Chapter 17


"Why, I'm Mr. Schnee," the man said.

And, like a moving sketch, the image rendered suddenly into one, inconsolable, whole - the silver ring and silver hair fitting together like puzzle pieces to create the man who now stood in front of him.

With famished expectation, Mr. S took in the new sight, immediately noticing that… they actually looked quite like each other. It was something about the distance which highlighted this; but, take away the mustache, change the hair color, and they could have been twins! Well, fraternal twins, but brothers nonetheless!

This reconciliation of facts was a subconscious one, however; for, in the moment, the main portion of Mr. S's consideration was directed towards the composition of his first words to the man who could have been his brother:

"You! Space Hitler! Monster!" Mr. S sputtered out the disjointed observations, recoiling back in surprise and pointing an accusatory finger at the figure ahead.

"Oh, for the love of- You too!?" Mr. Schnee interrupted his earlier, serene expression, now taking on an annoyed look which he directed at his counterpart.

"Yes, me too!" Mr. S answered. "In case you hadn't noticed, genius, the whole world's been in on the secret for a while now!"

"Oh, would you come off it!" Jacquez sneered, "the whole world barely knows where their hamburgers come from. And I've far better things to do with my time than to answer for some half-considered talking points you've seen fit to regurgitate!"

Now, at this juncture, it could confidently be stated that Mr. S didn't hold the highest opinion of Mister Schnee. In fact, you could say he had quite a negative view of the man. However, it was equally true that Mr. S was rarely an argumentative creature and, under normal circumstances, would have been content to let the matter drop.

The circumstances were hardly normal, however, and the day's marks had yet to fade from his psyche. Moreover, the decidedly immaterial plane that now hosted him seemed, like a lash, to strip away at any guards he might have had protecting the soft underbelly of his subconscious.

And it was in this soft underbelly that the blazing shock of the previous day, and the recurring trauma of the recent plane crash, swirled together, mixed violently into a sickening emotion which urged him on to belligerency.

In spite of the riotous emotions which boiled inside him, however, his next remark was sinister only in it's quiet contempt.

"That must be quite an easy thing to say," Mr. S said, "for a man who's made serfs of a people."

Mr. Schnee exploded.

"AND YOU THINK THAT WAS MALICE!?" he erupted, throwing his arms upward; outright yelling. "Before me, the entire god-damn system was full of cowboys and black market dealers!" Mister Schnee waved his hand in a sweeping gesture. "And, bear in mind, I use the term, 'cowboy' lightly; because it is entirely too formal a classification for a business consisting solely of mercenaries that rode off into the forest waving their guns around, until they ran into a village large enough to enslave!"

Mister Schnee abruptly halted his tirade, sucking in a deep, calming breath in the intermittent pause.

Mr. S was taken aback at the forceful redress, but that cavorting insect stirred up the bile still further. And, whether it was from any rational doubt, or perhaps a cruel desire to blame, he wasn't yet willing to let the matter drop.

"Oh, and I suppose providing water to all of your workers was a company-breaking prospect?" Mr. S asked, adding blithely, "couldn't afford to sell half your mansion for that luxury?"

"THAT HAPPENED ONCE!" - Mister Schnee regained his lost momentum, turning painfully livid in an instant before adding, more subduedly - "and it was rectified immediately when it came to my attention! Whoever told you that, and I truly can't imagine anyone I am likely to know telling you that, has either the attention span of a half-wit, or came fresh out of a White Fang training camp!"

Mister Schnee was positively shaking with indignation at this point, and, here, Mr. S paused briefly. In the back of his mind, now that he thought about it, he did recognize that his source for those accusations was unreliable at best... His feelings were slower to change than his reason, however, and, stil…

"Well, then, your holiness. It appears I was wrong to judge you so harshly," he said, calmly adding, "and it appears your daughter is wrong as well… to flinch whenever I move your hands."

That, Mr. S could see, seemed to sting the man.

"My father did worse to me," he answered quickly, nodding his head aside. "And, if you have any worries for her emotional well being, I can assure you that she is a strong-willed girl who will not listen to reason. In the past year alone she has been in three near death situations!"

Mr. S was unimpressed, and he pressed yet further. Shamefully, he would later recollect: in his heart of hearts, he did this more because he saw it could hurt the man, than for any defence of rightness.

"Forgive me," Mr. S said, "but I still fail to understand how any of this well intentioned fathering could lead to the fear I saw in her eyes, when she felt that she had to beg me for shelter."

Here, Mister Schnee… almost physically crumbled away before his eyes, looking as if he'd aged fifty years over the course of that revelation.

Taking a weary breath, Mister Schnee, strangely, looked far less restricted than he had been previously. It was the same look one saw in the eyes of a man on his deathbed, when he felt that somber truths could be admitted without consequence.

There was a heavy quiet, and it was a long time before he spoke again, words dragging with melancholy when he said:

"Do you honestly think I wanted it to end like this?" He asked, losing at once that self assured confidence with which he'd dictated every word. And, abruptly, he fell silent, vainly processesing the new information as he looked out, seeming to look for the answer.

It was a cold moment when Mr. S realized that those cold, paternal eyes were looking to him for the answer, and it was that… sadness, in those eyes, more than the stern defence, more than the cold logic, was what moved Mr. S to compassion.

"Look," Mr. S said at last, "forget about the… nevermind. Can you just tell me what's going on?"

"Well," Mister Schnee recovered himself, "that what I was calling you to say."

"Calling me?"

"You haven't been feeling tired these past few hours?"

Mr. S blinked in sudden understanding.

"I was, actually," he admitted, "but, you know, you could have dialed it back a bit. I'm... fairly certain I've inconvenienced us, in my exhaustion."

"Well I'm afraid you're going to have to get used to inconvenience," Mister Schnee said, "because we don't have much time." At this, he lowered a hand and, with a very distinct clinking sound, tapped a finger onto his marble hip.

Mr. S did a double take at that. Perhaps it was the dream like nature of this event, where details seemed to fade in as required, or perhaps it was a trick of the light, aided by the fact that Mister Schnee was wearing a white suit, but, blinking his eyes in a vain attempt at recalibration, Mr. S could see now that, yes, indeed, the lower half of the man's body was made entirely of stone!

A cold second passed and, very slowly yet very noticeably, Mr. S could see the marble front-line creep up the man's body with a slow, grinding sound.

"What's that?" Mr. S pointed at the phenomenon, finger shaking with his voice.

"Our timer," Mister Schnee answered, dreadfully calm, "and I'd very much like to conclude this conversation before it runs out," he said, a slight annoyance tinging his voice.

"Right, right," Mr. S answered with a hurried voice. "You were going to tell me how I got here?"

"Well, not so much the how as the why."

"Ok," Mr. S said, expectant.

Mister Schnee continued, unperturbed. "There's this old family legend of mine that's been passed down, quite persistently, through the generations. It's the story of our progenitor, Yakov Gale. It's a long story, and, despite this - " he looked around at his surroundings, sighing " - apparent kernel of truth buried within it; it is still a legend, and probably filled with more falsehoods than any necessary wisdom, so I'll keep it brief."

Jacquez paused, preemptively embarrassed, and struggling to find the right phrasing with which to introduce the idea.

"In the legend," Mister Schnee started, "it appears that Yakov went through an ordeal - very similar to the one we find ourselves in now. And, this, the story goes, was the method by which he was able to avert a great disaster, conquer his enemies, gain wealth and fortune, and win other such commendations, thereby starting our royal line," reciting the entire story boredly and in a single breath, as if impatient to reach the conclusion of it.

Taking a momentary pause, Mister Schnee continued his story. "Well, the story ends with the usual pleasantries, but not without the distinguishment that, once in a life-time, every member of the Gale line will be presented with an opportunity to call forth their own champion; and, very recently, I was presented with mine," he said, gesturing over at Mr. S in explanation.

"Your champ- wait, so you think I'm like your guardian angel or something?" Mr. S said, sounding slightly sick.

"I wouldn't have put it in those terms, but yes, I suppose, in a way, you are," Mister schnee admitted. "But, this is the first time in recorded history that this has happened to anyone in my family line - more precisely, it has been no less than two hundred thirty years since Yakov Ga-"

"I don't mean to be rude," Mr. S interrupted rudely, "but, considering the time limit you were harping on about, is this really the time to be going over your family history?"

"I- I'm not chronicling my family tree in some effort to preen!" Mister Schnee barely kept the note of exasperation from controlling his voice. "I've taken the time to say this so as to impress upon you the key nature of your position!"

Curiosity piqued, Mr. S asked, "Oh, and what's so key about it?"

"Huh," Mister Schnee sighed, restoring his former serenity. "The fact is, it's been two hundred years since Yakov started our family name. Ever since then, if the legends are true, over twenty generations have been presented with this opportunity;

"Yakov Gale, in the story, used it to avert a disaster once thought ineluctable; but - " Mr. Schnee continued, adding another controlled pause, " - not a single one of his descendants elected to do the same! Through famine, war, and death - through pestilence and drought, none thought their position drastic enough… But, I do think the present situation drastic, stranger" he said, voice resonant with higher meaning.

"And I know, that the world needs a champion - now, more than ever;" Mister Schnee bowed his head in quiet dignity; "That is why I have called upon you."

"Wait, I thought your last name was Schnee-"

"I married into it! Would you please focus, you ingrate-" Mister Schnee stopped abruptly, took a calming breath.

"I married into it," he repeated, steadier, "but, seeing as that's neither here nor there, it would be to our advantage to keep our attention on more relevant topics."

"Ok, ok," Mr. S agreed, tamping down on the overwhelming giddiness which made it difficult to take such fantastical scenarios at face value; that, and the sneaking skepticism which provoked him, relentlessly, to hunt for inconsistencies in the story being laid out before him;

"Ok," Mr. S continued, his excitement eliciting the repetition. "Why did you decide to activate the power? The world seemed pretty ok, from what I saw. At least, there weren't any impending, unstoppable disasters looming over the horizon."

Jacquez rose up to speak again, but retracted the effort before it had begun, a thoughtful look becoming him as he struggled to put to words what were surely worries of an existential nature.

"I've... been plagued by recurring nightmares, lately," he admitted. "I know that may seem superstitious but, believe me, I am in a better position than most to analyze the state of Remnant; and, from what I've seen in the past few years, it's... evident that society is falling apart."

"...ok," said Mr. S.

"More than that," Jacquez said, retiring his somber tone in favor of an even more somber tone, "It seems obvious that… someone, something, is working to undermine its foundations. And, despite this, no one seems to see anything amiss! No one is willing to take any action!" He was huffing indignance by this point, and Mr. S was sure that if his legs weren't occupied, he would be pacing.

"Uh, huh," Mr. S said, pretending to consider the matter. "And, I imagine you've got some pretty compelling evidence for this hypothesis? If so, does the cork board come out now, or later?"

"Laugh all you like," Mr. S said seriously. "But the evidence is clear that things are getting worse. You have heard of the White Fang, by now, yes?"

"They've come up, yeah." Mr. S angled his eyes upward, recalling the relevant events of the day. "They seem pretty bad," he commented.

"And they're a model illustration of what I'm talking about. If anyone would just look at their history, It's amazing how many… irregularities have coincided to allow their more radical elements to prevail."

"You know, coincidences exist, too," Mr. S supplied, using that calming tone people adopted whenever they found themselves trapped in conversation with a crazy person.

"Oh?" Mister Schnee challenged, "then is it perhaps a coincidence that, since their inception, there have been no less than four hundred governmental and non-governmental attempts by human groups to draw out peace agreements with the White Fang leadership? Three hundred and ninety four of which never even managed to make contact due to various miscellaneous problem such as shipping delays and grimm runs; and those are just the official reasons! Of the ones I looked into, over half were stopped either because of blackmail or because some chairman suddenly found himself in prison on charges no competent millionaire could be convicted for!"

"Well, there you have it," Mr. S said, with a sudden, precipitous, crash of enthusiasm. "If there really were a conspiracy, they wouldn't have let those six guys slip though."

He said this with a steely jitter that overtook him at the disastrously sensible revelation, desperately hoping that Mister Schnee would start sounding less sensible as time went on.

"It wouldn't have mattered if they let those six through," Mister Schnee supplied, "they weren't able to accomplish anything, anyhow?"

"Why not? Why couldn't they do anything?" Mr. S asked.

"They died," Mister Schnee answered.

The shock of that revelation as it crashed through Mr. S was sobering in its intensity. And, the strength of it, paradoxically, only steeled his resolve to keep denying it.

"Well-" Mr. S began his sentence, unaware what his next words would be but hoping all the same that they would contain some rational denial of the worrying set of facts which were being pushed upon him, "they were negotiating with terrorists."

And, surprising himself, they actually did! The triumph was sparked with destitute feeling, however, the slight reminder of mortality brought too much… verisimilitude to his situation for his liking.

Sadly, Mister Schnee was not in a giving mood, and even less willing to let the argument stand.

"No," he denied with a shake of the head, "I don't believe the White Fang bear any responsibility for those murders." He continued past the surprised look Mr. S sent his direction, bringing a hand up to his chin. "They were still a, mostly, peaceful organization at the time. Besides, they were the ones who engaged the governments to send delegates, and several of their own guards were killed in the final few engagements. It wouldn't make sense for them to sacrifice as much political capital as they did in those scandals, just to kill some mid-level ambassadors."

"Ok, but-"

"And that's not even the half of it," Mister schnee - like many people who'd found an audience for their unloved ideas - continued on without noticing the other person. "Even if you attributed all of that to bad luck, there's still the problem of their invisible power base?"

"Excuse me?"

Mister Schnee began to explain, but quickly abandoned the effort, shaking his head in consternation.

"Let me just put it this way," he said at last. "Several years ago, the White Fang was a loose collection of private support groups that occasionally protested. Several months ago, they were besieging the second largest city on the planet and almost succeeded in destroying the entire world's telecommunications infrastructure."

"Oh," Mr. S said, wearily, eyes wide in understanding.

"That's exactly it. They're gaining power so quickly it doesn't make sense! Overnight, they've built local support in every corner of the world, from parties that traditionally haven't shown any desire to organize. They've also managed to gain the partnership of major human terrorist factions. This proves an inconsistency, unless you consider that they're not gaining that influence at all."

"What do you mean?" Mr. S asked.

"What I mean is: someone must have had that power all along, and just now decided to spend it on something."

"Ok, wait," Mr. S shook his head. "Say I believe you. But, even if I do, and I'm not saying that I do, mind, but, even if I do… what am I supposed to do with that knowledge, exactly: be bothered by it until I die!? Well, sorry to-"

"You're here to help," Mister Schnee said resolutely.

"Help? I'm supposed to help?" Mr. S was incredulous. "News flash, I've been 'helping' all day! I've 'helped' myself into more bullshit than I know what to do with, and I'm fairly certain I'm going to get fired tomorrow!"

"What happened?" Mister Schnee asked, mustering past the vague disinterest he held in the matter.

"Well-"

"Actually nevermind, it could have been worse," Mister Schnee interrupted with a blind reassurance; "You were brought in at a critical time;" he admitted the words; in the same breath admitting his vague disinterest in the matter which, in the end, won out over his pretentions at caring.

"No; it really couldn't have been much worse," Mr. S corrected, looking over at the man with concern.

"And, you know," Mr. S hurled on, "I get you're a busy man and all, but if the fate of the world depends on this whole thing working out, you couldn't have taken the time to write a post-it note explaining the situation, or at least chosen a less 'critical time' to call me in?" he said, making air quotes.

"If only I were able," Mister Schnee lamented, "but, until the offer came up, I was under the impression that this…" - he, again, indicated his surroundings - "had all been a fairy tale. And, as it turned out, the offer is rarely activated at a convenient moment."

"And, how did you manage to activate this power, exactly?" Mr. S asked, curiosity disturbing the symmetry of his eyebrows.

Of course, Mr. S's curiosity went far deeper than that one question. It, in fact, extended to about five or ten questions, all of which warred violently in his mind for his attention.

And, uncharacteristically, Mr. S found that he, until now, had been able to limit himself to asking them one at a time. He was able to do this because, along with the overwhelming curiosity that moved him to ask the questions, there was, in him, an equally overwhelming apathy that didn't care what the answer would be.

This state of calm was quickly unraveling, however, and he soon found that he was actually beginning to care about his situation, meaning he was, in real time, becoming ever less effective at administering it with any efficacy. Hence, why he was now clustering his questions.

"And, you know, you still haven't answered my first question. Why didn't you warn me about all this before I woke up?"

"Why are you acting so calm about this?"

"In fact, why couldn't you fix this without calling me in? Couldn't have tried for one more ambassador?"

Mister Schnee pondered the questions; luckily, Mr. S had hit upon the ones with a common answer; still, he hesitated before providing it, treating the entire subject with a temperate delicacy. "Well -" he hung on the word for a moment, thinking well on what to say next before settling, finally, on a simply put: "- I died."

It was this sudden, and quite unwelcome, reminder of mortality which drove from Mr. S's thoughts any ideas of distant and grandiose adventure, which, by themselves, had drawn out his prior, intense nervousness. Instead, it replaced them with a battering awareness that, hey, dying was also an option, and he'd apparently just been drafted to fight a terrorist insurgency.

Mr. S pondered the matter, eyes flickering in time with his thoughts as he, in a flash, cataloged every relevant bit of information and said, "what?" in a weak and confused tone that begged for guidance.