When -
if- you need to, where do you go to ground?
Hiding is difficult, when you need to do it well. Any average joe can tuck themselves away in the woods, keep their head down, hope for the best. Maybe find a small village on the other side of Remnant, grow a beard, fuck some natives. Hell, they could even stay in the area they're supposed to be avoiding, hide in plain sight. There's a thousand ways to disappear, especially if you're just some face in the crowd.
But a Huntsman? Oh, that's an entirely different ballgame.
You see, it's easy to gloss over
normal crimes. Even something as big as murder, if you're a normal person, can be escaped with enough distance. You don't have to worry too much about who's hunting you once you're off the radar. Either you'll survive, or a Huntsman will kick in your door, and there's little you can do at that point. But when a
Huntsman is the criminal? Things escalate, rapidly. Responses that would be out of the question for a normal person become valid. Responses like Teams hunting you down, military forces, law enforcement cordons, mercenaries, all of that. A
Huntsman stands out, whether they want to or not. They carry themselves differently. They fight differently. If they're smart, they'll keep their gear, so when a response
does come, they'll be at least somewhat prepared. Somewhat is subjective, of course, depending on what's coming for you. If an Atlesian Warship bombards your hidey-hole, you're probably only going to be able to do so much.
Mobility is the trick, really. Staying in one place for too long will lead your foes to you, let them find you. If they find you, things get messy. You have to run, or fight. Or run and fight. If you keep from settling down long enough, even as a Huntsman, your pursuers will give up on finding you. You can eventually slow, you can eventually, maybe, even stop. Now, staying mobile can call attention to you, if you do it wrong. The stranger your locale to you, the stranger you seem to the locals. So there's really only one
solid place to go to ground.
Home.
Janus Rogo was finally slowing down. In the year since he inadvertently helped in a White Fang plot in Vale, he'd been on the run. He had no real way of knowing who had recognized him that day, beyond the fact that he'd been chosen for a reason. A fall guy, if he'd been unlucky or unskilled enough. Who would question the Butcher of Tenang Bay being implicated in another Faunus massacre? Clever, really. Easy, too. And Janus, in all his decades of training, experience, intellect, had immediately taken the bait. Idiot.
"Idiot..."He glanced around, making sure no one had heard him. Frigid plains, sparse fauna, and
zero people, as far as the eye could see. Well, as far as most eyes could see. Janus could pick out a couple distant storms, little more than small flurries, white mountains, and straight ahead... A small village. No more than twenty buildings. Probably a dozen or so families in it. Old school prefabricated structures had been covered with homely coats of paint, windows were cut into them. Standard non-standard upgrades. Just little touches to make a bleak expanse seem a little more like a warm home. He pulled the coat around him tighter. The Tyrant, stretched into spear form, scraped the ground behind him. It sounded eager, almost. A grating, slow chuckle. Janus banished the thought and pulled the lance up, out of reach of the tundra beneath him. His boots crunched through permafrost, a steady path of prints trailed off behind him, connecting to yet another rinky-dink township. His pack was lighter than when he'd left. Rationed food was running low, ammo wasn't quite as plentiful. Most charged equipment was thoroughly drained. He wiped his face, feeling the days-old scruff on his face. Maybe a nice inn? Hot shower, a shave, quick night's rest? That's
usually how things went these days.
His approach to this one was different. No one hailed him, no one tried to search him for weapons or goods, or anything. No one did anything. In fact, near as Janus could tell, no one was standing watch. The town couldn't be deserted, not with lights in the windows. Generators were still running. No signs of combat, either. Everything was intact. An evacuation would see power grids shut off, or a cordon placed if the Military had been involved. Raiders wouldn't have left anything nailed down and he could still see vehicles secured in a garage.
The Tyrant came out, snapping together as he transitioned it into it's rifle form. He slowly ran his hand down the length of the weapon, the sound tickled something in the back of his mind. A little voice saying
Grimm. The mercenary grimaced as the thought fled his mind and he smacked the side of the rifle, clearing a chunk of frost from it. With the weapon high in the pocket of the shoulder, he made his approach, sweeping his gaze back and forth. No one- nothing outside. No people, no pets, no signs, just wind and cold. He shivered, then stepped off to what seemed a family domicile. A thermal lamp hung from the front of the structure, under it, a few plants spun in the outside air, not enough to eat off of, but enough to use in spices or decoration. Homely.
A quick look through the entry's portal didn't show any movement, nothing responded when he knocked on the door. Annoyed, he spun the rifle around and smashed the handle off, booting it down the street. He shouldered the rest of the way through the door with ease. Metal snapped and twisted as he walked in. The heat was still on. No signs of struggle and as he took in the family room, he noticed an old shotgun laying on the mantle, unused. He frowned and continued through the house. A dining area, a bedroom, a closet, another bedroom, a-
oooh. Janus stopped. He stood at the entrance to the bathroom. Toilet paper, hot water, fluffy towels! Forgetting himself, Janus leaned his rifle inside the shower, shed the armor and clothing, and ran the water onto full heat.
It was
glorious.