- To Serve With Honor -
The broadcast lasted ninety seconds before cutting to static, and then to a blank "technical difficulties" screen.
Port closed the terminal without a sound, his mustache - and presumably his mouth beneath - set in a grim line as he turned to regard his present company.
Jaune dropped back into his seat on the couch and slumped forward, one arm across his lap and a hand over his face covering his expression.
"He's not supposed to be here," he moaned into his hand, "He has no reason to stay here. He has no experience with public relations campaigns, no idea how to fight by an R-O-E. He's not supposed to be here…"
The portly professor crossed the office and returned to his own seat, sitting back with his hands folded in his lap as he silently regarded the Legionnaire in the midst of a breakdown.
"He's not supposed to be here… He's not-" Jaune shot to his feet, "-Supposed to BE HERE!" he roared and chucked his saucer at the door, waiting for satisfaction and finding none as the delicate porcelain shattered against the portal.
"THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE GLORIFIED EXILE!"
The young man carried on, storming across the space and slamming a fist into the doorframe. A sharp crack rang out through the room, but no visible damage was made.
"THIS…!"
He pressed his forehead firmly against the heavy door, breath coming in ragged gasps as the energy fled his body and reality replaced it with a monumental foreboding weight.
"... This was supposed to be a peacekeeping mission," He muttered hoarsely, glaring holes into the dark wood and exercising the last of his willpower to restrain the burning sensation at the back of his eyes. The side of his closed fist thumped weakly against the surface next to his head, before sliding limply to rest against his hip.
Sensing the shift, Port finally approached the younger man and lightly clasped a hand on his shoulder. "Take a walk, lad," he said firmly. "Take a lap before you go see Oz. I'll cover for you."
"... Yes sir. Thank you sir…" Jaune intoned habitually. "I'll pay for the plate," he added as a distant afterthought.
"Think nothing of it, lad. Go sort yourself out," the professor replied firmly.
After a long moment, Jaune finally raised his head and tapped the frame, a short hiss allowing him to meander out of the room.
Winter waited a short ways down the hall in her regular uniform, naked concern on her features as her partner ambled in her direction. Port caught her eye from the door that he'd just exited, the man offering a grave look at the Legionnaire that she acknowledged with a short nod.
"Jaune," she called softly, causing his eyes to rise briefly to recognize her presence. "Walk with me."
He nodded once before his head fell again; but his pace took on more purpose as he automatically assumed his place at her side, the pair falling into step as Winter set a sedate clip for the closest exit.
Back in the office, Port closed the door with a sigh as he heard the ringing of his desk terminal once more. He left the porcelain shards, crossing the space and accepting the call from Ozpin through the speakers.
"Is Mister Arc still with you?" Ozpin politely demanded.
"Specialist Schnee arrived to confer with him on the new development," Peter returned with equal gravitas, imagining the faint surprise on the headmaster's face at having the stern tone turned back on him. "He will be joining you once they have finished their conference."
With nothing more to be said, Port ended the call and turned around to lean heavily against the desk as he ran a hand over his face, overcome by a sudden wave of exhaustion. He then blindly reached back to the hard light keypad and tapped the shortcut to Glynda's line.
The Deputy Headmistress picked up after a single ring. "You're not calling with good news."
"Our new colleague's situation has escalated from poor to infinitely worse within the last few minutes," Peter replied loudly into his hand as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He heard a heavy sigh from the other end of the line.
"I'll see if I can get to Ozpin before he does," she stated after a pause. "If the situation is half as bad as I think it is, then we need to keep him away from this police business until he's had time to get his head on straight."
"Please make sure to inform the Headmaster that your recommendation comes with my professional endorsement," Port nodded to the air in agreement. "And if you get a moment alone with Miss Schnee, please also pass on my suggestion that Jaune should not be left completely unattended for the next day or so."
He heard a sharp intake of breath before the call ended.
Peter exhaled. His head flopped back, and he stared at the simple and impeccable craftsmanship of the wood ceiling panels. His head twisted to the side, and he stared longingly at a crystal decanter of Patch whiskey that was tucked away from view behind a row of books and trinkets.
"Steady on, old boy," he told himself grudgingly, slapping his palms against the desk and swinging upright, "It's not even gone noon, and it'll still be there after business hours."
Rounding the desk, he reached into his paper tray and drew out a blank set of the requisite forms for documenting Jaune's session; after a moment of consideration, he drew out a second set of the same, and went to work puzzling out how to ethically lie to his boss and the government to keep a troubled young man employed and out of a mental institution.
- To Serve With Honor -
"You're a day late for your shift, you little shit!" A gruff voice called sharply from the catwalk above.
"I know, Uncle, I'm sorry!" Pax called back as he finished zipping up his coveralls and twitched his tail to make sure that it was comfortable in the back of the suit. "I got into a fight and had to get checked out for a concussion! I would've called you, but I was unconscious for most of yesterday!"
He heard the doubtful grunt in return - considering that it was more of a guttural growl - and he felt the sharp glare burning into the top of his bright blue hardhat. "Get to your station," the man finally snapped.
"Yes Boss," Pax called back as he made a beeline for the folding room, donning his gloves as he jogged.
"And come see me in my office before you go on break!"
'And that's going to be a fun conversation,' the young Faunus grimaced.
He moved swiftly past massive rolls of brown paper, as well as several sets of rollers, dozens of long solid steel rods ranging in diameter from the thickness of a signpost to that of a steamroller wheel. The rollers were stacked and lined out into three distinct tracks; the rollers in the middle track were the thickest, and also had squared-off ridges on their surfaces to press the paper into a zig-zag pattern. Tubes and Dust lamps spiderwebbed throughout the apparatus, heating the paper and coating it in water and starch.
Each track was fed by a separate roll of paper. All three tracks converged at the end, two becoming one and then the last joining shortly after, where the zig-zag paper was joined to one plain sheet and then another by heat, pressure, and starch to form a continuous sheet of corrugated paperboard.
The sheet continued to run for a short ways before being pinched between more rollers and cut into uniform segments by lightning-fast blades; the sheets fell from the end and into stacks. The stacks were counted out by a highly-attentive operator, who had to have equally keen reflexes in order to pull a lever at the precise moment that a stack reached maximum capacity. A plate would shoot into place, separating the completed stack from the next, and the full stack would shoot off down a lower line to be cut and folded.
Pax bypassed the first separator, arriving a few dozen meters down the line at the second cutting and folding station. The main line was staggered, and the first separator only accepted every third stack of full-sized paperboard, which then had flaps cut into their stacks by circular saws; the sheets were then folded into the largest varieties of boxes.
The other stacks were carried on down to the second and third separators, which accepted every other and the remaining stacks, respectively. These latter stations had additional rollers and cutting blades that trimmed the full sheets down further into the middle and smallest sizes of boxes.
Pax nodded to the harried man pulling the stacks at the middle folding station, which amounted to a long table that was manned by a handful of workers along one side. The puller yanked several of the pre-cut sheets from the stack and sent them down the table to the folders, who used the various hinged and fixed plates and straightedges on the table to crease, fold, and form the boxes.
The formed and unglued boxes were then pushed onto a conveyor belt and sent to the final processing stations in the next room of the warehouse, where some would be completely folded and glued together to be sent to other parts of the plant or nearby facilities for immediate use; while most would remain unfolded and be sent off in bulk to distributors and wholesalers.
Pax took his place at one of the unoccupied folding stations, and after a few sluggish stumbles fell back into the rhythm of the table. His gloved hands gravitated instinctively towards the correct flaps, and his arms guided the box through the appropriate positions on the table to make precise creases and folds.
His mind wanted to wander, but he knew from experience that down that road lay naught but more mistakes and frustration, both his own and from his coworkers and supervisors. And so his eyes focused intently on each box that came to rest in front of him, his mind chanting a mantra of steps and motions for doing the job right the first time.
An indeterminate amount of time later, someone tapped him on the shoulder, and Pax glanced back over his shoulder blearily and then nodded, stepping aside and allowing the relief shift to step in and take over the process.
He glanced up at the clock posted on the nearest metal pillar, and blinked in surprise before exchanging astonished looks with his similarly mind-numb coworkers; they'd been folding for nearly two hours straight.
"Must be a big order going out," the girl from three spaces down guessed; Pax and the others shrugged or nodded in agreement.
"Boss wanted to see you before you went out, Paxton," the first shift's puller, a man twenty years his senior, noted with a tap to his shoulder.
The Coyote nodded and muttered a quick thanks as the group maneuvered across the floor to the break area. He broke from the others at the door with a short wave, and took the stairs up to the office two at a time at a sedate pace.
Pax offered a cursory pair of knocks on the surface of the open door at the same time that he poked his head in; upon processing the room's occupants, he barely restrained a curse and nearly ducked out again, only stopping because two of them had already spotted him and waved him in.
His uncle sat at the tiny metal foreman's desk looking understandably apprehensive in present company. One of the visitors was a tall man with skin the color of tar and shoulders that strained against the confines of the dark blue shirt of his Vale Police Department uniform. The other was a shorter woman in a crisp white blouse and grey slacks with black suspenders, and a handgun clasped securely in a black stitched leather holster against the side of her chest.
Once he got past the gun, Pax noted absently that she was also rather exotically beautiful with mint green hair, almond-colored skin, and startlingly red eyes.
"You uh… You wanted to see me, Boss?" Pax finally said hesitantly.
"I was just showing Officer Foley and Detective Sustrai here your timecard from yesterday, and assuring them that you were, in fact, on the floor during the early morning shift," the other Faunus responded clearly - the black and grey-colored canine ears on his head flapping one after the other meaningfully after both of the cops turned and fixed sharp gazes on Paxton.
"Yeah," Pax was proud that his voice didn't quake, "I asked to come in and start part way through the graveyard shift because Auntie's not feeling well and asked me to be over after work at half-eight to help Clair and Joshua get going to school." He finished and met both the officer's and the detective's eyes one after the other resolutely.
The pair stared at him for another few seconds waiting for him to falter; finally, the detective fixed her hands on her hips. "Just as your uncle said," she said with a shrug, shooting a glance back over her shoulder at the man. "And you said that the cameras around here were out yesterday?"
"Whole damned security system has been out for the last two weeks after some bastards broke into the compound and ransacked a bunch of offices and equipment," his uncle responded with a genuinely agitated growl. "Fuckin' security company won't come out to replace the system until our insurance adjusters recertify the place; and the adjusters refuse to pay us a visit until our security's back up to scratch. So, we've had a few of the older guys that know how to look after themselves staying overnight and keeping an eye on the place."
The large cop closed his eyes and let out a noise that was somewhere between a huff and a snort. "So how'd you figure that you're going to prove that this guy was here, then?" the man demanded, his voice slowly rising.
"I can pull a dozen workers and operators from the woodwork right now that'll attest that Carmello was here for his shift," Uncle shot back sharply, "But you're gonna have to question them here and now; because if you think that I'm losing a dozen of my folks in the middle of fulfilling a critical order, then the Council's gonna be getting a nice fat formal complaint from my managers about the Police Department obstructing the commercial operations of a Faunus-owned-and-operated business!"
"Let's simmer down here, gentlemen," the detective interjected, physically placing herself between the officer and Pax's uncle. "We're not looking to interrupt your business; we're just here to check Mister Paxton here off of our list of suspects from the robbery yesterday," she continued, looking back to Pax as she finished.
"Pretty fucked up that your process of elimination involves shakin' down every Faunus business in the district until ya get a runner to put down," Uncle snarled. When Officer Foley's glare intensified, the old man met it with equal fervor. "That said, the folks you're gonna wanna talk to are all down in the break room," he continued without breaking his stare.
"Sergeant Foley, accompany the manager down to the break room to get the statements that we need," Detective Sustrai drawled, fixing the officer with a glance. "And please refrain from upsetting the workers; we're not here to cause problems," she added pointedly.
"Understood," the officer, Foley, agreed through gritted teeth. He stepped aside and gestured to the doorway, "Please lead the way."
The hair on Uncle's ears remained bristled as he stormed out of the office and down the stairs; Officer Foley followed swiftly, leaving Pax alone with the detective.
"Please have a seat, Mister Paxton," she politely ordered, gesturing to an empty plastic chair near the dusty and unused instrument terminals at the other end of the booth. "On behalf of the department, I apologize for detaining you in the middle of your shift; however the case we're currently pursuing is time-sensitive, and as such it's in everyone's best interest that we work through our list of suspects as quickly as possible."
"In that case, I guess I don't mind," Pax replied with a shrug as he meandered over and flopped down in the chair. "The sooner I'm off the list, the sooner the Boss gets over his aneurysm and stops being pissed off at me."
""The Boss" being your uncle, correct?" she asked with a quirk of her brow, folding her arms and leaning against the foreman's desk.
"We're not actually related," Pax admitted with a heavy sigh, slumping back in the chair. "Mom's an only child, and Dad and his side of the family were killed when the village of Kirkwall - a stronghold town about two hundred kilometers southwest of Vale - fell to the Grimm eight years ago. Uncle was Dad's boss, and he set Mom and me up with an apartment and got me this job as soon as I turned sixteen. He's been good to us."
"I see," Sustrai nodded. "I'm sorry for your loss," she added absently.
Pax waved a hand dismissively. "He did what he did for the family," he said simply.
"Would you say that your 'Uncle' favors you, then?" Sustrai asked bluntly.
Paxton failed to restrain an undignified sputter of disbelief, followed by a short bout of genuine uproarious laughter. By the time that he reigned it in, the detective was staring at him oddly.
"Let me put it this way: He'll ride a new guy's ass for about a month until they've either gotten with the program or gotten shit-canned."
She nodded and gestured for him to continue.
"He's been riding my ass for the last seven years of my life," he finished flatly.
Sustrai made a short noise of understanding and sympathy; she then pulled out her Scroll and started typing away, signaling a break in the conversation and leaving Pax with a moment to breathe.
'How the fuck did they find me so quickly?!'
"So then Mister Paxton," Sustrai continued as she stored her Scroll. Pax blinked, realized that he was staring at the floor, and raised his head to meet her eyes with a quizzical stare. "What is your opinion of the White Fang?"
He blinked and tilted his head. "The ones that come around these parts from time to time seem like decent folks," he answered candidly. "A day or two after the break-ins, a couple of 'em showed up in uniform and offered to have a few guys keep an eye on the place in case the crooks came back. Haven't had any problems since then - beyond y'know, the insurance thing."
The detective hummed contemplatively. "That doesn't exactly answer my question," she observed flatly.
Pax gave her a cheeky smirk. "I guess not. To answer your question, I think that the White Fang is a mixed bag, at least in Vale. On one hand, they tend to draw a lot of the wrong kind of attention-"
"Police attention?" Sustrai interjected.
"-Corrupt police attention," he clarified in equal measure. "You guys are probably the least disruptive visit from law enforcement that we've had all year. The last time was a massive shakedown; one of our drivers was being accused of assaulting an officer and evading arrest, and he wasn't even on the clock when a SWAT team raided the place, put everybody in cuffs, and made us all sit here and watch while half the fucking police force tore the plant apart and didn't bother putting anything back together when they finally admitted that they weren't going to find anything."
The detective had the good grace to look embarrassed.
"As I was saying, they bring a lot of heat down on Faunus from time to time; but when the Fang themselves are actually around, they're usually doing good by their communities," Pax concluded with a shrug.
"So then what good purpose does the recent string of Dust robberies serve for the Faunus community?" Sustrai asked neutrally.
"Got me there," he shrugged again. "Money, ammunition, publicity? Probably selfish reasons. I did say usually; and it's not like I'd know anything about why they get up to what they get up to. I'm here for eight to ten hours a day, and taking care of my family and friends when I'm not here."
"I suppose that would make sense," the detective allowed impassively. "Did you happen to catch any part of the White Fang's broadcast a few hours ago?"
"I caught this gist of it," he nodded.
"Did that address change any part of your opinion?"
Pax finally allowed himself to break her gaze and stare up at the cracked and water-damaged ceiling tiles as he seriously contemplated the question.
"Yesterday's attack, which succeeded in liberating a dozen brothers and sisters of the White Fang from police custody, was but a small taste of our capabilities; and of what is to come for those who would stand blindly in defense of Vale's corrupt ruling enclave.
"For on this day… I, Adam Taurus, Commander of the White Fang, do hereby declare war against the Council and the economic "elite" of the Kingdom of Vale. This war's beginning was marked yesterday morning by the first volleys of our guns and missiles, and it's end shall not be marked until the Council members and corporate magnates whom we shall name have enacted the unconditional surrender of themselves, and all whom they have aided or abetted in the systemic oppression of the citizens of this and every other Kingdom; to stand trial for their crimes in a court of the people, judged by a jury of their fellow men and women, human AND Faunus alike.
"To those who would stand against us in our mission, whether in our enemy's defense or on the basis of skewed laws or moral codes… We need not be enemies; but you also need not stand beside us.
"The war which we will wage is not the fight of the average protector of the peace. By all means, stand by and fulfill your sworn duties to protect your friends and neighbors, and the honest and the hardworking everyman of Vale. In this capacity, we will have no quarrel with one another.
"But should you choose to stand against me and mine… To stand against soldiers fighting a just war. You will be treated as enemy combatants, and you will be cut down as such; not out of hatred, but because it is our sworn duty to the people."
"And finally, to those upon whom I have just declared war… You know who you are. You know who we are, and you know exactly why we will come for you. Surrender, and you will be guaranteed a trial by a jury of your fellow citizens. Resist, and we shall tear your world and the rotten structures that shelter you asunder, brick by brick around your ears, until we drag you kicking and screaming from the ruins to face justice.
"People of Vale: We are the White Fang, and we are here to fight for you. Stand with us, or stand aside; but I am pleading with you, for the first and the last time…
"... Do not get in our way, because I will kill you."
"... No, it didn't really change my opinion," Pax replied resolutely.
He lowered his head to meet Sustrai's eyes; and after several tense seconds of silence and stillness, the detective nodded gravely in acknowledgement.
Twenty minutes later, two sets of boots stormed back into the office, Uncle and Sergeant Foley glaring silent daggers at one another without even making eye contact.
"Twelve fresh hot statements," Uncle rumbled, waiting for Sustrai to step aside before firmly reclaiming his seat at the foreman's desk, "Thirty minutes of delays. Do you have any further business with Carmello, Detective Sustrai, or can I see you two fine officers on your way?"
"No sir, I believe we've finished our discussion," she replied coolly. "Mister Paxton, we'll may be in touch once the case develops; in the meantime, I would ask that you remain in the city."
"Not like I have anywhere else to go these days," Pax shrugged.
"Thank you for your time, gentlemen." Sustrai nodded to the two Faunus and made for the door, patting Officer Foley's shoulder on her way past and lightly coaxing him to follow as he continued staring down Pax.
The two men sat in silence for several minutes, with Uncle scrawling away at a handful of forms and reports, and Pax peering over the lip of the booth window through the cracked reinforced glass, watching for the officers' departure through the bay doors on the other side of the floor. Upon watching Sustrai and Foley meander outside, he tapped the older man's shoulder, earning a grunt of acknowledgement.
"I need to check on shipping," Uncle stated, simultaneously waving for Pax to follow.
The pair made their way from the office down to the floor, entering the narrow passes through the machines of the assembly line before speaking again.
"You boys'd better know what you're getting yourselves into," Uncle grumbled tiredly. "You lot are fit to bring a whole heap of shit down on the rest of us."
"We're prepared for it," Pax replied solemnly, "And we have plans in place to make sure that everyone else is looked after."
"This isn't standing on street corners scaring off thugs, or busting out the windows of some racist's shop, Carm," Uncle continued insistently, his eyes fixed forward and occasionally glancing up at the machines. "I was born in Mantle; I know the type of fight that your new boss wants, and it's the exact opposite of pretty."
"We've been training, Uncle; we've also brought in help from Solitas."
The older canine Faunus stopped on a dime and turned sharply on his heel to stare at Pax in shock; the young Coyote in turn nearly ran into him, leaving the pair face to face and mere centimeters apart. "You brought those animals into our city?!" Uncle hissed incredulously, his ears standing fully upright and bristling.
"I can only assume that you're talking about the Mantle troops?" Pax whispered back in confusion, feeling his tail pressing flat against the back of his leg.
"You young idiots have no idea the kind of chaos that even one of those Zealots is capable of!" Uncle growled, seizing Pax by the collar of his coveralls. "They'll see this city burned to the ground, or the lot of you dead before they even consider retreat!"
"This isn't Mantle, Uncle!" Pax pried the man's claws from his collar and lightly shoved him away, "The Commander knows that, and the Lieutenant won't let him forget it. We won't let him forget it!"
"That's what you're saying now," he shook his head with a deep scowl, "They'll keep harping on about "sacrifices" and "necessity," and before you know it you'll be waist-deep in bodies and knee-deep in blood as the whole fucking Kingdom comes down around you!"
"That's not going to happen!" Pax denied vehemently, "I won't let it!"
"You? You?! You're going to stop however many veteran Zealots from indiscriminately bringing everything that we know and love crashing down around our ears?! How exactly do you suppose that you're going to do that, Carmello?!" Uncle finally shouted as he stopped beside one of the roaring rollers.
"I'LL BECOME STRONGER THAN THEM, DAMMIT!" Pax roared back, his teeth bared and his tail bristling and straining inside of his suit.
"I'LL TAKE EVERYTHING THAT THEY HAVE TO TEACH! I'LL WATCH THEIR EVERY MOVE! I'LL LEARN FROM ADAM FUCKING TAURUS HIMSELF, AND THEN I'LL TURN IT ALL AROUND ON THEM THE INSTANT THAT THEY EVEN DARE TO THINK TO HURT OUR PEOPLE, FOR ANY REASON!"
As the young Coyote snarled and stared down the old Wolf, Pax became suddenly aware that they'd acquired an audience. Nearly two dozen Faunus, young and old, men and women, stood back and watched the exchange from the pathways, the catwalks, and from behind and beside the machines, their faces impassive and their gazes fixed solely at him.
Then he turned back to his uncle, only to find the man standing back aways and watching him with his arms folded and a look of measured approval, veiled behind a stoney visage.
"I'm gonna hold you to that, Pax," Uncle finally growled. "You'd better keep that fire. You're gonna need it, and you're gonna need to remember it well when you're deep into the shit with those bastards."
"I won't forget it," Pax replied sharply. "There's too much at stake."
"Understatement of the fuckin' year, kid."
- To Serve With Honor -
"I'm gonna kill him," he insisted for the fifth time as they walked.
"You're going to kill Adam Taurus?" Winter calmly repeated back to him for the fifth time.
"He's ruining our vacation, so I'm gonna kill him," Jaune affirmed with a nod.
"We're working, Jack, this isn't a vacation," Winter sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.
"We're about as far away from Atlas as we can get without fleeing to Menagerie, and up until an hour ago we weren't fighting Zealots. What about that doesn't qualify as a vacation?" the Legionnaire asked with genuine puzzlement.
Winter made to respond, only to stop in her tracks with her mouth open and her index finger held aloft as she contemplated the question.
"... Okay, so he's ruining our vacation," she finally admitted with a defeated sigh, earning a triumphant noise from her companion. "Which brings me back to my original point and question: How, pray tell, do you plan to kill Adam Taurus?"
"Careful planning, more than a little luck, and an absurd amount of high-yield explosives," Atlas Foreign Legion Corporal Jonathan Amsel, 'Demolitions Expert Extraordinaire,' answered with grim aplomb and a small grin.
Winter sighed again as she felt another headache mounting and pushing away some of her previous concern. "Please explain the process behind how you've gone from a mental breakdown in Professor Port's office thirty minutes ago to plotting a terrorist mastermind's messy assassination."
"Well, it started with breaking one of Peter's saucers when I heard the news, and I probably cracked his door frame and part of his wall when I punched it," Jaune admitted with a sigh, coming to a stop next to a picture window on the second floor of the Staff Dormitories.
The pair of Specialists had paced through the lecture halls, the student dorms, and then the staff dorms for nearly twenty-five minutes before Jaune had spoken his first words; those being the first iteration of 'I'm going to kill Adam Taurus.'
Now, he rested against the window frame and stared out at the airship docks beyond the courtyard as Bullheads and airships swarmed, picking up and delivering supplies and personnel as the VPD and other local agencies scrambled to prepare an answer to the White Fang's challenge - and also scrambled to coordinate with the CCT system technicians to figure out exactly how terrorists had hijacked Remnant's most advanced communications network.
"I'm not good at working through personal problems," Jaune finally admitted, earning a veiled roll of Winter's eyes. "However, I am very good at solving practical problems.
"My first reaction was my emotions getting the better of me," he elaborated, turning around to partially sit on the window frame with his back resting against the glass and his arms folded. "I didn't like that, so I framed the situation into a different context: Adam Taurus is a problem, and problems can be removed."
"And so you've spent the last-" Winter glanced at the clock on her Scroll, "-thirty-five minutes plotting to remove the problem."
"Plotting sounds so vague and imprecise," Jaune complained with a dismissive wave of his hand, "I was drafting the schematic for Taurus's ultimate demise."
"Because that doesn't sound sinister and ethically questionable. Besides, you were an Explosive Ordnance Disposal Technician for seven months."
"Strength is the ability to kill thine enemy," Jaune recited dramatically, "Power is the ability to remove thine enemy as a threat. Knowledge is power, and I know manufactured and homemade explosive devices inside and out. With this knowledge in mind, how much would you be willing to bet that I could imitate a terrorist-made explosive device and use it to kill a terrorist?"
"No bet," Winter muttered as she settled against the opposite wall, "And point taken. Still, please don't tell me that you honestly believe that killing Taurus - if you do, by some miracle, succeed in that endeavor - is going to solve all of our problems."
"No, but it'll solve a lot of our problems, and it'll make me feel better," Jaune replied candidly.
"Full points for honesty, zero for logic," Winter assessed dryly. "Try again."
"Alright," he nodded, undaunted, "Let's consider this strategically, then. In a majority of cases, there are three overarching phases to a successful insurgent campaign."
He raised his index finger and held it there as he spoke. "The first is a public relations sub-campaign; hearts and minds, if you will. Assemble the core of the insurgency and then appeal to communities and key demographics in the area of operations in order to garner goodwill, territory, material support, and recruits."
His middle finger joined the index. "Next comes the first strike. Opening attacks will usually target high-visibility - and if they're smart, high-value - targets of opportunity in order to catch local or occupying forces unawares and on the back foot; the effect is multiplied based on the opposition's experience or lack thereof in facing irregular forces."
Ring finger joined the first two, and all three were used to scratch his chin briefly. "Finally, the insurgency's accumulated momentum is leveraged to make a push for critical territories - military strongholds and centers of government. By this time, the successes of Stage Two have compounded to increase the passive income from Stage One, meaning that the insurgency has most likely achieved parity in firepower or superiority in manpower over regular military forces.
"As such, the campaign is able to execute a swift hammerblow against its final targets; such a tour-de-force maneuver is highly dangerous given that if local forces manage to repel the attacks, it's possible for the momentum to be lost entirely, resulting in a regression that could push the insurgency as far back as Stage One.
"If successful, however, that's game," Jaune clenched his raised hand into a tight fist and dropped it. "Local government crumbles, the military surrenders, and the conquering insurgents install a new government, or allow the entire sector to fall to anarchy as they take everything that's not nailed down and then move on."
"... Alright," Winter nodded after a moment's consideration, "I believe I can see where this is going. Where is the White Fang in this chain of progression as of now?"
"As of thirty-eight minutes ago," Jaune replied after a brief glance at his Scroll, "Taurus has executed the first in the series of maneuvers that open up Stage Two. However, he's taken a serious gamble by moving into this stage before he's finished accumulating and securing his gains from Stage One; as a result, he's going to be splitting his time and resources in the coming months between public relations and surgical strikes."
"And if we can remove Taurus from the equation before he's able to cement his powerbase-" Winter started to realize.
"-Then that whole precarious tower of blocks comes toppling down before any result is achieved," he finished with a sly and malicious grin. "Adam goes down, and his personal troops are left deep in foreign soil surrounded by unfriendly allies. Worst case, they'll make a nuisance of themselves for a bit before they go to ground. Best case, they'll run home; or they'll overstay their welcome and get eaten alive or hung out to dry by their own."
He thumped his fist against his chest and kept grinning. "Either way is a win for us," he concluded with a shrug.
Winter observed her suddenly-upbeat colleague. 'At least he's technically a functional human again,' she noted wryly.
"You realize that none of what you've just described constitutes a plan, correct?" she pointed out neutrally.
"Well sure," Jaune acknowledged, stuffing his off hand into his pocket and gesturing with the other hand. "A plan consists of a strategy that's accomplished through a series or a set of tactics. What I've described technically constitutes a strategy; and I already told you about my tactics ten minutes ago."
Winter desperately wanted to argue against the validity of his explosive tactics, only to stop and curse internally as she recognized that such was an argument that she would inevitably lose.
"No one in Vale is going to accept or support your plan," she attempted instead.
"Only one way to find out."
Ozpin's office was still in the aftermath of Jaune's impromptu presentation.
Glynda stood beside the Headmaster's desk sending incredulous looks to the pair of Specialists, receiving in return a deadpan stare from the would-be bomber, and resignation and sympathy from Winter.
Turning at the waist, the Deputy Headmistress was further dismayed by the look of deep contemplation on her boss's face.
Realizing that she would have to be the voice of reason, Glynda turned back to the pair and fought to collect herself in order to respond calmly and rationally.
"Well, I can find little fault with the Specialist's proposal," Ozpin replied first.
So much for rationality.
"Have you two lost your MINDS?!" Glynda demanded, turning sharply on her heel in order to look between the two men.
"Not entirely," Jaune replied unhelpfully with a shrug; he then doubled over as his partner's sharp elbow met his gut.
"Not. Funny," Winter growled at him quietly.
"Your proposal entails an excessive potential for collateral damage," the Deputy Headmistress bit out through gritted teeth.
"More collateral damage than an urban terrorist campaign that's been documented to use heavy mounted weapons, shoulder-launched rockets, grenades, and improvised explosive devices?" Jaune rebutted impassively.
"More than little to none is already beyond the scope of reasonable consideration," Glynda snapped back.
"Answer me this, then, Miss Goodwitch," Jaune drawled as he ambled forward a step closer to Ozpin's desk and turned to face the woman in question, "How much collateral damage is considered acceptable in a Huntsman operation in a populated area?"
"... A certain degree is anticipated and covered for by institutional insurance," she admitted slowly.
"Greater speed and greater strength; the ability to survive multi-story falls and fatal blows, and to shatter walls and regular human limbs with singular blows; even the ability to control and harness forces and elements, both natural and not," the Specialist waxed poetic, accompanied by great dramatic sweeping gestures with his hands and arms. "As an educator of Huntsmen and Huntresses, I'm sure you are familiar with the physics of "Landing Strategies.""
Ozpin released a small, audible snort of amusement that he tried and failed to hide by raising his mug to his lips. Glynda shot a stern look of warning back over her shoulder at the man before turning back to address Jaune. "Your point being?"
"An explosive device is tame compared to the techniques of some Huntsmen," Jaune returned flatly. "Plastique or a landmine have a finite explosive yield, whereas an in-shape and enthusiastic Hunter armed with, let's say a warhammer, delivers a blow that can vary in strength from a love tap to a breaching charge or beyond, depending on what mood they're in."
Glynda exhaled slowly from her nose and pushed her glasses up with a finger before replying, her expression set in stoney defiance. "A Hunter is also a high-visibility "weapon," as well as being a familiar - if not friendly - face to the populace."
"Correct," Jaune acknowledged with a nod, casually raising his arms and folding them behind his neck, and tilting his head back to stare at the ornate cogs that made up the ceiling. "And, please remind me: How many Hunters has Adam Taurus fended off or killed in his career?"
There was a collective wince from the office's other three occupants.
Before Winter could chastise his callousness, Jaune doggedly pressed the offensive. "Adam Taurus is the single most powerful combatant that I've had the unfortunate honor of running afoul of in my military career," he declared confidently, eliciting odd stares from Glynda and Winter. "His skill, his strength, and his tactical ability are all without question; there is literally no scenario that I can devise off the top of my head that would result in his death without also producing a disgusting margin of friendly casualties and collateral damage.
"In short, our current doctrines of conventional warfare simply do not contain a viable countermeasure for Adam Taurus," the male Specialist concluded gravely. "Which then leads me to the conclusion that our quickest and most effective recourse is the age-old adage: 'Fight fire, with fire.'"
The room fell to silence; Winter's was resigned, Ozpin's was courteous, and Glynda's was contemplative.
Sensing the momentum finally swinging in his favor, Jaune allowed a moment before offering a disclaimer. "I'm not talking about planting devices across the city tied to motion sensors and hoping that we'll miraculously catch the biggest fish in the pond without doing an unholy amount of collateral damage first," he said, shifting his arms again and folding them across his chest, his stern expression softening slightly as he met Glynda's eyes.
"What I am proposing is an extensive intelligence and reconnaissance campaign to determine our most likely targets, followed by delivering hand-crafted and expert-verified devices that will be tied solely to manual remote detonators, which will in turn be controlled at all times by a trusted triggerman within visual range of the device."
"Who would fill these roles, Mister Arc?" Ozpin inquired politely with his fingers steepled on the desk.
"I'll be the primary craftsman," Jaune replied firmly. "I have extensive training in assembling and disarming both conventional and improvised explosives, and I've successfully disarmed more than two hundred such devices during my second tenure in Asteria; that statistic should be listed in my service record."
"It is," Ozpin nodded when Glynda looked back to him.
"I've been told that there's a Legion security detachment stationed at the CCT tower to augment the regular military technicians and officers," Jaune continued. "I'd like to reach out to the senior NCO of the detachment to see if he has any qualified personnel that could serve as the second engineer. If not, I would readily accept anyone from Beacon's skunkworks, or the VPD's EOD division, provided that I be allowed to meet with and verify their credentials myself."
"That sounds acceptable," Glynda finally spoke again, though she still looked like she'd recently swallowed a lemon. "But what about the triggermen?"
"I would accept myself, another vetted senior Legionnaire from the security detachment, or a vetted shooter from VPD SWAT or the VDF."
"Is there a particular reason why this list does not include your colleague, or any Hunters, regular police officers, or detectives?" Ozpin asked wryly. Jaune returned his flat stare, knowing that the question was solely for Glynda's benefit.
"I don't believe that anyone else would have the stomach to pull the trigger at the precise moment where a bomb would kill as many terrorists as possible," the Legionnaire - the youngest man in the room - replied honestly, his eyes hard as he said the words.
Winter barely suppressed a distressed noise as her eyes squeezed shut.
Glynda stood silently, staring at Jaune with a look in her eyes that was almost pleading for him to say anything else; but when he didn't, she nodded awkwardly and averted her gaze to the floor.
Even Ozpin looked vaguely uncomfortable for a moment.
"Put your proposal into writing, and I will forward it to Chief Reagan with my endorsement and a guaranteed timeline for implementation," the Headmaster finally ordered.
"Yes sir." Jaune habitually snapped to attention and offered a salute, which Ozpin dismissed with an awkward wave across his brow. "Will that be all, sir?"
"For now. You are dismissed, Specialists; thank you for your time."
Jaune executed a swift about-face and made a swift retreat to the elevator. Winter lingered for a moment, her gazing flitting uncertainly between the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress as she tried to find the words to articulate her objections; but she ultimately withdrew as well.
As the doors closed and the elevator descended with a low hum, Glynda's rage was dampened by the heavy cloud of remorse that hung over the office in Specialist Amsel's wake.
Finally, she found her own parting words. "Are you satisfied now, sir?" she asked tiredly, reproach implicit but subdued in her tone by her own guilt.
She turned around to face her boss, only to find the man staring resolutely at the ornate clockwork embedded below the surface of his desk. "As needs must, Glynda," he responded quietly, never looking up.
"Needs must as the Brothers drive."
- To Serve With Honor -
A week passed after Adam's declaration, and the Kingdom stood by with baited breath as tense silence prevailed. Unbeknownst to the average citizen, the opening moves of the war were already being waged beneath the surface and in the shadows.
White Fang operatives - local members in uniform, and Zealot troopers in combat gear and plainclothes alike - darted through sewer accesses and back alleys all across the city. They made contact with cells and assets; they transported intelligence, munitions, and resources; they maintained observation posts on the lookout for cops and soldiers.
Likewise - but on a noticeably smaller scale - the powers-that-be in Vale made their own preparations. Detectives, officers, and ambitious informants made the rounds of the districts. Every other evening, SWAT carried out lightning raids on suspected hides, but only came away with everyday criminals: Thieves, smugglers, and drug dealers.
Crime was down further than it had ever been in recent history, but the police commanders and the Council remained unsatisfied and fully on-edge.
Then, on an average Thursday morning, the first blow was struck.
Adam pressed tightly against a brick wall at the corner of an extensive network of access drives and alleyways in West Vale, on the border between the Commercial and Industrial districts. He peered briefly around the corner and, noting only an empty alley with a dumpster and scattered piles of trash, waved the rest of the unit forward.
The pointmen, a pair of shooters from the Zealot troops, advanced into the gap with their carbines pressed tightly to their shoulders, muzzles sweeping the path as they advanced in a steady crouch-walk.
Three more shooters-in-training from the local forces advanced after them, their stances slightly higher and their hold on their weapons less certain as they nonetheless followed suit several paces behind, ensuring several overlapping fields of fire and adequate spacing to minimize potential casualties from explosives.
Adam fell in several paces behind the second line of shooters, his eyes staunchly forward even as he listened to a Zealot NCO marshalling the rest of the local troops. "Quit gagglefucking and spread it out, dammit," he heard the older man whisper harshly at the clustered young men and women bearing weapons and duffel bags of ammunition and equipment.
The Lieutenant's information network had come through on the final requisite details to carry out their first high-profile attack: The CEO and CFO of Vale National Foundry, a massive conglomerate of commercial mines and manufacturers that provided raw materials and fabricated metal products to over eighty percent of the Kingdom's industry, were paying a quarterly visit to their top-selling sales office in the Western Commercial District.
The CEO was reportedly skeptical of the threat that the White Fang posed to Vale's economic elite, and thus chose to put on a strong front for his company and competitors by upholding VNF's tradition of a personal visit and paying lip-service to the office's most profitable salespersons.
It was also said that he had added a small private security team led by a former Huntsman to his entourage, but that the actual threat posed by this lukewarm precaution was greater to a small hitsquad than it would be to a full paramilitary strike force.
Adam and his senior troops were of the unanimous mind that this man represented an ideal first example for the Kingdom.
Just over half a kilometer from their target, and nearly thirty minutes ahead of schedule, the strike force would approach from the surface and then take refuge near the area of operations in an underground maintenance passage that serviced the target building's connection to the district's steam lines for heating. Several minutes after the target's arrival, they would cut off access to the building from ground level and move upwards, clearing each floor and securing the target before extracting him underground with a small team while the rest of the force hung back to fend off any response from law enforcement.
But as they passed through the alleyway, Adam glanced downward habitually at a pile of garbage ahead near the first line of shooters, and felt his heart skip as he noticed a corner of a black case and a piece of wire.
"MOVE!"
Beep
Ka-KROOM
When he came to, Adam was being dragged back down the alley away from the blast site by a pair of troopers. His eyes cracked behind his mask and sluggishly processed the carnage.
The Zealot pointmen had been blown clear out of the alleyway; it was hard to make out details, but there were more lumps lying in the street than just two intact bodies.
The locals behind them - the unfortunate souls who had been directly beside the bomb when it detonated - were little more than smears of blood and gore on the asphalt. The walls on either side of the blast had been obliterated, and crumbling brick and mortar fell away from the ragged edges of the holes every so often.
There were a few more prostrated bodies lying against walls that were being tended by other troopers, but no more than five; which told Adam that he had caught the brunt of the blast for the back end of the formation.
The senior troops from the rear echelon had moved up and were policing up all of the bodies and parts that they could gather as more local shooters stood guard shakily in the road and warned pedestrians away. Sirens were blaring somewhere in the distance, and Adam numbly slapped his dangling arm against the leg of one of the troops carrying him.
"Find the Sergeant and order a full withdrawal," he rasped, "Pull the vanguard out before the police arrive; we're in no shape for a pitched battle."
"Yes sir," the man - he recognized the voice of a Zealot trooper - responded firmly.
Adam finally found a bit of strength in his legs and shakily planted his feet, causing the troopers to stop and help him upright. The man he had passed orders to made sure that his partner had Adam well in hand before darting back up the alley to the Sergeant, leaving Adam to be half-led, half-carried back into the maze of alleys.
As they approached a manhole that was uncovered and being guarded by a mixed fireteam, some distant and barely-cognizant part of his mind came to a haphazard conclusion that made him stop suddenly:
Jonathan Amsel had answered his challenge.
He'd put forth his level-best effort to kill him.
Therefore, it was out of personal honor - as well as professional courtesy - that Adam was now obliged to respond in kind.
End Chapter 8
Final Note: And here's where the narrative becomes... Interesting.
I don't really have much to say after this one, since I feel that rambling or author exposition would detract from the your processing of these new developments.
As such, I ask instead that you simply leave your thoughts and/or conjectures in the reviews; I already have a decent idea of some alternative interpretations of the events from this chapter, but I'm happy to hear the same or more to see where your minds are at about the plot so far.
Thanks for tuning in, and I'll see y'all in Chapter 9.
-Knightmare Frame Razgriz