"Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly."

-Franz Kafka

-CLICK- -CLACK- -CLICK- -CLACK- A constant rhythm of miniature hammers clacked away at a seemingly endless sheet of paper. For a moment, the noises ceased. Following the pause, the cracking of knuckles could be heard before the clicking continued at a pace that made the individual sounds indistinguishable from the others. The pinging sound of the reel resetting itself began to mimic the rhythm that the individual hammers previously made. Once again it stopped. Fingers throbbed from the workload thrusted upon them, but the dull pain was worth the product of his labor. The words were still damp in the sockets stamped into heavy paper. This was not to be read. No. This was a corruption of written word, meant to bring more harm than any other piece conceived by man.

A soothing voice came from behind the user of the typewriter, "Now Roland, show me something even greater. Writer's Block allows you to get as much as you need as fast as you need. That is, as long as you type fast enough." Her finger was angled at the device on her protégé's arm as she spoke, "The lance was great, but I think a sword would still suit you better." She went on. The voice belonged to the Faunus woman that paced beside a high red brick wall. Her thick brown tail hung inches from the ground, flicking around as she thought. A few different shapes popped into her head, but none of them quite fit what she was envisioning for his next construct.

The writer looked back at her with a long ribbon of paper trailing off of the typewriter affixed to his arm. Written along it was a few Mistral fables from memory. Not a single word was misspelled or out of place. He did not need to read over it to find out, for he already knew. The writer, Roland, had to know the words by heart to control them with any kind of prowess, and ensured that he did with the thousands of hours that he spent rehearsing them. "That's easier said than done, mom," he complained to no avail, "I don't have enough ink out to make that."

The woman cursed beneath her breath. Though disappointed with her son's lack of confidence, she understood it. She too had been nervous when mastering her bizarre semblance, and even still became nervous when she pushed her limits. Words were, by nature, rebellious. To wield them, the writer must accept that they are as they are. She knew that he could figure out at least that much. She giggled while straightening his vest and patted the wrinkles out of his ink spotted sleeves, knowing full well that he could overcome this challenge. "You always have enough ink. Don't go on wasting it." She smiled and waved her hand over the sheet, but allowed him to do most of the work. She simply lent her abilities to guide him, but the results were his.

The paper contorted into a three foot long blade running parallel to his arm. It was curved with a razor sharp edge facing away from him. The words condensed into the cutting edge of the newly formed weapon. The corruption was complete. What was once of pen had become of the sword.

He nodded and held the weapon up as if he was about to strike. "I suppose you're right. Minimize ink consumption and give stronger form to the bigger constructs. Use ink grenades for when things get hairy," he listed off the tips that his mother gave him for using his Semblance. All of these were drilled into him starting with the day that he discovered his semblance, "And… it doesn't matter how ridiculous something is, use that string of words to your advantage. Basically, use the cake recipe if I can't remember anything else." What he referred to was an abnormally detailed recipe for a cake that gave the user enough paper and ink to make a reasonably sized construct. For Roland, this was the one piece that could remain in mind even when nothing else would come to him.

"Perfect, though you are forgetting one thing," his mother noted.

His eyes were focused on a nearby oak tree, one of the few that dotted the field that they stood in. Striking it down would be easy, and it would surely have had a place to fall. That would cause his father to be even more disappointed in him, so he restrained himself. His mother's words finally registered in his mind, but he was perplexed. What had been forgotten? Nothing came to mind while slicing the blade off the reel using the built-in paper cutter. "What's that?" He was an effective killer as far as Grimm were concerned. Had a Beowolf been in front of him, he had no doubt that he could take the monstrosity out with ease.

"Enjoy yourself when you fight. You want to be a Huntsman, but you need to do that for yourself as much as you need to for others," she explained while packing up a few textbooks into a worn out satchel, one with an even coating of ink splotches.

The semblance that they shared stuck out in her mind. Sure, they shared so many traits that she was thankful for. Her violet eyes, for instance. They served as a constant reminder that Roland was of her blood. The tail on the other hand, it came with a curse that she had not wished upon him. Still, she had made sure that he cherished his Faunus heritage as much as she did. The semblance, on the other hand, was the greatest gift that she could have given him with her blood.

He gave a fleeting laugh and picked up the mass of paper and ink to begin heading back to his home. That wretched fortress was just beyond the massive brick wall beside the pair. It was only a short walk around to the front gates. "I… don't know that I'll end up taking that route with my life anymore. I could just work for the company. I mean, it wouldn't be bad. That, and Shirley won't let me even train on the grounds unless it's with her. You know how that goes." His stepmother was a full-time Huntress before settling down with his father, but she still took a mission every now and then when she had the time. She held a high standard that Roland, no matter how much he tried, could never reach. Her children, Ahab and Dante, were always able to outshine him in every way. Humans, the both of them.

"Don't talk like that. Believe in yourself and love yourself, and you'll find the way," but this little flash of optimism fell on deaf ears. She knew that she couldn't say anything to change his mind. He was stubborn like that. He got that from his father. Instead, she decided to refrain from telling him exactly what to do. It wasn't her place.

Only the crunching of grass could be heard over the silence between the two Faunus. No words, no signals, no communication. There was a certain strained peacefulness that surrounded them. When they reached the gates, Roland went on and put in the code to get in. They came open with a high, ear piercing creak, but the silence quickly settled back between them.

"Thanks," Roland finally told her, "I'll keep pushing on because you're the one that comes around to coach me." He stopped and turned to face her as the gates swung closed again. Through the bars, he actually mustered a smile. "I love you, mom," those odd words came from his mouth accompanied by a sigh of relief. Maybe he could make it as a Huntsman. She sure thought that he could.

Her mouth turned up in a smile while she waved goodbye. "I love you too. Stay safe!" she called to him and began walking towards one of the two motorcycles parked by the garden tucked into the curved brick wall that connected to the gate. She hopped onto a royal purple motorbike. Unlike Roland's older café style bike, hers was sleeker and required the rider to lean forwards.

"Don't hesitate to visit while Shirley is out of town!" and with that, she zipped down the road back to Mistral.

Roland began making the trek up the hill on a path lined with violet alliums and crimson roses. Atop that hill was a white brick building surrounded by marble columns. The sun was low enough to turn the sky to various shades of yellow, pink, orange, and purple, and the pristine white of the mansion reflected those hues back out. Unfortunately, this tremendous home was more of a prison to him. This was also the home of his wardens: a hateful stepmother, two half siblings, one a merciless bully and one a bystander, and a weak-willed father. Being a "dirty" Faunus, he had the western wing of the structure to himself. Every bone in his body told him to run, but his curfew said that he should've been in there an hour ago.

His eyes narrowed on the mansion. Today was different. His decision to follow a sense of rebellion had been made. His stepmother wasn't going to win, nor was she there to stop him from leaving if he wanted to. He glanced back at the gates. His own, lighter purple motorcycle was parked beside where his mother's was. The geometric pen nib spray painted on the front served to mark it as his own. "Screw it," he put in the code to the gates once again, "I will visit her place while Shirley isn't around."

As soon as they opened, he hopped on the bike and sped off towards Haven. Sure, it would be a surprise to his mother, but she had been the one to invite him. Sure, she probably didn't expect him to come immediately, but she certainly wouldn't complain. She would be willing to cover for him when his father came knocking, if he even did in the first place.

The trip to Mistral didn't take too long. Purples and oranges still mingled within the darkening of the sky. It couldn't have been past eight o'clock. He called his mother to let her know that he was arriving in the city and was heading over, but he received no answer.

Again he called, but no answer. "What's going on?" he whispered to himself. She was probably just cooking. She did have a habit of accidentally contorting the ink on food labels, so perhaps she was concentrating on fixing it. That's ridiculous, of course she's not. She doesn't know that I'm coming, so she's not going to cook much, he thought while calling again. No answer. He doubled his speed and reached the rundown apartment complex in a matter of a few minutes.

His heart pounded in his chest. Something wasn't right. This place was where a lot of Faunus made their homes, and they tended to make a lot of noise. Not even a murmur could be heard from the parking lot. No greeting from someone hearing him pull in, no music vibrating his chest as he approached, and no sound of an argument unfolding down one of the halls. There was something else wrong. There was a subtle metallic smell in the air. "Is that… blood…?"

While replacing his helmet with his wide brimmed hat, he ran straight for the stairwell. The smell was stronger here, but it now seemed more fleshy and organic. It had to be blood, and a lot of it. Every door was shut. Not a soul could be seen in the halls. Normally he could hear kids playing ball on the court out back, but not now. All that he could hear was some bird cawing in the distance.

"Hel-" he covered his own mouth to keep from making noise. If someone or something came for these people, then he didn't want them to know that he was there. Sanctum taught him that a Huntsman could maximize the survival rate of innocents if they could take out the enemy without them knowing that they were there. Sticking to those lessons was the only thing keeping him from panicking. It somehow made it all feel less real.

Somewhere down the hall before him, he could hear a window sliding open. It was in the direction of his mother's room, and upon reaching it he found that door was open. The smell from inside was fresher than the rest. "Mom! Answer me!" He scrambled for the door, not caring that his steps might be heard. He slid into the doorframe only to find the grisly scene. His mother was lying face down in a pool of her own blood. Her tail was disconnected from her, and had been thrown to the other side of the room. Her eyes were frozen in a hollow gaze of helpless fear.

Roland backed up and fell against the adjacent door. His mind couldn't process what was happening. There was no way that this was happening. It was a dream. Yeah, that's what it was, a dream. It had to be. There was no way that his mother had been killed. She was a trained warrior, after all. The best on her team. The leader of her team. She couldn't be killed. She was safe in her apartment. She was cooking.

He didn't notice the tears streaming down his cheeks, or how badly his legs shook. He couldn't think beyond what he had just witnessed. "It's fine. Everything is okay. I'll come back when she's around. She's probably just out getting groceries." Denial of what was happening felt better than the alternative. Losing her wasn't an option. She couldn't just die like that.

Going home and apologizing to his father and stepmother would be the easiest thing to do. He would just call the next day and check on his mother. She would surely answer that time. To his dismay, a murderous caw brought him back to reality.

Maybe a bird? No chance. This was bigger. He ran to the end of the hallway that connected to the parking lot to investigate. A mid-sized Nevermore soared overhead, seemingly focused on the complex that he occupied. It screeched as it took a nosedive, forcing Roland to retreat farther back into the hall. The monstrosity landed dead center in the parking lot, facing him. This was a protected city. How did it get in? "Negativity…" he whispered while staring down the roaring bird.

I can't do this. He projected his rage onto the bird. He couldn't deny what was happening. It wasn't a choice of whether or not he would fight. He had to. His mother was dead, and this thing was the only thing that he could inflict every ounce of his hate upon. Pings began coming from his left arm. He hadn't even realized that he was typing. The instincts of a Huntsman kicked into action, and so he had begun writing. The Nevermore's head was wedged into the hallway, snapping its beak only a few feet away from him, and he locked eyes with it in defiance. The words that were making their way across Writer's Block's reel of paper were made for this monstrosity.

"You think that you can just come here out of the blue, huh…?" He growled. Fingers flew about keys. The reel reset itself over and over, faster and faster. In a matter of seconds, three feet of paper and ink was produced. It was the cake recipe that his mother drilled into his head. It was detailed to the point of being ridiculous, but it was getting the job done. The noises stopped, and the paper contorted into a blade identical to the curved blade that his mother made. It was razor sharp and came to a microscopic point. Rage fueled the preciseness of this blade. Hatred was about to guide it.

"Well, you're wrong." He pulled off a black frag grenade of his belt and hurled it at the Nevermore's open mouth. It exploded into a mist of ink, but condensed into a sticky black web within the creature's mouth and caused it to slam closed. "You need to keep quiet while I put an end to you," his voice rang out with raw hate and murderous intent behind it.

Rushing the beast as it pulled its head out wasn't the best idea, but it didn't seem too bad while blinded by rage. It attempted to crane its head up, but a wave of his hand sent it plunging to the ground from the tug of ink in its beak. "DON'T YOU DARE TRY TO LEAVE!" he screamed while driving his blade into the beak of the Nevermore. The muffled screech and flapping of wings said that it had to have hurt. His blade came out with a wet pop as he prepared to drive it in again. At the apex of his strike, the wing of the monstrosity slammed into his middle.

He fell to his bottom, the strike making him lose his balance and focus. The ink inside the Nevermore's beak liquified once again. The toll that was being taken on his aura was immense. His blade wasn't taking up much of it, but sustaining a large mass of straight ink certainly was. Still, he found the strength to keep fighting. Despite the ache in his middle, he stood and rushed it once again. This time, he sliced at the thing with no direction or purpose other than harming it. Being liberated, the Nevermore pecked at him and made an effort to kill its attacker. It finally got its chance and made a quick jab into Roland's sternum.

The strike sent him flying into a nearby car. The car alarm nearly drowned out the beeping coming from his pocket. It was his scroll, probably telling him that his aura levels were getting low. Upon touching his chest, he felt a stabbing pain. His newly cracked sternum wasn't healing.

"Try and hurt me, huh?" Roland pulled himself up and spat blood on the ground. His aura was failing. I can't hold out for very long, he thought, but then quickly pushed the worry to the back of his mind. "No." His fists clenched and his ink suddenly became much denser than before. His anger was fueling him now. His aura was going to accommodate him whether it liked it or not.

"I WILL KILL YOU!" he screamed while dashing towards the Grimm that was at least three times his size. He batted away the feathers flying at him with the flat of his blade. His heart thumped harder as he neared the thing and buried the blade deep in its breast. It writhed, unable to move its head from the spot that he held it in with ink.

The beast slowly stopped moving and began to fade to what looked like soot flying up to join the clouds. What he had just pulled off was incredible, but it came at a serious cost. He collapsed with a trail of blood leaking from his mouth and nose. His aura lost its protective properties as soon as he began pushing it with the preciseness of his blade and using so much ink to force a creature of that size down. The blade flopped down in a mass of paper and ink as his aura bottomed out. The web of ink from the Nevermore's mouth made a puddle on the asphalt.

He was in disbelief. Had he really just killed a Grimm like that on his own? It was probably the rush of adrenaline that helped him hold on long enough to do it, but it still was as if his body switched into autopilot. His thoughts slowly became more clouded until everything finally went black.

Roland awoke with a start. It was morning. He was in his bed, covered up by layers of violet sheets and quilts. He felt feverish, but it seemed that his fever had already broken in his sleep. Just as soon as he could, he pushed the covers off of him and onto the floor. What had happened to him?

He gazed up at the ceiling, only to feel the cold press of wet rag against his head. A glance to the right showed him that a woman in all red was sitting in a chair next to his bed. Her blood red hair flowed over the armored shoulders of her crimson dress. This woman was the reason that he hated the color red,

She began what Roland saw as a pitiful attempt at sympathy, "Roland, you're awake. I was so worried that-"

"Get out," Roland croaked. He attempted to sit up, but his body wouldn't allow it, "Get out of my room now, Shirley."

She tried to keep her act up, "Roland, I was just so worried about you. You're my stepson. I love you. I was concerned for your li-"

"I SAID NOW," he shouted at her. If she hadn't complied that time, then he would have screamed at her even more. Thankfully, he didn't have to.

A throbbing pain came from the center of his chest, but he forced himself to get up and get dressed anyway. The way to the kitchen was painful. He thought that maybe he'd at least find his father there making breakfast as he always did. Instead, he found him sitting on a barstool by the counter, fast asleep.

His father still wore his business attire, but it was wrinkled and disheveled as if he'd worn it for days. Beside him sat a bottle of fine sake that was three-fourths empty. If Roland hadn't known better, then he might have mistaken his father for a hobo. His bloodshot eyes shot open as if on instinct as soon as Roland stepped in.

"Roland!" He shot to his feet and ran to his son. He latched onto his shoulders and looked him over. His breath reeked of alcohol, "You're okay! Thank goodness. You've been asleep for three-"

His son cut him off. "What the hell happened?" his voice was low and quiet. He was starting to remember, but it was still all hazy. "Mom, is she…?"

"I'm so sorry. No one knows exactly what happened. The police are still investigating the murders. I'm just thankful that you're alive." His father spouted off. There wasn't even a moment's thought put into his words. That, or he was avoiding mentioning his mother directly all together.

But it was true. None of it was dreamt up. Roland felt a knot form in his stomach. Why had this happened to him? How could someone just kill all of those people? He had heard of violence against Faunus, but never so locally or on this… scale.

His thoughts were broken as another voice came from the dining area. A man, a Huntsman, had graced the Wells estate with his presence. His unwanted, unappreciated, and unwelcome presence, "Care to tell me how you stayed conscious long enough to do what you did?"

Roland turned to face a sandy haired man leaning against the china cabinet. He hadn't even noticed him before, but seeing him instantly set something off in his mind. Hate. The latent hate that still resided in his mind lasered in on the newcomer, "I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't really care. Get out of my home."

"Oh boy…" The man shook his head. He seemed displeased with the answer that he was given, but not particularly surprised. "I'll excuse the not-so-warm welcome. I'm still gettin' paid either way," his grin showed off his less than perfect teeth. That was to be expected with a Huntsman, though that didn't make them any less repulsive, "You ever heard of Beacon Academy?"