AUTHOR'S NOTES: Oddly appropriate that the longest chapter of RWBY is also (probably) the longest chapter of this story. It's a long one, but it tells the story of Ozpin and Salem in this world.

I tried to make the Cuban Missile Crisis segments as accurate as possible. The only real person in this story is Allen Dulles; everyone else that has a speaking part is fictional. (Naturally, Kennedy, Khrushchev, etc. were real people too.) It was indeed that close to global nuclear war, so the events are fairly plausible. I may be wrong about the road at Guantanamo; I don't think that actually exists.

Hold on tight.

Almaty International Airport Hotel

Almaty, Republic of Kazakhstan

25 July 2001

"Still can't believe Pyrrha did that!" Ruby Rose gushed. "I'm putting her in for the CMH! Not even joking."

"You do know that it's not actually called the Congressional Medal of Honor." Weiss sucked in her breath as her left leg tweaked a little. "It's just…ow…the Medal of Honor. I'm German, and even I know that."

"Well, hello Miss Smarty Pants!" Ruby stuck her tongue out at her. "Still going to do it. Okay, one more flight of stairs."

"Wunderlich." Weiss had one arm around Ruby and another around Oscar as they helped her hobble up the stairs.

"You sure you're going to be able to fly tomorrow?" Oscar asked.

"Sure," Weiss replied, though she was gritting her teeth, "I'll just ice it up tonight. No problem."

Ruby looked at her friend with concern, but eventually they got up the stairs, and unlocked her room. The people of Kazakhstan loved Huntsmen and Huntresses, especially their cash, and had given Ruby and Norn Flight an entire floor of the airport hotel. Cardin had been flown back to China to rejoin what was left of Cardinal Flight; they would not be going the rest of the way to Europe. Each pilot had gotten their own room, though Ren and Nora insisted on sharing. Somehow the luggage pods on the aircraft had not been torn off in the battle, so everyone still had a change of clothes and personal items. In Oscar's duffel bag, slung over one shoulder, was JINN.

Once on level ground, Weiss shrugged off Oscar and Ruby and limped into her room. "I knew you were overdoing it," Ruby admonished.

"Ruby, I'm fine. I just strained the ligaments a bit. I'll be all right." To prove it, she grabbed her duffel off Ruby's shoulder and carried it into the room. She looked around. "Well, it's not the Adlon in Berlin, but I suppose it'll do." The hotel room did look a little run down: it had been built in the Soviet era, forty years previously; the window provided a nice overlook of the airport, but the wallpaper was peeling in places, and the décor was clearly meant to evoke a bit of Americana—as in a 1970s-era Holiday Inn. Weiss put her bag down on the orangish carpet, and lifted the covers on the bed to look for bedbugs. "I'm glad I don't have a black light. This place would probably look like a Jackson Pollock painting."

Ruby had no idea who or what Weiss was talking about. "Guess it's not up to an heiress' standards." She winked to show it was a joke.

Weiss sniffed a laugh. "Former heiress. And I've been in worse." Being imprisoned in Raven's camp had given her a new appreciation for beds in any form. She flopped onto the bed, which groaned alarmingly.

"Want me to get you some ice?" Oscar held up the empty ice bucket.

"Oscar, please. Thank you, but I'm fine."

Ruby tugged at Oscar's shoulder. "C'mon, Oscar. Weissy's being all independent on us." Weiss tapped her forehead with her index finger—an insult in Germany—and they left.

Ruby's room was next to Weiss, naturally, but Oscar's was down the hall, wedged in between Blake and Qrow. Ruby looked down the hallway and waved to Pyrrha, who waved back and trudged further down. The Greek girl looked utterly spent; Yang had to lift her out of her F-22. "Hope she doesn't pass out before she gets to her bed," Ruby commented.

"She really is incredible," Oscar said, watching her.

Ruby felt an odd bit of jealousy at that comment, but fought it off. "Thanks for your help with Weiss."

He laughed. "No worries. It was the least I could do."

"Well…good night. I think we'll sleep in tomorrow, so we'll get up around 0800."

"Sounds good."

They stared at each other for a long minute, both seized with awkwardness. Neither Ruby nor Oscar were exactly the makeout queen and king of their respective high schools; both were attracted to each other, but were far too anxious to simply ask the other for what both were thinking about. Instead, Oscar gave a cross between a shrug and a bow, said "See you in the morning," and walked down the hall to his room. Dammit! he cursed himself.

Dammit, Ruby thought, and opened the door to her room.

Oscar got settled in; his room was an exact copy of Weiss', down to the "artwork" on the wall that was obviously cut out of a magazine and framed. He didn't begrudge it; the Kazakhs were not exactly awash in money. Their nation survived by being between Iran and China, with enough oil reserves to keep themselves afloat. Historically, Kazakh land extended far to the northwest, but GRIMM had forced them back into the mountains after getting their de facto independence after the Third World War. Luckily for them, the only significant nuclear strike on their territory was at Baikonur, the former Cosmodrome. Also luckily, GRIMM tended to concentrate more to either side of their territory, and Kazakhstan survived in the eye of the storm.

The hotel extended to the pilots complimentary room service, and Oscar called down for some dinner while he unpacked. He'd stayed in worse, too: his room in the barn back in Nebraska was no fancier than this.

Oscar reached into his flight suit pocket and pulled out a picture. In theory, pilots were supposed to "sanitize" their wallet and clothes before taking off, leaving behind all identifying items like personal pictures; pilots were required to fly with their military ID and that was all. Under the Code of Conduct, it was name, rank, serial number. The rule was generally ignored, because GRIMM didn't exactly take prisoners. He ran his hand over it. It was a picture of himself and his mother, Veronica Pine. She'd been so proud of him when he'd been accepted for Navy flight training, but clearly she'd also been hiding the secret of who his father was for Oscar's entire life. He couldn't bring himself to hate her for it—if Rissa Arashikaze was any indication, Ozpin had been neck deep in black operations, and assuming he'd even told Veronica anything about it, she obviously had to keep it very secret.

Oscar put the picture back in his flight suit. Assuming he lived long enough to get back to Pilger, he'd have to ask his mother more about Ozpin. Arashikaze had been evasive about their relationship, and had only given him a basic biography of his father, which was impressive enough. As he changed into a T-shirt and shorts, he wondered how his parents had met.

I'll have to ask Mom about that sometime, he thought, and stuffed his flight suit back into the duffel. His hands brushed up against the cold metal of the JINN console. He stopped, and pulled the console out. "I wonder if…" he said aloud, his voice trailing off. He remembered Arashikaze's orders, but the temptation was strong. Would anyone know? Would it really get him court-martialed? After all, Ozpin was his father; he deserved to know something about the man.

Wrestling with his conscience and not a small amount of fear, Oscar closed the curtains and set JINN on the little nightstand. He unhooked the telephone and even unplugged it, and made sure his cellphone was off. This is stupid, he warned himself. That little CIA woman is going to murder me. Probably slowly. Still, he opened the console anyway; it looked like the GameBoy he had as a kid. He hesitated, then laughed at himself. A little keyboard folded out, with a power button at the upper left, but even if he turned the thing on, he didn't have the access codes. He blew out his breath and stared at the screen. "Yeah. Not like you'd probably know anyway, JINN."

He went to put it back in its console, but suddenly the screen clicked on, and he heard the computer power up. As Oscar watched in shock and terror, lasers shot out of the screen and played on the ceiling. The lasers came together and slowly coalesced into the image of a naked woman with blue skin and pointed ears. She stared down at Oscar and smiled. "Good evening," she said, in a voice that was tinny and yet sultry at the same time. "I am JINN. What can I do for you?"

Yang stripped off her flight suit and stretched in her underwear. "Man, I need to shower before I curdle." She looked over and sighed. "Blake, you don't have to do that."

"I'm…I'm just trying to help." Blake was unpacking Yang's duffel.

Yang went over and pulled out a change of underwear before Blake could stop her. "Blake, I appreciate it, but I'm not a cripple. Hell, Weiss probably needs more help than I do. Okay?"

Blake's ears flattened against her head and she looked away. "You're right. Sorry." She chuckled. "Guess I just feel the need to help somebody."

"Well, after I shower, we can run down to the airport bar; see if Almaty's got anything like a nightlife." She leaned over and ostentatiously sniffed. "And Blakey, no offense, but you're stinky. Let's go shower." Blake's eyes widened. Yang made a face. "Not together. Definitely not together."

"Whoooaa," Ruby said, standing in the open doorway. There was a long box under her arm. "What did I walk in on?"

Yang reached out and pulled Blake to her side. "Blake and I are going to shower together and make sweet lesbian love. Want to join in? We can get Weiss and have a Ruby Flight orgy. I'm okay with incest. You're pretty damn hot, Rubes."

Ruby looked stunned and nauseated at the same time. "What the actual…"

Yang let go of Blake, who was now the same shade as Crescent Rose's trim, and shrugged, pointing to the box under Ruby's arm. "Or we can play Monopoly. You know, I'm good either way."

Before either her sister or her best friend could reply, Qrow leaned into the doorway. In one hand was a bottle of vodka. "Well, this is a touching scene."

Ruby was very glad her uncle was there. She knew Yang was not serious, but it was still enough to make her a little sick. "Oh hey, Uncle Qrow." She held up Monopoly. "Wanna play?"

"Kick your butts? Sure." Qrow stripped the sealant off the top of the vodka. He was more of a poker player, but Monopoly would do. Strike Flight had played it a lot, until one night at Lakenheath when Summer and Raven had come to blows.

"Cool!" Ruby set the box down on Yang's bed. "I'll go get Oscar."

"Where's Maria?" Qrow asked.

Ruby pointed down. "The hotel gave her a room on the first floor. I imagine she's sound asleep by now."

In actuality, Maria Calavera was at the airport bar. She swirled the tequila in the glass, surprised to find some in Kazakhstan. She noticed a goateed, sophisticated-looking older man staring at her from down the bar. She raised the glass to him. He got up and took the barstool next to her. "How are you?" she smiled.

Ruby went over and knocked on the door. There was no answer, but she thought she heard voices. With about as much tact and respect for privacy as her sister, Ruby opened the door and looked in. "Hey, Oscar, we're getting together for some Monopoly, you want to…uh…" She had stepped inside the room, and saw him sitting on his bed, staring at some sort of holographic projection, which was pretty impressive on its own. Then Ruby realized the hologram was of a naked woman, which raised all sorts of possibilities, all of them meaning she'd interrupted something. "Er…" She was torn between quietly retreating, screaming, or punching Oscar for watching porn in his room.

Oscar turned to her and pointed at the hologram. "Ruby, uh…this…this is not what it looks like…"

The hologram turned towards Ruby. It blinked a few times, then smiled. "Good evening, Captain Ruby Rose. I am JINN."

Ruby had left the door wide open, and Blake walked in. "Ruby, I'm going to grab a shower and holy shit!" She pointed at JINN. "What is that?"

The hologram turned to the Faunus and once more blinked a few times. "Good evening, Captain Blake Belladonna. I am JINN."

Blake, showing more forethought than either Oscar or Ruby, slammed the door behind her. She stalked forward. "Shut that thing off!" she snapped. "Good God, Oscar! What the hell are you thinking? Arashikaze's going to have you breaking rocks until you're a hundred!"

"I didn't mean to!" Oscar tried to explain. "I just…it turned itself on…" That wasn't quite true, but it wasn't a lie, either.

"You shouldn't even have it open!" Blake snatched up the console. Ruby noticed JINN was watching her with an almost amused look, though that could have been a trick of the light; it wasn't like the AI was sentient. She hoped. "How does it even know who I am?"

"I was programmed with the identities of Ruby Flight at 2105 Hours Zulu, 13 May 2001," JINN answered. "It was done remotely by Captain Oscar Ozpin, US Navy."

Blake stopped and looked up at the hologram. "Why?" She finally noticed something else. "And why are you naked?"

"To answer your first query: Captain Ozpin entered the identities of all members of flights assigned for Vytal Flag, with special emphasis on Ruby Flight. I do not have the information as to why. To answer the second query: my appearance is reminscent of the genie in the story of Aladdin and the Enchanted Lamp. Captain Ozpin believed that the use of the feminine would make people more likely to listen to me, while my nudity would get people's attention. If you find my nudity offensive, I have a censoring function. Would you like to engage the censoring function?"

"Yeah, please!" Ruby half-yelled. She didn't know what was worse: having a buck naked, top secret hologram looming over them, or the fact that JINN had a much better figure than she did. A white toga appeared around JINN, covering her breasts and crotch. "Oscar, why did you switch the damn thing on?"

"He didn't," JINN once more said, before Oscar could reply. "I have a proximity function and activate when my designation is spoken. My activation sequence is also triggered by certain voice patterns. Ensign Oscar Pine is one of those voices."

Oscar jumped to his feet. "Me? Why?"

JINN's expression turned somber. "Captain Ozpin was your father. He programmed me to tell you about him should we ever meet."

"How did you know what my voice sounded like?"

"Your voice was recorded during a presentation you gave at Pensacola on 11 December 2000. Captain Ozpin was in attendance for that reason." She paused. "Would you like to learn about your father, Ensign Pine? I am cleared to give you that information."

Ruby put out a hand. "Oscar, wait. I want to get Yang and Uncle Qrow."

Blake covered her eyes with a hand. "Ruby, we're in enough trouble as it is. Arashikaze's going to kill us all for this."

"In for a penny, in for a pound, Blake. Besides…didn't you want to know what Ozpin's deal was?"

Truth to tell, Blake was very curious about the mysterious commander of Joint Base Beacon, but she also knew the proverb about curious cats. "All right. Why not. We can keep each other company at Leavenworth."

"Be right back." Ruby ran out the door.

"Can't believe we're doing this," Qrow said, sitting crosslegged on the floor. "God, Rissa's going to have us all thrown to sharks or something. Besides, I already know some of this."

"Do you know the whole story?" Ruby countered. "Uncle Qrow, aren't you curious who Ozpin and Salem really are?"

Qrow took a long drink of the vodka. "Yeah," he said at length.

"Do we want to tell the others?" Blake asked, switching off the lights.

"Pyrrha's out, and Ren and Nora are probably banging each other into a stupor," Yang replied. "Besides, this way Arashikaze can't hang all of us."

Ruby sat down next to her sister. It felt like they were getting ready to watch a movie, or old-time slides with their dad back home. JINN had remained motionless, that fey smile still on her lips. She nodded to Oscar, who took a deep breath. "JINN?" he said.

Immediately her attention shifted to him. "Yes, Ensign Pine?"

"Tell us about Captain Ozpin…and Salem."

JINN was static for a moment, and for a second Ruby wondered if the computer had frozen. She was leaning forward to smack it when suddenly JINN was replaced with a two-dimensional photo of a beautiful young woman, with light blond hair and blue eyes…though the beauty was tarnished slightly by the Soviet uniform she wore. "Beginning query," JINN intoned. "Captain Oscar Ozpin, United States Navy, and Natasha Kukharchuk, KGB."

Office of Naval Intelligence Headquarters, Old Executive Building

Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America

14 Februrary 1959

"Lieutenant Oscar Ozpin reporting for duty, sir." Ozpin snapped to attention.

"Good morning, Lieutenant. Have a seat." Rear Admiral Eric Moran motioned to one of the high-backed chairs around the heavy, long oak table. "This is Commander Richard Winkle, who runs our Soviet Navy bureau," Moran said, nodding towards the third Navy man, who like Moran and Ozpin, were wearing the dress blue winter uniform; Washington was typically dreary and snowy this Valentine's Day. "This is Lisa Uragano, with the Central Intelligence Agency." Ozpin nodded to the young brunette, who cooly returned it. "And I'm sure you recognize Miss Uragano's boss, Director Allen Dulles." Ozpin swallowed nervously and shook the hand of the gray-haired, mustachioed man. Moran signaled the Marine at the door, who switched off the lights, left the room, and locked the door.

"Now how long have you been with ONI, Lieutenant?" Moran asked.

"A year, sir. Graduated from Annapolis, class of '58," Ozpin answered.

"You were interested in transferring to flight training? May I ask why?"

Ozpin fought down a wave of nervousness. "Permission to speak freely, sir?" Moran nodded. "I'm bored. I've been cracking Soviet naval dispatches for a year, and, to be honest, the fun ended six months ago. I didn't join the Navy to sit in an office. I'd like to go to sea—and I've always enjoyed flying."

"Mm. You're already a qualified pilot." Moran grinned. "Well, Ozpin, the Navy isn't run at the behest of Lieutenants, much less junior grade ones, but I think I can make you a deal. I'm going to give you a two-year assignment. After the successful conclusion of that, I'll make sure you get a slot at Pensacola in late '62. How's that sound?"

Ozpin hesitated. Since Moran hadn't mentioned where the assignment was, he was probably going to some godawful place like Shemya, Alaska or Coco Solo, Panama. Or worse. Still, it was a chance at wings of gold. "I think you got a deal, sir." Ozpin smiled.

Moran laughed. "All right. Commander, let's have it."

Winkle reached out and switched on a projector. It took a minute to warm up, then it showed a color picture of a woman. Ozpin resisted the urge to let out a low whistle. The woman was quite beautiful, with light blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. She was wearing a Soviet military uniform, but the collar tabs were dark blue; she was Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, Committee for State Security—better known as the KGB. "This is Senior Lieutenant Natasha Kukharchuk," Winkle explained. "Do you recognize the surname, Lieutenant?"

Ozpin recognized that as a test. "Yes, sir. Isn't that the maiden name of Premier Khrushchev's wife?"

"It is. She's Khrushchev's niece by marriage—hence the fact that she's a Senior Lieutenant with highly secret clearance at the age of 25." Winkle chuckled. "Despite the Soviet Union's claim of equality for all, nepotism never changes, no matter what governmental model." Moran politely coughed and Winkle hurriedly moved on; Allen Dulles' brother, John Foster Dulles, was the Secretary of State for the current Eisenhower administration. "She was educated at Moscow University, and joined the KGB immediately after graduation. Her major was physics—specifically, nuclear physics. She graduated near the top of her class, so her rank isn't entirely due to being related to the top man in the USSR. Her current job is working in the KGB's liasion to Strategic Rocket Forces—the Soviets' ICBM and MRBM forces, as you know." He sat back down. "Miss Uragano, if you could…"

She stood up and walked over to the projection screen; Ozpin noticed that the woman was only five feet tall, and young herself. "Lieutenant, my job at CIA is keeping tabs on people like Kukharchuk. The reason why you're here and being introduced to her is that Lieutenant Kukharchuk is considering defection."

"Holy shit—er, sorry, sir," Ozpin quickly apologized. Everyone around the table laughed, except for Uragano, whose expression did not change. "You see why she's suddenly on our radar," she said to Ozpin.

"I do, miss," Ozpin replied. "Lieutenant Kukharchuk would have access to Soviet missile technology. Plus her relationship with Premier Khrushchev would be an embarrassment to him personally if she were to defect. It would give us a huge leg up in the Cold War."

"And that's where you come in, Lieutenant," Dulles said, tamping down tobacco in his pipe. "We want you to make contact with Kukharchuk."

"Me, sir? Why?" Ozpin asked.

"Quite simple, son. You speak Russian fluently, for one thing—don't worry, Kukharchuk speaks English fluently as well. You'll be assigned to the naval attache's office in Moscow, where meetings between you two will be arranged by Miss Uragano. The KGB will be watching, of course, but we're planning on that. You see, Lieutenant Kukharchuk's cover will be that she's trying to turn you, to obtain secrets on how good our cryptography is. We'll give you enough not to compromise us, but enough to make the Russians think they're compromising us. Then, when the time is right, when your friendship is established, she'll walk into the American embassy, for a dinner date, perhaps—and then ask for asylum."

"We expect you to take it slow," Moran explained. "That's why it's a two-year assignment. We're going to put the KGB to sleep, make them think Kukharchuk is working you. Might even leak that you want to defect at some point. Then boom, she's suddenly working for us." Moran grinned. "Not to mention the fact that she's rather pretty." Ozpin got Moran's drift: neither ONI nor the CIA would mind overmuch if he seduced Kukharchuk. Looking at her picture, Ozpin found himself rather looking forward to the attempt. "Now, we're going to put this on a volunteer basis, Lieutenant. You didn't enlist in the Navy to fly a desk, but you didn't enlist to be a spy, either."

Ozpin had already made his decision. He'd always wanted to visit Moscow, and two years in the enemy's capitol, making the acquaintance of a rather beautiful woman—plenty of which could look back on Ozpin and smile in and around Annapolis—and then sliding into his slot at Pensacola. He could see himself flying the new F8U Crusader through the clouds already. "Admiral, sir…when do I leave?"

Moran clapped him on the shoulder. "Attaboy. You'll leave in two weeks."

Dulles brought his pipe to life. "Lieutenant, I don't have to tell you how secret this all is. Our way of life may depend on it."

"No, sir," Ozpin answered.

"One last thing," Dulles told him. "Naturally, we can't refer to Kukharchuk by her name in correspondence, so we've assigned her a codename." He puffed on his pipe. "She's codenamed Salem. Can you remember that, Lieutenant?"

Metropol Hotel

Moscow, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

2 May 1962

"It's such a pretty word," Natasha Kukharchuk said, letting the water stream down her hair. "Salem. I rather like it."

Ozpin carefully shampooed her blonde locks. "I'm not sure I ever told you the background behind it."

"Isn't it like the witch trials back in Massachusetts in the 17th Century?" She smiled over her shoulder at him. Ozpin laughed and nodded. "Another example of how religion is the opiate of the masses."

"Oh, I don't know," Ozpin told her, kissing her shoulder. "You've certainly put a spell on me."

She turned towards him, pressing her breasts against his chest. "And what are you, Oscar Ozpin, but a wizard?"

He bent down and kissed her. "Is that my codename? Baba Yaga?"

Kukharchuk laughed; she had a high, trilling laugh that he found very sexy. Of course, everything was sexy about her. "No, silly. I've told you—your codename is Baum, for the man who wrote The Wizard of Oz. Appropriate, yes?"

"I guess. Wizard would've been better." She kissed his chest. "Natasha…while we're here…" Once they had become lovers, they always discussed secret matters in the shower. Besides being rather fun, the steam tended to defeat and corrode any KGB listening devices that might be in the bathroom. Undoubtedly the entire hotel room had them, but Ozpin's leaks of information to Kukharchuk always took place in the bedroom for that reason. The KGB was satisfied she was being the perfect honey trap—the term for a female spy seducing a target—never knowing that it was just the opposite…though some days Ozpin wasn't quite sure himself.

She sighed and leaned against him. "Yes, of course. Business before pleasure." She shook her head. "I don't really want to tell you. It's bad news."

"What?" Ozpin didn't like the tone in her voice.

"I'm leaving Moscow. They're assigning me to Cuba." She quickly put her hands on his face. "Oscar, my love, it's only temporary. For about six months, perhaps less. Then I'll be back here in Moscow, I swear." She stood on tiptoe, whispering in his ear, her words barely audible. "Then we put the plan in motion." Ozpin hugged her close; the plan was her defection. She would be spirited out of the Soviet Union, given an assumed name, and go into hiding. Not that it mattered, because Ozpin had already planned on marrying her. Even if it meant giving up his naval career, he wanted nothing more than the woman in his arms.

"Why?" he said quietly, into her ear.

"I don't know. But given my expertise…" She dropped down to her feet and raised an eyebrow.

"Shit," Ozpin said. Kukharchuk's expertise was nuclear weapons. If she was being sent to Cuba, where there were no nuclear weapons, it could only mean Khrushchev intended to deploy them. "You know how destabilizing that could be. It could mean war."

"I know. But I know my uncle…I think he's only…what is the term? Saber rattling." She shrugged. "He believes Kennedy is weak. He thinks the United States will just accept the missiles—after all, Kennedy has deployed similar weapons to Turkey."

"He doesn't know Jack Kennedy," Ozpin murmured, using President John F. Kennedy's nickname. "Okay, I'll get it in the pipeline."

"It could be nothing," Kukharchuk replied. "A fact-finding mission." She stuck out her tongue. "Ugh. Sticky humidity. I'm a Moscow girl at heart."

"You were born in the Ukraine."

"Bah! Details!" Kukharchuk grabbed a double handful of Ozpin's buttocks; he gave a surprised squeak. "Enough shop talk. Take me to bed, you wizard."

"You got it…Salem." He kissed her nose and she laughed.

Naval Base Guantanamo Bay

Guantanamo Bay, Cuba

28 October 1962

"Lieutenant, with all due respect…this is the craziest thing I've ever heard of," the Marine sergeant said. "We're damn near at war, and you're meeting with a Russian spy?"

"Sarge, if I don't meet with her, we might just be at war."

"Her?"

Ozpin didn't answer. The two of them were waiting at a point east of the naval base itself, near the Cuban town of Boqueron, the only part of the base where the distance between the two concertina-topped walls was less than a mile. A disused road ran between the two; minefields were on both sides of the road, set by both Cuban and American forces. Behind him and the Marine was a platoon of Marines, in full battle gear, M14s at the ready. In the twilight, across no man's land, Ozpin could see a similar platoon of Cuban troops, with AK-47s. He wondered if they were as nervous and scared as he was.

Finally a gate opened in the Cuban wall, and a Russian jeep drove out, with both a Soviet and a white flag of truce flapping from its fenders. His heart leapt as he made out Natasha Kukharchuk in the backseat. The jeep came on slowly, the driver careful to negotiate the potholed road. Finally, they came to a stop a hundred feet from the Marines, and the driver helped Kukharchuk out of the back. Ozpin heard a sharp intake of breath from the sergeant behind him, but said nothing. Instead, he walked out fifty paces to meet her.

"God, you're beautiful," he blurted.

Kukharchuk stifled her laugh. "I'm huge." She was wearing the olive drab uniform with KGB rank tabs, just like in the picture he'd first seen her in. She wasn't six months pregnant in the picture, though. "I've been craving borscht. I hate borscht."

He wished he could embrace her, but there were too many people around, and too many questions that would be asked. "What have you told the KGB?"

"The truth, for once. You got me pregnant. They'll allow me to keep the baby, but I have to give it up for adoption after I have her. Of course, there is our little plan…"

"Her?" Ozpin couldn't keep the huge smile off his face. They'd only managed to get three letters to each other in the six months they'd been apart.

"Oscar, please. We have other things we must speak of." She held out a hand. "The communication from your President to Prime Minister Castro." He handed her the sealed letter, then a manila package. Kukharchuk looked mystified. "What's this? Additional instructions?"

"A warning," Ozpin said. "To the battery commander at San Cristobal—and you, personally." He raised his hands to take hers, remembered, and dropped them. "Natasha, listen to me. I'm committing treason, but we can't let this get out of hand. You know about the U-2 shootdown earlier today?"

"Yes," she nodded quickly. "It was the Cubans. Please tell the President that. Will you see him?"

"Of course. I'm heading back to Washington within the hour. I was able to convince President Kennedy that you and I were a good back-channel contact."

"Good. It was the Cubans," she repeated. "Fidel's brother Raul ordered the shootdown. Not any of us." She felt the weight of the envelope. "What is it?"

"Invasion plans for Cuba. The President's serious, Natasha. The loss of the U-2 forced his hand. The blockade's been working, he's talking to Khrushchev, but we're in real trouble now. Khrushchev wants our missiles out of Turkey in exchange for yours here, but Kennedy's not crazy about that deal. He wants to go with the original deal—withdraw the missiles in exchange for a noninvasion pledge."

"My uncle is under tremendous pressure," Kukharchuk said. "The hardliners want war. Castro wants war, even if it means the death of everyone in Cuba."

"Which is why I'm giving you that. You have to tell the battery commander not to launch, no matter what. If he does, we're all dead. Those missiles will reach Washington in less than ten minutes—and that's where I'll be, Natasha."

She went pale—paler than usual. "Dear God. When? How long do we have?"

"The President is considering a massive airstrike tomorrow. The 30th at the latest. But he's working on other back-channel contacts with Khrushchev to descalate. Both sides want to, but we've got to give them time." Then Ozpin thought to hell with it and grabbed her hands, then kissed her. "Please, Natasha. Tell him. Tell him he can't launch, or Kennedy will attack, with everything we've got."

"I will. I promise." She touched his face. "It will be all right, Oscar. I love you."

"I love you…" He grinned at her. "Salem."

She smiled. "I will be in Moscow by the end of next month. Our child will be born there, and she will be beautiful." She waved to him, then turned and walked briskly back to the jeep, drying her tears. Ozpin watched her go, then returned to the Marines. The sergeant was gaping at him. "Sir? Who the hell was that, sir?"

"You never saw any of that, Marine," Ozpin commanded. "None of it."

"Yes, sir. Didn't see a thing, sir." He blew out his breath. "You think we're going to live through this?"

"We'd damn well better, Sarge."

Gran Club Santa Lucia

Havana, Cuba

29 October 1962

"No, Uncle!" Natasha Kukharchuk shouted in the phone. "I warned him that it was a warning not to fire, but he said he had to fire before the Americans destroyed his rockets, like the Fascists wiped out our air force at the beginning of the Great Patriotic War! I left to come here to talk to Castro, but he fired thirty minutes after I left!" Her fingers were trembling as she listened. "Ten minutes. That's all, Uncle. Washington's been hit by now." She couldn't hold back a sob. The world was ending. She rubbed her swollen belly. Her child would not have a father, but neither would any other child. "I don't know. Vice-President Johnson is in Tex—"

Without warning, an earsplitting screech burst from the phone. Salem dropped the phone in horror. Her assistant, a Red Army sergeant, looked at her, eyes wide in fear. "Mother of God! What is that?"

Tears ran down her face. "The phone melting. On the other side of the line." In a trance, she hung up the screaming phone. "Moscow's gone. The Americans hit it. Khrushchev is dead. My aunt is dead. Everyone is dead."

"Oh God." The sergeant was from Leningrad. He shook off the horror and grabbed her hand. "We've got to get out of here, Comrade Lieutenant. There's airplanes at San Julian; we might could get back to the Motherland, if there's anything—"

The room was suddenly filled with bright light; luckily, none of them were facing the windows. The sergeant grabbed her and pushed her into the bathroom. "Get in the tub! Keep your head down!" As she half-fell, half-dropped into the tub, he threw himself behind the toilet.

A second later, the world exploded as the shockwave hit the Gran Club Santa Lucia. The hotel was six miles from the epicenter of the detonation of the one megaton warhead, which had been atop an American Atlas ICBM, in the central business district of Havana. The shockwave was entirely silent, and the hotel collapsed under it, the forward walls blowing inwards, every window exploding. On the heels of the shockwave was the heat pulse: everything remotely flammable burst into flames.

The sergeant had saved their lives. The bathroom was centrally located and well built, so it survived the shockwave, while the overbuilt concrete walls shielded them from the heat pulse; burst water pipes acted as a sprinkler system, soaking them in water, protecting them from the intense heat that still would've caused their clothes to catch fire. Kukharchuk kept her eyes closed, praying—the USSR might be atheist, but there were no atheists in a nuclear war. She waited five minutes, and suddenly it was over. She felt warmth on her skin, and opened her eyes. She looked into a blue sky; the ceiling was gone. It didn't stay blue for long: the leading edges of the immense mushroom cloud were beginning to blot out the sun. "Sergeant?" She cleared her throat, popped her ears. "Sergeant?"

The sergeant slowly got up. He was covered in tile dust, but he was breathing. He checked himself, amazed to still be alive. "My God. Are you all right, Comrade Lieutenant?" They could hear screaming from the rest of the hotel.

"Yes. Let's get out of here." She managed to get to her feet. "You're right. We have to get to San Julian, if it's still there."

They made their way through the rubble, which wasn't as hard as it seemed: the hotel had mostly vanished, and they walked out into the street, which was amazingly clear of debris. Most of the palm trees were blown over; the others were on fire. Their jeep was wrapped around one of the burning trees. Other than the screams and the crackles of flame, it was eerily quiet.

"Ayudame," someone was begging. "Help me." Kukharchuk turned and saw someone else stagger out of the ruined hotel. It was one of the maids, a pretty girl of sixteen. She was not pretty any longer: her entire body was covered in protruding shards of glass, driven into her skin at supersonic speeds. Her clothes were gone. "Help me," she said, and stumbled towards them, leaving bloody footprints in her wake.

Kukharchuk reached back and grabbed the sergeant's service revolver. She raised it, aimed, and shot the girl in the head. Her butchered body fell to the ground. "Let's go. There has to be a car somewhere." The sergeant managed to hold back his vomit, and nodded. As they walked down the street, Kukharchuk suddenly felt her stomach heave as well, but knew in horror that it wasn't nausea. Not now, baby, she thought. You can't come now. Not into this hell.

As they walked, a black rain began to fall.

Longyearbyen

Svalbard, Kingdom of Norway

28 May 1977

Oscar Ozpin waited at the end of the runway, his heavy peacoat fluttering in the Arctic wind. It was after midnight, but the sun still shone. He turned at the sound of someone approaching. "Summer. You shouldn't be here."

Summer Rose smiled up at him. She wore a USAF-issue parka over her flight suit, her reddish hair hidden in a thick fur hood. In her hands was a steaming cup of coffee. "Thought you might need to warm up, sir." He couldn't argue with that logic, so he took the cup and drank it. The warmth flooded through him. "We'll be leaving here in a bit, sir. Just as soon as the crew finishes loading the Night Raven into the C-141." She snorted. "Night Raven. Kind of a dumb codename." Then she laughed. "You just know Raven's going to want to fly it, as soon as we get it assembled. She'll say that it's literally got her name on it."

"Not as pregnant as she is," Ozpin replied.

Summer thumped her hands together to get them warm, even under the gloves. "Think we've finally given the GRIMM the slip?" She puffed out a cloud of breath. "Damn, sir. I've never seen so many of them. I still don't know how we made it. If Ironwood and Goodwitch hadn't—"

Ozpin suddenly stiffened. "Summer," he said, in an odd tone of voice. "Leave. Now."

She looked at him, her silver eyes wide. Her hand crept towards the pistol in its shoulder holster. "Sir?"

"That's an order, Captain. Now." Seeing the concern and fear in her eyes, he nodded. "I'll be all right. Just go." Reluctantly, Summer began to back away, unholstering the pistol.

It seemed to take forever for her to reach him, but Ozpin had noticed the slim figure walking towards him over the permafrost at the end of the runway, and somehow knew instantly who it was. He recognized the walk. He glanced behind: Summer had fallen back about a hundred paces. He waved her pistol down, then walked forward himself to meet the woman he'd loved—he still loved—on the short grass.

"Ozpin," she said.

"Natasha," he replied in amazement. "I thought it might…but…"

Red eyes gazed back at him, red in sclera of darkness. "No longer. I am Salem. That name is so appropriate now." She raised a hand from under her heavy, black cloak, and drew back the hood. Ozpin nearly fell in shock. Her features were still beautiful, in some ways, but in other ways she was hideous. "Your skin…your hair…"

Natasha Kukharchuk—Salem—smiled back at him. "Oh yes. Odd, isn't it? I absorbed enough radiation to kill a human being, but for some reason, it didn't kill me. Only bleached my skin, grayed my hair, and changed the color of my eyes. The doctors in Russia—the ones that survived—said it was a miracle of God." She laughed humorlessly. "I rather think it was not God."

"Natasha—"

"Salem!" she shouted angrily. "That is who I am now, Ozpin. That is what you have made me."

"I didn't…" He took a step forward, only to be stopped by those pitiless eyes. "When I gave you those plans…I didn't think the Soviets would…"

Her expression softened, and suddenly she could not meet his eyes. "Neither did I. It was…a mistake. But one that killed eighty million people. You did that. We did that."

"I'd heard you survived…from intelligence we managed to get when some of our spies made it back. I tried to find out more, but then…" His voice trailed off.

"You learned that I was the one controlling the GRIMM." She nodded. "Yes, Ozpin, that is me. I recovered what was left of Mother Russia, and I turned it all into one giant factory to build monsters. I am Czarina, queen, of the ashes."

"But why?" Ozpin asked. "Natasha, I would've rescued you. I would've brought you home."

"But you didn't," she countered. "I thought you were dead, Ozpin. Then I learned of you a few years ago. You were leading the fight against me."

"I didn't know."

"It doesn't matter. What I saw, in that hell I lived in for five years, cannot be described."

Ozpin swallowed. The question had to be asked. "What about our child?"

"Dead," she said flatly. "I miscarried on the flight back to Russia. The last flight out of Cuba. Sitting there, among two hundred strangers, giving birth to a corpse." He saw tears well up in her eyes, which she angrily wiped away. "We killed our child, Ozpin. We killed her. And there will never be another. I am barren now."

He tried to take her hands, but she slapped them away. "Natasha, please. I don't understand. Why are you so…enraged?" Ozpin tried to touch her again, but she only stepped back.

"I'm not, Ozpin. I am insane." She smiled, and he half believed it. "Do you think anyone could live what I lived through without going mad?"

"It wasn't easy for us, either," Ozpin said.

"At least a remnant of the United States survived. Nothing was left of the Motherland. Nothing. Everyone I knew, loved, before I met you—even you, I thought—gone. The land melted in Moscow, Ozpin. The land melted."

"It did in the United States, too."

"No. Not like it did for us. But it doesn't matter. I'm not here to restart the Cold War."

Ozpin put his hands behind his back. "Then what are you here for, Natasha?"

"Salem," she snapped again. "What am I here for? To see you, one last time. I knew it was you that stole the project. I sent my GRIMM after you—I rather like that name, by the way—and you, as you always do, survived. So I came on, alone." She motioned with her head behind her. "Beyond those hills are more, so don't get any ideas. I hold them back now, but if you try to take me, none of us will live."

"It doesn't have to be that way. The Cold War's over."

She laughed once more. "True! But this isn't about fighting one last battle between Marxism-Leninism and capitalism, Ozpin. This is about the end of the world." She motioned around them. "We only delayed the inevitable. I intend to finish it. Humanity—and I include the Faunus abominations—does not deserve to survive."

"How can you think that?" Ozpin exclaimed. "My God, Natasha. We've rebuilt. We've survived."

"Our child didn't. I saw things no one should ever see, Ozpin. I killed a woman rather than watch her die from being impaled on hundreds of glass shards—"

"I saw all that too."

"It doesn't matter!" she shrilled. "We melted children! Our children!" Her lips curled back in a snarl. "I intend to watch the world burn, Ozpin. All of it. Bring it all crashing down. Build a bonfire so high that God Himself will see it. Then, perhaps, He'll return and save what is left. But I doubt it. God abandoned this world just like we did. We're only delaying the inevitable death, Ozpin. Even if I disappeared tomorrow, even if all the GRIMM were destroyed, humans would destroy themselves within a decade. Especially now that you've given them the means to do so, again."

"The Maidens," he said. "I guessed you might know about them."

"They will not stop me, Ozpin. You will not stop me." To his surprise, it was she who reached out and touched his face. Her fingers were deathly cold. "We are iredeemable. If there is a hell, Ozpin, I will find you there. Perhaps we can be together in the flames. But not here. Never here. Never again."

"I loved you," he told her. "I still do."

"I loved you," she returned. "But no longer."

Ozpin nodded. "Then Natasha Kukharchuk is truly dead." He stepped back. "Goodbye, Salem." Then he turned his back on her and walked away.

Almaty International Airport Hotel

Almaty, Republic of Kazakhstan

25 July 2001

"The story is complete," JINN said with finality.

The room's stunned silence was broken by Ruby. "Oh my God. That's what Ozpin was hiding. He started the war."

"Do you have any other inquiries?" JINN asked, unfazed by the armageddon she had just shared.

No one answered for a full minute, until Oscar spoke up. "JINN. Who am I?"