- To Serve With Honor -
Orange tendrils snaked through distant clouds above an amethyst sea as the morning sun peered tentatively over the horizon onto a new day. As usual - with the exception of the graveyard patrols of Legionnaires and VDF guardsmen - the pair of Specialists were the only members of Beacon's populace who could reasonably claim to be awake and productive at quarter to six in the morning on the first day of classes.
Having spent most of the night half-awake plagued by hazy dreams of lesson plans interrupted only by the existential dread of yet another waiting stack of useless police reports, Winter barely needed to be prompted when - after four hours of continuous death-like sleep - Jaune hauled himself out of bed at oh-five-thirty and threw on a black uniform t-shirt and running shoes to go with the sweats that he had slept in.
Her partner had quirked a brow, but otherwise said nothing when he had turned around to find her standing beside her bed in her own P-T uniform staring at him expectantly.
The exhausted, companionable silence had lasted through calisthenics and their first lap of the grounds; then, as they rounded the back of the central tower and headed towards the cliffside, Winter finally couldn't contain herself.
"Heinkel is dead," she blurted out mid-stride.
Jaune started and nearly missed his own stride, but managed to catch himself and reestablish his cadence.
"I didn't do it," he responded habitually. Winter reached across the short distance between them and cuffed him on the back of the head, which he accepted gracefully, for all that it nearly sent him tumbling again.
"A patrol found the body half-hidden in a bush within the CCT's security perimeter just after midnight. Ozpin was able to get a pair of police detectives up here within the same hour, but they were not able to isolate a time of death due to having no on-site forensic analysts." She took a minute to steady her breathing as they kept their pace. "The detectives were about to call for backup when the Special Taskforce turned up and took over control and security of the scene and told us all to fuck off."
Jaune turned a curious eye at her venom and uncharacteristic profanity. She met his eye, only to look away and bite her lip as she hesitated.
"... Richter is here, Jack. He's been promoted to Major and placed in charge of the garrison's STF detachment."
Winter saw the sudden dilation of his pupils just before he fully turned away, and she watched a massive shudder wrack his whole body as he fought mightily to bite back a roar of fury. It was nearly a full lap before he spoke again.
"Richter is of no consequence to us," he declared stonily. "We'll achieve nothing here if we're distracted by infighting against the Task Force; for all that he covets control and the military's displays of power, the General knows the value of autonomy in sensitive foreign operations like this. So long as we avoid direct confrontations with the bastard, we should have the upper ground and be able to cry foul if Richter decides to make a nuisance of himself."
Jaune crane his neck to fully look at her, only to find her glancing away bashfully.
"A-about that..." Winter stammered; Jaune's brows shot up nearly to his buzzed hairline.
"No way," he breathed incredulously. "You picked a fight with Richter?" By the end of his sentence, he was visibly restraining his laughter.
"He all but confessed to authorizing Atlas soldiers to use deadly force in pushing the Legionnaires from the garrison off the scene!" she barked back heatedly, "I'm not about to stand by as we normalize turning our guns on one another like feuding gangsters over something so petty as nationalist agendas!"
Winter's face reddened and she drew in on herself as she added, "I told him as much in front of two full platoons of soldiers and Legionnaires, and all but called him a damned fool to boot before storming off."
She yelped slightly in surprise as Jaune threw an arm across her shoulders mid-run and pulled her against his side to press a sloppy kiss against her temple. When she pulled away, he was grinning at her ear-to-ear.
"I don't say this nearly enough, but I am so goddamn proud of you," he declared emotionally through his blinding joy. "I will deal with any consequences that come from that with a fucking smile on my face just from knowing you did that, and I'm damned sure that the boys in the garrison will say the same."
"Corporal Roth already said the same thing..." she muttered embarrassedly.
"He may be a little green, but Roth knows what the Legion's about," Jaune declared fondly.
With his mood notably improved, Jaune then debriefed her on his previous night's encounter with the Hei Xiong.
"So then what are the odds that the Red Axe Gang is actually going to give up our prisoner?" Winter asked in a single exhalation; she immediately inhaled again, trying to keep her breathing steady as she worked to keep pace with Jaune.
"Slim, but not inconceivable," Jaune replied easily, still breathing easily through his nose as he set their pace for the fourth lap of the campus. "Xiong's a businessman," he elaborated, arms swinging in time as his legs pushed on doggedly. "Roman Torchwick handles theft and blackmail, leaving Hei and his wife to focus on the gang and their multiple legitimate businesses, respectively. "Junior" has a reputation in the community as clever, but even-handed - he has a keen eye for opportunities and won't hesitate to strike deals, but he also recognizes the value of mercy and philanthropy."
"So you believe that he will try to wring concessions out of Atlas in exchange for the Zealot?" Winter pressed.
"I believe that he'll leverage his bargaining chip either to acquire guarantees for his people, or to set himself up as a mediator between us and the White Fang."
"Unbelievable," Winter huffed with a shake of her head. "You give far too much credit to the character of a Mistrali gangster."
"He's been a naturalized Valean for twenty years," Jaune pointed out nonchalantly. "He smuggled himself out of Mistral under the noses of the Xiong Clan in order to attend Beacon and become a Huntsman. The Clan's Head, his grandfather, quietly disowned him three days after the news broke. They've made some amends since Junior established the Red Axe Gang, but his primary connection to Mistral remains through Miss Malachite and the Spiders, an underworld intelligence network."
"You've been awfully quick and thorough about doing your homework on this," she side-eyed him as they both tagged the edge of the central landing pad and swiftly pivoted into the second half of the lap.
"I know people," he shot back without any heat, "And I know how to get people talking. In any case, the prevailing sentiment is that Xiong is "good people" - or morally upright people, anyway. A moral criminal, if you believe in such a thing."
"I don't, really," Winter responded wryly. "Do you?"
"Of course I do," his own wry grin turned dark for a moment, "There are a few that I might call family - by spilled blood, anyway. But that's beside the point," he digressed with an idle wave. "Xiong is going to want concessions in exchange for the prisoner - and if he's prepared to help keep the peace in the kingdom while we're duking it out with the Fang, I'm prepared to offer them. Do I have your support on that front?"
"You already have the General's leave to represent the military in this matter, and I am effectively consigned to campus for the duration," Winter replied with a sour look.
"I don't give a shit about Ironwood's agreement," Jaune stated flatly, "Whether you're down there or up here, present beside me or not, you are my partner; and I would like to know that we're tactically and strategically aligned in carrying through with this campaign. I value your insight and your opinion, and if you think that bargaining with Xiong is a bad call, I won't just ignore that."
He came to a halt as they were passing the auditorium, and leaned casually against the wall as Winter caught her breath. He met her eyes evenly.
"Talk to me, Schnee," he pressed, "Tear my strategy apart. What are the risks, the rewards, how can this blow up in my face - give me a grade."
After a moment of collecting herself, she moved towards him, only to stop just within arm's reach. Then, she reached out and cuffed him hard upside the head, eliciting a short, exaggerated pained noise.
"The operative word is partner, Amsel," Winter rebuked him firmly. "I'm not your instructor here, and this isn't a training exercise. We both have our roles to play in the field, and right now, you have on-site authority in prosecuting the ground war. If I think you're making a stupid call, you will know it without needing to grill me for it, because you'll already be on the ground with your nose in the dirt while I explain in great detail just how deficient you are."
The two Specialists stared at one another for a minute, before Jaune's stony gaze finally gave way to a broad grin.
"Kinky," he declared with a clap of his hands, "I'll be there."
"I would punch you, but fear you would enjoy it too much." She heaved a dramatic sigh. "Where did I go wrong with you?" Her hand immediately shot up and her knuckles stopped just below his jaw as he started to open his mouth. "No "Mommy" jokes, they're low-hanging fruit by now."
Jaune remained silent, but his twinkling eyes and broad shit-eating grin said everything that Winter didn't want to hear.
"On the bounce Specialist," she finally sighed. "Between the students, your antics, and that arschloch Richter; I need a shower, a hearty breakfast, and lots of strong coffee if I am going to avoid a murder charge today."
- To Serve With Honor -
Mercury wasn't sure that he could take another boring class at this lame-ass school.
"Story time with a mustachioed bowling ball, verbal diarrhea from a walking, talking caffeine addiction, and how not to blow yourself the fuck up while playing with Dust," the youthful part-time mercenary huffed, slumping into one of the stadium seats in the upper rows of the Combat Instruction classroom. "Fuckin' spare me."
"Look on the bright side," Ilia replied blandly from his left.
"What bright side would that be?" he asked dryly after she trailed off.
"... The food's good?" she finally offered with a shrug.
"... Yeah, the food's pretty kick-ass," Mercury acknowledged after a moment of consideration. "But seriously, all-you-can-eat with that kind of variety, knowing how many calories a Huntsman can put away? Are they crazy, or is this place's food budget just backed by the illegal drug trade?"
"Got me there," Ilia laughed slightly in agreement.
Weiss and Yang settled in on Mercury's other side; immediately after, Goodwitch appeared at the edge of the arena below, and the students quieted as the outermost rings of overhead lights dimmed slightly.
"Good afternoon," the Deputy Headmistress greeted mildly, her piercing green gaze sweeping around the room - narrowing at a few clusters of distracted students, who quickly straightened up under the scrutiny. "Welcome to First-Year Combat Instruction."
"The purpose of the first year of this course as I will be teaching it is to assess your martial skills, both individually and in tandem with fellow Huntsmen and Huntresses. Based on these assessments, we will individually and collectively begin to build a blueprint for your future training in a wide variety of combat-related skills, which could encompass anything from advanced weapons handling and techniques, to the fundamentals of footwork and unarmed fighting.
"Professor Port's Grimm Studies coursework will prepare you with an understanding of your primary enemy," she continued, pacing up and down the middle of the arena with one handling loosely grasping her iconic riding crop, and the other cradling her crop hand at the wrist, "But this course is where you will learn and refine the skills needed to hold your own and to defeat them. You will say, of course, that this makes little sense, as you will largely spar and train against your peers in this ring; to which I will always respond with, 'The single strike practiced one thousand times against a human opponent is just as deadly to a wide range of non-human foes.'"
The Deputy Headmistress stopped in the center of the ring again, and then gestured behind and to one side of her; on cue, a man in a black utility shirt, gray fatigues, and black combat boots stepped into the light of the arena, a holstered pistol strapped to his right thigh. It took one look at the scars and the man's eyes for Mercury to recognize Specialist Jonathan "Jack" Amsel.
"You have likely noticed Specialist Amsel's presence alongside your other professors in their respective lectures, largely observing and occasionally assisting in basic classroom duties. In this setting, however, the Specialist will take on a different role." Glynda glanced back and stepped aside as Amsel approached. "Mister Amsel, if you would."
The Specialist nodded in acknowledgement and took a step forward, assuming loose parade rest and looking around the room. "As Miss Goodwitch stated, I am Specialist Jonathan Amsel of the Atlas Military. I have held the rank and station of Specialist for just shy of six months now; prior to this time, I served with an airborne quick-reaction infantry force in the Atlas Foreign Legion."
Some confused looks and whispers were thrown around. "As Specialist Schnee already has a lecture planned to explain the origins and geopolitical role of this organization; I will simply state that, as a Legionnaire, I served in the ranks of one of the many volunteer military units that have been charged with upholding order and combating violent insurgencies in Solitas, up to and including the forces of the Mantle Chapter of the White Fang - commonly referred to as the Zealots - of which the terrorist Adam Taurus was a frontline officer." The whispers quieted as the implications started to sink in.
"Backtracking a bit," Amsel continued undaunted, "Whereas Professor Port will arm you with the knowledge to combat the Grimm, and Miss Goodwitch will aid you in honing your fundamental combat skills, my purpose is to introduce you to the deeper intricacies of a subject which has long been somewhat taboo among Hunters: When and how to effectively fight and neutralize other humans in combat, be they fellow Hunters or otherwise."
While some students in another part of the room called out and started to kick up a fuss, Mercury leaned forward and stared intently at the Specialist, his curiosity quite effectively piqued. Glancing at the corners of his vision showed that the other three members of his team were doing the same.
"For most of recent history," Amsel called over the din, pausing until the noise had died off slightly, "The neutrality of Huntsmen and Huntresses as an institution has been held sacrosanct by the Kingdoms. To summarize what you'll soon be covering in Doctor Oobleck's class: This decision was largely made as a result of the Great War, wherein Hunters were deployed en masse by every Kingdom alongside their militaries to devastating effect; both in the sheer loss of life on the battlefield, and as a result of the catastrophic Grimm incursions will usually followed these battles.
"The ratification of the Vytal Accords at the end of that war included a universal ban on deploying Huntsmen and Huntresses to fight or supplement standard military forces in armed conflicts between Kingdoms." The Specialist paused, and then added gravely, "That was nearly a century ago. Since then, the governing bodies of the Kingdoms have been reformed, and the concept of large-scale military conflict between states has... mostly... been discarded."
Mercury snorted, and heard several other snorts of amusement, when Amsel rolled his eyes as he tacked on the caveat.
"But as Remnant largely enjoys a global peace between nations; more and more frequently, Hunters are being called on by these governments to aid law enforcement in the handling criminals and other human opponents who have Huntsman or Huntsman-like training or experience; and on even rarer occasions, to support underequipped or poorly-trained officers in subduing regular opponents. This phenomenon has in part driven Atlas's rationale of militarizing some of its Hunter graduates through the Specialist program."
Amsel started to pace, his hands still clasped at the small of his back. "In the last fifty years since the Kingdoms began keeping and sharing records of violent encounters with law enforcement, roughly fifty-five percent of all encounters resulted in the offenders successfully disengaging and escaping. Only fifteen percent of encounters resulted in arrests; the remaining thirty percent saw the offenders dead as a result of the encounter."
"Forty percent of those arrests involved one or more well-trained Hunters." The Specialist stopped, pivoted crisply, and resumed staring at the students in the stands. "Less than twenty-five percent of escapes involved Hunters. Any guesses on the fatalities?"
"Twenty percent!" A student called out immediately.
"Fifteen!" Someone else shouted shortly after.
"Ten!"
"Five!"
"Sixty. Two. Percent," Amsel's gravely monotone cut through the din, effectively silencing the students. "Sixty-two percent of encounters with law enforcement which ended in the death of the offender involved one or more licensed Hunters; and in a majority of these cases, after-action reports stated that a Hunter was responsible for delivering the killing blow."
"That's bullshit!" A student shot to their feet and shouted, "That's the cops covering their asses! Of course they're not going to admit to killing a perp if they can throw the blame on somebody else!" Several others around them expressed agreement with varying degrees of vehemence.
"In some of these cases, you have a point," Amsel acknowledged, quieting the crowd again before adding, "But only five percent of cases with documented Hunter-involved fatalities have ever been proven to be a result of inaccurate or falsified reports. The rest come with exceedingly thorough and damning evidence to support the conclusion."
"Based on this evidence, I'd say that the conclusion is fairly obvious," the Specialist continued, his volume increasing and his speech taking on a blithe tone. "Well-trained and disciplined Huntsmen and Huntresses can quite easily be called upon to serve their Kingdoms as champions and implements of justice and the law. The rest? Those Hunters walking around with blinders, declaring proudly, arrogantly to the world that their sole responsibility is protecting people from the Grimm and nothing else? When those people are put on the spot to protect humanity from each other: They're no better than killers themselves."
Mercury grinned as the classroom erupted into indignant and outraged shouting. His grin widened further as he realized that Goodwitch was making no move to corral the rioting, while Amsel stood there with his arms folded across his chest, his unimpressed stare continuing to sweep the room as several of the students started to make threatening gestures, and even to move down into the arena.
Then, after another minute - and looking pointedly at the time on his Scroll - Amsel tapped a command into his device and pocketed it. Then he drew his Atlas-standard ten millimeter pistol from the holster on his thigh, raised it, and fired three rounds straight into the air in quick succession.
High above near the ceiling, the arena's active containment system captured all three projectiles in pockets of hardlight; these pockets then shrank down to almost nothing, dispersing the bullets' energy and compressing their mass until the fields dissipated, and three tiny pellets of metal clattered to the arena floor around Amsel's feet.
The report of the firearm ripped through shouts of the students, leaving stunned silence in the aftermath.
"While the loss of a human life is slightly more significant than some other missteps," Amsel spoke, adopting a more somber, but still casual tone, "Would you blame a baker for incorrectly dressing a deer?"
Several of the crowd gaped at the Specialist in confusion at the question; after a few moments, some started to realize what was happening.
"Would you blame a nurse for failing to put out a structure fire? How about an accountant for not knowing how to wire a residential junction box? Or even a Huntsman for being incapable of arranging a funerary bouquet?"
Amsel smirked in that understated military way that conveyed hysterical amusement as the students stared back at him in astonishment. "This odd analogy is meant to say that, a Huntsman that has been trained exclusively to fight and kill Grimm can hardly be expected to be able to competently and effectively subdue a normal human opponent," he finally put his confused audience out of their misery.
"The various Kingdoms' militaries are trained to be jacks-of-all-trades in the art and science of warfare," he resumed pacing. "Vale, with its static settlements and fortifications, trains its Defense Forces in the nuances of eliminating Grimm in large numbers from great distances. Vacuo, having lesser defenses and a greater area to survey and defend, focuses on reconnaissance and preemptive defeat-in-detail of smaller packs. Mistral is highly capable in the realm of combat engineering - quickly establishing defensive works and offensive emplacements in the field - in order to augment the capabilities of their small elite units.
"And Atlas?" Amsel declared the name loudly, but with a lilt of sarcasm, "Atlas has the resources to wield overwhelming manpower with a high-tech combined-arms doctrine; pairing state-of-the-art war machines with well-trained and well-equipped soldiers and Huntsmen, who are collectively capable of facing down any foe that conventional warfare has to offer on the field of battle."
"That being said - compared to even a few decades ago, most of these militaries' skill sets have adapted and evolved by necessity to become more suited to address non-human threats. Very few publicly-acknowledged groups on Remnant still have the stated purpose of fighting people." The Specialist raised a fist and pounded it twice against his chest just below his shoulder with a proud smirk, "The Atlas Foreign Legion is one such organization. Between my combat experience and my training as an Atlas Military Specialist, my objective in this course is twofold: To train you to safely subdue normal and Aura-enhanced opponents; and to think like, and therefore counter human opponents who have been trained to do the same."
Amsel allowed silence to fall again as the class absorbed this information. Finally, a hand tentatively rose from somewhere below Mercury.
"I signed on to be a Huntsman," the young man down below called out uncertainly, "If I wanted to fight people, I'd have enlisted. So why exactly are we being made to learn it here?"
To most everyone's surprise, Amsel let out a long, genuine bellow of laughter. It went on for longer than most were comfortable with, and by the time that the man finally collected himself, the crowd was on edge waiting for his actual response.
"Believe me, I would actually be ecstatic if none of you ever have to use any of the lessons that I plan to teach in this course," the Specialist stated, earning a few sighs of relief and scattered nervous laughter from the class. "Think of it like public education: I am expanding your skill set preemptively with information that you may not necessarily need right away, but that may come in handy at some point in the future. I truly and sincerely hope that none of you will ever be called upon to utilize these lessons in your chosen profession."
Then he smiled that forlorn, sardonic smile of resignation that Mercury was all too familiar with. "Sadly, for at least some of you, I don't think that will be the case. As such, I - and for that matter, Miss Goodwitch and Headmaster Ozpin - have seen fit to arm you with this knowledge now, so that you can expand upon it later as needed."
His smile dropped off, and he settled briefly to parade rest again. "I'll brief you all further on the nuances of this part of the course starting next week; for now, I'll leave you to stew on the concept as you enjoy your first weekend as official students of Beacon." He then executed a crisp right-face and looked to the Deputy Headmistress. "They're all yours, ma'am."
"Thank you, Mister Amsel," Goodwitch nodded as she stepped forward to retake the stage.
The leader of Team Brandywine finally turned and looked to the rest of his teammates. While Weiss wore a complicated expression, and Yang was visibly excited; Ilia was still watching the Specialist with bare intrigue.
"I think he's gonna be the "fun" teacher," Mercury declared cheerfully to his fourth teammate. Ilia started as she was torn from her thoughts, but then offered a short chuff of laughter.
"I think you're probably right," she agreed honestly. The pair quickly sobered up and returned to paying Goodwitch half a mind. Amsel meandered back to the outer edge of the ring and plopped into a waiting chair while the Deputy Headmistress began laying out the ground rules for sparring matches.
Winter sighed in relief as the last team of second-year students left the lecture hall, and the clock on the wall told her that the first day was finally over.
She had hosted two of her expected four sections today; due to the fact that her lectures had to be shoehorned into the existing curriculum, this was all that could be accommodated for in the schedule. Starting next week, she would hold eight lectures - two per week for each year of students. Fortunately, this limited schedule would allow for Wednesdays off.
"That bad, huh?" Jaune's voice cut through the hazy drone in her mind.
"Just coming down from the nerves," Winter replied as she dragged a hand tiredly over her face. "All things considered, both sessions went exceedingly well today; the fourth-years were thoroughly engaged and asked insightful questions, and even the second-years seemed to be paying close attention for the most part."
"I told you that you'd do great," he said with a chuckle, bounding onto the stage easily and perching next to her against the lecture podium. "Granted, you do have a leg up on poor old Port and Oobleck when it comes to keeping the students' attention," he was suddenly muttering huskily beside her ear.
Winter's face flushed with sudden heat; she could almost feel a phantom hand trailing down her side, but found that his hands were folded over his chest when she glanced over.
"You are absolutely incorrigible," she growled half-heartedly.
"Probably one of the more polite things that you've called me," he agreed with a thoughtful nod. "Ooh, you'll like this," he was suddenly in front of her just out of arms' reach, grinning proudly. "I started a riot in Glynda's First-Year Combat Class with my introduction speech!"
Her embarrassment dissolved and her jaw dropped in disbelief at the audacity. "You're serious."
"As a heart attack!" Jaune chirped, "Though I guess it was more like a reality check. These kids thought they were in for four years of learning how to kill highly aggressive wild animals - most of them have never even considered the idea of needing to seriously fight people."
He scratched a patch of scruff on the underside of his chin idly and added, "Of course, now I have to figure out the subtlest way to warn them that one of 'em might accidentally smear me in training if they catch me on an off day; figure it's only polite so that they don't feel too bad about hypothetical academically-sanctioned manslaughter."
"I told you to stop doing that," Winter snapped, taking a half-step forward to give him a not-so-gentle chastising smack across the face. "Aura generation is as much about subconscious mentality as conscious intent. You'll never get the hang of managing it properly if you don't get rid of this fatalistic mindset that it's going to fail you at the worst possible moment!"
"Oh sure, just tell the avatar of Murphy, the Patron Saint of Military Fuck-Ups, to stop thinking that he's going to get screwed over," he replied with oozing sarcasm. He paused and then went cross-eyed staring at the gloved finger that was jabbing at the end of his nose.
"Sarcasm and pessimism are a horribly unattractive combination, Mister Amsel," she drawled with a lidded, unimpressed stare.
"So does that mean you're not interested in a night-in over drinks?" he retorted with a frown that was somehow still unfairly adorable, even contrasted against the surrounding facial scars. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and kicked at the floor of the stage, turning his face downward with a pout. "And here I went out of my way last night to scrounge up fixings for Asterian Seventy-Fives. Guess I'll have to eat all the chocolates myself, too..."
It was Winter's turn to pout; but in an inspired maneuver, she reached out and yanked him towards her, stuffing his face fully into her clothed chest and holding his head in place forcefully as his muffled indignities were lost in her uniform. "You just don't fight fair," she sighed dramatically as she subtly did her best to smother him in the ruffles of her dress shirt.
This was the exact scene into which Glynda Goodwitch fortuitously entered, distracted by her Scroll tablet as she slipped through the door and let it close behind her. "Specialist Schnee, I'd like to hear about how your first day went if you have a few min-"
Then she looked up, and the Deputy Headmistress's gaze darted rapidly between the female Specialist's deer-in-the-headlights expression, and the back of the male Specialist's head that was apparently cradled tightly between her clothed breasts.
"... I can come back?" Glynda asked slowly.
One of Jaune's hands stopped flailing to offer a thumbs-up of agreement.
"That's not necessary," Winter replied blankly after a moment's contemplation. She unceremoniously released Jaune's head, moved her hands to his shoulders, and firmly guided him to a seated position on the stage. She then reached up, smoothed any unwanted creases from the front of her uniform, cleared her throat, and clasped her hands at her waist demurely - meeting Glynda's incredulous gaze with an impassive stare that was equal parts expectant and 'No one would ever believe you.'
To his credit, Jaune only needed a moment to catch his breath before he planted his hands on the floor, reclined casually in his seated posture, and adopted the exact same look.
Faced with this terribly confounding new reality, Glynda finally minimized and pocketed her Scroll, folded one arm at her midriff, and pressed her other hand to her face with a heavy sigh of profound exhaustion.
"I simply do not know how to deal with you people," she grumbled audibly into her palm.
"What do you mean, 'you people-'" Jaune started with exaggerated indignity, only to abandon that particular bit when the side of his partner's boot pressed into his side in admonishment. "Spoilsport," he mumbled, before adding louder to Glynda, "Just roll with it. Feel free to join us even - insanity's a great place to pass the time, I honestly can't remember why I ever even bothered with this whole 'sanity' thing before."
"Feel free to disregard him for the remainder of this conversation," Winter shook her head. "He gets like this off the clock and there's no dealing with him, even if someone starts shooting at us."
"Your argument gets interrupted by circumstantial gunfire one time and you never hear the end of it," Jaune complained to the empty classroom, before turning to look squarely up at his partner and adding loudly, "An argument which I was winning, for the record!"
"No you weren't~," Winter's bright smile and lilting sing-song reply had a threatening edge. "ANYWAY," she loudly cut off his protest and looked back at Glynda, "Both sections went smoothly. The fourth-years were accepting of and engaged with the lecture material, and even the second-years appeared fairly attentive. There were thoughtful questions asked in both sessions, and even rather insightful and poignant observations made by a few of the fourth years."
"I am very pleased to hear that," Glynda said with a relieved sigh. "Was there any apparent evidence of the students taking issue with... your allegiances?"
"Thankfully no," Winter said with her own sigh of belated relief. "However, there are two more sections I've yet to meet; so while I am remaining cautiously optimistic, I will be mentally prepared for the worst."
"That is, sadly, quite wise," Glynda nodded in grim concurrence. She then looked to Jaune, who had pulled himself to his feet and was brushing off the seat of his fatigues. "And you, Mister Ar- Amsel?"
"That'll probably take some more getting used to," he acknowledged the near-slip gracefully before adding, "No issues on my end. Doctor Oobleck's delivery is a bit hard to follow, but since I read ahead and already took notes, I was able to catch a few of his frankly intriguing insights. Peter is a bit easier to listen to if you are actually aware of his background and know that he's not just blowing smoke; and Professor Peach had a solid delivery on the fundamentals of safely handling weapons-grade Dust."
He grinned again when he added, "And you know how much I enjoyed your First-Years, of course."
"This is going to be a theme with you, isn't it?" Glynda asked rhetorically.
"Of course! I get to be the fun, wise-beyond-his-years Assistant Instructor who uses a handgun to punctuate important lecture points, and also gets to beat on students in unconventional ways when they get mouthy."
"When you put it that way, I can see the appeal," the Deputy Headmistress candidly acknowledged. Then she sighed with self-deprecation, and looked pointedly to Winter. "He grows on you," she admitted grudgingly.
"Like a skin condition," Winter agreed, easily disregarding her partner's look of grave offense. "Has there been any news?"
Glynda shook her head. "Major Richter has cut off all communication except the formalities from all departments of the CCT, with the exception of the Legionnaires who were already folded into our security rotation. As far as the Kingdom itself? Dead silence. None of the missing Faunus candidates have resurfaced, and we've heard nothing from the White Fang in several days - not even the usual sightings or complaints received by the police from the periphery districts."
"And the search parties in the Emerald Forest?" Jaune interjected.
"Still in regular contact with us; unfortunately, they've found nothing except trace evidence of a hunting party. The signs range in age from a few days to two weeks old, and consultants from the VDF are placing conservative estimates at a platoon-sized force."
"Yeah, that tracks," Jaune sighed, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck in irritation. "The Zealots are fond of packing their hunting parties with their freshest recruits to give them extra trigger time. It's a simple and very effective administrative practice."
"Well I can't say that I'm fond of having to worry about my students sharing their practice grounds with armed and increasingly well-trained terrorists," Glynda observed wryly.
"Shouldn't have to," he replied absently. "They would've bugged out as soon as their perimeter watch spotted the investigation teams. Taurus's training officers are well acquainted with that level of caution; especially if they'd already been out there for a few days, or even weeks, before we found them out. Now that they know that we're onto them, they'll either go back to whatever methods they were using before, or they'll just move their field exercises to other areas outside the walls."
"You think they already have a way to move across the walls undetected?" Winter opined skeptically.
Jaune's eyes closed, and he frowned as he answered gravely, "They'll find a way. The Zealots always find a way."
As the two women frowned deeply at that, he exhaled, and then pasted on a fresh grin. "I'd say it's time for drinks." He rounded on the Deputy Headmistress. "Care to join us?"
When Glynda shot her a skeptical glance, Winter shrugged. "He is a very adept mixologist," she stated seriously. "We'll also have snacks."
After a few seconds of consideration - followed by the realization that her own liquor cabinet was actually rather sparse at the moment - Glynda sighed. "I'm getting dinner first and making sure Peter has the students in hand, but I will join you afterward for a beverage."
'I'm sure I'll need some de-stressing and fortifying before the students get up to their usual shenanigans this weekend...'
- To Serve With Honor -
"I understand the shareholders' protests of the recent staffing changes, and I certainly share their concerns with my fellow board members' behavior in the wake of the terrorists' press release," Tony said as he shifted his grip on his Scroll and closed and latched his briefcase with his free hand. "That being said, the fact of the matter is that the White Fang have explicitly stated that they will not be targeting ordinary citizens or individuals with no association with the government or the upper class; and as such, it is in the interest of the company and our employees to do everything in our power to maintain a normal, steady pace of operations for as long as we are able."
"We're clear down to the lobby, sir," Tony's Chief of Personal Security said from the doorway while fastening his body armor over his suit jacket.
"Thanks, Todd; let's get going," Tony shifted away from his Scroll and replied. Picking up his briefcase, he exited the office, locked the door behind him, and followed Todd to the elevator.
The Public Relations officer on the other end of the call dragged Tony back into the conversation, forcing him to reply again. "Frankly I don't care if Scarlet wants to empty the plant every time she walks into it, I'm not going to allow any board member's ego to disrupt operations just because their paranoia has them seeing a mask in every crowd of workers. Vale National Foundry is one of the largest employers in the Kingdom, as well as a critical source of materials and services for the Kingdom and our customers abroad; and unless there is a direct and imminent threat against a facility or its day-to-day employees, I cannot and will not allow the saber-rattling of a madman to impact production or the livelihood of our workers."
Tony paused to hear the response, before adding, "Yes, you can put most of that into the press release, and you can tell her to call me if she takes issue with it so that I can repeat it to her personally."
The lobby of Vale National Foundry's corporate headquarters was predictably empty on a Friday evening; even the street beyond the sprawling reinforced glass windows at the front were devoid of much besides Tony's low-slung luxury coupe and the armored SUV of his security detail behind it. A lone pedestrian in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt was walking against the cool wind on the other side of the street, looking to be racing against the impending rain.
"Eightball is exiting the Rack and approaching the Cue; prepare to move to Left Corner Pocket," Todd muttered into his earpiece. Tony rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he ended his call; the codenames for persons and locations changed every week, and whoever had picked the scheme this week was apparently a fan of billiards.
The CEO and Bodyguard stepped together into the cooling Vale air and started down the front stairs toward the car.
Then Tony watched in muted astonishment as the pedestrian's sweatshirt and hood fell away, revealing matte-gray body armor and a wicked-looking rifle that started flashing and chattering at the security SUV just as the last guard was closing the rear-passenger door.
"CONTACT WEST!" Todd roared, ripping a pistol from the holster on his hip and squeezing off three rounds at the attacker. At the same time, the bodyguard used his free hand to martial a stunned Tony behind him, and in a practiced maneuver, the pair backpedaled up the stairs towards the building entrance. "WHITE FANG! CALL IT IN!"
"Local cell is being jammed, we've only got shortwave!" One of the guards called back over the radio. The guard whose door had been open when the shooting started was bleeding on the asphalt, while the other three members of the security detail were trapped inside of their armored vehicle as automatic fire peppered their doors and windows relentlessly. The driver cranked the key and swiftly put the roaring truck in gear, preparing to shoot forward and up the stairs to pick up Tony and Todd.
Then out of the corner of his eye, Tony watched in horror as more armed-and-armored terrorists materialized just a short ways down the street from corners, alleyways, and even from a manhole cover.
A terrorist's upper body shot up from the hole in the street with a strange-looking launcher in their hands; the device emitted a high-pitched whine before some kind of disc the size of a frisbee shot out at high speed, flying just a few centimeters above the pavement clear down the length of the street.
The disc flew straight under and past Tony's car towards the armored SUV, where it latched onto the underside of the front end with an audible clunk; and with another audible whine and a brief flare of blue light, the vehicle's engine sputtered and died.
This distraction lasted a little over a second, and by the end of it, Tony and Todd were just half a dozen meters from the doors; unfortunately, the nearest terrorists were less than a dozen meters and closing from Tony and Todd.
"HEADS UP SOUTH!" Tony heard one of the other guards call over Todd's earpiece. Their heads whipped around, and the pair could only watch in horror as a pair of terrorists let their rifles fall at their sides and each drew a pair of steel balls that were connected by a braided cable. Todd's gun whipped around to fire on them, but a fresh volley of bullets ripped across the street towards the pair, with one or two rounds slamming into the flashing Aura that enveloped Todd's outstretched forearm; the dull pain was enough to give pause, and the terrorists down the sidewalk let their bolas fly.
Todd was able to throw out his free arm, forcing the first bola to wrap tightly around his forearm; but the second flew straight and true and bound tightly around his ankles. Tony, still in shock and running purely by Todd's guidance, was thus caught fully unawares as his bodyguard toppled into him, leaving both of them pinned to the ground as the shooting finally stopped and the terrorists reached them. In short order, four automatic rifles were pointed down at their faces.
"Primary Target secured," Tony heard one of the terrorists mutter into a handheld radio. "One guard wounded, all others taken alive."
Looking around from under his dazed Chief of Security, Tony saw that the rest of the security detail were sitting in the dead SUV with their hands raised in surrender as eight terrorists surrounded the vehicle with their weapons raised and at the ready.
Two more terrorists were in front of the entrance, yanking sharply on the doors and gesturing threateningly at the security guard inside, who had placed the building on lockdown and was no doubt frantically trying to call for backup.
Finally, after a few seconds of fruitless struggle in which the terrorists yanked Tony and Todd apart and tied them up separately, the CEO and his bodyguard were left on their backs, on the steps of the VNF headquarters, in front of a street of two dozen victorious terrorists.
"See if the keys are in the car," one of the terrorist leaders ordered, prompting another to step over to Tony's car and open the door.
"You're stealing my car?" Tony asked faintly in dazed indignation.
"It's for a good cause," the first terrorist replied sardonically. As he said this, two other gunmen broke from another group down the way, pulling suit coats from a duffel bag and donning and buttoning them over their armored vests. Facing away from their captives, these two stowed their masks in the bag, replacing them with sunglasses and fedoras.
"Those Zealots come up with the weirdest fucking plans, I swear..." Tony heard one of the other terrorists mutter nearby.
"That's because you kids have no appreciation for the classics," a gruff voice replied disparagingly, before adding loudly, "HEY GUYS! WHAT'S THE PLAN?"
"Fuck off, it doesn't work here!" one of the "incognito" terrorists shouted back half-heartedly.
"Fuckin' say it anyway, come on!" Several others offered their own shouts of encouragement.
"Fine!" the other man threw his hands in the air in relented. "It's a hundred and seventy clicks to Atlas; we've got a full tank of Dust, half a pack of cigarettes, it's getting dark, and we're wearing sunglasses."
"LET'S HIT IT!" the second gunman crowed, eliciting cheers from the rest of the terrorists on the street. The odd pair climbed into the low-slung coupe, started and revved the engine unnecessarily, and then shot off into the Valean night.
"This has got to be the most surreal terrorist attack I've ever seen," Todd said quietly from beside him. Tony nodded mutely in agreement.
"Well here's the funny thing about that," the original - and apparent lead - terrorist stated conversationally to Todd, "We're only taking your boss. You and your men get to be bagged and hogtied and left on the front steps for your security or the cops to find."
"We're taking your other car too, though," another gunman with his rifle loosely pointed at Todd interjected. "We're also kind of in a hurry on that, so you should probably tell your guys to come out quietly before we have to melt through the roof and flood the cab with gas or bullets."
"I'm not telling them to do anything until I get a guarantee of their safety," Todd snapped immediately.
"You have our word that so long as you continue to cooperate, no further harm will come to you and your men," the Fang leader rumbled solemnly. "You may want to hurry and make that call, though; I think your other man on the ground over there is still alive, possibly not for much longer."
After a few more seconds of glaring and consideration, Todd finally relented and tilted his head to press the talk button on his earpiece into his shoulder. "Come on out, guys, or they're gonna flush you out and take the car anyway. We have been promised no further violence on the condition of our compliance - leave your guns in the car, and somebody see if Grant is still breathing."
It was another half a minute before the car doors opened. In the interim, the terrorists were starting to slip away into the side streets, one at a time every few seconds, until only ten or so remained to watch over Tony, Todd, and company.
Once the other guards had exited the SUV - and one of them had been allowed to drag Grant around to the sidewalk beside the building to try and stabilize him - one of the terrorists dislodged the strange device from the bottom of the engine block, at which point the engine roared back to life. The vehicle was pulled up onto the sidewalk in front of Tony and Todd's prone forms, and the leader sighed, stepped back to survey both of them, and then shuffled to stand squarely over Tony.
"Antonio Aiza," the man intoned, "AKA, Tony Steele - Chief Executive Officer of Vale National Foundry. Your company is charged with numerous violations of workers' protections laws; several cases of backdoor-dealings and collusion with intent to protect monopolies within global industry; retaliating against aggrieved workers and whistleblowers through illegal means, up to and including financial blacklisting and assassination; and colluding with government officials from every one of your client nations in an effort to maintain an immoral and illegal monopoly in several markets."
Tony goggled in genuine shock as the terrorist continued in a cadenced monotone that felt far too much like a police officer reading him his rights.
"As the head and primary representative of VNF, you will be detained by the White Fang along with another board member from your company. The full list of these crimes and conspiracies will be released to the public, and at a later date and time, a trial will be held wherein you will be given the opportunity to defend yourself publicly before a jury of your Kingdom's citizens. At the conclusion of this trial, a ruling shall be passed against your company as a whole, and your personal fate shall be decided based on this judgment."
"You're insane," Todd sputtered in Tony's stead, "You're all fucking lunatics! You are terrorists! Half of you aren't even from this Kingdom! Vale has a government - we have a justice system, we have laws that your batshit plan flies in the face of! What gives you the right to pass judgment against our people?!"
"You are ruled by a cabal of politicians who reap the spoils of the corruption that they personally write into law," the White Fang leader drawled, as if this was already an old, tired argument. "Citizens are viewed as votes during election time, and otherwise as little better than dumb, burdensome cattle to be herded and exploited for resources at the convenience of the herdsmen.
"Half of your citizenry is considered subhuman - less than livestock - and every effort is made where it is convenient to cut costs and pocket the difference at the expense of whole swathes of ruined livelihoods, depriving those people of their right to live in safety and comfort, and to even compete to earn their share from society."
"In summary," the leader finally paused to sigh, "Your society has failed its members. The scales of justice are grossly askew; thus, we are forced to apply unjust means to balance them, even if it means tearing the whole rotten thing down around your ears and forcing everyone to start again."
The man turned his bone-white, full-face mask away from Todd, and now Tony tried and failed to penetrate the narrow slits of the stylized features of a Beowolf.
"You think of us as monsters," the terrorist stated. "The fact of the matter is, we are adjusted to a society that failed us long ago. But whereas we have borne a prolonged agony; we will do Vale a simple mercy by excising the rot swiftly, albeit painfully, before it is allowed to infect your home and those you love beyond the point of healing."
"Thirty seconds, boss," the radio on the leader's vest buzzed.
"Put this one with the others at the top of the steps and begin exfil," the man ordered another, who stooped over and dragged Todd off by the drag handle on the back of his bulletproof vest.
"Tony Steele." The blood roaring in Tony's ears turned ice-cold. "On behalf of the People of Vale, the White Fang calls you for judgment." The Beowolf's eyes flashed for an instant, and a primal jolt of fear chilled him to the bone.
"I would advise you to pray that you are not found wanting."
End Chapter 18
Author's Note: This one was a bit of a rollercoaster, because it was actually written almost entirely within the last month, and yet I somehow managed to lose a bet with Ikedawg43 over writing it. I was a little tipsy one night and bet him that I could finish my next chapter of To Serve With Honor before he could finish a chapter of The Why We Fall Apart, since we are both notorious for long lead times between chapters. Unfortunately, that was apparently the motive he needed to get off his ass and write, because he proceeded to start and finish his chapter in the span of four days.
However, even though I lost - and have been subjected to the horribly personally embarrassing consequences - It only took me another three weeks of writing and revision to get this done to a satisfactory degree; this same timespan also resulted in an abundance of freshly-written character profiles and worldbuilding notes for my personal archives.
Anyway, we've now seen the first successful strike in the White Fang's Vale crusade. I know the tone of the scene is meant to be serious, but I can't resist plugging in a bit of cult-classic cultural humor at exceptionally odd moments - especially when it comes with the potential for humorous payoffs later.
This may be a saga of a century-old struggle over national and cultural identities with far-reaching geopolitical and social consequences, but that's no reason for us not have fun along the way.
Next Time: Weekend At Junior's. (No, I'm not going to start using chapter titles. I can't be bothered with pithy titles most of the time.)
Thanks for tuning in. Stay safe, stay frosty, and I'll catch y'all in the next one.
-Knightmare Frame Razgriz