8. Dust in the Wind
Mozenrath had made short work of bringing the Datascape to life in the Hotlands laboratory, inserting the disc into one of the computer terminals and using magical projections to create multiple screens on which he could put information regarding multiple worlds. It was a digital, colorful version of his makeshift study in the throne room with its now-obsolete papers pinned up on the walls. Since obtaining the Datascape, Mozenrath was enthralled by, almost addicted to his wealth of information. He couldn't even really filter out what was and wasn't relevant. He just wanted to see, to know, to dream. Every byte deeper into the data revealed more worlds, names he'd never heard of before – worlds with strange names, like "Abarat" and "Monstropolis," and even one called "The World of Twelve," of all things – and notes about what in them was magical and what was otherwise crucially important to infrastructure. Now, instead of hours in the throne room, he spent hours poring over this information in the laboratory, barely paying attention to his associates coming in and out to fine-tune their weapons or work up some other scientific wonder until the hour that Yzma roughly seized him by the back of the collar and dragged him out of the room. It was only because he liked her so much that he didn't force her to let go by trying to melt off her face.
"What are you DOING?" he growled roughly.
"You haven't slept," Yzma told him. "You haven't eaten. And you haven't said a word to any of us. Do you have any idea of how many things Mim has destroyed because you weren't there to keep an eye on her?"
"It's not my job to be the Mim Police."
"We're all going down to a local bar for a karaoke night."
"You're KIDDING me," Mozenrath groaned.
"It's not as though you've found anything productive for us to do in all that mess!" Yzma hissed.
"I didn't think Roman could show his face in public without the police jumping down his throat," Mozenrath pointed out.
"About that," Yzma sighed. "He and Snatcher have worked up a…plan."
...
Finding a white gown that fit Roman Torchwick was surprisingly not as hard as one would think. Finding a wig of glossy white hair and styling it up into curls pinned at the top of the scalp was even easier. The difficult part of dressing Roman as a woman in order to earn him a dual identity, as Snatcher soon found out, was getting his face to look different. It took him almost too long to realize that because Roman wore eyeliner and mascara daily, keeping those components made his eyes recognizable. Only when Snatcher completely wiped Roman's eyes clean and added nothing but a glittery silver shadow did he see a difference.
Roman hadn't protested at the idea one bit. In fact, he'd welcomed it enthusiastically. His exact wording had been along the lines of "Just imagine the looks on their faces when they get an eyeful of the TorchCHICK!"
To which Snatcher had responded, "I truly hope that isn't the alias you're running with."
Now, Roman's eyes were closed as Snatcher fussed with the shadow on their lids. "How's it look now?" Roman asked.
"Less like you," Snatcher told him. "Which is what we wanted." He set down the shadow, wiping the remains of it off his finger and picking up a brush. Applying rouge – or, as they called it here, "blush" – was so much simpler on this world than it was in Snatcher's point of origin. He gently dusted it over Roman's cheekbones, highlighting them. As he did so, he couldn't help but think about how Roman had quite fine facial features, admittedly pleasing to the eye.
"But am I sexy?" Roman asked teasingly.
That question was a loaded gun. From Snatcher's viewpoint, the answer was yes. And that only became all the more clear the more he worked at close range like this.
"Enough for our purposes," Snatcher said briskly. "Now don't speak." He uncapped a tube of lipstick.
Thoughts about his associate's attractiveness certainly had no place in the scheming room or on the battlefield, Snatcher resigned. Besides, he was used to taking such thoughts and sealing them away. Back in Cheesebridge, they'd all guessed the truth about him: that he found the sight of a beautiful man a far more enticing prospect than that of a beautiful woman. That became a point of gossip about him, and combined with his station, the way he looked compared to most of the upper class, and later in life, his obvious ambition – why did that seem to scare most people away? Did they not have ambitions of their own, and even less savory than killing trolls? – it had contributed to making him an outcast. The rumor mill churned based on a few slip-ups he'd made speaking to Lord Portley-Rind in their younger days, back when the redheaded lord was actually attractive: a trait that had been dulled by his dismissiveness and his tendency to always be the only thing standing between Snatcher and what he wanted. But while Snatcher had a thick skin off which most gossip could bounce, he didn't dare confirm out loud that he was, in fact, a homosexual. That would have gotten him banned from the Tasting Room for life. He was aware of what a proper man should and should not think, and while the gossip was strong, it was still only gossip.
But here, things were different. (He forced himself to concentrate on this internal monologue as he swiped the lipstick over Roman's shapely mouth, then dabbed the excess gently away with a tissue. Another process that had been simplified on this world.) Here, no one jeered him for wearing the gown of Madame Frou Frou, which he intended to bring out to this pub (or "bar," he supposed) that Yzma had found. And they'd seen a lot of things Snatcher wouldn't have believed possible, let alone acceptable: magic, mice that ruled kingdoms, loopholes against death itself. Perhaps they wouldn't judge him for being what he was. Perhaps another one of them was the same. Perhaps that one was Torchwick –
But as much as it seemed they'd known each other for a long time, it really hadn't been that long at all. Roman was only an associate. No, something a little better than that: a friend. The entire WHAM ARMY was an incredible leap away from the likes of Misters Trout, Pickles, and Gristle: in Snatcher's eyes, far more competent and more appreciative of the concept of having a dream. Roman Torchwick in particular was loud, reckless, and as violent as they came, but as proper as Snatcher had once fancied himself, he liked that his companion was willing to get his hands dirty and had so much fun in it. Roman didn't let dreams slip away from him; he walked right up to them and threatened them into submission at gunpoint, much like he did with anything else. He understood strength and weakness, and working with him was more often than not a joy. Yes, Snatcher relented, Roman was a friend. But so was everyone else in the group, surprisingly. Snatcher could only recall ever finding one person at any given time who he felt deserved his respect, let alone friendship. He supposed it simply came of there being one on every world – or, in the case of Mozenrath and Aghoul, two. But what it all added up to was that even here and now, as Snatcher capped the lipstick and put it down, he was not supposed to be thinking anything overly appreciative about Roman Torchwick's physical features. He was a friend and associate: nothing more.
"All right, then," Snatcher announced. "Have a look."
Roman opened his eyes, then turned to the mirror. Staring back at him seemed to be an altogether different person: a woman of white hair and dress, her face delicately made up. "Whoa," he said softly. "I am HOT."
"There are two more things you'll need before you're to go out like that," Snatcher warned. "First off, you'll want to do something about that voice."
"Right." Roman immediately shifted to a higher register. "How d'ya like me now, boys?"
"It'll take more than that." Snatcher couldn't fight a smirk at Roman's test run. "You'll want to speak with a completely different accent."
"Hmmm." Roman thought it over. The next words that came out of his mouth were not only in a higher range, but in an accent that the people of most Earth territories would have labeled as Russian: "What about this? Does this work?"
"Now make it softer," Snatcher commanded.
When Roman asked "Like this? This good?", it sounded as though the words were spoken by a woman.
"Perfect." Snatcher's smirk only grew wider. "And last, your name. 'Torchchick' is right out, so don't even suggest it."
"Huh." Roman stared at himself in the mirror, thinking it over. He looked at all the white that had been chosen for his palette. On Remnant, everyone was named for color in the great attempt to reclaim creativity and individuality postwar. While he hadn't been the biggest advocate of peace, he was a fan of the aesthetic, though he had to wonder exactly how individual it made you to name your children after the same thing everyone else was naming them. "Is there a word," Roman asked, "for a fire that burns so hot, it's white?"
"I believe the word you are searching for is 'incandescent.'"
"Incandescent," Roman repeated. "That is a TERRIBLE first name. Okay, last name it is. First name's still gotta be fire, though." He snapped his fingers. "Got it."
"Let's hear it."
Roman spread his arms. "Fiammetta Incandescent."
Snatcher loved it. "It's absolutely perfect. Quite…you."
"Thank you."
"Now, out with you!" Snatcher playfully stepped behind Roman and shoved at his shoulders to get him out of the room. "I've got to change yet. It's time for Madame Frou Frou to make her debut appearance in Knightdock, after all!"
...
Mozenrath stared at "Fiammetta" in confusion for a moment before just shrugging it off. "Just don't get recognized."
"Where's Yzma?" Mim asked; she, Aghoul, Wuya, and the Huntsman had met up with Roman and Mozenrath in Judgment Hall, careful not to step on or dislodge the boxed Cornerstone.
"I'm guessing she's trying on the fifth excessively sequined outfit," Mozenrath sighed.
"I could have just helped her with that," Wuya pointed out; the Heylin witch was wearing a tight-fitting purple gown with a slitted skirt and a glittering, plunging neckline. She'd conjured it and its matching amethyst jewelry herself.
"You and your clothes!" Mim huffed. "I still don't understand why you make such a big deal out of it! Waste of time, if you ask me!"
"I'm inclined to agree," the Huntsman huffed.
"You realize that helmet's just going to draw attention," Mozenrath reminded him.
"No one in this world knows of its significance," the Huntsman replied. "Therefore, it remains."
Mozenrath never regretted recruiting the Huntsman. The man was talented as he was ruthless. However, he was constantly reminded that the Huntsman was a great enigma. He knew the basics of why the man sought to eradicate magical creatures, but it always seemed there was something more than the reasons he gave, some personal grudge he wasn't about to divulge. And beyond slaying dragons and their ilk, what else was there to the Huntsman? He'd adopted his profession as his name; was that really all there was to him? No matter how much Mozenrath pored over the Datascape, he knew he wouldn't find the answers there to what lay inside the Huntsman's heart and mind. He did theorize, however, that the Huntsman's reluctance to removing his helmet and balaclava had to do with the fact that no one in the room but Mozenrath had seen him without it, and he wasn't willing to change that.
"Waste of time?" Roman snorted. "Try telling Archie that. He's putting together a bit of a spectacle as we speak. Oh, and by the way, this 'waste of time' is what gets me out on the town without being recognized as public enemy number one."
Finally, Snatcher and Yzma strode into the hall side by side, clad in blue and purple respectively, with more than enough sequins and ruffles. Their matching sets of almost dangerously high heels clicked against the Judgment Hall floor. "We're ready when you are," Yzma announced.
"You mean half an hour ago?" Aghoul responded. That just earned him a smack on the back of the head by Yzma.
...
The bar that Yzma had located was out of the way, but not quite on the limits of Knightdock. The atmosphere was warm and cheery, with humans and monsters alike clinking their glasses in toasts while signing up in alternation for the karaoke. When Mozenrath and his seven associates entered, they turned some heads momentarily, but soon everyone went back to minding their own business, as well as the business of whoever happened to be on the stage at the moment.
Mozenrath had never liked this sort of establishment. It was simply too loud, with too many people being too happy. A quiet night in with a book was more his style. But he really hadn't eaten since discovering the Datascape, and the bar was warm with the smell of fried food. He doubted his ability to order a quality Khoresh Ghormeh Sabzi, but he was ready to try whatever was on the menu to quiet the growling in his stomach.
He and the Huntsman claimed a large table in the back of the bar while the other six crowded around the signup list for karaoke. They'd all had access to enough radios to have heard and taken to heart some favorite songs.
"I don't understand what makes them so eager to sing," the Huntsman sighed. "It isn't as though we're being productive."
"I knew there was a reason I liked you," Mozenrath replied. "If I wasn't starving to death, I wouldn't be here." He then stopped to think it over. "Why are YOU here?"
"It seemed disloyal to refuse to come," the Huntsman admitted. "As our leader, I would think you would have been all the more concerned with giving them your time. After all, if they should decide they don't need you…"
"Wuya has been known to be a chronic backstabber," Mozenrath admitted. "I suppose I should be a little more concerned with mutiny." He watched Mim and Yzma fight over the pen for the signup sheet and found himself smiling. "There is something kind of enjoyable about them, though."
"I suppose," the Huntsman replied blandly.
"You suppose?"
"For some reason, I haven't turned my back on all of you. Perhaps it's simply that I fear you will put me back where you found me. Perhaps it is more."
"What did they have lined up for you, anyway?" Mozenrath asked. "In Tartarus, I mean."
"I should not have been there," the Huntsman replied. "I was truly dead, but I was noble. Only now would I consider myself worthy of Tartarus."
"Because you joined up with us?"
"Precisely."
"And is it worth it so far?" Mozenrath asked.
The Huntsman was silent an indeterminably long time before answering, "Stunningly, I believe it has been."
Mozenrath was about to bring up that the Huntsman was an expert at dodging questions before reiterating that he wanted to know what sort of punishment the Huntsman had suffered at the hands of Hades, but he was interrupted when the rest of the gaggle of villains came back to the table to announce that they'd finished sign-ups. Food and drinks were ordered; Roman tensed up while waiting for Snatcher to pick something, not wanting to deal with another allergenic fit. He let out a sigh of relief when a tray of oysters on the half shell was selected instead. Money was no object, as Roman had seen fit to stock the entire group up by terrorizing the local banks just for outings such as this. Mozenrath pondered the beverage list; while the others were all calling for glasses of alcoholic drinks of various potency, Mozenrath preferred not to dull his senses so. They weren't big on wine and beer where he came from, anyhow. He opted for a coffee instead.
"Penelope Frou Frou" was the first to get called up for karaoke, and while the food was laid out on the table, the others watched Snatcher belt out a soprano ballad with staggering high notes. He hit every one of them perfectly. At some point, Mim noticed the absolutely flabbergasted look on Roman's face. "Fiammetta?" she asked cautiously.
"Nobody told me he had a voice like an angel," Roman whispered, just low enough for the others at the table to hear.
As more and more were called up to the stage, they noticed a rather interesting phenomenon taking place with Mozenrath. While at first he was thoroughly disinterested in the karaoke altogether, he began slowly applauding each of his associates after a song, but then getting more and more enthusiastic about it. After Yzma finished up a sultry number about wanting to be evil, Mozenrath outright stood up and gave her a standing ovation, whistling. Everyone in the bar stared at him.
"What's going on?" Aghoul whispered to Wuya, more than a little concerned.
"I…don't know," Wuya replied.
Her eyes then flicked to Mozenrath's drinking mug. During the days when all he'd been surrounded by was Mamluks, he had no way of knowing how his behavior changed when he was under the influence of such things as caffeine. Now, however, his friends were seeing the result of what happened when you gave the sorcerer coffee.
He fully leapt over the table, planting his foot in Aghoul's plate and kicking over the Huntsman's pint glass, to go scrawl his name on the karaoke signups.
Before Mozenrath could take the stage, he had to wait his turn after "Fiammetta Incandescent." Roman tried his very best to keep up his effeminate, accented voice while singing. However, no matter what voice he used, it didn't change the fact that he was consistently off-key. Mozenrath booed and threw his coffee cup at the stage; Yzma, inspired, joined in the booing. Roman threw a glare in their direction, but refused to abandon the stage until his song was done.
As Mozenrath watched and listened to the horrible spectacle, feeling far too energetic for his own good, he took a moment to consider the lyrics being sung. For whatever reason, Roman had picked out a weepy ballad about how nothing lasted forever and everything in existence was just dust in the wind. Something about the phrase clicked for Mozenrath. Dust. Roman Torchwick. Suddenly, he knew! The answer to one of his conundrums had been staring him in the face all along!
But before he could make his realization known, Mozenrath was called to the stage. Excitedly, he teleported there, shoving Roman out of the way so that he could begin loudly belting an emo-pop number about taking back crowns and being so close to your dream, you could taste it.
"You have to admit, he's surprisingly good," Wuya remarked as she watched.
"At singing, yes," Yzma replied. "Dancing, not so much."
To prove Yzma's point, Mozenrath got his ankles tangled in the microphone cord and fell right over. Being on the floor didn't slow down his song one bit.
...
After a massive caffeine crash, Mozenrath awoke with a throbbing headache in his own bed. He couldn't remember if he'd put himself there or if someone else had brought him in.
Xerxes hovered over him worriedly. "Mozenrath okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine," Mozenrath grunted. "Last night was the LAST night I convince them to bring me out for…karaoke."
He rolled over in bed only to be struck, like a cold douse of water, with the realization he'd made last night during Roman's song. He scrambled out of bed. How hadn't he made the connection earlier? All things considered, he thought, he really should have thought of this before the Cornerstone of Light.
...
In a few moments, he had the other seven arranged in Judgment Hall to hear him out.
"The element of earth," Mozenrath began. "We're looking for a pure concentration of it. A magical concentration. A supernatural manifestation of earth. Now, what is earth?" He waited to see if anyone would chime in with an answer.
"Dirt," Wuya supplied after a while.
"You know, there was a team at Beacon called DERT," Roman recalled. "And oh, boy, were they a bunch of screw-ups."
"Yes, dirt," Mozenrath confirmed. "Or, as some people like to call it, dust."
"Wait." Roman blinked a few times. "Are you going where I think you're going with this?"
"Capital-D Dust," Mozenrath confirmed. "Powders and crystals that correspond to various magics. All in the form of earth. If we gather enough of it, it might just be what we need to fill in that twelfth of our little web."
"Already covered," Roman stated casually. "Remember my little stash? All we need to do is pop on over to Vale and pick it up."
"Will all eight of us be necessary for this mission?" the Huntsman asked.
"I want us to carry out as much as possible," Mozenrath answered. "So yes. Our next destination will be the kingdom of Vale."
...
Vale was shrouded in gray, the sun blotted out from the sky by overhanging clouds. While the humans who still lived within the kingdom tried to do their best to go about business as usual, they were hindered by the hordes of Grimm that entered the city en masse, invited in by their fears. Many had fled, leaving the city to be half populated by Grimm. The few people who remained were the brave and the strong, trying to scrap together what could be salvaged of the city.
From their vantage point on a rooftop, Mozenrath, Roman, Snatcher, Mim, Yzma, Aghoul, Wuya, and the Huntsman surveyed it all. "So it's a bit of a fixer-upper," Roman remarked with a shrug. "But hey. It's home."
"Fixer-upper?" Mim repeated. "I LOVE it!"
"Why can't we move in HERE?" Aghoul asked Mozenrath. "It's suitably dark and gloomy!"
"If you want to move here and deal with the hordes of monsters breaking down the walls, be my guest," Mozenrath offered.
"How did it get like this, anyway?" Wuya asked. She fired a glance at Roman: "Tell me you had something to do with this."
"Well, SOMETHING, yes," Roman confirmed. "This was actually my old boss' idea. She sent out her three little minions to rope me and a bunch of Faunus into doing all this. It was a great idea in theory. I got to lead an air strike, gun down a few ships full of soldiers, set a horde of killer robots loose on the general public…good times. Real good times."
"But then one of those monsters ate you." Mozenrath gestured upward to where a pair of enormous Nevermores circled overhead, their black wings standing out starkly against the gray sky.
When Roman looked up at them, he momentarily flinched. Hoping no one had seen that, he went on, "Well, there were a few flaws in the plan. Ours is a lot better."
"Do we have to worry about this boss of yours?" Snatcher asked.
"We shouldn't," Roman responded. "This should just be a simple mission. We get in, we get Dust, we get outta dodge. And it's all in the warehouse we're standing on. If we make this quick, we shouldn't have to deal with anything too unsavory."
Mozenrath teleported them all to the ground, and Roman strode toward the warehouse doors. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced. "And Ayam Aghoul."
"What did I ever do to you?" Aghoul huffed.
"May I present to you…" Roman dragged open one enormous door and gestured inside the warehouse. "Dust paradise."
The looks on his associates' faces tipped Roman off immediately to the fact that something was wrong. "Huh…?" He stepped around the door to take a look inside the warehouse, expecting to see the piles of crates he'd been able to nip the ammo that loaded his and Snatcher's weapons from.
But the storeroom was completely bare.