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Chapter Text

Skull n’ Bones

Chapter 6: Nice Place For Interrogations 

It was cold. Not just the steel bones of the Atlesian airship beneath her boots, nor the sterile air recycled through vents and grates. 

This chill ran deeper. Quiet and personal, like frost threading through the heart.

Weiss Schnee stood near the observation window, arms folded tight against herself. In the far distance, she imagined Atlas rising. Jagged and pale, like a promise she wasn’t sure she wanted kept.

Clouds drifted across Vale’s skies, but in her mind, they parted to reveal the sea of white stretching far beyond. Home, in name if not in spirit.

She’d always known the day would come. The return. The reckoning.

She should have known it would feel like this: like being boxed in again, polished and preserved like some antique under glass.

The time she’d spent at Beacon… That golden, fleeting season, it had given her warmth. Color. Laughter. Friends. True friends. It was the first time in her life that she’d felt untethered from the marble halls of the Schnee Manor, the first time she’d laughed without permission.

Now it was gone.

Not just the school, but the sense of becoming. The future she had only begun to shape.

Weiss’s hand drifted over her scroll, fingers brushing the screen. Ruby, Blake, Yang. Even Jaune and the others. 

The fractured team, scattered like shards of broken glass. Would they ever see each other again? Could they even still call themselves a team?

Her thoughts turned toward her family. Her sister, mother, brother. And a pang of guilt swirled beneath the surface. What would she say? What could she say? 

That their sister, daughter, who had finally escaped, returned with failure in hand? That she’d fought monsters, watched lives crumble, and still couldn’t save the place she’d sworn to protect?

She doubted they would say anything at all. And perhaps that was the cruellest part. 

And then came the thought she tried most to ignore.

Father.

She wasn’t afraid of Jacques Schnee’s hands. That would have required heat. It was his voice, his eyes, that quiet disappointment that cut without raising a word. 

Cold could crush just as easily as flame, and Jacques had always known how to wield it.

A soft chime interrupted the silence. Weiss’s scroll lit up.

Incoming call from: Father

She hesitated, breath caught behind her ribs. Then, with a steadying inhale and practiced composure, she accepted.

The hologram shimmered to life in the center of the cabin. Her father’s image stood as crisp and rigid as ever. Posture immaculate, jaw squared, dressed in a porcelain like suit and tie. 

His eyes, cool as the snows of Solitas, flicked over her face like a scanner measuring damage.

“Weiss.” Jacques said, nodding once. “You’re faring well on this journey, I hope?”

His tone was warm. In that polished, professional way of his. Not affection, but image. Something curated.

“I’m safe.” Weiss said carefully. “The flight’s been smooth.”

“Good.” He adjusted the cufflink on his sleeve, though it didn’t need it. “Atlas will be a far better environment for you. More secure. You’ll have everything you need again. Your room is being made ready. Your schedule-”

“Father.” she interjected softly, voice even. “May I ask… how is Mother?”

That gave him pause.

Just for a moment. A half-second stutter in his otherwise perfect performance.

His expression didn’t change, but the tone did. Measured. Curious. “Why do you ask?”

Weiss resisted the urge to glance away. “No reason. I just… I haven’t heard anything. I thought-”

She stopped herself. Don’t ramble. Don’t show the crack.

Jacques studied her. Not unkindly. But like a man trying to calculate motive behind a move on a chessboard.

“She’s well enough.” he said at last. “The staff are tending to her, as always.”

“I see.” Weiss said quietly.

“You’ll see her soon yourself.” he continued. “And the rest of the family. Everyone is eager to have you back.”

She nodded, though she wasn’t sure anyone but the family portrait would be waiting.

Jacques looked at her a moment longer, then gave a faint, professional smile.

“Make the most of the remaining flight.” he said. “I’ll see you at the manor.”

The image flickered and vanished. Silence returned like snowfall.

Weiss exhaled, letting tension slide off her shoulders inch by inch.

She didn’t know which part had chilled her more. The cold comfort of his words, or how much warmth she’d imagined in them.

Outside, the lights of Atlas glittered like frost over steel. And beneath her polished exterior, something deep within Weiss braced for the cold to come.

---------------------------------------

“Look, if you guys are gonna start trouble, I suggest you take it outside the clinic.” the doctor said, his voice clipped but nervous. He hovered near the reception desk, clearly regretting letting any of them in.

The room felt tight. Airless. Violet stood rigid, arms crossed but tense, fingers twitching near her hip like she might draw at any second. Ouro looked ready to follow her lead. 

And Finch? Finch couldn’t stop glancing at Taskmaster’s wounds.

“No fightin’ here, doc.” Taskmaster said quickly, lifting a hand. “Just a conversation to be had, is all.”

De-escalation wasn’t exactly his specialty. He didn’t have the charm or warmth required. But he’d talked his way out of worse.

Wars. Hostage standoffs. Supervillain turf disputes. Even the occasional Avenger trying to cave his face in.

Didn’t always work, sometimes you just had to dive out a window. But when it did, it saved a lot of bullets.

This didn’t feel like one of those times.

He shifted slightly on the cot, wincing as his side lit up with pain. His eyes flicked between the three.

Finch looked the most shaken. Not because he was scared of Neo, or even of Taskmaster himself. It was the blood. The bruises. The bandages. For all his suspicion, the kid still cared.

“He’s a softie.” Taskmaster thought. Not an insult. Just a fact.

He glanced between them again, noting the fresh clothes. Cleaner, newer. The gear he’d bought.

So they got the bags after all.

“Nice outfits, by the way.” he said, voice low but audible. “Sent that kid to drop them off at the inn. Figured you’d change fast, once you realized I was gone too long to just be shopping.”

No one replied, but the shift in Finch’s posture said enough. Caught, if not guilty. Ouro grunted. Violet’s eyes stayed sharp.

Taskmaster leaned back slightly. “Didn’t know your sizes, so I made educated guesses. You’re welcome.”

A beat passed.

“Better than walking around in bloodstained rags I bet.”

No one argued.

But the silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It hung there. Awkward, thick, unfinished.

Taskmaster didn’t push it. He just let his eyes drift, scanning the room again, taking them in.

Violet hadn’t said a word since laying eyes on Neo. Still tense. Still coiled. Her arms were crossed tight, but her fingers kept twitching. Restless, like they didn’t know whether to reach for her weapon or her thoughts.

It wasn’t just Neo however.

She was looking at him too. At the bruises. The blood. The way he sat hunched, holding his side just enough to betray the pain.

She didn’t like seeing him like this.

Didn’t like seeing any of this. Him injured, missing, dragging some unknown threat in behind him. 

Violet hated being out of control, and right now, everything about this screamed unpredictable.

Taskmaster opted to turn towards Neo.

She hadn’t moved from her seat. Still perched on the table near his cot, swinging one leg lazily. But her gaze was sharp. Cold. Tracking every micro-movement like it might lead to an opening.

Taskmaster had seen that look before.

A hundred times. A thousand. On operatives. Assassins. Soldiers who stopped needing orders because they already knew how the scene would play out.

His photographic reflexes didn’t just let him mimic movements. They gave him insight. Deep, instinctual reads on people. He could catch a glance, a breath shift, the twitch of a hand. And know what came next. 

Not magic. Just pattern recognition, elevated to a superhuman level.

Some tells were unconscious. A tightening of the jaw. A shift in weight.

Others, like Neo’s, were blatant. On purpose. A challenge. She wasn’t hiding it. She wasn’t trying to.

She stared at Violet’s group with clear intent. Not just curiosity. Not analysis.

Predation.

She wanted something. And she was going to get it. One way or another. Taskmaster exhaled slowly and leaned forward, forcing his voice steady.

“She’s not here to start a fight.” Taskmaster said, more for Violet’s sake than Neo’s. “She’s here for answers. That’s all.”

He glanced over at Neo, who still wore that too-wide grin. “Right?”

She shrugged, then gave a slow nod. The gesture was casual, lazy. Yet there was something sharp underneath it. She wouldn’t mind if it got messy. 

But she was hurt, and she knew damn well that if he stepped in again, if they all stepped in. Things wouldn’t end in her favor.

Violet’s eyes snapped to him. “And you think she’s just going to ask politely?”

Neo tilted her head, smile syrupy sweet, legs swinging without a care in the world.

“No.” Taskmaster said flatly. “But if she wanted a fight, she wouldn’t have waited this long.”

That bought a beat of silence. Not trust. But hesitation.

He could work with that.

The room stayed quiet, the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing down. Taskmaster’s gaze flicked to each face, noting the quiet.

Ouro was the first to break it.

“Y’know.” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kinda weird seeing you without the mask.”

His tone aimed for casual, but didn’t quite hit. The sigh at the end gave him away, less about the mask and more about everything else weighing on him.

No one answered. Finch glanced up, clearly still rattled. His eyes flicked from Taskmaster’s bandaged side to his bare face and back again, as if unsure which unsettled him more.

Violet hadn’t moved much at all, but her stance shifted just enough. A little less locked. A little more readable.

Ouro let out another breath and gestured halfheartedly. “Not what I pictured, honestly. You look… normal. Sorta.”

There was no real offense in it, and Taskmaster didn’t take any. He just watched them. Quiet. Observant.

And then he spoke, “Well, sorry to disappoint. But there ain’t anything special underneath the mask.” 

His face was lean and cut with age, shadowed with a rough stubble that hadn’t seen a razor in a few days. A few lines marked the corners of his mouth and eyes, not deep but lived-in. 

The streaks of gray near his temples added to the wear. Not the elegant kind, but the kind that came from cutting it close too many times.

It wasn’t a face made for comfort. It was a face shaped by choices.

“You look like someone who doesn’t sleep much.” Violet murmured, and for a moment her voice lost its edge. Just curiosity remained. 

Taskmaster didn’t blink. “Don’t have time for it. Between saving your asses and fighting psychos, leisure’s a luxury.”

He glanced toward Neo. “No offense, obviously.”

Neo just stuck her tongue out.

That got a soft grunt from Ouro. Finch shifted again, eyes darting briefly to Neo.

Neo still hadn’t said a word. Not that she appeared able. Considering the fact she’s been communicating with messages thus far. 

She just sat there, legs gently swinging from the table’s edge, head tilted in faint amusement. Watching. Measuring.

Taskmaster felt her gaze and didn’t return it. No need. He already knew what was behind that smile.

He then shifted, hands bracing against the cot. The second he tried to rise, three voices hit him at once.

“Yeah nice try, you’re not going anywhere.” Violet snapped, stepping forward with a glare. “Do you even see the amount of wounds you have on you?”

Finch was already looking around for more supplies, gnawing at his thumbnail. “Tony you really shouldn’t move, your side looked bad, and that cut, what if you tear something worse-”

Ouro just sighed and crossed his arms. “Do you always walk off near-death like it’s a paper cut, or is this some mercenary thing?”

Taskmaster exhaled a low breath that almost counted as a laugh. His ribs didn’t love the motion, but he leaned back again, letting their panic roll off him like dust.

“I’ve had worse. Don’t heal like you lot, but I bounce back. Eventually.”

That didn’t ease the tension. If anything, Finch looked more horrified.

Violet frowned. “Wait. What do you mean, ‘don’t heal like you lot’?”

Taskmaster glanced down at the bandage on his side, then back up at her. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

“You’re telling me you don’t have aura?” she asked, skeptical.

“Nope.”

A pause followed. Finch blinked. “But… back on the mountain…” He caught himself, glancing around the room. “Those guys we ran into. You tore through them like it was nothing. We could barely keep up.”

He shook his head. “I mean, we knew you were a merc. But we figured you were a pro with advanced aura control. Maybe a Semblance that made it easier. Something like that, not… This.”

Taskmaster shrugged. “Well, you’re half right. I am a pro. Just not one with Aura or a Semblance.”

Ouro scratched at his stubble. “You’re kidding. With how you move, how you fight? You’ve got the reflexes of a Specialist. I figured you just didn’t bother with the license.”

“I’m not a Huntsman, definitely not a specialist either.” Taskmaster said. “Never claimed to be.”

Finch leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Then how do you do it?”

Taskmaster’s reply was simple, unbothered. “I pay attention.”

Violet’s expression didn’t shift, but her eyes narrowed, calculating. “You fight like you’ve been doing this your whole life. Like you’ve studied every move before we made it.”

“Like I said, I pay attention.” Taskmaster said. “That’s how I stay alive.”

Finch muttered, just loud enough to hear, “You should be dead.”

“Yeah. Probably.” Taskmaster said honestly.

The room went still again, but this time it wasn’t tension. It was recalibration. They had all tried to fit him into something familiar. A skilled Huntsman. A rogue Specialist. A merc with a rare Semblance.

But now those ideas were gone. And all that was left was the man in front of them.

Across the room, Neo let out a faint sound that might’ve been a laugh. Quiet, almost involuntary. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… entertained.

Ouro cut his gaze toward her, frowning. Then pointed with his thumb. “Alright, spit it out. Everything. Starting with small and crazy over there.”

Taskmaster glanced at Neo, who just gave them all a wide-eyed grin, like a cat pretending not to notice the birds it was circling.

Ouro’s tone stayed casual, but his eyes didn’t leave her. “And why do you two look like you just walked through a minefield?”

His gaze slid to the gear. Taskmaster’s sword still leaning nearby, Neo’s umbrella angled against the table like it had always been there. “Actually, scratch that. Looks more like you set the minefield. Then shook hands and skipped through it.”

“She’s not here to start trouble.” Taskmaster  said. “And neither am I.”

Finch gave him a skeptical look. “You sure? Because she’s got that smile people wear when they’re thinking about setting something on fire.”

Neo’s smile widened slightly. Taskmaster let the moment hang, then sighed.

“I took a job.”

Everyone blinked.

He nodded once toward Neo. “She’s the one paying.”

A long pause followed. Finch’s jaw went slack. Ouro raised both brows. Violet looked at him like he’d just started speaking another language.

“…You’re serious.” she said.

“Lien’s real. Terms are clear, somewhat anyway. And she needed help, and I needed money.”

“And we’re okay with this why?” Ouro asked.

Taskmaster didn’t answer right away. He met each of their eyes in turn, then said simply, “No one here’s on her list.”

“Sure doesn’t look like it.” Finch muttered.

Neo offered the group a slow, theatrical wave. Half mocking, half amused.

Taskmaster leaned back against the cot again, muscles stiff and sore but eyes calm. “Like I said, I’ll live.”

“We should take this somewhere else.” Taskmaster said, sitting forward on the cot with a quiet grunt. He reached down, tightening the straps on his gear with a practiced hand.

The doctor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please do. This is a clinic, not a saloon. You all look like you’ve been through a war, and I don’t need another starting in here.” His tone wasn’t cruel, more tired than anything else. “Just… try not to collapse before you hit the door, alright?”

Violet opened her mouth, but Taskmaster was already standing.

The movement was stiff, controlled. His body protested it, but he moved like someone who’d long since learned to ignore pain. Upright. Alert. Functional, even if he looked like a man being held together by sheer spite.

“You’re not seriously walking.” Violet said flatly.

He adjusted the shield on his back with a wince. “I’ve walked worse.”

Finch hovered near him, hands wringing nervously. “You’re still bleeding from that last fight. If that cut reopens, if you’ve got internal bleeding, we need to-”

“I know. Trust me, I’ll be alright.”

He didn’t snap. Just answered. Firm. Final.

Violet watched him for a beat, arms still crossed. “You don’t move like someone with Aura.” she said dryly. “Which makes sense now. Considering you don’t have any.”

Taskmaster gave a tired shrug. “Don’t advertise what you don’t have. Not unless you want someone using it against you.”

She gave a quiet hum at that. “Back at the station.” she said, tone casual but eyes sharp. “When I asked about your Semblance, you dodged the question.”

“I did.” Taskmaster admitted, not bothering to lie.

“And now we know why.”

He met her gaze, even. “Didn’t trust you yet.”

Violet held his stare for a moment longer, then nodded once. “Fair.”

Finch exhaled through his nose, half a laugh. “So all that mystery. Ducking questions, skulking around like a ghost, that was just you hiding the no-Aura thing?”

He gave a sideways glance, smirking faintly. “I figured you were just leaning into the whole ‘Grim Reaper with a shield’ aesthetic.”

Taskmaster rolled his shoulder with a quiet grunt. “Mostly just keeping to myself.”

He adjusted the strap across his chest, stiff but deliberate. “But hey, still gotta maintain the image.”

“Oh really?” Violet said, eyebrow raised. “And what image is that. A bloody, beaten-down merc in a bright costume?”

“More like someone who gets the job done. With style,” Taskmaster said, casting a glance at Neo. “Ain’t that right, boss?”

Neo gave him a slow, exaggerated clap. Mocking, but with just enough of a grin to say ‘not bad’.

Ouro, standing near the door, snorted. “Do you just walk off stab wounds like that normally?”

Taskmaster let out a dry breath. “You’d be surprised what you can walk off when the person doing the stabbing signs your paycheck.”

Neo raised a finger as if to interrupt, then mimed a dramatic lunge, blade to gut, followed by a theatrical swoon, hand to her forehead like she was fainting.

Taskmaster gave her a flat look. “That supposed to be me?”

She grinned, twirled an invisible knife, then pointed at his side and gave a thumbs-down.

Taskmaster muttered, “Glad to know I left an impression.”

She nodded, then scribbled quickly on her scroll: “Right between the ribs. A real masterpiece.”

Taskmaster adjusted the bandages with a quiet grunt. “Glad you’re proud of your work. I’ll be sure to frame the scar.”

Neo then stood from the table, brushing the dust from her coat with dainty, deliberate motions. She still had that unbothered look about her. 

Like she hadn’t just survived a fight, like the tension in the room didn’t weigh a thing. She hummed softly under her breath, something light and tuneless.

Taskmaster caught the faint wince in her step. It was tiny. Almost nothing. But it was there.

She was masking her limp. Not to fool him, but to preserve whatever image she was holding in front of the others. She didn’t want to look weak. Not now. Not while she still needed things.

He understood. He let it slide. And then nodded once. “You first.”

Neo gave a theatrical bow, spun on her heel, and sauntered toward the exit.

Taskmaster followed close behind, his boots hitting the floor with a dull rhythm. That left the rest of the group behind him. Smart. If someone got jumpy, he’d be the one between them and her.

The others exchanged looks, brief, tight, uncertain.

Finch hesitated, but moved next. Then Violet, arms crossed, eyes flicking between every exit. Ouro brought up the rear, hand near his belt just in case.

The door creaked open. The cold settled over them like a second skin.

Outside, the wind was sharper than it had been. Carrying ash, dust, and the distant sounds of a town still trying to forget itself. The fading sunlight painted the settlement in burnt gold and long shadows.

They walked in a slow line, a mismatched procession held together by tension and unfinished questions.

Neo led, humming again. Lighter this time. Relaxed. Almost cheerful.

Taskmaster watched the rise and fall of her shoulders, each movement casual but never careless. She had a plan. And as long as she was paying him, it was his job to help bring those plans to fruition.

But make no mistake. If it was something he didn’t back, it wouldn’t happen.

Behind him, Violet watched her closely. Like a coil being wound up slowly, unsure of when it would snap.

Taskmaster didn’t look back. But he could feel it all. The careful distance. The suspicion. The mutual unease.

And in some strange way, it meant things were finally settling into place.

Out in the open, the environment felt different. The air carried the faint smell of ash and rain, but it moved freely. No makeshift clinic walls. No watching medics. Just their boots on worn pavement and the low hum of this place trying to put itself back together.

They walked in relative silence for a while, until Finch finally spoke.

“So… who was she?” he asked. “The girl. How’d you meet her?”

“Ran into her after I finished shopping,” Taskmaster said. “Couple of scumbags were hassling her in an alley. Gave them a reason to regret it.”

Violet arched an eyebrow. “So she just helped you out after that?”

“Nah. I paid her.” He adjusted the strap on his shield. “Told her to take the gear back to the inn. Gave her a few Lien and directions to your room. Figured you’d manage it.”

Ouro made a sound halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. “What’re the chances the little brat ruffled through our stuff?”

Taskmaster actually laughed. Just once. Short and sharp. “Very likely.”

Finch blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“She’s a street kid. Knows how to survive. That usually comes with sticky fingers.”

“She seemed harmless enough.” Violet said, though her tone was still guarded. “Didn’t say much.”

“She didn’t need to. She listened. Did what I asked. That’s more than I can say for half the professionals I’ve worked with.”

Ouro gave a lazy shrug. “She didn’t torch the place or rob us blind, so that’s something.”

“She’s lived here longer than any of us.” Taskmaster added. “She knows how to keep her head down. And that innkeeper owes you. She’ll be safe there.”

“Still not sure we should’ve left her alone,” Finch muttered.

“You didn’t.” Taskmaster said. “You just trusted someone else to watch her for a bit. That’s all.”

Neo let out a quiet, breathy giggle from behind them. When they turned, she was miming something. Head cocked, arms folded tiny like a child, a pantomime of innocence.

Then she stabbed an invisible figure in the gut.

Finch flinched. “Is that, wait. She… She was the girl?”

Taskmaster gave a tired shrug. “Only for a bit.”

“What?” Violet asked, half in disbelief.

“Tricky semblance, showed me an image of the girl. That’s how I ended up with this.” He then pointed to the heavily bandaged wound along his ribs.

Neo smirked like it had been the best part of her week.

“She got the jump on you and stabbed you.” Finch said, looking between the two of them. “And now you’re just… joking about it?”

Taskmaster scratched at his jaw. “To be fair, it was a good trick.”

“Insane.” Finch muttered. “You’re both insane.”

“Probably.” Taskmaster said. “But she’s still paying me, so.”

Neo gave a mock bow at that, then spun on her heel with a dramatic flourish, clearly satisfied.

The sun hadn’t fully set yet. Just low enough to stretch the shadows and set the rusted rooftops in a faint orange glow.

The air had cooled, but not enough to chase away the weight of the day. They walked through it in silence, boots crunching gravel, coats trailing behind them.

The old building wasn’t far now. The one where he and Neo had their little spat.

Behind him, the others kept pace. Eyes flicking from Neo to Taskmaster and back again, like waiting for the punchline of a joke that hadn’t landed yet.

Then Ouro spoke up. “You know.” he said, squinting toward Taskmaster, “I said it earlier, but seriously I half expected your face to just be… y’know, a skull. Like, actual bone.”

Finch made a quiet noise, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “I always thought it was kinda creepy.” he said, then caught Taskmaster glancing back at him. “I mean, cool! Creepy and cool. In a cool way.”

Taskmaster said nothing. Just turned forward again, a faint shake of the head betraying the smallest hint of amusement.

“I was always curious.” Violet said, tone more even, more careful. “Wondered what was underneath.”

He shrugged. “Hope it lived up to the hype.”

“Honestly?” Ouro said, smirking, “Bit more gray than I imagined.”

Taskmaster didn’t break stride. “Blame the job.”

Finch glanced over at Taskmaster, brow furrowed with genuine curiosity. “You’ve mentioned this whole image thing a few times. But… why go with something so loud? The skull mask, the bright colors? Seems like there’d be easier ways to get people’s attention.”

Taskmaster was quiet for a moment, eyes fixed ahead on the path. The question tugged him beneath the surface, pulling past his usual guarded deflections.

“Where I’m from.” he said finally, voice low and even, “People always wear things like this. It’s just how it is. You don’t think much of it… Till’ you end up somewhere different.”

He never used to question why heroes and villains dressed the way they did. Costumes weren’t a statement, not always. They were just standard. 

Whether it was armor, spandex, masks, or cloaks, everyone had something. That was just the way the game was played.

He paused, absently running a gloved hand over the faint scars along his jaw.

“I can’t exactly say why I picked this one.” A faint, almost rueful smile tugged at his lips. “Just… it stuck. It’s been with me through every scrap, every mission, every fight. It’s how people recognize me.”

His voice softened just a hair. “It’s a small comfort. Something I know won’t change. Even if I don’t know what will come next, I know what’ll be with me during the journey.”

He wasn’t lying this time. He really didn’t remember why he chose such an outfit. Sometimes he’d forget his own face. The years that passed etched into it, but the costume? That stayed clear.

Because the suit was more than just a piece of fabric or paint. It was a part of him. The face he showed the world. The identity he clung to when everything else slipped away.

Tony Masters was just a name from a past that felt distant and fading. But Taskmaster? That was forever. 

He paused. Thought about saying that. About explaining more.

But he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Plus, the color coordination’s killer.”

Neo snorted. Finch blinked like he wasn’t sure if that was a joke or not.

Taskmaster didn’t clarify. He just kept walking, and in the back of his mind, quietly scolded himself: Getting soft. Gotta knock that off.

Violet, watching him closely, nodded thoughtfully. “So it’s less about showing off, more about being remembered.”

Taskmaster gave a half-shrug. “Eh, sorta. Being remembered is good, it tells people who not to screw with, and who to hire.”

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, voice steady but casual. “But yeah, it’s a little bit of showing off too. You show up the same every time. No masks under the mask. A purposeful target you could say, no way to hide who you are. ”

The words hung in the air a second too long. Finch let that sink in, the weight behind the bright colors and the skull mask suddenly sharper, less theatrical.

Ouro grunted softly from behind. “Well, it sure works. I can’t forget you if I tried.”

Taskmaster allowed himself a brief smirk. “That’s the idea.”

Violet smirked slightly. “Still… you’re telling me you never thought about changing it up? Maybe less orange and blue? Something… less in-your-face?”

Taskmaster’s smirk grew. “Orange and blue? That’s my bread and butter.”

He shrugged. “Black and white, that’s what the Fang ran with. Everyone does. It’s everywhere, a staple in uniforms and costumes because it’s easy. Common.”

His gaze flicked to Neo. “Takes a real professional to make mine work. And another to pull off brown and pink.”

Neo chuckled again, a light, amused sound. She gave him a sideways glance, eyes sparkling with mischief. Then, pulling out her scroll, she wrote and showed them: “Flattery won’t get you a bonus, by the way.”

Taskmaster gave a dry smile. “Worth a try.”

Finch chuckled quietly. “I’ll give you that.”

Ouro rolled his eyes but said nothing, while Violet watched Taskmaster with an amused shake of her head.

And just like that, the group slipped back into a quiet rhythm. Still wary. Still tense. But a little of the weight had lifted.

They were almost there now.

The building came into view, a husk of what it once was. Half the roof sagged under its own weight, jagged beams cutting across the ceiling like broken ribs. Blood stained the floorboards and walls in wide, erratic patterns. Some still looked fresh.

Neo walked in like it belonged to her.

She twirled once in the dusty light, humming softly, before hopping up onto a shattered countertop with a clatter. One leg dangled lazily off the edge, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Taskmaster moved more slowly, nudging aside a collapsed table and dragging a few cracked crates together to form a makeshift bench. He sat without ceremony and gestured toward the others.

“Take a seat.” he said calmly. “It’s not pretty, but it’s neutral.”

Ouro stepped in, his foot crunching glass beneath his boot. He let out a long whistle. “Helluva meeting place. You throw a party here, or a war?”

Finch followed close behind, eyes darting from the blood to the fractured floor, then back to the two most wounded people in the room. His voice was a breath. “Wait… this is where you two…”

“Yep.” Taskmaster answered flatly, already sitting down. “We almost killed each other.”

Finch paled a little. “Oh.”

Violet stood still, her hand twitching near her weapon. “And you’re still dead set on working with her?”

Neo perked up instantly, grinning as she began to rise from her perch, fingers curling in anticipation.

“Calm down.” Taskmaster said, voice low but firm. Neo froze, blinked, and slowly slid back down, arms crossed in a mock pout.

He sighed, settling in deeper. “Look. She was looking for you. All of you. From the second we stepped into that settlement, she was watching. Probably trying to figure out the best angle to get answers.”

Neo gave an exaggerated, smug shrug. Then tapped the side of her nose with two fingers, a sly grin curling on her lips.

Right on the mark.

Taskmaster ignored her. “Thing was, I got in the way. And instead of backing off, she figured she’d take me out.”

He turned his head just slightly toward Neo. “Obviously, that didn’t work.”

Neo’s eye twitched. She picked up a loose piece of broken wood and chucked it at him with a flick of her wrist.

He leaned to the side, letting it whistle past his head and clatter behind him without breaking stride. “So, after I kicked her ass, she decided hiring me was the best way out.”

Neo huffed through her nose, indignant, and shot him a sharp glare that could’ve boiled water.

He didn’t flinch, just gave a half-shrug and kept talking. “Hey, I didn’t call it quits. You’re the one who tapped out.”

There was a long pause.

Violet’s eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a tight line. “Why am I not surprised?”

Finch, still hovering near the wall, blinked slowly like he was trying to solve a math problem that kept changing on him. “She tried to kill you. And now you’re just… Working together?”

Taskmaster tilted his head. “Welcome to the trade.”

Ouro crossed his arms, brow furrowed, voice rough. “Mercenary logic. Makes no damn sense… but sure. Long as she doesn’t pull anything.”

Violet shot him a look. “That’s a big ‘if.’ “

Taskmaster gestured lazily toward Neo, who had resumed lounging like royalty on her busted throne. “She’s not here to fight you. She wants something. What exactly, I don’t know yet.”

The group collectively tensed. Finch’s hand had unconsciously drifted toward the knife at his belt. Ouro furrowing his brow even more, clearly in thought. 

He added, voice firming, “She followed you for a reason. She’s not looking to stab anyone now, far as I can tell.”

Neo gave a lazy shrug and flashed a peace sign, unconvincing as ever.

Violet’s eyes stayed locked on her. “And we’re just supposed to trust that?”

“You don’t have to trust it.” Taskmaster said. “Just don’t be the one to start swinging.”

His tone leveled. Steady, measured. “I said I’d give her a shot at talking to you. That’s the deal. You don’t owe her anything. If she’s looking for answers, and you’ve got them… That part’s your call.”

He let that sit for a second, then continued, eyes scanning each of them. “But if she wanted a fight, she would’ve made it happen. She had every chance.”

The weight of the moment settled. But this time, Taskmaster pushed through it.

“And if she does try anything? Deal’s off. Simple as that. You’ll have your fight, and I’ll be the one leading it.”

Silence again.

Then Ouro muttered, “Yeah, still not comforting.”

Taskmaster didn’t argue. But his gaze flicked briefly to Neo. Watching. Waiting.

She didn’t speak.

Instead, she slid off her makeshift throne with feline ease, boots tapping softly against the floor. A long, fluid stretch followed. Arms  raised, back arched, like she had all the time in the world. But her eyes stayed fixed on Violet’s group. Calculating. Cold.

Then she pulled out her scroll.

With a flick, the screen lit up. She turned it outward.

The first image hit like a punch: A tower, half-collapsed. Fire curling in the corners of the frame. Smoke, Grimm, and crowds fleeing in all directions. The sky above choked with ash.

Another swipe, more chaos. Streets torn open. Students bloodied and scattered, battling monsters and worse.

Then a shot from above: some great hall in ruin. Unfamiliar emblems shattered. A flash of flame mid-frame, and through it, a figure half-obscured by heat shimmer. Graceful, poised, dangerous. A woman.

Neo kept flipping through them. Each one chosen with purpose. Not for drama, but clarity.

She stopped on one: This mysterious woman’s face in profile, lit orange by firelight. That was the one she wanted them to see. 

On her scroll she wrote out one word “Cinder.” She held it there, unwavering. No one spoke.

Finch’s mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to say something. But the words didn’t come.

Ouro shifted his weight. A grimace tugged at his mouth, guilt, not fear.

Even Violet faltered, the tension in her arms shifting to something smaller. Worn.

“I…” Finch started. “We didn’t know what it would turn into. We thought-”

Neo raised a hand and flicked her fingers.

A sharp gesture. Enough. She typed quick and sharp, and turned the screen again.

“I’m not here for apologies.”

Another message followed, fast:

“I was part of it too.”

And then, below that, she tapped Cinder’s image again. Once, twice, and wrote:

“I want to know everything you know about her.”

A silence followed, heavier now.

Violet’s eyes lingered on the scroll, then slowly drifted to Neo. “Wait.” she said cautiously. “You were with her?”

Neo didn’t answer directly. Just watched.

Finch rubbed the back of his neck, brow furrowed in thought. “Adam had connections. Some weird alliance with a guy… Roman Torchwick. Human.”

Ouro gave a snort. “Adam hated working with humans. Used to rant about it, actually. Called it a stain on the Fang.”

“He barely let us near them.” Finch added. “Always kept his dealings with Torchwick separate. Said he had a partner too, but we never met her.”

All then all three turned to Neo. Recognition dawning. Violet’s tone was soft, wary. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

Neo said nothing.

But the look in her eyes confirmed it. Taskmaster glanced between them. Neo. Violet. Finch. Ouro.

This wasn’t just about getting back at someone anymore. This was personal. All the way through. Revenge.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was dense.

Taskmaster didn’t speak right away. He just watched. This personal quest for vengeance wasn’t what had him deep in thought. It was the images Neo had shown them.

Of that place, Beacon. And its fall.

He’d used the name before, Beacon. As a quick excuse, a cover story that Violet didn’t question. Said he was part of the cleanup. Let the words do the work. And they had. She never ever asked for more.

But this… this was the first time he saw it for what it really was.

The sky burning. The panic in motion-blurred figures. The shattered stone of what had once been something proud.

This wasn’t a battle. This was a message. Something cruel, calculated, and permanent.

His arms folded slowly across his chest. Not defensive, not aggressive. Just steady. Grounded. Like bracing against a new kind of wind.

These three, Violet, Finch, Ouro. They’d been there. Not just bystanders. Part of it. Wounded by it. Maybe even complicit in it. That part, he didn’t know yet.

But he was starting to understand why Ozpin had pulled the trigger on bringing him in. Why a man with no Aura and no allegiance was suddenly worth the risk.

There was too much rot in this world. Too much blood spilled for someone’s idea of a clean slate.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Violet watching him. She hadn’t moved, not really. But her stance had adjusted. Less braced, more wary. Her eyes lingered on him just a little too long.

She was clocking the shift in him. Calculating the angle of it. Maybe wondering if he was reconsidering their usefulness. Maybe wondering if he regretted ever stepping in to help.

He couldn’t blame her for thinking it.

That was the trouble with mercenaries, especially ones like him. You never really knew where their line was. Or if they had one at all.

He didn’t offer her any reassurance. Just stood there, arms folded, gaze steady, letting the silence stretch.

He exhaled slow, through his nose. “Right. So that’s what I walked into.”

“I knew what happened. But hearing about it’s not the same as seeing it.” His voice was low, even. “Didn’t know the scope.”

The silence that followed was short but dense.

Finch looked away, jaw tight, clearly not ready to meet anyone’s eyes.

Ouro stared down at the ground, unreadable, but still. Violet crossed her arms again. Defensive, but quieter than before.

Neo, still perched on the edge of the table, tilted her head at Taskmaster’s words. Her expression unreadable, but something in her eyes sharpened, attentive now. Listening.

Taskmaster’s gaze moved to her.

“So.” he said, steady. “This Cinder woman crossed you, I’m guessing.” He gave a slight tilt of his head. “What specifically do you want to know?”

Neo didn’t answer right away. She tapped the scroll again before swiping to a new screen. Notes this time. Typed fast, concise, like bullets on a hit list:

“Where is she?”

“Where did she go after Beacon?”

“What does she want now?”

She held it up.

Violet’s shoulders tensed, but she didn’t look away. “We don’t know.” she said, and there was no lie in it, just frustration. “We weren’t close to her. We barely got names. One day, Adam said we’d be working with her. That was it.”

Ouro added with a grunt, “Didn’t ask for much more. Orders came through, we followed ’em. Half the time we didn’t even know who was giving them.”

Finch, looking increasingly uneasy, rubbed the back of his neck. “There was this one time, before everything went to hell… Adam met with her and came back pissed. Said she was using the White Fang for her own goals. After that, things got real tense.”

Neo’s fingers flew across her screen again.

“Do you have any idea where she might be now?”

Silence.

There was a pause. Violet’s lips pressed into a thin line. “No. We don’t.”

Neo’s eyes narrowed, skeptical.

Finch, quietly: “We’re not holding out on you. We wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Violet nodded. “We left. During the chaos. We didn’t see her, didn’t speak to her. Adam said she was important, said she had a plan, but he didn’t explain it. And we didn’t ask. We just followed orders.”

Neo didn’t move. Her stare remained fixed. Calculating.

“We got out when the school started to fall.” Violet said, voice low. “Didn’t even understand the full scope until it was too late. Beacon burned. And we… we ran.”

Taskmaster’s gaze flicked between them and Neo. He could feel the air shift, thicker, tighter.

Neo’s fingers moved again across the screen.

“So you followed her without question. And left without answers?”

Ouro let out a slow exhale. “More or less.”

“Cowards.” Neo didn’t write, but it hung there anyway. Not as a jab, just the truth as she saw it.

Taskmaster stepped in, voice even. “They don’t know where she is. That’s not a lie.”

Neo looked at him, the line of her jaw tightening ever so slightly. Anger brewing, and something a lot worse. .

“You’re still going after her?” he asked.

She gave a slow, deliberate nod. No doubt in it.

But this time, she didn’t stop there. She began typing again, faster now. Sharper. Words snapping onto the screen like bullets.

“If you don’t have the answers. Then maybe someone else does.”

“Where’s Adam?”

The shift hit like a cold wind.

Finch flinched, looking down. Ouro crossed his arms tighter over his chest. Violet didn’t move at all, but something in her gaze hardened. Set.

No one answered.

Neo paused just long enough for the silence to dig in deeper. Then she typed again, slower this time:

“Still loyal to him?”

“Still afraid?”

A sharp breath escaped Finch before he could stop it. Ouro muttered under his breath, low and tight. Violet didn’t blink. But her arms uncrossed slightly, like she was prepping for whatever came next.

“She’s pushing buttons now.” Taskmaster thought. Not mindlessly. Not out of spite. She was peeling back layers, watching for cracks.

Neo’s fingers flicked again, deliberate:

“You followed Cinder’s orders through Adam.”

“You chose to look away. So who else did he speak to?”

“I want names.”

The final message landed like a blade on the table.

She wasn’t yelling. She didn’t need to. Her silence hit louder than any shout, and her fury was starting to leak through the cracks.

Taskmaster watched it all, the atmosphere drawn tighter than a tripwire. He didn’t step in yet, but he was already shifting weight forward. Ready, if the tension snapped.

“Where did Adam Taurus go?”

The name struck harder this time. Like a flare tossed into a powder keg.

Finch flinched, rubbing the back of his neck. “We… we don’t know.” he said. His voice was small, worn thin. “After the mountain, he vanished. Took what was left of the loyalists and disappeared.”

Ouro grunted quietly, gaze low. “We were out cold when it happened. Taskmaster got us out. When we woke up, it was in a cave halfway down the ridge. No trail. No clue where they went.”

Neo didn’t move. Not for a long second. But the look she gave them could’ve shattered glass. Her grip on the scroll tightened, knuckles pale. Rage simmered behind her eyes, no longer contained by polite gestures or snide messages.

She didn’t bother typing the next demand. She just stared them down.

“Then find him.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t even a threat. It was expectation. A storm on the horizon, pulling tighter with every breath she took.

Taskmaster shifted, the weight of the room dragging heavier now. Neo was unraveling. Not loudly, but fast. Too fast.

And if someone didn’t step in soon, she might just start tearing answers out herself.

Violet’s stance shifted, arms lowering slightly. Not relaxed, just ready. Ouro had already rolled his shoulders back. Finch went rigid beside them.

Taskmaster stepped forward before the air could snap in two. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move fast. Just put himself between Neo and the others, steady and sure, his tone cool and exact.

“That’s enough.”

Neo didn’t flinch, but her glare hit like a thrown knife.

“You’re not getting blood out of a dry well.” Taskmaster said. “They don’t know. And pushing harder won’t change that.”

Neo tilted her head slowly, not blinking.

He didn’t stop. “You’re close to snapping. I get it. But if you want to find this Cinder lady, you’re gonna need help. And if you kill the only leads you’ve got? You’re back at square one.”

Silence. Heavy and close.

“Step outside.” Taskmaster said, glancing back toward Violet’s group. “Give us a minute.”

Finch blinked. “What?”

“Outside.” he said again, firmer now. “This is her chat.”

Violet didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, her gaze flicked to Neo, back to Taskmaster. “…Alright. But if I hear anything break-”

“You won’t.” Taskmaster said. Then, almost dryly, “Not unless she really doesn’t like what I say.”

Neo rolled her eyes, faintly amused through the simmer.

Ouro grumbled and turned toward the door. Finch hesitated, nervous, before Violet gave his sleeve a pull, and the door closed behind them.

The room shrank.

Now it was just the two of them.

Neo stood across from him, scroll hanging loosely from her hand, shoulders still tight with leftover tension. Her face didn’t show much, but the silence did.

Taskmaster didn’t speak right away. He let the quiet breathe, let the air settle.

Then, finally:

“Losing your edge in front of a crowd like that?”

His voice was calm. Cool. Not mocking, but pointed.

“That’s how people get sloppy, get killed.”

Neo didn’t flinch. But her eyes narrowed. Her grip on the scroll shifted.

Taskmaster watched her carefully. No malice. No heat. Just facts.

“You want to find her? Fine. But if you go boiling over every time someone says ‘I don’t know,’ you’ll burn the whole trail down with you.”

She didn’t look away. Didn’t back down. But the fire in her eyes flickered, controlled now. Not gone, but banked.

Taskmaster stayed where he was, arms crossed loosely over his chest, one boot angled slightly outward. An old stance, the kind meant to keep you from looking too confrontational while still being ready for anything.

“You want to track someone that doesn’t want to be found?” he said evenly, “Then you’ll need a clear head. Rage’ll mess with that. Makes you miss things. Twist the trail ‘til you’re chasing ghosts.”

Neo didn’t respond at first. Just tilted her head slightly, gaze still sharp, but less volatile now. Her thumb drifted over the screen in her hand like she was only half-reading what was on it.

Taskmaster watched her a beat longer.

“That why you brought me in?” he asked, voice low. Not accusing, just curious. “Had this in mind the whole time?”

Neo shrugged with one shoulder and finally typed something in:

“More worried about not getting gutted before I got my revenge.”

He gave a faint snort at that.

“Revenge, huh. Yeah… I saw it on your face.”

He nodded toward where the others had been.

“That kind of fire doesn’t come from a paycheck.”

Neo didn’t deny it.

“Thing is.” he went on, “Revenge eats time, energy, people. I’ve seen it chew up better fighters than either of us.”

A pause. His eyes didn’t leave her.

“It’s a fire, and maybe you burn someone else with it. But it always burns you, too.”

Neo’s fingers hovered over her screen, but she didn’t type anything yet.

“I get the anger.” he added, quieter now. “It’s useful. Hell, sometimes it’s the only thing keeping your feet moving. But you can’t let it steer.”

She looked at him now, really looked. Her mouth twisted, thoughtful, maybe even bitter. But she didn’t argue. She didn’t nod either.

Taskmaster exhaled through his nose.

“Now I ain’t saying to spare this lady. Not at all. Just don’t get sloppy.” he muttered. “If this Cinder’s half as dangerous as those images look, you’ll only get one clean shot. Don’t waste it being pissed.”

Neo tucked the scroll beneath her arm. Her posture hadn’t relaxed, not fully. But something in her had steadied. She gave him a glance, not quite gratitude, but a nod between killers. Something sharp recognizing something blunt.

Taskmaster didn’t look away. He watched her settle, then rolled his shoulder with a quiet pop. “So.” he said, tone even. “You hiring me long-term, or am I just the world’s most patient hostage?”

Neo arched an eyebrow.

“I need to know the terms.” he continued, “Not the vague posturing. If I’m working for you, I need clarity. What am I doing? How long am I doing it for? Because I’ve got my own destination. Vale.”

She blinked, slow and unimpressed. And began to write. “Think of it as a bodyguard gig, you protect me while I go around hunting for info. With Beacon in flames, finding the information will be tough. So I can’t guarantee how long this will last.”

“Bodyguard huh? Well it ain’t the first time.” Taskmaster stood there for a second, before seeming to come to terms with this job.

“And if this little partnership is to continue…” he said, stepping forward just enough to close the space between them, “You don’t try to harm the others. Not like that, not again.”

Her gaze narrowed. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch, just watched him, like she was weighing how much blood it would cost to test him again. 

“I mean it.” he said, colder now. 

Neo snorted, not out of amusement, but disbelief. And then, after a pause, she held up her hands.

An admission. Or a warning. Maybe both.

She tapped two fingers against her side, then raised one shoulder again in mock apology. Fine. Dangerous game. Point taken.

Taskmaster leaned back. “Glad we understand each other.”

She reached into her coat and pulled the scroll again, tapping something fast. She turned it to him with a short flick of the wrist.

“So Vale, huh?”

He nodded. “Big place. Plenty of questions there too. And if your mystery woman took part in its destruction, might be where you’ll find more answers.”

Neo stared at him for a beat, brows drawn in thought, before giving a loose shrug. Seems she already suspected as much.

Taskmaster exhaled slowly, the kind of slow breath that said he was already tired of the road ahead. 

His posture shifted, settling into that same tense readiness she’d seen before. Not eager. Just resigned. A job was job, and she’d paid up front.

Neo tapped her scroll lazily and held it up for only a second. The message read:

“Y’know, I am still a wanted criminal there. Might be easier to go after Adam instead.”

Taskmaster didn’t even look at the scroll long before answering. “You’ve got a Semblance that makes ‘wanted’ mean jack. And last I checked, you’ve got no idea where Adam even is.”

He tilted his head slightly, tone dry. “I fought him. Got nothing.”

Neo narrowed her eyes, thumb already flying over the scroll again.

“This you trying to keep me close so you can drain my wallet?”

Taskmaster snorted. “If I wanted to ring more money out of you, I’d’ve charged per stab wound.”

Neo’s stare lingered after his last comment, her expression unreadable, but her posture looser now. Less icepick, more coiled spring. The tension wasn’t gone, just redirected.

Taskmaster rolled his shoulder, already feeling the dull pull of the bandages beneath the armor. He didn’t trust her, not really. But he didn’t distrust her either.

He understood her type. Not just the thief or the killer part, that was obvious. But the kind of mind she had. Direct, sure, but not simple. 

Tricky, not manipulative. Someone who saw the shortest route and took it, even if that meant lying, cutting, or disappearing in a puff of glitter and spite. She was blunt in the strangest way. And for all the smoke and mirrors, she was oddly straightforward.

Useful.

Money. Skill. Purpose. She could be all three, if he played it right. And right now, he could use someone like that in his corner.

She tapped her scroll again, one brow raised, and flashed the message:

“You’re one sappy mercenary, you know that? Protecting your little friends from your big bad boss.”

Taskmaster didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of amusement behind the mask, just enough to crease at the corners of his eyes. A short, dry breath escaped him.

“Sappy?” he said, giving her a sidelong glance. “I’m making sure the one signing my checks doesn’t get cut down before I deposit them. That’s just good logistics.”

Neo tilted her head, unimpressed, and tapped again:

“Do all your threats come with a punchline?”

“Only the ones I don’t follow through on.” he said flatly, adjusting the strap on his shoulder with a quiet grunt.

She arched a brow, clearly entertained, and tucked the scroll away with a lazy flick. Not quite a truce. But the temperature had cooled, for now.

Neo gave him a flat look. But the twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

They weren’t friends. Not even allies, really. But something between them had settled. For now.

Neo smirked, but didn’t push further. She just tilted her head, watching him for a moment like she was trying to figure out if this was all an act. Or if this was just who he was.

Taskmaster, for his part, didn’t elaborate. He was already checking the hallway behind them, scanning without moving his head much, just a slight shift of eyes. Old instincts sharpening again.

Then he nodded once, to her.

“Come on. Let’s regroup before they start assuming you’ve stabbed me after all.”

Neo gave a small two-fingered salute, silent but amused, and the two of them moved together towards the exit. Quiet, cautious, not allies yet, but no longer strangers either.

---------------------------------------

Neo winced as she pressed a hand to her side. Bruised ribs. Aches radiated down her shoulder and into her wrist, souvenirs from their little deathmatch. 

She’d walked away from it, but barely.

Aura was already patching her up, slow and steady. Not full strength yet, but on the rise. Enough to fight again, if it came to that.

She grumbled silently, brushing a scuff of dried blood from her coat sleeve.

She’d lost her cool back there. No denying it. The lack of answers, the silence, the blank stares. it all pressed the wrong buttons in the wrong order. 

The White Fang defectors were more useless than she’d expected. All that smoke and blood back at Beacon, and they’d come away with nothing. No names, no locations, just guilt and excuses.

If Taskmaster hadn’t stepped in when he did…

Her fingers flexed. She would’ve cut down at least one of them. Probably the twitchy one.

But no, he’d kept them breathing. Because apparently, he saw some value in their empty heads. Or maybe he just didn’t want to mop up the mess.

Still. She wasn’t done with them.

They didn’t remember the fight. They said as much. But people like that didn’t forget places. Movements. Patterns. If Adam Taurus had a plan, and she knew he did, then he had a direction. 

A fallback point. A hidey-hole. A scrap of routine still stuck to the inside of their skulls. And she was going to find it.

Whether they realized it or not, they were still useful.

Neo adjusted her scroll and started walking again. Taskmaster trailed just a step behind. Watching. Measuring. Always two moves ahead.

That was fine. She only needed one.

But still, the man walking beside her. He was a threat, Taskmaster was what he called himself. 

She rolled the name around in her head again, still not sure if it even was one. It didn’t sound like a name, more like a title. A dorky one.

It was like something printed on a training manual or the side of a war machine. Cold, functional. Vaguely theatrical.

She might’ve laughed at it if it hadn’t fit him so damn well.

He was strange. Stranger than she’d thought at first. The connection she’d seen between him and Roman… It hadn’t been as clear-cut as she’d imagined. It wasn’t in the grin, or the swagger, or the flair for chaos.

No. That wasn’t it.

The real similarity, the part that stuck, was in the eyes. Not just how they looked, but how they looked. Always watching. Calculating. 

Roman had that glint when a job was going sideways, when he was already planning three exits and a backup bluff. Taskmaster had it all the time. Every conversation. Every movement. Every silence.

He studied people the way she studied locks, looking for pressure points.

Tenacious, too. Dangerous in a quiet, professional sort of way. Like a blade that didn’t need to flash to remind you it was sharp.

And unlike Roman, Taskmaster wasn’t particularly charismatic. He had a sense of humor, sure. But it was dry. Dismissive.

She was starting to get him now.

He wasn’t loyal. Not really. Not to anything beyond his own code of utility. But he wasn’t entirely without lines either. He had some internal compass. Titled and rusted, maybe, but still pointing somewhere. 

He wasn’t one of those self-righteous “man with a code” types that got all choked up over honor and noble causes. No idealism clouding the judgment.

And that made him useful.

She’d originally planned to kill him. Quick, clean, maybe poetic if she was feeling dramatic. Just enough Lien to buy some peace and put a knife in his back after.

But now? Now she wasn’t so sure. He was valuable.

Not just as muscle, though he had that. Strong. Fast. Efficient. Not overwhelming in power, no. She could keep up. Could match his speed, read his patterns. But even in the middle of a fight, she’d felt it.

Experience. That’s what gave him the edge.

He watched. Not just for openings in a fight, but for cracks in people. He listened more than he spoke. Took stock of things. Assessed angles she hadn’t even considered.

She realized that now, watching him handle Violet’s group. Not with force, but with pressure. With understanding. He knew how to steer people.

He knew how to survive. And she wasn’t done watching him yet.

He was hiding something. That much was clear, even if she didn’t know what yet.

She hadn’t spent much time with him. Not really. Just a fight, a deal, a few hours of uneasy partnership. But she’d been watching. And what she had seen? It was layered. Intentional.

He called himself Taskmaster, a name that was more like a title. Something worn, not given. But the others, Violet’s group… They called him Tony. Casually. Familiar.

So which was it?

He didn’t correct them. Didn’t confirm anything either. Cover stories on top of cover stories, she figured. And the more she thought about it, the more she realized, he was keeping plenty buried. 

Names. History. The usual personal details that trickled out in long walks or downtime never came from him. Not even scraps.

And that group he ran with? They clearly trusted him. Enough to let him lead. Enough to follow his word without pushing too hard. But even they hadn’t known he was Auraless until today.

Which meant one thing: he kept things close. Always. That meant he had plenty he wasn’t saying.

He’d talk eventually. They all did. Whether it was Lien or leverage, or just the right push at the wrong moment. He’d crack open like the rest. 

Not violently, necessarily. She didn’t need to pull his teeth out to get answers. But she’d find a way.

She always did.

He would be tough to crack, no doubt. Still, he wasn’t untouchable. And that part? That part amused her.

All that training. All that strength. And yet there he was, stitched together with ripped cloth and crude bandages. No Aura to do the healing for him. No flashy Semblance to keep him standing. Just grit, muscle memory, and a flat refusal to die.

It was primitive. And somehow, hilarious. He was the most capable cripple she’d ever met.

Maybe that’s what made him interesting. Aura made people arrogant. Lazy, even. But Taskmaster? He bled like the rest of them. And he kept moving like none of it mattered.

Neo respected that. Almost.

When they stepped out of the building, the group was waiting.

The skinny one, Finch, stood stiff. Nervously bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was debating fleeing or fainting. 

The older man, Ouro, sat slouched on a rock near the door, arms crossed, eyes forward. But his hand still hovered near the handle of his axe. 

Violet stood closest. Steady. Arms folded. Her expression said she hadn’t relaxed once since they went inside.

Neo almost smiled.

She could have made it interesting. Cast a quick illusion, flickered the image of Taskmaster’s body collapsing at her feet, blood blooming like a stage trick. The horror on their faces would’ve been priceless. That one, Finch, might’ve screamed.

But… no.

Tempting as it was, she held back.

Tensions were high enough. She still needed them, at least for now. Better to play the long game.

So she walked out with a lazy gait, all saunter and silence, like she hadn’t nearly shattered the tension inside a few minutes ago. Every ache in her body she buried beneath a smug curl of her lip. No limp. No wince. Just presence.

They were afraid of her. She saw it clear as day. In the way Finch flinched. In the way Ouro didn’t meet her eyes.

Good. That was how she liked it.

But Violet, Violet didn’t look away. Her gaze held steady, sharp and assessing.

Neo didn’t blink.

Now that one, she thought, has a spine. Still too cautious to act, but aware. She knew where the real threat was.

Another point for her.

Fine by Neo. Let them all keep watching her like a loaded weapon.

It just meant no one was watching what hand she kept behind her back.

Finch was the first to speak, voice thin but trying for steady. “Everything, uh… good in there?”

“Didn’t sound like it.” Ouro muttered, arms still crossed.

Violet’s tone was more measured. “You two sort things out?”

Taskmaster waved a hand like he was brushing off static. “Just a little workplace conversation, is all.”

Neo snorted, those words gave her an idea of how to respond. She straightened her posture into something stiff and professional, then mimed tapping on an invisible keyboard like she was logging an incident report.

Then she turned her scroll around.

“Filed under: performance review. Result: not fired… yet.”

Finch blinked. “I don’t like that ‘yet.’”

Neo smiled wide and tapped again.

“I have more questions.”

Then, dramatically, she pulled her expression into a cartoonish frown, lower lip jutting out. She scrawled beneath it:

“But I can admit where I’m wrong, sorry if I was a bit aggressive. I promise it won’t happen again! :)”

Ouro scowled. “Yeah, apology not accepted. Whatever questions you’ve got, we’re not answering.”

“Bit of a doom and gloom spot for a Q&A anyway,” Taskmaster added, nodding toward the busted door behind them. “Blood splatters and splintered wood don’t exactly say ‘comfortable work environment.’”

Neo shrugged, entirely unbothered, and typed back with a lazy grin:

“I thought it had character.”

Taskmaster rolled his eyes. “You would.”

The tension still hung like smoke, nobody saying what they were thinking, but everyone stealing glances. At her. At him. At each other. Neo soaked it in with arms folded, one brow cocked.

Then she sighed, louder than necessary, and flicked her scroll back out with a flourish. New message:

“But fine. If we’re done standing in the ashes, can we go already?”

She held it up like she was presenting a bill.

Taskmaster didn’t answer right away, eyes narrowed slightly in that usual way of his, always watching. But it was Violet who replied, her arms still crossed, jaw tight.

“We were heading back to the inn.” she said. “Unless you’ve got something better?”

Neo tilted her head. She could’ve come up with something. A trail only she knew, a hiding spot deeper in the ruins, some place no one would expect. But… no. Letting them take point for now had its perks. Let them think they were in control.

She flicked her scroll shut with a snap, spun it once between her fingers, then twirled on her heel and started walking. Not leading. Not following. Just a few paces ahead, where she could keep an eye on everyone.

Taskmaster fell in beside her without a word. His usual quiet. Watching everything. She almost smirked.

Behind them, she heard Finch mumbling something about “Everywhere we go it’s another terrifying experience.” and Ouro replying with something about “Ticking time bombs.”

Neo smiled without looking back. Let them wonder. Let them think they had a plan.

She had hers. And it was only just getting started.

The walk back to the Inn was uneventful, at least on the surface. Footsteps crunching on packed dirt, the occasional gust of wind pushing dust through the narrow roads. 

Neo stayed near the rear of the group, scroll tucked away, arms folded loosely across her chest. She kept one eye on Taskmaster, he didn’t limp, not exactly. But he walked like a man used to pain. Efficient. Controlled. Quietly bleeding.

As they neared the Latchpoint Inn, voices began to rise ahead. Cheers, laughter, clapping. Finch blinked in confusion, and Violet straightened a little. Even Ouro tilted his head.

Then the door swung open, and the scent of warm food, stale beer, and sawdust poured out like steam from a cracked pipe.

They stepped inside. And instantly, a wave of noise met them.

“Hey! That’s them!”

“‘Bout time!”

“Drinks on the house for the heroes!”

Neo’s brows lifted slightly. A few of the locals had stood from their tables, raising glasses and slamming them against tabletops. 

Others clapped awkwardly, clearly not sure if applause was too much. The bartender even gave a short nod of approval. Half-respect, half-surprise.

The source of their celebration lay nearby: the gang that had given Violet’s group grief earlier. Or what was left of them. 

Slumped and groaning, battered bodies still unconscious near the far wall, each one tied up and stacked like bad luggage. A few had their heads bandaged. One was drooling.

Neo let out a quiet snort. Amateurs.

She remembered this place. The creaky old floors, the low ceilings, the smell of woodfire and sweat. She’d stirred up her share of trouble here once or twice. 

She may have lifted a wallet or two, maybe cracked a chair over someone’s head. Just for fun. But nothing that warranted real vengeance. She was charming. Most of the time.

The barkeeper was less charmed.

His eyes caught her the second she stepped in, trailing in behind the group like a ghost that had a tab to settle. He straightened up behind the bar, jaw tight.

“You. Why are you with them?” he snapped, already reaching for something under the counter. “You better not be-”

Neo smiled brightly and waved, fingers fluttering.

Taskmaster stepped in before the situation could spiral. “She’s with us.” he said plainly, voice calm but firm. “She won’t start anything.”

The barkeeper narrowed his eyes. “She better not.”

Neo’s hand rested on her chest in a dramatic motion. She dragged her fingers in an exaggerated cross over her heart. Cross my heart, swear to misbehave somewhere else.

Taskmaster gave her a dry look. She winked.

Violet didn’t say anything, but the way her shoulders relaxed slightly told Neo she’d caught all of that. The room was starting to settle, too. 

The cheers fading, the onlookers returning to their meals. A few still watched her, though. Rightly so.

They crossed the tavern in a loose pack, earning a few more wary looks as they moved. 

The innkeeper muttered something about cleaning up broken furniture and bloodstains, but no one paid him much mind.

Taskmaster led the group to a shadowed corner booth, the kind with just enough light to see who you were talking to, but not enough to read intentions. 

Violet sat first, taking the far end. Ouro leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed. Finch lingered until Taskmaster gave him a look that said sit down or stop hovering.

Neo took her time before settling in. She slid onto the bench like she owned it, arms draped across the backrest, one leg crossed over the other. She didn’t like tight quarters, but this wasn’t about comfort. This was about control.

Taskmaster sat last. He kept the edge of the table between himself and everyone else, hand always close to the gear slung across his shoulder. His eyes swept the group once.

“Alright.” he said, tone even. “We’re not bleeding anymore. No one’s stabbed each other, yet.”

His gaze ticked briefly to Neo.

“So. Let’s talk now, civilly this time.”

She rolled her eyes. And put her scroll on the table, where then began to type. When finished she turned the screen toward the group:

“Locations. Where would Adam go?”

“Any bases he’d return to?”

Simple. Clean. But Violet read the edge in it anyway.

She folded her arms, back pressing into the booth. “He wouldn’t use any of the old ones near Vale. Not now.”

Neo arched a brow, clearly waiting.

Violet responded in turn. “We didn’t have hideouts all over the place. Just a few. A cell near the Vale CCT tower, that one mattered. The one in Mt. Glenn you already know about. Couple more in the woods outside the city.”

Finch piped up, soft. “They were more like stashes than strongholds. Supply caches. Meeting points, not homes.”

Neo typed again.

“And now?”

“Where would he go now?”

Violet’s jaw tensed. “If I had to guess?” She shook her head. “Best bet he’s heading back to one of the White Fang’s regional bases.”

Ouro set his mug down. “Mistral, probably. If he’s trying to crawl back to what’s left of the Fang.”

Neo didn’t respond right away. Just sat there, scroll dim in her hands. Thinking.

Taskmaster watched the way her foot bounced under the table. Not impatient, calculated. That delicate balance of control and threat. He knew it well.

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the edge of the table. “You’re not gonna find him sniffing through old ruins. If he’s regrouping, it’ll be somewhere fortified. Somewhere loyal.”

Neo looked at him. She didn’t nod. But she didn’t argue.

Violet spoke again, quieter this time. “He might try to rebuild. Reconnect with what’s left of his loyalists. That’d mean going through Mistral or Menagerie. But we don’t know which.”

Neo’s expression didn’t shift, but her fingers tapped again, slower this time. A final line of text flicked across the screen as she turned it toward them:

“Adam’s just the next knot. I’m after the one who tied the whole thing.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense, it was quiet in a heavier way. Even Violet didn’t speak. She just studied Neo for a moment, then looked at Taskmaster.

Taskmaster leaned back slightly, arms crossed. There it is, he thought.

It wasn’t about Adam. Not really. Adam was a route. A stepping stone. Maybe a grudge, but not the grudge.

“Cinder.” he said flatly, like stating a fact that had been on the table the whole time.

Neo didn’t confirm it in words. She didn’t have to. The tilt of her chin and the set in her jaw answered clearly enough.

He gave a slow nod, already thinking two moves ahead. “Then we don’t chase ghosts in abandoned bunkers. We track a pattern. If Cinder used Adam once, she might’ve left a trail through him. Orders. Plans. Meetings. Whatever’s left of her influence.”

Neo’s eyes flicked toward him. There was something close to approval behind the usual glittering mischief.

Violet watched the two of them, mercenary and menace, trade understanding without really speaking. It unsettled her, and she didn’t try to hide it.

Neo turned back to her scroll.

“If I find Adam, I find what she told him. And from there…”

She let the implication hang. From there, she’d find the woman who burned Beacon. Who took Roman. Who left her nothing.

Taskmaster didn’t argue. He didn’t warn her off it. He just nodded again, slow and sharp.

“All right.” he muttered. “Then we stay the course.”

Neo turned towards Violet’s group. “You planning to keep running?” She asked. “Or are you ready to pick a side again?”

Ouro shifted against the wall. Finch looked away. Violet didn’t respond immediately. Her fingers tapped idly against her arm, her jaw tight. The silence lingered.

And then-

“Hey!”

The front doors burst open with all the force of a cannonball, and a blur of messy hair and tiny boots skidded into view. The little girl came bounding into the room, all motion and noise.

“Skull guy, I did my job! Got another one for me?”

Behind her, the innkeeper stormed in, breathless, apron flapping like a battle banner. “For the love of, get back here! What did I say about sneaking out the side?”

He trailed off when he saw the group gathered. His expression flickered between apology and exhaustion, but the girl was already halfway across the floor.

“I helped in the back!” she beamed, pointing proudly at herself. “And now the bad guys are gone! You made them leave, right?”

She pointed to Violet’s group, then to Taskmaster, dramatically and with both hands like she was crowning heroes. “Everyone’s saying it!”

Finch chuckled softly. “She’s got energy, I’ll give her that.”

“More than we’ve got.” Ouro muttered.

Neo stood off to the side, arms folded. She didn’t intervene. Just watched, a faint glimmer of amusement playing behind her eyes. 

She tilted her head at the child’s unfiltered enthusiasm, watching the way the girl bounced on her feet, practically glowing with excitement. Neo blinked, slowly. That kind of joy, it was almost blinding.

She wasn’t like that as a kid. Not even close.

Even if she ignored the way the girl blabbed on about Taskmaster’s group, her every move dripping with cheer and wonder, it was still… alien.
That kind of brightness wasn’t something Neo remembered ever having.

Back when she was still Trivia Vanille, everything had felt hollow. She tried to picture herself that age. Small, quiet, well-dressed in whatever lace-trimmed nightmare her parents stuffed her into. 

Sitting at the edge of a long dining table. Or wandering the oversized hallways of a mansion that felt more like a mausoleum.

The only thing that filled those rooms was silence. Not peace. Just the kind that curdled under your skin. Her father’s scorn. Her mother’s absence. Nothing warm. Nothing real.

It was all porcelain and pressure and pretend smiles. And behind it, the dread, ever-present. Quiet. Boring. Cruel.

She couldn’t remember laughing like that. Couldn’t remember wanting to help just because it was fun. Or speaking out loud without having to choose her words like walking a minefield.

No. That version of her hadn’t lived.

Neopolitan had.

It wasn’t until she’d let go of that name, that shell, that she’d started to feel anything like freedom. She’d thrown out the white gloves and the soft words. 

Replaced them with flash and teeth. Learned how to take up space instead of shrink from it. How to fight. How to win.

And now here she was, watching this little kid twirl around, a proud self-appointed helper, like nothing in the world had ever tried to break her.

Neo didn’t envy it. But she recognized it. Saw it for what it was: something precious. Something that had been stolen from her before she even knew how to want it.

She gave a quiet snort, amused in her own way. Then turned her gaze away.

Let the kid keep her sunshine. Neo preferred the storm.

The girl spun around to face Taskmaster again, eyes wide with mock-seriousness. “Well? You got another mission or what?”

Taskmaster gave her a slow, considering look. “Depends. Kitchen pass inspection?”

She gasped. “It did! I stacked everything by color! And kind of by size too!”

The innkeeper finally caught up and placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Sorry about that. Been putting her to work in the back. Helps keep her out of trouble, when she listens.”

He offered a strained but grateful smile. “Thanks for dealing with those bastards.”

“Charge us for babysitting and we’ll take it out of your walls.” Taskmaster said flatly.

The innkeeper laughed, shook his head, and led the girl back toward the kitchen. She waved over her shoulder as she went.

“Let me know if you need anything else! I’m good at lifting stuff!”

As the doors swung closed behind them, the room quieted again, but the silence had changed. It wasn’t the tense silence from before. It was something warmer. Grounded.

Taskmaster’s gaze shifted back to Violet’s group.

“Seems like someone thinks you’ve got a place here.”

Violet didn’t answer right away. Her gaze lingered on the kitchen doors, where the girl had vanished, then drifted back to Taskmaster. Her expression stayed guarded, but something in her eyes shifted. Softer. Warmer.

Neo saw it immediately. That flicker of tenderness. That fragile little spark of hope.

She hated those kinds of eyes.

It was the look people wore before they broke. Before they started clinging to things that couldn’t protect them. She folded her arms tighter, jaw set, and said nothing.

But she was still watching. And she wasn’t done measuring just how far these people would fall.

Let them cling to their little corner of peace.

Neo hadn’t come here for comfort. She came for answers. For blood, if needed.

And now that the dust was starting to settle, she knew exactly what came next.

She was done waiting.

And she’d be gone from this broken-down settlement, soon. Very soon.

---------------------------------------

Violet needed air.

The room was quieter now, but her pulse wasn’t. Something about that girl, Neo, lingered. The sharpness, the pressure, the way she peeled past skin and right into the bone with those looks.

“I’m stepping out for a bit,” Violet said as she stood. Her voice was light, but her eyes flicked across her group. Finch looked up, worry clear in his face. Ouro raised a brow.

“You sure?” he asked, already shifting like he might follow.

“I’m not gonna vanish.” she replied, brushing him off with a faint smile. “Besides, I’d like it if the place was still in one piece when I get back.”

It earned her a small chuckle from Finch. Even Ouro cracked a slight smirk before leaning back again. Satisfied, Violet pulled her coat tighter and slipped out the door.

The air outside was cooler now, cleaner than it had any right to be after everything. Her boots hit the packed dirt path with soft steps as she wandered into the heart of the settlement.

They hadn’t had time before. Not really. The first time she saw this place, it was with bleeding limbs and weary bones. Then came the gangs. The fight. The celebration. Then chasing after Tony through the woods, unsure if he was even still alive.

It was only now, in this slow, quiet lull, that Violet was finally looking.

She saw the cracks in the outer wall, patched with scavenged scrap and effort. She saw buildings leaning like tired shoulders, in need of bracing. Kids darted between them, careful but smiling.

People moved more freely now. Still wary. Still tired. But there was less fear in the way they walked, in the way they looked at her when she passed. 

The gang was gone. That rumor was already making its rounds. She saw it in their eyes. Hope, stubborn and slow to bloom, but there all the same.

And for the first time since they ran from Beacon, Violet wasn’t running. She wasn’t fighting. She was just… walking. Thinking.

Beacon. The chaos. The screams. The dust choking the sky.

Mount Glenn. The White Fang remnants. Adam.

Tony, bleeding and unflinching as the mountain crumbled.

And now here. A broken town, a tired crew, and no map for what came next.

She stopped near the center square, a hand brushing over the edge of an old bench.

“I don’t know where I’m leading them anymore,” she murmured to no one.

She kept walking.

The town was quiet now. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, casting long shadows across uneven streets. In the silence, her thoughts pressed louder, heavier.

She had led them here.

Not just to this town, but here. To this point. This scarred path they all walked.

It started back in Vale. The chaos hadn’t even truly begun when she told Ouro and Finch to run. They didn’t ask questions, they just trusted her. Trusted her even when she dragged them straight into the jaws of the White Fang. Told them it was the only way forward. The only way out.

She thought the Fang would be a stepping stone. Power. Direction. Something they could use.

But the deeper they went, the more it pulled. The more it asked of them. And they gave. She gave. Orders. Actions. Lies.

She told herself it was for freedom. For their people. That Faunus like her deserved to fight back. Deserved to make humans afraid for once.

And maybe, for a while, that was true.

But what she hadn’t seen, what she refused to see. Was the path beneath her feet. It hadn’t been paved with justice. It had been soaked in blood from the start. And the attack on Vale proved it.

Tens of thousands. Dead. Crushed. Burned. Left behind in rubble and ruin. And it hadn’t mattered if they were Faunus or not. The fire didn’t care. The Grimm didn’t care. The plan had never cared.

She thought she hated humans. She thought that hatred gave her strength.

But it hadn’t. It just made her blind.

And what was the Fang’s end goal, in the end? Peace through domination? Equality through extinction?

Was it justice if you burned the world to get it?

Her hands clenched at her sides. Fingernails bit into her palms.

No. The moment they turned their blades on innocents, they’d stopped being freedom fighters. They became monsters.

And she had been one of them. And more than that…

She had been a coward. A hypocrite.

Neo was right, even if the words hadn’t come from the girl’s mouth directly. It was all there, behind the smirks and snide remarks, behind the fake apologies and sharpened questions.

They ran.

When the nightmare began, when the world burned and the school fell. They didn’t fight. They didn’t help. They just got out. Quietly. Selfishly.

And she had led the charge.

Led them away from the chaos, away from Beacon, away from the dead.

Straight into the ruins of Mountain Glenn. A ghost city, as broken as they were.

She told herself it was a place to regroup. Really, it was just a place to hide. And then he came.

Tony.

He’d cut through the Grimm. Cut through the Fang. Saved them.

He didn’t need to. He shouldn’t have.

But he did it anyway. Not for glory. Not for righteousness. Not even for some grand cause.

He did it because it made sense. Because it was the job. Because it was right.

For all his mercenary grumbling and cold logic, for all his refusal to call it anything more, he had saved them.

And in that strange, quiet way of his, he kept doing it. One step at a time. Watching their backs. Standing beside them.

He was a better man than he let on.

A better man than she had ever been.

And maybe, if they kept following him, they’d be okay. Maybe that life. One fight after another, one crisis at a time, was enough.

But… was it what she wanted?

To keep running? Keep wandering from town to town until something caught up with them again?

She didn’t know. Not for certain.

But as she looked around the settlement. The battered walls, the tired faces, the buildings still half-standing but fuller with life, she felt something settle in her chest.

These people… they needed someone.

The gang might’ve been monsters, but they had kept the Grimm away. They’d offered protection, even if it came with a knife at the throat.

Now that was gone. And no one was stepping up.

No one but them. Maybe, just maybe… they could make something better.

She looked around again, really looked. The streets were cracked, but walkable. The buildings, worn but standing. The people, bruised but breathing.

This place had the bones.

A few good hands, a few strong backs. Some basic training. Guards posted at night. Reinforced gates. She knew how to make it work.
Not because she was some hero. But because she’d lived through worse. Because the White Fang had taught her things, even if they hadn’t meant to.

Discipline. Structure. Defense. She could take the pieces they gave her and build something that didn’t reek of blood and fear. Something better.

It wouldn’t be perfect. Nothing was. But this? This could be a beginning.

And the people… they didn’t shrink from her. They didn’t stare at the scars, the weapons, the Faunus traits. They waved. Nodded. A few even smiled. Humans and Faunus alike. Not harmony, not yet, but not hatred either.

This wasn’t the lie they were sold in the kingdoms. The clean streets. The false peace. The quiet racism tucked behind closed doors and nicer uniforms.

This was real. Messy. Loud. Struggling. But alive. Surviving together. That was truth.

And as she stood in the middle of it, Violet felt something loosen in her chest.

Tony had been the first crack. His gruff practicality, his sharp eyes, in younger years she would’ve thought of him like the rest. And yet he proved her wrong at every turn.

Saving others because of an uneasy promise, defending them because he needs them. Ignoring their past and not shaming them for it. 

And while the man may have tried to sell them out. It was not for who they were as people, but because it could save him. He was honest, and he was human. That shook something in her.

And this place? This was the break.

Her anger had been her fire for so long. It burned bright. It burned hot. But now… it just burned out.

She thought maybe Ouro’s had gone out already, back in Vale. He never said it, but the way he fought now, more to protect than to punish, it was different.

And Finch? Finch nearly vomited when he saw Tony bleeding, barely breathing. He’d changed the fastest. The deepest. He cared now, and that terrified him.

They were changing. All of them. Not just survivors. Not just runaways.

They needed more than escape. They needed purpose.

And maybe, just maybe, it was right here.

Tony hadn’t said it outright, but she could tell. He saw the signs too. Saw the way this town clung to hope like a lifeline. The way it looked at them not with fear, but expectation.

And he was right. Their paths would split eventually.

But not just yet. But she knew Tony wasn’t staying.

Not long, anyway.

If not today, then tomorrow. He wasn’t the type to be tied down. That much was obvious. He didn’t say it outright.

He never did, but she could see it in the way his eyes always lingered on the horizon. He was already halfway out the door, even when he stood in the room.

He had a goal. Something bigger than her. Bigger than all of this. He mentioned it once in passing, like it was nothing. But Violet knew better. That man didn’t waste words. And when he moved, it was toward something.

Still, for all his secrets, he was honest. In a strange, cold sort of way. Not the kind you trusted with your heart, but the kind you could trust to show up when the bullets started flying. That counted for something.

She looked up and realized her feet had carried her to the edge of the town.

Funny. She hadn’t noticed.

The buildings had faded behind her. The road had thinned to cracked dirt and dust. Just ahead stood the outer wall—splintered, makeshift, barely more than barricades stitched together with old scrap and desperation.

Beyond it: trees, shadows, wind.

Nothing else. But it felt like something was watching.

The Grimm.

She knew they were out there. Always were. Lurking. Waiting.

She stared at the wall, her breath caught in her throat. Not from fear, she was used to that feeling, but from something else. Something colder. Heavier.

A realization. This place wasn’t safe.

Not yet. Not really.

She had felt it before. That quiet hum of dread under her skin. And now it came roaring back. The same gut-deep feeling she’d had in Vale, before everything collapsed. In Mt. Glenn, before the tunnels cracked open.

A whisper of a threat, rising.

Then she heard it. A growl.

Low. Rumbling. Too close.

Then another. And another.

Violet’s eyes snapped forward, just in time to see the trees begin to move. No, not the trees. The things between them.

Black shapes. White masks.

Dozens of them.

And then the first of the outer barricades groaned, splintered, and snapped.

The wall tore open with a crack like lightning.

The Grimm were here.

And this time, they were heading straight for her.