Chapter 21: The Old Walls of Mantel

The old walls of Mantel streaked past either side; below, screaming rubber burnt against rugged asphalt as McGarnagle stomped the accelerator and rammed the wheel to the side.

McGarnagle fell against his seat, his head head whipping back against the headrest as the car turned. The suspension creaked and the front heavy vehicle kissed the ground as it drifted into the distant corner, the heavy frame tilting in the direction of the drift, driving the protesting vehicle into an arcing pass that just barely missed the ragged stop-sign as McGarnagle redoubled his grip on the wheel, and focused his gaze on the unbroken lane of road which now lay ahead of him.

Halfway along that road, a car in even worse shape than his own was accelerating, it's rear lights rapidly streaking through the darkness. The indeterminate shape of the car's rear bounced shakily along the pot-marked road.

McGarnagle didn't let up on the gas, and with every passing moment the rear-lights grew larger and brighter; and the sparse illumination of their lights grew more pronounced, touching the streaking snow with a dim, sparkling red.

They were both racing through the polar night, and McGarnagle was gaining.

McGarnagle took a steadying breath as the driver-side window rolled down, buffeting winds beat across the growing opening, and slashes of arctic cold made their way into the interior.

McGarnagle paid it no mind, focusing only on taking his breath before lifting his left hand from the wheel and leaning bodily out of the window. His body ploughed through the chill air, and his eyes were hard against the coming winds, but this, too, he bore no mind.

Taking his now free hand, McGarnagle pulled out his gun, took aim, and, exhaling, pulled on the heavy trigger.

Bang!

A deafening bark rang through the light, and a brief flash lit up the dark streets ahead of him.

The escaping vehicle leapt into the air like a kicked dog, it's rear tire busted, fluttering uselessly in the wind in the second before it crashed heavily back down. A loud, springy noise of breaking metal shot through the crystal air, and the machine seemed immediately to give up at that noise, it's tires stopping stopping as it's momentum carried it forward, awash in a stream of screaming sparks, to stop gently in front of the airport.

One of the sparks caught on something, however, and a small flame erupted up from the rear upholstery of the vehicle. Already, a group of half-starved philosophers* had made their way out of the wood-work, and were in the process of stealing the tires when McGarnagle showed up.

McGarnagle parked his car just behind the wreck. He could see a small flame had struck up across the rear of the vehicle, and was rapidly spreading. Inside, a vague figure could be seen struggling to escape.

McGarnagle left the key in the ignition and didn't bother closing the door as he made his was out of his car. He took steady strides across the patterned asphalt. The philosophers took notice of him immediately, their tattered clothes and blood-shot eyes flickered with the firelight as they dragged the last of the tires away. One of them hissed at him as they disappeared into the darkness of the alleyways, spittle of drug-infused foam dribbling down his cheeks.

Drug Use, Drug Possession, Theft, Improper Conversion, a living ordinance violation.

Crime never rested, it seemed.

McGarnagle observed the philosophers scampering down the alleyway, and he made a mental note to investigate the area later; report it to the hospitals. For now, he turned his attention back to the burning car.

In truth, the philosophers didn't spark any hatred in him. Pity, if anything.

Really, they were just another set of victims. Victims… yes. And, just ahead of him, struggling in the burning car frame, was their victimizer.

Like a hydraulic ram, McGarnage's arm punched noisily through the sheet metal; a quick jerk of his hand ripped the car door away with an efficient snap, leaving it to clatter heavily onto the asphalt.

Inside, a young looking woman of about college age was struggling with a piece of metal that had folded over her lap. The heating steel was kept away from her skin by the thick, padded jacket that she wore; still, a tense expression drew itself over her sweat-smeared face as the fire grew and, ominously, the heat of the metal began to seep through her protective covering.

Pleadingly, she looked up at him. "Look, mister, you have to help me!" Her voice was nervous and quaking against the howling heat of the upholstery fire. A thin mist of smoke streamed out into the open air as she looked over to him.

He could have made this easy on her. He could have put on a friendly face.

"Where are the drugs?" He said simply, his rough voice unfurnished and uncaring.

"Please!" She begged, wrapping her hands up in her sleeves as she continued her struggles, the metal having grown too scalding to do otherwise.

McGarnagle's silence was toxic, seeping into the air over the course of the next several minutes, watching as the heat grew and her pleadings grew, and, finally, as the tears came and she pressed, tightly, back against her seat, unable to do anything except keep as far away as possible from the glowing metal that was now charring her pants.

Pain and fear racked sobs tinted her voice as she looked up at him once more.

"The drugs," McGarnagle asked.

And, fearfully, she looked over at him with a crazed expression. Her false tears stopped and her frightened expression was replaced with a pain-racked simplicity.

Slowly, the woman, all but frozen stiff against the pressed back of her seat, reached out to flip out a hidden roof compartment. A bag fell and McGarnagle's hand flashed out to catch it with a heavy thud. Slowly, he weighed the dense packet in his hand, turning away to examine the evidence, turning to see it better against the firelight.

"This all of it?" He asked, turning to look back at the woman.

"Look, I have more in my apartment and several stashes throughout the city, ok? Just get me out of here!" She all but screamed.


McGarnagle's Report.

Night flights cancelled for the summer, increasing grimm activity made it too costly.

Silver lining: Airport was empty when subject apprehended. Again, no trouble getting a confession, despite unorthodox tactics.

Observation: Justice doesn't stop at stopping crimes. There's a duty and a pleasure to watching evil suffer.


McGarnagle was a vast figure as he stood, observing Mantel, from the rooftop.

He was a dark silhouette in a worn trench coat, face hidden underneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed fedora, and obscured otherwise by the high collars of his jacket. A thin reed of grass poked through this mass of hidden darkness, bobbing up and down with every tense and disfigurement of his tight-pressed lips.

His moon-lit shadow fell across the snowy street below, starkly defined against the darkened storefronts and shuttered businesses, engulfing the space as his thoughts encompassed the city.

They were dark thoughts, his.

Melvanova was a small woman; short in stature and with an affinity for curt language, she was one of those individuals taken up by her image. So much was this the case, that she often insisted on being called by her shortened name, Melva. In these, and many other ways, she was quite the opposite of McGarnagle.

She was a plainly figured woman, dressed in a tanned-yellow dress-shirt and wearing a brown, pleated skirt. Brown shoes and yellow socks completed the outfit.

Her hair was brown, and otherwise she had no notable features except… her eyes, sometimes, in the right light, seemed to glow with indeterminate color.

On her hip, a long dagger hummed, glinting as she entered into the moonlight and approached McGarnagle from behind, carrying in her arms an open box of donuts.

Tersely, McGarnagle made a note of acknowledgement at her presence, though he maintained a fixed stare onto the street-side below.

"Ya gnow, McGarnagle!" she said, holding up a donut in her hand, as if hitting upon a bright idea, "these are really good!"

She lifted the pastry out to him.

"Wan one?" she asked disinterestedly through a half-chewed mouthful of dough.

McGarnagle was unresponsive, and Melva only shrugged, taking it in stride as she took another bite.

They stood in a comfortable silence for the next several minutes until, at last, McGarnagle spoke.

"This city," his voice rumbled through with a grizzled tenor, "it's an icy waste of human trash. A civilization of drug-addicts is scurrying through the streets and alleyways... rats are nesting in children's cribs, and, when the morning comes, barefooted children will be crying next to novelty shoe stores.

"This… city; it's the center of a world that feeds itself off a thousand slave camps. It's the axel that feeds the murderers and weeps frozen tears for the murdered. It's a blemish in a wasteland."

McGarnagle stopped off suddenly, seeming weighed down upon by his observation.

Melva blinked. "I... just asked you if you wanted a donut," she said, shaking her head as a note of disbelief played in her voice. Tossing the empty box aside, she moved to stand beside McGarnagle.

"You don't listen," McGarnagle said, turning to send a sidelong look at her.

Melva, again, blinked. "Uh… you've got something in your mouth. Like, grass, I think," she pointed a finger at her own mouth to demonstrate.

McGarnagle blinked back in surprise. Looking down at the reed sticking out from between his lips, he spit it out. "Pta!" he hissed out a bit of air between his teeth, trying to dislodge the remaining bits of cellulose.

"Want a toothpick?" Melva offered, holding one out to him.

"Thanks," McGarnagle took the implement, biting one end and letting the other hang free in the open air.

"You know, you seem a lot gloomier tonight," Melva observed, a suspicious tilt to her eyebrows. "Have you been out all night patrolling again?" she accused, sounding very annoyed.

"I happened upon a criminal. I gave chase."

"So, what - you just go out every night hoping criminals are out?"

"There are always criminals out," McGarnagle said, a note of anger springing up in his voice. Deftly, he spit out the toothpick, replacing it with a short cigarette that he let play about his lips as he rummaged his pockets for a lighter.

"Everyone's a criminal in your eyes," Melva retorted with half lidded eyes.

McGarnagle pulled out a lighter, guarding it with a cupped hand as he pulled it up to his cigarette. There he flicked his thumb, and lit a spark, and the fire flickered to life in the darkness, revealing a grizzled face which seemed to cast unnatural shadows onto itself.

The light was brief, and quickly snuffed out, replaced by the dying red of his lighted cigarette.

McGarnagle took a slow drag and looked up at the floating city. "In the old stories," he said, "they told that the thieves had a king." Here, he paused for effect. "They said the thieves robbed their king, and robbed each other, and departed into the desert night."

"Where are you going with this?"

"The story," McGarnagle continued, "It's a parable about trust. To say you can't create a city of thieves. But, they haven't seen Atlas."

"Are you seriously suggesting everyone there's a thief?"

"I'm saying it's a city of thieves, and murderers, and slavers, and thugs. Good lives in that city, but evil rules it; the Innocent are downtrodden and freezing in the streets, and the criminals laugh themselves to bed. But life isn't a fairy tale, and the scum don't disintegrate into the desert. In Atlas, the criminals live public lives like royalty, even as they strip the innocent bare in broad daylight."

Melva rolled her eyes, mouthing along, now, to the familiar monologue.

"And, there, atop the castle that's atop the city, is the King of Thieves, and Murderers, and Slavers… Mister Schnee.

"All the people of Mantel look up to that city, and the criminals up to Jaques Schnee. They look up, hoping for rain in the drought, but all they'll ever get is a downpour of shit."

"Look, the sewage break was an unfortunate incident, but It was fixed. Could you stop trashing my city for five minutes, now?" Melva said, exasperated.

"There are good people in your city," McGarnagle admitted, "but evil rules there as well. Mister Schnee rules there. And as long as he rules Atlas, he rules the world."

"Also, I've been meaning to talk to you about this," Melva broached as if stepping into a sensitive topic. "But, you've really got to get over this Mister Schnee business; it's unhealthy."

"Get over it?" McGarnagle chuckled, a mad sound in the hollow of his voice, "get over the steam of crimes that have made him a hero of the city? Get over the wash of blood-money that's been streaming in ever since he took up residence? Get over the carts of slaves he's responsible for introducing upon the world?"

"I'm not asking you to get over that," Melva said, testily. "But, I'm just not sure focusing all your attention on him is even helping matters. I mean, how much can one man be held responsible for? They way things were going, every noble in Solitas was gearing to use faunus labor. If it weren't him, it'd be someone else." Melva spoke energetically, as if straining to get her point across.

"We had dust before him," McGarnagle groused. "And, these criminals. They're a cowardly lot, take out the head, and the rest scatter like vermin."

"Right," Melva said boredly. "And what happens when the next head comes up and starts it up all over again?"

"Then I'll take them out too," McGarnagle answered, "and I'll take down their successor, and their successor's successor, until they get the message."

"Ok, fine," Melva acquiesced, more from tiring of arguing than being convinced, "but, even if he is evil, he still hasn't done anything, you know, illegal. And, you kind of need that to make an arrest."

"If he's innocent, then why does he keep hiding?"

"Probably because you keep riding his case like a maniac?" Melva offered, tilting a hand in consideration.

"Evil doesn't rest." McGarnagle took out his cigarette, pausing a moment to observe it, before flicking it down into the alley below. "Why should I?"

The cigarette flew as a streak of orange light against the all-encompassing darkness of the alley, landing inside a dumpster and lighting it ablaze as he moved to cut a cigar.

And McGarnagle's face, curiously still shrouded in shadow, was terse as it looked down and felt the blaze reflected in its eyes.


McGarnagle's Notes:

I've made it a policy not to watch the news: too many lies.

I might have to revise that habit, however. Important events passed me by while I was out on patrol.


Over the horizon, the intense red of the evening sun peeked onto the scene, marking the start of a new day.

Down in the streets of Mantel, the people were occupied with their daily lives, the great mass of citizenry trickling onto the newly illuminated walkways and side streets.

And, up on the roof-tops, the night cops were patrolling.

Melva took the front, striding from roof-top to roof-top with quiet leaps. McGarnagle, now three buildings back, was falling behind.

She skidded to a stop on a concrete palisade, scowling.

It was a few moments later when McGarnagle caught up; not even having the decency to look sheepish, Melva noted with annoyance.

"You know," Melva leaned on a nearby radiator, "regulations say partners have to keep within a hundred yards when on patrol."

"I know what the regulations say." McGarnagle was annoyed.

"Regulations also don't permit officers to work more than sixteen hours consecutively," she said with an accusing tone, scowl deepening.

McGarnagle only turned away from her, observing a quiet stretch of street below.

Melva sighed piteously. "Look, you know I'm not gonna turn you in, but could you at-least tell me before you pull an all-night escapade? This is starting to affect my work life, you know," she tapped her foot impatiently at this.

Still, McGarnagle didn't answer.

Melva shook her head, walking over to stand beside him. "Is this about the SDC mine?" she asked.

McGarnagle was quiet for a while, but finally answered: "We had all the evidence," an unfitting sulking apparent in his tone.

"No we didn't," Melva denied shortly. "We barely had an anecdote. All we 'had' was some crazy faunus telling tall tales. Look, you can't get too obsessed over these things."

McGarnagle sprang up at this, an energy overwhelming his over-paved voice. "But the chemical explosives-!"

"Weren't there;" Melva finished for him, tilting her eyes up to look at his face. "And the residues we found were one-hundred percent inconclusive, despite how much you yelled at forensics.

"But, you know what, forget the evidence;" she turned suddenly, picking up her pace and her tone. "The whole case was shoddy on motive alone! I mean, even if Jaques is as evil as you say, what makes you think he'd be running an operation like that in the middle of Mantel of all places!? That was a bad case and bad procedure, McGarnagle! And, to be honest, I'm still not sure how I let you rope me into six weeks of that stupid investiagion!

"Though, I will say this:" - she cut through the air with a sweeping gesture - "six weeks was enough. We've gone through your little pet project for the year, and I don't want it leaking through into the rest of my life. So, please, could you stop skulking around at night because destiny didn't deliver the big man himself to you in handcuffs that day?"

Melva finished with a flourish of her hands, lowering them steadily afterwards as if releasing a load of pent up stress.

McGarnagle was stoic in the face of this, only looking off to the side with crossed arms for a moment before saying, just loud enough to be heard, "Sorry."

Melva blinked at this, her righteous pose deflating as she looked hopelessly over at him.

Shortly, she sighed mournfully.

"Look, you know that's not-" she cut herself off, thinking on her words. "Great, now I feel like the bad guy," she puffed a blast of air into her bangs.

"Look," she began again, closing her eyes in thought. "You're the best detective I've ever worked with, ok? But you sure can be stupid whenever it comes to this Jaque hunting hobby of yours. So, try to take a break from it once in a while?"

McGarnagle didn't answer except by an acquiescent twinge of his grim lips as he looked off to the side.

Melva took that as the best she'd get, falling into the decidedly uncomfortable silence which had come over the pair as they looked out over the cityscape.

Suddenly, a bright idea hit Melva as she turned her conspiratorially smiling face onto her partner.

"Wait, you said you were out all night, right?"

"Yes."

"And, you haven't seen the news yet?" she asked, an expectant lilt to her voice.

"I don't watch the news." McGarnagle answered grimly.

Melva only grew her smile. "I think I know something that might cheer you up!"


Melva didn't tell him, of course. She had far too-much showmanship for that.

And, what a show it was!

Below, a gathered crowd huddled around the large, public screen in the town centre, all but crawling over each other for a better look at the hologram.

McGarnagle had a good enough view from the rooftops, observing the apocalyptic tones of the reporter as she spoke grimly into the camera.

"Another hit for Schnee Corp. today," the woman spoke, "as stocks fall ten points below their lowest point yesterday, and are still dropping in the wake of this morning's assassination attempt. Board members have made a public call for Jaques Schnee's resignation, and a public motion has been made in the council to investigate…"

The news trailed off, cut off by a sudden impulse in the crowd noise, as the people reacted rather badly to a sudden and unexpected dip in the stock ticker.

"Come on, tell me you feel better," Melva goaded, smiling impishly behind McGarnagle.

"It's just gossip trash," McGarnagle answered, "not exactly worthwhile news."

"Then why are you smiling?" Melva retorted.

"I'm not unhappy about it." McGarnagle answered. "Besides, this means there'll be a police investigation - we can use that."

"Ugh, come on!" Melva said frustratedly, "could you stop thinking about work for just five seconds! This is history right here, just look at the stock!" She took one of his arms in hand, nearly jerking them off the roof as she stepped up onto the ledge to point at the screen.

McGarnagle shrugged impassively. Though, beneath the heavy shadowing, Melva felt she could see a slight upward curve marking the edges of his lips. "Stocks fluctuate, it's-"

"Seriously!" Melva jumped from the ledge to pace on the bit of roof to his side. "Don't try to hide behind that too-sophisticated-to-care facade from me!" she yelled with excited frenzy. "I know you're loving this! Come on, tell me what you really think!" she asked, adding, after a moment; You know what, be honest with me and I'll take back everything I said, and I'll even back you when you inevitably try to take this case."

McGarnagle paused at this.

"You really want to know what I'm thinking?" he asked.

"Yes! For once!" She all but yelled the phrase, holding her hands out in greedy expectation.

"I think…" McGarnagle paused, considering his words carefully.

"I think that the SDC stock's just… - " he paused, pulling a pair of aviators from his coat pocket, " - bit the dust." He finished the phrase off coolly, tinting the world black as he firmly secured the sunglasses to his face.


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