The Last Call

Chapter 1: Seizure at Sea

Well… here goes nothing. Let's hope I do my new favorite series the justice it deserves.

XXXXX

July 16, 2037 - 0155 Hours

SCV Schlesien, Schnee Oil Company Product Tanker

Pacific Ocean - 250 Miles South of Kenai, Alaska

"Two-Four, this is Central. Check in, over."

On the upper deck of an oil tanker in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, a security guard leaning on a rail let out a sigh for the world. Could the watch sergeant leave him alone for more than five minutes?

"Two-Four, do you copy?"

Apparently not.

A second man's voice chimed in over the radio. "Central, Two-Three. I heard a splash about five minutes ago; are we sure he didn't fall overboard?" The guard smiled. If there was one good thing about getting stuck with the mid-watch and freezing his ass off on the upper deck, it was his partner. The other man's lightning-quick wit and grossly inappropriate sense of humor made the long nights entertaining.

"Two-Three, cut the chatter." It was the watch sergeant again. "Harvey, if you don't pick up the radio in the next ten seconds, I'm sending another body after you."

Well, Jesus, if he put it that way; fine. The guard pushed himself out of his lean and made doubly sure to flick his cigarette over the side before replying. Most of the guys on midnight watch kept a pack in some obscure pocket, but smoking was technically still a no-no. Blowing a fat cloud of secondhand lung cancer into the mic (and by extension, the watch sergeant's ear) probably wouldn't end well.

He reached up to the radio clipped to his left shoulder, pressed the transmit button, bit back a myriad of snarky remarks, and spoke. "Central, this is Two-Four. Starboard side upper deck is all clear. Over."

Irritation was laced into the sergeant's reply. "What the hell took you so long?"

Harvey's left hand unconsciously drifted up to touch the pack of American Spirits in his jacket's inner chest pocket. "I was, uh, lost in thought, sir."

"Right…" He could practically feel the watch sergeant's raised eyebrow. "Two-Three, Two-Four, are you sure you made your rounds?"

Now that prompted a raised eyebrow of his own. Harvey was used to the supervisor double-checking his stories, but this time he sounded genuinely inquisitive. "Is something wrong, sir?"

"Radar picked up a contact a few minutes ago. It was small, and the ping barely registered, but the skipper still wants eyes out there." Harvey stepped away from the railing so he wouldn't cave in his own skull against it. I swear to God, if it's another fucking dolphin, I'm going to suck-start my SMG. The underappreciated security guard tugged longingly at the shoulder strap attached to his second-generation KRISS Vector submachine gun. For a fleeting, glorious moment, he dreamed of actually using the damned thing.

The other guard's voice shook Harvey out of his thoughts with a response that wouldn't get him fired. "Two-Three here. That's affirmative, sir."

Harvey sighed and hit the button again. "This is Two-Four. Everything up here's clear, but I can come below deck if you need me to pinky swear it."

"Boy, you're lucky I'm in a good mood; otherwise I might feed you to the Ice Queen for talking to me like that. You'd best check your zone again before I change my mind."

Wait. Did Weiss Schnee eat people? He'd heard the horror stories; they all had; but he assumed they were just-

"Two-Four. Check. Again."

Harvey's posture deflated as he resigned himself to his fate. "Ten-Four." He let go of the radio and mumbled something about grizzled cock gobblers.

Purely because he wanted to and not because "Daddy Dispatch" gave him a direct order, Harvey turned around and looked fore and aft. Color him surprised: since his last check-in thirty minutes ago, none of the shipping containers that permeated the deck had grown legs and attacked him. And despite the SOC's paranoid wariness of pirates, no evil shemagh-wearing marauder had jumped out of the shadows to shove an AK-47 up his nose, either. That was always a plus.

In his expert conclusion, the deck was not being incinerated by a column of hellfire. Harvey turned back around and tracked his eyes over the ocean like the steely-eyed, vigilant sentry from the job description. After he was hired and reality hit him like a drunk stepfather, Harvey had memorized every last detail of the uniformed poster boy on that webpage. His dark blue pants, freshly pressed with creases that could slice butter, had promised a free pair of slacks. The polish on his black dress shoes had sparkled like the hope in his eyes. The man's white short-sleeved button-down reflected the light in his soul. The golden security officer's badge pinned above his left breast pocket marked him as a god of order to lowly employees, and the Schnee Oil Company insignias emblazoned into the shoulder patches whispered honeyed words of income stability into Harvey's young, impressionable ears.

Thomas Harvey hated that man with every fiber of his being. He couldn't wear the slacks in public thanks to the giant golden "SOC" stitched into the right asscheek. He had spilled the shoe polish onto his bleach-white shirt ten minutes before his first shift. The badge on his chest had inspired hatred instead of respect, but the company logos on his shoulders were the icing on the cake, and a constant reminder of Jacques Schnee's crushing iron grip on his soul. In his haste, Harvey had signed a seemingly unimportant document. The room's other occupant, a middle-aged security officer, happily informed Harvey that he had just given written consent to a four-year employment contract. The older man's tone was joyous, but his eyes had screamed your ass is mine now, motherfucker!

Oh yeah, and the ocean was still the fucking ocean. Harvey made a note to inform the watch sergeant if he spotted anything more interesting than tiny particles of whale shit.

"Harvey, I'm going to count to one, and if you-"

"Central, this is Two-Four. After detailed inspection, the starboard zone of the upper deck is clear of any hazards. Over." Harvey tried to grind his teeth into dust. His efforts were a colossal failure.

"That's better. Next SITREP in fifteen minutes. Central, out."

Harvey rested his forearms on the rail and let his head hang down over the side. Perhaps if he focused intensely enough, the North Pacific Ocean's frigid dark waters would spell out a cure for his self-inflicted depression. He was about to sink into another round of pitch black internal grumbling when he registered the sound of footsteps approaching from his left. Harvey turned his head to see the deck's other guard strolling up to join him. Like Harvey, the other man wore a high visibility jacket over his uniform.

"Hey, Weinstein," he said in greeting after the newcomer set his weapon against the rail. Harvey eyed the MCX Virtus short-barreled rifle with a trace of envy. Sure, his Vector was a good weapon, but it didn't look nearly as cool. Either way, if he could compliment the Schnee Oil Company on one thing, it would be the care they took in security measures. Whether they actually gave a shit about their guards' wellbeing or were just protecting their assets, Harvey couldn't say.

The other man smirked. "I have a first name, you know."

"Alright, Mark," he said with an eye roll, "Want a cancer stick?"

Weinstein held out his hand. "You know it. Pass me that stage four shit."

Harvey cracked a smile of his own as he donated a cigarette and held up his open lighter. Even with the unreal amounts of flak they caught for being named Harvey and Weinstein, the two guards never failed to lift each other's spirits. Humor aside, they could talk about anything under the sun; some of the most interesting conversations of Harvey's life had come out of similar midnight chats.

"Mark…" Harvey sighed, "What are we doing out here?"

His friend cocked an eyebrow. "Uh, guarding disgustingly huge fuel shipments with the worst possible shift schedule?"

That drew a small laugh out of Harvey, at least. "No; I mean what are we doing out here?"

Weinstein gave his partner a curious look. "What's on your mind, Tom?"

Harvey took a drag off his own cigarette. "I don't know, man. Do you think Canada's gonna rebel?"

The other man narrowed his eyes. "The hell is a Canada's? I'm sure you mean the Greater American Province of Vale, right?" They both cackled like idiots, even though the recently christened Greater American Republic had annexed Canada back in 2021 and leveled five of its cities to construct the capital of Vale.

Harvey grinned at the… active global political scene of the past twenty years. "First, we become the GAR and annex Canada. Then the Germans decide they've had enough of terrorists, corrupt politicians, and the whole damned EU for that matter. They rename themselves 'Atlesians' for some reason, sweep through all of Europe except for the UK, and then steamroll Russia up to Belgorod." He shook his head, but the grin remained. "The Atlesian Empire… the past couple decades have been pretty crazy, huh?"

Weinstein smirked. "You're telling me." He flicked a clump of ashes off the side of the ship. "But come on; spill it. What's really bothering you?"

Harvey scratched at his temple. "It's just… why are we out here? Don't get me wrong; protecting this stuff from point A to point B is important. But do we have to be the ones doing it?" The guard blew out a lungful of smoke. "I feel like I'm just wasting my life, walking up and down the same damned deck every night. Hell, what are you doing out here? You've got a kid on the way."

"Hell yeah. Little asskicker's due next week." Weinstein was positively beaming, and it proved infectious.

Harvey clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Congratulations, Mark. Seriously. But what are you gonna do about this?" He made a sweeping gesture to the ship as a whole. "Ellen can't raise the kid by herself while you're stuck on a ship."

"She won't have to. I'm transferring to the refinery down in Washington. We've already got a house down there and everything. This is my last trip."

"Oh." Harvey looked downcast. "I'm gonna miss you, buddy."

A hand on his shoulder made him look up. "You should come, too. There's still openings for security. Besides, you just said it yourself: you don't want to waste away on this tanker looking at the same ocean float by over and over."

Harvey found himself nodding along. "That sounds like a good idea, but I don't have anywhere to stay in Washington. And I can't just leave Mary up here in Alaska."

Weinstein shifted around to fully face his partner. "Okay, hear me out on this. You've been sharing an apartment with her for two years now, and you've been dating for almost five. When are you gonna pop the question?"

A sly smirk crawled up Harvey's cheeks. "Funny you should say that." He patted his jacket's lower-right pocket, where a small, but very special velvet box was tucked away. "As soon as I see Mary when we make port, I'm gonna get down on one knee and ask her to marry me."

The other guard pulled Harvey into a crushing bear hug. "You slick son of a bitch! Congratulations in advance, dude!" Blackness was creeping into Harvey's oxygen-starved vision when Weinstein finally released him. "You know, if you two need somewhere to crash… you could always stay with us."

Harvey's jaw just about hit the deck plates. "You can't be serious."

"Aw, come on; there's plenty of room! I already talked it over with Ellen; we'd love to have you both until you can get your own place."

For once, Harvey was left speechless. "I… wow. Mark, I… I don't know what to say."

A borderline abusive slap on the back accompanied Weinstein's laughter. "Then don't say anything. You're like a brother to me, Tom. I'll be damned if I let you waste away like this."

Harvey couldn't think of a remotely sufficient way to show his gratitude, so they lapsed into a comfortable silence. The Pacific Ocean's dark waters now appeared soothing instead of oppressive as the pair of guards gazed out over the horizon with a far more positive look on life.

The last thing both men ever heard was the pfft-pfft of suppressed pistols firing into the backs of their skulls.

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Behind the dead guards, two masked men lowered their sidearms. Each man wore a dark grey carrier rig over a black full body wetsuit, fully loaded with a wide variance of military-grade equipment, from flash grenades to fiber optic cameras. The ballistic goggles attached to their helmets were currently generating a night vision overlay. The intruders picked up the guards' bodies and unceremoniously dumped them over the side of the Schlesien.

One of the men touched a finger to his ear. "This is Beta Team. Deck security neutralized. Exfil route is clear."

In the bowels of the ship, three more infiltrators stood in a room full of dead men. One released his grip on the watch sergeant's mouth as he removed a serrated combat knife from the side of his neck. "Gamma Team here. Security hub neutralized. Surveillance cameras and dispatch are no longer a concern. Alpha Team, you are clear to execute."

"Alpha Team copies. We're moving in."

On the upper decks, a man released his earpiece and moved his hand back down to grip his rifle. He was one of three stacked up to the left side of a hatch. Three more operatives were lined up on the opposite side. The man in front of him held up an open hand and counted down from five on his fingers. When he reached zero, the other side's point man opened the hatch and tossed in a concussion grenade. The device went off with a sharp bang, and the half-dozen operatives stormed the bridge. The ship's two remaining security guards were neutralized with precision bursts to the chest, with follow-up headshots into their corpses for peace of mind. "Shocked" did not even begin to describe the four bridge officers' expressions.

A seventh intruder strode through the hatch, but this man was dressed quite differently. Military gear and night-vision goggles were replaced with a white red-lined suit, black slacks, a scarf and a bowler hat. His flaming orange hair hung low enough to obscure one of his emerald eyes. As if his appearance was not already unique enough, he carried a black, grey-handled cane with a dark red bottom in his left hand.

The man spread his arms in a wildly inappropriate welcoming gesture. Noticing a single woman among the four officers, he removed his hat. "Well, would you look at that? I'm the new captain, just like that. Hold this for me, would you?" The suited man threw his cane sideways without so much as a glance. One of the operatives on his left caught it as he stalked right up to the surviving bridge crew, and the captain in particular. "You. What's your name?"

"A-Alan," the older man stammered out.

His counterpart leaned forward with a lurid grin. "Got a last name there, Alan?"

"It's, uh… Wells. Alan Wells." A large bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

The red headed man settled a hand against his chest. "Hi, Alan; I'm Roman. Roman Torchwick. And since I'm the captain now, I guess this qualifies as a mutiny." He threw his arms around two of the other officers' shoulders. Roman grinned as he looked between them. "Isn't that right, boys?"

The men's frantic nods must have been the correct answer: the apparent leader released them and stepped back. In yet another odd move, the suited man drew a knife from the inside of his jacket, ran his dark green eyes over its blade, and began absently flipping it in his right hand as he paced across the bridge.

"You know… when I was a kid, pirates always fascinated me. Way back when, all you'd need was a ship, a couple dozen less-than-reputable bodies to run it, some flint, powder and lead, and you could make yourself rich."

He raised a finger, as if he was holding an audience in suspense. "But one thing in particular about that era interested me more than anything else. Anyone care to take a guess?" Torchwick looked around. "Anyone…?"

Torchwick smiled, shook his head and chuckled. "Gentlemen… lady…" He pointed at the sole female officer, "Everyone, come on; relax. I'm not going to bury this steel beauty in a windpipe for no reason!" He laughed again, louder this time. If the abnormal behavior put off any of his men, they didn't say anything. "Ha ha… oh… oh, that's good. But, I did ask a question. Take a guess what interested me?"

Silence still reigned. "Anyone?"

Torchwick looked at each of the officers in turn. "No? Guys, you're leavin' me hanging here."

After another stretch of silence, he finally relented. "Alright, alright, I'll tell you. It was the mutinies. Now, when I say that, I don't mean whatever led up to them; they all started for different reasons. No no no, I was… am interested in the mutiny itself. People who had worked, fought and bled together, turning on each other in the blink of an eye? Heavy stuff, I tell ya. But the main event was what they'd do to the skipper."

He looked directly at the captain. "Back then, they had all kinds of messed up executions. If the captain was lucky, they'd tie him to the mast and shoot him, but that almost never happened. They might tie your hands and feet together, slit open a vein or three and dump you in shark-infested waters. They might keelhaul you: tie you up and drag you underneath the ship, port to starboard. You'd be lucky not to get torn to shreds with all the barnacles and splinters poking out of the hull. They might even hold you down on a table and force-feed you burning coals. I even read about a guy who had molten tin poured in his ears; yikes!" Torchwick shivered dramatically. "Just thinking about some of that stuff gives me the willies."

Torchwick locked eyes with the captain again, this time with a far more sadistic smile. "But hey… it was par for the course. By now, I think you know who these fine individuals behind me are. And for a bunch of angry Faunus whose favorite pastimes are setting off improvised explosives and mutilating Atlesian soldiers? Well, I can't imagine the next few minutes of your life are going to be full of sunshine and flowers." He pointed to two of his men. "You and you, take the captain below deck. Pry out any information you can, and then drown him."

The captain's panicked begging was cut short when one of the assigned operatives stepped forward and slammed his rifle stock into the older man's stomach. He doubled over with an explosive breath, and the same stock came down on the back of his head. Both masked men lifted the captain up by his arms and legs before he could recover, but that didn't stop him from begging his comrades for help as they carried him off the bridge.

Torchwick gave himself a brief lookover after the two men were gone, inspecting his suit for any damage. He found nothing, if the way he nodded to himself was any indication. Roman brushed off his jacket, looked around one last time, and walked off the bridge with another operative on his heels. The red headed criminal stopped with one foot through the hatch. "Could you three shoot them and set the charges for me? As much as we'd all like to stay and have fun, we do have a schedule to keep."

He and the other person ignored the sharp coughs of suppressed weapons fire as they left the bridge. They spent the next minute in silence, winding their way through corridors and ladders until they were out on the surface deck once again. Once they were in open air, Torchwick assumed a purely businesslike tone. "So how did we do?"

Though a balaclava covered her face, the woman who had accompanied him into the hallway sounded pleased. "I must admit, your people performed admirably."

Torchwick grinned. "That's what I like to hear. Three hundred, right?"

The woman nodded. "Yes. Three hundred thousand in cash, as previously agreed upon. You did exactly as you were asked, Mr. Torchwick, and you did it well. My employers will be satisfied with today's results."

"Uh, yeah, about that. I know we had an understanding with the whole 'need to know basis' thing, but how exactly are we getting the goods out of here?"

Bright amber eyes flicked down to a digital wristwatch worn over her left glove. Roman could just start to hear the distant whine of aircraft engines when the woman looked up again. "I'm glad you asked."

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July 16, 2037 - 1430 Hours

Vale City Police Department, Central Precinct

Vale City, Vale

"...so I tell the guy, if God is your authority, then so am I. I swore this oath under God, so you, my friend, are shit out of luck."

Only through years of discipline did Sergeant Ruby Rose manage to stop herself from doubling over in a fit of giggles. She and the other officer were leaning against a countertop in the lounge. Aside from the sergeant's triple golden chevrons sewn into her long sleeves, she wore the same dark blue police uniform as everyone else, with a black tie held against her shirt by a gold clip. The lounge's six other occupants had spread themselves out in various couches and chairs, with the sole exception of an officer refilling his coffee behind her. "Oh… oh man, that's good. I'll have to remember that one." Ruby took a deep breath to settle the rest of her laughter. "Let me guess, he still didn't consent?"

"He still did not consent. Rolled up his window too." He paused to let Ruby finish her sigh of exasperation. "Then the batons came out and… well, you know it always goes from there."

The grey-eyed woman hummed in affirmation as she took a long sip of her coffee. If one were to do the math, though, it was technically sixty percent coffee, twenty percent milk, fifteen percent Irish Creme Coffee-mate, and five percent sugar. Scientists were still baffled as to how she hadn't collapsed from heart failure yet. "Did he at least give up after you busted his window and pulled him out of the car?"

The officer snorted and raked a hand through his sandy blond hair. "Oh hell no; that was when it got really interesting. This dude's like, forty-something, right? I'm twenty-three and sixty pounds lighter, minimum." He exhaled at Ruby's arched eyebrow. "Heavy dude. Like, would this guy pop like a beach ball if I stick him with a needle heavy. Anyway, you're not gonna believe this. I hadn't even pulled the cuffs off my belt when he started screaming rape."

Ruby's eyes bulged. "No."

Her counterpart grimaced at the memory. "Yyyyeah. And this was at eleven in the morning. Every friggin' head in a hundred-meter radius just pivots straight at me. Thank God none of 'em actually did anything."

A second female called out, "What, you mean like when you got tased during a bar fight on your first day?"

The man's dark green eyes snapped towards the source: a lilac-eyed corporal whose excessive mass of golden hair was barely contained in a regulation ponytail. "Oh piss off, Xiao Long! That was Mike's fault, not mine!" The rest of the lounge quieted in the wake of his too defensive, too indignant, and altogether too loud response.

Yang smirked and sing-songed, "Not his fault you got clocked in the lips." A maddening slurp of her coffee followed it up.

Feeling spotlit, the officer tried to redirect the room's attention with an accusatory finger. "Hey, I was just a baby cop! That man punched an infant. What kind of partner misses that badly with a taser, anyway?"

Ruby quietly nursed her favorite coffee mug in the background. On the side facing away from her, its black surface was stamped with "Obey & Survive" in white. She probably should have intervened in their little altercation by now, but as the other side of her mug sagely advised, there was "Nothing to see here." Besides, why shut down quality entertainment?

Yang snorted. "Uh. You."

"Wait. What are…" The other officer froze, horrific realization smacking him across the face. A vein pulsed in his neck. "Xiao Long, don't you fu-"

"What, you don't remember? The guy bobbed and weaved at the last second, and there was an electric fence?"

The emotionally abused officer's entire face and neck flared up into a fascinating shade of crimson. He returned his oppressor's venomous strikes with the blinding fury of a thousand suns. "At least my body cam doesn't record the fucking skyline, Miss Watermelon Cans!"

One officer gasped. Another tried to hide in a corner. Ruby's hand drifted above her taser as she slowly backed away. "You're really rocking that silicon valley over there, ain't ya, Corporal? I've heard some horror stories about your back pains; holy shit." Choked snickers escaped the less disciplined officers in the room. Which was everyone. Ruby would make sure to bite her tongue harder next time. "Oh yeah, and don't think I don't know how many bras you've snapped this year." Was that steam coming out of Yang's head? "If the grapevine don't lie… we're up to ten now, aren't we?"

Ruby looked on in awe. Fuck me. He's actually right. She made a mental note to warn Nora before her sister put two and two together. Fleeing the country would take time, after all.

The elder Xiao Long bolted upright. "EXCUSE ME?!" A heavy, gravity-defying bounce and sharp sting in her back did not help her case. At least now she knew whose side physics were on.

Yang's enraged retalitatory salvo died in her throat when an older woman's voice floated into the lounge. "Am I interrupting something?"

Everyone, even Yang, stiffened up and shot to their feet at Lieutenant Goodwitch's entrance. The tall, middle-aged officer swept the room in a gaze that made the innocent nervous and the guilty sweat. After half a minute of pin drop silence, Goodwitch made a small noise in the back of her throat. Yang wound never admit it, but she felt her soul being judged, deemed unworthy, and cast into the pits of hell under the other woman's intense emerald gaze.

"Corporal Xiao Long." Yang willed her knees to stop quivering and tried to from an innocent smile. It came out more like a pained grimace. She exhaled when Goodwitch turned her gaze away. "Sergeant Rose."

Now it was Ruby's turn to look like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Well, her right arm was currently buried halfway up to the elbow in the department cookie jar, but that was beside the point.

Lieutenant Goodwitch stopped again before speaking. The damned woman loved her dramatic pauses. Ruby felt her badge trying to tear itself off her chest and drag her screaming into the unemployment line.

Instead of pouring gasoline all over her career and striking a match, Goodwitch motioned for them to follow. "Come with me."

The brunette's heart started kicking again. She was so relieved, she almost forgot to pick up her coffee on her way out. Almost.

"Catch you later, Sarge," said the target of Yang's verbal abuse, tossing her a two-fingered salute.

"Sure," she responded with a wave.

Ruby never saw, mentioned, or heard from him again for the rest of the story. He was a minor character.

XXXXX

New fic, who dis? Yeah, it's ya boi. Now before all ya damn furries freak out, no, I'm not abandoning Fire Across Lylat. I'm losing steam on that story, so I will be taking a break from it until inspiration flares up again. In the mean time, we have this.

I won't even start getting into how much I love RWBY: if I do, we'll be here all night. Instead, I'll take the time to answer a burning question: "Sarge, I read your little description, but what actually is this?" Spoiler alert, it's an AU. You got me. The plot just got blown wide open. Okay but in all seriousness, this idea popped into my head less than a week ago, and I just had to write it down before it was gone. The most important detail for you to know is that there's no "woogly-boogly magical bullshit." That means no auras, no Semblances; none of that. In here, it's just steel and lead. Other than that, I will build and explain the world around you as we move along.

Oh, and before anyone calls me out for Ruby being OOC, let me stop you right there. I call this version of her "Salty Ruby" for a reason. She used to be her canon self, but... well. All will make sense in due time.