Chapter 33: For A Pessimist, I'm Pretty Optimistic
"So what did you think I would say? No, you can't run away. You can't run away..."
Roman Torchwick was a master thief.
A criminal who skirted the edges of the law, straddling the line between black and white and turning said line into grey. Like him, even. The thief was also a mentor and a colleague. Sometimes an adoptive uncle. Plain, simple, and nothing more.
Nexus Shade rapped on the steel door of the quaint little hovel, the cute little peeky hole blinking. Bitter-black smog flitted through the end of the alley as cars zoomed away. Crowds of early-goers strolled past the inconspicuous little alleyway, chattering and minding their own business and paying absolutely no mind to the shadows housing one of Roman's secret hideouts. The one he was currently using, at least.
"Who is it?" some woman said, her voice raspy.
Like someone who drank a little too much alcohol. Kind of like his father.
"Starts with an A. Ends with an R," Nex said, rolling his eyes. "Let me in before I let myself in."
The woman growled. "Nope. Get lost, kid."
Kid. Curse his height. He fingered Oathkeeper, the golden guard clicking and spinning. Orange-red blazed in its current cartridge, the carvings on the midnight-blue hilt shimmering. Like lava bubbling between walls of glass, etched into tiny characters—his mother's signature chicken scratch. One of her little inspirations. But no. That would tick off Roman. Then again, Neo would probably have a blast.
Oh well, oh well. There were cons to being a relatively anonymous thief. What was it again?
Right.
The dumb, pretentious code phrase all self-respecting thieves had. According to Roman, at least.
"All is quiet by the wall," Nex said, tapping the steel a grand total of four times. "All is silent in the city."
"All is quiet," the woman said, her shoes shifting over tiles. "All is silent. Get in. Quickly."
Nex shrugged as the latch inside clicked. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
He stepped into the hovel, the woman slamming the door behind him. He took a deep breath, the dusty air like sugar on his tongue. Boxes stamped with the SDC's logo were stacked in rows upon columns of long tables lit by overhead lights. There were men and women fiddling with multi-coloured vials.
Dust.
Obviously.
Wait.
The masked men and women seemed familiar. Faunus. No Roman or Neo in sight.
Nex sighed, parking his left hand on Oathkeeper's hilt. "What did you do with Roman?"
"Nothing, kid," the woman behind him said. "We're cooperating with the thief."
She spat cooperating as if it were decade-old lunch doused with bad wine. Sucks to be Roman. Working with stick-in-the-mud revolutionaries. Freedom fighters, if the ghost-ninja was here instead of him. But still, there was no point in starting a fight. Not when he was outnumbered and his colleague was cooperating with the White Fang.
Roman must have been scraping the dirt outside the barrel. Relatable. Good helpers were so hard to come by. Good friends, even more so. Maybe he finally ran out of matching tuxedoed goons—stuck in the Vale precinct or something. Robbing dust stores had to be particularly dangerous, considering what their typical customers were, along with the steep, mountainous store price of dust in the current market. All the more precious for the authorities to guard.
"Cooperating? That's new," Nex said, glancing at the busy men and women. Their heads turned to him, before they promptly went back to arranging the dust. He shifted, smiling at the taller woman. "Did Roman grow an extra pair of ears on his head? It's been a while since we last shared a toast."
A toast implied he was in Roman's inner circle. The status quo, if he was a politician throwing around his weight. He was definitely not a politician. Rather, he was a thief. A criminal. The same should apply.
"The thief isn't one of us," the woman said, her head bobbing. She was probably looking at his extra pair of ears. "We have orders from the top."
Nex hummed, crossing his arms over his jacketed chest. It was either Roman needed the White Fang or the converse. Or maybe Cinder Fall was using the two. "I take it you didn't ask why?"
The woman shook her head, the extra pair of ears on her head unmoving. "You're nosy for a kid. Who exactly are you?"
Nope. Of course they did not know. Evidently, the three goons yesterday were the cream of the crop of being stupid, F-list villains. It was either that, or they saw fit to take the revolution into their hands. Not very smart not telling the rest of their friends. Now that they were in the Vale precinct, there was no way they could even squeak about Weiss Schnee's mysterious beau. He should totally buy a fedora—just to complete the look.
"Nobody. Just another guy with an extra pair of ears," Nex said, nodding sagely at the woman. "I'm sure you understand."
The woman nodded, the thin lines of her lips sloping into a smile. "Yep. Ever been kicked out of a shop?"
When he was a kid, yes. But it was easy enough to learn which shops simply overcharged faunus, or even treated them like any other person, rather than just kicked them out. Nothing new there. Some people disdained what was different. It took the rare sort to accept the unknown.
"When I was a kid," Nex said, shrugging. "Grew up in Atlas. The wrong city for orphans."
Wrong city for empathy, even.
The woman winced. "Ouch. Must have been rough. You're a huntsman?"
Nex shrugged, shoving his sleeved arms into his pockets. One of his hands brushed the steel of his scroll. Just in case. "Trainee. What about you? I mean, before you joined the White Fang."
The woman frowned. "Former trainee. Flunked out of Beacon on my third year. Took up the mask since."
Young when she started. Only two years older than him. Come to think of it, the goon yesterday sounded like he was even younger than him. Evidently, the White Fang was pulling out the grassroot, recruiting every able-bodied faunus to their revolution.
Nex sighed, leaning against the wall. The woman shifted across him. Masked goons bustled through the hideout like ants over a pile of sugar. Not that far off, considering the mandibles protruding from some of their mouths.
"So, where's Roman?" Nex said, yawning into the soft, midnight-blue sleeve of his jacket. Cotton and strawberry flitted through his nostrils. "Chatting with you is nice and all, but we have business to discuss."
The woman nodded, her sharp chin pointing at the far door across the room. It was the size of a large flat in Atlas, just missing the plush couches.
"The thief's in there, meeting his lady friend," the woman said, waving at the door. "Some bit—woman called Cinder."
Oh.
Ho Lee Sheet.
Maybe the friend holding Roman by the balls was more than metaphorical. Well, good for him. And maybe, just maybe—the white suit and the mascara had merit. Cinder Torchwick. Ash. Maybe the other way around? Roman Fall. Nope. Definitely not happening.
"She's coming out," the woman said, crossing her arms. "You can probably talk to the thief now."
Nex grinned, the door just starting to hinge. "Quick. Give me a spare mask."
The woman reached into the pocket of her ripped jeans. "I have one. Why?"
"Why else? I'm bullshitting the humans," Nex said, extending a hand. "I just joined the great revolution. Don't laugh."
The woman smirked, practically shoving the mask in his hand. "All hail the White Fang. Yar dee har. Go get 'em kid."
"Thanks," Nex said, putting on the smooth ceramic. "All hail the White Fang. For five minutes."
He crossed his arms, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin. Thank Weiss for having perfect, well-rehearsed posture. Copying it with Pareidolia was all too easy, especially since he was with her in school almost everyday.
The woman sashayed through the doorway. Cinder Fall. Aptly named, considering the red dress she wore. Black hair, amber eyes, and fair skin. Cinder could have been mistaken for Blake at a distance. Switch around the clothes a bit, add a bow there, and maybe change the sashay into a straight walk. What was it with women and swaying their hips?
Come to think of it, Weiss also swayed her hips. Well, whenever they were alone in their dorm. Huh. Maybe he could ask her why women swayed their hips?
Cinder Fall stopped before the door, right in front of him. "And who are you?"
Her eyes darted to his extra pair of ears then to his mother's weapon. They settled on his mask, definitely trying to peer through the slits. And undoubtedly failing.
"Isn't it obvious?" Nex said with a deep grunt, rasping his voice. He could totally pull off the bodyguard act. All he needed was a goon name like Bob or something. "I'm an officer of the White Fang. Here to free my brethren. Viva la Revolution."
Cinder Fall rolled her eyes, looking straight at the door. "I see. Carry on then."
The White Fang woman snorted, stifling a giggle in her throat. Cinder shot her a look. She shivered. Evidently, he was not the only one who found it funny. Now if only Cinder could stop being a spoilsport, then it would be perfect.
"Yep. Carry on," Nex said as she opened the door. "Cinder Torchwick."
Cinder stilled, the door swinging in the breeze. "What did you just call me?"
"Cinder Torchwick," Nex said, chuckling at the woman's shit-eating grin. "It's about time the prick got himself a girl. Treat him right, okay?"
Really. Roman needed it. High-stakes job and all. Maybe even a stiff drink with his cigar.
"Roman and I are not married," Cinder said, scowling. She fixed him a glare—a glare competing with one of Mt. Weiss'. "See that this misunderstanding doesn't happen again."
Sad. He was really rooting for Cinder Torchwick. Or maybe even Roman Fall.
Nex shrugged, offering her an apologetic smile.
Never let it be said he was impolite to anyone.
Cinder's eyes blazed with orange fire.
Pareidolia squirmed. Lines of chaotic, meaningless data raced through his brain. He blinked. Cinder was gone, but the data was there. Incomprehensible. Never happened before. Not even when analysing a new semblance.
"What the hell..." Nex said, staring at the closed, metal door. "Did you see that?"
The woman frowned. "She's out of my pay grade, kid. Wouldn't mess with her if I were you."
"I meant the glowy eyes," Nex said, palming his new mask. Nope. Not the time to take it off. "Any idea what that was?"
Pareidolia rummaged around his brain, connecting dots that should not have existed. Data. His semblance needed more data. He needed to do research on glowing eyes. Well, after he met up with his team to celebrate Ruby's recovery.
"Maybe her semblance. Dunno. Out of my pay grade," the woman said, waving a hand. "Go talk to the thief, kid. Or those glowy eyes will cut your nose off."
They had a pay grade? But still, the woman had a point. Roman was here in the present. Cinder could wait in the future.
"Alright," Nex said, grinning. Pareidolia cackled between the walls of his skull. "Can I keep the mask?"
The woman smiled. "Yeah, sure. I've already got a small collection, anyway."
And he thanked her. He really did. The White Fang's goons were people, not its ideals.
Nex strode towards the far door, weaving around the goons. Some of them even walked out of his way, muttering good mornings and sirs. Apparently, having good posture, well-stitched clothes, and a mask was enough to appear authoritative.
Who knew a mask could make up for his height?
It was definitely not because his mother's fancy sabre actually looked different from the crappy, mass-produced swords and guns that they had. Or that some of them probably bought his act, staring down the terrifying Cinder and all.
"Well, look who's here," Roman said, strolling out of the door. "Here for your dust?"
Roman waved his cane at the stacks of boxes. He nudged the door close with his shoe, standing with his back against it. Cornered in his own hideout like some common prey. Well, being outnumbered by White Fang goons probably did that to people. Especially humans.
"Take your pick," Roman said, a strained smirk on his lips. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Oh. Maybe they actually did some ball-holding in the backroom. "Dust here, dust there, dust everywhere. Just pick a box and go boom."
Nex hummed, grinning as he held up a fist. "I'm an agent of the White Fang, human. I'll be relieving you of your post. Viva la Revolution, Roman Torchwick. Prepare yourself. En garde. Bla bla bla. Go suck a dick."
Roman rolled his eyes, just under the bowler hat. "Fuck. Holy shit. I didn't take you to be like these other revolutionists. Stop screwing around, will you?"
Damn. Apparently, the only one who found Viva la Revolution funny was the woman at the door. The rare breed that actually liked his sense of humour. And books. Definitely those.
Nex sighed, tugging off his new mask and shoving it in his pocket. "I'm just shitting you. What's with the haggard look?"
Roman glared at the goons for a millisecond. Then the thief smiled. Definitely nothing wrong there.
"You saw my friend," Roman said, holding up two fingers. Fingers wagging into air quotes. "You're smart enough to put two and two together. Add it up to four."
Ah. Trouble with little Miss Fall. The woman who was obviously behind everything. Probably with regards to their little transaction—the kind where transaction meant roasting over an open fire. Definitely not the immature mature kind. Although, that one was probably hot as hell.
"I still have to finish the virus," Nex said, lowering his voice. Down to business then. "I've been busy with school."
Roman chuckled, fidgeting with the cigar peeking out of his pocket. "School. Seriously. You're wasting your genius."
As expected, even if the genius part was debatable. Roman Torchwick would have probably stolen the SDC if he had Pareidolia for his semblance. Or maybe even the whole world.
"It's not that bad," Nex said, shrugging. "Beacon's a nice change of pace."
Roman smirked, pulling out his scroll. "I'll bet. See this?"
An image flashed on the screen.
Nex blinked, rubbing his eyes. It was a little grainy, practically a blur like someone moved a little too fast, but the scene was definitely there. Weiss was resting her head on his shoulder, her arm locked around his elbow. It was dark, part of his mug concealed by his awesome fringe. But she was beaming straight at the camera, her eyes half-lidded. The amateur shot was probably taken right after they dealt with the goons.
"The heiress and her mystery man," Roman said, pointing at the tabloid's heading. It was the obscure, gossipy kind. The thrilling haunt for people with nothing else to do with their lives. "You've certainly been busy. I didn't know you had it in you."
Nex shrugged. The tabloid could substitute for toilet paper, if it actually printed stuff. "What can I say? People change."
Roman scoffed, pocketing his scroll. "You're not serious."
He was totally serious. But still, there was definitely a reason why the thief saw it that way. To the master criminal, survival had a name. It was called Me, Myself, and I. And probably Neo.
"I'm quite serious," Nex said, smiling. "She's great."
Great, and a whole slew of other adjectives his brain could cough up.
"Great and a ticking time bomb," Roman said, frowning. "What do you think's going to happen?"
Roman waved his cane. The goons were working on boxes. Boxes stamped with his girlfriend's snowflake.
"She won't find out," Nex said, his lips tightening. "As long as we stay out of each other's hair."
As long as it stayed that way, the thief in front of him was a colleague. A useful one who still owed him a favor. Maybe even a friend and an adoptive uncle.
Not a liability to be taken care of.
Roman huffed at his cigar. A fellow thief on dwindling life support. "You of all people should know. For survivors like us, there's no place for idealists like her. She'll find out. And when she does, she'll betray you and turn you in."
Smoke wafted through his nose, mingling with the bite of dust.
"Maybe she will," Nex said, his jaw clenching. "Maybe she won't."
No pain, no gain. Once upon a time, he would have clucked, pulled out, and ran off like a chicken.
But not now.
Well, what could he possibly say?
He still hated losing.
Roman exhaled another cloud of black smoke, his eyes fixed on the nearby window. "Ah. Young love. Too dumb to care, Artificer? Don't expect us to bust you out."
Of course not. Everyone was alone in their line of work. They worked together, but they most definitely were not bosom buddies.
"Alright," Nex said, inhaling the second-hand smoke. The long drag wilted in his stomach. Like grass starved of rain. "Just stay out of my way."
"And stay out of mine," Roman said. He smiled, plucking the cigar from his lips. "Get your dust. You'll need it."
"Nope," Nex muttered, shaking his head. "Keep it."
He spun on his heel, Oathkeeper's hilt creaking under his palm.
"What?" Roman said, his voice cracking.
"You need it more than I do," Nex said, walking straight into the crowd of goons. "After all, I'm not the one with a very special friend."
They parted from his path. A vial clattered, shattering into pieces. The glass tore into his extra pair of ears.
Nexus Shade—no, the Artificer could live without dust.
What he needed was to get out of Roman's hole.
The smoke was bad for his health.