It occurs to me that I've never really asked: what's the draw of this story for y'all? What made you start reading? What makes you keep coming back?
Is it the worldbuilding? Is it dynamics between the characters, the way the characters are translated from the source material, or a specific character's arc/backstory/characterisation? Is it the humour? Is it just a sunk cost fallacy? Do you find the plot particularly compelling? Which arc do you find the most entertaining? Which arc intrigues you the most?
Jaune, Ren, and Solaire ducked into an alleyway, pressing themselves against the wall.
"Let them pass?" Solaire asked.
"We're here to present ourselves as a threat," Jaune said. "A few missing patrols would help with that."
"Even knocking them out would lead to death by hypothermia," Ren said.
He had a fair point. There was a lull in the blizzard, yes, but it still continued, the snowfall never-ending and relentless.
"Alright," Jaune said. "Let them pass."
Not long afterwards, four men in red cloaks passed down the main street. Jaune held his breath and, in his head, counted up the seconds for them to pass around the next corner.
"Come on." Jaune led the team out of the alley. "We're close."
/-/
Ilia had explained that she'd knocked Yuma out, allowing him to be incarcerated, and thus he'd not informed the Albains of their failure. Neither had she, though she'd not lied of their success either.
That, of course, meant that, unless Artorias and Quelana had been spotted by the White Fang, the Albains believed Artorias to be bound, gagged, and en route to Adam, and Quelana to be en route back to Kuo Kuana, where she was to be framed for Ghira's death.
Thus, their attention was on finding Kali.
There were few airships in Menagerie. Fewer still that could travel over long distances; even the south coast of Anima was almost out of range. But not quite.
The Albains didn't know that Kali was injured. They were clever, Ilia said, but also cowardly, and assumed much the same of everybody else. They'd expect Kali to try to flee Menagerie as quickly as possible.
And those airships were the quickest—and safest—way out.
If there were any place that Corsac and Fennec would be guarding personally, it would be the airships.
"Are you going to be ready?" Quelana asked quietly.
"Hmm?" Artorias pressed himself against a palm tree. The airfield was somewhat isolated, on the eastern edge of Kuo Kuana and a little inland. There was a road, but they'd decided to approach from the treeline.
He peered around the tree. The airfield certainly was guarded. The moonlight reflected off pale masks.
"Not to suggest anything, but eight hours ago you were a…"
"Mess?"
"Yeah."
Artorias narrowed his eyes. He counted six masks, possibly more on the other side of the field. Menagerie's CCT relay was on the northern end, and his attention was drawn by a light flickering off on the upper level.
A few seconds later, Corsac and Fennec Albain emerged from the relay's entrance.
He drew his sword. "Always fear the flame, Ana," he said.
"Hilarious, Arty," she said dryly. She pulled two dust crystals from her pouch. "You're sure you're alright?"
"The better question is: will you be okay?"
She rolled her eyes, stepped out of the treeline, and crushed the crystals in her hands.
Her aura lit up brightly, like a signal flare, brilliantly warm hues of yellow, the colour of wattle flowers and sunlit sands.
But there was not yet any fire.
Heat rolled off her in waves, the air around her shimmering in the heat. The concrete beneath her feet cracked. Her hood flew backwards, and embers floated from her hair and her robes, wavering and flickering motes that danced in the air around her like fireflies. Artorias' skin felt dry.
"Boss!" someone yelled.
He stepped out after Quelana, his hand gripping the sword so hard the leather wrapping on the handle creaked.
/-/
"Reckon we can get over the wall?"
Jaune poked his head out from the doorway they'd hidden behind. Security cameras swept back and forth around the police department's perimeter. Better not to be spotted for as long as they could leave it, though at the very least the snow would obscure them—from a distance.
They had that sort of luck at the wall, though scaling it would be another matter entirely. It was worn smooth by the elements, and though the snow had piled high, it would not suffice. Not to mention that the metal spikes atop the walls tilted outwards ever so slightly to stop intruders.
How thoroughly… oppressive, Jaune thought.
The walls of the main police department building, however, were considerably less fortified, though they were taller. Windows on every level led into the building proper. Jaune could see bars on the windows of the ground floor, but the upper floors looked clear.
He motioned to Ren and Solaire to follow, and crept closer, dashing across the street once he was out of the cover of the building. He pressed himself against the wall beneath a window, deployed his shield, and raised it over his head. "Window," he said. "Solaire, you go first."
Solaire nodded, holding his dust-embroidered handkerchief tightly in his hand, backed away, then ran headlong at Jaune, jumping atop the shield. Jaune heaved, boosting Solaire up to crash through the window.
They heard startled yells—then a burst of light emanated from the window.
Ren went through next, rolling as he passed through the frame. A burst of gunfire echoed out onto the street.
Jaune rolled his shoulders, backed up, then ran at the wall, his fingers digging into the nooks and crannies of the well-worn bricks, his boots barely keeping purchase. Ren's hand reached down from the window, and Jaune grabbed onto it to pull him the rest of the way up.
/-/
"I hardly expected for you to turn yourself in."
Gilderoy was silent. Doctor Watts had told him not to talk, and he had to obey that order. It was one of the standing orders, really. Avoid military. Don't speak. Make no contact with Ironwood or anyone in his employ. It had been hard to find a loophole.
But Watts had been distracted when giving his orders and had made an error: when Gilderoy had returned from the weapons factory, his new orders had not specified 'when' he should return again, nor the specifics of 'how' he was to carry out his task. "Rile them up a little," he'd said. "Come back when you're done."
And now here he was, on the top floor of the Irithyll Police Department, in an office that had once belonged to some police captain. His hands were shackled in front of him, and across from him sat Eliza Farron, her mask set aside. She was inspecting his bident, turning it over in her hands and running her gloved finger along its edge.
Leaning in the corner was the greatsword he'd stolen away beneath Watts' nose, the one that they'd taken with Vengarl: a bronze greatsword, intricately detailed on the crossguard.
Eliza's face was marred by three long, silvery scars that ran from just above her left temple all the way to her chin, though beyond that it was a rather fair face. Her eyes were the colour of the sky, and her dark, shaggy hair was swept back and tucked behind her ears.
It had taken some time for them to realise he was—effectively—mute, and he'd been provided with a small slate and a chunk of soapstone on the table for him to write.
He raised his hands, resting his left hand on his right so it wouldn't get in the way (though this new… suit seemed ambidextrous, he still preferred his right), and wrote: Better than alternative. He had to press down quite hard for the soapstone to imprint on the slate. Chalk would have been preferable.
"I'll take your word for it." Farron leaned back in her chair, put her legs up on the desk, leaned the bident against the wall then removed the glove on her right hand, using it to pick up a cup of tea. "I'd offer you some, but…"
Gilderoy wrote. Not helmet. Artificial body.
"I know."
Gilderoy tilted his head.
"I'd recognise Doctor Polendina's work anywhere, Mr Ornstein. Oh, and the bident too—of course I know who you are. Don't look so… I was going to say shocked, but it's hard to read you." She took a sip, then grimaced. "Nothing stays warm for long here, does it? I assume you're acting under his orders too."
Why?
"Well, he's hardly one to share his… more impressive tech," Eliza explained.
Gilderoy tapped the slate, pointing to the most recent word. Why?
Eliza snorted. "Because he's a dick."
Not the question.
She narrowed her eyes. "Don't push your luck." She set the teacup down again and tugged her glove back on. "You took quite a risk turning yourself in. Did you know I'd understand you weren't in control?"
He shook his head.
"Then tell me why you came."
Can't run. Can't go back. If he went back, Watts would give him more orders. He couldn't afford to lose these loopholes.
She sighed. "Tell me why you're here. I won't ask again."
Ornstein made to write, but the slate was full. He tried to erase it, but his metal hands were ineffective. Eliza rolled her eyes and took the slate.
But she did not yet wipe it clean. She ran her finger through the soapstone, smearing it to form new words, and then turned it around to face him.
Believe you. Ears everywhere, she'd written.
Then she flipped it back around, wiped it clean with her sleeve, and passed it back to him.
He looked up at her, his optical receptors zooming in on her face. She gave away no hints.
Shaking his head, confused, Gilderoy decided that it was safest, for now, to continue the conversation as it had been going. Looking for Winter, he wrote. That was the second loophole. He couldn't actively seek her out, but turning himself in could allow him to 'rile up' the Legion further—as per Watts' order—and, if Winter Schnee were captured by the same people…
Well, he'd be in business.
Escaping Watts, he added.
"Watts?"
Dr P dead. Arthur W in control.
Eliza sighed and ran her hands through her hair. Ornstein saw, as the hair atop her head flattened, her hands subtly raise for a moment, as if over a bump on her head. His optical receptors zoomed and refocused, and he noted two nubs on either side of her cranium, exactly where a faunus' ears might be.
"Let's get one thing straight," she said, reaching for the slate and writing on it. "We are not friends. We are not allies. Even if I knew where Winter was, I wouldn't tell you, much less let you go to her. I'm willing to humour you a little, but you are still my—our—prisoner."
She turned the slate around. Help each other. She scrubbed it off and passed the slate back.
How? Gilderoy wrote.
Her eyes widened, and she leaned forwards in her chair, resting her chin on her hand. It would have been a perfectly normal pose, had she not rushed into it, and were her fingers not tapping against the side of her face, right next to her eye.
A chill ran down Ornstein's spine. The fact that, technically, he did not have a spine, told him that something was very wrong.
She was telling him that they were being watched now too.
"So," Eliza asked, "what does Watts want with me?"
Provoke you. Distract Ironwood.
"Curious. And he got control over you before killing Geppetto, then?"
Gilderoy nodded. How did you know Doctor P?
"It's complicated. He saved my life long ago, and he held it over my head. Said he'd given us a great gift. That it was only fair he—" she cut herself off, gritting her teeth. "Not now," she muttered.
Gilderoy wrote a question mark on the slate.
Eliza stood, reaching for her mask. The door was flung open by a member of the Legion. "Sir," he said. "We've got company."
"Yes, yes, I know." She gestured to Gilderoy. "Take him to a cell. Is Winter with them?" she asked.
"We don't—"
"Never mind," she said. "They're heading for the relay. I'll cut them off." She unstrapped her gun from her hip and reached for the greatsword he'd brought. "I was in need of a new sword," she muttered. She offered him a nod in thanks, then ran at the window, crashing through it and spraying glass outwards into the snow to plummet seven stories to the ground below.
/-/
The very air around Quelana was supercharged with heat. The slightest motion on her part ignited a fire wherever she wished, and she shaped the flames to her will. The foolish soldier who tried to run at her with a sword was stopped in his tracks by a series of fiery ropes that grew in the air around him. He halted, standing stock-still, sweat forming on his brow, his skin going red, unable to move for fear of burning himself.
Artorias conked him on the head as he passed by, his attention focused on Corsac and Fennec. The two remained at range, raising their daggers, and unleashed a barrage of dust-based blasts: fire and wind.
Both dust types splashed harmlessly off Ana's aura, the condensed air igniting before it reached her.
The bigger risk, for now, were the White Fang soldiers moving to surround them from a safer distance, raising rifles. Ana's semblance provided no extra protection from those.
Well, unless she made it hot enough to melt the bullets. He didn't doubt that she could, though probably not over such a large area.
Artorias dashed past her, deploying his shield to block the initial barrage. His brow dripped with sweat from the immense heat.
"I've got it," Ana said, completely unphased. Her semblance left her entirely immune to the effects of high temperatures, as long as her aura remained intact. It enabled her to use techniques with burn dust that others could only dream of. She swept her hand outwards, conjuring lances of fire around her before sending them screaming away towards the White Fang. "Get the Albains," she said.
Artorias nodded and, now that the gunmen were occupied, turned, stowing his shield once more. Corsac was fiddling with his dagger—changing a dust cartridge, it seemed—while Fennec ran for an airship.
"Ana!" he called, pointing to it with his sword. Most of the gunmen had taken cover from her assault behind the shipping containers, and she'd been approaching their line, conjuring ropes of flame to tear their cover apart. But now she turned and reached out with her hand. Fire surged from her fingertips, melting a hole straight through the airship's hull and out the other side in an instant. Fennec skidded to a halt, eyes wide.
A bolt of blue energy streaked past Artorias, melting as it went to splash against Quelana's body, evaporating into steam mere seconds after. "Back away, brother!" Corsac yelled, charging another blast of dust.
"Keep them off me!" Ana yelled, backhanding a White Fang soldier who'd thought to run at her with a sword while she was distracted. The blow left a red knuckle-print on his cheek that likely wouldn't fade. She continued pursuing the ones with guns, who were backing further and further away now, almost to the treeline.
Artorias barrelled into Corsac, his first wide arc forcing Corsac to leap back, off balance, then shoulder checking him to the ground. Corsac rolled to his feet quickly, but Artorias hadn't planned to take the opportunity to strike, rather using it to position himself so that both brothers would be attacking from the same direction. A quick twist to the left sent Fennec's blast of wind dust spiralling past, and he turned the movement into another swipe, batting aside Corsac's wild jab.
One brother moved to the side, and the other vaulted over his back. Artorias leaned away, Fennec's dagger splitting the air where his face had been.
It was clear already that, alone, either of the Albains would have been no threat for a huntsman, but together they showed promise, making up for each other's failings. Neither fought with defence in mind—indeed, their weapons were so small and light that blocking or parrying were barely options, especially against a larger weapon—but together they were able to make up for it in the speed of their combined assault. Artorias backed away, sword flashing up and down, left and right, quick enough to parry but never enough to strike back himself.
He was pressured, but not to the point of panic.
Corsac and Fennec's tactics would be effective against people without huntsman training: people whose physical conditioning and aura control weren't quite up to par, people who couldn't draw out a fight for longer than a few seconds. But the more they threw themselves against him, the more they tired, especially with Ana's intense heat sapping their energy. Eventually, they would make a mistake.
When it came, it came with a certain detachment that surprised Artorias.
He'd expected to spot it and for his heart to sing, for the tide of battle to sweep him up in a dance of dust and steel, as it always did.
For the sweat and the blood and the pain to wash away his discontent. For it to distract him. To make him feel, for a moment, whole.
But all it came with was a strange detachment, as if he was merely observing someone else in his body.
As he backed away, leading the Albains around the airfield, his boot kicked against a discarded rifle. Corsac lunged, thinking it would throw Artorias' gait—instead, the wolf dove to the side, rolling as he hit the ground. The motion brought his sword arcing upwards to cut along Corsac's outstretched arm.
Aura spluttered, sparked—then gave out. The sword cut through flesh, scoring a deep wound just below Corsac's right elbow.
"Brother!" Fennec's blade drove for Artorias' chest while he was still finding his footing, and he took the full force of the blow on his breastplate, stumbling away a few steps. Fennec came at him relentlessly, but he was now alone, his brother nursing a wound, and it was a simple matter for Artorias to parry too wild a strike, twist, then jam his pommel into Fennec's chest, sending him stumbling backwards.
He stepped into Fennec's guard, ducked his flailing swipe, then spun, slamming his elbow into the side of Fennec's head.
The White Fang lieutenant dropped like a rock.
He turned his attention to Corsac—
Who had disappeared.
A weight crashed into him from the side, and he and Corsac rolled, eventually settling with the taller of the two brothers on top. Artorias, a little dazed, refocused his aura to stop the first downwards stab from piercing his throat. Cobalt aura sparked in protest.
Corsac's second attempt was halted by Artorias grabbing his wrists to keep the blade away from him, muscles screaming and straining. Blood from Corsac's wound dripped in his eye. Artorias grit his teeth, struggling to hold the blade's tip mere centimetres from his throat.
Corsac growled. The dust in the weapon began to prime, gathering around the point to deliver a blast of wind dust to Artorias at point-blank range.
I wonder if I'll die, he thought. The idea that he should have been more distressedat the prospect barely crossed his mind.
The air grew suddenly very cold.
A tendril of flame exploded into being, wrapping around Corsac's torso to pull him upwards. The dust blast went wide, and Corsac fell to the ground, his head cracking against the concrete at Ana's feet.
There was a whip in her hand that spat and crackled and glowed with power, carving a trench in the concrete where it rested against the ground. For a moment, she stood stock still, a scowl marking her face and her eyes narrowed, but then she looked away and let go of the whip, which scattered as embers in the breeze.
"I thought you said you'd be alright."
"I promised no such thing."
/-/
Jaune twisted, ducked, and shoved, sending the legionnaire into the path of Solaire's shieldbash. He tumbled to the bottom of the stairs, then did not move.
Jaune followed him down, stepping over his still body to the door that led to the back courtyard, and to the backup relay beyond. The doorknob was icy cold—and also locked.
"Can either of you pick a lock?"
Ren stepped forwards and shot it. The door swung inwards, spilling snow onto the floor.
"That works."
They stepped out. Across the courtyard lay the backup relay, the door ajar. Jaune led the way, trudging through the snow.
"Jaune!" Ren crashed into him from behind, throwing him to the ground. Where he'd stood, the Profaned Greatsword came plunging into the snow, the woman wielding it masked and wearing a red cloak.
She pulled the familiar blade loose with her left hand and adopted a wide, low stance. Her right hand was hidden beneath her cloak.
"Surrender," she said.
Jaune and Ren pulled each other up, drawing their weapons. "Where is Vengarl?" Jaune growled.
She cocked her head.
"Eliza Farron, I presume," Ren said. "That sword belongs to a friend of ours. What have you done with him?" Ren asked.
"Then you won't surrender?"
"Where is he?!" Jaune charged in, raising his sword.
Her right hand flickered out, revealing a revolver. She fired, once, at Jaune's feet, spraying a cloud of snow into his face. He faltered, just for a moment, and barely brought his sword down in time to parry her blow as she rushed towards him. He backpedalled, off-balance, his feet struggling to find purchase in the snow, as she attacked, sword flashing from this angle and that, her cloak billowing up to hide her movements until it was almost too late to defend himself.
But then came Ren from the side, heralded by a burst of gunfire. She was forced to let up, ducking beneath Ren's first swipe and giving Jaune a chance to recover his footing—but then, as she came back up, she brought her pommel screaming towards Jaune's chin.
He twisted to the side and swept Crocea Mors outwards, intending to score a long cut across her back, but kept close to him, wrapping her right arm around his left shoulder and rolling across him to switch their positions. Jaune suddenly found himself in the path of Ren's downwards cut.
Ren pulled the blow, and Farron continued the movement to throw Jaune bodily into the snow.
Jaune snarled and pushed himself back to his feet. Ren was struggling with Farron, managing to lock her sword between StormFlower's blades and wrenching it down and to the side, but catching a fist to the face for his troubles.
And Solaire…
The Atlesian remained near the door, leaning against the wall as if it was the only thing keeping him upright, his face pale and his eyes wide. One hand clutched his chest through his chainmail.
"Solaire!" Jaune called.
"I… I can't…"
Whatever he was saying was drowned out by five gunshots punching through the storm in quick succession.
Ren staggered backwards, his aura shuddering and flickering, just about doubled over in pain.
Jaune unhooked his sheath from his belt and ran over to him. Farron was content to wait, reloading her gun before and moving to stand between them and the relay.
"You alright?" Jaune asked.
Ren nodded, though he looked pale, and even now his aura was noticeably sparking. He wouldn't last much longer.
"I'll handle her," Jaune said quietly. "Slip past. Get to the relay."
Ren nodded and backed away.
Jaune turned, deploying his shield.
"You can still surrender," she said. Her mask was cold and still, betraying nothing.
"So can you." Jaune's bravado did not at all match how nervous he really felt.
"Hmm." She raised her gun and squeezed the trigger.
Jaune brought up his shield, counting the shots. One, two three—then she was on top of him, sword crashing down towards him. Backwards he went, shield raised, twisting and sidestepping and blocking and—rarely—jabbing in retaliation. Though he was on the back foot again, he was not caught off-guard, and as long as he fought defensively he'd be able to hold her off for a long, long time.
And, as he went, he kept counting bullets. The fourth and fifth came in quick succession, aimed for his thigh, when a powerful downwards strike had jarred his shield arm. The sixth was used to force him to raise his guard once more when a quick thrust cut into her aura, pinging off his shield.
Her gun empty, his shield collapsed into a sheath, and he went on the offensive.
She was nimble and quick, and covered as her right side was by her cloak it was difficult to see her exact movements, but now he was able to pressure her, sword-hand focused on breaking through her guard and off-hand batting aside her sword. She spun and twisted, wraithlike, few of his blows connecting but all forcing her backwards, leaping away then back in with a strike Jaune was forced to block, crossing sword and sheath both to catch the blow.
Their blades locked. Her right hand came up as well, shoving the barrel of her gun under his chin.
But it's empty, Jaune thought blankly.
She squeezed the trigger, and Jaune's head snapped backwards.
His aura had prevented the bullet from breaking the skin, but not from the crack that left his ears ringing, nor the force of the shot that sent him sprawling in the snow, his grip on his weapons loosening.
"Solaire!" he roared.
She stepped over him and fired twice more into his torso, then, upon seeing that his aura remained intact, once more.
Jaune's aura broke. The bullet lodged in his breastplate. The impact punched the breath from his lungs.
"Jaune!"
With no small effort, he raised his head. Ren stood in the entrance to the relay.
"It's over, Farron," he said. "Ironwood is coming."
She removed her mask. "That's the least of your worries."
/-/
Nora had expected her footsteps to echo in the tunnels and was disappointed to find that they did not. The sound was rather muted, in fact.
Pursing her lips, she stomped her foot and listened closely. From down a tunnel to her left, she heard the sound bounce back—only once.
"Quiet," Flynt said, consulting the map. "It's this way." He gestured down the left-hand tunnel.
Flynt was not good company. That was not to say he was bad company. But Nora needed somebody she could bounce off of. Like Ren. Sure, Ren was quiet, but the occasional "Hmm" or "I see" or "Oh really?" was all Nora could ask for.
But she gave Flynt the benefit of the doubt. He didn't seem to mind as long as she spoke low enough for her voice to not travel (though he never responded the way she wanted), and they were on a mission, after all. He was probably just focused.
Their journey took them from well-maintained passages of stone and the occasional wooden support to an older part of the tunnels, the walls sagging inwards in places and dirt spilling onto the path. On they went, Flynt checking the map where necessary, the tunnels growing more decrepit as they went. But the map held true.
And, when they reached their destination, they found the passage covered up by wooden planks.
"You can do the honours," Flynt said.
Nora reached for Magnhildr. From behind, she felt a light breeze, and glanced over her shoulder, confused.
"Did you feel that?" she asked.
Flynt nodded, reaching for his trumpet.
There was nowhere for the wind to have gone—the passage had been boarded up quite thoroughly, leaving only little gaps through which they should have heard the wind whistling. In fact, they ought to have heard the wind in the tunnels anyway.
They stood still and silent for a time, waiting for anything more. But there was no more.
"I don't like this," Flynt said. "Get that wall down. We need to wrap this up fast."
Nora hefted her hammer and, with a single downwards swing, destroyed the wall, sending splinters flying against their auras.
Beyond, the tunnels opened up into an underground lake that had long ago frozen over.
And, embedded within the ice, were Grimm. Countless Grimm—Deathstalkers, some as big as paladins; fish-like Grimm with hundreds of rows of teeth, agape forevermore; Grimm like rats, their ribcages angled out of their black skin and sharpened to deadly points; and even one, strange, vaguely-humanoid Grimm, its hand stretching towards the surface but unable to move, its three fingers ending in little claws, a bone plate on its chest split down the middle like a seam.
But, worse than all that, was the dark shape at the bottom of the lake.
Nora felt another gust of wind, a chill down her spine, and she shivered.
Far, far beneath her feet, a red eye opened, as wide across as she herself was tall. Then another. And another. Dozens of them, hundreds of them, cracking open all over the massive Grimm's body.
The ice shuddered.
A bit of an action-heavy chapter. Artorias' recent breakdown leads to a shift in his approach to battle. Farron's first appearance indicates that there's more to her than meets the eye. And a big Grimm next chapter.
