You got
Geoff, one of the founders of Roosterteeth. Created Achievement Hunter
Jack, worked for Roosterteeth since the olden days, basically the co-founder of AH
Michael, who was hired because of his successful Rage Quit series
Gavin, a fan, who made a 9.7 million sub channel just to get a visa to work at Roosterteeth.
Jeremy, an avid member of the community who created the epic rap battles of RT
Ryan, Craigslist
Ryan yells ‘CRATE!’ every time he finds a crate in RWBY:GE and now the crowd does it for him and he’s smiling so much it’s great
Okay, imagine: there’s a man with bleached-blond hair and gold-framed sunglasses on inside the bank. He’s standing in line, and his hand keeps coming up to his ear to adjust his hearing aid. More gold flashes- his earlobes, his nose, his neck, at his side where his coat swings back just enough to show the holster of his handgun.
As he draws it and fires a round into the ceiling, as the man behind you starts shouting get down and nobody gets hurt, you wonder distantly how much it cost. It’s awfully flashy. Your hands are clammy on the back of your neck and the marble floor is harder on your knees than you expected.
Isn’t this something that only happens on TV? Isn’t this just a bad dream?
You can’t take your eyes off the gun. It’s honestly beautiful. Something about his finger on the trigger makes you think of lovers holding hands.
As witnessing a bank robbery goes, it’s more boring than you expected. After the initial bustle, the shouting, the screaming, two more men coming in and immediately leaving for the vault, it’s very quiet. There’s faint, stifled sobbing. Nothing else. You ache from stillness. One hostage trips the man who stood so patiently behind you in line. She dies. In this city, death does not surprise you anymore; in this city, lack of death would be more surprising. The man with the excess of gold presses his thumb intently to his ear- the one without the hearing aid- then laughs shortly and rushes down the stairs. A mic?
You immediately miss the focus you were holding on his weapon. Like this, you can hear the hitching breaths of the person beside you and the measured steps of your guard. He keeps making eye contact with hostages. You look at the floor. Your hands are shaking. There is a muffled explosion.
Your hands are shaking harder, but it’s not fear.
It seems like years before the trio comes back upstairs, lugging bags of money, breathless with laughter and adrenaline and exertion. They rejoin with their fourth in the middle of the floor, and he swears with appreciation- takes some of the load from a woman with flaming red hair. She’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and her eyes are cold. Your golden boy is lagging behind- the straps on his bag are tangled and he juggles it and his gun- unsuccessfully.
The gun skitters across the floor and stops at your knee.
Naturally, you pick it up.
There are three barrels and plenty of wide eyes pointed at you. You can’t find it in yourself to care, because this thing is a work of art and you want the number of whoever made it. You sigh as you look at it, hook your finger around the trigger guard. There’s nothing else to be done now- the next move is obvious.
You turn it around and offer it grip-first to its owner.
He approaches slowly, takes his gun with tilted head and a blank expression. It’s very quiet.
“What’s your name?”
You struggle, briefly, what to offer, then decide you’ve tipped your hand already.
“They call me Vagabond.”
