Chapter Twenty-One: Mercy
Loneliness was beautiful.
France should hate isolation. It was meant to leave him with nothing but his thoughts for company, but in reality it granted him much needed— if temporary— peace. Without Atlas and her men putting him through the wringer, France could learn to breathe again. Company meant pain and drugs and fire. Isolation meant quiet and a nice, almost relaxing haze. There were still drugs of course but they merely befuddled and kept him adrift. They were preferable to the ones that tore through his body and created false images before his eyes.
Sometimes he wished the kinder concoctions would erase the images of his loved one's corpses from his eyelids. Jeanne, burning at the stake. England, struggling and drowning behind a wall of water. Canada, frozen and icy with dead, pale eyes. America, laying in a pool of his own blood as he choked on it, desperately reaching to France for help the older nation could not provide.
Atlas promised to make those visions come true if he continued to resist. France refused to waver. He would not become Atlas's next victory. He'd told her as much, among other screamed insults in a multitude of languages. She did not like that very much.
France had not received food or water for long enough that he'd slipped into the darkness twice already. Again, it was preferable. A coma was kinder than the living hell he was trapped in. Yet France could not do anything to change his situation. He could not break free, but he could not give in. He could only dig his heels into the stone and refuse to budge. He knew that if a single piece of him chipped away, he would crumble completely.
So he did his best to endure and ignore the frozen corpse standing in the corner.
France licked his dry lips, wincing as the skin split and cracked. Low voices reached his ears and he lifted his heavy head, holding his breath. To his relief, they remained outside, allowing him to hold onto his peaceful isolation. There was one other benefit to Atlas's absence from his room; The guards outside were not exactly quiet, allowing France to listen in and keep himself from thinking about the blood-covered body of Spain near the wall too much.
"Hey." One guard— who France knew was named 'Jay' greeted his partner. "Anything interesting happen since my last shift?"
"Not around here." The second guard— Blaine— said. "There was a little incident when I was coming in."
France recognized them by voice. He knew them both. He knew their names. They used them casually with each other, despite knowing the nation was within earshot, because they knew that France would not escape to find them. And if he did get out, he would not remember them. He would not remember any of this at all.
France's breath hitched but he forced himself to stay quiet as he listened to the guards' conversation.
"Incident? Tell me." Jay said eagerly.
"A new prisoner was brought in—" Blaine began.
"He a screamer?" Jay interrupted. "Those are always the fun ones."
Blaine snorted. "Oh yes, he was a screamer. You should have heard him begging." He put on a high-pitched falsetto. "'Oh, please. I'm not a criminal! I'm innocent! I'll do anything, please! Let me go! Please, I just want to go home!'"
They laughed. France was not surprised. One thing he quickly learned about this place was the guards and soldiers did not see their prisoners as people. They were things to be laughed at and mocked, like they were characters in an old cartoon. If one of them was in pain? It was amusing. If one of them begged for their life? It was hilarious.
France should have known the guards would feel that way the moment he woke up and first got a needle jabbed in his neck. Of course Atlas would only hire the apathetic or sadistic type of soldiers to run her shadiest operations. Those men and women would not let little things like 'morals' get in the way of their jobs.
"You want to know what's even better?" Blaine continued. "The prisoner caught the General's eye almost as soon as he walked in."
Jay whistled. "He must have been loud to draw General Ironwood's attention. What do you think the General did to shut him up?"
Blaine considered the options. "General Ironwood doesn't have any equipment in his office. What he could do is pretty limited. He probably didn't just shoot him. He wouldn't take him to his office if that's what he wanted to do." He chuckled. "Maybe the General cut out his tongue. That would shut him up real good."
They spoke so casually, one might think they were discussing the weather, or who won the latest sports tournament if the eavesdropper could not hear the context. France laid his head against the back of his metal chair, adjusting his weight as much as he could and wincing as his body ached in protest. He cast a tired glare at his bloody wrists and shut his eyes, ignoring England's bloated body in his peripheral.
Outside the door, the guards stopped laughing.
"Password?" Jay said, cruel mirth completely overtaken by a cold, stern tone.
"Prometheus." A female voice said, and to France's relief it wasn't Atlas.
There was a low click of metal. If France had to guess, he'd say the guards had lowered their weapons.
"Specialist." Blaine greeted the newcomer. "What's this?"
"New prisoner." The Specialist said shortly. "He's meant to keep this one company. General's orders."
There was a pause. Then Blaine chuckled. "Take him right in."
The metal lock clicked and the door swung open with a low groan. France lifted his head slightly, hiding his face behind his matted hair. A finely-dressed female soldier marched in with a prisoner. His hands were cuffed behind his back and a black hood covered his head, hiding his features. France took one look at the handcuffs digging into the prisoner's wrists and his heart went out to him. The Specialist's eyes landed on France and hardened. What icy blue eyes they were, yet they were also so familiar…
"Hello, France." She greeted him coolly, eyes flicking briefly to the door and the guards that hovered in it. "I brought a friend to see you."
She took the hood from the prisoner's head and France's heart sank.
Blaine laughed. "Well, if it isn't the screamer."
Rather than glare at the soldier, America's gaze flitted about the room, taking in the machines, needles, and other nasty items laid about. His gaze caught France's, mismatched eyes going wide, and a shudder went through his frame. He meekly lowered his head, visibly tensing when Jay grabbed his arm.
"What? You aren't going to beg for your life again?" the guard mocked. "I heard you were pretty rowdy up there. We don't appreciate prisoners acting like that."
France saw his fingers clench around America's arm. The nation did not react or speak, head still bowed.
"The General straightened him out." The Specialist explained.
"Oh really?" Blaine said. His hand latched onto America's other arm. "You're wearing a lot of layers. You hiding anything under all that, screamer?"
America still did not respond. His shoulders hunched as if he were trying to shrink in on himself, or was bracing himself for a blow. France's heart turned to ice.
"I think we'd better search him." Blaine said. "We don't want any surprises." He grasped the zipper to America's jacket.
"That is not necessary." The Specialist interrupted. "The General searched him thoroughly." Her eyes narrowed dangerously. Was she daring them to question Ironwood's competence?
The guards exchanged glances and nodded.
Blaine released America. "Yes, ma'am."
Without warning, they shoved America deeper into the room and he collided with France's chair, receiving a metal arm to the stomach. France heard the twin gasp quietly on impact and he slumped to the floor, curling up in pain. The soldiers stood back and watched their prisoner struggle to catch his breath before America finally looked up, meeting France's eyes.
America's mismatched eyes— familiar sky blue and unnatural emerald green— were red-rimmed, his chin covered with blood, and he held himself with a pained timidity that made France's heart ache. He remained silent and placid as the guards removed the manacles before looping them through the arm of France's chair, hooking America to it. The nations' hands were close enough that France could painfully twist his own in order to grip the twin's fingers, squeezing them tightly. After a startled twitch, America clung to him with equal desperation and France wondered what horrors he had endured.
Though he felt the soldiers eyes on them, France did not look away from America, who stared back at him. Green and blue eyes blinked and tears gathered at the corners, dripping down his cheeks. France opened his mouth but could not find his voice, only able to give a low, raspy croak. America's eyes went round and the tears came faster.
"I'm sorry." He whispered.
Blaine grabbed a syringe from the table and America tensed. The Specialist intercepted, grasping the guard's arm before he could approach.
"That is not needed." The female soldier said.
The guard hesitated. "Are you sure he won't be trouble?" he asked.
The Specialist's face darkened. "He already tried escaping. And as I said, the General dealt with him." Icy blue eyes landed on America. "He won't try escaping again."
A shudder passed through America's battered frame. He laid his head on the arm of the chair, near France's hand, and his shoulders lurched as his breath hitched. Anger smoldered in France's chest and he gently brushed a lock of hair away from America's bruised face. The younger nation flinched but soon leaned into the touch, eyes round as if he were unused to such small comforts. The anger became a burning flame.
"Return to your post." The Specialist ordered the guards. "I am to remain in here."
"Yes, ma'am." The guards said.
They exited the door and France heard it lock. He kept his hand cupping America's cheek, carefully scrutinizing his bloody, battered face.
…Were those handprints around his throat?
France's lips twitched into a snarl and America winced, realizing what he had seen.
"I'm fine." he insisted softly, too softly for the normally boisterous nation. "The General…" His gaze slid to the side. "…just beat me up a bit."
France's attention zeroed in on the brief hesitation like it was a bloody splotch on an otherwise clean white floor. America was lying. Either that or he was not telling the whole truth. So what else did Ironwood do to him?
The Specialist hovered near the door, and France heard the guards outside murmuring to each other, placing bets on what Ironwood did to America to make him 'fall in line'. Some of the suggestions made France's blood boil. He struggled to keep his anger off his face, determined not to terrify the already tired-looking nation. France knew he looked awful, but America did not look much better. Perhaps it was all the blood on his face. The younger nation eyed the door warily, eyes flicking back to France's face. His expression crumpled.
"I'm sorry." America whispered again. "You're in here because of me."
"It's not your fault," France could not find the voice to assure him. Instead he merely patted the younger nation's cheek.
The Specialist approached and France tensed, baring his teeth as his hands twitched uselessly. He could not do anything to defend America from the soldier and he loathed that realization. The Specialist knelt beside America and France thrashed in his bonds, expression set in a snarl. It failed to deter her.
"Hush." She murmured.
France glared at her, yanking at the manacles.
"France. Shh." America hissed. "Winter is on our side."
France paused, mouth falling open.
The Specialist put a finger to her lips, glancing cautiously at the door. "I am going to unlock your manacles." She said softly. "Once our ally comes and you are able to move, we will depart and rescue Australia and Romano."
"Do you know when the guards change shifts?" America added, his previous terror drifting away. It was obvious he was still uncomfortable and twitchy, but nowhere near to the extent he had been. And yet that terror had not fully been an act…
France hesitated, struggling to think. He put up four fingers, twice.
"Eight hours?" America guessed.
France nodded.
"When will Atlas show up?" the Specialist asked.
France shrugged helplessly.
"Okay, so we don't know how much time we have." America surmised. He looked at his manacles and paused. "Winter, breaking these will make noise."
The Specialist took out a set of keys and unlocked the cuffs. France realized she must have swiped them off the guards. She did the same to France, who did not remove his hands or legs from the open manacles just yet. America had no such qualms and stood with a slight wince, accepting his bat from the Specialist. France eyed him worriedly and he smiled.
"I'm fine. Just a few aches."
France knew he was underplaying his injuries. The flame became a burning inferno.
"How about you?" America cringed the moment the words left his mouth. "Stupid question."
Again he flinched, and blood trickled down his nose. France jerked, startled when his arms actually moved away from the chair. He blinked at them, touching his wrist, and shook his head, turning back to America. The younger nation was already pressing his blue shirt to his nose. Upon seeing France's stare, he shrugged.
"It's ruined anyway." He lowered the shirt, leaving speckles behind. "Can you walk?"
France braced himself on the arms of the chair and rose. His legs buckled and America caught him, lowering him carefully to the ground.
"You okay?" he whispered.
France nodded. He stubbornly struggled into a standing position, swaying. America caught him again, carefully holding on until France stopped flailing like a dandelion in high winds. Settled upon his own two feet, France felt his lingering doubts wash away as almost delusional happiness overwhelmed him. He shot the younger nation a grateful smile which was readily returned.
"We're waiting for our friend." America informed him softly. "She has your weapons."
"I don't think we should wait much longer." The Specialist said testily. "Atlas could return at any moment."
France's lips twisted into a snarl.
America noticed. "We need to get to Romano and Australia before she realizes we're here." He said firmly. "The less we have to fight getting to them, the more energy we'll have to get out."
France understood that logic. That did not mean he could discard the desire to grab Cobalt Striker and put its bayonet through Atlas's heart. He honestly was not as surprised by the bloodlust as he should be. It kept him going.
He wondered if the blood-covered England slumped by the wall would agree. France stared at him but the nation failed to answer. Of course Not-England would not respond. He was a hallucination. And dead.
France blinked at his fingers instead, studying his chipped nails and flexing the appendages experimentally. His fingers were bonier than he remembered.
"Stay back." America said softly.
The irrational desire to disobey clawed at France's head but he reminded himself this was America asking him, not Atlas ordering him to obey. He would never obey Atlas. Never Atlas. Never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never—
France focused and the door was open, America and the Specialist diving through it. Their arms locked around the guards' throats and they dragged them backwards into the room, choking them before they could scream. The chokeholds quickly dragged them into unconsciousness and the two lowered the guards to the ground. France slowly approached them, studying the soldiers closely for the first time. He crouched, yanking their helmets from their heads and frowned. They were people. He could pass by them in the street and never know…
"France?" The nation looked at America. "You good?"
France nodded silently. He grabbed Blaine's wrist and set him in the chair, locking the guard in his prisoner's previous spot. Next he picked the handcuffs that held America off the floor and looped it around the arm, attaching each manacle to Jay's wrists. He did not think about it. He just did it, almost like he was on autopilot.
That done, he stared at the guards that had stood by and listened while Atlas tortured him. Stood by, listened, and laughed at the pain they and their superiors caused.
France's foot connected with Jay's head, his fist with Blaine's nose. He felt the cartilage crunch beneath his fingers. The guard was not awake to feel the blow, head lolling as crimson dripped from his nose. The anger flared up and France raised his fist again, only for blue to catch his eye.
America stood to the side, clutching Cobalt Striker with a torn expression on his face. France saw every emotion that flitted across his pale features: shock, compassion, unease, sorrow, self-loathing, disgust…
…Did he want to stop France?
France's gaze dropped to the bat in America's hands and the nation followed his gaze, holding it closer to his chest. The flames ripped through France's heart and he stormed over to the younger nation, grasping the bat and pulling. America refused to release it.
"Fran—"
"Give." France demanded in a low croak.
America shook his head. "France, you don't have to—"
"Evil." France spat. "They're evil."
America winced. "I know. But—"
"Give." France demanded again.
America shook his head, holding tight on the bat. "You don't have to kill them."
"They are enemy. They show us no mercy." France snarled shortly.
The Specialist said nothing. When France caught her eye, she inclined her head. She, at least, understood.
America did not. "That doesn't mean—"
The anger flared. "When did you become a naïve idiot?" France snapped.
America recoiled. France yanked the bat from his hands and turned on the guards.
The Specialist caught his arm but before France could do more than glare, she silently held out a small rapier. France relinquished his hold on Cobalt Striker, allowing her to take it and accepting the sword in exchange. He approached the guards and unflinchingly slashed their throats. America's breath hitched and he turned away. France wiped the blade off and held it out to Winter, but she shook her head.
"You keep it for now."
France nodded sharply. "Thank you." He held the blade in his right hand, the tip pointed at the ground. "They would have raised the alarm, Alfred."
"I know." America said tightly. He twitched, sucking in a sharp breath as his eyes squeezed shut. "I'm sorry. It wasn't my right to stop you."
It was in that moment France realized something was very wrong. America was too quiet, too pale, too… timid. This was not the time or place to demand answers.
"Australia and Romano?" France asked as the silence stretched on.
America shook himself. "Right. Let's go."
Winter led the way out, followed by France and finally America. The rapier-wielding nation wished the twin was in front of him so he could study him discreetly. He would have to figure out America's problem later, when they were not in the middle of a rescue mission.
Besides, maybe loneliness was not so preferable after all.
That was, if any of this was real.
XXXXXXX
"Okay, kiddos and gents. We're in the final stretch." Qrow reported softly. "Get ready."
Hands tightened on weapons and Pyrrha silently moved to the front of the group. The tunnel was not wide, only allowing two people to walk side by side in the thin hallway, so her friends pressed themselves against the wall, letting her by without protest. Qrow was the last to let her pass, red eyes following her every step.
"You sure you can do this, kid?" he asked casually.
"Yes." Pyrrha said. "Though it is a little late now if I couldn't."
"We'd adapt." Ruby claimed.
"Would we?" Feliciano mumbled.
"Shh." Qrow hushed them, putting a finger to his lips.
The Huntsmen, Huntresses, and nations held their breath, listening. Low voices came through the mineshaft, echoing off the walls.
"—heard something." A male voice was saying.
"You're imagining things." A female voice reported disdainfully.
"No, I swear I heard something!" the male voice protested.
Pyrrha caught Qrow's eye, spotting the irritation— and apology?— there. She did not waste another moment. Summoning her shield to her arm, she dashed around the corner and threw her hands out. With a single, powerful blast, she tore the weapons from the guards' hands and smashed them into the wall. Auras flared, depleting in a second, and Pyrrha released their metal armor, letting them fall.
The armored soldiers crumpled to the ground, still and silent, but Yang and Nora approached anyway and struck them in the heads once more for good measure. The back of Pyrrha's neck tingled and she whirled, throwing her shield and knocking another guard's rifle from his hand. She called the shield back and it smacked him in the back of the head. He fell soundlessly. Pyrrha calmly summoned her shield to her arm again.
Yang eyed the fallen guards and whistled. "Dang Pyrrha. Where have you been hiding those moves?"
Pyrrha grimaced. "I trained on Earth."
"I can tell." Yang approved, though her eyebrow rose at the champion's tone.
"Enough chatter." Qrow said. "Move."
They dashed past the guard's position and Pyrrha ripped the metal door in their path off its hinges. The soldiers inside reacted instantly, firing upon the invaders, but Jaune joined Pyrrha at the front, shielding their friends. The thin hallways were an immediate advantage, allowing them to literally plow through the soldiers in their path. Some had Aura. Others did not. Pyrrha tried not to think about it. Ruby slammed into a soldier at high speeds, sending the woman sprawling.
She grinned, hefting her scythe. "Things seem to be going w—"
"Don't say it!" Matthew warned.
He stomped his foot on the ground and the floor turned to ice. The soldiers flailed, falling like pins, and if the situation were not so serious Pyrrha might have laughed. Weiss skated by them, incapacitating the men with quick, rapid thrusts, and the others followed at a slower pace.
Any desire to giggle was soon extinguished as they exited the outer halls, entering the Institute itself. All it took was a single glance and Pyrrha wanted to cry. Or gag. She faltered as her gaze swept over the thin, sickly figures that stared at her through the bars of the cells. Men, women, teens, elders, children, humans, Faunus… No type of person was absent.
Except soldiers of Atlas.
They were the only ones free.
A few charged at the intruders and Russia and Nora stepped forward as one, swinging their weapons. The unlucky frontrunners flew back into their comrades, knocking them down. A few struck the bars of the cells of the people they kept captive, and rather than rejoice, many of the prisoners shrank away. Sometimes, Pyrrha could only see their eyes in the darkness, and they glinted with fear.
Quickly— too quickly— the last soldier crumpled. Pyrrha knew more would come, but it was not everyone's foremost concern.
Ruby stared into a grimy, dark cell and inhaled sharply. "Let them out."
Qrow's jaw clenched. "Ruby—"
"Let. Them. Out." Ruby repeated quietly.
Qrow grimaced. "We need to find the nations before Soleil decides to—"
"Some of us will keep going." Arthur interrupted. "The rest can free the prisoners."
"We aren't supposed to separate." Oscar reminded them cautiously.
"Screw that." Yang snapped.
She punched a lock, shattering it, and yanked the door open. The Faunus inside backed up to the wall, staring at her with round eyes. Yang smiled gently at him and stepped back, leaving the doorway clear. The Faunus slowly crept out of the cell, every movement careful as if he expected to be shot at any moment. He stepped into the hallway, eyes darting to each of the Huntsmen, and in the complete silence, he spoke.
"Are you here to rescue us?" he whispered.
"Yes." Ruby stated. A shudder passed through the air and her eye widened. "But you need to be quiet."
What was likely meant to be elated screams or gasps became stifled murmurs. Some of the prisoners covered their mouths with their hands, while others gave beaming grins. Their eyes shone with renewed hope. Pyrrha took note of their position— Cell Block E— and quickly opened a few more doors with her Semblance, trying to be as quiet as possible. Neon ignored the doors completely, skating past them and looking inside each without opening them.
"We're moving ahead." Canada said suddenly. "You have it handled here?"
"Yes." Pyrrha said. "Yang and I can free them all the most efficiently. You go ahead."
Indecision flashed across Ruby's face. Jaune stiffened noticeably.
"We have this." Yang said before her sister or the knight could speak.
Ruby slowly nodded. "Okay. Good idea. We'll probably make some noise further down and attract the guards to us—"
"What? We're not separating." Jaune blurted belatedly.
Pyrrha locked eyes with him. "We'll be fine." she said firmly. "They need you if someone is injured. Go."
Jaune hesitated briefly then leaned in, giving her a quick kiss. He pulled away too fast and the group hurried off, leaving Pyrrha and Yang alone. The two wasted no time freeing more prisoners. Some instantly ran off towards the exit, others crept out cautiously, and a small few attempted to help unlock more doors.
A distant crash signified the others had made their presences known. Pyrrha could not say whether it had been intentional or not. As more and more prisoners stumbled out of their cells, Pyrrha shoved her map into one man's hands and pointed to the exit.
"Follow this path. There are airships waiting for you."
The man blinked rapidly, eyes swimming with tears. "Thank you."
He led the way out, with more prisoners straggling behind them. Another crash shook the Institute, making dust fall from the ceiling, and a few of the captives quailed, frantic pleas to be freed rising up.
"Chill out!" Yang said tightly as she broke another lock. "We can only go so fast."
Pyrrha paused next to her, speaking quietly. "You don't think they have bombs—?"
"No. I think my family and team are just making nuisances of themselves." Yang interrupted.
They turned a corner to find a platoon of Atlesian Knights. Pyrrha did not hesitate to rip their rifles from their hands and holsters, lifting them into the air and slamming them into the sides of the tunnel. She dropped the sparking corpses, stepping over them.
"Wow." Yang said, eyes round. She shook herself. "Leave some for me next time, huh?"
"Of course." Pyrrha said, cheeks turning red. "Sorry."
They hurried down the hall— into Cell Block D— and Pyrrha's steps slowed. Like the last section, this one was lined with cells. Unlike the last one, the pathway split into multiple halls, each filled with prisoners. Said prisoners seemed to realize something was happening and pressed themselves against the bars, eyes shining and hopeful. It was likely more competent forces would be upon them soon.
Yang exhaled shakily, eyes flashing red as her gaze raked along the doors. "There's a lot."
"I know." Pyrrha said.
"The airships might not have enough space."
"I know."
"We didn't plan for this many."
"I know."
Yang frowned. "You go that way, I'll start here."
"Okay." Pyrrha agreed.
They split up. Yang went left, Pyrrha went right. A part of Pyrrha screamed that this was a stupid idea but she ignored it, quickly ripping doors open. Another tremor shook the earth and she prayed the mine would not collapse. Surely her friends would be aware of such a possibility and be careful in order to prevent it?
...She knew her friends.
They wouldn't.
We need to hurry.
In the distance, alarms blared.
XXXXXXX
A/N: Apologies for the minor cliffhangers. It was… *glances at future chapters* …the best place to stop. It's not like this is the most minor cliffhanger I could manage or anything. Why would you think that…? *sweats*
Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, etc!