Dr. Mint's experiments had thus far failed, and consequently, some of his less patient patrons had invested in 'emergency insurance'—the man in darkest blue: Slate Draven. He stood just inside the gloomy office, dull phosphorescent lights barely reaching the sleek, midnight walls. The corners of the room were but shadows, its center tables, and at its end, a desk at which Dr. Mint sat and snapped, "So what do you want me to do? Give up? Make the money back some other way?"
"I do not want a thing—"
"If you're here to kill me, go right ahead!" Dr. Mint threw up his arms, hysterical to entertain the agent sent to rush his work. "The consortium can do whatever they want—get whatever they what: if they want quality research, run back and tell them to stop making idle threats."
Beakers brimmed with colorful liquids, scents swirled full of sulfur—it was a world of strange imagery, one that Slate did not wish to take company in. It was bothersome to offer his service to such an impatient man, but as it was demanded, there were little options but to serve Dr. Mint.
"I am not here to rush you, Dr. Mint."
"Really? Because I don't know why else they'd send someone like you here."
"My reasons here are twofold."
"So the first is a meaningless threat, and the second?"
"A suggestion."
"You're going to give the scientist a suggestion?"
"Yes, I am," Slate began, "The Class A Subjects died within a day. They were weak. Find more resilient patients."
"That's as obvious as it is stupid. Do you expect me to find willing Huntsman? Or do you expect me to capture one myself?"
"Not Huntsmen—their students. From the academies."
Dr. Mint rapped his fingers along his desk, rhythmically bemusing a laboring imagination. It was plausible, yes, but was that a level he wanted to stoop to? "Alright. I'll consider it—"
"And, Dr. Mint, although I cannot kill you, I can very well harm you."
"They like me a lot more than they like you. If you disrupt my work I'll have you strung up in some basement in Kuchinashi—I'll break your legs and dump you in the Badlands. Do you really want to play games like that, Mr. Draven?" It was only the clamor of restless crickets that initially responded to Dr. Mint's listless intentions.
"I am sorry." Within but five steps, full of heavy menace, the man in red towered before Dr. Mint's desk, "but if you truly desire to kill me, I implore you to try." Slate allowed his rather chevalier bluff to sit with Dr. Mint; although he had no desire to defy his employers, Slate believed that with some benign deception, a better attitude could be assigned to Dr. Mint. "I can do whatever I want. You still have to obtain results. Tangible results. And if you do not obtain these results, I will harm you."
"Well," Dr. Mint said, glasses rattling as a tremulous hand adjusted them, "I suppose I can organize something—"
"Allow me, Dr. Mint. My success is contingent on your success. It would be in both of our interests to defer subject acquisition to me."
"Alice-Gregory-Frank." Dr. Mint sighed and pulled his glasses from his nose, setting them on the desk. "It's the resource code for—who would've guessed—my resources. Try and keep it under budget."
A brisk smile crept across Slate's rather drab demeanor. "All's well in a job well done."
"Yes, Mom, I had breakfast." Raider rolled her eyes; even through her scroll she could feel the residuals of her mother's paranoia—the last semblance of home. It reminded her she was not yet a Huntress and her freedom in Mistral had been so far illusory. Raider, frustrated, clutched a lock of her shaggy, auburn mane: the onslaught of tepid questions had begun.
"What did you have?"
"The usual. Steak and eggs."
"What kind?" her father chimed.
"Does it matter?"
"You do know scrambled eggs are the best for muscle tone, correct?" followed in succession by her mother asking,
"Did you have milk?" Before she could respond to either, he father spoke again:
"Was your steak rare?"
Raider's frustration built, and by the tenth inquiry above her morning-time meals, she audibly growled; her seatmates, those on either side of Raider, gave nervous glances to each other upon the primal noise that only a Faunus could generate. Before she snapped and said something she regretted, Raider attempted to change the subject:
"Could we talk about something other than breakfast?" There was a reprieve and Raider seized the chance. "So how's—" A sudden dip in the airship and the groan of iron interrupted her question, and she glanced to the ceiling, pursed her lips in irritation, and then looked back at her parents.
"What was that?" her mother asked insistently.
"Just the airship. The ride's been a bit bumpy."
"Didn't you already arrive at Haven?"
"I did, but this is apparently part of the initiation." Raider glanced out the window; she noticed they were deep within the Badlands, far from any towns, and flying particularly low to the ground. "It doesn't look like we're near anything so—" An explosion rocked the ship, nearly knocking Raider's scroll from her hands. Red alarms spun and sirens' shrill screams halted the casual pleasantries the ships' occupants were enjoying.
"What's happening?" shouted Raider's parents over the call, leaning into the camera as if to snag peripheral glimpses of the bedlam occurring behind their daughter.
"I don't know," Raider said, nervous fingers gripping onto the over-the-shoulder restraints, "but I should probably go—"
"Raider, don't you dare—" And as she merrily closed her scroll, a voice came upon the intercom:
"Students: this is Braith Brunswick." The voice hushed sirens' blare, and with it, the students aboard the rumbling, sputtering airship. "You haven't met me, but I will be your combat instructor at Haven Academy. Today is your initiation." Raider bit her lip; since she'd arrived at Mistral, she had been waiting for this—the chance to show off.
"Ten minutes from now," he continued, "this ship is going to crash. I highly suggest not being on it." The door to airship opened: air was sucked from inside the plane, and it roared as the vehicle sped through the crisp morning skies.
"Getting out is simple. When the restraints are up, jump." Raider noted her colleagues' expressions, and it seemed Brunswick's humor was ill-appreciated by the cast of tentative students. "You'll get to go one at a time. Once you land, find the wreckage of this ship, take a piece of scrap metal, and then haul it back to the marked locations. Flares will guide you to it.
Now, the Badlands are not a friendly place so the best way to get through them is with extreme prejudice. We'll be keeping an eye on you to grade you—not to help you, so don't do anything too stupid. Oh, and by the way—" pausing to clear his throat—"the first person you see will be your partner. For four years. Hope you're lucky."
It seemed hapless, random, and left to fate; there was so little precision in the testing process that it practically shamed empiricism—basically, it was perfect. To Raider, chance—the uncommon occurrence—was that which sorted practiced mechanism from genuine cunning.
"Any questions?" And when half the students raised their hand, Brunswick laughed. "Just kidding: this isn't a two-way comm, so with out further adieu, let's get going. In no particular order, first up: Raider Ulfolk."
"What."
The bars holding Raider lifted, and like in a vacuum, she was pulled towards the open door. Thankfully, she caught her footing in time, stood straight, and confidently stalked towards the whirling doorway. Lingering for a moment, Raider adjusted her tie and looked over her shoulder, leaving a parting message for her fellow students:
"Don't look down."
The ground was slick from the downpour, and the wind swept and swore at the vines draped across the jungle's trunks. Beneath the restless canopy, Slate brushed a spot of rain from the fur of his coat, and as his call connected, pressed the scroll to his ear.
"You are likely busy, so I will make this brief: we need bodies. Dr. Mint requested 'the finest specimens.' Your job is to simply assure their availability; I will capture them. Contact me when there are sufficient details to begin preparations." Slate hesitated to end the call for a single, destructive remark: "Recall what is at stake. For you—and your family."
Afterword: I really hope you guys like this! Please read the next chapter before saying anything though; they're kind of a package deal. This is just a cute lil' introduction. The next is the actual meat of the main characters. Also, yes, I did draw that cover art.