After The Rain (ch1)

2-DAY EARLY RELEASE FOR ALL MY PATRONS!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!

A commission for Tom (ChuckleBrotherz) who asked for a Roman and Neo fic based off an amazing piece of artwork from Dishwasher which can be seen on their twitter at this link:

twitter,com/Dishwasher1910/status/969049936774955008

Let me just say I loved writing this, not just for the change in characters and the plot/idea, but for the method of writing I get to use to tell this story. It's not often I get to write from a male character's perspective, let alone a villain, so this was a lot of fun.

Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY.

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														After The Rain

												 Chapter 1. Acute Observation


Any good conman knows about his city.

He knows every little detail, knows the map and layout like the back of his hand, knows the types of buildings and the types of people who live in or frequent each one.

He knows his city in a structural sense, knows the popular shops and complexes, knows the main streets and tourist attractions.

But he also knows the less favorable spots, the abandoned warehouses and back alleyways that go unnoticed during the day by passerby, but which make ideal hideouts and conference places for illegal activity by night.

He knows the most popular routes the authorities favor, and because of this he knows the best ways to escape. He knows every nook and cranny, every movable wall and secret passageway, every loose brick and firm foothold.

He knows the best places to stash contraband and the best places to conceal himself or his men if need be. He knows the routes of every manhole in the city, the links of the underground passageways by rank wet sewer.

He knows which fences will rattle and which ones will shock, which ones you can hop and which ones you'll get snagged on. He knows every dumpster, every trash can, every barrel and every bucket.

He knows the language smeared in runny rainbow graffiti on the brick walls, on metal street signs, and on dented vehicles.

He knows how many gangs there are. He knows their names, their codes, and their levels of severity. He knows which ones to work with in exchange for a bit of stolen Dust, and he knows which ones to avoid.

As a conman, he knows his city. But more importantly he knows its people. Because a conman who doesn't know his city's people is about as good as a teacher who doesn't know the alphabet.

That's the biggest mistake most crooks around Vale make. That they don't do their research first. They just go right into the crime because they think they're hot stuff, think they can get away with it.

They rob the old lady because they think she's frail and weak, but they don't know about the pair of Dobermans she has until they're trapped inside the house with a bag of stolen jewelry and jaws clamped on their ankles.

If they'd done their research, they would've known that the businessman down the block would have been a much better target, because his door knob never locks and he's been meaning to get it fixed, but he works such long hours of the night that he always forgets when he stumbles home shit-faced and red-eyed. He has a few watches that are worth more than the old lady's entire collection, and any good criminal would know that if they simply did their research.

But Roman isn't the type to steal from weak, lonely, or otherwise just plain sad human beings or Faunus. At the very least he doesn't rob houses if he can avoid it. He targets the shops and the parlors for all to see, robs them in plain sight like a gentleman. None of that sneaking around and invading personal property. There's no tact in that, no honor.

Roman takes pride in his work and how he does it, and he's getting better and better with every heist. All because he did his research. Because he knows his city and its people.

He knows everything there is to know about everyone. He knows who works where, how they get to their jobs and back, if they have kids or a spouse or a cat or a dog. He knows easy targets and easy traps. He knows fellow thieves and innocent school kids.

The only thing he doesn't know... the only person he has yet to figure out, is somewhere in between.

He'd first spotted her on one of his initial patrols of the city, when he'd first chosen Vale as his ideal hunting grounds. He'd come here to settle down and survey the place, get to know the ways and the works, the pests and the people.

And he'd seen her.

At first he'd thought she was just a school kid. She was a pint-sized little thing, but she had a mature face and sharp, clever eyes. And it was only when he managed to spot her a second and third time a little bit closer when he realized they were different colors, much like her long swirly hair. One eye was brown and the other was pink, just as her hair resembled a chocolate and strawberry mixed ice cream cone.

Had she been a bit older, a bit taller, and dressed a bit more nicely than the tattered rags he always saw her in, he might've been inclined to pursue her. But as he was – a professional crime boss with good looks and an agenda – and as she was – a pipsqueak kid with shit clothes and unusual eyes – he thought there was nothing to be gained from anything beyond observation.

But he just... couldn't help it. He was drawn to her somehow. He was mildly interested.

She wasn't like the others. Every other person in town had a set route, a certain path they took every day, be it by car or on foot.

But not her.

Whenever he needed to find any specific person, he knew exactly where to look.

But whenever he stumbled upon her it was by surprise. He didn't like surprises. But he was somewhat curious about this one.

She would pop up here or there in her dirty white dress and bare feet, her long hair knotted and tangled.

And at first he really did think she was just a school kid down on her luck, with parents who had shit jobs and couldn't afford her nice clothes. But she never wore a backpack or carried a bag, and she never took the path to the local school district. She only appeared around the slums, in the alleyways.

That's how he figured out she was more like a thief. But even that term was a bit too specific and likely unfit for her.

He saw her steal, but she never stole... enough. Not enough to be noticed, not enough for it to be considered stealing. She only ever stole what she needed.

It was usually food. He'd see her picking restaurant leftovers from the top of the dumpster, the stuff that was still somewhat fresh and not as risky as the stuff underneath.

She'd take fresh food from the street vendors too. He'd see her pick off a single sausage from a string of twenty – just one, so it wouldn't be noticeable. Or she'd take a styrofoam cup and fill it with random goodies; a few french fries plucked from a bucket, a single leaf of lettuce from a salad, a few scones or croutons from an unattended batch. It was never enough to be noticed, but just enough to get by.

After he'd caught a few glimpses of her here or there, it got to the point where his mind would sometimes jump back to her while he was in the middle of his own meals.

Of course he shook them off. After all he didn't have time to worry about the hungry kids in the street. They had a government for that. He didn't run a charity.

So he'd always push the thoughts away and continue with his day, with whatever heist he was planning or whatever important mob boss he planned to meet with. Statistics said that crime was more popular in the colder months, but he damn well wasn't going to let his numbers drop just because summer was coming.

But all throughout the springtime he kept catching sight of that girl with the peculiar hair. He'd always stuck to the slums to conduct his own operations, but perhaps it was because of her that he chose his favorite district to hang about, though of course he would never admit it.

But some part of him was curious. She was, after all, the only person in Vale he didn't really have a grip on, the only person who puzzled and surprised him. Everyone else fell into their neat little cookie-cutter places, but she stood out from the batch and he couldn't quite give her a place yet.

Even after the springtime had passed and he'd gotten ample opportunity to try and figure her out, he was no closer to doing so than he had been on day one.

He had to wonder how she'd managed to survive this long doing what she did. If she was really that good at sneaking around, perhaps she could be of use to him.

He would consider it. In the very back of his mind, under the piles and piles of everything else he had to consider, perhaps underneath it all he would consider her.

But she couldn't be a priority, just a hobby.

He maintained focus on his trade, being tactful with who he robbed and when and where, making sure he was crafty and efficient in his retreat and never left a hint or a trail behind.

There was a certain pattern you had to follow when you planned on committing multiple crimes. The one-time offenders didn't have schedules, but the dedicated thieves needed to mark their calendars. He would act every other week or so for a while, just until the cops figured out his pattern, and then he'd attack several days in a row, or not at all for a month.

He never targeted the same shops. There was no fun in that anyway. Once you've robbed a shop the thrill of it's gone and it's better to move onto the next one.

He traveled all across Vale for his work, from the humble strip malls to the well-lit tourist attractions. No kind of setting was a risk to him. It just went to show how savvy he was in his trade.

But more often than not, he did find himself sticking to the slums, both because it was just an easier place to exploit and because there was something for him to do on his off days. Especially after he'd completed a robbery, he was often forced to lay low for a few days.

And so he'd stroll around town and smoke a cigar, gathering intel about the police and what their thoughts and misgivings were about the recent crime. He'd read the papers about the "Ever-Elusive Crook" terrorizing Vale and pretend to be aghast.

He'd continue studying his people, his poor unknowing fools, and he'd continue to make note of new developments around town.

It's essential for a conman to know that his favorite escape route is still clear, or if a certain alley has been blocked or closed off by fences or construction. It's all very meticulously cunning work, but he was made for it.

And every once in a while, when he had nothing left to note, he would go off in search of his newest specimen.

Sometimes he'd find her, but more often than not he wouldn't.

She was probably one of the only people he couldn't track. Just like him, she left no trail.

But the few instances when he did find her, be it intentionally or by accident (usually it was the latter), he was always intrigued.

She always wore the same tattered dress, which was so dirty few people could ever hope to know it had once been white. Her hair was still a beautiful mess, and her bare feet were as swift as ever.

He'd always keep his distance, like a hunter watching a strange new animal. He'd follow her as far as he could before her small frame was inevitably lost in the crowds or in the shadows.

He'd watch her steal a few pieces of food from this shop or that vendor. She never got caught even once. The few times she was just on the verge of being discovered, she somehow sensed it and would recoil and reconsider.

He liked that about her. She wasn't impulsive like some of these other idiots who would charge in thinking they wouldn't be tackled and pinned to the ground by the owner or some goody-two-shoes passerby. Those morons always let their stomachs get the better of them, and they always got caught.

But she was different. If she suspected even slightly that someone might be onto her, she would abstain, no matter how badly she was starving, no matter how long it had been since she'd last scavenged a crumb.

Because she seemed to know the number one rule of crime on the streets; never get caught. It didn't matter how hungry she was or how desperate. She wouldn't risk getting caught.

Because like him, she probably knew that once they were in the police station or behind bars it was all over.

Even though it didn't necessarily mean the cops would 'correct' their behavior, that wasn't the main concern. Being caught wasn't an issue in terms of imprisonment and punishment potentially transforming them into upstanding members of society.

It was so much worse.

Because being caught meant no one else in the crime business would ever work with you or trust your judgement again.

If you got caught, you lost all your business partners, all of your ties with the gangs and affiliations with the big guns, sometimes literally. You had no more loyalty amongst the muscleheads, no more protection, no more business.

And so in a way, maybe getting caught did turn some crime-men into upstanding members of society, but not by choice. Never by choice.

Only because their old pals in the streets wouldn't trust someone who'd been stupid enough to have gotten caught as far as they could throw them. Though, that was how it worked in the big leagues anyway.

As for this girl, he had to wonder.

As far as he could gather, she was a solo player. Didn't have any partners or people to meet with, no one to trust her or resent her.

Maybe in her case it would be better if she did get caught, because the cops would be nice to a pretty little trick like that. They'd find her parents if she had any, decide if it would be best if she stay with them or move into foster care. They'd get her into school and give her a meal or two. And even if they did throw her in the slammer for some reason, at least she'd be fed and sheltered.

But seeing her out on the streets like she was always put a bad taste in Roman's mouth. He just didn't like something about it.

He could've cared less about the good-for-nothing drug addicts and the self-loathing prostitutes. Which quickly made him understand it wasn't her gender that bothered him, but her age.

She seemed far too young to be living this kind of life already.

But maybe her age was her biggest issue. She wasn't young enough where people would care to find her help. She looked old enough to be responsible, and a lot of them probably assumed she was a lady of the night, if they actually even noticed her at all.

In the end, she wasn't young enough for anyone to care. They'd care about a poverty-stricken child, but once someone was a teenager they were as good as an adult, and no one else felt they had to be bothered with caring.

He still couldn't quite put his finger on her exact age, only a general ballpark range.

But he knew one thing. He knew she was old or smart enough to be suspicious, to sense potential dangers.

Above all else she was observant. Just like him.

She paid attention to the people and places around her, knew when they might give her trouble, knew when to retreat so she could try again another day.

Of course some part of him always felt bad to watch her slip away with empty hands and an even emptier stomach.

But more often than not she'd get what she came for, no matter how menial the portion.

So yes, he had to admit that he admired her skill for observation.

But of course that meant she also took note of him almost from the beginning.

Perhaps the first few times he glimpsed her she didn't notice, because he himself had barely taken notice.

But after the fifth or sixth time, she would begin to recognize the same tall figure leaning against the alley wall or hunched over on a nearby bench. He always wore a the same hat and the same coat and was typically surrounded by smoke.

So he wasn't surprised when she finally made eye contact with him one day.

Rather, it wasn't the fact that she'd made eye contact that surprised him, but the actual moment of contact itself.

He'd only been able to see her eyes from afar to know they were mis-matched, or he'd often hear a gasp from some random citizen who happened to look down and see her. So he'd known it was a peculiar gaze she had.

But seeing it properly for the first time, even if it was from across the street with people and cars passing between them, he found himself drawn in. Captivated.

Like an angler fish draws in prey with a pretty light, a deadly trap. And he let himself be pulled in by that intangible wavelength.

That was the first time he saw for himself the real reason why he had taken such an interest in her.

There was no fear in her eyes.

There was curiosity, wariness, for him at least. But there was no fear.

Not of him or of anything else.

Instead there was clarity. The knowledge of what she was doing, the knowledge that it was wrong, and the knowledge that one day she would be caught.

Maybe she didn't anticipate it, but she knew of that reality. And it seemed to him some part of her had already accepted it.

It only lasts for a second. Another car passes and he finds himself looking at a brick wall. He searches the crowds, knowing full-well he won't find her, and glad when he doesn't.

That's when he starts having second thoughts about her.

He had been toying with the idea of an apprentice, but he knows he can't have her now.

Because he's seen that kind of fool before. A person who has no fear in this line of work is a dangerous and stupid one, and he wants nothing to do with one.

And so he heaves a sigh and takes another puff of his cigar.

Then he gets to his feet and strolls off.

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A/N: Just a bit of a general setup to start things off. Next chapter we'll get into the real stuff.