CH 7

Meeting The Boss

Two cops stood under the shade, the pair engaged in an animated conversation complete with hand-gestures under the buildings long shadow. One of them bent-over laughing and both's attention were drawn by the slide of an automatic door when a third officer stepped out to join them.

At the very top of the screen a pair of vans screeched into the plaza, smoke trailing from their tires.

One of the vans swerved and skidded parallel to to the front of the station, its sliding-doors opened. The other careened right through the main door and carried into the building proper. The last thing Clark saw before the camera-feed cut to the lobby was the muzzle-flashes from inside the parallel-parked van and the gaggle of officers falling to the ground. To their credit, at least two of them had managed to draw their weapons.

The lobby was a multi-story affair, balconies ringing the second floor in what had probably been some terribly clever flourish from the architect. At least ten masked terrorists stormed out of the van, fanning out and spraying the cops at the front desk with short bursts of machine-gun fire. Their masks had a… sharper appearance than the ones Clark had seen in the firehouse. The matching black body-armor slung over white tunics completed the image.

At least one of the desk-jockeys was able to get behind their workstations and hit the "Lockdown" button before the bullets tore into him. Thick reinforced doors came down and closed off the entrances to the main building, nothing short of a breaching charge would get somebody through there.

Instead they leapt onto the open second floor balconies, clearing uniformed officers and detectives with brushes of automatic fire. As the last of the terrorists arrived they split into two groups, one for each entrance into the actual building. The leader of each stack nodded and kicked down the doors.

Then the slaughter began in earnest.

Room by room, cubicle by cubicle; the White Fang systematically killed everything they could find. There was no hurry, nobody was coming to help them and their service weapons tended to bounce off of the Fang's Auras if they connected at all. Any office or room that put up a concerted resistance was met with Fire-Dust bombs.

A woman in a white shirt and suspenders, the captain in charge of the precinct, rallied a defense in front of the armory. Apparently the button-down was just the uniform for the people important enough to get their own offices. She handed out weapons and tactical gear to anyone still standing. No more than a dozen survivors were able to fight their way through to her and join in the defense. Summoned by the sound of handgun-fire and yelling over the intercom.

Eventually, it sunk in. They were being jammed. Help was not on the way. If they wanted to get out of this, they would have to do it themselves. They rallied, they discussed, they opened the explosives crates in the back of the armory.

They charged.

The White Fang were caught unaware. Some fell, but most of the Fang just fell back and let them through. The survivors fought their way to the blast-doors; setting down the explosives and getting ready to see if the doors lived up to their names. Not a minute too late either. The Fang had reconstituted themselves, getting ready to storm the narrow hallway and let their Auras and automatics decide the battle for them. There was a brief argument between the captain one of her subordinates who was placing the improvised charge.

No telling who had made the decision, no telling if a decision had even been made. The bomb detonated, blowing both the door and the survivors in front of it to ragged fragments.

The White Fang took a second to figure out why the hallway they had chased the pigs down had suddenly turned into an oven, then they walked through the open blast door. The terrorists shot the corpses on their way back to the vans.

It would be half an hour before "Officer Shotgun" arrived at the scene.

Clark pulled his eyes away from his scroll "They didn't even try and breech the armory."

Glynda raised an eyebrow at him "That's really what you choose to focus on?"

The table at the teacher's lounge was mostly empty. It was still a week before term began and the other professors were yet to arrive. It was an oddly… comfortable space, smelling faintly of coffee and copy-paper. Glynda had a mug of her own this time, filled with tea and a truly shocking amount of honey and lemon. Ozpin had wasted no time offering Clark some of his own personal brew, Glynda hadn't bothered hiding her displeasure when Clark had taken it black.

Clark shrugged "It's what makes the least sense. Assuming what I saw in the news is right they've been grabbing-up every flake of Dust they could get their mitts on for weeks now." Ozpin finished a sip and set down his own scroll.

"It is one of the few places the… victims were able to cobble a defense together, it could be a mere coincidence."

Clark grumbled, zooming in on the rifles the White Fang had been carrying. Some sort of AK-74u expy. The short barrels and folding stocks had probably come in handy in the clown-cars the terrorists used as transports.

Clark highlighted one in yellow "Between the uniforms, the body armor, and the standardized weapons, this cell clearly isn't hurting for resources."

Glynda adjusted her glasses "Not necessarily. The weapons themselves are all from a private manufacturer, cheap things. Usually they were sold in bulk to settlement groups on their way to the countryside."

"Yeah, they're pretty similar to ones back on Earth. They market this variant to drivers?"

"The short ones? To Bullhead pilots, but otherwise yes. My point is that by and large they're obsolete so to make inference-"

Ozpin cleared his throat "While the similarities of inter-dimensional weapon design may be… engrossing; they are not the purpose of this conversation. What is important is discussing our next steps."

Oddly straightforward of the old man "Such as?"

Ozpin shot him a flat look "Your direct methodology."

It took all of Clark's self-restraint to keep from rolling his eyes.

"Hope you're not implying I did this."

"I'm not assigning moral responsibility, but surely you can't think that this sudden escalation happened by chance?"

"No. What I'm saying is that we've hurt them, this was too extreme for anything else."

Ozpin nodded "Perhaps… more likely it frightened or embarrassed the leadership into action. In either case your 'hurting them' has injured the people of Vale far more severely."

Glynda said nothing to this, but she did give a slight nod in Ozpin's direction. Two-on-one, not good odds.

"I understand that perfectly, I've been dealing with terrorists most my life. Which is why I know that them acting out like this means that we need to hit them harder, not slow down."

Glynda interjected here "The issue is that we can't follow up, not that we don't want to. We don't know where they are, and between the Police dealing with the loss of a whole precinct in one of Vale's most dangerous neighborhoods and our hunters dealing with all of the Grimm in the countryside our resources are stretched far too thin to search for them."

"Then find some more, call up whatever you have instead of the National Guard, the Boy Scouts, the Fire Department, anybody." Clark jabbed his finger onto the table "Beg, borrow, or steal whatever manpower you can get your hands on because if they don't suffer for pulling this they will never stop."

He released his breath, Glynda remained silent, Ozpin adjusted his glasses "I do have… some options available, but you won't like them. The Vale Militia are out- they simply don't have the numbers. I will assume you were joking about Scouts and Firemen… that leaves the Syndicate."

Glynda's palm hit the table.

"You want to work with the Gangs, Sir? You know that the White Fang wouldn't be operating in the city without at least the tacit approval of one of them. It's asking the fox to help guard the henhouse."

"In some respects, but it also means that they are in the best position to destroy them. The Syndicate values many things, but chief among them has always been stability. They may have been able to dismiss the threat the White Fang posed to their operations at first, but this last incident could push their hand."

This idea, if Clark could call it that, had potential. "They'll also have eyes and ears in Vale's black market, if the Fang starts selling the Dust or looking to make big-ticket purchases they'll know. All that's assuming that the Syndicate isn't already gunning for them after this little stunt."

A smile began to creep onto Ozpin's face "Well, luckily I have recently made contact with one of the heads of the Syndicate. There was an… incident that got out of hand a couple of nights ago-" he waved Clark down "- the perpetrator has been more than punished, but our insurance did have to cover for some heavily padded damages."

"Doubt they'll be real eager to see you then."

"True, but our interests in this case likely align. They're criminals, but they're not unreasonable."

"I guess we'll see about that."

Ozpin smiled as he swirled his mug. Grey eyes watching the dregs circle the bottom rim "Why, Mr. Clark… they won't be seeing me."

o.o.o

The Club

It'd been a long time since Clark had worn a suit, retirement had been merciful on that front. The suit itself was cheap, Clark had tested it in the changing room and had a good guesstimate of which seams would give out first if this meeting devolved into a brawl. Sadly the first among them would under his crotch.

If he and Glynda screwed this little talk up, he was in for an interesting trip back.

John got the impression The Club was the sort of place he'd have never been caught dead in. Already on the front step the air itself seemed moist and sticky, his undershirt adhering to his skin. The Club wasn't even open, a pair of suited doormen stood out front to keep the overly enthusiastic party-goers out. The men seemed to draw themselves straighter as they approached. When they finally reached the entrance the pair nodded to Glynda and opened the door.

What the hell happened here?Clark doubted he could have made it a single step without trodding on a thick carpet of broken glass. Men milled around, still dressed in the slacks and undershirts they wore under their red-trimmed suits, shoveling glass and debris into wheelbarrows. The room smelled like sweat and fruit-syrup, a glance to the half-trashed shelving behind the bar told him why. He muttered under his breath.

"This your 'Incident' Glynda? Doubt there's a pane left in the whole building."

"Quiet." she muttered, lips drawing themselves into a tight smile. "Junior" was coming, time to present a united front.

The strategy for approaching a Gang that one of Beacon's students had just… handled roughly, had always been unclear. On one hand, there had clearly been some serious brawling and property damage done here. For Beacon's grievance the Academy was responsible for dealing with criminals with Aura. Glynda would normally only have come to The Club if she was ready to put most of, if not all of its employees in handcuffs. On the other hand the White Fang were set to do some serious damage to the city as a whole, something that neither party could take lying down.

The Syndicate needed a relatively functioning society to perch atop and leech off of, and the thing about terrorism was that it was all about spreading terror, which made putting them down a priority for anybody who had to deal with the Grimm.

"Junior" pushed his way out from a double-door next to the bar, probably a back room of some sort. He was flanked by a pair of women that Clark assumed were just old enough to be his daughters. Twins, and twenty at their absolute oldest. Junior was in his "classic" red vest and slacks. The twins flanking him had on what Clark was generously going to call cocktail dresses, but frankly between one being held up by ribbon in place of a belt and the other's being patterned by what looked like newspaper clippings he was going to go ahead and cry uncle on his women's fashion trivia here. The dresses would have seemed ridiculous if they weren't complimented with a pair of absolutely searing glares.

All told the twins looked like they were ready to hold a rave, pickpocket the dancers, then break their kneecaps outside once they failed to show their ticket stubs. Their fashion was an obscene parody of every nouveau-riche criminal Clark had every seen or heard of. He dug his teeth into the tip of his tongue to keep himself from grinning. The two groups stopped and stared at each other across the ruins of the dance-floor, appraising one-another like predators stalking a herd. All things had to come to an end though, and Glynda decided to get the ball rolling.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Xiong. I take it that you've seen the news."

The man's face ratcheted up into a slight, if tortured grin "Yeah, me and everyone else this side of the continent. A patrol goes missing every once and awhile nobody bats an eye, but when somebody smashes the windows of a precinct and starts a little barbecue things tend to get a little awkward." Juniors toadies were still scowling, Clark didn't like the way their eyes seemed glued to him.

Glynda stepped forward, a scowl very firmly fixed on her lips. For just a second Clark swore he could feel wind whistling past his ears towards her. Apparently Junior's 'barbecue' jab hadn't landed well.

"To say the very least.-" she let out a deep sigh before pointing at the twins "-Your… companions?"

Junior gestured to the twins "Daughters of a… business partner from overseas. Melanie-" he gave a nod to the twin in a seafoam dress "-and Miltia Malachite." the girl in the red newspaper-patterned dress stepped forward.

"Who's your hanger-on? Never seen him around here before, he's not a cop. Even with the cheap suit." Made sense. Beacon professors were minor celebrities in their own right within Vale, and Junior fancied himself an information broker. It must have been a little shocking to get cold-cocked twice in a twenty-four hour period, but maybe that bit of shock could be an opening...

Glynda opened her mouth to speak, but Clark beat her to it. "John Clark, Counter-Terrorism Specialist. I've been called in to… provide expertise to Beacon."

Junior's grin took on some actual life at that "'Counter-Terrorism' eh? That some sort of euphemism?"

Clark smiled, then nodded "Something like that."

Glynda cut in here "Mr. Clark will be working in concert with Beacon in dealing with the White Fang and their… contacts. I believe you mentioned some of them in passing?"

Junior nodded, his posture becoming more open as the twins each stepped away from him in a different direction "Torchwick has been putting his own little network of gangs together for just over a decade now. We'd been under the impression he was just building a customer base, but since yesterday none of them are speaking to us-" the girls each seemed to shift slightly at Junior's use of the word 'we'. Clearly this had not been as unforeseen as he'd like to paint it.

Good to know.

"And who is this 'Torchwick'?"

Junior stopped still, Clark saw the twins freeze in his peripheral vision. "Where'd you find this guy? Who the fuck doesn't know who Torchwick is?"

Ah. He'd outed himself a little there.

"I deal with terrorism, not law enforcement."

"What's the difference? I'd have figured you'd at least watched the news."

Clark shrugged. "It doesn't really help, by the time the people I deal with end up in the papers it's generally all over but the crying. If anything my job helps keep things out of the press, keep things discrete."

Glynda flinched at 'papers' and even Junior stalled, but he had diverted pretty cleanly there. Only the twins seemed unfazed. Eventually Junior pulled his eyebrows back down.

"And how exactly do you 'help'?"

Clark widened his smile "Don't worry about it, it won't be a problem for you."

Junior chuckled "Well, I guess the Old Man wasn't joking when he said he wanted to 'resolve the White Fang Issue'. Torching of the station must have him real spooked."

Well, he'd certainly sent a spook. Clark gave a noncommittal shrug "So, this network is what's supporting the Fang in Vale?"

"All the obvious stuff, yeah."

"And the less obvious stuff?"

Junior grabbed a bottle and glass from behind the bar "Not much can be done about that."

The twins actually winced this time, Red was a little more frustrated than Green, but neither took that implicit admission of weakness well. Not exactly surprising why, it meant that Junior was having a hard time reining-in his people. Even so, the fact that they were the ones making a big deal of him admitting this spoke volumes. They weren't actually meeting with just one organization at all here, were they? In any case, it was clear the twin's were a little more important than mere bodyguards or arm-candy. Glynda paced towards the center, glass crunching under the heels of her boots.

"With all of that said, Junior; I believe we can get down to the actual negotiations now. Clark, if you could… keep our host's friends company?"

It wasn't really a suggestion. So as Glynda and Junior walked off to the back rooms to finalize things Clark made his way to the bar. The twins had slinked over to either side of it. Clark swept a layer of drywall dust off of the bartop, pacing past the stools until his eyes fell on a bowl of almonds. The nuts themselves were covered in the same fine powder as the bar itself. Clark dug to bottom layers, bringing a hopefully clean one to his mouth and biting in.

Still sharp, nutty, and brittle. The 'incident' had actually occurred very recently then. Almonds didn't last as long out in the open as some other nuts, especially this close to sea level. Of course the fact the bowl hadn't been cleaned up told its own story, both about the timeline and the extent of the damages. Clark craned his head upwards, finding a pattern not too dissimilar from twenty-gauge buckshot had cut into the ceiling. The faint scorchmarks around the edges of the holes told him the shell had likely included Fire-Dust in its pellets. A flash of color out of the corner of his eye. The girls had taken advantage of his distraction to close in on both sides of him. He faced the wall of bottles and grabbed another almond. The girl to his left spoke.

"Are you really going to let your boss go off alone with Junior like that?" Clark didn't even have to turn his head, the tone of her voice alone was enough to construct a shit-eating grin in his head. He ignored her and brought the nut up to his mouth, only for her sister to swoop in from his right, swiping it from his grasp before it made it past his teeth.

"You know, they could be getting up to all kinds of things back there. Junior loves blondes, and she does have a certain… appeal. You know, for a mature woman." Seafoam girl- Junior had called her Melanie slowly brought her stolen almond to her lips. God only knew what demonesses these two were when The Club was actually running and the booze was flowing. They certainly had the look down, and they either had a routine or they were really were just that in-sync.

Clark swiped it back, the girl almost leaping backwards at the motion. Her eyes shot open momentarily, then narrowed. She hadn't expected him to be that fast.

"That-" Clark tossed the almond into his mouth "-would be a very good way to lose a hand." A small part of Clark was annoyed with himself for rising to the bait, but ceding them any control here could be catastrophic. Perhaps it would have been smarter to play along, but frankly Clark had been humbled enough yesterday. He wasn't really a social infiltrator anyway. He slid the bowl over to Melanie, who pointedly ignored it. Somebody was a sore loser.

The workers were playing music over a portable speaker as they shoveled debris, it had been a distant thing before but with the silence settling in it began to fill the space. Newspaper girl… Miltia rapped her knuckles into the counter to the beat. Clark his eyes focused on the wall in front of him, but his attention was split between the corners on either side.

The song ended and the beat of the music tapered off, Militia humphed then trailed off. Her curiosity eventually got the better of her though. "You ever kill anybody?"

Clark turned his head to her, then shrugged "It's a dangerous job."

She snickered "You sure aren't dressed to kill, that's for sure."

Clark shrugged again.

The other sister's eyebrow lifted "This morning, a bunch of small-timers were found dead in their hangout. Broken necks, splattered skulls, none of them got so much as a shot off in return."

Well what would you know, they really were info-brokers. He did his best to keep a neutral expression as she continued.

"The strangest part is that it doesn't fit the description of any known… contractors. In fact, other than their missing scrolls and Lien, it looks like a totally unprovoked attack. A thorough one too."

"Gangster can be a pretty dangerous job too, you know."

Melanie made a show of rolling her eyes at him, before vaulting over the bar and reaching under the counter, grabbing a bottle and a pair of glasses. She poured a shot of a brown liquor into the shot-glass and got ready to send it down the bar. This time it was her who got to slide things and Clark who got to ignore it. Her sister caught it anyway, mitigating the effect of his cold shoulder. Miltia downed it in one go before firing off again.

"Why's Beacon trying to get all chummy with us all of the sudden?"

"Why'd you accept the meeting? Hell, isn't your whole thing that you're supposed to know everything? Why are you even asking questions?"

There was a slight clunking as Melanie set her drink down, sliding the bottle past Clark and to her sister. "That's the thing about knowing things, people have to tell you them first, and even if you know the what…"

Miltia slammed her glass down again, though he hadn't even seen her raise it yet "The why is a bitch and a half to put together unless somebody tells you."

"So...-" Melanie muttered "-what gives? You can't expect us to play if you don't tell us what rules to play by."

Clark nodded, pulling his hand from the bowl and sparing the almonds for the time being. They'd served their purpose anyway "Oddly enough, we're being pretty direct here. We want to deal with the White Fang before things get to ugly, and now so do you. Besides, isn't it Junior's call whether or not you guys… 'play' or not?"

The girls exchanged a smirk from across him.

"Junior's a dear, don't get us wrong. But between you and us… he's a little man in some big shoes. If Roman had wanted to play kingpin instead of gentleman-thief, well he'd have been fed to the crabs years ago."

"It has been awhile since we took a trip to the docks, hasn't it?"

They both gleamed at him, smiles predatory. He returned it. "its been awhile since I got to drag someone under myself, not since they forced me into a suit and tie."

The door to the backrooms crashed open. Glynda and Junior stepped out without so much as a glance towards one another. Junior still had both of his hands, Clark took that to mean the negotiations had gone as well as could be hoped. She gave him a curt nod and he stood up from the bar to follow her, Clark could feel the eyes of the Malachites drilling into his back as he walked away. He wished they were merely angry, but couldn't bring himself to hope it.

Their smiles, for all of their promised violence, were far too sincere.

o.o.o

"A number five with cheese, and a chicken sandwich please."

"Would you like fries with that?" The freckled face across the counter warbled back to him.

Clark chewed it over for a second, before remembering his companion's white blouse "Sure, but would you mind taking the ketchup off the sandwich?" the kid nodded and Clark handed over a couple cards of Lien. The employee offered a number-card from a stack next to the register, Clark took it and shuffled over the greasy floors to his and Glynda's table. She pulled her eyes up from her device just long enough to meet his over the frames of her glasses. Glynda set down her scroll and pulled down one of the sleeves of her blouse.

"I'd say that went about as well as could be expected."

"Even with all of the…"

"Sexual harassment?"

She shrugged "I was going to say the implied threats and blatant lies, but that as well."

Clark set down the marker, turning it slightly so the employees could see it from the counter.

"Yeah. Do you think it'll work?"

Glynda slipped her scroll into what Clark presumed was either a pocket somewhere in her dress or her boots. He'd never seen her with a purse.

"It will have to do. Frankly he was surprisingly pliant, forthcoming even. I think Junior was a little cleverer than he was letting show."

Clark brought the straw of his fountain drink up, some sort of root beer with a cartoon beaver on the logo. It was good, a little sweet and heavy on the vanilla but otherwise satisfying.

"That's what I'd say for the twins too, they figured out pretty quick their little honeypot wasn't making much headway and changed tactics. Made a solid shot at it too, either trained or just experienced."

Glynda let out a chuckle, the first overtly positive emotion he'd seen from her "The Malachites are the preeminent crime family in Mistral. Their mother effectively runs the lower two thirds of their capital. It is almost certainly both."

"By lower two thirds, do you mean-"

"Literally? Yes. Mistral is built around a mountain." She took a sip from her iced tea, cringed at the taste, then set it down. "Speaking of which, your lack of knowledge of our world is becoming-"

Clark took another draw of soda while she measured out her words. It really wasn't half bad, the soda, that is. That could have been the near-entire week of calorie deficit speaking though. He took another draw, just to be sure. No, it really was just that good. Between the old-fashioned looking cars, the old-fashioned style soda, and the burger joint Clark was feeling pretty nostalgic. He noted Glynda's finger tapping absentmindedly on the table.

"-Problematic." she finished.

"Sorry about that. I've barely been here a week, and I didn't exactly get a thorough briefing on the way in. Beacon's got a library, right?"

"Indeed, but the extent of your lack of knowledge is concerning. This goes double considering that Ozpin was looking to enroll you as a cover."

Clark gasped through his straw, forcing soda into his lungs and bringing a former Navy SEAL closer to drowning than he'd been in decades. As he thumped his chest he saw a couple of nearby tables glance at him, but then the din of the dinner rush drowned out his coughs and they stopped their rubbernecking. Glynda chuckled again.

"I suspected you wouldn't appreciate that."

"Damn right I wouldn't! I barely know what the soda flavors are over here, and I'm ninety for Christ's sake. You have co-ed dorms!"

She raised an eyebrow at him "Do you really have such a low opinion of your self-control?"

"That's well besides the point and you know it. Pass."

"It would be an excellent opportunity to integrate you into the culture, our freshmen come from all over Remnant, from all walks of life."

"They're also young enough to be my grandkids- scratch that, great grandkids. The answer's no."

Glynda played with her straw, weighing the benefits of another break to choose her words against the disappointment of actually consuming this place's iced tea.

"Would you perhaps consider a role as a Professor at Large? 'Counter-Insurgency' as you put it, appears be a growing field. Frankly most of the students we've had recently have been… sub-optimal combatants-" she grumbled "-when dealing with people that is. Brother's know they can kill wave after wave of Grimm."

Clark shook his head again "That's got its own problems. It's a cover, but way too high-profile. It also does the exact opposite of integrating me into the culture. Pass."

Glynda was smiling across the table now. They both hardly noticed it when their server skated in and set down their trays. She'd planned this, there was no way somebody this put-together would be that happy with two refusals in a row otherwise.

"There is another position available, of course. We've had some recent retirements in our staff. I've been tasked to find a replacement, but I think we could find something within your skillset." she tore a chunk out of her chicken sandwich, but Clark doubted it was good enough to justify her grin. Might as well find out what had her so smug.

"Well, go on. Lay it on me."

Glynda washed her bite down with a sip of tea, wiping some crumbs from her lips with a napkin. She must have been using one of those newer lipsticks, that or what she was about to say was cold enough to freeze it to her lips.

"Beacon, has need for a Groundskeeper."

"A groundskeeper?"

"Groundskeeper."

Clark took a look down at his burger, it was an unimpressive thing, but he'd had far worse. It beat scorpions and the other insects from survival courses by a mile. Not that the patty probably didn't have bugs in it already, especially if the state of the floors spoke for the rest of the restaurant. He wrapped his hands around the bun, pulling his burger from its bed of fries.

"When do I start?"

Fleck

Fleck would have done literally anything to be somewhere else right now. He would have gladly slipped back into the sewer he'd traveled up from and stuck a straw into the stream of waste if it could have somehow, just somehow gotten him out of this. It wouldn't happen though.

When Adam Taurus called, everybody answered. Unless they wanted their head to have a very traumatic separation from their shoulders. The Vale chapter of the White Fang had changed drastically just in the month or so Taurus had taken charge of it. In times past, they were mostly an intelligence arm. The most action they could expect would be the occasional bit of vandalism or robbery to raise funds. Sure they'd had guns, but they never actually needed to fire them.

All told it had been pretty light work by the standards of terrorism. No nightly raids, no hits on small-time gangs who fucked with Faunus-run stores, and certainly no death-squads raiding police stations. Thing's had certainly heated up, Fleck hadn't even known they'd had death squads. It certainly hadn't made its way into the brochures, but then again a lot of things hadn't.

A deep rumbling came from behind him. Fleck shifted out of the way instinctively as Banesaw, one of Adam's Lieutenants, came up from behind. The man was massive, an absolute mountain of muscled and barely-contained rage. The fact he was carrying a chainsaw-sword hybrid as long as Fleck was tall probably kept most of his conversations civil, or at least very short. Fleck got the impression that they were all going to need that tonight. The acid smell of tension was rapidly replacing the… floral scent of the sewers that had attached itself to the throng.

There were at least a dozen of them. White Fang had been pulled from cells all over the city for this little get-together. Whoever Taurus was meeting with, he wanted muscle to spare. Fleck flexed his hands on the pistol-grip of his gun, the texture of the aged plastic provided him little comfort. The rest of the group wasn't any better, pacing back and forth and shooting glances behind their back. Only Taurus was calm, still sitting serenely atop the tallest crate as if it were a throne. His shock of read hair unmistakable in the dim of the warehouse, pitch black to human eyes.

Fleck counted at least a dozen members here, he even recognized the ears of a doe Faunus he'd been trying to hit-on at a rally last month. His eyes wandered downwards for a moment.

Yup. Definitely her. He licked his palm and slicked back his hair, giving a little extra tender love and care to the pair of Hyena ears sticking out the top of it. There were no mirrors in the loose pile of crates they were milling around, but Fleck prided himself on his ability to maintain his appearance. It was pretty unlikely that he'd done anything to mess that up while putting on his snazzy new uniform, and his mask only hid the top half of his face.

There was a massive metallic groan, at the other end of the warehouse the cargo doors began to pull to the side. It permitted a sleek black limousine to slide in, the crunkling of the tires was the only sound made as it pulled to a stop in front of the group. Adam Taurus leapt down from his perch and walked towards the vehicle. Banesaw and the Doe followed him, which Fleck took to mean he should also. The back door opened.

Fleck wasn't sure what he was expecting to step out of there. Well, no. He was pretty damned certain it was going to be Roman Torchwick, which made the drop-dead brunette in a dress that might as well have been painted-on all the more shocking. Fleck spent a moment admiring the view, confident that the darkness rendered him and his comrades invisible to her human eyes. She took a couple of steps towards them, rolled her eyes and raised her hand.

SNAP!

BANG!

In an instant the woman became a pillar of pure white flame. Fleck's world went white as her light flooded his sensitive corneas. The wind rushing into his face felt like he was leaning over a hot stove. Then, as soon as it had started it stopped. The flame collapsing into the size of a tennis ball and hovering in the palm of her hand.

She stepped out of her perfectly circular scorchmark in the newly-cracked concrete around her. Even as she moved towards them the cracks widened, the cement itself was still clearly figuring out what the fuck had just happened. Fleck would let it know when he figured it out.

"Adam."

Her voice was high-pitched, almost childlike. With powers like that it really wasn't a wonder she was able to get away with it, if she hadn't just turned into a human flashbang he'd be laughing right now. As it was he counted himself lucky that the warmth he could feel pouring down his body was sweat, not piss. If his nose was to be trusted not everybody was so lucky. Adam hadn't moved a muscle.

"All alone Cinder? Where are your lackeys?"

"Awfully bold of you to assume I would share information like that with you. Awfully bold of you to think I'd need them to handle-" the air in the room jumped at least ten degrees "-this particular conversation." she was among them now, not even sparing the various Fang members a passing glance. She ran her fingers through the flames in her palms like it was a fine cloth.

"I assume this is about the Raid?"

Cinder stopped cold.

"Yes. 'The Raid'. That's really what you're calling it? What it looks like is a massacre. Pray tell, what could have ever given you the impression it was a good idea?"

"The bastards massacred an entire cell, at the same time at least three other groups were ambushed while collecting Dust for your little scheme. The White Fang can't afford to let humans think we can be trifled with like that."

Cinder scoffed "A building full of improperly stored hazardous materials blew up. There was no reason to suspect police involvement, and even if there was, this was a drastic and dramatic step. One that should not-" she pulsed a searing heat into the air "-should not have happened without my approval."

"The White Fang does not seek the approval of humans."

"Are you talking about the White Fang, or yourself?"

Adam growled, hand reaching down to the sword at his hip.

"I have given everything to the Fang."

"Except your pride, and now it has endangered our entire operation in Vale. I do not take failure lightly, I take unforced errors even less so." she continued her pacing, fighters stepping out of her way as she went. Adam remained silent.

"Choose one."

"What?"

"Pick. An. Underling. Taurus. If you really want to make these kinds of choices, you get to choose who suffers for your errors."

Fleck expected Adam to scream, to strike, to pull out his sword and take this bitch on for even daring this. Instead, he pointed at the doe.

"Bane."

He was on her in a flash, she didn't even have time to respond before he yanked her weapon from its sling. Bane tossed the gun to the floor and carried her to the bitch, he gave one last look to Taurus. Taurus nodded and Bane placed her down in front of Cinder. Cinder grabbed her by the chin and lifted her, an obscene parody of an affectionate gesture.

"Pleasepleaseplease, you don't have to do this." her voice came out as more of a whistle.

The temperature didn't spike this time, instead it ramped up. Fleck expected a flash of flame, but the only light came from the flame held aloft in her off hand. Even as Cinder held her victim off the ground with the other. He had no idea what was happening until he heard the sizzling. Then the screaming started in earnest. There was no missing the sight of steam even in this darkness.

And the smell, oh dear Brother Gods the smell. Fleck wished it was just urine and excrement, just the harsh pheromones of panic and despair. But there was also cooking meat, steaming clothes, and worst of all hair. The screaming filled the warehouse, echoing against the corrugated metal. Somehow hearing that fade away twisted his heart all the more. Content that her point had been made, Cinder dropped her.

No one tried to help. Sure she was well beyond it, but it was telling anyway.

"Satisfied?"

Cinder stopped admiring her handiwork to give a quick head tilt to Taurus.

"Quite. See to it I don't have to make a repeat performance."

With that she turned on her heel and got back into her limousine. The tires left dark black streaks on the floor as she pulled back out, and when Fleck tried to move his feet he found that the rubber of his sneakers had partially melted to the floor. Adam turned to address the group.

"Meeting over! Return to your cells and await orders." His knuckles were pearl-white on his sword's handle "Bane, get a clean-up detail together. Get her out of here!"

A strong hand dropped onto his shoulder, no guessing as to who the clean-up party would be. He and a few others were herded towards the corpse. It was even uglier up close, not as if having one's brain boiled inside their skull was a fast way to go. Fleck volunteered to take her feet, leaving the others to jockey for her head and arms. Bane didn't offer to help, which probably would have told Fleck a lot if he wasn't a little focused on carrying a corpse.

And Fleck had thought things were heating up in the White Fang before.