Chapter 19
And that stone face, so familiar now to Mr. S, faded; with it the dream waned to oblivion and the waking world came into ever greater distinction .
Blearily, Mr. S blinked his eyes open, squinting them into a confounded stare at the indistinct figure which moved in front of him.
"Sieben!" he called tiredly, rolling himself into a seated perch atop his mattress, recalling the plump, red-cheeked face and balding head from the brief list of key staff he'd been inducted into memorizing.
"At your service," the man turned with a familiar smile, red waist-coat glimmering in the faint sun-light. "I heard the news," the man said bluntly, "I take one day off and everything goes to hell," the smile rolled into a chuckle.
Mr. S found himself laughing along from relief, grateful at the sheer mastery with which the man had managed, with so few words, to dispel any remnant of that lingering awkwardness which had followed Mr. S in every substantive interaction since the gala.
"You know, occasionally I get the feeling you're the one link that keeps this whole operation from burning to cinders," Mr. S admitted, hopping out of bed a fresh man.
"Only occasionally, sir?" Sieben joked, replacing onto the cabinet top the delicate, silver statue he'd been inspecting; it depicted, in action, a small boy riding a sled.
Mr. S took the refrain with gentle good humor. Pausing at the edge of his bed, he took a deep, crisp breath of the fresh air he now found himself consciously appreciative to be breathing. After all, there were less fortunate people who struggled to get enough air every day, so what had he been doing moping about the castle uselessly for?
Today was a new day! And today was another chance at life! This morning would mark the second day of the rest of his life, and he was going to make the most of it!
And, today… today was going to be different! He wouldn't be bumbling around cluelessly, he was informed, now; he was determined; and he knew exactly what he had to do! And, with that assured, unhesitating deliverance scaffolding him, he determined quickly his first course of action.
"Sieben," he said with an authoritative voice, "bring me my clothes. I want to make an appearance."
Ah, yes, getting dressed: a classic opening in the game of life.
"I'll imagine you'll want a set different from the one you're already wearing, sir?" Sieben asked, directing Mr. S' attention to his current dress.
The rumpled suit he'd neglected to remove looked back up at him and, suddenly, he remembered that, even with his sudden turn of attitude, the consequences of yesterday's actions probably wouldn't be kind enough to realize that he was a different person now, and that they really ought to stop bothering him.
Immediately, the world took on a grayer color, and he found his will to go on rapidly diminishing. Along with this, he could also sense his enthusiasm fading in real time as he started to take air for granted again. Amazing what ten seconds out of bed can achieve.
"Yes, I think a new suit would be wise," Mr. S said, trying vainly to maintain the good mood Sieben had set.
It was a bit weird to strip in front of his butler, but, apparently, it was cool as long as you were paying them to dress you and you kept your underwear on.
Tossing aside his jacket, he skidded softly over the carpeted surface to the near corner and entered into the bathroom.
Mr. S took a hasty shower and awkwardly past the acrylic stall panel, straining to reach the distant towel when, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a pair of freshly pressed boxers had been slipped underneath the bathroom door.
Looking at the white pair of boxers which, contrary to all logic, seemed to stand out against the white tiling, he couldn't help being distracted by the revolutionary thought: "why the hell couldn't he pick his own damn underwear!"
This was a trifling thought, and frankly not one worth recording if not for the fact that it madejuststrong enough of an impression, and came withjustthe right timing, to distract Mr. Sjustenough to cause him to slip.
His right ankle, twisted out from underneath him, sliding across slick tiling and, like a reverse pendulum, the cantilevered mass of his upper body went rushing off in the other.
The floor was kind enough to bring a sudden stop to this however, and an instant after his upper body came crashing onto the cold tiling, his head cracked solidly against the polished foundation.
Again, in the course of a life, this event was, as it turned out, equally trifling. Still Mr. S found it notable because, simply put … IT HURT!
WHY!? Mr. S' instincts shouted in a thought
Mr. S ground his teeth until they creaked, rising quickly to a steadying kneel and cradling his injured head in shaking hands.
Whatever idle thoughts he'd had about underwear, or even the more serious convictions about how best to emulate Mister Schnee went instantly out the pain-shaped window in the side of his skull.
For the moment, his thoughts consisted of an incoherent drizzle of "Man Up!" and other such proverbs as he sat kneeling on the floor, trying to maintain balance against a treacherous ground, which seemed to be swinging side to side underneath him.
Eventually, after several minutes of sucking pained breaths through his teeth, Mr. S mustered himself enough to stand up and take an account of his situation in the bathroom mirror.
Turning his head aside, all the while keeping an attentive eye on the mirror, Mr. S gently pressed at the rounded, back corner of his skull, feeling the marshy give of the area and wincing at the sharp flashes of pain.
Some light bruising, but it was all hidden underneath his hair. All in all, nothing serious, he concluded, breathing a sigh of relief.
Sieben was waiting by the bed.
Behind him, inches away from the stack of underclothes, lay the double breasted blazer which Sieben still pampered with careful attention. As he did this, Sieben worked admirably to lift the mood, or rather, to halt its precipitous decline.
Mr. S was certain Atlas had the easier job, all things considered.
"I must apologize for my last minute absence yesterday," Sieben said suddenly and with a genuinely regretful tone, continuing- "I hope you weren't too terribly inconvenienced."
Mr. S let out an impatient sigh tinged with humor, shaking his head to show the apology had been unnecessary. "Contrary to popular belief, Sieben, I am capable of dressing myself," Mr. S admitted, sucking in his gut as he pinched together the waistband and hooked the button closed.
"Of that, I have no doubt," Sieben said. "Still, as head of staff, it is taken upon me to be an exemplar of duty and service; I don't get all that extra pay for nothing, after all," Mr. S could hear the smile in his voice, one which quickly faded away to become a more muted apology, "so, it is for that I-"
"You embarrass me, Sieben," - Mr. S interrupted gently - "if you think one lapse could make me forget your years of loyal service. Put at once out of your mind any idea of apologies; none are necessary." Mr. S slipped the white undershirt over his body. Over this, he donned a grey dress shirt and a glimmering, silk-blue waistcoat.
"So be it," Sieben relented, "although, while I have you on the topic, I was hoping to discuss a possible change in mine and the staff's attendance schedule."
"Oh, is it anything to do with your absence?" Mr. S slipped his belt through the last loop, noosing it taught into a stern black line which ran across the definite egg-shell of his pants.
"Oh…" Sieben hesitated, "I wouldn't quite say that. The reason for my absence was, well, it more of a personal matter."
Mr. S was now sitting on the bed, slipping his shoes on..
"As I said, please don't feel obliged to explain yourself;" Mr. S calmly lowered his left foot, "you were hoping to discuss the staff schedule."
"Oh, yes," Sieben entreated, "we were hoping to switch our schedules so that we had Saturdays and Wednedsdays off."
"Saturdays and Wednedsdays?" Mr. S raised an eyebrow, coming face to face with the man as he stood back up. "I'm certain much of the house staff would classify that as 'unreasonably disruptive,' to say the least."
"Yes, I admit it will cause some inconvenience for the staff," Sieben said, "but I have managed to talk the second maid into considering it. I'm certain the rest of the staff will follow along, given enough time."
Mr. S held his hands out in turn, allowing Seiben to attach the silver cufflinks. "Still," he said, "It's rather a radical change."
"Oh, of course, but we can phase it in. We can start with those who already work weekends and expand out from there. It would all be opt-in, of course.
"But, that can come later," Seiben suddenly turned away from Mr. S, walking over to a small handcart, "for now, your breakfast," he announced, turning to a nearby tray-cart and lifting the domed silver cover to reveal a hearty breakfast.
"Oh, Seiben, you read my mind-"
Mr. S felt his words trail off, however, all thoughts of a nice meal dissipating once he actually looked at the serving tray.
It wasn't the finely organized disk of breakfast foods which captured his attention.
Rather, more ominously, it was what stood innocuously off to the side of the silver plate: a water bottle.
A WATER BOTTLE!
Was this man trying to kill him!?
Of course! How could he have missed it!? Who else would have such intimate access to his food supply? Who else would have the influence necessary to get so many things past security? Who else would have known that yesterday was a good day to skip work! After all, absence records don't count if your boss is dead! Oh, he couldn't believe he was stuck in a room with this asshole! This quisling, murderous-
Oh, Mr. S felt his knees grow weak at the realization: he was stuck in a room with this guy!
Harshly, Mr. S clamped down on his panic.
No way it was the butler, he assured himself; his death, if anything, at least wouldn't be a cliche.
Besides, it wouldn't have made sense for Seiben to skip work if he knew his boss was going to die. Dead bodies tended to bring in investigations, so why draw suspicion to yourself unnecessarily by changing your rigidly locked schedule?
"Is everything alright, sir?" Seiben asked concernedly, leaning forward and holding the over-sized serving cover out to the side of him.
"Yes," Mr. S looked away from the plate, "everything's alright."
"In any case," Mr. S continued, trying to play it cool, "why the water bottle?"
Sieben looked curiously at the sedentary object; "Why, for the convenience, I suppose. We've always gotten you bottled water in the mornings; were you perhaps hoping for a change of routine, sir?"
"No, I'd rather not," Mr. S nodded, attempting to seem unfazed and failing monumentally as he contradicted himself almost immediately, "just, keep bottled water off the menu for the foreseeable future. And, I think I'll skip breakfast for today."
Seiben didn't argue, merely stepping aside and dragging the food tray with him.
"Um… Sir," Seiben said, when Mr. S had passed by him, with a tone designed to make Mr. S consider his actions.
'Great, what did I do now?' Mr. S, growing tired of the continual chain of rakes he seemed to be tripping over, turned stiffly to face the man with what he hoped was an expression more neutral than incriminating.
"Yes?" Mr. S asked.
Sieben hesitated a moment, drawing his head to gesture at the wooden nightstand. "Aren't you forgetting something?" pausing a moment before insisting, with a more pronounced nod to the nightstand, "Riére, sir."
Mr. S followed his gaze to the nightstand and brightened up with artificial enlightenment when he saw it. "Oh, yes; of course; Riére," Mr. S said, "how could I forget," before walking over to the nightstand to find out what Riére was and how he could conceivably have forgotten about it.
Gently, he made his past Sieben and opened the first drawer of the nightstand.
'Moly! This was unexpected!'
Mr. S kept a calm exterior despite the dated, inoffensive expressions of panic which ran sprang through his mind, and despite the gun which was now, in time with his raising hand, floating up to his face.
It was only a moment later, as he turned the object around, the more appropriate thought: 'Holy crap! A gun!' leapt to mind.
Still, he managed to hold steady as he studied the sidearm.
The weapon was… very bright, covered almost completely in a blue-white varnish of polished metal he could have cleaned his teeth in.
It was also… badly designed.
All over its body, and especially, most worryingly, over the barrel, Mr. S could perceive several discrepancies in the structure, where razor thin and artificially straight cracks spiderwebbed throughout the metal. It seemed almost as if the entire thing, a massive object looking, somehow, like a cross between a revolver and a sawed-off double barrel shotgun, was constructed out of multiple interlocking parts rather than a single, machined whole.
Not to mention it was several pounds heavy and had a combustion chamber thick enough to pump tires with.
Mr. S grew to doubt whether the thing could even discharge without killing the user.
This was definitely just a prop, he decided. You know, just a very well made status symbol for rich people to cart around.
For a laugh, he ran his thumb against the prop safety switch and discovered that it hadn't been a prop. And, he discovered it further when he, for a slightly more hollow laugh, pulled the prop slide and a prop bullet came out. This came as a surprise, partially because he was now starting to doubt the authenticity of the fakeness of this gun, and partially because this was a six barrel revolver with a slide.
Flicking open the chamber, saw that the chambers had been packed with crayola brand gunpowder, as far as he could guess. It almost hurt his eyes to look at the glass stop-plugs which covered his side of the chamber openings. Partially, this made him tear up because of the fact that some idiot had apparently decided glass was a fine material to include in the construction of a gun; mostly, however, he was squinting at the nearlyglowingrecess of multicolored dust housed within the multiple chambers. Neon Reds and Cadmium yellows clashed boldly against the relatively subdued exterior of the weapon.
Flicking the chamber closed, and pocketing the bullet, he made a show of checking over the weapon as if giving it a routine inspection.
And, truly, he actually was giving it an inspection. Because, the fact that Mr. Schnee apparently owned a gun for personal carry brought up some very intriguing questions like, "why did Mister Schnee own a gun for personal carry?"
Security was the obvious answer, but, wouldn't it just be better to get a security team? Still, it might just have made him feel safer; nothing blasts safety like a gun, after all; even Ronald Reagan had one from what he could remember, despite the secret service.
Besides, from what he could work out from the briefing he'd been given, this planet had apparently resurrected the concept of royalty in a big way. And, at this, a sudden memory struck him from what he'd learned about 18th century Japanese history.
The Samurai, by that point, he'd remembered, had withdrawn to become a more bureaucratic regime, with little, if any, warfare being carried out as everyone gathered together and decided to do paperwork all the time. Importantly, however, the "samurai" still carried swords: Japanese swords, to be precise; and often these were very pretty and ornately designed swords that they'd use to style their enemies to submission with. The better and more expensive the sword, the higher your status, it was reasoned; the subsequent buying spree and overzealous smacktalk about whose sword was better than whose eventually culminating in the mid nineties, where Japanese swords ended up more as collectors items of semi-divine significance to thirty-something American nerds who thought it could give them magic powers.
Returning to the point, this block of knowledge was just what Mr. S needed to solve this riddle! Because, now that he thought about it, of course Mister Schnee would be carrying a gun! And, of course it would be ridiculously designed. Probably, this Yakov fellow made a name for himself using guns, and his descendants decided to carry on wearing guns of a more and more stylized nature until we came to the future, where Mr. S was standing with a real fake gun in his hands.
And, beyond that, Mister Schnee was a crazy conspiracy nut anyhow! So, why wouldn't he opt for the functional version? The police are only minutes away and all that.
He sighed in relief, as things started making sense again.
Taking the gun itself, he flicked the safety back and hooked it naturally into that peculiar looking strap, just above his right pocket, that, yesterday morning, he hadn't been sure what to do with.
Straightening out his jacket over it, he looked pleased at the relative discretion with which the weapon seemed to incorporate itself into what he supposed he would now have to consider to be, 'his look.'
Turning around, he saw Sieben standing at the door; walking forward, Mr. S berated himself for falling so quickly into familiarity with the man. Mister Schnee had given him a list of trustworthy individuals that was two people long! He shouldn't be building rapport with the literal first guy he meet! The man was just about to give him a water bottle for goodness' sake!
Just then, Schwarz walked in, raising her eyes from her tablet just in time to avoid bumping into Mr. S.
Mr. S recovered himself soon enough. "Schwarz," he said, talking now in that self assured and 'aloof manner of person' Mister Schnee had spared no severity explaining the necessity of.
Mr. S greeted Schwarz and walked regally onto the carpeted hallway, which, that morning, was quite a bit more crowded than usual.
Not that Mr. S noticed, due to the great care everyone took to hide the fact that they weren't supposed to be there. Schedules had been rearranged, groups formed and favors called upon as all the staff heads - in unprecedented unanimity - came together in that hallway to present, together, a united front of reproach against Mister Schnee.
Said front was weakened only by the fact that they were all on opposite edges of the hallway pretending to dust something.
Now, to be fair to them, Mister Schnee could be quite an intense man at times. And, while they may have juggled the schedules a bit and taken other people's jobs, therewasactual dusting to be done.
Despite the urgent buildup of dust around Mister Schnee's doorway, however, the real reason they were there was because - contrary to popular conception - the servants of a house were actually quite loyal to it, often more so than the nobles whose titles they derived theirs from.
The servants of the Schnee family were, in this regard, especially fervent; and, this recent scandal... well, it was just inexcusable. For ahouseheadto allow a faunus into the family… on no account could they allow this to stand! There were standards to be kept, after all.
And it was precisely because of these standards that the lot of them were loitering outside Mister Schnee's door, silently praying that one of the other staff heads would be the one to broach the idea that, probably, he ought to recant a little, please. Maybe admit that his opinions were just the slightest bit completely unacceptable.
It was here that their crusade came up against the bulwark of its inherent absurdity; firstly, the fact that it had fallen upon them to remind the family head - THE FAMILY HEAD - of all people about the importance of his name came off as a bit… untenable, psychologically. Secondly, there was the more practical matter that, no matter the era, it was a bit difficult to chastise what was essentially your boss, especially about a matter as straightforward as this!
Really, they were at a loss as to what to do. The most any of them ever expected to deal with regarding this matter would have been, at an extreme, to straighten out a recalcitrant employee, not to lecture THE FAMILY HEAD about basic genealogy!
Yet, on the other side of that rock, they were pressed forward by the hard place that they'dhaveto lecture him because he'd gone crazy.
Hence, all the dozen or so of them stood scattered about the entrance to Mister Schnee's chamber, resolute in their commitment that someone would have to talk to him and equally resolute in the understanding that it wouldn't be them.
Of course, as much as they cursed themselves and pretended to wish they had the bravery to speak up, it was fairly obvious to all present that none of the staff heads would be the one to broach such a sensitive topic.
No, that honor would fall to a man of great renown and presence in the palace community. This man was in some ways a paraia, having no royal blood or even a name of any renown to speak of; in other ways, the castle staff begrudgingly admitted that he could be useful. For example, he was the only motherfucker crazy enough to even conceive of doing what they had hastily planned to.
Still, this grudging acceptance never stopped them from prefacing the use of his name, whenever they had occasion to whisper it, with the modifier "crazy;" not even afterwards, when they all recounted the tale of how that crazy man, as they'd all expected and wished for, barged into Mister Schnee's private chambers to tell him off, did they withhold the use of the "crazy" prefix.
Mr. S, taking a moment or two to collect himself on the border of his bedroom door, was not completely oblivious to the goings on of the castle staff. And, after a moment of observation, deduced, with a certain measure of certainty, that it really didn't take twelve prominent members of staff to dust one hallway.
Looking at the stern silence of the figures, as they stood inadmitably at their stations and worked away at their tasks… he felt himself choking up at the sight.
Perhaps his emotions were high with the recent stresses that had been put upon him, but... to think that the castle staff would have mustered such an effort, just to be there to greet him when he woke up in the morning!
They weren't saying anything, or trying to overwhelm him with manufactured emotions or strained platitudes - he held back a tear - they were justthere! And their presence, their consideration and care, was enough to move him. To think that there were people out there, almost like a family, who cared for each other so. He at once felt his sense of purpose strengthening; even if he was a stranger, he was still taking over a life, and the overseership of a thousand human souls and wishes. He didn't know much yet, perhaps, but he knew he wouldn't let any of these people down!
This, for Mr. S, was a rare moment of enlightened joy he wanted to bask in forever.
But then crazy Adolph came and ruined everything.
The morning, for Weiss, carried all the joy of a prisoner's last day and a graduate's first.
"Wake up, Blake, Wake up!" She yelled, almost squealing like a schoolgirl on the first day of summer. Bouncing out of bed, she burst out of the room before Blake, she was sure, had the time to wake up. Sprinting two steps out of her door, she banked hard into the nearest room, slamming the door wide open. "Wake up!" she yelled at the pair of sleeping girls, notably, sounding noticeably rougher than she had been with Blake.
Impatient at the groggy pair's millisecond delay, she picked up a nearby brass vase off the front cabinet and crashed her fist against the underside hard enough to dent it.
The sound it produced had the effect of sounding like a directional symbol, acting as the brash accompaniment to Weiss's, loudly vocalized, "Wake up! Wake up! Let's go; out of this place, out!"
Yang sprung stiffly up like a toy soldier, hair puffed wildly about her head like a golden dandelion. Beside her, Ruby squirmed deeper into the blanket, pressing a pillow down onto her face as she incoherently murmured her objections.
Yang blinked wearily up at the heiress, who shook the bed as she jumped up onto the mattress and only slightly reduced the vigor with which she pounded the vase, mostly so that her imploring, "Get up!" could be better heard.
Yang looked slowly about herself, awareness dimmed and uncluttered with detail as if she were in shellshock. In particular, the morning scarlet of the twilight sun stood out to her. Taking her confused gaze down away from Weiss, Yang turned aside to look at the clock and then turned back to face the heiress, tiredly saying: "Weiss, the airport isn't open yet, why are you doing this?"
"I plan to take the first flight out of here, Yang, and the shuttle doesn't wait;" Weiss said sternly, "I'm not going to miss it just because you can't develop enough sense of punctuality not to require a portable toothbrush!"
"But the shuttle doesn't leave for two hours!" Yang implored with a hopeless expression, adding, "we'd only need thirty minutes, at most!"
"Then we'll stand in the bus station for an hour and a half," Weiss resolved.
"You're mad!"
Weiss ticked back, "Just... get up!"
Here, Ruby interrupted, muffling quite loudly into her pillow which was pressed against her face more for its opacity than anything else now that Weiss had stopped her drumming.
"What?" Weiss asked.
"She's asking why we can't just follow you on the next flight. You can take Blake ahead, if you want."
"What?" Weiss was aghast! "How could you even suggest such a thing, Ruby! You've been clamoring to Haven for ages! Just think of a all the new and interesting weapons, you'll see!"
Ruby only huffed resolutely and with stern disapproval against her pillow, pressing it further over her face.
Weiss, that time, didn't need a translation.
"She said, Haven will still be there in-"
"I know what she said!" Weiss interrupted, "And fine, you two follow along," sounding like a scorned mother. Weiss sprang off the bed, walking to the exit and replacing the vase with a casual toss along the way.
And, despite themselves, Yang and Ruby couldn't help the pang of guilt that struck them at her tone of deciduous sorrow; a guilt which motivated Yang to yell after the retreating heiress: "If it makes you feel better, we'll steal the toiletries."
This, did not make Weiss feel any better.
Mr. S was only too glad, now, to have been tutored with the advice that he should use, and be mentally prepared to utilize, that aloof manner of person so caringly cultivated within the very indices of his new body's habit and being.
On the tail end of Adolph's incoherent tirade, itself made up with a greater proportion of spit than words, Mr. S was indeed only too thankful that he managed to appear cool all throughout it. This appearance was only further helped by the surprised shock his body seemed to enter into at the sight of the man. Just, the very existence of him.
To be honest, he really didn't look very much like any twentieth century personages of note, but… at the same time one couldn't help but draw parallels.
The explosive dialogue, the brash fury, and my god thataccent! Mr. S didn't even need an introduction to recognize that this was Adolph. Despite this, however, the man had been kind enough to announce himself at the gates with the words, "Adolph wll not stand for such anargaghtp! Arrgagh! Schistokempfokenderostockwafenmachnachenbox!"
The rest of the speech was similarly comprehensible; although, as it carried on, Mr. S wondered if he shouldn't count himself lucky that that was the case.
Still, throughout it, Mr. S did manage to strain some inkling of meaning from the man's words, gathering, mostly through guesswork, that he'd taken offence to his words at the gala.
The impassioned presentation, as all things, soon came to an end; and following it was a cold silence as Adolf waited with an expectant sign.
Unbeknownst to Mr. S, he was standing at the focal point of a critical moment, as the twelve pairs of keen eyes trained upon him.
It had been a difficult, if ugly, mess of a job, bringing the matter to the house head's initial attention. But, following Adolf's breach of decorum, a wide avenue of precedent lay open for the staff heads to present their own, far more diplomatic, if still sternly worded ultimatums.
And, unbeknownst to Mr. S, he made exactly the right move.
"Adolf," Mr. S said.
"Yes?" Adolf answered, as if annoyed at having to say even that much.
"You're fired."
And, just like that, the house heads realized that Weiss wasn't even heiress anymore, so really, why rock the boat just right now? So what if all their counterparts from the other houses made fun of them? They'd just be expressing, with that very mockery, their own insecurities about not being part of House Schnee, the greatest royal house in the world! S.D.C! S.D.C! Yeah, that was it; definitely.
Among his castle staff, at least, Mr. S was, for the moment, secure from any criticism.
Elsewhere, scarcely detected, Adam Taurus had infiltrated the castle.