Interlude 3-3: Homefront, Part II
There were times Sienna Khan regretted getting into politics. Not often, though. The White Fang had been founded in the wake of the Faunus Rights Revolution, the symbology chosen to show that a white fang need not shed blood, but the decades since had shown how weak and toothless its leadership was. Decades of barely perceptible progress against oppression and prejudice that spoke honeyed words and navigated the laws with a grace and deftness that would be the envy of the finest ballet dancer or the deadliest tournament fighter had turned the White Fang in a seething mass of rage.
The White Fang had needed change; indeed, change was inevitable. Of that, she was certain.
But had it needed her to steer it on its new course?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps another would have been able to direct that simmering anger more precisely. Or perhaps they would have lost control completely or even simply been consumed by it themselves.
Ghira was too soft, Kali too circumspect, refusing to take the lead herself. Their daughter, Blake, however … true, she had been young, naïve, in need of a guiding hand to teach her, but she'd still had that spark, that fire her parents had lost.
Sienna hadn't even needed to recruit the girl. Blake had come to her, and since then, she'd tried her best to teach the girl what she could. She'd been so proud.
Perhaps too proud. Still, how was she to know that Weiss Schnee would go to Beacon, rather than study in their northern fortress of Atlas?
Blake ... Adam ... they had been the best, the most promising, Blake's caution tempering Adam's recklessness, yet both with a passion for the cause above all else. And yet, somehow, the Schnee girl had managed to arrange to be placed on a team with Blake at Beacon and gotten her hooks into her — she always had been too kind for her own good — and through her, into Adam.
Now…
It was a good thing that Sienna had so much experience directing anger where it would be most productive. Even so, the tiger ears that peeked through her dark hair still twitched.
"'In addition, the White Fang actively and violently disrupts otherwise peaceful protests for faunus rights, setting back perceptions of faunus by decades,'" Sienna read mockingly. She lowered the draft newspaper in her hands and sent a piercing glare at the twins who stood before her.
"We need to bury this," she said, waving the newspaper at them, the loose sleeves of her shirt slipping down and exposing the tiger-stripe tattoos that lined the dusky skin of her arms. "As much as we safely can, at least."
It was most fortunate she had made arrangements so that — when she was in Menagerie, at least — she could receive an "early edition" and make ... suggestions before they actually went to print. It meant she could head off PR disasters like this.
"Whatever other news we're getting from the Kingdoms of Man," she continued, golden eyes flashing, "blur the lines. There are a lot of crazy stories coming in, and I find it highly unlikely that all of them — or even any of them — are actually true. A good newspaper cannot, after all, in good conscience publish something without making it clear that the veracity is ... questionable."
And given the effort they'd made to subvert the shipment of carrier pigeons from Menagerie to Midway Station — the pigeons that formed the final leg by which the profits of Menagerie's spy networks found their way home — in order to swap them for pigeons that instead found their home at a location under the White Fang's control, they could ensure none of the more … problematic reports from the Kingdoms of Man reached the Belladonnas in a timely manner. It was an asset to be used carefully, sparingly, but an extremely useful one nonetheless.
"Of course, High Leader," Corsac Albain agreed.
"We shall gently remind those in the media that what the young Belladonna girl says is suspect," concurred his brother Fennec.
The two fox faunus weren't identical twins, not exactly — one look at their faunus features, a tail for Corsac and a pair of ears for Fennec, proved that, as did their differing heights — but they played it up, wearing their brown hair in the same short and wide scalplock style and wearing the same outfits whenever possible. Soft-spoken as they were, one might dismiss them as hangers-on or advisors of no consequence, but Sienna wasn't that foolish.
Poison was silent, after all, but that did not make it any less deadly than a bomb.
"See that you do," Sienna insisted. "I don't need to remind you of the consequences to the cause, the White Fang, and you personally if the people around Menagerie believe her and what she says about us."
The office of the High Leader of the White Fang in the Menagerie headquarters was both small and humble and too much of both for Sienna's tastes, but it was soundproofed, and that made up for many deficiencies.
"The fact it's true makes it all the more important that no one believe her," Sienna said in a low, cold voice. "Her, or the Schnee she dragged home."
She sat back down in her high-backed chair behind the desk and waved them off. The two brothers leapt to obey, leaving the room. The door clicked shut, and she was left alone to drink in the scenery and stew in her thoughts.
The office was even more austere than it had been a few minutes ago with her subordinates kneeling in front of her. Simple, not befitting a woman who would lead her race to being the rightful rulers of the planet, someone who made humans quake and shiver at the mere thought of her name. In other words, it was not befitting of her, of Sienna Khan.
The office looked good for the media, and that was about all it did well in Sienna's estimation. Well, that and display some of her trophies. Little things like a letter of appreciation from some faunus whom they had saved from bandits, or the half-burned deed of a business that dared to hire faunus workers for less than they were worth, or that clock.
The large mechanical clock still worked after all these centuries, its hands still regularly ticking as the time went by, but that wasn't why Sienna was so fond of it. Nor was it the exquisite detail in the construction that brought her the greatest pleasure, though those gilded lines representing the ground and sky definitely were pleasing. No, what made it the crown jewel of her collection was how she had gotten it.
Immediately after seizing control of the White Fang from that soft-hearted fool, Ghira Belladonna, Sienna had went about securing her power base. Besides ordering the disposal of certain malcontents, one of the important tasks she had was proving her worth as the new, more proactive leader of White Fang. That was proven when she sought out an old Mistrali noble who had humiliated her and other faunus years before, broken into his home, humiliated him in front of his family before torturing his family in front of him, and then killing him before ransacking the house and selling his family on the black market to a no doubt horrific fate.
That clock was one of the things she had taken from the house before it was demolished by her forces, a wonderful luxury item that she would get to show off with no one being the wiser. Many a time had reporters and politicians been inside this chamber, and not once did they notice the significance of it. They heard her vows of violence and thought it to just be a charming set of rhetoric. Idiots … but useful idiots, which helped keep the funding going.
That funding, and everything else, was now in danger because of Blake and what she had said.
With the impending fall of the SDC — already effectively driven out of Vale, suffering guerilla attacks in Vacuo, and under thorough investigation even in its stronghold of Atlas — there would be much rejoicing, certainly, but it also meant that, once the celebrations died down, the White Fang would no longer have a concrete target.
Which was a problem for Sienna.
Only a fool would blame the SDC for all the prejudice and injustice that fell upon the faunus, prejudice and injustice that long predated Nicholas Schnee's founding of the company, let alone his son-in-law's amoral pursuit of success above all else. But the world was filled with fools, it seemed, and it had been a useful narrative for Sienna, one that contained and directed the rage that filled the White Fang's ranks at a visible target, one whose policies had earned it all the violence visited upon it but was resilient enough to survive while progress could be quietly made through other avenues, avenues that were made all the more accessible with the threat of the White Fang's more violent cells lurking in the background.
Therein lay the problem with the "new direction" Blake was promoting — really, a return to her father's ways. It was unfeasible. Even if she was right and the humans listened, even if the Kingdoms of Man could be trusted to both honor their word and leash their own radicals, there was too much anger, too much resentment within the ranks of the White Fang, too much need for blood.
In taking over the White Fang, Sienna had taken the proverbial tiger by the tail, and Blake, in her soft-hearted naïveté, sought to loosen that grip and let the tiger run free.
Discrediting her wouldn't work forever, of course. It would only delay the inevitable; Blake's message would be heard, and people would listen. The Belladonna name carried great weight in Menagerie, after all. There was only so far one could question her credibility. In the long term…
'A toothless tiger will soon starve.'
It was, after all, why the White Fang had failed for so long before she took the reins. That was not a mistake she would make.
With anyone who stood in her way.
Idly, she opened the desk and checked the letters. Many of them were useless platitudes from well-wishers, some were vital communiques, and one was from her cousin Shere in one of Vale's coastal cities. She hadn't replied to any of them yet, and she was definitely not going to reply to her cousin's letter. She hadn't even read it yet, but she assumed it was yet another thinly veiled attempt by him to get her to give up her job. He always did care far more about money and prestige than he ever did care about his fellow faunus, and he had the absolute gall to look down on her for fighting in the struggle against humanity that every faunus should be eager to engage in.
Race traitor…
Not that she didn't like money and prestige too, and everything that came with it, but she had a proper sense of priorities. Her cousin, for all his vaunted glories and assumed confidence, would never be truly powerful — would never be as rich or as well-regarded as he wanted — so long as even one human failed to quake in fear of his name. Of their name. She was securing that for him, for all faunuskind, and he would thank her for it one day. She would make sure he thanked her one day.
Fear was the only way that humanity could be kept in line, in their place, and in a state of compliance. Fear of the faunus. Fear of the White Fang. Fear of her.
A tone from her personal computer on her desk interrupted her thoughts. She checked the number and frowned. She wasn't expecting a call from that number … well, at any time. The last time she had heard from him was when she was back in Anima, and one did not simply make intercontinental calls to Menagerie.
She pressed the answer button, and instantly, her computer's holographic monitor was replaced by a floating silhouette of an eared faunus head with the words "SOUND ONLY" displayed underneath.
"High Leader Khan," came the robotic and clearly fake voice from the speakers, "I understand that you have run into a public relations problem."
Sienna's eyes would have narrowed if she hadn't had more control. How did you hear about that? "I've had many. It is part and parcel of running a revolutionary organization."
"This goes beyond the norm, however," continued the voice of her mysterious investor. "Blake Belladonna has publicly discredited both you and your organization. Reports from the military, the First Lady, and Firebrand have all confirmed her story. People are starting to believe stories about the White Fang that they dismissed before, stories about your activities."
The ticking of the clock, the clock that she had killed to get, suddenly sounded more like artillery fire than any charming background noise.
Sienna kept her cool on the outside. "The Schnee is clearly a liar, and the soldiers and Kali both are fools for believing anything a human says about me. The only reason these accusations have any weight at all is because of that traitor, Blake."
"Agreed, which is why she needs to be removed from the equation. Permanently."
There were many thoughts that ran through Sienna's mind at that, but the one she vocalized was, "How?"
"It will be difficult. She is a ninja," revealed the voice, letting slip some new information that Sienna hadn't heard before, and which … well, it definitely made things more difficult. "She is also watched after at all times by the House Belladonna guard and Firebrand. Whoever eliminates her must be a master of stealth, subterfuge, and assassination."
"Do you have someone in mind?" asked Sienna as she moved through the lists of assassins who could be hired for this.
"Confirmed. She is an expert infiltrator, a master manipulator, and someone you have worked with before."
Things fell into place for Sienna, and she felt her gut drop. "Oh no, not her. You can't seriously have tracked down—"
"Chrysalis, the Changeling Queen," announced the far too proud and definitely too greasy fake Atlesian Councilor that now stood in front of Sienna. "I believe we've met before."
Sienna took the arthropod faunus's offered hand with gloved hands of her own and gently shook it. "I gave you your job."
Chrysalis took back the hand. "Oh, yes. Do forgive me. It's been a long time, and I've been pretty busy bringing Atlas to its knees these last few years. Why, if it hadn't been for me, General Ironwood would still have his job."
"Yes, and if it hadn't been for you, General Colton would still be out of a job," Sienna reminded her with no small bit of annoyance.
Chrysalis waved it off. "A small setback for another day. At the moment, the White Fang has more immediate concerns, like that fool, Blake Belladonna. She has interfered with our plans for the last time!"
Sienna held back on the many snide remarks she wanted to make about the woman she had prayed was dead years ago but who had somehow had the discourtesy to survive against all reason. "She needs to go, and go in a manner that pins the blame on our enemies, not us. We can't afford to be connected to this."
"Then it is good that you came to me, sought me out, and asked specifically for my genius," proclaimed Chrysalis.
"Actually, I asked for anyone but you," clarified Sienna.
"No matter. The important thing is that you leave everything to me," insisted Chrysalis. "Before, you were doomed to failure in this operation, but thanks to my presence, everything will succeed flawlessly. The fools that you foolishly let live shall be easily defeated by me. Mwahahahahahaha! —HUH!"
In the blink of an eye, Sienna's hand shot out and wrapped around Chrysalis's throat, squeezing it and bringing her in close to look into the cold and deadly eyes of a tiger. "Watch your tone, Chrysalis. Remember who you work for and remember that your declarations of superiority have all too often turned to ash in your mouth. When I say that this cannot be traced back to us, I mean it, and if you fail in doing that one simple thing, I will rip out your spleen through your throat and prove the White Fang's innocence by offering Ghira your pelt. Are we clear?"
Chrysalis hissed and gasped, her pale and sickly face having turned red and purple as she tugged and slapped ineffectually at Sienna's hand.
"Are. We. Clear?" asked Sienna again, allowing Chrysalis just a little bit of slack.
The failed infiltrator gasped and let out a strangled, "Yes! Yes, perfectly clear!"
"Good," Sienna allowed with a small smile, finally letting Chrysalis's neck loose.
She dropped to her knees like a sack of potatoes, her breath ragged and coughing. "They will not know it was us, High Leader."
"See that they don't," Sienna Khan ordered.
Sienna's cape swirled around her as she turned and walked away from the prostrate "queen."
Gregor Doyle was living the good life. And why not? He was handsome, his buffalo horns only accentuating his strong jawline and cleft chin. He was strong — as an ox, as one might say! — and capable. He was a champion prizefighter. He was the greatest Huntsman in Menagerie!
Of course, there wasn't that much competition for the last point, and he didn't have a fancy Academy education, but he'd passed the licensing exam, just like everyone else, and even when he worked in Vacuo and Vale, he had excelled. He could have led a good life there, in the Kingdoms of Man, perhaps even retiring while he was still young, but his people needed him.
And besides, the Kingdoms of Man were all too filled with … Man.
At the moment, he was riding across the desert to Prospector's Heights, one of Menagerie's more remote settlements, his weapon — Fool's Gold, a bolt-thrower long gun with a flared barrel that concealed a shortsword blade in its wooden furniture — slung from his back. He had some time before his next tournament match, and there had been reports of Desert Maw sightings. The last communique, however, had been a few days old. Given how the subterranean Grimm relied on sound to sense their prey and were often accompanied by Creeps that possessed thermal vision — both of which often led to attacks on infrastructure, particularly communications infrastructure — that did not bode well for the settlement's wellbeing.
But so far, they looked to be holding out just fine. The walls still stood, with watchmen posted, and though there were signs of collapsed Desert Maw burrows and damage to one section of the wall where the burrowing had caused it to crumple, the repairs seemed almost finished.
"Look!" called out one of the watchmen as he pointed. "It's Gregor!"
"Gregor!"
"Gregor!"
"Open the gates!"
"It's Gregor!"
As others joined the call, the great gates creaked open, moved by teams of men on pulley ropes.
Gregor smiled. It was good to be recognized. He ignored the ladies tittering and whispering as they watched him; that was something he'd gotten used to over the years.
"What ho!" he called as he rode in, then clambered off Peaches, handing the horse's reins to a waiting stablehand. "I hear word of Desert Maws, and yet, I find you brave folk standing on solid ground instead of cowering on your rooftops. I must commend your courage!" He gave them a broad smile. "So, if one of you would be so kind as to guide me to where the sightings were…?" He trailed off expectantly.
There was some awkward shuffling.
What was wrong?
"Actually," a goat-horned man said, stepping forward, "the Desert Maws have already been eliminated. A Huntress came by just two days ago."
Gregor rocked back, impressed. Desert Maws were difficult to fight under the best of circumstances, for they could remain underground, nearly immune to harm, until they chose to strike, and the maws they were named for were sharp, multi-sectioned jaws that contained within them a mass of powerful tentacles, each as thick as his arm.
Not just an arm. His arm. Gregor's arms were thicker than most.
"I wasn't aware any Huntresses were in the area?" he said questioningly. Last he heard, Rocio had just returned to Kuo Kuana to recover from a venomous wound she'd taken — not even from a Grimm, but a perfectly mundane snake — Selda was out at sea hunting a Sea Feilong, and Destina was busy clearing out a pack of Jungle Sabyrs a good hundred miles east of here.
"Firebrand's a new face," the spokesman said. "Haven't seen her before. She cleared up most of the Desert Maws when she got here last night, then caught the two stragglers this morning. Real diligent. I don't think she even caught a wink of sleep until the job was done."
"Is she still around?" Gregor asked. "I think I'd like to meet her, welcome her to the hallowed halls of Menagerie's heroes."
There was a vague chorus of feminine disappointment from nearby.
Women, he thought. In another time and place, he'd gladly indulge himself in their affections, but not here, not now, not with his curiosity piqued.
"Ah, yes," the spokesman said. "She's by the job board. We just repaired our telecom tower." He gestured, and Gregor moved to follow.
He idly wondered what this "Firebrand" was like. Perhaps she had a fire semblance? Few around Menagerie could afford to use dust regularly, after all. Regardless, to vanquish multiple Desert Maws and already be raring to go, looking for another job, meant she was certainly a cut above. Selda might have managed it, though she would be dead on her feet afterwards. Rocio and Destina — the two Academy dropouts never having actually acquired their licenses — might have been able to, if they were working together and had good intel, but he wouldn't bet on it.
Firebrand must surely cut a striking figure, he concluded.
Soon — Prospector's Heights wasn't a very large settlement, after all — the crowd parted, revealing the Huntress as she squinted at the job board. The job board was an old and clunky monochrome CRT screen with flickering lines of tiny plain text, rather than the fancy holograms and GUIs one might find up north; it didn't even have a touchscreen, instead navigated by a small mechanical keyboard resting below it.
She was a surprisingly slight girl with pale hair and skin, dressed largely in black: her hakama was black with fiery accents, and she wore a matching black bolero jacket over a white crop top with gold accents. Bright blue eyes peered out from under a wide-brimmed sun hat, complemented by some jewelry that Gregor couldn't describe. Firebrand, it was clear, was not used to tropical climate, likely hailing from somewhere far to the north, perhaps Vale or even Atlas.
If she was from Atlas, then someone — like himself, perhaps — could say that she was a beautiful little snow fairy. She might even have the wings to match, somewhere. Aside from her midriff, she was covered up fairly well, save that the colors were wrong; more white would have worked better in the heat and been a complementary color to her delicate features.
Whatever those features were though, they were far too hidden. He did not even see any sign of her faunus trait. In fact, if they were anywhere else in the world, he'd think she was a filthy human.
"You must be Firebrand!" he boomed. The girl spun and jumped back, startled, staring up at him almost like a rabbit caught in the open, her mein belying her abilities.
Mostly.
He did not miss her hand dropping to the sword at her hip.
"I'm Gregor Doyle," he said jovially. "Seems you beat me to the punch."
There was a moment of recognition in her eyes, and she nodded. "I apologize for double booking, but the mission was available, and I felt speed was the wiser course of action."
"HA! Far be it from me to discourage the latest hero to come to Menagerie!" he cheered, putting on his best winning smile as he saw in her eyes the baseline level of attraction almost all women felt towards his peak masculine form. "Please, allow me to buy you a beer at the local canteen."
"I appreciate the gesture, good sir, but I'm afraid I was just about to leave," she replied before quickly spinning around and typing something out with a series of loud clacks. "There. I've accepted a job in Sokehs. I should depart immediately."
When she turned around, she found Gregor blocking her path. "Come now. Surely there is time for at least some celebration before running off to the next job."
"There isn't," Firebrand replied simply. "Every moment I delay is a moment that could cost someone their life."
"This is Menagerie, Firebrand," he said. "It's obvious you're recently arrived, but you must understand: we are a hardy people. We've made do with a bare handful of Huntsmen, and we will continue to do so. This isn't like those northern kingdoms that boast about their Huntsmen and Academies and then go running at the first sign of trouble. We fight, and we fight well."
"I do not doubt that," she acknowledged. "Still, I'd much rather get moving."
"Then I shall at least walk you out of town!" he insisted, falling in next to her as she began striding along the street.
A curious look crossed her face. "Is it that obvious?" she asked. "That I'm new here, I mean."
He nodded. "It's your attire," he elaborated. "You're clearly smart enough not to have made the most common mistake in that you've made sure to mostly cover yourself up from the sun, but black is … not the best color around here. You'd do much better in lighter colors, and personally, I think you'd look stunning in white. Perhaps with some light blue to match your eyes?"
She stiffened at that, then shook her head emphatically.
"No," she said. "I very much disagree." She offered him a faint smile. "This is a new start for me. I left all that behind."
Well, that wasn't really a surprise. A lot of faunus came to Menagerie to escape their past. Here, or Vacuo. But Vacuo had far too many humans, and so that barely counted as a fresh start at all, unless you liked sand.
Well, more sand.
"I can understand that," he said, rolling his bulging shoulders, "but a piece of advice? A new start doesn't mean you should leave everything behind. Whatever brought you joy before, especially in the darkest moments, can still do so now. Cherish them."
"Oh, don't worry," she said, her smile growing fond and genuine. "I brought those with me."
"Well, good!" he boomed. "I've seen too many faunus trying to escape their misery forget what made life worth living in the first place."
She blinked at him in surprise.
"What?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing," she said, shaking her head. "It's just— I'm not a faunus."
What. He stopped dead at the edge of town in poleaxed incomprehension.
The girl — Firebrand — blissfully unaware, turned and waved as she continued walking.
"Thank you, Gregor," she said. "Perhaps we'll meet again."
Ghira groaned in satisfaction as he got up from his desk and stretched out after a hard day's work, grinding through the paperwork that greased the wheels of any bureaucracy. It was good, he thought, to do good. Of course, the paycheck didn't hurt either.
"HA!" he bellowed loudly to himself, taking a moment afterwards to acknowledge that no one had heard him laugh except perhaps the guards on the balcony, but they wouldn't say anything.
He frowned for a brief moment, and then decided to go get himself some dinner. Normally, Kali would be taking care of that, but at the moment, she was off having some private, off-the-record meals with some of the prominent families from the outer settlements. It was a maneuver to massage the local politics such that things came up rosey for the national government, as the political situation in Menagerie right now was … delicate … to say the least.
Since Sienna had taken over, the White Fang had remained circumspect in Menagerie. Ghira himself had advocated for an admittedly extreme level of pacifism — the victim card wasn't one he liked to play, but he was savvy enough a politician to understand that it was far better at effecting lasting change than any bloody revolution — and it was no secret that Sienna had led the White Fang into taking a different path, but the worst that had been known in Menagerie was the occasional bit of "overeager vigilantism."
Blake's incendiary tell-all about the White Fang had painted a very different picture — one of violence and outright terrorism that oftentimes hurt the faunus just as much it hurt the humans — and stirred up a lot of unrest, with the people of Menagerie uncertain of who to believe. Kali's decision to invite Weiss (Not-a-)Schnee as their guest was making things even more … difficult. He could understand why Kali had invited her, but he still had his reservations. He had responsibilities to Menagerie, after all, and the girl's mere presence had caused quite the disruption in the island nation.
Speaking of Blake and Weiss, the former was out taking care of some merchandising deal, and the latter had been going on missions for some time — he had to admit, the girl was a real go-getter and had been eager to begin her career as a Huntress — so he really was all alone.
Humming the national anthem to himself in a suitably cheesy way, he entered the kitchen, opened the MARS-brand fridge, and tried to think of what he was going to have for dinner.
…
He hadn't a clue. Years of marriage had made him close to incapable of surviving on his own. Then again, you didn't need to survive if you ate ketchup sandwiches and—
He broke out of his thoughts when he heard a loud banging from directly behind him. He whirled around and found … Weiss. She was crouching down and trying to pick up a few of those big metal bowls that Kali used for salads and stuff like that.
"Schiesse … stupid … Verboten…" she muttered to herself self-deprecatingly as she picked up the bowls and brought them over to the sink to be washed.
She put the dirty dishes away, clearly too tired to even notice the giant hairy man standing in the kitchen because she didn't even glance at his face even when she briefly looked around for the sink.
"Weiss," he began. She didn't respond. "Weiss?" he repeated, a little louder.
That sobered her up real quick. The tiny white-haired girl jumped in place, whirling around with wide eyes such that the hakama she was wearing flared out briefly and her long braid flew around. There was a brief look of terror in her sunken blue pools and then embarassment.
"Chieftain Belladonna!" exclaimed Weiss in a slight panic. "I didn't see you come in."
"Funny, I could say the same thing," he joked light-heartedly. "Of course, I've also been standing here looking at you look through me for the past five minutes."
Weiss's eyes got a little wider, and she gave a bow with her upper body. "I'm sorry, Chieftain! It won't happen again!"
"Relax, Weiss," he told her, and for a brief moment, she did actually relax. "Why did it happen this time?"
"Just … tired, sir," she replied.
"I can see that," he commented dryly, and then asked another question. "When was the last time you ate?"
Weiss returned his question with a question of her own: "What day is it?"
Without thought, he patted one of the stools in front of the tiny movable island in the kitchen and ordered her to, "Sit. I'm going to make you some food."
She obeyed quickly, and then just as quickly, he started on making her dinner. It was clear she needed food quickly, but … He glanced at her. Just throwing together a sandwich seemed … inadequate. Pulling open the door to the MARS-brand refrigerator, he pulled out a carton of eggs, a stick of butter, some shredded cheese, and some tiny glass containers full of various toppings.
Slicing off a generous hunk of butter into a frying pan, he opened the egg carton and picked up three eggs, then hesitated. He looked at the poor girl again, then picked up two more eggs before closing up the carton and setting it aside.
"So, did the mission go well?" asked Ghira, his mind easily splitting his attention between the task and Weiss. "Has anyone been giving you any trouble?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes. The first mission went very well," answered Weiss, taking a moment to wake up again. "And I don't think most people even realized who I am."
"'First mission'?" Ghira repeated, as he continued whisking the now salted eggs. "Just how many missions did you go on? You've been gone all week."
"I…" Weiss began before trailing off and then rooting around in the hidden pockets of her clothes to bring out her scroll. "Uhhhh … five. No, six; I misread one of the dates on my record. There was one town that had more than one mission posted. Not sure if I got them all."
Ghira frowned, even as he poured the eggs out into the pan covered with frothing butter. "You're a real go-getter aren't you? But you do realize this is supposed to be a vacation, right? Don't you think you've been pushing yourself a bit too hard, young lady?"
"No," she answered bluntly. "The missions were completed successfully, and I came back to rest before I collapsed."
"That's a very thin margin you're relying on," commented Ghira as he used a pair of chopsticks to stir the eggs. "You can barely stand, you aren't seeing things clearly, and it's taking effort for you to remain alert. If a Grimm were to attack you right now, you'd be dead. Heck, if a combat school freshman were to attack you right now, you'd be dead."
"This is nothing. It should be nothing," swore Weiss. "There was this one Atlesian girl named … something. Anyway, she once fought for ninety-one hours nonstop. Wasn't even out of combat school yet. Can I do less?"
"Yes," he said bluntly. "Yes, you can." He let his voice soften. "This isn't Atlas, young lady. You shouldn't be using Atlesians as your measuring stick, especially given your own rather vocal opinions of them."
"But I have to make up for the kindness you've shown me!" she declared. "I have to make up for what my family has done to the faunus!"
Her words almost made Ghira lose his grip on the pan he was tapping. Her words were shocking, but perhaps more so for the fact that she had clearly had them in her head all along and was only letting them slip now because of the sleep deprivation she was suffering from. In that moment, he saw all too clearly the abuse that Kali had spoken of, that Dad had picked up on with his uncanny ability to read people.
Was everything an exchange to this young lady? A tit for tat, a quid pro quo? Did she think that she could ever square her side of the bargain?
This wasn't Atlas. For all the jokes about the frozen north freezing hearts, he knew a number of Atlesians — not many; the northern kingdom liked to pretend Menagerie didn't exist — and this was … atypical, to say the least.
What had her birth family done to her? How could they have done what they did to her?
There wasn't a day that passed in which he didn't regret all the mistakes he had made raising Blake, and there had been a lot of them. Perhaps chief among them had been letting her join in on their political activities. It had seemed like such an easy thing at the time. She had been so eager to follow in Mommy and Daddy's footsteps, so anxious to assist. It had seemed harmless enough to let her help, in her own little way, but it wasn't. They had destroyed her childhood, destroyed her character, and through their failure with her, they had brought misery to hundreds of other people.
But never, not once, had he consciously abused Blake. Yet, if his wife was to be believed, that was just what had happened with Weiss. Her family had pressured her endlessly, abused her heart, and abused her body. Beatings from her sister and…
By all the gods, her younger brother was still in that hell hole.
Ghira needed to get him out, but he couldn't do that right now. What he could do was finish tucking the cheese into this omelette au fromage and serve it to a tired little girl before escorting her to bed. That would be enough for tonight.
It was like his dad always used to say, back when he was growing up, 'The big picture is made up of little pictures.'
"Collective guilt is a heck of a thing," Ghira said after a moment of silence as he finally started the final preparations on the dish: flipping it onto a plate, buttering it, and then sprinkling the toppings on it. "It's also a load of malarkey. Their sins aren't yours, and they aren't your responsibility. You also can't make amends to an entire race, and anyone who says you have to is…" He paused, groping mentally for the right words. "Slavery began with debt. No one under this roof wants to continue that cycle. And what we've given you, we gave you freely." He placed the omelette in front of her. "Including this. Dig in. I don't want to see anything left on that plate when you're done, young lady."
He had put a fork on the plate before offering her the dish, and she used it to start eating it. The expression on her face, when it changed from its tired melancholy to the sort of thing that only came from a good meal, was worth it all. It was definitely worth it.
"You're taking the day off tomorrow, do you hear?" he told her. "That means no alarms, no scrolls, and definitely no missions. Do you understand?"
"Yeash, sher!" she confirmed with a smile. At least, Ghira was fairly certain that was a confirmation.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," he told her.
Weiss nodded and continued eagerly consuming the meal. Soon, perhaps too soon, she was done. She had cleaned her plate, and before she could literally clean her plate, he took it from her and brought it over to the sink. It would get taken care of later.
"Alright, off to bed now, young lady," he told her. "Clean yourself up, and I want to see lights out…"
Before he could finish the sentence, he turned around and found that Weiss had fallen asleep on the island. Well, maybe it wasn't "sleep" sleep, but it was close enough. She was leaning on the countertop, using her crossed arms as a makeshift pillow.
A smile played across his face, and he reached down to pick the small little girl up into his arms and carry her to her room.
"Wah, I'm awake," she mumbled.
"Yes, you are," agreed Ghira as they walked out of the kitchen.
"I don't need you to carry me," Weiss insisted. "I can walk there on my…"
She trailed off as her mouth contorted open in a giant yawn.
"At least let me brush my teeth; I'll stink," she complained.
"You can brush them in the morning; that's what I do," Ghira told her as he leaned down and slid open the door to her room.
"Eww," she moaned in very sleepy disgust.
He brought her over to her bed, skillfully pulled back the covers, and then put her down and tucked her in.
"I'll get the sheets dirty," she whined.
"We'll wash them tomorrow," he assured her softly, kneeling down close to her. "For now, it's time to sleep."
Weiss yawned again. "Okayyy."
"Sleep tight," he told her softly.
"Good night, Daddy," she murmured, and then sleep took her.
Ghira felt himself trip over those words.
All right, Kali, he admitted, you win.
"Good night, Sweetie," he said, brushing a few stray hairs out of her face. "See you in the morning."
Author's Note 1 (Cyclone):
And here, we see the four faces of the White Fang. Kind of happened unintentionally, actually, when we split this up. Makes me wish we had a fifth face of the White Fang to showcase for a proper Quintesson reference.
We have artwork of Weiss's new look, once again provided by Sreshtiyer on DeviantArt, and as usual, it can be viewed on the other sites we post this story on (Space Battles, Sufficient Velocity, and AO3).
Author's Note 2 (Cody MacArthur Fett):
This is the next part of the split of chapter. It made logical sense to have Sienna reacting to what Blake said after the previous chapter ended as the beginning, and then to have the end be that line because … look at it! How can you not end on that?
Gregor Doyle is an expy of Gaston, as a counter to Blake's Beauty.