Considering how he felt about being a teacher, Face was certain he could get used to having a job where it was allowed – nay, expected to stand around drinking coffee whilst other people did work.
His class had gotten to know him better, so he was doing well in that regard, and teams RWBY and JNPR no longer glared at him.
The only times that he would get glares were when he told people to do some paperwork, or when he roasted one of his students.
This was one of those times.
In front of him, as he leaned on Port's desk, the students were writing their own drafts of what Face had written on the board. Today's lesson? "Why Keeping One Alive Might Actually Have Some Benefits Besides Just Having Something To Beat The Hell Out Of When You Get Bored". The class, naturally, were rather bemused and inherently disgusted by the points he made, but nevertheless, were writing down their interpretations of what he meant.
Face checked his watch. Lessons for the day would be finishing soon. He'd also been told that apparently he would be meeting the substitute for Professor Sauvignon; Port's assistant. Obviously, Sauvignon himself wouldn't be back for a while, considering someone had stabbed him and nearly killed him, so Face – despite being a substitute himself – was getting a substitute assistant.
It was almost like Beacon had decided to just replace an entire classes' teaching staff with substitutes to see what happened.
Face glanced back at the class, and noticed a few people had finished writing. These students stared idly around, waiting for their teacher's next grand revelation in murdering animals. The lesson would be over soon.
Face checked his watch again.
Eh. That'd do for the day.
"Alright, lads, I figure some of you are done," he began, standing up and beginning to pace. The students knew by now that when Professor Face began pacing, it meant he was going to either be witty, or say something very deep. He gestured over to the students with his free hand, coffee in the other. "You can keep writing if you like, or do it later, but this'll be in for tomorrow's lesson, since I have a quota of 'homeworks given out' to fill."
Jaune, pencil twirling between his fingers, tilted his head. "Really? Teachers have a quota for homework?" he asked. Face turned to him, nodding.
"Yep. Really sucks, to be honest with you: If I get given a quota, then that means you have to help me fill the quota, which is work for both of us," he explained. "Don't get me wrong, I love working here, but I'm just not used to it, yet. Just so happens that my old job had me using a gun all of the time, as opposed to a piece of chalk."
Just then, a student near the back raised his hand. "Oh, Professor?"
Face tilted his head upwards. "Oh, hello. Never spoken to you before." He glanced over his shoulder at the piece of paper on his desk that had a printed picture of each student, plus their name. Face looked for the dark-skinned young man with orange hair and what appeared to be pure white eyes. "Mr...Fox, unless I'm wrong?"
The student nodded. "That's correct, Professor. Fox Alistair, Team CFVY."
"OK, Fantastic Mr. Fox," Face nodded in return, prompting some people to laugh briefly at the nearly instantaneous nickname. "What's up?"
Fox cleared his throat. "Uh, on behalf of the entire class, Professor, I'd like to ask for your help." Face glanced over the rest of the students, who, after a hesitation, sheepishly nodded in agreement. He chewed his lip briefly, and leaned onto the desk again, putting his coffee down and resting his palms onto the edge of the wooden table.
"Well, if it stops Professor Goodwytch from breathing down my neck, I'm up for anything. Fire away."
"We got given an assignment for arms maintenance class to write about an existing, mass market weapon and the maintenance process behind it," Fox began. "The issue is, most of us aren't able to find anything like that, since we're not all eighteen years old, and even then, some of us can't get anywhere to even see one. We were wondering if you had anything we could all use as reference?"
Face thought for a moment. He wondered if Mann Co. would be a recognised brand in Remnant.
"Who do you normally have Weapon Maintenance classes with?" he asked, scratching his chin.
"Professor Steele," Phyrrha called out.
"Steele?" Face repeated, shaking his head after a moment as he withdrew his backpack from behind the desk. "Don't think I've spoken to him, before. Send him my way if he asks anything." The class stared in bewilderment as their Professor took the small, ragged fabric backpack and put it onto the desk. He patted it, and looked at the class. "Any particular requests for weapon types?"
The class glanced at each other, and their murmurs signified 'no preference'. In regards to that, Face shrugged, and unbuckled the bag.
"Alright, nobody's particularly fussed, so I'll chuck out a few basic ones," he stated casually, somehow completely arm-deep in the small bag that quite clearly had no excuse to be that big on the inside. "Might as well turn this into a team exercise; I'll chuck a weapon to each team, and all four of you can write your essays on it."
The class mumbled in agreement, many of them smiling.
Wow, Professor Face really was a cool guy! Normally Professor Steele issued these nearly-impossible pieces of homework and then gave the whole class a detention. Seemed like Professor Face was quite happy to help.
At that point, Face began removing his arm from the bag, clearly straining slightly. "Heeeeeeeere's one..." he grunted. The bag's opening warped comically, as an entire two-meter-long device came out, before Face gripped it in both hands and let out a 'whew' of relief. The class, meanwhile, were absolutely flabbergasted, releasing 'Woahs' and 'Impossible!' statements left and right. Face posed at the front with the weapon, walking it up the stairs towards Team CRDL. Cardin and Dove were caught by surprise as the remarkably weighty device was dropped into their laps.
Face looked down at them, rolling his shoulders to relieve the stress. "This, kids, is the Mann Co. Standard Flame Thrower. Carefully engineered using a petrol pump, gas canister, and some bits of tubing, this thing sends a gout of fire about three or four meters." He began walking down the stairs once more. "The instruction manual is on the side of the cylinder. Don't burn yourselves."
As he reached the front desk, he put his hand into his bag again, this time pulling out a rather ornate silver revolver. The front of the barrel looked like it had been weighted, with its large silhouette. This time, Professor Face easily span this weapon around his finger, and glanced at the paper on his desk. "Alright, I think something this classy should be something for teeeeeeeam..."
He scanned the paper, stalling for time.
He'd given the Flame Thrower to CRDL because it was simple, and he'd noticed their lowering grades. If he could give them something so basic that they couldn't possibly fail, then that would do them a lot of good.
The Ambassador, meanwhile, was more complicated. He remembered the Spies that occasionally transferred to cp_steel would need a watchmaker's kit just to disassemble and reassemble the damned thing whenever they cleaned it. He couldn't just give it to anyone.
"...how about Team JNPR takes this one?" he said finally, before walking over to the front-row students. "This is one of Mann Co.'s more expensive products; It's their .50 'Ambassador' revolver. This thing's big, powerful, can take your face clean off, and has more small and seemingly meaningless parts to it than a badly-written work of fiction." He delivered a final spin with it, before dropping the heavy pistol onto the wooden desk. "Don't worry about damaging it, though; I have another one in black with a fairy light on it."
Jaune nodded, picking up the revolver as Nora, Ren, and Pyrrha gathered round to look at the weapon.
Jaune then promptly noticed something.
"Uh, Professor Face?" he called out. Face turned his head, rummaging through the magic backpack once more.
"That's my name, Timebomb," he whistled, before sticking his entire upper torso into the bag to see what else there was. "What's up?" Jaune was slightly red in the face.
"W-Well...uh, y'see, Professor..."
"Yoooo!" Yang suddenly cried, pointing at the gun. "That chick engraved onto it is TOTALLY naked!" Pyrrha tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at the metalwork, before jolting back with a yelp, her face going almost as crimson as her hair.
"Goodness!" she said loudly. "That's rather risqué, Professor!"
Face shrugged as other students – particularly male ones – began climbing over their desks to see the naked lady on the barrel of a gun, talking excitedly and laughing.
"Well, same thing as how planes get painted with scantily-clad ladies, ain't it?" he noted, racking the bolt on a Cleaner's Carbine a few times before handing it over to a random student. "Besides, don't get too excited; That's not a custom job. It's factory-standard."
"But what if you don't want to see a lady's naughty bits on your gun?" Yang asked, raising a hand.
"Ask for a blank one. Special order. I have a couple, but I've not engraved them yet," Face replied, a strained tone hitting his voice as he tried pulling a Brass Beast from his backpack. Both his arms disappeared inside, before he finally let out a gasp as he had to let go. He winced, leaning against his desk and rubbing his lower back. "Agh, shit, I think I just pulled something..."
At the front desk, in the gaggle of students that were ogling JNPR's revolver, Coco turned her head, and walked over to the Professor. "Something heavy?" she asked. Face glanced up, then nodded briefly, exhausted.
"Yeah...yeah, it's one of the Heavy's miniguns in there. Don't worry, it's fine," he sighed. "Damn things are too heavy for anyone but that big bastard..." Coco raised her brows appreciatively.
"You want me to pull it out?" she asked calmly. Now Face raised a brow.
"You want back problems, Miss Adel?" he replied. Coco just snorted, and reached into the bag anyway. Face had nothing to fear, so he let her do it.
"Well, Professor, I won't get back issues," replied the young woman, bending over to reach inside the bag. She was briefly surprised how deep the bag went, but she disregarded it as her hand caught onto a thick steel grip with a huge amount of heft to it. "For the main reason that I'm not old, like you."
Face smirked at the comment, standing up again and twisting his back, releasing a series of satisfying 'be-deep' noises that usually happened whenever he healed himself somehow. Coco was one-handedly pulling a weapon out of the bag. Maybe she'd found a Winger?
Face began drinking some coffee to ease himself after he'd fucked his back up.
"This the right one, Professor?" she asked nonchalantly, before raising her arm fully out of the bag. Gripped in her hand was the handguard for the Brass Beast.
Face turned his head to spit his coffee into his cup. "Fuck me!" he cried in shock, turning most of the students' heads towards him. "That thing's almost two hundred kilos!"
Coco nodded calmly, before pulling it out of the bag. The massive gold visage of a Brass Beast .55 Chaingun suddenly materialized from the impossibly small space of the backpack, prompting the whole class to let out a joint "WHAT?!" of surprise. Face was most surprised of all, as the small female student in the beret calmly hefted the weight of a machine gun that even the Heavy struggled to carry.
"How the fuck're you doing that?!" Face asked frantically. "Tha-That's almost a fifth of a ton!"
Coco shrugged. "I'm stronger than I look," she replied nonchalantly, before eyeing the gun over, bouncing it up and down slightly as her Professor watched in absolute awe. "You know, this is like a beefier version of my gun, but I guess mine turns into a handbag, so it's not gonna be as big." She hesitated, then glanced at Face again, who was still absolutely stunned. "Can team CFVY use this one, Professor?"
Face blinked. "Uh...yeah...sure, go...go ahead...?" he murmured. Coco smiled, and calmly walked in the opposite direction, up the stairs to her team's desk. Face shook his head slowly, trying to comprehend that all those years of viewing Heavies as the pinnacle of strength evolution had been wasted.
For a few minutes, Face continued handing Mann Co.'s many bizarre, shoddily made, and rather dangerous-looking weapons. Each desk of four students had been handed one weapon of varying quality; Team DMNO were not particularly pleased to have been given what appeared to be little more than a few pieces of sewage pipe with a pressure gauge. Face had insisted that it was 'an absolute bastard of a missile launcher', but they had their doubts.
Who would even buy this kind of bazooka? A beggar, or something?
Completely ignorant of the blatant confusion of some students in regards to what Face happily referred to as 'hardcore frontline gear', he stood at the front with his hand behind his back, sipping his fresh cup of coffee since the other one had ended up full of spit.
"OK, so, there you all have it," he began, once more beginning to pace. "There's some of the equipment that I both used against enemies, and had used against me for the past fifteen years. And judging by your reactions to most of it, I'm fairly certain that a lot of you are wondering just how bizarre most of my fights were." He hesitated. "Spoke to Professor Goodwytch about it earlier, and apparently, she'd never defeated gigantic ghost wizards or robot armies using a jar of human urine and a bow, but I figure that's just something you only have to deal with in New Mexican Badlands."
Many more students began raising their eyebrows; Especially Team RWBY.
'...if that's true, then no wonder the White Fang hired him. He's just completely off the chain.'
"Regardless, don't worry about any damage done to them," Face continued, "Most of them are just laughably poorly built and I keep finding them all over the place, like in bins and at the side of the road." He paused. "In fact, fuck it, keep 'em, damn things just take up space in my backpack and I don't know how to use most of the bloody things." As their Professor dismissively waved his hand, the class began reacting with confusion. Steadily, Cardin raised his hand.
"Uh...Professor?" he asked. "You're just...you're giving them to us?"
Face nodded calmly, sipping his coffee. "Yeah. That a problem?"
"Well...I, uh, I thought these were the things you gathered fighting back home?"
Face nodded. "Yeah, just some of them. Got copies of all those things, and I haven't even shown you the dumb shit like the Cow Mangler, which is a literal alien blaster cannon, or the Mad Milk, which you're meant to throw at people and cover them in the stuff."
Nora tilted her head. "Milk? Why would you do that with milk?"
"I don't think it's milk, and it's hard to get out of clothes, which is why I refuse to touch it without gloves," Face replied calmly. A good number of students visibly shuddered at the thought of what was actually inside that bottle.
"How did any of this even get past safety regulations?" Blake asked, her eyes nervously wandering over the pump-action shotgun with a weird rangefinder crudely gaffer taped onto it. Face shrugged again.
"Fucked if I know," he replied, "From what I got told, there was a Senate Investigation, and all of these models of weapons were 'unfortunately' not there that day."
"...that's...wholly illegal..."
"My job was wholly illegal," Face corrected, raising a finger. "I got paid considerable amounts of money to run around a metalwork facility and kill the same nine people, over and over again, with the only difference being that some of them were wearing sillier hats than others." He paused, and tried to think of a metaphor. "I was like a really...really overpaid Mall Cop, except everything was completely different, and there was no Mall, and I was not enforcing any laws, and I am not fat."
Most of the class just stared blankly at him.
"You're lowering yourself to the level of a security guard?" Yang asked, raising a brow. "That's...kinda depressing."
"Not really. If you'd seen any security guard from my world – especially the Mann Co. ones – you'd be pretty fucking proud to be on that level."
"Security guards are dangerous in your world?"
"Everything is dangerous, where I come from. You kids think that Grimm are bad? Try walking to primary school in fucking London. You get jumped by stereotypical punks and people who sound like really bad impressions of Tom Jones." He contorted his face slightly in mockery. "Awright, gimme yer money, or oi'll show you's wot for!"
Yang continued to look totally bewildered, until she raised a hand. "Is your entire world just populated by caricatures of real people?"
Face thought for a moment, stroking his chin. Then, he frowned. "I dunno what a caricature is. Ain't that some kind of illness?" he asked. A good portion of the students were shocked.
"You...don't know what a caricature is...?" Ruby piped up, gently raising her hand. "I, uh, thought you would know that." Face shrugged.
"Nope. Never encountered the word before. Sounds like a terminal illness. If it is, I think my mate died from it."
"If I may ask," called out a student, the name of whom escaped Face's attention, "What happened to him?"
"Apparently they cut the skin on the end of his tackle off."
"Professor, I think that's 'circumcision', not 'caricature'. I'm also fairly certain it's not lethal."
"Yeah, I didn't mention the doctor shooting him in the head midway through. My mate sneezed and the doctor thought it was a signal that he was going to steal his teeth fillings."
"That explains...well, not much, really," Jaune mused, scratching his chin and at a loss in regards to why Doctors in Face's world thought it acceptable to do horrible things. "But seriously, Professor, you've never heard of caricatures?" Again, Face shook his head.
"If I ever went anywhere and heard about them, I've forgotten it, and I rarely forget things."
"Well, a caricature is basically where someone takes your defining features and draws it into cartoon form," Jaune explained, "So, for you, I guess we'd note you as..."
"Tall?" Ren suggested.
"Disturbed?" Weiss added.
"Someone who kills lots of animals and people?" Nora continued. Weiss shot her a look.
"Same thing, Nora."
"You get the idea, Professor," Jaune said quickly, before any arguing started. "So then they'd draw a cartoon that looks like you, but emphasizes you being tall...disturbed...and, uh, surrounded by corpses, I guess?"
Face nodded understandingly.
"Fair enough, that makes a good amount of sense," he muttered, scratching his chin. "That knowledge in mind, Miss Xiao Long, my answer is probably 'yes', considering how every single Scottish person I have met sounded like a gallon of shit going down a drainpipe, and how everyone in New York pronounces Boston like 'Bahhhstan'."
Yang sucked air through her teeth. "I...think that was just that they had weird accents. Not that they were caricatures."
Face grimaced. "Shit. Oh, well." As he checked his watch, he remembered an important thing. "Oh! Another thing! I assume he's probably somewhere in the room or outside, or whatever, but we've got a new supply teacher who'll be helping me with lessons."
The students, naturally, bristled with a mix of confusion and excitement.
Wouldn't Professor Sauvignon usually be helping? Where was he?
And a supply teacher COMBO? Why two?
Nevertheless, they all somewhat eagerly awaited the arrival of the new teacher. Face was rather excited as well: He was being given a subordinate. That was something reserved for Mercenaries who had consistently proven themselves good enough to be in charge of one of TF Industries' subsidiary PMC companies.
Face was not that. But, still, a lackey is a lackey, and Face had to figure out what he was meant to do with his.
"Do they have a name?" Pyrrha called out. "Or have they not given you that information?"
"Uhhh..." Face raised a brow and flicked through his hastily scribbled lesson notes. Shit, his handwriting was atrocious; Like trying to get Soldier to write something, only his was somewhat legible, and written in pen, not crayon...or whatever else Soldier used for red letters.
No mention of a name.
He shook his head slowly. "...mmm, don't look like it," he murmured, scratching his temple. "Guess he or she will probably tell us when they show up."
For some reason, Face suddenly got the feeling of crippling genre-savvy dread that came with having a strange feeling that you KNOW something is going to happen, but you really wish it wouldn't.
The sound of a new voice rang over his shoulder, seemingly behind his desk. "That name would be Professor Ding."
As the sound of the decloak rang out and students began letting out vocalizations of surprise, Face had many thoughts about turning around with his revolver and just fucking shooting Ding in the mouth for such a pretentious introduction.
What was this, a 50s Cop show? He had no idea if Ding had that 'main villain pedostache' that just about everyone had back in the 1950s, but Face guessed that under that grimy red balaclava that he'd never seen past, there was a faint, unshaven line of facial hair that struggled to grow.
Sighing, he turned around to face his former teammate and apparently new subordinate. As expected, he was reclined in Port's chair, slim legs crossed on the desk and the perpetually present cigarette hung between his smirking lips. His lime green chapeau and lime green Victorian gentleman's coat, something Face swore had changed slightly since he last saw him.
"I am literally going to kill myself," groaned the Sniper. "Of all the fucking people..."
"I don't know what your current Professor has been telling you, but I think I may be able to discredit a few of his stories of war," Ding smirked, prompting Face to roll his eyes and let out a grunt of disapproval. Team RWBY, however, perked up. "For instance," Ding continued, standing up, "Contrary to what he says, Professor Face was not the greatest fighter on our team. That honour belonged to me." Face groaned again as the class broke into their 'ohh's of excitement at a potential squaring up.
"Because turning invisible and stabbing unaware people in the back is truly the most masterful of martial arts," he mused, scratching his stubble. "Besides, didn't I see you getting your shit punched in by a Heavy that you didn't stab right?" Now it was Ding's turn to roll his eyes, the class 'ooh'ing again.
"He wouldn't have killed me if he didn't uppercut my nose so hard that the cartilage went through my brain," the Spy grunted, "He scored a lucky critical."
"Right, and US President Abraham Lincoln wouldn't have died if he didn't blow his legs up with a rocket launcher whilst trying to go upstairs," Face laughed, which prompted a lot of questions from the students, such as 'Why would a country's leader blow himself up trying to go up to the next floor, as opposed to using the stairs?'. "You still died, you utter penis."
"I would have beaten him if he didn't crit me."
"Say that all you like, sunshine, but through the scope, I got to watch you get mauled in seconds by a Heavy."
"Yeah?" Ding retorted, hands on his hips. The class was now in utter bewilderment as to what was going on. Once again, Yang had her phone up to record it, so she had something to laugh at later. "What about that time that Scout sent you flying across the facility with the Force-a-Nature, because you had no idea he was there?"
Face shrugged. "Last time I ever wear earbuds in battle. Besides, I'm still yet to figure out what makes Force-a-Nature shotguns have such stupid power."
"You and I both know that's a balancing thing, Face," Ding said flatly. "For instance, how have you been balancing this job with the threats from the other guys?"
Face paused, and looked up from the floor. "I've been getting threats?" He glanced at his students. "Anyone...ah, anyone seen me receive threats?" The students, still confused by the goings-on that had just unfolded, looked at each other, slowly shaking their heads. This was good enough for their eccentric teacher; He turned, smirking at his new assistant. "Well, I ain't been getting them, and the class says they've not seen any, so I think you're taking the piss."
Ding folded his arms. "They've been sending you death threats since you left. They're all rather angry. So angry, in fact, that many of them changed their outfits as a means of coping with stress." Face sighed, standing up and rubbing his forehead.
"Don't tell me that Demo-"
"Yes, Face. He's angry enough that he's dressed up as a pirate."
"Oh, Jesus Christ."
"He only cracks out the pirate costume when he's very angry. And let's not mention the fact that Medic has decided to dress up as a medieval plague doctor and begin systematically pumping the bubonic plague into every single pigeon that he finds in the wild."
"Why?"
"...well, I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Heavy has destroyed all of his tu-tu dresses and tiaras in order to make scrap metal, so that he can make better hats to wear whilst killing you."
"OK, I'm sorry, Professor, but what the heck are you even talking about?" Jaune finally asked, raising a hand. Face pointed at him briefly.
"We'll explain in a minute, Timebomb, just a moment," he said quickly, before pointing back to Ding, placing his left hand into his pocket. "So what happened? Did I get a replacement?"
"They replaced all of us, you imbecile!" Ding snapped. "The boss was furious that you, alone, managed to kill the majority of us without dying, so we all got fired as well." Face blinked a few times, as the large Tonka Truck gears in his head tried to comprehend the logic behind firing an entire team – and thus an entire source of income – as opposed to just replacing him.
"Oh...shit. Well, 'sorry', I suppose?" he muttered. Ding raised both brows in anger.
"Really?!" he practically yelled, grabbing Face's lapels forcefully – much to the Sniper's disinterest and lack of concern. The students, however, immediately began packing up their notebooks and pens because they were probably hearing a bell, right? Right. "Is 'sorry' all you can muster, you repulsive bushman?! We all had a perfectly fine, six-million-dollar-a-year job where all we had to do was kill people in different-coloured shirts, go out into cities to kidnap fat people for their money, and sometimes fight the King of the Skeletons™ and his Army of Skeletons™! And now all I have is the contents of my backpack, this job, and the four-hundred-thousand dollar suit that I am wearing right now!"
Face raised a finger, still looking unamused. "Well, just a theory, but you can always sell that ugly piece of shit? Get yourself a gym membership and a pair of booty shorts, 't'd do you just fine."
"I AM NOT SAXTON HALE, YOU IDIOT!" Ding yelled, beginning to shake his former teammate back and forth as most of the students began to funnel out of the room (at speed). "Be thankful I have not poisoned your coffee!"
Face let out a 'pfft' noise, holding onto his hat and grinning. "Considering you're my assistant, I'd fucking drink it and ask for refills."
The two continued with their confrontation as the class left the room, many students casting a brief glance back before deciding that being in the same room as two very-well-trained assassins having an argument was a rather daft idea. As the final student shuffled out, they let the door slam shut with an almighty bang.
And when the door was shut, Ding released his grip, and both men breathed a sigh of relief, leaning on the desk. "Bloody Hell, I think we're getting good at that," Face chuckled, glancing over at his teammate and roughly-decade-long best friend. "Why do we do that, again?"
Ding shrugged, withdrawing a cigarette case from what appeared to be absolutely nowhere and then removing a single cigarette, flicking his existing one into Face's empty mug. The small, burned cigarette butt fizzled out in the droplets of Face's coffee, but the Sniper had no fuss over the wasted liquid. He kinda needed to pee, anyway, so more fluid would just give him a jarate surplus.
"I suppose it's just funny to watch them get confused," he mused. "Rather strange group, aren't they?" Face tilted his head side to side as the bell finally rang.
"Eh, not really," he said finally, moving around the desk and sitting down to fill out a lesson report. Ding followed him, sitting on the edge of the desk. "Once you get used to the animal ears and cold stares and discomfort over anything we find perfectly normal, they're great kids. How long were you sat there?"
Ding shrugged again. "I'd say I came in about ten or fifteen minutes into your lesson. I suppose I finally did discover a use for the Cloak-and-Do-Nothing, after all." Face bobbed his head side to side.
"I dunno," he mused, scribbling down the phrase 'circumcision is not a caricature' in the 'Staff Notes' section of his report. "Personally, I'd love to get one of those that fits my wrist. Being able to shuffle around unseen would be handy." Ding snorted slightly.
"What, and you'd go somewhere with it? You always said you got lost in the Steel facility all the time."
"Well...at least I could get lost, but not seen?" Face suggested. Ding chuckled at the idea of the RED Sniper managing to wind up in the BLU spawn, unable to move without blowing his cover.
"Regardless, what I said was true. The other guys are not happy." Face groaned, and leaned back in his chair.
"I still don't get that," he said finally, adjusting his seating. "Tell me again why you all got fired, as opposed to just me." Ding took a quick puff from his cigarette, standing up to begin pacing as Face leaned his elbows on the table.
"Well, keep in mind, this is just what I was told by the TF Industries HR department, who I think we both know are less 'human resources' and more 'human removal'," he began, gesturing to Face for it to be acknowledged. The Sniper grimaced and nodded.
"Hmm. Yeah, that's already a red flag," he noted. "Don't they usually get the local office to deal with firing Mercs like us?"
"They do," Ding concurred, "Which is why I found it bizarre that Washington HR was going to deal with it all, as opposed to the nicer guys down at the local Teufort offices."
Face stroked his stubble in thought. "Well, maybe the head office found out that we usually met up with the workers from there for bar nights?" he suggested. "Probably some kind of anti-corruption protocol, I guess." Ding shook his head, folding his arm across his chest and tapping his cigarette to remove some ash.
"Face, this is TF Industries we're talking about," he replied flatly. "You think they have 'anti-corruption' protocols, when they've got the entire US Congress in their pockets?" Face sniffed slightly.
Not wrong.
"As I was saying, HR went through the firing process, and I found that rather bizarre. They only ever deal with extremely serious incidents: One Merc deciding to put holes in his teammates is hardly a big deal for them...perhaps it was what happened to those BLUs?"
Face frowned. "Ah, yeah, the BLU team. Never did see those guys. What happened that got Demo so riled up?"
"First of all, Face, he explained that to you."
"Don't remember."
"Ugh. Basically, your jerry-rigged bombs blew up, burned them all alive, and trashed their R.E.S.P.A.W.N device, so they couldn't come back."
"Right, so my bombs killed the BLU team. I don't see why that's a bad thing."
"It's a bad thing, Face, because the BLUs are also on TF Industries' payroll."
Face paused, and tilted his head.
"...they are?"
Ding went slightly wide-eyed and stared at Face in absolute disbelief.
"Of course they are, you imbecile! Why do you think all the RED facilities were built with a very distinct colour-scheme, incredible symmetry, random health and ammunition packs all over the place, and an ENTIRE SECTION OF THE FACILITY for the BLU team – who the RED Team were allegedly born to kill?" he asked, frustrated. Face puckered his lips slightly, and thought about this.
Well...he, uh, wasn't wrong. The Steel facility did seem to have a purpose-built BLU facility on other end of the facility, as well as a hole in a fence that had never been patched up and kept letting BLU guys through.
"The entire RED and BLU war was a farce!" Ding continued, "The two companies were owned by TF Industries, who work for the two Mann brothers, who were fighting over gravel and died years ago! The only reason TF Industries is still carrying out this war is because they need money, and by having people constantly at war, they can make the Mercenaries buy arms and ammo, which in turn funds Mann Co., and thus TF Industries!"
Face was now slightly confused.
"...Mann Co. is part of TF Industries?"
Ding sighed, and slammed his head on the desk, hands on the back of his head as Face sat in front of him, scratching his head. "You're impossibly dense."
9:30PM, that evening...
After discovering that his equipment had been moved to a double room, with Ding having the bed on the opposite side of the room, Face was rather thrilled to discover that not only did he have another proper bed, but that he now also had a roommate, in the form of his actual best friend.
He noted, however, that Ding apparently had a bathrobe, which he came out of the en-suite wearing as Face lay on his bed in boxer shorts and a vest. The Spy had his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth as he strode over to his bag, still wearing his balaclava, and removed a small shaving kit from the side compartment of the backpack. Face raised a brow.
"You actually shave?" he asked, hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. The lamp on the bookshelf between their beds was the main illumination for the fairly-sized room, so he had a rather pleasant orange gradient to look at. Ding, however, gave him a confused look.
"...yeeees?" he replied cautiously. "Do you really think I have some kind of All-Father beard beneath this mask?" Face raised a brow.
"But a few months ago, didn't I see you with a bea-?"
"That was a camera," Ding interrupted, moving back towards the bathroom, "I thought you would know that, seeing as you kill so many Spies."
"Well, usually their entire lower and upper face has been mysteriously blasted into meaty glue, so the beard never survived long enough for me to see it was a camera," Face retorted, raising a finger. "Besides, where do they store all the film when they get frisk-searched?" Ding turned his head to look at him as he walked into the bathroom again.
"Why, a Macro-Film suit, of course."
"...a...macro-film suit...?"
"You know micro-film?"
"Yeah."
"People know to look for microfilm, these days. Mann Co. invented macro-film as a countermeasure to that."
"But it's macro. It's bigger. People would notice."
"Ah, Face, that's where you're wrong," Ding corrected, raising a finger smartly. "I have a macro-film suit, myself, and people walk right by me. Here is the trick: NOBODY expects micro-film to be big. That is the trick."
Face stared blankly at him for a minute.
"...how the fuck do you Spies even function?" Ding let out a snort from one nostril, the kind of snort that just reeked of self-imposed superiority.
"Efficiently," he snapped, turning back to the bathroom. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must spend two hours plucking the hair from my body, lest it stick to my suit. Feel free to wander off."
And with that comment, the bathrobe-wearing professional hitman shut the en-suite door, leaving Face to sit in the room on his own.
The Sniper grimaced at the sudden silence, and sat himself up on the edge of the bed.
He checked his watch.
12:37AM.
Then, he checked the Scroll next to his bed.
9:34PM.
That was better.
He scratched his chin and pondered what he could do, as he had done for the past few weeks in Remnant.
What could he do?
Back in Steel, he would have spent his free time eyeing up weapon parts, second-hand guns, new guns, and clothing, all through the Mann Co. Catalogue and the MercNet browser. Seeing as there were many hundreds of thousands of Mercenaries active, the MercNet was never quiet.
Unfortunately, he couldn't access it in Remnant, and his Mann Co. order forms were simply being RTS'd to him: There was no way to contact home.
He considered his shenanigans the past few evenings. He'd basically carried out a small-scale terror attack on the prison, but he'd heard nothing about that from any staff members. Presumably the incident was hush hush, and they hadn't figured out it was him.
He then considered that he could probably just climb onto the roof of the staff accommodation with a Hitman's Heatmaker and piss off the students; He knew damned well that he could shoot from his room to Team CRDL's dormitory window. Thankfully, the students never walked around naked in there, so it was perfectly fine for him to just fire shots through their window and break all their mugs and cups.
After all, what would they do? Tell someone that someone is shooting at them every night, but only destroying their cups?
He knew full well that Glynda would reprimand them for lying and covering up that they kept dropping things, so it was a rather entertaining prank to pull.
However, it would probably get him in trouble for endangering student lives: A strange charge to be given, especially when the school frequently pitted teenagers against dangerous wild animals.
Nevertheless, Face's bizarre train of thought continued.
He was midway through contemplating whether he should strap a scope onto his Big Kill revolver, when his Scroll buzzed loudly, then halted, before buzzing again.
Right, he'd put it on silent.
Leaning forward to pick it up, he saw the caller.
"Glynda...?" he murmured, raising a brow. Cautiously picking up the phone, he placed it to his ear. "Evening, Face speaking."
"Oh, you're awake?" came the response. "Good fortune. Are you dressed?"
Face looked at his boxers and vest.
"No, I'm in my tighty-whiteys."
"Then get dressed. I need your help with something."
Face blinked.
Well, not like he had anything better to do.
"Well, alright. What's up?" he asked, getting up to put his trousers on.
"I've been told to head into Vale to check on Professor Sauvignon, and collect some supplies," Glynda explained. "Since you're so unoccupied right now, it might be good for you to help me carry equipment."
"Uh-huh," Face replied, balancing on one leg to put his boot on, "Don't the delivery companies normally do this?"
"Well, yes," Glynda replied, "But it just happens that we'd be going past the supply depot on the way back from the hospital, and Professor Ozpin suggested that you be allowed some time off-campus, for once."
As Face put his hat on and grabbed his guns, as usual displaying the incredible speed at which a TF Industries Mercenary can put on silly hats and strange clothes, he mentally reminded himself not to mention that he'd been out previously. "Yeah, sounds nice. Do you need me to pack any gear?"
"Nothing that you wouldn't bring to a late-night walk," she responded calmly. There was a pause as Face mulled over two different kinds of Cow Manglers. "That is, a late-night walk in VALE, not 'Teufort'."
Face nodded understandingly, and grabbed his revolver, machete, and SMG, dropping them into their respective holsters and holders. "Alright, then," he said calmly, "I'll be at the landing pad in a few minutes."
"Wonderful," Glynda said calmly. "Try to dress casually; The police are already on-edge, as it is." The phone hung up after this, leaving Face contemplating again.
He looked at his SMG, and squinted.
Would the police care?
Hmm.
...
"Bah, who fucking cares," he muttered, waving a dismissive hand. He leaned over to the en-suite door as he walked to the bedroom door. "Ding, I'm headed to Vale with Professor Goodwytch for the evening."
Ding could be heard snorting with laughter over the electric razor. "You?! With a woman?! Pah! What could she possibly see in you?"
"My actual face, you balaclava-wearing twat," Face retorted sharply, before leaving the room, Ding's laughter echoing around the bathroom. The laughter, however, was cut short, as Face's hand reached into the room as he left, turning off the lights in the bathroom and room, before the door slammed shut.
Ding's amusement swiftly turned to fear, as he could not see anything. He let out a panicked scream as he slipped on a wet tile, the sound of a man falling over ringing out through the room, but not loud enough for anyone next door, above, or below to hear, as Ding's hands struggled to find the bathroom lock.
"FACE, YOU REPUGNANT PISS-THROWING OAF!" Ding yelled, his hands and feet audibly squeaking against the smooth tiles as he tried to find purchase. "IF I GET OUT THERE AND YOU'RE STILL AROUND, I'M GOING TO USE MY UNDERWATER HYPNO-PEN ON YOU AND WRITE 'DICK' ON YOUR HEAD, LIKE I DID WITH THAT SHARK!"
But by this time, Face was already out the front door of the building, and jogging towards the landing pads.
A swift jog later...
Glynda adjusted her thick, loosely-wound braids as she awaited her companion at the chartered airship. She'd never tried this hairstyle, before, so the fact it all felt very...weighty...was making her feel a tad awkward.
And she had even decided to wear her good dress for the evening; A knee-length, black ensemble that she'd bought from one of the Schnee Dust Company subsidiaries the last time they came to Beacon for a meeting. She figured that if she was going to Vale on a Friday night, then she might as well look the part; Perhaps the local news might get some fairly nice pictures of her?
She glanced at her watch.
It had been two minutes since Professor Face had hung up the call.
Where was he?
She paused. Perhaps she was just getting too worked up.
He was coming, he'd be there in a moment.
Goodness, why was she getting so flustered over it? He wouldn't be judging her for inviting him along on an errand run. He wouldn't be judging her for wearing nice, civilian clothes.
Perhaps he was hungry?
Perhaps he wouldn't mind if she suggested that they went for dinner whilst they were out...
She mentally slapped herself.
No. Bad Glynda. You're not allowed to think like that. No leisure time on the job. Maybe ask some other time.
Her train of thought was swiftly interrupted as a set of steel-heeled footsteps became apparent, and very quick to approach. She turned in surprise, nearly drawing her riding crop, but then calmed slightly when she saw that it was Professor Face. Her expression turned to that of concern as she watched him gasping for breath and give a half-hearted wave.
"...did you really just sprint a mile because I told you to meet me here?"
"Well," Face panted, looking up at her, "You made it sound important."
She gave him a deadpan look.
"I expressly stated that this would be a simple supply run and hospital visit," Glynda said flatly, leading him to the passenger doors of the Bullhead. "Why would you feel the need to exhaust yourself, running down here, for a supply run?"
Face sat himself weightily in one of the seats opposite her as the door closed, and the ship began to take off. "I dunno," he replied, taking his hat off and fanning himself with it. "Why're you dressed like a film-star?"
Glynda went slightly red at the comment.
"W-Well, it's...it's Friday, correct?" she stuttered, trying to keep composure. "I, ah, wanted to...fit in. With the night-out crowds in Vale." Face eyed her up and down.
"Uh...huh..." he murmured, before pouting slightly and shrugging. "Well, anyway, you look lovely. If I'd've know we were dressing up, I'd've brought my Tuxedo shirt."
Glynda smiled at his flattery, then mentally slapped herself again.