One Way Ticket

Oscar.

His first impulse was to tell the voice to go away, followed immediately by diligently ignoring him—like he'd been doing for the last four hours. Oscar scrunched his face and nestled as far back into the stiff leather seat as he could, folding his arms more securely over his chest.

Oscar, I know you're awake.

When he didn't respond Ozpin spoke again, a hint of impatience bleeding into his tone. Your immature behavior is highly unbecoming. You cannot continue to pretend that my existence is—

"Fine!" Oscar snapped, a little louder than intended. A quick, furtive glance around the coach told him there was no one within the immediate vicinity to have overheard, and he winced. Last thing he wanted to do was attract attention from other passengers, or have to explain to the conductor why he was talking to himself, and if you could just step off to the side, sir, we have some medical professionals that would love to speak with you.

As I've said before, you fall within the legal definition of sane. No amount of scrutiny on their part would warrant institutionalization.

"I really wish you'd stop doing that," Oscar said, but he knew it was ultimately a losing battle: Ozpin could no more help reading his thoughts than he could stop breathing. Instead, he settled on feeling annoyed at the intrusion to his sleep, something which he felt fully justified in blaming Ozpin for. "What do you want?"

We're here, Ozpin answered.

The words had barely formed in his head before Oscar scrambled to face the window. The tumorous anxiety that had felt so comfortably far away came lurching back, lodging itself squarely in his midriff. Small wonder why, as he gaped at the looming mountains before them.

Photographs from textbooks could hardly be said to do justice to the grandeur of Mistral's capitol. A deep fissure cleaved its twin peaks, dividing the mountain into separate, stony towers. Tendrils of mist enrobed the outcrops, fathomless and ethereal, partially obscuring the infrastructure embedded into its cliffsides. What buildings he could see stood out stark-white against the foliage that spilled from the crags. At the summit perched the largest compound he'd seen yet, its foundation precariously arched between the two peaks.

Haven Academy, Ozpin clarified, somewhat unnecessarily.

"My aunt used to call it the 'Kingdom in the Clouds,'" he said, unable to look away. "I thought she was exaggerating. I knew Mistral was in the mountains, but I didn't think it was so…"

Breathtaking?

"High up," Oscar answered. He clutched his rucksack more securely to his chest, drawing little comfort from the roughspun fabric and earthy smell that so desperately reminded him of home. "How do all those people even live up there?"

People born here have adapted to the climate and elevation, Ozpin replied. The same can't be said for tourists, I'm afraid. Foreigners unacclimated to such extreme heights tend to experience acrophobia and mild altitude sickness.

"Thanks for telling me that after I boarded the train."

Ozpin ignored the barbed accusation. The benefits of such a lifestyle far outweigh the negatives.

"Like what? If I want to kill myself I just need to step outside my front door and jump?"

That comment got a rise out of Ozpin, like he'd hoped; a flash of momentary irritation passed through his thoughts, before being promptly smothered out. He got the impression Ozpin was taking a deep breath. That was uncalled for, came the stilted admonishment.

Oscar didn't bother to acknowledge his disapproval. Two could play at that game. "Okay, so what are the benefits of living on a mountain?"

There was a pause, followed by a nonexistent sigh. The geography makes the mountains a natural fortress. Early mountaineers discovered that the Grimm had as difficult of time as they did when it came to scaling the cliffs. Eventually, as more people settled the area, they had the strength in numbers to repel even the most tenacious of Grimm. The ones that survived those encounters quickly learned they would not find easy prey.

Oscar remembered the weather vane his aunt kept on the barn roof, and its striking resemblance to a Cockatrice. "But it's not just the four-legged ones, like Beowolves and Ursa, right?" he asked. "There are Grimm with wings, too. How do you stop something that can fly?"

The observation seemed to impress Ozpin; Oscar almost regretted asking for that reason alone. The last impression he wanted to give the headmaster was that he actually cared about any of this. It isn't just the exterior that people live on, Ozpin said. The mountains contain a vast network of cave systems—shallow enough for humans to occupy, but not so deep that they would hide any unwelcome threats. The second answer to your question is that Mistral developed artillery for shooting down airborne species of Grimm. Most of them tend to avoid the skies over the city.

Oscar made a noncommittal noise, hoping it would be enough of a response to satisfy Ozpin. The anticipation that had been lurking dormant in his gut made itself known, causing a wave of nausea to momentarily pass over him. Subconsciously, he reached for the patchwork cloth in his pocket and worried it until the sensation ebbed.

We'll be arriving shortly, Ozpin observed. If he noticed his discomfort, he tactfully chose not to comment on it. You haven't eaten in a while. Now might be a good opportunity to do so.

Because what a great first impression that would make, as he stepped off the train and proceeded to vomit into the nearest trash can. There was a twisted sort of logic to that though, and yeah, he was hungry, even if the constant jitters had reduced his stomach to a braided knot. And the mutinous part of his brain pointed out that refusing to eat would only make the old man harp on him until he relented, because Ozpin was that kind of asshole.

Your wellbeing is my concern. Ozpin sounded reproachful. If ensuring that you eat and sleep are condemnable offenses, then I apologize.

"Noticed that you didn't deny it," Oscar reasoned in a voice that was just on the side of smug. He went to unzip his bag, and paused at a sudden, intrusive thought. "And you can't pretend that you're doing this just because you care about me."

He felt Ozpin do the mental equivalent of stiffening. What do you mean?

"If I die," he told the empty carriage, "you die too. So you kind of have to make sure I eat, and sleep, and don't accidentally walk off a cliff at night because it's dark."

A loaded silence followed.

Do you honestly believe that my concern for you is only out of obligation? There was a weird undercurrent of strain in Ozpin's voice that Oscar didn't immediately know how to reconcile.

Not sure how to answer, and not entirely comfortable with the question either, Oscar dug through his bag instead.

In truth, he'd never been outside the countryside before, so packing hadn't been a skill he needed to perfect. It showed in the way he hastily crammed everything into the tight space, spare clothes balled up alongside what few provisions he'd smuggled. Handing his aunt a shopping list of survival necessities and asking her to pick them up the next time she went to market hadn't exactly been an option, so they'd had to improvise. Against Ozpin's advisement, Oscar had been as sparing as he could when raiding the kitchen. Partly, because guilt wouldn't allow him to rob blind the woman that had taken him in after his parents had died. The other part had been due to Ozpin's frustrating vagueness about the trip length as a whole. Don't overpack because you can't afford to be encumbered, but don't underpack, either, because your supplies need to last for—and Ozpin refused to clarify how long that was, exactly.

Oscar was still trying to figure out whether that had been some obnoxious test meant to teach him self-reliance, or if Ozpin was just as uncertain and trying to bluff about it. The latter was terrifying and not a thought to be dwelled on.

There were the essentials, of course: a bedroll, something that laughably passed for a first aid kit, and an assortment of non-perishable food. His rations consisted of hardtack, strips of jerky, a container filled with Pumpkin Pete's cereal (its inclusion had unnerved Ozpin for some weird reason), and fruit slices he and his aunt had harvested and dried a couple of months ago.

Lien was the only resource Oscar refused to steal. Without him being there to pitch in, his aunt was going to struggle with upkeeping the farm. And he'd sooner light himself on fire before he left her destitute.

A noble sentiment, Ozpin commented. Thought he didn't seem to care much for Oscar's fixation with any thoughts that involved hurting himself.

Rather than deign to answer, Oscar dug out a strip of salted beef and tore off a chunk. He took his time chewing the leathery meat. The jaw workout gave him an excuse to not talk to the headmaster until the train eased into the station.

Upon coming to a standstill, the automatic doors gave a pneumatic hiss and slid open. Noise from the outside world flooded the coach interior. Through the doors of the adjoining cars, Oscar could hear the muffled sounds of passengers collecting their luggage and descending out onto the platform. The background ambiance had his senses on a heightened sort of edge, compounded by his own trepidation, and for a wild moment Oscar seriously considered not getting up.

He sensed Ozpin's hesitation, but for once he didn't intervene. Rather, he gave the impression of retreating from his space. As if waiting for whatever choice he would make.

Nothing was stopping him from staying in his seat (apart from the impending end of the world and whatever perilous, incomprehensible destiny Ozpin had alluded to). This train would depart, and he'd find himself standing on that platform where Hazel had first procured a ticket for him. Oscar would trudge back through the copse until the farmhouse and barn were in sight. And standing there would be his aunt, yelling inarticulate curses even as she swept him into her arms with a hug that threatened to crack his ribs. The stability and monotony of his life would return, comfortable farm chores and all.

Minus Ozpin, whose disappointment and fear would be never-ending. Constant reminders of the responsibilities he'd inherited and then abandoned. And for what?

Oscar knew it was deluded to think for a moment that he could ever escape whatever—this was. And any attempt to pretend at normalcy would torture them both. He knew it, and Ozpin knew it. They were delaying the inevitable.

It was the hardest and the easiest thing, to sling his bag over his shoulder and disembark.

…Thank you, Ozpin said. An unspoken gravity permeated his words, one whose meaning escaped Oscar. And I'm sorry.

"You didn't ask for this either." With the commotion of the people around them, being overheard was a minimal risk. He weaved through the throng, head determinedly held down. "And there's no point pretending this is avoidable. I don't have a choice. Not really, anyway."

We always have a choice. Those words were said with a surprising amount of conviction. Even when our choices are presented to us as unconquerable hardships.

"You realize the choices here are doing nothing and eventually dying, or actively doing something that'll likely get me killed, right?" Oscar scoffed. "Our 'unconquerable hardship' is death. And when the outcome for both options is the same that's hardly a choice."

Lesser men are often tempted to do what's easy, not what's right. That you are standing here now is a testimony to which you are. The measured, even tones were retracted for something that was both fierce and reassuring. And I will do all that I can to keep you safe. You have my word.

Something in him recoiled.

"You couldn't even keep yourself safe when you were alive"—Oscar balled his fists—"and now I'm here because of it."

All right, maybe he said that a little louder than he should have. At least it had the desired effect of getting Ozpin to shut up. (He didn't feel guilty about that. He didn't.)

"Just do me a favor, okay?" Oscar asked. Gradually, his hands unclenched, and with a shaky exhale he resumed walking. "I don't want to think about it. And I don't want you to make any promises you can't keep. Just—focus on getting us where we need to go for now. Can we do that?"

The specter of compromise hovered in his words, a tentative truce that Ozpin accepted willingly enough. This station resides on the city's mid-level. There's a vertical lift not far from here that we may dock, that should take us directly to Haven's campus.

"Sounds good."

The problem with talking to the voice in his head was that it tended to dampen his peripheral awareness. Multitasking this weird magic with everything else left him a bit disconnected from his surroundings, and for the first time Oscar took stock of what he was actually seeing.

If colors could be loud, then Mistral was nothing short of deafening. Large silk banners fluttered in the breeze overhead, strung between pavilions by beaded cords. Bright and eye-catching wares occupied every available inch of counter space: polished scimitars and submachine guns, dark green bonsais, opulent incense burners, even fruits he didn't have names for.

The one you're looking at is called a durian, Ozpin said. I wouldn't recommend trying it if you don't have a strong stomach. The odor can be somewhat pungent.

Oscar suppressed a snort. "With what money?"

…You seem rather cagey. Ozpin sidestepped the rhetorical question. Is something the matter?

Any attempt to dismiss that claim was belied somewhat by the way he jumped when a vendor spilled the contents of a crate, creating a minor commotion.

"I've never been to the city before. To any city before," Oscar clarified, like it wasn't painfully obvious. The crowd surged around him, dozens of faces that either went without acknowledging his presence, or lingered for longer than was necessary. He was all the more acutely aware of his stature and age, and he had to savagely beat down the impulse to wrap his arms around his shoulders. With the passersby hemming him in, he felt claustrophobic.

"Hey, Oz? What's the worst-case scenario that could happen here, hypothetically?"

Your mileage may vary, depending on what you think constitutes a "worst-case scenario." Ozpin hummed in thought. In all likelihood, very little beyond having to wait a while before we get our audience at Haven.

"But let's say something happens. Something that isn't me having to sit in a waiting room." The hitch in his voice that he was unsuccessful at stamping out got Ozpin's attention. As it did the attention of a rather unsettling-looking man whose face was partly concealed by bandages. Oscar didn't imagine the red welling up through the dressings, and his heartbeat quickened. "Let's say that this headmaster we're supposed to find—"

Leonardo Lionheart.

He continued over the interruption: "What if he's not there? Or what if he refuses to see us because I'm just a nobody from off the streets?"

The former is unlikely. He's not prone to traveling, even between semesters. Nor is he the type to pass judgment based on preconceived notions.

His eye caught a puddle cradled in the cobblestones of the footpath. Oscar frowned at his reflection. "I look homeless. Is he really going to take the time to meet a kid that isn't an applicant to his deadly combat school?"

With the correct phrasing, yes, Ozpin assured him. His mild tone and unflappable outlook were quickly becoming a point of contention for Oscar, if only because they were so dissonant with his own palpable unease. At the edge of his vision, he caught the movements of a group of hooded strangers clustered away from the stalls. There was no mistaking the way they leered at him, hands hovering at their sides over what were undoubtedly concealed weapons. His pulse spiked in his throat, and Oscar could feel the weight of the rucksack between his shoulders.

"For just one minute"—Oscar took a steadying breath—"pretend we don't live in a perfect world where things go according to your plan. Mistral is dangerous, and I don't have the money to rent a room at an inn. What do we do then? I—I really don't want…"

A lot went unsaid, but not unheard, and Ozpin didn't miss the way his thoughts skipped tracks.

Mistral's infamous reputation isn't unmerited, Ozpin conceded, in a carefully modulated tone. But that doesn't factor in the exaggeration that locals like using to scare tourists. Some of the wilder tales people hear tend to be hyperbole.

He knew Ozpin was trying to comfort him, which made it all the more patronizing because Oscar knew better. He stopped, rather abruptly, and the crowd parted around him like a well-accustomed current. "Have you ever actually been to Mistral?" he asked a tad incredulously.

Ignoring the hypocrisy in his choice of words, because it wasn't like he'd ever been to Mistral prior to now, either. The line of questioning at least managed to elicit some surprise from Ozpin. Yes. On several occasions.

"And what did you look like when you came here?"

I'm afraid I don't understand.

"I mean," Oscar said, "did you look like them"—he pointed toward a group of patrons some yards ahead, all of whom donned robes of rich satin and were bejeweled in gaudy gems—"or did you look more like those people over there?" His gaze drifted toward two customers haggling with a merchant. Their tattered clothing and the scabbing on one guy's arm were telling of which social class they belonged to.

He already knew the answer. Well, more like he knew how to find the answer, if Oscar was inclined to go rummaging through their shared subconscience until he stumbled across the right memory. They'd been together for a month, and he still had no idea what Ozpin had looked like when he was alive, and that wasn't entirely by accident. For some reason, putting a face to the occupant in his mind felt weirdly intimate. It was easier to direct frustration at him when the voice in his head was just that: a bodiless voice not tied to any definable personhood.

Out of a perverted sort of decency, Ozpin never thrust that knowledge upon him. It was one of the few tacit boundaries he seemed unwilling to cross where their relationship was concerned.

Ozpin didn't answer, so Oscar continued.

"You probably looked like a Huntsman, or you dressed well enough to be set apart from the riffraff, so no, you've never actually been to Mistral. People that look like them don't get pickpocketed, or assaulted, or abducted," he bit off. "You've probably never had to worry about someone trying to mug you, and then, when you don't have anything worth stealing on you, getting beaten up because they feel like you somehow cheated them out of an easy profit. You don't get to tell me not to be scared, Oz. Not when you've never had to be."

Before, he might have relished shutting Ozpin up so soundly. The gratification was ruined somewhat by the unmistakable guilt that Ozpin felt, which synaptically bled into Oscar's own emotions. Even more unnerving was the impression he got that Ozpin wanted to protest. The older man had known fear, Oscar knew, it some vague, undefinable way, and he had a good idea in regards to what.

He'd never gotten a straight answer from him about how he died. Unlike his own mind, which was an open wound graffitied with errant thoughts, Ozpin had mastered the art of safeguarding his memories and emotions. Every wayward thought had been neatly partitioned off, and whether that habit stemmed from a demand for privacy, or he was shielding some great and terrible secret, Oscar had yet to figure out. Questions were never ignored, only neatly deflected, either with articulate language or an appropriate segue to another topic. With Ozpin unwilling to relinquish that information, Oscar had learned how to startle snippets of the truth out of him.

He'd done that, once, on a day when he'd been plowing the fields, the sun blistering his skin and sending rivulets of sweat into the hem of his shirt. Ozpin hadn't been fast enough to compose himself, and in that slither of a second Oscar perceived fire.

He got the uncomfortable impression that Ozpin had been burned alive.

The part of his mind that still doggedly clung to anger shoved aside anything that might resemble sympathy. He didn't—couldn't offer him any, not when he was already tired, homesick, and burdened by the unknown perils lurking ahead. Oscar didn't have the energy to spare on pitying some omniscient, omnipotent ghost, and Ozpin was too patient to push for any recognition of their mutual plight.

The lift is just ahead. He sounded hesitant. Apologetic. Once we ascend the precipice it will be a fairly short walk to his office.

"Good," Oscar said. The lift was kind of hard to miss—a large metal platform, anchored to the wall by a pair of deep tracks that scored the rock face. He stepped onto it and moved toward the terminal. A list of destinations flashed across the screen, and the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding left him as HAVEN ACADEMY – Level 1 appeared on the queue.

He tapped the screen.

RESTRICTED ACCESS – CLEARANCE REQUIRED

That swooping sensation in his gut returned with a vengeance.

I don't understand. Confusion clouded his voice. Haven's campus isn't supposed to be off-limits to visitors.

"Maybe the terminal's malfunctioning?" Even as the words left him Oscar knew how futile they were, especially when he pressed the location key and a second error message appeared. A dawning terror that just as easily could have been nausea spread throughout his midriff.

"Oz?" His question teetered on a squeak. "What's going on?"

I don't know. Behind the blank mask, Ozpin's thoughts roiled ike a storm. We need to speak with someone.

"Who?"

Preferably someone that lives in the city.

A few people scattered out of his way as Oscar backtracked, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to run up to the closest stall. "Excuse me? Miss?"

The shopkeep—a red panda Faunus—turned her attention from the ammunition she'd been casing to regard him with liquid amber eyes. "Can I help you?" she drawled.

"Why isn't the lift working for Haven Academy?" Oscar asked. To their shared bemusement, the vendor gave him a ragged grimace.

"You thinking about enrolling? Sorry to say classes won't be starting back up for another month. Not that we couldn't use more Huntsmen," she remarked. Her bottlebrush tail flicked out behind her.

"What?" His mind momentarily blanked. "No, I—I need to see someone up there. Why does the school require clearance?" Remembering what Ozpin had told him, Oscar added, "I thought the campus was available to the public."

She spat at the ground, her expression turning momentarily contemptuous. "Haven't you heard, kid? The Council's imposed all these new ordinances on the city. Got one from the headmaster saying access to the school is restricted to faculty and students only, unless you've got a prearranged meeting with academy liaisons. Damn paranoid, if you ask me, with all these useless 'heightened security' measures."

Try as Ozpin might to conceal it, Oscar didn't miss the fleeting panic that seized him.

"So if you really wanna talk to someone there, you'll need to either contact a Councilman—hah, good luck with that!—or find a teacher walking around the streets. You'll prob'ly have just as much success teaching a Beowolf to play fetch, though. Most of the teachers aren't even in the city right now."

This time, Ozpin couldn't disguise his horror, and it gripped the two of them in tandem. He's left the Relic unguarded?

What Relic? Oscar asked.

Ozpin ignored him.

"Most of 'em have been dismissed, from what I hear." She pulled her headscarf more securely over her forehead. "Off on sabbaticals or missions or maybe they're unionizing, for all I know. It's tanked my business, I'll tell you that much. Two-thirds of my revenue were staff commissions."

Oscar worked his mouth, and nothing came out.

"And it's not like I'll be seeing my imports any time soon, thanks to the Dust embargo." Fingertips drummed an absent pattern against the countertop. "You all right, kid? Looking a bit pale."

Oscar's throat clicked as he swallowed. "I'm fine," he answered, a little too quickly.

The vendor scrutinized him beneath the chiffon veil that shielded her eyes. "Chek-rohkah," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "There's an apothecary down the road if you're under the weather."

"No, really, I think I'm okay," Oscar lied. He turned to leave, and only stopped himself long enough to offer a brief inclination of his head. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

He waited until he found a nice, secluded spot away from the bulk of the crowd before he had his mental breakdown.

"Oh gods, oh gods. This can't be happening." Oscar tore his bag off his shoulders and unceremoniously threw it, and himself, onto the cobblestones. A gloved hand reached up to his face and scrubbed his cheeks. "What are we going to do?" he croaked. "We can't just wait a month to see someone."

I agree. For a disembodied voice, Ozpin was doing a good impression of pacing. His agitation was a force of nature. Haven Academy is not impregnable, and without its staff the school is vulnerable. What is he playing at?

"That's what you're worried about?" Oscar asked in mild disbelief. "Not, where are we going to stay for the next four weeks?"

Ozpin stilled. No, you're quite right. My apologies. We'll figure something out.

"How?" He let out a breathy, panicked sound, before he could snatch it back. "Unless you've got some other secret contact in Mistral we can hit up, then there's no one here. You heard what she said: everyone is gone. And I don't have the lien to pay for room and board at a tavern. Or food. I've only got the stuff I packed."

Instinctively, Oscar reached for the rucksack by his side, longing to hold it to his chest and just bury his face in the familiar cloth. The hand brushed against empty space.

His breath caught in his chest.

"No—" He scrambled to his feet, face whipping back and forth as he scanned the roadside. "It was—it was right here. I just had it—"

But a single glance told him what he already knew: He'd let his guard down, and now, he was paying for it.

"No," Oscar bleated, again, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. "No…"

He expected a rebuke for being careless, or some sagely yet misplaced advice offered in lieu of anything constructive. Ozpin spoke, and it was the gentlest he'd heard him sound yet. I'm so sorry, Oscar.

For a long moment Oscar numbly stared. The faces in the distant crowd passed him, a blurred kaleidoscope of featureless colors and shapes, and the only thing he could hear was his pulse beating a staccato rhythm in his eardrums. Around him, the world dissolved into meaningless backdrop.

"All of my things," he said. The words came out as a hoarse whisper. "My clothes, my bedroll, the provisions from home. Stolen. Gone." In retrospect, a small part of him would be grateful he hadn't thought to pack anything with more monetary value, or that he'd talked himself out of bringing irreplaceable keepsakes from home. There was a sudden, lurching sensation in his navel, like he'd been sucker-punched. His arm shook.

Whatever Ozpin had been about to say next, he never got the chance to tell him before Oscar snatched up an empty whiskey bottle from the ground. He put as much feeling as he could into the movement, and lobbed it against the mountainside. Glass shards ricocheted off the stone and skated across the cobblestone.

"Gods damn it!" Panic and hysteria and rage welled up like bile in his throat. Oscar made an inarticulate sound as he grabbed a second bottle and pitched it into the rock. It shattered. "I'm hundreds of miles from home and trapped in a city where I could get stabbed or abducted because I'll have to sleep on a bench! And for what? Just so I can get turned away at the doorstep by some guy I've never met, all because the voice in my head told me to!"

Ozpin was dutifully silent as he rode out the worst of the tantrum. He waited until Oscar was sitting on the ground again, knees drawn up to his chest and his patchwork rag pressed against his mouth to smother the dry sobs he so badly wanted to make. (He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't. Not here.) A dull, burning ache made itself present at the back of his throat.

"…I'm sorry I said that," he mumbled, when he was sure he could talk again without saying something stupid. "I just—I needed to get that out of my system, I think."

Ozpin sighed, and it was telling how the gesture seemed self-directed. The noise had a worn-parchment quality to it. I understand, Oscar. You have nothing to apologize for.

Oscar glanced up at the sky. A dull pink glow was receding over the horizon, replaced by the first few glinting stars come to herald the night.

You're so young, Ozpin murmured. And it's been…a long time since I went through this same process. Age is inconvenient; it's allowed me to forget the extent of the sacrifices involved.

The headmaster's presence brushed against his own. Thoughts and memories and emotions dammed behind a wall that should have ruptured long ago, still holding against the inevitable cascade. There was a vain comfort being offered to him, Oscar realized, when no other forms were available. Slowly, he uncoiled, forcing the muscles in his body to untense, his breaths coming in steadier intakes than the gulping ones from before. It took him a moment to realize that Ozpin was gently coaxing him through the motions.

You don't need to be stressed any more than you currently are, he said, by way of explanation. I know I've asked too much of you as it is, but I need you to keep walking. Give me some time to reconsider our options, until I have a solution for our current predicament. At the least, long enough to think of how we can procure accommodations.

Just the thought of not having to sleep outside was enough to motivate him. Unsteadily, Oscar rose.

"Is there…" He cleared his throat. "Is there somewhere you want me to go, specifically?"

The act itself is enough. Though it would be in our best interest to stay on the higher levels. When Oscar stiffened, Ozpin hurriedly reassured, Criminal activity is greater at the base of the city. Kidnapping requires more than just a degree of stealth, and none would dare attempt it on the upper ramparts.

This time, there was a surety to Ozpin's words, and sheer exhaustion had him blindly leaning against what trust was presented. He was too tired to argue.

And so Oscar trudged through the thinning crowds, his gaze wandering aimlessly between the sights. Ornamental lanterns smoldered overhead, their orange glow a dim comfort as they pooled molten light over the paths. Mistral had a night life of its own: various clubs had opened their doors to entice customers with heavy percussive music and the promise of drinks. He saw a fresh round of merchants advertising goods, including a perfume stand that he stopped at long enough to acquire a conditioned hatred of the heady fragrance. One place he walked past had a group of people loitering outside, scantily clad and wearing various degrees of nothing. An onlooker catcalled, and he found an excuse to be literally anywhere else.

"Are brothels even legal?" Oscar asked, when he was confident he'd put at least a mile between them.

The question seemed to startle Ozpin out of whatever reverie he'd lapsed into. It's less a matter of legality, and more what people are comfortable with trying to get away with, he answered, in a tone cool with censure.

Huh. That was interesting.

Oscar filed that reaction away for later. His attention turned to a nearby stall, where cords of herbed chicken hung from the rafters. Someone was grilling, and the overpowering smoke-smell of charcoal and spices had him remembering that oh, yeah, he didn't have food anymore. What a great time to realize his last meal had been on the train hours ago.

To his embarrassment, his stomach growled.

"…What's your opinion on stealing?" Oscar inquired, in what he hoped passed for an offhand tone.

Whatever answer Ozpin had been about to give, it petered off. Intrigued, Oscar scanned the area, and saw what had distracted him: Mistrali pilots. The pair still had their aviation uniforms on, but going by the rate they were tossing back shots, they'd likely just finished their shift.

"—patrol near the defunct colonies," the one was telling the vendor. He ran a hand through cropped dun hair. "It's been silent out there for weeks. Which don't get me wrong, if it's a toss-up between dick all or strafing Grimm packs with turret fire, you know I'm gonna pick the one where my corpse doesn't get mailed home to my kids in a body bag. But you need action to enliven things from time to time. Shit gets dull out there fast."

"That's not the way I hear it." The merchant fished out a bottle from beneath the counter. "Daiyu said your last mission was busy."

The other pilot shrugged. "'Busy' is one way of looking at it," he agreed. "We missed most of the action. Though frankly I'm kind of glad we did. Whatever those Huntsmen killed, it was nightmare fuel."

Ozpin's interest sharpened.

The merchant shuffled a stack of lien. "Don't suppose you're feeling charitable?" they asked. "I'm dead for gossip around here."

To which the first pilot raised his glass. "Only if the charity's mutual." He grinned.

"Spoken like a true philanthropist." The merchant tipped the contents of a large fizzing bottle into their cups. It frothed over the rim and a little sloshed onto the counter. "So," they said. "Any casualties?"

"One of the guys we had to evac out." The second pilot swished the liquid around in his glass. "Something envenomed him, don't know what. When we picked him up the wound was infected. By the time we got back to the hospital, the onboard field medics had to treat him for anaphylaxis twice. And this one kid was just not letting go of him. Her team had to pry her off before they could get him into surgery."

The merchant ducked their head. "Do you know if he made it?"

"Thankfully, yes. ER had the antivenom he needed. The rest of the Huntsmen were fine. A few broken Auras, but in their line of work that's just an occupational hazard."

"Damn straight," the first pilot chipped in. "I'm kinda hoping they stick around. Dunno if you've noticed, but there's a bit of a shortage around here when it comes to professional killers."

"There are plenty of professional killers on the lower levels. Or do they not count anymore?" the merchant asked, dry as Dust.

"Professional killers that specialize in Grimm, then," he amended. "You should've seen them. Well, maybe you will. It's only been a few days, they probably haven't left Mistral yet. But hell, they were armed to the teeth! The one girl had some sort of modified scythe."

Oscar was nearly cowed by the powerful surge of recognition that came from Ozpin. Images too fast to see flitted through his mind, and the bits he was able to make out—black wings, silver eyes, rose petals—didn't make any sense to him.

"…Oz?" Oscar cautiously said the name aloud.

There's a bar, Ozpin said, on Jade Street called Pour Decisions. We need to go there. Now.

He was still a bit disoriented from the mental highlights reel Oz had just screened for him. Oscar reached up to knead at his temples. "Okay, but why?"

Because there's a high likelihood we'll find one of my colleagues there.

Oscar picked up speed, his fatigue instantly forgotten. "You're sure?"

It's his favorite bar in Mistral. At this time of night, I can't imagine where else he would be.

Well, if that didn't speak volumes of Ozpin's standards in friends.

Try to reserve your judgment for when you meet him. The chastisement lacked any real disapproval though. Ozpin seemed too—what, excited?—to bother with keeping up a lecturing front.

Oscar wanted to ask more questions, but his own flutteriness had returned. Time did this funny little skip, where he was running up stone steps one second, and the next, he stood in front of a mahogany door.

His name is Qrow Branwen, Ozpin told him. If I'm not mistaken, he's in possession of my—our—weapon.

Oscar blinked. "I have a weapon?" he repeated.

You do. Ozpin sounded pleased. In time and with experience, you'll be able to use it.

He couldn't really find fault with that, for once. Oscar reached to open the door, only to pause mid-motion.

Oscar? Is something wrong?

"This is really happening, isn't it?" Oscar spoke with a careful slowness. "When I walk through this door, everything changes. I don't get to turn back."

It wasn't a question.

No, I'm afraid not. The die is cast, as they say.

"Is it wrong that I'm still kind of scared?" There. The words were out, before he could take them back.

To his surprise, he felt a flash of warmth. When Ozpin answered him, his voice had evened out into his usual, vaguely-amused lilt.

If you weren't the slightest bit scared, I'd say you were insane.

1 Chek-rohkah — Arcadian: "Stubborn human." A term of fond exasperation used by Faunus when they see a human not using common sense.