Chapter Text
‘SLEEK! ERGONOMIC! 10 HRS OF USE!’
Sleek.
Sleek. Sl-eek. Sul. Eke. Eke. Eek, eke, eek.
Ruby frowned. She yanked her eyes away from the package and growled at herself, trying to stroke the itch in her larynx.
Eek. Eek. Eek. Eke. Ee-ee-ee-ee -kuh.
Ruby grabbed her neck as if she could physically stop the tic, but she couldn't. It'd been such a long day— she'd nearly passed out in PE— and even just standing there was pushing it. She didn't have energy to suppress that spot in her throat, the rising itch, the nerve that needed to be stimulated.
“Sleek,” she whispered, trying not to draw attention to herself. There was only one person in the dust shop, but it was super late; she didn't want to freak the poor clerk out by yelling in his store at this hour.
But it wasn't enough. Her throat felt empty, asleep, like the only thing that could wake it up was that one sound.
“Sleek,” Ruby said normally, casually, as if she was just reading that package aloud. She pulled off her headphones, letting them hang around her neck as she waited to be reprimanded. When nothing came, she peeked around the aisle. The clerk snored on his feet.
It still wasn't right. Too much ‘sul’, not enough ‘eke’. She really hoped the third time would be the charm.
“Sl- eek!” She said loudly, pushing the ‘eke’ out of her throat so hard that the sound panged her own eardrums. She felt that sharp vowel scrape over her larynx like a rake, reaching deep between the vocal folds to scratch the itch and release Ruby from the spell of her tic.
Unfortunately, this made the old guy at the register awaken with a stir, his bushy eyebrows going so high that they threatened to perforate the ceiling. He yelped into the waking world and spun around, searching for the shouter in his store, but found nothing as Ruby ducked back into the aisle and severed the line of sight.
She nearly stared at the package again, as if a huge and hateful glare could melt it into nothing, but she ground her jaw forward and kept her gaze steadfast. She didn't want to get double-tapped so soon after releasing the first tic, but she knew that word would haunt her for the rest of the night, at least until she was off the street and back home where she could safely yell ‘Sleek! Sleek! Sleek!’ into her pillow as much as she needed.
But, for the moment, this would tithe her over. Now all she had to do was sneak out and—
A wall of black fabric smushed Ruby’s big nose back against her face, making her reel. “H-hey!” She squawked, holding the abused area and making her voice nasal. “Watch where you're—”
A hand— just as black-laden as the chest she'd barreled into— snatched Ruby by the collar, nearly pushing her headphones off her neck. Attached to that hand was a guy, black-suited in a cartoonish villainous getup, who looked as much like a goon as one could.
Goon.
“Hey little lady,” the goon (goon) drawled, grinning with unrestrained avarice. “Why don'tcha dump that little backpack out and this can all go without a fuss.”
Goo-oo-oo-oo—
“Hey!” the goon (goo-nuh, guh-oo, oo-oo) snapped, jostling Ruby and lifting her fully off her feet— which would've been impressive, if not for Ruby’s nature. “Don’t you get it! This is a robbery!”
Now high enough to see above the shelves, Ruby could confirm his statement. The nice old clerk had his hands raised high as more goons goonishly set a brief(goon)case (gooooooon) on the counter (goongoongoon) and (goon) moti(goongoongoongoongoongoongoon)oned for hgoonim toogoo—
Ruby’s chest uncoiled like a suspension spring, air twanging up her throat and bursting severely over her vocal chords, scratching across so many nerves that it felt like releasing tics that hadn't even come yet as Ruby righteously shrieked:
“GOON!”
And with all the force she could muster in her skinny, weightless arm, Ruby battered her fist across the guy’s face. He dropped her, staggering back more out of surprise than pain, but letting slip the fact that he had no awakened Aura to buffer her blow. Ruby’s springy legs went tck-tck as she landed, but she bounced right back up with a surge of adrenaline and fury, her eyelids feeling wide enough to rip as her hands dove for the disc at her lower back.
Ruby whipped the circular weapon out to the side, making it uncoil from the center as its spirulate myriad of reticulated crimson plates snapped out, turning what could've been a buckler into something that was almost certainly a shortsword. Ruby thrust the weapon out, making the guy flinch.
Of course, stabbing Auraless jerks was not something that Ruby was super keen on doing, so she used the guy’s momentary cowardice to her advantage. She mentally plotted a line from herself to a point behind the guy and immediately got sucked into it, her body bursting in a poof of red and black as it rocketed along that line, surging forward for what felt like an instant eternity until the pieces of her snapped back together into one Ruby— above and behind him, poised, moving.
Ruby cracked the dull butt of her shortsword into the guy’s temple and raced towards the others; she wasn't too interested in whether she actually knocked him out or not, a blow like that would have him out of the fight one way or another.
Seeing the black and red mass of guys accosting the clerk, Ruby felt an odd tweak of righteous indignation. Her style was being cramped, villainously, which was not cool at all! Black and red got enough bad press already! She had to put a lot of work into her look and these guys were putting a bad vibe to it! She wouldn't stand for it!
Justifiably angered, Ruby nudged the dial beneath her crossguard with a thumb, flicked out her weapon again, and put both hands on the solid black handle as the interlocked plates split. Half of the plates climbed further up the blade, forming a thin, straight, single-edged longsword with a square point. Seeing the closest guy turn and raise a submachine gun, Ruby plotted.
Guys: five. Weapons: 2 SMGs, 1 pistol, 2 batons. Disposition: distinctly unhappy. Affiliation: who cares.
Rubys: 1. Weapons: 1. Disposition: not super good; will pass out the moment adrenaline fades; slight tummy ache; big headache. Affiliation: Signal Combat Academy.
Predicted winner: uh… Ruby. Probably. 80-20. 70-30. Eh, 75-25. Yeah. 75-25.
Ruby burst out along four points in quick succession. Point one; Ruby smacked the first SMG guy over the eyes with the back of her sword, then kicked him between the legs. Point two; Ruby cut a long gash along the pistol guy's arm, making him drop the gun and wail. Point three; Ruby appeared low between the other SMG guy and one of the baton guys, slashed up into both wrists of the former, then caught his now-falling gun and slammed it into the batoneer's kneecap. Point four; Ruby caught the last baton guy's face in her foot and kicked him down, then struck him across the temple with the flat of her blade, swinging it like a golf club.
Ruby held her breath, clutching it tight in her chest before releasing it with a slow hiss— she knew she'd probably pass out if she let it all go at once.
“Cops,” she said between forcefully slow breaths. “Call the cops.”
The old guy yelped at being addressed, but rushed to the wall-mounted phone without argument, giving her a single appreciative nod before he started rattling off details to the police.
Ruby wobbled on her feet, but managed to catch herself by jamming her weapon into the floor and using it like a cane. She staggered forward, nearly passing out when opening the front door felt like pushing a bank vault, but soon enough she was breathing crisp, warmish night air as the last dregs of summer filled her lungs.
Still addled by adrenaline, Ruby shakily extracted her phone and went to her contacts. Finding the one labeled ‘Mum’, she—
“My, my, what do we have here?”
Ruby darted back, her brain amping up with hormones again as her phone clattered to the sidewalk. Expecting nothing good from a voice that suave, she looked up.
Nothing good, indeed, Ruby confirmed, as her eyes met the pale figure of one Roman Torchwick: failed entrepreneur turned most-wanted criminal, with a big white coat that was just as dramatic as would be expected from a mob boss, complete with bowler hat, cigar, and pimp cane.
Ruby tightened her grip on the sword and plotted.
Guys: like, 6 now; it was hard to tell, things were getting a little fuzzy around the edges. Weapons: can't really see; dark night, dark weapons, dark suits, it all blurred together. Disposition: overconfident; smug, even. Affiliation: Roman Torchwick, obviously.
Rubys: still one, still haven't achieved random, miraculous mitosis. Weapons: still (technically) one, but locking it in longsword definitely reduced her options. Disposition: super not good; might pass out before fight is over; tummy ache is gone (yay); headache is not (boo). Affiliation: Signal Combat Academy.
Predicted winner: yikes. Uh-oh.
Mom's critical, hopefully-life-saving advice: ‘Wha— advice? Don't be a pussy! What do you mean ‘I don't wanna kill them’, get stabbing or get dying!’
Mum’s less-violent, hopefully-more-helpful advice: ‘Ruby, listen to your mother. No, sweetheart, she is not a psychopath. Petal, if you're outnumbered and in danger you need to do whatever you can, prioritize your life and the lives around you above those who would threaten it. Yes, really. Yes. Yes, like she said, ‘get stabbing or get dying’. That's my girl.’
An explosion of crimson and black.
Point one; red flew. Point two; red burst. Point three; red spurted. Point four; red sprayed, red exploded. Point five.
Ruby's sword clanged against Roman Torchwick’s cane, throwing the pooled blood off its edge and into his face. He gave little more than a scowl at being painted by his comrades’ sanguine fluids before backhanding Ruby. His glove struck her cheek, breaking through her Aura and sending her crashing to the asphalt below. Seeing stars, Ruby instinctively threw out her arms to catch her fall, screaming when her left forearm twisted wrong and snapped, bone bursting through skin with a spray of red.
The darkness crept in, then slipped away like waves on the shore, each ripping pulse of white-hot pain being the only thing that kept her awake.
Mom’s critical, life-saving advice: ‘Don't lose.’
Mom’s critical, life-saving advice, post-scriptum: ‘Die before you lose, because if I find out you walked away a loser, I'm coming for you.’
Mom's critical, life-saving advice, post-post-scriptum: ‘Are you stupid? It'll be easier to look Death in the eye than me.’
Mum's less-violent, hopefully-more-helpful advice: ‘Don't listen to your mother. She's an idiot and a psychopath, and I'd get to her before she got even close to you.’
Ruby would be mad if she weren't in so much pain. Her moms sucked.
A cocky chuckle bid Ruby’s eyes open, and her spotted sight was disgraced by the form of Roman Torchwick, sashaying towards her, leaning and swinging on his weird pimp cane like he was the coolest guy in the world. “Damn, killer,” he drawled, grinning like he was about to say something awful. “Aren't you the cock o’ the walk?”
The pain in Ruby's arm traveled down to her gut, immediately festering into rage.
Uncle Tai's middling, sometimes-helpful advice: ‘Eh, lose if you want. Like, if it's too much or if it's not worth it, you can just leave. Seriously. You can literally just run away from almost any confrontation.
‘Unless they insult you. Especially if it's racist. Oh, especially if it's a chicken joke. Yeah, fucking kill the guy. Straight-up.’
Ruby had known since ten that her parental figures were questionable at best. At fifteen, she realized the only person who was actually consistent was Uncle Tai. When she was sixteen, he died while on a Hunt with her moms and Uncle Qrow. Now at seventeen, they didn't give her advice anymore.
Ruby took her longsword in her non-dominant right hand and pushed herself up with it, falling almost fully onto its support as the movement made the world rock around her. Content to let her rise, Roman continued monologuing, but it wasn't something Ruby really heard. His words bounced off the foggy plastic screen of her mind, unable to override the last thing she'd actually heard from him:
‘Cock o’ the walk.’
Ruby ground her teeth. She was not a chicken.
‘Cock o’ the walk.’
Did the feathers on her arms look like chicken feathers? They were totally different! Long and elegant, black as night, tapering into rachis and down like a maroon sunset— what kind of chicken had that! And what kind of chicken had such long digitigrade legs, such shining midnight scuta, such elegant, vicious talons?
At least one of them! Probably! But that wasn't the point! The point: screw this guy!
Ruby flicked the dial of her weapon all the way over and shrugged, jolting all the plates and letting them fall limp as a bladed whip. She cast it out with no further bravado, riding the pain of her arm as the only thing suspending her consciousness. The blade encircled Roman's cane, making his Aura come to life as its edge licked his hand. His smug expression faltered.
He tried yanking his cane back, probably to pull Ruby off her feet, but she slipped her whip off the cane with ease. Ruby yanked it back and swayed towards Roman on her talons, making him duck as she swung it over his head, pulling the momentum above herself to fall to one knee, broken arm scraping the ground, twisting at the waist as she threw the whip back out like a darting snake. The pain of her arm made her scream, but the metallic warbling of her sword wrapping around Roman’s shin was enough to make it all feel better. All the different points of contact and sharp surface area overwhelmed the criminal’s Aura as soon as Ruby pulled it back, ripping the blades along the shield of his soul until it unceremoniously fizzled away.
Roman swung out as Ruby pulled the whip back, trying to catch her weapon and barely hitting anything but the tip, but that tip was enough. The weapon now moved with less certainty towards its wielder, who braced her leg up to catch it as it flew dangerously off course. The whip snaked around the hard scales of her leg, slicing white lines across the bony black surface, but that was all, and it was a whole lot better than getting her arm eviscerated again.
Roman watched her catch the whip, frowned, and said decisively: “Nope. Not worth it.” He leveled his cane with Ruby, flipped open a cap at the end, and blew a glowing orange projectile her way. The fireball (or whatever it was) moved slow enough for Ruby to uncoil her leg and swing her sword at it, but that seemed to work in Roman’s favor as the thing burst into a cloud of smoke.
Ruby ran out of the plume, holding her breath, her eyes stinging, until she cleared the smoke and caught sight of Roman once more: running away, leaping, and shooting the ground beneath him to boost him up towards the rooftops.
But he wasn't that far. There was a way Ruby could salvage this.
Ruby felt her whole body come alive with burning pain as she scraped energy her soul couldn't provide to power her Semblance, burning internal tissues that hopefully weren't brain matter as she plotted a line between herself and Roman. The line sucked her in and spat her out mid-air, soul, mind, and body screaming for her to stop, all ignored as she threw her whip out and encircled Roman Torchwick’s waist. His explosion-amplified inertia was more than enough for him and Ruby’s incredibly light body.
The two of them struck the rooftop with zero grace; Roman, because Ruby’s whip was actively shredding through his coat and razoring across his waist, and Ruby, whose arm was broken and for whom consciousness was becoming conceptual. Roman scrambled to his feet and shot that orange ball straight into the air, then tried to manually pull the sword from his bloodied waist until the blades started to shred through his dress-gloves. Ruby, for her part, was mostly dragged along like a ragdoll as the mob boss ran away, concentrating everything she got from the pain and the last dregs of adrenaline into maintaining a death-grip on her weapon.
She wasn't 100% sure that mum would outpace mom if she lost, so she'd die, just to be safe. At the very least, she'd wounded someone whose social status and infamy was way out of proportion to her own. Maybe it'd spur some… guy-hunt for the man. No— man-hunt. For the guy. Man-guy-hunt.
Oh, he had an airship. Lame. And he managed to get out of her whip and climb in. Super lame.
His ship was exploding. No, wait, something was exploding out of it. Like, a fire. Lots of it. All from some… fire lady, and she was fighting…
Holy crap, was that Glynda Goodwitch? Sick. She probably wouldn't stop mom from killing her, but seeing one of the Huntresses she had posters of was cool.
Man, she didn't even get to kill the racist guy for calling her a… cock. Cock.
Caw-kuh.
Oh man, and right before she died, too? How lame is it to tic out right before dying… whatever. She was too tired to care, and way too tired to suppress it.
“Young lady, are you okay! Stay with me! Give me some kind of response!”
Ugh. If mom didn't kill her for losing, mum would definitely kill her for her last word. At least she and Tai could laugh about it in heaven.
“Cock.”