Ch 8

Rat Trap

Captain Adel liked his boots.

Shiny black leather with practical, modern velcro fasteners; they were the only gift from his wife that he had ever been able make heads or tails of. Well… that wasn't quite true. If anything he understood their daughter Coco too well. She combined his love of machinery with her mother's love of fashion, a condition that had made raising her an absolute nightmare. Albeit a deeply rewarding one.

The same could be said about a lot of things in Captain Adel's life. Join the Vale militia to help pay for college? An absolute slog but it had exchanged a weekend a month for a respected and high-paying job. Answering a distress call while out on patrol? Meet a model who absolutely loves a man in uniform. Actually dating said model? Terrifying and confusing, but not as much as the daughter they'd gone on to raise. At least Café didn't carry around a compressed mini-gun in her purse. She had knocked a mugger's teeth out with hers once though. Probably the merciful thing to do considering what the then-Lieutenant Adel had been about to whip out from under his jacket but that hadn't made it any less disconcerting when she'd started pulling zip-ties out of her purse and restraining the poor fuck.

Adel ran his finger over the hammer of the sidearm, which sat secure in its holster. The texture of the cool metal reassuring in stressful times, and if this wasn't a stressful time what was?

The Vanille Precinct attack was the worst thing to happen to Vale in at least a decade and a half. As an opener to a likely war it was a body-blow. The Precinct was one of the few things that made a good portion of the industrial sector livable, and it was a major headquarters for that sector's disaster-management systems. If it had been timed alongside a Grimm incursion it would have meant the deaths of tens of thousands. Minimum.

He caught a pair of Junior Militiamen out of the corner of his eye, one with a mop in-hand and the other shepherding the bucket. Adel wondered if they were cleaning or sanitizing today. Instead of walking up to them and intimidating the poor lower enlisted with his rank he breathed through his nose.

Ah… Ceder-Sol.

Adel had been in so long that he could remember mopping floors with Citrus-Sol, but about eight years ago the vast network of administrators and bureaucrats of Vale's government had finally figured out that the Citrus scent invited pests. It was something any Junior Militiaman who'd ever worked in the kitchen could have told them, but the detergent had remained the main cleaning solution in Vale for half a century anyway. Nobody ever listened to the Militia.

Did they need funding for training? Did the vehicles need maintenance and spare parts? Were their uniforms in dire need of a camouflage pattern instead of the light green that their great-grandfathers had fought the Great War in?

Who cares? There was no money, and it wasn't like they ever had to actually use the Militia for anything. Just send a Huntsman, and if they every needed a bunch of armed men, just call in VPD Tactical. It was a cruel irony that a nation as devoted to democratic ideals as Vale had a better armed and armored police force than military. A VPD Tactical Response Team had some of the best weapons, equipment, and training that one could find outside of Atlas.

Of course, none of that mattered when you killed them in their locker-room before they even knew what was happening. The fact that there were only actually a hundred members total of the Vale Tactical Response Force, maybe a hundred and fifty if you counted the shot-callers, made no difference to the people who wrote out the annual budgets. That a threat could some along that would require a more in-depth response never seemed to occur to them- or if it did, was ruled unlikely enough to leave on the backburner. Implausible. A liability. Wasteful.

It had cost them Mountain Glenn, it had cost them the Faunus Rights Revolution, and it was costing them now. Oh Brother Gods was it ever costing them now.

Captain Adel opened the door to the Staff Office. As was custom the room started to snap to attention before he waved them back down.

"No time for that shit today. How bad is it- Intel?"

Staff-Sergeant Mulch held out a disturbingly thick folder "Vanille Precinct was the location of the local Disaster-Response Control Center Sir. The servers are a loss, and the word on the grapevine is they're knocking down the whole building once VPD are done with the investigation."

Adel grumbled "That's fire damage for you. Any of our plans for that area not centered on that station?"

First-Sergeant Erikson shook his head "Only Murder Hole. You know? The one with the…"

"Yeah. Guess we'd better check those belt-feds. We have the oil for them? We've plenty for the rifles but I don't know the last time we ordered any of the heavier stuff." Adel turned to his Supply Sergeant.

Sergeant Hemp put down his scroll, "Yeah, yeah... I'll grab it." he reached under his collar for his keychain. Technically a violation of Uniform Regulations, but it was a small one and Adel would never chide a man for taking precautions. He pointed a thumb at Mulch.

"Hand him the Vault key, I want to check the guns personally."

Hemp shrugged, pulling the shining key out from the ring under his undershirt. Doing his best to conceal his disgust, Mulch plucked it out of the hand like it was a dead mouse. Adel caught the scent of sweat on warm brass from six feet away. The key was sure to be rather... warm.

The trio passed by the pair of Junior Militiamen on their way to the vault. The one holding the mop snapped to attention, while the one holding the mop just shook his head. Adel told them to carry on, even as he let the Ceder-Sol wash over him and just as critically wash the smell of the key away. He also ignored the looks they shot him as the three of them walked over the freshly-mopped floors.

Sorry boys, official business and all.

The Vault and storeroom were built right across from one another. The large steel door of The Vault was almost comical next to the oak of the storeroom, but the theft of batteries and paper-towels didn't carry… political implications.

Hemp grabbed the padlock of the storeroom, while Mulch inserted his own borrowed key and turned. A series of red lights activated around the door, one of the decade-old bulbs sputtering in its clear plastic casing. The Sergeant muttered over his shoulder to Hemp "Any idea how long it's going to take to get this thing open? I don't want to hold this thing for any longer than I have to."

Hemp pulled the padlock off his door "Usually 'bout five minutes, the seals have been getting iffy so the pressure's been equalizing quicker. Been trying to get some new ones, but-"

CLANGGGG

POP

The lights flashed green as the vault's mechanical lock deactivated. Mulch chuckled "Well, I guess you're going to get them now."

Adel could already feel a headache coming on "Don't count on it. I think anything labeled 'Maintenance' is going to sink to the bottom of the pile for awhile."

Mulch swung the door open, the weight of the steel balanced perfectly by the hinges. The wall of steel gliding out without so much as a squeak. Adel took a look at the black rubber gasket that sat around the rim of the door. Despite himself, he felt a small twinge of some foreign emotion in his chest. Mulch put it into words first.

"Huh, seal looks good. Hell, looks almost new. Any chance-"

Adel was through the door before he could finish, expecting to see that his armory had been buried in debris from a collapsed roof. He found only rows of obsolete rifles, a column of even more obsolete heavy machine-guns in their crates, and two conspicuous rectangular spaces in the concrete where the majority of the firepower in his company had once been.

"What is it Sir?"

The Captain scanned the room, looking for an entrance. They first found a pile of grayish-white powder, and then a few chunks of concrete, until he finally found a viscous crack in the concrete ceiling. It was just large enough that a slight man could squeeze his shoulders into the room width-wise, or a pair of belt-fed machine guns still in their crates out of. He began to put together the sequence of events in his mind. Drill a small hole, let the vacuum equalize…

What next? How the fuck did you dig through four inches of concrete without anybody noticing?

Captain Adel racked his brain, until he remembered a news report from nearly a decade ago. Back when TV news had still been worth more than a bucket of cold spit. Roman Torchwick and the first International Bank of Vale… the bastard had dug in and helped himself to a good portion of the still-unclaimed Vacuo National Bullion Reserves damned near undetected. Nobody noticed until a security guard heard the voices of the teams of men moving the quarter-ton pallets. The Vault hadn't been quite as dense as the thief had figured.

How'd Torchwick do it again?

The first reports had said mining equipment, but that had only been to drill the holes. The real work had been done by inserting hydraulic spreaders, the sorts used by fire departments to pry-open car wrecks. You didn't need a license for them, and they were just quiet enough to bet muffled by the material of the vault itself. The Council had cracked down on them after that, not that you couldn't still steal one of course.

He paced the room, looking into the corner where an infrared sensor had been wrapped in some sort of plastic. They'd have had to have pulled that bit off quick, but it wasn't impossible. If Torchwick was working with the Fang, he could have told them how to do it. The bastard might even have lent them the spreaders.

"Sir?"

Captain Adel's rage finally woke up. It brushed its teeth, combed its hair, and put on pants. His rage had a nice breakfast and then left for its long long circle back towards sanity. He would not be getting home tonight.

"Sergeant Mulch?"

"Yes Sir?"

"Somebody has taken our belt-feds."

"Um… Yes. Yes Sir that does look likely."

"The belt-feds we are going to need to actually protect our assigned portion of The City from any serious Grimm incursion. In the immediate aftermath of a terrorist attack."

Sergeant Mulch began to back away from him "Yes Sir- that is what that means. Are you Oka-"

"Oh not even remotely. But now is not time for that..."

Mulch's mouth opened again, but Adel held up a finger. Reaching into his front pocket, he withdrew a pair of orange polarized aviator sunglasses. He snapped open the arms with a flick of his wrist and slid them onto his face. Captain Adel let loose the breath he'd been holding.

"Sergeant, my instructions are as follows. From now on no man under the rank of Lanceman goes unarmed. At the beginning of the day they will check into the Vault and get a rifle, at the end of the day they will turn it back in. At night they will take a sidearm home with them-" The Sergeant made to speak.

"-This is not up for negotiation Sergeant. Now... In addition, from here on out there will be two men posting guard on this Vault at all times. To emphasize how important this is, the Staff will be posting guard first."

By this point the Sergeant had fallen into attention. An odd mix of professionalism, training, and a generous helping of survival instinct. It was the right call in any case.

"Sir... we're not going to be able to pay them for that.

"Doesn't matter. Now if you need me, I need to make some phone calls-" he snorted "-somebody out there is going to be having a bad day."

Clark

Clark had wondered why Glynda wasn't looking forward to the arrival of her fellow staff-members until the day they actually arrived. About three days prior to the start of term they trickled their way in from whatever odd jobs they had been doing over the summer, then they typically arrived via airship.

The landing docks were a weird concrete extension off of the plateau that Beacon had been built on top of. The existence of an air-dock rather than airstrip or landing pad was a consequence of a world where giant supernatural monsters usually made airstrips unfeasible. It was technically possible to load an airship or bullhead anywhere, but a proper pier simplified the logistics immensely. The fact that is looked like a massive concrete platform to nowhere was just an eerie side-effect.

The first to arrive was a scrawny man wearing spectacles and what Clark could have sworn was a classic set of British Imperial Khakis. The man had stepped out of his bullhead, set down his luggage, and had sprinted towards Glynda so quickly Clark could have sworn all of his colors mixed together into a Khaki blur. He screeched to a stop some ten paces away.

"Miss Goodwitch."

"Doctor Oobleck."

They stood, backs straight and limbs stiff. A gust of wind blow some loose leafs past them, Clark wondered if they would come to blows. Then they snickered and the Doctor blurred his way towards her. She caught the slight man in a hug.

"Glynda! Good to see you!"

"You too. How was your break?"

"Oh just some light exploration in some Vacuoan ruins nothing too exciting. Found a handful of artifacts but most of them turned out to be rather recent as the local nomads used the ruins for shelter."

Clark leaned away from Oobleck. How the hell does anybody talk that fast? It was probably a semblance of some sort, although the battered and well-loved thermos in the man's hands could have been another explanation. The… rounder Professor took this opportunity to walk past his own piles of luggage and make his way towards the pair. It was the worst excuse Clark had ever seen for a casual saunter. Glynda spoke from over Oobleck's shoulder.

"Peter… no."

'Peter's' only response was a slight twitch in his mustache as he made his way to the pair. He wrapped his arms around them and pulled them into his embrace.

"GLYNDA! It's been too long! Barty was worried sick about you and Ozpin on the flight over, not that there was ever any doubt you'd manage things of course."

She tapped Peter on the shoulder, the man set them down and let some of the tension out of his arms.

"It's good to see you're well too, Peter. Would you mind letting us go?"

"Certainly. My apologies, it's just been so long…"

Glynda shook her head, but Clark could see her fighting off a grin "It's been three months Peter, maybe two and a half."

"Too long! Far too long! If I weren't married to the thrill of the hunt I'd be as glued to the grounds as you or Oz-" He caught sight of Clark, his eyebrows and mouth both curling upwards into a mischievous grin.

"-Of course, that doesn't mean you haven't been on a hunt of your own... eh?" His elbow poked her in the ribs "-Are you going to introduce us to the Lad?"

Glynda's smile vanished so suddenly Clark was certain it left an afterimage. It was actually rather impressive how quickly her face went from relieved to exasperated, though not offended. Clark's ego remained intact on that front. She shoved herself away from the two of them, who were now staring intently at Clark. Professor Oobleck with a raised eyebrow, and "Peter" like he had just sat on a whoopee cushion.

Glynda waved an arm towards Clark "Gentlemen… allow me to introduce John Clark, he will be taking the position of Groundskeeper here now that Peat has retired."

Clark stepped forwards, extending his hand and a diplomatic smile "Nice to meet the both of you. I'm looking forward to working with you, but considering I'll be making most the repairs around here I hope you won't be offended if I say we shouldn't meet too often."

Doctor Oobleck, or "Bart" put his hand forward first "I make no promises, but will try my best." he shook Clark's hand fast enough to mix paint and then stood aside for his colleague.

"Peter's" grip was crushing. The actual motion less of a 'hand-shake' than an 'arm-shake', perhaps complete with a 'torso-shake'. Clark briefly worried that he was about to yank his shoulder from its socket.

"Elated to meet you Lad! It's been too long since we had any new blood in the staff, I'd be happy to help show you around the place!"

Clark kept smiling through the pain, but the bones in his hand were still grinding together like a pair of drugged-up preppies on spring break. Anorexic ones, considering the fact he could feel every angle and nub in them. Clark reached up with his other hand to try and pry off the large man's thumb. Before he could touch it though, Glynda came to his rescue.

"Peter… did I mention that Kitsune was already here?"

The grip on Clark's hand slackened immediately.

"Really? She usually doesn't arrive until the night before Initiation, she doesn't want to waste her time if there aren't any students to care for."

Glynda rolled her eyes "Liability... A lot of students came early this year and legally we need a medical professional on standby once we reach a certain capacity."

Port turned to the main building, but froze when Glynda cleared her throat.

"Your bags, Peter."

The man turned on his toes, realizing he had almost left his things on the pier.

"Ah yes. My bags, how could I forget…" He began to pace back towards them.

"After you've taken care of them, would you mind helping John with the cameras down in the forest?"

Peter took a second, a strange calculus running on overclock in the back of his head. "While of course Glynda, but would it be okay if I took a minute to freshen-up in between? Not all of us can keep our youthful appearances naturally you know?"

Glynda let out a sigh "Of course, Peter. But if you don't mind…" she smiled and snapped her fingers. The pile of suitcases and trunks began to lift themselves into the air, suspended as if by magic, surrounded by a faint purple glow. Clark caught a glimpse of a riding-crop in Glynda's other hand.

She really puts the "Witch" in "Goodwitch" doesn't she?

As far as Clark knew for certain, this was the first time he'd seen somebody use a "Semblance". Glynda had given him a crash course on them on the drive back to Beacon the other day.

"… A Semblance is a special ability granted to an Aura-wielder." Glynda settled herself down into the leather interior, smoothing out a couple of imaginary wrinkles in her skirt. Across from her sat Clark, who'd pulled his suit-jacket off as soon as the doors closed behind them. He laid the jacket across his lap.

He brought a hand up under the webbing of his holster. "What kind of special ability are we talking about here?"

She shrugged "It varies so much from person to person that it's almost impossible to say."

Clark leaned forward "What are some examples? Eye-lasers, breathing fire, maybe x-ray vision?"

"I wasn't being coy when I said there's no telling. I will admit most Semblances are rather limited. As a rule they will grant a single ability, although some have more than one utility."

"What, I thought you said you only got one?"

"I said duel 'utility' not 'ability'. One Semblance can do a lot of things if it's particularly versatile, which can make things rather unbalanced when you consider that not everybody discovers their Semblance."

Clark couldn't help but to raise an eyebrow at that "Why?"

"Generally one needs a rather large reserve of Aura in order to unlock their Semblance in the first place. 'Huntsman-level' we generally call it, although not everybody that has such an Aura decides to become one. Once you get to that level it very common for people to discover their Semblance. Often by accident, if I recall correctly there was one student whose hair lights on fire whenever her's activates."

"Sounds inconvenient."

Glynda smiled "Started quite the little kitchen-fire, her father was not pleased. Of course she was around twelve at the time, poor girl was mortified."

Clark pulled his Schwar from his holster, noting a brief flinch from the woman across from him. She relaxed when he ejected the magazine, pulling back on the slide to eject the round in the chamber and pressing it back to join his friends in the magazine. Clark's finger found the takedown lever and rotated it "I'm listening- keep going. The girl who set her house on fire…?"

Glynda's hand pulled away from the handle in her boot "Oh yes, Miss Xiao-Long- anyway most Semblances have something to do with one's personality or upbringing, you'll find most really powerful ones come from people with abusive or dysfunctional backgrounds. That or the criminally insane."

Clark rotated one of the pieces free, noting that whatever propellant they used here left faintly brownish-black soot on all of the parts "So they're probably not going to be on our side then."

Glynda sighed "No, they probably wo-." Her eyes shot back open "-Are you using your jacket-sleeve to wipe down your weapon?"

Clark brushed the last of the brown smudge out the inside of the slide, he was going to have to grab some oil from Beacon's workshop when they got back. "We're taking it back to the shop anyway, and I didn't properly check the insides after last night."

Glynda growled, fingernails digging into the leather of her boot "Yes, and Mr. Reeds is a friend to many huntsmen in Vale. You would do well not to make his job more difficult than it has to be. Or mine."

Clark took a glance down at the coat he'd been using like a rag. The color of the suit was pretty similar to the stains.

He'd be fine… probably.

Clark now knew what Glynda had been reaching for in her boot. Considering how easily she was telekinetically picking up and moving all of that baggage, he'd come very close to being scrambled like an egg on that car ride.

"Mr. Clark, I think the cafeteria just opened up. If you want to eat any time in the next few hours, now would be the time."

He nodded. Glynda played "Scary Boss Lady" well, and now wasn't the time to interrupt her momentum. God help anything that seriously got in her way, because Clark sure as Hell wouldn't.

"Sure thing. You'll know where to find me Peter." Clark walked off, sending a wave over his shoulder to the condemned man and leaving him to his fate.

.o.o.o.

Beacon's cafeteria was full of contradictions.

Clark had never been to college, having joined the Navy right out of high-school, but he knew that most of them had abandoned the long rows of tables that were standard in the public school system. The walls on either side were covered in windowed Gothic arches, but every bit of furnishing was designed to fill the room with a warm, fire-like glow. It was like a cross-up of a mess-hall from Basic Training and a medieval banquet room. Judging from the overwhelming smell of roasted meat, that last one was more apt.

He grabbed a stainless steel tray and took his place in line next to a Faunus girl with rabbit ears. She was probably grateful for the spare set considering the fact her friend was talking them off.

"Can you believe that? They dug their way through eight inches of concrete and nobody caught them? Dad's pissed, and Mom's pissed too since he's gotta stay there late tonight. Glad I came back early otherwise I'd have had to deal with that shit."

Rabbit girl's ears seemed to deflate "Um, yeah… That sounds like it would really suck…" Clark was going to do his best to ignore the fact she had an Australian accent, instead keeping his eyes on his reflection in the spit-shield. The reflection gave him a far better picture of the room at large anyway.

"Ah crap Velv, I forgot…"

"It's not your fault… it's just that it'd be nice to have both of them around, ya know?"

Clark saw the reflection of "Velv's" friend reach up and fiddle with her sunglasses. Indoors. Would that go into the 'eccentric huntress' bin or the 'weird powers and equipment' bin? She was also wearing a brown beret and bullet-belt, so the jury was very much out on that one. It could very well be 'yes'.

"Yeah, still sorry though. Your Dad still doing okay in Atlas?"

A lunch lady offered Clark a slice of chicken, he nodded and a generous helping was piled onto a plate and placed on his tray. Clark thanked her and continued his side-shuffle. The chicken was joined by honeyed ham and a pile of roasted potatoes. Clark noted that his mouth was full of saliva. He was a lot hungrier than he'd thought.

"Yeah, he's fine. Mum's still a little sore 'bout it though… "

The conversation turned away from useful intelligence, and Clark's interest in the marital struggles of random people wasn't enough to bother with tuning an ear. Instead he focused more on his surroundings. The bustle of the lunchroom made listening impossible past about fourteen feet. One of the few benefits of the decades of hearing damage Clark accumulated was that places like this hadn't bothered him so much. With new ears and Aura Clark was free to soak in all of the wonderful sounds of dozens of people talking at once in a mess hall the size of a cathedral. At least half of the noise was echo.

It was only going to be worse once the bulk of the student body arrived in the next couple of days. Initiation night was allegedly the worst, as members of staff had to pull an all-nighter to ensure that the students weren't going to add or subtract to the school's population as they all slept on the floor.

At the end of the line Clark gave a nod to the employee at the other side of the counter. She shook her head, then picked up a slab of fish with her tongs and dropped it onto Clark's plate.

Mmm, that was fresh. Salmon maybe?

Clark left the serving area and paced down the lines of tables. By and large the seats were empty, the few that were occupied were filled either by upperclassmen or those few freshmen who had decided to come early. Those were easy to tell apart from the upperclassmen, they ate alone, and almost always in nervous silence.

They also were scattered almost uniformly around the near-empty cafeteria, expanding to fill the room like a gas. He'd arrived just late enough that he wasn't going to be able to avoid sitting next to one of them without looking out of place. Clark would need to find one that wasn't looking for conversation. This was easier said than done, these were still basically teenagers and it was only their new environment combined with nervousness that was keeping them from clotting together and filling the room the rest of the way up with noise.

It took all of twenty seconds for Clark to find his human shield. He made sure to hunch his back and loosen his posture as he carried his tray to the bench.

She was wearing a bow- that was the first thing that stuck out to him. The second was the fact that she wasn't eating her food. Third was the pair of deep, dark circles that surrounded her eyes and fourth was the fact that said eyes weren't so much focused a thousand yards away as a thousand miles away.

Poor girl. Starting college was stressful enough without your city turning into a war zone. She was so out of it that Clark assumed he could have set off a flashbang in front of her face and she'd barely blink. Assuming was a nasty habit though, and as soon as he poked into her field of vision she practically jumped out her skin. The table caught her legs, and her jolt sent both Clark and his tray bouncing up a solid six inches as she fell prone to the bench. They both stood still for a second, then she silently craned herself back to a seated position, eyes studying the varnish of the table instead of acknowledging his presence.

Clark tried his best to leave it at that, he really did. His decades of experience as a father and then a grandfather to a line of near-exclusively girls made that a losing proposition. He mulled his options, then opened with an old faithful.

"So… rough night then?"

She ignored him, although she picked up her fork and stabbed it into her fish. The salmon flaked around it, but she refused to look at her plate to correct the process. Considerably more food wound up on her tray than in her mouth, but she gave no mind.

"Yeah, things are pretty weird right now…. First you come to a new school and then all of that White Fang stuff…" The girl's fork screeched on the ceramic, Clark had struck a nerve. He continued.

"I wouldn't worry too much about them, they'll get found eventually."

"No. They won't." Her eyes drilled a hole into her pile of rice. She scooped together a mouthful and pressed her fork into it "The Fang has been in Vale for years. The police have never caught them, Beacon never even paid attention to them. The whole city is a rats nest of tunnels, warehouses, and apartments- it's easy to to disappear here."

Well wasn't she just a bundle of sunshine. In hindsight expecting to extract optimism from a girl dressed almost entirely in black was fairly 'glass-half-full' of him. But he had gotten her to talk, to put a voice to her thoughts. That wasn't a bad start, he knew from experience. He swallowed his bite before responding "I wouldn't be too sure about that."

"Why? They've been running circles around the government here for half a decade, why would now be any different?"

"Because they just pulled the mask off. Once upon a time the White Fang carried picket-signs and petitions-" the girl's entire body cringed at that "-now they walk around in skull-masks carrying assault rifles. People aren't going to forget images of the Fang gunning down cops and burning down police stations any time soon. They've burned through the last of their good will, and it's hard to hide something as big as they are in a city, at least without friends."

She relaxed, a gesture that seemed to take the tension out of everything from her bow to her fingertips.

"Yeah, I guess... but they're not going to come quietly, and every day they're free is a day they can get more people hurt. Or worse."

It was mostly going to be the 'or worse', especially in the countryside where medical care was sparse; but Clark kept that particular note to himself.

"You've got me there. The quicker they get rolled up, the better things will be for everybody. I can't-" A meaty hand fell onto Clark's shoulder from behind.

"Ah, John My Lad! We must begin preparations for Initiation immediately, we don't have time for you to... socialize with the new students." Clark could hear the smile behind that voice.

"I'm eating."

"Then eat faster Lad, we're burning daylight, and you haven't even grabbed your tools yet."

The man had no idea what he was about to inflict on these student's poor, virginal eyes "You sure about that?"

The girl was now recoiling, the shock at having been conversing casually and flippantly with a member of staff now mixing with the dawning horror that said staff member was planning something ugly. Peter, however; remained completely oblivious.

"Quite right my boy. Down the hatch now."

Clark took a deep breath, exhaled, and then went to work.

Mashed potatoes and chicken pieces, fish and rice, ham. All of these things were cut, mixed, and shoveled into his mouth with absolutely no regard for taste, texture, or basic decency. The mash pulled double-duty here, able to keep the machine working and lubricated all at once. Rice and fish were scrambled and crumbled into a loose pile, and that pile was added to the others. He scoped the last couple of bites into his mouth, chewing only twice before forcing in down his throat and chasing it with a cup's worth of water.

He shot Peter a grin, only noticing then that the cacophony of the cafeteria had cut out. The girl across the table looked on at him in horror, the pair he'd been eavesdropping on earlier joined their two male friends in staring at him like a gory car-wreck. Clark pulled out a few napkins from the dispenser and wiped the corners of his mouth clean. A woman's voice spoke from behind him, probably this "Kitsune" that Peter had been so eager to interact with.

"Not that this isn't fascinating to watch, but are you quite done?"

Clark turned his head, noting that nobody else in the cafeteria was willing to share eye-contact.

"I'd say so."

The conversation in the cafeteria didn't pick back up until the door closed behind them.

.o.o.o.

"So he wants us to put them all up?"

Clark drove the point of his drill into the mossy bark in front of him, pointing the tip slightly upward so the installed camera would have a good clean view of the ground below. When Peter had pointed these glue-shoes out to him he'd been more that skeptical, but they were proving a godsend.

"Of course Lad, Initiation is one of Beacon's most critical customs. It must be monitored and controlled rigorously, 'lest a bad actor use our complacency against us!"

"Yeah, yeah..." Clark didn't mind a little elbow grease, but this was the sort of thing men like the one he was pretending to be complained about. You didn't have to force bellyaching as much as other stuff, in fact people found it weird if you didn't. He shook his toes, finding the hold of the glue boots secure. He still didn't quite trust the things.

The glue boots were a frame that went around a pair of workboots, the toe hat an adhesive surface that was activated by flexing the foot. Clark had known about electrically-activated adhesives before he'd keeled-over, but this was roughly what he'd imagined them being used for. RAINBOW and DARPA's testing had shown the stuff needed a little more time in the lab, but Remnant had apparently already done the homework.

The fact the adhesive had the same hue as Gravity Dust probably had something to do with that.

Clark pressed his glue gun into the fresh-tapped hole, spraying a layer of clear adhesive gel inside. The drill went into a hook on his toolbelt, and Clark's now free hand went into a pocket. He withdrew something that looked like a coin-counter, depressing a button on the cylinder and dropping a dime-sized camera into the palm of his hand, pressing it into the glue. There was a tiny click as the buttoncam flexed under the pressure then activated, drawing power from its tiny internal Dust crystal. Clark checked the screen of the obsolete device he'd chosen as his "work scroll", seeing yet another green circle join its many ranks of identical friends.

Five circles to a row, five rows, and only a third of the way into the tube. This was going to get tedious, Clark could already tell. Port making eyes at the school's nurse wasn't making things any better, but the fact she seemed to use a massive pair of stainless steel sheers as a personal weapon would keep things civil between them. He caught a piece of conversation as he stomped his way down the trunk.

"- then, I grabbed his jaws and tore the equine bastard in twain! Haah! Ichor everywhere!"

Clark smiled and shook his head. Well, at least he isn't making any headway.

"Mmm, and how did the jaws disconnect? Was it a popping sensation or a cracking? I've always been curious but I'll admit once I get my hands on one I tend to have problems… controlling myself."

Clark's fingers dug into the wood. Maybe Peter wasn't making so little progress after all. He was either going to have to intervene here or spend the rest of his time being a third wheel to the world's most manic bicycle. He yelled down.

"How are we getting all of the students down here anyway? I didn't see a lift and I'd love to see us try and get all of our bullheads down here. They repelling?" Clark kicked his boot-tips off the base of the tree.

"My good man! Don't tell me you don't know about the Jump Pads!"

Ah. Caught out again, he was going to have to spend some more time in the library some time soon.

"Can't say I do, what's a 'jump pad'?"

There was a series of snapping sounds in the forest behind the staff members. The nurse turned and vanished into the underbrush with an animistic growl, leaves knocked off branches and into the wind behind her. Teeth shining almost as brightly as her sheers. Peter chortled and watched her leave, before returning his attention to Clark.

"Hah! Well the name's rather self explanatory, wouldn't you say?"

"No, I wouldn't. What is it?" Clark tried to ignore the sinking sensation in his gut, the one that told him somebody in authority was about to make his life unpleasant. His change in tone fell on deaf ears apparently, as Peter leaned forward for a conspiratorial whisper.

"It's how we test their Landing Strategies Lad, launching them from the top of the plateau and forcing them to fend for themselves in the forest. They must prove they can handle the rigors of the field, prove they can handle the deprivation of living in the wilderness, and test their skills in the art of the hunt!" Clark was once again very grateful for his Aura-provided hearing protection. Peter's volume-control issues would have been far more grating without it.

"Well, throwing them off a cliff is pretty damned rigorous-" SNAAP

Clark's mouth closed. To his rear there was a distant rustling, muted by the leaves and vegetation. Like the sound of a tank crushing its way through a jungle. Clark eyed his companion.Peter's stance had dropped low, fingers tense on the handle of his axe. Eyes scanning the underbrush behind him.

Turn or run? Both of options put him between a madman with an axe and a sizable monster said madman professed to hunt for a living.

Clark chose the third option and threw himself into the ground, just as the creature crashed through the bush behind him. A shower of green leaves and twigs rained down around him. Clark learned the downside of this plan when he felt a set of teeth collapsing around his collar.

This was only made clearer to him as a jet-black, bone-plated bear the size of a hummer on its front wheels lifted Clark by his jacket and began to shake him like a chew toy. His world became a blur, perspectives shifting so quickly he could have been a marble in a cocktail mixer. Vaguely, Clark could see Peter trying to line-up a shot with the ridiculous axe-blunderbuss combination he'd been cradling.

The monster tossed Clark into the air, giving him his first good look at the creature. Clark's first thought was big bear, his second thought was Ursa, which was the bear-inspired animal Grimm native to this region. The tank analogy was apt here, Ursa's were the largest Grimm one could expect to regularly encounter and handled most of their problems the same way the old Soviet's handled political dissent.

That is to say, crushing it into gooey paste.

Clark realized that the creature had angled it's head upwards, trying to catch him in it's maw. He snapped out an arm, shoving himself off of the bone-plate that made up most of the creature's face. The jaws slammed closed on empty air, then realizing it had failed brought it's body the rest of the way to the ground. Clark could almost imagine a cartoonish confused grunt as the Ursa realized that the man beneath had not been killed, he had merely been pinned to the ground.

The difference between the two was small enough, and considering the Ursa's jaw was between Clark's hands and his holster it was getting smaller every second. The beast lunged at him again, somehow digging Clark even deeper into a furrow in the topsoil. If this fight didn't go well for him, he'd have a grave half-dug by the time he finished the swearing.

He needed to get a grip on things, change the shape of the engagement. Lucky for him he had some real swanky footwear. Clark pressed his boot-tips into the Ursa's chest and flexed his ankles. Instantly the beast's balance shifted, and some of the weight came off of Clark's chest. Not enough to let him reach his gun and end the fight there, but certainly enough to give him room to breathe. Literally.

Speaking of breath, why did a magic monster's breath have to be so moist? It's not like Grimm actually processed the people they ate, but the insides of their mouths remained fleshy and pink as any other animal. A fact Clark was getting an up-close view of here. That and the glowing red eye-holes, which didn't seem to have corneas or the like.

Wait a minute, eyes?

Clark reached for the drill in its loop by his waist, having to almost dig through rich soil to reach it. He unhooked it, using his feet to keep the Ursa unbalanced. The creature tried to swing at him with its arms but they were more fleshy clubs than dexterous limbs. They did however manage to dig yet more furrows in the forest floor. The creature wasn't any happier when Clark put the drill bit into one of its eye-sockets. It was even less enthused when Clark pulled the trigger and sent it a good distance into its brain. Could you give a Grimm a lobotomy?

The creature roared, standing on its hind legs in pain. Clark came up with it, although not really by choice seeing as his boots were still attached. He left his drill inside the Ursa's head, he could probably pull it out later and he had an actual weapon to fill that hand now that his holster was free. Clark kicked off the beast and rolled to a stop about ten feet away, coincidentally right next to Peter. The man's smile was a little more welcome than the Ursa's, but not by much.

"Thanks for the help."

"Don't mention it lad, I couldn't let your honorable confrontation be interrupted now could I?"

Clark pulled out his Schwar, wondering what the 'Anti-Grimm' rounds would do, and where the best place to put them would be.

"Yeah. Fight's over- he lost. Mind doing the sportsmanlike thing and putting him out of his misery?" Maybe the mouth would do it? Or maybe the eyes again? It wouldn't be hard from this distance, and those bullets had seemed nasty in the box.

"Oh, yes. Of course. Forgive me."

The blunderbuss-blast didn't leave Clark's ears ringing, but it certainly dialed the first six or so digits. The Ursa didn't get to appreciate this much, as most of its upper torso vanished leaving the creature a pile of limbs and a ragged severed head. Peter let out a hearty chuckle as the mess hit the forest floor.

"Ah! Fantastic. Been awhile since I've had one that clean. Just far enough away that I didn't get any on me either. So, you were providing your opinion of the Jump Pads?" The man set his axe head on the ground, leaning against the weapon as he began to load it.

Clark turned his gaze back to the smoldering pile of ashes that had once been a bear big enough to chow down on a bull moose. This forest was full of creatures like that, hell, this world was full of creatures like that. He was going to have to re-think how he handled a lot of things going forwards.

"What I think, is that Ozpin didn't get me big enough trash bags for this."

But, if Clark were to be honest…

If anybody failed Initiation, they were going to fit in the small ones just fine.

.o.o.o.

Ozpin's Office

The express elevator up to Ozpin's Office was a cramped thing, or perhaps just designed to feel that way. That famous architect people always went on about had a reputation for making spaces like that, but the reason somebody would do that for a school was pretty unclear. The hallway it opened up to reveal put it into context though. The hallway was even more spacious and intimidating when you'd just stumbled out of a cramped elevator. A visit to the Headmaster's Office was probably a big deal around here. The building itself did its level best to let you know.

Clark heard the Old Man's voice drift over from the double-doors at the end of the hall.

"-assure you Tai, Beacon is still safe. In fact I would argue it's the safest place in all of Vale."

Another voice answered him; muffled, so likely through some kind of electronic device.

"It'd better be Ozpin, The Girls are all I've got left. If it were just Yang I wouldn't worry so much but-"

Clark gave the door a harsh pair of wraps, knocking it the rest of the way open and stepping over the threshold. Ozpin's chair swiveled to face him. On the screen atop the desk a scraggly blond man's eyes narrowed.

"Ah, Mr. Clark. I presume the installation went as planned?"

Clark held up his work scroll "All cameras active and broadcasting, manual says they're got 'nough juice for a week, plenty of time if you wanna delay things a day or two…"

"As we've discussed, there will be no need to delay the start of the semester. Even if there was in fact a threat to the school-" he turned to the screen "-and there is not; the premises is perfectly secure. It would be considerably more hazardous for our students to be kept off our premises, especially if they have already traveled to Vale."

The man on the screen scowled at this last word, which had been delivered with all of the subtly and finesse of a baseball bat. A shift of his head revealed the paint of the kitchen behind him was fresh. "Yeah yeah, I getcha. Who's this guy?"

"This is Mr. Clark. He's taken the position of groundskeeper."

"Shi- I mean crap, something happen to Mr. Peat?"

Clark had apparently stepped into some pretty big shoes. Ozpin chuckled, doing a pretty good job of pushing the conversation past the subject of Beacon's safety.

"Only old age and boredom. Peat has retired to Argus with the biggest pension he could carve out of us, giving us an opportunity to provide a cover to Mr. Clark here."

"A cover? What, did Atlas lend you one of their half-assed-"

"Daaad! We're home!" The blond man winced as the voice carried over, a door slamming shut in the background as footsteps approached the room.

"Sorry Oz, guess I was just being protective." No spook stuff in front of the kids, eh buddy? A mop of long blond hair poked into the frame.

"Who ya talking to Dad? You finally try that dating site I showed you?"

"Oh, uh- that was-" His finger dove towards the keyboard and the window closed itself before they could hear his response. Clark chuckled as he walked towards Ozpin's desk, the large metal clock outline on the back wall looking even more peculiar the closer he got to it.

"Friend of yours?"

"Taiyang was an… agent of mine some years ago, as were his first and second wives. He left my employ after his second wife passed. Both of his daughters are coming to Beacon this year."

Both of them? The guy looked to be in his early forties at most, had to be if both daughters were in college now. Clark knew that sort of thing could have a… marked effect. He hated to imagine what raising two girls under those circumstances was like. Every day a brutal, self-inflicted slog to try and keep a house in order. A family could easily fall apart like that, people could easily fall apart like that.

"Guess he must've done alright then."

Ozpin stared into the surface of his coffee, his mug nearly half-empty. "Hmmm, I suppose so... In any case, have you made any progress in your investigations?"

Clark sighed "Not particularly, no. I've got a general MO set up for the Dust thefts, a list of behaviors and habits, but no real insights other than the fact they were sticking it all in the corners rather than selling it right away. If the guys I knocked-over were typical that means none of them are."

The pile of receipts and assorted junk Clark had stolen from the warehouse had found its way from the evidence bag into a pile on the desk of his new staff room, empty rooms being something that Beacon had in abundance. The pile itself had been sorted and collected, at first to pull out anything potentially electronic, and then to organize anything with a date on it into something resembling a timeline. There was a reason so much of an actual detective's job involved sorting through trash.

Clark had snuck into the library for a map of the city and a box of stolen pins from the teachers lounge had allowed him to put-together a vague operating area of the now deceased terrorist cell. The problem was that was all stale info now, and he had no idea how much things would change now that they were pushing daisies.

Oh what he wouldn't give to have Jack here, or Jack Junior. Clark did wetwork, analysis was a bit of a mismatch. Oh he manage it, no man ever covered his tracks well enough in his personal experience. Somebody, somewhere, was bound to screw the pooch. It was just a matter of Clark being there with a garrote, a sidearm, and a smile when they did.

Ozpin finished the dregs in his mug before contributing further "You brought this up earlier, is it really that much of a concern?"

Clark nodded "It makes no sense. There's tons of reasons they could want Dust, but if they aren't doing any of them then they've risked all this for nothing."

"Not impossible, but it's certainly worth considering they're just being covert about it. Alternatively, have you put any thought into the idea that the shortage itself is the goal?"

He shook his head "If they wanted that, it would have been smarter to destroy it in place. Hell, they could have just dumped it into the ocean, you guys have a port here."

Ozpin started into the bottom of his mug again, a slightly despondent taint to his otherwise passive expression.

"Perhaps. In any case, we will have to further pursue other avenues going forward."

"That's a nice political way to put it, but a deal with the Mob is always dangerous. They're rational, but at the bottom of it they're still criminals. They put up a front about how they're about 'honor' and 'tradition', but it's all bullshit. They'll eat us alive if we let them."

The old man reached under his desk, pulling out a thermos from the bottom cabinet. He uncapped it, putting the steaming container under his nose for a whiff before sighing contentedly refilling his mug. There was no coffee maker up here, so Clark assumed Oz had worked out this system to stay here longer.

How often did a man like that walk the streets of the city below them? Were the dead people to him anymore, or just numbers on a graph?

"I will grant you that we are dealing with, to put it very mildly, very bad people. That being said they offer us a way out of this mess without risking further escalation. The risk is serious, but not much more so than the alternatives." Ozpin punctuated this with a long draw from his fresh mug.

Clark nodded, dropping himself down into one of the seats in front of the desk "I guess… I take it you're bringing this up 'cause they've got something for us?"

A smile began to pull itself across Ozpin's features, one that even reached his gray eyes.

"In a manner of speaking."