- To Serve With Honor -
To most of the population of Vale, the bombing that snapped the peace of an average Thursday morning – the bombing that had apparently foiled a significant terrorist action – was a shock to the system, and a harsh introduction to new reality of their home.
Though the White Fang were able to recover their dead before law enforcement arrived, candid images still leaked out from the occupants of nearby buildings of blood and gore painted across a street in the middle of the Kingdom. The images were swiftly suppressed by the media and network-level moderators in the CCTnet, but not before nearly everyone and their mother in Vale had seen or saved a copy of them.
Questions of culpability and context spread through all levels of society: What had the White Fang been doing out in force in such a relatively secure part of Vale? Who had planted the bomb that had apparently slaughtered half a dozen of them? And more importantly, who had set it off?
Opinions and speculations were split relatively evenly across the board. The prevailing theory that the national media latched onto was that the blast had been from a mishandled explosive device being carried by a small unit of terrorist saboteurs; this narrative ended up doing more harm than good in the end, though, since it immediately raised the question of where else such devices might have been placed in the Kingdom.
Others that were only slightly more in-the-know suspected that this was a case of the more aggressive elements of local crime syndicates expressing their discontent towards the White Fang and their disruption of the status-quo; however, most major players in the game, including Hei Xiong's Red Axe Gang, were quick to convene and vehemently deny any involvement in such a radical play.
Those few who were more conspiracy-inclined insisted that it was actually a state plot or an internal power struggle, with either the Vale Police or even the White Fang themselves having planted and directly triggered the bomb to remove key figures in the organization from the equation.
Jaune snorted as he read this line in the newsfeed of his Scroll at a table in the dining hall. It was always the theories that were closest to the truth that were most aptly suppressed or simply dismissed as lunacy.
For most of Vale, today was the day after the world had been flipped on its head.
For Jaune, today was Friday – or rather, another day that ends in 'Y'.
"Specialist," a voice rasped crisply from across the table.
Jaune looked up from his scroll and his meatloaf sandwich to meet the newcomer's gaze. "Martel," he acknowledged with a nod, "Cop a squat."
"Thanks." The older Legionnaire took a seat on the bench, setting down a tray loaded to the edges and piled high with meat, veggies, and several dinner rolls. Jaune quirked his brow at the spread.
"Field exercise today?"
Martel barked a short laugh. "Like we get fuckin' field exercises around here. Nah, the food's just better than any of the shit that the Services contractors in the Tower can put together, so I figured I'd savor the occasion and burn it off on the bench later."
"Huh," Jaune hummed as he took another bite, "I figured that your menu couldn't be much different considering that the kitchens are right next to your back door."
"Despite being in close proximity to Beacon's actually adequate chefs, I can assure you that the Services personnel of our glorious Atlesian military have in fact resisted all temptation to become better cooks," Martel replied sardonically. He then glanced discreetly around the hall within his field of vision. "The Spooks don't have eyes in here, right?" the other Legionnaire asked quietly.
"All Special Task Force personnel are banned from approaching within twenty meters of Beacon premises after the Deputy Headmistress found bugs in the offices of several members of faculty last year," Jaune grinned. "Speak freely, Martel."
"Thank the Brothers," Martel wiped his brow and exhaled in relief, "I've gotta find a good reason to come over here more often, then."
"Stick around as long as you like," Jaune shrugged and took another bite. "Though, I am going to need you to actually tell me what you know at some point soon, if you wouldn't mind," he snarked through a mouthful.
"I was able to visually confirm at least four enemy casualties from the bomb yesterday; however, I was not able to determine if Taurus was actually killed in the blast."
The Specialist chewed this news over silently. "You said that he was nearly on top of the device when he discovered it?" he asked neutrally.
"Aye sir," the security detachment Legionnaire nodded firmly. "No more than four meters away upon detonation, I swear. However, the device threw up a lot of smoke and dust from collateral damage to the neighboring building, and I couldn't linger for long for risk of being spotted by the Fang or any spectators."
"Did you leave behind one of the cameras that I requested from the CCT garrison?"
Martel shook his head slightly. "I showed the Quartermaster the paperwork, but he refused to issue the gear. I tried to talk him into it, but an STF officer showed up and informed me that the garrison commander had denied the request personally on the basis of the risk of the equipment being tied back to Atlas."
Jaune's fist slammed into the table, rattling the cutlery, and startling the Beacon staff nearby. "Conniving little fucks," he hissed venomously. "It sounds like I'll be needing to have a more personal conversation with the garrison staff." He growled lowly, and then looked back to Martel. "Is that all?"
"I took the shot that I had with the resources at my disposal," Martel stated evenly. "If it's any consolation, I definitely got at least three Zealots."
The young Specialist seethed for a moment; then he took a breath to compose himself, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not blaming you, Martel," he finally sighed, opening his eyes and raising his head to meet his fellow Legionnaire's gaze. "Like you said, you took the shot that you had and did a lot more damage than if you hadn't taken it."
Martel held his gaze for a minute, searching Jaune's eyes for any deeper hint of deception or frustration. Finding none, the older man exhaled in relief. "Thanks. I honestly thought you were gonna N-J-P my ass into next week for this."
"What?!" Jaune balked and physically started at the notion. "Martel, I've been a grunt for the last two years of my career; why in the hell would you think that I'd punish you for only partly succeeding at a task that even I expected would go nowhere this early on?"
Martel fidgeted uncertainly. "Permission to speak freely?"
"Granted," Jaune growled, "And I'm going to smack you if you ever ask me that again when it's just the two of us."
The Legionnaire paused. His gaze wandered and his face twisted and twitched as he contemplated his next words.
"We don't really know what to make of you," Martel finally admitted with a shrug; Jaune could only assume that 'we' was referring to the Legion garrison of the CCT. "You're the first Legionnaire Specialist in decades, as well as probably the youngest Specialist period; not to mention that your sponsor is Winter Schnee, the frostiest bi-"
Martel processed the promise of violence in Jaune's eyes and swiftly rephrased mid-sentence, "-Huntress in the Atlas military. Based on that, every good bet that we had going said that you should have been one of the highest-and-tightest, most squared-away, prim-and-proper officer-types in recent history. But instead, you're…" The man trailed off, awkwardly gesturing and waving his hand up and down Jaune's form. "It was a shock to say the least, and even now you're throwing us all for a loop every time we hear about you."
Jaune had finished his sandwich while Martel was speaking, and let the silence linger as he chewed over the Legionnaire's words. Finally, he slugged down the last half of one of his water glasses and sighed.
"All fair points," the Specialist acknowledged reluctantly. "Can I level with you on a few notes, Martel?"
The other man's brow shot up. "Shoot," he replied with a shrug.
"I was offered my commission from a hospital bed," Jaune stated flatly, earning a sharp flinch as Martel assumed that he had struck a chord. "I'd known Specialist Schnee for over a year prior from several joint missions in Asteria and Mantle where we'd worked closely together in counter-insurgency operations. We had a strong working and a decent personal relationship, so we kept in touch."
Jaune closed his eyes and squared his shoulders unconsciously before continuing. "Then I was captured by the Zealots during a botched COIN op. They held me for four weeks deep inside of the Asteria Restricted Zones, and I was regularly tortured and interrogated for information on the Legion's security and communications protocols."
The Specialist's eyes darkened briefly; for a second, he felt the knots on his wrists and the cold metal chair against his bare skin.
"They didn't break me," he declared with a guttural growl.
The sensations went away when he felt a strong hand clasp one of his clenched fists; his vision cleared, and his gaze met Martel's. The older man nod firmly in reassurance before slowly withdrawing his hand back across the table.
"… Specialist Schnee was part of the team that recovered me; she personally extracted me to Atlas for debrief and medical treatment. After a month of recovery, I was informed that she had secured the endorsement of several senior officers in Asteria and lobbied General Ironwood himself for my commission."
Jaune downed half of his second water glass and set it down heavily. "I am a frontline combatant Junior NCO wearing an Officer's stripes and actively learning an Officer's duties along with half a dozen other jobs at once. That is to say, an Officer is the least of what I am. So, if you take one thing back to your buddies in the garrison, it should be this."
He leaned across the table on his folded arms and stared down Martel. "My first priority is to the men under my command. My second is to the mission, and my third and fourth are to the Legion and to Atlas, respectively. And if it ever starts to look like I've lost sight of my priorities, I want you, personally, to step forward, look me in the eye, and then slug me and put me on the ground. Is that understood, Legionnaire?"
Martel's expression was thoroughly startled at this point; but as Jaune kept him fixed with a deadly serious gaze, he slowly sobered up and nodded firmly. "Understood, Corporal."
Jaune let the moment linger, and then stood up and reached across the table to clap the Legionnaire firmly on the shoulder. "Good man," he intoned, settling back onto his bench and taking another drink. Setting the empty glass back on the tray, he noted his scoured plate and glanced enviously at the tower of food on Martel's. "Now, I'm going back for seconds, and then you're gonna give me the over-under on how the hell you managed to kill everything but your target," declared said with a toothy grin. "Ja?"
Martel's expression soured for an instant before his expression brightened at the prospect of getting to demolish a load of decent chow. "Jawohl, Corporal," the older man acknowledged, picking up his utensils and starting his attack on his tray.
Jaune chuckled as he stood and took his tray back towards the buffet line. His gaze passed over the entrance to the dining hall, and he stopped on the spot.
Winter was posted off to one side of the main doors, her eyes firmly on him. When their gazes met, there was a minute of uncertainty and silent communication. Her eyes briefly shot towards Martel, who remained unaware of her presence, before returning to his.
'How much did you see?' his brow creased uncertainly.
'Enough,' one of hers quirked knowingly.
As he continued to stare nervously, Winter's face settled and then broke into a small smile; and she offered an encouraging nod to go with it.
An inexplicable wave of relief swept over him, and Jaune instantly brightened; smiling and nodding in return before turning around to hit the chow line with gusto.
- To Serve With Honor -
Lieutenant Boris "Banesaw" Sayanov of the White Fang surveyed his comrade and current commander with stoic amusement, his hulking form occupying one side of the decrepit office space with arms folded and features hidden by a custom Grimm mask.
Commander Adam Taurus in turn did his best to match his second's taciturn demeanor, but the task was made significantly more difficult by the distractingly well-endowed woman that was currently playing nurse and fussing over him. The ribbons of silvery scales snaking asymmetrically up and down the sides of her slender neck glowed in the light of the room's bare hanging bulb as she cooed and dabbed at the side of Adam's face with a wad of antiseptic-soaked gauze.
"Am I interrupting something?" the Lieutenant finally rumbled, his voice carefully neutral.
"Oh, not at all!" the woman replied with an exaggerated lilt and a wave of her free hand. "Our big, strong commander here was trying to get out of his medical check, so I just had to be a little firm with him."
Boris tilted his head, and was finally able to notice the ropes binding Adam's wrists to the legs of the chair that he appeared to be reclining in.
"Amaru, how many times do I have to tell you that - trained physician or not - you're not allowed to restrain your superior officers for routine examinations?" the giant drawled rhetorically.
"Oh, I must've forgotten. Silly me!" she replied with an unconvincing giggle.
Silence fell again as Amaru continued to dote on Adam.
"That means that you need to untie him, Amaru."
"But I'm almost finished and if I untie him he'll run off again!" she whined without looking up.
"The Commander won't run off until you've replaced his bandages," Boris stated placatingly. "Isn't that right, sir?"
"A slow boat to Menagerie, Lieutenant Sayanov," Adam growled in return.
"Does that mean you're finally approving that vacation request that I put in three years ago in Mantle?"
"In a shipping crate. A small shipping crate."
"All done!" Amaru stepped back and clapped her hands together. "That wasn't so hard, now was it Mister Taurus?"
"You get to share the crate with him, Amaru," Adam replied through gritted teeth. A moment later, his Aura flared a brilliant crimson around his arms, and the ropes at his wrists were shorn apart. The Commander rubbed at his raw appendages and continued to glare at both of his companions through one blue and one grey and red eye.
"Don't threaten me with a good time," the doctor purred, strutting over to rub a finger down the Lieutenant's broad unarmored chest.
"Not in front of the boy, dear; you know how squeamish he is about displays of affection," Boris chided unflinchingly, his amused grin hidden behind his mask.
"Not enough hugs as a child," Amaru sighed dramatically, pirouetting on the heel of her boot to face Adam as he was climbing slowly to his feet. "Would you like a hug, Adam, my sweet boy?" she cooed.
"Both of you can drop dead," Adam stated flatly. "Did you have something for me, Lieutenant, or are you just here for the bit?"
"I'm a very capable multi-tasker, sir." Boris drew a file out from under his arm and passed it to Adam. "A brief run-down on what we've managed to dig up on the Legionnaire. The others are waiting in the ready room to brief you."
"I'll join you shortly," the Commander nodded, already skimming the file as he donned his mask. "You're both dismissed," he added pointedly to Amaru, who pouted sadly and sauntered out of the room with her medical bag.
Closing the door softly behind him, the Lieutenant fell into step with the doctor in a few long strides. "You really shouldn't push him like that around here," he said softly.
"The level of stress that that man puts himself under of his own accord is about as far from healthy as anyone can get," Amaru retorted, before her expression softened. "And besides, we might as well be his parents after those first few years in Asteria," she added quietly.
Boris reached over with breaking his stride and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her tightly for a moment to his side. "He came out alright all things considered. I'd like to think that Anton and Marie would be proud to see the man that their boy has grown into."
"You and I remember Anton and Marie very differently," Amaru drawled sardonically with a sideways glance.
"I did say 'all things considered,'" Boris grumbled, shoving her away lightly. Amaru punched him playfully in the arm in return, and the two parted ways at the next intersection.
The Lieutenant navigated the labyrinthine industrial office complex with practiced ease, occasionally passing larger common spaces that used to be meeting and control rooms, and now housed squads and even an odd platoon of White Fang operatives.
Some groups were resting in improvised squad bays; others received lectures from veteran Zealot operatives on a variety of subjects related to urban and guerilla warfare. One shotgun-style boardroom had even been hastily reinforced and fireproofed and turned into a small-arms range exclusively for pistols, shotguns, and submachine guns.
After several minutes of maneuvering through the winding corridors, he came to an apparently arbitrary control room that was being utilized as one of three smaller briefing rooms. Stepping inside, the Lieutenant was greeted by the silent stares of five others, spanning a broad range of age and seniority.
"Thank you all for coming," Boris intoned, "The Commander will be joining us shortly."
"About damn time," the second eldest in the room – an unmasked man nearly as tall as Boris with full and well-kempt dark hair, and sideburns cut in an iconic "mutton chop" style – grumbled loudly. "I was promised that I wouldn't have to associate with these raving lunatics as long as I kept an ear to the ground; but lo and behold, look where we are now!"
The dark-haired man shot a pointed look of distaste to his right, meeting the sharp angles and blue-grey colors of a vaguely avian full-face mask resting atop a thick blue, grey, and black urban camouflage cloak. The mask stared back flatly, the wearer – several centimeters smaller than most of the others in the room – remaining silent as the grave.
"Your time and efforts are appreciated, Tukson, and I apologize for having deceived you with promises that I knew I would not be able to keep," Boris rumbled diplomatically. "However, please rest assured that I have not called you here for anything less than a matter of the utmost importance and urgency."
"Pretty words from the man who would've told anyone else to shut the fuck up and get in line," Tukson – owner and proprietor of Tukson's Book Trade, a very successful and surprisingly well-accepted shop in the northeast part of Vale's residential district - grumbled. Despite his disdain, however, Tukson fell silent, apparently mollified by the Lieutenant's words.
Being so close to the primary transit station for Beacon's commuter Bullheads, the Puma Faunus had an exceptional talent for deriving critical tidbits of intelligence from both the gossip and the shopping habits of his numerous customers, both civilians and Hunters. However, he had both lost his taste for the cause in recent years, and also lost favor with a number of the younger members of Vale's command, resulting in the current state of enmity.
In all, the room's current occupants included two uniformed Zealots, two civilian sympathizers - in which Tukson was counted due to his partial retirement – and the Lieutenant himself.
After another minute, Adam finally arrived, slipping in and shutting and securing the door behind him. "Apologies for the delay," he said blandly. "Ladies and gentlemen-"
Tukson shot a curious sideways glance at the fully covered Zealots, as every other member of the present assembly was clearly male.
"-Let's get down to business." The Commander crossed the room to the opposite head of the small boardroom table in the center of the room; upon taking his seat, the Lieutenant and the others followed suit. "Starting with the Mantle records, what do we know about Specialist Jonathan Amsel?"
The pair of cloaked Zealot operatives simultaneously drew Scrolls from their concealing garments; the devices expanded into full tablets, and each of the pair transferred the relevant data to the others at the table with swift hand gestures.
"Atlas Foreign Legion service record spans two years, three months, and twenty-two days," the first of the pair recited in a soft, feminine mezzo-soprano; their mask was full-face, with lupine lines painted in a matte navy-blue color, and was also adorned at the top by a pair of undecorated triangular ear-analogues.
"Birth name reported to recruiting officer, but not recorded on official Legion documentation per tradition and regulation," the second continued in a huskier alto, though it was also effeminate. Their mask was full-face and unadorned barring two stacked pairs slanted eyeholes. "Birth name reported for regular Atlas military record upon Specialist commissioning; information locked behind Top Secret Class O-8 restriction."
"No use in banging our heads on that vault door," Adam muttered with mild irritation. "Continue."
"Jonathan "Jack" Amsel, no assumed middle name. Completed two months Basic Legionary Training at Base Ramstein, qualified for additional entry-level certification in Freefall; completed one-month additional training in this field before assigned to Sixty-Third Foreign Airmobile Regiment and stationed at Forward Operating Base Wedge in Asteria, Mantle.
"Carried out static defensive and roving patrol duties, targeted sweep-and-clear and cache demolition missions for four months in Asteria before Sixty-Three Regiment rotated out to stand watch at Ammer Saddle Firebase Omega. Prior to relocating to Firebase Omega, Legionnaire Second Class Amsel and several others dispatched to Ramstein for training and certification in Basic Combat Engineering. Amsel noted as showing high aptitude in subject upon completion of course and earmarked for future training."
The Lieutenant was curious as to whether the woman's omission of articles in her speech was a verbal tic or just from the file that she was reading; regardless, he focused primarily on processing the information. Thus far, the Legionnaire sounded ordinary - barring an apparent yen for explosives and jumping out of perfectly good aircraft.
"Sixty-Three Regiment stationed at Ammer with no major, several minor incursions over two months. Regiment relieved and released on two weeks block leave; Legionnaire Amsel present in Atlas for three days, Asteria secured zones for eleven days during leave period. Upon return to duty, Amsel's section selected for special duties alongside Atlas Military Specialist Winter Schnee in Asteria and Prometheus Restricted Zones, rural settlements, and undisclosed military installations in Solitas interior."
Adam rubbed his chin at this. "Any luck with finding the mission files from those "undisclosed" locations?"
"Negative," the other female Zealot responded curtly. "The mission numbers alone were restricted to Class O-5, and everything else down to and including the report abstracts were redacted. It seems that only full versions of the mission reports are physical copies that were immediately seized by the Special Task Force and sequestered in General Ironwood's personal archives."
"Send a missive to the Asteria HQ after this meeting with the file number and ask them to start poking around, see if they can find any local scuttlebutt to start chasing down leads from the outside," Adam ordered absently, his head inclined slightly towards the floor in deep thought.
"Yes sir," the second Zealot acknowledged.
"Continue your report."
"Yes sir," the first acknowledged, "I'll summarize the rest. Amsel and thirteen others from his section received commendations – eight posthumously – from joint operations with Specialist Schnee; Amsel also received a battlefield promotion to Legionnaire First Class after his squad's second-in-command was killed, and Amsel was noted as being among the most senior and competent of the remaining members."
"Most senior with little more than six months of field experience…" Adam muttered with a faint scowl. "Doctrine-standard negligence at its finest."
"Sixty-Three Regiment was returned to duties in Asteria at an accelerated operational tempo under a new offensive doctrine, resulting in an average thirty percent section-level casualties within the first month of operations. Amsel's squad leader, Legion Corporal Dimitri Alexandros, was among those killed, and Amsel was promoted to interim squad leader until a suitable replacement could be identified. He proved himself as a capable leader from there on, with his squad achieving an unprecedented success and battlefield effectiveness rating through applications of unconventional tactics developed in the field."
The Zealot glanced up from the report briefly to look directly at Adam. "Amsel would've been promoted to Corporal six weeks after his previous promotion if not for an insubordination demerit filed by Sixty-Three Regiment's Atlas Special Task Force attaché, Captain Alfred Richter."
A sharp crack of fracturing wood sounded, and Boris glanced curiously to Adam, who had just made a centimeter-deep imprint in the surface of the table. "Continue," the Commander snarled.
"Yes sir. The demerit was formally scratched from the record for meritorious service one month later by the Regimental Major, Aaron Hoess." She paused and tapped at the screen. "Hoess was Amsel's recruiting officer, and also within his direct chain of command for the entire duration of his early service with Sixty-Three Regiment."
"Pays to have friends in high places that don't like your highly-placed enemies," Tuskon snorted. Boris smirked at the irony of the statement and the speaker.
"Amsel continued to serve with distinction in Asteria for several more months, with a period therein being committed to further special operations in conjunction with Specialist Schnee; it was during this time that Amsel's squad finally appeared on our radar as high-value targets; and during an independent special operation that was carried out in Schnee's absence, the Asteria Division carried out our own operation and succeeded in capturing Amsel and killing two of his squad while the rest retreated. Legion reports indicate that the survivors were directly ordered to retreat by Richter and were thereafter forbidden to pursue a recovery operation."
"So then why did half of the regiment with armored support come knocking on our door four weeks later?" Adam asked dryly.
"Amsel's second-in-command, Legionnaire Second Class Charles Abel, surreptitiously circumvented the chain of command – with Major Hoess's assistance, no doubt – and contacted Specialist Schnee to inform her of the situation. Apparently the Schnee had taken a shine to Amsel during their time working together, because she turned up two hours after being contacted and immediately started rattling chains to put together a rescue operation. Richter stonewalled her in every way that he could; but given that Schnee was Ironwood's favored protégé at the time, there was only so much that he could do in his position."
"But it still took her nearly a month to put together a tenable operation," the Lieutenant observed mildly.
"It took two weeks for her to circumvent the STF and rally enough support for Amsel to disobey a direct stand down order," the Zealot woman corrected flatly. "Even with her clout, Schnee couldn't just go around an established member of the regimental chain of command; by all indications from the reports, she wasn't even technically supposed to be in Asteria at that time. She and Amsel's squad spent that whole time putting together half of the regiment and planning an operation under the STF's nose, and it took them another two weeks to secure the necessary resources and intelligence to locate and storm the Asteria Division's stronghold.
"When they finally pulled the trigger, however, the strike force succeeded in leveling the facility and securing Amsel, though he was half-dead at the time as a result of twenty-eight days of continuous interrogation."
"He would've been dead if not for the tender mercies of a certain someone under my command…" Adam sighed quietly in resignation, more to himself than anything.
"Amsel was hospitalized and was in and out of critical condition for two weeks before doctors managed to stabilize him. After a month in bed, the Schnee came around and offered him a Specialist commission on behalf of General Ironwood. Apparently, she had spent that time lobbying and pulling every string that she could in the military to secure the bare-minimum required support for such a move; which was made even more unprecedented by the fact that when Amsel accepted, he became the first Legionnaire Specialist in the Atlas Military in over thirty years."
The Zealot operative set down and shut off the Scroll. "The last statements in the report are that Schnee unlocked his Aura when he accepted his commission, and that he spent a total of three months in the hospital and in therapy before he was able to sign out for Specialist training.
"So, we're looking at about twenty-five months of Legion training and service, four weeks in captivity, three months in the hospital, and the rest of the time from then to now training under the tutelage of Specialist Winter Schnee," Boris summarized.
"That's his record in a nutshell," the first Zealot woman affirmed with a slight nod. "Everything from the latter half of the hospital stay to the present day is under lock-and-key behind Ironwood's credentials."
The Lieutenant and the Zealots looked to Adam, who was staring down at the table with one hand curled around his chin, and the other tapping steadily on the table in front of him. Finally, the Commander's finger rose and dashed the air. "They're not just Ironwood's credentials, though," he contemplated aloud.
"What do you mean, sir?" the other female Zealot inquired neutrally.
"Later," Adam muttered absently, drawing a small notebook and pen from his coat and scribbling something down. "Lieutenant, Sergeants," he looked to Boris and the pair of Zealots, "See me after this meeting."
"Sir," the three sounded off in unison.
"Getting back to the topic at hand," Adam sighed as he once again stored the notebook. "I've given up any hope of getting any more detail about his Specialist training for now, so let's focus on why he's here. Mister Koios," the Commander now looked to the other civilian beside Tukson, an aged and dignified-looking silver-haired man dressed in blue overalls, "I sincerely appreciate your attendance today, particularly on such short notice."
"Please, sir, just call me Dennis," the man replied humbly with a soft, genial grin, bowing his head slightly; Boris spotted a strip of some sort of solid-looking brown shell peeking out from beneath the collar of the coveralls. "And it's my pleasure to be of assistance to the organization. You want to know what I've gleaned from my ventures into the CCTnet, yes?"
"Very much so," Adam nodded with a faint, pleasant smile.
"Right-o," Dennis drew a standard-sized scroll from his zippered breast pocket, deftly manipulating the device and tossing signals out to displays on the walls of the room; one by one, three screens on the opposite wall from the man lit up with pictures and reports, with the center being a candid photo from the press of the Legionnaire in his full armor and mask standing alongside several tactical officers of the Vale Police.
"Our subject – quite an imposing fellow if I may say – first appeared in local chatter precisely one month ago, in a message between the Chief of the Vale Police Department, River Reagan, and his second, Commander Paul Umber. Mind you, the message only mentioned Mister Amsel's name, not his rank or even his affiliation with Atlas; simply that he would be accompanying Miss Schnee to assist the local authorities in investigating the White Fang's recent rash of Dust robberies."
Dennis shot Adam a mischievous sideways glance. "As a matter of fact, Mister Amsel was stated in this message to be affiliated with Beacon Academy, rather than the Atlas Military or the Foreign Legion."
Adam's brow quirked, and he grinned. "Is that a fact?" he chuckled in amusement. "Dennis, as an upstanding citizen of Vale, wouldn't you say that it's your moral obligation and civic duty to your fellow citizens to ensure complete transparency in the reporting of the local government?"
"I do believe that you would be correct in that assessment, sir," Dennis nodded whole-heartedly. "I'm sure that Miss Lavender will be more than happy to ensure that the record is corrected in this matter."
"I'm sure she will be," Adam agreed wryly. "What else is there?"
"Not much else on my end, I fear," Dennis's face fell slightly in consternation. "The name has appeared in a few reports, as well as a formal complaint lodged by the Police Commander in the wake of the recent scuffle downtown; apparently Mister Umber was rather displeased by the number of casualties sustained by the SWAT team that chose to follow Mister Amsel into the fray."
Adam scoffed softly in disbelief at the notion, but nodded in acknowledgement. "They'll be shutting him out of active investigations in the city then," he surmised. "Not that that's apparently stopped the police from taking tips from him regarding assassination techniques."
Dennis froze, and looked to the Commander inquisitively. "You say that Mister Amsel was responsible for the recent attempt on your life, sir?" the older man asked with genuine surprise and puzzlement. "How pray tell did you come across this information?"
"A gut feeling," Adam replied seriously, "One that I'd bet my life on."
Dennis's brow furrowed slightly at that, but he nodded faintly in agreement. "I'll be sure to do some more digging to see if I can verify your suspicions," he stated.
"Please do so. Being able to definitively tie an Atlas Specialist to a state-sponsored terror-style bombing in Vale will do wonders for our campaign."
"Naturally, sir," Dennis nodded again and took a note on his device before closing both it and the feeds on the screen. "In any case, that's all the news that I have on my end; I'll continue my research and report back with any breakthroughs."
Adam nodded gratefully, and then looked to Tukson. "What's the word from the grapevine, Old Man?" the Commander asked with blunt irreverence.
"I'm only thirty-five, you little shit…" Tukson grumbled, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a small notepad. "I can confirm that somebody by the name of Amsel has taken up residence at Beacon; it sounds like he's holed up in the faculty quarters along with Schnee, and that the two of them are going to be teaching classes at Beacon in the coming semester. I've gotten last-minute orders from the Deputy Headmistress for a big batch of books on Atlas history and general political science, and a smaller order for about a dozen texts on law enforcement theory."
Tukson flipped a page and started slightly in surprise. "Huh, don't know how that slipped my mind…" he muttered. "Amsel himself placed an order by phone for about a dozen individual course-standard texts for first- and second-year students, as well as a book on…" The man's brow furrowed. "… Wireless communications in signals engineering?"
The Lieutenant and the Commander exchanged dry looks from behind their respective masks.
"Well, it looks like all we'll need to tie our friend back to his bombs is the paperwork with his name on it," Boris observed mildly.
"So it would seem," Adam hummed, "But that still leaves us with one final dilemma before I can properly repay our dear friend."
The Commander's gaze swept across the table as his lips closed into a tight grimace. "Do any of you have a picture of this asshole?"
Dennis's hand shot halfway into the air, only to freeze and fall slowly as he made a noise of realization.
Tukson slapped a hand over his eyes and shook his head.
Boris's masked face fell into his hands, and he let out a long, discontented groan.
The Zealot pair remained deathly silent and seemed to shrink back into their chairs and cloaks as if trying to disappear into thin air.
Adam's expression remained unchanged as he shook his head. "The White Fang's unparalleled human intelligence network at it's finest," he declared ironically, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "You know what, forget about that follow-up meeting for now; I don't want to see any of you until one of you has a picture of Jack Amsel for me to paint a target on."
The Commander rose swiftly from his chair, securing his blade and sheath at his hip, and made for the room's second entrance; he paused in the doorway.
"And I swear to the gods, if I manage to find a sketch artist that can make a passable rendition of him from my memory before somebody manages to find a fucking candid photo, I'll have all of you cleaning Dust residue out of the Kill House for the next month."
The door slammed shut in his wake.
Four days later, Tukson reflected on this meeting as he rested on his forearms behind the front counter of his store. With the semester still two weeks away, his regular customers only trickled in as usual in their off-hours, and as such the early afternoon remained relatively dead apart from the odd tourist or teenager.
The "retired" White Fang veteran swiped idly through the expanded Scroll tablet on the counter, which was currently showing strings of intercepted police correspondences. In the absence of any secure means of transmitting the messages to Adam's analysts, Dennis has instead enlisted Tukson's aid in sifting through the information in search of useful intelligence on the Legionnaire.
The man barely registered the chime of the front door; the interior of the store brightened briefly, as the large windows were half-tinted to diminish the afternoon sun.
"Welcome to Tukson's Book Trade, home to every book under the sun," he rattled off distractedly.
"Would that make you Tukson, then?" a male voice rasped in reply as the door swung closed. Tukson's head shot up in surprise, and he assessed the visitor.
It was a younger man, early to mid-twenties, dressed in a frame-fitting grey button-up utility shirt with the sleeves rolled to the middle of well-defined biceps. The shirt fell over the waist of a pair of dark blue boot-cut jeans, which in turn taper over well-worn black leather combat boots.
His gaze tracing upwards, Tukson took note of fading bruises and scarring on the exposed skin of the younger man's forearms; reaching his face, the store owner was shocked briefly by the sharpness of a pair of blue eyes, as well as a modest showcase of craters and scars decorating the man's face from the bottom of his angular jaw, all the way up to the dark hairline of his military-standard crewcut.
"It certainly would," Tukson recovered swiftly, meeting the man's gaze, and simultaneously closing the messages on his Scroll with a casual gesture. "How can I help you today?" he continued, gradually adding an easy cheerfulness to his voice.
"I'm here to pick up some textbooks that I called in about a week ago," the man rasped, "Order's under 'Amsel.'"
It took every ounce of Tukson's willpower not to flinch; internally, he asked himself whether or not the security camera behind and above the counter was turned on, and found that he couldn't recall the answer.
"Of course, Mister Amsel," he nodded with a fragile grin, "The last book in your order actually just arrived yesterday; it'll take just a minute for me to bundle those up for you. Please, have a look around while you wait."
"Much appreciated," Amsel nodded with a small smile.
Tukson turned and shuffled through the free-swinging half-door into the back room, making sure that he was fully around the corner before shakily resting on a countertop.
He fumbled for the burner Scroll in his back pocket, and cursed himself quietly as he rattled off a swift text message to the Lieutenant.
Target is here, 5 min max – send observers
Leaving the Scroll sitting on the counter, Tukson reached over and started methodically stacking and wrapping up a dozen assorted texts into two separate bundles of brown paper and twine. Partway through the process, the Scroll lit up with a reply.
Observers 6 min away – stall or give description + departure route
He uttered a silent, venomous curse as he tied up the last bundle and taped the receive to the side. Taking a short breath to compose himself, he plastered on an easy grin and carried both bundles out to the front counter.
Amsel was a few steps away to the left, eyeing the newsstand and current events sections; the casually dressed Specialist/Legionnaire also held a small book in his hand that Tukson quickly recognized as a military-political handbook from the dust jacket.
"Field Marshall Heinrich Rommel's Treatise on Civil Defense," Tukson observed with a curious inflection. "Interested in military science?"
"In passing," Amsel rumbled back over his shoulder with a crooked smirk, "I'm more surprised that you'd be carrying something like this. Herr Feldmarschall's book is heavily restricted by Atlas and is only available in controlled numbers at their military academies."
"A copy was smuggled out of Atlas through Argus about a decade ago by a whistleblower and forwarded to the other Kingdoms for reprint," Tukson explained as he set the bundles down. "It went on to become a bestseller in Vale, in part because of Rommel's controversial commentary on the current state of Mantle."
Amsel scoffed lightly at that; he then turned lazily on his heel and approached the counter, setting the book on the counter. "Add it to the bill, please."
"Sure," Tukson slid the small text across the counter and scanned the code on the back. "I must say, this is quite the archive you're picking up," the owner continued as he punched the full bill into his Scroll tablet. "Two years' worth of Beacon texts. Buying for someone else, or planning on getting a start on higher-level coursework?"
"Required reading," Amsel replied, accepting the tablet when it was slid across the counter and using a calloused finger to scrawl his signature. "I'll be working as a teaching assistant for first- and second-year courses for the foreseeable future."
"Well, it's good to hear that Glynda finally suckered someone into helping out with Bart's class, at least," Tukson chuckled in honest sympathy. Amsel quirked a brow.
"You're pretty familiar with the faculty?" the Specialist folded his arms across his chest.
"Miss Goodwitch is down here at least once a week to pick out a new novel," he explained. "I also source and supply most of Beacon's first-year course texts. Headmaster Ozpin has a policy of supporting local businesses whenever and wherever possible; it helps that I have connections in Mistral which allow me to offer competitive prices against Vale's wholesalers."
"Impressive," Amsel replied, somewhat blandly. "You wouldn't happen to be the one that got Port into psychology texts, would you?"
Tukson started, and then scratched the back of his neck and chuckled sheepishly. "I guess I did have a bit of a hand in that," he admitted. "In my defense, it was the only way that I was going to get him out of the shop without another three hours of listening to a Taijitu, an Atlesian, and Peter Port walking into a bar in Vacuo."
"Fair enough, I suppose," the younger man acknowledged with a grunt and a roll of his eyes. "The books are covered under the academy's account, then?"
"The course texts are covered by a fund for Beacon employees," Tukson nodded. "The treatise is eight Lien."
Amsel nodded and reached into his pocket as Tukson's mind raced; the owner noted the time on the Scroll tablet and cursed internally.
'The observers are never going to make it in time.'
A Lien card flashed coming out of Amsel's wallet and reflected off of something above the door; something else clicked in Tukson's mind.
At the same time, a claw-like nail clicked a button on the underside of the counter, and an old iron latch snapped into place above the front door with a muted thump, lost in the background as the currency cards clanked against the counter's surface.
"Books are covered under a replacement warranty for thirty days," Tukson rattled off, sliding Amsel's purchases across the surface. "Feel free to stop by anytime if you want to browse, or you can call or send a message if I can find anything specific for you."
"I'll probably be taking you up on that sooner than later," Amsel replied with a half-hearted grin and a sigh. "Be seeing you, Tukson."
"Appreciate your patronage, Mister Amsel," Tukson nodded back, turning and starting for the back room.
"Jack is fine," Amsel called after him.
"Take care of yourself, Jack!" Tukson shot back as he reached the doorway to the back room, "And you might need to unlock the front door, the old security latch at the top locks up sometimes when the door closes!"
"Thanks!"
Tukson fully rounded the corner and immediately went to the display that served his security system, pulling up a feed from the front of the store. He watched as Amsel tried the front door, grunting when it failed to budge, and then reached up for the latch handle-
-and looked straight into the matte fish-eye lens of a hidden security camera.
"Hello there, Mister Amsel," Tukson grunted. He heard the door close, and the burner Scroll was in his hand and the Lieutenant's line was ringing. "Call off the observers," he stated without preamble.
"You have the shot?" Boris demanded sharply.
"It's taken care of," Tukson replied coolly. "I'll send the shot over by courier; give it a few days and let me scrub the place."
"We know what we're doing," the Lieutenant grunted indignantly. "Our concern is that you still remember what you're doing. Don't call us again; we'll be in touch if we need you."
The line disconnected, and the device cracked, and then shattered when it met the back wall of the store.
"On the contrary, old friend," Tukson muttered under his breath, "This is your last murder that I'll play party to."
End of Chapter 9
Final Note: I'm finally finished with my Bachelor's and I've already started on Chapter 10, so the lead time on the next update should be relatively short. Things are about to get exciting again, and the shippers amongst you might even be getting a little treat as well.
Thanks for tuning in, and I'll see y'all in Chapter 10.
-Knightmare Frame Razgriz