Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On their way to visit his Aunt, Oscar’s parents are killed by bandits.

Not in front of him, precisely--he's spared the sight of it. But he’s trying to hide nearby when it happens, and he knows full well that they’re dead. He can hear it, when they go silent.

The gang nabs him after that; he tries to run but he’s just a kid, barely seven. He doesn’t get far.

They stuff a sack over his head, and that’s the last that he sees for a long while.

When he wakes up, after a lot of travelling, he’s lying on an ornate couch in Salem’s study. She is calm and cold and cruel. When she tells him that no, he can’t go home, this is his home now, Oscar makes a run for it.

She lets him. 

He gets lost, but eventually makes it out the front door---and right into the jaws of the wandering Grimm. The only reason he survives at all is that they’ve been ordered not to kill him. By the time he escapes back inside, he’s bleeding, and Salem is waiting.

“I did not dismiss you,” she says in the face of his tears. Oscar can’t respond; he’s distraught and terrified and dripping blood on the stone floors. She punishes him for it, until eventually he stops screaming and apologizes. Then he’s allowed to tend to his injuries, and they sit down to talk again.

(His first task, as her nominal servant, is cleaning his own blood off the floors and the bathroom. He does a terrible job of it, in his inexperience. He learns, of course, and eventually gets much, much better.)

"You're late," Salem greets. Oscar shrinks behind the tea tray. The fine china rattles ever so slightly in his grip.

"Sorry, Salem," he tells his feet.

"Look at me when you speak, child." She motions him closer. He gently sets the tray on her desk, and scoots out of grabbing range as subtly as he can manage.

Salem takes her time fixing a cup to her liking. Oscar squirms in place, but freezes when she shoots him a disapproving look for the movement. It's only once she's taken her first sip that she speaks again.

"Is sorry all you have to say for yourself?"

"It won't happen again?"

"Was that a question or a statement?"

"Sorry. It won't happen again, Salem."

Salem takes another sip. The clink of the cup sounds far louder than it has any right to. "Better. Now, since I had to wait for my sustenance, I think it would be fair if you did too, wouldn't it?"

Oscar keeps quiet. He's not sure what that means, but it doesn't sound nice. Nothing Salem says in that tone ever does.

She sighs, short and soft. "Don't eat before you go to bed tonight, Oscar."

"What?" He blinks up at her. "But-"

Salem's eyes narrow dangerously. "On second thought, don't eat until next moonrise." Oscar shuts his jaw with a click, narrowly avoiding biting his tongue. He nods miserably.

"Good. I trust I won't catch you sneaking anything, little Oscar?"

"No, Salem."

The sun never rises in the Land of Darkness, so Oscar isn't sure how many days he’s been at Salem’s beck and call when he first meets Arthur Watts. They stumble across each other in the dimly-lit halls, and Oscar was beginning to wonder if there was only ever going to be him, and Salem, and the Grimm in this awful place. 

He just about begs Watts to help him. The man holds out his hand and smiles a lying fucking smile and asks prying questions. (A recurring theme, really, for everyone on Salem’s side–-why Oscar? Why him?) And Oscar is so glad. There’s finally someone here, there's an adult who isn't Salem and can help him get away and maybe even get him home. 

The boy takes the hand and spills everything.

When they approach Salem’s study, Oscar slowly starts to realize that he’s made a big mistake. Watts lets him pull away and smiles politely at the betrayal on the boy’s face. He patronizingly informs Oscar that Salem might go easier on him if he fesses up himself. Oscar can’t -he’s petrified, and still just seven years old- so Watts just sort of shrugs and goes in for his orders.

After his mission report, Salem informs Arthur that Oscar will not be leaving the castle and that things for the boy’s care will need to be brought in--food and medicine and perhaps some small entertainments, if the boy behaves, to which Watts ever-so-casually remarks that such an occasion probably won’t be anytime soon. After all, the boy himself seems to have yet to get with the ‘not leaving the castle’ program.

"Oh?” Salem asks, in a rather dangerous tone of voice. “Send the boy in when you leave, would you.”

“Of course, my lady.” 

He tracks down Oscar (hiding in one of the small side rooms, which seems to have been turned into a bedroom for the boy’s use), and informs the pale and shaky child that Lady Salem ("Don’t address her as just 'Salem’, boy; it’s rude.”) would like to speak with him. And through the schadenfreude of doing so, he decides that maybe he’ll put off fulfilling Salem’s orders just this once, for a few hours at least--after all, there might end up not being a boy to be concerned about.

(Before he leaves the castle, Watts sees Oscar one more time; Salem has him awaken the boy’s Aura.

At such a young age the boy’s soul has barely any power to speak of, but at least he’ll likely be able to walk again. Eventually. Aura is very good about preventing permanent damage.)

This is how he meets Hazel Rainart: a big, intimidatingly muscular man hails him in the library.

“You’re the boy, then?” He calls.

Oscar puts down his book and hops out of the wall-niche he’d been tucked into. He edges into speaking distance. “I’m Oscar,” he offers, meek.

“Hazel.” The large man eyes him, arms crossed. The silence stretches, and it’s with an effort that Oscar doesn’t fidget. “…I suppose you do deserve anything we can offer you, in whatever time you have left,” Hazel sighs at last.

Oscar chances a look up. “…What?“

“Salem wants you,” the man grunts instead, which doesn’t tell him anything. “She’s in the atrium.”

Oscar recognizes a dismissal when he hears one. The offhand comment before hadn’t sounded like it was meant for him anyway, so Oscar lets it go and trots off to the atrium like a good boy.

 "...Salem?" It comes out too quiet. Oscar clears his throat and tries again. "Lady Salem?"

Salem looks up from her book and doesn't say a word. Oscar fights not to wilt under her dispassionate gaze. "Can I- can I go outside? Sometimes?"

Her lips pull tight. "Why?"

"Not to leave! I swear. I just..." Oscar's head dips, before he catches himself and lifts it. "I've just never gone outside, and the Grimm listen to you, and I- I kind of miss it? I mean-" He stops. Takes a deep breath. Salem's expression hasn't so much as twitched. "I'd like your permission to walk around the castle sometimes."

"Very well." Salem dismisses him with a glance. "No further than the immediate surroundings, and if I catch you pushing that there will be consequences."

"Yes, Salem. Thank you." Oscar bows, and takes his leave. His face is doing something weird, and it takes him a moment to realize he's smiling a little.

The most interesting place in Salem’s home is Dr. Watts’ lab, because the things in it are always changing. When the doctor’s in a good mood, he can even be bothered to explain some of it, or draft Oscar to help him with simple tasks. Unfortunately, the man is adamant that no one go in when he's not around, so Oscar doesn't get to explore it as much as he might like.

It would be his favorite place, except sometimes he gets check-ups there. Dr. Watts (”Call me Arthur again and I’ll make this much more unpleasant than it needs to be, boy,”) bleeds him and sticks sensors on him and puts him in various machines that measure stuff like Aura signature and blood pressure and brainwaves and all sorts of things that never get explained to Oscar. The Aura sample collection process, in particular, is especially horrible.

Sometimes Watts puts him to sleep, though, and that’s the scariest thing of all. Because what’s so bad that Oscar’s not even allowed to be awake for it?

The only explanation he ever gets is: “Salem’s orders, boy." 

He learns to accept it, eventually.

Oscar takes to climbing the outside of the tower at some point, because he’s figured out that even when Salem doesn't want him going out, the Grimm won’t bother him if he’s actually touching the place. Salem spots him outside her window and, when Oscar brings in her regular tray of tea, asks the boy what he thinks he’s doing. 

(He’s bored. He’s so bored, and there’s only so much reading or housework he can do, and Salem doesn’t actually NEED him for anything, not really.)

“It’s for exercise, Salem,” he says instead. He doesn't slouch and he doesn’t mutter; she doesn’t like it when he does either of those things, even if she lets him get away with calling her ‘Salem’ sometimes.

She scolds him -not for the climbing, but for being reckless- and then takes a few hours to make sure that he won’t kill himself falling from that height. Mostly, she does this by knocking him off various high places and having the Grimm break his falls, until he can reliably control his descent enough that he doesn’t belly flop right into the sea of them.

Then she leaves him to do as he pleases, as usual.

When he’s about eight (there are no birthdays in Salem’s tower, no way to mark the passing of time beyond the moon’s place in the sky), Tyrian Callows takes an interest in him.

And perhaps all of Salem’s other lieutenants are perfectly happy to dismiss the tiny shadow creeping around their master’s castle, but no, not Tyrian. The man needs to poke. He needs to heckle. Oscar is weak and useless and unworthy to so much as serve her Grace her tea and clean her castle (which is what she usually has the boy doing, to keep him occupied and out of the way) and Tyrian makes it known at every. Single. Opportunity.

The man doesn’t hurt Oscar -Salem has made it clear that it’s not his place- but he is a constant, insufferable thorn in the boy’s side. He pushes. He trips. He shoves and he sneers and he smiles and god, Oscar’s never hated anyone so much in his life.

(Weak, weak, weak, a voice chants in Oscar’s head. It’s been getting louder, and increasingly sounds less like Salem’s and more like the scorpion faunus’.)

Even Salem’s callous, domineering attention is better than Tyrian’s.

The first time that Oscar tries to hit back, it’s a pathetic attempt. Tyrian laughs and laughs, even as he backhands the boy into a wall, and stomps him into the floor, and gleefully kicks him in the ribs one last time when his Aura gives out. The man’s still giggling to himself as he walks away, leaving Oscar to nurse his cracked ribs.

Later, Oscar musters up the courage to ask Salem if he can learn how to fight. He just wanted to punch Tyrian in the face, just once, but couldn’t even manage that. And the knowledge… stings. 

When he dares a glance up to gauge her reaction, Salem looks contemplative. Oscar’s had her attention before, unfortunately and unpleasantly, but this is the first time in all these months that he’s ever had something like her interest.

So she gets him a simple but sturdy shortstaff, and perhaps her expression is a bit strange when she offers it to him. Then she hands him over to Hazel, and to wave after wave of Grimm.

And so, after months of harder work than he’s ever known in his life, he manages to defeat a pair of Beowolves all by himself. He’s ten. And it marks the first time he’s ever had something like Salem's approval, too.

(It probably wouldn’t feel nearly so nice, if he were aware that Salem had called in Tyrian and expressed her approval of him, as well.)

Oscar is never given the ability to command the Grimm, but they leave him alone so long as he stays in or near the tower. He tries to defy Salem in little ways, of course; he’s a child, doesn’t know enough to be properly afraid, tests where he can get away with pushing.

Again and again, Salem breaks him. 

So Oscar isn’t happy and Salem isn’t kind -she has no patience for weakness, and he’s just a little boy- but they make do. Oscar learns how not to piss Salem off, and things get better. 

The thing is, Salem usually doesn’t care what Oscar gets up to. She doesn’t need him, doesn’t have any real use for him, and as long as the boy stays out of her way he is free to do what he likes in her home. Obedience is paramount. 

Little Oscar reminds her a bit of her daughters, from eons ago--helpless, innocent, in need of guidance and discipline and teeth. She let Ozma have far too large an influence in a child’s growth before. She won’t make that mistake twice.

(Oscar doesn’t really know what to make of the stories Salem likes to tell him over tea, but he listens attentively. He doesn’t dare do otherwise.

Besides, he doesn’t really get a lot of benign conversation. It's... kind of nice. And something about the way Salem speaks makes the fairy tales sound very, very important.)

Oscar’s first mission -a real one, not one of Dr. Watt’s simulations or sparring- is an easy one. He is to accompany Hazel somewhere, pretending to be his son, to help the man blend in.

Oscar doesn’t know where they’re going, and he doesn’t know what they’re trying to do. He, according to Hazel and Salem and Tyrian (not that anyone asked him), doesn’t need to know any of those things, so he should stop asking. 

So he sticks close to Hazel as they ride a bullhead, then a boat, then a big noisy train. It’s all so loud and bright. Oscar stares at the crowds of people with wide eyes, and obediently holds Hazel’s hand so they don’t get separated in the press. He can’t remember seeing so many people, ever. What do they do, even? Why are they here?

They hit the edge of civilization and then spend a long, long time walking. Sometimes they camp out; twice they sleep at an inn. The food changes. Grimm are rare. The sun comes up, and goes down, and comes back up. 

It’s all so bizarre. Oscar relishes every second of it.

The place they reach is some kind of refugee camp, Oscar thinks. There are a lot of hasty tents, and shabby people, and the few people who aren’t bad-off are armed, like the Huntsmen Oscar’s read about. Hazel blends in well enough–-a large man, intimidating and built on powerful lines, but travel-worn and toting a motherless child.

Hazel leaves Oscar behind to pitch the tent while he goes scouting. Oscar sets it up -a little shaky, but good enough- and just people-watches for a time. There are so many of them. Some of them are injured. Was there a town nearby that got attacked, or hit by a storm?

He considers running. He’s unsupervised and not surrounded by Grimm for the first time in ever, and with this many people around he might actually get away. 

(Yeah, right. Like he would get anywhere. That’s stupid, and Oscar is many things, but stupid is not one of them. 

Where would he go, what could he do? No one would help him. Oscar doesn’t know anything about the world, not really, and maybe Salem isn’t the most pleasant master to serve but she’s… she’s powerful, and she’s all he knows.)

He’s thinking of copying the people fetching water from the nearby stream when someone approaches him. The lady -Huntress, long hair, soft smile and bright eyes- gently asks if he’s here with anyone, and if he needs a hand, and Oscar. Oscar doesn’t know what to do. He can’t hide behind Hazel, like he did the few times some innkeeper or passing traveler tried to address him. 

When he just shakes his head mutely (someone is talking to him why are they talking to him what do they WANT from him) she holds out her hand and offers to help find his parents, if he wants. And he’s getting uncomfortable flashbacks of meeting Dr. Watts and everything that came after that, so he skitters back into the tent and hopes she goes away. Bad move, stupid; the tent’s far too flimsy to keep anyone out, he chides himself. 

But the lady only hesitates a moment, before the silhouette of her through the canvas turns away and leaves. And Oscar can’t stop thinking about how weird she was, how curiously free her smile. She was… nice. Is that what all normal people were actually like, or was she just an odd one? 

(He doesn’t even know her name. He’s had a conversation -kinda?- with her, but he doesn’t know her name and he might never see her again. What does he do? This would’ve never happened at home.)

Hazel comes back, night falls, and a Grimm attack is staged on the area just as dawn rises. The Huntsmen gathered spread out to rebuff it and pick off stragglers, and that’s when Hazel makes his move. Oscar obediently tails the man as he stalks off after one in particular. 

It’s the woman from earlier, which is fucking typical. They’re deadlocked a ways off from the encampment, Hazel’s wide swings and swift footwork herding the woman deeper into the forest. Oscar carefully situates himself between their target and her backup.

She can’t beat Hazel. It’s close, but the man is stronger, and the other Huntsmen too distracted by the surrounding Grimm. She makes a break for it. 

This, apparently, is where Oscar comes in. As a hostage. That would’ve been nice to know before Hazel grabbed him by the throat, and while it doesn’t really hurt, he can’t breathe. He flails ineffectually, choking and confused and surprised into showing fear. The Huntress stops.

She promises again and again that she’ll save him, he doesn’t have to be afraid, it’ll be okay. Hazel cuts her off mid-word when he throws Oscar at her and attacks. 

She takes a few blows catching him and shielding him, then pushes him away and yells for him to run. Hazel gives him a pointed look, and Oscar… doesn’t. He draws his staff, standing in her blind spot, and takes out her knee.

She falls. Hazel slams her into the ground. Again. And again. And- Oscar looks away. 

He hears her fall silent. And it’s been a long time since he thought of the way his parents went quiet, while he was hiding from bandits a lifetime ago, but he remembers it now.

Their return is swift, and Oscar’s a little glad of it. He’s… tired. He’s ready for the mission to be over. They come in, and Oscar stands silent in Hazel’s shadow as the man reports their success. 

"And Oscar?” Salem asks, perfunctory. The boy very carefully does not squirm.

Hazel grunts. “He did well enough.”

“Good.” And she smiles. It isn’t directed at Oscar, not really, and it isn’t anything like the silver-eyed lady’s. But the cold familiarity of it is kind of comforting.

Chapter Text

When Oscar is... twelve? Perhaps thirteen? He's given his last mission outside Salem's domain.

This is a list of what he knows:

That he is not allowed beyond the castle without explicit permission, and he is not to talk about his parents. That failure is the same as disobedience, and disobedience is something Salem will not tolerate.

How to be polite. How to feed himself. How to keep his clothes clean. How to teach himself out of the massive library, which is possibly his favorite place in the entire castle. That his questions go to Watts. If Watts is busy (often) or in a bad mood (a little less often), they go to Salem. That if he wants anything, anything at all, it goes through Salem first.

That if someone points out a mess to him, it's his job to clean it up. That if someone wants something, it's his job to get it done. It's also his job to make Salem her tea and take it to her study when the moon reaches a certain point in the sky.

That sometimes Salem tells him things; he learns to keep his mouth shut about them. That her regard is hard-earned and easy to lose and, honestly, the only opinion that actually matters. That running is useless. That hiding is useless. And that nothing makes Salem angrier than someone lying to her face. (But everyone else is fair game, Oscar included.)

How to avoid biting his tongue. What it's like to go hungry. What it's like to hurt, and how to treat his own injuries with Aura and medicine. Fear, and how to hide it. Discontent, and when it's safe to express it. The chill of a lab table under his back. The familiar taste of rations, day in and day out. How to avoid attention. How to manipulate Aura, how to use Dust, how to use poisons. How to hack someone else's Scroll, how to steal a car, how to pilot a bullhead (well, enough to not crash, at least).

How to survive a fight. How kill Grimm with a weapon that has no sharp edge. How to choke someone out with it; what it feels like to break the neck of a man twice his size with it. The pleasant feel of Salem's approval. The taste of bile in his throat.

At probably-thirteen, these are the things Oscar does not know:

What that man did to displease Salem so. The real point of Salem's operation. Her informants, her resources, the extent of her influence.

How to make harmless small talk. What it's like to be responsible for anyone other than himself. How to accept kindness without motive. How to smile, and mean it. How to be afraid, and not hate it. How to fight with words instead of blows. What it's like, to not be quietly terrified of everyone around him; what it's like, to trust someone to watch his back. What the heck crowds are for, even.

Hugs. Music. The taste of chocolate, though sometimes he thinks he can almost dredge up the memory. The point of laughing; the point in crying.

How to command Grimm. His semblance. What he wants to do with his life, and if he'll ever have a say in the matter. How the view through the windows would look, if sunlight ever touched these lands. Precisely how far away its’ borders are. How many Grimm, exactly, there are outside, and how many kinds. How long he's been here. How old he is. How old Salem is. Whether or not she ever needs to sleep, or eat, or anything so human.

Why he's here, except to serve Salem. Power. Freedom.

The thing that gets to him the most about his mission is that it's not even his.

"I've served you longer than she has," Oscar argues. "I shouldn't have to follow her orders for this."

"Oscar, you already have a place here. She deserves the chance to earn hers. Ultimately, this is a test for young Cinder, and not you."

She makes a dismissive motion, and he knows the conversation's over. His hands clench behind his back, but his orders are clear. He heads off to pack his bag like a good boy.

(Despite whatever Salem might say, Oscar's not dumb. He knows the truth of the matter, and the truth is this: Cinder came to Salem of her own accord. Oscar was never given a choice.

Thus, no matter what he does, he's never, ever going to be given the same opportunities as anyone else in this sun-forsaken castle.)

"Ah, there you are. Cinder, would you mind taking little Oscar with you when you go?"

It's not a request. Cinder, kneeling, tilts her head slightly to glance at him. Oscar comes to a stop beside her and kneels as well, shifting the staff on his back to account for the movement. "If that is your wish."

"Good. He's young, still, but knows how to make himself useful. He has a lot to learn about the world, and I think you have a great deal to teach him. I trust you'll keep an eye on him?"

Salem says all this warmly, like she didn't order Oscar less than an hour ago to keep an eye on Cinder for her, to assess her and possibly kill her -or her little followers- should any of them turn traitor. How she expects him to outfight someone with even a fraction of a Maiden's power is beyond him, but orders are orders. Oscar keeps his face still and his head bowed.

"Of course, your Grace."

"You have great potential, young Cinder. Do not fail me." Salem smiles as she dismisses them--pleasant, anticipatory, a little charming.

It always strikes him as strange, in times like this--that charm. Salem can be charismatic, of course, but that she would put so much effort into sounding appealing is... something that Oscar has never gotten used to. It's the way she treats all her followers, really, the easy carrot-and-stick, but somehow the drama of it is different.

Oscar has experienced her anger, and her indulgence, and very rarely her mercy. But for some reason, Salem's never bothered with this particular layer of pretense around him--like there are great expectations for him to meet, rewards beyond his wildest dreams, if only he is willing to work for them.

In that way, he knows Salem better than her other servants. He obeys her for what she is, and not what he thinks she is. His loyalty to her is based on a very real, validated fear and not blind reverence or tempting promises. He's never fallen for her pretty lies, and this somewhat counterintuitively makes him trustworthy in a... different capacity.

Maybe that's why he gets assigned missions like this. 

(At least, that's the impression he gets. Oscar isn't sure that this supposed honesty is not, in its own way, just another sort of test.)

They're out the front doors when Cinder finally addresses him.

"So. The Queen's little errand boy. What am I going to do with you, Oscar?"

"Whatever you want, I suppose."

"Hmm." She slants a sharp look at him, and holds his gaze. "Then, while we have this little moment, let me make something clear to you: if you're going to be with me, then you will follow my lead. Do you understand me, boy?"

Oscar huffs. "My orders are perfectly clear, Cinder. This is your task, to succeed or fail at--not mine. I'm just a hand you're being lent. I'll do just as I'm told, rest assured."

Cinder smiles a secret little smile, like Oscar's told some joke, and otherwise doesn't outwardly react to the line he's drawn in the sand. It's almost like she's trying to be Salem, in her own way. The imitation makes him want to scoff. "Well now. There's a curious turn of phrase. 'A hand I'm being lent.' What exactly does the Queen think I'll need your assistance for?"

"Nothing specific. I'm sure Lady Salem has every confidence in you. Though she did seem to be in an... odd humor, earlier." Oscar shrugs, and then adjusts the straps of his bag rather pointedly.

I kinda think she just wants me out of the castle, he doesn't say.

I'm but a simple fail-safe, he also doesn't say.

Or maybe she really doesn't trust you, he definitely doesn't say.

"Do you want to be pilot or should I?" Is what he goes with. Cinder approaches the bullhead and opens the vehicle's door.

"After you." Her eyes track him as he moves past her and up the ramp. "Let's see how well you do."

Sometimes, Oscar forgets how big the world is. Usually, it's nice. Then something like this happens, and he wonders why the world needs to be this large.

Vale is a nice place. Clean, calm. A capital city, which is something he's never had the chance to explore; most of Salem's business concerns the seedier side of humanity. 

But Oscar's been wandering this place for an hour now, and the streets have rather lost their appeal.

Flying in the air is fine. Being on the road is fine. Even the crowds that flock to and fro in train stations are tolerable. Trying to find his way through this maze back to the safehouse? Well.

Does the city really need to be this big?

...Maybe if he climbs a building he'll be able to get a better sense of the area. He has a map on the Scroll he's been given, it just... doesn't match up with anything he's actually seeing. Being higher up might help.

"There you are." Cinder calls. Oscar drags his gaze from the buildings to the woman across the street. She beckons him over. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to."

"I was just looking around," he lies. Cinder doesn't look happy, but she also definitely believes him--she's nowhere close to Salem's level of perceptiveness, it seems. Not that that's any surprise.

"I see. In the future, if I leave you somewhere without further instructions, then I expect you to stay put. Are we clear?"

You ditched me to go into a bar, he wants to grumble, but. Orders first. He settles for a tiny eye-roll instead, and obediently answers, "Crystal."

"So we'll be on babysitting duty, huh?"

"Funny, I was just about to say the same thing." Mercury scowls at him; Oscar scowls back. Emerald twitches like she wants to hit them both--Oscar's got one eye on her.

Cinder makes a pacifying sort of motion that does absolutely nothing to hide her amusement. "Now, now, children. I'm sure we can all get along."

"Are you sure he'll be able to keep up?" Mercury jabs a thumb at where Oscar is perched on one of the empty crates in their appropriated little safehouse.

Oscar's opinion of Cinder’s minions isn’t high.

He dislikes Torchwick on principle, but the man's condescending attitude isn't anything he doesn't have experience putting up with back home. Neo seems perfectly professional and perfectly tolerable, if a little playful; it's a shame they don't have much to do with each other.

Emerald is a wide-eyed dupe and Oscar restrains himself to doing nothing more than sending the occasional sneer her way. He thinks, if anyone is going to betray Salem, that she'll be the most obvious about it. Her Semblance is powerful, but there's a certain irony in the fact that she seems to be the least aware of what it is they're really doing. He wonders how long it'll take for the illusionist to become disillusioned. Maybe Cinder will string her along well enough that the girl will die first.

He senses something of a kindred soul in Mercury--they're both people who aren't particularly good at anything but fighting, and know when to keep their mouths shut. They're also both smartasses.

Naturally, the two of them don't really get on.

"He is right here." Oscar levels an unamused look at the older boy. With Salem he wouldn't dare; with Cinder, he can hold it back. This punk? This punk is fair game. "And oh golly gee, I just don't know. What if something dangerous happens? I really don't think I'll be able to run away as fast as you, Mercury; I might have to fight."

The older boy rolls his eyes, big and exaggerated. "Well, we wouldn't want you to fight, now would we. Baby like you, you might strain something."

"Guys, knock it off. Mission, remember?"

"The mission can wait an hour, Emerald; Torchwick's not going anywhere. Come on, don't you think we should know if we're going to have to bail the brat out of a fight or not?" Mercury moves towards the open center of the warehouse, then lifts his fists and makes a little 'come at me' gesture.

Oscar glances at Cinder. The woman looks... interested. And not like she's going to get upset about a fight happening. 

Good enough. Oscar draws his staff. "We do have a job to do. How about this: winner gets to go, loser has to sit out?"

"What's with the 'we'? It's not your mission, pipsqueak; it's mine and Em's. What do I get if I win?"

"Beat me first, then we'll talk."

Taking that as an invitation, Mercury launches a kick at Oscar. Oscar knocks it upward with his staff, then rolls under the follow-up.

In a straightforward battle, there would be no contest. Mercury is several years older, heavier and with a longer reach. He hits harder; he moves faster; he has a better weapon and more endurance and more training.

For Oscar, though, that's all fine. Oscar has been fighting stronger, faster, bigger opponents his entire life. He lacks true refinement or technique; everything he knows he taught himself through battle. He has no style. It can make him a little sloppy, but it also makes him unpredictable.

He stays on the defensive. A blow turned aside here, a quick dodge there. Twice he risks making a strike, and they land but don't do much damage--his staff has no blade, after all. A poorly-deflected kick sends him stumbling backwards, and Mercury nearly disarms him right there.

There's an old desperation burning in his bones, a mix of adrenaline and Aura and the knowledge that he's outclassed. Not as badly as when he fights, say, Hazel, but it still sharpens his reflexes and kicks his brain into overdrive.

When Mercury makes another pass, Oscar lets the blow crash into his block full-on. It staggers him, like Oscar knew it would, and Mercury takes the chance to slam his heel into Oscar's arm.

The other boy is smug. He's looking at Oscar's loosening grip on his weapon instead of Oscar himself, and he thinks he's won.

Oscar doesn't waste the opening.

He drops the staff between them and knees it into Mercury's legs. The older boy does a swift bit of footwork to keep from tripping over it, surprised. This means he misses when Oscar reaches into his pouch with his left hand.

He still catches Oscar's right cross, but that was the point. Oscar grabs Mercury's arm right back, lifts it, and steps into the boy's space. He takes a kick in the ribs for the opening this leaves in his right side. His left hand comes up, elbows aside a second kick, and smashes a vial right into Mercury's face.

The poison Dr. Watts made is still in the prototype phase; it eats through defensive Aura like a charm, but doesn't do much damage to actual skin. The fine Burn Dust mixed in?

Well. That works well enough.

The explosion renders the older boy blind. When Oscar moves to capitalize on it, Cinder steps in. Bit of a killjoy, but expected.

When it becomes clear Mercury's sight isn't coming back, she becomes concerned--Oscar, notably, is not.

"I'm sure it'll come back eventually. Give it a day or two; a week at most." Addressing Mercury, he adds, "Well, provided you can channel Aura into healing. You... can heal yourself, can't you? A child could figure it out."

(And he would know.)

Mercury blinks and shakes his head like a dog, hard. When this fails to improve anything, his face gets very, very ugly. "Fuck. Fuck. What the hell was that? Didn't you ever learn how to spar, you little shit?!"

Oscar scoffs. "I learned how to fight. Sorry if that was too much for your delicate sensibilities to handle."

Mercury keeps swearing a blue streak, even as Emerald hauls him away. Oscar feels a frown settle over his face as the noise dies down over the distance.

It was just a little bout of temporary blindness--it shouldn't even hurt for more than a few minutes. What the heck was Mercury's problem?

...Maybe they weren't as alike as Oscar'd thought.

He scowls, then starts picking shards of glass out of his left hand for lack of anything to do. The poison's already gone, evaporated on contact with his Aura, but the wounds can't close until the vial's leftovers are all removed. The blood flow stops easily enough, but the burns will take a while.

He opens and closes the hand experimentally. Stings, but good enough.

Maybe he should start wearing gloves? He probably has enough time to buy a pair before he and Emerald have to track down Torchwick's latest bolthole; that fight only took a few minutes.

Oscar has quite a bit of free time, tailing Cinder. He spends a lot of it at windows.

They're laying low, the four of them, so they shift hideouts every few days. Their current one is a small apartment, located above an empty shop, and the closest one to the city center that Oscar's seen yet. There are crowds of people passing by, talking and laughing and emoting, and it's... this is supposed to be normal. This is what other people have.

They're so loud, he thinks, derisive because he doesn't know how else to react.

He keeps expecting there to be Grimm. There's no howling. The sun goes up, and comes back down, and goes up again. Mercury and Emerald bring back foods he doesn't know the names of; when they ask him what he prefers, he can't answer. He walks past dozens of buildings every day, and he doesn't know what most of them are for. 

He shares close quarters with three other people, and he has trouble falling asleep at night.

He's never been gone this long before.

"We got a Huntress!" their hired thief yells. Cinder passes the controls over to Oscar as she strides towards the plane's open hatch.

Oscar ignores the blasts of energy as he swiftly finishes the flight-check and steadies their cargo ship. From the sounds of it, he's going to have to re-stitch the Dust into Cinder's dress later. Torchwick stumbles over and grabs the back of the empty chair for balance.

"She really put the kid in charge." The man grumbles to himself. "Hey, shortstack, you sure you know what you're doing?"

Oscar eyes the man over his shoulder in as unfriendly a manner as he knows how. Then, very deliberately, he shoves the thrust ahead as far as it will go. Torchwick staggers and curses as the plane shoots forward, away from nosy Huntresses.

Chapter Text

"Oscar, do you have a family name?"

Cinder is working on their forgeries, to infiltrate Beacon as fake Haven students. Both Emerald and Mercury glance over when she asks, but neither seem particularly interested.

"Yes." Oscar opens his mouth to say more, then pauses. Thinks about it. "...Huh. I... don't remember it."

An awkward sort of silence descends. Cinder shrugs it off. "Well, I suppose I'll just have to choose one for you, then."

Team CMOE (Camo) enters Beacon Academy on a quiet day, trickling in just after a handful of other Haven students.

The school is huge and open and like nothing he's ever seen before, and Oscar does his best not to gape or look anything remotely like curious. According to... just about everyone, it makes him look his age, and looking his age is something best avoided in a school where the students are all about five years older than him.

To that end, Oscar's wearing a hat with a wide brim, pulled low enough to cover his eyebrows, and boots that add at least two inches to his height (and feel a bit like they're trying to eat his feet). A short brown coat has also been thrown over his usual apparel, arms rolled up to his elbows, that "makes his shoulders look wider," apparently.

(He's not entirely convinced that Emerald and Mercury weren't just messing with him, but Cinder agreed, so. Here he is. The fashion disaster of their little fake-team, probably.

...At least the coat has a lot of pockets. And the boots are metal-toed; good for kicking.)

Their cover story is this: They are perfectly ordinary students from Haven. Second year--the only ones. Mercury is Emerald's partner, to explain why they fight so well together. Cinder is Oscar's, to explain why they're always in each other's company. (Oscar can't be trusted alone, they all say. He doesn't know how to play nice, he doesn't know how to fly under the radar, he can't fake normal to save his life, blah, blah, blah. 

This does allow him to better observe how Cinder operates, though, so he grits his teeth and bears the needling.)

Cinder is the leader, of course. Emerald is the 'friendly one', as the only minion who's been even remotely socialized in proper society. Mercury is the muscle, not because he's the best fighter but because he can look and act the part. And Oscar is... the runt of the group? 'Older than he looks, honest'? Actually mute, to explain why he won't be saying anything to anyone, ever?

He hates this mission.

The cafeteria confuses Oscar. It shouldn't, people make weird decisions all the time, but the cafeteria in particular is a hot mess and Oscar wants as little to do with it as possible.

Mealtimes, for example. Why is that a thing? If food is meant to be available to the students, why not at all times? A storeroom would do. Shelves they could pick off of. Maybe a student kitchen. An 'eat when you're hungry' affair would keep the kitchen staff from being overwhelmed by a rush of students, and also ensure no one would have to eat so much in one sitting.

Oscar pokes at his meal, over the noise of what seems to be the entire school chattering. Maybe he could just pocket the rest of this for later.

The whole place just seems like an enormous waste of space, in his opinion. Though, Oscar will acknowledge that space is something Beacon has plenty of. Their library, at least, is massive, and he hopes they get to spend some time there.

A fight starts on the other end of the hall. Someone throws a... custard pie? Oscar thinks that's what they're called. Anyways there's an awful lot of food beginning to fly, and Cinder makes to leave. Oscar swipes the rest of his sandwich and follows her.

Some poor fool gets too close to the fighting and is launched into a window. A table goes flying, and some girl starts laughing manically. People start actively running for the exits.

Is. Is this normal. Is this what the space is for. What.

Oscar takes a half-hearted bite as they clear the doors. He sort of wishes Emerald or Mercury were here; they're more receptive to random questions than Cinder.

At least the food's pretty good. 

Classes. Oscar has never been to a class before. It's... kind of nice, just listening to someone talk and not being required to give any input. It reminds him of when he was younger and caught Dr. Watts in a particularly chatty mood--he gets human interaction, but it's soft and unexpectant.

Of course, Cinder rather ruins it when she proceeds to dump most of her homework on him. Typical. It gives him an excuse to visit the library more frequently, though, so things could be worse.

...Being gone from home so long has ruined his priority list.

(It doesn't feel like a bad thing. Oscar thinks he might actually miss Beacon, a little, when they finally leave.)

Meeting Ruby Rose is something of a coincidence; the girl dashes from her dorm just as they're scouting the building out, and smacks right into Emerald. Oscar, hanging at the back of his 'team', doesn't realize what's so striking about her until she starts trying to give them directions to their own dorm.

"Oh. You... have silver eyes."

Conversation screeches to a halt. Ruby is giving him an odd look; Oscar bites his tongue and determinedly doesn't give off any sign of embarrassment. "Umm. Are you-"

"Ignore him," Emerald steps in. She has the most believable smile of their entire group, and she puts it to good use now. "He's just kind of... like that."

Later, sequestered in their assigned room, Cinder demands to know what that was about.

"There are... stories, old ones, about warriors with silver eyes. And how dangerous they can be." 

Cinder seems to sense that he's holding something back. Her eyes narrow slightly. "And?"

And most of those stories I heard from Salem herself. Some of them might even be cause for concern. "And a while back, the Queen personally ordered one such warrior killed."

Emerald and Mercury share a glance. Cinder brushes her finger against her chin. "Is she likely to be a problem?"

"Eventually? Almost certainly. Right now? Well, perhaps not."

Oscar frowns. It's been a long time since his first mission, but he still remembers her--the nameless Huntress. How strange she had been. Naive, almost, but... kind, in a way that stands out from the rest of his memories.

She was probably cared for. She was probably missed.

Oscar ducks his head, tucking his chin into the collar of his shirt.

"...If we get the chance, we should try to take her out."

He is this close to losing his mind.

"I'm just going to the roof. There will be no talking to anyone, I will be back in two hours at most, and if it makes you feel better I will play the nonverbal card on anyone I meet."

"I'm not saying you shouldn't, I'm just thinking that someone should go with you. You might get lost, and who knows what-"

"Shut up, Mercury." Scowling, Oscar pries open the window and scampers right up the wall. When he looks back, Emerald and Mercury have stuck their heads out to watch him go. He reaches down and flips them off.

When he gets to the rooftop, it is wonderfully, blessedly silent. He falls backwards on it with a sigh, something tense and coiled in him unwinding. 

He's not used to other people. Even after months of living in Vale, it still surprises him sometimes when he looks up from a book and realizes someone's there, or when someone moves in their sleep and startles him awake. He tries to keep track of them all, Cinder and Emerald and Mercury, but even three people feels like a lot to keep an eye on twenty-four seven. 

Even the stars look different here, he thinks, though the moon's about the same. The CCT tower breaks up the skyline, and Oscar is struck by a sudden urge to see what the night sky looks like from up there instead. He's been scaling towers for years; the thing is probably climbable. He's never been on one so tall before. It might be cool.

...This is so stupid.

Oscar's tired. He wonders how much longer this mission is going to take.

Oscar can't dance. Well, technically, there's nothing stopping him, but he'd really rather not. The only people any of them would be comfortable with him partnering with are Cinder and Emerald, and he'd like to avoid an evening of stepping on either of their feet.

Cinder would not take it well. And Emerald has a 'habit' of stealing his wallet and returning it a few Lien short.

(Straightforward fighters are... not easy, precisely, but simple. After a lifetime of training with Grimm, and Atlas machinery, and Hazel, and sometimes Tyrian? Oscar knows how to fight people who are just plain stronger than him. It's kind of all he knows.

Against tricksters like Emerald, like Oscar himself? Well. Bluntly, he sucks.)

He wonders if he should just leave early. The only reason he came at all is for the novelty value; extremely  infrequent excursions aside, he's never really gotten out much, and thus new things will always be appealing. In light of that, the dance had sounded... more interesting than it's proving to be.

At least he's not the only one floating around without company. There are too many people in Beacon and Oscar can't possibly hope to keep track of them all, but he picks out Pyrrha Nikos. The Schnee Heiress. The silver-eyed girl, who looks about as bored as he is. Professor Ozpin, who, yeah, Oscar's not going to approach under any circumstances--especially if even half the things Salem's alluded to are true.

Then a boy walks in wearing a dress, and the absurdity of it actually entertains him for a little. So at least the night isn't a complete waste.

"Hey," he hisses softly into his cup. From the corner of his eye, he watches a girl edge out through the doorway he's leaning next to. "Someone's leaving. Miss silver-eyes. Watch yourself."

"Can you stop her?" His comm buzzes.

"I can try." He has in his pocket a very small but potent dose of sedative that he was honestly considering spiking the punch with -it's been a boring night, and the opportunity was right there- and he has a small knife under his suit jacket. The girl in red is unarmed, so far as he can see. "But do you really want me to?"

"...No. It's fine." 

The White Fang attack. Grimm attack. Dignitaries arrive from all over Remnant. Oscar still isn't used to so many people; after a while they all just blur into one featureless mass.

The Vytal festival sweeps in and crashes over them all like a breaking wave. Quite a few teams go under, in the tumult.

Team CMOE is not one of them.

Beacon falls.

Oscar watches, perched on the roof of a side building and unbothered by Grimm. It's... incredible. Destruction on a scale he's never seen before, never even imagined.

He watches how the people run, the very foundations of their peaceful lives ripped up at the roots. How swiftly one of the pillars of society unravels, given enough picking at its seams. The way the Grimm tear into the city, unrelenting and unstoppable.

...Salem wanted him to see this. However legitimate his orders, Oscar wasn't needed on this mission--not really. So she must have wanted him to see this.

He wonders why. He hadn't thought he needed the reminder, but maybe she thought differently.

(Enjoy yourself, Cinder had said.

Looking at what his master is capable of -without leaving her stronghold, without showing more than a single of the many cards in her hand- Oscar just feels sick.)

There's a little boy.

Oscar doesn't know who he is. He doesn't know where his parents are. But a trio of Ursa is stalking a little boy down an alley, and he's crying and alone and it's really none of his business but Oscar... can't quite look away.

He slows down, turns from his course to approach them. He's. He's not sure what he's doing. Stepping off the roof, he lands in a crouch between the Grimm and their prey.

"Stop," he tries, without much hope. The beasts slow, scenting the air with something like confusion. But they don't stop.

Oscar doesn't know what Salem did to make the Grimm ignore him, what spell or mental command, but it doesn't hold up if he attacks first. He can't control them -not like Salem or even Cinder can- but much like their master, the creatures are content to leave him be if he keeps his head down.

If he attacks first, he'll have a fight on his hands--one very likely to draw in more of the surrounding Grimm.

The Ursa in the lead approaches. It tries to nudge Oscar aside, like he's a log in its way; Oscar steps back from it and keeps considering his options. He's... doing something pretty stupid right now, isn't he? The easiest thing to do would be to just leave.

But he thinks he wants to spare this child -just one child, at least- the very worst of today.

The kid behind him sobs, once, loud and full of despair. Every single Ursa perks up at the sound, snouts turned unerringly to a point behind Oscar.

Oh.

Oscar turns, showing his back to the Grimm, going against just about every instinct he has. He quickly gathers the boy close, covers his eyes with a hand.

"Listen to me. Don't move. Don't say anything. You're going to be okay," he murmurs, then casts about for something else to say. He can fake calm -of course he can, he's done it for years- but comfort is something he's never had cause to learn. "I'm... I'm a Huntsman. I promise, you'll be okay."

Oscar has helped kill Huntsmen, and he knows how little promises mean in the face of death. But the boy digs his trembling fingers into Oscar's coat as Oscar picks him up, and he keeps very still.

One of the Ursa growls. Another one starts to circle around them both. "Listen to me, alright? Only to me. You're going to be fine. This is just a bad dream. There's no reason to be scared." Oscar hasn't lied like this since he was seven and still new to Salem's home. It feels unpracticed and awkward on his tongue. "Everything's okay."

One of the Ursa nips him, teeth scraping at his pant leg; Oscar very carefully doesn't flinch. He edges towards the nearest building.

"You have a mom, right? Or a dad, or whoever. Pretend I'm them. We're... watching a TV show. It's a scary TV show, and I'm sorry I put it on. But it's not real. You don't have to be afraid. There's nothing to be scared of. You'll see."

The Grimm aren't exactly losing interest, but they haven't torn through Oscar to get to his burden. The boy's stopped shaking. Good enough.

"We're gonna go to another room now. Okay? You just keep holding on like that. I need to open the door. Don't let go."

Then he bursts into movement, leaping for the lowest ledge and scrambling right up the wall. One of the Ursa snarls, but they don't attack and they can't follow. Oscar gets away clean.

He sets the kid down in an empty street, having backtracked a bit to be closer to the evacuation point. The child isn't crying anymore, but he also doesn't want to let go; Oscar has to pry him off.

"I need to find my partner, kid, and you need to find your parents. Follow this road all the way down, and you'll get to the docks, alright? I'm sure your family's there." He's not, for all Oscar knows they might be dead, but. He doesn't want to have risked his neck for nothing, and he can't actually walk this boy all the way out. He's got a job to do. "Whatever you do, don't stop, don't cry, and don't get scared. Now go."

He leaves then, and he doesn't look back. If some wandering Grimm picks the kid off before he makes it to safety... Oscar doesn't want to have to see it.

When things go south and Cinder gets a little petrified, Oscar is the first to arrive on the destroyed roof. He was already on his way to the tower and, unlike Emerald or Mercury (or, as he learns later, Qrow Branwen), he doesn't have to battle or avoid every Grimm straggler in the way.

(Also, he's been climbing towers without elevators for fun since he was, oh, eight or so; Beacon's lack of one doesn't deter him in the slightest.)

Cinder's alive and barely awake; Ruby's alive and not awake at all. Oscar goes to Cinder first.

She can't stand and can't walk. It looks like she's in agony. But she'll live, so Oscar turns away.

He approaches Ruby next. The girl doesn't move when Oscar turns her on her back. Her pulse is still going strong, and visually nothing's wrong with her; there's every chance she might recover from this.

He should kill her. Ruby Rose is a bright and happy and fierce and powerful girl, and Oscar knows if he goes back without taking this opportunity to kill someone with silver eyes then Salem will be very, very unhappy with him. No one will come to his defense--certainly not the girl who reminds him so much of the woman that showed him what might’ve been the only real, thoughtless kindness he's experienced in years.

He lifts his staff above her head, metal-capped end pointing down. One blow, maybe two, should be enough to crush her skull. The girl is still and helpless and... certainly no threat, not to Oscar, not right now.

He hesitates.

And that's what gives Qrow Branwen enough time to show up.

Oscar isn't one of Salem's protégées, not really. Often she has things to say to him; rarely does she have things to teach him. But that doesn't mean he's never learned anything from her.

First and foremost: how to deceive someone without telling a single lie.

"I wouldn't move if I were you." The Huntsman stops. Good. Oscar keeps one eye on the man's face, and the other on his drawn weapon.

"I don't know what you think you're doing kid, but you should step away from her," the man growls. "Now."

"I know exactly what I'm doing." He's waiting for backup. But he's not about to let an enemy know that. "I'm thinking of nipping this little problem in the bud. Or the neck. But, who knows? I might be convinced to leave her alive."

His staff's point drifts ever so slightly away from the girl's face, until it's poised to crush her throat. A slower death than breaking her skull, but an easier and faster blow for Oscar.

The man's grip on his weapon tightens. Oscar still doesn't want to kill this girl, not really, not when he doesn't have to. But the situation's changed, and he's fully prepared to follow through on his threat if it comes down to it.

Something of this must show on his face, because the Huntsman takes his second hand off his scythe and shifts to a... marginally less threatening stance. "You don't wanna do anything you'll regret," the man warns.

Of course not, Oscar goes to say, but Emerald and Mercury climb into view. Both freeze as they take in the situation.

Oscar turns his head their way without taking his eyes off the Huntsman. "Hey guys. Emerald, a little help? Grab Cinder."

Emerald nods, and doesn't move. Mercury hurriedly hauls their fallen leader up and away.

Oscar lifts his staff from Ruby, and the man he's later informed is Branwen doesn't track the movement. Good. He might not think much of her personally, but Emerald is pretty useful.

Oscar joins the rest of his team at the edge of the roof, then pulls out a fist-sized Dust Crystal. He throws it at the opposite side of the battleground.

The four of them are fleeing before it even hits.

Out in the wilderness and with Cinder barely able to talk, Oscar takes field command. It's not a smooth process.

"-ust don't get why you're so okay with this."

"Because Cinder ordered us to, or have you already forgotten what sh-"

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, Em, but Cinder is out of commission right now, and we're heading straight into Grimm-controlled territory on the say-so of a kid."

"You know," Oscar calls, finally stepping into the little clearing where they've set up camp. "If you have something to say about me, you should really say it to my face. It's the polite thing, or so I've been told."

"Oscar! You're back. That was fast." Emerald pulls out the same fake-cheery smile she used on all those teams back during the festival, and that makes him want to punch her a little. Do these two really think that little of him?

"Do either of you know how to clean these?" Oscar asks instead. He holds out the pair of rabbits he's caught without much hope; they didn't know how to set snares for prey either.

Conveniently, Mercury does know how. Oscar can work with that.

"Emerald, there's a stream ten minutes north. Take Cinder and get cleaned up." She hesitates, glancing between the two boys. Oscar sends her a Look he's watched Cinder use on her minions before. "Go."

She goes.

Oscar and Mercury each take a rabbit and a seat. After a minute, Oscar sighs and lowers his knife. "You don't want to follow me."

Mercury snorts, pulling his own blade -Oscar isn't the only one who carries spares, it had turned out- away from the carcass. "No shit. You've been almost useless for this whole gig, but now that Cinder's down for the count, we're just supposed to follow your lead?"

Don't start a fight. Don't start a fight. He wants to scowl, but pushes it down. 

"It doesn't make sense, does it?" Oscar tips his head to one side, ever so slightly, ever so mockingly. "Out of curiosity, when exactly did Cinder give you those orders?"

Mercury eyes him. The boy has the remains of a scar around his right eyebrow from the time Oscar fought him--a fluttery, brownish sort of thing. Oscar has similar marks all over his arms and hands. "Pretty sure it was a bit before the dance."

Huh. Earlier than he'd expected her to figure it out. 

"Didn't you think it was weird that Cinder's master wanted someone on your team who couldn't really contribute?"

"Eh, a little." Mercury pauses. He's realizing that something's strange--not too bad on the uptake. Slowly, he continues, "Cinder says you're the big boss's servant. Like, literally makes-tea-and-mops-floors servant. I figured you were around to do something similar for Cinder."

Oscar snorts. 'Something similar for Cinder,' hah. He picks up what's going to be their dinner and resumes skinning it; Mercury does not.

"I am her servant, yes. My job is to do whatever task she has for me. Sometimes, Mercury, that means cleaning up her messes. Whatever... or whoever they may be." Oscar smiles, fake as Emerald's and with twice as many teeth. Mercury narrows his eyes. "But I don't think you have anything to worry about. Cinder turned out pretty well in the end; once we reach the Queen's castle, you guys probably won't need me to hang over your heads anymore."

(Well, except maybe Emerald. Oscar's opinion of people who act on faith is as low as ever.)

"Why, the prodigal son returns!" A giggle. "Hello, little chore-boy. We've missed you so."

Tyrian is the absolute last person Oscar was hoping to see, when their ragtag group first came in. Naturally, he immediately dumps his tagalongs on the man.

"Oh good. I have a report for Lady Salem, Tyrian; would you mind showing these three to the infirmary?"

Tyrian smiles in a way that suggests that he knows exactly what Oscar's doing... but his eyes are inevitably drawn to the fresh meat. He makes a mocking sort of bow as he steps aside to let Oscar pass. "But of course! We wouldn't want to keep her Grace waiting. Now, as for you dear children..."

Oscar would wish Cinder's lackeys luck with the insane man, but he'd rather keep that luck for himself. The Beacon mission was... a bit of a mixed bag, for all that it's a nominal success. Hopefully, Salem's not in the mood to shoot the messenger.

It's days after Beacon's fall, nearly a full two weeks, when Oscar's finally resituated in the tower. He can't say that it's good to be back, precisely, but it's not entirely terrible.

Finishing the mission isn't a relaxing affair. It's been rather hectic, actually, between the travel and Cinder's recovery and the fact that, ever since he got back, Salem has taken to calling on Oscar quite frequently for no apparent reason.

But there's something soothing about looking out the windows and seeing the familiar blighted landscape, just as unchanged as the day he left.

Then Ozpin starts talking in his head, and for the first time since his kidnapping all those years ago, things begin to make a sick, twisted kind of sense.

'...oh. oh my goodness.'

"Holy-!"

Oscar hasn't slipped on his way to the castle roof since he was, like, eleven. His landing strategy... could use a little work.

Chapter Text

Oscar tries to hide it, when Ozpin starts talking in his head.

Maybe it's a test, so he should tell Salem. But maybe it's a test, so he shouldn't bother her and should just ignore all the traitorous whispers in his head.

Maybe it's a prank. Maybe Watts did something. Maybe Oscar's been gone from home too long, and he misses Beacon so he's hearing its' Headmaster's voice in his head.

Maybe he's just going crazy.

Hopefully. 

Anything, so long as it's not actually Ozpin in his head.

(He knows what this is. Oh god, he knows what this is, but for it to be him? To be Oscar?

What are the chances?)

"You said... that supposedly, you reincarnate in a like-minded soul. In what way are we like-minded?"

The book Salem wants is somewhere in this row, he knows it. Oscar scowls. The shelves reach up to the ceiling, and the ladder's gone missing at some point--probably Dr. Watts' fault. He cranes his head back to peer at the upper titles.

'i suppose that remains to be seen.'

The Headmaster's voice is troubled. Oscar tells himself he doesn't care; it's probably not real, anyways.

'Oscar.' A sigh. 'i can assure you-'

"No, shut up." Ah, there it is. Right at the top. Typical.

He gets caught, of course. Talking to himself isn't exactly subtle, and he's not used to avoiding Salem's gaze because usually she doesn't actually care enough to keep it on him. He's had free run of the castle for years; in a terrible sort of way, it has become his home, just like Salem first told him so long ago. 

There's a strange dissonance between everything Oscar knows about his mental parasite and the edges of panic creeping into the man's voice.

'-car! you need to listen to m-'

"I'm disappointed you didn't tell me this yourself."

"Sorry, Salem." She gives him a narrow-eyed look, the sort she hasn't given him in years. What-? Oh. Oscar coughs and corrects himself. "Lady Salem." He wonders if he'll ever have a private moment with her anymore, given the eavesdropper that's taken up residence in his head. "I... well, to be honest, I thought I might've been going crazy."

"Even so, you should have come to me."

A pause. Oscar desperately hopes she's feeling merciful today. Ozpin radiates concern and consternation, a sort of low simmer of alarm, and Oscar tries to mentally shove the unwelcome feelings away.

"Still, I suppose that I could have better prepared you for the eventuality," Salem continues. She clasps her hands, tea abandoned. "Your job now, little Oscar, is this: suppress him. As best you're able. I trust I don't need to stress the importance of this."

"No, my Lady." Oscar bows. Then, "...if I may ask, what did you mean, ‘you could have prepared me for this’? Did you-"

"-know this would happen?" She finishes for him. Her lips pull into a small frown. "...Yes, I did."

Ozpin falls silent. It's a heavy, intent sort of silence. It feels like it infects something in Oscar, leaving him just as helplessly mute.

"I thought there would be more time," she continues, sighing, like she isn't aware of how badly Oscar's taking this. There's a lie in her manner--she always knows the effect she has. "It isn't often he takes someone as young as you, after all. I expected you to be his next incarnation, not his current one."

How, Oscar wants to ask, except Ozpin is asking the same thing. ‘Suppress him’, she said, and maybe this isn't something the dead man should know. Maybe he shouldn’t ask.

Oscar hesitates a long moment.

"He... wants to know how you knew it would be me." And so do I.

She stills. "Let me speak to him," Salem demands, and Oscar's never heard her voice sound like that. Soft. Tight, almost.

That's terrifying.

'i have nothing to say to her.' And his voice is just as soft, just as angry. Then the man falls silent.

Oh. Oh, that's infinitely worse.

"Now, Oscar."

Oscar repeats Ozpin's words, pale and shaking like he's seven years old all over again, and Salem crushes him like a bug. Over the sound of Oscar gasping for air, she very coolly repeats herself--something Oscar hasn't heard her do since he was a small and clueless child.

Ozpin denies her again. Oscar pleads for him not to, since he'll be the one to suffer for it--to no avail.

And the man has a lot to say after that. Anger, and horror, and something like protectiveness. Something like concern. Something like fear, pushed down so far Oscar almost doesn't recognize it.

None of it is directed at Salem, and none of it is what she wants to hear.

So she doesn't stop.

Hours later, when everything has fallen into the soft silence of an abandoned battlefield, Ozpin speaks again. ‘you need medical attention.’

He sounds apologetic. A little soft, a little remorseful, a lot like he actually cares.

God, Oscar hates him.

A sigh. 'she was lying, you know.' 

He doesn't twitch. He barely acknowledges the voice, even in his own head. His mental parasite continues on regardless. 'about not knowing how long you had. she knew. i don't know how, but even now she still has her tells.'

He doesn't want to deal with this. "Shut up," he rasps, and then has to turn on his side when he starts coughing.

Oscar has lived in this castle for as long as he can remember, and he didn't know there was a dungeon. He spends weeks there.

It's not his fault, it's not, it's all because of this fucking voice in his head. But he spends weeks there.

'i believe the blame lies rather more with Salem than either of us.'

It doesn't matter how many years he's obeyed her. It doesn't matter that he considers himself loyal to her still. It doesn't matter that he never wanted this, never had a choice, and can't MAKE Ozpin talk to Salem. Five days with the man's voice in his head, and any trust he'd earned is just... gone.

If the asshole wasn't so fucking stubborn I would at least be allowed around the castle, Oscar finds himself thinking resentfully.

'language, young man.'

Oscar rolls his eyes.

More days than he can be certain of, and the teeth-grinding boredom of his uncomfortable little cell is chewing away at his sanity. Tyrian comes down once in a while to mock him and throw him food, and that's the highlight of his day. Tyrian is the best thing he has to look forward to. If that isn't a sign of how low he's sunk, Oscar doesn't know what is.

At least if it hurt, it would be over with faster than this.

Sadness. Pity. 'you didn't deserve to have any of that done to you, Oscar.'

"Shut up."

He wonders how Cinder's doing, if she'll recover enough to function again. He wonders who cleans up around the castle while Oscar's stuck down here, who brings Salem her tea. Wonders what Watts is getting up to, and how Hazel's doing, and if maybe Tyrian's met his untimely end yet.

The last makes Ozpin tut disapprovingly, but Oscar's very determined to not listen to Ozpin, even if the man is his only source of entertainment.

(The Headmaster tells Oscar things sometimes, though, and a lot of them... a lot of them overlap with the stories Salem's told him. If she's always known that Oscar would one day end up sharing a head with this man- is that why-

...Oscar has too much time to think on his hands.)

Dr. Watts is the one who lets him out, and the man drags him straight to his lab.

According to the doctor, he's just arrived and been appraised of Oscar's unique situation. The man is all but dancing in delight as he motions Oscar towards the lab tables and makes to put the boy to sleep. Oscar's never seen him so excited.

'what is he doing?' Ozpin prods sharply. Oscar doesn't bother to reply; he just keeps his eyes on the overhead light and his focus as far away from the needle as possible. He drifts off to the backdrop of Watts' rambling fervor and Ozpin's steady unease, nearly indistinguishable from his own.

When Oscar wakes up, he aches between his shoulders, and Watts is still going on and on. He's trying to study how Oscar and Ozpin's Auras are melding, from the sounds of it--the way it changes over time, if there's a way to separate them out, that sort of thing. Atlas has all sorts of interesting research going on these days, apparently. Oscar kicks his heels back and forth, and tries to ignore the way Ozpin zeroes in on the doctor's words like they mean something to him.

The thing is, Oscar has a system for questions he wants answered. First he tries to find the answer himself. Then he asks Watts. Then he asks Salem.

He doesn't think he'll find an answer to this no matter where he looks on his own, so he steels himself and interrupts the doctor's muttering. "Dr. Watts? Can I ask you something?"

Watts doesn't look up from the Scroll. "Certainly."

"Do you know if there's any way to separate me and The Parasite?" Oscar puts a lilt in his voice, makes a weak joke of it. Watts is already smiling when he looks up.

It's a familiar smile.

"Well, we're certainly going to try, young man. That's rather the point of this, after all."

Oscar mirrors his smile right back at him, and takes his leave. And as soon as he turns the corner, Ozpin puts forth his two Lien.

'he was lying, you know.'

"Shut up." Way to state the really-freaking-obvious. 

Oscar’s attendance at meetings is usually fairly optional. Like in most things, Salem doesn’t seem to much care if he does as he pleases, as long as he’s polite about it. Rarely has he been barred from a meeting.

It’s even rarer, though, that his presence is actively required at one.

"Hey man. Haven't seen you around," Mercury calls as Oscar enters. He ignores the older boy.

A glance around the table gives him an idea of who knows and doesn't know about his new... status. Cinder barely reacts to his presence, giving him a swift once-over and dismissing him as of no further interest. Mercury shrugs off his cold shoulder and joins Emerald at the windows. Tyrian catches his eye and gives him a cheery little smile and a knowing finger-wiggle; nothing different there. Hazel is steadfastly refusing to even look at Oscar, which is honestly rather worrying. Dr. Watts, of course, clearly knows.

Everyone stands up when Salem enters the room. She greets them all, hands out compliments and information sparingly, and settles into business with a deliberation that Oscar's long grown familiar with. 

"Hazel, you will go to the White Fang. The boy Adam has set up a meeting with their leader."

Hazel nods without looking up. Oscar tries to eye the man without being obvious about it.

"Tyrian, I’m sending you to our little friend in Haven. You two are to locate the Spring Maiden. Do try not to break the poor dear; I still have use for him."

‘what?’ Oscar keeps his face still. Suppress him. ‘Oscar, who does she mean?’

He isn’t sure who the Haven mole is, precisely, but even if he knew he wouldn’t share it with the man. Oscar tries very hard not to think about what little he does know.

“There are a few Huntsmen in the Mistralian region we haven’t taken care of yet; I want you to see to them, while you’re in the area," Salem continues. Tyrian lights up with unholy glee, giggling and clapping his hands like a child. "Be swift.”

Shock. Horror. Anger. Guilt. Ozpin makes a noise that might be a snarl. Oscar tries to push it all away, even as his hands tremble faintly behind his back.

Oscar gets it, he really does. Her greatest enemy lies thoroughly outmaneuvered, imprisoned within her stronghold by his own host. Salem’s earned every right to gloat.

That doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

Ozpin collects himself. Or at least, he goes quiet. Oscar’s hands stop shaking, but he still feels unsteady on his feet.

"Watts. I have need of you here." Damnit, that means more lab time for Oscar. "Cinder, you will stay as well, for recuperation."

"And what of the silver-eyed girl?" Cinder asks through Emerald.

Salem gives Cinder the option of doing that herself, when she’s recovered. This doesn't seem to please the Maiden. Cinder pushes for Salem to send Oscar to fetch her, which... isn't entirely objectionable? It would let Oscar out to stretch his legs, at least, though Ozpin gives off the impression that he'll kick up a fuss.

It's a moot point, since Salem says no. Oscar already has a mission of his own to see to, she says--one that no one else can do. And that's... all she says on the subject.

Oscar can't decide if he's relieved or disappointed.

A few barbs are thrown as the meeting adjourns. Everyone, minus Hazel, leaves when dismissed.

Oscar doesn't have a seat at the table. He's allowed to attend meetings, yes, but his place is behind and slightly to the left of Salem. He watches her shoulders, the turn of her head, but she makes no move to send him away with the others.

"And Ozpin?" Hazel is saying. His voice is... dark. His face looks the same. The presence in his head is attentive but almost hurting, somehow, and Oscar wonders what that's all about.

"As long as Oscar remains in control, I see no reason to worry about that," Salem dismisses. Oscar doesn't move, but his gaze dips until he's staring fixedly at the table. Neither acknowledges him, but he understands the second reason his presence was required at this particular meeting.

As long as I remain in control. How long will that last, Oscar wonders, and... and what happens when that's no longer the case?

'that's not how it works, Oscar. you won't disappear, or be overwritten. she's just trying to turn you against me.'

The worst part, he thinks, is that his head-leech can probably feel how badly Oscar wants that to be true.

Ugh. Oscar keeps forgetting to put a bucket down here to puke in. Maybe he should fetch the one from the infirmary.

'you don't have to do this, Oscar.'

They're back on Watts' lab table. The Aura sample collection process is as nauseating as ever, and it's in the quiet moment the doctor leaves for Oscar to collect himself that Ozpin speaks.

"Well you don't have to make Salem angry either, and you still do it." Realizing that he's engaging the man instead of stonewalling him, Oscar tacks on a hasty, "and shut up, no one asked you."

Watts informs him that he's free to leave his little cell after that, so at least that's something. There's an unsettling gleam in the man's eye, and Oscar wonders how much is from the new samples and how much is sadistic delight at Oscar's seeming descent into psychosis.

...There probably isn't a good answer to that.

"Is something the matter?" Salem interrupts him as he closes on his third hour of training. The last of the Boarbatusk fades even as he gasps for breath.

"No. I mean- I just- he's in my head," Oscar says. "Always. And I... I can't seem to stop him." He snaps his jaw shut. Don't stutter.

"And yet here you are." She waves, as if to indicate Oscar's presence in her fortress. The look Salem gives him is blank, assessing and a little bemused. "You're doing very well, Oscar," she tells him--soft, approving.

He's never heard her sound like that. Not to him.

It doesn't feel like he's doing anything at all.

"Yes, Lady Salem," he tells her retreating back. He looks down at himself -the way his knees tremble, the faintest hint of blood in the creases of his palms- and decides that he's had enough for today. 

Oscar has never been needed, not really. Not until Salem tasked him with a job that he, and only he, could do: keeping Ozpin in check. And he's- he's honored, of course.

'you're not being needed here, Oscar. you're being used.'

"Oh, and that's so different from what you want from me?"

'the difference, young man, is that it would be your choice.'

"Shut up." Oscar closes his eyes. He wavers on his feet for a long moment, before he forces them back open. "I never chose any of this."

There's a sense of urgency building in him, one that has nothing to do with Oscar himself and everything to do with the voice in his head.

'Oscar, we have to leave.'

It's like an itch he can't scratch. None of his usual pursuits soothe the restlessness. He reads and it feels like he's just killing time; he climbs and he's just running in place; he fights Grimm after Grimm until he can barely walk and the adrenaline takes only the barest edge off.

'Oscar.'

He finds himself pacing the halls. It doesn't do anything, nothing does, but he can't sit still no matter what he tries. These days, he feels like he's going to vibrate right out of his skin.

'Oscar!'

And no one seems to see him anymore. Lady Salem never has anything for him to do. Cinder was filled in at some point, and now regards him with an ever-present mix of suspicion and curiosity--none meant for Oscar himself. Emerald and Mercury edge around him the few times they cross paths, and he'd find their caution amusing if he'd thought he'd done anything to earn it.

'Oscar, please.'

He just wants things to go back to normal.

Chapter Text

It starts small.

Oscar makes himself a cup of tea -the only drink Salem keeps available besides straight water- and finds himself suddenly, inexplicably longing for a mug of hot cocoa. He's never had it before. Or, if he did, it must have been so long ago that Oscar can't remember the taste of it.

Except he can remember. The smell, the flavor, the heat of it in his fingers. How it's made. The best brand for it, the little cafe in Vale that sells a few novelty types.

It's as familiar to him as the rations he's lived off of for the majority of his life.

...This isn't me, he realizes. His hands shake; he almost drops his cup. It isn't me, it isn't me, it isn't me.

The tea, when he finally puts it to his lips, is cold and unaccountably bitter.

Ozpin has been quiet, lately. Oscar gets the distinct sense that he's plotting, somewhere where their thoughts don't intersect. He tries not to worry about it, with limited success.

Down below, Cinder snarls as she ashes a pair of charging Creeps. Another group of Grimm rises to take their place. Oscar drums his fingers on his knee, waiting for the training room to free up. Watching someone else fight Grimm makes for a change of pace from the usual tedium of day-to-day life, at least.

Salem knows he's watching, of course. She always knows. But she doesn't give his little alcove more than a passing glance, utterly uninterested in what Oscar does with himself--that, at least, is relievingly normal.

Cinder... might or might not know. Oscar watches her waver on her feet, panting and desperate, and he's leaning towards not.

Ozpin watches with an unusual intensity, desperately curious as ever about the going-ons of Salem's lieutenants. Oscar still hasn't figured out how to stop him. He's not sure he should bother, honestly; it isn't as if the man can do anything with the information.

Cinder is training her Maiden powers, it looks like. She's not using her Semblance, Oscar thinks. She's either still injured, or holding back.

Ozpin prods at the thought without really taking his attention off the fire Cinder calls to her fingertips. Oscar refuses to give the man more information, but he gets the distinct sense that the Headmaster is lifting it from his mind anyways.

The sudden memory that comes to him -Cinder summoning weapons of glass, arrows and blades and blasts of Dust as she fights- is both entirely unsubtle and incredibly unsettling.

Oscar closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall behind him, denying the dead man any further view of Cinder's training. This doesn't seem to accomplish anything, as Ozpin's scheming continues undeterred somewhere deeper than the forefront of his -their- mind.

What am I even doing, he wonders. Frustration boils inside him like a living thing, and he can't rightly tell where his ends and Ozpin's begins.

Oscar's trying to figure an attack out.

He holds his staff like a sword and jabs with it, and while something about the motion feels natural the hit just doesn't seem to do much against the Grimm. He scowls as he circles the same creature again and again, lashing out with strikes that feel right but accomplish nothing.

When he's about to give up this peculiar flight of fancy, Ozpin intercedes. 'you're missing the point,' the man offers.

He's subdued. Patient, but the weeks of not doing something seem to have worn the man down.

Oscar dodges a swipe from the Beowolf's claws. "What do you mean?" He swats a second blow away, backhand, still holding his staff like it's a sword. It's weird, how the parry feels smoother like this than his usual two-handed grip. "I'm hitting it, aren't I?"

'the style you're using is meant for combination attacks. you are performing the strikes properly, but that means little if you don't follow through. let me show you?'

The presence in his head sort of... nudges him gently. Politely, almost. 

Oscar honestly considers it for a single moment. Then he makes a face and immediately does his best to scrub that moment from his memory.

"Hah, no." Oscar tries to mentally shove back at the voice. He's not sure it actually does anything, but the message gets across. "How do you even know what-"

--Ozpin had a cane. Oscar never saw the man fight while he was still alive, but Ozpin had a cane, and it was about the same length as Oscar's staff.

Oscar has fought with a staff this size ever since Salem first gave him a weapon. 

That- that was nearly five years ago. How long has she-?

Abruptly losing his patience for this little experiment, Oscar lets his body move the way it's always moved before it suddenly decided that this stupid ineffectual method of fighting "felt right." He plants both feet in the Beowolf's gut, his weapon's butt down it's throat and his spare knife deep in its eye. The creature gurgles in its death throes.

Long after it's remains have smoked away, Oscar is still sitting there--staring at his staff, and his hands, and the soft candles dotting the room. He's trying very hard not to think about anything at all.

'breathe, Oscar. it's alright.'

His throat clicks softly when he swallows. "Shut up." No it's not.

He wonders, a little distantly, why in the world he feels so betrayed.

When Oscar wakes up one day, he's in Dr. Watts' lab. His hands are moving, and typing is an action Oscar's unpracticed in but his fingers dance across the keys with startling swiftness.

What the…?

"Ah. You're awake," his mouth says. His eyes dart across the screen, skimming files of data he doesn't understand -wait that one's about me- and his finger jabs definitively at a small red button. Then his body reaches down without his permission, cracks open the side of the large terminal, and pries out a small chip. Oscar's unwitting fingers crush the thing into tiny, unsalvageable pieces.

No. No no n- "-o no no what the hell did you just do?!"

'what i had to.' The man's voice is a terrible blend of determined and resigned. 'that information wasn't something i could afford to leave in her hands. for what it's worth, i'm so sorry that it came to this.'

Oscar looks up. Watts is unconscious by the door, felled by a strike Oscar wasn't awake to see. Around him, the lab is in shambles, broken equipment sparking in one corner and chemicals slowly evaporating off the floor in another.

It feels like every drop of blood tries to escape his body at once.

Ozpin takes away some of the pain. Oscar isn't sure if this is something that the man only recently became strong enough to do, or if he's done it before and Oscar just never noticed, but it... helps. 

Oscar refuses to thank him.

(The Headmaster, at least, doesn’t seem to expect him to.)

Salem comes down once a day, by his estimate. She never says anything, and she never gives any indication that he's allowed to speak.

So Oscar kneels.

'you don't owe her anything.' The parasite hates it; of course he does. That's half the reason Oscar does it. But the main reason is that it's the only way Oscar knows to show her that he's still him, still serves her.

It's a graceless motion, lacking in sincerity--an empty and unfamiliar gesture he's only previously bothered with in the presence of others. She has demanded of him his obedience, and his silence, and his fear. But not once has Salem ever demanded that Oscar kneel to her.

He just... doesn't know what else to do.

So she comes down to his cell; he kneels to her; she leaves. Neither says a word.

Oscar wonders how long the stalemate will be allowed to drag on for. Between him and the old man, he's not sure who dreads it's end more.

Of all the people he knows the name of, Hazel is Oscar's favorite.

The large man can be something like kind. He can stop before Oscar's pushed to the point he can no longer continue, and he can offer an encouraging word (without the undertone of mockery) far more freely than Salem ever has. He can let small mistakes slide, and he can be persuaded to let a little boy who wasn’t quite used to being alone cling to his hand on rare occasions. (It was Oscar’s only source of kind touch, and he stopped because Tyrian found out.)

So it's an awful, horrible surprise, when Hazel tries to kill him. (It's not fair. It's not fair it's not fair it's not fair.)

'-rong. this isn't your fight, Osca-!'

"I said you're not who I'm looking to face, boy. I know that man can take control."

Hazel's rumbling voice is low. Even. It stands incongruously at odds with the crater he’s smashed into the floor, where Oscar was standing a fraction of a second earlier.

"Shut up," Oscar snaps, and he's not even sure who he's talking to.

Oscar is incredibly lucky, in a way. If Hazel wasn't trying to be -honorable, perhaps? Or possibly just uncharacteristically sadistic enough to want Ozpin to see this coming?- then Oscar wouldn't have even the slimmest of chances.

If the man had been ruthless enough to simply come into the cell and strike without warning, Oscar would be dead.

Instead, they're in the corridor right outside, and Hazel is coming at him like they're sparring--if Hazel had ever put any intent to kill in a sparring match. Oscar can feel the man's patience whittle away with every second Oscar doesn't give him Ozpin.

Which Oscar would do if that didn't involve dying himself.

'Oscar. Oscar!'

And of course, the body-snatcher in question isn't helping matters. 

"Hazel," Oscar tries to stall. "I'm still me, it hasn't gotten to-" he rolls under a swing, skipping backwards through a pivot to keep facing his attacker, "-the point where I can't stop him! He got me by surprise last time, it won't happen-!"

Oscar has to stop there to slam his staff down as an anchor point and bounce up and over a grab. He slides over a large shoulder and down Hazel's back, and if they were sparring he'd take the chance to kick the man in the kidneys. He doesn't.

"Listen to me!" Oscar snaps, not really expecting the man to but genuinely frustrated. It has exactly as much effect as he expected--Hazel doesn't slow down at all.

Best case scenario, he convinces Hazel that this is unnecessary; if Oscar can just prove that he can keep control, this will all blow over. Second best is that he can stall long enough for someone else to come along and help get Hazel under control. Third is that he can get away and hide long enough that Hazel has to go back out to finish helping the White Fang with the attack on Haven.

Maybe he can try leading Hazel to the upper floors where Salem tends to reside. She, at least, won't let Oscar die--she still has use for him. He just has to keep Ozpin in check for her.

(Right?)

'i'm sorry about this, Oscar.' Ozpin steps in when it becomes clear Hazel's not going to stop.

Hey!

Oscar wasn't awake the last time Ozpin took over. It's a little like being shoved underwater for the very first time; not painful -not yet, not until the drowning kicks in- but there's a sense of loss. Something vital is gone, something Oscar had always taken for granted, and now he's a mere spectator in his own body as Ozpin puppets his limbs to dart past Hazel and strike the large man in the ribs. Oscar tries to move, to fight, to regain the control he's always had, but all he's doing is clawing at water.

Hazel must see something of the change behind Oscar's eyes. "OZPIN!" He roars, eyes wild but terrifyingly focused, and stabs a pair of Dust crystals into each arm like a madman. Oscar would boggle if he had control of his face. Suddenly any sort of blocking or deflecting becomes nigh impossible, as Hazel starts channeling electricity directly into his blows. 

God damn it, you asshole! Stop, you're making things worse!

Oscar's body dances around the strikes, footwork sure and polished in a way that he's seen in others but never quite managed himself. Hazel's face twists into something frightening and deranged as he lunges and chases and hits harder than should be humanely possible. Killing intent radiates off him like light off the Vacuan sun, endless and burning.

Oscar has never beaten Hazel in a fight. Most of his tactics aren't suited for repeated use on the same target -the point of winning a fight is so that you no longer have to worry about that particular fighter again, as far as Oscar's concerned- so he's already at a disadvantage.

But Oscar doesn't need to win this fight. This isn't training, this isn't sparring, the point is not to beat Hazel. Hazel is trying to kill him; Oscar just needs to get away.

He needs a distraction.

Hazel knows most of Oscar's tricks. He has two doses of sedative and three of Watts' homemade brew, none of which will work against Hazel. Taunting is unlikely to help--Ozpin's mere existence has that covered far too well, and there's no sense in making Hazel angrier. The area they're fighting in is clear of obstructions or handy tools, and the only Dust he has on hand are the... crystals Hazel's pulled from his side pockets and stabbed into his arms.

Huh.

Hey, old man! Make him madder, and give me back my body.

'your plan is incredibly risky,' Ozpin thinks back. Because of course the body-snatcher knows what Oscar's planning. And of course he can communicate in the middle of a high-speed battle without actually opening his mouth. Oscar also gets the distinct sense that Ozpin finds his plan generally distasteful and is judging him for it, which is such bullshit and in a less dire situation Oscar would argue about it.

Unless you've got some better idea than to try and beat Hazel, just do it! It's not only your life on the line here.

'...very well.'

And Ozpin opens Oscar's mouth and... apologizes? He says he's sorry for Hazel's loss, and that what happened to Gretchen was a terrible, unavoidable tragedy. 

Who is Gretchen?

Oscar doesn't get an answer. Regardless, the words work terrifyingly well; Hazel roars like a wounded animal--like a dying Grimm no one did the courtesy of finishing off, still alight with rage and thrashing as it disappears.

It's not a sound meant for human throats.

(This isn't Hazel, it can't be, Oscar doesn't recognize this man-)

Then he reaches into the pouches on his thighs and comes up with two more fistfuls of Dust, and Oscar snaps back into control of himself. Bingo.

Lashing out with his staff held the way staffs are meant to be held, Ozpin, Oscar lands a solid blow on Hazel's upraised forearm and knocks two of the Dust crystals right out of Hazel's grip with a swift kick. The element of surprise seems to be the only thing that saves him from having his foot grabbed and suffering a messy death. Hazel's glares are touched by confusion as he shoves his remaining Burn crystals right into his blocking arm.

Oscar's not focusing on that, though. He's focusing on the spinning chunks of Dust. With all the force and leverage he can afford to wind up, he smashes them into the floor with his weapon.

The resulting explosion is large enough to knock both Oscar and Hazel back, all the power Oscar put into his swing reflected outward as concussive force. It wrecks his staff, but gives Oscar enough opening to shimmy out a broken window and right up the side of the tower.

Hazel bellows below him. Oscar tries to ignore it, and the way his hands shake on the stone, and the way his eyes can't quite focus through the blurriness.

'you need to breathe, Oscar.'

He can't. He's clinging to the highest spire and there are Grimm all around down below and Hazel just tried to kill him and he can't-

'in. out. in. out. stay with me, Oscar. try to keep pace."

"I- I need to focus," he hisses, desperate and angry. He sucks in a gulp of air, and holds it until he gets lightheaded. Then he lets it out in a whoosh, before inhaling another. The air is cold. He's alone. No, he's not alone, Ozpin's hovering. Hazel just tried to kill him. The pools below spit out Grimm after Grimm, baying and scrabbling, and he needs to get a grip.

It's long minutes before he feels anything even approaching normal again.

'better?' the dead man prompts, with an appalling good cheer. It makes Oscar want to punch him.

"Did you know?" He demands, and all he can think about is the rage on Hazel's face. The craters the man left in his quest to kill them--kill Ozpin. "How Hazel would react to you taking over. Did you know?"

'i was just trying to help.' The man sighs, all soft edges. 'i wish you would let me help you.'

"Bullshit! You- you just tried to get me killed!"

There's a long, damning pause. Oscar's nails dig into his gloves painfully. He can feel Ozpin's thoughts turn inward, examining himself and his own motivations, and Oscar isn't stupid. Neither is Ozpin. They both know things would be so much easier for the dead man if he reincarnated into pretty much anyone else, and the only way that will happen is if Oscar dies.

'that- that wasn't my intention, Oscar. i can see why you might think that, but i- please, believe me when i say that i would-'

"Shut up."

'-rather cooperate if at all possible. but i have a grave duty to uphold, and-

"Shut up."

'-while i understand if you don't feel the same way-'

"Shut up, Ozpin."

'...i do believe that's the first time you've addressed me by name.'

Oscar sobs once, low and unpracticed. He curls into as small a ball as he can make himself, face tucked into his knees and arms pressed to his head.

He should go back. But he doesn't want to die, and Hazel's still down there. Salem will be mad if he stays up here, he needs to get inside. But Salem might kill him herself if he goes to her, and god, Oscar doesn't want to die.

'i can help. please, Oscar.'

"Shut..." the vitriol dies on his tongue. He doesn't know what to do, and he can't trust Hazel and he can't trust Salem and he can't trust Ozpin. He's been alone since he was seven years old but never before has it been so complete. "Up."

Except no, he can trust Ozpin. Almost. More than the others, in a sick sort of way; because Ozpin, at the very least, will be inconvenienced by his death.

Hazel wants it. Salem probably won't stop it. Ozpin... will only hold it over his head as a last resort, if Oscar keeps refusing him.

'that was never what i intended.'

"That doesn't actually change the way things are," he growls. They sit in silence for a long moment, neither quite done but both unsure how to proceed. Oscar opens his mouth to spit something nasty, or to ask what Ozpin thinks they should do now, or to complain about how cold it is up here.

But what trickles out is this: "I'm tired, Ozpin."

'i can understand that. perhaps better than anyone,' Ozpin comforts. (Tries to comfort. Oscar doesn't think it works very well.) Gently, the man prods, 'do you intend to let that stop you?'

"What do you mean?"

'i mean that you have a choice to make. choose to stay here, and spend the rest of your days -however long that may prove- under Salem's thumb. or choose to leave, and defy her knowing that she will hunt you for as long as you continue to live.' Ozpin pauses. 'though i should warn you, regardless of what you decide, i don't intend to just let her do as she pleases.'

"What, you want to burn her library down next? Poison her tea? You're not exactly leaving me much of a choice there, Headmaster."

'aren't i? i am a dead man, Oscar,' and Ozpin sounds so very, very accepting of that. Oscar wonders how he does it. 'this life is yours, ultimately. i can teach you every secret i know, fight until my very last moment of existence--but i have watched over humanity for a very long time, young man. i know full well that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, i can do that will let me find your resolve for you. there isn't any way that i can force you to find it in yourself before you're ready, either. that first step rests entirely on you.'

His piece said, Ozpin lets the silence envelope them.

Oscar feels like he's seven years old again. Small, clueless, helpless, and still trying to flee Salem's tower for a world in which no one and nothing is waiting for him. Nothing but the Grimm, at least--the monstrous reality behind an empty hope.

(He knows he is older than that boy now, stronger and smarter and more able to fight back. He just... doesn't always feel like it.)

Salem or Ozpin? Salem or Ozpin? Seeing as one of them will eventually want him dead no matter what Oscar does (assuming she doesn't want that already), it shouldn't be such a difficult choice.

And yet. It's like there's something sticking in his brain, like the thought can't run its course because it keeps breaking down halfway. He can't just... leave. It doesn't work like that.

'well, why not?' his mental peanut gallery asks. The man sounds genuinely curious, too, which is frustrating on a level Oscar doesn't know how to explain. 

"I just can't, okay? I-..."

Ozpin lets him stew in his hesitation for a long moment. When it becomes clear Oscar doesn't have an answer, he presses on. 'would it help if i told you that there's an opportunity for you here?'

Oscar blinks at the offer, derailed, and then sighs. Carrot and stick, and it's a familiar routine but somehow Ozpin trying it on Oscar is just exhausting. His shoulders hunch up around his ears. "And what would that be?" he asks, with as much disinterest as he can channel.

If the man is deterred by Oscar's reluctance at all, he doesn't show it. 'an opportunity to be something more than what she made you. she's taken so much from you, Oscar. this could be a chance for you to take something back.' Ozpin lets Oscar mull over the thought in silence.

He's afraid of Salem. He'd be a fool not to fear her; no one has hurt Oscar as much, for as long, as she has. On some level, her touch will always exist on him, and Oscar hates that more than he'd ever dare to show.

And... He doesn't know if it's him or Ozpin who thinks of Beacon. It was enemy territory for Oscar, but something about the school was safe. Even as cautious as he’d had to be, Oscar had never been under the impression that the people there would try to hurt him. The most dangerous people he’d had to watch out for were his own "teammates.”

It might be nice, Oscar finds himself thinking, a little surprised at himself, to be something more than afraid. To be able to hurt her for a change.

He hides the thought away in the quiet corners of his mind. If Ozpin hears it, he lets it pass without comment.

"...I- fine. Fine. You... you win, Ozpin. What... what do I do?"

‘i don't see this as a matter of winning and losing, but thank you for trusting me.' There's a smile in Ozpin's voice that Oscar's never heard before. He's not so sure he trusts it at all. 'as for what to do... well, i've often found that the burden of moving forward is one easier to bear when there are trustworthy individuals by your side. tell me, have you ever been to Mistral?'

...Really. Oscar honestly doesn’t know what else he was expecting. "The lower regions, yes. But Haven? The Haven we both know is going to be attacked soon? No, I haven't been. You're... you're not subtle, old man."

'i wasn't trying to be.' A chuckle. 'but i believe it's where we'll find Qrow.' ...Oh. Uh. 'now, about those Grimm.'

Right. One problem at a time. Grimm first, awkward confessions hopefully never.

Oscar's very much not supposed to leave the castle right now, and he has no doubt the creatures will attack if he tries. "I'm guessing you have a plan to get around them?"

'i have a spell, to be precise. taxing and certainly not one i could hope to accomplish while fighting you at the same time, but it should get us to the edges of the Grimmlands. if i may?'

A gentle nudge. He wants Oscar to give up control voluntarily. Oscar can't say he's happy with the idea.

But.

He's coming to the slow realization that, as much as he might have tried to escape it, feared it, hated it--Oscar has lived a long time under Salem's protection. He's grown up there; it's all he really knows.

And now... Now, he's pretty much lost it.

Hazel just tried to kill him. In Salem's own castle, even. 

He can't stay here anymore. 

Oscar closes his eyes, and pretends he isn't afraid. 

...Do it.

It's a late summer evening, the night Oscar leaves home. He tries his best not to feel like he's running away.

One day, no matter what might happen down the line--he'll be back. He knows it.

(Even if, by then, he's just an afterthought riding in the head of some future incarnation.)

There are Grimm on him as soon as they reappear.

Oscar raises his backup weapon into a ready position-

'something's wron-'

-and it slips from his fingers as pain suddenly constricts his chest and his Aura fails to activate. He drops to his knees and desperately rolls out of the way of a lunging King Taijitu, gasping and spluttering. The space between his shoulders twinges painfully. He twists forward to grab his knife and bring it back up.

What the hell?

'duck.' Ozpin’s voice is little more than an exhausted whisper.

He drops obediently, and the snake's second head brushes his hair as it misses. Oscar puts the issue of his Aura aside for later to focus on his enemy.

It's a small beast, all told; perhaps the size of a car when coiled up. Nothing he couldn't handle on a good day, but today is not.

Fine. He's survived worse odds. Maybe he can re-purpose a convenient branch to replace his missing staff.

'there's... an irregularity in our Aura.'

"Yeah, I noticed," Oscar grouches. Fighting without it had sucked, and he has abrasions on his palms through his gloves. Oscar didn't think that was possible. "Do you have anything useful to say?"

'i have... a theory.’ Ozpin pauses, words still too soft and nearly sluggish as the man gathers himself. Oscar sort of wonders if he should really be talking at all. ‘feel along your spine?'

The boy blinks, but twists his arms around to probe at his back. He's not sure what he's supposed to be looking for.

'a little higher... hmm.' There's an odd lump right at the tips of where his fingers can reach, between his shoulders and a little to the left of his spine. Oscar peels off his glove, and his fingertips brush old scar tissue where they touch.

"What the hell," he breathes.

'an Aura suppressor, i'm fairly certain.' Ozpin's voice is grave, but calm. Oscar latches on to that calm a little more tightly than he's willing to admit. 'Atlas uses them to restrain particularly dangerous criminals. i... saw a few in the doctor's lab. leaving Salem's stronghold must have caused the one implanted in us to activate... perhaps some sort of location-based trigger mechanism...'

"...Atlas operates on their criminals?" Oscar asks, because that's the safer line of thought to pursue here. (He's not thinking about it, he's not freaking out, he's. Calm. Oscar is slightly disturbed, but very. Very. Calm.)

'no, of course not. they use it in... handcuffs and the like. it's... really not meant to be left in bodies.' Ozpin hesitates, long enough that Oscar wonders if the man's drifted off. '...we should probably get to a hospital as soon as we can and see about getting it removed.'

"We just left and you want me to go to a hospital?" Oscar snaps, incredulous. "With an issue this specific? Are you kidding? The only reason we have any chance at all right now is because none of the Queen's pieces know where I am, and that won't last long if we do something as attention-grabbing as that!"

There's a stilted pause. 'very well. if you believe that's of concern, i won't... push the issue. try... to...'

Ozpin fizzles out. Shit. Oscar takes a deep breath. He needs to stay focused and not freak out.

Okay. Okay. No Aura, no staff, very limited funds, magic he can't access and Ozpin is too burnt-out to provide, and hostiles to avoid until he can get to Mistral and hopefully secure some manner of support. From a Huntsman who already has an awful first impression of him. Right.

...Oscar hates this mission already.

Chapter Text

Oscar's fighting -trying to fight -he's moving in stances he never has before. He has no idea what he's doing.

"Is this your fault!?" He yelps, nearly tripping over himself as his feet try to move in two directions at once. His footing corrects itself automatically once he stops focusing on it in order to swipe at a small Nevermore. His grip keeps changing from his usual two-hands-spread-apart to Ozpin's hands-on-one-end when he's not paying attention, and half the time his body seems to forget that he has a knife at all, and all of this is throwing him off.

'in a way. you're picking up my muscle memory. i have reason to believe that using magic speeds up the process, though of course there's no way to be sure.'

"And you couldn't have mentioned that earlier?!"

'i’m afraid it rather slipped my mind.'

Anyone else, and Oscar would think they were lying. But he can tell that Ozpin's being genuine--not because of any sort of perceptiveness on Oscar's part or openness on Ozpin's, but because he can literally feel it.

...God that's creepy.

The day they properly leave the worst of the Grimm-infested territories behind is unremarkable. In fact, the only reason they know that they're out at all is because it's the first day nothing has tried to attack them. 

Oscar's a little worse for the wear. He knows the basics of how to live off the land, but three days of fighting and constant high-alert have taken their toll. Their only stroke of luck is that they've managed to avoid any of the truly elder Grimm.

(Neither he nor Ozpin are sure if the string of attacks are what passes for normal in those territories, or if the way the Grimm zero in on them is some other mysterious doing of Salem's, but the result is the same--lots of Grimm, lots of running and hiding, and plenty of injuries that inexplicably heal at the passive rate Oscar's come to expect of his hurts. The Aura suppressor means he can't stop himself from acquiring them, but at least they don't stick around too long.)

When Oscar finds a clearly-human-made path after a morning free of battle, he first collapses on the side of the road and sleeps for a few hours. 

He takes stock of his things once he wakes up. He's got a handful of Lien from his last mission, which should be enough to net him a few meals or maybe some cheap transportation.

All his little vials, padded and tucked away.

A shoddy, bumpy thing of wood that serves better as a club than a staff, and is already splintering where a young Ursa tried to take a swipe at it. Oscar needs to replace it again.

A small knife. Its blade is about the length of his hand, sharp but with almost no guard and only capable of so much in a fight. Easy to hide, and better than nothing.

Salem gifted it to him. Like his old staff, it's well made but plain, unadorned, unnamed--ultimately replaceable. All the things Salem gave me were like that, he finds himself thinking.

He stares at it for a long, long while.

'...you should keep it,' the hitchhiker finally says. Oscar grimaces, because he's probably right.

Easy to hide, better than nothing. He tucks it back into his boot with a sigh.

He really needs to see about getting a proper weapon.

They come across their first sign of civilization after almost a week of heading vaguely east. And by "civilization," Oscar means a small gas station next to a wide dirt road.

From the looks of it, the man who manages the station lives on the second floor of the structure. A pair of reinforced glass doors lead into an area where some simple amenities are sold. There's a single pump, and a small delivery truck parked by it--lucky.

Oscar needs directions and transportation. He could probably get the first by inquiring at the station, but he could just as easily access whatever mapping capabilities are in the vehicle. So he really only needs the truck.

He could try asking the owner for a ride and then play it by ear from there, but that's a bit risky. That tactic worked better when he was younger and more harmless-looking; people would let their guards down more easily. Plus his chances of successfully stealing the vehicle become a lot iffier if he approaches the driver openly before making the attempt.

Oscar needs to get to Mistral, and within an uncertain time limit. He can't take the chance--he'll have to get the keys off the driver.

Pickpocket or straightforward mugging? 

Oscar considers his options. He's not in the best shape, especially with his Aura inaccessible. The chances that the driver's a harmless civilian are high, but even idiots and pacifists carry weapons outside the kingdoms. Oscar can't afford to fight any battle he doesn't have to.

He edges around the glass entrance to try to peer inside and get an idea of the target.

'Oscar.' Ozpin sounds stern and judgy; the boy ignores him. 'Oscar. ...Oscar!'

Oscar drops back with a scowl. "Shut up, I need to concentrate," he hisses.

'when i said we need to get to Mistral, young man, i did not mean like this.'

Great. The lecturing voice. Oscar counters with his best annoying-brat impression. "But Headmasteeer," he whines under his breath. "I don't wanna do it your way."

He doesn't see Ozpin coming up with some way to cross the country. Even Cinder had more sense than this.

'you could try simply asking first. it costs you nothing to be polite, you know.'

Oscar thumps his head against the wall next to him. Then he does it again, for good measure.

Someone walks out the station's front doors, and the choice is swiftly taken out of Oscar's hands when the truck owner in question spots him. At Ozpin's very pointed prompting, Oscar mimes shyness and asks if maybe he's headed closer to Mistral? Oscar needs to meet someone there, but he's lost.

The delivery man, who introduces himself as Mr. Keeper, rather affably offers to take them to the nearest village, which is three or so weeks away from Mistral. Oscar barely had to get two sentences into his contrived sob-story, and the quick agreement throws him off a little.

Apparently, the stressed and travel-worn look he's developed tells most of his story for him. Huh. Something to keep in mind next time he needs to mooch off some passing stranger, Oscar supposes.

The truck is small but comfortable enough. Oscar settles into the passenger seat with a tired sigh; he's strong and knows how to fight, but his endurance is nothing special. Mr. Keeper must sense something of Oscar's exhaustion, because beyond the pleasantries he doesn't try to make conversation.

The only sour note to the easy win is how insufferably smug Ozpin is over the whole affair. Like getting to the nearest little village is some sort of personal win. As if Oscar couldn't have gotten them a great deal closer to Mistral than that if he'd just taken the damn truck to begin with.

'language, Oscar.'

Shut. Up. 

It's not too late, Oscar could probably still get away with knocking Mr. Keeper out and just dumping him on the side of the road. He isn't sure where in Anima he is, precisely, but there's only one path right now, and the village has to be within a day's travel. Oscar's certain he could figure it out.

'and don't forget to thank the nice man for his generosity.'

Mr. Keeper gives him an odd look when Oscar forgets himself and growls out loud.

A quartet of Griffins attacks the truck an hour into the drive. It crashes into the trees in a spectacular mess of broken boughs and shrieking metal.

Oscar throws himself at the nearest beast while Mr. Keeper hauls a large shotgun out the back. The man is a decent marksman, but with no combat training it just isn't enough.

When the attackers are all dead, Oscar surveys the smoking wreckage of the vehicle. His hip twinges painfully. His makeshift weapon's broken beyond usefulness. Blood pours from a deep gash in his left arm, and two of his fingers are likely broken.

The driver's dead. It isn't a surprise, but it still feels wrong. He's not supposed to be-

Oscar stomps down his desire to look away and searches the truck. He turns up a printed map, which will have to do, and some spare ammo. No Dust cartridges, unfortunately.

Then he gingerly approaches the body and picks through its belongings. He pockets the Lien cards and the simple rifle, and leaves the Scroll and photographs.

Finished, he turns and drags himself down the road with a quiet desperation, away from the site of the crash. He needs to move; staying too long in any one place might well be a death sentence, if Watts stuck anything more than a single suppressor in him.

He wonders if the Grimm really are targeting him specifically. If maybe Salem did do something to draw them to him, the same way she once made them ignore him.

(He wonders if this isn't his fault, somehow.)

‘you’re wounded, Oscar. you need treatment.’

“I’ve taken worse before. You were there for some of it. This’ll be fine in a few hours,” Oscar grits out. 

‘there's still no need to suffer through it, not to mention the risk of infection leaving injuries open poses.’

“Infection?” Oscar’s read about it, but has never actually seen it himself. He figured it was something the medical books liked to exaggerate the chances of. He shakes the thought off. “Look, I’ve been dealing with this stuff since I was seven, I’ll be fine. Stop nagging.”

A sigh. ‘there is a reason Aura is not usually awakened in children so young. it tends to skew their understanding of their own limits, and encourages reckless behavior as they get older. and while i’m not certain this is the case, it would not surprise me if Salem employed certain magics to ensure the well-being of those in her stronghold. such things would not apply to you now, obviously.’

That... makes some sense. Oscar pulls a face and changes the subject.

“I didn’t know that was why people didn't activate Aura in their kids. It's stupid reason."

Oscar is fully aware that he would be dead several times over without his Aura. He also knows that his childhood was not, strictly speaking, the most normal, but still.

'oh?'

"Bad habits can be trained out later, but if the kids never make it to that age then it won't matter. If awakening their souls young helps keep them alive longer, I don't get how it would be a bad thing. Maybe if-”

He stops.

He doesn’t really want to think of the boy from the Fall, but maybe if the kid had had his Aura activated, he wouldn’t have needed Oscar’s help to escape those Grimm in the first place.

He can feel Ozpin follow the thought curiously, which is creepy and Oscar tries to swat him away. The man refuses to be deterred, skimming over Oscar’s memory of that night. He hums.

“What?” Oscar snaps, defensive.

‘no, no, it’s nothing.’

“Uh huh.” He tries to do the probing thing back, mentally feeling around for whatever it is Ozpin’s hiding from him. The Headmaster stonewalls him with insulting ease. Oscar scowls.

‘how about,’ Ozpin offers in an obnoxiously polite tone of voice, ‘you settle down and wrap those scratches, and in exchange i’ll tell you my thoughts on the matter?’

Oscar huffs, but acquiesces begrudgingly and climbs into the nearest tree to sit for a while. He thinks he has a few bandages somewhere. Or he'll just use the remains of his sleeve. “You’re really hung up on this.”

'this is your health and well-being. of course i'm concerned.'

Ozpin falls silent for a long while, seemingly gathering his thoughts. When he speaks, it... isn’t really what Oscar thought he'd say.

‘i had some... suspicions, concerning our bonding. given how very different we were in purpose and temperament, i wondered if our current situation might’ve been the result one of Salem’s machinations--that perhaps, rather than locating my next incarnation, she had simply taken a child at her leisure and- well. orchestrated my eventual arrival.’

"You’re saying..." Oscar swallows. He's a little glad he's already sitting down. “You’re saying you think you’re here because she did something to me."

‘i merely considered the possibility. i‘m glad to say that this doesn’t appear to be the case.’

“What are you talking about?”

‘what you did for that boy is not something that many would have done, especially given your position at the time. it takes a certain strength of will and moral fiber--something you’ve evidently developed and retained despite the less-than-ideal conditions you were brought up in. you once asked me how we were like-minded; do you remember?’

There’s something warm in the old man’s voice. Approving. Proud.

Oscar shudders away from it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he rasps. His head sinks into his palms, heedless of the old blood on them, and he laughs with burning eyes. “That’s what you think I’m like? Are you serious?”

He thinks, without really meaning to, of his first solo mission. There was a group of bandits pestering one of Salem’s operations out in Vacuo. It wasn’t something that needed to be taken care of right away -they were small-time slavers, hardly worth Salem’s personal attention- but she’d wanted Oscar to go and do it.

So Oscar, about twelve years old and up against nearly thirty adults, went out into the deserts and got himself kidnapped.

He wasn’t there long, but he still remembers the cages. The dirty people, victims and captors alike. How hot it was, how little water they were given, how miserable the company. He’d been the youngest there, but not by very much.

They’d thought he was just a little civilian boy; his bindings were weak and snapped off easily with enough Aura. He’d stolen his guard’s spear and attacked the woman with it, then pocketed her gun for later. Went to the encampment’s gates, knocked out the two on nightwatch, took their weapons too, and broke open the way out of the bandits' oasis and into the open sands.

Then he turned around, shot every bullet in his stolen guns randomly into their tents, and hid away while they panicked.

The Grimm had come for them soon enough.

‘it's not that simple.’ Ozpin gently sifts through the memory, pulling certain aspects of it out one by one. How he tried not to kill anyone directly. How he’d broken free the prisoners, to give them a fighting chance. How he’d gone through the remains, looking for survivors.

With a petulant viciousness, Oscar drags his focus onto how little it had mattered--everyone was dead by the time the Grimm left, captured victims and bandits alike. How he’d definitely injured people by firing blindly into their tents, maybe killed a few. The way he'd once broken a man's neck with his own hands, while Salem watched and smiled.

Ozpin sighs. 'that doesn’t make you an inherently bad person, Oscar; it makes you a child in a bad situation. while i’m not trying to excus-'

“No. Shut up.” Oscar hops out of the tree and hurries down the road, like he can leave this whole conversation behind him if he just moves fast enough.

He needs to focus. 

Get to Haven. Get to Branwen.

He can handle that much, at least.

Four villages, a third of Anima, and one train ride where he stowaway-ed on the roof, and they finally reach Mistral. Oscar can't say he's entirely pleased to be here.

'let's go search the bars; i'm sure we'll find Qrow around here somewhere.'

Oscar's dirty and tired, but doesn't argue. He stalks his way through the streets sullenly, heading for the paths that will take him to the lower levels.

Around him, civilians chatter away over gossip and shopping and whatever else civilians talk about. There are so many. There's no escape from them. He wonders, as he fails to keep track of everyone for the hundredth time, what the point of these crowds are.

"What if Branwen isn't here?" Oscar murmurs under his breath. A passerby bursts into loud laughter somewhere behind him, and Oscar jumps.

'then we head to Haven to inform the headmaster there of Salem's plans. Leonardo is an old friend of mine; i'm certain he'll be able to assist us.'

Assist you, more like, Oscar thinks, a little louder than he means to. He scowls and tries to hide the thought away, somewhere the Headmaster can't find it to use against him.

Ozpin is literally watching his every move. Oscar needs to play along.

A sigh. 'you seem to think that what we have here is another battle to be fought. it isn't like that, Oscar. there isn't a winning and losing here. i am not your enemy.'

You're a dead man whose invading my head and trying to take over my body. "I dunno Oz, there's an awful lot to this that seems like a fight to me." One that Oscar is constantly losing.

The silence holds for a long moment. Oscar peers down an empty alley, wondering if it might take him to the stairs he knows are around here somewhere. 

'tell me something, Oscar. what do you see, when you look at the people around you?'

The boy glances around. "Is there supposed to be a point to this?"

'humor me.'

"…Fine." Oscar turns, puts his back to the nearest wall, and eyes the passing strangers critically. "They're... Soft." Happy. "Stupid." Kind. "Weak. I need to protec-" Oscar bites his tongue. His hands come up to grip either side of his head, fingers digging into his temples. 

What? Why did I-

'finish your thought,' Ozpin prompts kindly.

"I... need to protect them?" Oscar tries for a soft laugh, misses, and settles for a hysterical little giggle. His hands move from his hair to his eyes, and he buries his face in them. "What the hell, Oz. What the hell."

What are you doing to me, he doesn't say. And Ozpin, his point made, doesn't bother to answer.

To say Qrow Branwen's surprised to see them is an enormous and rather misleading understatement. It implies that the man didn't slam them into the alley's wall and maybe threaten them.

(Just a little, Ozpin insists. Qrow wouldn't really hurt a child younger than his nieces, no matter how angry he might've been.

Oscar's getting awfully tired of people not being honest with him.)

Shit, shit shit shi-

'calm down. he's not hurting you.'

"Then why the fuck is he touching me," Oscar snaps back, but he does stop struggling. His arms drop to hang by his sides. Then Branwen raises an inquisitive eyebrow over the sword he lifts to Oscar's throat, and the boy freezes altogether.

He forces a weak smile on his face and does his fourteen(?)-year-old best to look harmless. "Hi. Ozpin says he'd like his cane back."

Branwen blinks in surprise. His blade doesn't budge an inch. "Oh does he," the man drawls, suspicious and sarcastic with it.

'let me?'

No, back off, I can handle him.

...Oscar has no idea how to begin handling him.

A sigh. The world tilts on its axis as Oscar is abruptly pushed aside. "Yes, Qrow. I do."

Hey!

Then the Aura suppressor activates, and Oscar slams back in control just in time for the pain to drag its spidery claws across his nerves.

At least Branwen gives him the benefit of the doubt after that.

"What exactly is wrong with my clothes?" Oscar asks, not sure if he feels offended or not. It's not like he chose his wardrobe or anything -like most things in his life, someone else picked it for him- but he has been wearing the same basic outfit for years now. He sees nothing wrong with the high-collared shirt or thick, clinging pants. 

At Ozpin's wordless prompting, he gives himself a critical once-over. So they're a bit dirty. The shirt's probably a lost cause; one of the buttons is missing and the left sleeve's been torn up to hell and back. Still, Oscar doesn't get why he can't just buy more of the same.

Is it the boots and gloves he got from Vale? They don't quite match the color.

...And Ozpin's chuckling. Well.

Fashion is something I never had cause to learn, okay.

'wearing all black is hardly the most inconspicuous choice of attire, Oscar.' The man sounds wry.

"It's not all black," Oscar grumbles. There's dark red on the inside of his shirt's collar. In fact, given that the entirety of the shirt's underside is red and that everything from the left shoulder down is in tatters, he thinks that his outfit has plenty of color already.

(He gets what Ozpin's saying, he really does. At some other point, he might even agree.

But Branwen's agreed to take them to an underground doctor to finally get the damned suppressor cut out, and Ozpin decided to make a detour to prioritize their clothes. 

Oscar is rather inclined to argue right now.)

A sigh. 'Qrow would not have recommended we see someone he does not trust and i have faith in his judgment, but it would still be best if we were as discreet as possible. your current outfit encourages a certain look that is, among other things, rather memorable. at least find something to replace your shirt, Oscar; i don't believe you'll be able to salvage it."

Oscar pulls a tiny face but fashion really, really isn't something he has a lot of experience in. "Well, what would you suggest then?"

'i'm rather partial to green.'

Oscar thinks back to the one time he saw Ozpin in person, at that dance when the man was still alive. Green shirt, green pants, green vest, stupidly impractical shoes... no. The shades of green didn't even match.

Does. Does Ozpin not know anything about fashion either? 

Beacon's former Headmaster makes a speechless, grievously offended noise in the back of their mind. Oscar ducks his head to hide a grin. For the entire two seconds it takes the man to stop spluttering, he feels incredibly accomplished.

He's starting to seriously consider ignoring the man's advice, though. So he turns to Branwen instead, holding up a dark cloak for the man's inspection.

Branwen gives him a very eloquent why are you asking me look and takes another swig from his flask, which is exactly as unhelpful as Oscar's come to expect of the man. Oscar's opinion of Ozpin's taste in lieutenants is dropping rapidly.

The target of his increasingly dubious thoughts sighs. 'must you be difficult about this?'

"I don't see why not," Oscar responds in the same patronizing tone. He's honestly not sure why Ozpin's let him get away with his disrespect for so long, but he's going to milk it while it lasts.

'...Oscar. i'm not like Salem.'

"Okay? I think you've said that before."

Sure, just another immortal, stupidly powerful magic-user who happens to control most of his life. Nothing alike at all.

'the way she treated you was wrong, and i'll have no part in anything of the sort.'

Oscar's starting to become very familiar with the Stern Headmaster voice. "I'm pretty sure you've said that before too."

'and i'll keep saying it until you believe it, young man.'

Oscar fights not to roll his eyes, but Ozpin -the cheater- probably feels it anyways. "Whatever."

Like that'll ever happen.

(He does settle on a soft green coat, though, pulled over a deep brown tunic. Ozpin very courteously does not smug anywhere Oscar can feel it.)

"And that's really all you know." Branwen doesn't bother to hide his skepticism at all.

Oscar keeps his face blank and perfectly neutral. "I realize that you think that I was some kind of trusted member of Salem's inner circle, but I really wasn't. She never told me anything. Everything I know, I got from eavesdropping or from just living there."

"Wasn't doubting you, kid," Branwen drawls, in possibly the most unconvinced tone Oscar's ever heard. The boy stomps down on his annoyance.

The Huntsman has been interrogating him in this little bar's back room for long enough that the sun has set. Oscar has gone over more of his life story than he ever cares to remember, and every detail he knows of Salem's future plans (not much) and her most trusted pawns (a good deal), and everything else that's happened since Ozpin started talking in his head (way too much to recount in his current state of recovering-from-surgery, but Branwen's relentless).

He is in desperate need of some water and about three days of separation between himself and this exhausting conversation.

Right. I'm done talking. Ozpin, you tell him, he'll believe you.

(He'd better. Oscar's about ready to hit the man, which will he knows full well will accomplish nothing.)

Ozpin takes less than ten minutes to convince Branwen. Oscar has a lot that he's never going to, but would very much like to, say about that.

"So." Oscar takes a deep breath, enjoying the feeling of being able to control his own lungs again. "What now?"

Branwen sighs and tosses a cane handle Oscar's way. The boy catches it, and with a thoughtless click the weapon unfolds to its full length.

...It really is the same size as Oscar's old staff. 

Then the Huntsman shakes his flask unhappily. It doesn't make a sound, completely drained of alcohol.

"Now, I need another drink."

"YOU!"

A blonde boy is on him as soon as he walks through the door. He slams Oscar into a wall, violence writ large in every line of his body.

The guy doesn't even have his Aura up.

'his name is Jaune Arc.'

Oscar pushes that information aside and carefully doesn't look at the wrists he considers breaking. He wonders if he can get away with fighting back, and glances at Branwen for cues.

The man very briefly meets Oscar's gaze, lifts an eyebrow, and turns away to wave off the other people gathered in the room. Then he closes the door behind him.

...Yeah, Branwen's not gonna let him get away with breaking this punk's arm. Oscar lets his hands drop limply to his sides. He's pretty sure of where he stands on the pecking order here and if he can't head blondie off, he'll have to resign himself to taking the beating.

So.

"Aren't you the guy who went to the dance in a dress?" He tries, eyes wide and guileless. This would never work with one of Salem's, but for a simple-minded teenager...

Arc looks thrown off his game. Embarrassment tinges his cheeks red--that's probably not the sort of thing he wants to be remembered for. The anger remains, though, so Oscar's probably still going to get hit.

Maybe he can goad Arc into going farther than he intends to, and guilt him out of doing it again in the future? He'd have to keep the bruises around for a few days, but it might be worth it. Oscar opens his mouth to add on something mocking.

Ozpin intervenes.

"Now, now. I do believe that's enough, Mister Arc." The man reaches up and firmly dislodges Arc's grip. Then Oscar wrestles control of his right hand back and slaps himself, the shock of which knocks Ozpin back. Good.

"Stop doing that, old man," he hisses, but at least Arc's backed off. He looks confused. Probably concerned about catching the crazy.

"Uncle Qrow?" Ruby Rose -Branwen's niece, apparently; Oscar didn't think they were family, wow he is so screwed- asks the drunkard. She doesn't take her eyes off where the blonde kid has crowded Oscar up against the wall. "What's going on?"

"Well. We've got someone joining us, apparently." He gestures rather carelessly for Oscar to pick up the explanation -wait what no- and then promptly disappears into an adjoining room.

"...Um. Okay." Everyone gathered turns to stare at him, a mixture of hostility and bewilderment. Don't stutter, don't fidget, head up. Oscar pulls in a discreet breath. "Hello. My name is Oscar, a-"

'Oscar Pine.'

"-Oscar Pine," Oscar automatically corrects himself, then blinks. The name flows off his tongue naturally, if a little rusty from disuse. "Wait, I didn't know that, how did you know that?"

'you've always had that knowledge, Oscar. it was just buried a little deeper than most people care to dig. i probably should have let you know earlier, but there were more pressing matters at the time. regardless, i felt it best if you didn't introduce yourself with an incomplete name.'

"Why were you digging into my memories???"

'this was very early on in our partnership, when we both knew relatively little-'

"No, shut up, you don't get to play the 'I had to' card-"

"Ahem." Branwen -Oscar flinches, a little belatedly- hands off a mug and throws himself onto the nearest sofa, pointedly glancing at the rest of the room. Oscar follows his gaze, fingers wrapping around the warm drink automatically.

He can almost hear the sound of the other teenagers' collective blink.

Ah.

...He's spent far too long alone with the voice in his head.

Ozpin, the utter void of shame that he is, just sort of hums in amusement. (Oscar really needs to figure this mental-shoving thing out, because the old man is seriously asking for it.)

'may i?'

Oscar tries not to make a face. "No. I'll explain."

The story comes out. Ozpin, the impending attack on Haven, the fact that Oscar used to be one of Salem's but isn't anymore for obvious reasons.

The gathered assortment of older teens stare at him, then Branwen, then him again. They look like they're waiting for someone to declare that, surprise!, this was all some sort of joke. The fact that both Oscar and Branwen are dead serious is clearly weirding them out.

Jaune still looks like he wants to punch Oscar. Branwen looks like he might too, which is considerably more alarming.

Ozpin manages a rueful chuckle. 'this is going to be a particularly interesting life, it seems.'

"Shut up, Ozpin."

The hot chocolate is lukewarm when Oscar hides his face behind it. It tastes oddly familiar, yet painfully sweet.

Chapter Text

Breakfast the next morning is an awkward affair.

Oscar sits, stone-faced and wary, and cautiously eats what he sees the others eating. The others, all five of them, sit arrayed about the same table. Conversation is weak, trickling in and drying out in little spurts all around him.

The part of him that's becoming more and more like Ozpin prompts him to go for the hot chocolate--Oscar makes himself a cup of tea instead. It isn't the same tea as Salem's by any measure, with an aroma entirely unfamiliar to him; he can't quite decide if that's a good thing or not.

Apparently satisfied that his latest charge has had a hot meal, a long shower, and enough sleep that he's accidentally given himself a headache, Branwen makes to haul Oscar off to the living room for some "adult talk."

Everyone else promptly tags along, curious.

Oscar watches Branwen roll his eyes and indulge them with a begrudging fondness, and he silently wonders what these children do, that the Huntsman tolerates this from them.

'let me speak with them?'

Oscar doesn't grace that with an answer. "How many people know that you're staying here?" He opens with.

Branwen gives him a brief, scrutinizing look before he answers. "Not many. Why?"

"Because Tyrian's somewhere in this area." Oscar scowls before he catches himself and wipes the expression off.

"Who?"

Oh right, the others haven't been filled in.

"He's Salem's preferred assassin," he tells the gathered teens. "A scorpion faunus, good hunter and completely insane. I've... worked with him a few times." And what wonderful, enjoyable missions those were. Oscar turns away from the memories and uneasy teenagers alike to focus on Branwen. "If you haven't already, you should warn what Huntsmen you can still find to watch themselves. They're all targets."

"I can look around a bit, drop some words in the right ears. But the kinds of people I know can all look out for themselves, kid; they are Huntsmen."

Oscar's shaking his head before the man even finishes speaking. "That won't be enough. You haven't fought Tyrian, you don't know what he's like. He's been here for months, Branwen. Most of your Mistralian contacts are probably already dead. Putting the ones left on high alert won't save them, most likely, but it's... it's better than doing nothing."

Branwen goes quiet and very grim. His niece pipes up into the silence.

"Can't we do more?" Ruby asks, a little tentatively. "I mean, if we know they're in danger, shouldn't we go out there and help?"

Oscar snorts. "You say that like we aren't targets ourselves."

...They look confused. Why do they look confused? Oscar turns an accusing stare on Branwen. "You didn't tell them?"

The Huntsman has the good grace to look guilty. "Didn't want to scare them without proof."

Oscar stares incredulously. Anger rises in him, sudden and bizarrely protective, and he squashes it as far down as he can. Ozpin murmurs something soothing that he doesn't listen to before brushing off.

"...Well then.” Oscar bites back his first, incredibly sarcastic response. Then his second, heated one. He forces his gaze down to his clasped hands and keeps his voice very, very even.

"Ruby Rose," the girl flinches a little, "when I last saw her, Cinder wanted you dead. I doubt that's changed in the weeks I've been gone. And when I last saw Tyrian, he rather cheerfully suggested that Cinder put out one of your eyes in exchange for the damage your stunt on Beacon tower did to hers."

Oscar finally lifts his chin and meets her startled gaze head-on. He taps one finger meaningfully on his left cheekbone, right under the lower eyelid. "I expect he'll make good on his own suggestion if he catches wind of your presence here, just so that he can tell Cinder about it later--he's always up for some spiteful mocking."

The whole group shifts uneasily. Branwen sighs and takes a sip from his flask. Oscar watches them all coldly for a long moment, and he doesn't like the way they're looking at him but they need to understand.

"And the rest of you." The other three teens twitch. "I assume you have Ruby's Scroll number? If you go out and get grabbed off the street, it won't be hard for Tyrian to just... call her. Have her come alone to some out-of-the-way place. And even if we all go running off to their rescue, he'll still have a hostage. Or, if too many people leave the safehouse at once, it wouldn't be impossible for him to break into this place and take out whoever's still here. All he'd have to do is watch the building. So." Oscar presses his lips into a firm line, gaze boring into Branwen's. "How sure are you that this place is secure?"

He registers, suddenly, the expression on the man's face. Surprise, a careful neutrality, the faintest hint of displeasure.

Oscar drops his gaze. "Sorry," he offers, and the words taste like ash.

Branwen lifts a slightly puzzled eyebrow, but lets Oscar's attitude pass without reprimand. "I told you, we're good. The only people who know we're even in Mistral are family members and old Leo."

“Leonardo Lio-?” Oscar starts to ask, only for Jaune to interrupt.

"Wait, what about the Mistral police?" Jaune says, slightly confrontational and clearly unhappy. "If we alert them, maybe they can help-"

"Alert them to what, exactly?" Oscar scoffs. "A Huntsman and a group of students want the police to mobilize on the say-so of a dead man and a kid? I don't have a picture of Tyrian to help anyone hunt him down, and his tail is simple enough to hide. Mistral's bound to be short-staffed if Tyrian's been doing his job, so they can't spare manpower on a wild goose-chase. We don't even have a definite date for the attack on Haven. All that telling the Mistral forces will accomplish is make it clear that I'm somewhere in the area, since you all would have no way of knowing this stuff otherwise."

“You don’t know that. What if we-“

“Look,” Oscar crosses his arms, and his head tipped down to hide his frown. "The Queen has no idea where Ozpin and I are right now. That's an advantage I'd rather not give up without something more significant than maybes in return."

Jaune makes to argue further, but a quelling look from Branwen quiets him. After a brief pause to make sure the guy isn’t going to keep talking, Oscar continues.

"Haven isn't to be attacked before they locate the Spring Maiden, so we need to do that first."

Branwen frowns. "Oh, right, forgot to tell you. I've already done that. Raven's got her; Spring's with the Branwen tribe. We went to see Leonardo about getting some reinforcements for her retrieval a few days ago, but he's being uncooperative."  

Oscar goes cold. "You did what," he mouths. His voice seems to have deserted him. Ozpin makes a noncommittal hum somewhere in the back of their head. 

Branwen notices. "What's wrong?"

"What's-?! Branwen, the only reason the White Fang have held off on destroying Haven is because Salem needs the Spring Maiden to open the vault. There is a mole in Haven, and you just- you walked right into there and handed over her location and- oh. Oh, it would make so much sense if the Headmaster was the mole, that-"

'-Oscar, i think you might be getting a little ahead-'

"-would explain how Cinder got those forgeries for the Vytal-"

'-of yourself there. we shouldn't jump to conclusions, and treating Leo-'

"-Festival and jump to conclusions? The fact that he's acting like-"

'-as a traitor just because he isn't behaving exactly as we might prefer-'

"-one isn't reason enough for you? Are you insane, you-"

"Hey, kid." Branwen reaches over to do- something, something that Oscar ducks away from before the man can complete the motion. Branwen frowns at the evasion, and Oscar forces himself to hold very, very still. The man lowers his arm slowly.

One of the teens whose name he doesn't know pipes up. "What's this about a mole in Haven?"

Oh right. They barely know anything. Ugh.

Branwen is perfectly capable of explaining. Oscar sends a faintly beseeching look the man's way, to which Branwen replies with an entirely unhelpful raised eyebrow and a get on with it gesture.

Oscar gets the rather distinct impression that the man is waiting for Oscar to decide he doesn't want to deal with this and hand over control to Ozpin, which is annoying on so many levels.

The rest of the group, watching the byplay, zero in their expectant stares right on Oscar.

Ozpin is a quiet, patient presence in the back of their mind. Oscar weighs how much he doesn't want to go over everything again against how much he doesn't want to lose his autonomy. Then he considers the pointed, unhappy looks Branwen is giving him.

...Nope.

Ozpin, you do it.

So they make a plan.

(Or rather, Ozpin makes a plan and everyone else just goes with it, ridiculously pliable in the former Headmaster’s hands. If Oscar had control of his eyes, he would be rolling them.) 

Branwen is going to go around and try to hunt down whoever's left of the Mistralian Huntsmen, to warn them and possibly enlist their aid for a raid on the Branwen tribe--a raid that might not be happening, if Leonardo Lionheart has already leaked this information to Salem. Whether or not this is the case is something that Ozpin's decided to put a pin on; the man concedes that it might be a possibility, but refuses to act as though it's a given truth without more evidence.

The students are to spend some time training. Which is fair; Tyrian is a terrifying opponent. Then Ozpin says that Oscar could use some retraining too, which Oscar strongly objects to.

What?!

'later, Oscar.'

Oscar's in the kitchen sipping at his second cup of water (did they have to talk that much?) when his objection is finally addressed.

(Branwen's left. The two teens whose name Oscar doesn't know have gone upstairs; Ruby's out in the backyard; Jaune's sitting out on the porch with her.)

What did you mean, “Oscar could use some retraining?" I can fight fine.

'i wanted you to get some training done because your hand-to-hand combat skills could use some more work,' Ozpin informs him, neutral. Even if he didn't have a link right into man's mind, Oscar would be able to tell that that's a bullshit answer.

Oscar waits a beat. Then he mentally pokes Ozpin. Again. And again.

The man's only response to the prodding is a firm, 'if you have a question, you can articulate it like an adult and not a child, Oscar.'

Oscar scowls into his cup. "Can you explain." A long pause. "...Please."

A sigh. 'you aren't practiced in my particular style of fighting, nor with using a cane as a weapon. you should at least learn how to wield it properly. you're also unnecessarily reckless, have no understanding of sparring etiquette, and have developed a lot of bad habits that need correcting.'

"Like hell. Give me an opponent and I'll kick their butt," Oscar challenges, miffed. Ozpin chuckles.

'well, at least you're motivated.'

He does not kick Lie Ren's butt.

"You handicapped me," Oscar sulks.

'sabotaging your opponents before a spar should not be your first recourse,' Ozpin lectures. 'it's unreliable and underhanded, and discourages the development of your actual combat skills.'

"It's how I operate and it works." 

He and Tyrian did it all the time. To... other people, yeah, on the occasional mission, but mostly to each other. Oscar's had to get pretty creative in the past, but everyone here shares a food source and it's barely guarded. Really, these guys are just asking for it.

Ozpin breaks out the Stern Voice. 'you are not poisoning Mister Lie, young man.'

Oscar rolls his eyes at the word choice. The sedative he carries doesn't count as poison. The stuff in Tyrian's tail, on the other hand? That was poison.

He tries a different line of reasoning. "But don't you think he should learn to watch out for-“

'no.'

"But this stuff doesn't even have any major negative side-effe-"

'no, Oscar.'

...Oscar sulks harder.

Day three, and the orange-haired girl has apparently made up her mind that Oscar is, in fact, an acceptable target to be friendly with.

Oscar is very much not okay with this. He thinks he and Ozpin are actually in agreement about that, which just goes to show how dire the matter is.

(Branwen's out. Ruby's working on dinner with Jaune in the kitchen, and Ren was in the living-)

"So how old are you?"

Oscar buries his face further into his book, hoping the girl will take the hint and go away. She is way too far into his personal space. She also doesn't bother to wait for any sort of response before she barrels on.

"I didn't really notice back at Beacon, but you're really small and kinda cute-" 

The boy twitches. I'm gonna-

'do not attack her,' Ozpin commands repressively, before he can even finish the thought, and Oscar's annoyance promptly shifts targets. Or rather, it splits between the two of them--he has plenty of annoyance to go around, and the bubbly girl is still. talking.

"-not sure what they were thinking since you're so, you know, little, Oscar."

Oscar flinches, a hollow echo of little Oscar whispering from somewhere both far away and much too close, and it's with more venom than he intends that he hisses, "Do not call me that."

The girl leans back -finally- and tilts her head inquisitively. "What, little? Or Oscar?"

"Nora," her partner calls from the study's entryway, while Oscar tries to force his hands to relax around the book cover. The girl waves at Ren cheerfully. Ozpin murmurs something trite and soothing.

"You look like you could use a hug," Nora -Oscar's going to accidentally-on-purpose forget her name after a few days of avoiding her, probably- informs him. He blinks at the non-sequitur. "Doesn't he, Ren?"

...? What? What is that supposed to mean? 

Then Nora reaches over and grabs him.

Oscar responds violently -the hold is pathetically bad, Nora needs to work on her grappling skills, there are at least three ways to escape this from off the top of his head- and tries to get loose without hurting her.

'Oscar! calm down!'

Nora is a great deal stronger than she looks, though, so Oscar resorts to stomping at her instep and digging his elbows into her side. She yelps, arms tightening around him, and his ribs creak in protest. He slams his forehead into her jaw with enough force that she finally releases him.

Oscar leaps away from her and -green kid still blocking the doorway- darts for the window. Nora makes a thwarted noise, and it follows him as he jumps into the backyard and hurries inside, out of sight from the window. He hastily ducks into one of the empty rooms and slams the door shut behind him.

It takes a a few long minutes of silence before Oscar decides they're not looking for him.

"What the hell was that about?" The boy breathes at last, sliding down against the wall to sit on the floor, the surprise of it all belatedly catching up to him. His blood is still rushing through his ears, and his hands tremble faintly now that he's somewhat safe.

Ozpin sounds exceptionally tired when he explains, 'that was a hug, Oscar. she wasn't trying to hurt you.'

Oscar blinks. "But she was touching me," and he only realizes how stupid he sounds after the words have left his mouth. "...Oh."

Oh. Oh. Oh no.

Oscar messed up.

"Branwen?" Oscar keeps his eyes on the man's chest, not quite able to meet the Huntsman's gaze. "...Can I talk to you for a moment?"

(Jaune's in the kitchen with Ren; Ruby's setting the table; Nora's doing something in the pantry.)

Branwen pauses, then closes the front door behind him. He doesn't look to be in a great mood -the search for surviving Huntsmen isn't isn't going well, at a guess- but if Oscar tries to catch him later, there's a chance Nora will bring up the incident before Oscar can, and that will just get him into even more trouble. 

"Sure. Something come up, kiddo?"

"Kind of. I-. Nora tried to hug me earlier. And I sort of... attacked her."

Branwen blinks, eyebrows furrowing. The man moves further into the room, and Oscar flinches back before he realizes that Branwen's aiming for the seats and not him. The Huntsman drops onto one of the couches with a tired groan and fishes out his flask.

"Define 'attacked'. Is she hurt?"

"No. I don't think so. I just hit her until she let go; she looked fine earlier."

"Uh huh. And, what, you want me to talk to her about it or something?"

...What?

Oscar is not entirely sure what the right answer is here. "...No? I mean, not unless you think there's any need?"

Branwen just stares at him for a long, expectant moment. Oscar keeps his face blank and fights not to squirm, unsure what the man's looking for and hoping he hasn't already made a misstep somehow.

After the silence starts edging into awkwardness, Branwen rolls his eyes. "Kid, why are you telling me this?"

Oscar's head doesn't move, but he avoids Branwen's eyes and his vision dips down to focus on the man's legs. His shoulders hunch up slightly. "Figured you should know," he replies, and his voice is very nearly a mumble.

The man sighs. "Look pipsqueak, I'm not your parent, and I'm not your teacher or your superio-" he pauses.

Blinks.

Starts over, slowly, a bit more tentative. "...You... Oscar, as long as Nora's not hurt and she doesn't have a problem with it, I don't care. You don't need to report this stuff to me, or... whatever it is you think you're doing. Okay? Just go... apologize to her or something."

He waves one hand in a fairly dismissive motion, the other coming up to rub at the back of his neck. The Huntsman shakes his head, once. Oscar peeks up at the man's expression through his eyelashes, and the look on Branwen's face is... confusing.

Pitying, perhaps. Sad. Uncomforatble. A little lost.

Oscar doesn't know what to make of it. So he just nods obediently, short and swift, and takes his leave.

Apologize to Nora. Okay. A bit weird, but Oscar can do that.

(His hands are shaking, he realizes ten steps later. Oscar isn't sure when that started. He hides his fingers in his pockets, and tries to calm down and not think about how badly that conversation could have gone.

Ozpin is quiet in the back of their mind, and something about the quality of that quietness makes Oscar wonder if, maybe, he did something wrong.

Ozpin is quick to assure him he didn't, but...)

They watch him, whenever he's in the room.

Some of them are polite about it. Ren, whose presence Oscar honestly sometimes forgets about, never stares openly. Ruby likes to engage him in small, pointless conversations that Oscar tries his hardest not to make awkward.

Branwen will sometimes come check on him, silent, face neutral. The man manages to both leave the house frequently and still show up in order to loom threateningly whenever Oscar is alone with Ruby for any length of time--Oscar can take a hint.

Jaune, though, can't seem to quit glaring. Nora seems to find him adorable and offensive by turns, which is equally alarming for an entirely different reason.

None of them are like this when it's Ozpin in control. Their scrutiny is reserved for Oscar alone, which is a bit of a novel experience; he doesn't think he's ever had so many people this interested in whatever he got up to, before.

By the fifth day, Oscar's thoroughly sick of it.

After nearly a week of stewing and ugly looks, Jaune finally approaches Oscar.

"Oscar, I- um. ...Are you ...okay?"

"Peachy. Why?"

"Well, you're kind of sitting half-under your bed. With all the lights off."

Oscar had, in fact, been taking a nap down there. He elects not to mention this. "Oh. That. It's just more-" familiar "-comfortable this way, I guess. Look, did you want something?"

Jaune shifts his weight from foot to foot, still standing in the doorway. "Uh. Yeah. Can we... talk?"

No, is Oscar's first response. He grimaces and drags himself out into the hallway anyways. "Is this the part where you finally tell me what your issue with me is?"

Jaune's face goes dark. "It's not an issue with you, it's with- with Cinder and Salem, really," he says--lies through his teeth, more like. Oscar rolls his eyes.

"Sure, whatever. What do you want."

"I just- look, I...” He struggles with his words for a long moment, fidgeting. One hand comes up to rub at the back of his head.

Oscar peers up at him, eyes guarded. “You don’t trust me. Is that it?”

“That is really not the issue here,” Jaune says, with a huff of laughter that might as well be a sigh. “I- I lost someone, when Beacon fell. Pyrrha Nikos, my partner. Cinder killed her. And I'm-"

"Wait, that's what this is about?" Oscar blinks. He doesn't know all the details, but Cinder didn't exactly keep quiet about the idiotic way Pyrrha Nikkos had died--charging up after Cinder right after the woman had killed Ozpin.

There's no way the girl expected to walk out of that fight victorious. Or even alive.

He brushes aside Ozpin's reproving 'Oscar' to soldier on. "You're seriously holding a grudge against me because your teammate bit off more than she could chew?"

Jaune snaps. "I- you- what is wrong with you?!"

"I'm the one at fault here?" Oscar's face draws tight, mouth hard and eyes dark. "Don't pin your blame on me just because you couldn't save her from herself."

"You don't know anything about her!" Jaune yells, and he couldn't give Oscar an easier look at his damage if he'd tried.

"Don't I," the boy says before he can stop himself.

"Of course not," Jaune growls, but Oscar's only half paying attention.

If he were aiming to hurt Jaune, he'd keep talking. I know she was strong. I know she was kind. I know she could have had a bright future, and I know she didn't need to die that night.

...Tyrian is going to eat this boy alive. 

Oscar grimaces.

Jaune is still yelling about open sentiment or whatever, and he's so... exposed? Vulnerable? Oscar doesn't know the word, but he recognizes the way Jaune's leaving himself open -Oscar used to have a similar problem when he was younger- but he isn't sure how to articulate it.

(Why is Jaune unloading this stuff on Oscar? Doesn't he have a team for problems like this?)

"Look," Oscar interrupts, "if you're going to treat me like an enemy, treat me like an enemy. Don't just- hand me this stuff. You're being too honest, and you're just setting yourself up to get hurt."

"What are you talking about?!"

Oscar frowns slightly. He doesn't know how to say this, how to explain to Jaune that he's wearing his heart somewhere it's easy to stab. This would be so much easier if he could just show the big idiot, but hurting the older boy deliberately is not something Oscar's willing to get in trouble for.

(He can also admit, privately, that he doesn't really want to do it.)

He isn't sure how to help, and Jaune is just lashing out right now--in no frame of mind to listen to anything Oscar has to say. There's no point to talking like this. Either Jaune will throw the first punch and vent some of his frustrations, or Oscar will escape until Jaune blows up on someone else. Probably an actual enemy, and Oscar needs to decide if he's willing to stand by and just let Jaune walk into that and... possibly get himself killed. Probably get himself killed.

If this was a scene in one of his storybooks, or maybe if Oscar was a different sort of person, then there would be something Oscar could say that would help. Something he could do that would let Jaune heal, instead of just letting out some of the ever-building poison in the wound.

But it's not, and he's not. So his options aren't exactly plentiful.

...Ugh. Fine.

"You're a mess," Oscar finally tells the older boy, blunt and provocative. "And a lovesick idiot."

Jaune grits his teeth and clenches his fists, violence pulling inward, and for a second looks like he’s about to cry. Which, no no, was not what Oscar was aiming for. The guy just needs an outlet; it doesn't actually matter what Oscar says, because nothing will be what he needs to hear.

"What. What did you say."

"You heard me."

Jaune turns away with a quiet snarl, shoulders taut and still not lashing out, and does Oscar really need to throw the first hit here? Really?

"Look, just- punch me already." Oscar huffs, short and heavy. He literally cannot make it any easier for this guy to beat him up. "That's what you're here for, right?"

"That!" Jaune whips around, points a finger directly at Oscar's nose. "That is exactly what I'm talking about! What is wrong with you?"

"Hey." Branwen calls, stepping into the hall. Oscar's mouth snaps shut on a retort, and he smooths any sullen lines from his expression. Resignation washes over him like a wave.

Shit.

If the man notices Oscar's reaction, he doesn't show it. "You two about done?" He drawls. One hand reaches into his coat for his flask as he leans against the wall, deceptively casual.

Jaune gives the Huntsman a sharp, mutinous look. "No, we're not, so butt out," he snaps. Oscar glances at Branwen warily, wondering if the man's going to let that slide.

Branwen takes a swig. "Sure," he agrees, easy. "Just wanted to let you boys know something. The backyard's free--you should move this sort of talk somewhere a little more private." Then he tilts his head, and looks right at Oscar. "Also, you are allowed to hit back, you know."

His piece said, Branwen turns and ambles off without a goodbye.

Did. Did he really just-?

Oscar blinks twice, hard, and then turns back to Jaune. The older boy meets his gaze with a glare and a scowl, but shuffles off to the back door without a word. Oscar trails after him, furiously reconsidering... a lot of things.

Ozpin sighs.

When they make it outside, Jaune heads for the far wall and spins around. Oscar waits until he squares off before he throws a quick, telegraphed jab at the boy's face. Jaune slaps it away with a surprised yelp.

"That one was free," Oscar informs him, before he punches the older boy in the stomach.

"This doesn't change anything," Jaune tells the sky.

Oscar huffs out a short breath. He'd pulled his punches -a novel experience, but Ozpin was being insistent about it- and a few of Jaune's hits had connected too. The Aura he'd been pulsing into his shoulder fades as he pulls himself up into a sitting position.

Jaune stays exactly where he is, flat on his back in the middle of the courtyard. "I mean it," he asserts.

Oscar hauls himself to his feet. He turns to lean over Jaune's head, meet the boy's upside-down gaze squarely, and roll his eyes as big and exaggerated as he can.

Then he reaches down to drag Jaune upright by the straps of his armor. The older boy stops being dead-weight halfway through the process and gets up on his own power, and together the two of them walk back inside.

In a nearby tree, a crow caws, twice. It sounds a lot like laughter.

The sun goes up, and comes back down, and goes back up.

Oscar tries to keep track of them all, Branwen and Ruby and Jaune and Ren and Nora. He checks in on everyone regularly--not to talk, just to quietly confirm their locations.

(He thinks Branwen is the only one who understands what Oscar's doing. Which makes sense, as the man seems to be keeping an eye on Oscar right back.)

Training only takes up so much of the day, in this place. So, in his spare time, Oscar makes himself useful. Not in any way that benefits one person over another -these people can do their own laundry, for example- but in the little things.

He pries vines from where they start breaking through the roof. He cleans the house from top to bottom--the sight of him sweeping and dusting initially prompted every single person who encountered him to do a double-take. He collects every book in the library and organizes them by subject and title. He can't cook -never learned how- but he peels and washes things when no one else is in the kitchen and leaves them there for the others.

No one ever asks him to do these things. No one ever asks him to do anything, really. It's left him rather at loose ends.

The day Branwen informs them that Lionheart was asking after their address is not a great one.

“-am telling you, he’s a traitor-“

‘-a serious accusation and i won’t simply-‘

“-but nooo, just because you guys were friends-“

‘-it without more concrete evidence than-‘

“-time ago he can do no wrong and you won’t even-“

‘-speculation and until then he deserves the benefit of-‘

“-me try LOOKING for your stupid proof-“

‘-and we are not breaking into his home, Oscar!’

“Uh...” Ruby and Nora peek their heads into the bedroom and exchange looks. “Are- are you okay?”

Oscar doesn’t so much as glance at them. “We’re having a disagreement.” He reaches the far wall, spins on his heel, and stomps right back across the room.

“Well, maybe we can help?” Nora offers.

Oscar considers it for half a second, paused mid-step, before he dismisses them and keeps pacing.

“No, you’ll just side with him.” Ignoring their mildly affronted faces, he continues flatly, “Did you two need something.”

"We just wanted to tell you that dinner's ready."

Dinner? Why- Oh right, they do that thing where everyone gathers together to eat. Oscar steels himself for another meal of being talked around and stared at.

This isn't over.

Ozpin takes the high road and doesn't respond.

The sound of a great deal of breaking china brings Oscar running, jumping down from the roof and coming in through the back. He hurriedly locates everyone gathered by the front entrance, and from the looks of it his urgency was wasted.

There's no emergency--just Ruby, hugging two newcomers.

"What's going on?"

“YOU!” the blonde girl yells. Wait, Oscar recognizes her; it’s the girl who went up against Mercury during the finals of Vytal Festival Tournament.

Then she punches him into a wall, and pins him there by his throat. Branwen steps in and stops the two (three? The Schnee Heiress has turned up to point a rapier at him too; where’d she come from?) of them from going any further.

Oscar rubs at his throat. His back aches dully from the impact with the wall. That’s getting really old.

He gets the sense that Ozpin agrees, even if the man is too dignified to admit it.

Chapter Text

What was that, he carefully doesn't say out loud.

'hmm?' Ozpin queries, like he doesn't know exactly what Oscar's pissed at him for.

What the HELL was that. Oscar scowls at the far edge of the roof. He doesn't trust the privacy of it, not in a house full of nosy and suspicious Huntsmen-to-be, but they're all busy making a ruckus over their dinner. He's as alone as he's likely to get. You promised Blondie no more lies or half truths. But what you told them wasn't even close to everything.

'and what of it, Oscar?' Ozpin doesn't like where this is going, though it doesn't show in his voice. It's still weird, how Oscar can just tell things like that now. 'it was hardly the time for all of that.' 

Bullshit. 

Oscar thinks of Branwen, who's been on Ozpin's side for years. The way the Huntsman looks at them, when it's the dead man in control—the hope, the confidence. The man almost certainly doesn't know that Salem can't die, that there's no easy way to win this. 

Then Oscar thinks about Emerald, about the way she trails after Cinder on nothing but faith and praise. He thinks about Tyrian, so eager to do whatever Salem asks, a puppet so damn happy to be dancing with someone else's hand on his strings.

(He thinks about himself, the most miserable and unwilling of Salem's servants. How she never pretended, with him. How she told him stories, carelessly shared information and personal quirks with him that she'd never have revealed to the others.

And then he thinks about the way he stayed, because he simply had no other choice in the matter. How he'd left her, as soon as he stopped lying to himself, as soon as he'd had the merest, slimmest of chances.

He thinks about the scorn he felt—still feels, sometimes—for the people who let themselves be bought into a lie, a cause. How it borders on envy.)

Well, he concludes, spiteful. I can't say it doesn't work.

He's not angry. He's not even disappointed, really. He's just... been proven right.

'Oscar, i realize where you're coming from, but i am not Salem. i don't-'

This isn't about Salem! And I won't let you dismiss it like it is.

A sigh. 'isn't it? i-'

"I would appreciate it if you could give me at least as much credit as she did," he accidentally snaps out loud. Gritting his teeth, he continues, Don't treat me like a child who needs to be coddled and reassured with hope before they can be trusted to act.

'that's not what-'

"Just. Shut up. I don't want your excuses." I don't need them; I'm already in this. I know she can't die. And that's fine; there are things so much worse out there than dying, Ozpin. She... "She's the one who taught me that."

Terror, and helplessness, and the loss of everything that ever mattered to him. Doing the things he hated, for the person he hated, time and time again until he could no longer tell which parts of him he actually wanted and only knew which ones he needed.

He doesn't know if he can reduce someone as large Salem to that. He doesn't know if he's capable of it; he doesn't know if she's capable of it, of being made to feel small. But beyond his own survival, if Oscar can claim to have anything he might call a goal, or maybe a dream...

Ozpin says nothing. His silence feels like sympathy—feels like pity. Oscar shakes it off with a brief surge of irritation.

But those guys downstairs aren't- they're walking into something bigger than they know. You gave them a chance to walk away, but does that actually mean anything if they don't know what you're asking them to take on in the first place? Even... even Branwen doesn't know what he's getting into, not really.

It's a sobering thought. Oscar wouldn't go so far as to say he likes Branwen, but he doesn't wish the man dead. Jaune, and the rest... Oscar has never wished harm upon anyone like them, not really.

His whole team was yours, right? Ruby's mom, the dead one—did she know what she was getting into?

'...missus Rose made her choices, Oscar. her death was a tragedy, but to treat her as anything less than a person with her own agency would be to do her sacrifice a disservice.'

Oscar buries his face in his knees, curling up. That isn't a yes, Ozpin.

After a very long moment, Ozpin surprises him by confirming, ‘she knew, Oscar. she learned of just how monumental an enemy we fought, but she decided that there were some things worth fighting for anyway. that this led to her death is... something i regret deeply.’

Oscar falls silent for a minute, absorbing that. With a soft breath, he presses, But you’d let it happen again?

Ozpin has no answer, and in a way that's answer enough.

Oscar pushes to his feet and paces, back and forth, tiles clinking slightly under his boots. The night feels heavy on his shoulders.

The thing is, he needs them, needs these children and Branwen and the support they provide. He’s already done his time alone and on the run while fleeing to Haven, and he knows with a choking certainty that he can’t survive like that. If he could, he wouldn't be here, fitting in poorly among these silly and deluded children.

So he knows, knows that he can't afford to alienate these people. Left scrabbling desperately in the wilds by himself, he wouldn't be able to accomplish anything before something inevitably took him out.

...But what is he hoping to accomplish with his life anyway?

All his wishes are selfish ones.

"No," Oscar decides. He slides down the tiles, legs swinging over the lip of the roof and angling towards the open window beneath. He bunches himself to make the jump. "No, I won't be a part of this farce."

'Oscar.' A warning. Oscar snarls at it.

"Maybe you're okay with using people like that, but-" 

Ozpin sighs. Softer, 'please, Oscar. not tonight. trust me.'

Oscar pulls a face. Trust is a big word, too generous for this thing between him and Ozpin. But he stills on the precipice anyway.

Oscar knows that if he really did try to march into the house and inform everyone of just how much they didn't know, Ozpin could forcibly prevent him from doing so. The man's done it before; he's proven himself capable of it. And Ozpin very much does not want anyone else to know how impossible fighting Salem is, the secrecy of it so ingrained that it's practically carved into their shared bones. Oscar can feel it.

...And yet. In spite of everything, of all evidence to the contrary, the boy still thinks that some part of him would be very, very surprised if the Headmaster took over like that, just to stop him from doing what he thinks is right.

And in that pause, Ozpin—and it is Ozpin—thinks of the teens downstairs, of the glimpse they'd gotten when they'd passed the dining room. Schnee had her face buried in her hands in a pose of dramatic woe as Blondie told some story to the table at large. Ruby had wrapped her arms around Schnee, looking rather mortified herself. Nora had been cackling, Ren faintly sympathetic. Jaune had looked more carefree than Oscar has ever seen him, smile bright and soft.

They'd looked so happy.

And Oscar's just jealous enough to leave them to it.

"You're a fucking hypocrite, Oz." Oscar's growl is a rasping, toothless thing. "You don't get to lecture me about fighting fair when you definitely don't."

...Fine. Fine, keep your secrets. But someday, Ozpin, you are going to tell everyone the truth, or I will do it for you.

It’s not much later when someone interrupts Oscar's brooding.

"Hey, Oscar, right? The others said I'd find you up here.” Oscar has exactly half a second to decide if he should be alarmed by the fact that he’s apparently known for being on the roof, before Blondie hauls herself up the rest the way up without an invitation. "I'm Yang, if you didn't know."

"...Here to punch me again?" Oscar quips, dry enough to convey how little he appreciates his solitude being trespassed upon. Blondie grins cheerfully, completely unaffected by his displeasure.

"Actually, I wanted to apologize for that. Sorry; the others told me you've been helping out."

Her smile is toothy; she clearly remembers what he's done, and there's the implication that if he weren't making himself useful now, she wouldn't regret a damn thing. It's also, somehow, incredibly sincere in its apology, like she actually is sorry that she wanted him dead just this afternoon.

Oscar is almost envious. He wishes he could lie that well.

Ozpin interrupts his mental revision of how good an actor Blondie is. 'i rather doubt she's acting right now, Oscar; from what i've seen of her, miss Xiao Long isn't the type. you should have nothing to fear unless you upset her—and you will know if you've upset her.'

Oscar, somewhat unnervingly, finds himself inclined to believe Ozpin. "Okaaay," He says, instead of acknowledging any of that.

"So, uh, no hard feelings?"

Oscar rolls his eyes at the stars. You tell me, he doesn't say. 

'Oscar.' Oh, lovely. The Stern Headmaster Voice makes its reappearance. Ugh.

"Yeah, sure, we're good," he lies through his teeth.

"Cool." Blon- Yang lays back, one leg crossed over the other and arms folded behind her head. Oscar can't imagine the position is comfortable, given her gauntlets, but she looks ready to lie there all night. "Hey, the view up here isn't half bad. Bit chilly, though."

"Uh... huh." Oscar, chin resting on his knees, folds his arms around his legs a little tighter as he eyes her warily. "It'd be worse if it were windy."

"Definitely."

A long silence falls between them, heavy. Oscar breaks first. "...Did you want something."

"Eh." Yang thinks about it for longer than Oscar thinks the question really merits, before apparently hitting upon a topic. "I guess not. Hey, so, Ruby says you call Uncle Qrow 'Branwen.'"

"...Yes," Oscar confirms, wary.

Yang glances over at him. "Why?"

Oscar considers blowing her off. Then he considers how 'uncle' Branwen might react to that. He grimaces. "I don't want to call him Qrow," he tries to explain, slow. "We aren't... close. Besides, that's Ozpin's name for your uncle, and I'm not Ozpin."

It feels inadequate, somehow, saying it like that. "I'm not Ozpin" isn't a declaration that belongs in a softly spoken sentence, in a trite little conversation, to a girl he barely knows anything about.

Rather, it's a sentiment that resonates so deeply in Oscar's being that he feels like he should be shouting it. Should be digging it into the walls with his fingernails. Should be pouring it molten into his every breath.

It lives in every blow he deals Salem and her dark kingdom, every choice and action he makes of his own accord, every time he looks Salem or Ozpin or the whole damn world in the eye and tells them no.

I'm not Ozpin, I'm not Ozpin, I'm not Ozpin. I'm me.

(He can only wonder how long that will stay true.)

Yang snorts. "Yeah, no kidding," she scoffs, short, and that. That's oddly reassuring.

Oscar shakes it off. "Is that it?" It can't be. "What do you really want?"

She shrugs, unmoved by the force of his suspicion. "Nothing, really." Belying her own words, Yang makes no move to leave.

"Riiiight." Oscar tilts his head, studies her.

It occurs to him that he could tell someone about Salem right now. Ozpin, a little curled being of shame and quiet doubt in the back of his mind, makes no move to stop him—simmering with guilt and sorrow and still acting like he’s giving Oscar some kind of choice in this, just as he likes to promise.

What stops him from spilling the beans, ultimately, is the pooling dread and betrayal in the shared space of their mind. Ozpin probably has reasons for whatever he's done, whatever secrets he's kept. Just because Oscar doesn't know them doesn't mean they're not still looming back there, heavy.

And Oscar knows all about not wanting to talk about certain things. So he'll... trust the man, with this much. For now.

Still, Yang and Schnee are newcomers to the situation. Now wouldn't be a bad time to pass along a different kind of warning, just in case.

He chances it. "Hey, you're pretty close to Ruby, right?"

Yang snorts. "Uh, yeah. Why?" She eyes him, then flashes him a shit-eating grin before he can respond. "If you're about to tell me you're got a crush-"

"No." Oscar's voice is flat. Yang waggles her eyebrows, and Oscar kind of wants to jab her in the ribs. Or push her off the roof. "You should try to keep an eye on her, though."

"...I mean, I intend to anyways, but why mention it?" She gives him a considering look, thankfully wiped clean of teasing. Mostly.

"The only reason your sister doesn't have a literal price on her head is because Cinder's called first dibs. And... maybe because she's not an adult yet, I guess." Oscar looks away. His hand drifts up to his neck, tracing the path of an old bullet wound that's long since healed over. As close to success as that ambush had been, he doesn't even have a scar to show for it anymore. "You know how it is. Plenty of people out there who'll go after kids, but usually there's a couple in every circle that get stupid about killing children. Try to tip off targets, interfere with hits, that sort of thing." He forces his hand down, and the memories away. "There's no need to risk their interference if Cinder's already..." Oscar trails off when he glances over at Yang.

There's a complicated look on her face—horror, incomprehension. Like Oscar's said something shocking and terrible.

"You-" She starts. Stops. "That is so wrong," she mutters to herself.

"What?" Oscar blinks at her. He takes in her surprise. "Did you not- is that news to you? How have you never- I thought you were supposed to be a Huntress." 

What kind of Huntsman is surprised by the depths to which mankind will sink? ...What the hell was Ozpin teaching in that fancy school of his?

She doesn't answer him. Neither does Ozpin, when Oscar thinks to poke the man—Oscar just gets a disturbingly sincere sense of pity, and the equally disturbing impression that the man’s rifling about his memories for more details of the time Tyrian set a bunch of bounty hunters on him mid-mission 'for counter-ambush training.'

Branwen chooses then to poke his head over the lip of his roof, in a feat of suspiciously good timing. Oscar wonders how long the man's been eavesdropping.

"There you are. It's past time for kiddos to be in bed, brats, come on." Branwen beckons them inside and disappears below the shingles. His voice echoes up to them. "It's gonna be a loooong day tomorrow."

Yang goes down first, being closer to the roof's edge. She sends Oscar a lingering sort of look before she swings over the lip and in through the open window. She looks like she has something to say; she looks like she has no idea how to say it.

...The people here are weird. 

Ozpin sighs.

Oscar follows after her, perching on the window sill and peering into the room cautiously.

"-was looking for you. I think you might have to share a room, but there should be enough beds," Branwen is saying. Yang agrees cheerfully enough as Oscar hops in, whatever remaining strangeness from before seemingly banished from her demeanor. 

And Ozpin thought she wasn't a good actor.

"Wouldn't be the first time. Night, you two," she calls as she makes her way down to the bedrooms, tossing a little wave over her shoulder. They wave back at her—Branwen casual, Oscar in uncertain mimicry.

He makes to follow after Yang, but pauses just short of the doorway. Branwen's still watching him, arms crossed, face unreadable. Oscar licks his lips.

"Do you want me to stay away from this one too?" The words are as neutral as Oscar can possibly make them, but out loud they still sound far too accusatory. For a second he wonders if he's making a mistake, calling Branwen out like this.

But. The man hasn't done anything, yet.

(And if that finally changes... well. At least Oscar will know.)

Branwen considers it for maybe half a second before he pulls a face. "Nah. Yang can take care of herself. Besides, if she starts thinking you're avoiding her, I don't think you'll like her reaction. Firecracker ain't much like her sister in that respect."

Oscar nods obediently, then freezes. "Wait, Ruby thinks I'm avoiding her?" That has a lot of connotations, and he doesn't like a single one of them.

"Well, aren't you? My niece ain't dumb, pipsqueak." Branwen challenges. He fishes out his flask, nonchalant, like he is absolutely not responsible or at fault for any of that being the case.

Ozpin's quiet totally-not-laughing cough draws Oscar's incredulous attention inward, and Oscar sort of... mentally flails at the man. Because this? This vaguely aggravating disaster of alcohol poisoning and rampant denial? This is one of Ozpin's most trusted?

Doesn't the man have any standards?

'Qrow can be a bit of a handful,’ Ozpin concedes diplomatically, 'but i assure you he means nothing by it. it's simply in his nature to be a bit... overprotective, shall we say, of those he cares about, even when it might not be entirely called for.'

Well.

"Ozpin says you're being an idiot," Oscar's mouth says before his brain can stop it, which startles an actual laugh from the former Headmaster, and a splutter from Branwen—shit, he made the Huntsman waste alcohol.

'language.'

"Sorry!" Oscar yelps. He backs out of grabbing range, suddenly wishing he could go back in time and punch himself for not minding his tongue. Or punch Ozpin, that sounds more appealing. Actually, Ozpin has magic, maybe time-travel is a real possibility?

If Branwen's noted the wary edge to Oscar's stance, he doesn't comment on it as he swipes the back of his wrist over his chin. He scowls at the mess, but it's with wry humor that he responds, "Oh he does, does he?"

"Uh, well. I." Don't stutter. "Not in those exact words?" Oscar hedges. The line of his shoulders relaxes a fraction as Branwen snorts a laugh.

"Yeah, that sounds like him." For a brief moment, the man just stands there and grins, fond and melancholy. "Never put up with my bullshit for long." He drags a hand though his hair. "You should- Ozpin's- Fuck. He's... a smart guy. A good man. You should listen to him more, brat."

A sudden rush of affection staggers Oscar, well-trodden and worn and still stronger than anything the boy can remember ever experiencing. He doesn't have a reference for the feeling, should barely be able to comprehend it at all, and yet he can still discern the resigned quality to the emotion—the tired love of a man willing to savor whatever he can get, however long he can get it.

Ozpin masters himself. The moment passes.

...Dude, Oscar emphatically directs at him, and even in his head it sounds rattled and high-pitched. Ozpin chuckles, embarrassed and not nearly apologetic enough for dumping all that alarming feeling into their head. That was gross.

"Come on, kid," Branwen is saying, already half out the room. "The others will be wondering where we've disappeared to."

Oscar stares after the man for what feels like a long, long time before he can force himself to move. His hands clutch at the collapsed cane reflexively, loose then tight, and he carefully doesn't stray too close to the Huntsman. He doesn't want to somehow set Ozpin off again—that excessive fondness was vile.

The man heads down to one of the many bedrooms. "Bedtime" is this weird concept that Branwen regularly brings up which involves everyone specifically sleeping at the same time, spending several of the most peaceful and comfortable (in Oscar's opinion, at least) hours of a day unconscious. But for all that he keeps making noises about it, the Huntsman never seems to actually enforce it, so Oscar figures it’s okay to skip right past the bedroom he nominally shares with the man and move on to the library instead. 

He's already done the whole “hide in a bedroom for a few hours every night” thing while infiltrating Beacon. There’s no cover for him to keep, here, and he has zero desire to repeat the experience—especially not in the same room as Branwen. The man can have the room to himself, if he wants to make use of it.

Oscar picks out a book and settles in the hall outside the bedrooms. He'll just keep watch again, tonight; wouldn't want any nighttime intruders to get the jump on the team.

Yang is a nightmare to face in hand-to-hand. Schnee, at least, seems to share Ruby's inability to throw a decent punch, though those heels are quite painful at speed.

Branwen stops leaving the house during the day.

"All of them, Oz, they're all..." Branwen shakes his head. He takes a long pull from the bottle of alcohol he'd picked up somewhere. "I couldn't find anyone."

"I see." Ozpin falls silent for a respectful moment, fingers wrapped so tightly around his cane that even Oscar can feel the strain of it. “Then it appears we were too late.”

Ugly feelings seep up from somewhere in their bones, so deep that the emotions might well come from either of them—anger and guilt. Loss. A tired, resigned sort of horror. A grief so old it's long staled into resignation.

"...But we must press on."

(I told you so, Oscar thinks, a voiceless whisper, and there's no victory in being right.)

The thing that keeps them stalled out, besides the need to get everyone acceptably trained up, is their lack of information.

In the end, it all boils down to whether or not Salem knows about Spring. If she does, the group needs to stay close to Haven and protect the Vault. If she doesn't, they need to steal Spring from Raven Branwen and get her far, far away from Mistral—possibly kill her outright to buy time, though Ozpin always gets disapproving and huffy at him whenever he so much as considers that option.

Every day or so, while taking a break from training the baby Huntsmen, Branwen and Ozpin will talk about their next steps. It's an informal affair, joined or interrupted often by the other children. By Oscar's estimation, very little gets done during these talks.

Oscar gets to keep control for exactly one such strategy meeting.

"We could always-"

"We're not breaking into his home to look for evidence, Oscar," about half the group choruses. The other half look disappointed but don't actually, you know, back him up or anything.

Oscar huffs. Gods, what a bunch of fucking-

'language, young man.'

Oscar makes an aggrieved noise in the back of his throat and stomps off to fume, since apparently he can't even swear in the sanctity of his own mind these days. "Shut up."

Two full weeks after he arrives in Haven, his luck starts trickling dry.

It's nearly a relief.

"I'm tellin' you, there's no one here but me and a buncha Huntsmen-in-training." Branwen's slurring slightly. It does nothing to hide the belligerence in his voice. "You think I wouldn't be able ta tell if there was some kind of crook hidin' out in my own damn place?"

"Sir, please, we're just trying to do our jobs-" The cop on the left tries to placate.

"Yeah? Well I ain't exactly seein' a warrant, buddy. If you're actually trying to do your jobs, you can start by doing ‘em right."

It takes several more minutes of back and forth, and Branwen waving about his Huntsman license, before the police are finally dissuaded from searching the house.

Oscar doesn't eavesdrop that long. He scurries further into the house, out of sight from the front door and any windows. The echoes of shouting seem to reach him no matter how deep he buries himself.

He feels time running out like a hangman’s noose, tightening agonizingly slowly around his neck.

"Could you really not find a better place to hide?” The Schnee girl calls up snidely. Oscar peers down at her from the top of the bookshelf he's curled up on. His grips loosens slightly around the cane handle, from 'painfully tight' to a mere 'strangling.'

"This is fine. What more could I ask for," he snarks back, voice a little hoarse but thankfully steady. There's enough space in the room to avoid being cornered, multiple exits, decent makeshift weapons in a pinch (although, some of the books are little sturdier than newspapers; it would take an inefficiently large amount of Aura reinforcement to make those ones viable), and if needed he could shift his weight to drop the whole bookcase on someone. He hooks his heels around the uppermost shelf and leans over, a bit tempted to tip it onto her now, just on principle.

She rolls her eyes. "The policemen are gone," Schnee informs him, unimpressed. Oscar makes no move to get down.

"Got it." She doesn't leave, looking up at him with a peculiar expression, and Oscar wants so very badly to be alone right now. "Shouldn't you be getting back to the others."

"Well... I wanted to ask you something." She approaches another step, just a hint hesitant. "Are you sure those officers were after you?"

Oscar eyes her, unfriendly. "You believe their presence is a coincidence?"

"Hardly," she scoffs. "But- I'm Weiss Schnee," she introduces herself, apropos of nothing. She gestures to her person. "You're not the only one the authorities might be interested in, you know."

Oscar frowns, considers the implications. “Why would they be after you? Aren’t you supposed to be some rich Atlas girl?”

Schnee—Weiss—gives him a arch look. “Daughter to one of the richest men in all of Remnant, actually. And you don’t honestly believe someone like that could just travel to Mistral on her lonesome without people noticing, do you?”

Oscar didn’t actually mean to offend her. He leans away from her ever so slightly. “Um. I don’t know? I don’t… I don’t always get what other people think is normal. ...My apologies.”

She stares at him judgmentally for a long moment, before turning away with a huff. “I suppose that’s understandable. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

The silence stretches a while. It’s awkward, but Oscar doesn’t know how to break it. He’s not… good with this stuff. He shifts his weight around, before he realizes he’s doing it and forces himself still.

“So… the police. After you. What, did you run away from home too?”

Prying though the question is, he means it as a joke. So it’s a shock when she looks away, cheeks tinting ever so slightly red.

“Well. It wasn’t exactly the nicest home,” She dismisses, arms folded across her chest, which is basically a yes.

Surprise stills his tongue for a long moment. The set of her shoulders, the twist of her lips—he recognizes it. Weiss looks almost like- like Mercury did, sometimes, while thinking personal and unpleasant thoughts. Which is not a comparison he ever expected to make, as the two seem nothing alike otherwise.

Testingly, bitterly, he offers, “If only that made it easier.”

Easier to do what, he doesn’t specify. Turns out he doesn’t need to. 

Weiss doesn’t relax, precisely, but her stance… settles. Oscar can see her process the words, understand them. She uncrosses her arms, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a soft harrumph, and glances up at him out of the corner of her eye. “If only,” she agrees, nearly cordial.

They stare silently for another long and hesitant moment, recognizing each other but unsure what to do about it. 

Finally, Weiss breaks the silence. Stiltedly, she offers, "Do you… want to talk about it?“

...What the hell? 

"Uh, no?” Oscar nearly recoils from the thought alone, and squints at her as she flips from looking like she’s reading a bad script to looking like she’s thinking to smack him for his impudence. "Why on Remnant would I- wait, did you want to talk about it?”

That came out more incredulous than it probably should have.

“No,” Schnee sneers at him, before flouncing away in a snit. Oscar raises a hand to stop her, pauses, lets it drop. He watches her retreat, baffled. 

(…Later, looking back, Oscar thinks that he probably fucked that up. Somehow. It is not, unfortunately, an unfamiliar thing to be feeling.)

It must have been Lionheart. How else would they know where to look?

'it might be a coincidence.'

You don't really believe that.

'...no, i don't. but we mustn't act in haste, Oscar. let's talk to the others.'

Oscar's face sours. You mean let you talk to the others?

Perfectly neutral, 'if you prefer.' 

If there's one good thing to have come out of the policemen's visit, it's that the whole affair finally kicks the group into immediate action. They make a game plan for the very next day.

The plan is this: Oscar and Ozpin play bait.

If Lionheart really is a traitor, then Ozpin showing up at his house to ask for assistance should be all the invitation the man needs to show his true colors. So long as Ozpin goes in apparently alone and asking for sanctuary, Haven's Headmaster will have no reason to think that he's already met up with Branwen.

If he isn't the mole, then they can have a proper talk about rebuffing the impending attack on Haven. If he is the mole, then the man will undoubtedly call reinforcements in, and Ozpin will call in his own reinforcements, and they'll finish things right then and there.

Oscar hates this plan.

'it was devised from your idea,' Ozpin points out mildly, like that somehow makes it better, like it’s a good thing that they're actually using one of his random spitball suggestions.

You know I didn’t mean for those to be taken seriously.

Ozpin ignores this. 'and i think we can trust Qrow not to simply abandon us.' The words are wry, but reassuringly meant.

"Shut up." Oscar is aware, yeah. He doesn't think Branwen will just abandon Ozpin either. But he still likes being prepared, having an exit strategy, having some backup plans—only, there can be no backup planning for this. Not really. The success of this entire gambit relies on assistance from other people, after all.

And that is so far from what he’s comfortable with that he could choke on it.

‘Qrow does care about you, you know.'

"No. He cares about you," Oscar says, every word of it bitter. "And if you try to tell me that's the same thing, I swear by the gods I am going to hurt someone."

If Branwen and the students fail to come, if Lionheart is a better fighter than he seems or capable of calling in more backup than they can handle, if something goes wrong... then that will be the end of it. The end of him, as Oscar.

He'll have tried his absolute best, and not made any damn difference at all. It will be exactly like every other time he's attempted to go against Salem's will in the past.

(He's almost hoping he doesn't make it out, if that's his fate. He's not sure how long he can keep living with such perpetual, inescapable failure.)

Oscar runs through drills again and again, the closest he can get to the times when he would kill Grimm after Grimm to stave off nerves. Ozpin is a quiet, watchful presence throughout the process—a far cry from the days when he would comment on every flaw with a critical and exacting eye. Oscar gets the unnerving sense that he's fighting more and more like Ozpin every day.

Sometimes, when the inevitability of losing himself gets to be too much, Oscar pretends the cane is a staff and tries to fight like he used to. It's hard. His body doesn't want to move that way anymore, and every motion is a conscious thing that requires him to rely on increasingly distant memories instead of his own rewritten reflexes and instinct.

He can see, now, what Ozpin was talking about when he said Oscar needed more training—a poorly-grounded stance here and there, a small hole in his guard that could be smaller if he lifted his elbow just so, a jumping motion that he knew was risky before but now seems to leave far too many openings to ever bother using. There are maneuvers Oscar pulls that are nowhere in the dead man’s repertoire. Bold moves, reckless moves, occasionally treating his melee weapon like a disposable projectile—bad habits, Ozpin likes to call them, and even if the man doesn’t mean it that way, the words still make Oscar feel like an unruly pet the Headmaster’s picked up.

(It rankles, all of it, but none so much as the way Ozpin just... lets him do it, with neither criticism nor comment on those flaws. As though, maybe, this isn't the first life the man's gone through this.

The eons-old spirit is patient and understanding and damnably silent, always, as he waits for the day Oscar is finally ready to give this up too.)

Ruby Rose interrupts him around his second hour. "Hey, um, dinner's ready."

He nods in her general direction, but doesn't stop. He's not that hungry. Ruby doesn't leave, hovering at the edges of the room, and when it starts to get too distracting Oscar finally gives in with a sigh.

"What?"

"Soooo. Um. About the thing, tomorrow..." Ruby folds her arms behind her back and shifts her weight back and forth, looking away. Oscar side-eyes her.

"If you don't think I can do it, you can just come out and say so."

"No, no no, that wasn't what- I- I mean," Ruby waves her hands around for a frantic moment. "I just- I wanted to know if you're really okay with this? I mean, it might be pretty dangerous, Oscar, and you're not... Um..."

"I'm not a goody-two-shoes like the rest of you?" Oscar bites back the rest of his retort. Ruby is possibly the last person he should take his ill-temper out on.

“No no no no no,” Ruby denies frantically, hands flailing as if to ward off his words with the sheer force of her gestures. “That’s not what I’m trying to say at all! I mean, yeah, Uncle Qrow did kind of warn us you’d be weird—not that I’m saying you’re weird! Or that that’s a bad thing!”

Oscar’s getting tired just watching her. Somehow, though, he can’t quite tear his eyes away as Ruby works herself into even more of a blustering spectacle.

“And I mean, no one’s really explained anything about you, besides the Ozpin thing, but anyone with eyes can see that you didn’t exactly grow up in a normal household—which is fine! Really! I don’t think any of us grew up in a perfectly normal home anyway—uh, I mean, what I mean to say is- I’m doing this wrong.” Ruby buries her face in her palms, groaning low and heartfelt. “...Please say something, I don’t think I can take much more of you staring at me like that.”

Like what? leaps to his lips immediately, and Oscar presses them together to keep the words down. That doesn’t actually matter. Instead, he ventures, “Branwen didn’t... explain anything about me to you guys?”

Ruby peeks at him between her fingers. “Not really? Just like, the Ozpin stuff.”

“But-” That’s. Concerning? It feels like something to be concerned about. "He hasn't told you what I've done? What I nearly did?"

Ruby gives him a searching, uncertain look. "What do you mean?"

It occurs to Oscar, suddenly, that he’s never had to explain himself before. Everyone who’d ever mattered tended to just... already know anything important about Oscar’s situation, long before he ever got to the point of interacting with them. Even Branwen had already known the broad strokes, before Oscar had to lay out the details. 

But for Ruby to not even be aware that—"The night Beacon fell," he finds himself saying. "I was the first one to reach the top of the tower, after you did... what you did." He looks away, chin tucking down into the high collar of his jacket. His throat is dry. The words feel like they burn their way up and out, guilty and searing. "If Branwen had been a little faster, he would've beaten me there, and Cinder would never have made it out of Beacon. A little slower, and I'd have- I'd. You. You would be dead right now."

Ruby goes ominously still at those words. Oscar notes the way her breath catches slightly, but he can't bring himself to look more closely.

"The- timing was really close," he stumbles on, in a weak attempt to move away from the subject. "I guess that might've been his Semblance at work. My bad luck equals your good luck, or something of the sort."

Ruby doesn't let herself be deflected. "Right. I was- You would've- ...right." She fusses with the hem of her cloak. "I don't really know your story, but... did you want to do it?"

Oscar glares at the floor. "Does it matter? I would've."

Ruby takes a half step closer, fearless; Oscar flinches a corresponding step back. “But you’re not going to do it again, right?”

He can't meet her eyes. “No. I’m not.”

"Okay. Then, that's okay." Ruby huffs out a breath, breaks into a rueful smile. "I mean, I wasn't doubting it, but it's still good to hear. Anyways, wow that got dark really fast. I didn't come down here for all of that."

Oscar scowls, pulls it back in. Blank, blank, or else Branwen will make him regret it. “Then what did you come here for?” He asks, mostly not snippy. Probably.

"I wanted to see how you were holding up. It's kind of a big day tomorrow." She looks a little self-conscious at the inadequacy of her own words, but her gaze is steady. Honest.

"I told you I could do it."

"But are you okay with it?" Gods, her eyes are so familiar. They make him feel like a kid on his first mission all over again. "Being able to do something isn't the same as being okay with it."

He forces himself to match her gaze. "Well. I'm here, aren't I? Should probably make myself useful."

For some reason, Ruby looks troubled by his words. "You're... not here to be useful. You get that, right?"

Oscar tries to hide his incomprehension behind a neutral look. Ruby frowns when she sees it, and he gets the sense that he's probably failed.

"I might not know everything that's going on with you, Oscar, but we can all see that this- this whole mess with, with Salem and the Relics, it's something personal to you. You're here because you're in trouble, and you need help. You're not here so we can... use you, or anything like that.”

Oscar stares at her like she’d just declared her intention to become a viper-Faunus and take up a career in cheerleading. “I have Ozpin in my head, and insider knowledge,” he points out, haltingly, as if she could’ve somehow missed the obvious reasons for the continued tolerance of his presence in their safehouse. “That’s why I’m here. Not... whatever you're on about.”

"We're not going to treat you like a tool," she insists.

"Why not?" He asks, still bewildered. The words keep coming, unbidden, tapping into a deeper well of confusion that has been building since his first day with this baffling group of baby Huntsmen. "Why aren't you guys making use of me? Do you just not know how?"

Ruby looks upset. Oscar has enough presence of mind to be wary of that. "Is that why you think you're here? Is that what you want, Oscar?"

What he wants? What kind of- why would that ever matter?

"It's... what I know," and he sounds unacceptably lost. He gathers himself with a scowl. "Besides, you guys clearly need all the help you can get."

"Of course we want your help." She's sounding frustrated too, now. Oscar gets a little vindictive satisfaction from that, but not nearly as much as he’d like. "But we have lines, and we're not gonna force you. We've managed so far, and we’ll manage going forward. We're not that desperate."

“Are you sure?” He finds himself asking. The next words catch in his throat, just a little. “Maybe you should be. She’s... terrifying. More than you can understand.” He suppresses a shiver.

“I-“ Ruby blinks. Eyes him contemplatively. “Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you scared. Jumpy, but not...” she waves a hand vaguely.

Is that the impression he gives? Not scared? Really?

What a joke.

“You must be blind,” he mutters, but it lacks the proper bite. “Or maybe just completely stupid, if you aren’t at least half as afraid of her as I am.”

“Maybe,” she repeats, still with that too-piercing look in her eyes. Then, slow and quiet, almost to herself, “but she isn’t to me what she is to you, right? I don’t think I can be as scared of her as you are.”

“What do you presume to know of what she is to me?” He demands, voice as cold as the halls of Salem’s tower. Ruby stands a little straighter at the challenge in it.

“You always talk about her like she’s a nightmare. And you... you act like you’re in some kind of dream, a lot of the time. Like none of this is real, somehow, or none of it matters.” She frowns. “I know you must've been through a lot, but you’re safe here, you know? No one’s going to hurt you.”

The words process slowly, as though through Grimm sludge, the sheer nonsense of them making him double take in pure bafflement. Then the anger sets in.

"Is that supposed to be some kind of fucking joke?" He hisses.

She keeps looking at him. Something about that, about the steady way she keeps meeting his eyes, makes it impossibly difficult to hold on to his ire. "We're with you, Oscar," she promises. Like it's that simple.

She leaves before he can figure out what to say to that, making a comment about the food getting cold. Oscar stares after her as she goes, feeling like he's just had his legs cut out from under him.

'she really is quite extraordinary, isn't she?'

...She's a fool, is what she is.

(I hope she doesn’t die, he admits, somewhere in the quiet recesses of their mind, and it’s less a thought and more a prayer.)