*Tick-tock, tick-tock.*
"...The responsibility is quite obvious," Ozpin said, picking up his coffee mug from the desk. On the screen before him were three windows with the faces of the Vale Council members and a fourth with General Ironwood. "Roman Torchwick and the White Fang organized the attack. Do you really need more guilty parties?"
A man with a shiny bald head in an elaborate blue suit leaned back in his voluminous, much like himself, chair. His head turned sideways to a bright graph of losses displayed on a second monitor. Red numbers with bold minus signs illuminated the face of the Councilor of Economy.
"I am not interested in the demons from the forest, but in those who were supposed to stop them and failed. Who is going to decide to come to Vale for the festival after this? The city budget was calculated in advance based on tourism revenues. A crisis could start in Vale."
"Are you suggesting we turn the city's defenders into scapegoats?" Ozpin clarified dryly, stirring a spoon in his coffee mug.
A middle-aged woman with a soft smile and an exquisite bob haircut slightly closed her eyes.
"Of course not," she shook her head with sympathy, as befitted the Councilor of Public Morality. "The girls tried. But... I don't want to accuse anyone, but shouldn't we ask ourselves why our young Huntresses failed? Weren't they prepared for such situations at Beacon?"
"No," decided to speak up the third councilor, former chief of the city police, and now - the Councilor of Security. His voice was like sandpaper. "Beacon failed not because its students lack strength. But because they lack discipline, subordination, and a clear understanding of a command structure."
Ozpin hid a smile behind his coffee mug. This trap of vague phrasing, concern for public opinion, and soft hints was obvious to him. The target wasn't RWBY; they were just a convenient pretext, a pressure point. The target was him.
"Ladies, gentlemen. If the goal of our conversation was to find the guilty, then everything is obvious here. You know exactly how dangerous the White Fang and Torchwick are. Together they represent a force that vastly exceeds four first-year girls. And yet, they overcame it. They neutralized Torchwick, sealed the breach, and stopped the wave of Grimm. Team RWBY succeeded. Believe me, if they had failed, the destruction would have been many times worse."
Ozpin put down his mug and, for the first time during the conversation, leaned forward slightly. He steepled his hands in front of his face.
"I, of course, do not want to deprive the police and the soldiers of Atlas of their well-deserved laurels, but it is exactly thanks to the ingenuity and selflessness of the Beacon students that the breach was sealed. The young Huntsmen performed exemplarily."
"That is all wonderful, Ozpin," the Councilor of Security began grimly, "but the situation requires decisive measures. I believe it is necessary to immediately increase the Atlas presence in Vale for the duration of the festival. To prevent new terrorist attacks."
In the window to his left, the Councilor of Economy snorted disdainfully, leaning back in his chair:
"We all saw the strength of the Atlesian soldiers when a bunch of students blew up their flagship. These forces won't even protect themselves, let alone our assets."
Ironwood showed no outward reaction to this barb; not a single muscle twitched. But Ozpin knew him well enough to see how the general's jaw clenched slightly. He saw with what difficulty his old friend was currently restraining himself from rash words and actions.
"Touche," Ozpin raised his hands in a placating gesture, "the Vytal Festival is a time when the four kingdoms demonstrate solidarity. And we, as their representatives, must also maintain peace and harmony among each other."
"Harmony won't protect us from terrorism," the Councilor of Security persisted.
"I understand your concern, Councilor," Ozpin nodded, not losing his benevolent tone, "but if we flood the streets of Vale with soldiers, what signal will we send? If we respond to anxieties with ostentatious militarization, we risk undermining the very essence of the celebration. And people will start asking questions: who is our enemy? Terrorists? Are they so strong that without an army we are powerless? Or the Grimm? Then it turns out that our own walls, Huntsmen, and defense forces are incompetent?"
The Councilors didn't interrupt, although their facial expressions ranged from irritation to cautious interest.
"Nevertheless," Ozpin continued, "I do not deny the need to enhance security, for the threat is indeed real. But not in the form of hundreds of soldiers on every street. Atlas possesses elite specialists; their presence will be effective and, equally important, will not frighten the citizens. Besides, as far as I know, the general's flagship is ready to return to service."
Ironwood nodded gratefully for the opportunity to regain some of his lost reputation.
"I will send the best of the best, handpicked by me personally, to protect the festival. As for the flagship - the ship is operational, the final system checks are currently underway. We will lift off right before the arrival of the Amity Colosseum."
Ozpin, maintaining a polite but subtly triumphant smile, took a sip of his now-cold coffee. One by one, the councilors expressed restrained agreement with Ozpin's opinion and disconnected their communication channels. Only Ironwood remained on the screen with slightly pursed lips and a look that said the conversation was not yet over.
"I can't say I support your point of view," the General said. "The festival needs security. And the more of it, the better."
"An excess of security, James, can breed the very anxiety we fear so much. We must act subtly; our enemy is not a brainless Grimm. By the way," Ozpin suddenly remembered, "an anonymous source, preferring to remain unknown, spotted a virus on your flagship. It transmits itself to all devices it comes in contact with. Check everything on your end, check it thoroughly."
"An anonymous source?" the general asked incredulously.
"And, perhaps, a future ally in our war," Ozpin smiled. "I am confident in his good intentions and motivation. And preempting your question - no, unfortunately, I cannot tell you about him, certainly not right now. You see, this source is not exactly thrilled with you."
The silence dragged on for a couple of seconds. After which Ironwood nodded and said goodbye.
The holographic screen went dark, and silence fell over the room. Ozpin remained sitting at his desk alone, thoughtfully twirling the empty mug in his fingers. The storm was growing stronger, and he was no longer so sure he could keep everything under control.
"She expects me to make a mistake." The Headmaster leaned back in his chair, fixing his gaze somewhere through the ceiling. "Well then. I will make so many of them that she won't figure out which one is the trap."
Ozpin allowed himself a smile. It had been a while since he acted somewhat mad. The enemies must have had time to relax and forget who they were dealing with. And allies need to be kept on their toes, too.
***
In the morning, Egrer was in a bad mood. The room was empty; his team had gotten up earlier and hadn't woken him. Egrer wasn't sure if this was driven by a desire to minimize contact with him or a wish to let him sleep in after the breach, his broken leg, and their heavy conversation.
He sat up, stretching his shoulders, and only then noticed the package by his bed - the long-awaited suit jacket tailored by Mr. Adel had finally arrived. Usually, packages are left at the team's door, which meant one of his friends had brought it inside. A small gesture, but a nice one.
However, the long-awaited package brought him no joy. Egrer unpacked his new clothes and unenthusiastically pulled them on. The jacket fit perfectly, but instantly felt alien to him. It felt like Egrer had pulled on a freshly flayed, bloody Grimm pelt. He didn't even look in the mirror, just yanked the jacket off his shoulders and threw it into the closet. The Beacon uniform inside evoked similar feelings in him. Egrer slammed the door shut tightly, as if sealing a ghost inside.
He shifted his gaze to the pile of clothes dumped by Illmond's bed. Gloomy sweaters, worn-out jackets, pitch-black t-shirts. These clothes screamed of introversion and self-isolation. Egrer grabbed the first thing that came to hand. He could only hope Illmond wouldn't be too offended.
Weiss was waiting for him at the dorm exit. She shot him a displeased glare, as if it was his fault she decided to meet him here and he kept her waiting. But almost immediately, the irritation in her gaze was replaced by bewilderment.
"Who are you?" she asked with a seriousness worthy of a police interrogation. "And what did you do with my Egrer Peleni?"
"Ha-ha," he replied tiredly, "hilarious."
"Not in the slightest." Weiss looked him up and down, standing right in front of him. "What are you wearing? What's wrong with your hair? What's wrong with you?"
"Spent a few minutes choosing between the 'homegrown philosopher' and 'failed suicide' collections. Decided to combine them."
He took a step back and tapped his crutch, as if showing off his outfit. He wore a wrinkled blue hoodie, dark jeans with ripped knees, and sneakers that had seen better days. He hadn't styled his hair with hairspray or even a comb - he just left it in a state of natural apocalypse. As he woke up, so he went.
"I'll be ashamed to go out in public with you," Weiss gave a fair assessment, after which she turned and headed toward the cafeteria. "You look like a beggar asking for change in some alleyway."
Egrer gave a crooked smirk; Weiss was being a snark as usual. And this, strangely enough, warmed him.
"You know way too much about street aesthetics for an industrial dynasty heiress." Egrer smiled widely, walking beside her. "Admit it - did you sneak off to the favelas as a kid for a dose of real-life experience?"
"As a kid, I tried not to go blind from the brilliance of my own status. But alas, apparently my vision is flawed after all, since fate led me to you. No, seriously," Weiss persisted, "what possessed you to dress in these rags? Is this some new style? You look like a painting of a drunk arthouse rebel."
"No. I just..." the smile vanished from his face, "don't want to look like Roman."
"Maybe I'm confusing something," she began, snarky as always, but with a strange caution in her voice, "however, suit jackets, pants, and hairspray aren't products exclusively for Roman Torchwick's use. What, is everyone supposed to throw out their clothes after the breach?"
"I mean that Roman instilled a love for suits in me, for that kind of 'style'."
"That is perhaps the only good thing he raised in you."
"I don't want anything of him left in me, not a single habit," Egrer replied sharply. "And what if... what if along with the good, his voice in my head stays too? 'Clothes are a price tag - so let everyone know you're out of their league,' 'Clothes speak for you when you're silent,' 'You don't exist if they don't see you - without an image, you don't exist.' It's all like a brand. For many years, every time I looked in the mirror, I saw him. And you know, I'm not sure there was anything of me in there at all. It's not just about clothes, it's about... an attitude toward life, I guess."
Weiss stopped and just stared at Egrer for a few seconds. His words seemingly unlocked a hidden door within her, one she would have preferred to forget about.
"Sometimes I feel like Jacques looks at the world through my eyes. Every time you told me about your adoptive father, I observed you. I still remember the first time we brought up the subject: you proudly declared that your father was an asshole, and kept egging me on to call mine the same. I learned that from you, by the way, though I didn't show it."
"Learned to call him an asshole?" Egrer asked, slightly bewildered.
"Learned your philosophy."
Egrer ran a hand through his hair, uncombed and messy like his thoughts.
"You see, that's from him too. That drive for independence, the snark, the rebelliousness. I called him an asshole precisely because that's how he raised me, not because I actually thought he was... or did I? It's hard to explain, I don't fully understand where he ends and I begin myself. I just need to do some spring cleaning inside myself to sort it all out."
"You're overreacting, Eg. You aren't alike."
"And I think you aren't like Jacques," Egrer replied simply. "But you have a different opinion on that, right?"
"I... I understand you."
And Weiss really did Understand him. Understood with a capital "U". It wasn't sympathy out of politeness, nor a banal "I understand you" that hides emptiness. And therefore her words meant more than any consolations.
Egrer naively believed he had already put an end to it, but burning the hat wasn't enough. As if the pen he was using to write his life story had unexpectedly run out of ink - only a faint indent was visible on the paper.
They parted ways in the cafeteria, each carrying a weight that was extremely difficult to put into words.
Egrer looked at his reflection in the window: he stood without hairspray, without an ironed suit, and hunched over quite unaesthetically, leaning on a crutch. Just a guy in gloomy clothes. He ran a finger along the seam of Illmond's hoodie - rough fabric, uneven cut, no decorations. It felt weird wearing something... ordinary and even primitive.
The reflection frowned; Egrer couldn't resist and slightly fixed his hair.
'Not me, but not Roman either,' he thought. He didn't know what to do next. But he knew for a fact that he didn't want to be a fake built on the foundation of someone else's life and someone else's style. And even if right now he looked like a painting of an arthouse rebel, at least there was something of himself in it.
Egrer turned his gaze deep into the cafeteria. Perhaps nothing could hurt him more than the sight of his own team, sitting scattered far away from each other, as if they had never been a single entity. Magenta was chatting about something with Nora and Ren at Team JNPR's table. Yort, naturally, had found refuge among his friends from the heavy lifting club. Illmond had isolated himself in the darkest corner, preferring quiet solitude.
It hurt to realize that without him as the connecting link, their friendship with each other turned out to be not strong enough to even just sit at the same table. Egrer is the unofficial, yet still the leader. And he had set a very bad example by detaching himself from his team. Instead of seeking comfort in each other, they had all wandered off their separate ways.
Egrer froze in place, not knowing which direction to take the first step. After a short pause, he headed toward Illmond. They were far too similar in their core; in some aspects, their wannabe-artist understood him even better than Magenta or Weiss. At the very least, apologizing for the stolen clothes was a worthy excuse to start a conversation.
Egrer walked past the serving line, not even glancing at the food. He wasn't hungry.
Illmond didn't recognize him even when Egrer sat opposite him. He just pulled his plate closer and pressed himself harder into the corner.
"Sorry I took your clothes." Only by his voice was Illmond able to recognize him. "And thanks for bringing in the package."
Illmond raised his eyes from his plate, blinking a couple of times, as if not immediately believing who was in front of him. As if he was currently looking at a suspicious stranger and wasn't sure if he could be trusted.
"We live on the same floor as Cardin," Illmond said, lost. "He could've poured something on it or whatever... And you're... in my clothes?"
"Decided to change my style."
Illmond stared into his eyes for a few seconds, as if trying to see something. Then he shrugged and went back to his plate. Egrer felt through his Semblance how he was holding back resentment, because he wouldn't have been able to tell from his face.
And then he realized with fear that holding things back had become so habitual for him that he was doing it unconsciously. Even toward those closest to him. Why was Egrer so uncomfortable opening his soul to Illmond? He didn't understand. But he decided to fight it and spill everything to him honestly.
"It's because of Torchwick. Or rather... it's hard to say. I tried explaining this feeling to Weiss, but I couldn't."
"It's not so much that you know who you want to be, but that you know who you don't want to be," Illmond noted unexpectedly astutely. "You're probably afraid people will start comparing you. And that's why you're getting rid of everything that might link you two."
"That's... insightful. Not surprising, since you have a similar problem with Pyrrha." At the mention of that name, Illmond flinched slightly as if from sudden pain. Always the second, the one remembered only in comparison as "the one after Nikos." Everyone saw him not as Illmond, but as Pyrrha's rival.
Illmond stayed silent. Everything was clear anyway.
"I used to always wonder how much of Roman was in me," Egrer continued dully. "But I didn't attach much importance to those thoughts. And after the breach... I got scared, Ill."
"Eg, what's my favorite color?" Illmond asked unexpectedly.
"U-u-uh..." Egrer was slightly taken aback by the surprise. "Black? Dark blue? Well, gray, maybe?"
"Red." He closed his eyes, as if remembering his days at Sanctum. "But that color became too strongly associated with Pyrrha. Red hair, color palette of her clothes, victories in the arena smell like the color of blood, even if there was no actual blood. She claimed that color for herself. People didn't just see me as the eternal runner-up, but also as a copycat. Doubly derivative."
"And you just stopped wearing red?"
"Rejecting an image is also an image," Illmond sighed, not answering his question. "Roman wanted you to be like him, and you became someone who will run from him his whole life. In both cases, he is the key figure in your life. I didn't just give up my favorite color to separate her and me. It didn't help me, and it won't help you."
"So what will?"
"If I knew, would I be... like this?" Illmond chuckled sardonically and spread his hands, as if showcasing his entire dismal existence. "You came to the wrong guy for advice, Eg."
"I have no one else."
"Actually, you do."
Egrer raised an eyebrow. Illmond was silent for a bit, and then, looking somewhere at the floor, blurted out:
"Pyrrha."
"What? What makes you say that?"
"She's at Beacon," he answered as if it were obvious. "She could have continued her sports career, but she came here. Because she doesn't like being a champion."
"That's not enough, don't you think?" Egrer wasn't convinced by this argument. It might sound logical, but it was a stretch.
"You just haven't heard from her what I heard. When I lost to her for the second time in a tournament, she came to... apologize."
Egrer had to admit that sounded like her. Especially considering exactly how she had won. Illmond was her equal, and only her Semblance tipped the scales in her favor. Few people can fight with a broken weapon, and Illmond was too dependent on it.
"She knew how important it was for me to beat her. At the time, I thought she came to mock me. Or worse - out of pity. Can you imagine what she told me? 'I don't want to be a champion'."
"She actually said that?"
"That was the gist of it." He snorted and grimaced angrily, recalling that conversation in full detail. "I drove myself to exhaustion, wore myself out with training, developed tactics because I burned with passion for dueling arts, and she beat me at everything practically against her will!"
Egrer realized this could actually be true. Illmond and Pyrrha had the same problem. It's just that one suffered because he lost, and the other because she won.
"Wait, did you enjoy fighting?" Egrer asked in surprise. "Enjoy the process itself, not the laurels?"
"I guess I did," he admitted uncertainly, looking at his palm. "It's just that right now I have that feeling again. The tournament is soon, I'll be in the arena. It's... anticipation."
Illmond went silent for a second, gathering his thoughts. This burst of emotion seemingly drained all his strength. He slouched and waved his hand lazily, indicating he didn't want to talk about it anymore.
"Thanks, Ill," Egrer nodded gratefully. "Doubly so for agreeing to listen to me after yesterday."
"The team isn't in any danger, Eg," Illmond chuckled. "Your silence hurt us, but nothing irreparable happened. No one died, no one got hurt. It... just felt bad."
Exclamations of delight suddenly pierced the usual din of the cafeteria. Chairs scraped against the tiles as students rushed to the windows at the far wall. Some jumped onto the benches, some stood on their tiptoes, pointing at the sky.
"The Colosseum has arrived," Illmond said with a strange intonation. After which he displayed uncharacteristic initiative. "Let's go take a look."
All the free space by the windows was already taken, so they stepped out of the cafeteria.
A massive floating island drifted slowly in the sky toward them. It was still far away, but that only reinforced the realization of its enormous scale. In the center stood the Amity Colosseum itself - a grandiose arena of tempered glass and steel. The building resembled a mix of ancient art and modern engineering genius. It wasn't visible from here, but Egrer knew that around the Colosseum were shops, gaming pavilions, rides, fountains, and much more. A floating island of celebration, created to impress the whole world.
"And all this for a tournament," Illmond muttered. He looked at the majestic Colosseum, and his gaze lacked the delight that shone in everyone else's eyes. "A festival of unity and harmony, and then they bring students from all the kingdoms into the arena to fight for the title of the best Huntsman academy."
"There are no prizes," Egrer shrugged. "Just a series of friendly sparring matches."
Illmond, not tearing his gaze away, watched the slowly floating Amity Colosseum. He clenched his fists.
"Ill," Egrer placed a hand on his shoulder, "this time everything will be different."
"What makes you say that?" Illmond grumbled grimly, not taking his eyes off the behemoth in the sky. "I lost to Pyrrha twice when I was equal in strength to her. And now... she's pulled far ahead."
"Do you really not have a drop of faith in yourself?" Illmond turned his face to him and gave him a heavy look in response to the stupid question. Because over the past years, he had demonstrated exclusively the absence of any hope. "Okay, you don't have to believe in yourself. But at least believe in my belief in you!"
"You sound like Madge."
"Because she's right." Egrer leaned in closer. "I always said you could beat Pyrrha if you really wanted to. And I still believe that. Madge does too. Even Yort..."
"He gave me twenty percent." Illmond chuckled joylessly. "A pathetic number."
"That's more than everyone else combined. Well, if you don't count Yang. And even she has less chance against Pyrrha than you."
Illmond silently pursed his lips and stared at the floating Colosseum in the sky again. He wanted to argue, but the words got stuck in his throat. Inside him, two feelings battled: his habitual disappointment in himself, and the strange, unaccustomed warmth from Egrer's words.
"You know," Egrer added quietly, "this is your chance. Pyrrha is stronger, that's true, but strength isn't everything. You said it yourself, she doesn't want to be a champion. Attitude and refusal to give up are also very important. And it's hard for me to imagine a more stubborn mule than you. So mentally, you're much stronger. That's why I believe: when the time comes, you won't have twenty percent, you'll have a full hundred."
"You..." Illmond lowered his head, and his eyes hid behind his long bangs, "did you get scammed by some internet grifters into some idiotic life-coaching course about believing in yourself or something? Watching too much anime?"
"Even if it sounds cliche, it makes sense, admit it. Not all revelations have to sound grandiose and profound. Just try to understand that we see something in you that you don't see in yourself. And even if I'm wrong, I'd rather be wrong believing in you than consider you a loser from the start."
"Ill!" Magenta's voice rang out from behind. She was skipping toward them, dragging Yort along. "There you are. And with a friend! Gonna introduce us?"
"Who are you?" Yort frowned, looking at Egrer. "Mug looks real familiar."
"Guys, it's me," Egrer replied sluggishly. "Are you messing with me?"
Magenta and Yort exchanged glances.
"His voice sounds familiar. That rasp..."
"Nah, it's some scrub, otherwise I'd remember him."
While Egrer yelled and tried to prove he really was Egrer, Illmond raised his head toward the Colosseum again. Only one word kept spinning in his head: "Chance". A chance to prove to everyone that he wasn't eternally second, that he was stronger than Pyrrha. A chance to prove to himself that he wasn't useless. And even if his self-confidence was as low as ever... he believed in his friends' belief.
And at the same time, in another part of Beacon, Pyrrha Nikos sat on the steps, her trembling hands clutching her Scroll. On the screen glowed a short message from her mother, the first in many months: "We will be coming to the tournament. Do not disappoint us."