"Snowflakes."

"What is a snowflake? People often think of the snowflake as a representation of themselves. Every person is unique, like those little crystals that float gently down from the sky on a particularly cold day. No one person is ever born the same way nor do they have the same life. It's one of those things you learn as a child in school, when you're trying to figure out who you are. You want to believe that you're unique, that you're different, mostly that you're special.

"But the cold hard reality of it is this: snowflakes have two options. One, they drop among the sea of others, never to be thought of or paid any mind to. In short, they're just one in trillions on some guy's lawn.

"Or two. They dissolve and disappear. Nothing but water on the sidewalk.

"So, yes. Think of yourself like a snowflake, unique, different, special. And not even caring about what you'll end up like given time.

"But I know."

THE MISTRAL CITY RUCKUS

Nobody expects children to become writers, but given the proper circumstances children can often surpass even their adult contemporaries. For Miss Pierette Rosetta (aged nine and a half as she insists), writing comes to her as naturally as the rain from the clouds or as the breath from her lungs. Pierette was by no means a professional however, but unlike most writers who attempt the craft, she actually bothered to learn proper sentence structure and grammar rules. Thus, while her works for the Weekly Weeks Newspaper came in rather slowly, most edits of her work are superficial and at best unneeded. However, like any good writer, pressure tends to make them stamp out letters and words such that their typewriters can cause hardened soldiers to duck for cover.

Pierette's pressure for the night was just that, it was the middle of the night. The little office in the Weekly Weeks Newspaper building was dark, save for a lamp which basked the room in a warm yellow light on the desk where she sat. The office was more or less a complete mess, with tossed papers, books, and the occasional tissue lying about like casualties in some bloody battle. Even the window which looked out into the city of Vale and gave moonlight into the room had a few clippings taped to it. Pierette sat at the desk, the chair raised to its highest level, still dressed in her little red dress with a dark gray sash across her hip. Her auburn hair which curled to her shoulders was messy, and the big round glasses which sat upon her face were dirtied and smudged. In her lap was the fifth book she poured over for the night, searching for details, details, details.

The door to the office opened, which Pierette paid no mind to. It was probably just the night cleaner.

"Pierette."

Pierette's ears perked at that low, grizzly voice. She looked up to see who else but her boss.

THE MISTER VICE PRESIDENT
Of the Weekly Weeks Newspaper

"Hello, Mister Vice President," said Pierette.

"I see you've made yourself at home," said Mister Vice President.

Pierette gasped, suddenly realizing that the office was in fact a complete mess. On the desk were even more newspaper clippings, crumpled papers, and what appeared to be several pens which the Weekly Weeks reported as missing. On the bookshelf on the opposite side from the desk were books thrown astray for their original neat ordering. Pierette placed the book on the desk beside the typewriter, then bowed her head apologetically. "I'm sorry, Mister Vice President!"

Mister Vice President asked her, "What are you even doing this late, Pierette?"

"Well, sir," Pierette raised her head. The Mister Vice President wasn't a cruel man by any means, but anyone would be kind of pissed that some kid just went in their office and tore the place up like a little hellion. "I was researching!" she said enthusiastically. "Mostly stuff about the secret corporate war between the Schnee Dust Company and the Schwarz Dust Corporation. Fascinating stuff!"

"Pierette," said the Mister Vice President took a newspaper as he walked over to the spare chair in the room. "A couple of weeks ago, you and I took a ride on a train. Do you remember the conversation we had?"

Pierette blinked. What was that conversation about?

Pierette enthusiastically pressed her face against the glass window. "A rainbow!"

Pierette and the Mister Vice President were aboard the famed Rail Tracer, one of the fastest and most luxurious train liners out from Atlas to Vale. The train was currently passing over some the grassy green plains as Pierette and the Mister Vice President settled in for breakfast on the dining cart. Much to Pierette's delight, the Mister Vice President took the liberty of ordering blueberry pancakes with lots of syrup, just for her. He meanwhile settled on just a cup of tea and a biscuit. He was never much of a big eater anyway. Pierette's already good mood was lifted when, after glancing out the window, she saw that brilliant arc of color streak across the sky over the mountains in the distance.

"Pierrette." Pierette blinked, dropping her smile, then looked over at the Mister Vice President sitting across from her. He's engrossed in his newspaper. "Tell me, Pierette. Why do you like rainbows?"

"Well," Pierette stumbled a bit on answering. Then again, if a man just suddenly up and asked why someone liked rainbows, they must be expecting some kind of funny response. "Well, because rainbows are colorful, Mister Vice President."

"Do you happen to know why rainbows exist, Pierette?" A little cloud of smoke rose from behind the newspaper. The Mister Vice President was smoking his pipe. Pierette said no, to which the Mister Vice President said, "Allow me to pull back the curtain for you then, Pierette. You see, a rainbow happens to be an illusion of light, a reflection and refraction of water droplets that exist in the sky.

"Because you see, Pierette, light happens to be made of many different colors. Colors are what our eyes are processing as different refractions and reflections of light, and these little colors can be processed in different ways by different entities. Say for example that rainbow out the window, Pierette. Think on how you perceive that rainbow, both literally and metaphorically. Perhaps there is gold at the end of the rainbow, or perhaps it is a harbinger of doom upon a poor village, or perhaps there is some kind of firestorm at the end of it. What do you think, Pierette?"

Pierette blinked a couple of times, confused. She puffed her cheeks out, thinking on it. "Eh... gee, Mister Vice President, I'm not sure what you're getting at. I suppose if you look at it one way, the rainbow is a wonderful piece of scenery."

"That may be, Pierette. But tell me, how would you perceive the rainbow if you were say, a faunus who was traveling one day. You are weak from many months of travel, a rainstorm has washed away most of your supplies, your companions have either died or abandoned you. At the end of a particularly horrific storm where your arm is cut to ribbons be debris. Think, and how would you react to see this greater semi-circle of color just appear when the clouds part for bluer skies, glowing like a candle."

Pierette tapped her chin. "Well, Mister Vice President, I suppose I would be really shocked and surprised. I'd think it was an omen." Pierette smiled, wagging her finger. "However, Mister Vice President, we're newspaper writers. Our job is to report on the story as it happens! We don't have to worry about people's reactions right?"

The Mister Vice President lowered the newspaper, revealing his cold gray eyes. "Three hundred nineteen Points."

"Out of how many?" cried Pierette.

"You see, Pierette," said the Mister Vice President as he began folding his newspaper, creasing every edge and pressing every fold down. "Our job isn't simply to report, but also to present an unbiased view of the action as it occurs."

Pierette asks, "How did this conversation come from rainbows?"

"The point I'm trying to make is that we can't always trust what we see, Pierette." The Mister Vice President's pipe blew some smoke like a chimney. "Our job in the newspaper business is to gather all points of view within the action, and then use those perspectives to give a factual, logical, and most of all unbiased view. Thusly, it will require a huge measure of research, but that is why the Weekly Weeks is considered one of the best newspapers in Vytal, Mistral, Atlas, Vacuo, in all of Remnant to be precise. For how can people even trust each other, if they can't even trust what they see on the news?"

Pierette tilted her head. "But, Mister Vice President, don't you believe there's some limit to research? I mean, won't there be a point in which research becomes detrimental to the quality of the work?"

At that, the Mister Vice President raised his newspaper into the air and said, "No."

SNAP

Pierette recoiled back into the seat of the chair, yelping in surprise. The Mister Vice President simply stands there, holding his folded up newspaper, having snapped it like a whip to get Pierette's attention. He looks over, his gray eyes masked by his shiny (somewhat ludicrously shiny) glasses. "Now, do you understand, Pierette?"

Pierette nodded eagerly. "Oh yes, Mister Vice President!"

The Mister Vice President tossed the newspaper into the empty trash bin in the corner of the room. "So, Pierette. Tell me about this research you're doing."

"Well," Pierette rotated the chair towards the desk. "I was working on the Schnee versus Schwarz Corporate Wars. You know the Schwarz Corporation, right Mister Vice President?"

"One of the top competitors for dust distribution, mining, and refining against the Schnee Dust Company," said the Mister Vice President.

"Yep!" Pierette held up the book she was reading. "I was compiling some of my notes. Significant events, people, all that jazz." The Mister Vice President walked over to the window, humming affirmatively. Pierette in the meantime opened up the book and began filing through the scraps of information, pictures, and news clippings. "Though, I am kind of stuck, Mister Vice President."

"Is that so, Pierette?"

"Yes, Mister Vice President," said Pierette. The Mister Vice President walked over then looked down at the book from over Pierette's shoulder. "I'm having trouble trying to get," Pierette hesitated. "... perspective?"

"Understandable." The Mister Vice President took out his pipe and some tobacco leaves. "Tell me, Pierette. Who or what is this researched centered around? There are few figures of note, considering how shadowy and secretive this war between the companies is. Most newspapers do not report on it for fear of..." He snapped a lighter open, and carefully lit the leaves within his pipe. "... Reprisal."

Pierette stopped her page turning and looked at the Mister Vice President, curious. "So you're saying I need a main character?"

"Ten points."

Pierette groaned. "Out of how many?"

The Mister Vice President gently blew a ring of smoke into the air. "You see, what makes a story good isn't just action or conspiracy or goodness, sex." Pierette gasped a bit. "What makes a story good is the strength of characters. Understand however that within any given event at any given time, there are as many stories as there are people to tell them. What's more, there are as many ways to tell a story as well."

"Soo..." Pierette pondered for a moment. "You're saying I should focus on multiple people for greater perspective?"

"It would be wise." The Mister Vice President leaned over Pierette's shoulder. "Say for example... This boy." He tapped a picture in the book. "A street rat hoodlum, leading a gang on the streets of Mistral City."

"Which one of you is Kokkinos!?" Eurymachus screamed as his goons marched up behind him.

EURYMACHUS MAVROS
Heir to the Mavros Weapons Company

The little street in one of the poor districts of Mistral City was alive with the shouts of insults, threats, and questions of ancestry. In these districts, youth gangs ruled, whether by rich punks looking for fun or by poor boys just trying to make ends meet. For Eurymachus Mavros, he was one of the former. He often led his gang of friends, whom all were attracted to the prospect of getting some free money, whether from Eurymachus or from the people they would carelessly rob on the side of the street.

At least until yesterday morning, when Mavros had a rude awakening from his parents who were quite cross at the fact that he was flagrantly breaking the law. He was grounded for a month, with no access to friends, women, or entertainment. Even his sister gloated at him on her visit from Mistral's Vigil Academy. His parents weren't as angry as he was however, when they revealed who tattled on him.

"Normally we would not reveal who would do this, but he insisted he be known as Jack Andronicus Castor Kokkinos," said his father as he read the morning newspaper.

Kokkinos.

Weird name that was.

Regardless of name length however, Eurymachus snuck out of his room for the day while his parents were out and his sister returned to Vigil. Now was the time for revenge. He gathered up a posse of twenty five of his must trusted friends from school, then marched out to the district, inciting chaos wherever he could. Shops were vandalized, windows were broken, old men were pushed over, balloons were popped. This normally would be a call for the city's police, but in the poor districts, the gangs were the police.

And the police had found them.

Eurymachus and his gang ended up confronted by a cadre of poor looking boys and girls, some as old as twenty and as young as eight. Despite their dark, dirty, tattered and thrown together clothing, they smiled genuinely. They cracked jokes, slapped hands with each other, and threw insults at Eurymachus' crew as quickly as they received them. Even their dog barked at them, as if to ward them off.

Eurymachus shouted, "Well? I'm waiting!" He pointed to the dog. "And someone shut that mutt up!"

"Hey." A boy, smirking, around the age of sixteen walked out from the crowd. They all cheered his name, Jack. He was by no means tall, nor short. He wore a mud-stained white shirt, dark brown slacks with stitch jobs on the knees, some very sorry looking black shoes, a cut up brown vest, and topped off with a dark red cloak thrown around his shoulders. His muddy red hair was not gelled or styled like Eurymachus nor were his cheeks clean. His brown eyes looked bright and happy. The boy said, "What have you got against dogs? Everyone loves dogs." He pet the dog at that, who stopped barking and started enjoying the attention.

Eurymachus fumed at how utterly smug this boy was. "Get that flea-ridden thing out of here, this is between me and Kokkinos."

"Well, wouldn't you know it?" The boy grinned, bearing his teeth. "I am Kokkinos!" Kokkinos' gang cheered, laughing. "Jack Andronicus Castor Kokkinos. Long name I know, but you can just call me Jack."

JACK ANDRONICUS CASTOR KOKKINOS
Leader of the Red Phalanx youth gang

"I don't give a damn who you are! You got me grounded for a month, you little pissant!"

Kokkinos gasped mockingly. "Oh, Jill." A blonde girl from Kokkinos' gang leaned over, trying to suppress laughter. He said, "Would you look at that? A spoiled brat."

Jill nodded. "Oh, yeah!" She sniffed the air, and flinched a bit. "Rotten too."

Kokkinos waved his hand, still grinning. "Though, Eurymachus. Yes, I know your name and where you live. I'm willing to forgive you if you and your little gang of socs were to waltz on out of here and never come back. Sounds fair, yeah?"

Eurymachus chuckled. "Don't make me laugh you beggar. My father happens to be the owner of the Mavros Weapons Company, I can do whatever I want when I want!" He pointed at Jack, gritting his teeth. "By the time I'm through with you, I'm going to make you scream!"

Kokkinos nodded, placing his hands in his pockets, dropping his smile for an expression of focused attention. "Funny story that. That's exactly what I said to your sister last night." Kokkinos' crew all whooped and whistled at that.

"YOU-" Eurymachus steamed like a tugboat. He stomped his foot, and motioned to his goons. "GET HIM!"

The gangs all shouted and rushed each other in a blaze of hotblooded fury.

Pierrette grasped the picture of Jack with all the childish puppy love she could muster. "I think he's a really good candidate."

"Mhm..." The Mister Vice President nodded. "However, Pierette." He slipped the picture out of Pierette's hand, causing her to yelp in surprise. "We are still discussing examples. This boy unfortunately doesn't come into play for quite a bit." Pierette's mood sank like a ship after hitting an iceberg. "But still, let us continue discussing."

"Okay," Pierette turned back to the book and said, "But who else?"

The Mister Vice President took up a newspaper clipping, one which was older than Pierrette. The headline of it said, SCHNEE DUST CO. RESEARCHER FOUND DEAD. "Perhaps the brilliant inventor of the Yellowstone family."

YVETTE YELLOWSTONE
Daughter of Gordon Yellowstone, Researcher for the Schnee Dust Co.

"Alright, final checks."

Yvette Yellowstone stood in the dusty plains just outside the old aircraft hangar where she made a living fixing up planes and helicopters. Her dusty blonde hair was tied up into a ponytail reaching just above her elbows. She was clad in a zipped brown leather jacket with some fur linings. Her khaki pants were stained darker brown at the bottoms from intense work this morning, as was her white t-shirt and her boots. She placed her goggles over her eyes.

"Goggles. Check."

She raised her fists, cocking her self-made dust powered Rocket Gauntlets which could function as boosters, flamethrowers, shotguns, or as fists. Sooner or later though, she'll get to working those miniaturized zero-point energy projectors in.

"Boom and Zoom, check."

She hopped a bit, checking to see if the Rocket on her back was loose. It was, quite a bit. She adjusted the straps to tighten it. She definitely doesn't want it thrusting out of control again. Not like last time. It was a hard time explaining that to the police.

The Rocket however, despite lacking a real name, was her pride and joy. She'd spent years making it and perfecting the power source. It used a combination of various different dust elements, mostly red and white for better conduction of kinetic force into a projection area which would help straighten the flight path out instead of just exploding into a pile of Yellowstone. Along with that was an alcohol injector, which helped create a cool thrust and prevented the Rocket from overheating from use. At least, that was her excuse. In actuality, she needed something to help cool the engine and there was a lot of moonshine lying around. Regardless however, it was finally done. The silver Rocket was strapped to her back tight as a limb.

"Rocket. Check."

She sighed. Then took a huge whiff of the cool fresh air. There's going to be a lot of it pressing against her in flight. She raised her left hand, Boom, which contained the button to activate the Rocket. She grinned, then hit the button.

With a loud boom and roar, she went zooming off into the sky and right into a passing airplane.

As she lay in a pile of luggage, confused passengers, and other wreckage. She said, "Damn it. Not again."

Pierette said, "She seems a bit crazy."

"All brilliant people are," said the Mister Vice President. He put the newspaper clipping back into the book, blowing more smoke from his pipe. "Tell me, do you happen to know anyone you'd like to see in this story, Pierette?" Pierette opened her mouth to say something, but is interrupted. "Besides Jack."

"D'oh..." Pierette puffed her cheeks, thinking. "Hmmmm..." She flipped through a few more pages in the book. She settled on another picture of a man. "What about this guy?"

The Mister Vice President leaned over her shoulder again, humming. "Hm... the Knight-errant?"

"Hehehe..." Thieves, pickpockets, and all manners of robbers are rampant within the poor districts of Mistral City. This particular thief was more or less only in it for the money rather than having any other justifiable reason to rob old women of their jewelry. He admired the pearls, and noted just how much each bead could get him on the market. Perhaps it'll even be enough to get him some Dust. He filed the pearl necklace away along with the rest of his hoard in the top of the belltower. The night, visible through the arches underneath which the bell stood, was cackling with lightning and thunder. The thief grinned, he'd gotten away scot-free.

Or at least, he thought he did.

"Enjoying your claim, lowlife?" said a low, growling voice from behind the thief. The thief chilled at the bones. He'd been caught. He turned and drew his dagger, only to see who'd caught him.

He stumbled at the words. "W-Who are you!?" he ecked out.

Lightning flashed, revealing a man's whose one default state of height was being bigger than everyone in the vicinity. His body was covered in well made lordly armor and his head invisible underneath a Great Helm. The man's voice boomed shouting, "Anselm von Grauer, your worst nightmare!"

ANSELM VON GRAUER
Knight-errant of the Mistral Region

The Thief's throat became dry and hoarse, fear overtaking him as this utter giant in a suit of knight's armor reached behind his back and unsheathed a sword which gleamed in the burst of lightning. Anselm fully unsheathed it, slamming the end beside the Thief and throwing up a bit of the wooden floor. The Thief thought on it. He has a dagger that length of his hand. This monster had a sword the length of a car.

The Thief threw down a smoke bomb and legged it down the stairs. However, out the window of each progressive level, he could see him pursuing him with a little help from gravity. Anselm laughed and laughed, his voice booming through the window as the Thief ran.

Finally, the Thief reached the ground level and threw open the door. He recoiled in shock to see Anselm, standing there, sword in both hands.

"DID YOU REALLY THINK YOU COULD BEAT GRAVITY!?" Anselm raised the sword over his head as the Thief screamed for his life.

"He seems scary," said Pierette. She read the headline on the newspaper clipping, LOCAL THIEF FOUND HANGING FROM BELLTOWER.

"Strike fear into those who strike fear into others," was the Mister Vice President's response.

"Can we pick someone else?" asked Pierette. The Mister Vice President's response was to grunt affirmatively. Pierette continued flipping through pages. "Ah, what about her? The best Shepherd ever to live!"

The four old men sat on the porch of the old house, humming their day away. In their hands were cool cans of alcohol and at their feet a cooler filled with more cans of beer as well. This old house was situated nicely in the green fields of someplace where no one really particularly cares. Because of that, it made an excellent place for farming sheep.

"Yep."

"Yep."

"Yep."

"Mhm."

They took a sip of beer. Lazy day today. The one on the far left looked over out yonder. "'Oi," he said. "Over yonder there. See that?" They looked out in the old man's direction.

"Aye," said one of them. "I do."

What they saw on the horizon was a band of around two hundred sheep of varying sizes. At the head of them was a young woman with long dark green hair. On her forehead were two ridges, similar to the kind you'd find on turtles, but they were mostly covered up by her bangs. She wore a simple dark brown dress, around her shoulders was an olive shawl reaching to her elbows, and tied diagonally around her chest was an olive sash. covering her hands and lower arms were two great big gauntlets, and in one hand was a shepherd's crook and in the other a scroll. Finally, rectangular rimmed glasses sat upon her nose, in front of those green eyes of hers.

"Boy, you're quite observant," said one of them old men. "That I who I think it is?"

The girl and the sheep walked up to the front porch, and she presented the scroll to them. One of the old men stood up from his seat and stepped down to her, immediately finding himself gigantic next to her. She was quite small. "Awrighty..." He took the scroll and unraveled it. "An order of two-hundred fifteen sheep from pasture to Mister O'Donn. Projected delivery time of four to five days. Shepherding is handled by Miss..."

EMERALD O'HARE
Shepherd

"Goodness, you wee lass. You delivered all these sheep by yourself?" asked the old man. Emerald nodded with an expression of calm on her face. "Ah, very good then. Shall I wet the tea for you? You must be exhausted." Emerald shook her head, raising her hand as a gesture of no. "You sure?" Emerald nodded. "Awright then."

With that, Emerald tapped her shepherd's crook on the ground, then turned around and began walking away from the house.

Mister O'Donn stepped back onto the porch and sat down again. "Hm. Quiet little lass she be." The other three men nodded.

"Yep."

"Yep."

"Mhm."

One of them said, "She's a faunus, correct?"

Mister O'Donn. "Aye."

"Pretty lovely looking for a faunus."

The Mister Vice President mulled over it. "Hm... that is quite the quartet of characters." The Mister Vice President said, "But also consider who else could be related to this. The daughter of the Schwarz Dust Corporation who desperately wants her father's approval. A self-righteous terrorist such that even the White Fang will not tolerate him. A quartet of elite mercenaries under the employ of the Schwarz Dust Corporation who are more in it for the job rather than the pay. Think on it, Pierette. Why are these four teenagers important?"

"Well, they all have something in common. Don't they, Mister Vice President?" Pierette spun the chair to the Mister Vice President's direction. "All of four them were invited to attend Beacon Academy according to our records here at the Weekly Weeks."

"That's true," said the Mister Vice President. He took the pipe from his lips and pointed the stem at Pierette like most pipesmen. "But to what end, I wonder, have you figured it out? Pierette?"

Pierette blinked, surprised. "Well- no, Mister Vice President." She shut the book.

"Five points."

Pierette frowned, whining. "That's not enough is it?"

"Well, consider it your new assignment," said the Mister Vice President. "Research these four, and how they are related to each other. Give me something chronological as well, I don't much prefer anachronic storytelling." He walked over to the window and looked out.

Pierette nodded. "Yes, Mister Vice President." She opened the book back up again, then pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and inserted it into the typewriter. She paused as her fingers reached the keys, then turned to the Mister Vice President. "Uh, Mister Vice President. Can I ask a question?"

"By all means, Pierette."

Pierette asked him, "How do we know for sure that either you or I aren't actually characters in a story?"

The Mister Vice President turned his head, smirking. "We don't."

In which the Mister Vice President and Pierette Rosetta do not realize they are in fact characters within a story.