TAOW

by Midnight Lore

White

Grimm were attacking. Beowolves and Creeps were being fought throughout the town. A young boy hid behind his mother, unable to help, wielding a small dagger anyway. His father kept the creatures that neared at bay. His mother used a bow to deliver arrows into creatures in the distance.

They were calm and moved with efficiency. They were better fighters than many of the Faunus, even some of the humans, in Mantle.

He tried to control his emotions, like he had been taught, but he couldn’t keep the fear that pulsed dully through his body from rising. He wanted to help. Not just hide like a coward. Ignoring his fear, he stepped passed his mother.

“What are you doing?” His mother asked, startled, her attention turning from the Grimm and blocking his path.

“I want to help. Let me help dad,” the boy pleaded, determination in his eyes.

“No. You would be a distraction. Stay behind me, where you’re safe,” she said kindly, but matter of fact, not allowing an argument. She turned back to the advancing hoard.

The boy retreated, now angry. With himself for not being able to do anything; at his mother for not letting him try. As he watched, more of the Grimm took notice of them. The boy caught himself, surprised at having let his emotions get the better of him, but it was too late.

Grimm came to surround them, his mother’s bow becoming less useful as they got closer. He could tell that the Grimm would beat them. Somehow understood that, in that moment, they held more power. He tried warning his parents, but barely got anything out, struggling to understand how he knew, maybe imagined, how much aura they had left, how much more damage they could do, and how it didn’t add up to the damage needed to take the Grimm down, how much damage the Grimm would do.

*****

He opened his eyes, bringing himself back to reality.

It was a cold day. Like every other day on the outskirts of Mantle.

He was alone.

After the unexpected attack of Grimm, he was left without family. No one had wanted an orphaned ten-year old. Didn’t need another mouth to feed. So, he had stuck out on his own. No one asked where he stayed, didn’t seem to care. He had helped the town in what ways he could, earning money from those who would give it.

Once he was old enough, he had found someone to train and teach him about fighting. Found someone to teach him to make a weapon. That’s what gave him Thaumaturge. He looked to his companion, picking it up and wiping away some dust that had settled along the barrel and stock.

He didn’t need anyone anymore. He had found an old city that had been abandoned after the Great War. It was south of Mantle, but close enough that he could travel to it within a day. This was the place he called home. He had found a stable enough building, three stories tall; made a room for himself near the top. This gave him a good vantage point in the ruined city. Luckily there weren’t many Grimm that inhabited the place, unlike many others. Still, there were some that wandered nearby.

His ear twitched, hearing concrete fall somewhere in the distance. He grabbed Thaumaturge and looked through its scope. On the edge of the ruins was an Ursa Minor. Knowing they liked to travel in small groups, he searched for others, finding one apart from the other, but still nearby. The farther one was slightly obscured; the first was in plain sight.

He loaded a magazine, ordering the bullets so he’d fire two ice, then four fire. They’d each take three bullets to kill from this distance. He sighted the first one, aiming into its shoulder, near its neck, and fired both rounds, one after the other. It had the desired effect, freezing it in place to get the other’s attention, while weakening it for the third shot. The second Ursa Minor, now alerted, ran towards its companion. He followed it with his scope, shooting twice into the base of its throat. The third shot found its skull as the creature stopped, piercing and killing it. The other was almost free. He didn’t let that happen, firing the fourth fire bullet into the eye socket, shattering the ice, releasing black smoke.

He sighed. He was getting tired of this unchanging place. He wanted to rid the world of Grimm, not just the ones that came his way. Usually he didn’t want to draw the creatures near, letting them stay away. He needed to practice though, to be able to handle any situation.

He left his perch, heading to the edge of the ruins, and let himself get angry. Angry at the past, the Grimm, at himself. His white rabbit ears swiveled atop his head, listening to the approaching group.

He attracted Beowolves, but that was to be expected. Hopefully they would give him some trouble. He stood in a spot with plenty of concrete and debris littering the area. His goal was close-quarters fighting, so he separated his sniper, each half becoming a semi-auto handgun. As soon as the first Beowolf spotted him, he calmed himself, waiting for them to arrive.

He sought out the strongest of the group, bent his knees and pushed off the ground, racing towards it, mostly ignoring the others. He took out a few of the weaker ones, single shots taking them out. He jumped into the air, two shots into its spine. He spun, taking out more of the group, the ones farthest away crashing to the ground. Behind the strongest, he twisted mid-air, turning to face it. He shot a Grimm underneath him and landed where it once stood. They were gathered around him now, exactly like planned. A few lunged, growling and trying to swipe at him, two well-placed shots took each of them down.

They were being more cautious now, the strongest silently watching and circling. He dwindled the number to six. Two pounced from opposite sides, he downed the slightly slower one, letting the other knock a gun out of his hand, noting where it landed for later, before moving backwards and shooting it. Another came, seeing an opening. He ducked, letting it jump over his back, putting three shots into its stomach. He glanced at the last three; they formed a triangle around him.

They all made to pounce, charging him. The strongest changed direction, leaped and ran along one of the ruined walls. Surprised, he moved out of the way of the other two, only to be crushed under the weight of the one that was now standing over him. He tried to bring his gun up, but the Beowolf held it down. He brought up his legs, using both to kick it over his head, rolling into a crouch. The other two had recovered, and were advancing. He shot three bullets into the one on his left. Before he could fire at the other, he was knocked forward, his back stinging from the swipe. He shot at the attacker, getting up and moving to retrieve the fallen gun.

He fired four bullets, hitting the neck and head of the Grimm; it fell and vanished. That left one. He ran towards it, sliding when he got close. Passing under it, he fired six bullets along its stomach. Standing, he turned to face its vanishing form, a satisfied smile on his face.

He was ready. Just a few more days until it would be time to leave. He was old enough now that he could join an academy. Atlas wasn’t an option. No, he wanted the best. That meant making his way towards Vale, to Beacon Academy.