Rest in Peace 2

Rest in Peace 2

Slate Silva

LeCroix was dead and I was a hundred grand richer. Well, not quite. Sure, a mercenary, vigilante, and part-time assassin such as myself didn’t exactly operate within the bounds of the law, but even I had bills to pay.

Information brokers needed their palms greased. Weapons needed to be maintained. Transportation had to be secured. All under the table, of course, and discretion came with a hefty markup. Those payments were just as routine as any tax filing I did in my past life. After all was said and done, I took home about fifty-five grand.

That was a lot. I’d made more in a few weeks than some people did in a year. Granted, with significantly more risk to life and limb, but that was just the cost of doing business. Such was the life of a huntsman, mercenary or otherwise.

I couldn’t stick around Mantle anymore. 

The LeCroix affair wasn’t the first time I’d run into Winter, even discounting the Polendina thing. Once, we happened upon a small town being attacked by grimm and put aside our differences for a few hours to save it. Then there were the two other times I shot someone. More recently, I’d often see glimpses of her or hear whispers of her elite squadron wherever I operated.

It was clear to me that she was keeping tabs on me. As much as I wished otherwise, it wasn’t because of my handsome mug, either. If she was fixated on me, that was because she got permission to fixate on me. And that meant Ironwood had taken a personal interest.

That was why I trudged into Mantomb, a heavy hood draped over my head. My faunus features were unfortunately prominent, a set of piercing, golden eyes that were slightly too large to be human and seemed to glow in the dim light. I also had feathered brows, not unlike the eagle owl that was my totem. Put them together, and I understood where “Night Owl” came from. Stupid name, but fitting enough.

Fortunately for me, Mantomb was perhaps the settlement that was the most tolerant towards faunus. That was likely because they couldn’t really afford to be racist. Racism was expensive, if not in lien, then in manpower.

The town sat on the southern cape of the continent and was largely defined by two ports, east and west. Though not as large as Mantle or Atlas, this town was arguably just as important for the simple fact that damn near nothing grew further north.

Between the ports, in what was the closest thing to a town square, was a giant statue of a thumb made of granite. The weathered old thing was as tall as a man and covered in a thick layer of seagull shit.

“Mantle… Man-toe… Mantomb… Man-thumb,” I muttered, reading the nonsensical plaque. “God, that’s fucking stupid.”

“Used to be that people thought this was the furthest a man could live, and so it was called ‘man-tomb,’ as in the ‘tomb of men,’” said a stranger beside me.

I looked him over. Big, burly, dressed in a sailor’s uniform. I gauged the way he held himself and dismissed him as a threat. “Oh? That sounds much more plausible than a shitty pun.”

“It does, doesn’t it? The town’s even older than Mantle and Atlas. When Mantle was established as a kingdom, Mantomb got a new meaning.”

“I guess they couldn’t really call it the ‘tomb of men’ after some other folks managed to settle further north.”

“That they couldn’t. It’s a silly story, but I reckon that’s better than a grim name. Bad luck, that.”

“If you say so, sailor.”

“You’ve never heard this story before?”

“No, I’m not the type to collect stories.”

“What changed then? A spot of curiosity?”

I chuckled. “I guess you can say that. I’m looking to leave Mantle, probably won’t be back for a while.”

The old sailor gave me a once-over. “You don’t look like you’re here for a passenger ship.”

“I look poor; you can say it. And you’re right. I’ll bargain a ride out on a cargo ship or something.”

“Oh? Then I suppose I won’t be seeing you around, traveler. You’ll want to try Eastport. That’s the mercantile hub.”

I began to walk away. “Yeah, I’ve been here before. Later, old-timer, thanks for the story.”

X

Eastport was as hectic as I remembered it. When I arrived in Mantle, I almost got caught as a stowaway on a cargo ship. Rather than explain myself, I dove down into the frigid sea before “killing” my own sense of coldness. That hadn’t stopped me from nearly freezing to death, but it did let me function underwater long enough to make my escape.

That was the nature of my Semblance, Nightfall. Maybe because I’d already met Death before, but I could “kill” or suppress a quality of anything I touched. It was why I kept my talons on only my ring and pinky fingers, because I needed the other fingers free to grab people.

At first, I could only use it to blind or deafen my targets, and only with skin contact, but I improved until I could get creative with its application. Unfortunately, I still hadn’t figured out how to “impart death” at range, so my bullets weren’t any more lethal than anyone else’s.

It was also a massive aura hog. Suppressing anything required constant auric input, especially if I tried to forcibly bypass someone else’s aura. “Insta-kill” touches weren’t really on the table against huntsmen so I preferred to snipe people at range with soundless, lightless bullets.

I fit in rather well at Eastport. Everything was gray cement or granite, with layers of bird shit streaking most flat surfaces. The intense, salty smell of the sea made my nose curl. Being a port dedicated to cargo ships, it got the bare minimum of cleaning, just enough to be mostly sanitary where it counted.

The people who frequented this port matched the aesthetic. Most were sailors, the burly, dour sort who’d much rather get on with their business than pry into someone else’s affairs. I’d found over the years that these sorts were the least likely to mind a faunus.

There, at the far end of the port, I found what I was looking for. It was a nameless bar and tavern, somehow even seedier than any other establishment in its vicinity.

I headed inside and pulled my hood back. Every eye turned towards me, not in friendly greeting, but to size me up. Half these fuckers were probably thinking about how to best mug me, or whether I had anything worth stealing at all.

“Yo, Wull,” I greeted the barkeep as I beelined for the counter. He was one of my contacts, a man who cared more for lien than the feathers over my brows. “Gimme your backwash.”

That got most of the patrons to look away. Knowing the barkeep around establishments like these was a good way to establish credibility. Not necessarily safety, but a promised reputation.

Jarred Wull was a graybeard, a retired ship captain who’d seen some shit. He was missing his left eye and hand and swore he used to be a “privateer” during the “good ol’ days.” Funny, because “privateers” weren’t really a thing, not even during the Faunus Rights Revolution. 

His left hand had been replaced by a two-pronged hook. It was a bit rusty, but I’d never seen him change it out. Despite this, he was as nimble with that hook as any bartender I’d ever seen.

He grunted and slid over a murky liquid. “Backwash.”

I raised it in a silent toast. The “backwash” was what he called his own moonshine blend. It was made from corn mash, likely because corn was a sturdy crop and one of the few things that could be grown with any surplus up here.

It tasted like shit and burned like hellfire going down. Unlike bourbon, it hadn’t been aged in a wooden cask and there was no honey added. No smoky aroma, no woodsy mouthfeel, and no sweetness. Just the burn of knowing a grizzled pirate captain probably pissed in your drink.

I carefully slid over a few bills. It was more than he charged for a drink, but that was the point. “How’s life been, old man?”

“Worse now that you’re here,” he replied gruffly. “Who’re you after this time?”

“No one at the moment. Why? Got something for me?”

“Maybe. Probably too small for the Night Owl.”

“Then I’ll pass. I’m looking to head south, anyway.”

“Oh? No more big fish this far north?”

“Something like that,” I waved him off. Letting him know that an Atlas specialist was on my ass wouldn’t do me any good. Besides, he wasn’t wrong; I really was running out of larger bounties.

He slid over another shot. “One more then, for old time’s sake.”

“Thanks, Wull. Are any of those old farts around? I don’t see them here.”

“They’re off to gamble their earnings away. What else would they be doing?”

I knocked the drink back. “In that case, I’ll head back as well.”

“Suit yourself, kid.”

Wull’s nameless bar was somewhat special. The old man didn’t make his money from the sparse customers, but from the night’s “entertainment.” In that sense, it was almost like a nightclub, except instead of dance, there was illegal pit fighting.

Behind the bar, near the restroom, was a cabinet that could be slid aside. It hid one of several passageways that led out and beneath the streets, only emerging into an ostensibly abandoned warehouse. It had been lined with crude, wooden bleachers, half-eaten with mold and salty air. They surrounded a pit dug into the dirt, about twice as large as a boxing ring.

This was the premier entertainment of Eastport, practically an institution. The pit was a storied tradition here that probably started in the ye ol’ days when sailors needed a way to settle their grievances before going out to sea.

The local authorities learned quickly that giving these types of men a way to unwind and relieve stress was good for the town as a whole. Occasionally, an overeager cop or new sheriff would try to shut it down, but they’d quietly be briefed on the memo. The pit had been relocated several times in its history, but never closed for long.

Wull, owning one of the entrances, got a cut of the profit. I was pretty sure that this was the real reason the old fuck could afford to retire.

I made my way over to a ramshackle table that looked like it’d collapse on itself at any moment. There was a chubby, short man there with a pencil mustache and three chins. In front of him was a binder full of names, matches, bets, and odds. I had no idea what he had against computers, but this was how he’d done things for as long as I’d known him.

He glanced up to see who’d arrived. His beady, little eyes widened with recognition. The binder slammed shut.

“No way. No fucking hell is the fucking Night Owl fighting in the pit,” he told me. “This is amateur hour, pal. Non-huntsmen only. Some of these sad saps need to work in the morning.”

We both knew that that wasn’t strictly true. Sometimes, people with aura were allowed to fight amongst themselves. The rule was that aura users were not allowed weapons or Semblances that might result in “splash” outside the pit. It wouldn’t do to injure the paying customers.

I knew what he was doing, of course. He reacted like this for any semi-famous merc to walk through the door. It was one part a way to stroke our egos, and one part an open announcement. Now, no one who lacked aura would pick a fight with me. And if anyone did challenge me, then that’d just make for a more interesting betting opportunity.

I rolled my eyes but played along. “Me, Sergio? I’m not a huntsman.”

“You’re a fucking menace is what you are,” he spat back. “I see that foldout sniper rifle on your back. Who’d you kill this time?”

“Oh, no one, actually. My last job was just a bodyguard mission.”

“Whatever. Get your ass to the seats or throw down some cash.”

I rolled my eyes and headed for the stands. I could feel several pairs of eyes following me. Most of them just wanted to look at the “not a huntsman.” A few nodded sagely to themselves, that “I can take him” bro nod that men did. Fewer still must have recognized me, or at least my ridiculous epithet, because they whispered to their buddies about what I’d done. Not quietly enough for my ears, but a bit of awe and caution could be useful tools.

I paid them no mind and took a seat in the stands, as high up as I could get. It kept my back against the wall and gave me a good look at most of the warehouse. Had I wanted a boat off Mantle, I could have just grabbed myself one from Westport. And if it turned out that passenger ships were being watched, no matter, stowing away was child’s play for me.

No, this was about what came after.

I was a well-traveled man, especially given my youth. I was born in Menagerie and I've been to every kingdom save Vacuo. Vacuo was Remnant’s Australia. Even the Fang only assigned their most expendable idiots there.

I ditched Kuo Kuana when I was fifteen and spent a year in Vale and Mistral doing mercenary work. Sienna… She wasn’t exactly happy that I’d left. She’d been angling to have me as part of her personal guard. The four million lien bounty on my head was at once admonishment, and an olive branch.

Once I made a name for myself, I started chasing bigger bounties, the kinds of assholes no one would miss. A higher bounty didn’t always mean they were morally safe, but the two often went hand-in-hand.

That brought me to Mantle, where greed made for big game and bigger risks. That was four years ago. My reputation was a controversial one, but it’d never been bigger than it was now.

Unfortunately, four years was damn near forever in this line of work. I’d had contacts in Vale and Mistral, but they were long gone. Maybe they’d been killed off by competitors. Maybe they retired. Either way, if I didn’t want to start fresh, I needed an introduction.

That was another reason the bookie’s little game was appreciated: It was advertising. I was here. I was dangerous. And I was for hire.

X

I watched a few fights. It was amateur hour, like the bookie said, a far cry from Winter’s deadly grace. Even the overly rigid discipline of her mook soldiers was better than what I saw below.

Shirtless men wailed at one another with sloppily wrapped bandages around their fists. I was sure those wouldn’t protect shit. And sure enough, more than one man cracked his knuckles against his opponent’s jaw. Blood flew. Occasionally, someone lost a tooth or got a concussion. It reminded me of Fight Club, but without Edward Norton's schizophrenia.

A few of them looked like they knew what they were doing, but technique didn’t mean much when they were all so damn slow. Aura really did make that big of a difference, enough that me going down there would likely mean someone else would leave in a bag.

The bets were mostly chump change, too. Fifty lien ante was the buy-in, with a few big spenders going in at a couple hundred. Really, these men were fighting for pride and to relieve stress. And so long as no one bet money they couldn’t afford to lose, it was all in good fun.

Halfway through the third fight, I saw four men stand and approach. They were each quite large, a full head taller and almost twice as wide as me. They were also very clearly drunk, with flushed faces and red ears.

“You the Night Owl?” one of them slurred. “Heard you offed LeCroix a while back.”

“That’s right,” I said calmly. I looked at him, then at his buddies. “You boys want something?”

“Then you’re why we’re out of a job,” a second man said.

“I don’t see how that’s my problem. You’re sailors; there are plenty of boats around so hop aboard.”

“Shut up. You owe us compensation,” a third said. He was so damn drunk that I was surprised he could say “compensation” without stuttering. 

I glanced down towards the bookie. He noticed and was already eyeing me. He shook his head, which probably meant he didn’t know these chucklefucks.

I held out my ring and pinky fingers, showing off my talons so they caught the light. They weren’t much, but they were unmistakably huntsman-grade weapons. No one but a huntsman could make use of such impractical daggers. The bookie shook his head again. So no, they didn’t have aura.

I was now thoroughly confused. Everyone knew the rules of the pit. Aura versus aura, normie versus normie. No exceptions. They might have been out of a job, but fighting me was the best damn way to ensure they’d be out a few limbs as well. No matter how drunk they were, I would have thought their self-preservation instincts would have kicked in before now.

On one hand, I wouldn’t be back in Mantomb again for a while. On the other hand… I could see a few men eyeing us. At least one of them looked like they might be a captain. In which case, being seen as bloodthirsty or pointlessly cruel wasn’t a good way to buy myself passage and a letter of introduction.

I opted for the diplomatic route and held out my palms. “Alright, how about you boys grab a drink? It’s on me tonight.”

“A drink? You think a drink makes this better?” the first man spat out. “My kids are going hungry because of you, you fucking pigeon.”

Normally, I didn’t much care about being called racial slurs. Hell, I made bird jokes to Winter myself, but that was as good an excuse as any.

I stood and, benign higher up in the stands, loomed over them. “I think that’s enough. You can walk away, or you can go to sleep.”

“Get your feathered ass down there. We’re going to teach you how the world really works.”

“Okay… Nap time, gentlemen.”

I blurred forward. My hand grazed them with all the gentleness of a feather. They had no aura. There was nothing they could do to resist my Semblance. I “killed” the oxygen traveling up their carotid arteries with each brush. The effect was similar to being suddenly locked in a sleeper hold, but far more precise.

Four men slumped to the floor. I deftly caught them and piled them on my shoulders. Slowly, I made my way down and dropped them off next to the bookie’s desk.

“They dead?” he asked, voice steady. Though he made it sound casual, I could hear the pumping of his heart.

“Of course not, just passed out,” I snorted. “If I kill every moron who says something racist, I’d never have time to do anything else.”

“Good. We can’t have four deaths in a night.”

“Yeah, I figured. Kick their asses when they wake up for me?”

“You got it, Owl.”

I headed back up to watch a few more fights. It didn’t take long for someone else to approach me, this time, a sailor who saw what I’d done. He promised me a ride out of here tomorrow, with the caveat that I help protect the ship on its way to Vale.

Author’s Note

Yes, Sienna placed a bounty of four million lien on his head. I’m assuming that a lien is roughly the same as a dollar. This is intentionally a massive outlier. Truthfully, even bounties of $100k are extremely rare.

For context, Osama bin Laden had a bounty of $25M. As of writing, there are only two people on the FBI’s anti-terror list worth $10M. Suffice to say, no normal bounty hunter is ever going to collect on this.

Animal Fact: Birds can get depressed and/or lonely. Just as a person can be in a crowd and still feel lonely, being part of a colony or flock isn’t a guarantee of safety from this.

Most of the time, birds express their state of mind in very immediate ways. They will overpreen (literally rip off their feathers until they bleed), start screaming, or become utterly silent. They will isolate themselves or lose all appetite (bird anorexia is a thing).

Emperor penguins are a little different. Scientists have observed that sometimes, male emperors will head inland. Away from the water. Away from the fish. Away from their colonies. And, of course, towards certain death. Scientists have tried moving them back to their colonies, but they just move inland again, or even get violent.

Because of the literally Antarctic conditions, no one bothered to collect the bodies to do a study. As far as I’m aware, we still don’t know exactly what causes this behavior.