Disclaimer: See profile.

This world I live in is a world of heroes and monsters.

The wind is howling. Winter whites cover the sky, from the faint blue horizon to the grey clouds looming over the forest. Frigid air blows through the sea of pines, snow and ice covering their leafy branches like smothering blankets. Sheets of snow layer the ground, hiding the frozen green beneath.

The monsters are the Grimm. Terrible beings who exist solely to bring about the end of civilization. No one really knows where they came from or what they want. But there's one thing that we know for certain. These things are our enemy. The sworn enemy of humanity. They are the villains, the encroaching darkness that wants to drown this world in death and despair.

A bundle of ragged cloth bursts forth from the trees, tiny feet leaving tracks in the snow. His breath turns into icy mist and he runs, sprinting as fast as his legs can carry him. The forest trembles behind him, the sounds of something crushing and smashing iced wood underfoot.

But where there exists darkness, there must also be light. Paragons of virtue, the brave Huntsmen and Huntresses of Remnant play this role. They are the heroes of this story: the 'good' to the 'evil' of the Grimm. They wage unending war against the beasts of Grimm, sacrificing life and limb to protect the citizens of Remnant.

So tired. He is so tired. He can feel Death's cold breath on the back of his neck. The pounding of his heart echoes in his ears like a jackhammer. The winter winds steal away the feeling in his hands and feet. Fatigue weighs down his arms and legs like invisible chains, getting heavier and colder with every second.

It's every kid's dream to grow up to be a Huntsman or Huntress one day. Even me...

The bundle of rags runs and a stray branch catches his hood. The brown cloth flies back to reveal a head of unruly blond hair. Sweat drips down the boy's skin, trailing over the whisker-like marks on his cheeks. Ocean blue eyes tremble with fear and panic.

Ah, I forgot to introduce myself! The name's Uzumaki Naruto! Future Huntsman of the Hidden Leaf! …At least that's what I'd have said once upon a time. I found out pretty quickly that I wasn't quite good enough to be a Huntsman. Flunked out of school a couple years back. Not too surprising though.

The young boy races through the forest, jumping over the roots hidden beneath the snow and ducking under low hanging branches. He breaks out of the forest, straight into a cliff. Barely, he stops himself from sliding over the edge, watching in despair as the snow falls into the churning waters below.

No family, no friends and no real skills or talent to speak of, I'm the kind of person you would only hear about because he got killed off in some tragic incident somewhere. As morbid as that is…

The tremors finally catch up to him. He can hear the breath of a rabid animal behind him, can feel its murderous intent. Like a rusted wheel he turns, terrified of what he will find. As though he doesn't already know.

There's a line I read in a book or manga somewhere. 'That which cannot change can only be broken'. Over the years I've come to accept these words as fact. If you think about it, that's just the way things work.

It towers above him, titanic enough to grasp the sky and blot out the horizon. Glowing red lines cover its shadowy body in an almost tribal manner. Nine, massive tails whip and thrash behind it, leveling the forest and crushing the earth. Crimson eyes leer at him behind a mask as black as midnight, burning with hunger and malice.

My motto is, "Never give up! Never back down!" That's how I know that someday I'll break. Whether I suddenly shatter into a million pieces or slowly break down into dust, that day will eventually come. I just hope it isn't too much of a hassle for whoever is left picking up the pieces.

In front of him looms a monster of monsters. A colossal demon that can just as easily breathe him in as eat him. Behind him is the vast endlessness of the sea that will swallow him just as easily as the monster before him. Death surrounds him and the young boy faces a choice.

I'm no hero. In another place and another time I might have been, but the me talking to you now couldn't be called a hero, even by the loosest definition. I'm just another failure trying to get by. So I have no idea why anyone would want to read a story about me.

The demon will kill him quick and without any suffering. It will be over before he even knows it. But the ocean… even if he somehow survives the fall, he doesn't know how to swim. There was never anyone there to teach him. He will have to learn to swim or die trying.

But… for the sake of argument…

A quick death, certain and painless. Or the slightest chance of survival, a gamble against insurmountable odds.

If someone were to write a story about me in this world of good and evil, of heroes and monsters…

He pauses for only an instant to stare into the eyes of the Beast, to stare straight into the face of death and to steel his resolve.

Without a doubt, it would most certainly be a tragedy.

The Beast roars. And the child plunges into the freezing sea below.

Of Ramen, Puke and Cookies.

Chapter 1: The sky next to the tragedy is a brilliant gold

Blue eyes open beneath a mask of pure white.

"Must have drifted off…" The person mumble, rubbing his face beneath the piece of porcelain. "It's been a while since I've had a dream like that."

His grey overcoat blends into the tiles atop the building. Hidden on the roof, this person is of an average height, not quite short enough to be a child yet not quite tall enough to be an adult. With grey pants, black combat boots and black gloves, woven with dust, his expressionless mask and messy blond hair are the only true distinguishing features of this person.

Remnant's broken moon shines brilliantly in the distance. He rises to his full height atop the random building he choose to perch himself on for whatever reason earlier in that day and looks down at the civilians going about their business. A man and a woman walk alongside their child, standing protectively at the boy's sides. A drunk shambles through the streets, looking for more alcohol or a place to pass out. An office worker waits for his ride, yawning with the fatigue of a ten hour shift. Each and every person going about their lives, doing their own things for their own reasons.

How lively.

The crackle of static puts a stop to his line of thought and he takes a handheld radio out from his pocket, holding it up to his ear. "Yo. Is there any reason we can't just use phones like normal people?"

"Don't 'Yo' me you little shit!" A harsh voice snaps from the radio, completely ignoring his question. Probably one of the goons that guy hired to be his entourage. "The operations about to start. Where the hell are you?"

"Heh, are you guys still pissed that I got paid, like, three times more than you?"

"Why you-" He hears someone's voice in the background and the person on the other end of the radio clicks his tongue. "Tch. Don't get cocky kid. Hurry up and get your ass down here."

The masked blond, clad in black and white, crouches over the side of the building, resting his elbows on his knees. "Nope, no way. One way or another I'd just attract more attention to you guys. As much as I'm sure that's what Torchwick wants, it'll be less work for all of us if I just stay up here unless things go south."

"Have it your way brat. It'll be on your head not mine."

The radio cuts out and he chuckles. "Too bad for you. I'm not getting paid to make sure everything goes smoothly, just to keep Torchwick from landing his ass in prison for the umpteenth time. If my luck holds, I won't even have to do anything tonight~!"

He places the radio back into his pocket, opting to resume his silent vigil over the citizens of the city. They'll call if they need him. The stream of pedestrians flows through the city, unending, with each person equally as forgettable as the next…

… is that girl wearing a red cloak?

As it turns out, his luck did not hold.

The grey clad blond holds back a groan as the red scythe wielder effortlessly dismantles Torchwick's mook squad. Of course things can't ever be so simple. Why would they be? It's not like the simplest seeming missions for him always have a habit of going pear-shaped in the worst possible way.

He still has nightmares from the Dust-Candy Incident.

A sigh. It's tempting. So very tempting, to just take the crime lord's money and bail. But he won't. He can't. Even someone like himself follows a code, personal rules with lines that they refuse to cross. And going back on his word just so happens to be one of those lines.

Another sigh. Stupid morals.

Resigning himself, the grey clad blond leaps from his perch as the red scythe wielder takes out the last of the thugs. He strikes at her from behind, hoping to end the fight with a quick chop to the neck before it can even begin. No such luck of course. She ducks under his arm and the snath of her weapon fires at the side of his head with a gunshot.

Fast. The scythe probably weighs a ton but she swings it around like it's made out of paper machete. Against anyone else she could probably overwhelm them and against any other weapon he would be in trouble, but because this girl is a scythe-user, she can't win against him.

He ducks under her swing. The head of the sniper-scythe sails over his head and he spins into a kick, not at the girl but at her weapon. The red clad girl vanishes in a flurry of rose petals, reappearing behind him in his blind spot with another gunshot, the back of the scythe head arching towards his ribs.

The grey clad blond stops the swing cold, a faint golden light around his gloved hand.

"Well, well, well, look who finally decides to show up." The crime lord sneers from across the street. "What took you so long?"

"You know how it is, the hero always arrives at the last second." The blond clad in grey pushes the red clad girl away, the glow fading from his fingers. "Well, I'm more like the semi-final evil bad guy's hired help but you get the idea."

"S-semi-final? You brat!"

Ignoring Torchwick's indignant rebuttal, he faces the girl, finally having a chance to get a good look at her up close. "Hiya! I'd ask you your name but it'd be kind of rude since I can't give you mine. But nice to meet you anyway."

She rushes him.

It surprises him, how much the way that the red scythe wielder's fights reflects her appearance. With her pale complexion, silver eyes and black hair, the red scythe wielder has a kind of elegance that reflects in her fighting style. It's almost like she isn't trying to bludgeon him with a blade on a stick bigger than her, almost like she and that weapon of hers are going through some intricate dance and he just happens to be in the way.

She's also kind of tiny. But he's never been someone to hold a person's height against them.

The grey clad blond ducks and dodges through the red scythe wielder's assault, blocking and parrying with his hands. While the he beats her in terms of raw, physical strength, the firing mechanism in her weapon more than makes up for it. He's already starting to lose some of the feeling in his fingers.

It probably doesn't help that he's using his bare hands instead of a real weapon. Time to stop messing around.

The grey clad blond calls upon his semblance. His aura flares and the ocean blue of his eyes comes alight with flecks of gold. He quickens, his arms and legs becoming blurs. The swings that once almost hit him now miss by a wide margin. Dodging under the snath her grabs at her arms, hoping to overpower her and force her to drop her weapon.

He grabs her left arm with his right, but the red scythe wielder reacts too fast for him to get the other. She drives the scythe blade into the ground, uses the handle as leverage to swing into the air and aims a drop kick at his chest.

Chance.

Instead of dodging away, the grey clad blond moves into the blow, stomping on the back of the scythe to drive its blade further into the pavement. His semblance diverts the blow and the girl's black boots instead slam into his shoulder. He grunts. The blow forces him to release his grip but he refuses to budge, his boot keeping the scythe pinned to the ground.

She pushes off and swings around for another shot, just as unwilling to get go of her weapon as he is to return it to her. The grey clad blond braces himself. Rolls his body back as the girl's kick flies over him. Then steps forward and slams his forehead into hers.

The red scythe wielder flies back with a yelp, tumbling onto the pavement. The grey clad blond rubs his shoulder with a wince. The girl kicks hard. As he moves to remove the sniper-scythe from the street, he notices a certain something standing off to the side with a smug look on his stupid face. A certain something that should have been long gone.

"Shouldn't you be running away?" He asks the crime lord, kicking the far end of the snath and catching the weapon as it spins into the air. The red scythe wielder groans and stumbles to her feet, holding her head and the unconscious thugs around her stir.

"You seem to have things under control." Torchwick smirks, dropping his cigar and stamping it out with his cane. "I paid you good money after all. May as well enjoy the show."

"Riiight…" The grey clad blond rests the scythe on his shoulder. He returns his attention to the red scythe wielder, Torchwick's goons beginning to surround her, brandishing their weapons. Beneath his mask, blue eyes narrow, noting the panic in her silver eyes as they dart between the weapon over his shoulder and the slowly advancing thugs.

"Oi, mook squad!"

They turn to him, and he hefts the weapon behind him. "I get that you guys are embarrassed that you got your collective asses kicked by a little girl-" "Hey!" "-but if any of you tries to take a pot shot, my boot will happily pick back up where she left off. Tie her up and make sure your hands don't wander."

The thugs slink away with muttered grunts and a voice comes from behind him. "Aren't you the noble gentleman? Did the sight of a defenseless little rose prick your beastly heart?"

"Bite me Torchwick."

The grey clad blond watches as idiot one and idiot two hold the red scythe wielder down while the others look for some rope. A cold wind blows through the empty streets. Something is wrong. He can feel it, can feel that little tingle on the back of his neck that appears right before everything blows up.

"On second thought, you guys should get out of here. Now." He twirls the modified scythe in his hand, holding it in a more combat ready grip as all of those present look at him with confusion. "I won't have any trouble dealing with more want-to-be heroes but with my luck, there's probably a huntsman or huntress on their way here with abilities that can match mine and I can't believe I just said that out loud- MOVE!"

He leaps as a salvo of purple lights bombard the streets, each exploding like miniature bombs on contact. He lands a good distance away and Torchwick lands beside him, both watching as the suited thugs fall to the ground, unconscious again.

"Those guys are useless."

"Worth every cent, truly they were."

For a second, he worries if the girl was able to escape the unexpected attack. Only for a second as he sees two silhouettes in the smoke, one most likely the red scythe-wielder and the other…

Fuck.

The dust clears. Frigid green eyes. Light blond hair, styled into a bun. Fetish librarian/teacher outfit. The huntress stares him down with a gaze like he is a bug and the only reason she hasn't stepped on him yet is because it isn't worth the effort to clean him off her shoe.

"Glynda Goodwitch…" he holds the girl's scythe in front of him, almost as a shield against the sheer sharpness of the older huntress's gaze. "Erm, you aren't still mad about the thing with the ramen a couple months back, are you?"

The huntress raises her signature riding crop, draws her arm back, and the shattered glass from the shop windows flies into the air, shaping itself into several very pointy and very sharp looking blades.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Tell me, do you go out of your way to piss off everyone you ever meet or does it just come naturally?"

The two jump out of the way as the razor glass rips into the pavement. With a mind of its own, the shattered glass reforms and flies at the grey clad blond again. He twists in the air, twirling the scythe as a shield against any shards that he can't dodge. His own semblance struggles against the semblance of the huntress, doing everything to knock the glass blades off course.

Bad. This is really, really bad. He can't afford to hold back here. Someone with a semblance like Goodwitch is the absolute worst matchup for him.

He pulls the energies resting inside of him into the outside, molding them into a more tangible form, a shape more familiar to him. The grey clad blond disappears in a yellow flash and the huntress summons a barrier of purple seals just in time for a golden blur to smash into it and bounce off.

It crashes into the street on the other side of the crossroads. The grey clad blond rises from the ground, no worse for wear, an almost invisible golden glow emanating from his body… and four tails of glowing aura peeking out from under his overcoat.

"So the Fox decides to show its tails." Torchwick emerges from a corner, his hiding place while the flying shards of glass chased his fellow criminal. "Good. And here I was worried that you wouldn't have to work for all that lein I paid you."

"Yeah, me too…" The grey clad blond deadpans. "Just had to push your luck, didn't you? This is a fight I don't think I can win, but I can at least buy some time for you to get out of here."

He brandishes the weapon in his right hand with a twirl. How long has it been since he last fought using a scythe? The weight and proportions of the scythe are a bit different but a small part of him can't help but wonder if he still has the skills from back then, back when he first left the Elemental Isles for the outside world of Remnant…

He shakes his head. Now's not the time to get sentimental.

"Yes, well it's been a pleasure doing business with you." The crime lord tips his head at the grey clad blond. "Do try to get in contact if you manage to avoid getting put behind bars. I happen to know of someone who would be more than appreciative of your skills and talents."

"I'll consider it." The grey clad blond says. The huntress narrows her eyes. She lifts her arm and the entirety of the dust and broken rubble on the street rises up, filling the air with purple glowing debris. "Now go!"

Torchwick takes off and the grey clad blond holds the weapon in front of him. "This thing has a gun right? How do you-"

Click. A loud bang fires off and a grey blur smashes into a nearby building. All things stop for a moment as the crime lord, huntress and scythe wielder stare at the smoking crater of collapsed wall. A mess of blond hair digs its way out of the rubble, still smoking from the impact, and the grey clad blond rubs his head. "Ow… that's some kick. Ok, let's try this again."

The huntress recovers the first from the grey clad blond's sheer stupidity. She flicks her riding crop and pieces of rumble, broken glass and shattered pavement soar at both the crime lord and his blond associate with the intent of burying them alive. The crime lord runs away at full speed and the grey clad blond leaps between the huntress and her mark, golden tails of aura trailing through the air. Inside the psionic storm of rubble he becomes a force of nature, tails lashing and scythe whirling at the flying debris, forming an impenetrable wall of flashing gold and red.

He can't stay here. If he just defends and doesn't attack, Goodwitch will slowly wear him down. Even if Torchwick gets away, he'll be trapped and he has no intention of spending the rest of the night in a cell.

Wind spirals around him and he fires a wall of spinning air at the huntress. The attack dissipates harmlessly against another purple barrier but it serves its purpose. The storm around him weakens for only a moment, just enough for him to escape. He holds the scythe horizontally, tip pointed at the huntress and presses the trigger.

A loud bang shoots him through the walls of rubble and onto the street only a few feet away from the huntress. He steps forward, scythe arcing through the air. The huntress merely adjusts her glasses, purple symbols and seals forming into yet another barrier. The scythe blade scrapes against the psionic wall and he continues his rotation, his tails slipping around the immobile barrier, striking at Goodwitch from behind her defense. They force her back, force her to drop her barrier, and he steps again, his body seamlessly moving through once forgotten forms.

The huntress weaves back through his attacks, pushing his strikes away with her semblance. Each swing leads into the next and the storm of gold and red attacks relentlessly, giving her no chance to conjure her barrier again.

A blast of telekinetic energy knocks him back and he flips through the air, landing in a crouch. Even when he has the upper hand, all it takes is a flick of the wrist for the huntress to take it back. "Ugh… man, this sucks. Is this some kind of karma? Is this how that little girl in red felt? Speaking of which…"

He blinks, noticing a distinct lack of red behind Goodwitch.

"Huh? Where'd she go?"

The huntress's eyes flicks behind her and widen at the disappearance of the red clad girl. Her gaze darts around the street, focusing on something behind him…

Behind.

It happens almost in slow motion to him. A shadow falls over him and he turns, the adrenaline pumping through his veins urging him to follow his first instinct, to shape his tails into spears and run whatever it is that is behind him through. The tips of his tails sharpen. His muscles tighten. And he just manages to stop himself when he catches a flash of red in the corner of his eye.

"Bluh-!"

The red scythe wielder girl rewards his mercy with a face full of boot. He staggers but doesn't fall, and the girl pushes off, landing across from him. When he lifts his head, her brow raises in surprise.

"You're my age!"

The grey clad blond freezes, clutching at his face, feeling soft skin instead of solid porcelain. "Crap, my mask."

One of his tails extends across the street, the end forming into a tiny claw-like hand. It grabs the mask, returning it to its master's hand.

"Alright, that was a nice sneak attack but don't think it'll work again." He fixes his mask and brandishes the scythe in his hands. "If you don't want to get hurt, I'd stay out of this if I were you."

"… You know, you're a lot less scary now that I know what you look like under there."

"Whatever wolf panties."

A pause. He can feel Goodwitch's glare on the back on his back, judging him and piercing him like a blade. The red clad girl pushes down her skirt, a rosy blush lighting up her pale features. "W-wha- You pervert!"

"Hey, I fervently deny that accusation! Why are you dropkicking people with a skirt anyway?"

Spears made of stone and glass shoot at him and he flips into the air, rappelling onto a nearby building with one of his tails. "That completely killed the mood."

The hum of a Bullhead's engines reach his ears. He looks to the sky to see an aircraft peek out from behind a building, the orange haired pilot waving at him before taking off into the distance.

"And that's my cue to get out of here." The grey clad blond jumps again as a barrage of purple lights smash into the building where he was perched. He tumbles onto the street and plants his weapon to stop his roll. His tails lash out, smashing the falling debris and rubble to dust before fizzling and vanishing along with the grow emanating from his body.

"I'd like to say it's been fun but really, can't I just have one job that doesn't blow up like a jar of powdered dust?"

"White-Faced, Gold-Tailed Fox."

Goodwitch's voice echoes across the street. He stiffens at that name. The name that he hates, given to him by the kind of people he can't stand. The huntress raises her riding crop and narrows her eyes.

"For one-hundred and seventeen accounts of disrupting the peace, one-hundred and eight accounts of assault and battery, eighty-one accounts of breaking and entering, seventy-two accounts of trespassing, fifty-four accounts of petty theft, thirty-six accounts of assault, twenty-seven accounts of arson, seventeen-"

Goodwitch pauses. Glances at the red clad girl and returns her icy gaze to him.

"-eighteen accounts of sexual harassment-"

"OI! That's bullshit! I don't know about the others but that last one is one I absolutely refuse to accept!"

"- and two suspected accounts of murder-" Goodwitch continues without missing a beat. "- not including a failed attempt to kidnap the heiress of the Schnee Dust Company-"

"Objection! I didn't even know what was going on and I'm half the reason the whole operation failed in the first place! There's a reason the White Fang hates my guts!"

"-, assault of a high ranking official of Vale-"

"The guy deserved it anyway. Wasn't he found guilty of corruption a couple months back?"

"-, association with the criminal Roman Torchwick-"

"… Eh, I got nothing."

"-, and the stealing of candy from children in Vacuo-"

"Ok, there is a very good explanation for that involving a mixed up shipment of powdered Dust meant for adult use and-"

"-, you are hereby under arrest." The huntress cuts him off. She flings a pale blue Dust crystal into the air. A ring of purple runes appears in the sky and the crystal shatters into dark clouds that rumble overhead.

"… That doesn't look good."

The huntress drops her arm like an executioner bringing down their axe. A flash of light shoots down from the sky and he step sides it, a shard of ice the size of his forearm burrowing into the street. A second one follows, then a third and a fourth until the ice shards fall like rain during a thunderstorm.

The sniper-scythe flashes through the air, smashing the shards of ice with a single swipe. But they are innumerable, falling on him with no reprieve. They slice into his arms and legs, through his aura, his Semblance preventing any direct hit at the cost of littering him with cuts. That Goodwitch, using an attack like this that can easily backfire if he just moves and takes the red clad girl hostage. Or is it because she know that he won't do anything so underhanded that she is willing to use an attack like this?

Maybe she is pulling out the big guns now that he has no reason to keep fighting her.

The ice storm pins him and the sounds of sirens draw closer. His time's up. He has to get out of here now.

Golden aura flares, roaring around him like a brilliant flame. He hates doing this for a myriad of reasons but he's out of time and out of options. The shards of ice melt and shatter against the gold flames surrounding him. His wounds close. The earth trembles. The streets crack. And he lowers his weapon as the rain of ice fades and his aura digs deep into the soil beneath his feet.

The huntress narrows her eyes. The red scythe wielder glances between him, Goodwitch and the ruin that was once a pristine street. They watch the grey clad blond, waiting for whatever final attack he has in store…

"Bye!"

He promptly turns tail and takes off down the street, the red clad girl's sniper-scythe still in hand.

"Hey!"

He stumbles through a back ally way, leaning on the wall for support. Dark bags hang under blue eyes. His chest heaves. A bead of sweat rolls down his whiskered cheeks. Carefully he navigates the trash and discarded food that litters the street, making sure to not step in anything that will smell later.

"Those crazy ladies… chased me through half the damn city…"

Vibrant orange replaces the drab grey of his 'work' clothes. The formerly grey clad blond now wears an orange tracksuit with black highlights, decorated with blood red spirals. A knapsack hangs over his shoulder, heavy with the weight of his sole earthly possessions and the compact form of the red clad girl's sniper-scythe.

He needs to find some way to get that back to her.

"Got to lay low for a while… since that girl saw my face… ugh."

The orange clad blond stops to steady himself. He looks back at the city, sees the aftermath of the power he used to finally get away. Massive overgrowths of trees and bark peek out from behind the corners of buildings. They'll rot and fade by the next day but that's one of the many reasons he hates using that power. He can't control it and it draws far more attention than someone like him can afford.

Also it drains the life right out of him. Literally.

The orange clad blond makes his way to one of the only places to get food this late at night. He shambles into a bar, plopping his face on the counter. His knapsack hits the ground with a thud. The bartender, a middle aged man with a head of brown hair, makes his way over with a frown.

"Sorry kid, we don't serve minors after ten."

Something between a grunt and a groan comes from the mop of blond hair. It reaches into its pocket, throwing a stack of lein on the counter. The bartender eyes the lein with a twinkle of greed but still shakes his head.

"Nice try but still no. No kids under eighteen without adult supervision after ten."

"He is with me." A voice comes from behind the orange clad blond.

"Hey, we don't allow outside beverages in here…. Wait. You, you're-!"

"My apologies. We'll have an extra-large miso ramen. And a cup of your finest blend."

The owner of the stoic and polite voice takes a seat next to him as the bartender scurries off to fire up the cooker. "Long day?"

"Something like that." The orange clad blond rolls his head on the counter to get a look at his mysterious helper. "I don't know who you are but than-"

Blue eyes meet brown. Suddenly he remembers the bartender's panicked reaction. The orange clad blond promptly rolls his face back onto the counter, attempting to become one with the bar.

FUUUUUUUUUUU-

The man clad in green and black takes a sip of his coffee. "Is something wrong?"

"Nope!" the orange clad blond shoots up in his seat with a smile full of teeth. "Nothing is wrong! Absolutely nothing is wrong! Everything is perfect! Naruto Uzumaki, nice to meet ya!"

"Indeed." His sudden outburst fails to phase the man at all, the man clad in black and dark green remaining as expressionless as a hunk of wood. "Naruto Uzumaki… that name. You are from the Elemental Isles, are you not?"

"Yeah! How'd you know?"

"I was acquainted with a man from the Elemental Isles about twenty years ago." The man with silver hair rests his mug on the counter. "Somehow our conversation that day led to the topic of how different our two naming systems are. Much like how we name our children after colors to celebrate our individuality, he told me that in the Elemental Isles, they use words from the language of their ancestors as names to remember the mistakes of the past. Before he returned to his homeland, he taught me a few words from the language."

"If I am not mistaken, your name means 'Maelstrom Spiral'. A very apt description if I do say so myself."

Naruto blinks. "Huh… I didn't know that."

"The meaning of your name?"

"Everything you just said."

"Ah."

Naruto takes a deep breath. Keep it cool, play it safe. He's always made sure to keep his real identity hidden. Just because that girl saw his face doesn't mean this man knows who he is.

This has to be a coincidence. A very… very, very impossible coincidence.

The bartender arrives with a cup of freshly brewed coffee and a bowl of ramen. Naruto breaks a pair of chopsticks and digs in while the man takes a sip of his coffee. "Tell me, what is someone your age doing out this late at night? Haven't you heard the commotion?"

"Ommuhsion?" Naruto slurps up the noodles, clearing his throat. "What do you mean?"

"The White-Faced, Gold-Tailed Fox has appeared in the city."

Naruto pauses. Continues eating his food at a much more sedate pace. "So that's what everyone was freaking out about earlier. What did that guy do this time?"

"Obstruction of justice. After a robbery gone wrong, he fought an experienced huntress to a standstill to allow his associate to escape."

"Really? He must be pretty strong then."

"He is." The black and green clad man says. A glimmer of… something appears in those flat brown eyes. Maybe curiosity. Maybe suspicion. "It makes you wonder. Why would such a capable young man choose to lead a life of crime?"

"Maybe he's just an asshole?"

"That is certainly what most mainstream media seems to think. However, I believe there may be more to his story." The man says without looking at Naruto. Instead he focuses on the TV screen above the bar, showing the image of a grey clad blond fighting a huntress garbed in black, white and purple. "None of his crimes are truly heinous. And while he tends to work with questionable individuals, his character seems sound… aside from a history of troublemaking and sexual deviancy."

Naruto's eye twitches. "Is that so…"

"Indeed. It's enough to make one question why someone like this 'Fox' would choose live the way he does."

A beat of silence follows. Naruto finishes his ramen, stirring the leftover soup, watching the spices and bits and pieces swirl at the bottom of the bowl.

"I… don't think it's that simple."

The orange clad blond's lips thin into a thoughtful frown.

"The paths we find ourselves on are paved by the consequences of our actions. That much is true. But still…"

His eyes go unfocused, almost as though he sees something else in that bowl of swirling broth.

"Sometimes, because of friends, of family or lack thereof, some people will find themselves doing things they regret. They fall into a bottomless sea where the only way to survive is to become like the things that dragged them down there in the first place. Some choose to die clinging to their ideals and some are rescued by those around them but others…"

He lifts the bowl to his lips and downs the bowl in one go, smiling a rueful smile.

"Nobody to save them and too stubborn to drown, they become the very same as monsters that created them."

"… I see." The silver haired man clad in black and green finishes his coffee, placing the empty cup on the counter. "Let us stop beating around the bush and put an end to this farce. I know who you are… and I'm sure you know who I am."

"Ozpin. Headmaster of Beacon." Naruto's hand twitches towards his knapsack. His muscles tense. This is one fight he knows he can't win… but like hell he won't go down fighting.

"Tell me, Naruto Uzumaki…"

His muscles tense. With the back of his foot he tosses his knapsack into the air-!

"…Would you like to come to my school?"

"… Eh?"