Chapter Text
Rundown off-white buildings half-swallowed by sand, warehouses with broken windows and crooked doors, and squatters and homeless lingering in every shadow; Beowolf territory is the nightmare of any well-bred Atlesian citizen. But Winter walks the familiar dirt streets and cares only for the packs of children running around, refugees lounging against buildings shaded by canopies, workers making broken buildings livable again, and a mix of people mingling around makeshift tables, sharing food and drinks. Human, faunus, soldier, huntsman, civilian, former Atlas resident or former Mantle resident; it doesn’t matter. There’s no telling who was from Mantle or Atlas, no divide amongst the refugees that indicates there were ever two cities and a sky to separate them.
After all, it didn’t matter where you were from; everyone starved and bled the same way.
“You sure are popular, boss,” Redde comments after yet another group waves at them.
She doesn’t grimace, but she wants to. Never has she experienced such casual friendliness from anyone outside her family -from which she excludes Jacques and includes Klein- Penny, or Fria. Never has she been the center of so much attention either, and the fact that she has lived as the center of attention since arriving in Vacuo still does not sit well with her. Whether in the city or in the camp, eyes follow her every move, gazes heavy with expectation or judgement.
“I wouldn’t say we have a strict “no trouble” policy,” Meili starts, answering for her, “but we stop any fights we see, and now that we have a visible distinguishing trait, the scarves, people have been stopping us and asking for help. Vacuo’s patrols refuse to step foot into our territory, so we’ve taken to patrolling the area ourselves. With some help from the Beacon Brigade and our own academy kids. It keeps us from getting bored between field assignments, but we’ve become somewhat infamous due to it.”
Meili’s idea for the scarves may have been mostly a way to annoy her, but the consequences of giving the shadows a “uniform” were, as all things in Vacuo, unexpected. They stop fights because they don’t want to attract grimm, or because people are genuinely in trouble, or because noisy neighbors make it hard to sleep and sleep is a treasure for shadows returning from days or week-long patrols. It was the practical thing to do; none of them had expected for their actions to mark them as a new gang, or for the citizens near their warehouse to consider them the preferred “ruling power.”
She sighs. “Unfortunately, many of the troublemakers were the police themselves, and as they lack a uniform to distinguish themselves from ordinary huntsmen, I was indiscriminate in...forcefully ending fights.”
Nearly all the shadows following her to the warehouse have a response to that; most involve laughing, though a few wonder if she would have cared either way. Her answer is to look back and smirk. The explanation is what she gave Rumpole, the one time the woman dared visit her. Enough complaints against her had been filed that Theodore was finally forced to do something about it not long after the Cornel incident, which resulted in his right hand giving her a visit and a half-hearted lecture that essentially boiled down to “don’t use your semblance, or maiden powers, and don’t kill anyone while within city limits.”
Team CFVY, who had served as Rumpole’s escorts, had valiantly attempted -but ultimately failed- to keep their snickering discreet.
“Welcome to the Beowolf Den,” Meili declares when they reach the warehouse that serves as their headquarters.
The outside isn’t any more impressive than any other building in the district; its original paint job is faded, the windows are boarded, and the door is half rusted. It’s certainly nothing like her academy office, or the spec-ops barracks, but it’s slightly more intact than most of the other buildings in the district. What marks it as theirs is the recently added beowolves painted on the sides of the building. Large beowolves. Painted in bright red.
She doesn’t know who is responsible for that bit of artistry, and none of the shadows are confessing to the graffiti.
She suspects Cataline.
The interior of the warehouse is less of an eyesore than the exterior, though mostly due to the lack of furniture in the large space. They have a command corner in the northeast -with enough paper piled on the table and plastered to the surrounding walls to constitute a fire hazard- a sparring square, and a mezzanine in the southwest corner reserved for card tables. The southeast corner boasts two tables covered in machinery and flickering displays of the “refugee network” that has become the pet project of some of the computer-minded refugees and Beacon Brigade members. Empty crates -some so tall they reach her waist, and some around knee height- have been repurposed to serve as short partitions between the various sections. Past the open floor, behind a large, soundproof wall, there are offices that have been turned into dorms, a break room turned into a proper lounge, and the manager’s office that serves as both her bedroom and storage room for all of her damned paperwork.
“This place has a locker room, too, if you need somewhere to throw your extra gear. Cots are first come first serve. We’re out on patrol too often to bother with assigned beds. We have a limited supply of weapons available for emergencies, several decks of cards, and enough alcohol to open a bar. It’s a work in progress. Any and all contributions are appreciated, of course.” Meili gestures in the direction of the various amenities, taking over the tour.
That works fine for her. She has a pile of work to get through thanks to Redde’s decision to speed up her plans by way of transporting the Feldspar team to Gossan and fixing the CCT tower. Her scroll has a backlog of messages that physically hurts to look at, all from today alone. Reports from the scouts around the mines, reports from the engineers, technicians, and scientists within the mines, and reports from the guards traveling with the refugees all demand her attention.
Some of the reports she marks for the council’s attention, though Pico had suggested that Robyn’s team be given a couple days off to spend with their leader. She had agreed easily; the reports are important, but not urgent, and the ex-soldiers on the council can handle an increased workload for two or three days.
She settles in for a long night of work. The warehouse is noisy as can be expected when over a dozen shadows are present, the sounds of cursing, arguing, teasing, and laughter familiar to her after four years among their ranks. The sounds aren’t home, exactly, but they’re safe; something the Schnee manor hadn’t been since the day that Grandpa Nic passed away.
“So this is the headquarters of the feared Red Beowolves. I expected more...red.”
She looks up, and Marrow Amin gives her a nervous smile.
“Marrow? What are you doing here?” She doesn’t ask how he found this place; Rumpole and Oscar stand next to him, Velvet is making herself comfortable at the ref-net table and Fox is being introduced to the new arrivals at the game tables. She suspects the latter two to have already been on their way here, rather than serving as escorts to Rumpole or Marrow. “What does Theodore want now?”
Rumpole is quick to list several things Theodore would like to know concerning her plans and actions. All are questions that can be answered by Oscar -who has kept himself informed of all her plans for the latter stages of refugee evacuation- or Velvet -who has been instrumental in helping them obtain materials required for the CCT tower upgrades.
“Whatever answers Oscar and Velvet gave you are the correct answers,” she says dismissively, returning her attention to her work. The report before her is more important than dealing with Theodore’s constant attempts to lure her to the academy for a conversation concerning Salem and what he feels she, as the Winter Maiden, should be doing. Or not doing, rather.
“Yes, so they insisted,” Rumpole says flatly. “Miss Scarlatina, however, suggested that your ultimate goal here is to restore CCT for the entire continent.”
“My ultimate goal is to get my people to safety and find homes for them. Restoring CCT will simply make that easier, and therefore puts the task among my top priorities, yes.”
“And why didn’t you think to ask the council for aid in restoring Vacuan towers?”
Red and blue stain her vision.
(“I’m sorry to say, but our capacity to assist your people is extremely limited. We will do what we can, but our priority must be to prepare for whatever Salem has planned. As the Winter Maiden, it is your priority as well. Your people don’t need you like we do.”)
She can barely see through her rage and the powers attached to it, but settles for glaring where she recalls Rumpole’s head to be. How dare Rumpole ask that question, when she was present for Theodore’s verdict that the council’s help would be limited, that protecting Vacuo from Salem was the priority, and that refugees could learn to fend for themselves after having their whole world fall apart? How dare Rumpole wonder why asking the council for help was the last thing she would ever do, when she was one of the people insisting that she no longer belonged with her people?
It takes four, five breaths for her vision to clear, for her to leash her rage and pull it back. Marrow is cringing, and a few steps further from Rumpole than he had been seconds ago. Oscar is entirely unbothered by her rage, perhaps even shares her feelings if his carefully neutral expression is any indication.
But Rumpole remains steady, watching her with a tightly controlled expression of her own.
There is an entire conversation between the two of them, in the blink of an eye.
The council does not nor will ever care about the refugees.
Theodore cannot change their mind, but can spin the restoration of Vacuan CCT towers as beneficial to Vacuo first and the refugees second.
It’s politics through and through. She hates it. Rumpole hates it. On that, they can agree.
“Our priority is fixing towers between here and Vale,” she says with as little emotion as she can. “Work has begun on Vale’s end to restore and upgrade towers closer to the edges of their territory, led by one of Atlas’ top scientists and funded by what remains of the SDC. If Vacuo wishes to assist in our efforts, or expand them on their own, then they will be welcome to do so.”
Rumpole nods firmly, then turns on her heel and walks away. Only when the door closes behind her do Oscar and Marrow breathe sighs of relief.
“Politics,” Oscar mutters with distaste.
Marrow squints down at him in confusion. “...Weren’t you the headmaster of Beacon and a council member?”
“Ozpin was a council member. Oscar was a farm boy,” she says before Oscar has a chance to speak, unable to help herself from ensuring that Marrow understands that the two are separate entities. Ironwood had often shared his hope with them that Ozpin would eventually “take over,” but had never stopped to wonder -or maybe hadn’t cared- what that would mean for Oscar, the boy.
Oscar’s grateful smile reminds her too much of Penny for her to return it, so she offers a soft nod instead. “Ozpin was a leader for many of his lifetimes, but politics is something that never changes. He understands the necessity for it, but he dislikes it just as much as Winter does.”
“But Winter is a council member,” he says incredulously.
Oscar smiles at her, laughter shining in his eyes and threatening to burst from his lips. She glares at him, daring him to release it.
“Was there a reason you stayed behind, Marrow?” she asks without shifting her gaze from Oscar, who coughs into his fist to hide his laughter.
He jumps and straightens as if to stand at attention. “Oh! Uh, right. I just wanted to know what we could do to help.”
She doesn’t respond immediately, taking the chance to look at him. Gone is the uniform: now the former ace-op wears a grey short-sleeved button up, forest green cargo pants, and black boots that resemble the military standard pair issued to all recruits. Even his hair is different: longer and loose. He looks like any ordinary huntsman, but there is something about him that still places him as a, well, shiny.
They can always use skilled huntsmen for long range patrols, but she hasn’t seen any indication that the ace-ops, unlike Robyn (...Schnee? Robyn Schnee? ...No, that sounds wrong) Hill works well with the shadows, and she can’t send a three-man team on the types of patrols her shadows are responsible for. Not to mention, the ace-ops were the poster children of the Atlas military’s special agents. Having them around locally will boost morale amongst the soldiers and civilians both, which is something that she cannot overlook.
“You’ll want to talk to the council tomorrow. The others are in charge of handling our rosters and assigning routes to volunteers. You’ll be set to inner camp routes to begin with, in order to give you time to acclimate to walking in sand, and to the heat. The debilitating effects of both downed more of our patrols than grimm did, the first month here.” Marrow frowns like he wants to argue, so she adds, “A large portion of our available huntsmen have been sent with refugees to act as guards, so we’re increasing patrols within the camp temporarily in order to foster a sense of safety.”
Marrow isn’t entirely satisfied, but agrees with her line of thinking and accepts her suggestion with a shrug. They both know it’s a waste of the ace-op’s talents; they also know that Theodore will want them close if they mean to assist with Salem-related matters. The closer they are to the city in case of emergencies, the better. The matter finished, he moves around the table to make himself comfortable on top of the crate next to hers, all while ignoring her suspicious glare at his sudden friendliness.
“So,” he sings, “what’s it like being on a council with Duclos, Ryba, and Morales of all people? Morales is alright, but the other two?”
She scoffs. “A lot better than it was when Cornel was among the hopeful members.”
“Cornel? Oh man, I hate that guy.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Isn’t Cornel the one you beat up in the middle of the street?”
“The one you what?”
“I have the video! Hold on.”
Sighing as Oscar comes around to show Marrow his scroll, she pushes her paperwork aside and settles for spending some time catching up with Marrow. She doesn’t mind, really; there are things she needs to know about Vale and Argus that the shadows could not tell her, and Marrow deserves to know how things have been handled here.
Marrow’s gleeful cackling interrupts her thoughts. “Oh, I am so sending that to Robyn!”
She twitches at the mention of the woman who is technically her wife. “Why do you need to send that to her?”
“Because,” Marrow stresses, “she’ll like watching you take an officer down.”
The words “I don’t care what she likes” sit on the tip of her tongue, but something stops them; something that suspiciously resembles the memory of Robyn winking at her from the end of the hallway in Atlas. The words are left unsaid as she crosses her arms and looks away from the two boys smirking at her.
Maybe she would rather be doing her paperwork after all.
~
A chime sounds persistently in the middle of a small, crowded tent in the refugee camp, interrupting a lively conversation.
“What the hell is that?”
Robyn pulls out her scroll with a frown. “A priority message from...Wags?” She isn’t sure why Marrow is messaging her, or why it’s marked as priority when the only text it contains is “I thought you would enjoy this” with a thumbs up emoji.
And then the video attached to the message plays, and the momentary silence in the tent is replaced with her laughter, echoed by the laughter and whistling emanating from the scroll.
“Hey, that’s the bastard we were telling you about! Cornel!”
“I heard rumors about that incident. Schnee should have hit him a few more times, if you ask me.”
“...I agree.”