–faster than they did in real conversation. When he typed, people answered right away.

They told jokes that matched those from the margins of the old field logs. They said loyalty meant saying things outsiders didn’t like, and he learned to copy the cadence of the loudest voices if it meant he could fit in better. It felt like wearing hand-me-down armor that finally fit.

But sometimes, when the CCT was out, and he was alone, he would look at the portrait of the woman at his bedside and try to ignore the tears welling up. The photo caught her mid-laugh, her hair swept over one shoulder, and eyes swelling with something that made Cardin’s heart hurt.

And with nobody around, Cardin would tell her about his day–the pop quizzes, the way his trainer said he had “good size,” the thread online that made him snort milk with a joke he didn’t fully get.

Tomorrow, he would be bigger, and he would make that known to the other kids at school. Tomorrow, he would get the jokes without having to think about them first.

And maybe next year, someone would be home to blow out the birthday candles that never got lit.

One year passed, and Ronnie found himself in a familiar scenario. Another phone call with the vice principal, and another set of the same buzzwords as last time. Suspension. Two days.

Exhausted, Ronnie felt the need to drive the truck down to school this time.

The nurse had pressed a cold pack into Jaune’s bloody hands. Bruises mottled the other, unconscious boys’ faces. Jaune’s knuckles were cleaner this time, his form better, but his restraint invisible. The office smelled like disinfectant and old carpet.

When Ronnie got there, Jaune was already staring at his tennis shoes.

In the truck, silence sat between them for two blocks before Ronnie asked his question. Not about the facts of the incident this time–he already knew those. The story–as he had heard from other witnesses–was that the unconscious boy–Cash–had been beating up another child Tommy before Jaune got involved, and had his son shown better self-control, he would be secretly celebrating with the boy for standing up for what was right.

It was pretty hard to do that when a playground bully was left concussed. Jaune was lucky Cash’s parents were understanding after they heard Tommy’s recount.

“Did it feel good?”

“...” Jaune just kept looking down. “Did what feel good, Dad?”

“Did beating that child up as badly as you did feel good? To know that you were in the right?”

“I couldn’t let them beat up Tommy, Dad.” Jaune looked into his eyes with conviction, but not unashamed. “It hurts to see someone else get hurt.”

“And did it hurt when you hurt Cash? You hurt him really badly, Jaune. It’s clear he didn’t put up enough of a fight.” Ronnie chastised. “Answer my question, son.”

Jaune’s mouth opened, closed. He looked out the window of the truck at a woman passing by with her dog. At the crows that flew by and landed on the CCT tower in the distance. “I don’t see why that matters,” he said finally.

In a flash, Ronnie heard the echo: a younger him, victory buzzing in his teeth after a mission with Marcus. A bandit camp known for tormenting Argus, but one that had children inside that he didn’t know about. And he burned it down all the same.

He could still smell it, and the worst part was that he had been enjoying himself until he calmed down afterwards.

“It matters,” he said, “because joy is a poison and a teacher, Jaune. If you let it teach you that hurting people is satisfying even for the right reasons, you’ll start hunting for reasons to be right.”

Jaune’s hands tightened around the cold pack. “I wasn’t looking for a fight.”

“I know.” Ronnie gentled. “That’s why I’m asking again.”

The boy’s shoulders dropped a fraction. “Yes.” He admitted honestly. “A little… it felt good.”

There it was.

That curse.

The same one he had seen in himself, Marcus, and his other teammates.

The same one that killed Avion because he didn’t feel the need to go above and beyond.

The same one that led to Gretchen’s death.

The same one that led to Roman leaving.

The same one that led to Marcus cutting off contact.

The same one that stopped him from being there for his family.

That night, Ronnie sat alone at the kitchen table, the application packet for Signal Academy open beside a mug that had gone cold hours ago. He traced the seal with a thumb, remembering his own instructor’s voice. How many times had someone tried to weave caution into him, only to be drowned out by his own voice?

Auri stood by him. “He’s going to be devastated, you know.”

Ronnie paused again, but none-the-less continued.

“I want him to turn out better than I did.”

“And stopping him from pursuing his dream will do that?” Auri smoldered, not unkind.

“If I have to.”

He made two calls. The first to Signal, withdrawing the application with polite regret. Jaune would hold it against him, no doubt. The other to an employer in Mantle.

In the years that followed, Ronnie went and came on a schedule to financially support his family. One weekend every month, gifts tucked under his arm, stories smoothed of their teeth.

He brought his vinyl records–old rock, metal, and jazz that hummed with life and excitement–and tried to share them with his son. They listened together sometimes. Jaune would bob his head, saying “this one’s okay,” and then go back to reading his comic books and playing outside. Ronnie would pretend not to mind, and Auri would still find it in her to put up with him. Really, she was too good for him.

He tried hobbies–woodworking, archery–that weren't training. They didn’t stick with Jaune. They went horseback riding. That didn’t work either. They would talk about girls, and Ronnie would bullshit with some advice about how “all you need is confidence, Jaune.”

But it was clear that the thing that had always connected them was now the very thing that Ronnie had locked away, and every alternative felt like they were just avoiding the topic. He had gone as far as banning Auri and his sisters to discuss even simple things like aura with him.

They would orbit each other, but almost never collide. And when they did argue over it, Jaune would just be sent to his room.

But secretly, Jaune would go into the forest nearby and practice his footwork and breathing, and he would dream he was just like Ronnie.

The field smelled like freshly cut grass and sun-warmed steel. The stick in her hands still trembled from the last check–which hit too high and too hard. And for a split second, it felt good.

Pyrrha Nikos stood over the crying girl with her fist balled. And as her competitive spirit flared and then died, shame burned in her gut for how she enjoyed it.

Whistles blared late–the sound arriving only after the damage, and in that lag, she saw herself from the outside: the fastest on the pitch, the strongest in the scrum, and the girl who forgot the rules when a goal line got too close for her comfort.

Instinctively, Pyrrha attempted to apologize, “I’m sorry!”

Her voice was thin and distressed. The other girl’s visor was fogged with tears and sweat as she curled over in pain, mouth opening around a sob that made Pyrrha’s ribs ache in echo.

Pyrrha lowered her stick first and offered her free hand. But it hovered stupidly.

The girl kept crying and crying until her parents came over. Pyrrha didn’t know their names, but they were clearly veteran hunters. The father’s posture said he was ready for patrol–even in a polo; the mother’s eyes scanned Pyrrha the same way you scan a treeline.

However, she broke away her gaze and knelt to soothe her daughter with practice. The father’s stare found the place on Pyrrha’s forearm where a bruise was blooming from an earlier crash. From when Pyrrha speared his little girl with a lacrosse stick because she got too close to scoring.

He didn’t look angry, far from it. He looked like a man evaluating the recoil of a rifle. He ran a hand through his thick, burgundy hair. At seven feet tall, he towered over the little girls.

When Maria and Dion Nikos came over to apologize on Pyrrha’s behalf, the male veteran huntsman stopped them–Pyrrha’s offense against his own child quickly forgotten.

“Hold up,” he said, palm raised in a way that made even the referee ignore the four interrupting the game. “No need to grovel over hard play. If we stopped every time someone got hurt, we wouldn’t have hunters.”

His eyes slid back to Pyrrha, weighing the ease of her stance, the way she’d already re-centered her footing without thinking. “These things happen in a game like this. It’s to be expected.”

Pyrrha wasn’t keen on that, it felt like a lie. Like she had somehow avoided punishment, and it wouldn’t be the first time Pyrrha had gotten physical with another child for getting too close to winning during a game. There was a reason why she couldn’t play peewee soccer anymore.

“I’ve seen that look in her eyes before. Have you considered sending her to a prep-school? I’d be willing to train her up if you’d like at my gym.” He said it like an observation, scouting for new talent. Not as a sales pitch, but the words struck like a gong. “It’s done great for kids with issues like hers.”

Combat prep-school. Under his wing. The phrases tasted like metal and victory to Pyrrha–strange, bright, and a little frightening in a way she was too young to describe. But also eager. “I… ummm…”

Interrupting, Dion looked at his daughter questioningly. “She’s never mentioned it, but I wouldn’t know where to start with that–or if we could afford it. Our Pyrrha has always loved sports though, even though she can get really aggressive.”

Dion pushed his cap back, worried lines meeting pride lines on his forehead. He was better at negotiating with farmers and business men than combat veterans.

Maria nudged her daughter’s shoulder. “Well sweetie, would you like that?”

Maria’s hand was warm through the leaf-green jersey. Her voice held no pressure.

Pyrrha felt pressure anyways, and, not knowing much beyond her parents’ expectations and her own desire to win, nodded her head. The nod came before the words, before she understood what she agreed to beyond “more.”

More training. More drills. More dawns. More victories. More dreams.

She swallowed and then added, “Yes… I want to learn to fight.” Pyrrha cringed. “I mean, if that’s no trouble with you, sir!”

The veteran’s mouth tipped–approving, but not indulgent. “Good answer.” He slipped a card to Maria, another to Dion. “Gym’s in Argus. We’ll start with an assessment. Footwork, breathing techniques, balance. No weapons until she’s twelve and in Sanctum. She’ll have to make and earn those. Two mornings a week to begin. If she’s still hungry after a month, we’ll talk about the curriculum. There are local tournaments that could help with the scholarship money.”

He crouched to Pyrrha’s height, careful to make the world around them look smaller. “What’s your name, kid? Mine’s Chiron.”

“Pyrrha Nikos,” she said, trying hard not to stand taller than she really felt.

“Pyrrha,” he repeated, testing the weight in his mouth. “Here’s your first assignment. Today, your mission isn’t to prove you can knock a girl your age down so hard she starts crying–” Pyrrha winced, “–it’s to see if you can do the courageous thing afterwards and check in with her before you leave. Talk to my daughter, Melanippe.”

He gestured back to the bench where coaches were shuffling lines. “Don’t explain what you did wrong or justify it. Just listen.” He tapped the end of the stick. “And try not to deck my little girl again.”

Pyrrha nodded again, something loosening in her chest. She jogged back over to the other little girl on the opposing sideline.

Maria watched her go and exhaled. “I was worried they might press charges for hurting their kid, but this could be good for Pyrrha. She’s got… a lot of competitive aggression.”

“Nothing wrong with some spirit. However, Argus is a haul,” Dion agreed. “Might need to take more hours at the office for that.”

“Worth it if she thinks it’s her destiny. The Mistral pantheon smiled upon her this day.” Maria replied. “It’s a sign.”

Later, on the drive home, her lacrosse stick lay across her knees, eager.

At dinner, they discussed Pyrrha’s future prospects and a chart on the back of a grocery list: school, practice, mornings that would start before the crack of dawn.

Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow would be the first day she would follow destiny.

And tomorrow, maybe, she would meet someone who would listen to her.

Five years passed in a blink of an eye.

The cellar door stuck halfway down. The wood had swollen from the years of humidity, weakening it until Jaune could finally pry it open with his hands and could step into a museum his father had left buried. Shelves of field journals, souvenirs, and memorabilia from those no longer with them covered the room.

Weapon parts were wrapped in an oiled cloth–a scent like iron fillings and cedar. Crocea Mors lay in a corner, forgotten in favor of its larger cousin Stargazer. A dusty revolver lay beside it.

He’d come down here out of desperation.

In a fleeting hope that something–anything might have details to let him become a huntsman like his dad. It didn’t matter what, even though his Dad had banned him from every stepping foot in here.

He traced his fingers over the lines of the journals, reading the dates and mission names: “Moonlight Plateau,” “Nadir Line,” “White Rabbit Peak,” and finally, “Mantle–Phase 3.”

He would use whatever he found regardless. If his father had barred this room, then something in it mattered. Something he could use. Or so he hoped.

On the workbench lay a cigar box the color of old tea. Inside, there were ticket stubs with a faded picture frame of Ronnie with three people Jaune didn’t recognize: a Mistralian woman with chestnut skin that towered over the rest; a man with silver hair whose cheekbones resembled his mother; a fox-grinning man with bright orange hair that smugly posed with his arms wide like he owned the horizon.

Etched into the wooden frame: Team RRGM (RIVERGUM).

How could he have never heard of these people before? Was his Dad close with them?

Surely not, if he had never met them.

When he set the photo frame down, a single business card slipped free from behind the image.

It was stark and out of place. A creamy stock heavy in the hand. The initials “R.T.” plastered the top and was quickly followed by a scroll number.

He knew he shouldn’t. It’d be wrong.

But if it belonged to any of the people in the photo, they could know his Dad’s fighting style and teach him, right?

Determination won out over any rational thought.

Staring at the cellar ceiling, Jaune pulled out his scroll. His heartbeat slowed.

Three rings.

And a click, a faint bell-chime in the background like a door opening somewhere far away, followed by a soft whirr of a ceiling fan.

“Uh,” Jaune said brilliantly, “who is this?”

“Hello! You’ve reached Reference Track tailoring,” purred a showman’s voice. Jaune could almost smell smoke on the man’s breath through the speakers of his scroll. “We deal with suits, cigars, and canes. What needs fitting?”

Jaune swallowed. His thumb tightened around the scroll’s edge, and its screen glowed the oil-dark wood and webbed corners of the room. “Uhhh… I want to become a huntsman.”

The voice on the line paused, confused. “What? I’m sorry sir, but we cannot help you with that. Why would you call a tailor for that anyways? How did you get my card?” Jaune could hear the man on the other line curse under his breath as he made a muffled aside. “Neo, could you be a dear and check our registry?”

“I found this card with my Dad’s belongings in his cellar.”

“And you thought it was a good idea to call whoever was on the other line? That’s how you get scroll-viruses, kid.” The voice sharpened with amused scolding. “What’s your name anyways?”

“Jaune Arc. My Dad is Ronald James Arc–but all his friends call him Ronnie.”

A beat.

“Repeat that again, sorry?” The man said, softer this time.

“I said my name is Jaune Arc, and my Dad is Ronnie James Arc.”

Jaune could hear the rapid shuffling of paper and a choked laugh from the other side. A breath that sounded like a smirk.

“Arc,” the voice repeated, testing the balance of the word. “That wouldn’t be spelled A-R-K, now would it?”

“No, sir. It’s spelled A-R-C.”

“Mhm.” Recognition threaded the hum. “And how is your father anyways? Does he know about this call?”

The question landed with a surgical neatness despite the familiarity the other speaker had. Jaune flinched even though no one could see. His eyes lifted to the rafters.

“He’s okay, I guess, and no–he doesn’t. He doesn’t want me anywhere near any of his huntsman gear.”

Silence, not empty. Amusement spoke from the other end. “You guess, or do you know?”

“I know. He’s been going up from here to Mantle every month for the past six years after he pulled my Signal application.”

“Hmmm…” The speaker set the receiver down for a second, and Jaune heard the crushing of a cigar against a metal ashtray before it was picked up again. “Well, I’ll be. It’s always nice to meet other family members, I guess.”

“Family members?” Jaune echoed. “I’ve never heard of you in my life.”

“...”

He could hear the man on the other side simmer. “You said ole’ Ronnie didn’t want you to become a hunter, right?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“He says, ‘sir’! Well, I’ll be, if Ronnie did anything right in raising you, it was your manners.” The voice veered away from the scroll. “Now, if only we could teach you some of those, Neo.”

“Ack!”

Jaune heard the sound of an umbrella hitting flesh and chose to ignore it.

“My Mom actually taught me those, actually.” Jaune said, realizing he’d repeated actually and wincing at himself. “She always told me to be polite to strangers and that they were only friends you haven’t made yet.”

“Ha!” The laugh came bright and petty. “Figures, Ronnie would never have bothered to teach something like that to his kid. You got any siblings?”

“I have seven sisters.”

“Holy Brothers above, what was that man thinking?” Paper slapped a countertop, mockingly flabbergasted. “And all this time, he never even called me to babysit!”

That was… fair, Jaune supposed. He didn’t know the man, but surely he was alright if his Dad knew him.

“But let’s circle back,” the voice snapped, “you said your father didn’t want you to become a huntsman, so you raided his stuff and prayed it would somehow help you? How old are you?”

“I’m seventeen, sir.”

Not for the first time, the voice hummed lowly, contemplating. “It’s a little late now don’t you think. Did Ronnie at least send you to Signal?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you at least have any training?”

“I know the footwork and the breathing as well as some weight-lifting and hand-to-hand, but I haven’t sparred with anyone or used a weapon. The only hunter in my hometown is my Dad, and I was hoping to learn my Dad’s style.”

A cigar flared in Jaune’s imagination. “Well, I’m sorry kid, but then there’s nothing I can do! Tough luck.” The voice, which hadn’t even introduced himself, joked at Jaune’s expense. “And what would even be in it for me if I did help you?”

Jaune paused.

“You don’t have anything, do you, kid?”

Jaune panicked.

“No! That’s not true! I can uhhh…” Jaune scanned the bench, the box, and the photo desperately, recalling how spite flickered when he mentioned his father. “You’re mad at my Dad, right? This would really upset him if you trained me and got me into one of the hunter academies!”

Surprisingly, the voice actually considered it for a second. Fingers tapped against a wooden desk–once, twice. “And? While I’m all for petty revenge schemes, why should I invest time into an untrained kid?”

“I can pay you!”

The chair scraped closer to the desk. “NOW, we’re actually talking. How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much money, you buffoon! How much money do you have that would convince me?”

“Well, uh…” The boy patted his pockets. “I got 200 lien and some pocket lint.”

“...”

“You’re fucking with me, right?” Again, the voice leaned away from the scroll. “He’s fucking with me, right, Neo?”

“I can owe you a favor! Help you with something! Anything!”

The voice again sighed, not unkindly. “That’s better, but what help would I–owner of a reputable, totally legitimate, tailor shop–even need with a child laborer? Sweatshop work is grueling, I’d have you know.”

Jaune heard the sound of an umbrella hitting flesh again.

“Sorry, I meant ANOTHER child laborer.”

Desperately, Jaune’s mind searched for an answer and impulsively yelled what came to mind. “But you’re not a real tailoring shop, now are you, sir?”

The voice double backed. “Sorry, repeat that again?”

“You’re not a real tailoring shop, are you?” Jaune pressed, shocked to find his voice steadier than his hands. “Othewise, you wouldn’t even be considering my offer, now would you?”

“So the boy has a brain afterall!” A delighted little clap of tongue against teeth. “But, trust me, kid, you’d be better off than getting indebted to a criminal.”

“So you admit it? Who are you anyways?”

“You are talking to the one–the only–magnificient gentleman’s thief, Roman Torchwick! Quake in your boots, brat. Ronnie should have taught you better than to talk to famous criminals!”

“...”

“...” Jaune blinked. “I’ve never heard of you in my life, sir.”

“Really?” Roman asked with a wounded gasp. “The robbery of Winchester Holdings Vale division? The raiding of the relief efforts sent to Menagerie? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the headlines about how dust prices are skyrocketing because of yours truly!”

“...”

“... I don’t read the news.”

“Uncultured brat.” Jaune could practically hear Roman pinch the bridge of his nose. “Still though, no sparring partners, no aura conditioning, no weapon forms pushed past the point where you think you’ll break, it’s a little too late for you to get into a hunter academy anyways!”

“What’s aura?”

“...”

Jaune assumed he made a misstep, like how he often does.

“... Oh my Brothers, you really are hopeless. How would you even survive in one of those schools anyway? What, were you really just hoping for the best if you somehow got in?”

“I was actually planning on winging it,” he sheepishly admitted. “I know the footwork and the breathing techniques, and my conditioning is good. It couldn’t be that hard to figure out, right?”

Roman relented. “Listen, kid, I don’t tell you this because I want to crush your dreams, although that is definitely part of it.”

Jaune’s fist found itself clenched with his knuckles pale in the scroll-light.

“But, you gotta know, that this life isn’t easy. Are you sure you really want to be a part of a story like this?”

The words echoed in his mind.

Determination–and something deeper that Jaune couldn’t place–showed through. “I hate it when people ask me that. I don’t care what I need to do, as long as I can just prove them wrong! I can do it! I can become a hunter! I can become a hero!”

A hero who would lie and cheat, at least at the start. The thought flickered across his mind like a guilty moth.

Jaune shook himself out of it.

“I don’t care what I need to do for you to help me with this! You know my father’s style, right? You’re a criminal, so there’s little doubt you can do forgeries. I’ll do anything!”

Roman’s reply came quicker than Jaune was expecting, as if the shape of the kid’s hunger was familiar. “Even kill another person because I tell you to? Betray the people you meet at these academies like that? Don’t be ridiculous, kid.”

His mouth moved before his mind did. “I’ll do anything for the sake of my dream!”

He didn’t mean it, really. He had lines he wouldn’t cross, but what would a little bit of a lie count for really? Besides, lying to criminals was almost like a moral duty or something.

“Ugh. Fine, you’ve convinced me.” Roman made a pleased, predatory sound. “Craziest call of my life, and that’s saying something. Just know that if I go down, you’ll be the first name I mention.”

“That’s fine by me.” No, it wasn’t. It terrified him, but the idea of living with his sisters for the rest of his life, unfulfilled, terrified him more.

“In that case, first, I want cash.”

“How much?”

“How much what?”

Jaune groaned despite himself. “Oh, HA! HA! Very funny, sir. You know what I mean.”

Roman listed a number.

Jaune shivered. It would bite into the education fund his Dad had set up, but Jaune always knew that’d be more than enough for a hunter academy.

“I can make it happen.”

“Good, and now, second, I want a single favor. I can get you into Beacon, but I want you as my man inside and to do a single thing. You won’t need to hurt anyone, so don’t worry. All you’ll be doing is a teensy tiny favor.”

Jaune regretted it immediately, but surely, it couldn’t be that bad?

“Fine.”

“Finally, I want you in Vale in a single week. Initiation into Beacon isn’t until three months away, and you’ll need all the training you can get within that time.” Roman paused for a second, a cane smacked against his desk. “Actually, do you have any weapons?”

Jaune’s eyes drifted to the revolver sleeping under a veil of dust and to Crocea Mors reclining like an old soldier in the corner. “I have Crocea Mors, and a revolver.”

“That’ll have to do.” Roman made compromise sound stylish. “Meet me at the Valean docks near the trading port at 5 p.m. one week from today. If you’re late, I’m calling it off.”

“I’ll be there.”

“And for the record,” Roman murmured, his voice lowering and more vulnerable, “you asked for this. I never forced this upon you.”

The call ended on a soft thud, the sound of a receiver being put away.

Jaune found himself in a silent cellar. Where the journals waited, spines unbroken, and the air still smelled of oil, old cedar, and a faint ghost of his father’s cologne that he just now noticed.

And for the first time, despite the…character of the man he had talked to, a warm feeling uncoiled in his chest, as Jaune slid the business card back into place along with the cigar box.

Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow would be the first step he takes to making his dream–his story–a reality.

And tomorrow, maybe, he’d be able to become the sort of man his Dad was.

Chapter Text

“Three-hundred lien or no deal.”

“How about one-hundred?”

“Three.”

“One-fifty?”

“Three.”

“Two?”

“Four.”

Jaune recoiled, “wha—”

“Five, if you keep pushing.” The bear faunus leaned back, teeth like river stones.

A week was not nearly enough to get to Vale. Not when the bullheads from Ansel to Vale only ran on Monday–and today was Tuesday.

Fortunately, a construction company in Vale contracted a local logging business–Ansel Logging–for supplies, often delivered by semi-truck. In the past, people would make the trip either by foot or horseback. Dad had once made the journey before, and according to his stories, it would take around a month.

After the Vale revitalization project, the gravel roads from every named town in the kingdom to its capital caused an unprecedented economic boom. One that hadn't been seen since before the Great War. As people no longer had to rely on Atlas for bullheads, delivery companies could begin exporting goods from local farmers and other businesses.

According to Teddie Buckman, the trucker in charge of these deliveries, the trip took about three days if the weather stayed clear. Which would let Jaune look around before he met up with Roman. At least that way, he could potentially find a place to stay for the next few months before Beacon.

There's no way Roman lends me a place to stay after all. The guy's a crook. A sadistic one too, judging by how spoke to me over the scroll.

“Kid.” Teddie–at a staggering seven feet and with biceps that could crush Jaune's head–leaned down to rub it in. “You should be grateful I'm even considering doing this to begin with. The only reason I haven't ratted you out to you folks yet is because of the potential cash.”

Jaune sighed again. Beggars couldn't be choosers. Options were limited. It’d dig into his savings, but what was he going to use those on anyways?

More comic books and vinyls?

“Fine.” Jaune thumbs his wallet open and reaches in. “But I'm only paying three-hundred lien. Four is ridiculous, and you already promised three earlier.”

Teddie shrugged and plucked a single card from the three Jaune offered. “Eh, I was mostly messing with you anyways, brat.”

“What? I thought you—”

“Kid, you gotta know when someone's bullshitting you. Ain't you got sisters? You should know by now when someone’s playing around.”

Jaune frowned. He should have been able to tell when he was being worked over. It happened often enough.

What an odd guy.

“What time do we leave?”

“Deliveries go out at around 11 pm. Grimm tend to be less active at night.”

“Where are you going with your father's old weapons?”

Jaune, halfway through the backdoor, paused like a deer in headlights, clutching Crocea Mors and the neon revolver he found in his dad's cellar like a lifeline. Caught, he hoped he could put all his effort and intelligence into answering his mother–who had a less than pleased expression on her face.

“I'm going to Beacon.”

Damn it.

His mother's brows shot up like a missile. Confusion with anger mixed in overtook her mind, judging by the creases on her forehead. “What?”

His mom hadn't been expecting that, and Jaune briefly wondered if she would have reacted better if he had said he was going to visit a girl.

Probably, but his sisters wouldn't ever let him live that down.

“I got into Beacon.” He said with pretend conviction. “I'm going to become a hunter.”

“They let you in without a prep school? Did you take the exam for that?”

“Yup.” Jaune lied to his mother's face. “Passed with flying colors. Got told I was the most promising by the recruiter.”

“... Uh huh.”

Something, just something told Jaune that his mom didn't believe him.

Auri Arc uncrossed her arms and sighed. “Well, who am I to stop you?”

Jaune performed a double-take. Out of all the responses he had imagined in his head late at night, he hadn't been expecting defeat. He had been anticipating an abhorrent argument; an argument that he had accepted would simply just be part of the price he needed to pay for his dream.

“...Really?”

“Yes, really,” Auri’s shoulders rose in what seemed to be compliance. “Who am I to stop you after all the attempts we made to convince you otherwise? If you want to throw your life away, then be our guest.”

“I'm not throwing my life away.” Jaune stammered. “I'm just trying to be…”

Someone better than myself.

“You're throwing your life away because everything in your life has enabled you to do so.” Auri scoffed. “Your father’s stories, your comics, even the TV you watch has you somehow thinking that this life is great.”

“It's not like that, Mom.”

“Is it?”

Another guilt trip. Another anecdote about how Dad lost someone or how huntsmen and huntresses die in droves. Another about how they aren't really heroes, but just bloodthirsty veterans with a morally justified crusade. More excuses.

If they were all so terrible, then why did Auri marry one? Why would TV and comics always portray them as noble–even the worst bandits in the comics–those who in fiction started out as bright-eyed defenders of humanity–were depicted as tragic figures who had simply lost their way? Why would even a scumbag like Roman, a criminal-turned-supposed-celebrity be willing to give a person like Jaune a chance?

Probably because he thinks he can use you. A treacherous voice answered for him. A small voice that he tried to not listen to often.

“I promise you, Mom. It's not.”

It wasn't.

If anything, it was worse than that.

The defeat on Auri's face deepened.

“Fine, but I want you to promise me one thing, Jaune.”

“What is it, Mom?”

Auri looked into eyes that mirrored her own dark blue.

“If you ever find yourself questioning what you're doing, promise you'll stay true to yourself.”

Whatever that meant.

“I promise. Arc's word.”

Jaune took another step into the rising night sky.

“And Jaune? It's okay if you end up having to come back home.”

That hurt worse than if she just yelled or screamed at him.

Jaune took another step into the shattered moonlight that illuminated the woods behind them. The same woods where he once trained with his father on combat footwork; on weightlifting forms; on horse-riding.

Where Ronnie would bring out his old record player and relax with his son, listening to whatever vinyl records he had bought in Mantle while working together.

He paused for a beat.

The same woods where Jaune would secretly work on his footwork and lift up old rusted weights to the sky.

In the corner of the garage, his father's collection slept in a blue plastic bin under a coat of dust.

The weight in his bag got a tiny bit heavier, and the temptation to take a reminder of those times almost overtook him. Leave it to Dad to make him reconsider his entire plan without even being here. He had all his favorites downloaded on his scroll anyways.

Jaune passed by a bookstore he spent days reading comics from, given to him by the owner, who was simply called “boss” by locals. The boss's son, Tommy Javert, was a middle-school friend of Jaune's, and after he defended the boy from the local bully Cash Townsend, they had found a shared love of superheroes. Boss, in turn, would let Jaune choose a single comic weekly for him to take home.

Jaune's favorite was one about an invulnerable man—who felt no pain but saved others anyways. The man didn't always save everyone perfectly, but that didn't matter. What mattered was the effort, right? Of course, the fights were cool too. Apparently, they were based on an old fairy tale.

One time, Dad tried to introduce Jaune to his grandfather's own novels, his own fairy tales, ones pinned under bombings and blood between nations during the Great War. Ronnie told his son that he named Jaune after a heroic character with the title of the Rusted Knight, and Jaune couldn't make heads or tails of that. Jaune couldn't understand prose unless they were accompanied by artful strokes of a pen and colorful characters.

He turned his head away from the memory.

His feet carried him past a movie theater that he had once asked a girl to accompany him to. He was thirteen and dumb in the way all kids were, and he had worn a suit while she wore a simple t-shirt and jeans. It hadn't gone well, but the movie they watched was decent at least. Some sci-fi about a world of iron saints who strangled Grimm and found sentience through battle.

Much of it went over Jaune's head then, but looking back, he realized it was the bright spot in an otherwise embarrassing memory that his sisters still teased him for.

He thumbed the sheath of Crocea Mors.

A department store where he spent hours carrying bags for Haden, Tang, and Indigo. They told him it was good endurance training. Dad told him that was a lie.

A basketball court Jaune would hang around in middle-school. One he used to play on as a child on his elementary team, and one he would get dragged to by his mother to watch his sister's games when it doubled as a volleyball court.

A fast-food restaurant that–when he was little and did well on an exam or scored during peewee basketball–Ronnie would treat with a classic double bacon cheeseburger with all the toppings he could dream of, sided with hot fries and a vanilla shake. Dad would joke about how his son was “living the true Valean dream” and then try to steal some of his fries when he thought Jaune wasn't looking.

Under the moonlight, the empty storefronts told Jaune just exactly how small this town was.

As he passed by valleys of fond and cringe-worthy memories alike, he wondered what this emptiness was and realized–outside of trips to visit Saphron in Argus–this would be the first time he ever left his hometown.

I think I only now noticed how much I'm going to miss this place.

He pinched a bundle of skin from his cheek and then rubbed the spot to push away the numb sensation he inflicted upon himself. Now wasn't the time for this, he couldn't afford to question himself now.

And besides, this wasn't a goodbye either. He’d be back.

And when he did get, Jaune hoped he'd be someone he could be proud of. That he'd be more than just a little brother or a dork.

Trucker hat pulled over his eyes and red-orange plaid adorning his button-down, Teddie reclined back in his logging truck outside the gated walls of Ansel, chewing tobacco impatiently as his hand patted the seat next to him.

“You done sightseeing, boy?” His words weren't unkind but were certainly impatient. They came out in a drawn-out drawl that belonged to a region farther south from central Vale, where dairy farming and dust mining went hand-in-hand. “Haven't you lived here all your life?”

The semi-truck was over twice Jaune's height, and he had to climb up to the passenger seat. A beast of wheels and steel, it hummed loudly amongst the nighttime sounds of crickets and frogs around the town, and Jaune couldn't recognize some of the decals plastered on the crimson metal. Those he did, belonged to different brands of beer that Haden and Tang sneaked into the house, and those he didn't, he assumed were from different sports teams from areas of Vale he never ventured.

The inside wasn't much different. Grease and fast-food trash from across the continent piled up in gaps between the seats. He looked behind them and was surprised by the shockingly clean twin-sized mattress. He had never given trucking much thought before.

“Yes, sir. It's just…”

“Missing your people already?”

“Well, that's part of it.” Jaune admitted. “But more like I'm worried about whether I'll be able to make new friends up in Vale.”

Whether or not he’d actually be able to do this went noticeably unsaid.

“Well, of course ya will,” Teddie took a moment to roll down the truck's window and spat out his dip on the gravel road. “Vale has all kinds of good folks. Bad folks too, but only in the wrong places. You just gotta be sure you end up with the right company.”

The bigger man twisted the ignition, and with blinding headlights, the semi-truck roared to life, like a monster from the movies Indigo would force him to watch. The ones where some colossal beast would come to some fictional city and wreak havoc on Grimm and man alike.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

The gravel road continued for what felt like miles, getting further and further away from civilization, and his eyes couldn't find sleep.

The rest of the roadtrip followed suit. Companionable silence with the occasional stray bit of advice on Vale. Where rent was cheap, what sectors to avoid, where he could find the best places for chow, and where to make the most out of the small amount of cash Jaune had reserved for himself when he packed.

When service to the CCT died, Teddie would grab a CD out from the divider between them. The songs on it sounded familiar in a way Jaune couldn't quite place but appreciated anyways.

”Ohhhhhh, Johnny was a dark child…”

The music sings to him.

The forests of Sanus swayed gently in the breeze. Rhythmically. They cut through the noise in Jaune’s head and enforced silence.

When they reached Vale, Teddie kicked Jaune out of his truck but did so with a grin.

“You got everything?” Teddie looked Jaune up and down. “Testicles, spectacles, wallet and watch?”

“Wha—”

“It's just an expression, kid. Gotta a game plan?”

“Yeah, I'll check out that motel you mentioned.”

“What about part-time work? You got three months before Beacon, right?”

“I’ll try to see if that bookstore you mentioned is hiring.” Jaune scratched the back of his skull. “Tukson’s, right? Home to every book under the sun?”

“That’s right.” Teddie popped open a smaller circular container and stuck another plug of tobacco in his cheek. “He’s an old buddy of mine. Used to go way back. Tell him I put in a good for ya, and he oughta listen. And Jauney?”

The boy’s body twisted to meet Teddie’s. “Yes sir?”

“You’re a good kid.” The older man softened. “Don’t let the huntsman's life chew ya up.”

Jaune grinned back at the man. Though he didn’t know Teddie for long, he could appreciate the man’s warning.

He sucked in a breath and turned from the bear faunus, newfound silence heavy. The realization of how far he was from home echoed. Everything Ansel had, Vale had in droves and more.

He wandered the streets of Vale, curious and confused. Restaurants on the corner of each street. Cyan lightposts that turn the world around them a faint blue. In the distance, above and beyond his wildest dreams, a castle nestled in the horizon across a canvas of dying reds and purples.

It was not like Ansel. It was not like the life he had before, and he was alone, for now.

His scroll had a better connection to the CCT than it has ever before in his hometown. The motel Teddie mentioned was located on the west side of the city–near the industrial districts. Without an income, it’d suffice for at least a month, not accounting the money he’d need to spend on food and supplies, but he could figure that out with Roman.

When he arrived, the motel was every bit as cheap as Teddie mentioned. In contrast to the glimmer and scale of the rest of the city, it was humble. It reminded Jaune of the kinds of places that would feature in a TV show about small-time crooks, but it wasn’t nearly as dilapidated as those were. A burned-out sign with the label “Memory Motel” hung loosely over the metal roofing, but that looked recent. He’d be sure to tell the front desk about it. The price to stay betrayed the quality of the motel.

When he rang the front desk, a lady with snake scales that parted around their eyes and bunned ginger hair entered out from behind the desk. She seemed around Saphron’s age if not a little older and wore a striped sweater two sizes too large for her with a pair of black skinny jeans and heeled boots. They clicked against the tiled floor when she walked.

“What can I do for you?” The girl–woman?--eyed him from over the desk, nonplussed. Exhaustion seeped out of her every word.

“Uh, yeah…” Jaune put on a smile he thought was charming, but felt it slip. Up close, her scales were a glossy olive that caught the cheap lobby light like lacquer. Pretty. Dangerously pretty. “I wouldn’t be able to take a room for a couple months, would I?”

“Best we can do is offer you a room that you’d have to reserve again with weekly payments.”

That wasn’t too terrible, Jaune figured. He had enough to cover these next two weeks at minimum, and he could stretch it if he skipped some meals. “That’s fine. I can work with that.”

She stood uncaring and tapped the wooden countertop. Her words were monotone.“That’ll be ninety-eight lien a night. ID and credit card please.”

“Ninety-eight?” He blinked. “The sign says fifty.”

“That’s the rate we charge faunuses.” She inspects her nails for dirt. “Humans are ninety-eight a night.”

“That’s… not what my friend told me?” Confusion overtook Jaune. Nothing like this had ever happened to him in Ansel. “Any chance you can make an exception?”

She ceased her nail cleaning for a second and finally seemed to acknowledge him. “No.”

“But my friend Teddie—”

“The only way you’re paying fifty lien is if you find a cheaper motel.” Which was unlikely. She gestured for him out the door with a wave of her hand, but then she stared at his face a little longer and paused. “We take care of our own here. If Valean humans can discriminate, so can we.”

Jaune paused. Racism in Ansel meant twelve-year-olds on the playground saying hurtful words they didn’t fully comprehend. The faunus in Ansel were local families just like any other. Clearly it was different down in the big city. And hypocrisy never looked good on anyone.

“So unless you grow a pair of horns or are hiding something,” she examined him closer. “The price tag isn’t changing.”

She rubbed her chin, trying to place a feeling she didn’t quite know. “Actually, you look kind of familiar. What’s your name?”

She stepped out from behind the desk. Her orange eyes journeyed from his feet up, and Jaune felt her gaze dance on him. Suddenly, they widen, and Jaune felt like he’d start sweating if she stayed silent.

“Jaune Arc. Short, sweet, and—” His improvised introduction fell upon deaf ears.

“You wouldn’t happen to be from Mistral, would you?” Her words–no longer monotone–sound fearful instead. She tapped the counter again and took a step away from the boy as if afraid he would bite. “I babysat a boy with silver hair that once looked like you.”

Jaune, in his brilliance, did not notice the way color drained from her face. “I have some family up in Argus and near that area, but otherwise, no. Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”

“Nevermind,” her mouth twitched warily. “Fifty a night. Let’s go with that.”

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he shrugged and smiled at his good fortune, a little pleased she changed her mind.

Mercury hated the scent of smoke.

He could smell it from down the valley. It rode the wind up the ravine, from the porch rail, and found him while he was still a silhouette against the Mistralian dusk, and the buzzing of a thousand mosquitos swarmed in the sky, a symphony to what Mercury assumed was how living here was like. Full of bluster and pus and sorrow and spite.

His new legs hissed when dried mud cracked underneath him. The prosthetics were fine—too fine, if you asked his father. Too expensive, too. His calves tingled where meat became metal.

Defeat smelled like the embers of cheap cigars that were more like plastic than the oak that accompanied those smoked by people who tended to save their money. It sounded like a rocker ticking against planks, patiently waiting for him. It felt like heat pressed into his skin until his flesh remembered it.

He hated the Mistralian countryside, the bore, but he hated the company more.

He supposed he would be getting more scars this time.

“You’re a real loser, you know that?” Marcus Black sat in his rocking chair, another cigar sitting in his mouth, burning softly, and a bottle of vodka on the floor next to him. “You had one job, and you couldn’t even get that right.”

“Sorry, Dad,” Mercury stammered, “I just… got lost in the city, and the target got away after he noticed something was off.”

Marcus sighed, like he always did, and he took the cigar out of his mouth. “I thought I always told you: if you need to know a city, you should ask the rats first.”

“Uhhhh…” Mercury knew what was coming, and he hated it every time. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t mean shit if we can’t feed ourselves!” Marcus gestured to him to come over, like he always did. Like how it always was when it was time for punishment. “Turn off your aura and stick out your arm.”

Mercury’s arm extended and didn’t flinch this time. The first kiss of the cigar always surprised him. Meat hissed, and the room tilted to a strange quiet. He kept his gaze on a knot in the floorboard. He knew if he reacted, he’d pay more for flinching than he would for the mission.

Marcus pressed again, this time a fraction lower, then he grounded out the ember on a ceramic dish just to prove he could have stopped sooner.

“Now,” Marcus said, pushing himself up, “tell me why you failed in Argus.”

“I began with following the target's schedule to the dot: he gets up early to train with Pyrrha Nikos at 5 am, then runs private lessons until 11:30 at his private gym–Horsepower Fitness. Afterwards, he typically eats whatever his wife or his daughter made him before coming back to work at 12:30. Finally, he leaves at 4:30 pm and secretly goes to grab a custard pie he eats as a guilty pleasure without his wife knowing and saving some to spoil his daughter with. He uses the excuse of groceries to get it along with whatever else his wife needs. Finally, he goes to pick up his daughter from school–she's a civilian, surprisingly.”

“You're dodging the question.” Marcus’s voice sharpened. “None of this info means anything if you didn't use it.”

Mercury fell silent, and Marcus took the opportunity to swipe up the bottle of Atlesian vodka by his ankle, bringing it to his mouth and taking a swig in a gesture that was akin to finding salvation.

“You fucked up.” Marcus took another swig. “What're you gonna do differently next time?”

“Maybe poison the custard pie in advance?”

“Sloppy. Work like that leaves additional casualties, which makes life harder for us and a higher likelihood of huntsmen hearing about it.” A pause then a beat. “Try again, boy.”

“Maybe hire him as a personal trainer and get close to him under a fake name before striking?”

“That’s how a loser like you gets attached and hesitates with the final blow. Shit like that gets you killed at worst and gets you potentially investigated at best. Give me another answer.”

“What about—”

“Enough already–you're clearly not getting it.”

“Then what, Dad?” Mercury pursed his lips in frustration.

“You should have set up a training ‘accident’ between him and that girl, Pyrrha Nikos, while he lowers his guard to teach her,” Marcus’s words came drunk yet clinical. “Then you wouldn't have to pussyfoot around an investigation.”

Marcus clamped down on his son’s arm and wrenched to reveal the number of defeats on Mercury’s forearms.

There were five welts including the fresh cigar burns.

Reflexes from training answered for Mercury, and the teen’s fist sailed into his father’s eye.

Marcus didn’t flinch.

“...”

“You little shit…” The bottle of alcohol sails through the air.

When it shatters against Mercury's head, Marcus is already upon him, a drunken, yet professional leap, a cruel cross that cracks across the teen's cheek.

Mercury hits the porch and bends his legs to roll backwards–to create some distance–picking up a thick wedge of vodka glass. He knows it won't do much, but he has to defend himself.

Mercury grasps the glass shard–sharpened by a desire to see the light in Marcus die–and dashes forward, angling the improvised blade into a feint that pretends to aim for his father’s eyes.

Marcus–even drunk–reads him cleanly–before kicking Mercury's face into the boards and, in the same motion, catches the boy's metal ones with his own in a roundhouse stomp. The wooden planks split beneath it.

Mercury’s face bounces against the porch. He holds himself aloft with his arms. His legs lean back skyward and fire the shotgun shells in his soles. Fire dust ignites spilled vodka and scorches the ceiling. The flame coils upwards.

Marcus's aura strains, but not enough. Not nearly enough. He grabs Mercury's foot and hoists his son and moves to stomp on his nose.

Mercury snakes his body around and snaps his forehead into Marcus's boot before it can clear, dampening the force. Mirroring his father, Mercury grabs it and begins to twist with one arm. He knows, although his father can break his steel foot, it is built out of sturdier material than Marcus's own.

Marcus responds in kind by kissing Mercury's stomach with a clenched fist, and the boy’s grip fails him. Enhancing his own strength with aura, Marcus spins around with his boy in hand and hurls his son through a wooden pillar of the porch.

Mercury’s throat hits the corner of the support first before the wood breaks, and aura does its best to blunt the damage, but doesn't stop the pain. Agony blooms from the point of impact, and Mercury cannot breathe and curls up on himself.

Marcus looks down on the boy for reacting to getting his windpipe crushed, and hate pukes out. He stomps forwards, pulling out his knife from a holster, and thinks back to when it amputated the legs off of the boy. To when Mercury cries when he thinks Marcus cannot see him after training. To when Mercury whimpers at night whenever phantom pain flares. To when Mercury acts tough whenever something frightens him.

“Your birth was the worst moment of my life.” Marcus begins, “you killed the woman I loved most. You're supposed to be a born killer. Like me.”

“A gnat among a swarm of flies.”

The flame that had been accidentally lit by Mercury's fire dust buckshot grows in intensity, but neither party notices.

“You were born to kill and nothing else. Not huntership, not family, not friends, or even work.”

Still curled, Mercury hides the glass blade in his waistband, in hopes that alcohol fogs his father's memory of him ever picking it up.

His father is ranting. Ranting. Truths Mercury has known but ones Marcus had only ever implied. Never said aloud.

“We had you out of love, and you repaid that love by killing!” Marcus howls. “So why the hell can't you even do that right anymore?!”

And Mercury finally catches his breath and lifts his head–just in time for Marcus's boot to spike into his nose.

“I tried to be good to you, I promise I did.”

Mercury's world spins.

“I trained you like I was trained–gentler even.”

He can feel how the cartilage in his nose broke and how a heavy bruise will form later. He feels how aura puts it back in place and mends the bone.

He crosses his forearms in front of him in what could be vaguely assumed to be a defensive position. A small, useless shield. The glass in his waistband is an unused short sword. This is Mercury Black’s inheritance. An inheritance of hate.

“I'm better to you than my father ever was to me.”

Marcus kisses his son's face with his boots. A thunderous kick that he puts his whole weight into. There is no hint of Mistral’s greatest assassin in his technique, only a hate that burns anything that resembles himself.

“And you repay me with failure!”

And then again.

“After failure!”

And again.

“After failure!”

Until the silver light that's been trying to protect Mercury dies.

“What did I ever do to you?!”

Mercury thinks his father might stop this time for once. He doesn’t know why. He should know better. He wants to scream at Marcus that he took his legs.

And then Marcus stomps again.

“What did I do to deserve you?!”

Aura does not fix Mercury's nose this time. It does not fix the teeth that crack. Nor does it fix the jaw that dislocates.

Not letting up, Marcus fists Mercury’s silver hair.

He brings his son's face to his own.

Mercury spits out blood in an act of defiance.

“Fuck you.” His voice wobbles with a lisp.

And for half a second, Marcus sees his wife in their son. Her shining silver eyes and small smiles are ghosts in the way Mercury's eyes water and how Mercury’s swollen cheeks form dimples.

Marcus feels shame for the first time in a long time and knows he is a loser.

And for half a second, Marcus lowers his guard and–by extension–his aura.

Mercury reaches into his waistband.

Glass embraces Marcus Black's windpipe and keeps penetrating until it opens his throat. Sputtering black aura cannot heal him. Alcohol and crimson gush from the wound.

And he is soon no more.

Uncertain of his life, of where he is heading, of what to do now, Mercury crawls away from the blazing house on hands and knees.

He is found not too soon after by worse monsters.