AUTHOR'S NOTES: I meant this to be a shorter chapter, but it didn't turn out that way. Oh well.
A warning: this chapter is intense. Between Nora's injuries and Oscar's torture, some pretty ugly things are presented this time around. Viewer discretion is definitely advised.
Wroclaw Airbase
Wroclaw, Republic of Poland
1 September 2001
The mechanic looked at the right wing and fuselage of the F-23. "How bad?" Yang asked.
He nodded. "Yah, not too bad." His English was heavily accented. "We should fix by morning." He gave her a shrug. "It not great fix, but it get you to Swidwin, yah?"
"Works for me. Thanks." He nodded and Yang patted the wing of the Black Widow. It occurred to her that every one of Ruby Flight's aircraft had suffered damage of one extent or another; for that matter, Blake and Weiss were the only ones still flying the aircraft they had started with, and Weiss had lost the aircraft she'd borrowed. We're getting hit too much, she thought. It was an old fighter pilot supersitition that, if someone started getting hit too often, they needed to be pulled out, because their luck was about to end. Maybe we should've taken Ironass up on his offer. She gave the aircraft another affectionate pat. Nah.
She caught up to Pyrrha and Ren, who were standing next to Pyrrha's F-22. "Should be ready by morning. Guess we'll have to rustle up some grub and lodging."
"All right," Pyrrha replied, and pushed off the side of her aircraft.
The three of them began walking towards the base terminal building. No one spoke for quite awhile, all thinking of Oscar. Finally it was too much for Yang. "Ren, did you get a good idea of where the Night Raven was headed?" He was silent. Yang thought maybe he hadn't heard her. "Ren, did you—"
"No. He was headed for the Vistula," he replied tightly.
"Well, that's better than nothing," Yang said. It really wasn't, but she didn't want to say it. If Salem's Night Raven was anything like Raven Branwen's, its performance was such that it could go anywhere very quickly, especially if it had full tanks. Oscar could be halfway to Siberia by now, Yang sighed inwardly. "Due east, or was he turning?"
"I don't know. I had to break off because that damned fool of an Army SAM controller fired on me! And I had to turn back to help you!"
Pyrrha's eyes widened at Ren's uncharacteristic show of anger. Yang was taken aback as well, but she much less inclined to let it go. "You didn't have to turn back to help me, Ren. I'm a big girl." He was stonily silent. "Something you want to say?"
"Not really. Wouldn't want to waste any more time." He lengthened his stride.
Yang ran forward and got in front of him, forcing Ren to either stop or try to get around her. "What's your fucking problem, Ren?"
Ren met her eyes with the same burning intensity. Then he looked away. "Don't worry about it, Yang." His voice softened a little and he tried to go past her.
She grabbed the front of his flight suit. "You didn't answer me." He just stared at her, and she let go. "Well, I'm sorry things aren't going smoothly enough for you, Ren."
Ren whirled on her, and Pyrrha knew it was time to step in before someone threw a punch. Ren had a long fuse, but it was burning down very quickly. "Listen, both of you—"
"They're not going smoothly at all, Yang," Ren snapped.
"No shit," Yang shot back. "I hate to break it to you, but that's war. That's part of our job."
"Our job?" Ren laughed derisively, bitterly. "Oh yes, we're Huntsmen and Huntresses now. I'd quite forgotten." The laughter abruptly stopped. "We weren't ready. Ironwood's right; we have no business being here."
"Ren, that's enough!" Pyrrha exclaimed, but was ignored.
"Oh, we weren't ready," Yang said sarcastically. "Were we ready in Japan? When we took down those Nevermores and Adam over the Med? When we got JINN here?"
"Yes, JINN!" Ren shouted. "And then we lost it! To Neo Politan, who waltzed into the base, shot Oscar and Penny, and waltzed right back out! And after that, when we had to make some real decisions, we got every single one wrong! We disobeyed orders, and now we're probably all going to be court-martialed when this is over!"
Yang wiped her face where Ren's spit had hit her by accident. She had never seen him this angry, but she was not going to back off. "Look, Ren. I'm not going to pretend we did everything perfect, but if we'd obeyed Ironwood's orders, things would be even worse than they are now."
Ren threw his hands in the air in frustration. "How could they be possibly worse?" He pointed to the ground. "We are stuck here while Salem has JINN and Oscar. We have no plan."
"We've got a plan!" Yang insisted. "We're fighting to hold Poland! Trying to save the people. That's something. And maybe Ruby's cockeyed plan might actually work."
"Do you really believe that?" Ren countered. "And by trying to hold ground that we can't hold, all we're going to do is get people killed." He poked her in chest. "People are going to die, Yang. Because of us."
"Oh, okay," Yang growled, "so we should just do what Ironwood wants—haul ass back to the States, and leave people we care about to die. And he seems awfully sure that Salem's going to be kind enough to stop at the Oder. The last time the GRIMM hit Central Europe, they weren't stopped until they reached the Rhine."
"Maybe she will, maybe she won't," Ren replied, "but these aren't the kind of decisions we should be making, because we are not the ones in command and we have no idea what we're doing!" He brought his hands up in frustration, thought better of it, and dropped them. "I'm just saying what no one else wants to! We're in way over our heads here, Yang! Qrow is our commanding officer, but he's in prison; Ruby's just a kid, promoted far too quickly; I'm just a nobody orphan from the middle of nowhere—"
"That is enough!" Pyrrha shouted. She got in between them, grabbing both of them by the front of their flight suits. "Stop this, both of you!"
Ren knocked her hand away. "And you're just trying to get killed because you feel guilty over Jaune!"
Pyrrha's hand rocketed up and slapped Ren. His eyes widened in shock. Pyrrha's eyes were cold. "Then why do you keep stopping me? It sounds like we'd all be much better off." She turned her back on both of them. "You don't think we should be here, fine. Gas up your aircraft and go. I'm going inside and getting something to eat, because I've still got a job to do." She stalked off.
Ren's shoulders slumped. "I…I shouldn't…"
"Seriously, is your goal to just push everyone away?" Yang shook her head. "Something's eating you, Ren, and it's not just losing Oscar or Ironwood's bullshit." She stared daggers at him. "Figure your shit out or go the fuck away." Yang turned on one foot and went after Pyrrha, leaving Ren alone in the night.
Near Pila, Republic of Poland
1 September 2001
"…come in, Nora. Nora, come up on Guard. Nora, come up on Guard."
Nora groaned at the noise. She was asleep, dammit. Some idiot had turned on the radio when she was trying to sleep, and the grass was so cool under her face, and the ground was so soft, even if it did feel damp from the rain. She rolled over onto her back to tell Ren to shut the radio off and come back to bed…
"Nora, come up on Guard. This is Sleepytime. We need you to pop smoke. Jolly Greens are on the way. GRIMM are moving in your direction."
The last part made Nora suddenly come very awake—and when she did, the pain hit with such intensity that she gasped. Everything was pitch black, and then she realized she was still wearing her helmet with the visor down. She reached up to pull it off, and screamed in agony as white-hot pain seared up her arms. She left the helmet on, but managed to get the visor pulled up. It took another few moments to let the pain subside, then grab the survival radio from her vest. "N-Nora here…on Guard. Ro…roger that, Nora on Guard."
"Good to hear you, Nora! What is your condition?" She heard the OA-37 fly overhead, its engines loud.
Nora raised her head and looked down, and gasped again. The dampness she wasn't lying in wasn't from the rain, it was from her own blood. Her flight suit was torn and ripped, to the point that most of her arms and legs were exposed—and those were deeply slashed and torn. She tried to move her left leg, and thought she saw the gleam of her own shinbone in the moonlight. Her vision swam, and she bit her lip to keep from passing out again. "I'm…all fucked up," Nora finally said. She checked her torso: her flight suit was torn there as well, but the thick survival vest had saved her. "Bad…badly wounded." She managed to release her parachute, which had been streamed out behind her like a bride's trailing gown. There was little wind, so the parachute just sort of lay there.
"Roger that, Nora. Can you give me a hold-down?"
"Yeah...think so." Despite the pain, Nora held down the transmit button for ten seconds, trying to count to ten in her fuzzy head. It would give Sleepytime a fix on her position. The problem was, it might also give the GRIMM one as well.
"Got it, Nora. Can you pop smoke or a flare?"
"I'll…try…" She fumbled in her vest for one of her flares, her fingers rapidly becoming slick with blood. She dropped the first one she found; it tumbled down next to her, and she couldn't find the energy to look for it. Nora managed to grab another, held it as tightly as she could, and slammed it against the ground, crying with the pain. It wasn't enough to ignite the flare; she simply didn't have the strength. "Unable," she radioed. "Wait one." She fumbled around some more in the vest, and found the tiny signal mirror. Lying back, she shakily pointed the mirror towards the moon and jiggled it. "Do you…do you have my flash?" She moved it again.
"Roger that, Nora! Got your flash." The Dragonfly roared overhead again, close enough that she could see it rock its wings. "Sit tight, buddy. Jolly Greens are on the way."
"Okay…" Nora felt her consciousness fading again. She knew she needed to stay awake, that she was bleeding to death, but just couldn't muster caring about it that much. She wondered if she should start praying—Nora always had an informal relationship with religion, and never went to church. She believed in God, and had a bad feeling she'd be seeing Him soon, which was a lot sooner than either of them had planned. All she wanted to do was sleep.
Her eyes fluttered shut, but came open again as another aircraft shot over her—not Sleepytime's OA-37, but a F-35. Some buried instinct made her slowly turn the radio dial to another channel; some memory told her which was the one they had been on. "Elm, Sleepytime, do you have Nora's position?" the FAC was saying.
"Roger that. Making my run." The F-35 dived out of sight, and Nora realized that she must be on one of the twin hills. Then she saw Elm climb away, vertically, as tracer fire and missiles tried to swat the fighter out of the sky. "Sleepytime, Elm, heavy fire zone."
"Yeah, roger, I see that. Looks like the GRIMM are north of the boobs. Okay, we'll suppress them—should clear the way for the Jolly Greens."
"ETA on the Jollies?" Nora recognized Marrow's voice.
"Five minutes, Marrow."
Nora raised her head, which felt like it weighed a ton. She looked across the shallow valley to the next hill, the one that the mechanized platoons and the refugees had been trapped on. In the distance, she saw the treeline still burning from Fiona's napalm, and saw something else burning to the south, occasionally making loud popping noises as the ammunition cooked off. She wondered idly if it was one of the Centinels she had destroyed, or the funeral pyre of Magnhild. She squinted as she saw more Centinels and Sabyrs moving down, off the hill, into the shallow valley. They hadn't been firing at Elm, and as she saw Sleepytime fly over to find the GRIMM that had, these GRIMM held their fire. Oh, Nora realized sleepily, they're setting a flak trap for the Jolly Greens. They're using me as bait. Yeah, I remember that…GRIMM do that sort of thing…not as dumb as they look. Man, that sucks. I don't wanna be bait, on a big fuckin' hook—
Suddenly her eyes flew open, and adrenaline shot through Nora's system. The GRIMM were using her as bait to kill the helicopters and the men and women that would come in to rescue her. She couldn't allow that to happen. She grabbed the radio, ignoring the pain. "Sleepytime, Sleepytime, Nora! Hold the Jollies, repeat, hold the Jollies!"
"Nora, Sleepytime—what the hell are you—"
"Sleepytime, it's a flak trap! They're using me as a bait! The GRIMM are in the shallow valley between the boobs and on Hill 320. I've seen them do this before!"
"Roger, roger…calm down, Nora. Okay. Wait one while we figure this out."
Nora forced herself up to a sitting position and tried to stand up. Her legs bent, but the pain was too tremendous, and she screamed aloud. Finally, she settled for just sitting. Looking around, she realized she was not at the summit of Hill 340; she was just below it. "Well, shit," she breathed, braced herself, and began dragging herself backwards up the hill, holding the radio in her mouth by the antenna. The back of her legs had been protected by the seat, so they were not lacerated, but the effort still caused her limbs to feel like someone was slowly stripping the skin off with a burning knife. Nora cursed and moaned and cursed some more, leaving a trail of blood in the grass, dark red in the moonlight. It took five minutes to cover ground she normally could in thirty seconds, but finally she reached the summit.
"Nora, Sleepytime, come in!" The FAC's voice was frantic.
She grabbed the radio. "Sleepytime, Nora. Sorry. Had to get into position." She was breathing hard, like she had run a marathon, and sweat soaked the inside of her helmet. Nora looked down, and spotted the GRIMM taking up position around the base of Hill 340 and on 320. She gritted her teeth and grabbed another flare, and this time had the strength to launch it. The flare curved beautifully into the air, trailing red fire behind it. "Elm, Nora, are you receiving me? You carrying the Rocks?" It made sense that Elm, Ace Flight's ground attack specialist, would be carrying bombs.
"Elm, roger. Flare in sight."
"Awesome. Listen, Elm, I need you to lay your Rocks at the base of Hill 340. Not the summit; you'll blow my ass away. Got it? The base. Come in south to north and let 'em go when I tell you."
"Roger that. Sleepytime, can you verify targets?"
"Negative, Elm, not at this time, but Nora can see more than I can right now."
"Roger. Elm's in, south to north, FAC in sight." Nora watched as the F-35 dropped down, came in at full speed, loud enough to shake the hill. "Now!" Nora yelled, and Elm released two of her Rockeye bombs. The cluster bombs split a second after leaving the aircraft, sending bomblets all across the valley. It sounded like firecrackers going off, but it was followed by two more larger explosions as two Sabyrs blew up. "Got secondaries," Elm reported, jinking her F-35 to avoid the return fire.
"Nice bombs," Nora said, grinning. "Okay, who else has Rocks?"
"Nora, Vine. I'm up."
"Roger that, Vine! Paste Hill 320 next."
"Vine's in." Vine rolled in from the north, came over, and dropped all four of his Rockeyes. The summit of Hill 320 disappeared in explosions and fire as he destroyed the GRIMM there.
"Shit hot!" Nora cheered. "100% on…on that…" Her vision began to swim again, and she felt herself slumping backwards as the black curtain of unconsciousness began to descend. No! Nora commanded herself. For some reason, she remembered Maria Calavera's story, when the GRIMM Reaper had been blinded. Nora took her right hand—her right arm seemed less injured than her left—and punched herself in the right leg. The pain shot through her pelvis and right up her spine, and she screamed again. The black curtain rolled back up, and she was awake again. "Sorry about that," she radioed. "Not doing too well here."
"Nora, Sleepytime, I'm sending in the Jollies—"
"Not yet!" Nora commanded. "Elm, Elm, I need you to make one more pass with your Rocks if you've got any left."
"Nora, Elm, got two left. Making my run, north to south."
"Elm, hit twenty feet to the right of your last run. Watch the GRIMM on the left." There were still one or two Sabyrs who had survived Vine's strike. She watched the F-35 come in, dodging the return fire and edging slightly to the right to avoid the Sabyrs. Then the second batch of Rockeyes came off and struck the rest of the hill base. There was no return fire. "Okay, Sleepytime, send in…the…" Nora tried hitting herself in the leg again, but her hand never reached it as her vision went dark.
Got to wake up, she heard herself say. Got to wake up. Not gonna die here. Ren, I'm not gonna die here. Then she felt hands on her. GRIMM didn't have hands that she knew of, so they had to be human. "Ren?" She opened her eyes.
It wasn't Ren, but a man dressed in a flight suit and helmet similar to hers. His hand was behind her head, and she tasted water on her lips. "Lieutenant Nora Valkyrie?" he asked. "Are you Nora?"
"Yep, sure am," she smiled back weakly. "Hi there."
"Hey there, Lieutenant, I'm Sergeant Walsh. We're gonna get you out of here, okay?" She felt a tiny pinprick of pain, almost lost against the background of it. "Got some morphine for you. Look at me, Lieutenant." He shined a flashlight into her eyes. "Can you feel your legs?"
"Ohhh yeah. They hurts bad like a fuck." She blinked; why was she slurring her words?
"Okay, you just stay put for a second. Be right back."
"Sounds good." The morphine was starting to hit, and Nora smiled. "Whoaaa…that feels great." She felt herself being moved up to a sitting position, then arms were beneath her, someone was counting, and she was rolled onto a stretcher. She looked upwards blearily, and saw four cables going into one, stretching up to the bottom of a helicopter. Nora tried to identify it, but couldn't, and resolved to ask Ruby, who knew all about airplanes. Then she felt herself being pulled upwards, and glanced idly to one side, over the side of the stretcher.
There was a GRIMM coming up the hill, from the north, one she hadn't seen before. Nora tried to point at it, but her limbs felt immersed in soft foam, and all she could do was sort of wave at it, as the GRIMM's missile batteries came around and locked onto the helicopter. That's not good, she thought through the fog of morphine. That's bad.
Then the Sabyr vanished in an explosion. For a split second, Nora saw herself looking down at a F-35, and in that split second, saw Harriet Bree looking back at her. The clarity was amazing: she recognized the girl despite her helmet and mask. Then it was gone, so fast Nora wondered if she had imagined it, the stretcher swayed madly for a moment before it was stablized, and she made the rest of the way into the helicopter.
Hands were all over her now, and Nora gave a sort of giggle as she felt her flight suit being cut away. "Hey, guys, I went commando today," she laughed—it was a lie, but she found it hilarious. She never did hear the reply as the morphine finally combined with exhaustion and Nora slipped gratefully into unconsciousness.
Swidwin Airbase Command Post
Swidwin, Republic of Poland
2 September 2001
Ruby and Weiss were hovering behind Robyn and the controller. "Jolly Green 44, Sleepytime," the FAC radioed. "Do you have the package?"
"Sleepytime, Jolly Green. That's affirm, Nora is aboard. Alert Swidwin; relay that pilot is very badly injured. Heavy loss of blood, deep lacerations to limbs, heavy skin abrasions, possible broken right leg. No signs of concussion or internal injury."
As the FAC relayed the message to the controller, Robyn hung her head. "Dammit. That's not good."
"Yeah, no kidding," Ruby said. Her hands were shaking. She couldn't lose someone else. She'd already lost Oscar; Nora…she shook her head. "No," she said.
"That's not what I meant." Robyn pushed off the console and walked to the map table, her fingers massaging her chin. She looked at the clock; it was past midnight. "We don't have that big of a hospital here, and what we have is going to be overrun in about…" She looked at the clock again "…fifteen minutes. Before the Jolly Green gets here."
"What's going on?" Weiss asked.
"The refugees. A lot of them got hurt before Nora and Fiona got there, same with the troops. The Army guys can go to their own aid stations, but those are full up too. The civvies are coming here." She slammed a fist against the map table. "And I don't know how much blood we have available on hand. It sounds like Nora needs a lot."
"I'll give blood," Ruby said. "I'm type O negative. I think that's universal, right?"
Weiss put her hand on Ruby's shoulder. "I have a better idea. With your permission, Robyn?"
"Um, sure?" Robyn's eyebrows beetled together in confusion.
Weiss quickly went back to the controller, grabbed a spare headset, and switched it on. "Jolly Green 44, Ruby Two. ETA to base?"
The helicopter pilot sounded confused. "Ah, about one-zero minutes, Ruby Two."
"Roger that. Set down on the transient tarmac. Authorization Redbird." She'd heard Robyn use that code before, and hoped it meant what she thought it did. As soon as Jolly Green 44 acknowledged, she pulled off the headset, handed it to the stunned controller, and ran over to start dragging Ruby out of the command post. "Hey, Weiss, what the—"
"Robyn!" Weiss shouted. "Tell the Jolly Green PJs to transfer Nora to the Gulfstream!" She let go of Ruby and grabbed her cellphone, dialing it with one hand. "Whitley, you'd better be there…"
The Palace of Culture and Science
Ruins of Warsaw, Republic of Poland
2 September 2001
It took a few tries for Oscar to make it back to consciousness. He would wake up, then fall back to sleep. Finally, he was able to keep his eyes open, though he felt like his arms and legs were made of lead. It also felt like he was floating in midair.
He was definitely not in the Swidwin hospital.
The room was cold, though not unpleasantly so. He was wearing some sort of harness around his middle, and felt something tugging at his back; Oscar realized he was hanging from a hook on the wall, like an old coat. The harness was all that he was wearing: except for that, and the zipties around his wrists and ankles, he was naked, his feet dangling above the floor. He smacked his lips: they were dry, his mouth parched. His stomach throbbed, but only with a little pain. Other than being thirsty, hanging from the wall, and stark naked, Oscar reflected, it could be worse.
The room was lit by soft flourescent light, and Oscar blinked, trying to see beyond the shadows. There was a steel door directly ahead of him; the room had no windows, and aside from the door, seemed to be made entirely of brick, even the floor. There were strange knobs set into the walls at random intervals.
I'm a prisoner, he thought, finally able to get his brain going again. But why? I'm just an ensign. I don't know anything. I don't even command anything. Why me? Not that I'd want Ruby or Robyn or Pyrrha in this position. He tried to stretch, maybe get himself off the hook, but he could barely move and couldn't get leverage. Maybe they grabbed me because I was easiest. He nodded to himself. Okay, Oscar, you remember this from survival school. Code of Conduct, Point 3: if I am captured, I will continue to resist by all means available. Oscar looked down at himself. Not that I have much available. I will make every effort to escape and to aid others to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy. Whoever the hell the enemy is.
Oscar thought back to how he'd memorized the Code of Conduct, which had been come up with after the Korean War, when some American prisoners, unable to take the constant privation and torture, began collaborating with the enemy North Koreans and Chinese. They had called it brainwashing back then, but it was actually just breaking one's will, to the point that a prisoner would do anything to make the pain stop. The Code of Conduct was meant to give American prisoners of war a touchstone to fall back on in those conditions. GRIMM didn't take prisoners, but other enemies had, during the brief Vietnam conflict or the Chinese Reunification War, among others. The Code had helped those POWs. So that they remembered its tenets, Oscar's class had been placed inside an airtight chamber and tear gas was dropped in. They had to yell out the Code before they were allowed to leave, no matter how bad the gas was. The survival school Marine sergeant that Oscar's class had dealt with was particularly cruel: the tear gas had a vomit kicker in it. Oscar remembered staggering out of the chamber, still reciting the Code between gags, his eyes on fire and nearly blinded, and most of his breakfast all over his khakis and the floor. He certainly remembered the Code, though—even now, his eyes stung with the memory.
Since he had nothing else to do, and he was afraid of falling back asleep, Oscar silently recited Points Five and Six, which seemed to apply more to his situation. When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war—and I have—I am required to give only my name, rank, service number, and date of birth. I will evade answering questions to the utmost of my ability. The latter was added after some of the brushfire conflicts: it was recognized that no prisoner could hold out indefinitely, so the idea was to make the enemy work for any answers—but not to the point of death. Oscar remembered his instructors saying that a POW should hold out as long as they could, then give the enemy something; lying was perfectly acceptable, of course. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to their cause. That had come out of Korea as well, where Allied prisoners had been forced to write "confessions." I will never forget that I am an American, fighting for freedom—or in my case, fighting the stupid GRIMM—responsible for my actions, and dedicated to the principles which made my country free. I will trust in my God and in the United States of Canada. Oscar smiled a little at that last sentence, remembering one of his fellow pilots raising a hand, telling the drill sergeant that he was an atheist. The drill sergeant had answered, if you're a prisoner, you won't be for long.
Okay, Oscar thought with resolve. I can do this. I've read about those guys who were POWs. Besides, maybe it won't be too bad. Those guys who got captured during the Gulf War, when I was a kid—they just got roughed up a bit. I can handle that. Probably got captured by air pirates, so they're going to want me intact, right? For ransom? I think even Ironwood would ransom me. Hell, Weiss got through being captured, so I can do it—
The door suddenly clanged, startling him, and opened up. All of Oscar's resolve went out the nonexistent window as Salem walked in, dressed in a black cloak trimmed in red. There was no mistaking her from the artists' impression that JINN had projected: the pale skin, white hair pulled back in a severe bun and braids, the blood red eyes. She was alone, her hands behind her back.
Salem walked up to him, her feet silent on the brick, and stopped. "So. You're his son."
Oh, shit, Oscar thought. He knew now with terrible clarity why he'd been taken prisoner. He summoned up his courage, which wasn't easy with pitiless crimson eyes gazing at him. "I am Oscar Pine," he intoned. "Ensign, United States Navy. Service Number 227-32-6390. Birthday October 16, 1979." He could barely speak, his mouth was so dry.
"Two years after I last saw Ozpin," Salem said. "Well, he didn't let the grass grow under his feet, did he?" She peered closer, walking to either side, almost examining him. "You clearly must take after your mother. Your skin is more tanned than Ozpin's was. The hair…" She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair. "That is like his, before he went gray." Salem smiled. "After I did, of course, but his was age, not radiation." She peered at his face. "The eyes. Yes, those are Ozpin's eyes indeed. Always such beautiful eyes." Her smile widened. "And freckles, no less. I don't recall him having freckles." Her fingers, cool to the touch, wandered down his chest. "Hmm. Not as well-built as Ozpin." She grabbed his wrists and raised them. "Well, not in some areas, anyway. My, my." Salem stepped back. "You are definitely his progeny."
Oscar tried to speak, but it came out as a croak. Salem's other hand came out from around her back, and pressed a bottle of water to his lips. Since that didn't count as a special favor, he drank gratefully. She let him drink his fill and set the bottle aside. "What were you going to say?"
"Oscar Pine, Ensign, United States Navy—"
She seized him by the chin. "Stop it, boy. I know your Code of Conduct. You're not the first American or Canadian prisoner I've had." She let go of him. "I look at you, Oscar Pine, and I see the son that Ozpin and I might have made. Did he tell you about our daughter? The one who lived an hour and died? She was beautiful, Ensign. And I watched her die." She suddenly bared her teeth, like a feral animal. "It figures that that son of a bitch would breed as soon as he knew I was no longer available." She grabbed his hands again, twisting them painfully upwards, running her fingers over them. "Calloused. A working man. Let me guess—you were raised on a farm. How quaint." She let go of his fingers. "Ozpin rutted with some farmer's daughter from Kansas. Or Wisconsin." Salem snarled something in Russian; Oscar didn't know what it meant, but it sounded vile.
Despite himself, he couldn't quite let that insult go. Besides, he wasn't exactly giving up vital intelligence. "It was Nebraska, actually."
"Nebraska," Salem repeated. "Figures." She took a deep breath, and Oscar realized she was actually on the verge of losing control of herself. "Well. Perhaps you and I can have a better working relationship…Oscar." She walked away a few paces before turning back around, her hands behind her back again. "Tell me…how well did you know your father?"
"Oscar Pine, Ensign—"
Salem rolled her eyes. "Please, Oscar. I'm not asking you for launch codes. I'm asking how well you knew your father." She raised an eyebrow. "It seems awfully ridiculous for me to torture you for that. I'm fairly certain your precious Code of Conduct does not extend to family."
Actually, it did, Oscar reflected, because an enemy could use it against him later. Then again, it made little sense to be tortured over something—or in this case, someone—he didn't know. "I didn't know him. I only found out he was my father a few months ago."
"Really?" Salem laughed. "Once a spy, always a spy. What, did he think I would send my agents to kill you, or your mother?"
"I don't know," Oscar answered truthfully.
"Moron," Salem said, and he wasn't sure if she was talking about Ozpin or himself. "All right. So he told you nothing about me, or my existence. I imagine your mother knows…or maybe not. Ozpin might have kept that to himself. The other woman." Her eyes narrowed. "Did he marry your mother?"
"No."
"Then he didn't love her." Oscar was silent. He almost shouted that Ozpin loved Oscar's mother more than he ever loved Salem, but the last thing he wanted was to tempt Salem into going after his mother. She might just be vindictive enough to try it. "Very well. I suppose we should get down to business." Salem stepped forward again, just out of range in case he futilely tried to punch or kick her. "What is the password for JINN?"
Oscar had been expecting that one. If Salem wasn't here to kill him in revenge for Ozpin having a son, then she was there for JINN. "I don't know what that is."
"Oh?" Salem gently poked his chest. "It was in your room. Neo took it from there. A resourceful little bitch, isn't she? You know very well what it is."
Oscar tried to keep his face blank. "I don't know what it is…Genie? Is that what you said?"
Salem sighed, reached down, grabbed his testicles, and squeezed. The scream worked its way past his lips without Oscar meaning it to, and he kept screaming as she not only kept screaming, but twisted as well. Finally, she let go, and Oscar's screams lessened to moans. "The lies come out of you so easily," she remarked. Then she put a hand on his cheek, almost like a mother. "Like-minded souls indeed." She took the hand away, dropping it to his thigh. His bound hands closed over his groin in reflex, wishing he could cradle himself, as waves of agony radiated from it. "I don't like being barbaric, Oscar, despite what you may have been told. You know what JINN is. You've used it. I know this because you recognized me when I walked in. It was all over your face. And how could you recognize me if you'd never met Ozpin? It's because you asked JINN."
Oscar knew it was time to give up a little bit of information. "Arash—Arashikaze showed me a picture of you."
"Oh? The way I used to look? Because that little bint has no idea what I look like now." The fingers crept closer to his scrotum. "Not even she's managed to put a spy in my people. She infiltrated the White Fang, but not us."
"It was a drawing," Oscar puffed out. "Ozpin commissioned it." That was a guess, but an educated one.
Salem was silent for a moment. "I see." Her fingers moved away from his groin, and she lightly patted him on the cheek. "I believe you." He couldn't resist a sigh of relief. "About the picture. Not about JINN. You carried it from Japan to Ironwood, and you activated it—it's possible Ruby Rose did, but I think you did, Oscar. You were consumed with curiosity about your father. It would've been irresistible."
"It wasn't easy, but I didn't do it," Oscar insisted. "Arashikaze threatened us with imprisonment."
Salem laughed again. "And she didn't carry out her threat, apparently. Arashikaze is a fool and always has been. I've known of her for a long time, longer than you've been alive." Salem turned and walked towards the door. "You're going to tell me what you know, Oscar Pine. Or that little love squeeze I just gave you is going to feel like nothing. I don't particularly like torture, but it has its benefits." She stopped. "One last chance, Oscar."
Oscar knew it was going to be bad, but he couldn't tell her. He wanted to cry, because he knew he was in for a great deal of pain—but he couldn't tell Salem. "I don't know, Salem. I don't. Please." He put some pleading in his voice, which was not really an act.
"Too bad." She leaned out of the door. "Hazel?"
Oscar looked up as Hazel Rainart walked in, dressed in a jumpsuit covered in plastic, his hands wrapped in cloth. He knew the name from the Battle of Nishinoshima, but now he recognized him as well, from the Delta flight to Japan, the man he had sat next to and conversed with. Hazel gave just the briefest of hesitations as he recognized Oscar as well. Whatever small hope that gave him disappeared when Hazel's hands tightened to fists.
"He was shot in the stomach by Neo," Salem informed Hazel. "No blows to the abdomen. It might kill him. Everything else is fair game."
"Very well." Oscar tried bringing up his hands, but Hazel slapped them down and punched him in the face. It was a particularly well-placed punch, landing on Oscar's jaw. Oscar felt his mouth fill with blood and spit, as Hazel took a step back; a tooth clattered to the brick. "That was for Nishinoshima." He flexed his hands and cracked his neck. "Everything that follows is for my sister."
The fist fell again. And again.