RWBY YA Novel #3 Page 8

  Even an imaginary friend is better than no friend at all, and Neo had been so much more to Trivia. Now she was gone.

  I’m right where I’ve always been, said a voice in Trivia’s head. The only voice Trivia had was her internal monologue, the one that said things she couldn’t say aloud. Neopolitan had always been that other voice who told her what to do, who comforted her when she was sad and alone, who always knew what she was thinking and what she truly wanted deep down.

  Dr. Mazarin had often talked to Trivia about Neo, trying to make her understand that her imaginary friend was very real—to her—but that she was also a part of her. Unlike Papa and Mama, Dr. Mazarin hadn’t wanted Trivia to send her away or pretend she didn’t exist. She had said Neo would leave one day when Trivia was ready. When she wasn’t needed anymore.

  Oh, I’m not going anywhere, Neo said. Just try to get rid of me.

  She sounded like Trivia. She had always looked like Trivia too, the way she wished she could be. Neopolitan represented everything Trivia didn’t have: the freedom to express herself. The carefree spirit to do whatever she wanted.

  Trivia smiled. She took in a deep breath. She felt complete for the first time.

  She felt like herself.

  Get up.

  Trivia hopped lightly to her feet. She thought she would be shaky and weak, but she had flawless balance. She felt strong.

  “I never want to see that thing again,” Papa said. “Do you hear me?!”

  Trivia pretended to wince and covered her ears. She rolled her eyes. Obviously. I’m mute, not deaf.

  Papa glared at her in astonishment. She hadn’t said a word, but she had clearly communicated her disdain.

  He stomped toward her and raised a hand to hit her. “You little—”

  “Jimmy!” Mama said.

  Trivia put her hands on her hips and locked eyes with him. She raised an eyebrow and smiled, daring him to touch her.

  He scowled and walked away. She heard one of his cars start and drive off, before the sirens and heavy boots on gravel drowned out the sound.

  “It’s clear that you don’t want to be a part of this family anymore. Maybe you never did,” her mother said. “You would rather burn it to the ground than stay here.”

  Trivia licked her lips. Without her Scroll, her communication boards, she couldn’t respond. If she could even find the words for what she was feeling.

  “So be it,” her mother went on.

  Trivia grabbed her mother’s arm, but Mama shrugged her off.

  “We can’t do anything more for you. We don’t know what you need. But there’s one place that might be able to help. Train you to be a better person.” She stroked Trivia’s cheek and brushed a lock of hair from her pink eye. She seemed surprised by what she saw in her daughter’s face. “Help you become a whole person.”

  Trivia’s heart raced. They’re sending me away? Where?

  That’s all Trivia had ever wanted, to be someplace where she fit in. Where she could be herself. Where she didn’t have to listen to her parents or hide what she could do.

  “Maybe you’ll even make some friends. Real ones. And learn how to control yourself. Get a handle on your …” She waved her hand in the air, to indicate Trivia’s Semblance.

  The hope Trivia had felt died. Her mother wasn’t offering her freedom. She was just sending her to a different prison.

  “At least you won’t have much to pack.” Her mother laughed harshly. She nodded absently and then left to talk to the firefighters, leaving Trivia alone by the garden with smoke in the sky and fire in her chest.

  Coming to the city of Vale was the best decision Roman had ever made. The place was full of rubes. If he had grown up on these streets, he never would have had to fall in with a crime lord like Lil’ Miss Malachite in the first place. Anyone with natural talent, a devious mind, lofty ambition, and bankrupt morals could take, take, take whatever they wanted.

  In other words: him. Roman could feel it. He was home.

  The only thing standing in his way was the fact that the police had a much lower tolerance for criminals than Mistral did. Apparently it had some kind of reputation to uphold as a light to other Kingdoms throughout Remnant, blah blah blah. To be honest, Roman had stopped paying attention to his real estate agent as she bragged about the low crime rates, good schools, and thriving art and music scene downtown. He just wanted to be in the middle of the action.

  “It’s impressive, isn’t it?” His agent, Ms. Burgundy, joined him at the window of the penthouse suite she was showing him. “This is the best view of Beacon Academy anywhere in the city.”

  Roman squinted at it. “Architecture seems a bit outdated.”

  “We call it classic, in my line of work. I always thought it seemed magical, like something out of a storybook.” She sighed. “I always dreamed of going to Beacon Academy.”

  “You wanted to be a Huntress?”

  “Doesn’t every kid want to grow up to be a Huntsman or Huntress?”

  Only in my nightmares, he thought.

  “I’m guessing that didn’t work out,” he said.

  Her face fell. “No. I washed out of combat school.”

  “It isn’t for everyone. You have to play to your strengths. And if you’re lucky, you realize exactly what you want, what you’re destined for—and you grab it.” He made a fist and clenched it.

  “I guess real estate was my true calling.” She laughed.

  “I guess so. I’ll take it.”

  Her face lit up. “You will? Don’t you want to know how much it costs?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Because I know what I want.” He winked at her. She giggled.

  In fact, he knew exactly how much it cost, and it was going to wipe out his illicit savings—even though of course he’d avoided paying for his passage from Mistral and food along the way. But Roman believed in going big, and he needed that incentive to get out there and get to work. Nothing motivated you more than hunger.

  Going to work meant learning the ins and outs of every neighborhood—essentially casing it out for criminal opportunities. He knew a little bit about the players in Vale, thanks to Lil’ Miss, but he needed to see how they controlled their territory. Figure out how to exploit their weaknesses. Then take over their operations.

  So Roman played the tourist. He walked around the city. Visited businesses. Picked out the crooks. Asked subtle questions. He watched. He studied. He planned.

  And when he was ready, he made his first move. He could have started small by robbing a grocery store or stealing a car, but that’s what any penny-ante crook would do. That wasn’t Roman, not anymore—not here. So his plan was to hold up the First Bank of Vale.

  A little fish in a big ocean could still make a big splash. Particularly when the ruling crime syndicates thrived by staying under the radar.

  He set out for the bank early on his seventh day in Vale with a spring in his step. He had empty pockets and an empty stomach, but not for long.

  On a busy weekday morning just before lunch hour, the sidewalks were crammed with people going about their business—which made it easier for Roman to go about his business.

  As he passed a kid walking while reading his Scroll, Roman stuck his cane out to trip him. Then he whirled and caught the hapless pedestrian before he ate pavement.

  “Whoa. Thanks! That was clumsy of me,” the boy said.

  “My pleasure.” Roman tipped his hat. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too!”

  On the next block, without breaking stride, Roman plucked out the cash from the wallet he’d lifted from his mark and tossed the wallet in a trash bin. At some point, when the kid reached for the wallet in his coat pocket, he’d come up with Roman’s calling card, imprinted with the words I WAS ROBBED BY ROMAN TORCHWICK.

  Roman used the money to buy breakfast—not every transaction had to be illegal—and picked up a little extra money picking some more pockets. It might have seemed greedy to steal from innocent people when he w
as planning to make a big withdrawal from the bank, but it made a good warm-up, and taking advantage of people always put a smile on his face.

  There it was. The First Bank of Vale, another example of “classic” architecture. The tall columns lining the front entrance and large stained-glass windows gave the two-story building a grandiose appearance. That was one of the biggest differences between Vale and Mistral. In Vale, they chose form over function, perhaps because they had the luxury of more territory to spread out over.

  That was it: luxury. Everything in the city was planned and intentional, from the clean sidewalks and paved streets to the buildings reaching for the sky. Whereas in Mistral, you built wherever you could, and cities were defined more by accident than intent. Alleys were more trafficked than roads, at least by those who worked best under the cover of darkness.

  In that sense, Vale and Mistral were like mirrors of each other, one a place of openness and light, the other a place of secrecy and shadows.

  Of course Roman knew that in both cases, it was all just a facade, just as it was with people. Every place, and every person, existed in an equilibrium between light and dark, good and evil. He had been walking that line his whole life, and that was why he would succeed here as much as he had back in Mistral. More so, because he wouldn’t have anyone holding him back.

  Roman opened the front door of the bank and held it for an elderly woman just leaving.

  “Oh, thank you, young man. Such a gentleman.”

  Roman grinned. “My pleasure. Have a nice day.”

  “You too.”

  Oh, I will, Roman thought as he entered the building. He had been here before already, to take pictures with his Scroll, which he had scrutinized for several days, along with the blueprints he had copied at the city planning office.

  He got into the short line of customers and sized up the situation. It was just after noon, so only two of the six teller windows were open, the others out on their lunch break. There were only two security guards, positioned at the bank entrance and beside the vault in a cage behind the teller windows. Roman counted four cameras: one fixed on the teller windows, one fixed on the vault, and two scanning the entire room angled to capture both the entrance and the customer service area. Another bank employee was seated at a desk on the side. And all told, there were about a dozen customers, half of them in line with Roman.

  He took a deep breath. You got this, Roman.

  When it was his turn at the head of the line, he was directed to window six. He was a bit surprised to be greeted by a Faunus man with pointed black dog ears jutting from his lanky black hair.

  “Good afternoon. Thank you for choosing First Bank. How can I help you today?” the man asked.

  Roman put his cane on the counter and rested both hands atop it.

  “I would like all of your money, please.”

  The man stared at him. “Ha, good one,” he said, a mildly puzzled look on his face.

  Roman looked back at him and didn’t say a word.

  “Wait. Seriously?” His eyes flicked to one of the security guards. “Are you robbing the bank?”

  “That’s the general idea. So come on, make it snappy.”

  “Shouldn’t you have, like, a mask or something? To hide your identity?”

  “You watch a lot of movies.”

  “I do, yeah.”

  “Well, thanks for your concern, but I’m good. I know what I’m doing.”

  “There hasn’t been a bank robbery in the city in, like, forever. Hey, do you have a gun?”

  Roman looked around. “Is he kidding me with this?” He read the name on the teller’s name badge. “Fred, let me guess: You’re new here.”

  Fred bobbed his head. “I am! This is my first job. I just graduated in the spring.”

  “Congratulations,” Roman said dryly. “Look, just hand over the money.”

  The kid looked at him expectantly.

  Roman rolled his eyes. “And nobody gets hurt.”

  Fred smiled. Then the smile faded and he leaned closer to the counter and whispered conspiratorially. “I’m not supposed to.”

  “Of course you’re not supposed to!” People looked at him when he raised his voice. He calmed himself down. “That’s why this is a robbery.”

  Fred leaned back. “Ohhhhhhh. Right.”

  “Could you move a little faster? Kind of in a hurry here.” Roman glanced back at the guard. The guard was watching him now. Great.

  Roman picked up his cane and flipped the gun side up.

  The teller looked at it curiously.

  “Is that …” His eyes widened. “He has a gun!” He ducked under the counter.

  Roman sighed. Then he turned and pointed his cane up. “Good afternoon! This is a holdup. Everyone drop to the floor and don’t move.”

  About half of the customers looked up in panic, while the others ignored him. The security guard by the door pulled an earbud out of his ear and headed for Roman, fumbling for his gun.

  “Hellooooo? This is not a drill.” Roman fired. With a bang, fireworks shot out of the tip of his cane and a moment later, pieces of the ceiling drifted downward.

  That got everyone’s attention. Several people screamed and rushed toward the door. No one dropped to the floor like he had demanded.

  “Why doesn’t anyone ever listen?” In Mistral, people knew how to be robbed. It must have been a more common occurrence there than it was in Vale. Mistral banks didn’t even care about it anymore, since insurance covered everything, and sometimes they were even complicit with the crooks—their way of getting out of paying protection money. That’s why the gangsters in Mistral called robberies “economic stimulus.” Who cared whether the people spending the money were citizens or crooks? It was all good for business, as long as the money stayed in Mistral.

  The guard broke into a run and drew his gun. He planted himself and crouched, exactly the way an action hero would in a movie. He trained his gun on Roman. “Drop the weapon!”

  Roman lowered his cane and leveled it at the guard. It was a good old-fashioned showdown. From the corner of his eye, Roman noted the other guard leaving his post at the vault to try to sneak up on him. All four security cameras were now trained on the unfolding action.

  “Don’t make me shoot,” the guard said.

  “Do your worst,” Roman replied.

  The guard squeezed the trigger. Roman lunged with his cane and tapped the side of the gun to push it slightly to the left, as he also moved a step to the right. The shot missed Roman and glass broke somewhere behind him.

  Roman flicked his cane up, knocking the gun out of the guard’s hand. It flew, hit the marble floors, and skittered away.

  “That really was your worst,” Roman said. “Unless that was your best.”

  He swiveled his cane around, hooking the man’s wrist with the curved handle. He pulled the guard toward him and kicked his stomach at the same time. Bone snapped as the guard’s wrist and a rib broke. The man spun away from the impact, screaming in agony before landing in a heap. He curled up on himself and continued wailing.

  “Shut up!” Roman aimed his gun—

  “Freeze!”

  Roman turned toward the second guard.

  “Teaching moment. If you’d shot me instead of yelling—” Roman broke off and fired, hitting the guard’s hand. He dropped the gun with a yelp.

  These guys were lightweights. It was a wonder the city hadn’t been taken over by crime lords by now.

  Roman was already starting to like it here.

  The guard raised his hands in the air, the universal sign of “I’m in way over my head.”

  “Now.” Roman hopped onto the counter and leaned over it, pressing the tip of his cane to Fred’s head. The boy looked like he was finally ready to take the whole situation seriously. “My. Money.”

  Roman turned slowly, pointing his gun at all the customers, who were finally lying on the floor facedown with their hands on the backs of their heads. Everyone seemed to h
ave seen the same movies about bank robberies. What a time saver.

  “In fact, that goes for everyone. I’m going to collect all your money. Wallets. Jewelry. Scrolls. Spare change. Come on, empty your pockets. If you have chewing gum, I want that, too.”

  Roman spoke to the second guard. “I want all the cash in the vault, too. Take those three with you.” Roman gestured to two women and a young boy.

  The guard and the others climbed to their feet uncertainly.

  Roman cocked the gun again. They hurried off.

  Roman heard sirens in the distance. Vale’s finest in blue were on their way.

  Roman pointed to another bank employee. “You. Lock the doors.”

  “At least let the people out,” the man said.

  “Relax, you’ll all be fine, as long as I get my money.” He looked at the clock above the door. “The service here is terrible.”

  Before the banker could lock the door, it opened and two people walked in: a man with long silver hair and a woman with no hair at all. They were dressed for a fight. The man’s sleeveless shirt was made of bands of silver; matching silver bands around his wrists were bright against his dark skin. He had a belt loaded with small pouches and his loose-fitting pants had many pockets. Combat boots with steel toes completed the ensemble.

  His bald companion was outfitted in a black tank top and short red jacket, crisscrossed with bandoliers loaded with dust vials. She had a pleated leather skirt over black leggings and mud-spattered, red high-tops. Iridescent lines spiraled down each of her cotton-white arms.

  Huntsmen.

  The pair took a moment to assess the situation—they clearly had walked in unaware that there was a robbery in progress.

  “We’re closed,” Roman said. “Come back later.”

  “What’s going on here?” the man said. The woman assumed a fighting stance, holding what looked like a kid’s slingshot.

  “You’re cute, but you’re slow, Roch,” she said.

  He retrieved a metal rod from his belt. One end of the weapon had rows of wicked spikes on it, and the other end had three flexible claws. He pressed a button and the rod extended to his height. The claws opened and closed.