Foreword - And here it is! The long awaited (by me) story that I've teased on and off for a while now. Now that I've returned from my numerous activities over the course of the summer months, I'm back in business. Later this month I will be returning to school at University of Portland to complete my masters' degree in sociology, as well as taking up a new job (albeit nothing as exciting as teaching college students).

Oh yeah, I'm also getting married next month. Fun times all around.

Oh yeah oh yeah, my fiancee is also pregnant. Oops.

Regardless of how clusterfuck-y my life is at this moment, I hope you all enjoy a fic that I've been wanted to write for a while; it's a topic and characters that I love, a style that I and my readers seem to enjoy and plenty of plans for fun stuff. Don't expect a lot of seriousness from this one - it's a lot of humor, crazy action and some of my style of fluff, and I can't wait to get it out to you guys.

Enjoy :)

Chapter 1

The streets of Vale were just beginning to flood with their morning rush of business as the doors of the coffee shop off of Andersmith Boulevard opened its doors. A lazy line of customers streamed in and out, taking their coffee and running in most cases, but with a few choosing to stop and enjoy the beverages while awaiting the inevitable monotony of their work days. The bell chimed, as it did every time a customer entered. The clerk looked up, a cheerful smile on his youthful face.

"Welcome to 'Brewed Awakenings,' sir, how may I help you today?"

The fellow on the other side of the counter was plainly dressed, a simple black collared shirt and blazer, matched by equally dark pants, a grey belt and a black hat with a red band. A single grey feather rose from where it was tucked into the hat, standing at attention. The man leaned easily on a long metal hook cane, and smiled easily from beneath a pair of emerald eyes. He lazily pushed a few strands of well-groomed orange hair out of his face before screwing up his face in indecision.

"Ah well, let's see… a tall espresso - the Vacuan dark roast with… screw it, let's do two shots today." Again, the man flashed a set of brilliant white teeth and shifted his weight.

The clerk nodded cheerfully and returned the smile, turning to punch the transaction into the register. "Excellent sir, that'll be six twenty-nine, and will that be for here or to go?" He looked back up and yelped involuntarily at the sight of a gun muzzle poking out from beneath the man's blazer.

"I'll take it to go, please," the man said easily. The clerk drew in breath and held it as the gun muzzle twitched. The man in the jacket clucked his tongue. "No need to go making a scene, pal. Just take everything out of that register and put it in one of those cup holders. Pass it across the counter nice and easy, alright?" The clerk moved a little too suddenly and the man tensed before the clerk gave an uneasy laugh.

"Ha, good joke sir, really funny. Sure, of course you can have a bag with your scone." Cooperating for his own sake, the clerk opened the register and began shoveling cash as inconspicuously as possible into a plastic bag. He threw a scone into the bag as well, smiling nervously as he did so. "You have a good day sir," he said as he passed the well-armed customer his order.

The man sighed. "I said in the tray, but I suppose this will have to do." Now, you feel free to call the cops in about two minutes - a second before that and I'll pay you a visit one of these nights… mister Sienna."

Bidding the clerk his adieu, he slid the gun back into his blazer and stepped out into the morning sunlight, whistling a tune as he made his way down the street. Stopping by a phone booth on the roadside, he reached in and withdrew a heavy jacket. Pulling it around himself, he stepped back out, removed his hat and lowered his head, walking at a regular pace down the busy street. The distant sound of sirens swelled and a pair of police interceptors sped past, heading to the crime scene. The man scoffed. If the cops in his city had a lick of sense, they'd have set up a perimeter instead of bolting straight for a scene where their suspect most certainly wasn't.

A ten minute walk saw the man stepping through his apartment door, on the fourth floor of a four-story building, setting his coffee down on the counter and sighing contentedly as he slid out of his jacket first and then his blazer. He withdrew the scone from his bag and stuck it in the corner of his mouth, emptying the bag's other contents onto a round coffee table. Coins scattered and he brushed crumbs off the lien notes - ones, fives, tens and twenties. He smiled at the take. Nothing bountiful, but certainly not light. He smiled and took a bit of the scone, slugging down a mouthful of coffee and reaching into his pocket for a lighter and a cardboard pack. He tapped out a cigarette and stuck one end in his mouth, lighting it quickly and dragging for a long moment. Nicotine, caffeine and adrenaline mingled and a rush of euphoria set him tingling from head to toe.

It was a good day to be Roman Torchwick.

Bron Haler chewed the end of his cigar discontentedly as his eyes roved over the young woman before him. She was closely inspecting the scroll he had handed her, mismatched eyes moving silently over the holographic screen. Her thumb swiped occasionally, cycling through the photographs stored on the piece of technology.

"He's bad for business," Bron said, his voice a hearty basso rumble fringed with a touch of rasp from the tobacco he had allowed himself with for years. "He's intelligent, clever, belligerent and worst of all, confident. He knows he's good, and he's been inspiring a whole new wave of people to walk away from my organization." He leaned forward, his massive bulk filling the space. "People may not realize it, but I am at war. The Xiongs are going to see the sudden rush of people moving out of my organization and starting up independently, and they are going to press their advantage. Hui Xiong is a brutal man, but a well-known lout, and I will not surrender all that I have spent years building just because some upstart decided to hop off his ship at the first sign of land.

He settled back, crossing his arms. The woman set down the scroll and made a similar movement, her eyes boring into his own. "Personally, I don't know what all this hype surrounding you is. You don't look like much to me, but numbers don't lie. Nobody does what you do like you do, so I'm taking a gamble. Make an example of him. Don't drag it out, unless that's your thing. The rate is simple, but fair. Twenty thousand up front, four times that when you bring me proof. I'll throw in an extra ten percent if I hear about it on the news. Sound fair?"

A nod was his only response and he grumbled, taking his cigar from his mouth and tapping a bit of ash into a glass tray. "The timeframe is loose, but get it done soon. Now go." He waved a hand at his guards and the men opened the door, allowing the woman to exeunt. He sighed after the door had shut, then looked at the scroll on the desk in front of him. Roman Torchwick's grinning face gazed up at him from a years-old mugshot. Bron growled and let a bit of ash fall through the former Haler footpad's face.

"You'll get yours, you smug bastard. Enjoy the little present I've just sent your way; she's sure to get a kick out of bringing you down."

Roman's smirk was worn nigh-constantly on his face for the remainder of the night, following his little show at the cafe. Someone might have seen a smile like that and called him out as having a bad poker face. Problem was, Roman always wore that smirk, so seeing him with any other expression would have been a better warning sign.

He laid his hand of greasy, corner-bent cards on the table, revelling in the groans that came from the table's other occupants. "Sorry fellas," he said cheerfully though his cigarette, pushing the nicotine-laced package to the edge of his mouth as he leaned forward and scraped up his winnings. "I just let the chips fall where they may. Luck's with me tonight, but uh, once payday runs around we can do this again, alright?"

The others stood up and left, unwilling to lose anymore of their hard-earned gambling allowances. One muttered a disheartened "fuck you, gingy," as he strode past, but otherwise they left Roman in peace. He stretched and finished his cigarette, grinding the tip and stub into the ashtray and scooping the lien notes and change off the table and into a duffel bag. Shouldering the burden, he stepped back out into the club proper.

It was a dive, to be perfectly honest. No amount of nice paint or obnoxious radio and billboard publicity could change that. It was a shitty club in a shitty part of town, which made it an ideal roost for all the worst that Vale had to offer.

Sidling up toward the bar, Roman shouldered his way through throngs of drunken partiers grinding on each other, and nearly laid a man out when the dancer asked, voice heavy with inebriation, if he could buy Roman a drink.

The gangster found a seat at the crowded bar and signaled the drinkmaster over. "The '30 Atlesian bourbon. Ice, if you have it." The barkeep sauntered off to fulfill the drink order and Roman stretched, laying the duffel by his feet where he could keep a close eye on it, but freeing up his upper body. He took his drink when it was offered, apprehensively regarded the stained and tarnished glass tumbler it came in, said fuck it and took a sip of the burning liquid. At least the Atlesians knew how to make good liquor.

A stirring movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention. Turning his head to the side, he raised an eyebrow at a petite young woman who had just sidled up to the bar. She looked to be around his age - a year or two younger perhaps - and was dressed (or decorated, at the least) in one of the strangest fashions he had seen.

She truly was short - not even five feet, compared to Roman's impressive height. On the side nearest Roman her hair was a dark, chocolate brown. On the other side of a pale, heart-shaped face was an equally striking shock of bright pink hair, which the woman casually pushed in front of her ear with an errant gesture. Her eyes were mismatched as well, gazing heterochromatically out of an elfin face. Her garment was a pair of brown pants, a pink skirt and a simple white jacket, unzipped at the top to display a pink undershirt. A gaggle of necklaces hung beneath her throat, despite her unimposing stature her musculature was obvious. She was lean and lithe - built like a swimmer. Or a fighter, he reminded himself inwardly.

He realized he was staring, as did she. Her gaze rotated and fixed him solidly. There was a moment of unspoken communication before Roman cleared his throat and took another drink of his whiskey.

"Sorry for staring, you just… never seen you around here before, y'know?"

The woman shrugged and Roman raised an eyebrow. "You just decided of all the bars in the city, this was a good one to chill at? Just surprising is all; it's kind of a dive." The bartender snorted and Roman shot him a cocksure smile before turning back to the woman, who simply shrugged in response to his previous question as well. He considered her for a long moment as she waved the bartender over, scribbled something on a napkin and waited while the barman brought her a drink.

"You're quiet," Roman observed astutely. She rolled her eyes and nodded slowly, as though explaining something to a child before smiling. White teeth glared at him and Roman chewed his lip for a moment. As she took a drink of her beverage he slugged down the last of his bourbon. "You're odd, too, but it's more intriguing than off-putting." He extended a hand to her, setting his tumbler down on the bar. "I'm Roman."

She smiled again and shook the hand before withdrawing and taking a deep draught of her beverage. Damn, Roman thought as he watched her drain all the remaining alcohol. "You, er, have a name?" She turned and smiled again - a full toothed grin - before lashing out at him with the speed and violence of a whipcord uncoiling. Roman felt pain blossom in his face and reeled backwards, falling from his chair, blood streaming from his nose as he recovered from the sudden and unexpected attack. The bartender cried out and somebody screamed. From there, everything blurred.

Roman's first thought was of his money - the heavy sack still resting beneath the bar stool. He dove forward and rolled in midair to avoid a scissoring kick from the acrobatic young woman. He grabbed the bag and flung it across the floor before immediately rolling again to avoid a splitting kick that would have struck him square. His stool splintered and the bag of money skated across the floor. Searching frantically, he picked up Melodic Cudgel from among the chaos of fleeing patrons and raised the weapon, holding it across his chest like a barrier. He fixed the girl with a menacing gaze and she returned one of her own - a stare that would melt steel beams.

"All I did was ask your name," he said chastisingly. "Now you've spoiled all these folks' nice evenings. Now, are you going to apologize or-"

In response, she launched herself across the intervening space, spinning in midair and nearly catching him with a kick. Instead, he used the hooked end of his cane to trip the girl in midair. She spiraled and bowled into a table, scattering pretzels and cheap booze across the floor. She stood, brushing herself off and scowling before sighing and fixing her attention back on the immediate issue.

Fuck this shit, Roman thought angrily. Cops will be here in minutes; I need to grab that bag and get out of here. Almost as soon as he had the thought though, some random passerby decided it was his evening to capitalize. Roman cried out as he watched the man - his shape little more than a black silhouette - grab the bag and take off toward the door. Forgetting all about the psychotic multi-colored bitch trying to kill him, Roman charged after the bag of hard-won lien.

He burst through the doors of the club, glass shattering out of the metal frame as a shot from Melodic Cudgel practically blew the portway apart. The man carrying the bag of lien stumbled and swore as the bag flew from his fingers. He face-planted heartily on the pavement and Roman gave him a hearty kick on his way past, eyes roving for the bag of money. He spotted it in the hazy glare cast by a lamppost, but as he started toward it he felt something slam into him and send him careening across the street. He smashed into the face of a building, bursting through the decrepit facing and sending showers of plywood splinters and aging mortar showering about himself.

He stood slowly, took note of the fresh tears in his jacket and swearing quietly. He shot a venomous glance to the miniscule figure of his aggressor on the far side of the square. She reached behind herself and flicked her wrist, opening a lacy parasol and mock-curtsying. Roman ground his teeth and instantly sent a barrage of shots from Melodic Cudgel downrange. She extended the parasol in front of herself and Roman hooted with delight as the sidewalk around her was blasted into dust.

His exaltation turned to another frantic mouthful of curses as he saw the woman, completely unscathed, and smiling like a goddamn jack-o-lantern.

For once, he was actually glad to see the tell-tale red and blue flashing sequence of police lights, and before he knew it the street was filled with cops, all of whom trained their weapons on the bitch with the parasol. Roman ducked behind the wrecked wall he had crashed through and watched the spectacle, simultaneously searching (once again) for his money.

"Vale police - put your hands in the air! Drop the… umbrella and get on your knees!"

She resisted the urge to laugh and correct him. Parasol. Not umbrella. Simpletons. She turned to face the voice that had spoken and saw half a dozen police officers with sidearms trained on her. She knew there were more behind her, doing the exact same thing. It also occurred to her that, not only was Torchwick still breathing in the building to her left, the duffel bag he was taking so much care to recover was a scant three meters from her.

She considered her options. Roman was clearly interested in whatever was in that bag, which would make it useful leverage. Still, it wasn't as though she needed to bargain. He was good - better than she had expected - but with the beating he had taken and the presence of the police, she could finish him in moments if she could get close enough.

"Last chance!" the cop called. "Drop your weapons and get on the ground; hands up and behind your head, and on your knees! Do it, or we will use force!"

Come along then, she thought. Take me.

The cop swore into his megaphone and signaled to the other officers to advance. Four of them did so, and she rotated her head slightly to note two more approaching from behind. The first one reached her in just under fifteen seconds - they were careful, which she credited them for. It wouldn't save them. As the man reached for his handcuffs she sprang into action. A heeled boot crashed into the underside of the man's jaw, knocking him straight into the air. As her leg levered back down she dropped to a low crouch, swinging her parasol and sweeping out the legs of one of the men attempting to get behind her. As he fell she rolled over his prone form, rising from the movement and slamming her shoulder into another officer's chest. She felt a twinge of sensation in the back of her mind and rotated just in time to block a barrage of bullets from the cops previously to her front. She felt the impacts slamming into her parasol and with a smile she flipped a switch and gave a light tug at the trigger that sprang from inside the device. A moment later the ground shook with a satisfying rumble as the concussive round she had fired found its mark. The police scattered blindly, clutching at their suddenly-spinning craniums and running into walls, cruisers and each other in the process.

Rolling backwards out of the defensive stance, she felt the disturbance as multiple shots passed within inches of her auric barrier, streaming off toward the police she had just discombobulated. Her entire body twisted as she forced herself further and further back, arms springing her backwards before continuing the rolling motion.

She controlled the motion disorientation that threatened to set in and recovered just in time to sweep her weapon around, catching one man in the jaw with the broad end and knocking him into his colleague. A man whom she had rolled past spun, firing shots wildly from his weapon. She blocked a few more rounds with the parasol and lunged forward. As she emerged from the motion she felt a screaming disturbance in her aura and blinked, calling her semblance forth in the moment of desperation she didn't need to fully comprehend to avoid.

The police officer blinked in surprise as the image of the woman in front of him visibly shattered, his bullet parting the woman's figure and blasting her into a thousand shards. He recoiled, horrified by what he had done, and his eyes widened further as the woman re-materialized before him. He extended his arm again, preparing to fire but cried out as she twisted, her leg wrapping around his arm like a python and refusing to yield.

She flexed slightly and he cried out in pain as he felt the bones in his arm dislocate. His weapon fell limply from his grasp and he blinked through the haze of pain just in time to see the woman writhe in midair, using him as a lever while her other foot spun up and around, slamming into his temple.

He dropped lifelessly to the ground and the woman stuck the landing as gracefully as a dancer, her parasol still clutched in her free hand. The cops moaned in pain or lay unmoving as she picked her way across the battlefield. Smiling, she knelt next to the bag Torchwick was after before feeling the insistent twinge of incoming-danger a moment too late. Pain blossomed in the back of her head and darkness enveloped her like a shroud.

Roman grinned manically, clutching Melodic Cudgel like a bat as the woman crumpled before him. "Sorry dearie," he cooed. "But that's mine." He scooped up the duffel and rotated just in time to feel a stinging pain in his own chest. He lost all feeling in his limbs, the bag of money fell from his grip and the ground rushed up to meet him.

Karma's a bitch, he thought emptily as he struck the pavement.

AN - Aw Hell yeah. Feels good to be back in the swing of things. As always, I appreciate comments, follows and favs, as well as any and all feedback you guys can give to make the story better. I know it's a little early to tell (and I'm terrible when it comes to holding up on commitments) but I've got some really good ideas for where I want to take this fic. Really. Trust me. Please.

Thanks for reading - next chapter dropping in the next few days. Have a great weekend.