Chapter 30


Back in Mantel, in one of the few White Fang headquarters yet to be raided by the police, many panicking Faunus were streaming through the interior, gathering all manner of important paperwork necessary to the Fang, as well as to their quick exit from the suddenly hostile city.

Inside Adam's office, the people there were panicking as well, though for a rather different reason.

"Oh, this isn't good. This is n-not good. Not good at all!" Neo shivered out, rubbing her arms as she hunched forward in the small office, talking to Roman in a scared, squeaky voice. "Salem's not going to be happy about this at all, Roman! She's been acting weird lately, and I don't think she's going to be glad if we fail her again." All through her tirade, Neo kept her eyes fixed on the faded paneling of the wood floor in front of her. Although, Roman wasn't looking at her either, fixated on the mounds of filing paper he was hurriedly stuffing into his briefcase.

"The time sheets, where are the time sheets." Roman said with a distant voice. He threw another filing cabinet's worth of papers into the case.

"You're not listening to me, Roman! We've gotta get out of here! Remember what happened to Ember! If Salem finds us like this, she's going to rip our digestive system out through our respiratory system!"

"Look!" Roman suddenly turned to Neo, grasping her by the arms and shaking her into the present. "Nobody's digestive system is getting ripped out!" He turned hurriedly back to the desk where his briefcase lay. "We've just got to find Adam's statements and try to find Raven from those! Now, where did he say the time sheets were!"

"He didn't!" Neo yelled. "Adam's dead, Torchwick! He died back in Fraza! He- he didn't tell me jack! He didn't even reserve a plane for me to get back here. I had to steal a horse!"

"What? He betrayed us? I almost can't believe it!" Roman said with parodical surprise, before angrily crumpling another stack of files and throwing them into the case. As he did so, however, he suddenly found his mood turning when, under an empty stack, he found a red-manilla folder with a gold sticker plastered onto it that said, "Raven!"

"W-What is it?"

Torchwick lifted the folder up into the light, flipping through it, all the while his smile growing larger across his face. "Save your condolences, Neo, because I think we've just found what we were looking for."


Sharing a horse with another passenger was uncomfortable on the best of days, doing so with another passenger and a dead body, however, was not much better.

Still, as they walked out of the mortuary, Melva couldn't understand the sudden depression that had come over McGarnagle.

"Circumstantial evidence," McGarnagle said, shaking away the rather substantial levels of snow that had built up upon his shoulders.

"What! Did you even hear what I said! He had the entire Atlas fleet parked over his dust palace hours before we even suspected Adam might be trying something! I'm telling you, he knew what Adam was up to! This is an open and shut case!"

"And this won't be the first one he's gotten himself out of," McGarnagle said, turning back to resettle his horse. "He can afford good lawyers, and, unless they can find something better, he won't be spending a single second in prison."

"Dude, he literally evacuated the entire district around the green palace for a catering event! What more could you need!" Melva was transfixed to her scroll screen, as well as the constant, insider updates that progressed onto it from one of her friends on the investigation team. Meva suddenly laughed. 'He even let them access the security videos! The madman!" She, again, burst out laughing, even harder this time, "and you won't believe what they caught him saying!"

"Circumstantial evidence," McGarnagle chided once again, setting back down onto the horse and pressing his feet in the reins.

"What!" Melva yelled, a great offence growing in her voice! "How much less circumstantial could it get! This would put anyone away forever. I thought you'd actually be happy for once, you miserable fuck!"

"Look, I've been hunting him for longer than anyone else!" McGarnagle reared, letting loose his sense of frustration. "I know he did it! It's obvious he did it! Any fool on earth could deduce he did it! And I also know he won't be going to jail unless they find direct evidence."

Melva moved to voice her rebuttal, but McGarnagle wouldn't ease down.

"Trust me, my hopes are tempered by experience. You've no idea how many times I've been this close to putting him away, only to be hampered by national security interests or other secrecy compaques or simply by 'proper procedure!' Do you have any idea how many times I've been denied the opportunity to interrogate him! Do you have any clue what a ridiculous farce the justice system turns into when it comes face to face with him!" he stuttered to a quiet pause, and turned his horse away from her, growing quiet. "I do," he whispered. "I've been through this moment more times than you can imagine, Melvanova. And I know he won't be going in."

Melva, noticing his stance, and the tight grip that had formed on the reins, looked worriedly over at McGarnagle.

"McGarnagle," she said, a creeping worry apparent in her voice, "what are you planning?"

"I'm not going to stand by anymore, Melva," he turned his horse further, facing the glimmering city as it hung over the southern horizon.

"McGarnagle," Melva said again, with placative tones, "the investigation team is still in the castle."

"Yes," he acknowledged, "and I'm going to make sure they get what they're looking for." His horse's hooves crunched through deepening snow, sending flurries up into the air as he started trotting away.

"We don't have a warrant, McGarnagle!" Melva implored, jogging over to keep pace beside him.

"I'm not going to ask for warrants anymore, Melva. I've grown tired of protecting criminals all my life."

"Oh, gods, what are you saying!" Her voice was obscured now behind the rising winds of speed as the horse picked up pace, and Melva alongside it.

"I'm going to get the evidence, Melva."

"But you said yourself he's been doing this for years, what if you don't find it!?"

"Then I'm going to walk up to him, while he's still in front of the honorable council-woman, and I'm going to ask him whether he colluded with Adam. I'll pull up my shadow, and he'll tell the truth."

"McGarnagle, that's extremely illegal!" Melva was full on yelling, not struggling to be heard past the blasting storm surges that slammed into their forms. "You're going to go to jail!"

"A confession is still a confession, when done in front of valid witnesses. I'll go to prison gladly, but I'll be taking him with me."

"McGarnagle!" Melva was struggling to keep pace now, as he hit the flat tundra past the city terrain, and she wondered if he'd even heard her as he pulled quickly away, a crack of scattered moisture exploding around his form as the horse sprinted forward.

Still, in the face of the wind, as she slowed to a stop, Melva thought she heard him bid: "Goodbye, Melva."


The horse shivered and shook its head as McGarnagle guided it into the port; it's mane was slicked back, and heavy curls of steam rose off of it's form as he handed it to the unimpressed stable attendant.

McGarnagle had little trouble navigating the tether up to Atlas, and even less trouble strolling into the walls of the Schnee manor, the sudden police camp that had built up around the entrance welcoming him like a brother, although he knew that to no longer be the case.

He paused a moment outside of the manor entrance, the warm light of the interior falling brilliantly out into the cold Atlas night, reflecting in the snow beneath him. McGarnagle looked down at his badge, which was so worn that it refused to glimmer even in the direct fluorescence that illuminated it. With a heavy heart, he let it fall from his grip, and watched as it disappeared into the snow fall below; and he stepped into the castle.


For the forgetful reader, let us recount that, throughout the recent events which befell him, Mr. S was still dressed in the heavy cardinal's robes he'd donned for the wedding ceremony, having been too impatient to remove them before settling down for the meal.

After the revelation of the video footage - at the insistence of councilwoman Camilla - they'd all taken a short walk into the interior of the castle, stopping at an overhanging, glass walkway with a clear view of the security hall below, which was lined with metal doors that led to various record rooms.

Likely, the councilwoman hoped to preempt any hidden tampering with the evidence.

Mr. S wasn't thinking about that, however, as he looked down with sharp vertigo at the glass floor of the walkway beneath him, as well as the tiled floor of the hallway beneath that. Rather, he was currently enamored with his Cardinal's robe. It was a brilliantly colored artifact, with rich purples and resplendent gold silks folding over and obscuring his form; a hundred crimson tassels bowed themselves over his waist and lower body.

This was, perhaps, not the most appropriate costume to be wearing during a criminal investigation. But Mr. S wasn't thinking about that. He was thinking, instead, about cliches.

You know, the thought came suddenly to him, cliches were great. They had… a power and elegance that most people weren't in a position to appreciate, having heard them far after their best-by date, and often from the mouths of idiots. But,Mr. S wasn't one to hold that against them, and he could see their merits, whatever they were; because, most cliches, by nature, were great; there was a reason people kept repeating them!

"Sic semper Romanus?" epic.

"Only fools rush in where angel's fear to tread?" Genius.

There were just so many of them! And, in his more casual musings, it hadn't escaped Mr. S how he couldn't fail to sound like a genius if he used them in the presence of extraterrestrials who'd never had the opportunity to grow bored of them.

And Mr. S also hated Shakespeare. He never really saw the point of struggling so much to understand old stories he had no hope of ever applying it in his real life, and the literary value was tarnished by the fact that he could only understand half the words! If you're going to force children to read something they can't understand, why not make it something with useful information, like a first aid kit!

He'd even said as much to his drama teacher that time he'd been forced to take drama.

Still, despite his opinion, Mr. S - as the one who'd been assigned the lead role - memorized everything about Hamlet, and spent weeks practicing his acting form. This, despite the fact that it was a mandatory high-school class that everyone had to take and that no one cared about. And, Mr. S, over the course of his practice and his study... actually started getting into it! Finally, he was developing some appreciation for the art! Besides which, he had to admit - he kind of liked it! He liked Hamlet! And Shakespeare wasn't so bad, either!

But, when the time to perform came, and he arrived backstage with his costume and gaily smile, the drama teacher replaced him with an understudy, and Mr. S walked away that night hating Shakespeare.

However - now, for some reason, Mr. S felt a deep and grave anger at that particular injustice, even more so than what he'd felt at the time. How could they replace him with an understudy! He was obviously the most capable!

Granted, this was perhaps not the best use of his mental efforts, considering he was under investigation; but, for some reason, Mr. S couldn't muster enough effort to care. Or, rather, to try, anyway. There was this oppressive, shadowy feeling that seemed to monopolize his thoughts and which prevented him from gathering anything other than the most harmless efforts in his favor. Because, at this point, he'd honestly have preferred to just go to jail than sit under the burden of anticipation - of the impossibly numerous, and impossibly dire… everything that hounded him.

The terrorist groups, the thought flashed suddenly into his mind: the White Fang, yes. They were a threat to the world, according to Mr. Schnee, or maybe they were just a front for a greater threat. He had trouble remembering, but, before he could attempt to gather his thoughts on the matter, they bucked over to a completely new topic - as if with a will of their own. The Stock! The urgency of this latest voice was equally voluminous, and it felt equally dire; he remembered that he wouldn't be able to do anything if he was fired in six months - a sudden memory of his estranged wife overlapped this cause of worry, not before his mind already turned to the next one, however - because, of course, he was also starving! Even though he'd lost his appetite, he was terribly starving - shivering with discomfort. And he couldn't go out to eat because Adam was out there, looking to kill him. And, he was starving in the first place because there was a traitor indoors, and he'd been starving for four days, and his family was uncooperative, and his heir was disowned, and… and, there was something else, wasn't there?

"Mr. Schnee," Camilla's voice interrupted his thoughts, "we will need an official statement as to how you plead."

There it was! He was going to jail.

Mr. S, when he processed the statement, felt something inside of him… fall askew. It wasn't a bad feeling that overcame him, quite to the contrary, in fact. It was... freeing. His eyes twitched epileptically as the pointless grapes sat like acidic rocks in his stomach, and his days worth of sleep deprivation and food deprivation suddenly set a strobe effect running on his eyelids as he turned stiffly away from Camilla and her deputy.

And, as he turned away, he saw, suddenly, and completely randomly, a shadowy man in a trench-coat stalking along the opposing hallway.

He couldn't even muster the sanity to question it at this point.

"Hehehehe!" he started chuckling, as he looked down the empty stretch of walkway ahead of him.

"Excuse me?" Camilla asked.

And, for some reason, that only made everything funnier!

"Ahahahahahahahahahaha!" Mr. S started laughing, feeling genuinely joyous for the first time in a long time; burning mirth rose up in his gut, mixing potently with the settling hunger. "Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahaha!" His voice strained on itself like he was Jack Nicholson, and he suddenly whirled about, gripping a golden handrail as he doubled over, laughing like a madman; his eyes closed shut it was hurting so much.

"Mr. Schnee, grab a hold of yourself!" Camilla demanded, aghast.

"Ahhhhhhhahahahahahahaha!" Mr. S knew it only made him seem more guilty, and he didn't care! He preferred it, in fact! For some perverse reason, Mr. S suddenly felt an unrequited urge to have everything make sense, even if needed to lie to do so.

He coughed and straightened as he rode out the trailing end of his laugh.

"You - hahahahaha," the laugh broke from him, inspiring him to recall himself, " - you wanted a statement, right? Ahahaha," his chuckles gasped from him in dying wheezes.

"Yes," Camilla said, unperturbed except for the worried look that came over her eyes.

"Ok, fine, I'll tell you," he spat "I didn't host that wedding because I cared so much about the couple," he admitted. "I didn't care at all! The entire wedding was a front for a plan I had, to satisfy my own, selfish, ulterior motives. Would you like to know them?"

"Do not take that down!" Camilla suddenly barked at her lieutenants, before earnestly turning back to Mr. S. "Mr. Schnee, I only ask and I only expect a guilty or not guilty plea. I can assure you, you'll have plenty of opportunities to explain yourself before a court, but I will not be tainting this investigation with extraneous statements made while you're so obviously… under duress."

"Oh, no," Mr. S easily supplied, "please, I'm… I'm not under any duress. In fact, I've never felt better! And, really, I must get this off my chest and tell you that, yes, indeed, I-"

And - as Mr. S would later note - perhaps there was something watching over him, because, suddenly, at that moment, his mind commandeered his attention again, turning it to the shadowy man below.

"Actually," Mr. S interrupted himself without sense, "I have to ask, why have you sent that man?" Mr. S pointed down at the man that none of them were supposed to pay attention to, the same man who - now that he'd reached the lower hallway - was struggling to enter one of the file rooms.

McGarnagle was not unaware of the sudden attention that had been drawn to him.

And, although he hardly had a notion of self, much less of those around him, he still felt the burning desire to draw up his semblance yet higher.

The shadows around his body grew starker; crisp, like pressed razor blades against his body.

Beyond him, space departed in the face of the subtle deception that now overtook it. McGarnagle's aura cast itself outward, and every aura in the vicinity readily resonated. And every soul, in its turn, cowed to the demand.

Every soul, that was, except one.

From his special perspective, the detective froze suddenly, looking directly up at the steel blue pair of eyes that glared distinctly down at him. And, he sensed something in those eyes that he'd never seen before: recognition; yes, that was it. The man recognized him!

And, that man, standing imperiously over him on that glass walkway, bedecked in the resplendent light of his holy robes, did not hesitate for an instant before he called him:

"McGarnagle!" Mr. S said, unabashed as he spoke over the rail.


Camilla looked over to her deputy with a curious expression as Mr. S - ignoring them completely - started talking familiarly with the man on the lower floor.

"Mr. Schnee," Camilla spoke cautiously, keeping a controlled grip over her voice, " I'm curious: who are you talking to?"

"I'm curious myself," Mr. S scowled down at the hallway, "why is Officer McGarnagle attempting to breach the doors of my file rooms?" His sudden curiosity over the matter returned to him some of his faculties, as he found something material to focus his attention on.

A rustle of disturbance ran through the crowd as he said that name.

"What are you talking about?" Camilla made clear the short end of her patience. "Mr. Schnee, we are here to investigate you formally under the authority of the Atlas council. We have come alone, and announced; this is a great courtesy to you. I strongly suggest you not squander it acting madly, as you are."

"Then why have you sent McGarnagle to sneak through my hallways?" Mr. S said calmly, looking stately down at the man, who, despite increasingly frantic attempts to break into the nearest file room, now seemed completely aware of himself.

Again, excited murmurs rang through the gathered crowd, silenced abruptly as Camilla raised her hand in gesture.

"That is certainly a monstrous accusation, Mr. Schnee," she spoke, voice pressed like cold steel. "And I'm certainly willing to overlook it, if you'll stop this madness and help us carry on with this investigation. Although, I warn you, my patience is running short."

"What are you talking about?" Mr. S looked over at her surely. "This isn't not an 'accusation'; he's right there!" he said, pointing to the trustworthy man on the lower level.

A full voiced chatter and hum of admonishment ran through the chorus of police behind her, and Camilla, mind keen as ever, couldn't help noticing Mr. Schnee's earnest expression.

Had he truly gone mad?

Schwarz, with a patently embarrassed expression, came over to his side, supporting him worriedly by an arm. "Uh, that's… not McGarnagle, sir. He's with us."

"That is McGarnagle," Mr. S insisted, looking surely over at the man. "The shadows are obscuring him, but I'd recognize him anywhere."

Schwarz only looked more sheepish. "Sir, that's really not him. He's worked here for years. He's one of the only people allowed to access the file room."

"What's wrong with you, Schwarz? No one other than us is allowed to-"

"Enough!" Camilla said. "I tire of your stalling! Will you present us with a statement, or do I need to take you into-"

And suddenly, Mr. S, riding the insensibility of his depression, chucked the half-empty fruit bowl he'd been carrying at the man. The figure dodged, and the bowl shattered, screaming it's crystalline cries as it streamed into a wash of water and glass.

"Are you mad!" Camilla began to yell, abruptly silencing herself when the figure dropped his shadow, and McGarnagle revealed himself.

Camilla, beyond the shock of the revelation, was overtaken by horror. The feeling of her heart falling out from under her was cavernous, and the immeasurable expression on her face was plain, as she saw the errant detective leap back to steady himself from his sudden dodge.

She sputtered, tripping over her words as she, in the same breath she'd gathered to deny Mr. S's accusations, called out: "McGarnagle!"

Schwarz, on the other hand, suddenly peaked with a hopeful expression, and turned an understanding look onto Mr. S.

Mr. S, at first ignorant of the implications, felt a realization bubbling up when he noticed the look Schwarz was sending onto him.

Wait a minute.

"A moment of your time," Mr. S smiled confidently over at the councilwoman, interrupting her building tirade against the detective.

Camilla turned haphazardly to look at Mr. S, gripping onto the rail with both hands. "Yes?" she answered, breathless.

"Forgive me if my memory is faulty, but I do recall you saying that: 'Monstrous accusation' would not be unfitting to describe this situation we've found ourselves in."

With a gesture, he drew McGarnagle to her attention.

Camilla smiled suddenly, friendly. "You must understand, Mister Schnee. This is… not at all… we, do not condone this." She finished her sentence off lamely, trailing guiltily off into an undramatic silence.

For Mr. S, that was all he needed to know he was home free.

Because, as far as his best intuition could tell, Camilla was now drawing from the same set that every politician who'd been caught doing something illegal had. Namely, she was out of options.

And, that small spark of hope Schwarz's look had kindled in him suddenly erupted into rapturous joy.

Of course, few words - even rapturous joy- could hardly be considered sufficient to describe the explosive sensation that was bursting within him. In his mind, all he could gather was that he was so happy it hurt; it felt like a golden flame was burning it's way through him!

Have you ever pushed necessary work off until the last minute? Have you ever stayed up all night working tirelessly at it, and felt the dread eating you up as you saw the seconds ticking by and knowing that you wouldn't be able to finish on time? And have you ever, when in the midst of your most hopeless moment, suddenly realized that you misread the due date and that it, in fact, wouldn't be due until next week?

Have you ever genuinely thought you were going to jail, only for an almost divinely inspired Get Out Of Jail Free card to drop onto your lap like you were cheating at real life monopoly?

That last analogy many be more representative of what was going through Mr. S when he started laughing.

"Hahahahahahahahahaha!" This laugh was unlike his last. Whereas previously it had been characterized by wild, desperate, and uncontrolled howling; now he was experiencing something much more refined. Instead of hunching over, he now stood up straight, bearing his breast out and throwing his head back as light, crisp chuckle escaped from between his exposed and glimmering canines. His voice was resonant in the suddenly silent hallway, exuding the egotistical confidence of men who knew no one would dare to interrupt them, who were secure in the knowledge that they had no one to wait on.

He paused in his laughter for a short second, taking a breath before he started up on another round.

"Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!"

In truth, it took all of his will power to keep his reaction so subdued. For, in the immediate aftermath of this revelation, his initial instinct had been to dance around like a fool and say: "Awwwwwwwwwww! Shiiiiiiiiiiit! Yes! Oh, fuck! Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaahhhhhsssssssssss!"

He wanted to go up to Congresswoman Camilla and say: "Fuuuuuuck you, bitch! You thought you could put me in jail! I'm not going to jail! You're going to jail!" right in her face. He felt like punching somebody! He was on top of the world! He wanted to sing It's A Wonderful Life! He wanted to donate a million dollars to charity! He was epic! He was the shit! He wasn't going to jail! And he couldn't think to ask for anything more! He was on pure adrenaline, and felt like his adrenaline was on cocaine, and that the cocaine was on meth!

Mr. S wasn't one to rate anything too highly, but this...this was the greatest feeling imaginable!

With remarkable willpower, Mr. S kept those thoughts and complutions hidden inside of himself, expressing only a laugh and, to the keen eyed, a shivering shake of his body underneath his cardinal's robes.

"Hahahahahahahahahaha!" His laughter was steady and unbroken, not rising or falling off from the sinister volume he'd chosen earlier.

And, as he laughed, Mr. S felt himself becoming hyper-aware of his formal dress - having long ago forgotten it in his earlier state of mind. And, in accordance with his sudden knowledge, he paced off to the side, dramatically swooshing the extra length of robe behind him as he - still chuckling - posed over the handrail with a regal expression, looking distinctly over at McGarnagle. His hands, carefully placed at the small of his back, were positioned with maximum confidence.

"Guards!" Mr. S raised one hand in a short wave, "take McGarnagle away!"

At his word, two of the suits of armor lining the lower hallway came to life, and began shuffling over to McGarnagle to escort him.

"What!" McGarnagle said, aghast! "This isn't possible!" he shouted suddenly up at Mr. S.

And, Mr. S, for whatever reason, recalled how he'd been insulted by his drama teacher. He'd learned all those pointless, Shakespearean plots. He'd memorized all those flowery sonnets, and he never even got the chance to show them off!

"Jaques!" McGarnagle's voice yelled from below. "What did you do! What have you done!"

And, having recalled his lost opportunity, Mr. S suddenly realized the captive audience he'd just been granted with. And… considering everything, he was suddenly struck by an indulgent mood.

"Stop!" Mr. S suddenly ordered, freezing the robotic knights just in front of the detective, and framing his figure with their metal bodies.

This act took everyone by a surprise, not least of all McGarnagle who, upon noticing the act, took the opportunity to ask: "You saw me!" he said, aghast and terrified. "You knew! You knew it was me!"

Mr. S, still riding that explosive giddiness it hurt him to contain, yelled back with equal energy:

"I've always known, fool! I've always seen!"

"That's impossible! Nothing on Remnant can-!"

"Oh," Mr. S laughed; despite his suddenly soft proclamation, had little trouble silencing the man. He chuckled a long, delicious laugh, relishing the ignorant moments before he spoke the fatal words:

"There are more things in heaven and earth, McGarnagle, then are dreamt of in your philosophy."

"You can see me!" McGarnagle repeated as if he hadn't heard him, struggling to wrap his mind around the concept.

"You can see him!" Camilla turned her head back to look at Mr. S; she spoke the words as if admonishing him for having broken some rule in her game.

"Oh, I've seen things you people wouldn't believe." Mr. S spoke with subdued angst, barely managing to subdue his maniac cackles.

"What are you talking about!" Camilla spoke, growing angry.

Mr. S shook his head, realizing the sudden lack of sense he was making. It was fun and all, using old quotes, but he still needed to ensure he was out of jail before he started playing around. He couldn't afford to stir up unnecessary suspicion, after all. So, putting on a serious face, he turned to Camilla with a business-like expression.

"I'm talking about my investigation," he said, pushing the old matters to the side with a wave of a hand. "Rather, I'm talking about it's sudden conclusion."

"What are you saying?" Camilla said, hackles raised and a dangerous bite to her voice.

"How disastrous would it be if the public learned that you allow your officers to break into private files without warrant?"

"McGarnagle is a rouge agent. We haven't ever-"

"But people couldn't be sure, could they?" Mr. S noted with passing interest. "Certainty, they wouldn't have any reason to believe you, considering they have nothing, even their memories, to verify your honor. Again, I'll ask, how disastrous would it be? More, or less, than a destroyed dust palace?"

Camilla was almost bearing her teeth. "You knew, didn't you? You knew this would happen!"

"If it helps you sleep at night, I'll admit right now that I actually didn't do it. Really, this is all a terrible misunderstanding," Mr. S bowed with casual politeness. "But, I really can't have you wasting my time chasing after spurious rumors of my supposed misdeeds."

"Supposed!" Camilla yelled, choking on her indignation. "We have megabytes of-"

"Of circumstantial evidence," Mr. S smiled. Off to the side, McGarnagle could be heard almost barking with rage, frothing at the mouth. "I, on the other hand, have direct evidence of your own policies as they're playing out."

"What-?"

"I will destroy green," Mr. S suddenly said boredly.

"NEW SEARCH TERM FOUND," the projector spoke, and displayed a video of their party. "I will destroy green," Mr. S's bored voice came through the speaker.

"What-?" Camilla began.

"I'll direct your attention to the security footage, as well as McGarnagle in the lower corner."

Camilla looked down with a determined scowl.

"I'll let you think about it a moment. What evidence do you actually have against me? Is it enough that you'd be willing to risk letting that out onto the air," he, again, gestured to the floating image.

Mr. S didn't hold back his superior smirk. At this point, he didn't care to hide it. He just had so much pent up energy, and he had to direct it somewhere! And, for good or ill, he'd decided to direct it into goading the councilwoman.

"You... you bastard!" Camilla yelled. "Do you have any idea how much your actions have cost us? Have cost the city!?"

Ah, impotent rage; it was here Mr. S knew he was home free. And he, in consideration of that, decided finally to make use of that happy juice tizzing through his veins.

"I haven't cost the city anything, congresswoman. As I assured you, this attack has nothing to do with me. I certaintly hope you'll be affirming that fact in tomorrow's press conference."

"You... you bastard!" Camilla yelled again, turning huffily away from him.

"Suspicion has a line, Camilla. There's no need for incivility." Mr. S, was now fully at the height of his smug, and waving his heavy sleeves like a clerical matador.

"Tell me," she suddenly turned, "how did you do it!"

"How did I do what?" Mr. S asked.

"How did you see him!" she gestured angrily down at McGarnagle.

"With my eyes," Mr. S smirked.

Schwarz appeared suddenly in front of Mr. S, halting Camilla's threatening steps forward.

"I... am the head councilwoman of the Atlas government. I am entitled to know, Mr. Schnee," she spoke, voice grating.

"Get used to disappointment."

That... brought a dangerous pause to their conversation.

"Be very careful, Mr. Schnee. History has shown you've depended far more upon my favor than I have yours." Camilla's voice was quenched in solidity, and, Mr. S knew very well how much trouble he was creating for himself, yet... he still couldn't help the ecstatic energy that flowed within him.

"You want answers?" he asked, with goading mirth.

Camilla went ballistic. "I want you to stop this ridiculous farc-"

"You want answers!?" Mr. S interrupted her, speaking with a rising energy that contained only a fraction of the laughing napalm that sat inside of him.

"I want the truth!" Camilla yelled.

And Mr. S, for the first time in the conversation, let loose all of his pent up energy, and allowed himself, finally, joyously, to yell back in response.