War is the realm of uncertainty; three quarters of the factors on which action in war is based are wrapped in a fog of greater or lesser uncertainty. A sensitive and discriminating judgment is called for; a skilled intelligence to scent out the truth.

Chapter Text

"I will say one thing about you Adels… you do hedonistic luxury like no one else."

Chalk chose to take that as a compliment Winter certainly had not intended it to be, humming contentedly to herself as she picked out the pieces of her ensemble for the evening. This was, after all, supposed to be her evening. Well, kind of. The Feast of Youloumain was the traditional celebration of Huntsmen and Huntresses, even if nowadays it was mostly an excuse to get sloshed in formal attire.

As Huntresses-in-training, both she and Winter were technically 'guests of honor' at the gala being thrown by one of the Old Money clans of Atlas. This year the Feast's date happened to overlap with a three-week break in the school year (a tradition dating back to when it had taken a week to get anywhere in Atlas), which meant that Winter could actually attend without feeling guilty for her grade-point average.

(Chalk, of course, would have attended, quite guilt-free, irregardless.)

Winter strolled out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam behind her, wearing the same ADEL PLAZA HOTEL-emblazoned bathrobe as Chalk had on. When Chalk had learned that she and Winter would be in the same city for the same gala, she all-but-insisted her roommate enjoy a complimentary stay at a five-star hotel that just happened to be eponymous. And while Winter Schnee was certainly no stranger to luxury, it turned out that literally owning a hotel entitled you to perks she had never known existed. Complimentary kimono bathrobes were just the tip of a very large iceberg...

"Not to use your own, heartless tricks against you, my precious Winter, but that was thirty-two minutes in the bathroom. Someone less understanding than myself might say you're going soft."

Winter rolled her eyes. The Chambre de Rois of the hotel was really more a decently-sized apartment than any room mere mortals might stay at, with enough beds to shelter a dozen-odd guests, depending on how familiar they were. Four bedrooms, three full-service bathrooms, two smaller bathrooms, and a kitchen that any chef in Remnant would find more than serviceable. Yet - somehow - the two roommates had managed to put all their toiletries around the same sink.

"It's been awhile since I had to actually style my hair," Winter said by way of explanation, tilting her head slightly to better display the fruits of her labors. Like any woman of High Society she was no stranger to elaborate arrangements, but Winter had had to decline Chalk's invitation to a salon. She'd never had much patience for anything too complicated to manage alone, to her mother's continual disappointment. And her hairstyle at the Academy was usually no more than a strident bun or a tight ponytail.

"Very fetching, dear," Chalk drawled. "It really is criminal how you keep it tied up all the time."

Winter a scowled a scowl Chalk had long since learned to ignore. "When you feel like growing your hair out another foot or two, Chalk, then you can lecture me on it." Still, Winter took a measure of pleasure in noting that she hadn't lost any of her artistry (if an Adel's word could be trusted).

Chalk grinned, playing with the tips of her spiky bangs as she did. She kept her hair sheared short, quite the no-no by the present whims of fashion, but Chalk hadn't been exiled to the Academy for caring unduly about what others thought was proper. "When your weapon has as many moving parts as mine does, well… I've learned to minimize the hazards to myself."

"Is this my cue to make a joke about the dangers of being seen with a Schnee?" Winter asked, as she stripped out of her bathrobe and tossed it over a chair. The gymnasium of Atlas Academy had communal showers, and after the first fortnight they'd all stopped going through the motions of scrupulous modesty.

"Winter, my aurora, nobody would ever expect you to make a joke," teased Chalk, not glancing up from her nail file. "Certainly not a self-deprecating one."

"Trollop."

"Ice Queen."

Their witty banter subsided as the two women resumed preparing for the ball. Chalk barricaded herself in the bathroom to apply her makeup in peace and quiet, leaving Winter to dress herself in private.

It was strange, walking back into her bedroom, at the scene she had unwittingly set for herself. On one side of the bed was her Atlas Academy uniform, a military officer’s in all but the minor details. She’d worn it on the trip over, Winter and Chalk having darted to the aerodrome directly after their final exam in order to catch the last airship of the day. (Chalk had explained that her request to borrow the family jet had been none-too-gently declined). The uniform was neatly folded, still crisp-edged from a recent ironing. Beside that was a dark-blue gown that cost more than a year's tuition, patterned with the stylized snowflakes that were the trademark of the SDC. She'd instructed her father's staff to send a gown to the hotel, having brought nothing of the requisite fashion with her to the Academy. Someone had apparently decided to interpret her request in a manner that her father would very much approve of…

Winter snorted a little to herself, dismissing the monochromatic dilemma she was trying to simply her situation into. Be a generic soldier for Atlas or glamorous doll for her father and his company. Of course it wasn't that simple. Life happened on that gradient of grays that Winter very much wished didn't exist some times. Becoming a soldier did not mean sacrificing her identity, nor did working for the Company mandate a pointless existence.

What would the synthesis of those identities, of those ideas be? Winter barely dared to wonder…

…She snapped herself back into the present. It was strange putting the dress on. The fabrics of her school uniform had not been selected for softness, and she'd grown used to the weight of the jacket and the warmth of the leggings. The dress was everything that those clothes weren't - silken to her skin, material so light it felt closer to a veil then proper coverings. Even as she'd slid into the elbow-length gloves that went with the dress it still felt like was she exposing an indelicate amount of flesh.

Chalk let out a wolf-whistle as Winter re-entered their common room, eliciting a pair of rolled eyes and a disappointed expression. Chalk grinned regardless. “Too juvenile a compliment for a divine Schnee?” she teased. “If the radiance of a thousand suns // Were to burst at once into the sky // That would be like the splendour of the Mighty One… Elegiac enough for my shimmering snowflake?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Chalk,” Winter chided, consciously declining to complete the quote. Chalk’s expression clearly begged to differ. “Come on, we’re almost fashionably late as it is.” The idea of being late at all was something most Schnees found difficult on an apparently genetic level. “What was that pithy phrase you used to describe these rendezvous?”

“Lowlifes in high places?” Chalk offered, uncertainty. She said a lot of things about High Society shindigs, varying pretty wildly with where her mood at that exact minute was.

Winter shrugged, clearly uncertain herself. “That’ll do. And don’t you dare abandon me out there…”

There were a lot of upsides to occupying two of the five seats of the Atlas Governing Council, James Ironwood knew. He usually had enough clout to act as deal-maker or deal-breaker on any particularly divisive policy issue. He had access to the best information the fabled Atlas intelligence community could produce. He’d never have to worry about his pension. He was entitled (through some truly archaic tradition) to four healthy calves and twelve fertile chickens each year, though he’d never actually collected on that one.

The downside was that those seats made him an absolute magnet for hangers-on.

This wasn't supposed to have been a business occasion. Back in the Good Old Days, the Kings had actually proclaimed the red letter Feast Days to be holidays, with no markets to be opened nor goods to be traded, and for no labor to be done unless it was vital to the defense of the realm. Any number of exceptions to the 'mandatory' holiday had been carved out over the years, until merely a ghost of the public jubilations remained, but such was the tireless march of progress.

And so he endured - that was really the only verb to apply - drifting from one favor-seeking conversation to the next. The fact that his influence in Atlas was so wide only provided more surface area for his innumerous 'friends' to cling on to. Everyone wanted 'just two minutes' to discuss an airship procurement contract, or a discounted rate on Huntsmen services, or getting their spoiled brats into the most prestigious school on the continent...

"General Ironwood, what a pleasure to run into you here," greeted Jacques, with a mirth that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Ironwood managed one last sip from his whiskey glass. "Please: it's James," Ironwood stated.

"Alright, James," replied Jacques, with a readiness that suggested he wasn't exactly struggling to adjust to the informality. "May I borrow your ear for a few minutes?"

Ironwood made a small bow of deference with his head, allowing Jacques to part the crowd and make an exit for the two of them. Truthfully, Ironwood didn't mind Jacques' company all that much, if only because the CEO of the Schnee Dust Company was one of the few men who could discuss affairs of true importance on his level. Jacques didn't tend to get bogged down in the minutia of gossip, nor was he so needy as to beg a petty favor from the General…

"So, James, how is my darling Winter adjusting to Atlas Academy?" With one noteworthy exception. "Or perhaps I should ask…" he tugged at his moustache to mask a smile, "how is Atlas Academy adjusting her?"

A silence followed, long enough to slip into discomforting, as Ironwood considered the question. Or, perhaps more honestly, considered its context. He was under no delusions that Jacques Schnee was a nice man. Ironwood thought that Jacques was pleasant enough company, when he deigned to be amicable, and not a tyrannical despot or a genocidal slaver like the White Fang's propagandists made him out as. But one did not maintain a near-total monopoly on Remnant's most valuable commodity by being nice. Ironwood knew that much the same could be said about himself, and was thus slower to judge than many of his colleagues, but still…

…there was something wholly disquieting about that little smile.

"Winter is settling in well," Ironwood finally began, keeping his voice calmly neutral. "I'd have to confirm, but I believe she's at the top of almost every class she's in." (He did not need to check).

Ironwood stopped speaking, taking another sip of whiskey, and eyeing the distorted visage of Jacques Schnee through the glass. He'd told Jacques exactly what he would have said to any other parent, which should’ve left them positively aglow. Would Jacques leave it at that? Let his probing question slide? Could Jacques leave it at that?

"You made her a Team Leader," Jacques stated, his tone a jagged icicle.

"I can scarcely say I had a choice," replied Ironwood. "If you reviewed her performance during the Initiation trials, you'd have seen that-"

"-You're the Headmaster, dammit, James! Make up whatever excuse you like." Ironwood was distantly thankful that Jacques had had the forethought to pull them out of earshot for this conversation. Jacques wasn’t usually so thoughtful once properly enraged.

Ironwood's fingers curled around the glass. "I'm afraid it's a little late for that now," he replied, flatly.

Jacques scoffed at that. "Don't hide behind institutional norms, James. You're the commanding officer of that Academy, and you can demote her."

"I can," Ironwood agreed, taking a deep breath. "But I won't. She's a fine team leader."

Winter herself would have disagreed with that assessment, but then she was still used to the fairy tale stories of ‘leadership’ of the type Beacon propagated, whereas Ironwood was judging her as an officer in an army. Winter was a ‘fine’ team leader in that she was competent enough, and that none of her subordinates would have any real cause to complain (or mutiny). She drilled them, communicated with them, helped them to train and to study. For Atlas Academy, that was enough.

"The point was not to make Winter into a fine team leader," Jacques spat back, his words a mocking sneer. "The point was to teach her some self-control and respect for authority. Hurry her through this adolescent temper tantrum she's been throwing all these years. To make her a proper subordinate like every other soldier in your toy army!"

"That is not the way my Academy is run, Jacques," stated Ironwood, putting some real steel in his tone. "I will do my best to instill in Winter a degree of self-discipline, good judgment, and a sense of duty. That is what I do with all my students. After many years of doing this job, I have learned that how they choose to apply those lessons is ultimately beyond my control." He paused, letting the world darken just a little. "Or yours."

Jacques looked at James as if the General had just pissed on his shoes. "Fine, James, tell yourself your noble little fairy tail. And let me know when you remember who your allies in this world are."