Egrer held no prejudices. As it happened, he had traveled the world since childhood and managed to see all sorts of things, both good and bad. Everyone says Atlesians are stiff, picky killjoys, but he knows that's just a mask for strangers. At the sight of a Mistrali, everyone immediately starts guessing what kind of unhinged fetishes they practice; at the sight of a Vacuan native, how much time they've served[1]; and Vale... the global community has formed an opinion that locals here don't stand out in any way, which is also untrue.
So Egrer didn't fall for stereotypes, because they often didn't reflect reality.
And even being right now in a police station and surrounded by police officers, he tried not to succumb to his instincts and not treat every cop he met as an enemy. True, he had had a less-than-ideal relationship with the law for the first fifteen years of his life, but he had long since quit the criminal world. Well, relatively long ago.
In short, Egrer primarily saw the individual in front of him, not a collection of stereotypes.
But the police officer standing before him and his friends was the epitome of a gloomy detective with a deep and convoluted backstory authored by some Agatha Christie. It was as if someone had slapped a noir black-white-and-red filter on him, run a faint static over the screen, and turned off all the lights except the streetlamps outside. As if his Semblance was mystique itself.
His gaze, which lingered specifically on Egrer, somehow instilled fear. Perhaps this strange police officer immediately realized that Egrer was the ringleader here, perhaps just from his appearance he guessed his criminal past, or maybe he had seen that fateful news broadcast. In any case, his interested stare didn't sit well with the retired thief.
"Senior Lieutenant William Poirot," he introduced himself without a hint of any interest in making their acquaintance. Because of the popped collar of his coat, the movement of his lips was invisible, adding even more mystery. It was as if his colorless eyes were doing the talking. "You've been assigned to my patrol."
"And what's a Senior Lieutenant doing on patrol?" Yort asked brazenly, crossing his arms over his chest.
"You ask too many questions."
He shot Team Majesty a glance of gray eyes from under the brim of his fedora, reminding them terrifyingly of Hat. Then he mumbled, "Follow me," and walked outside. Team Majesty exchanged silent glances. After a second of non-verbal communication, Yort and Illmond decided to say to hell with it all and synchronously turned in the opposite direction towards the cafeteria. Magenta grabbed both of them by the arms.
"Where do you think you're going, huh? Don't ditch practice!"
"There's free Wi-Fi here," Illmond weakly protested, not looking up from his Scroll. "Can't we stay?"
"Fuck this punk-ass clown," Yort replied, shuddering. It was rare for their Vacuan giant to be so rattled. "He's got a creepy stare, like he's gnawing on your soul."
Egrer nodded in agreement, feeling exactly the same. The others didn't feel anything similar; apparently, their consciences were too clean and their criminal records too empty. In any case, Magenta delivered a solid smack to Yort's head for the foul language, then grabbed both troublemakers by the ears and dragged them toward the exit. Egrer wisely decided not to cross their brave leader and followed without objection.
Mr. Poirot was waiting for them by a police car. The slightly outdated four-seater didn't inspire respect or confidence. Essentially, it was just a regular car with a blue siren magnetically slapped onto the roof. Not much.
The lieutenant opened the trunk and pointed at some clothing - dark blue vests with empty epaulettes and peaked caps. It wasn't a full police uniform, but it should signal to bystanders that they were helping the police. And the realization that he'd have to wear this made Egrer cringe. His entire being rebelled against such sacrilege. Helping cops was one thing, life throws curveballs, but wearing their gear was a straight-up disgrace! Against the code!
However, he overcame himself. Now he lived by cop laws, not thief laws... Or rather, Egrer lived by normal laws, he had turned over a new leaf!
"No," Yort said firmly. Unlike Egrer, he didn't fight his gangster habits, and the prospect of turning fed scared him significantly more. "I ain't puttin' these rags on."
"You will," Mr. Poirot replied sternly.
Despite a height difference of about a head and a half, the police officer exuded even more threat than the jacked gangster from Vacuo. After a tense and lengthy staring contest, Yort folded under the pressure of a sharp, calculating gaze that promised nothing good. Egrer watched in astonishment as their tame giant meekly recognized the other's authority and set about executing his will.
The lieutenant easily sensed the lack of enthusiasm from most of them and decided to address it head-on.
"You aren't happy being forced to patrol the streets, I'm not happy that instead of my buddy I'll be spending the next few days in the company of half-baked Hunters. Let's not ruin each other's mood and just get to work."
"I call shotgun!" Magenta quickly threw on her vest and cap and hopped into the front seat of the car, as if afraid someone would beat her to it. She placed her flamethrower at her feet (although even then it bumped against the roof) and formed finger guns. "Pew-pew, well villains, I'm coming to catch you!"
The rest had to squeeze into the back row, fighting for scraps of space with the broad Yort, who took up a seat and a half. The acute shortage of living space and fresh air formed the "Mistrali Bloc," ready to march onto "Vacuo" lands to expand its Lebensraum. A reenactment of the Great War was stopped by Mr. Poirot shooting them a cold glare through the rearview mirror.
The detective sighed deeply but quietly. He hadn't even suspected that the one who would shred his nerves the most wouldn't be them, but a certain sweet-looking girl nearby.
***
"I'm boooored!" Magenta whined after just ten minutes of the ride. "Statistically, between eight and eleven crimes happen in Vale every minute. We should've caught a whole busload of thieves and murderers by now! Where are they?!"
In the back seat, Yort sighed irritably and offered his forehead to Egrer for a flick. His thirty-minute bet didn't pay off.
"Mr. Poirot, you're patrolling the streets wrong," Magenta declared, and the officer nearly choked at such a statement. "Let's go somewhere seedy; I bet there'll be villains there. The favelas, maybe, or right up to the walls."
"Rich people don't live in seedy places," the lieutenant began grimly, "so there's no patrolling there. The police don't care about their squabbles until they threaten the city center. Sit quietly."
At this profound observation, which spoke volumes about Mr. Poirot's worldview, Magenta merely started bumping against the seat like a petulant child. Obviously, she had no interest in the deep political and economic underpinnings of the established world order. She wanted to live right here and now, without pondering complex issues. And right here and now, she wanted to catch villains.
Fortunately for her, just a couple of hours later (by this time the lieutenant's eye had started twitching), the radio suddenly mumbled.
"Poirot, 32 Silverhander Street, robbery - motorcyclist snatched an old lady's purse and~"
"Awesome!" Magenta exclaimed. "We'll help the poor grandma, get her stuff back! Fast to the crime scene!"
"Be quiet," Mr. Poirot threw out tersely, picking up the radio. By this time, his mystique was practically gone, replaced only by exhaustion in his voice and resignation in his gaze. "Repeat, I have static."
"Pedal to the metal, sirens blazing!" Magenta was already reaching for various buttons to find the one that would turn on the police light show. But the lieutenant caught her hand.
"Girl," Mr. Poirot uttered with suppressed irritation. Egrer regretted not bringing popcorn, though the spectator seats weren't the most comfortable. "I know perfectly well what I have to do. Only give me advice on things I don't understand."
"And what don't you understand?"
"Autopsies. Ever since the academy, I've struggled with that aspect of forensics. So unless you were trained in that, I hope to never hear unsolicited advice from you again."
Naturally, Magenta, being a sweet and gentle girl, understood everything and nodded responsibly, swearing not to get in the way. Egrer, meanwhile, leaned over the squished Illmond and held out his hand to Yort.
"Ten flicks on fifteen minutes. You in?"
"Fuck off, I ain't bettin' with you no more."
"Ew, so much for being an oracle."
They reached the crime scene fairly quickly, but for Mr. Poirot, that time stretched into an eternity. Because Magenta's tranquility lasted for exactly a couple of minutes.
"Grandma!" she exclaimed, leaping out of the car and taking the victim by her frail hand. "Was it your purse that got stolen? We'll find the thief in a jiffy and return your property! And the lawbreaker will face justice. Right, guys?"
"Yeah," Yort nodded sarcastically, fidgeting in his police uniform as if it were crushing his very soul, "we'll stick 'em right on the bottle of justice, y'know."
The grandma squinted and inspected their group through a thick layer of lenses. And there was plenty to look at: a girl with bright multicolored hair, a massive brute with a distinctly hostile appearance, a dystrophic kid with under-eye bags reaching his cheekbones, and a slicked-back good boy in a suit. And all of them in caps and blue vests.
"A lunatic, a thug, a pervert, and a con artist," the designated individuals exchanged puzzled glances. Her perceptiveness astounded them, for she had somewhat nailed all of them. "Do I need to call the cops again?"
"We are already here." Before the situation could get any weirder, their supervisor intervened. "Greetings, I am Senior Lieutenant William Poirot, and these are interns from Beacon. Now, I'd like to conduct a preliminary interview," said Mr. Poirot, turning on his body camera. After which he began doing what a police officer is supposed to do: interviewed the victim, found a couple of witnesses, and inspected the crime scene.
"...He's a junkie, I tell you." The grandma hadn't shut up this whole time, sharing her assumptions regarding the robber's life and origins. "Dressed in red from head to toe, weird hairstyle on his head, whatchamacallit..."
Not knowing the right words, she mimed a mohawk on her head. Egrer thought he knew exactly which gang member she had run into.
"All red, on a moped, and with a mohawk..." he mumbled under his breath. "From the Chicks, maybe?"
"Do you know who the villain was?" asked Magenta, standing nearby. Egrer hesitantly nodded and instantly regretted it. "Mr. Poirot! Eg knows who it was!"
The lieutenant paused the interview and cast an expectant look at him with his cold gray eyes. Egrer smiled an insanely wide smile. He didn't want to arouse suspicion with his unusual knowledge, so he rushed to excuse himself.
"She's making it all up! I have absolutely no idea who it was!"
"You're lying," one simple word from the officer, but it sent cold sweat pouring down Egrer's back, and his goofy smile almost split his face in half. Colorless and emotionless eyes demanded that he stop wasting time and spill the beans. But the former thief wasn't born yesterday; he wasn't going to give up that easily.
"I... I swear on my dad." It didn't sound very convincing.
Surprisingly, a hint of a mysterious smile slipped into the Lieutenant's eyes. And that made Egrer seriously nervous. The former thief began to breathe deeply. And Mr. Poirot's next phrase nearly sent Egrer to the Twins:
"You should pity your father."
'There's no way a random cop could know about this!!!' he panicked internally. Egrer's nerves snapped, and he quickly blurted out:
"I'll tell you everything I know!"
If Egrer wasn't looking anywhere but at him right now, he would have seen the surprised face of the lieutenant, who hadn't expected such an abrupt change in behavior. The officer was taken aback, as he merely wanted to poke fun at the fact that back at the station, Egrer had sworn on his father way too often when he was obviously lying. But every time the lieutenant tried to make a joke, it always turned into something like this. William Poirot sometimes passionately hated his Semblance.
Egrer, meanwhile, straightened up and began to speak:
"Based on the description, that's a member of the 'Real Boys' gang. A bunch of marginalized youths; they dabble in petty theft, carjacking, and rob kiosks on major holidays when the police are busy with drunken brawls."
"But you said he was from the Chicks," Magenta pointed out, to which Egrer clicked his tongue. He had to divulge even more information, which would definitively show that he knew far too much about the criminal underworld.
"Other gangs call them 'Chicks' or 'Little Boys' because they bite off more than they can chew. They're minors, no older than us, but they pick fights with everyone. Also, it's a stupid pun, since it's an all-Faunus gang." The officer's eyes narrowed. "They haven't been shot to pieces yet because they're tight with the White Fang. Messing with them is more trouble than it's worth."
When Egrer finished, Mr. Poirot's gaze became altogether reminiscent of Weiss's gaze when she's truly angry. But at who? Egrer didn't seem to have given him a reason.
"Fucking punks, basically," Yort nodded, realizing who they were dealing with. He spat juicily on the asphalt. "Scrub like that needs to be pressed under the bunk right away, or they get cocky and you can't put their bitch-ass gangs in their place later."
"Address," the Lieutenant demanded, to which Illmond immediately began to grumble:
"Are we going to a turf war right now? Let's not. Aren't we supposed to report this to the station, and they'll handle it? We're patrolmen. Infiltrating a gang hideout is not our job."
"It is ours!" Magenta yelled, striking a heroic pose. "We are Hunters! The scourge of all evil and any injustice! The terror of crime and the hope for the suffering! Who, if not us, should handle this matter? We must act right now; shifting responsibility onto others is the lot of cowards. We must bring hope!"
"And inflict good and enforce justice," Yort noted caustically, to which their brave leader nodded importantly, not catching the mockery in his voice.
"Exactly!"
Egrer stood with a facial expression that said, 'I really could have just not woken up today.' On the other hand, the Chicks were intimately familiar with the White Fang, and maybe he could find out something useful. So he assured Mr. Poirot that he would guide them through the favela to their hideout.
The lieutenant ordered them to get in the car.
"We just need to..." Egrer hesitantly decided to give a hint, because driving into a favela with sirens blaring and wearing epaulettes is like starting a shootout in a bar - everyone will either scatter or start firing back.
But Mr. Poirot took off his police coat himself and tossed his cap aside, then opened the window and took the siren off the roof. Egrer saw his mouth for the first time - cracked lips commanded the interns to take off their police gear, and now the car and its passengers looked normal. Egrer raised an eyebrow slightly, surprised by how easily he broke every possible protocol.
"You're not exactly thrilled with the police," Egrer said cautiously. The lieutenant's gloomy silence could hardly be interpreted any other way. "You aren't... exactly 'by the book', right?"
"I'm not by the book, I'm by the results," Mr. Poirot snapped, shooting a glance into the rearview mirror. "If the results require taking off the cap, I'll take it off."
They drove to the favela. Egrer wasn't sure if the Chicks' hangout spot hadn't changed over the years. He could only hope that no other gang had claimed their den. In the worst-case scenario, he could ask Junior, but getting involved with him unnecessarily was asking for trouble. And if he finds out that this info is for the cops...
After a long drive along crowded roads, they emerged at a massive wall. There were no hordes of terrible Grimm hiding behind it, not even wild nature. During the monarchy, this wall protected humans from Faunus, where they lived, worked, died, and most importantly - attracted Grimm. The terrible practicality of the Vale favela is that it "sticks out" from the main city, attracting Grimm with its negative emotions. Why spend a ton of Lien and provide defense for the entire wall when you can settle enslaved and miserable Faunus in one specific place and stack guns there? And even if the Grimm break through, there is a second line of defense here, equipped with no fewer guns. Although not all of them were created against the Grimm...
After the Color Revolution and the Faunus Rights War, such a practice began to be considered immoral. However, no one tore down the wall separating Faunus from humans. And it still acts as bait for Grimm in one spot. Current rulers collectively condemn the past ones, but are in no hurry to fix their mistakes. On the one hand, it's practical; on the other - the favela will continue to live in poverty and misery forever; it's simply profitable. The only thing that changed for this district after the revolution is that the gates are open 24/7; nobody keeps the Faunus locked up. As if that changed anything in their lives.
Mr. Poirot drove along the wide road practically alone. A couple of trucks entered the favela, one old sedan exited. Despite the open gates, no one can leave the favela just like that. The chains changed their form from iron shackles to a bank account, and none of the Faunus living here will ever be able to afford to live and work in a normal district of Vale.
It got dark in the car for a couple of seconds as they passed through the wall. The asphalt in the favela was riddled with potholes and cracks; the road felt like a roller coaster. The lieutenant slowed down; otherwise, the car would simply fall apart from such shaking. Children were running and playing around the potholes. Mr. Poirot honked a couple of times, and they scattered to the sides.
"It's so depressing here," Magenta said sadly. Apparently, the local atmosphere could plunge even such a cheerful person into despondency. "Gray houses, gray asphalt, gray bare trees."
"It's depressing everywhere," Illmond noted indifferently, preferring to hide from reality in his Scroll.
"No, well, this is super-depression! Mega-super-depression!"
"You just haven't been to a Mistralian favela," Egrer mumbled, looking at the clouds. "Not everyone there even got to see the sky... Left here. We'll leave the car here, and it's better to go on foot from now on. It'll be easier to catch them off guard that way."
Mr. Poirot silently turned into an alley, as he understood all this perfectly well without his hints. The car stopped, the engine died.
"Finally!" Yort rejoiced, practically kicking the door open. Since the alley was tightly squeezed on both sides by tall, identical buildings, the door's edge scraped the wall, making a loud screech. It didn't bother Yort in the slightest. "My fists are itching to clobber somebody."
"Woo-hoo!" Magenta exclaimed, repeating after Yort right down to scratching the door. "Well villains, just you wait! I'll catch you all."
Egrer facepalmed. With such a team, you couldn't hope for any stealth. Even if they were going against a gang of deaf-blind junkies, they would have noticed them on approach.
Their group kept to the shadows, but even so, they attracted a lot of attention. Amidst the general desolation, the bright appearance of future Hunters contrasted too strongly with the torn hoodies and dirty, calloused hands of the local inhabitants. Small gatherings of Faunus in varying degrees of shabbiness clustered in corners and gateways. Some were drinking beer, celebrating a successful job; some were sleeping in makeshift houses made of slate and cardboard; a couple of more-or-less decently dressed office clerks huddled against the walls.
However, the one responsible for the intense attention of not-the-most-reputable individuals was exactly Illmond. Yes, he was gray and inconspicuous, but the way he walked, looked, and held his hunched posture betrayed a victim. A prime victim who, in street terms, could be stopped and shaken down for cash.
Egrer easily recognized these streets; nothing had changed here over the years. And what could have changed here? So they reached the right place without unnecessary adventures. An ordinary gray high-rise, in the basement of which a small but resilient gang of juvenile thugs had made their lair. No one touched them, as they were essentially a branch of the White Fang. No one did business with the Chicks either; in the gang hierarchy, they universally belonged to the untouchable caste.
Egrer squatted near an overflowing dumpster, where there used to be a hole. However, the entrance to the basement was bricked up solid.
"Grimm. Did they move?" Egrer started thinking hard. "Or did they get kicked out?"
"Neither," Mr. Poirot said confidently. Without any squeamishness, he shoved his hand into the dumpster (Egrer almost had a heart attack from disgust) and pulled out a red jacket with a torn sleeve. "Their gang is definitely here. Aside from this, there's fresh food waste here."
"Step aside." Yort shoved the lieutenant and Egrer away, then wound up his fist with the knuckleduster.
"Yort, no!" A deafening punch, and the concrete-filled entrance became open once again. When the dust settled and the ringing in their ears stopped, it turned out that the hole had become even larger than in Egrer's memories. "I thought we planned to attack them secretly!"
"Forward!" their brave leader commanded, charging down with her flamethrower at the ready. "Face to the floor, hands behind your heads! You are all under arrest under articles three hundred and three, three hundred and five, and four hundred and twenty-eight of Vale legislation! You have the right to remain silent~"
Over time, her voice faded and became barely audible, and the gunshots that rang out made the task of hearing her warlike cries even harder. Soon, the sound of a launched fiery stream was heard, and a bright brownish light of burning Earth Dust came up from the hole in the basement.
"Madge, motherfucker!" Egrer barked. "Everyone follow me!"
"I'm staying here," Illmond said indifferently, looking into his Scroll. "The extranet signal down there will probably suck."
Egrer silently snatched the Scroll from his hands and threw it down the hole. The hissing-with-anger wannabe-artist immediately leaped down first, followed by the rest. A distinct smell of dirt, dust, and sweat hit the nose right away. Brick walls were burning and being covered with layers of stone, the speckled concrete floor was burning and being covered with layers of stone, everything was burning and being covered with layers of stone.
There were still thugs in the basement, and they locked eyes with the forces of law and order. Spark, storm, madness. A spark from the flamethrower's nozzle, a storm from Yort's knuckledusters, madness that began after that.
Realizing that these weren't just regular gangsters coming for their souls, the thugs honestly tried to surrender, some even lying on the floor. But a volley from the flamethrower and a bloodthirsty howl from Yort, starved for a brawl, severely undermined their confidence that the attackers were taking prisoners. As a result, a crowd of Faunus dressed in red jackets jumped out the other side of the building and scattered in different directions. The burning environment prevented catching them; Egrer himself almost caught fire when a large flaming rock fell from the ceiling. He sighed heavily.
"Yort."
Yort immediately swung his knuckledusters a few times, and the streams of wind erupting from his hands extinguished the abnormal fire. When the fiery crackling and hum ceased, and the screams of the panicking thugs faded, silence fell. Now the basement of the juvenile delinquent gang was illuminated by only one surviving incandescent bulb. No one uttered a word, and the awkward silence had to be broken by the lieutenant's calm voice:
"Impressive work." From his tone, you couldn't tell if it was sarcasm or not, so emotionless was Mr. Poirot.
"I caught one!" Magenta proudly shouted. Judging by her satisfied voice, she didn't realize that if they had attacked stealthily, they wouldn't have been limited to just one. "I caught a criminal!"
Egrer turned his displeased gaze towards her. In that part of the basement, separated by a makeshift partition, there was a bike parking lot. Twelve pieces, all red, but completely different brands. They were half buried in solid stone, and on one of them sat a tailed Faunus, whose right side and both arms had grown into the wall. Or rather, the wall had grown into him.
Apparently, he wanted to escape on his moped, but didn't calculate that there was nowhere to gain speed here.
"THE FUCK IS THIS?!" The criminal woke up from careful pats on his shoulder. A fresh bump glowed red on his forehead, whether Magenta hit him with the flamethrower or his head jerked from Yort's wind blows. Fully realizing his dire situation, the felon turned on his natural defense mechanism. "Random skank, you tripping or what?! Lost your fucking mind? You even know who our roof is, bitches?! You're dead, eat shit, suckers~"
"Hey now!" Magenta gave the chatty guy a slap on the back of the head. "Watch your mouth! What would your mom think if she knew you talk this dirty?!"
"The fuck you yapping about, slu~"
Then Yort hit him. Not with an open palm and not on the back of the head, but with a fist and right in the nose.
"Hit the brakes, don't flap your gums! You lost your damn mind? You were told to watch your mouth, you piece of trash, I'll end you right now."
"Yort, you can't do that! Don't stoop to his level."
"I'm schooling the homies," the Vacuan mobster answered importantly. "Ain't cool to back down, hide your fear."
This profound expression of thought in a thieves' jargon inaccessible to her made Magenta frantically try to figure out how much profanity was in it and for how many years to take away Yort's TV remote. Seeing her confusion, Egrer decided to translate it into normal language:
"He said you gotta stand up for your people, and take responsibility for ugly words."
The lieutenant sighed. His unshakable calm would be envied by the most ardent hermit monks, and perhaps even Ren.
"Step aside, I'll interrogate him." He crouched in front of the criminal, and the latter grinned maliciously, puffing out his tail dirty with stone crumbs. "As you've realized, your situation is screwed. Answer a few questions and you'll get off easy. Speak, what ties does your gang have with the White Fang."
Standing slightly apart, Egrer nodded to his own thoughts. He suspected that the lieutenant hadn't decided on this venture for no reason, risking his job. Begging for a bonus? Wants his transgression forgiven? Something personal?
"I'll crush your snout right now, hear me. And anyway, what's the deal? I ain't no punk ass bitch or a fag, swear on my life! I'll break you in half! To show a trump card is to be a bitch!"
Mr. Poirot turned to Egrer with a silent request.
"He said, mind your own business. And generally, what are you talking about? I'm not a traitor. You won't achieve anything. I won't rat out the bosses." The lieutenant was about to ask his question again, but Egrer intervened. "Sir, with guys like him, you gotta speak their language. And it'll be a bit tough for people of... your profession to break him on the spot, rather than in a detention center. I'll handle this now. Madge, you stay out of it too, tolerate the rotten bazaar... I mean, the dirty language for a few minutes."
"Just no violence!"
Egrer couldn't promise that, not because he was bloodthirsty, but because violence is an integral part of thieves' jargon and the culture as a whole. Bumping shoulders, puffing out your chest, raising a fist—gestures often conceal no less information than words. Egrer cleared his throat; he hadn't spoken in slang for quite a while.
"You're chillin' with rotten snakes. Standing up for your joint ain't about WF guys. They won't come to back your weak talk, they ain't real men. Taking the fall for them is a loser's game."
"Are you calling me a loser? Shitty wolves, fucking bitches!"
"Watch your mouth!" Egrer barked, shoving his fist under the guy's nose for effect. Magenta tensed up but didn't intervene. "You're a fucking loser, and wolves are real men. Or is that not a wolf's head on the WF flag? Are you talking trash about your own elite?"
The restless thug tried to spit at Egrer, but his saliva comically hung on his chin.
"Get outta here, hit the bunks, blast off! Don't flex on me, I'll shove so much shit up your asses!"
"Before we shove some up yours," Yort chuckled, and the criminal's tail bristled in indignation.
"Fuck off, man!"
"Fuck off yourself," Egrer deftly countered.
Subjected to sharp and satirical responses to all his attempts to defend his thief's honor, the criminal increasingly lost his arrogance and increasingly understood his sad situation. He couldn't back up his talk with talk, as they say. However, he still had no intention of cracking, answering all questions with insults, empty posturing, and inadequate bravado.
When Yort, angered that "some scrub is running his mouth at them so openly," decided to resort to more accessible methods (known in some circles as "Making a mess" or "Giving a thrashing"), Magenta intervened.
"I said no violence! Evil breeds evil, try being nice to him."
"Useless," Yort said, scratching the back of his head with the fist raised for a strike. "You can't talk normally with these guys, just look at him."
As if to confirm his words, the thug spat in their direction and started his usual spiel again, saying it's time to "hit the oars" or else he'll "shank the suckers dead." It wasn't hard to guess the meaning of the messages even for Magenta, who was ignorant of thieves' jargon. However, she was unshakable.
"And I'm saying you can't do that! If you are kind to people, they will be kind to you~"
"What'd you yap?!" The thug wound up. "Watch your mouth, I'm a Faunus, dammit! Don't dip me in the toilet, don't mix me with that dirt. Faunus are the master race, swear on my life!"
"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to offend you!" Magenta apologized, after which she completely calmly slapped him on the back of the head, demanding he not swear.
Illmond looked thoughtfully at this picture. Almost too thoughtfully. He mumbled something about underestimating the "stuck in a wall" tag and that if you swapped the main character of this mess with a heroine, it would make a decent piece. He took a couple of shots from different angles and enthusiastically began drawing something.
Suddenly the radio hissed.
"Poirot, report." The lieutenant sighed irritably and stepped away so the fuss with the captured thug wouldn't interfere.
"Patrolling Silverhander Street with the interns, everything's quiet." During this lie, not even a muscle twitched on Mr. Poirot.
He stepped even further away, while Egrer continued to crack this wannabe-con. But all his attempts failed, and Magenta wouldn't let him switch to more effective and "understandable" methods for his mindset. In the end, the cursing thug was left half-stuck in the wall to confer and decide what to do next.
"I don't really give a shit," the exiled Vacuan prince admitted. "And helping cops - no self-respect. Let him crack him, if he needs it. Why'd you even get involved, Eg?"
"What if he knows something important about Torchwick?" Egrer whispered. His words didn't sound as firm as he himself wanted. Rather, they sounded like an attempt to justify himself. "And don't think badly of our lieutenant. He might be a cop, but he's somehow at odds with the rest. He didn't really hide his attitude, and he's investigating some case of his own with the White Fang. Maybe he'll tell me something important..."
"Ew, fuck," Yort recoiled from him as if from a rat. "You decided to sing with the trash? You'll become a bitch."
"Don't press it, I feel sick enough as is. And where else can I go?"
Egrer waited until Mr. Poirot finished his conversation on the radio. During this time, he listened to a lot of unflattering descriptions of himself from Yort, until the Vacuan gangster got bored and wandered off to roam the basement. But honestly, he was much more concerned about the lieutenant's icy gaze. Egrer felt his body intuitively curl into a ball, as if he were standing trial, knowing there would be no justification for him.
"Mister, may I ask? Do you have... um, some score to settle with the White Fang?"
The lawman's icy gaze became indecently icy. As if someone turned the black-and-white filter to the max, causing Egrer to feel like the protagonist of a trashy detective novel. And one where he definitely didn't play the main role, and whose job was to die colorfully to add more red to the screen.
"First, you answer me," he said after some time. "Are you somehow connected to the White Fang?"
"In no way!" Egrer immediately waved his hands and, to his own detriment, decided to continue. "And they only take Faunus, and I don't have horns or hooves!"
He said this and gave a forced laugh, as if it were the funniest joke of the day.
"I had a Faunus partner with animal vocal cords," he said with either a barely noticeable hint of nostalgia or boredom. "A rare heritage; that characteristic hoarseness is easily memorable."
"Well yes, I am a Faunus, but believe me, I have no connection to the White Fang whatsoever," Egrer gave up, realizing this confession wouldn't bring him anything terrible. After which he asked with hidden hope: "And... did your partner by any chance ever visit Mistral?"
"Not that I know of."
"Can I get his number?" The question itself seemed a bit ridiculous even to him, but he overcame that feeling. What if... just what if?
"He was shot eight years ago," the lieutenant said in the exact same tone used to read obituaries. He lowered his eyes for a second, as if under his eyelids he had a list of all his dead colleagues, and this one was number ten with a few notes.
"Maybe you have contact info for his relatives?" A last attempt.
"What is this, an interrogation?" The lieutenant frowned, but realizing something for himself, deigned to answer. "He was always alone, as far as I know."
"I see." After so many years of searching, Egrer hadn't really hoped for anything, but he couldn't not ask. Because what if... "So what about the White Fang?"
"I was investigating a robbery case, but I got transferred." Egrer let out a surprised "Oh," understanding what he was getting at. Maybe that was exactly when the lieutenant stopped respecting his own profession.
"Yes, all the cops in Vale are bought. No offense, Mr. Poirot." The latter didn't argue with the obvious truth. "It just so happens that I myself am interested in these events and know a thing or two... quid pro quo?"
Egrer tilted his head slightly, as if offering a deal to an old man at the market, although he understood that the old man might have a shotgun under the counter. There was a feeling that bargaining was inappropriate, but Poirot saw nothing shameful in it. Perhaps because he was tired of relying solely on "official sources." The lieutenant accepted his offer silently, without enthusiasm, but without disgust either. Which was already flattering.
However, the conversation quickly fizzled out, as they couldn't tell each other anything new. Egrer, though he didn't show it, was surprised. Very. He expected a lot from Poirot, but certainly not that he would be aware of things that seemingly only he and Prosperity knew about.
Egrer felt uneasy. He perceived everything happening as something personal, involving only him and his friends. And now... he felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. Egrer began to perceive all this not as his personal drama, but as part of a much larger game. Where he isn't the hero, but a supporting actor. Maybe even an extra.
The conversation was interrupted by a loud cry. The captive suddenly started bawling like a little girl, drawing the attention of everyone, even Illmond, who was busy drawing obscenities. Sobs and the incoherent speech of the bandit, who was being... hugged by Magenta, were heard. Egrer was just about to shout, "Ew, don't touch the gross thing," when she shot him a look so stern that the words got stuck in his throat.
"...And then," the thug wailed, "then that asshole fired my old man! And he was smart as hell, graduated from an institute, was a master's or something. But when the layoffs started, his bosses kicked him out first, even though he worked his ass off there, damn it, to death, just so he could send me cash for the institute. Hustled back and forth till night, and they didn't share tea with him, or even say thank you! Booted a good man for no reason!"
Mr. Poirot was about to say something, but Egrer stopped him.
"Don't," he whispered, realizing what was happening here. Namely - a psychotherapy session authored by Magenta Toti. "When it comes to personal problems, Magenta is a master at calming people down. She heals souls better than Yort breaks jaws. Give her time and this guy will tell you everything himself."
"Haven't you thought about quitting all this?" Magenta asked gently, stroking the miserable guy's head. "Do you want to return to a law-abiding life, Rufus?"
A name. She knew his name. Egrer and Yort hadn't even been able to beat his street name out of him, and he told her his real name! The lieutenant also stood rooted to the spot. He, a man capable of extracting a confession from the most stubborn criminal, now felt like an amateur. He, who had a list of thirty-two interrogation methods in his head, watched as an eleven-year-old girl (well okay, not eleven, but she felt like it to him) hugged a repeat offender and turned him into a full-fledged member of society.
"I've messed up so bad, I'm already a complete loser!" the bandit wailed with renewed vigor. "Complete! Only a shiv will fix a loser..."
"Failure is just a reason to start all over again." Magenta took the bandit by the shoulders and pushed him slightly away to look into his red, tear-filled eyes. "It's never too late to start life with a clean slate! Never, you hear me? Tell me, what do you like doing? You dream of something, don't you?"
"I'm, like, crazy about the stars. When I was young, I dreamed I'd become an astrophysicist and stare through a telescope from dawn till dusk. But life ain't fair, it's got shitty deals, scams, bitch, threw me away! First put my mom under the bunk, then my dad, now it's after me! Same shit no matter how you look at it, shoves a shiv right in your ear. Some punk'll just cap me at a meet-up and that's it..."
"Hey, don't chicken out! Have a little faith in yourself and fight! Sometimes life is like a dark tunnel. You can't always see the light at the end, but if you just keep moving, you will definitely come out to it. Good times become good memories, and bad ones become good lessons."
The captive, who a second ago seemed like a dangerous rat with a knife hidden away, sobbed loudly, poured tears, muttered something about institutes and telescopes. And Magenta didn't just listen to him, she heard him and actively participated in the discussion. Egrer had always envied this superpower of hers, but in a good way.
"Do you really think I can make it as a top-tier astrophysicist? Like, to the real elite?"
"Of course! It's the kind of job where the most important thing is wanting to do it. You want to, which means you'll succeed! But just wanting isn't enough, you have to try! You have to try, attempt, if it doesn't work, try a new approach and so on until it works! Because failures are just an opportunity to start over."
"Useless," Illmond intervened. He listened to this inspiring speech with a wrinkled face, as if it were the buzzing of an annoying mosquito. "Life is stronger. It is always stronger."
"Why the sour face?" Yort rolled his eyes.
"Let's leave the philosophy," Mr. Poirot stepped forward. "But the girl is right about one thing - it's time for you to end the criminal life. The first step could be a frank conversation with the forces of the law, and these forces of the law will give you a second chance and won't lock you behind bars."
"Yeah," Yort said calmly. Gang squabbles always awoke a simple joy in him - like a good TV show, but with meat. "Don't load him with bullshit, let's lay it all out clearly without the fuss and unnecessary jitters. So no bullshit, got it?"
"Yes, yes!" Magenta nodded happily. "Sometimes the best way to solve your own problems is to help someone else."
"What do you need to know, boss?" whether under the pressure of emotions or sincerely repenting for all his deeds, the bandit cooperated.
The interrogation was brief; he spilled everything like he was at confession, but didn't know much. His gang and he himself were just errand boys - mostly acting as loaders, messengers, and so on. But anyone he knew about, he gave up without a shadow of a doubt or the slightest pang of conscience, at which Yort shook his head ruefully. Their acquaintance might not have gotten off to a good start, but earlier this bandit at least honored the code, and now he breaks it so brazenly.
"And I'll tell you guys a secret... and ladies," he even started talking almost normally, "The WF guys are being protected by Junkie, swear on my life!"
"Junkie?" everyone said simultaneously.
"Well, Torchwick, damn it. Junkie, Toilet-wick, Sissy-wick, Dead-end, Dumb-ass..." Egrer couldn't have imagined that such insulting nicknames were used behind Roman's back. Many disliked him, sure, but to this extent? "...Ginger prick, Dyed mop, Homo-gay, Roman-cane-up-the-ass~"
These bandits apparently belong to the poetry league; not even schoolchildren on recess come up with nicknames like these. Yort laughed so hard he started coughing, and even Egrer couldn't suppress a smile. Torchwick has quite an interesting fan club.
"We get it," the lieutenant interrupted him. "But only the deaf don't know that he's involved in business with the Fang."
"No, you don't get it, man. He protects them. PRO-TECTS. They obediently walk under him! He's not just 'involved in their business,' he's practically the boss there. - Neither the Lieutenant nor Egrer looked surprised, which surprised the bandit instead. - And half the Vale cops feed off his hand. Figure it out yourself why they haven't caught them yet."
"You're not bullshitting?" Egrer asked, leaning against the nearest wall.
"Swear to god, I was rolling in this meat grinder myself!" the lawbreaker swore solemnly. Then he suddenly hiccuped and looked guiltily at Magenta, who had been boring him with a gaze that would make even a stone blush from shame all this time. "I mean: I promise I'm not lying, I was there myself. Don't be mad, miss, it's just that if you speak slang to me - I speak slang, it's a conditioned reflex..."
"I'm more surprised," Yort began, "that you can speak normally. And you know words like you read books, not steal purses from grandmas."
"I wasn't born in the pen, y'know," the captive snorted. He started feeling somehow too relaxed with them. "My folks were solid, so I'm a polyglot, fuck it."
Magenta immediately gave the inmate a sharp, but not malicious, slap on the back of the head.
"If you can't watch your language yourself, I will!"
"Well, anyway, that's all I know," he mumbled, a bit quieter now. "I'm tying the knot... I mean, I'm quitting crime. Now I'm a thief in law... I mean, an honest citizen! Yes. Honest."
He tried to raise his hands, which were still encased in stone, as if surrendering not to the police, but to life itself. But in this clumsy gesture, there was more sincerity than in all his previous chatter.
"Keep it up!" Magenta gave him a thumbs up.
"Madge, do you really believe him?" Illmond asked skeptically.
"I only don't believe three things: a lie, fibbing, and untruth." After thinking about this phrase slightly, it caused a moment of confusion.
"Are... aren't those all the same thing?" Egrer finally managed to say.
"No," their butterfly answered with a slight smile, "a lie is when you want to deceive. Fibbing is when you lie without even thinking. And untruth is when you believe it yourself."
Here, silence descended for a long time. Because it sounded very smart, philosophical, and, frankly, quite poetic.
But then Egrer abruptly turned his head and peered into the brick wall. He didn't understand where he was looking or why, but he distinctly knew that something beyond the favela and outside the walls of Vale had drawn his attention. He was drawn to a sound that could not be heard with ears, a flash that could not be noticed with eyes. He saw nothing and heard nothing, but was looking at something and listening to something. Goosebumps of fear covered his skin, and cold sweat broke out on his back.
He didn't know what he was looking for, but his gaze seemed to tear itself beyond the basement, the favela, Vale, beyond tangible reality. It was a feeling too strong to ignore. A silent but distinct cry rang out. And in this soundless scream, he recognized her.
Weiss.
Egrer realized that this was the effect of his Semblance. Weiss's emotions were so strong, her soul screamed so loudly that the sound reached him. For the first time, he felt her without trying to establish a connection purposefully. Or maybe she established the connection, instinctively reaching out to him in distress.
Under the surprised gazes of those around him, Egrer ran out of the basement into the street where there was a signal, took out his Scroll, and called her. There was no answer.
"Eg, what's wrong?" an agitated Magenta ran out to him.
"Weiss is in trouble," he blurted out, panicking about what to do. No one from her team picked up the phone.
His own fear thickened, became heavy, viscous. It made it hard to breathe, made his heart pound so fiercely it felt like it would shatter his ribcage from the inside. The Lake of Weiss was storming wildly. Like never before. But Egrer was already familiar with this specific shade of fear.
The White Fang.
Egrer had no doubt, only they could cause such all-consuming terror in Weiss. Only they could scare her so much. To the point of trembling fingers, to icy goosebumps. A terror that from early childhood until now casts a long shadow on every decision she makes. Could it be... has her turn come?
"What makes you think that?" Illmond asked at such an inopportune moment.
"Shut up!" Egrer spat out unrestrainedly and sharply. Magenta stopped the others from questioning him.
Egrer belatedly remembered that the connection of his Semblance is two-way. If he is afraid, she will be more afraid. Their fears resonated, multiplied, this growing snowball threatened to cover them both. Egrer didn't know if you could die of fear because of his Semblance, but if this cycle wasn't broken, it definitely wouldn't lead to any good.
Egrer had to become an anchor, become a rock in this storm, otherwise they would both drown. He didn't know what was happening to her, whether she was alone or with her team, armed or not, how many enemies there were, and how she even ended up in such a situation. It only made it scarier, but he crushed these worries within himself with all his might, otherwise he would only make it worse.
Pleasant memories came from memory reluctantly, with strain. A simple evening, light laughter, the day they went to Mr. Adel for his new jacket, their first non-date. He pushed these memories outward, piercing through the clouds like a sunbeam. Not immediately, but an effect appeared.
She felt that she was not alone. Realized that someone was supporting her from a distance. And that someone was him. Egrer felt how somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, the Lake of her soul is still storming, but for a different reason - because of immense rage. Realizing that he was succeeding, his own fear began to evaporate. Only a wet back and trembling legs betrayed the stress he experienced. He continued to support her, losing track of time. No one bothered him.
Siren.
The silence was shattered by the wail of a siren. A drawn-out, rising and sharp sound made the whole city stop. A sound like from a scary, forgotten fairy tale. Not only Egrer froze in his tracks; it seemed the whole world surprisingly froze at that moment. Everyone who had ever attended school knew this signal. It was turned on during drills, in classes, during briefings. A unified sign for all four kingdoms, which had never played behind these impregnable walls before.
Grimm in the city.
But that's not what worried Egrer.
The connection with Weiss was gone.
[1] in jail