[B]Teàrlag Cirsium, "Student Counselor" - Her Office[/B]

Family Day. As its name suggests, it's a day for family. To be more precise, it's a day for students to avoid all the nasty bizzo of schoolwork and responsibilities so that they can hang out with their folks and pretend that they aren't being trained up so they can be throw into the endless meat-grinder that is fighting all those monsters waiting outside our walls. And us teachers, the ones responsible for turning them into "defenders of humanity", don't get jack on this daft little day. Preparing all the events, handling the logistics ... that stuff's all on us poor buggers. I'm real bloody loused by it all, but at least I'm only the only Cirsium here today.

Hah, I'm not so opposed to the other gels popping over for a visit, but having them around would just be more of a drag. If I'm to be a cog in an unforgiving machine working singlemindedly for purpose of cheering up the brats here at Beacon, then I'd prefer it if I could do it with a minimum of effort. Not that I have a choice in that regard; none of the students have to care about a single thing, so they're free to laze about and spend time with their beloved (or possibly unbeloved) families.

It's probably for the better that they make the most of it.

Hunting's not a happy career. They might clart it up as some noble cause, lauding it as some grand and majestic thing where you can defend all of humanity from the neverending hordes of Grimm who think we're biscuits and gravy, but they never really tell you how much of a bloody chore it is. Just fighting against a foe that never stops and never gets tired until you just give up and retire or end up as the unlucky bugger who gets chomped on. Just watching your mates drop out one by one, trying harder and harder to convince yourself that there's some meaning to what you do beyond just a desperate fight for survival. It's no wonder so many hunters just go into the mercenary biz; the dosh from doing things besides hunting Grimm is a whole lot better.

Only the idealistic or glaikit idjits who commit themselves entirely to the job.

Guess I'm the latter.

It's not like I really care about the brats or anything, but there needs to be somebody willing to keep their mental and emotional stability all okay. I get paid to make sure that they're well-adjusted enough to fight the Grimm, that their chance of survival has a few more percentage points than usual. Even if there's no real meaning to it all, even if we're all just supposed to be fuds with no other purpose than to keep humanity going for a few more years, you'd want your fuds to be working at their best, right? I might not be able to do a good job, but something's better than nothing for these lads and lassies.

Giving them the chance to see their families ... that's one of the ways we can help them. No, it's just another way of avoiding the knowledge of their fates - our fates. Averting our eyes from the truth and lying with a smile so they can happily enjoy this holiday without needing to worry about the future. It's what children are allowed to do, to think that this superficial façade we've managed to put up over the world is reality, that the consequences aren't so close that they have to start thinking about it. Or they already know that's it all a lie and are taking this chance just to be happy.

I probably would've.

We always emphasise the truth. We always pursue the genuine reality. Yet we are constantly lying to ourselves, saying that everything's okay, that we've always been at war with Eastasia. Smiling as if this world we live in is in any way safe or just, as if we're not at risk of dying because of even the tiniest of mistakes. It's just an elaborate game of charades on a grand scale, and accepting it at face value is just much easier.

We're hypocrital buggers like that.

I used to wonder what the world would be like if we just embraced what was truly genuine, but that's just an impossible dream. It's because that we're all liars that all still alive. Even if we can no longer sustain that lie, if it keeps a smile on everyone's face, we can stay a few more steps away from eternal oblivion. It's just a fact of life in a world where we could draw in predators if we just screw up even once. No surprise that we can be so feart of digging past the surface.

Is struggling for the genuine worth it, if the risk could be death?

Is the truth of this unjust world something I need to force upon others?

Then again, it's not my job to force my own ideals on these brats. I'm not so daft to assume that's even part of my contract; and there's no saying that what I do is truly "correct". Humans love to believe that their own beliefs are the genuine article, and that anyone who disagrees is dunderheaded in some way. They selfishly cling to that which is [i]theirs[/i], shunning the ideals of others and giving them no quarter. It's a cynical thing to say, but at our very cores it's ourselves that matters the most. We place ourselves, our belongings, our ideas, all on a pedestal, and any challenge to that seems to be an assailment on who we are. Yet the world doesn't care at all. We're just collections of flesh and guts that'll end up as tomato splatter one day, faceless creations of some unfeeling gods.

If I ever ran into those two fellas, I'd probably give 'em a hard skelp, but I don't even know if they bloody exist.

My job, in the end, is help them stay true to themselves. Or something. Call me a sook all you want, but it's not like I really have a good grasp of what else besides "help them". I don't know what's alright or what isn't, but they deserve to be happy and alive. They deserve something genuine, something [i]real[/i], yet also doesn't make them cry. It doesn't make any bloody sense in the slightest, but that's all there is to it. I want to help those who can't help themselves.

... Not because I care or anything. That's just what was listed in my contract, and I get paid for simmering down these brats.

I rise with a light yawn from my desk, the one made from genuine West Mistralese oak that Éibhinn sent me as a birthday present a few years ago and now upon which rests stacks of essays written by students in need of correction, a well-articulated figure of renowned model Umeko Kawaguchi, and articles about the latest scooby on Dust research that the Atlesian Security Council so [i]kindly[/i] deigned to reveal to us foreign fellas without a pet Faunus. It's a nice table, I gotta admit, but the supposed prestige of its material only comes off as a cynical cash grab. Us gullible neds are supposed to think that because it's West Mistralese, it's seemingly just [i]better[/i], and so demand a bigger portion of our wallets. There's supposed class to having something made outta that wood, when in the end there's no appreciable difference to oak from East Mistral. And unfortunately, dressing something up in prestige works, and our human desire takes over, seeking that which seems brighter and shinier. It's not like I don't appreciate the gift from my terrifyingly strange older sister, but she could've spent all that hard-earned dosh a little better.

I'll have to become another consumerist slave and take advantage of a sale to get her something back sometime.

Noise draws my attention to the window. Everyone out there seems so excited, so eager to meet up with their families. I guess I'm not really that dissimilar either, but today isn't for me. It's for these brats to loosen up a tad before thrown completely into the world of adults. A moment of happiness. Maybe some poet could compare it to their families watching them one last time before they leave the nest, but I don't bloody know Shakespeare from Heaney. It'll still do them some good, maybe.

I think I'll go check up on them. Make sure they haven't buggered themselves over.

[hr]
[b]Gratia Mindaro - Beacon Cafeteria (Monday, Early Morning ~6-7am)[/b]

"[color=66cd00]You need another weapon?[/color]"