"This is what happens when you hand over your trust, your safety, your children, to men who claim to be our guardians, but are, in reality, nothing more than men." - A quote attributed to Cinder Fall during the Fall of Beacon

Part One: Reflections and the Supposed Calm Before the Storm

What first comes to mind when I mention the "Kingdom of Vale" to you? I'm sure the first thing that comes to mind is the city of Vale, and of the abundance of activities that can be done there. But if I were to ask an academic, on the other hand, they would undoubtedly drone on and on about the kingdom's rich cultural history (and perhaps quietly lament the failures of Vale's expansion attempts). Whereas, if I were to ask a patriot, they would likely boast to me about Valean 'individuality' and the 'right to self-expression.'

But what if I asked you about Mountain Glenn? I'm sure your attitude will change immediately. But even then, I'm sure that I can guess your response, that it will fit one of three possible molds.

One, you profess to know very little or not at all about what happened to the settlement out of sheer ignorance or denial;

Two, you are among the majority who lament about the tragedy of its downfall, accepting the official narrative of what happened and who was to blame;

Or three, you are in the minority of those who rightly point the blame at the Valean Council for ensuring the settlement was doomed to fail from the start and leaving its people to die in their time of desperation.

(I'm sure I was rather close, if not exactly spot on).

And if you were in the minority, I'm sure you have already experienced the scorn and mockery from the useful idiots that the council has at its disposal. Perhaps they were even someone close to you, like a relative or a spouse. A rather... useful tool to quell dissenting opinions, as I'm sure you have noticed, for there are few poisons as potent as those delivered by the blind few we choose to trust implicitly.

This... is the great irony of Valean politics. For all that its politicians preach of the importance of 'civil liberties' and 'rights,' for all that 'liberty' and 'freedom' are ingrained in this 'glorious' kingdom's constitution, those words mean little if their interpretation can be twisted to suit political means whenever convenient–enough loopholes to, at least for a time, relegate the faunus to second-class citizens, or expand the authority of Vale's council in matters of security following Mountain Glenn's collapse, to name just a few recent examples.

Perhaps by unraveling the web of lies surrounding Mountain Glenn's collapse, we can better understand the true nature of society at large: That to our core, we are driven by our self-interest and greed, that at the end of the day, "good" and "evil" are dictated merely by the lines drawn in the sand by the ones in power, that these labels given by society are never truly objective.

And soon, I will show the whole world this truth.

By the verdict of society, I am a 'villain,' for I display so-called 'evil' traits and behaviors, for which I am subject to widespread scorn and disdain, and am used as a cautionary tale to discipline the future generations of Remnant, to instill in them allegedly 'good' behavior, so that they can become productive little members of society (cogs would be more accurate).

But why am I labelled as such? Truly, I mean, and not simply the propaganda the councils or Ozpin (or his followers) will spread. The answer is quite simple, though its conclusion may not be so easily palatable for you.

Society by and large is petrified of individuals who question it, who go against its established dogmas, and who expose its true, ugly side for all to see. It prioritizes maintaining its 'orderly' status quo over evolving and improving, and in so doing, treats these pariahs like a festering cancer, aggressively removing them from the population in hopes of containing the spread of their movement.

And so, my purpose, my goal for my life on Remnant, however short it may be, is quite simple. I am but a mere apostle, here to spread the truth of humanity, the demented, twisted side it wishes to hide under the facade of 'moral goodness.'

Even if it means preparing for decades to bring the plan to fruition.

Mountain Glenn, 18 years before the 40th Vytal Festival – Hours before the collapse

It was rather early in the morning, for the sun had barely risen, when I descended the stairs and into the living room. The television, it seemed, had been left by my father on the Vale News Network channel. But for him to be called into the office this early (which was quite unusual, even for him) ... it could only mean that the company was dealing with a crisis of some kind once again.

Lisa Lavender, the junior reporter on screen, continued her broadcast as I wolfed down my breakfast. Eggs and toast were by no means fine dining, but it was still leagues ahead of scrounging for leftovers.

"... I'm reporting on the ground at Mountain Glenn, where multiple large-scale fires have started in the outskirts of the settlement, slowly creeping toward the center. Councilman Stockton, in a speech just now, attempted to reassure residents, claiming that these fires are merely 'acts of arson' perpetuated by 'White Fang thugs,' and has begun to implement 'travel restrictions' – in particular, heightened security in the tunnels connecting the settlement to the city of Vale. However, this reporter thinks his words are dubious at best, since-" I switched the channel.

"... in other news, Lochridge, CEO of Glenn Shipping Ltd., has publicly condemned Councilman Stockton's speech, denouncing the emergency travel restrictions as a gross overreaction to 'a few forest fires and wild animals,' and claims that these measures – among others – are 'the height of sheer idiocy' for the settlement."

I turned off the television, sighing as I placed the remote down. While the news certainly interested me – don't get me wrong – the truth was, it wasn't as if I could use this information in any meaningful way, given my age and status. Regardless, I didn't wake up this early to watch the news; because after several years, after having completely removed them from my life, today was the morning I finally decided to pay them a visit.

Not because I cared, mind you, but because I wanted to see if they had finally dug themselves out of that gaping pit of their own making—and to see how they would react to my return (this expedition was for purely scientific purposes, I can assure you).

The night before, I had packed my backpack not only with the necessities for school, but also for today's travels. Knives, a flashlight, and gloves, are just the bare minimum for a young girl like me to make such a trip and return unscathed.

Right as I opened the door to leave, I spotted a framed picture of myself hanging on the wall. When I was first adopted, my new parents, in their excitement, took me to a photo studio (and then an ice cream parlor) to commemorate that day. It's odd, really, looking back at this photo again, seeing my eight-year-old self, smiling in it—because that was, to my recollection, my first genuine smile.

I shook my head. Now was not the time to get sentimental; it was time to depart the comforts of my home and venture into the dark depths of the settlement.

The sight of the lower levels was still as monotonous as ever–not exactly something I missed after all these years. Toward the end of the street I was on, a squad of police officers was milling around, going from shop to shop, pocketing away envelopes brimming with Lien.

The parallel blocks of storefronts lining the street were equally bland in appearance, with their cheap and unpainted concrete finish, save for their dimly lit neon signs advertising all manner of goods. They ranged from the conventional, like freshly baked loaves of bread, to the more... shall we say, 'creative,' such as recreational Dust cocktails and other illicit substances. The illicit goods, I noticed, tended to be sold by vendors toward the ends of streets or in less populated alleyways. I found these half-hearted attempts at discretion to be rather pointless. The rule of law was only superficial in these parts of the settlement; around here was where the outcasts of Valean society thrived.

Really, the more logical option would be to open a pharmacy and sell these illicit goods on the side. Being a drug dealer anywhere – but especially in these parts – was to invite stiff competition, and in this market, unless you were vicious or shrewd (or both), you would sooner become the next corpse lying on the street riddled with bullet holes (or in prison, if you were lucky) than you were to make your first million Lien.

But if you were a pharmacist, on the other hand (even one without a license), your life expectancy would skyrocket suddenly. Not only did you still have a host of clients dependent on your products, that were guaranteed to keep coming back for a fix, supplying you with a high and yet steady source of revenue through volume alone, but you were also tacitly protected by both sides of the law. You are, after all, a significant contributor to the health of the community (including for its less scrupulous members) and, given how cheap your products are because of government subsidies, no one will even think of robbing you (though having security guards certainly helps reinforce this).

My point is, if you want to serve addicts, make the operation entirely above board. That way, you make yourself indispensable to everyone and are a target for no one.

Moving down toward the end of the street, I eventually reached the staircase that would lead to the lowest level of Mountain Glenn–the real underbelly of the settlement, where only the desperate and insane would even dare to step in (or so I've heard).

Now, you might be wondering, why was such a staircase located here, of all places? It turns out, that when Mountain Glenn was first constructed, all districts had access to the tunnels connecting the settlement to the city of Vale. But over time, many of these access points were sealed off, with the few remaining ones concentrated in the center of the settlement. To this day, sadly, I could not figure out what excuse they used to justify this...

But setting the Valean archives on fire certainly didn't help...

(as if you weren't infamous for your short fuse...)

Even within the first steps of the staircase, there already lay used needles, saturated with dust and grime, their remaining contents long since emptied into the sewer grates nearby.

The streetlights on this level had long since fallen into disrepair (and for good reason, at that), with many of them having long since been cannibalized for parts, with others resting against the dirt road. The only real sliver of light that penetrated this far down came from the upper level's streetlights.

Turning on my flashlight, I continued walking, until finally, I reached the end of the street. And there it stood, the little home from which I came into this world. And what a home it was, with the paint on its walls having long since peeled away, with its candles snuffed out, and with an address long since obscured by the undergrowth that no one down here bothered to keep in check. No wonder this house had been so cheap for them to buy—with its poor quality and undesirable location, it honestly wouldn't have surprised me if dining in the city of Vale was more expensive than this sorry excuse for a 'house.' It also didn't help, of course, that it only had a tiny kitchen, a single bedroom, and a makeshift bathroom.

The moment I pushed open the door, the hinges collapsed, and the door – or rather, what was really a wooden plank with a handle – fell to the floor, the pungent smell of the outdoors wafting in, mixing with the dust and rot of the indoors. Venturing inside, I could immediately notice how scuffed the floorboards near the door were, with much of the limited furniture inside having been pushed aside—forced aside, rather, by unwelcome guests, and a trail of blood led into the kitchen, having long since dried up.

Below the kitchen table, several toenails and teeth were strewn about, haphazardly tossed aside by the house guests. The duct tape on the chairs remained, caked in blood. Some very unruly guests, from the looks of things. If my guess was correct – and all evidence seemed to point that way – they had come to collect on the mountain of debt owed to them, and what they found did not satisfy them in the slightest.

Human cruelty has always found a way to continually surprise me, always leaving me with a renewed sense of smug satisfaction every time... especially for the past few generations.

It seemed as if they spared no expense in ransacking the place, but to no avail, too. And so, the house's last - and perhaps only - occupants, had been taken and used as slave labor to pay off the debt.

As I reached their bedroom, I couldn't help but sigh. The only touches of personalization done to their room were a few dusty framed photos of the two of them, back when they still lived in the city of Vale—all of which had been haphazardly tossed onto the floor, several shards of glass strewn about. I approached their desk drawer, opening its secret compartment (easy to miss upon first inspection). Inside, several Poker chips remained—the smallest denominations, in fact. Even after having fled the city of Vale, they kept gambling, and until the very end, they protected these chips better than their own bodies.

I sighed. I suppose the moral of the story, as it were, was rather clear; the minds of all gamblers will eventually become enslaved to their vice, and their bodies will become tools for manual labor.

With that, I turned to leave. My past would remain buried, forever lost in the wind, with none the wiser. Perhaps my only regret was that I could not bear witness to the interrogation. Learning their techniques would have been rather useful preparation for the plan.

As I stepped out of the house, a wave of what some may call "melancholy" washed over me. Over the years, I had contemplated the conversation that I would have when I inevitably confronted them.

How would I approach such a conversation? Should I become murderously violent and terrify them, or should I appear meek and defenseless, and guilt them, or perhaps both? In the end, it all came down to how they would react to my sudden reappearance in their lives (but personally, I was hoping for uncontrollable guilt). But alas, this confrontation was not to be. All that was left was an aftermath that left a bitter taste in my mouth. Reality would always be far more disappointing than anything my imagination could conjure up, especially when it came to the answers that I so badly sought.

Turning my flashlight back on, I continued back on the path, noticing that the level's denizens – many of whom were faunus with scars all over their bodies – had finally noticed my presence here, and had gathered around the house. But the moment I spotted them, they began to immediately to scurry away, sometimes on all fours, hissing as the beam of light reached their eyes.

In their wake, they left behind the occasional trail of blood as their barren feet stepped on the broken glass and used needles strewn about the street. Nearby, the sound of a creaky wheelchair being knocked over echoed in the suffocating silence that remained, the air here somehow even more pungent than before. Regardless, this welcoming committee was rather disappointing. None of them had even dared to attack a seemingly defenseless and delicate schoolgirl. Perhaps the real danger at this level came from the minefield of broken glass and used needles...

I rolled my eyes. So much for the nightmarish rumors told of this place… it was hardly different from the slums in the city of Vale. Well, aside from the lighting, I suppose.

But as the thought crossed my mind, I heard a groan emanate from my right. Turning my flashlight, I saw a legless faunus crawling toward an empty syringe near my feet, his bare arms riddled with needle marks, his body little more than leathery skin stretched over brittle bones—like a cannibal's idea of a tent, almost.

I suppose this is what you would call a 'fateful encounter.' While I may not have planned for it, this was still quite the opportunity that had fallen right into my lap.

The elderly faunus kept single-mindedly crawling toward the needle, blissfully unaware of what I had in store for him. Just as he was about to grab the needle, I plunged my knives straight through the middle of his withered hands.

The man screamed in pain, and yet, he nonetheless continued in vain to crawl forward and try to reach his 'salvation,' ignoring every rational impulse that remained in his body as the blades tore through what little flesh remained in his hands, as they inched ever so closer toward his arms.

I watched on, committing every facial expression, every move he made, every emotion he expressed to memory. It would be foolish to get caught with such sensitive material at school, not when it could be easily avoided.

Finally, as if a semblance of an intelligent thought had finally entered his decayed brain, he began to try to remove the knives restricting his movement. Gritting his teeth, he began to pull his hands out, the knives tearing through the flesh, the blades angled toward his pinkies, and inching ever so closer toward his wrists. It seemed as if I would have to retract my statement; the man was as foolish as ever. He has truly left all logic aside if he thinks tearing his hands out by the wrists is smarter than simply sacrificing the webbing in his hands. The extra pain could have been easily avoided which, furthermore, was utterly pointless.

The man desperately grasped for the syringe with his bloodstained hands, the object of his desires suddenly slipping from his clutches, dropping into the dirt as he realized it was devoid of all contents. The man's face slackened, the light that had flickered in his eyes – even if just for a moment – had been snuffed out. He lay there, his 'only' hope extinguished. In truth, with his 'night vision,' he should have easily been able to see that the syringe was empty. And yet, he kept trying to reach it, as if hoping that if he did, he would discover that his six senses had lied to him once more. How did the expression go again...? 'Love is blind?' Quite fitting, wouldn't you say?

As logic would dictate, the self-preservation instinct should win when a person is in mortal danger. And yet, as this faunus had just demonstrated, that assumption only holds if the person has not been chained by vice. Otherwise, self-preservation is overwritten in favor of satisfying immediate pleasures.

Humans are far too emotional for their own good.

And as I understand it, you're usually supposed to feel something when you inflict pain, am I wrong? Perhaps a feeling of horror at harming a fellow human being (or faunus), or perhaps some sense of pleasure from inflicting pain upon others? In my case, however, inflicting pain on a person doesn't solicit any kind of feeling from me (although I will not shy away from pretending that I enjoy it if the situation requires it).

The best analogy that comes to my mind would be of a scientist using mice in clinical tests. He does not use the humble mouse because he detests it and wishes for it to suffer. No, he experiments on it simply because its characteristics are comparable to that of a human's. In that way, he can create medicine for humans without harming any in the process. Therefore, it seems strange to me that many will decry my methods, even if they are simply the most optimal. The likelier answer, it seems to me, is that they are blinded by emotion and comforting themselves by calling it 'morality.'

Curious, is it not? Humans decry human experimentation, and yet see no problem with starting wars – especially the Great War – which cause suffering and destruction on a scale that human experimentation could never compare to, especially through the atrocities committed in the name of victory. Humans love freedom, but persecute the "other side" when it gets to enjoy what they believe is theirs alone to possess. And they love having the right to choose of their own volition, and yet see no issue with chaining themselves to the whims of political tides.

It is these... dichotomies, if you will, that fascinate me most about humanity—the reason why I so badly wish to understand it. Unfortunately, however, in order to reveal the darkest truths about humanity, one must resort to methods that many will consider 'barbaric.'

But I, for one, consider 'barbarity' a small price to pay for these answers; it is a small price for humanity to understand the truth about itself, even if I must force them to confront it, even if it means dragging them toward it, kicking and screaming. Well, now that I think about it, perhaps I do feel an unmistakable sense of… enjoyment when I shatter people's delusions. While this may not be on the scale of all of Remnant, much less a city, we all must start somewhere, don't we?

Several hours later, at the Glenn Academy for the Gifted

"We as a society are doomed because of this latest generation." Have you ever heard such a sentence (or a variation of it)? Occasionally, I would assume. As for me, it seemed this sentence played in my mind every time I went to school.

Today, the moment I entered the classroom, I was immediately assailed by the brain rot that, it seemed, all generations of youth seemed able to endure; complaints about math and strict teachers, inane gossip about celebrities, and the latest sports news.

In a way, you simply could not blame them. Few could anticipate that in just a few minutes, their entire lives would be uprooted irrevocably.

All of it was nonsense that had no place in the classroom. The fact that it was allowed (at least it wasn't encouraged...) to this extent was simply disgusting. Vapid conversation and emotions had their place, of course, but to be allowed to become this prolific...? We, as a society, have allowed emotional responses to drive action, superseding rational thought. I sighed as the inane babble began to intensify. It looked as if it was time to quell it.

The moment I stepped into the room, one of the boys quickly turned pale, immediately sliding into his seat. The noise in the classroom evaporated in an instant, save for the clicking of my heels on the vinyl tiles.

"The rest of you," I murmured, "Get in your seats. Class is about to start."

The rest of the class scrambled into their seats, just moments before the clock struck the hour.

"Oh, good, good!" The teacher smiled as she approached the board. "Looks like everyone's here- and seated, too!

"This class is always so well behaved. I think I speak for all of your teachers when I say that I wish all the other students were as studious as you. I mean, you are all nearly adults!" She chuckled.

"I wonder who or what I have to thank for that..." She murmured, frowning slightly as she turned to the board and began to write.

The class exchanged nervous glances between one another, the boy from before scratched a pale line on the side of his neck before glancing over toward me, his eyes full of trepidation. The memory of being pinned to the ground in a secluded area of the school yard echoed in the back of his mind, he could still hear how the knife began to carve into his neck, like a blade on ice, before he capitulated.

The moment the boy made eye contact, however, he immediately looked away as I raised an eyebrow, almost tossing his head to the side in his struggle to evade my gaze.

This is what happens to those who believe themselves above the rule of law. Only a show of power can bring them to heel. Reminds them of who is really in charge.

Even if they were quelled for now, this method necessitated constant application, or else the fear would evaporate. Regardless, with that out of the way, I could now let my mind wander as the teacher began lecturing on information I had learned ages ago.

I wonder, who was it that first proposed rote memorization as the best way to educate the youth in society? Who was it, that thought learning inane facts and figures by heart would open up pathways to success in the future? It is perhaps little wonder that school has not endeared its students to the study of history or similar subjects.

My school was arguably no different in that respect. In most classes (aside from physical education—for obvious reasons), there were the kids that lounged in the back, either playing games on their Scrolls or gossiping; the kids in the middle, who tended to simply be mediocre or average at best; and the kids toward the front of the classroom, who actually focused on their studies (or at least tried to). Truly, the only things 'elite' about this private school were that the students were all children of influential figures in Mountain Glenn and that even if you barely managed to graduate (or after failing several times), you were still guaranteed a highly coveted job. Besides these qualities, this school, besides appearances, truly was lackluster.

But what if... the unappealing nature of the way history is taught was indeed the point? I considered as I listened to the history teacher drone on about the Faunus Rights Revolution—ironically enough, to a room where most students still had relatives that fought on the human side of the war. All the teacher was doing was affirming the worldviews they held, the ones that were passed down to them by their relatives which, funnily enough, coincided with the Council's wishes. It didn't take much—just a few discrete lines in an already bloated education bill, and their plan started to come to fruition.

To think that they were arrogant enough to believe they could hide it forever... how absurd.

Think about it: When you consider the art of manipulation, there is only so much you can do to shape the minds of adults. But if you can get a significant head start, say, when your victims are still children – confused and still optimistic naive about the world – you would be in a prime position to create zealots that would fight to preserve and even grow your ideals until their very dying breaths.

It truly is a shame that I am in no position to influence educational policy. Theology (especially concerning the Brother Gods), for instance, is a must.

Perhaps this is the reason I do not find school to be 'a bore,' as some of my classmates would so eloquently put it. While they might find amusement and fear in trivialities like sports, the latest HoloNet show, and their 'crushes' – of which I had no use for (they are, after all, merely short-lived novelties) – the ability to plan ahead even by just a year was far beyond their abilities (not that they had any desire to do so in the first place).

They were simply "living in the moment," ignoring the valuable lessons that history had taught us through costly experience and shunning the future despite its inevitability—scarcely different from the generations that came before them. But I saw things rather differently. Perhaps it was the lack of traditions and teachings that were passed down to me that colored my perception, removing the rose-tinted glasses that a child of my age was supposed to view the world with, or perhaps more simply, this was simply my inherent disposition.

Whatever the case may be, my classmates are required to look up to me for direction, despite my lesser physical stature.

It is a rather surreal experience to be mature mentally, but not necessarily physically; there is a fundamental disconnect that occurs when two strangers face a maturity mismatch, especially when the mature one is a student several times your junior.

In a manner of speaking...

While I may have been seated toward the front of the classroom, my chair was nearest to the window. As a result, I could already see the dark plumes of smoke in the distance suffocating every waking breath of the clear blue sky, the orange hues from the flames eclipsing the morning sun.

Even from this far away, I could already make out the distant screams of lower-level residents fleeing carnage, the roars from the encroaching Grimm Horde, and the sirens calling for Huntsman reinforcements.

And yet, they drowned out the panicked cries of my classmates in my vicinity, many of whom tossed their chairs aside and began to flee, ignoring the pleas from the teacher to remain calm.

I stood up, entranced by the dance of the flames, the carnage enveloping the settlement from within itself. With a sight like this, I couldn't help but smile, because it was a rare enough occasion to bear witness to such alluring scenery, even as the teachers pulled me away downstairs and toward the nearest emergency shelter. Even then...

It was the most wonderful of mornings imaginable.

End notes:

I hope I didn't make it so that the narration wasn't too long-winded. This is my attempt at telling a story primarily from the first person, which interprets the perspective of a... shall we say, 'morally different' RWBY character.

While I'm not 100% happy with the way this chapter turned out, I will focus on finishing this story prior to making large-scale revisions (feedback, for which, would be greatly appreciated!), such as making Cinder's narration closer in tone to Tanya's (if you know what I mean).

By the way, the italicized sentences/paragraphs (unless otherwise stated) are from a different point of view. Some information for you to ponder...