When Mercury Black arrived outside his destination, he was bemused. Checking the message he received against the painted address on the curb confirmed a match. To be sure, he continued along the block until he reached a dead end.
Looping around, he came back to the original spot. This was indeed the place. His bewilderment increased.
Before him was the kind of idyllic, single story family home he had only seen in the movies. Red bricks. White picket fencing. Pink flamingos dotting a lush green lawn.
Letting himself in through the waist high gate, Mercury approached the front door. He hesitated at an ornamental sign hanging from the frame on a golden hook. Bold, block lettering informed him that 'Light Shines Upon Those Who Live in Harmony.' Pressing the buzzer, a bell chime version of an oldie song played out in a short burst.
At that moment, the young assassin wondered if this was a prank. Perhaps Emerald had sent the wrong address on purpose to mess with him. She was occasionally spiteful like that.
It also could have been a mistake. Maybe a street name or number had been transposed. The more industrial buildings he had been expecting were a block over. This little slice of suburbia was an anomaly.
If this was a mistake, Mercury was already working on his excuses and exit plan. Luckily, he was not in the wrong place. The door opened to reveal his mint-haired confederate.
"About time you got here." Were Emerald's first words upon seeing him again.
"Miss me?" He smirked.
She scowled back. "You kept her waiting."
"The horror!" She continued frowning. "Cut me some slack. Finding my way around is hard. I'm new to the city."
Maps were next to useless. Navigating less reputable spaces was difficult without exact coordinates. Those with something to hide tended not to advertise where they hung out in the public directory.
"Us too, yet we beat you here by several hours."
"My assignment was a bit more complicated than brunch with extremists." He had to talk to multiple people on an empty stomach. "Besides, what are you complaining about? I thought you would have loved having the boss lady all to yourself."
"That's not- You-" She took a deep breath. "Just get in here already. You look conspicuous as all hell standing around out there."
Her piece said, Emerald left the entryway. She did not bother to hold the door open. It slammed shut in his face.
"Got her." Mercury chuckled.
She was too easy to rankle. If the petty thief did not react so negatively, or act so haughty, he might not have messed with her as much. He could not resist the urge, though would have to reign that in now.
Cinder would not be as forgiving.
Before entering, he reached for the sign. Using two fingers, he flipped it around. The plain backing was now facing outward. He then stepped inside the dwelling.
XI. Stand and Deliver
The interior of their newest hideout was just as kitsch as the exterior. Every inch of the cream-colored walls were covered in wooden planks etched with positive affirmations. Dim lighting had him stumbling as he brushed against a hutch filled with garish knickknacks.
In the living room, he linked up with Emerald again. She stood to the right of where he entered. Her shoulders were squared and tense. He did not have much time to think on it as he was addressed directly.
"Mercury. Welcome." Cinder greeted regally from the center of a pit couch next to an unlit fireplace. "How do you like our new base of operations?"
"It's… different."
A step up from the cabin in the woods in terms of amenities and location. A step down when it came to image. The space looked more suited for hosting a knitting circle than for conspiring.
"Not quite what I had in mind either. Given the circumstances, it will do for our needs."
In her right hand was a wine glass. The vinous liquid inside swirled as she tried to project an air of being above it all. These attempts were undercut by two throw pillows proclaiming 'Possibilities Are Endless' and 'Thoughts Become Reality' in tight cursive with crochet flowers.
"How'd we swing this? Is there a pair of retirees tied up in the basement?" He half-joked.
"No basement, unfortunately. If there were one, we might have somewhere to store our Dust." She sighed, setting her glass down on an inlet. "Our remarkable White Fang contact was gracious enough to lend us this quaint villa for as long as we need it."
Mercury felt more than saw Emerald stiffen beside him. "A bunch of downtrodden faunus have a house in an expensive part of town?"
"I was assured that they have supporters in every social stratum."
Propaganda, then. Most likely, someone's relative passed away and left them a house purchased when materials and land were cheaper. They very well may have sold to the Fang for a tidy sum.
"The meeting went well, then?"
"Swimmingly. They have proven themselves competent in acquisitions. What they need now is direction."
Torchwick had been instrumental in determining where and when to strike. With him out of the picture, they needed a new finger man. Someone to literally point out soft targets.
"I got some ideas."
"If you will." She gestured to the seat opposite her.
He sunk into the plush cushions. Emerald did so as well beside him. She was not confident enough to sit next to Cinder in this instance.
"First off is Junior Xiong. He operates a nightclub." Literally called Junior's, because subtly was a lost artform. "From everything I've heard, he's got a nose for finding what needs found. If anyone would know about Dust shipments, it would be him."
Not wanting to drag out the discussion, they started with the strongest contender. The guy seemed perfect. Mercury did not foresee there being any issues going with the obvious choice.
Until Emerald found one.
"Didn't he provide the muscle for the job that went wrong? Do we really want to associate with a bunch of losers?"
Cinder swiftly agreed. "We should divorce ourselves from everything related to our previous missteps."
And there went their best option. Thankfully, he came prepared with a substitute. "Okay. There is this lady with about the same level of information knowledge. She goes by Madam Amour and-"
A flare of orange stopped Mercury cold as he flinched away from the absolute flashfire rolling off of Cinder. "We will not now, nor will we ever, work with any madams."
Her pronunciation of 'madam' was filled with malice. Each syllable dripped with poison. Enough to kill every living creature on the Sanus continent.
If he had been more convinced of his position in her plans, he would have questioned this declaration. Madam A would have been a great addition. Especially if the rumors about her Semblance were true.
As things stood, Mercury was sure he would be leaving the room in a shoebox if he pressed the issue. Whatever the objection was, it was a sore spot for her. He was not paid enough to chance ending up like Torchwick.
In fact, he was not paid at all.
Time to bust out the third stringer. "We could go to the guy who runs the Crow Bar. He's a big-time moonshine importer."
"How would he be helpful?" Emerald asked.
"Well, he has to know something about the shipping industry." The silver haired boy understood how flimsy the reasoning was as the words left his mouth, causing him to cringe inside.
"Dearest Mercury." Cinder begins. "I do so hope you have better suggestions. As you know, we have a tight schedule. I'd hate to think an entire workday was wasted on vetting clearly unsuitable candidates."
He gulped. Those were his best shots. Emerald slowly inched away, afraid of being in the splash zone. The young assassin had to get creative.
Digging into his knowledge of the Underground, he started proposing other names. This time, they were organizations he had a passing knowledge of rather than sole proprietors. One of them surely had to fit their criteria.
First up, was Spider. A Mistrialian gang that specialized in spying and information retrieval. They did not operate in Vale due to a peace accord with the Xiong. Gathering information on Dust transports originating in their territory would hopefully not break that.
Next was Crown. They were headquartered in the Vacuo Wastelands. Their eternal mission was to restore the monarchy of that kingdom. Not much was known about the leader, but he supposedly had a silver tongue. They could use him to loosen lips.
Then there was Factory! Despite being based in Vale, this group was the literal bottom of the barrel. Mercury was desperate.
Emerald smirked. "Aren't they the weirdos who leave tin foil everywhere?"
"Avant-garde is their preferred term. The tin foil is a calling card." Mercury squinted for a moment, questioning why he was defending the weirdos.
Factory! practiced postmodernist crime. Each incident was a piece of art. The stunts were often equally ironic, befuddling, and amazing.
Their most famous scam involved organizing an impromptu 'happening' in a jewelry store. Civilians were told that the band Achieve Men would be playing inside. A flash mob showed up and raised a ruckus. By the time security regained order, the merchandise was gone and replaced with shiny squares of foil.
The odd part was Factory! liked to return whatever they stole along with a taunting letter. It caused many to wonder if they were not some elaborate community theater production gone rogue. Stage actors did occasionally become too enamored with their creations.
"Our choices for partners are a bootlegger, foreign syndicates, and a society of performance artists. Have I understood you correctly?"
"Y-yes."
Expecting her to be upset, he steeled himself for a show of anger. Yelling, fire, or some combination of the two. He was unprepared when she instead slumped, her forehead resting in upturned palms.
"How did good help become so hard to find?" She mumbled.
It was an unusual state to see Cinder Fall in. Almost human. Emerald had gone slack-jawed. He was sure he was too.
"There is one other group we could consider." Mercury said quietly.
Emerald punched his knee. "Don't hold out on us!"
He felt no pain. "I wasn't. I just considered them the longest of long shots."
"Nothing is off the table at the moment." Cinder slid back into the conversation after regaining her cooled demeanor. "Let's hear about this long shot."
"They are a collective of dirty cops. My old man took contracts from them back in the day. He would always brag about how they could get their hands on anything inside Vale."
The Division was not as powerful as they used to be. However, they were still police officers. Mercury could think of a million ways they could use their authority to get Dust intel. The SDC was guaranteed to have a relationship with VPD that could be exploited.
"What is your concern?"
"Uh, hello? They are cops." Whatever scorn he had been ready to hurl turned to ash in his mouth at Cinder's raised eyebrow. "I mean, we could get a few tips out of them. Sure. That would end once they figured out who is using the info."
It would not be a difficult picture for the Division to piece together. Once they did, the potential scandal from their involvement would force them to cut off cooperation. Or they would be upset with being tricked and seek to arrest Cinder.
That would not end well for anyone.
"Maybe." She contemplated her wine before smiling. "Maybe not. Let's try to bring them around to our line of thinking."
"I don't see how."
There was no way the Division would knowingly help the White Fang. Terrorists and law enforcement could not coexist. Both groups were diametrically opposed.
"I can be quite convincing."
/ / /
The Vale News Network was the Kingdom of Vale's main provider of local and interkingdom news. Founded after the Great War, and nurtured under the stewardship of SDC founder Nicholas Schnee, VNN grew into a vast media empire. Boasting hundreds of full-time staff members and freelancers, the network had affiliates in every settlement across Remnant.
Their guiding principle was a simple one. To keep the citizenry informed regardless of official narratives. This made VNN the kingdom's largest independent institution.
Staffers took great pride in this ethos. It was an unofficial motto that they existed to 'make the government uncomfortable.' If the Council was ever one hundred percent happy with their coverage, something was being missed.
This maverick attitude rubbed those in power the wrong way. Former and current Council members had made countless overtures to reign in the network through laws and regulations. VPD watched them like hawks for libel and slander violations. A few reporters had even been jailed for stories deemed against the kingdom's interest.
These attempts at intimidation always failed. Outside pressures only made the personnel of the network stronger. More committed to their product.
Conversely, VNN was also a business.
Such a large payroll, along with office leases and other expenses, demanded a lean operational environment. Management was always looking for ways to cut costs. This created tremendous downward performance pressure.
Nowhere was this felt more than on the backs of the talent. It was their words that kept the lights on. For them, the second unofficial motto was 'publish or perish.' They took this responsibility seriously.
Tucked away in her office on the sixth floor of Mountain Glen Memorial Tower, Lisa Lavender worked diligently at her private terminal. The woman had finally achieved flow. That near mythical writer status where ideas ran like water onto a page. This state had been achieved just in time.
Besides making up a source, missing a deadline was the biggest sin a reporter could commit. Over her eight years as a contributor, Lisa had yet to blow a deliverable date. She had no intention of doing that now.
Primarily an onscreen personality, Lisa also voluntarily produced column inches for the weekly periodical. She wanted to prove her value to the network. There were whispers of an upcoming 'Spring cleaning' to put their older newscasters out to pasture.
While not old, she was not young either. Not as young as the executives wanted. Rumor was they were considering someone for her chair who would better target their key demographic. Said demo consisted entirely of sixteen- to thirty-nine-year-old men.
They wanted a doe-eyed, barely legal on screen and not an award-winning commentator. Because their audience was apparently filled with horny idiots. If she did not want to be replaced by whoever Cyril Ian was spelunking that month, she needed to make a splash.
Hence her latest opinion piece: 'High Rise Massacre: Don't Expect a Clean Resolution.' Drawing on stats and figures from last year's civilian oversight committee report, the article argued that the police may never definitively determine who was behind the attack. The strongest indicator was that clearance rates in Vale were in the mid-forties.
By those odds, if you committed a murder in the city, there was a greater chance than not that you would go free. These were clearance rates as well. Cases that were closed because the VPD believed they knew who did them. Conviction rates, where someone actually went to prison, were even lower.
Strangely enough, rates in outside settlements like Patch were in the nineties. That could be down to clerical errors or because fewer people lived there. However, foreign cities like Argus and Mantle were also much higher than Vale.
Or this was not strange at all and VPD was systemically broken. That was outside the scope of the article. Lisa would never say such a thing directly, though the idea would hang high in everyone's mind.
This was a literary pipe bomb designed to be noticed. Reactions were easy to predict. The bootlickers would call for her head. The peaceniks would defend her. Everyone else would get curious about the yelling and read the thing.
Engagement meant revenue. It remained to be seen if this would be enough to keep her employed. If not, at least she would go down swinging.
Her morose typing was interrupted by a ring. Lisa checked her Scroll. An unknown number flashed across the display.
Anyone could have been on the other end. Angry readers made up the majority of those who called her these days. Her personal number was always being doxxed. Feeling masochistic, she answered, prepared for an unpleasant sight.
A black screen welcomed her. While pleased to not get an eyeful of male genitalia, she was not out of the woods yet. They could start throwing out derogatory comments at any moment.
"Hello?"
"Welly well, Ms. Lavender. Nice of you not to screen me out." A trying-for-smooth-voice came through. "Lovely as always, I see."
While the camera on his end was out, hers was active. The smart thing to do would have been to turn that off. She was feeling combative and decided to make them look at her when they inevitably did something horrible.
"Flatterer." She said in her most exaggerated chipper voice. "Is this what you do for all the ladies before you flash them?"
There was a mocked gasp. "What sort of scruff do you take me for?"
He sounded familiar. "Who is this?"
"A dandy highwayman looking for some attention."
The nasally voice, caused through either sickness or a bad connection, threw her off. But their phrasing confirmed who was on the other end. A face flickered before her mind's eye of a grinning red head in a derby hat.
"Hold on."
She stood from her desk and stuck her head out her office entrance. Casually glancing around, her attention landed on a couple of assistants palling around in the hall. Very carefully, she slid the door shut.
Certain she was alone, she started again. "Roman?"
"The one and only. How is my favorite muckraker?"
"Still raking in the muck. How's my favorite guyliner wearing misanthrope?"
"I no longer use mascara. My favorite brand started giving me hives and my heart is unwilling to move on."
"I'll alert those on the fashion beat." She was cognizant of how much she still had left to do before finishing the day, so asked. "Is this a social call? Not that I don't like catching up with a member of Vale's most wanted, but I am a busy gal."
"Don't be like that. You were so nice to me the first time I contacted you."
"I was keeping you on the line for the police to run a tracer."
That was back when she believed helping catch him was her civic duty. If Roman was some sort of deranged killer, she still might have reported this interaction to the authorities. Now she was not as enthusiastic to share information.
"Ah, so it is only when you need something from me that you will give me the time of day."
"That's right. So, unless you have an exclusive for me-"
"What if I do?"
She struggled not to sound eager. "And that would be?"
"Nuh uh. Promise you will treat me as an anonymous source. I don't want my name to so much as appear on the same page as this little bombshell."
Her attention was officially peaked. Roman Torchwick loved attention. It must have been big.
"Done. So?"
"If you are looking for a scoop…" He suddenly went quieter. She pressed closer to the Scroll's speaker to hear him. "I'd take a drive down Lime Street. There is a story of great public interest unfolding down there."
"What, exactly?"
"You'll know it when you see it."
"Being super vague, Roman."
"Caught that, did you? What an amazing reporter."
Of course he would not make this easy. "You're such a horse's patoot."
"Watch out! Your inner hick is showing." He teased before Lisa heard sirens. "That's my cue. Talk to you later, love. Oh, and don't ever say I never did anything for you."
"Wait-" The connection ended.
Angry at being hung up on, she was tempted to call him back. The sudden ringing might give him a scare with the police right there. What stopped her was the knowledge he would block her out if she messed up whatever racket he was running.
Sometimes it was better to swallow one's pride. Besides, she could always get back at him in other ways. There was always that file photo they had of him with singed hair. A long time had passed since they had last run that image on their homepage.
After adding the number to her contacts list under a new entry titled 'Dandy,' she saved her draft and powered off the computer. If she pulled an all-nighter, she could have the article ready by tomorrow. Thus, it could be put off.
The thief's tip could not.
Grabbing her purse, Lisa made for the breakroom. She needed a camera operator. Production people could always be found loitering around there, ready to be conscripted.
/ / /
The late afternoon hours in the car lot outside of Junior's were always awash in activity. This ruckus was usually caused by customers hanging around. The reasons varied from those waiting for friends, to young teens planning to sneak past the doorman, to dealers selling party favors.
This day the source was different. A moving truck was double-parked with its open rear facing the loading zone entrance. People in overalls brought tables and chairs down a ramp to hand off to others in suits poised to run the furniture inside.
Watching this human conveyor belt was a woman in a white dress and heels. Her long, black hair was pushed back over her ears to allow green eyes to follow along, ready to assist. Despite her dainty frame, she had the Aura to muscle away any obstacles.
In the beginning, there had been a need for that. Setting up the slope was no picnic. Now everything was running efficiently.
Subsequently, Melanie Malachite was bored.
As an enforcer and unofficial underboss for the Xiong crime family, this felt beneath her. Buying the new furnishings had been alright. Overseeing their transport and setup was numbing. Her suggestions to delegate this responsibility had been overruled and now she stood around like an overdressed idiot.
The snowy boa scarf she wore was hot under the not-quite setting sun. She wanted to ditch the garment badly. Stopping her from doing so was her want to stay in uniform. Her will finally broke as she felt herself baking.
As Melanie began to unwrap, a low buzz in her right ear had her pause. Staffers used short-wave radio devices to communicate across the club. Happy to have something else to do, she pushed on the little bud in her ear canal.
This time, the words came through clear. "Mel, you there?"
"What'd you need, Bazzy-waz?"
"First, don't call me that. Second, we could use you inside. There's a guy at the taps making a scene."
"We just opened for the evening. Someone is already sauced?" Unless they pregamed hard, the alcohol should not have reached their bloodstream yet.
"Not a drunk. It's some sort of dominance display. He keeps making lewd statements and being extra grabby with the female servers."
"What does he look like?" She asked, already moving towards the entrance hall.
"You'll have no problem identifying him."
A foreboding statement. But this was the type of situation that she was paid to deal with. The time had come for Melanie to put once more the 'her' in enforcer.
She stepped confidently into the club. Already the new furniture was making a difference. Most of the foyer had been reopened. Attendance had not quite recovered though. Crowds were still sparse in what was usually a popular dance scene.
The low density did allow Melanie to see the bar area. She immediately identified the problem customer. He stuck out like a canker sore.
Drowning in purple furs and silk, the man draped himself over the barrier that separated the mixing station. The stool he was half sitting in strained under his heft that swung back and forth. Bazan was attempting to drive him back with words but was roundly ignored.
As she saddled up, the temporary barman gave her a relieved grin before slinking off. Hopefully to get her some back-up or a clean-up crew. This could get messy.
Gold and silver chains jangled as he continued his quest for booze. Sausage fingers that uselessly flicked at the dispenser were covered in platinum rings. Melanie had a gut feeling she knew what his deal was but did not want to prejudge. The last thing the club needed was an upset patron who just happened to have terrible fashion sense.
She put on her best service-industry face and dove in. "Sir, is there a problem?"
He collapsed back onto the stool, which protested as he swiveled to look at her. "I'll say. I've been without decent service for the past half hour!"
"Has our barman not been up to snuff?" She suspected that was not the issue but wanted to hear his side of the story.
"He's too much a man for my liking. You are the first pretty young thing to pass my way in too long." He leered unapologetically at her figure.
"Respectfully, they would be more willing to come around if you were not so handsy."
"How else would I get to know them better? See, I'm here scouting talent. My business venture cannot offer contracts without a firm measure of what they can offer."
"And that business is…?"
"An escort and massage service."
There it was. Unmasked without shame. Melanie had been right about what he was from the beginning. At least now she could stop pretending to be polite to the scumbag.
"Look, whoever you think you are-"
"Girlies call me Sweety Dill."
"Well Sweaty Bill, we have a strict 'No Pimp' policy. You are going to have to clear out before I do a little 'escorting' of my own."
Purposely mangling his street name did little to shorten his good spirits. "Don't be such a grump, baby cakes! Know what your problem is? Your sugar daddy isn't treating you right."
"Really now." The lady in white was unaware she had one of those.
"That Xiong cat? Yesterday's news." His many ringed hand came up to caress her chin. The sheer brazenness froze her. "Why don't you follow a real man? At least when I turn you out, you'll have fun."
Another person made themselves known as two curved blades landed onto Dill's collarbone. These implements were angled to threaten his neck beard with a dry shave. The owner of these razors came around so they could both see her.
For the alleged smooth operator, he must have believed he was looking at a funhouse mirror image of the woman he had been conversing with. They were similar and also different. Where Melanie wore white, the other wore red. Instead of long hair, this one had shortened hers to a bob.
What was the same was the face. That was identical. So was the disgust.
"Do not touch my sister." Miltiades Malachite intoned.
Most people, when confronted by two obviously dangerous individuals, would seek to deescalate. The pimp doubled down. He reached around to grab the hip of the latest addition to their growing crowd. Somehow, he missed how the claws drew closer to his throat.
"Ooh. Twins. You could make me a lot of money."
Having heard enough, Melanie stomped the floor. This action engaged the mechanism in her footwear. A knife formed along her back heel. She used that to hook the leg of the stool he sat at and pulled.
The seat was flung away, forcing him into an unsteady stance. Miltiades then used her positioning to trip him forward. He yelped as his head collided with the bar top.
On the rebound, they halted his momentum to stand him up like a bowling pin. With a synchronized spin, they drove their elbows into his solar plexus. Wind knocked out of him, Dill tumbled backwards a few times before landing at the feet of a couple of their workers.
"Please take this trash out to the alley for us." Miltiades requested.
"Be sure to step on it a bit." Melanie added. "Won't fit in the bin otherwise."
The gang members quickly agreed, seizing the dazed pimp under the armpits. As he was dragged away, the siblings returned their respective weapons to their hidden compartments. These flowers preferred to draw attention with their petals, not their thorns.
"I had that handled, Militia."
Her sister hummed. "We have been summoned. I came to collect you."
"Junior?"
"Junior."
Together, the Malachites headed upstairs. Those who had witnessed their handling of the unruly guest scrambled out of their way. Word would spread fast that night, forcing all to be on their best behavior.
The twins knew it would not last. Memories were short. Pain fleeting.
Knocking three times, they let themselves into Hei Xiong's office. Junior lounged in his chesterfield. The blinds were shut and the lights off. An empty whiskey bottle lay on its side nearby with a half-full glass hovering near his lips.
The cabinet opposite him was open, revealing a bunny-eared TV. It was switched to the local news station. Closed captions were enabled. He was watching intently, offering a grunt as the sisters approached.
"You rang?" Both women said in unison.
"How did shopping go?"
As the more talkative of the sisters, Melanie took the lead. "Well enough. There were no exact matches, so we had to replace everything."
A major drawback to being trendy, as opposed to a hole-in-the-wall, was that the club needed to be fashionable. Their worth was not in the drinks they mixed. It was in the atmosphere they provided. Image was everything and that would be lessened if they cut corners.
"How much did that set us back?"
"Not as bad as you would think. We got a discount for buying in bulk. Still put us ten percent over budget."
He nodded. "We can live with that. I will be foregoing my salary for the rest of the year to lessen the burden. Be prepared for some belt-tightening if that is not enough."
By that, he meant salary reductions or layoffs. Militia sported the tiniest of frowns. For her, that displayed a deep reservation. As the one in charge of the legal employees, she would be the one relaying that decision once made.
Melanie, who oversaw the extralegal operations, was not as affected. They could not make cuts to her side. Doing so would put them at risk of defections. That did not mean she was happy with these developments.
"What a mess! Tell me we are going to get back at the bimbo who did this to us."
"Can't." Junior took a long swig of whiskey. "Beacon is protecting her. She's going to be one of their students."
That was all that needed to be said. This was not Mistral or Vacuo. They could not mess up a huntress without getting tagged back a thousand times over.
"We got to do something! People are disrespecting us left and right!"
Low lives everywhere were pushing their luck. Guys like Sweety Dill would have never come near the club as little as a few weeks ago. Now they were sitting at their stalls on a nightly basis, testing the Xiong's resolve.
"Already have." He pointed at the television. "I commissioned a message to be sent out across the Underground. The sender let me know that it will go out tonight on the evening news."
"Who?"
"Torchwick."
"That fop? I thought we agreed to never work with him again."
Roman Torchwick was responsible for many of their woes. Not just in the past, either. Money that would have been used to bail them out was now earmarked as hazard pay to keep their friends on the inside quiet. Lawyers, mob lawyers especially, were not cheap.
"I also have concerns." Militia added.
"Sharks are out and we're bleeding. We cannot afford to be picky."
Conceding the point, Melanie ducked her head. "You're the boss, boss."
The twins settled in next to Junior. Although neither would admit it, they were both intrigued by Torchwick's idea of a message. There was also the tiny hope that the bowler hat wearing loudmouth would mess up. Then they would have plenty of reasons to cut ties for good.
/ / /
Roman loved when a plan executed flawlessly.
On the red Scroll's projection, he watched Lisa Lavender give a special live report. The intrepid reporter had no trouble finding their gift. Interspersed with her narration were images of the police surrounding a sedan. Their pals from the High Fly Flows were bound up in silver tape and seated by the rear tires.
The zoom-in on Shaw was especially satisfying. His bleeding face twitched in anger as the officers pulled package after package of illicit paraphernalia out of the back of the vehicle. He knew he had been had but was powerless to do anything.
Also captured in the video was a red ax that had been nabbed from an emergency fire box. It had been laid in Shaw's lap. Those in the know would notice this Xiong emblem and understand who was behind this.
Staging this public show-and-tell was a hassle. Roman had to find a location far enough away from the warehouse so that the cops did not have probable cause to search the structure. If they had found the vats, the whole building could have been seized through civil asset forfeiture. Junior would not have appreciated losing property to the city.
It also had to be close enough for VNN to find around the same time as the cops. To be safe, they had delayed their anonymous tip until they were already talking with Lisa. In the end, everything had worked out.
After this coverage, the cops could not let the Flows go. Not immediately, at any rate. Xiong would have plenty of time to reclaim his territory before anyone else moved in. The news report would also serve as confirmation of a completed job.
With this, the honor debt would be cleared away. They also walked away with some spending money. While there were plenty of funds they could have used, Roman's seventh rule stated it was always better to spend someone else's dishonest lien.
One negative was that the cop car Neo had commandeered was left behind. Long term they could not have kept it. No matter how convenient, the wheels were too hot.
Overall, Roman would say they came out ahead. A success in every way that mattered. His blond duckling even got a chance to spread his wings. Jaune did well enough following directions, if a bit sloppy and ungainly with his technique. That would be ironed out in time.
What kind of teacher would Roman be if he did not seek to correct those deficiencies?
Gurgling sounds had the spirit checking behind him. His student was in the middle of a tutoring session. Ms. Neopolitan was currently demonstrating how to properly apply a rear-naked choke.
This demonstration was taking place on the shack floor. Neo clung to Jaune's back, forearm wrenching on his throat. His hand furiously tapped against that arm in the universal sign of surrender.
She was uninterested in training a quitter, so Neo held on. Her commitment was inspiring. The joy she displayed at passing down a technique was something to behold.
"Halp." Jaune called out with a violet face.
A whine escaped from the teen as she shifted around so that he was flat on his stomach. Maybe, Roman considered, Neo was going a bit too hard. He considered acting like the grown-up he never was and breaking up their roughhousing.
Then the projection changed. VNN's video feed had returned to the studio. They were about to start the daily recap.
Since getting stuck between life and death, Roman had not had a chance to catch up on what was happening in the city. Being ignorant of recent events would not do. As they told the children these days, knowledge was power. Or something.
"Please…"
Tuning out distractions, Roman watched intently as the weather forecast was given. A lady in a very tight sweater announced sunshine for the next five days. The thunderstorms of yesterday had been the result of a cold front unlikely to stick around.
Next up, a man in a suspiciously matching sweater to the younger lady from before appeared. "I'm Cyril Ian and this is the news roundup. The Office of the Council's Prosecutor today declared that no expense would be spared to bring the perpetrators of the so-called 'High Rise Massacre' to justice."
Conveniently left out was that VNN were probably behind the moniker. Roman had to give them some credit. The network knew good branding.
Also, it was a very fitting name. As Cyril summarized the after results of their apartment complex jaunt, the thief gawked at the final body count. Roman figured that a few had died on the scene but was unprepared for the sheer number. Black must have eliminated every single person there.
This notoriety was an unneeded complication. There was going to be a lot of scrutiny. That meeting with the Division could not come soon enough.
"If you have any information, please contact the Vale Police department." The newscaster shuffled papers around that anyone could tell were blank. "In other crime news, the search is on for suspects in the nighttime 'From Dust Til Dawn' robbery that left one in critical condition."
This description captivated Roman. Considering the only one who was left 'critical' after their robbery was him, he doubted they were talking about that. Very quickly he determined that this must have been a different stickup.
Sure enough, he learned this raid took place later the very next night. While they had been busy with Madam Amour, in fact. A fascinating development.
"Hey! Didn't you hear me?" Jaune coughed as he limped over, having somehow escaped Neo's octopus-like clutches. "I was being twisted into a pretzel back there!"
"You did great kiddo. Daddy is so proud of his little slugger."
There was a very long pause. "I don't know how to process that."
"Sorry, I was going for positive male reinforcement and somehow ended up there."
That Roman had never had any of that in his life while growing up was probably what contributed to the awkward gaffe. He was not interested in unpacking that part of his psyche. Jaune had the good sense to not pry.
"What's going on here?"
"A mystery." He gave a half-grin to the boy before merging. "Neo dear. Care to chat?"
She was beside them in an instant. There was an expectation of a good time in those heterochromia irises. He was not going to disappoint.
"I have a solo job that could use your talents."
Neo clapped. Sneaking was her forte. That there might also be a chance for extreme violence was the cherry on top of her dessert.
"What will we be doing while she is busy?" Jaune asked.
"Preparing for Roman Torchwick to sally forth once more into infamy!"
For punctuation, Neo removed the bowler she had adopted from her head. With a hop, she deposited it on Jaune's own. The blond grabbed the hat with both hands. He was torn between pulling down or lifting up.
"Oh, I'm not going to like this, am I?"