There are things they don't tell you about getting sober.

For one, there's a short period of time, while you're processing old alcohol but not taking in anything new, when you stink to the outermost heaven. I'm told it's because your body takes the opportunity to get rid of stored toxins from your glands or fat cells or wherever. I don't know; I'm not a doctor. Point is, it comes out anywhere it can: mostly the pores, but also in piss, saliva or exhaled air. It varies from person to person too, in duration, strength, and quality. I've asked around, and for everyone I asked I got a different answer: metal, vinegar, sour milk, burned hair, lien that have sat in too many pockets. Some of them had also had issues with insomnia (often helped along by especially vivid nightmares) or constipation (thanks to not drinking as many of their calories anymore). Neither of these were problems for me, as I'll explain shortly.

In my case, the purging seems to have started the same night everything hit the fan at the stadium; I first noticed the smell a little after midnight, once I'd worked up a decent sweat, and finally realized what was causing it a little before dawn. Fortunately, mine resembled the smell that you get from burning leaves or grass when they're still green (which is worse than it might sound), so it was largely covered up by all the other smoke that started floating around before long—not to mention the cordite. Also fortunately, the flask that I lost that night was (A) empty, (B) cheap, and (C) completely lacking in sentimental value. I almost never used my favorite anymore, the one Taiyang had given me after he and my sister married, because I'd come close to losing it at least twice that I can remember. He'd understood. He'd been worried about how much I was drinking by that point, but he hadn't said much, apart from not-too-subtly asking if I was doing all right.

Anyway, I'd drained the cheapo flask when I first heard the sirens, and it must have fallen out of my pocket sometime in the next few hours, before I had the chance to refill it. I could have used a slug or two during that time, I can tell you—for example, when I learned what the Polendina girl was really capable of. Under the circumstances, I can see why James got involved with her training. I may even forgive him eventually.

It was another day and a half before I saw an unbroken bottle of anything, and quite a while after that before I got an actual chance for a drink. By that point I had cautiously asked Glynda about the smell, and she allowed, in her lovably undiplomatic way, that it seemed to be gone (my Aura was probably speeding up the process). Considering what I've seen over the years, I can't say if any of the demons my brain entertained me with that week were the offspring of my sudden sobriety or not…and if my pipes were working slower than usual, well, it didn't matter at first. It was a little while before I got a chance to address that particular need. Now that I think about it, my hands stayed steady through it all, too. I'd like to credit it to strenuous training, but the truth is I don't know the reason.

By the time I (foolishly) gave Glynda that opportunity to comment (again) on my hygiene and personal habits, I had realized I was going through withdrawal, and I figured I might as well ride it out. The girls were going to need me clear-headed for a while, not to mention Ozpin, and I couldn't shake the feeling that another disaster of some kind was coming—although that may have been the lack of alcohol talking. Even in peacetime, I hardly ever went out unarmed, and that would have been unthinkable anyway during the fallout from the Vytal tournament, but I started carrying more spare magazines than I had before, along with a sidearm and a few other useful items.