Uforia was located under a freeway at the edge of the industrial sector. A massive, multi-story building made from brick; the kind that the factories had all been built around. This particular one had once been an apartment complex, but every arched window was blacked out, and the floors inside long since knocked down. From the outside, only the audible, rhythmic thumping of bass, and the line of people standing outside hinted at anything more than a building condemned.

Roman stood across the street, smoking a cigar he had started in a taxi that had since sped off into the night, and Neo stood leaned against the nearby street sign, eyes downcast. Her parasol was open above her head, though there was neither sun nor rain. Roman barely remembered the ride there, only that it had consisted partially of the taxi driver's protests as he had lit up in the confines of the vehicle, and their sudden hush when he'd removed his gloves.

He'd been inside his head the entire way here, planning and scheming through a fog of rage and guilt, and now that Uforia was across the street, whatever he had come up with would have to do.

They had eleven minutes. One way or another, at the end of those eleven minutes, or any time before, there would be blood. He scanned the line of people awaiting entry, a substantial gathering of teenagers, junkies, club scene veterans and other misfits, and a single, imposing bouncer in a suit and tie.

He rolled his cigar between his fingers.

"Neo."

The girl snapped to attention. Her fingers drummed nervously on the handle of her weapon, but her eyes were focused. Roman gestured down the street, past the line of people awaiting entrance to the club.

"Prisoners…" he swallowed quickly, "Prisoners aren't brought in through the front entrance. They're taken around the back, to the basement… just look for the guards."

He focused his attention on her.

"They're looking for me," he said bitterly, "If I go in through the front entrance, they'll think they have me. They'll be waiting for me, but this way, I can stall them; I'll grab their attention, while you slip in the back, get Folly, and get out."

The look in Neo's eyes was obvious, even to someone who didn't know her.

I'm not leaving you.

"Get as far away as possible," Roman pushed. When Neo didn't look convinced, he forced a smile, "Don't worry; I know how to put on a show."

Neo looked at the club. Roman watched with her as a patron was admitted entrance. She pushed off the street sign, folded her parasol, and Roman felt the wind as she walked briskly past him. She threw a glance back at him, but it was brief, and he couldn't interpret its subtleties before she turned away again, her footsteps carrying her forward with purpose.

He sighed, and crushed his cigar beneath his heel. He had already been careless enough for Folly to get hurt, so even if he personally believed Neo could do it, was he making the right call, or just being blindly overconfident? He didn't know.

Right or not, it was the only option; a gamble he wouldn't have taken if he'd had any other cards to play.

He crossed the street, his neck tattoo clearly visible without his scarf. The first few patrons in line began to complain but quickly fell silent, as he walked directly to the bouncer, bypassing the line entirely. The large man took note of him with crossed arms. His head was shaved, and the tattoos that protruded from the collar of his shirt on his thick neck were not indicative of Black Circle allegiance.

Roman approached him looking straight into his black eyes, and the closest patron in line, a teenage girl dressed in colorful rave attire, took an unsubtle step back.

"Baster, long time no see," Roman addressed with a tip of his hat, "Won't you let me in? It's urgent."

"They're looking for you, Roman."

Baster spoke in grave, gravelly tones. Behind him, the pulsing bass reverberated against the brick building.

"I'm aware," Roman said. Baster glanced at the line.

"They say you did some terrible things," he said, "Before you were, y'know… dead for three months…"
Roman lifted a brow but stayed silent.

"Well…" the large man sighed, "Did you?"

"Nope… but I'm about to."

"…I see."

There was a tense pause, and a car drove by along the street.

"You should tell them the club's closed," Roman pointed to the line over his shoulder, "Take the night off, have a beer… maybe find a new job."

Baster nodded silently.

"Make it quick, Roman."

"Oh, this is going to be anything but."

"…Right."

To the line's audible protest, Baster stepped aside, and Roman walked past him into the club. As the sounds of the town receded under the music's presence, he intended to spare no one else.

He emerged from a set of black, glass doors, and he braced; an auditory storm of massive bass, distorted synths, and sizzling, filtered vocals dominated the entire floor before him. A series of neon-lit walkways bordered the central dance floor, squared off by four columns that pulsed and morphed their colors with the music. A thick crowd moved like ocean waves, occasionally illuminated by the flash of a blinding white light, and in the distance, a DJ wearing a neon teal, twin-tailed wig and an opera mask oversaw the scene behind a set of turntables.

Roman descended the stairs. The sights and sounds of Uforia were familiar to him, as he'd spent most of time in the lower ranks of the Circle peddling Reef and Black Sap in its darkest corners. The Circle had purchased one of Vale's condemned apartment complexes, knocked down the floors, and converted the entire building into a multi-leveled nightclub; it was a legitimate business establishment, with all the proper licenses and deed registered with the city council, but beneath the lights and the sounds was a hub of Circle activity, where the syndicate cultivated their contraband, and imprisoned those most troublesome to their ventures. That was where Folly would be.

Roman waded through the crowd, sidestepping club-goers of every demographic, their minds altered on the substance of their choice. The pungent smell of Reef permeated the space, the flashes of light were disorienting, and the floor was comprised of polished glass, which would become slick if painted with blood. Familiar or not, it was a tactical nightmare. The Circle had enforcers patrolling the entire place, there was zero doubt in his mind, and it was only seconds before he saw them: Among the bodies, two of them moved with purpose. They were like ships carving through crashing tides. He couldn't see their faces, but he felt their movements as they circled him in the crowd, closing in on their prey from two opposite directions.

Perfect.

He moved for the bar on the club's left side; above the heads of the crowd, many of which were shorter than him, he could see the backlit shelves laden with bottles of liquor beyond the dance floor. Mentally he avoided calculating anything but his approach; it wouldn't matter if he knew exactly how much time Folly had left, his only option was to trust Neo. Whether he lost them both, or neither of them, was up to her, and the only way he could help her was by drawing the Circle out to exactly where he wanted them.

Navigating the crowd was difficult, however, and as he struggled to avoid the limbs and bodies of the heedless patrons around him he could feel the Circle getting closer. There were four of them, as he saw them move from of the corners of his eyes. Beneath his coat and gloves he was already sweating, and his hair was matting uncomfortably to his forehead. The bar was getting closer, and as he approached he realized he had already left the dance floor, but was still caught within the crowd. This was a good night for business, even by Uforia's standards, but the large amount of people was not working to his advantage; at this rate, he would be bumped into, accidentally, and poisoned with a pen.

He pushed for the bar, and as soon as he broke from the crowd he hastily took the only open spot: between a young man who had obviously been drinking for a while, and a woman who had just received her drink. The bartender, tattooed and visibly high on Reef, nodded quickly to Roman.

"Battlin' Jack's," he said. The bartender leaned in, and Roman repeated the order in a shout before he nodded in confirmation. The drink was just a necessary device that was instrumental in his plan. Behind him, he was certain the Circle was still in hot pursuit, practically salivating in anticipation of his blood.

"Heeeeyy," the man to his right slurred. Roman bristled; the man had been uncomfortably close to his ear. If he hadn't been trying to appear as unaware and relaxed as possible he would have knocked him cold.

"What."

"Hav-Haven't I sheen you before shomewhere!?"

He slurred every 'S' in his drunken stupor. Roman glanced at the man: Black hair, bleary eyes, a large tattoo of a snake coiling around his ear and neck, and gulping at a glass of whiskey. Behind him, he could feel someone making a line for the bar, slowly and methodically.

"I remember!" The man slammed the counter with a wide grin, "You were at the Golden Roshe! I held a gun to your fashe! You looked sho shcared when Bai took you down to the bashement!"

Had it been another day, another time, Roman would have genuinely would have found the information amusing.

"Oh? You Hong Zhao?"

"Heeey! We're all friendsh here!" the man picked up his glass and took a swig, spilling some on his loosened shirt and red tie, "No worriesh! Jusht... jusht don't tell Bai okay!?"

The words traveled through one ear and out the other; in the reflection of the man's glass, Roman saw them: framed by a flash of light, the distorted image of a figure approaching. He looked sideways at the Hong Zhao enforcer, now less of a threat then those he had once called family, but it wasn't out of interest, as his new angle allowed him to track the assassin's movements with his peripherals. He watched them dart out of his field of vision and grinned.

"So, why wade into Circle territory?" He asked the man.

"Well, I could be ashking you the shame thing," the man pointed a finger too close to Roman's face, "Didn't they want you dead? Huh!?"

"Yeah, something like that."

The man laughed, "You got ballsh! You got shome sherioush ballsh!"

He took another drink, and Roman was aware of the Circle assassin getting closer; they were mere feet away. He could feel them moving behind him, as the crowd displaced around them.

"What are you drinking?" Roman asked.

The man slammed his glass down on the bar. "Amberwood, on the rocksh!"

Roman sighed and watched the glass come down, and the reflection of his stalker's eyes flashed for a split second. In the Hong Zhao's drunken haze, he failed to notice as Roman stole and slid his glass closer to the space between them.

"Really? Shame…" he laughed, and shook his head. "…What a waste of whiskey."

He didn't turn around. He didn't have to. He reached his arm back, grabbed a fistful of the assassin's hair, and threw their face into the glass.

Neo's heels clicked briskly on the sidewalk. Her parasol was folded, and gripped in one hand. She was aware of how much more it stood out on a clear night. She passed no one as she circled the building, on the lookout for the guards Roman had mentioned, and so she walked in silence.

She wished it were anything but; her mind was tormenting her, and she would have given anything to drown her thoughts.

You wanted this.

Her path brought her to an alleyway behind the massive building, and she slowed her approach, to quiet her steps, and proceeded down the path.

You let this happen. You could have snuck in and killed Gelb and none of this would have happened, but you ran. You ran because you were scared. You're even scared now. You're always scared.

She clenched her teeth. The alley smelled like trash and cigarettes, but the stench felt distant, like it was drifting through someone else's nostrils. A single light illuminated an area ahead, partially hidden behind a large dumpster.

She was so nice to you, but you didn't even care.

She had minutes to save Folly, to atone for her selfishness. She had to be as clear and sharp as ever to pull it off, but she was tired, her aura was still recovering from her practice and her healing tattoo, and her thoughts were eating her from the insides outward. She hissed, trying to focus as best she could.

Even now, you're thinking it: All you care about it is that maybe, without her hand, Roman will stop fucking her. You selfish, scared, little slut-

She stumbled, and bit back a scream of rage between her teeth. She had to focus. She had to silence herself. So she could save Folly and save Roman and justify her existence for a little while longer. The light was directly above a small door covered with torn posters, only a few feet ahead, and as well as they only entrance, it had to be the entrance she was looking for. It was now or never, for everyone's sake.

She sank behind the large dumpster and wasted no time, flicking open her weapon just a few inches. She rolled up her sleeve with her teeth, her mind screaming all the while.

How is Neo any different from Muffin? You coward. You never change.

She growled again, held her knuckle to her blade, and whipped her skin against the weapon. It burned, and her eyes watered in relief.

Shut. Up.

The blade was not meant for cutting, but its edges were still sharp, and a single trail of blood trickled cleanly from her finger. She could always explain that she'd sustained it in a fight, and that was if Roman even questioned a finger cut after attempting a rescue mission in the heart of Black Circle territory.

She repeated the motion once, twice, until the door around the corner swung open and two voices sounded forth. She froze, hunkered behind the dumpster out of sight. Her heart pounded, and she hoped no one could hear it.

"... Just don't know if I can do the other one," one of the voices, a young man, was saying as the door swung closed behind them, "I'm still sick."

"Calm down and have a smoke," a squeaky female voice said, "I've seen so much worse than this."

"Thanks…" the first voice breathed, and the odor of cheap cigarette drifted around the corner. There was a pause, and Neo stayed still, calculating her next move.

The man piped up again, "You think Roman'll show?"

"Hm? What? You hoping Roman will come for his damsel so you can slither out of dismemberment duty?" The woman's voice dripped with ennui.

"Well, no! I just-"

"Tough break. Roman's a prick; he's probably looking for a ticket out of Vale right now. Like it or not: we'll be taking her apart until the sun comes up… no, what I want to know is who put Collette up to this. Like, did she really have to kidnap the best tattoo artist in the city? Who's going to finish my stomach now?"

"I thought that was Gelb?"

"Of course it was, Gelb's wanted Folly for years. Collette just planned this shitshow, and now she's not even answering her damned scroll."

"…Wanted?"

"Yeah… come to think of it, maybe we won't have to cut her up. You know, personally…"

There was a pause. Neo knew she was running out of time, but she couldn't just rush them; taking on two of them at once would be difficult, and while she waited for an opening there was always a chance they would let more info slip.

"Personally… I'm pretty sure Gelb just wanted to nab Folly for himself," the woman continued in an accusing murmur, "Think about it: even if Roman shows up, what are we going to do with her afterwards? Let her go? We cut her damned hand off. She's a liability now, and he always hated Roman anyway."

The man laughed nervously, "Well, you did say he was a prick."

"He is," the woman said, "But Gelb is like Roman, minus the charm and with half the dick."

"Uh, wh-wha-?"

"I slept with him once," the woman sighed wistfully, "Roman, I mean. Whatever, we were fucked up…"

The buzzing of a scroll caused the woman to trail off. There was a brief pause, and Neo ground her teeth, her cheeks hot.

The woman let out a sharp laugh. "Gelb just texted me! Guess who decided to show up?"

"Roman?" the young man sounded both hopeful and anxious.

"You bet! Looks like Folly got saved by the bell after all."

"Well… what do we d-"

The woman sighed, "You know what? I'm gonna go back up Gelb so we can clean up this mess and go home. You just stay here and finish your smoke; you're looking a little pale."

"Thanks, Sascha," the man said, "I'll be along in a little."

"Yeah, yeah…"

Sascha's squeaky voice disappeared behind the sound of the door closing, and the man let out a long sigh of relief.

Neo listened for a few more seconds; her legs and feet were sore from remaining still, and her blade was still drawn. When she was sure the man would be alone for the foreseeable future, she prepared to rise and attack him. She tensed in preparation…

"Hello?" The man said, "Yeah, it's me sweetie."

Neo furrowed her brows. The man was talking on a scroll.

"Did you take your vitamins?" he said. After a pause, "…Just wanted to let you know I'll be a little late tonight."

Neo twisted silently from behind the dumpster as the man focused on the call, and she caught her first glimpse of him; his exposed forearms, uncovered by the rolled-up sleeves of a black, patched duster, bore tattoos similar to Roman's, and his brown hair was tied back in a ponytail as he faced away from her. He was quite short, barely a foot taller than her.

She took her time sheathing her blade, and leisurely approached her unaware quarry, mindful of the sound of her heels. He had a cigarette in one hand and a scroll in the other, defenseless.

"I know I said that, but daddy has to work," the man continued. There was another long pause, and Neo heard a young girl's voice chattering indistinctly on the other line. She wondered if she had ever sounded similar, once upon a time.

"I'll see if I can go home early… feed the fish, okay…? I love you buttercup, see you soon."

The young man pocketed his scroll. He turned halfway before stopping to find Neo's parasol resting inches away. She turned the dial on the handle with deliberate clicks, and the blade gleamed under the single, harsh light as it stopped an inch from his body.

"…Oh, shit."

Neo gestured to the door. Neither her blade nor her piercing leer fell.

"Y-you… must be here for Folly, right?"

The man faced her slowly, his hands held open and spread. His fingers shook.

"It's unlocked…" he breathed with wide, blue eyes, "Look, that… did you hear that? That was my daughter on the other end. I…"

Neo raised an eyebrow. It took her by surprise however, when the man shut his eyes, tightly as a single tear ran from the corner of his left.

"Just let me go alright!?" he choked out, "I'll give you everything I have on me and I'll run away! I-I didn't want to do it! They made me! I hate this job…"

Neo nodded. She beckoned with her free hand, her blade still poised, and watched every movement as the man emptied his wallet. He dropped several blank credit cards, as well as one hundred in lien, a ring of keys, and a small jar.

"Th-the small key," he pointed with a careful, shaking finger, "That's the one you can use to get Folly out. Just let me g-"

Neo shook her head. She held her hand to her ear.

"…My scroll?"

She nodded firmly.

"Seriously…?" Despite his whining, the man withdrew his scroll and lightly tossed it over, where Neo caught and whipped it against the wall, shattering it in a shower of sparks. The man flinched with a surprised yelp.

He opened his mouth to speak. After several seconds of silence Neo smiled humorlessly.

No backup for you. I'd start running.

The man backpedaled cautiously. He turned into a jog, and then a full on sprint in the opposite direction. Neo watched him trip over a garbage bag, cursing in a panic, before disappearing around the corner, and only then lowered her weapon. She was not a monster. Not entirely.

Alone, and running short on time she opened the door, drawing back the blade in her parasol; it would only prove cumbersome in the close quarters she now found herself in. The door closed and sealed her in a dimly lit, undecorated corridor. A pungent odor permeated the walls, mostly cement and old wood, and the way ahead was lit with fluorescent bulbs.

She scowled; it reminded her of The Maw, and all the emotions that came with. She focused on the pulse of the bass that shook the walls with every beat. It was rhythmic and predictable, and as she breathed she could almost synchronize its rhythm with the throbbing of her knuckle wounds, and the beating of her heart.

She proceeded with quick but light steps. She checked every corner with her parasol at the ready, but the narrow corridors were empty of life. Eventually they opened up into a larger basement area, what appeared to be a series of rooms arranged next to one another in a square formation, as she noticed two doorways she could proceed through in the current room she found herself in. Unmarked boxes cluttered the room along with crates of liquor bottles. Though it was fortunate that she had not encountered any security, the lack of personnel worried her. She'd expected at least some guards, so they were either lying in wait, or they were occupied with Roman. She had to hurry.

She noticed purple light from within one of the doorways, and navigated her surroundings to a second room full of long, harshly lit tables. Twisting, barbed plants grew under heated lamps, their long vines curling around the table legs and down to the floor. She studied them as she walked among them, their leaves oozing a viscous, black liquid. The sight sent chills down her spine; the plants looked unnatural, as if mutilated out of scorn, or brought to life from a madman's dream. She quickened her footsteps.

The next room was full of tools and devices that looked equally suitable for either botany or bodily mutilation. Several workstations were lit by computer screensavers, and occupied by smaller hideous plants and beakers of black ooze, but the only sign of any recent occupants were some empty beer bottles in the corners. If time had not been of the essence, Neo would have smashed the equipment the Circle had set up in the room; she wasn't sure exactly what its purpose was, but it looked important and time-consuming to set up.

She uncomfortably retraced her steps back to the first room with the crates, and she noticed her palms were slipping on her weapon with sweat. The air was heavy and thick, and she could hear her own breath becoming labored. The remaining doorway was halfway cluttered by a mountain of crates, and she approached ready for an ambush.

Solid red light cast a shadow against a wall of concrete as she rounded the crates, and she paused. The shadow against the wall was of a hunched figure in a sitting position, lifting a head of messy hair.

"…Back already…?"

Folly.

A chill raced up Neo's spine as the voice she'd been searching for laughed humorlessly. She rounded the crates entirely and faced Folly before she lost the nerve. She was hunched over in a wooden chair, a black blindfold tied around her head under her disheveled hair. Her wrists were bound in place, but only her left hand was pale and still. Her right wrist was obscured in the low, red lighting.

Neo hurried to her side as fast as she could, checking the corners of the room for an ambush. Her boots clacked on the cement floor, and Folly lifted her head as she approached. Smeared makeup and bruises discolored the lower half of her face.

"Sascha, huh…?" she laughed disdainfully, "What? The new guy get queasy or something? What a joke…"

Her voice was hoarse. Neo took one look at the stump of Folly's right wrist. It was bandaged and smelled burnt; they had cauterized the wound. She was relieved she didn't have to do it herself, but the thought that Folly was even still conscious was at once admirable, and disquieting.

She reached for the blindfold around the artist's head, and hoped Folly didn't try to bite her.

"Say something, bitch," Folly snarled, "Or just cut it off already… I don't have all day…"

Neo let the cloth fall aside, and Folly blinked her right eye in the harsh light, her left swollen shut. Neo let her adjust, checking behind them briefly for any sneak attacks. She could still hear the music from upstairs pulsing faintly through the ceiling.

When she looked back, Folly's expression had softened. Her lips parted slowly in disbelief.

"…Neo?"

It pained her to see Folly like this, to look upon the evidence of her own cowardice, but Neo gave her the best smile she could muster, and quickly went to work on the buckles holding her limbs with the proper key.

"You came for me…" she chuckled softly, "You know, exercise is bad for… for a healing tattoo."

Her voice faltered, and Neo focused on freeing her from her binds. She was careful with her right wrist, minding the bandage. She brushed it by accident, and own wrist tingled uncomfortably.

Once she was free Folly stood. She cradled her stump with hunched shoulders.

"It… burns," she whispered, "But I can walk… Neo, thank you."

Neo waved away her words. She held up a finger and took a look around the interrogation area; she wanted to look for anything useful the Circle might have left behind before they left. All she found of note were horrifying tools of pain scattered across a nearby table, but the variety of blades and instruments were tossed haphazardly on top of one another. Perhaps they'd hurried after Roman once he'd drawn their attention; it would explain the absence of any guards patrolling the basement level.

"Um, Neo…?" Folly said, "What… are you doing?"

Without realizing it, Neo had already started aligning the wayward tools on the table parallel, when a white piece of paper flashed between two serrated knives. She snatched the offending piece of paper instantly, and found a crude drawing of a Heptagon in pen at the top. There were words written on it as well, but combined with her time spent away from reading, and the red lighting in the room, the note was impossible to decipher.

"Neo, is Roman here? They're after him; you shouldn't have come."

Neo pocketed the note and nodded apologetically to Folly. She pointed to the ceiling, and then to the exit of the room.

"…Yeah, I'll follow you."

She beckoned for Folly to stay close, and retraced her steps. At the central storage room she checked her scroll, but there were no messages from Roman. She knew he'd drawn out their enemies when Sascha had left the alley entrance practically unguarded, and it had been some time; she needed to get Folly out and go back for him.

None of them were dying here. Not tonight. Not ever again.

The bystanders didn't notice immediately. It took a few seconds before the closest witnesses gasped in revulsion and shock, pushing against those around them to escape the scene. Panic spread steadily through the crowd while the assassin, surrounded by blood and glass, thrashed upon the ground sightless and screaming.

Roman didn't look away. He spun on his seat, and rose with deliberate movements. The drunken Hong Zhao beside him emptied the contents of his stomach across the bar. He stood over the assassin; he was a fox faunus, young and inexperienced, as his minimal tattoos and sloppy technique both indicated. He cursed him, blindly, in a language he did not understand, and he looped his cane around his neck like a shepherd would herd a sheep.

The crowd watched as he braced a foot against the back of his victim's head, and the sound of snapping vertebrae was lost in the music; he would reserve his cruelty for the chess masters, lest he waste it on the pawns.

The body crumpled to the floor, and he stood alone as the crowd ran in an outward arc of panic, the music continuing unabated. He scanned the crowd. From his position at the bar he could see the entire club, and all the walkways that comprised the second level.

The other assassins revealed themselves one by one; the crowd tried to distance themselves from him, and like rocks through crashing waves, they stood still against the rush. First three of them, then five, then nine emerged from the retreating mob and their eyes, set on him, shone like the tips of daggers.

He surveyed his foes: they were male, female, human and faunus, but all were young. They wore little clothing in the hot club, tanks and shorts, and though their muscled skin shone with sweat, they bore few tattoos. Roman recognized none of them, and combined with the nondescript black canes they carried, he knew he was facing fresh blood, brought in to replace the operatives Giovane had betrayed and slaughtered. The operatives he'd known.

The rookies closed in on him with focused steps. Their eyes were fierce, but he could see through their every trained ruse. He saw the disorganization in their movements, the shaking of the weapons in their hands, and the furtive, uneasy glances at the body of their fallen, eyeless comrade at his feet.

He stepped over the corpse, and his opponents stopped. One spat on the ground in contempt. Another paled at the sight of the body, and Roman watched their Adam's apple bob as they gulped.

"Traitor!" one of them screamed. Roman shot him a measured glare, and the assassin took a step backward, silent. He looked at the others. Roman did not. He leveled his cane at the assassin who had called him out, and grinned.

"You ever heard of me, punk?" he winked as he spoke over the music, "Or did Gelb just tell you I would be an easy check?"

The assassin spun his cane in his hand and snarled.

"Sorry I don't have anything wittier at the moment. Frankly, you look a little scared, but don't worry… you should be."

The assassins fell upon him in a disorganized mob; their moves were sharp, their footwork practiced, but they lacked coordination, and Roman slipped between their gaps. He fell behind two of them and struck at the group while he had their flank, driving them apart with quick strikes to their aura.

Black Circle operatives were trained to work solo, in pairs of two, or in teams of four. Roman was outnumbered nine to one, but the rookie operatives were only crippling themselves; in such close proximity to one another they were limited to a handful of basic moves and parries, and all he had to do was catch an attack and use the momentum to guide the attacker stumbling into their allies. He then punished them for their lack of focus by whipping them with his cane, and they clutched their limbs, swearing in pain and fear.

A few of them were talented, but his aura protected him from glancing attacks that managed to connect while he cut his enemies' defenses down. It wasn't long though before they realized their disadvantage and retreated; four of them attacked in two pairs of two, and he was forced onto the defensive as they rushed him using tandem combos. He retreated back towards the bar, now vacated, and his enemies were forced into chasing him. One got too close; she stepped for him, and he caught her attack, threw the hook of his weapon around her neck, and snapped her into the floor, shattering the tile and killing her. He killed another in a similar fashion, but a third saved himself with a clumsy but timely dodge.

The remaining assailants tried to encircle him, but once he reached the bar his back was covered. He reached behind him and flung the first glass he grabbed at his nearest opponent, and the man shattered it midair with his own cane. The blow left him open however, and Roman disarmed him, took his aura with a quick combination, and his life with a twisting capture of his neck. Two opponents rushed him and he rolled sideways over the bar. With them now at point blank range he fired his weapon's grappling hook, where it struck one of their foreheads, and they crumpled. The other was taken off guard, an easy target as he hooked their head and slammed it into the corner of the counter.

He vaulted through the opening in his dwindling opponents, but they quickly surrounded him. He hissed as a direct blow to his bicep was deflected by his aura, and he lashed out with a quick counterattack, but the attacker parried and retreated; the more of them he killed, the more room the assassins had to maneuver. The fear in their eyes, however, had grown as their comrades fell. As a distraction, he was succeeding, but he was tiring, and his heart was heaving from the mismatched fight. He would be no use dead, not to Neo nor Folly; he needed a new angle.

He flipped his weapon in his grip and aimed the handle for the closest upper level walkway and fired his grappling hook above his enemies' heads. One saw the opening and attacked, but Roman grabbed the weapon in a gloved fist. His hook snagged the illuminated railing, and he sailed upwards towards the railing, taking the unfortunate assassin with him. The group rolled out of their way, shouting but doing nothing to save their hapless ally as Roman kicked them into the floor; there was a short scream, and then their momentum uprooted several tiles in an explosion of plaster and glass.

In spite of the circumstances, it did occur to Roman that he was presently in the midst of the most stylish getaway of his life. He snickered to himself, but his satisfaction was short lived as he shot towards the walkway, pulled along by Melodic Cudgel's cable, only to see a pair of icy blue eyes watching him from atop the railing. His shoes slammed against the edge of the walkway, and there he hung, inches away from her, her tattooed hand holding a curved, kukri-style blade to his tether.

He recognized her immediately; pure blonde hair in two voluminous twintails made her appear larger than she was, which was only inches taller than Neo. She wore only an armored brassiere, but her pale torso was covered by full-sleeve Grimm designs, and the linework of a Wyvern on her stomach that reached to the waist of her shiny black pants. Her face, freckled, and smug, wore a sideways smile, and up close, it was apparent that her blue eyes were, in reality, blue-hued contact lenses.

Roman gave her compact body a once-over, and he caught a trace of cheap cigarette from her hair as he followed with a deliberate whistle.

"Hey, Sascha," he shrugged, "Long time, no smash."

Amusement crossed Sascha Morozny's features.

"Hiya, Roman."

She winked, and her kukri's blade went alight, red with Burn Dust. She severed the cable with a single movement, and Roman felt his stomach lurch as he plummeted to the floor below. He landed with an awkward roll, a hand atop his hat, and hissed as the impact with the ground bit into his aura. The assassins stood in a circle around him, each keeping a fair distance away. The floor was wet, with either blood or drinks spilled in the commotion, and in the corners of the club, past the assassins that surrounded him, groups of people were gathered cowering in the darkness.

He rose, and outside the circle to his left, he saw Sascha drop from the walkway above. She carried her umbrella in her hand, where her sheathed kukri served as its unorthodox handle, and she landed with catlike grace.

Roman looked dejectedly at the remains of his weapon in his grip. Without it's handle, Melodic Cudgel was incapable of grappling, firing, or countering. He might as well have been holding a polished club.

"Sorry," Sascha lamented, "It's just business. This might look fun for me, but it's really not."

Two assassins made a space for her in the circle; they were all of varying heights, but she was the smallest, limber and short, even with the aid of large, heeled boots.

Roman attempted a sarcastic grin, but it came off as more of a grimace.

"Of course, Sascha; we did promise to keep everything professional between us, after all…"

He flipped the remains of Melodic Cudgel in his hand, and the entire circle tensed, save for Sascha, who blinked unfazed. The diminutive, high-pitched woman stood with her weapon over her shoulder, her other hand on one exposed hip, and a sour grin on her face.

"…But if that's the case, our business here isn't finished: gimme Folly, right now, and no more of these kids will have to die here ton-"

He was cutoff midsentence, as the entire circle's attention was drawn to an incoherent shouting from the direction of the DJ's booth. Sascha frowned, her lip curling.

"I said: Turn! The fucking! Music! OFF!"

The top of a neon wig rose from behind the seemingly unoccupied turntables overlooking the club, and one hand took hold of the needle atop a spinning record. The club fell silent with a loud scratch, the DJ disappeared back behind their booth, and Roman was suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the ringing in his ears. In the silence, his adversaries' every movement was perceptible, both the rustle of their clothing, and the rush of their breath.

"Thank you!" sounded the voice again, exasperated.

The circle of assassins cleared another opening, but Roman already knew that voice: he came striding from the back of the club in an ever-present slouch, his hands shoved inside the pockets of a pair of jogging pants, where a miniature cane dangled from a loose belt. He wore an old Beacon Academy blazer around his shoulders, where it billowed behind his scrawny frame like a cape, and obscured the majority of his tattoos exposed by his white tank top. His hair was dirty blonde, slicked, and he smirked with youthful features aged forward by constant smoking, with a lit cigarette between his teeth.

Roman sighed, deeply and dismally.

"Roman, you showed!"

Gelb Marigold withdrew his hands from his pockets and clapped them before removing the cigarette from his mouth, "Oh man, I've been looking forward to this!"

"Glad one of us was," Roman muttered.

Gelb was still approaching the circle, and it wasn't clear if he'd heard or simply chosen to ignore it.

"I was pumped up all day," he said, "Course, I didn't expect you to walk through the front door and start tearing the place apart, but I understand if you didn't want to bring Collette along as your date; you wouldn't want Folly to see you with little miss Snake-eyes, and get all jealous!"

Roman shot Sascha a look, and she met him with a low shake of her head. Her face was stone.

"So… what did they tell you people I did, again?" Roman gestured carefully to the entire circle, "And tell me, Gelb, was there a reason for getting Folly involved? Or were the plastic flowers, body spray, and dick pics just not getting through to her?"

Gelb glowered for a moment before his smirk returned.

"What you did?" he laughed sharply, "Does it fucking matter!? After we're through with your turncoat ass, all of us are getting handed promotions!"

Roman looked to the nearest assassin, a young man with tan skin and a deathstalker tattoo.

"You can all walk away," he offered, "You think this guy's legit? I'd recommend it while you still have the cha-"

"Did I fucking stutter!?" Gelb spread his hands, and the cigarette in his fingers trailed a plume of smoke, "These acolytes are all getting sworn in, and me, Collette, and Sascha here? One of us is getting that sweet desk Gio left behind! Cash money, bitch!"

Sascha exhaled loudly. Roman surveyed his enemies, but none of them looked ready to run. Contrarily, one look at each of them told him they were thirsting for vengeance. A young woman behind him leered with teary eyes, and he couldn't blame her; the fallen that bled on the dance floor had been their friends. In a way, he admired them, but their unquestioning loyalty made Gelb's boasting that much harder to tolerate.

The image of Folly's severed hand flashed in his mind, and he clenched a gloved fist.

"Speaking of Snake-eyes!" Gelb snapped his fingers, "Where the hell is she? She said she made contact with you, and then ghosted me."

"Why don't you hand over Folly first? We can make a trade, the old-fashioned way."

"No man; Folly is a trade for you," Gelb spoke with exaggerated condescendence, "What? Did you forget how hostage exchange works while you were dead or whatever the fuck?"

"Alright, alright…"

Roman reached a hand into his coat pocket. He tossed, underhand, and Collette's severed, forked tongue landed at Gelb's feet with a bloody splat. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"

Sascha snarled in disgust. The surrounding acolytes were appalled, and the tan-skinned young man turned around, failing to contain his stomach. Gelb took a step back, his pale face uneasy, and on any other day Roman Torchwick would have laughed: any other day.

"Let Folly go," he demanded, "I'm not surrendering. So: either I take her and walk, or I'll rip off more than just your tongue, you conceited little punk."

Gelb stared at the severed appendage for several moments. Slowly he regained his smile, then he started to laugh, and he sounded like Collette had moments before she'd lost her tongue.

"So, Snake-eyes is dead, huh?" he chuckled, "I gotta thank you, Roman, I really do. See this was her operation, but if she's dead, then it looks like the burden of command falls to me."

He squashed his cigarette underfoot, and another was already en route to his mouth.

"Now all I have to do is kill you, and this mess is all taken care of. Whatever happens to Folly after that, is up to me…"

He lit the cigarette, and Sascha's nose wrinkled, possibly from the smell.

"…Hey Roman," Gelb leaned in, "Does she like leashes?"

All gazes were drawn towards the ceiling; by the sudden, deafening sound of shattering glass, as a single sports cycle crashed through a window above with the roar of fuel and exhaust. Two more followed moments later, then four, all of them shiny black and painted with crimson, Eastern Mistralian script. The circle scattered as the bikes crashed into the floor and through the catwalks, sending sparks and glass shards in all directions, in a cacophony of twisted metal and panicked screams.

The acolytes reoriented themselves with the new threat, and Roman watched the riders dismount their bikes before they hit the floor with graceful flips. They wore black suits and crimson ties, with opaque visors on their shiny helmets, and every one of them landed with perfect acrobatic trajectory in an organized formation. Six of them held submachine guns in their gloved hands, but only their leader, with one jacket sleeve trailing behind them, landed in a crouch, and unsheathed a familiar curved, crimson blade with a decorative mechanical arm.
"What the flying fuck!?" Gelb snarled, "Sascha! What the fuck is going on!"

Sascha brandished her angled blade, her eyes focused on the invaders, and she seemed not to hear him. The innocents, still huddled in the corners of the club, tried to run, but the helmeted bikers opened fire with warning volleys; their compact weapons were silenced, but their bullets struck glass and walls in strident, violent bursts, and the crowds stayed put. The lead biker stood, and her tall, feminine frame confirmed what Roman already knew the moment she'd drawn her sword.

The club was still. All combatants faced each other in a lopsided standoff, silent and tense. A sound came from the direction of the bar, and all heads focused on the form of a man staggering across the dance floor, towards the lead biker. Her helmet pivoted to watch his approach; the six men behind her trained their weapons on him, but she raised her organic arm, and they held their fire.

Roman squinted, and recognized the drunken Hong Zhao that had attempted to socialize earlier with him at the bar. Even from several feet away he smelled vile.

"Bai! Oh thank goodnesh!" He cried, stumbling, and stopped feet away from the silent, helmeted biker, her hand still outstretched.

"I wash a prishoner!" he panted, "I'm sho glad you're here! They kept… feeding me drinksh!"

Her fingers snapped, and a hail of gunfire from six different submachine guns tore into him on cue. The rounds traveled through his corpse, and struck the ground near Roman and the acolyte's feet with unpleasant explosions of glass shards. The body fell at Bai Xiong's feet, the visor of her helmet splattered with blood, and only when he lay still did she peel it off with one hand. She shook her tight, long ponytail free; even after being inside her helmet, not a strand was out of place. Needing it no longer, she dumped her helmet onto the corpse, her face betraying only a light sneer, and while her men focused their aim on the Circle acolytes, she surveyed them with the same, calm disdain. Then the lizard design on her cheek distorted slightly as she grinned.

"Ladies, gentlemen…" she gestured with her arm but focused on Roman, "…Rats, this club now belongs to the Hong Zhao!"

"Like hell it does!" Gelb drew his weapon, and the press of a button made the small cane double in length with a metallic schick.

"Fuck on outta here! This is my club, bitch!"

Bai gave him a judging once-over and snorted. When she spoke, she did so in her characteristic Mistralian accent.

"You want to step up, rabbit?" she twirled her blade and shrugged slyly, "I could use a warm-up."

The Hong Zhao at her back shook with amused laughter underneath their helmets.

"Ugh, you're kidding, right…?" Sascha murmured under her breath.

Roman glanced at the half of his weapon he still possessed, and then, with some hesitation, at the elite Hong Zhao hit squad assembled opposite a handful of poorly-trained acolytes and three infighting, arguing operatives. The notion that someone had engineered this meeting was utterly ridiculous to consider, but random chance was only marginally more believable.

"For fuck's sake…" he breathed, "…You cannot be serious."

They emerged into the alleyway with sighs of relief; the journey back had been free of encounters, but the corridors had been heavy, pressing down upon her, and Neo only noticed just how much as she and Folly took in the night air. The alleyway still smelled like trash, but the night was crisp and cool, and a light snowfall had begun to frost the ground with white.

She couldn't enjoy it however; Folly collapsed against the wall, cradling her maimed limb with shuddering breaths. Neo reached up and placed a hand on her shoulder.

We have to keep moving. Rest quickly.

"Neo…" she said, "I don't what I can do to thank you for this…"

Neo shook her head, kindly but urgently.

"Roman came too, didn't he?"

She nodded.

"I see. I can…" Folly glanced painfully at her hand with an unfocused eye, "I can get to the hospital from here. I'll just tell them they kidnapped me… I might have someone I can call to pick me up too, before the Circle knows… where I went."

Neo squeezed Folly's shoulder encouragingly; she was impressed by the artist's stoicism, but her words were hollow of the energy she'd had just hours before. She tried to ignore the observation, and the twisting in her gut that came with it.

She whipped her head around, scanning the alley for threats before lightly thumping the wall of the building.

Folly sighed, "He probably walked right in, didn't he?"

Neo shrugged quickly.

"Okay…"

She nodded, and with a painful grimace, pushed off the wall with her one good arm.

"You go get Roman. He'll know which hospital I went to, but I'll try to reach him by scroll. Be safe, and don't... don't die."

Neo started to assent, but Folly grabbed her shoulder firmly. Her hand was adorned with a crimson poppy.

"Neither of you, okay? And, um…"

There was a pause, and Neo was unsure of what to do.

"This isn't your fault," Folly managed, straining, "I… I still have one. That's more than I would have had if…"

Neo squeezed the hand resting on her shoulder, and forced herself to meet Folly's one open eye.

You should hurry.

"Yeah," Folly smiled, and turned away. She started off in the direction Neo had first come from, as briskly as she could manage hampered by agony and shock, and turned one final time.

"Oh!" she called, "And give them fucking Hell for me!"
At that Neo grinned. She dragged a thumb slowly across her throat.

Like they've never imagined.

She watched until Folly was out of sight, and then let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Folly was safe, or she would be as soon as she got away from Uforia. Folly would have to be, Neo thought, because now Roman needed her. If he was still alive, he needed her.

She stood there, in the alleyway, under the single light, as the snow fell onto her hair and onto her shoulders. She shivered, and not from the cold.

Something should have gone wrong by now. It always did; there were no guards in the basement, and in the taxi Roman had told her how important Uforia was as a base of operations for the Circle, meaning that they were all after him. Roman was good, but he'd almost died in their escape from The Maw, many times. If they were all trained like him, he couldn't fight them all.

You're scared. You don't want to find his corpse.

She swallowed and breathed in the smell of the snowfall. She had to go in, and she had to do it now. She would go back into the basement, and find her way to Roman. Then they would fight their way out, just like before.

Just like before.

There was a sound behind her, and a chill raced up her spine. Neo spun on her heel, weapon at the ready with the blade halfway drawn. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but it wasn't what she saw; a sanguine, shrouded vortex in the darkness of the alleyway, from the depths of which stepped a single boot.

A tall, feminine figure soon emerged from the portal, a distance away. She wore red, loose clothing, with segmented, armored gauntlets and leggings that exposed toned, pale thighs. The belt around her skirt was adorned with ammunition pouches, with black feathers on one hip, and a metal scabbard on the other with a light that emitted a red glow. A mane of shaggy, black hair surrounded a mask, white as the moon, with curving red paint that flowed like rivers of blood, and it reminded Neo of the Nevermore.

She felt it in her hands first: A creeping, piercing chill, which robbed her fingers of feeling. It traveled up her arms, and through her entire body; the woman's mask was familiar somehow, and she saw it reflected, distorted through the prism of a shattered memory. She looked like something inhuman: not a Grimm, but likewise misshapen, and just as unwelcome in this world.

The portal dissipated behind her. The woman closed the distance between them at a deliberate pace, each footstep audible, and Neo felt her breath leave her chest in shallow gasps as she came closer. The mask made her head hurt, and she smelled fire. Though around her, nothing burned.

Don't run! Think. Maybe she's here for Folly.

The woman stopped at the edge of the light, several paces away. Crimson eyes blinked behind the mask as both women studied the other in silence. Neo's body did not feel like her own; was the woman merely a nightmare?

She let herself blink, and breathed, refocusing. The mask turned, and glanced at the weapon in her hands: a parasol, the weapon of a Black Circle operative. When she looked back into Neo's eyes, one hand went to her scabbard.

"You're in my way."

The woman's voice was like a blade, and Neo felt its edge on her skin. She breathed through gritted teeth.

No! She's here for you! Stand your ground!

Before Neo could draw her blade the woman drew her own: a curved, crimson sword that glinted in the light. There was a click as the segmented blade doubled in length, and the woman leveled the mighty edge at her with a single, steady hand.

Neo drew her blade with an impulse motion; it could have been her mind, tricking her, lying to her, but her needle-like short sword looked like merely a thorn against the woman's crimson claw.

The woman tilted her head. She slid her foot along the ground, widening her stance. Neo watched the snowflakes collect on the tip of her crimson sword.

"Fine, you make your peace…" the woman said, "…And I'll make this quick."

If you're a new follower, the cover art you see is recent at the time of this chapter's upload. Drawn by Jhincx-Faust, and let me tell you about this dude for a second: He's fair, friendly, professional, and talented as they come. I wouldn't be doing my due diligence as a grateful author if I didn't tell you to follow him on his Facebook, DeviantART, and other various outlets he has. He's awesome, and I'm considering commissioning him for cover art for my other stories~

It's been a while, but I still have not given up this story, nor do I have intentions to. Of course, it's gestated in my head for almost two years now, so I really don't have a choice in whether or not I leave it alone. But, you guys do: I want to thank you all for following my work, even if my updates are continuously delayed by life. They might take a long time, but you guys will always have new chapters, as there is plenty more to come. That being stated, this chapter took a particularly long time mainly due to two things:

1). My indulgence in other creative endeavors: my band, having worked hard for years, are close to releasing our single, and

2). I was struggling, and took a break from my writing to game, cosplay, and otherwise gain inspiration, but all the while this story never left my head, constantly shifting and evolving as I went about my life.

When I came back to it, I felt more driven and focused. The next chapter is underway, in conjunction with a second chapter for my Persona 5 fluffy fic Royal Flush as well as a new, kinky High School of the Dead fic.

Special thanks to: Coffee, Battlefield, Overwatch, Dingwall, and anime conventions where I can dress like 2B and get faded

I like you guys

-Rampag3