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Grimm Nightmares Chapter 57
🕑 Added 2024-09-18 11:39:40 +0000 UTCChapter 57 Join the Night
He was alone.
With a fraction of his strength, he pushed and listened to the sound of gears embracing and releasing as they turned. The wind pulled at his cap and shoved the scent of burning corpses deep into the reaches of his airways.
He was not sure whether it was fortunate that, by this point, he was well used to the stink.
His thoughts idled momentarily on just how many foul odours he was growing used to, how many foul things, in general, he was growing used to.
He took his hand off the large, mounted gun, the device truly a marvel of engineering that he admitted his knowledge was insufficient to grasp the complete inner workings of. He looked around the roof again, his eyes scouring the bricks for what should have been there. It was so easy; he could blink and see the scene again, the very area shifting in his mind to fit the image.
He leaned away from the mechanised gun, his hand brushing over the hilt of his weapon as he let his steps fall where they had.
He went through the motions as he had previously.
‘A step, another, a pause, pivot and lunge…’ He scraped his foot over a section of the roof that should have been well and truly disfigured by numerous pellets of quicksilver fired at him by Djura in their fight.
Gone now… Like Djura.
Jaune rolled his jaw; the memory of its brutal removal remained fresh as he stalked about the space that had served as their arena. His steps inevitably lead him to where he had executed the Hunter.
This spot, unlike all the others that should have littered the roof, was changed.
Jaune took a knee, adjusting his hat as he dropped, piercing blue eyes narrowing at the single section of the roof made unique by its nature of remaining unchanged where all else was altered.
A sudden groan haltered his thoughts, “Murgh.”
Jaune blinked, turning to see the face of none other than Mort. The Messenger was staring at him, the hollow nature of his face unmoving as he looked deep into Jaune’s eyes.
“Truthfully, I was expecting Stitch,” Jaune intoned, turning away from the Messenger.
He did not miss how Mort shrugged in response to his words, the quietist of his four little followers, ever particular with his ‘words’.
Jaune, his attention once more on the spot, reached out for the only particularity, the only remnant, that lingered after his return to the Lantern. It was inconspicuous at first glance, nothing more than a damaged tile amongst damaged tiles… but he knew better.
He could close his eyes and picture the scene, the blood pooling around the body, the extended form of the Saw Spear, impaled and upright. He opened his eyes once more to behold his gloved digits scraping about the outside of the deep stab mark.
Mort’s hand ceased his own’s journey.
“Hugh,” Mort groaned, his gentle push leading Jaune’s hand into the wound he’d created.
Jaune’s brow raised as his gloved finger brushed against something within the gouged-out stonework he had created. He dipped his fingers and dragged them and the hidden mystery within out in a single scoop.
Jaune’s eyes narrowed; the object hung from his fingers by a simple chain and appeared to be a pendant of some sort. Jaune brought it closer, his eyes nearly squinting as he realised the pendant was actually a tiny vial filled with small black particles.
“Black… powder…” Jaune mumbled before looking back over his shoulder to examine the mounted gun that had been the cause of his demise many, many times over. “Powder Kegs… a badge?”
No doubt drawn in by his proclamation, a boisterous eruption of noise signalled the arrival of Stitch, who popped up next to Mort…
Who was then rewarded for his noisy appearance with a crisp slap to the back of the head and a scolding groan.
Jaune could only blink as he observed this interaction, his brows rising as he beheld a contrite Stitch who seemed regretful for his behaviour. Stitch seemed to shuffle on the spot, his luminous eyes flicking between the other Messenger and Jaune.
Eventually, the Little One held his hands out, his eyes not meeting Jaune’s own, and he kept his head bowed. Mort continued to peer at the other member of the quartet with an unreadable expression, seemingly happy to await Jaune’s move.
Jaune did not want to cause the two any further discourse and so happily delivered the pendant, or badge as he suspected, into the awaiting grasp of Stitch. Ever faithful to his nature, the little one grabbed the item as if it were a vaunted treasure, but he did so with a rare degree of care.
Stitch looked at his hands, his small fingers caressing the badge… then his head shot up and gave Jaune a nod.
He was gone soon after, leaving Jaune and Mort alone once more.
Jaune looked to where Mort remained, the Little One still beside the hole where he had impaled Djura to the ground.
‘Djura…’ Even within the confines of his mind, the name stirred in Jaune a rage that threatened to bubble over with little provocation. Their fight had been… a blur… a red haze of violence, pain, motion, and impact. But the ending had been the final straw, the very pinnacle of madness.
The words that the Ashen Hunter had dared to utter to him… declaring him a Beast.
Jaune remembered it so clearly, the memory yet still so fresh that he could hear the words in his head as if Djura was still proclaiming them.
‘It… It’s you—’
‘You… you’re the Beast.’
Jaune’s fingers flinched, squeezing the phantom trigger of a Blunderbuss that wasn’t there.
“Ahh!”
Jaune was pulled from his thoughts by a startled-looking Mort and a pleased-looking Stitch who held a very familiar hat in his hands. The Messenger proudly presented his find, and his usual lipless grin seemed fuller.
Jaune glanced at the piece of apparel and resisted the urge to grimace. Stitch, possible kleptomania aside, did tend to collect things that were of use. Jaune sniffed as he stood back up, nodding to Stitch, “Good work… toss it in the chest.”
Stitch nodded and gave Mort what Jaune could only hope to describe a smug wiggle before he submerged in the mist and disappeared.
Mort glowered at the previously occupied spot.
Jaune exhaled noisily before he turned back to the gun, his temper already suffering from having to look at the infernal device. His anger from before had not disappeared; it had only been forestalled.
Jaune frowned.
“… I hate this,” Jaune exclaimed to Mort without turning to face the Messenger. “I know what he was… he was like me… so like me that had things been different…”
Mort remained silent, and Jaune was grateful for it.
“They attacked me… I know I trespassed and ignored the warnings… but I need that Chalice to find the Paleblood!” Jaune roared, no longer trying to hold onto the reins of his fury. “But I’m human! He was human! Doesn’t that mean something? Doesn’t that matter!”
Jaune’s breaths came out heavy and hot, and Mort watched on in silent vigil.
“… I would have spared them, both him and his friend below… hell, I would have even left the Beast’s to this misbegotten den. But… but I need the Chalice…”
“He’s gone now… him and his ally both, gone for good, by whatever powers control this hellish night and the wrongness of it all,” Jaune spat, running a hand up through his hair. “Only I remain… and the Beasts.”
Jaune looked toward the darkened sky, where the smoke and clouds failed to halt the light of the moon entirely. “He spoke of the Dream… he knew. But he saw me as… he saw me as Gascoigne.”
Mort crooned at this, low and heavy, a warning, a reprimand.
“I know… I know…” Jaune sniffed again, wiped his face and walked to where he had left his weapon.
“It’s over now, he’s gone, I’m here, and there isn’t anything I can do for that now,” Jaune admitted, rolling his shoulders.
His gaze fell back on the mounted gun, and the fury returned.
“I hate that despite your sanity, despite your humanity, despite that we could have talked, you instead slaughtered me over and over… I hate that Gascoigne, who was so far gone, was as equally peaceful as you, who, to the best of my knowledge, did not imbibe so much as a single drop of Blood.”
Jaune’s hand rested on the handle of his weapon.
“You were so skilled; you used talents I did not even know existed, and you utilised weapons that I can not put out of my mind even now. You had an ally, fought with purpose and knowing and… you didn’t use Blood Vials… you pushed me to the brink, past it even, with naught but your own skills and that…”
Jaune’s features scrunched up as he closed his eyes and took a breath.
“And you are dead,” Jaune growled, “You are gone, and I remain, and so I will say this, and then I will say no more.”
“I will take what you have shown me, and I will learn; I will recall our confrontation and know the length I have yet to go; I will take what was yours and wield it as mine… as a Hunter.” Jaune declared as he flexed his fingers before letting them curl about the grip of his weapon.
“I will not forget you, Djura… I don’t think I could even if I wanted to; you left far too deep an impression,” Jaune spat, “So farewell, Djura…”
Jaune swung his Kirkhammer around, the heavy head of the transformed Trick Weapon scraping along the ground before he managed to heft it high. Jaune let it all go, his control and restraint slipping off as he bared his teeth and allowed the rage to flow.
Jaune roared as he brought the hammer down atop Djura’s mounted gun with all his enraged strength.
Clang
Crunch
Wurght
Over and over, Jaune battered and smashed the mechanised weapon, the huge hammer crashing into it repeatedly, denting, warping, twisting and rendering the thing wholly inoperable. Jaune swung as his lungs burned and his throat itched, as gears and metal sailed off the roof to clatter to the streets below.
Each swing rewarded him with cracks and crunches, breaking gears and screeching metal like some massive jaws were chewing upon the gun.
Then he stopped suddenly as he was forced to catch his breath, his body hunched over and leaning atop the Kirk Hammer as he panted. His throat felt raw, the familiar pain clueing him into the fact that he had been screaming.
A last pant, he stood straight, his hands clenching and unclenching as he stretched the muscles within. He looked over his labour, saw the ruin he had wrought upon the mounted gun and felt…
Nothing.
Another breath and with it calm, peace… or at least the illusion of it.
Jaune walked back to where he had left his things. He went about examining the rooftop, his jacket billowing as he moved against the wind. There were only two items in the out-of-the-way corner, two items he had brought, knowing they would be needed.
He cast a glance at Mort as he moved and saw the Messenger nod, his diamond-shaped mouth almost seeming to twitch.
Jaune accepted the encouragement and took the items up in his arms. Nestled in the crook of his left arm was a long object wrapped in bloodied cloth with odd lumps.
In his right, a Molotov.
Jaune walked back over to the broken and warped machinery, where he once more placed the Molotov on the floor. He took the concealed item in both hands and pulled from it the sticky, blood-soaked fabric that covered it… Revealing a blood-stained Blunderbuss.
Djura’s bloodstained Blunderbuss.
Jaune, in no proper state after their battle, had kept hold of it when he returned to the dream to make himself whole. Keeping it seemed utterly out of the question, so he had concluded that it was better served elsewhere.
A tug on the fabric drew Jaune’s eyes to the floor, where Mort was guiding him to hand over the bloodied cloth.
Jaune did so with a small smile.
Then he slammed the barrel of the Blunderbuss into the twisted metal of the mounted gun, the sound of metallic tearing and sheering scraping surfaces scratching at his ears. But it stayed upright and impaled, a marker, as he wanted it to be.
He stayed frozen for a moment, looking at the warped marker he had made with just the strength in his arms. The bloodied Blunderbuss groaned as his grip tightened, the scene replaced by impaling Djura to the roof.
With a nudge to his leg, Jaune paid his attention to Mort again, and the Little One pressed an Oil Urn to his palm.
Jaune released his hold on the now ruined gun and accepted the oil from Mort, the messenger retaining his silence as he waited and watched—a presence… a comfort.
Jaune turned the urn over and applied its contents liberally to the area where the two guns met.
Then he took the blood-soaked cloth back from Mort and secured it around the butt of the gun, the slick fabric proving somewhat annoying to tie with his gloves.
Something to work on when he wasn’t trying to… not think.
The smell urged him to hurry.
The smell of blood.
The smell of yet another Hunter felled by his own hands.
… It was the familiar tang of a freshly lit Molotov that brought him out of his head as he looked around for the danger.
There was none, but there was a worried Messenger.
Mort was holding a Molotov aloft, awaiting him to take it. He had frozen again, his hands stuck after pulling the final knot taught. Jaune wondered how long he had stood there thinking about his actions for Mort to light the thing.
He didn’t want to know.
He took the incendiary from his helper and, with little ceremony, tossed the bottle onto the ruined machine.
The fire roared to life to the sound of breaking glass.
From the rotating base of the death machine that had made his traversal of this Valley Hamlet a struggle that was etched onto his very soul. To the barrel of the gun wielded by a Retired Hunter who fought to protect Beasts… the fire blazed.
Jaune watched with focused eyes as the fire climbed up to that blood-soaked fabric, that torn and shredded cloth.
The remains of Djura’s cape that which had been snagged on the serrated teeth of his Saw Spear.
The fire licked at it, but it did not burn. Soaked as it was, it blackened and fluttered… but it did not burn.
Jaune licked his dry lips, “You go first… to where others may yet follow…”
Jaune turned and began to walk towards the ladder that would return him to the streets below, to the path that led him towards his goal. His hammer began to sink into the Mist, and Mort let out a low croon as he departed.
Jaune reached the ladder and stepped onto its upper rungs, looking back towards the blazing marker.
“… Goodbye.”
Jaune descended.
YVYVYVYVY
Let it not be said that Jaune had not learned something of exploration from his time in both Central Yharnam and Cathedral Ward nor that he knew not how to make use of his lessons.
The ladder that led to the roof of the tower where he and Djura clashed was accessed by climbing first atop the roof of a lower building. This building was adjacent to another that was, in fact, the only path he could feasibly see himself traversing to continue on deeper into Old Yharnam.
But from some simple observation, Jaune spotted a path whilst descending from the tower, a path from the roof into the upper reaches of the building he would need to pass through. From his own experiences, he much preferred to have the higher ground in an unknown structure, if only so he need not fear an ambush from above.
This thinking had him peering over the edge down onto a wooden walkway leading into the roof of the building that would be his next gauntlet.
He quickly brushed his hand over his belt, a simple check before he proceeded.
‘Hunter Pistol, check.’
‘Threaded Cane, check.’
‘Hunter Axe, check.’
Jaune nodded; he was ready.
He leapt from the ledge down onto the walkway, his legs bending to absorb the impact and reduce the noise his impact would create.
It was dark, but seeing in such was becoming nearly second nature to his eyes.
He saw the back of a Beast ahead, unaware of his presence.
His right hand swiftly filled with the hefty weight of his Hunter Axe as he walked forward, his steps nearly silent as he carefully spaced his steps.
He drew his arm back, winding up for one good hit… there would be no need for a second.
It was dispatched with a single chop, Jaune’s axe biting deep into its neck and deeper still into its chest cavity. He severed flesh, organs and bones all in one motion, and the creature dropped to its knees, blood spilling out as it died, unaware of what had just occurred.
Jaune stepped over the bleeding corpse into the room beyond, a hand swiping away blood that had gathered on the brim of his tricorn.
Upon seeing the interior of the building, he froze.
He beheld the sights before him with horror and awe.
He walked to the edge of the rickety wooden walkway that he noticed ran along the upper rafters of what he now knew to be yet another cathedral. He walked to the edge and looked down at the floor of this not-so-abandoned church.
He looked down and saw worship.
Beasts, a good number of them, on their knees, claws clasped together as they groaned and grunted. Their cloaked and bandaged forms huddled together, a cloister of praying, worshipping Beasts.
And what was it that these Beasts chose to worship, these foul things that had torn his flesh from his body with fang and tooth?
These things that Djura had killed him to protect.
A corpse. A colossal corpse of an even greater Beast, strung up on an iron chandelier, its flesh peeled away, flayed and spread… and its blood left to drip down from its dangling clawed feet.
Drip down and grow into a shallow crimson pool, where the Beasts might congregate and worship.
Jaune’s stunned silence finally abated, and for all his horror at the sight before him and the memories it stirred of both the Cleric Beast and the abomination in the Grand Cathedral, he managed to squeeze out a few poignant words.
“Oh, what fresh hell is this…”
He paused to gather himself, the seconds used effectively as he let his wits gather.
He took a breath, which he cut off as a smell wafted into his face, catching him off guard.
It was not the blood nor the Blood… he had expected both, nor was it the pungent aroma of unwashed Beasts.
It was oil.
Jaune looked to where a singular Urn was placed atop a half-rotted wooden blank.
An urn filled with oil.
An urn filled with oil was precariously placed over a whole slew of Beasts.
Jaune snorted in almost amusement.
Then, with a nudge, he sent the urn of oil careening down to the floor below.
It crashed into the ground.
Flames exploded to life.
Beasts howled in terror, in rage, in agony.
Blood Echoes flowed to him.
And Jaune the Hunter descended on his prey once more.
YVYVYVYVY
He could feel it.
Strange… he had not even known enough to notice it before, but now that he could feel it, know it, embrace it… how had he not known?
He knew the feel of his Blood, of the power it contained within. He had felt his blood stir, felt it chill and burn, felt it come to life and bulge with volume it shouldn’t have in the too-tight space of his veins. He knew his blood for the Blood it contained and knew what it was to feel the raw power within surge through his system like liquid lightning.
It never felt right… he knew it likely never would.
But this was different.
He remembered now.
He could recall now what he couldn’t before with a clarity that made it feel as if the whole world had shifted its axis. He could remember what he had thought to be an illusion, a distortion of his mind conjured by pain and blood loss… and his tenuous mental faculties.
He could recall when he had witnessed the Dream, the time he fought beside Orr to survive the Elder Spriggan.
And now he knew better, but that was not all as the pieces fell into place.
He could recall back to the very first time he awoke beneath the sun, on fresh green grass, the scent of the earth all around him.
No blood, no death, no rot…
It had shaken him to the core.
The world, the waking world, in those few brief moments, had been nightmarish to him simply by the nature of how contradictory they were to what he expected.
But now he knew that had only been part of it.
The Hunter’s Dream.
An oasis in hell.
Gehrman’s prison.
It’s trap.
In Yharnam, it had always been there, in his mind, as much a piece of him as the air in his lungs. Always nearby, always there, but a brief rest away from his reach. But when he had awoken that day many years ago, he had been unable to reach it and peel back the Mist.
Unable to even graze the Mist in the first place.
It had shaken him, the absence of a sense he knew he should have but didn’t… like a numb patch on his skin or a blind spot in his eyes. But Jaune, ever the Hunter, adapted as he always did.
He was a Hunter, and despite his body not being the one he knew and the world not feeling like it was his, he had grown and learned. He had mastered his new body, trained to retain his skill and talents, made peace with what he was and attempted to make peace with his past.
He accepted the reality of his Blood.
But now…
A Hunter free of Dreams, this was what he had called himself, feeling the absence of the Mist, the absence of anything regarding the Nightmare Realms. He lorded in the freedom, accepting the severance of the sense as the price needed to walk away.
A worthy price to break the bonds.
To take back what It stole.
But now…
But now!
His lips were peeled back across his teeth, the edge of them feeling invitingly sharp against the meat around his mouth. The wind was harsh on his bare flesh as he fell, the building the Nevermore had left him in zooming past floor by floor.
He felt alive.
Around him was a storm of blackened wings, swarming and thrashing as Nevermore flocked and screeched. His body accelerated downwards, pulled by gravity’s whim, cutting through the cloud of inky black that was their bodies.
Surrounded by prey, Jaune started to swing.
His Saw Cleaver, the oldest and the original, was the very first weapon he had ever taken to hand during the Eternal Night. This weapon… had grown with him like no other; the feel of it in his hands was so much like the embrace of an old friend it brought tears to his eyes.
It had been this weapon he first picked up in the beginning, in the Hunter Dream.
It made sense that it should be the first weapon he would wield now.
Reunited at last, Jaune doubted he could hold back.
So he didn’t even try.
His first kill was a Nevermore, too slow to move out of the way of his plummeting form.
Jaune swiped, and the serrated teeth of his Saw Cleaver arced out and into Grimm meat… the sound was like music, and despite the lack of blood, Jaune felt his body react.
The bird Grimm was reduced to halves in a splatter of black that stained him and his weapon.
His Saw Cleaver had claimed its first Grimm.
Jaune continued to smile as they claimed more together.
Back and forth, he swiped, his bloodlust reaching ever-soaring heights as any Nevermore too slow to escape his reach was butchered.
But gravity was a cruel mistress.
Jaune saw the approaching ground and knew he had to act quickly. Following his instincts and desiring two free hands, Jaune jammed the handle of his Saw Cleaver in his mouth, allowing him full use of his appendages.
Just in time for a Griffon to catch his eye.
So he caught it.
His fingers were like claws as they found purchase in its inky feathered wings.
A flash of red and they sank deeper still, Grimm flesh squelching as he mauled the wing in his grasp, shaping it into hand holds.
Then, he let gravity do the rest.
His body and all the acceleration he had built slammed into the Grimm’s appendage like a harpoon, and despite the lift it had generated on its last flap, Jaune’s mass tugged it down. Its wing folded under it, and Jaune swung like a pendulum as the Griffon’s body failed to handle the sudden attack.
Jaune swung under its gut, under and out, past its twisted body.
Then he let go.
His momentum bled, transferred and redirected into the now broken Griffon plummeting to the ground and Jaune’s new direction. Jaune sailed through the air, his body twisting as he went.
He jerked his head out as he went, painting his face in yet another splash of black that was all too easy to pretend was red.
A body crashed into him, claws- no, talons, sinking into his gut and driving a breath out through his nose that sent a splash of still-drying blood onto whatever had impacted him.
Jaune bit down on the handle of his Saw Cleaver and whipped his head around.
The metallic teeth of his oldest weapon bit into the Grimm's flesh ferociously.
Before Jaune could finish his prey or at least remove its talons from his guts, both he and the thing latched onto him slammed into an unyielding surface. The thing that had slammed into him took the brunt of it, and Jaune felt its body crumple as he landed atop it.
They rolled, and Jaune felt one set of talons come loose from his abdomen as what felt like loose gravel tore at the bare skin of his back.
Jaune kicked out, his knee hitting whatever surface he tumbled upon, and he sprung up in a singular, smooth motion.
Then he grabbed the Grimm, a Nevermore, in his hands and jerked it back, tearing its nails out of his stomach.
Then he pulled.
It came apart like wet paper before his might.
Grimm viscera spilt down his front, and Jaune threw its parts away before spitting his weapon back into his right hand.
Grimm ‘blood’ made the ink of his right limb appear even more feral.
A brief check of his surroundings revealed Jaune was on a rooftop, and further investigation revealed where he was in relation to the inner wall of the district.
He slapped a Nevermore out of the air as he devised a plan, the pitiful Grimm splattering against the ground, where he killed it with a swift stomp, flattening its skull. The last he had seen of his sisters, they had been driving toward the Breach Point located along the southernmost wall. If his efforts to clear the way had been successful, they should be safely out of the city by now.
Jaune just needed to get to the southernmost wall; he could find them from there.
He had taken a mere step when he was forced to drop and roll as a Beowolf pounced. The wolf Grimm skidded on the loose gravel atop the rooftop, its claws etching the cement beneath as it snarled at him.
Jaune spat to the side and glared at the Wolf Grimm.
He hated Beowolves. They looked far too much like Scourge Beasts of Yharnam.
It charged forward, jaws wide and primed to snap with all its impressive bite force.
Jaune sidestepped the easily telegraphed attack and transformed his Saw Cleaver with a flick, filling the evening with the sound of a Trick Weapon transforming for the first time.
It would not be the last.
Jaune swung and watched as the cleaver part of the blade carved up into the jaw and through the monster's skull and sent the masked portion of its head careening off the rooftop.
Jaune looked at his weapon and felt the Arcane power he had long ago imbued in the steel… shudder.
“Ahh, not really a Beast, no?” Jaune spoke aloud, realising the issue, two of his fingers running down the body of his weapon, smearing the inky ‘blood’ on its surface. “But close enough,” Jaune soothed, snapping the trick weapon closed.
No sooner had he collapsed his weapon than he was made aware by some burst of instinct of oncoming danger. Jaune reacted without hesitation; he whipped around to smack a volley of impaling plumage out of the air with a swipe. His eyes narrowed at the Nevermore that didn’t even have the intelligence not to remain hovering after flinging its feathers.
Jaune’s smile returned as he let his left hand sink into the Mist, his eyes locked on his airborne prey.
His smile gained an edge as he grasped what he desired from the Dream; after all, he was rather fond of reunions.
The Nevermore screeched and began to flap with increasing speed as it prepared to unleash another volley.
It never got the chance.
The crack of familiar gunfire snapped through the air and echoed in Jaune’s ears with reverence.
The Hunter Pistol is compact, robust, simple...
The Nevermore’s head erupted in a spray of chunky oil-coloured gore.
The Hunter Pistol is also very effective.
Two more Nevermore diverted towards him, and Jaune’s smile grew wider until it was naught but a feral split in his face that exuded bloodlust.
He dropped his weapons to the rooftop and reached into the Mist with both hands.
It had been a literal eternity since he first developed this technique, inspired by the strategy he utilised during his fight with Djura. The premise was simple: even the most skilled Hunters took time to manually load their weapons or with Alchemy as Djura did.
Jaune had sought to overcome this by throwing himself against Djura with all the firearms he owned at the time, to relative success. The idea evolved from there to what would eventually become a tried and tested technique, which he employed on many occasions.
Simply put… why reload if you can merely draw another loaded weapon.
His hands exited the Mist.
They did not come out empty.
Two more guns were raised.
Two more cracks rang out; they were slightly different pitches but familiar, all the same.
Two more Nevermore were shot out of the sky with holes bored into their plummeting corpses.
Jaune cast both weapons to the floor, his smile remaining as a small, airy chuckle slipped from his lips as he watched them disappear into the Mist.
It was just as he remembered… he hadn’t lost his touch.
He strode to the roof's edge and looked over to see the many stories between him and the street below.
The street was littered with Grimm, some of which were already clawing their way up the side of the building he was on.
He swatted aside the urge to kill them with a sniff as he quickly swiped a hand up through his bangs, pushing his hair back. Instead, he looked to the building across the way.
It was quite a leap.
Jaune turned away from the edge of the building and walked back several paces, uncaring of the approaching Grimm.
Another crack rang through the air as he sniped another Nevermore out of the air, the Hunter Pistol slapping back to the ground as he dropped it as soon as its shot was spent.
With enough distance for a solid running start, Jaune turned back to the same ledge.
He inhaled through his nose.
The smells of a city in chaos…
‘Too damn familiar.’
Jaune exploded into motion, his long legs slamming into the gravel as he sprinted full pelt towards the ledge.
A bone-white snout was beginning to rise over the side of the building when he took his last step and leapt with all his strength.
A glimmer of red existed for a moment, but Jaune was none the wiser as he had eyes only for where he needed to land.
He soared again.
His heart beat with thunderous force, and his limbs felt like they overflowed with a strength that threatened to drag him into the past.
To let him lose himself in past kills.
He clenched his teeth and refocused.
‘No! Jade and Sky,’ Jaune thought as he landed on the other side of the street and continued without pause. He charged across the rooftop, his harried pace drawing the eye of numerous Grimm, many even diverting to give chase.
Jaune would slaughter them all the same.
A Beowolf attempted to block his path first, standing equally tall as him with its maw already open.
Jaune’s hand wrapped around its throat; the blood in his limb swelled as he twisted mid-sprint and drove its skull into the edge of the rooftop access structure, the concrete edge gaining a coating of Grimm brains.
He flung the corpse off the side of the roof and all without so much as a stumble.
More came to take its place.
A Nevermore swooped in, claws raised to claw his head.
Jaune leaned to the side, grasping another of his arsenal's treasures from the Dream.
His retaliation came with the broad head of a Hunter Axe swinging out of the Mist to intercept the avian foe. The Nevermore was grounded permanently, its midsection torn open and its ‘blood’ staining yet another piece from Jaune’s arsenal.
The sound of scraping claws clued Jaune into the fact that a Beowolf was hunting him from behind.
Jaune clutched his axe with both hands and transformed it to its longer state as he twisted. The Beowolf never had a chance as the sudden length caught it in the throat, where the axe buried itself deep.
It went limp instantly, the red fading from the holes in its skull mask as it skidded on the floor, pushing Jaune back a step.
The sound of wings shifting caused Jaune to hop and pivot, the haft of his weapon levered on his shoulder as he swung, the Beowolf being scooped up and flung towards the Nevermore that had only just broken away from the flock.
Jaune jolted his arms in a sudden halt, ceasing his swing at its apex and dislodging the corpse of the Beowolf, catapulting it onward.
Both Grimm disappeared from sight with the sound of flesh smacking flesh.
Jaune didn’t linger to admire his work.
He ran on, losing himself to the speed his body could put out, his bare flesh feeling hot as the nighttime air rushed over him and pulled away the disintegrating Grimm essence.
He was coming to the end of another block, maimed and brutalised Grimm in his wake, when a Griffon finally put itself between him and the next rooftop a street over.
Jaune’s stride didn’t falter. Instead, he gained speed.
Jaune collapsed his axe as the thing flapped in the air and screeched its monstrous sound as if taunting his efforts. The noise was distorted and warped, even less birdlike than the piercing shrieks of the Nevermore.
It received a thrown axe for its efforts.
Its screech became choked and wet as the weapon sunk into the junction between its neck and its shoulder.
Jaune gave a growl of his own as the thing dared to remain in his path.
The next thing her threw at the larger flying foe was himself.
He slammed into the Griffon, his hands latching onto his axe. As his collision sent the Griffon reeling back, his weight pulled down on the lodged weapon and sent a spray of Grimm blood into Jaune’s face. The Griffon had not expected to be hit with such great force, and by the time it was able to right itself, it was too late.
Its back slammed into the building behind it, the top half of its anatomy curling around the lip of the building, while its hindquarters smashed into someone’s residence.
Rolling with the impact, Jaune yanked free his axe and continued to sprint as the Griffon bled out from its neck injury, sliding off the building to crash to the street below.
It would soon be replaced.
Jaune would not be impeded.
He would reach his sisters… and anything that got in his way…
Would bleed.
YVYVYVYVY
Oto awoke spewing and choking.
His chest felt as if it was bound as he rolled to the side and spewed out a combination of phlegm, bile and blood. He coughed and hacked with each spasm, sending arcs of hurt that danced into his spine and sent jolts through his body.
He collapsed back to the ground next to the puddle of foulness. He coughed up and let out a sobbing gasp; the pain in his chest had an equal.
His back screamed as his weight resettled on it.
His eyes were burning and laden with tears; he felt nauseous, and moving his eyes made him feel as if his brains shifted with the motion. His ears were ringing, but despite this, he could hear every beat of his heart, and each thump sent a jolt of striking hurt into the scrambled mess that was his head.
One thought managed to claw its way up through the haze of panic, hurt and sickness.
‘What happened?’
Oto blinked rapidly as he looked around, his eyes spotting the hole in the roof above him and the way the metal was pushed toward him.
‘The sky…’
Oto jolted with a gasp as his eyes shot wide, and he knew he needed to move.
He remembered the airship.
‘Simon!’ Oto thought with enough rage to send a pounding pain into the space behind his eyes.
Oto rolled again, this time away from his sick, as he tried to stand, his hand finding purchase on a shelf of sorts.
A shelf that gave out under his weight nearly immediately.
Oto was sent sprawling and let out a curse as he crashed into a bed of plants and broken pots, the shelves digging into his already battered ribs. He took a moment to consider the soil he was pressed against and the smell of the garden he was lying in as he worked the tremendous wave of pain.
He had landed in someone’s garden.
It was a miracle that he was alive; he must have still had enough Aura in the tank to survive the impact.
Oto struggled back to his feet, pushing off the wall of what he now realised was a shed. He limped outside, his left leg feeling stiff courtesy of his very abused hip. Once outside, he had to squint, blinking his eyes as he beheld sudden flashes and bright lights in the distance that burned.
Through a watery squinting gaze, he worked out what he was actually looking at.
It was hell.
He stumbled back, his back hitting the edge of the shed doorway, making him hiss. But the pain was not enough for him to look away. Not from this.
He saw the sky ablaze with traces of red, fires sending up light and smoke in tandem that painted the world in a mismatch of illumination and shadow. There were countless streaks that he knew to be the many rounds of ammunition pumped out by the wall's defences.
He saw what they were shooting at, too.
Grimm, more Grimm than he had ever seen. More Grimm than he thought could ever exist. They flew in chaotic patterns that swelled and receded, moving in motions that danced around and into gunfire as the inner wall continued to apply a constant stream of lethal pressure.
He could hear it, the din, even from nearly the outer parts of the city, even through the ringing and the sound of rushing blood that filled his ears.
Then, an epiphany made him want to be sick again.
The guns were also shooting down.
He wasn’t even seeing all the Grimm.
“H-how is this poss-“
Oto stopped speaking, the tang of sick and his own blood on his tongue suddenly less foul than the sudden swelling dread he was experiencing.
Oto maneuvered around the shed, realising quickly he was on a rooftop and that he had crashed into someone’s rooftop garden. He moved to the other side of the rooftop structure, his eyes facing toward where he was sure he had seen a flash before he passed out.
It was the same direction he had seen the airship going.
What he saw… Oto crumbled to his knees.
The building he was on was taller than the others around it, the tallest for a bit, in truth… tall enough to grant him the perfect vantage to see what they had caused.
The destruction was impressive; at least half a block, if not more, was devastated by the explosion… but such damage was a trifle compared to the other result.
The wall was breached.
They had caused a breach.
Oto was going to be sick.
He leaned over and voided his guts again, the sick coming out as a splatter or sick painted pink, hardly anything, but his stomach had little left to give.
He crawled forward on his hands and knees to the lip of the building to look over into the streets below.
He saw several Grimm roaming about in the deserted street.
Oto threw himself away and gagged.
They had caused this.
‘How many did we kill?’ Oto thought, muffling a whimper.
A bestial snarl from below caused him to wince, and Oto forced himself to stop thinking as blaming himself now would literally see him dead.
He needed to move.
Oto pushed himself up and began to try and plan, to come up with some way he could survive-
‘What’s that whistling?’
Boom
Oto threw himself down, his body screaming in protest, but he preferred pain to catching a piece of shrapnel. He looked around from his prone position, eyes crazed as he wondered what could have caused an explosion nearby.
Then he heard laughter.
Oto blinked.
He knew that laughter.
He scrambled across the rooftop, keeping low and biting his cheek to stay quiet, peering over the lip of the roof to investigate.
What he saw managed to push back the pain, if only for an instant.
It was Simon.
‘That fucker is alive?’ Oto thought as he gritted his teeth, his fist punching into the floor as he was confronted with the overwhelming desire to scream bloody murder.
The violent Faunus was a couple blocks down, and Oto could see that he was wielding the Rocket launcher, which Oto had fought so hard to get away from him.
He was laughing, and Oto saw what he was laughing at.
The fucker was shooting the wall around the Breach.
He was making it bigger… and laughing.
Oto saw red.
Dropping back to the ground, Oto tried to think this through and reason himself out of what he wanted to do. He knew it was a terrible idea, knew that he would likely fail, that even if he succeeded, he would probably still wind up dead.
‘But…’
Oto remembered well what that fucker had done, how he had pulled Oto into his shit storm of madness and wound up getting the others killed. Oto lay there listening to the lunatic laugh as he recalled all the things Simon had done to him, the bastard nothing more than a bully with Aura and a gun.
Excused because…
‘Why? Because he was White Fang? Because he was a Faunus?’ Oto clawed at the roof, his nails scratching at the concrete, but again, he only had nails, not claws.
Simon had stopped laughing.
Oto peered up and saw that the thug was loading another rocket into the launcher. But that wasn’t all he saw as Simon leaned to the side and spat out a globule of spit.
Red spit.
Simon was hurt.
Oto made up his mind.
After all…
What else did he have to lose?
Comments
Elkin
Another great chapter, love seeing Jaune on the hunt again
Alpharius
Yeah I get what you're saying, and that I kinda wanna see how his parents will react to him being sooooo........ upbeat? Plus I wanna see how canon characters will react to this chad. This man. This absolute unit. I'm agreeing. By the by.
Master Zen
Good chapter but needs more Jaune!
Melikereading
Author, I feel like this Arc has dragged on for a while. Even before your break, it’s been stuck like the firetruck in Bastion going around back and forth to the exit. Any timeline to when we move on to another arc?
Spooki
Nice
Jonathan I Beyers
Ooo things are popping off! I can't wait to read what happens next~
