ON RWBY WINGS

A RWBY Fanfiction of an Alternate Universe

By Sentinel 28AII

AUTHOR'S NOTES: It's all my friend Darren's fault. Here I am, an innocent historian and occasional fanfic writer, desperate for the muse to return and help me finish Snowbird's Tigers or Evangelion Evolution, and Darren finally convinces me to sit down and watch RWBY. Meh, why not? Ponies are coming to an end and Monster Musume isn't getting a second season and I need something to watch…

…and wow.

Other than a few random AMVs and cosplay, I'd never really known much about what hath Rooster Teeth wrought, but after the tragedy of Season 3, I was hooked. (Funny how that works. I was hooked on Game of Thrones after the Red Wedding, too. Sweet Celestia, I've become Meroune.) So after marathoning RWBY Chibi—twice—and burning through the RWBY manga, the muse finally decided to wake her lazy ass up and whisper in my unsuspecting ear, "You like it, don't you? You want to write FANFICTION, DON'T YOU?" Yep, my muse is mean. A couple of hours of brainstorming, and here you go.

What world is this, you ask? This isn't my Remnant! Ah, but it is…with a twist.

I hope everyone enjoys this and doesn't mind a RWBY noob let loose in Monty's universe. If not, put it down to another of Nora's caffeine trips…

Above the Ohio Dead Zone, United States of Canada

April 11, 2001

Roman Torchwick was having a very good day.

The life of an air pirate was not easy, even one that tended to be rather good at his job, and occasionally well-financed. Preying on the air traffic that linked the Remnant of the United States together could be difficult, because the larger flights tended be well-escorted. Taking on the United States Air Force was often a losing prospect, and many outlaw bands were wiped out trying to go for the big score. Torchwick was different, however: he waited, patiently, for his prey to make a slip.

And now they had.

The smaller flights tended to be unescorted, or at best would have a mercenary or two along. They were just as often not worth it. The occasional small fry was worth it to pay for fuel or armament, but they rarely had anything of value. This one, however, was different.

Torchwick grinned behind his oxygen mask and leveled his white Sea Harrier, locking on the radar. "Dawn Airlines Flight 7513, this is Roman One. Lower your landing gear and surrender. Don't bother calling for help—you're being jammed."

Torchwick caught sight of Dawn Airlines Flight 7513. It was a Boeing 757, which in theory might be able to give his diminutive Sea Harrier a run for its money on speed. On the other hand, it was an unarmed transport. Nestled underneath Torchwick's wings were four AIM-9 Sidewinder heatseeking missiles, and the 757 made for a very warm target. His gloved fingers closed on the trigger. They needed this shipment intact, but he did have a reputation to consider.

The 757's landing gear dropped, the international aerial code for surrender.

"Very good, Dawn 7513. I'm glad you're a sensible one." He pushed up the throttle, outdistanced the airliner, and took up position in front of it. "Now if you have this strange attachment to your head, you'll follow me. You can't see it, but there are four other armed aircraft behind you, and every one of them wouldn't mind ventilating your derriere with various sharp, supersonic objects. I, however, am a businessman, and I would very much like to purchase the cargo you have aboard. And by 'purchase' I mean 'steal.'" He waggled his wings at them—which was not just a taunt, but a motion to follow, and began a long, turning descent. "We have no use for a cargo aircraft, so be a good boy and remain on course, and you'll keep your plane. And don't worry; the radiation down there isn't too terribly bad." Which was true, Torchwick reflected. It had been almost forty years since a Soviet missile had turned Akron into ashes, after all.

"Roman One, Roman Five. I have a bogey on scope."

Torchwick spared a quick glance behind and to the left. He did not fly alone on these jobs; he had been provided four other aircraft, flown by what could euphemistically be called henchmen. Unlike himself, the henchmen were not flying anything terribly modern, but F-5E Tiger IIs. They weren't much, but they were mainly there for intimidation, and in the right hands, even a F-5 could be quite deadly. And best of all, they were cheap. Modern aircraft weren't easy to maintain, and one had to make do.

"Roman Five," Torchwick sighed, "would you mind telling me where this bogey might be?"

"Uh, sorry, Roman One. Bogey is at 12 o'clock, 25 miles and closing."

"Just one?"

"Roger, Roman One. He's a single."

Torchwick considered that. It was almost certainly not military. USAF aircraft flew in pairs, and he'd been assured that this flight was unescorted—amazing, considering what Dawn 7513 was carrying, but that was his information.

One way to find out. "Roman Four and Five, lock him up." With two air-to-air radars locked onto the bogey, it would give the other pilot something to think about, and to break off.

There was a pause as the outlaw formation continued its descent, then a slightly high-pitched voice said incredously, "Are you spiking me?" There was another pause, of approximately three seconds. Then Torchwick's radar warning gear lit up.

"Roman One, Roman One! Missiles inbound!"

"No shit!" Torchwick shouted, and broke hard to the left, then back to the right. The RWR light went off, but already he could see two faint smoke trails. The missiles weren't locked on him.

"Roman Four! I'm spiked! I'm—" The F-5 disintegrated as one of the missiles guided directly into it. Roman Five did not even have time for that, but was luckier than his wingman: as the F-5 became a torch, the canopy came off and the pilot ejected. The other two F-5s scattered. Dawn 7513's crew evidently had figured out that they were now in the middle of a dogfight: they raised their landing gear and their shallow descent became a rapid one.

That was not the issue at hand, however. Torchwick slammed the throttle forward. Whoever he was facing had radar-guided missiles, and a longer reach; he needed to get in close with his Sidewinders. A glint of sunlight off canopy, and Torchwick cursed again: his opponent was closing the distance as well, and the angle was wrong; he could not quite get a shot. Then he got a glimpse of what he was fighting.

It was an F-16. The single tail, blended fuselage, and wingtip rails were a giveaway. It also wore USAF camouflage of dark gray, except for the wingtips and fuselage spine. They were bright red.

Very well. Torchwick pulled hard on the stick, and used the Harrier's vectored thrust to cheat the turn tighter. The F-16 was faster—the Sea Harrier was subsonic—but whoever he was fighting also had their afterburner on, and that provided for a very nice heat source. The Sidewinders growled in his ears as they sensed the heat, but then the growl ceased as the F-16 came out of 'burner and turned hard to meet Romans Two and Three, who were circling around to try and flank their opponent. Torchwick sighed again as the F-16 went between the two F-5s; neither had a chance for even a hasty shot. He locked his engine nozzles back into place and firewalled the throttle to catch up.

The two F-5s had split up—a sensible maneuver, given that it would force the F-16 pilot to choose between them, with the possibility that the other would drop onto the F-16's tail. The break was poorly executed, however: while Roman Two was diving and turning to pick up energy, Roman Three was losing airspeed in a climb. He realized it and began rolling over into a dive himself, but by that time the F-16 had already completed a punishing eight-G turn, rolled to bleed off some airspeed, and was now squarely behind Roman Two. Torchwick opened his mouth to order a break, but already there was a flash of light from the F-16's port wingtip as the pilot fired a Sidewinder. A second later, and Roman Two was in a flat spin for the earth fifteen thousand feet below them, flames consuming the entire rear fuselage of the F-5. The pilot ejected.

"Good help is so hard to find," Torchwick mused, but now he was in position for a shot himself—extreme range, but better than nothing. His Sidewinders growled again as they picked up the heat of the F-16. They could home in on the heat of his enemy's canopy, if necessary. They began to growl even louder, insistent, angry, wanting the kill as much as he did. His finger closed on the trigger.

Torchwick then realized the Sidewinders weren't tracking on the F-16, but Roman Three. The F-5 came up almost directly in front of him as the henchman blocked the target. He broke lock, shouting "You dumbass! Roman Three, clear the target!"

Roman Three didn't hear him. All he saw was red, because this lone F-16 pilot had just gunned down three of his friends. As Torchwick slowed down, he saw that the F-16 was doing the same: the butterfly-like speedbrakes opened slightly as the pilot shed speed. It was a mistake, as speed was life in a dogfight. The brakes closed almost as soon as they opened, and the nose of the F-16 pointed upwards into a climb—which would shed even more speed, and present a perfect target for Roman Three's own heatseekers, against a clear blue sky. The F-5 began to climb as well.

Then the F-16 snap-rolled downwards, disappearing from Roman Three's sight in an instant. As Torchwick watched, the fighter dived for a second, rolled, and climbed again, converting the kinetic energy of the dive to speed. An experienced F-5 pilot would have already broken off, evaded, or done something, but Roman Three was inexperienced, and he was panicked. "Roman Three," Torchwick warned, "he's below you! Break, you damn fool!"

It was too late. Another flash of a missile launch, this time from the starboard wingtip, and the F-5 was blown in half. Torchwick shook his head in disgust. "You were worth every cent…truly, you were."

Yet now, finally, Torchwick had his chance. The F-16 could accelerate in a climb and was doing so as it sped past the burning remains of Roman Three, but Torchwick had dived himself, and now came up behind his opponent. It had been what Roman Three was trying for, and though the F-16 was not in afterburner, it was a nice little target against the sky.

Then once more, his RWR suite lit up, and a shrill tone in his helmet earphones told him someone was locked on—this time, on him. It wasn't the F-16, who was pointed away from him, but a new threat. A quick glance at the radar showed a new opponent, coming down fast from the northwest. Torchwick snorted; undoubtedly, Dawn 7513 had finally gotten out a radio call, or someone had noticed the dogfight. He doubted that the F-16 pilot had called for help.

He glanced at the F-16. The pilot had popped their speedbrakes again, trying cause an overshoot, but Torchwick was not about to fall for that old trick. His Harrier could stand still in midair, if necessary. He was now close enough to see the tail of his enemy: the lighter gray scheme in contrast to the dark gray of the rear fuselage, the SG tailcode and data block, and most interestingly, the red scythe that covered the rudder and curved over the top of the tail. "Well, Red," he said over the open channel, "I think we can all agree it's been an interesting day. And as much as I'd like to stick around, this is where we part ways." He pressed the trigger, twice.

Two Sidewinders leapt out towards the F-16—he was actually too close for the missiles, as they would be lucky to guide at this range. That was not necessarily what he was after, however: Torchwick let the Sea Harrier fall onto its back, dropped into a dive, and flew out in the opposite direction. The F-16 would be too busy evading the missiles; sure enough, a quick look behind saw the other aircraft in a corkscrew, flares spinning away to decoy missiles that were already lofting away, doggedly but overoptimistically trying to lock onto the sun.

He returned his attention to the RWR, and knew his problems were far from over. The F-16 was no immediate threat, but whatever the second aircraft that was tracking him was. It was closing in, fast, and would be in missile range in seconds.

Torchwick gritted his teeth. "Cinder One, Roman One. I could use some…help." Another look at the RWR display. He had a bad feeling he knew what it was. "I think we have a huntress."

There was no reply, but something flashed by high and to his left. A glimpse of red—a deeper red than the F-16's highlights—and missile trails, four of them, shot from the red aircraft. That should give our friends something to ponder.

All in all, it had not been a very good day after all.

"Unidentified F-16, this is Witch Lead. Break now, chaff!"

2nd Lieutenant Ruby Rose did exactly as ordered, especially as there were two missiles locked onto her F-16. She dove hard, twisted and turned, and punched a button on the side of her throttle. Small aluminium bundles dropped from her aircraft and spread in its slipstream, presenting a bigger radar target. One missile track dropped from her RWR display as that missile began chasing the chaff, but the other doggedly remained locked onto her. She had mere seconds before impact.

Then suddenly, that missile broke away as well. All three curved towards the speck that was Witch Lead, as that pilot switched on their electronic countermeasures—broadcasting enough noise that the enemy missiles, programmed to home on jam, locked on. "Witch Lead, they're on you!"

"I am well aware of that," the voice snapped back. The speck suddenly went into a dance that Ruby could not hope to follow with even her superb vision. It rolled and changed direction at random, punctuated by the occasional flare. The missiles, confused, flew off in every direction, eventually to run out of fuel and crash as they could no longer locate a target.

Witch Lead turned in Ruby's direction, and, to her delight, the speck grew to the shape of a F-22 Raptor. It looked otherworldly—broad fuselage, canted twin tails, engines hidden behind flat vectored nozzles, sharp nose, golden canopy. Even the dark gray splotched camouflage lended the Raptor an alien quality. On the tail, in subdued lettering she could barely read, was the tailcode BN. "Witch Lead to unidentified F-16—"

Ruby broke in. "This is Red One! I'm a flight from Signal to Beacon. I heard a brief distress call from Dawn Airlines Flight 7513, and someone locked onto me! Well, I wasn't taking that, and they were obviously hostile, so—"

"Red One," Witch Lead overrode her, "cut the chatter. Take up position on my right and let's head for Beacon. Dawn 7513 is safe. What is your fuel state?"

Ruby checked her fuel gauge, and went a little pale—more pale—beneath her bright red helmet and black oxygen mask. "Er…my state is joker." She was not much above bingo fuel, what was needed to get to the nearest airfield. Below her was still the Ohio Dead Zone; Beacon was a good three hundred miles off, as the crow, or F-16, flew.

"Roger. Follow me."

Ruby spared a quick look around—for the white Sea Harrier, for whatever had salvoed four missiles at them in one second, then at her empty RWR display and radar scope, then back to the F-22. Witch Lead was staring at her, her purple helmet stark against the Raptor's gold canopy, so Ruby sheepishly dropped back into formation. "Witch Lead, Red One. Can I ask a question?"

"Go ahead, Red One." The voice was irritated, impatient.

"When we get down…can I…can I have your autograph?"