Mmm

I've been working on something that doesn't involve writing/stockpiling new chapters of this fic. So chapters are gonna slow down, mostly because I'm actually terrified of exhausting my chapter reservoir.

I shouldn't be. If I upload weekly they're gonna last until like... mid-June.

June! That's actually really long time...

Uh, I'll figure something out. As for that other thing, you'll see. Eventually.

Maybe even you'll like it.


Markus woke up with a start. He had a nightmare that he had completely missed the Vytal festival dance.

Wait…

Markus went back to sleep.

Markus awoke with a bang. He had a wonderful dream that he was able to find a nice, tall girl to dance with at the Vytal festival dance.

Wait…

Markus went back to sleep.

Markus rose with creaking joints and sloth-like movements. He felt nothing anymore.

By now, it was noon. The sunlight filtering through the window didn't make it far, landing only a few inches from the wall. When he approached, he pushed himself to flip open the blinds and allow the sun to beat the tiredness from his body. It beat him relentlessly.

Now sentient, the next thing to do was to plan and work on today's agenda. It included the following: return Ozpin's suit, take a nap, and find out the date of the actual tournament. That was all.

All three pieces of the suit lay on his bed. Last night was spent in them, and he has to admit that it was a really enjoyable experience. They were tight enough he could swing his legs under the covers without any drag and thick enough that they didn't develop wrinkles, but not so much so that his legs got hot. He couldn't even remember that he still had it on until the morning. He'd love to keep it on forever, but in the end he took them off in favor of his old coat. It gave him a level of security that was missing from his life.

His coat wasn't nearly as thin. He couldn't swing his arms around as easily, and if he did, the long flaps on his backside would swing around as well. It was a little nostalgic.

But his thoughts did not involve any clothing right now. When he had taken off Ozpin's coat, a napkin fell out from somewhere within. It would have completely escaped his notice if it didn't brush against his shin on its way to the floor.

In sloppy but clean lettering, it had read:

Courtyard 9

meet me

lunch break

And, in the bottom right corner, a lipstick stain in the indisputable shape of pursed lips was stamped. Seeing this sent an electric shock up and down his spine. People actually do that? Kiss a paper just to leave their lipstick? He had thought this was just a thing in movies or comics.

But no, the glaring proof was right there in his hand. And then the second concern set in. This letter must have been addressed to him. Someone with very pretty lips wanted to meet with him.

Now, this was a legitimate cause of worry, at least for Markus. He couldn't help but become anxious when he knows there's someone out there with their eyes on him, and he didn't know who. Even after thinking and thinking, it was impossible to recall anyone that would want to meet with him— apparently discreetly— and wore lipstick. In fact, he didn't know anyone who wore lipstick. An idea popped into his head. Maybe, just maybe, he could tell if he…

Markus looked back and forth around the room to make sure he wasn't being watched. After confirming that, he pressed the napkin onto his face and took a deep, deep, sniff.

It was only a little bit creepy.

The napkin was removed from his face. With a knuckle, Markus wiped away the little bit of lipstick that made it onto his cheek. This stuff is amazing. It's been hours since the dance and it still hasn't dried.

Yeah, no. He still had no idea who sent this note. It smelled like paper.

Now he was really starting to freak out. His mind went into overdrive, to the point where he began to think up portraits of everyone he's ever seen and imagined them putting on lipstick and kissing a napkin. But even that was for naught, as still he did not find a match— well, his memory wasn't that good anyway.

Markus had a sudden hallucination. He was there, in the courtyard numbered nine, standing around waiting for someone to show. Suddenly, an indescribably beautiful woman appeared and kissed him on the lips, deeply, before pulling away and driving a six inch knife directly into his heart. Markus bled out both from the hole in his chest and his mouth, and during his exceptionally slow and painful death, the woman took some blood from his lips, used it to re-apply her lipstick, then took a napkin out of her pocket and kissed it. Markus died, finally, and the killer would slip the deadly note into another innocent boy's suit. The cycle would continue until every single adolescent male on the face of the planet would be eliminated.

Markus fell to his knees. The weight of this napkin was too much for his weak little arms.

Five minutes later, he finally calmed down. The napkin was thrown away— he couldn't look at it without getting a little nervous. Out of sight, out of mind.

The suit was hung up on a technologically advanced hanger with multiple arms. Markus swung it on his back and walked out of the room. The plan was to return the suit, then ask Ozpin when the tournament began (and also where courtyard nine was).

When outside, Markus looked to the sky.

"This is it, huh?"

He said, as if the sun would answer back. He was going to die, wasn't he? At such a tender young age, too. A shame. His life was only just beginning.

After a sigh, Markus got on his way.

The elevator into Ozpin's office chimed. Ozpin was there, sitting behind the desk, in thought while signing more papers. A lot has happened in the past twenty-four hours, and he knew this likely wasn't the end of it. Plenty of impromptu meetings had been held in this room, but today they only seemed to bring bad tidings.

Ozpin shifted on his seat. Now, his fingers had weaved together and were held above his desk. Beyond them, his eyes watched the elevator doors. Who could it be now?

Sure enough, they opened and Markus stepped through. "Hey," he called out. You had to speak rather loudly to not be drowned out by the clocking of gears, at least when across the room.

Ozpin's eyebrows raised. "Ah, Mr. Quinn." It was a pleasant surprise; he almost never comes here on his own accord. "I could use some good news."

Markus made that long-distance trek across the office. "Yeah, well, I have your suit."

That was good news. Ozpin thought he would try and keep it. The mug was brought to his lips, but it turns out he had long emptied it already. This was an excellent time to take a break and refill.

Markus lay the suit on his desk while Ozpin walked over to a side table and refilled his mug.

By the time he finished, Markus had already made himself comfortable in Ozpin's chair and said, "What's in that mug of yours, anyway?"

Ozpin sipped, now that his mug was hot and ready. There was no better time to have a taste. "Nothing you'd like, I'm afraid."

"Okay." And Markus was appeased with that answer. He did a few spins in the chair, and when he stopped Ozpin was standing before him. Markus cut in first, "Yeah, two things and I'll go."

Ozpin placed his mug on the desk and rotated it for easy grabbing once he reclaims the chair.

"Alright, I'll be quick." Markus rested his chin on his palm. "When is the tournament starting, and where is courtyard nine?"

Ozpin's eyebrows rose again. These two things had nothing to do with each other.

"I see… then I will be curt as well." Ozpin walked past him, towards the window, and pointed somewhere far when he arrived. "Courtyard nine is that one, there. It's down the West hall from the commons, if you leave it through the Northern exit."

Yeah. Markus totally knew what that meant.

Ozpin turned around, then cleared his throat and adjusted his collar when he saw Markus's expression. "It's the one with the white swinging bench."

"Oh! Why didn't you say so?" Now, Markus definitely knew what that meant. It wasn't too far.

"Yes… and I believe the first matches in the tournament begin the week after break. A little over three weeks from now." Ozpin saw Markus with a thoughtful expression on. "Is that all? Mr Quinn, I must be getting back to work."

"Yeah, yeah." Markus hopped off the chair after one last spin.

Goodbyes were unnecessary. Markus walked into the elevator and was about to push the button down, but Ozpin interrupted. "Mr. Quinn," he said.

From where Markus stood, he could not see Ozpin's mouth moving—only the sight of him sitting at his desk with hands folded in front. It was intimidating, even more so from the fact that his voice seemed to boom from directly behind him. Markus tentatively looked up inside the elevator chamber. There must have been a speaker in here that he just never noticed, or something.

"Out of curiosity, will you be participating in the tournament?" Again, from somewhere behind him. Ozpin waited as Markus did a few spins to look for the speaker.

"Huh? The tourney?" Markus stopped spinning around and had his face wrinkle in disgust, as if he was just spoon-fed spoiled milk. "Of course not. I won't win."

The invisible speaker boomed out. "I believe you'd be able to get far in the rankings, if you truly focused yourself."

"Yeah, I know." Markus gave up searching and pressed the button.

The elevator's doors shut and he did not hear another word. Ozpin got back to work.

A door opened at an exit at the end of a certain hallway that could only be reached if you went down the West hall from the commons, if you leave it through the Northern exit. On one side of the door was the outside world, and on the other was Markus. He peeked his head out ever so quietly, to check if anyone was waiting for him on the swinging bench.

It actually wasn't lunch break yet, but he had to be sure.

No, there was no one there. The door was pushed open completely, and Markus strolled out with renewed confidence. Maybe the red-lipped mankiller wasn't going to show up. That'd be a relief.

Markus found a seat on the left side of the bench. As he swung back and forth, he entertained himself in various ways. It was difficult to play solitaire on a moving object, so he opted for some less risky scroll games.

He's never been very good with technology. Back then, he never had either the money or the energy for anything like that.

Of course, he could make a phone call or send a text, but those skills are essentially taught at school—seven-year-olds could do it on the daily. Since he's been spending so much time doing nothing, though, he started to use the scroll for more and more things. The physical holographic projections didn't make any sense, and the games on it were really bad (because the screen was translucent and therefore very hard to make out details with), but it certainly itched his craving for cool technology. He's thought about disassembling his scroll once or twice, but surely he wouldn't be able to put it back together again and Sykes probably wouldn't give him another one.

After a few minutes of gaming, he heard footsteps on the grass. They got closer and closer, until he felt the bench shift and the chains it hung on clatter. The visitor had sat on the bench next to him; it was easy, he had stopped swinging in order to focus more on the game a little bit of time ago.

Markus glanced over to finally see who it was.

He certainly saw, and then looked back. Instead of putting the scroll away, like he planned, Markus focused one-thousand percent more on the game. He focused so hard, in fact, that sweat began to pour out of his temples and a vein could be seen popping on his forehead.

All five senses were on the game, but thoughts had wandered elsewhere.

They said something like this (abridged):

Fuckin' lord above it's Cinder

And so it was.

-Break-

Let's take a break.

Around this part of the year, sometimes called the turnover, the contracts listed on huntsmen boards and in the combat schools see the most new missions. It's either because Grimm are most active now or the paper pushers behind the contracts are finally pressured enough to actually work. Studies say both.

When a huntsman request is made, typically it would be sent to a certain company which would then organize, record, and audit everything they could. This company also handles payment. After all the paperwork and the contract is ready to be taken, they would send it directly to the combat schools most relevant. There, a committee would estimate it's danger level and assign it a minimum year. It's mostly done just as a layer of legal protection, as any professor could override it (and thereby bringing the responsibility over the students on themselves).

The contracts can be rated five levels, one through four, and four+. These numbers, of course, refer to the year of education the team is in. If a contract is rated four or four+, it is also sent to a huntsman board, for true independent huntsmen to take. This is where all independent huntsmen contracts come from. The system is very much biased towards academies; however, there were so many contracts of this level no one could really tell. Something like three percent of contracts were rated under four.

Fifty years ago, the rating capped at four. Forty years ago, a certain law was passed everywhere except Atlas that was designed with a particular loophole in mind.

Beacon Academy and all the other high-level combat schools advertise themselves with four year curriculums. After four years, a team would have learned enough to stand on their own as independent huntsmen.

Since that law passed, you no longer were required to graduate after the four years. If you wished, you could remain a student at the academy for as long as you felt. Of course, you had to take at least one class a semester to stay in, but there were enough odd electives taught by odd teachers (that did not require attendance) to last a lifetime.

These students were called 'sleeping huntsmen.' Only they could take level four+ contracts, and in many ways they were effectively independent huntsmen.

The public—or those in the public high up enough to be aware—hate the mention of these sleeping huntsmen. Fully capable huntsmen, sticking around in school? It was the literal definition of wasted tax money. The government always says that they were considering repealing this law and returning those taxed lien to the people, but they actually would never do that. These huntsmen were too important to get rid of.

Graduated huntsmen were independent entities, separate from any kingdom; huntsmen still enrolled in an academy were not. Perhaps long ago, the academies were also independent from the state, but they have been slowly merging ever since their creation. Only recently, now that Great War veterans have all but disappeared, has it been so openly apparent.

The academies had the ability to force students to take missions, at their discretion, if it was rated safe enough. This did not change in regards to sleeping huntsmen. This power was granted in order to assure that there is never a large contract surplus.

That meant, if, say, the board was suddenly flooded with contracts pertaining to the defence of a fortress of strategic importance from 'terrorists,' the academy could call as many students as they wanted and require them to take the contracts. Else, they would face expulsion and a hefty fine.

The three southern kingdoms were discouraged from having a powerful standing army; this was outlined in the treaty at Vytal.

Instead, as of forty years ago, they had sleeping huntsmen. A legion of fully trained huntsmen at a kingdom's (or academy's) beck and call.

And everyone was a sleeping huntsman at one point. Less than half of a percent of huntsmen chose to graduate immediately when their four years were up. Why would they? It's good practice to get real experience while still under the protection of an academy, especially without so many classes in the way. It was also very good to get the contracts immediately as they came in, instead of the ones nobody wanted that appeared on the independent boards.

These sleeping huntsmen were a huge point of tension between Atlas and the other kingdoms. Possibly the single largest point. No kingdom ever backed down.

There was peace, for now, but all the armies were already assembled.

Everyone was a soldier.

-Break-

On this bright and sunny day, her name was Cinder, and she held a certain interest in Sykes and Markus. Never in her life has she seen anyone that brought her nostalgia like Sykes, and Markus wasn't exactly normal either.

Sykes was always so quiet and so still, and she was sure that if she ever took her eyes off him he would disappear for good. Markus did not strike her in the same way, until the dance.

He had said to her that Markus was someone worth looking into, so she's been keeping tabs on him. Nothing too much; it was just a general summary at the end of every week. They never say anything interesting. Ever. She sometimes cannot understand how someone can be so boring.

Her interest in Markus was waning, and she was close to giving up on him. How could someone like that be useful to her?

But then, she had found him at the dance. Somewhere, in some quiet corner, she had stumbled upon Markus. Right there on the chair, he sat and seemed to do nothing but think.

For some reason, the sight of him brought a strange excitement to her heart—he was still and silent, just like Sykes was! If she had carried doubt, then, at that moment, it was all obliterated. Markus was just like Sykes—just like her old friend. The way he looked, the way he stared at nothing; the way he was so, so still. Now she couldn't imagine them being anything except related. They could even be the same person, if she really thought about it, and if she enjoyed conspiracies (she does).

She just had to talk to him, before then. Sykes could tell her everything she wanted to know about him, but she just had to see him for herself.

Cinder sat down on the swinging bench, on the opposite side that her target did. He must have heard. He glanced over, appeared to undergo great distress when he did, and then turned back to his game. She waited for him to finish. It was entertaining, to say the least.

Finally, he had put the scroll away. He leaned on his arm of the bench and said, in clear and deep words, "So, you must be the one who invited me out here."

His face was almost a perfect example of stoicism. Almost. She could spot a few beads of sweat forming on his brow and an unnatural tightness in his jaw. Cinder smiled—unlike Sykes, he was easy to read. She didn't even have to see his full face to tell his thoughts, and she couldn't. "Yes, that was me."

"Oh."

Then, silence. Cinder watched as every passing second caused him to get more and more nervous. Difficult to spot, maybe, but it definitely was there.

Once she was sure he was about to tick and explode, she leaned over some. "I'm interested in you, Markus."

He jolted, and then Markus began to swing his feet out. "Who… who told you my name?"

"I talked to your father. He told me a lot about you."

"My father…?" And finally, he turned to look at her. Their eyes met, for just a moment, and she was sure she saw something there. "Oh. I see."

Markus stopped swinging his legs, and all those little signs of nervousness disappeared like they were never there.

Because all of a sudden, he knew what was going on again. All was well. Cinder wouldn't hurt him.

"Didn't he tell you that I want nothing to do with you?" He leaned his head back to watch the sky.

His shift in emotional state did not escape her notice. "You must put a lot of trust into your father."

Markus's eyebrows creased. Were they actually talking to each other? Still, he gave an answer, "Well… yes, in a way."

"Trust is good, especially within a family."

"Uh, yeah."

And then, silence again, until an alarm rang from somewhere inside Cinder's clothes. She was out of time. The two were probably beginning to wonder where she was by now.

Well, she got what she came for. You can tell a lot about a boy from how they acted around threatening girls. She certainly did.

Markus was… well, in a word—lost. Not heartbroken, not traumatized, just lost. Not a soldier, not a mercenary, just a kid without anything to do or anything to fight about. Nothing to die for. Maybe he was waiting for something, or maybe he was just bored. It would explain all the nothing he did. Like so many others.

But Markus was different, right? He had to be. She's met so many people like him, but none had ever struck her like he did. When their eyes met, just for a split second, she knew why.

His eyes were so perfectly clear, weren't they? So, so clear, different from anyone else's. She's grown to believe that everyone had a kind of fog in their eyes, except for her. Everyone she's ever met certainly did.

Maybe, she thought, the clearness in her own eyes— what she saw in the mirror was just an illusion, and she was just like everyone else. She really believed it, too— until now.

They were unlike Mercury's, or Emerald's, or even those huntress girls in training. They were always so foggy, so murky, that she sometimes had to wonder if they were capable of thought; if they weren't just robots with human skin. She wasn't like them. She was able to think for herself. If she wanted to scream, and shout, and spin and burn down the whole town, she could. They couldn't.

But he could. Right?

The alarm rang again. That's right, she had to go.

Cinder's thoughts came to a halt, but she couldn't just stand up and leave. This meeting was for her own interests; not for her mistress. Therefore, it all had to be covered up or erased. She was watching, and if she wasn't, she would find out some other way. Cinder couldn't speak to someone just because she was curious about them, tiring as it was.

It was a risk, but she knew it would be worth it.

Cinder took out a full paper-size envelope from somewhere mysterious. After she had placed it on the bench, she stood up.

"You know where to find me, don't you?"

Leaving those words floating, Cinder strolled away. She would call this a recruiting attempt, if ever asked about it. It probably wouldn't catch him, but it was out of her hands now.

And there, beside the envelope, was Markus. He scratched his head and watched her leave.

When the door closed, he said, "She's… kinda weird," as if there was someone listening and thinking the same thing.

Of course, there wasn't. Markus picked up the yellow envelope that she left behind. It was one of those packages people would mail books with, and this one felt like it had four inside it.

This was, he imagined, a bunch of documents that, once read, would make Markus angry and indignant at the corrupt society he lives in. He was almost entirely correct.

Markus put it down. Only idiots would read that. He'd read it later.

With arms spread along the back of the chair, he leaned his head back again. Now that the whole ordeal is over with, he could move on to the next objective in the agenda: take a nap. All that effort keeping his face straight really took a toll on his energy. Thankfully though, it seems to have worked. Cinder had left rather quickly.

He felt around for that envelope. It was thick and firm, just perfect for a pillow. If only it were softer…

Now that he was all set up to sleep, he kicked the ground so that he would rock. Closing his eyes, Markus counted the swings it took until he passed out. Like a baby. One, two, three—he only made it to seven before he was out.

He dreamt, of course, of those gorgeous eyes. Like nothing he'd ever seen before.

He knew he would.


worldbuilding worldbuilding worldbuilding worldbuilding worldbuilding worldbuilding

sorry dropped my worldbuilding worldbuilding

aw man, right in the middle of the chapter, too