Chapter 11
On the whole, if one were to undertake the presumptuous task of assigning to them a character, the people of Remnant could quite comfortably be described as Somber and Introspective.
The introspectiveness, they shared with every being which had gained self awareness. Their Somber nature, on the other hand, has tentatively been attributed to the grimm.
Of course, their peculiar circumstances, and resulting mood, makes them stand out in this respect, and they, despite lacking any points of reference, are sometimes aware of this.
As an example, an oft quoted and occasionally misattributed epigram by an anonymous Mantel humorist goes as follows:
Remnans, Remnans, of every nation
Don't you find it an odd arrangement,
That despite living where soulless monsters would plunge us to damnation,
At the slightest wilt or wane of contentment,
We yet insist on feeling quite badly of our situation.
Meant as a soft rebuke against Mantel's, largely unsuccessful, campaigns of emotion suppression, it was shared quite extensively in underground resistance circles throughout Solitas, and, over time, it had become a sort of tradition to respond to the statement with the sarcastic, "yeah, nothing gets people to cheer up like the threat of violence if they don't." The subsequent eye rolling was optional, but nonetheless strictly adhered to.
The epigram, and resulting traditions, travelled far beyond Mantel, however, spreading throughout the nations, succeeding the war and, eventually, Mantel itself, becoming ingrained into the cultural fabric of post war Remnant where it continued to act as a contrasting backdrop to the latest of the strangely hopeful "color" generation that followed, which had yet to get the hope beaten out of them.
Ruby Rose was part of that latest "hopeful" generation which, having yet to get the hope beaten out of them, strayed in some respects from the near constantly somber mood that had preceded them.
And Ruby Rose, an especially hopeful person among her hopeful generation, stood out greatly from the planetary outlook which weighed on Remnant; being a generally positive person by nature, she was characterised by her near unbounded optimism, kind heart, and the ability to see the best in people, as well as the strength to look for best of any situation. Moreover, beyond the effect this attitude might have had on her actions, it also went to great lengths to shape her philosophy: for she was one of the countless thousands who had been swept up in the good feelings of new government following the war, having given herself entirely over to the nigh utopian ideals of Republicanism and Self Governance.
For these reasons it had long been assumed that Ruby Rose was the second most hopeful person on Remnant, when, in fact, she was the fourth; in this particular instance however, that had been enough. For, in between Qrow saying something he shouldn't have and Mr. S preparing to say something he shouldn't, she had become the first to notice, or, more likely, the first person to accept the nature of, the glowing graph behind Mr. S.
"Um, Mr. Schnee, I think your company's getting better!" Ruby announced softly, pointing a steady finger to the stabilizing line graph behind the man.
Mr. S twisted around, tired eyes focusing on the warmly glowing yellow of the graph as everyone else moved pointedly to stare at the screenf.
To his credit, Mr. S replied quickly and confidently, turning back around with a self-assured swagger and saying, "Of course It's getting better," with a barely restrained chuff of amusement.
Immediately, nine pairs of eyes converged on him, awaiting an explanation.
Mr. S, meanwhile, stayed silent, praying internally that the stock wouldn't fall again. Partially, he did this out of a lack of any true answers to give, mostly, he stayed on account of the overcoming lethargy which, at this point, had slowed his reactions down to the extent that every question, particularly the unstated ones, seemed an intractable mess to comprehend.
Schwarz was only a moment ahead of him, however, eyes sparkling open in wonderment as, for her, everything seemed to fall back into it's natural order and the world was began to make sense again.
"Of course!" She all but shouted with a giddy excitement, compelled to speak by the overwhelming lightness of feeling which had overtaken her. She almost laughed: "I thought you'd given into sentimentalism with your faunus outreach idea, but, by explicitly not backtracking on the Blake issue, you've managed to convey stability! And you've even pushed the white fang issue out of the news," she said with an almost rambling, completely relieved tone exclusive to the pardoned, nearly slouching as a smile attempted to draw itself across her face and her eyes seemed to wander lazily across a world that was no longer attempting to crush her beneath its weight.
Following her eyes, everyone could see the banner running across the bottom of the muted screen, reading: "Faunus outreach, what does it mean?" And, beyond the ominous looking headshot of Blake still hanging in the corner of the image, all memory of the white fang seemed, for the moment, absent.
"That wasn't quite all of it, but you've managed to do a well enough job going over the broad strokes," Mr. S replied in a conversational tone, turning to face Schwarz and smiling as some noticeable amount of alertness seemed to pop back into his features.
Schwarz looked up at him with absolute wonderment, as if sustaining herself on the words and praise of the man, as well as on the fact that the impending ruin he'd been plotting towards all night had been averted to an extent.
Beep, Beep. Beep, Beep!
Of course, her further wonderment of as well as quality time with her boss would have to wait, as Mr. S turned back and, once again, fished his scroll from his pocket; looking down at the screen, he could see a picture of an angry looking mustachioed fellow underlined with the name, Sonnig Nachrichten.
'Huh, so this does show names,' Mr. S thought, picking up the call in the regular fashion before putting the scroll to his ear...and pulling it sharply back just as quickly.
The indistinct, static-muffled sounds of yelling spread throughout the room; a half garbled sentence of "SLANDER!...MY STATION!..." managed to make it out before Mr. S regained the wherewithal to lower the sound, putting the phone back against his ear as he wearily leaned back against the desk.
Mr. S sat there for a long moment, seeming all the time as if he were on the verge of getting a word in, yet always too late to capitalize on the moment.
As it was, he spent the next several moments keeping from nodding off and responding to the occasional pause with a monosyllabic, "Yeah," and, of course, the occasional, "of course," which was, of course, accompanied with unnecessary head nodding, of course.
All the while, Mr. S seemed to age in real time as the tiredness beneath his eyes grew and ane furrow in his brows deepened, his hair seeming to wilt as the fluorescent light glistened off of the white strands.
Qrow for his part, grew tired of the exceeding boredom that had overtaken the place. Turning to the TV, he, once again, unmuted the device. Not because he couldn't lip read what the anchors were saying, but because he couldn't lip read easily while drunk, and, as has already been established, he was bored.
"...this be an attempt to-?"
Again, Schwarz muted the device, remote held out towards and glare locked on the offending Qrow. Despite her greatest instinct, Schwarz held her silence, careful not disturb the talking Mr. S, who's scowl had etched itself deeper onto hi frustrated expression at the sound of the telvision.
Qrow held his own silence, as well, but he wasn't one to back down.
"...recently secured Mr. Polendina's-"
Schwarz held the remote out tensely, as if she might be able to make the muting stick by gripping onto the device tighter as she ground her teeth and dared him to try it again.
Qrow didn't hesitate for a moment.
"...Stock optinons-"
Again, the click of buttons.
"...has stabilized, although how much of this can be attributed to child company assets…"
Schwarz moved to raise her hand once more until she felt a very light hand pressing on her arm. Looking over, she could see the annoyed face of Mr. Schnee looking at her, as if saying "just leave it."
Annoyed, Schwarz left off, leaving the remote to rest on the tabletop even as she glared daggers at Qrow through the news broadcast which now televised throughout the room.
Mr. S was, himself, not doing much better, taking on that look which all men seemed to develop whenever they were, by some tenuous obligation, forced to discuss subjects they didn't care about in the slightest.
As the one sided conversation dragged, and the television blared, and the people stared, Mr. S found a sickness bubbling up in his stomach, feeling the reality around him turn poisonous as every additional second he found himself staring at the antiseptic floor of the office room only reminded him of the ever deepening exhaustion which had been setting in ever since the press conference. And, it was, at this point, with the good news of stabilizing stock behind him, and the dreary weight of the day weighing upon him, that he realized just how little he cared about the small voice yelling into his ear. And, as if guided by fate itself, it was just at this moment that the voice on the other end inflected and paused, for the first time asking a question it actually expected an answer to.
Mr. S, having not learned about the days lessons, or perhaps just not caring about them, decided to answer the question with the nearest thing at hand...the truth.
"Well, Mr. Sonnig," he began, a hint of calming serenity falling over his expression, "it was pretty fake."
The longer she dwelt on the issue, the more it bothered Weiss how angry she'd been of late.
More than that, it concerned her how, despite her best efforts, she couldn't even say how it came to be like this.
How!? How did she come to have so little control over her life?
She seethed as distant memories of her childhood training resurfaced like old wounds, the hazy, numbing chill as she learned to look through the facade everyone around her carried, the fiery recoil as she learned to hate them for it, to hate herself.
'It should all have been over by now,' she tormented herself with the thought, recalling her blissful fantasies of how she would have rebuked her father's so called "punishment" of disinheritance, shown him how little he ever meant to her and left him behind, forever! She would have taken her past, everything he'd taught her, all the hate and anger he'd pushed upon her, everything he'd warped her into, and thrown it back in his face!
She could finally have been happy, she remembered with a hardening gaze, not merely content for whatever brief moment she could gather, but, for the rest of her life, deeply and truly happy.
Yet here she sat, with a perfect posture and dignified expression, and looked on with a calculating analysis, trying to understand how it was she'd so completely lost control over even this small measure of defiance against her father.
Subtly, she turned her eyes upon him, not showing on her face the slightest portion of the tumultuous rage that burned. Yet before her eyes could land upon him, an act which she knew would only further fuel her anger, a sulking figure in a black dress passed over her periphery.
Here, she calmed, consciously focusing as she counted every rise and fall of her chest. 'There are things outside of your anger,' she thought, remembering the phrase after a moment's searching pause.
'Blake feels worse than you ever could,' the thought struck out as her eyes focused on Blake, a pang of guilt ringing painfully out as she struggled to maintain her mask.
'I should hold her hand,' the thought came mechanically.
Weiss, in her exhausted state, for once followed her own advice without the usual hesitancy and second guessing analysis she experienced in all matters relating to Blake.
"Blake," Weiss whispered, speaking crisply, yet so softly, at the point where Blake had taught her to speak their secrets and she could scarcely hear herself.
Blake's ears twitched, through her eyes still locked on the tiling ahead, focused in thought.
"Blake," Weiss spoke again, careful not to speak any louder even as she focused an importance into her voice.
Blake turned her eyes to her, as if to ask "what?"
"Hold my hand," Weiss all but mouthed, stretching her arm out and sensing a lightness come over her guilt as she saw the amused smile which drew itself across Blake's features.
Weiss returned a reassuring smile of her own, whispering, "everything's going to be alright, I promise" as she felt Blake's hand wrap around her own.
And that was just the issue.
Weiss could feel the warmth of Blakes hand in her own….and that was all she could feel. The anger still flared, untempered within her. She could feel a sickening guilt coming on as she searched for and failed to find that calmness which always came when she was with Blake.
Turning away her eyes, she tried to remember the feeling even if she couldn't find it.
Still, she could still only feel the clouding anger, having to force her eyes away from the object of her hate, barely managing to succeed in doing just that when her father's voice spoke out clearly once again, bursting out from the background noise of tenebreous agreement it had faded into as Mr. S spoke, "Well, it was pretty fake," and Weiss found her eyes focusing on him before she could think to stop them.
All her guilt and inhibitions burned away as her thoughts, once again, focused fully on her father.
And it was here, as she saw her father almost shying away from the yelling scroll speaker, seemingly struggling to hold back a wince of discomfort even as a joking mirthfulness played at his lips, that she understood what it was that had made her extraordinarily angry.
This man, he didn't look like her father, not in the slightest. The exaggerated, upward curl of his lips whenever something amused him, the softer, downward curve of his eyes, the more relaxed round of his shoulders; these minute though present changes, though unnoticeable to anyone without her skills and familiarity with him, they changed him completely.
It's as if he disappeared into someone else just in time to escape me! She thought, squeezing her hand with growing rage as she stared for an indeterminable amount of time at the distorted visage before her, trying to make sense of the nonsensical.
Perhaps, she thought, his growing tiredness was the cause. But, the fact that she could read him well enough to tell that he was tired was strange enough in itself.
Despite her anger, Weiss focused on this new discovery and stilled, analyzing her father's face with wonder, as if mesmerized by all the new expressions which seemed to be playing out across it.
She watched with an unconcealed interest as he, suddenly, stopped responding to the short feinting pauses that seemed to demand he give some short and satisfying answer. She could see his eyes begin to harden as the exhaustion buried itself and a thousand invisible switches seemed to switch in unison.
Weiss felt her heart still, feeling as if someone were pouring ice water through her veins as, looking forward with widening eyes, she once again saw her father in the man. She saw those thousand, minute, expressions turn in unison to once again rebuild the unchanging, subtle look of disdain Mr. Schnee always seemed to wear.
Weiss gripped Blakes hand all the tighter, all for her girlfriend's sake, of course. Blake might be scared or something.
Mr. S felt something change about him. His face suddenly formed strangely into some inconceivable expression, and his body locked rigidly into those alien memories of a different body.
Beyond that, however, he just felt different, in a way that should only have been possible by changing reality itself. If he had to describe it, he felt as if he'd suddenly found himself in an empty and strange room, with all the worries of the world seeming impossible to care about.
Yet….he was still here, standing in the office, listening to some overly self-important news paper guy yell at him through a phone.
"Sonnig…." Mr. S spoke softly and slowly, as if even the idea of interruption was preposterous. Still, despite speaking with a voice no louder than a conversational phrases, he surprised himself with how completely it filled the room with its vociferous mass.
Mr. Nachrichten, for all the miles he was separated from the conversation, and for all the static and distortion that stood in between their conversation, must have been spared none of the impact the voice carried for, shortly after Mr. S spoke, his voice quickly trailed away into a slow nothingness.
"...remind me," he spoke, breaking a tense silence, "I seem to have forgotten," he continued, putting no little amount of dry amusement into his voice, "which of us is dependent on whom?"
This, Mr. S spoke with a deliberate slowness he'd never been used to, watching as the entire room seemed to have caught back on to his words, surprised at how easily he'd faded into the background before whereas now, his every word seemed to demand attention, not for whatever message it conveyed, but for the simple fact that he spoke it.
The voice on the other side was quick to respond, layering their words with a thick sense explanation.
Mr. S held a long silence, as if the thought to respond had yet to capture his attention.
After a moment, he did respond. "Really?" he said this, again, with that dry amusement. "I could have been fooled," he stated, dangerously.
The voice spoke out once more, somehow managing to speak even faster until the words became a stream of uncoordinated expressions of regret.
"I don't care what you control," Mr. S interrupted, continuing, "I want it fixed."
Again, the voice was quick to comply, speaking resolutely in its promises and questions.
"Don't 'fix' the damage, make it look good. By next week, I want the ball to be a distant memory and I want Blake Belladonna's name to be the best thing since dust!...Fine! Put me through," Mr. S said, accepting the offer and quickly stopping himself from showing a surprised face at who he'd just been connected to.
Carried on by that strange instinct which seemed to be lofting him, Mr. S spoke on, confidently ignoring whatever questions arose in favor of acting.
"Well, you can start by announcing, unequivocally, that Ms. Belladonna never worked with the White Fang when they were committing terrorist acts. I don't want anymore of this, 'weighing the evidence,' nonsense, Mr. S spoke, sardonically gesturing his free hand.
"Ha, ha!" An abrupt and nervous laughter shot out from the television screen, demanding the attention of everyone in the room as the news anchor stood center stage on the screen, pressing a shaking hand tightly against her earpiece. "Oh, we, uh, regret to inform the audience that we have, made an error in our reporting," she spoke, taking a quick pause as she gathered herself. "New evidence has come to light showing that Blake Belladonna has had NO AFFILIATION with any terrorist factions of the White Fang."
"And mention how she left the organization early," Mr. S added,
"And, our source indicates that she had, in fact, broken off all ties with the white fang prior to any assumptions of worldwide terrorist activities," the anchor continued, keeping any nervous laughter to a minimum.
"And take that ghastly portrait off the screen!" Mr. S continued, watching the ominous looking portrait of blake fade quietly away in real time. "Ok, now replace it with a better picture….what do you mean you can't find one where she's smiling?"
Meanwhile, the anchor continued to stretch her words, managing to say nothing as she anxiously waited for instructions and tried not to say anything that hadn't been said before. Meanwhile, a banner underneath her scrolled past, reading, "Blake Belladonna: Not A Terrorist."
"Ok, that's satisfactory," Mr. S said, adding, "for now." Looking at the time on the tv screen, he saw that it was already two a.m. and he, once again, became acutely aware of how tired he'd become, the struggle to keep that out of his voice only compounding his exhaustion. Shaking off his unsteadiness he quickly listed out his remaining instructions: "Keep the news cycle clear of the white fang and interview anyone who'll be helpful to my message. Feel free to interview some dissenting voices as well, but make sure that they look insane….Yeah, send the narrative out to all the networks and…" he paused here, listening to the softly spoken words on the other end.
"I don't know! Just talk about how nice my jacket looked until you do, then! And make sure to say the stock is doing better." he threw out before quickly hanging up, desperate to finish the conversation.
"And, did you notice, by the way," the anchor now turned to her partner, "how radiant Jacques Schnee looked in his new suit?"
"Yes," the co-anchor nodded, solemnly closing her eyes, "it looked almost brand new, and….I think it had a matte finish as well?"
"I think it might've been…"
All the while, as they spoke, the stock information for SCHN soared up on the television screen.
Several moments later, the screen behind Mr. S did the same, moving into a steady climb as the room tinged green once more.
Schwarz was gladdened to see this, realizing fully the true genius of Mr. Schnee's plan as, by not panicking and waiting until now to direct the news, he'd given the impression that the resulting narrative occurred naturally and from free thought! A blush came to her cheeks as she remembered how she'd doubted him earlier.
Schwarz, simply enough, was content for the moment in realizing how instrumental Mr. Schnee had been in averting the crisis. Naturally, she successfully ignored the thought that he was also responsible for the crisis in the first place.
Mr. S sighed comfortably as he slipped the scroll back into his pocket, dreaming of, almost feeling, the airy coolness of mattress and blanket which awaited him. Turning his eyes towards the door that stood in between him and that dream, he could see the half questioning, half amazed glances circled between him and that door.
"...Yes?" he asked, desperately wanting to ignore them yet unable to leave without having finished this, once and for all.
Of all of them, Ruby was the first to act. "Buh, gwuh, buh, yuh," she stood up with convulsive gestures, hands flashing out with robotic movements as she tried to express the half horrified expression that colored her face, finally managing to utter, with the high tinged fury of youth, "YOU CONTROL THE NEWS!" sounding almost accusatory for all her questioning features.
Mr. S, aware that he, perhaps, should have refrained from controlling the news in sight of witnesses did the only thing his fog addled mind could think to do….push the problem onto somebody else.
It was thus he turned to Weiss, extended a confused hand, and said, "you didn't tell them this?" with a mixed voice of expectant disappointment.
"It never came up!" Weiss was quick to answer, anger flaring again, although, unlike before, this was a reactionary, fearful anger driven by the increasing claustrophobia that had built up ever since the change in Mr. S's expression. She almost stood up after answering, herself eager to leave, but was beaten to the punch.
"You control the news!" Ruby shot up from her chair, pointing an accusatory finger at Mr. S
"...Yes." Mr. S replied, not rearing back from the finger as he searched for the easiest answers that would end this conversation quickly, anxious to move on.
"Buh, bwuh…" Ruby gestured once more, "Isn't that illegal?" she blustered out, a genuine look of worry and confusion on her face.
"...No." Mr. S replied after a moment's thought.
"But….how?" Ruby asked with a weary voice, moving closer to Mr. S and asking as if she would die without the answer, as if she were still hoping that what she saw was actually something else.
"Well….I buy a lot of advertising on the networks, so it's in their best interest to keep me happy," Mr. S answered simply, not really caring to think more about the subject, or anything else for that matter.
"Buh, buh," Ruby muttered, and, despite her softening denials and queries, she could feel something tear inside of her as the truth of the situation fit horribly together like a puzzle before her eyes. She knew, right then, that Mr. S had spoken truth, and she could feel all hope leave her at the realization.
"Yes?" Mr. S said shortly at Ruby's continual phrasals, anxious to leave and always feeling as if he were on the verge of being able to do so.
Ruby shied back at this, turning back to see the rest of her team as they, especially Weiss, could be seen in discomfort and eager to leave.
Taking a deep breath, Ruby spoke with a mortified softness as she attempted to explain herself despite her own impending desire to leave. "I guess...I guess I just didn't see how something that took so much power away from the people could be possible in a government run 'by the people', is all," she spoke with a relaxed laughter, perhaps accepting for the first time that she'd be able to cope with her new reality.
"Ruby," Weiss burst in before Mr. S could answer, "that's what representatives are for," she explained in a matter of fact manner, desperately hoping that they'd all just be able to leave now.
Ruby, for her part, had never realized how bad news could be made so much worse with the addition of cynicism. Of course, if the honest members of the Atlesian Congress had heard this, they would have been quick to dismiss such cynical outlooks and comfort the poor girl. Unfortunately, neither of them were present. Thus, it was that Ruby felt herself growing more hopeless despite having buried all her hope to extents that would intrigue Altesian stealth capabilities.
Let the reader note that: If Hell is the pain of being unable to love, then Super Hell is the unceasing awareness that, all along, you earnestly followed cable news.
Mr. S, for all his anticipation, wasn't one to leave someone in such a state.
"Hey, don't worry yourself too much about it kid," he said, resting his hand on the girl's shoulder while Qrow glared over at him, "the news is just a bunch of liars anyway."
Ruby nodded almost subconsciously at this, firmly endeavoring never toi trust liars in the future.
Satisfied with his work, Mr. S stepped forward to sprint to his bed when the desk phone rang cacophonously behind him.
"Schwarz, I thought you turned that off," Mr. S paused, turning slightly to look back at the desk as he suddenly found his hurry leaving him once the prospect of actually being able to leave became possible.
"I did," Schwarz answered, "It's an emergency call, it must be the-"
"Ok, pick it up," Mr. S sighed, resolving to get this last thing over with.
"Sir, I think-"
"Just pick it up Schwarz, I don't want to waste any more time on this," Mr. S said, letting a hint of the annoyance he'd been holding back creep into his voice.
"Yes, sir," Schwarz answered, clicking a button on the phone and projecting a desk sized hologram that flickered on above the desk.
Running his eyes over the image, Mr. S could see what looked to be the end of a table with a half circle of silhouetted figures stationed around it. In the center of the image, and thus at the head of the table, sat an old man with a lazy eye and grim features.
"Jacques Schnee," The man spoke slowly and with a great sense of gravity.
"Board director Schen," Mr. S replied, reading the nameplate stationed before the man.
"I-" Here the man paused, looking up from his papers for the first time and running his eyes out before him. With a sudden fury, a twitch of anger formed across his face before he spoke.
"Jacques Schnee," he paused, as if strgulling to find words important enough for the occasion, "am I to understand that you accepted this call with guests!" The man all but roared, with the severest expression coloring his tone.
Mr. S, almost feeling the wind of the man's voice through the screen, realized that he perhaps should never ignore Schwarz again.
Mr. S was quick to answer however, riding halfway in between his own sense as well as the sudden instinct that had come upon him to say, "Let's face it, this isn't the worst thing I've done today."
