Shockingly enough, the caravan was not only friendly, but downright hospitable. I'm writing this from within a tent amongst their circled armored vans, and this time, I am indeed beneath the stars. I've been given a small cloth tent as lodging, a surprisingly comfortable bedroll, and a job to do. I'm also wearing a shirt once again, so to anyone looking to fuel their fantasies of yours truly- I must apologize.
On the more important subject of that aforementioned job- apparently the caravan is transporting something highly volatile, powerful, or expensive, as it's been beset by thieves twice already and these people are only three days into their journey. Supposedly, they're on their way to drop off supplies to Shade Academy, which is still another three days away. I find it odd that an established institution couldn't provide them with protection if they are indeed delivering supplies, but I'm not about to question easy money. All it took for them to hire me as extra muscle was a demonstration of my semblance, and a good look at my weaponry.
Starting with my weapon, for anyone unfamiliar- it doesn't yet have a name. I don't know that I'll ever give it one, but the temptation is certainly there. I suppose it's technically an heirloom, as it used to be my mother's, though I'm not sure if an item needs to be passed down through multiple genera0itons to qualify for 'heirloom', or just one. Regardless of its technical classification, I've grown incredibly fond of it over the past few years, and I couldn't imagine using another weapon. That isn't just because of the sentimental aspect, mind- it pairs beautifully with my semblance, and its quirks and difficulties are oddly comforting, in a way that I'm not sure I can explain.
The weapon itself is a combination of a traditional Higanbana-style folding fan, and a triple-barreled shotgun. When extended into fan form, the metal span of the weapon is nearly as tall as my waist, and the handle would bring it up to the middle of my stomach, were it to stand upright. Of the five spokes holding the 'fan' itself together, the three that make up the center are gun barrels. When open, the barrels fire in a distinct, almost musical rhythm, with each pull of the trigger- middle, left, right, middle, left, right, and so on. Snapping the fan closed allows for the firing of all three at once, and resets the pattern.
The beat of the gunfire brings about a sense of calm within me, somehow. It reminds me of late nights in either of my home villages, listening to musicians playing as I reclined on the terrace of my former home in Anima, or sat around a campfire out here in the desert. It reminds me of home, and of my mother. She always did love music, and she passed that appreciation on to me.
Moving ever so swiftly along, that brings us to the subject of my semblance. Much like my weapon, my semblance was passed down from family, though in this case, I inherited it from my father. I have mastery over the flow of the wind, from a gentle breeze to a targeted whirlwind, it all just makes sense to me. With the flick of a wrist- or more likely, a fan- I can redirect bullets, push others around, or use it along with my weapon to "surf" along the sand dunes. It's my preferred method of travel, though it does become incredibly draining after several minutes on end. I've been working on it in my travels, and soon enough, I may be able to break 10. It's always good to have a personal goal, however small.
In fact, it's that very trick that earned me this current assignment. The caravan was delighted by my little aerial performance, and that was apparently enough to convince them that I know what I'm doing. The leader of the operation, though- she was far more reserved and professional about the whole matter than the grunts in charge of driving and transport. She asked me several questions about combat experience and my travels. I was more than happy to oblige, though she didn't return the favor beyond a few simple facts.
The leader's name is Cinnamon Shoal, and she, like every other member of the caravan, is a faunus. She's an intense, shrewd woman who appears to be about my age, or slightly younger, with skin like mocha and hair so white that her chin-length dreadlocks almost appear to be made of crystal when they reflect the desert sun. Odd, white and orange spines the length of her muscular legs jut from her triceps, and she dresses to match their coloration. She seems quite content, and quite attractive, in an orange bikini top and white sarong covering a pair of orange short shorts. She's certainly easy on the eyes, though her own hold a kind of fire unlike any I've ever seen. I can tell just by looking at her that she's dangerous, and likely the only reason she signed me on is because she isn't a Vacuan.
If I were a more confident man, I would make a move, once this job is complete. However, I don't have the spine to proposition a woman like her, nor am I stupid enough to think she's the type to be interested in a man like me. From what I can tell, she's all business, and I'd need to be caught in a very rare mood to do anything beyond steal an occasional glance. I get the feeling she's roughed up other would-be pleasure-seekers for less.
Cinnamon's position at the head of the caravan would be surprising, given her age, but with her demeanor, it makes sense to me. I simply hope that my instincts are wrong, because I'm beginning to suspect that these people are White Fang. None of the symbols or procedures typical of the Fang seem to be visible anywhere on or around the procession of vehicles or people within them, but that means little. This could easily be an undercover operation, and if that happens to be the case, there's going to be trouble. I really, really do not want trouble with these people, and especially not with someone as intriguing and intimidating as Cinnamon Shoal.
The White Fang is an uncomfortable subject for all faunus, regardless of whether they are supporters, detractors, or members, and I am no different. The widespread prejudice against faunus is no secret, and neither is the existence of the Fang, or their list of goals. They claim to want equality and to receive what is rightfully "ours" as a species. While I do believe that, at least, to that extent, they are right, I cannot bring myself to align with their methods. I am a pacifist at heart when it comes to humans and faunus, and letting violence against our people breed more violence doesn't sit well with me. That's actually one of the reasons I came back to the desert to begin with.
Things are bad for the faunus in all other continents of Remnant. In fact, calling things "bad" is perhaps the most ridiculous understatement I've ever made in my life. I'll never forget the first time I saw the aftermath of lynching, back in Anima. The girl's eyes were so lifeless and glassy, and her expression was a sickeningly neutral one, in contrast to the bruises and wounds all over her bare skin. Her brown wings were broken and hanging at odd angles, trailing feathers down to the ground every so often. I was too young at the time to understand what I was looking at, why she wouldn't talk to me, or why no one would help her down.
The only thing I don't understand now is how someone could find it within themselves to treat another that way, regardless of their species.
The faunus of Vacuo could be considered lucky in that they don't have to deal with violence against them because of their race. A human or faunus from another continent is in far more danger out in the desert sands than anyone else, and racism seems to have all but vanished out here. Something about the danger and uncertainty of day to day life in the desert seems to have brought people together, at least so far as those issues go. Some other faunus would call me a coward for coming here to avoid having to confront racism head-on. I would say that they're absolutely right.
I feel that, alone, there is little I could do to combat the situation of the faunus without the White Fang, and yet, I have seen firsthand the bitterness and hatred that combatting violence with more violence brings. I would rather focus on what little good I can do for the deserving than try to speak out and be forcefully silenced or ignored. Making change on a global scale isn't for me. I once thought that it was, but I was clearly mistaken. Doing right by people on a small scale, and knowing that I made both human and faunus smile, feel safe, or find resolution with a personal matter is enough to help me sleep at night. Speaking of such a thing, I think it's time to stop writing. There's little chance I'll be getting any rest, and I'm in no mood to transcribe my thoughts anymore after that. I think that this may well be my last entry, and this journal is indeed destined to become kindling after all.
It's hours later, now. Well after midnight, and closer to dawn than dusk. I sat alone in my tent for hours, before deciding to venture outside and simply take in the view of the desert in an attempt to find something to focus on outside of my own head. It seems like the only thing I found was more questions.
Cinnamon Shoal was sat atop one of the cars in the caravan, staring up at the moon as she spoke into her scroll. She was about fifty feet away and had her back to me as I left the tent. I didn't dare to join her or call out, and instead elected to creep a bit closer in the silence of the night air. I'm fairly certain everyone in the camp was asleep, and still is. I managed to make it up to the opposite side of the large vehicle, and began to listen in to the conversation. It wasn't long until I heard two words that I was hoping I wouldn't hear from her, in any context.
"High Leader."
Cinnamon Shoal is indeed a member of the White Fang. My stomach sank and my blood ran cold the moment I heard the words, and my first instinct was to silently make my exit from the camp. However, upon returning to my tent and rethinking things, I find that something is urging me to remain here, and see this through. I know that I can't hold off the entire caravan if it comes down to it, but these people seem oddly reasonable and welcoming, compared to the Fang I've met in the past. Besides, I can't just let them roam the desert unchecked, especially if they're on their way to Shade Academy. I've decided to stay with the group and feign ignorance for now, and I've also decided to keep this journal, which should be obvious at this point, considering I added on to this entry.
Not only is this record now evidence of White Fang activity in Vacuo, but I know that I can't simply keep running from my problems and pushing things that I find difficult to deal with off to the side. As uncomfortable as it is, I think, in time, it might be a good thing for me to start confronting those things that unnerve me. Perhaps paper can be a first step, and practice can be the second. Dealing with racism, the truth of what happened to my parents, sexual relationships, and several other things are subjects that I'd like to simply pretend don't affect me, but I know that such a stance is childish. From here on, I'll try to confront them more openly. It's the only way to grow.
Author's Note:
Just as an aside- this version of Cinnamon will be canon to Arboretum, but not What You Stole. If anyone is reading both as well as this, she has a vastly different backstory in the two stories, and I don't want anyone confused over it.
-RD