This update brought to you by
your childhood
Also this absolutely would have been out on Monday but I just had way too much fun with Gideon and Tucker, they really took that ball and ran for the hills with it. God, I hope they don't end up being a just-for-me joke.
You stare over the edge and down the cliff edge, and remember how small it looked from the airship. It isn't small now, that's for sure.
… You look over at the Transistor. It
has been a while, after all.
{Jaune, last time you did this, you almost lost a tooth and had to fix a fence. You think doing it down a 300-foot cliff is a great idea?}
Never gonna get better if you don't try- besides, if it goes badly, you can just Process yourself a soft landing.
Blue just sighs, and the Transistor lays itself low to the ground.
{Just watch the eye, this time.}
"... Jaune, what are you doing?" Creme asks.
"Eh, something stupid. Hopefully it'll work this time," you say, stepping onto your sword.
{Watch the eye,
watch the eye-}
You are, relax, you big baby!
"No way," Ada breathes.
"No fucking way."
Absolutely way. The Transistor lifts itself up a few inches, and you stay steady-
woah- okay, maybe you need a little help. A flash of Process matter forms a bar along the bottom side of the Transistor, and tightly grips your shoes on all sides. It's not quite as good as your plans to figure out how to upgrade the Transistor, but it'll do.
For one thing, if your sword has a little too much fun with this, you're going in one direction, it's going in another, and everything below the ankles is going with it. But that's anxiety for another time. Instead, you turn and give the girls a playful wave, feeling a grin tug at your face.
"Try not to be last, you two!"
With a quick adjustment to the Transistor's flight settings, you're now basically riding a truly massive snowboard. With a crouch and a leap, you launch yourself off the edge of the cliff, and, honestly just feeling yourself at this point, manage to throw a full flip in- Creme and Ada's shocked faces are somehow only funnier upside down. Inertia pulls you through the flip, and you ride down the cliff face at breakneck speeds, whooping with what is
definitely joy and not pants-browning fear, less than an inch away from burying the Transistor so deep in the stone face of Beacon Cliff that whoever pulls it out next will probably be crowned the new King of Vale.
Also, instantly killing yourself. Can't forget that bit.
It's what makes it fun after all oh,
Gods, you
are Jools's brother.
About halfway down, you launch yourself off a ledge, the ground pulling away as you spin, once, twice, crouching low to increase the centrifugal force you've imparted on yourself, before angling the board back down to the ground, just in time for the stone to warp and ripple next to you, turning into a perfectly smooth surface. You look back up the mountain face, and see a buck Faunus riding down a slab of rock jutting perpendicular to the cliff, his antlers now free of the velvet they were in last you saw him. Behind him, others are taking their chances on it as well, the angle smooth enough to not be a sheer drop anymore.
"Hey, Jaune! Long time no see, man!" Mel Saff says, riding up next to you. "You know, I ain't had a chance to talk to you yet- I just wanted to apologise for the whole thing at the Signal exit test, turns out I wasn't really in a great place mentally, lotta low-level anxiety and some mild depression exacerbated by stress, little bit of undiagnosed OCD, and I was just lashing out at people that I could internally construe as acceptable targets- but yeah, went to therapy, got medicated, doing a lot better now, but yeah, none of it's an excuse- just wanted to say sorry about that! Here, lemme make it up to you a little-"
"... What-"
Before you can really react to,
any of that, Saff throws a lazy hand out, and the smoothness blasts out in your direction, ending in a long, gentle ramp that will definitely make translating all of this vertical momentum into horizontal momentum way easier for you, and everyone else following Saff down the ramp. Creme falls past you with Ada holding onto her back for dear life, muttering something to herself. You take the ramp so quickly that Port has to jump over you, before you angle the hilt of the Transistor down as a brake, the sound of glass rated for anti-tank armour against concrete deafening as you slowly come to a stop.
{Good job. I'll admit, that went way better than I expected.}
How much of it was you?
{All of it, man. All I did was keep you an inch off the ground.}
… Well hot diggity, guess you should've taken up snowboarding.
You look back and see Creme land, fully absorbing the landing for both herself and Ada, who quickly scrambles off and away from her teammate, who herself is frozen in fear.
Wait. Not fear.
Exertion.
Creme starts to turn a beet red, veins actively bulging in her neck and temples as the sheer force of her landing is,
contained, every muscle in her body tensed as hard as it can go, before she slowly,
so painfully slowly, lifts one foot up at the heel, and then taps it back down on the dock.
A spiderweb of cracks blasts out from that point, ten feet in every direction, and Creme finally exhales, stumbling away. You rush forward, gently catching her by the shoulders before she can fall, as does Ada.
"Ooh- woah…" Creme manages, leaning against you for support.
"Creme! Are you okay?!" you ask.
"Y-yeah, yeah… Jaune, can I ask you an important question?" Creme says.
You blink, but nod.
"... Is anyone hurt?" she asks.
Blue?
{No injuries caused by her landing, no. Jury's out on Russel and Dove.}
Wait, what?
{You'll find out in a minute.}
"Y-you're fine."
"Oh thank God," she breathes, a relieved grin on her face. "That was… awful, but I'm glad it worked."
"What was it?"
"I… I'll tell you in a bit, I need a second," she says, pulling away from you, placing her hands on her knees to catch her breath.
Boys? Any ideas?
We've always assumed that Creme's force redirection was instant, but this points to it not being the case. Perhaps it's held in some kind of internal reservoir for a moment, then instantly transferred to another target. She has also shown the ability to pull force from other sources and amplify her own strikes with them. Perhaps she's learned to… pull self-inflicted force into that reservoir, then hold it for a strike?
… Her Semblance has
evolved?
…
Semblances can evolve?!
{Jaune, you made the Process six years after you made us. You are
intimately familiar with Semblances doing new things.}
"Miss Daylaw!" Port barks. "Are you sure you're well?"
"'M fine, Prof… professor. Just, gonna take a minute to make sure everything's still in one piece."
Port's eyebrows knit together, forming the most impressive monobrow you've ever seen. You swear you can see individual hairs locking together, like velcro straps.
"... Well, as long as you're sure."
The vast majority of the class takes the express slide down, courtesy of Mel, followed closely by Naia and Haru who have quite amicably taken the stairs down without doing anything to hinder each other's progress, and in fact seem to have picked up Cardin, who's quite happy talking shop with Naia.
"... Well, now that we're mostly down here, I see Mister Bronzewing and Mister Thrush making their way down- boys, no roughhousing on the stairs!- well, I suppose that's everyone… except… hm! I suppose Al's getting the egg this time-" Port starts, reaching into his coat pocket.
"Ah! N-no I'm not!" a voice calls, making Naia jump.
"Gah! What the-" Naia says, turning to see where the hell the invisible boy is.
Slowly, the oil slick of visibility fades in, revealing Al, looking surprisingly- and if you're honest, earnedly- pleased with himself about his position on Naia's back, hanging around his neck like a baby monkey. Though, filtered through his usual baseline anxiety, it looks less like a smug grin and more like a manic rictus.
"Th-thanks for the ride, Naia!" he says, hopping off and immediately fading out of existence to avoid possibly reprisal.
Naia, devoid of a target, just stares at the ground in numb horror.
"I didn't even notice he was there…" he mutters, sounding almost shell-shocked by the revelation.
"Well! I have my doubts as to the sportsmanship of your methods, Mr. Cadwallader, but I can't argue with the results! Which means that last place is…"
Russel and Dove finally make it to the last flight of stairs, having spent more time hindering each other than making their way down in a timely manner. Every step taken is accompanied by a yanked collar or a tripped foot, and more incomprehensible angry yelling than a barfight. The free show ends with the pair of them tumbling down the last set of stairs, and landing at the bottom at the exact same time- the exact same outcome as if they'd just walked shoulder to shoulder.
"... I think I'll call that joint last, any objections?" Port says.
"None here," Lumen says.
"I'm okay with it," Ada replies.
"Actually I think Dove hit fi- ow!" Salem says, before Naia swats him on the arm, an action on par with slapping someone with a frying pan. "Alright, yes, joint last."
The general rumble of agreement simmers over the class, and while you revel a little in watching Dove's imminent misfortune, a man hobbles up to the group from the ship.
He's a sailor, there's no doubt about that- though by the looks of it he's been through the wringer more than your favourite hoodie. One of his legs is missing, replaced with a cheap motorised prosthetic that he still needs a cane to move on, his opposite hand is missing, replaced with a split hook, and most of his head, including one eye, is covered in bandages- some of which still have dried blood on them. A medical device on his hip which you take a second to identify as a miniaturised blood filtration unit slowly beeps and whirs, one of the cheapest replacements possible for, you know, a functioning liver and kidneys.
{Gods, you could build a small child with the bits he's missing.}
"... Brother's nuts, Petey, you get this batch from a C.A.M.P compound?"
You wince in unison with just about every single Valish-born student there.
{Jackass.}
"Gideon," Port says, his voice low, disapproving- in the right light, you might have even called it
dangerous.
"Alright, alright, raw nerve, I know," Gideon says, waving the professor's tone off with his hooks. "Alright, future threats to my profit margin, I'm Gideon Vuur, and my job is catchin' you brats yer training dummies. 'S risky business, in case y'couldn't tell- but it is
lucrative business."
The old sailor grins, showing off no less than half a dozen teeth made of gold, silver- you're pretty sure that incisor is
platinum. He has the down payment for a home jammed into his jaws.
"Very lucrative business."
More cages begin to be lowered onto the docks, onto waiting pallets, stacked a half-dozen high.
"So- the first step to catchin' a Grimm, any Grimm, big, small, old, young, Nuisance, Storied-" Gideon gives a horrible snort of laughter, then a sound like if a garbage disposal could retch, before spitting a wad of phlegm over the side of the dock. "Nah, I'm tuggin' yer tits, we don't mess with aught above Vampyr unless they pay us upfront. The first step, is to remember that they are
not stupid creatures. They may not be animals, they might not have animal instincts, but they's still smarter'n some people you's've met over the years. They learn. They
adapt. None of that matters much t'Untsmen and 'Untresses, though, because you lot just care about killin' the bastards. Nowt any creature, Grimm or otherwise, that'll adapt t'bein' dead. And if you can correct me on that- don't, I don't get enough sleep as is."
"Uh… stupid question-" Salem starts.
"Expected, you are a first year," Gideon interrupts.
"-is it more dangerous than Hunting?" Salem finishes, not giving the man the satisfaction of his offence.
Despite his initial reaction, Gideon does seem to consider the question for a second.
"Mm… containment is, inherently, easier than murderin' the bastards, sure. But then y'have to
transport the bastards. And Grimm don't take t'sedation, outside of some niche stuff. Got a lad on board with a- actually, 'ang on-" Gideon turns back towards the ship, "
TUCKER! GETCHER WAXED LITTLE ARSE OUT HERE!"
"Coming, cap'n!"
A few moments later, the most beautiful boy you have ever laid eyes on rushes down the gangplank. You don't mean that in the sense of some bisexual awakening, you mean he could have stepped straight out of the ceiling of a church- thick, curly blond hair, eyes a shade of blue you'd need oil paint to recreate, a coverall with the top tied around his waist, and a white and blue tank top that was just a little too big for him, leaving one strap artfully hanging off a shoulder.
{You
sure that wasn't a bisexual awakening?}
Quiet, you.
{Hey, just saying,
I'm a little attracted to him, and I'm… wait- BRACKET STOP MESSING WITH THE EMOTIONAL BOUNDARIES.}
Ha. Gotcha.
"Sir?" he says as he approaches.
"Tucker, tell these people what y'do on my ship."
"O-oh, um-" Tucker stares out at 40 wide-eyed teenagers, about two-thirds of which are violently ripping his coveralls off in their head, and stalls a little. "T-Tucker Vuur-Celeste, Junior Morale Officer and Grimm Tamer. I, um, keep the Grimm calm while we're at sea."
"Semblances! Aura! Hate the fuckers, wouldn't take 'em with a gun to my head even if they wouldn't kill me stone dead, but I'm no fool that acts like the right 'uns ain't useful in the right places. Like a boy who calms things down just by being near 'em on a ship full of Grimm with nowt better to do than plot how best to eat my face."
Weiss puts her hand up.
"Yes, you, girl, an' before y'ask, e's- whatcher say y'were again, Tucker?"
"... Vegetarian?"
"
No, you dimwit, th'other one, as- ace- the one that makes me think of pilots. An' the other one that almost sounds like that stuff Chef keeps puttin' in stew."
"... Aroace?"
A chorus of disappointed groans simmers over the gathered crowd, much to Port's mild disapproval.
"Students,
some focus
, please."
"Wuzzat?" Gideon asks Tucker.
"Aromantic and asexual."
"Right, them's the buggers. 'E's those."
Weiss rolls her eyes, keeping her hand up until Gideon refocuses and points to her again.
"How exactly
do you pacify Grimm, anyway?" she asks.
"Well, my Semblance helps, but I've gotten quite good at understanding exactly when I'm not in danger. Not every Grimm is a mindless killer- only the young ones. Once they're older, they tend to start weighing cost to benefit. You just make going in the direction of the trap the better decision, and once they're trapped, I… help them sleep."
"How do you do that?" Creme asks.
"M-my Semblance gives me a very calming demeanour, but it's mostly when I start to talk to them that it helps. Sometimes I sing."
"Could you show us?" Ruby chimes in. "I've never seen a calm Grimm before."
"Oh- no, no, I can't. Genuinely- I
can't. When I use my Semblance, it puts people straight to sleep where they stand."
"'S true, nearly crashed the ship once because 'e pacified a Boarbatusk too close to me while I was helming the ship. 'Ow much did that little escapade cost us again, Tucker?"
Gideon's voice is bland, but Tucker's full-body cringe says it all. He mumbles something.
"Come on, you know I'm deaf in this ear," Gideon says, pointing to his bandaged ear. The one facing away from Tucker.
"200,000 Lien in repairs."
"227,536 Lien, to be precise. Anyway- Tucker here's half the reason we can operate at the scale we do. Without 'im, we'd be doing a tenth of the Grimm at twice the cost."
Gideon slaps Tucker on the back, pulling him by the shoulder into a side-hug.
"Never think I ain't grateful for yer help, lad," he says warmly.
"Th-thank you, sir," Tucker says, a little smile creeping up his f-
"NOW GET BACK TO WORK BEFORE THE GRIMM WAKE UP!"
Tucker yelps and runs back onboard.
"Now- any other questions?"
Lumen raises his hand.
"You."
"
Vuur-Celeste?"
"Ain't drunk enough to get into that, try again."
"Worst Grimm-"
"Same problem, next!"
Lumen stops, thinking for a second.
"How much do you make off a shipment like this?"
Gideon shrugs.
"Off this shipment? Slated for about five million. Beacon's getting maybe… 40% of our stock. Rest goes all over the place."
You frown.
"... Who else buys Grimm besides the Academies?"
"Arenas, fighting pits- the usual people you'd suspect, and usually people who pay me enough to not ask pointed questions."
"You sell to criminals?" Yang asks, a hard tone in her voice.
Even through the bandages, Gideon's face settles into a
thunderous expression.
"I
sell to
people who
pay me for my services. Nowt more. Nowt less. Now, do you have another question, or should I just go before the moralisin' starts?"
"Miss Xiao Long, Gideon is a long-time friend," Port says. "He might be a touch…"
"Ye can call me a dickhead, Petey, I know what I am. Been tryin' t'get practice in on that
self-actualisation bollocks Tucker keeps gibbering on about."
"-
rough around the edges," Port grinds out, "but I assure you he has no more interest in letting Grimm run amok than
you do- not in the wild nor in the keep of criminals. Now, do apologise to him, and I won't see fit to give you detention."
Yang sighs, deflating under the browbeating.
"I apologise, Captain Vuur," she breathes, clearly unhappy with it. Neither is Port, but he seems to accept the effort made.
Vuur just waves her off.
"Ach, y'get used to it. Nobody thinks highly of trappers. We bring Grimm into the safe places of the world- no doubt about it. I won't even do ye the disservice of saying I know fer a fact none of my catches have ever ended up in criminal hands- but I know they didn't end up there because of me. Least, like you're thinking."
"Like I'm thinking?" Yang asks.
"Well there's a difference between a fighting pit without a license and someone who wants a Boarbatusk to let loose in someone's office, in't there?"
"C-cap'n! Problems! An Imp got Dawn!" Tucker yells from the ship railing, his striped shirt and blond hair now spattered with blood.
Gideon wheels around, eye wide with fear.
"What?! Where the hell is it now?!"
"Th-the cage is empty! It's-"
You hear it. The Transistor makes sure you do, focusing everything into a scan of the ship. Echoing through the steel walls, you hear the clunk of a padlock large enough to kill a man hitting the floor. Then another. Then another. You see Blake, Creme, and Mel all react with the same wide eyes.
"Evacuate the ship," you tell Gideon.
"Are you stupid, lad? The other Grimm-"
"The other Grimm are being freed by the Imp right now, it has her keys!" you hiss.
Gideon looks at you like you're mad, then sees the reaction of the scattered Faunus confirming your statement.
"TUCKER! ABANDON SHIP! ALL HANDS OFF, FIVE MINUTES AGO!"
Tucker rushes back on, relaying the captain's order at volume. Gideon stands there, clearly worried, even as he tries to school his face down to something calculating. As comes naturally to you and every other Hunter here, you ready your weapon, the Transistor flipping around and placing its hilt in your hand as you rush past Port and Vuur to get the entire ship in range of your sword's sensors.
"Do your crewmen have Scrolls?" you ask, turning to Gideon.
"Most of 'em, but they won't get signal below deck-"
You ignore the non-issue and call 27 Scrolls at once, the Transistor projecting the open lines against the air to make sure people know what you're doing. They all connect in a few seconds, whether answered or not, and you put all of them on speakerphone.
"Crewmen of the S.S Argo, you are currently in danger. There is an escaped Imp on your ship, and it has prioritised freeing more Grimm. Make your way above deck and onto the docks as quickly as possible. Stay in groups, move quickly but calmly. Prioritise your safety and the safety of others."
Announcement made, you hang up- but not before you hear panicked yelps and a bestial scream through one of the connections.
Dammit.
People begin streaming out, most fine, a couple with bites and claw marks, one poor bastard whose ankle is pointing the wrong way being carried by two others- but almost everyone makes it out. Almost.
The Transistor projects a cutaway of the ship, showing the Scroll signals against the pair of decks- the vast majority are out, with only two or three unmoving signals. A half-dozen red circles show the movement of Grimm, with one in particular stopping every now and then- the Imp, trying to unlock more cages.
Dammit!
"They're dead, boy," Gideon says, more gently than anything else he's said so far. "Don't try to be a hero."
You shoot Gideon a glare that actually makes the man step back, feel the ground beneath your feet bubble and foam, turning white as the Process reacts to your sheer
rage.
"Fuck that," you say, turning towards the rest of your class, and Port.
You see Port staring at you for a moment, a moment too long- and then he nods once.
Whatever happens next has his blessing.
First question: what's your plan?
[] Slash And Grab- This is a bad idea, but it's a fast one, and speed is of the essence right now. Between you, the Transistor, and the Process, you can probably make it past whoever's escaped and save the stragglers. Once that's done, you can fight the Grimm without worrying about people. Don't bother with fighting if you can help it, just get in, grab the civvies, and hoof it.
[] Team Distraction, Team Extraction- You need a distraction. Someone- or 30-odd someones, really- to capture the attention of the Grimm, and, yeah, kill 'em, while you and some others go downstairs and rescue the rest of the crew.
[] Write-In
Second question: is it time to use the Process?
[] Keep It Secret, Keep It Safe- No. There are over forty people here trained to kill Grimm. No matter what you do, that will be enough for a cargo ship full of them.
[] Strike Team- a gaggle of Badcells, some Creeps, and maybe a couple Jerks. Enough to protect you and the others while you work. It's time to reveal them to the class, but the scale… you can hold back on the scale, right?
[] The White Tide- Hiding it from your class went out the window with Initiation- anyone who sees them, who looks at your feet, will make the connection, and immediate danger to civilians is not the time to hold back. Every single Process unit you can muster, now, for the sole purpose of saving those people and killing those Grimm. Damn the consequences; let loose the bots of war.
