Maroon

This was supposed to be a lecture for his older brother, and yet here he was in his place.

"And that right here is our primary weapons manufactory, its where Vale's weapons are produced, where the finest bullets are created, where Vale's main armament comes, and… Rufus? Rufus!" There's little that could break the redhead's reverie when his mind is on a tangent about something. But a slap on the wrist? That on the other hand was usually was enough to bring his attention back, "Boy, have you even been listening?"

"Of course father." He wasn't, mostly.

"Care to prove it?"

"Very well father, we were talking about the manufactories." He replies with a well-practiced ease, though Rufus couldn't help but appreciate this kind of blunt and honest talking, "We can clearly deduce that from the map of said manufactories that you have been currently displaying on this scroll for me to see these past few minutes."

He can see his father's eye twitch at that, "Oh really? Then pray tell, which manufactory was I talking about, hmm?" He swipes the map to make it harder for him to guess.

"I fail to see the necessity of these questions father." His cobalt blue eyes wanted to roll, but appearances had to be kept, and right now his father was staring directly at him, "Nevertheless, I assume that we were talking about our main manufactory, as that would be our first subject when it comes to the Herstal Company's production."

A bushy eyebrow rises, and Rufus knows he's made a mistake.

"Assumed so you say… Don't you think that that's a rather jarring admission of, I don't know…" He slams his hand on the desk, over and over again, "That you! Weren't! Listening!"

An amateur mistake, Rufus thinks; one that he is fortunately, adept at disarming and recreating into a good scenario for him. Relatively good, at the worst at least.

"I believe your anger over such a mistake to be misplaced, father. One could argue the fact that I hadn't just listened, but also deduced as to what the subject matter's contents are." Thank the gods for the fact that his father permitted him to speak long without interrupting him, small mercies as the learned say, "When I was looking out of the window while you were explaining things, the subject had already been digested in my mind. Ergo, I already knew them. Let's not discount the possibility of me reading of such things in advance."

Unfortunately, his father only allowed that to only trip him up better and more thoroughly right afterwards, "You have a clever mind, boy. But not clever enough. You admit yet another mistake with your last words, as I've purposefully hidden these particular texts from you." You can almost hear the man's teeth grinding at this point, "This is so you can finally sit down and listen, instead of daydreaming your bloody wits off while staring into nothingness! By the Brothers I cannot afford to have such a man as my heir."

A pause washes over the room.

"I still believe that I have listened to you well enough for me to attain an understanding, father." The son stubbornly responds, and therein arises the problem of stubborn fathers and their stubborn sons coming to different conclusions and carving separate paths; the butting of heads is inevitable, "I fail to see the issue here."

"Remain obstinate in your stubbornness and failing to see the bigger picture of this family, of this company will be the least of your issues, boy." Snarkily responds the father to his son with a roll of his eyes, "Leave, return to your quarters. Get out of my sight you stiff-necked fool." The father's hand had already covered his face by this time, as if he could not afford to see what a disappointment to him, his son was.

"By your leave, father." With that, Rufus leaves and his steps echo throughout the chamber; and so does the sigh emanating from his father.

His door creaks as he opens it, revealing a room that is paradoxically both messy and organized. Packed boxes full of screws, nuts, and bolts of all kinds filled the shelves alongside books and old instruction papers. Saw dust, metal shavings, and plastic scrap littered one side of the room, while a crisp white bed surrounded by well-vacuumed floor dominated the other. There was a method to his madness, of course, for the room's purpose remained the same despite all these conflicting themes; and that was the purpose of rest and relaxation.

And who were people to tell him on what the right way to relax was? With utility knife in hand and a vision in mind, he returned to his current work, a passion project made in light of the recent events in his life. Each etch carved into the wood by the knife, each was just right, made right, aimed right; windows, balconies, and other such minutiae was detailed out of the wood with each stroke of knife.

He blows and blows, and the clouds of wood shavings, dust, and other particulates make a mesmerizing sight for him; he's so close to finishing the piece. Each roof tile was given as much detail as the wood allowed it, and every flag atop a spire was given a loving hand that their minute details could be defined. "So… Close..." He's sweating by now, "But not close enough to be done just yet."

One last fleck to chip off, one more imperfection to remove.

"Open this door, son." But sometimes you get distracted by something unnecessary, "I need to speak with you." Authoritative tone, and the subconscious deference that a son has to the father. He proves himself unable to resist, and peels away from his workstation.

The door hinges squeal again as he opens the door, revealing as expected, his father to be right in front of it. "What do you wish to speak of, father?" To be disturbed at such a critical time, it more than just miffed at this point that he couldn't help but let out a few biting remarks, "I don't suppose you're here to talk about my inheriting of the Herstal Company? I'd love to hear more about how much we've produced these last few days."

His father scoffs, then smiles a smile that sends chills down Rufus' spine, "Hmm, on the contrary, I think I'd rather inform you instead that I've made arrangements for you to be unable to attend the upcoming Initiation; stowing away your weapons and what not, hiding away your documents, all those things." He chuckles at his son's frown, "Oh don't be too surprised my boy, you were quite good at sneaking your documents under my nose, but as I've said before: you're not that clever just yet."

Rufus cannot see anything in front of him except for a controlling bastard named Dirk, rather than a father at this point; and with each syllable said, his view only darkens, "This folly of yours to become a huntsman? Boy, you're better off helping from behind the lines, where a Herstal should be." Dirk says with a roll of his green eyes, "Fool of me to listen to your mother. You should've never been allowed to go to Pharos if it meant… This."

"Don't talk about her like that you-! You-!" He wants to send a scathing remark at his father, then another, and another, until it becomes a barrage of words hitting where they would hurt. "But it is only now of all times, that I am unable to speak." It was like a lump had formed in his throat, and the only thing he could show was his clenched fists and shaking form.

"Nothing to say, boy? Hmm, thought you would've had some kind of remark to make about what I've just done for you." And he says that as if what he's done was good for him, for his desires, for his dreams, "I'll be taking my leave now. Best get ready for tomorrow, you'll be meeting the shareholders soon."

Silence reigns as his father's footsteps echo into the distance, fading away slowly but surely into the nothingness dominating the now. "You will regret this." Was all he could say, whispered more like, and with his father no longer in earshot; a futile gesture but one he needed to let out, for the silence had been suffocating in its permeation.

The door shut once again, leaving him in silence within the confines of his room. "I have to finish it." Was what he said to himself, out loud.

"I have to get out of here." Was what he thought, but how exactly could he?

Memories came to mind, and ideas began to form, evaluated, discarded, retouched, and retooled. There was no doubt about it, that this place was no longer for him- was never truly for him in the first place, even- and that leaving was the only option left for him to do. "Where there's a will, there's a way." He opened a drawer and began fiddling with it, eventually finding the false bottom and revealing the things below.

"I may not be that clever, but neither are you father." It was the original copy of his documents, which he had claimed had been lost in knowing that his father was going to disapprove of what they implied. Along with those papers was a note sticking to the bottom, "Bingo."

There were multiple cabinets and shelves hugging the walls of his room, and many places besides to hide things such as gear in. Foolish of his father to think that he only had just the one when it came to weaponry.

The groans of moving furniture eventually resulted in a shelf being moved out of the way, revealing an odd looking plank at the bottom of it. Rufus took it off quickly, revealing an oddly shaped safe; it had a rectangular shape but seemed to be taller than it was wider. With the note he took earlier in hand, he punched in the safe's code, and with squealing hinges, said safe was opened.

An oddly shaped rectangular shield lay inside, alongside what seemed to be a compact- if blocky- submachine gun designed to use the highest possible caliber as he and the gun could handle. Said submachine gun had a bayonet for some reason too. "Let's see here…" He pressed a switch near the grip, and out extended a full length blade with some shifting of the components; the grip was now a hilt for this blade, "Perfect."

His ablative shield and gunblade combo. "Fortify and Siege." And in this case, the hidden Mark XIV he had stowed away here for just this kind of occasion, "I'm not just clever, I'm perceptive." Gun in hand and shield in the other, he quickly got to restoring the positions of the furniture, making sure to make everything as crisp and clean as possible.

Nothing left but to store as much of what he needs in a duffel bag, of which he had plenty. "Fragile in one, firm in the other." Two, two were needed here; one to be slung over his shoulder, to be held at all times, and the other firm enough to thrown over fences and land unbroken, "Power tools in fragile, these perform best when maintained." Shirts, papers, cutters, nuts and bolts, screws and nails; all those went to the other bag.

"Ah, I almost forgot!" He gave the wooden model on his workbench one last trim, the necessary shave to turn it from an incomplete thing to a completed project worth something.

The sounds of breaking glass and the alarms blaring right after followed once he left the model.

Dirk Herstal entered the room of his son, expecting something to have gone wrong for him. But for it to be wrong to this extent? A broken window, a scattered room, and a complete wooden model of Beacon's main building on the worktable; that was all that was left of his son ever being here, where before he saw an obedient and quiet boy with a well-organized room, there was naught but chaos.

"That stupid boy… RUFUS!" His scream echoed into the night, as elsewhere, a boy with a messy mop of red hair left on his journey to become his own man.

A/N: Oh, did I say Sunday last chapter? I actually meant TODAY! Yes, today! Anyways, that's 2/5 of the trailers, and once I finish posting the lot of them, we'll finally be getting to Volume 1 proper and get things both on and off-track (I am firebombing the Stations of Canon.)

Oh yeah, and I suppose this is also the part where I tell you guys- the readers- to like and review or something? I'd be down for some feedback.