Save the world? Fuck that, I want to make money! (RWBY SI) ch 73

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The HUD activated instantly, targeting red circles flashing across my vision—weak points on the transport craft begging to be exploited. It was massive, much bigger than I was, but that didn't matter. Every machine, no matter how imposing, had a weakness. My suit's diagnostics had already found it.

I raised my palms, and from them, lances of searing light erupted. The beams struck their marks, and the targets turned into molten slag. Thick, black smoke poured from the craft. My suit identified it: a Valean Heavy Class freight transport. Numbers danced in my screen, indicating the tonnage it could carry. I clicked my tongue, watching as the freighter plodded on. It was still moving. That meant I needed more to bring it down, more to sink it into Valean dockwater and stop it from hauling off with my cargo.

The HUD shimmered again as my suit responded to my needs. A reticle locked onto the freighter's wing. If I could sever it, the freighter would lose balance and crash. A quick simulation flashed across my visor, calculating the trajectory and ensuring the impact would minimize collateral damage, sending the freighter straight into the water. Ports on my suit opened—shoulders, legs, arms, hands—missile tips gleaming in the moonlight, ready to clip the freighter's wing clean off.

But then, my HUD flashed with an alert.

Incoming Projectile.

Annoyed, I dropped from my hover and descended into a free fall. As I plummeted, multiple dust rounds shot past where I'd been, slamming into the freighter's hull. Despite the explosions, the freighter kept moving. For a moment, I admired the engineering. In this brutal world, even the most basic craft needed armor to withstand Grimm attacks. However, at that moment, the protection was more curse than blessing. The closer it got to the dock, the less chance I had for a clean kill.

But I couldn't focus on the freighter alone. There were bastards on the dock shooting at me with my own weapons, and somewhere among them was a huntsman calling the shots.

A decision clicked into place. Roman Torchwick—the bowler-hat bastard—was the real prize. I couldn't let him slip away.

I had been free-falling this entire time, almost to the water's surface. With a thought, I spread my arms and legs wide, and like a star unfurling its rays, silver wings sprouted from my suit. They shot me forward, propelling me like a rocket.

A winged-shaped rocket.

To say that the Wayland Type X suit was a labour was an understatement. My Semblance of creating items out of my soul allowed me bullshit provided I could stomach the pain of its creation. To create, as my esteemed ancestor put it, one must sacrifice themselves as well. Among the stack of things that previous generations of Wayland patriarchs left behind was an idea to create a personal suit of armor to fit their station. Coming from the actual Wayland himself, he envisioned a suit of armour that could reasonably protect him but also spirit him away out of trouble when the need arose. These two requirements stemming from his day being literal Iron Age humanity trying to eke out an existence with Grimm hunting them down. He never got to forge it however, limited by the technology of his day. With each passing Patriarch, the designs were made then re-made, a curiosity and personal pet project than a serious undertaking. Everything changed however thanks to Dust and the technology it spawned.

My grandfather had been determined to make it, but the Great War intervened. My father, too, had dreamt of it, but financial crises demanded his attention. That left me. This was a secret project, one I hadn't even shared with Winter. A fierce jealous pride had prevented me to show it off until I could nail it. 

As I my thrusters slowed and my wings collapsed, arresting my fall, it was now time to test what it could do.

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Joyce would have given anything to be somewhere else. The moment Alois was sent flying by a beam of light, his soul screamed at him to dip and go home. 

"Open fire, you idiots!" Roman Torchwick's voice rang out, his tone laced with frustration as he raised Melodic Cudgel and unleashed explosive rounds toward the incoming silver wings. Joyce obeyed, not out of loyalty, but because he needed to put space between himself and this whole shit show. 

​This was supposed to be a quiet smuggling job!

He grabbed one of the new guns they'd liberated from the shipment—heavy, blocky, and unfamiliar. His gloved finger slammed the magazine in with a metallic click. It whined to life.

He squeezed the trigger.

There was no recoil, just a sharp, red beam that lanced toward its target. The blast hit true, sizzling into the interloper's armor. The metal smoldered where it struck, but the silver wings kept pushing forward. Joyce readied another shot, but then a shrill scream froze him in place.

"YEAAAAH!"

His blood went cold as he glanced over his shoulder. A group of figures dropped from the rooftops, landing on the port with weapons gleaming under the moonlight. Huntresses. His mind registered the word too late.

"Behind us! Huntresses!" he shouted, spinning around. "Open fire!"

His team scrambled to respond, but one of the huntresses beat them to it. A blonde blur, golden gauntlets flashing, she dove straight into them. One man fired, but his shots melted the concrete where she'd been just moments before. She slammed her fist into his stomach, sending him sprawling. Another attempted a desperate counterattack, rifle raised to strike her back, but she spun, launching an uppercut that sent him flying. Without his aura, he'd have been dead. Instead, he slammed into a container, the sound of his crash echoing through the night.

Explosions shook the ground, throwing rock, metal, and men into the air. Joyce dove for cover behind a crate, heart hammering in his chest. He glanced up to see a lone girl perched on a rooftop, a long rifle in her hands. She fired again, high-explosive rounds tearing into the dock, raining down destruction on them.

They had to do something. Anything. Otherwise, they weren't leaving this place alive. And most importantly, where the hell was Roman Torchwick?

Roman Torchwick had one job tonight. Get to the port, take the new weapons, and get out. How his patrons had come by them didn't matter; he wasn't about to ask. He just needed that payout—and the freighter had to go.

He cursed under his breath. Of all the places to smuggle through, why the damn port?

The sounds of battle filled the air—laser fire, the screams of grunts, and something worse: the sound of little girls beating grown men and women into the ground. There was a reason why the Mistralis favoured guerrilla attacks instead of openly fighting huntsmen and huntresses.  

"Open the boxes! Use whatever we can!" Roman barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Buy us time! That freighter needs to leave!"

The grunts moved, pulling open heavy crates and slamming them onto the ground. Roman's eyes flicked to the Imperial Eagle stamped on the sides, his teeth grinding in frustration. He couldn't afford to be distracted now. There was no time to waste.

And then he saw it.

The metal man. The same one who had chased them during their escape. He landed with a dull thud. The grunts around him raised their weapons, sweat dripping down their faces. Roman flashed a grin, pretending calm.

"Welcome to Vale's port, metal man!" Roman greeted him, his tone mocking and arrogant as usual. Said metal man glanced at him with a stare that could kill, a common sight to Roman. The metal man's wings drew back into his pack easily and without servo whining. Perhaps a hard-light thing, Roman could not accurately guess. Everything about him screamed Solitan. From the sleekness of his armour and how much it just looking at it to the advanced technology that made it whole. 

"Roman Torchwick," the voice of the man replied, distorted and electronic, yet with a hint of amusement. Roman inwardly approved. Fighting a robot would be boring.

"My reputation precedes me," Roman grinned, giving a mock bow. "So, how can I help you, pal?"

"I'm taking back Royal and Imperial property," the figure said coolly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "If you would be so kind as to step aside?"

Roman feigned a sigh, twirling Melodic Cudgel in his hand before slamming its end on the ground. "No can do, sadly. I've got a contract, you see. Nothing personal, metal man. Just business."

"If money is your goal, Royal and Imperial would be happy to pay you to leave," the man responded.

Roman raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Normally, he'd be all over a bribe, but the stakes were too high tonight.

Roman chuckled darkly, adjusting his grip on Melodic Cudgel. "If I start taking bribes, my reputation is shot. No more repeat business for me, pal. It's not about honor. It's about brand loyalty. And my brand? It's worth a lot."

Without warning, he spun Melodic Cudgel around, firing a volley of dust flares. The beams streaked toward the armored figure, engulfing him in a cloud of smoke and ash. Roman grinned, sure he'd scored a hit.

But as the smoke cleared, the figure was still standing, his wings spread wide in a defensive shield. Roman's grin faltered.

It wouldn't be that easy.

Roman charged forward, aiming for a thrust through the shield with his weapon. But before he could strike, the silver wings shifted—one catching his blow, the other swiping down at him with lightning speed. Roman twisted, narrowly dodging the strike, but the punch that followed connected, sending him stumbling back.

Then, just as he was regaining his footing, the armored figure extended his wings again, and a burst of thrusters roared to life. The next thing Roman knew, he was airborne, slammed into the ground with a brutal thud. The wind was knocked out of him.

He gasped for breath, but his moment of weakness was fleeting as his aura worked its magic. The figure turned its attention back to the freighter. Missiles popped from the suit's armor slits, aimed straight at the ship.

Roman didn't hesitate. He rolled to the side, scrambling back into a crouch. Melodic Cudgel came up, and with a click of his fingers, he fired a rapid series of dust flares, disorienting his opponent in mid-air.

The figure faltered. Roman took his chance.

With another burst of flares, the man went down. The armored figure plummeted, crashing hard into the ground. Roman allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. The freighter's underbelly opened just as the battle unfolded, and magnetic tendrils reached out for their payload. 

The freighter's engines sputtered. Explosions ripped through its side, and Roman's heart sank as the ship groaned under the assault.

"Little Red…" Roman muttered, his eyes narrowing. He whirled around, aiming Melodic Cudgel toward the source of the new chaos. He pulled the trigger again. Dust flares screamed. The shot hit. Ruby's body was thrown off-course by the impact, her figure soaring through the air with a pained scream.

His brief celebration was cut short by the deafening roar of thrusters behind him. Roman yelped in surprise as he was yanked off the ground, spinning like a top. The metallic figure whipped him around, using the momentum of the spin to hurl him violently toward the freighter's other engine. Roman's body collided with the hull with a sickening crash, the force crushing electronics and tearing through internal components. Before he could recover, the armored figure shot forward, fists outstretched, and slammed into him with the power of a battering ram. He lifted back his fists, ready to knock Roman out. 

Then he stopped. 

He suddenly leapt back, free-falling. Roman blinked, wondering where he was heading off to. A bright green light flashed through the air was his answer. A green laser tore the air apart, slicing the freighter in half. Roman fell, aiming for the water. As he did so, he caught site of a lone figure at the same roof top Little Red was standing, ginger haired and with a circle of swords floating about her. 

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Blake coughed as she holstered her weapons, the battle finally winding down. In the distance, the wail of sirens echoed through the air. The police were on their way—a clear signal for them to disappear. She glanced around, taking in the wreckage. Containers were strewn about in disarray, some toppled onto their sides, others melted beyond recognition. The fallen littered the ground, groaning in pain, clutching their wounds. Blake's gaze flicked over them, offering a quiet, sympathetic glance. They had raised their weapons, choosing to fight, while she had only been doing her duty as a Huntress—protecting people.

Her scroll buzzed in her hand, breaking her thoughts. She answered it, her voice soft.

"Yang?"

"Yeah," Yang's voice crackled through. "We should really scatter. I already got locked down by the cops once, and I'm not spending another night in a jail cell." Blake could hear the humor in her voice, despite the tension. "Ruby and Weiss are with me. Where are you and Monkey Man?"

Blake sighed, scanning the chaos around her. "I got separated from him when the freighter fell. Have you figured out where the attack came from?"

Yang's voice was tinged with frustration. "No idea. Couldn't see a thing. But that doesn't matter. We're out. We can come back for you if you want."

Blake ducked instinctively as a container groaned and crashed to the ground, the deafening metal impact sending dust and debris into the air. She coughed, swatting the particles away. "No need," she said firmly. "I'll meet you there." With that, she cut the connection.

She turned, her attention drawn to a groan nearby. Her eyes landed on a man lying on the ground, clutching his shoulder in pain. As she stepped closer, she recognized the unmistakable features of a fellow faunus—the fox-like ears on his head.

She knelt beside him, her voice softer now, laced with both concern and curiosity. "Why are you doing this? What's the point of all this?"

The faunus man lifted his gaze, his eyes clouded with pain. "To… make… a better world," he rasped, before coughing weakly.

​Blake could not help but look around then back to the man. "You call this a better world?" she asked, her voice not hiding her disdain and exasperation. 

"This would've gone well… if you and your friends hadn't meddled," he gasped, bracing himself against the wall for support.

Blake didn't hesitate. "And let you and your comrades spread chaos elsewhere?" She shook her head. "Innocent people would've been hurt. It's a good thing we stopped you."

The man's eyes locked onto hers, a flicker of recognition in them. "I know who you are," he rasped, his voice rough. "I know your father. We begged him for help before, and all he told us was to wave signs."

A sharp pang of guilt pierced Blake's chest, but she steeled herself. No. She had made her choice. She remembered how Solitas, against all odds, had led the world toward safety and equality. She remembered how Menagerie was finally seeing a future free from oppression, with standards that matched the other Kingdoms. "If we let old grudges dictate our actions, we'll just keep the cycle of violence alive. And then nothing changes." Her voice was firm, the weight of her words clear.

The sound of rubber screeching against dirt reached her ears, followed by the wail of approaching sirens. The man chuckled darkly. "You better run, Princess. Wouldn't want the Fleur digging up dirt on you and making daddy look bad."

Blake shot him one last glance—pity mixed with frustration—before her legs found purchase and she dashed down the maze of corridors. She had to find a way out. Freedom was within reach.

As she rounded a corner, a less fiery opening came into view—along with voices.

"Come on, move it!" a rough voice barked. Blake stopped, instinctively finding cover behind a corner. Peering out, she saw two Bullheads parked nearby. The Red Fang were scrambling to load crates marked with the Imperial Eagle, their faces grim and hurried. The first Bullhead, fully loaded, lifted off with a roar of engines, while the second was just about to follow suit.

Then, with a dull thud, a figure landed, sending Red Fang members scattering. Screams pierced the air as multiple blades shot out with deadly precision, striking the Red Fang forces left behind.

"Go! Get out of here!" the rough voice shouted. A man in the front drew his own sword and charged headlong at the newcomer. They clashed in a blur of steel. The duel was quick, brutal, but in the end, the mysterious figure's blade struck the man in the back.

Blake's mind raced. A Huntress?

Before she could process further, the figure turned her attention to the Bullhead. With a swift motion, Blake launched her swords into the side of the craft. String connected, humming with power, and she felt the pull as the Huntress gripped the strings. Without visible effort, she yanked the Bullhead from the sky, crashing it into the containers below.

The swords retracted, returning to their owner, who then turned to face the scene.

Blake made a choice: Not to engage. Whoever this Huntress was, she clearly had no love for the Red Fang, but was she an ally? The man in the suit had also shown no interest in the Red Fang, but his motives were unclear. Blake couldn't risk it—not yet.

Just then, another figure landed with a burst of force. It was the Winged Man, his mechanical wings whirring. The Huntress turned, blinking in surprise before breaking into a grin.

"Mister Wayland!" she called, her voice bright and cheerful despite the chaos surrounding them. "How do you do, sir?"

Blake froze. Wayland?

The suited man shook his head, his voice low but tinged with frustration. "Penny," he said, acknowledging her with a mechanical grunt. "I was assured you were left back at Solitas. What are you doing here?"

Penny's voice remained as cheery as ever. "General Ironwood deemed it prudent to intervene when reports came in that the Mistral shipments were robbed, Mister Wayland."

Wayland's posture stiffened, his frustration evident even through his distorted voice. "I still don't understand how they got robbed. This was supposed to be a covert shipment."

"We're still investigating, sir," Penny answered dutifully. "But there were casualties. A scorpion-faunus was involved." Her tone faltered slightly, but she quickly recovered. The mention of a faunus made Blake's heart skip. A scorpion faunus?

Wayland exhaled heavily, casting a glance toward the distance as police sirens blared closer. "Of course…" he muttered under his breath. He shook his head, as if the situation had spiraled beyond his control.

"I'll see you another time, Penny," he said, his voice carrying an edge of finality as he turned toward the sky. His wings unfolded, thrusters engaging as he prepared to leave.

"Before you go, sir, General Ironwood wishes to speak with you!" Penny called out, her smile never fading.

Wayland paused, turning his helmeted head back toward her. "I'll call him first thing," he said flatly, then shot into the sky, disappearing into the night.

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A/N: Ending the fighting stuff here. Back to Waylanding all over the place. 

So, the suit he has is a mixture of stuff all over. It is a mix of a Iron Man Suit with the Falcon suit from Marvel with some localized differences. It is not powered by an Arc Reactor but Dust Reactor. It is mostly out of ease of logistics for the moment. He can insert different types and the suit can do different stuff. For example, he inserts a ice dust crystal? He can fire beams that super-freeze stuff. So on and so forth. 

While his suit allows him to fly, it is mostly the wing pack on his back that does the heavy lifting. The wings are a hard-light construct that can shield him or be used as a second appendage, so you will. I decided on this to give respect to the Wayland myth. Man's made flying wings and to be honest, wings are cool.

​Keep in mind that only with the suit, Alex comes from mediocre fighter to strong fighter.