Silver Chariot, Chief of the Vale Southern Police Department, looked at them in bewilderment, having absolutely no idea what to do with the teenagers dumped on his head. He merely scratched his graying stubble and kept glancing toward the door, either wanting to show the students out or run away himself.
Team MJEI, in full composition, continued to stand in place, barely daring to breathe. Oobleck had been intimidating them the whole way here, saying that if they somehow managed to fail this practice too, he'd definitely expel them. He lent weight to his words with an ostentatious cleaning of his glasses, which automatically plunges any Beacon student into primal terror, even if the gesture doesn't belong to Goodwitch. Reflexes.
And even when the historian personally handed his students over to this bewildered man and left, his formidable aura lingered in the room for a long time. Most likely, it was what discouraged the police officer from any rash actions.
"There's hardly any work for you here," their new boss scratched his cheek again. "Well, besides hauling paperwork between departments and running to the stall for donuts. By the way, it's almost lunchtime, so you're about to have your baptism of fire. I'll quickly scribble down a shopping list for you."
"Mr. Chariot, is there really no real work?" Magenta asked without much hope.
"Of course there is! And it's already in progress," having finished writing, the officer handed the slip of paper to Egrer. The latter ostentatiously turned away, having no desire to moonlight as an errand boy. "Don't leave the forces of law and order starving."
"But Torchwick has already robbed every Dust shop in Vale!" Magenta protested, having taken these robberies the hardest of all. She even shook her flamethrower, from which poked only a single vial of Earth Dust. "We can help. We want to help!"
"Speak for yourself," Illmond whispered, drawing some obscenities on his Scroll. "I don't mind sitting around the station. There's extranet, and that's all I need."
"And I wanna bash somebody's face in," Yort shared. "So we're ready for the most dangerous job, pig. Terrorists, Torchwick, Grimm, hell, even aliens—gimme a couple of spines to snap, and I won't snap yours."
Mr. Chariot paled slightly, seeing such bloodlust, but showed his fright in no other way.
"Torchwick is being handled by professionals. This job requires a sharp mind, not brawn, so leave this matter to the pros."
And with those words, they were simply ushered into the hallway, a notepad sheet forcefully shoved into Egrer's hands. He glared maliciously at the list in his grip and ruthlessly crumpled it.
"I'd swear on my mom that Roman already bought everyone off in here, which is why they investigate these robberies with their thumbs up their asses. Seriously, why else would they turn down our help?"
For now, though, he had to accept the lot of a food courier. It made no sense to rebel out of nowhere; in that case, they'd just be shipped off to shoot sparrows on the other side of town. And he needed to stay close to the station. After all, who knows, maybe an opportunity would present itself later to find out something about the robberies, the White Fang, or Roman's situation. Egrer liked this plan for its simplicity, since he wouldn't be able to pull off anything complex anyway.
All that was left was to seize the right moment...
Magenta delivered the donuts to the department, as neither Yort nor Egrer wanted to get anywhere near the servants of law and order, let alone hand them anything. And Illmond wasn't allowed anywhere near humanitarian aid for the Vale Southern Police Department for the same ideological reasons, since Egrer had initiated him into the thieves' fold, which meant buddying up with cops was against the code. Not that Illmond cared much; he just didn't want to exert himself unnecessarily.
Their brave leader, however, didn't live by street codes, so she quickly became beloved throughout the precinct due to her gentle nature and kind heart. Flitting between various departments, she served as the face of their crew, for once justifying her honorary post on the team. If not for her, Yort would have already killed someone, Egrer would have buried the body, and Illmond would have just shrugged at the whole thing.
Such were the Hunters of the new generation.
Having passed this "Baptism of Fire," Team MJEI was split up and assigned to haul paperwork between departments, sort through minor case files, and help out with small chores.
Egrer carried out the officers' tasks reluctantly. It was hard, unpleasant, and every fiber of his being demanded that he immediately walk out, consequences be damned. And it wasn't even because he, like Yort, didn't want to turn fed. No, Egrer simply felt like a mouse that had stumbled into the house of an old cat lady. Wherever he went, sharp, penetrating stares pierced his back, and danger awaited around every corner.
And there was plenty to fear.
"Gray," a whisper came from behind him, "isn't that the guy they showed on TV?"
"Who?"
"You know, the terrorist? The one who got banned from Atlas~"
"I'm not a terrorist, I'm a law-abiding citizen!" Egrer snapped, spinning on his heels. "Never been involved in anything, and I've led an exclusively respectable life!"
Naturally, no one listened to his heartfelt confession about being slandered and framed. Perhaps it was his goofy smile; perhaps swearing on his dad six times in a row was a bit excessive.
The cop merely raised an eyebrow. He must've suspected something.
"Intern," a voice sounded behind him. Egrer jumped on the spot, barely suppressing the urge to leap out the nearest window. "We found a job for you, follow me."
***
"Name's Yort Alnen, what's your emergency?"
It was hard to call Yort a sociable person. No, he wasn't a hermit or a sociopath, it was just that his need for communication was pretty low. His paranoia and pathological distrust toward everyone around him also contributed, clearly stifling any desire to make acquaintances.
"Well, whack him with an iron if he gets wild. Figure it out yourselves, why call here? I'm hanging up."
So when they sat him down at a landline to answer calls, Yort said nothing. The shattered moon would sooner piece itself back together before he told strangers anything about himself, especially the police.
"Name's Yort Alnen, what's your emergency?"
Answering dispatch calls requires a certain amount of self-control and decent legal knowledge. Hunters are taught this in combat prep schools, so nobody even questioned whether the intern knew the law. He didn't. Like three-quarters of his team, he skipped prep school and got straight into Beacon by forging documents. A fact Yort naturally kept quiet about as well.
"Fuck if I know whether it's legal or not. But according to street code, he's a little punk bitch, no cap. Scum like that oughta be drowned in the can."
People asking for help are weak. Those asking the police for help are doubly weak. If someone is so weak that they need outside help, they're good for nothing. They can't protect themselves or what they hold dear. If a person is weak, they can be manipulated, blackmailed, and used. That's why weaklings can't be trusted.
"Look, if you end up in the slammer, that's on you. Peace out, you're on your own."
A similar philosophy also left its imprint on Yort's work. He was lucky that in this hall, everyone had their own small cubicle with a phone desk, and his voice was hopelessly drowned out by dozens of others. Otherwise, his unique approach to the job would've definitely made it into the field report.
"Name's Yort Alnen, what's your emergency?"
However, the pinnacle of this weakness was a panicking woman whose house had been broken into by some dude. She had locked herself in her room with a kitchen knife and dialed 911 from there.
After listening to her frantic and barely coherent retelling of events, Yort arrived at the only correct solution:
"Aight, listen, bitch, if you don't take this clown out, he's gonna cap your ass first, three to five odds. Cops ain't gonna make it in time. So wipe your snot, grip that knife tight, and stick him a couple times."
"What kind of police officer are you?!"
"I'm a gangster, don't go confusing me with these wimps. I got knifing experience, quit trippin'. Look, you gotta catch him off guard. When he charges the door, yank it open. He'll hit the floor, and you finish him. Aim for the gut: easy to hit, and~"
"He has a gun!"
"So what? Wait... you got Aura?"
"How would I have that?!"
"Shit's wack, he can pop you from the floor. Then you gotta strike first. He drops, you chuck the knife at him. Chance to hit is like forty percent. You hit—dope, you miss—well shit, at least you tried."
"Transfer me to another officer!"
"Bitch, quit whining! Either you take him out, or he takes you out!"
Yort hung up and answered a couple more desperate callers. A minute later, he heard the same voice over the receiver:
"I almost killed a man..."
"Almost? You slackin', homie. If you're gonna catch a body, see it through. Lemme drop a thousand and one ways to dump a corpse. You got baking soda in the kitchen?"
Before he could share his expertise, the victim (though now not so much) hung up, stating she was calling an ambulance. And on top of that, a fire alarm began wailing.
"Madge..."
***
The stylus in Illmond's hand deftly outlined locks of hair on the digital tablet while the sexual harassment victim described the man who had hit on her. Blue eyes, brunette, pale skin. Everything was in black and white; the officer had said a color palette distracts from the truly important details, while eye color and such could be noted in the margins.
Illmond didn't argue; drawing in black and white was nothing new to him, as his first attempts at hentai doujinshi were made that way. Eventually, though, he transitioned to color, believing the effort was worth the final result.
If something can be improved, it must be improved. Everything should be perfect or not exist at all. This creed had always helped him through life.
It didn't bring him more readers, though. But the misunderstood artist didn't give up and continued to hone his craft. However, the more he drew 18+ content, the clearer he realized that reaching the pinnacle in this field would be even harder than taking the champion title from Nikos.
Did he overcomplicate the plot in his works? Or flesh out the characters too deeply? Drop misplaced references only a few could understand? The answers eluded Illmond as inexorably as the simple truth: to beat one's meat, one doesn't need high-concept pornographic art.
If something can be improved, it must be improved. Everything should be perfect or not exist at all. This creed had always hindered him in life.
Illmond snapped out of his thoughts when he realized he had gotten a little carried away with the composite sketch. He showed the tablet to the harassment victim, and she stared at it in confusion.
"It looks like him... just smaller eyes. And why is he drawn bare-chested and so... so... sexy?"
"Occupational hazard."
"Good enough," the female officer said. Illmond really hated her condescending voice and the tone she usually used with him. "We have the description, so we'll look into it. Intern, do you have any thoughts?"
Illmond always took an academic approach to acquiring and utilizing knowledge. The knowledge that interested him, of course. Adult content fell under this category, so he had memorized the tags, their standard combinations, typical plotlines, and tropes by heart. He had plenty to share.
"Public transit harassment often overlaps with kidnapping and non-con," Illmond began lecturing with an air of expertise, "so I advise changing your commute. Usually, in these plots, the victim gets violated right on the train, but in our case, you're likely being stalked."
They stared at Illmond with wide eyes, but no one dared utter a word.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" The victim nodded slowly. "Then it's even worse: there's every chance this will escalate into netorare and a gangbang, possibly even mind break. Our perpetrator doesn't look like an ugly bastard," Illmond looked at the sketch, "more like a bishounen... he probably already took photos of your panties and will blackmail you with them, threatening to send them to your boyfriend or leak them online. He'll force you into depraved acts, take even more explicit photos, and the blackmail will intensify. He'll order you to dye your hair blonde, get piercings, wear leopard-print lingerie, get a tan, and then get you hooked on drugs. At that point, the depravities with him and his homies will be for a hit. Eventually, your boyfriend will find out, dump you, and your only choice will be running back to your abuser. So your best option is not giving in to the very first blackmail attempt. Understood?"
An awkward silence fell. Or rather, it was awkward for everyone except Illmond, who genuinely believed he had spoken to the point and offered solid advice. However, the victim exchanged glances with the officer and asked in a quiet voice:
"Can I file another report?" The girl pointed a finger at Illmond. "Against him."
"Huh?!"
Before he could protest, the fire alarm suddenly went off.
"Madge..."
***
Magenta had been an altruist her entire life, always striving to help those around her by any means available. It was part of her very nature, something impossible to strip away. There was hardly anyone in this world with a heart so pure, intentions so noble, and a spirit so sensitive. She loved seeing smiles and knowing she had done something useful.
She tore through the offices like a hurricane, helping everyone and anyone, carrying out every single errand, smiling constantly. Seeing her dedication, the police officers couldn't resist her pleading eyes and couldn't help but give her some work...
"Take this folder up to Gray on the third floor."
"Bring some coffee, would you?"
"Have you seen my coat?"
"Tidy up my desk, I gotta run."
...or they simply wanted to push their chores onto her. Magenta, of course, didn't realize this, and her loyal friends weren't around right now. Otherwise, they would have definitely come to the police officers' defense, as the latter had no idea who they were dealing with, or that behind those kind eyes lurked a true monster. A very gentle, sweet, but nonetheless pure-chaos-incarnate girl.
None of those present suspected the danger they were in, or what this seemingly harmless butterfly was capable of. It was impossible to detect the spark of madness inside her, which at any moment could erupt into an all-consuming fire.
Often literally.
Only by spending time around Magenta and getting to know her better could one perceive her true visage. Perceive it and shudder at how ignorant you had been and how many times you had stood on the brink. Uncountable were the souls saved from the abyss of chaos by her team, who walked on a knife's edge daily themselves.
The Vale Southern Police Department found itself on the brink of destruction the moment Magenta overheard a conversation.
"Damn, your sister cooks killer fish. If she wasn't already hitched, I'd definitely beg you for her number."
"Is it really that good?"
"Man, I've never had anything that delicious. I've always been neutral on fish, but after her cooking, I'm hooked. What I wouldn't give for a juicy piece of fish right now..."
Magenta rejoiced, someone needed help! And she would provide that help. But where could she get fried fish? Her gaze naturally darted toward the large aquarium against the hall wall, and then toward the entrance hall where she had left her flamethrower. However, before the necessary thought could even finish forming in her head, the fire alarm went off.
"What?"
***
Egrer wasn't thrilled by the prospect of spending the whole day as a traffic cop's assistant. Let someone else stand in the street waving a striped baton; he had far more important things to do. In the end, the Puppeteer wasn't gonna catch Herself!
So he bailed, leaving the manual on traffic signals and gestures on the desk. And before they noticed his absence, Egrer hurried to execute his cunning plan and break into the department chief's office. His computer definitely held crucial information.
Moving in short dashes through the corridors, Egrer slipped to the stairs unnoticed and sprinted up. However, almost immediately, he ran nose-to-nose into an officer.
"I didn't do anything!" the former thief blurted out instantly.
The bearded dude simply walked past, merely casting a brief glance back over his shoulder. Egrer exhaled in relief and moved on. He was on edge right now, as he was basically in the enemy's camp, surrounded entirely by enemies.
Reaching his cherished goal, Egrer looked around and crouched down, peering into the gap between the door and the floor. Mr. Chariot was working at his computer. He needed to lure him out somehow.
His eyes landed on the fire alarm button. A plan formed quickly.
***
Silver Chariot walked down the hallway, rubbing his graying temples in despair. He cursed Beacon three times over, along with the team of students dumped on his head. Each of them was annoying in their own way: the slicked-back boy slacked off the whole time, asked weird questions, and stuck his nose into every crack; the hulking brute shook down his staff, making thinly veiled threats for "coffee money"; the quiet emo harassed a girl who was filing a subway groping report; and only the colorful girl did anything useful. The only normal one among the four.
Despite his efforts to keep everything under control, it all went down the drain. Hunters, even third-rate students, were abnormal a priori, and trying to keep them in normal society was a thankless task.
The last straw was the fire alarm sounding. Nothing, of course, was burning, and his own people certainly wouldn't pull pranks like that.
So the Chief of the Vale Southern Police Department decided it was best for the interns to stay outside the precinct, preferably as far away as possible. Right now, Mr. Chariot walked at a brisk pace toward his office to print out all the necessary paperwork and send the troublesome teenagers out on patrol starting tomorrow. He felt bad for the poor bastard who would take on supervising Team MJEI, but he felt worse for his own station. Besides, he had an unreliable employee in mind who dug too deep and whom it would be nice to keep occupied for a while...
Silver Chariot was so sick of these students' antics that even when he walked into his office and saw someone's legs under the desk, he merely sighed.
"Kid, I see you."
The legs stirred, and soon a slicked-back mop of hair slowly emerged from behind the desk. The intern stood up looking as if he hadn't just been hiding under the desk like some criminal. He quickly shoved a Scroll into his pocket along with a wire that, a literal second ago, was brazenly sticking out of the computer.
"Mr. Chariot, I didn't do anything," the kid assured him with a wide, goofy smile. "I wasn't trying to hack your computer or anything like that. Swear on my dad."
Silver Chariot frankly felt sorry for this dad, because such oaths poured from his ungrateful son's mouth every time he did something suspicious. Which was all the damn time.
The teenager slowly backed toward the wall, not turning his side or back to him.
***
"I didn't even get to set anything on fire!" Magenta yelled.
"Who're you bullshitting, huh?" Yort asked, tearing his eyes away from the Bullhead's window. The aircraft began gaining altitude, setting a course for Beacon. "We ain't dumb—if there's a fire, it's on you."
"I didn't burn anything, I'm telling you!"
"Madge," Illmond said gently, "why lie to us? It's not like this is the first time, we're not judging you. We're used to it."
"I DIDN'T BURN ANYTHING!!! Eg, tell them!"
"Well..." Egrer, who had maintained a tactful silence until now, scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Usually, you are the one to blame for fires..."
Not a word of a lie. Perfection.
"AAAAHHH!!!" Magenta grabbed her multicolored hair. "Please, just believe me! Pretty please!"
The entire flight was spent with Magenta screaming in despair, Yort and Illmond nodding sarcastically, and Egrer gulping loudly.
Beacon, on the contrary, was quiet. In the absence of students, who usually filled its halls and classrooms, the academy felt like it had lost something invisible and deeply, deeply important. Only the foreign students remained, but they were outsiders, and could hardly provide these walls with what the native Beaconites gave them. The foreigners were guests, and didn't race each other up the Headmaster's tower, leap out of windows, blow up lakes, or pull insane pranks on the janitor. They behaved cautiously and politely, as guests should.
Only a few staff members and a handful of students who returned from field practice in the evening, like Team MJEI, wandered through the corridors. Footsteps occasionally echoed off the polished marble floors. Sometimes several long minutes passed without meeting anyone on the way.
Even the central part of Beacon seemed barren and abandoned, even though this was where the natural core of any school sat—the cafeteria. The only sounds here were the distant chirping of birds outside the windows, which was nothing like the usual hustle and bustle of the school year. It felt almost melancholy from the desolation reigning during the practice period.
And there was hardly anyone to talk to. His own team didn't consist of the chattiest individuals, and talking only to Magenta could drive a man insane. So Egrer decided to meet up with Sun, who was also languishing from boredom and idleness.
And during this shared act of doing absolutely nothing, a brilliant thought visited them—besides them, the Puppeteer's team was also in Beacon right now. There were fewer people in Beacon now, which meant it was harder for the villains to blend in. However, it just so happened that out of all of Prosperity, only Egrer and Sun remained in Beacon, so the two of them would have to act alone.
And this thought was a bit scary. It required cunning and intellect, and within their anti-terrorist group, Blake and Weiss were responsible for those qualities respectively. Without them, pulling off anything decent was unlikely.
"No whining!" Egrer said firmly, intending to disperse the defeatist mood. "We're not completely dumb, right?"
"Right," Sun confirmed.
"Which means we can figure something out on our own, right?"
"Right! What kind of men are we if we dump the hardest job onto the girls? We gotta step up. By the time they get back, the Puppeteer should be cuffed and sitting in a jail cell!"