RWBY: Siblings Three (Malereader)

Burying The Hatchet

Y/n killed the Thorn's engine, the sudden silence feeling heavier than the growl that had preceded it. He didn't look at Weiss as he dismounted, his boots crunching on the gravel. "Stay close. Don't speak unless you have to."

Weiss nodded, her grip on Myrtenaster's hilt tightening. The day's ride had been spent in near-total silence, the wind and the engine her only companions. The man in front of her was a stranger. His every gesture etched with a lethal competence that was both impressive and terrifying.

The bar was a shabby, weather-beaten structure hunched at a lonely crossroads, its sign creaking on rusted chains.

He pushed the door open, the hinges whining in protest. The interior was exactly as seedy as the exterior promised: dim, smoky, and smelling of stale beer and despair. A handful of rough-looking patrons, traders, hunters, and the kind of people who didn't like questions glanced up from their drinks. Their eyes, wary and assessing, lingered on Y/n's altered coat and the weapons hidden beneath it, then flicked to Weiss, her disheveled but obviously expensive clothes marking her as an outsider.

Y/n ignored them all. He made his way to a table with a heavy-set blonde woman. "As I live 'n breathe, is that Y/n? I thought you were dead and gone, don't tell me you found another broker, can't have that."

Y/n didn't sit. He stood over the table, his shadow falling across the woman's face. The low hum of conversation in the bar died down completely, every patron now openly watching the confrontation. "Miss Malachite, I need help finding someone."

"Oh, sweetie, anything for you, just give me a name, description, and I'll find them ASAP." She took a slow sip from her glass, her gaze drifting pointedly to Weiss, who stood stiffly a few paces behind Y/n. "And you've brought a... companion. A Schnee, unless I'm mistaken. Business must be good."

"Chris Jarson," Y/n said, the name dropping into the silent room like a shard of ice. "The Black Badger. Where is he?"

A nervous titter went through the crowd. That name carried weight, the kind that got people buried.

"Sweetie, information on the Jarson patriarch... that's not a product. That's a death sentence." She shook her head, a mockery of sympathy on her broad face. "That's family business. Messy. Bad for my health. Why would I risk the ire of a man like that? His business is... robust."

"Because his business stock is about to plummet. Look, I'm not going to threaten you, I respect what you've built, and we've been...amicable for a while, I just need the info. I have the Lien."

Lil' Miss Malachite's jovial facade didn't just crack. It evaporated. The air in the seedy bar grew thick enough to chew on. Patrons deliberately looked away, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the wood in their tabletops or the bottom of their glasses. The name 'Chris Jarson' was a curse, a ghost story told in whispers, and this young man had just shouted it in a room full of people who valued their breathing.

She set her glass down with a sharp clink, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. Her eyes, previously twinkling with avarice, were now flat and hard as chips of flint. "Respect is a currency, boy. And you're asking me to spend all of mine in one place, then set the bank on fire." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial rasp that only he and Weiss could hear. "You think Lien is what matters here? Do you think I care about your money when the price for that information could be my organization, my people, my life?"

"I don't care if you tell me, I only came here because it was on the way, I know he's in Mistral, I just wanted confirmation." He turned around, pushing the bar door open.

The bar door swung shut behind them, cutting off the stunned silence and the weight of Lil' Miss Malachite's unspoken fears. The bright, mundane sunlight of the crossroads felt alien after the bar's oppressive gloom.