Fate's Wild Card Ch.3

Pryce stares at the pen in his hands, then glances at Ozpin and his people. For a fleeting moment, he imagines using it to attack them—jamming it into Qrow's smug neck or Ozpin's eyes and then try to make a daring run to freedom—and mentally laughs at the intrusive thought.

As if that would ever work against trained Huntsmen. Intrusive thoughts nothing more nothing less, amusing at best.

He looks at the other contract, the one that would have him confess to crimes he actually committed. Fair trial his ass. He's not naïve enough to believe a Faunus would get fair treatment in Vale's courts or any legal system to his knowledge.

So he's left with the only option that won't screw him over, hopefully. With a resigned sigh, he signs the scholarship contract with quick, angry strokes. Almost like he was writing his name in blood.

A little dramatic but that was how it felt to him.

He slams the pen on the table and then gulps down the glass of water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand afterward.

Ozpin nods, that slight smile still playing at his lips. "You've made a wise choice, Mr. Locke. I believe you won't regret this important decision, though I suspect you may disagree at first."

The headmaster then takes the contracts and hands them to Glynda, who tucks them away with clear disapproval still written across her face.

Pryce is already regretting the decision. Becoming a student with all that comes with it—early mornings, homework, teachers, rules—instead of enjoying a long vacation and sleeping in late or going to sleep late. Now he'll be forced to follow way too many rules for his liking.

"Initiation will be in a couple of days, Mr. Locke, so you should prepare yourself for a new chapter in your life," Ozpin says, rising from his chair. "The experience may be... illuminating."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Can I leave?"

Ozpin adjusts his glasses. "Qrow will be your contact during these days. He'll help you fill in some paperwork to smooth over the, shall we say, extemporaneous enrollment."

"Are you serious?" Qrow groans, taking a particularly long drink from his flask. "I hate the whole teaching thing. I'm not a babysitter, Oz."

Glynda also agrees with him, her lips thinning into a straight line. "Qrow wouldn't be a good option. His methods are... unorthodox at best."

Ozpin simply shakes his head. "Yes, it is necessary. Glynda will be occupied with preparations for the upcoming semester."

"Can I leave?" Pryce asks again, more insistently this time, ears flattening against his head in irritation.

Ozpin nods but raises a hand to stop him as he gets up. "Wait, Mr. Locke. First, I must clear everything up so no further problems arise or miscommunications occur."

With that said, both Ozpin and Glynda get up and leave again, the door clicking shut behind them.

Pryce slumps back in his chair, alone with Qrow once more. This time, the silence feels less like a standoff and more like the calm before the storm.

"Well, kid," Qrow finally says, pocketing his flask. "Looks like we're stuck with each other for a few days. Hope you're a fast learner, because Beacon ain't for the faint of heart. Not exactly where I planned to spend my week, babysitting a thief."

Then Qrow moves and grabs a chair, turning it around to sit so he can rest his arms and head on the backrest. His eyes, slightly bloodshot from drinking, fix on Pryce.

"Let me be clear: I don't like you and I will keep an eye on you, but if Ozpin decided to put a little trust in you, then I will extend the same offer. So don't waste it. And trust me, kid—I've seen Oz give chances to people who didn't deserve them, and I've seen how that turns out. Don't make him regret this."

"Yeah, yeah, what do you have to tell me now? Or will you keep trying to intimidate me or something?" Pryce replies, ears flicking with irritation. "I already signed the damn contract. Not like I had much choice."

Qrow sighs and rubs his temple. "Have you fought Grimm before? Like, ever?"

Pryce shakes his head. "No, I've seen some but never fought them. Just watched some videos of hunter teams fighting them. Not exactly something you run into breaking into apartments in downtown Vale or fighting in the streets of Mistral."

"Damn, that will complicate things," Qrow mutters, leaning back slightly. "The initiation isn't a cakewalk, you know. Students die sometimes. Not often, but it happens. And they at least have basic combat training against Grimm."

He looks Pryce up and down with a critical eye. "Do you at least have a mechashift weapon? Something that might give you a fighting chance?"

"Mechashift?" Pryce is pretty confused by that term.

"You're kidding me," Qrow groans. "You've never even—" He cuts himself off, pulls out his weapon and shows him a short-sword. "Pay attention, this might save your life."

With a flick of his wrist and a series of mechanical clicks, it becomes a greatsword before transforming into a scythe and then finally a shotgun, each form shifting smoothly into the next with a shocking precision and speed. "Pretty cool, right? Most Huntsmen carry something like this. Versatile, adaptable for different combat situations."

There's a hint of pride in his voice as he demonstrates the weapon's functionality. "This beauty's gotten me through more fights than I can count. Name's Harbinger."

Pryce watches with genuine interest, his ears perking up despite himself. "That's actually cool, but no, I don't have anything like that. Just a knife and utility grenades." He gestures to his belt that used to have most of his gear that has been confiscated. "Wouldn't need that kind of weapon in my line of work. More about getting in and out without being noticed, not fighting monsters."

"Yeah, well, that approach won't cut it at Beacon," Qrow says, transforming his weapon back to its compact form and returning it to his back. "Stealth has its place, but when a Deathstalker is charging at you, smoke bombs aren't gonna do much."

The drunk man sighs and groans,  dragging a hand across his face. "Yeah, this will be harder than I thought. Oz sure knows how to make my life difficult." He takes another pull from his flask, grimacing at either the taste or the situation—possibly both.

He grabs his chin thoughtfully and then says, "By tomorrow, you need to get a mechashift weapon or at least something capable of killing Grimm. Can't be just any old knife, either—needs some requirements, maybe dust integration if you're any good with that. You can't go into initiation without one—you'd be asking for death, and I don't want to send somebody to their early grave. Even you."

Pryce's eyes widen at what he is implying. "Will you pay for that? Since this whole Beacon thing wasn't exactly my idea?"

"No," Qrow responds flatly.

"Oh come on! That must cost a fortune!" Pryce protests, his ears flattening against his head.

"They aren't THAT expensive, kid. Basic models start at a few thousand lien." Qrow waves dismissively. "Part of being a Huntsman is maintaining your own gear."

"Still, that’s a thousand of lien," Pryce protests, mentally calculating how much of his savings this will eat up. "That's a good chunk of what I've got. I was saving that money for—" He stops himself. No point telling this guy his life plans.

"Welcome to Beacon," Qrow says with a wry smile. "First lesson: being a Huntsman ain't cheap. Neither is staying alive. Consider it an investment in your future."

"Great," Pryce mutters, throwing his arms in exasperation. "So I blow my savings on a fancy weapon just to get killed by some monster in a forest."

"That's the spirit," Qrow replies sarcastically. "Look, I know a few places in Vale that won't rip you off too badly. We'll head there tomorrow, early. I'll make sure you don't buy complete garbage, at least."

Pryce leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "So what's this initiation thing anyway? You keep mentioning it like it's some kind of death trap."

Qrow chuckles, the sound dry and humorless. "That's because it kind of is. Every year, new students get launched into the Emerald Forest. Gotta find a relic, bring it back to the cliffs. Simple, except for all the Grimm trying to kill you along the way."

"Launched? What do you mean launched?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, kid." Qrow makes a flinging motion with his hand. "But I won't reveal too much, you shouldn't have an unfair advantage over the rest of the candidates."

"You are an ass. How is this even legal?"

"Hey, most of these 'kids' have been training their whole lives. Combat schools, private tutors, family traditions—they're prepared." Qrow is trying to study Pryce's reaction. "You're the exception, not the rule."

Pryce's ears flatten against his head. "So I'm completely screwed."

"Not completely." Qrow shifts in his seat, seeming almost uncomfortable with what he's about to say. "Look, you've survived this long on the streets, right? That takes a certain kind of skill. Different from fighting Grimm, sure, but not entirely useless. You're quick, you think on your feet. Most importantly, you've got aura."

"My aura barely blocks a few punches," Pryce grumbles, remembering how much his aura helped against this drunkard.

"Yeah, because you've never trained it properly. And you were just unlucky to face me." He leans forward. "What's your semblance?"

Pryce looks away. "Don't have one."

"Everyone with an unlocked aura has a semblance, kid. You just might not have found yours yet."

"Great, another disadvantage."

Qrow shrugs. "Some people discover theirs under pressure. Nothing like a life-or-death situation to bring out hidden talents."

"That's not reassuring."

"Wasn't trying to be." The huntsman stands up and stretches. "We've got two days to get you somewhat prepared. Get you a weapon, teach you the absolute basics of Grimm fighting, maybe work on your aura control."

Pryce eyes him suspiciously. "Why are you even bothering? You made it pretty clear you don't like me."

Qrow is quiet for a moment, then sighs. "Because Oz sees something in you, and despite everything, I trust his judgment. Usually." He grabs his flask again. "Plus, my nieces are at that school. If you're going to be there too, I'd rather you not get them killed because you couldn't handle yourself, if by some unfortunate chain of events you end up in their team."

The door clicks open and only the headmaster comes back but doesn't enter the room fully, he stands at the door.

"All things have been cleared out, Mr. Locke. You may leave," he says as he turns to walk away, his cane tapping softly against the floor.

"Wait!" Pryce calls out.

Ozpin raises an eyebrow as he turns over his shoulder, seeming mildly surprised.

"Will you pay for my new weapon at least?" Pryce asks, not bothering to hide the demand in his voice because he really doesn't want to spend too much money on that.

Qrow only shakes his head in disapproval but fuck that guy.

Ozpin blinks and chuckles. "How demanding the youth are these days," he murmurs. "Though I suppose it is a reasonable request considering the... unexpected nature of your enrollment."

He pulls out a notepad and places a signature with a flourish.

"At any blacksmith in Vale, hand them this ticket and you will be able to acquire any weapon you want," Ozpin explains, extending the note. "Only one, though. Choose wisely because that weapon will be an extension of you for the foreseeable future. It will become more than a tool—it will be a reflection of who you are and who you might become."

Pryce grins and takes it, trying not to look too eager as he pockets the slip of paper. The small victory feels good after the day he's had.

And then the old man finally leaves, the soft tapping of his cane fading down the corridor.

"Lucky you," Qrow comments dryly. "Bitching getting you far in life already."

"Fuck you. If you'll excuse me, I'll be going to my place to sleep, because yes, even I was able to get my own place to crash." Pryce rolls his neck, ready to finally escape this nightmare of a day.

However, a hand stops him, and Pryce narrows his eyes and glares at the contact. He doesn't like being touched, especially by someone who had him pinned face-first in the dirt hours earlier.

"Here's my scroll number to call me," Qrow quickly says, handing him a small card with a number scrawled on it in messy handwriting. "Make sure to call me tomorrow to get a few more things cleared up. And kid—" his red eyes narrow slightly, "—don't even think about running. Vale's a big city, but not big enough. Got it?"

Pryce takes it and stashes it in his pocket without a word, but his ears flatten against his head in irritation at the threat.

He walks the hallway following the marked direction and heads to the reception counter where a box with all his confiscated belongings is waiting and signs a release form before he finally leaves the station and takes a taxi back to his place in the residential district. It's a somewhat okay zone, not the best but far from the worst. Yes, the taxi ride is expensive, but he doesn't want to waste time waiting for a bus and then walking through streets because the only bus stop is far from his place.

His building is an apartment complex, four stories tall. His apartment is on the third floor, which he reaches by taking the elevator. He unlocks the door with a key hidden in a fake rock he keeps in his pocket—old habits from Mistral die hard.

The apartment is modest—a studio with a kitchenette in one corner, a bed pushed against the wall, and a small table with two mismatched chairs. The bathroom is barely large enough to turn around in. The walls are bare except for a map of Vale with certain locations marked with different colored pins. A secondhand television sits on a wooden crate, and his clothes are neatly folded in plastic storage bins instead of a proper dresser.

Nothing of real value is visible—no expensive electronics, no art, nothing that would paint a target on his back or make it difficult to abandon if heat came down too hard. The only personal touch is a small plant on the windowsill, something green and hardy that doesn't need much care when he's gone for days.

He enters, closes the door behind him, and takes off his gear. First the utility belt, then his sweater and shirt, revealing lean muscles earned from years of climbing buildings and fighting for survival rather than going to those fancy places and gyms. A few scars mark his torso—reminders of lessons learned the hard way on Mistral's unforgiving streets. Not even aura healed those.

However, he stops as his ears perk up and start moving and twitching because he hears footsteps in the hallways and quickly decides that those footsteps are coming to his door.

He slowly approaches the door and looks through the peephole but finds nothing.

And yet the steps stop right in front of his door.

He frowns, suspicious, and reaches for another knife he keeps hidden near the entrance—taped under a small shelf where he throws his keys. His heart rate picks up, adrenaline from earlier in the night making a sudden return. 

Had that woman who hired him tracked him down? Or worse, had Ozpin sent someone to keep an eye on him already?

Slowly, he opens the door, knife held low against his leg, and finds nothing in the hallway which is already strange.

However, a pair of mismatched eyes materializes in front of him.

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AN: Don't worry about the main stories, it is progressing normally, this one just much easier to write and shorter.

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