Rejoice and enjoy, for I have returned.

(Apologies for the double-alert; had to correct a rather crucial Freudian slip in the closing note.)

- To Serve With Honor -

Winter was stirred from her slumber by the faint hiss of the closing door, and a delightful array of tantalizing aromas, including-

Sniff, sniff.

-Coffee.

Even amidst the delectable olfactory assault, however, the head of white hair barely stirred from its pillowy nest. After all, there were further requisite steps in this investigation to determine whether or not it was yet time to join the world of the waking.

The next step was inquiry.

"... Frrd?"

"Yes, Winter, I brought food," the male rumbled patiently.

Excellent; it had taken years of conditioning, but she had finally driven him into his rightful role of Foodbringer.

"... Cffy?"

"Yes, there's coffee too. Black with two sugars, and a tin of cream on the side if you want it."

He had come loaded for bear, as well. She didn't always want cream in her first cup of the day.

"Winter, it's already half past six; it's time to get up."

That earned a low, drawn-out groan of irritation. It was a trap after all.

"Brng'trvrhr."

"If I bring you breakfast in bed, you won't get up for at least another hour. We have work to do."

Drat. Negotiations were failing.

"...Pls?"

"I appreciate the courtesy, Winter, but I already let you skip out on calisthenics this morning; and you know what you say about laziness and setting precedents."

Negotiations failed; he had taken to her teachings too well.

Drastic measures required.

"... Jaaaaune."

"Oooh, we're breaking out vowels now." A tiny smirk was given away in his voice.

There was a clink of ceramic, followed by muted footfalls, and the aroma was suddenly much closer.

Coffee.

Alabaster hands darted out from the bundle of comforter and sheets and gingerly accepted the nondescript white mug of Nirvana.

Heedless of its audience, the disheveled head of tangled white hair - followed by the rest of a nightgown-clad upper body - emerged from its cocoon. It brought the mug close to its face, inspecting the contents of the vessel and inhaling the energizing scents, before bringing it carefully to half-hidden lips and taking a deep draw.

Breathing a deep sigh of reluctant contentment, Winter Schnee finally conceded defeat, and acknowledged the arrival of a new day.

Her eyes rose to take in her subordinate, currently clad in naught but a pair of grey sweatpants with a pair of boxer-briefs peeking out above the waistband; she took an obligatory minute to shamelessly ogle his naked torso as he flopped down on the bed opposite hers, sitting back against the wall as he tapped away at his Scroll with his mouth set in its usual thin, neutral line.

She reached his eyes, and her face fell into a disapproving frown at the dark rings around them.

"You didn't sleep last night," she accused after taking another sip.

"Nope," Jaune confirmed unabashedly, "My wounds started aching, so I took a walk around campus for a few hours and then started reading up on the classes that I'm going to be helping with."

"Not looking over the investigation files?"

"I'm not an analyst, Winter," Jaune waved a hand dismissively, "I know as many details about the current White Fang issue as I need to know for that side of my job. What I don't know is anything about Grimm behaviors and anatomy, the political and military history of Huntsmen in Vale, or the standard combat styles of modern Huntsmen and Huntresses. You might be able to ad-lib your way through a weekly political science lecture, but I've got a lot of studying to do just to keep up with the curve for Beacon's first-year curriculum."

Winter hummed in acquiescence as she eyed the plate of food on the table. Throwing aside her blankets and sweeping her legs off of the bed, she trudged her way over to the day's first sustenance, coffee mug clutched tightly in her fist as her disheveled hair hung over her face in a rat's nest.

She had barely sat down when she shoveled the first forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth. "Fair enough," she acknowledged simply around her meal as she went in for more.

Silence fell once more - Jaune tapping away at his Scroll, and Winter demolishing her breakfast in a ravenous fashion. As she finished cleaning her plate and set the silverware and empty mug atop it, she finally asked.

"Where did you find this so early in the morning? Don't tell me you actually went down to the kitchens and cooked for yourself."

"Beacon's faculty lounge," he replied as he finally shut off and pocketed his device, "I found it around oh-four-hundred and hung around for a few hours until Miss Goodwitch and Professor Port showed up. Apparently the kitchen staff stocks the place with a continental breakfast at oh-six-hundred on weekday mornings, though it sounds like the spread is probably going to be smaller when classes are in session."

'"Which means that I'm going to be waking you up earlier for morning calisthenics"' went unsaid as Winter grimaced away from Jaune. "That's convenient," she said dryly.

"They do have an oddly wide variety of coffee, tea, and hot chocolate," he volunteered as a consolation, though his bland and unapologetic smirk detracted from the gesture.

Winter didn't rise to the bait, instead reaching into the stack of files that still littered the small table and drawing one out to half-read as she considered her next move of the day.

"What did Ozpin have to say last night?" she asked as she idly flipped a page, eyes glazed as she glossed over information that she'd already read in four other documents.

"He was oddly insistent on getting my 'professional opinion' on the Fang's ambush tactics yesterday compared to the usual M.O. of the Zealots in Mantle," Jaune said as he rummaged through the chest of drawers opposite the door for a shirt. "He's giving me priority access to the CSI files and wants another informal report by the end of the day."

"Better make it an early evening delivery," she noted, closing the file and drawing another. "You've not slept since the incident yesterday; that lack of sleep combined with combat fatigue is going to start affecting your general readiness very soon."

"Yes, mother," he drawled as he slathered on some roll-on deodorant and threw a fresh black crew-neck t-shirt over his head.

"Best watch your tone, young man; you're not too old for me to take you over my knee," she snapped over her shoulder, though the quirk of the corner of her mouth probably gave away her mood.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" Jaune shot back flatly with a glint in his eye.

Winter turned halfway in her chair, her one visible eye meeting his eyes challengingly; he responded by dropping his sweats around his ankles without breaking her gaze, forcing her eyes to drop to his toned thighs as her tongue snaked out to run across her dry lips.

Without missing a beat, Jaune turned on his heel back towards his bed, pacing unhurriedly over to where his uniform was laid out. Her eyes traced his backside the whole way, watching his rear and admiring his quads and glutes and how their every stretch and strain was traced by his shorts.

The free show ended as he stepped into and pulled up his grey trousers - though the cut of the fatigues still framed the artwork nicely. He acknowledged her viewing with a taunting pat on his back pocket.

"You know where to find it," he stated flatly.

"I'm not a fan of simple window shopping, Corporal," she replied, crossing one leg over the opposite thigh and resting her cheek on her hand as the two resumed their staredown. "I like to sample the merchandise in order to verify the quality."

Jaune replied by slapping a hand over his chest and offering an affronted glare. "I'll have you know that the Legion produces nothing short of Double-A-Grade Prime Legionnaire," he huffed. "If anything, I should be questioning the quality of the regular military's product; I've seen how much cake you can put away on leave, Specialist."

It was Winter's turn to fire off an offended glare as she shot to her feet. "I am in impeccable shape, thank you very much," she bit out indignantly.

"All I'm saying is, some parts below the waist are looking a little pudgy these days~," Jaune challenged with a half-grin and a sing-song voice.

"Are you saying that my butt is fat?!" Winter squacked with an indignant stomp of her foot.

"Who ever said anything about your butt, ma'am?" he asked innocently. "And not that it matters, but I happen to appreciate a tall, curvy woman."

Winter could do little more than stammer as the heat in her face grew and Jaune donned his grey uniform blouse, the sleeves rolled up to the middle of his sculpted biceps as he grinned at her shamelessly.

Finally, she was able to growl, "I liked you better when you couldn't even talk to me without staring at my chest and breaking down into a red, stuttering mess."

"How the tables have turned," he mused, still grinning faintly.

"Shut up and get over here," she snapped half-heartedly. He complied, crossing the distance in a handful of strides and coming to a stop. Standing a head higher than her, she was mercifully allowed to fix her gaze on his collar as her hands found the buttons of his jacket and worked upwards to fasten each one at an unhurried cadence.

At the same time, his own hands were brushing deliberately through her mess of hair, gently locating and undoing knots and slowly bringing order to the nest. She reveled in the pleasant sensation as his fingers worked across her scalp and cleared her gaze of white clumps and strands.

"What are you even getting dressed up for at this hour?" she asked quietly.

"I have a meeting with Professor Port."

"Please tell me that he's not dragging you out into the Emerald Forest to trap some unassuming Grimm," she rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh.

"No, he's actually Beacon's resident in psychology."

Winter's hands froze at the last button, and she inclined her head to meet his eyes with a single brow raised incredulously. He offered a hapless 'what'll you do' shrug. "I asked Miss Goodwitch and she referred me to him on the spot."

Her other brow shot up to meet its counterpart in pure shock. "You… You asked Glynda for a psychiatric referral? After eight months of swearing up and down that you'll never cease to be a paranoid and melodramatic wreck?!"

"I don't like the way you phrased that," he mock-growled, only to choke on his words as Winter's arms and wrapped around his neck and squeezed him tightly in a hug as she squealed in silent, undignified triumph.

When she looked back at him, her eyes were aglow with genuine delight, receiving in return a state of puzzlement and embarrassment. "What finally made you go through with it?" she demanded happily.

"I-I talked to Charlie yesterday, and he figured that my odds were better here than anywhere else as far as getting actual help is concerned," he stammered uncertainly. He made another choking noise as her arms tightened again around his neck and the side of her head pressed into his chest. "Getting help requires me being able to breathe!" he wheezed.

After another moment of squeezing and mental squealing, Winter recognized his plea and drew back, grimacing apologetically as he drew great breaths and coughed. "Sorry."

"I'd have kept it a secret if I'd known that you'd rather knock me out than send me off to Port," he heaved jokingly as he massaged his bandaged throat.

"No, no! I can't even begin to express how glad I am that you actually reached out to someone!" she denied hastily, running her hands over his front and straightening his blouse. "If there's one thing that you can depend on Glynda for, it's doing everything that she can to help when it is requested of her."

"I noticed how quickly she responded," Jauned scratched the bandages at the back of his neck uncertainly. "I'll be sure to remember that for later."

"Certainly," Winter agreed awkwardly, the pair now unwilling to meet each other's eyes.

"I'm just gonna… Go see Port now."

"Yes, of course; please don't let me keep you."

Neither of them moved. Winter glanced in front of her and realized that she was still running her hands over his chest smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in his uniform; her hands snapped to her sides, and she took a stiff step backwards.

"This never happened," she bit out.

"Agreed," he croaked. "Definitely," he said again after clearing his throat. "I'll… See you later."

He turned on his heel in a swift about-face, only stopping at the door to slide on and lace up his boots before beating a hasty retreat from the room. Once the door slid shut, Winter huffed at herself in aggravation and stomped back over to her bed, where she flopped face-first into the disheveled sheets and groaned into her pillow.

"What the hell are we doing…?"

Carmelo Paxton asked himself this question as he stood his post on a catwalk overlooking the floor of one of the many warehouses in which Vale's White Fang had taken residence.

Below, teams of his comrades weaved through a maze of plywood, armed with Dust guns and melee weapons as they cleared out hallways and rooms of more of their comrades dressed as opposing forces - blue-painted vests to represent the Vale Police, white for Atlas soldiers, and a scattered handful of grey for the mythical Legionnaires that so many of the Mantlese transfers spoke of with hatred and dread.

The guns were loaded with low-grade Shock Dust, which as the name implied caused only varying degrees of electric shocks to the target, even those without Auras. The melee weapons were likewise blunted; but still, the participants were instructed to treat all weapons as live and deadly.

Lacking Aura as he did, Pax shuddered and gripped his own live carbine a little tighter as he recalled the harsh shocks that he'd received when his unit had been cycled through Adam Taurus's "Kill House."

It had taken more than a few runs before his teammates had started to take the exercise seriously, and only after nearly all of them had been shocked, beaten, and even cut by the rare Legionnaire stand-ins - Mantlese operatives armed with real combat knives in addition to Atlas standard-issue collapsible truncheons like the one that the Specialist had wielded.

After taking one nasty blow to the head from the genuine article, Pax hadn't been too enthusiastic to see how their foreign brothers stacked up in comparison. He had been the first to recognize that the men in the grey armor were priority targets.

After a half-dozen runs and nearly two solid hours maneuvering through the shifting walls of the Kill House, he and his unit had been dismissed to return to their duties; but Pax alone had been asked to remain on standby in the building, whereas the others had been scattered across the district to run roving patrols.

Situated below the warehouse's catwalks, ringing the perimeter and occasionally running across the tops of the wooden walls, narrow makeshift catwalks - little more than singular or doubled planks in most cases - hosted a handful of the stony-eyed Mantlese transfers, easily identified by their wide variation of altered uniform pieces, which were also colored in actual camouflage patterns of white, grey, and black.

These men and women of various shapes and sizes - though uniformly fit, if not distinctly muscular - moved gracefully across the precarious pathways, shimmying and jumping from one perch to another while shouting at the teams running through the Kill House, usually pushing them to move faster, or barking pieces of tactical advice at individuals or groups of clumsy recruits.

Though their commands were loud and sharp, their voices betrayed little in the way of emotions. There was no discernable anger or frustration, even when teams were wiped out wholesale. Although once or twice, Paxton might've imagined a bit of satisfaction leaking through when a team was able to complete the course with some competence; but it was hard to nail down, considering that the next words were always either a flat dismissal, or else five simple words that inflicted a secondhand spike of exhaustion on his entire being:

"Reset and run it again."

Shuddering out of both phantom dread and an effort to shake himself to a better state of wakefulness, Pax's ears finally took note of a set of footsteps nearby, and the minute shaking of the metal catwalk under his feet.

"Carmelo Paxton?"

The voice sent a shock through his system, and Pax nearly tripped over himself when he turned on his heel to try and put forth a professional response.

"C-Commander Taurus, sir!" he greeted shakily, cursing the heat in his cheeks at his fumbling as he offered an undoubtedly sloppy salute.

"Pax," the imposing Bull Faunus stated, testing the name.

"Y-yes sir."

The corner of Taurus's mouth quirked upwards, and the man waved a hand placatingly. "At ease, Paxton."

Pax gingerly relaxed his stance, taking in the Bull Faunus in front of him, who couldn't be much older than he was - maybe even younger.

'Just like that Legionnaire…' he faintly acknowledged.

"S-something I can do for you, sir?" Pax stammered uncertainly.

"I'm going around and conducting my own after-action reviews with the members of the team that we recovered from police custody," the Commander replied, turning and leaning on crossed arms against the railing, propping his toe against the back of his opposite heel.

"But I already signed off on the report that the Sarge submitted at your request."

"Your Sergeant's report was very detailed and enlightening, but I'd still like to get as many perspectives as possible on your encounter with the Specialist."

Pax inhaled deeply; but before he could launch into as many details as he could possibly recall, Taurus raised a finger and brought him crashing to a pause. "I don't need all of the formal nitty-gritty details right now, I just want to hear your thoughts on the man himself."

The Commander then chuckled as Pax released a deep sigh of relief. The Coyote Faunus then proceeded into a new struggle with articulating his thoughts.

"He was… He was a big fucking dude, sir," Pax said frankly, earning an amused snort from the Bull. "Like, he might've been a centimeter or two shy of the Sarge; but when he was in full gear with his helmet and everything, his presence easily had him standing eye-to-eye with a literal bear."

"Atlas knows their armor design, as well as how to train their people to maximize its effectiveness in all aspects of warfare," Taurus acknowledged with a nod. "Even the small ones seem like they're two meters high in that armor; people like the Specialist who are already in that neighborhood without it end up looking… Insurmountable, to say the least."

"You fought those monsters, didn't you sir?"

"You mean the Atlas Foreign Legion?" Adam replied with a visible quirk of his brow.

"Yes sir."

The Commander exhaled quietly.

"'Monster' is such an easy word to throw around in our world. The Grimm are beasts, as well as monsters in the most literal sense; but if the creatures of Grimm serve as the ebony standard, then how and why is it that greater monsters wear the skin of man?"

Paxton remained silent, recognizing the rhetorical nature of Adam's monologue.

"And I don't use 'man' to refer exclusively to humans, mind you," the Bull continued, "Genetics may distinguish us, but with few exceptions, the upbringing of humans and Faunus takes place within the same deplorable society."

Taurus heaved a great sigh as he ran a hand over the bridge of his mask; Paxton could picture the creases and wrinkles of a young man aged beyond his years hidden from view behind the imitation of a literal monster.

"Human or Faunus - the fact remains that war makes animals of the most righteous of men. And the stalemate in Mantle has carried on as such for decades now because both sides consist of monsters who are nigh-on indistinguishable from one another."

Adam remained still, staring introspectively at the plywood maze below, before he snorted to himself and shook his head. "Basically, that was my roundabout and wishy-washy way of saying that yes, I've fought the Legionnaires before - including Specialist Amsel."

Paxton took a moment to absorb the exposition-heavy response before he managed to come up with another question.

"Are they all like him, sir?"

The Commander barked a sharp, bitter laugh. "No, no, the Specialist is his own breed. If anything…"

Adam turned his head to look squarely at Pax with a sardonic grin. "...Most Legionnaires are like me."

"Commander Taurus really said that?!" Alvin demanded incredulously again.

"I speak nothing but the gods' honest truth, Al," Pax affirmed tiredly for the fourth time as he slumped back onto the cot, one hand flopping out to drop his mask onto the tiny ramshackle nightstand.

In exchange for intelligent answers to his basic and probably stupid questions, Paxton had related every detail that he could recall about the Specialist - his physical description, his attitude and reactions at key points in negotiations, and anything else that he remembered up until the soldier in question had soundly clocked him upside the head and taken him out of the fight as the opening move.

They'd wrapped up the informal debrief with small talk. Adam had answered a few questions from Pax about some of the nuances of the Kill House exercises, as well as about the Mantlese operatives that had arrived in the days before and after the Commander. Pax had in turn answered a few about his family, his day job, and his general lot in life in Vale.

When his shift had finally ended two hours later, the Coyote Faunus was thoroughly dog-tired, and wanted nothing more than to get in a few hours' shuteye before he had to leave the compound and head over to the industrial sector for work.

And then thirty seconds later, Alvin had barged in and started grilling him about what Commander Taurus had grilled him about.

And now, when the obnoxious chipmunk was just about getting the hint to shut up, the door to the barracks creaked open, and Pax did a double-take as the unmistakable imposing form of the Lieutenant - the Vale chapter's commander up until Adam's arrival - poked through the door, the man's full-face mask unreadable as its crimson stare bored into the handful of Faunus in the room.

"The Commander has called for an assembly of all nonessential personnel in the main warehouse in ten minutes," his voice boomed across the tiny space, shocking the room to immediate attention.

"Masks, full uniforms, full bearing," the Lieutenant continued without pause. "This is the first time that we will be presenting ourselves alongside our comrades from Mantle. Anything less than your strongest showing, will be met with…"

The mask swept across the room's occupants again, communicating any number of less-than-positive implications.

"... Harsh consequences."

"Sir, yes sir!" Paxton found himself sounding off strongly along with the rest of the room.

The barracks door closed quietly behind the Lieutenant, and the occupants waited a long moment before falling into a mad rush to collect themselves.

Pax all but fell over himself rolling out of the cot, a hand scrambling back up to the bedside table to collect his mask and slap it back onto his face.

"This day just keeps getting better and better…" he groaned tiredly, slumped against the table and trying to force himself to keep moving.

"Just look on the bright side," Alvin chirped unapologetically, "Maybe he's finally gonna tell us just what the fuck is going on around here."

- To Serve With Honor -

Standing at a loose and unconscious position of attention, Jaune stared down the plain wooden door adorned with a simple brass plaque:

Peter J. Port
Professor of Grimm Studies
Resident in Psychology

Exhaling deeply through his nose, Jaune reached out to rap his knuckles against the wood, only to flinch sharply when the automatic door snapped aside to reveal the mustachioed man himself standing directly on the other side.

"Mister Amsel!" Peter greeted cheerily, reaching out and setting a meaty hand on the back of his shoulder to usher him into the space, "Come in, lad, come right in. Any issues finding the office?"

"No sir," Jaune replied stiffly as he took a handful of halting steps into the room.

"None of that formal rubbish now," the portly Professor waved with a light chuckle, taking his hand from Jaune's shoulder as they approached a pair of sofas set on either side of a simple but elegantly hand-carved and stained coffee table. "Peter, or Professor if you absolutely must, will do just fine."

"Of course, Professor," Jaune replied absently as he unabashedly took in the office, earning a light sigh of resignation from the other man.

For all that Winter had implied about Port's penchant for grandiose embellishment and borderline-narcissism, the classically-styled space was distinctly lacking in any of the anticipated busts, trophies, and/or oversized imitation Grimm heads.

The whole space was roughly the size of the Specialists' own quarters. A row of waist-high cabinets topped with bookshelves spanned most of the length of one wall, all of it some richly-stained wood - probably mahogany, if Jaune had to guess with all of three days' carpentry experience from secondary school. The shelves were stuffed to the brim with everything from thick dusty tomes to skinny magazines and pamphlets, with little knick knacks and tchotchkes dotting some spot on every row of every shelf.

The whole affair lent the room a pleasantly lived-in feel, something that he recalled as being distinctly absent from the offices of General Ironwood or any of the handful of military head-doctors that the Special Task Force had tried to throw him to before finally giving up and leaving him to his training and his drink.

Things were off to a good start here, though he could probably do with a little less bitter reminiscence.

"Something to drink, my boy?" Peter inquired, circumventing the couch to a large desk and crouching on the far side, presumably to access a cabinet. "Water, juice, tea?"

"Suppose hair of the dog is off the menu?" Jaune responded with a short snort as he occupied a couch, only to recall the nature of his present company. "Water is fine," he quickly amended, silently cursing as Port hummed contemplatively and withdrew a small bottle of water that almost immediately clouded with condensation; apparently he had a refrigerator hiding back there.

"Tell me, Mister Amsel- or would you prefer Arc?" Peter cut himself off mid-thought, setting the bottle down in front of Jaune and drawing a cup and saucer from beneath the table for himself as he took the opposite couch

"I'd prefer Corporal, or Jack if you have to," Jaune muttered uncertainly, taking up the bottle, snapping off the plastic cap with a swift motion of his wrist, and habitually downing half of the small container in a single draw.

As he tipped his head back to do so, he could see the Professor's gaze in his periphery, dark brown eyes peering out from lidded eyes and keenly analyzing his movements. He was back under a microscope.

And then suddenly, the man's eyes were nearly closed again, and his immaculately-coiffed mustache was puffed up in what Jaune had quickly come to recognize earlier in the morning as a genial smile.

Jaune's eyes narrowed unconsciously as he drank; he had to blink to rid himself of the furrow in his brow before his head came back down.

"Jaune Arc. Jonathan Amsel, Corporal. Jack, Specialist," Peter mulled over the names and titles aloud as he took up the lightly-steaming carafe from the tray in the middle of the table and poured it into a much smaller ceramic teapot. "Quite the roster you've built over a relatively short career that can be counted in months as easily as years."

The carafe was set down, and a meaty hand armed itself with a tiny silver spoon in a deceptively delicate grip, transferring tea leaves from a small tin to an open mesh capsule, which was then closed with a simple metal clasp and draped into the mouth of the pot by a thin chain. Lids were replaced, and Peter Port settled back into the cream-colored sofa cushions, clasping his hands and folding his thumbs as he relaxed and took in the younger man.

"I've had my fair share of encounters with most every stripe of combat profession on this planet, Jack," the Professor's volume rose to comfortably shy of his usual bombasity. "Huntsmen, soldiers, militiamen, mercenaries, thugs, bandits, terrorists. Early on, my encounters were in the heat of conflict; either alongside these individuals, or against them. Under which circumstances were with whom, I shall leave you to decide," he chuckled.

"I have met the staunch and deluded patriots, ambivalent and resigned conscripts, and passionate and cunning revolutionaries. Loyalists and rebels, with and without a cause. But after so many years of meeting and fighting and watching death, do you know what I see when I look at any such individual, regardless of their persuasion?"

"A grenade with a missing pin?" Jaune responded half-sarcastically to the rhetorical question.

"Someone who has either forgotten or lost touch with the best parts of living," Port declared softly, the couch creaking as he leaned forward and met Jaune's gaze with a knowing, unflinching stare. "Someone who has spent so long facing off against the worst aspects of mankind, that the idea that man is inherently 'good' has become uncertain at best, and laughable at worst."

"Young, old, strong, weak, quick as a whip or dumb as a brick. Parents, siblings, comrades-in-arms, rivals, adversaries, hated enemies. Those who have known conflict, when placed alongside those who have not, are easily distinguished from the masses."

Peter's gaze flitted down to the teapot, the steam from the spout having abated a short time ago. He took up the pot, poured some of its dark amber contents into the cup in front of him, and set down the pot. He took the saucer between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, curled the index of his other hand around the delicate handle of the cup, and offered a short gesture with it before the brim disappeared beneath his facial hair in a long, quiet draw.

Jaune's hands twitched in unconscious anticipation as Port lowered his cup back into the saucer.

"You do not believe that you can live as one of 'Them' anymore. Your experiences have carried you so far down paths which others dare not tread. Each and every drop of blood, regardless of how far or near it was shed from your person, has indelibly stained your conscience to the point that you feel as if you walk through the rest of your life coated in it from head to toe, wading through it with each and every step. You fear that everything and everyone that you touch will become stained as you are."

A slow veil of dread and disappointment began creeping in from a dark corner of his mind, and his hands tightened into fists, knuckles popping in succession. 'Come on, Peter, cut it out…'

He didn't. Port continued to ramble.

"... Mister Amsel, I would like to preface this meeting by saying you are far from the only Legionnaire to experience these sorts of issues. We see dozens, even hundreds of your comrades through this clinic every week, and I can promise you from my own experience that what you're going through right now is nothing more than another form of fatigue..."

"... You boys are hard-working troopers, Legionnaire, and it doesn't matter your walk of life, enough time on the job is bound to lead to some feeling of burnout. Why, I had a Sergeant in here just last week…"

"... Your unit is carrying out an important mission, Mister Amsel, and as such it is in everyone's best interests that we minimize your downtime until the current bout of unrest has abated somewhat. Fortunately, I have a few options that I can prescribe you to get you through until then; it won't last for too much longer, surely…"

"I understand what you're going through, Mister Amsel…"
"Your experience is nothing we haven't seen before, Legionnaire…"
"It's really a textbook example from your field, Specialist…"

"But please bear in mind,"
"Just remember while you're out there,"

"Please rest assured knowing that that,"

"Atlas thanks you for your service."

His teeth clenched, his nails carved bloody furrows into his palms, and all of his latent frustrations approached a tangible peak.

"I didn't come here to listen to you theorize at me, Professor!" Jaune finally snapped. The older man flinched as his verbal reverie was cut off. "If I wanted to be lectured at by another textbook-thumping shrink, I'd sign up for a psychology course and ask for their opinion on soldiers. I came here to have a conversation, and to see if you could help me address my concerns, not the statistical majority's."

The pair fell into silence, and Jaune was immediately overtaken by regret; at the same time, he wanted to see how Port would react to the challenge.

Peter regarded him with an absent look, taking another draw from his teacup and apparently contemplating a response. Many seconds passed, however, and still none came.

Finally Jaune let out a small sigh, which in his head bore all of his resignation and disappointment. It looked as though he'd just have to grin and bear it through the rest of the meeting, knowing that both of their times were wasted. "I'm sorry Professor, I-"

"You're quite correct, my boy," it was Port's turn to interject, causing Jaune to flinch in surprise. "I apologize, it's been some time since I've actually had to engage in this part of my profession. I suppose that I'm now more accustomed to lecturing, when I would be more successful in this role by lending you my ear for a change."

Peter set his cup and saucer back on the table. "Are you certain that I cannot interest you in a cup of tea?"

Jaune rolled his eyes tiredly, but relented with a nod and a wave of his hand. The Professor hummed in satisfaction and retrieved a second cup and saucer from beneath the table, filling the cup and sliding it across the glass surface between them.

The Legionnaire gingerly picked up the delicate cup with two fingers around the thin porcelain handle and raised it to his mouth. He inhaled through his nose, having enough experience with tea from the Schnee Manor to recognize a blend of black tea.

He finally took a short sip, and made a noise of surprise at the strong malty flavor, which was followed in the aftertaste by notes of caramel and dark chocolate.

"I have something of an incurable sweet tooth," Port admitted with a chuckle as he took another sip from his own cup, "But Oz has an unfortunate tendency to add his cocoa mix straight into his coffee grounds, so I've taken to meeting Glynda halfway and sourcing more common black tea varieties for the purpose of streamlining logistics for the administration."

The man rose from the couch, saucer in hand, and paced over to one of the shelves behind him; he reached up to a shelf at chest-height and ran his fingers over the row of books until they settled on a black binding. When he drew it out, Jaune recognized that it was a picture frame tucked between two volumes.

"This particular blend is one of my personal finds from an old adventure, however," Peter carried on, offering the frame to Jaune. The Specialist accepted the picture as the professor carried on. "There is a sizable jungle island halfway between Mistral and Menagerie, which is said to have harbored a secret settlement during the Faunus Rights Revolution. This settlement was unique in that it was established as neutral grounds; not for diplomatic purposes, but for families and individuals who wished to escape the flames of war and live amongst like-minded individuals, humans and Faunus alike, in peace."

The framed photograph showed Peter Port in his usual garb standing alongside and a taller, skinnier man with green hair and large round-lens glasses, dressed in an open tan trench coat and an off-white pith helmet.

"My colleague pictured there is Bartholomew Oobleck, Beacon Academy's resident historian, archeologist, and anthropologist; you'll primarily be working with him to support his history curriculum," Port explained. "Bart was chomping at the bit to find this place for years, but no one was willing to fund the expedition. He finally saved enough from his salary and various bursaries to pay for transport, but he was still short for hiring protection. After a short scouting survey, however, it was determined that the Grimm population on the island was fairly small; so I offered to accompany him as a favor, and also because I was simply curious to see if the settlement's true nature was actually as advertised.

"Amongst some of things that we found was a small, surprisingly well-preserved tea plantation, the blend of which you're tasting here; the tea was grown in close proximity to cocoa beans outside the settlement, and the two had mostly likely cross-bred at some point in history."

"That's a pretty cool story for some tea leaves," Jaune offered blankly, trying to downplay his fascination.

Port simply chuckled and nodded in agreement. "That's the usual reaction," he replied. "It's also just about the only tea blend that Glynda or I have found that old Oz will voluntarily drink."

"The uh, the settlement," Jaune pressed casually, though his body unconsciously leaning forward undoubtedly betrayed his interest, "What was it like?"

Port accepted the frame and replaced it on the shelf before settling back on the couch and replying. "Massive," the professor intoned, "At least as large as modern Kuo Kuana itself, if not a bit larger from closely-built satellite lands. 'Village' does no justice; this was a true City of Remnant, built entirely in secret under the cover of the haze from the flames of war. The original founders cleared most of the undergrowth, but kept the place expertly camouflaged by some of the oldest and tallest examples of rare jungle trees that Bart or I had ever seen; many homes and other structures were built up against and around these trees even."

Jaune gave up on subtlety and leaned fully forward, hunched over and resting his elbows on his knees as he took another draught of tea, fully enthralled.

"The place must have sheltered tens of thousands in its heyday," the professor stated casually; the Specialist's eyes widened in surprise and wonder.

"What happened to all of them if the place is abandoned now?"

"A significant number emigrated back to Menagerie or the Kingdoms at the end of the war. Few ever revealed the existence of the settlement, even to their dying days; and so, the city was enshrined in myth and legend by its former residents. But the rest? Well, once the fighting died down and the Grimm no longer had battlefields or fortress strongholds to skulk around, where do you figure it is that the beasts ended up instead?"

Jaune's face fell. "The Grimm destroyed everything."

"On the contrary lad," Port grinned slyly, causing the Specialist to perk up again slightly, "The beasts found the city, but not her people."

"How?!"

Instead of replying, Peter reached under the table; Jaune heard crinkling papers for a few moments before the professor drew out a small, yellowed and weather-beaten map. He also drew a much newer map of the same size, labeled as 'Kuo Kuana.'

Port set the tea wares aside and spread the maps side-by-side on the surface of the table, and gestured with a hand for Jaune to have a look. The Specialist finished his tea and set the cup and saucer on a side table next to him, and hunched over the papers intently.

The most obvious detail was the size of each map's depiction; Kuo Kuana dominated a full half of the total area of the modern map, while the structures decorating the older scroll barely covered a quarter. He was about to ask Port about the scale translation, only to glance at the corner of the Menagerie map and note the scale; scanning over the other map, he found that it declared the exact same scale.

"This is the city?" he asked with a finger resting on the old map; Peter nodded. "If these scales are accurate, then this settlement barely covered a fraction of Menagerie's capital."

"I stand by my previous statements," Port replied simply.

Jaune hummed and tapped his fingers against the old map as he considered this. "Even with shelters in the trees, there's still not enough acreage to make up the difference." He jolted as though stung as realization struck. "If they didn't build up, then-!"

"-The majority of the settlement was underground," Peter finished the thought with a broad smile and a clap of his large hands. "Bart had the same reaction as soon as we puzzled it out."

"But there are tunneling variants of Grimm."

"If there were any present when the settlement was built, then the original founders wiped them out to the last; and after the war, the only species to migrate back to the island were airborne and surface-dwelling. The entrances were so cleverly disguised, and the above-ground resources so expertly-placed and protected by natural defenses, that the inhabitants must have been able to slip to the surface to do their work without the Grimm ever knowing that they were even there," the professor concluded with satisfaction and awe in his own voice. "Bart and I have concluded that this city is the closest approximation to living in harmony with the Grimm in Remnant's known history that doesn't involve archaic rituals or human sacrifice."

Jaune flopped back in his seat, shaking his head and chuckling in disbelief. "Insanity…" he muttered with a grin.

"Genius by another name," Peter agreed, shuffling the maps together and tucking them back under the table. "Ultimately all signs point to some form of disease sweeping the surviving population, and they were unable to effectively combat it due to their isolation and fairly outdated medicine. That said, more still were able to escape to civilization by that point, and it seems that the remainder that stayed behind were content to see their end in their own homes.

"The moral of the story as I intended it, however, remains this: Through cooperation, ingenuity, and the shear will to escape their circumstances, the people of this settlement created a veritable utopia that lasted for as long as they required it - even after it became surrounded by humanity's greatest foe."

Port finished the rest of the contents of his cup, and looked Jaune dead in the eye. "Never underestimate the will of a sentient to change their conditions, Mister Arc. Circumstances are constraints; but they are not unbreakable shackles."

Silence set in for a time as the professor placed the tea set back on the table and poured another round.

As he accepted a fresh cup with a nod, the Specialist finally breathed a heavy sigh, and took the plunge.

"My name is Corporal Jonathan Amsel of the Atlas Foreign Legion. I am a Specialist of the Atlas Military; and I was known at a different time in my life as Jaune Arc."

- To Serve With Honor -

"One moment lad," Peter grunted as he pushed himself off of the sofa and ambled over to the desk.

Jaune nodded wordlessly. Once Port's back was turned, he took a deep breath, feeling his racing mind slow somewhat as he sank readily into the embrace of the brief silence.

"Headmaster Ozpin," Peter's voice brought that peace to a swift end, "I am afraid that I'm in the middle of a meeting at the moment-"

"Yes, Peter, I am aware of your session with Mister Arc," Ozpin cut the man off with uncharacteristic sharpness. "Please turn on your CCT terminal to the public news network, and ensure that he can see and hear the broadcast. A new development is in progress that he should bear immediate witness to."

Jaune watched Port blink at the Headmaster's terseness and mumble his assent as he circled around the desk to activate the screen of his terminal.

The glassy holographic display blinked into existence. The static cleared as the broadcast was received, and the Specialist literally and figuratively saw red as the masked visage of Adam Taurus filled the screen, and the bull's powerful voice filled the room.

"People of Remnant: I am Commander Adam Taurus of the White Fang. As of today, I am the executioner of six officers of the Vale Police Department; and I am speaking to you today for the purpose of issuing a declaration of war to the corrupt politicians and corporate elites of the Kingdom of Vale."

End Chapter 7

Author's Note: Hello, and I'm sorry.

It's been four days shy of a year since Chapter 6, and that's 85% entirely my bad. I've been a mess for the better part of that year, and I've used that as an excuse for putting off many personal affairs in recent memory, for all of the wrong reasons.

That being said, I have gotten a message or two asking for my status, as well as one asking why I'm "still reading stories, but not updating your own."

-Soapbox Warning-

Well, the reasons for that are twofold. For one, I enjoy reading, especially to procrastinate. And for two, writing Fanfiction is not my job.

I apologize if the following comes off as me using this chapter as a platform to unjustly read some of you the riot act; if this does not apply to you, please take this as me recounting a message that I recently issued. If this does apply to you, please listen carefully; and if you are disagree with said message, the door is that way, and thank you for reading this far.

98% of Fanfiction writers do not write for a living. We receive no income from our works, and we write for some other reason.

Therefore, my only real and tangible obligation to update my works is a deal that I make with myself.

None of you are paying me. I am not Coeur Al'Aran; I do not have a page-that-shall-not-be-spelled-out where I make a second income from "charitable donors supporting a talented content creator." I am a student of Mechanical Engineering approaching the end of my academic career, wherein I now have the added burden of searching for a place in the workforce.

I write because I enjoy coming up with ideas for stories and then sharing them with a broader audience, such as the one that is available on this site, so that others may enjoy and offer feedback on my work, purely for shits and grins on my part.

Do not let it be said, however, that I don't feel shitty about not updating in a timely fashion. I do consider this work as a personal obligation as well as my joy, and I feel terrible when I'm not able to produce content in a timely manner for everyone to enjoy.

However, this does not mean that I will churn out and post sub-par, unsatisfactory content purely for the sake of meeting a deadline, be that deadline written or otherwise.

In conclusion, my story is not dead unless I come out and tell you that it is dead.

Or unless I'm dead, but hopefully I'll have had the foresight to have made arrangements to pass the message on.

That being said, if it gets to be too long, I certainly won't balk at, and in fact do appreciate questions or good-spirited inquiries as to my state of affairs; so please excuse my prickliness, and feel free to reach out if something's on your mind.

-Stepping Off the Soapbox-

I had originally intended for this chapter to run longer; however, after I had to revise the Port-Jaune conversation a few times, I finally came to the conclusion that adding another full scene afterwards would unnecessarily skew the tone of the chapter. So I didn't.

The side-effect of that is that the next chapter is primarily going to focus on Adam and the White Fang.

I hope that it won't take as long for me to make that chapter, particularly since literally my entire work day is now spent in front of a computer; but as we all know, the world is currently in flux.

Hopefully this update will bring some measure of relief, normalcy, or - God forbid - joy to those of you that may be experiencing an upheaval in life nowadays.

Stay strong, and I'll see y'all in Chapter 8.

-Knightmare Frame Razgriz