Earlier that day...

The outlaw nocked an arrow to her bow, her leaf-green cloak flapping cinematically in the wind. She took careful aim at the distant target painted onto a bale of straw. Another arrow was already stuck in the bullseye, but she would not be denied. Fwip. The legend of Sherwood Forest let her shot fly straight and true. Her arrowhead split her rival's shaft straight down the middle and lodged deep in the target, to gasps and cheers from the crowd. The dastardly local sheriff (a man bearing an uncanny resemblance to the head of the Schnee Dust Company) turned red with rage. "Zounds! Gadzooks!" he cursed in a hideous parody of a medieval accent. "But, thoust fool!" The sheriff smirked, twirling his white mustache like the pantomime villain he was. "Hast thou not noticed, knave, that thou wearest not yon trousers?"

She looked down. "What the fu—"

The world dissolved in a clap of thunder, and the 'outlaw' woke in her bed. What a strange dream that had been. There was no medieval woodland outside her bedroom window, just the usual sight of Mantle's night sky, glowing orange from smog and light pollution. It was two in the morning, going off the clock on her nightstand. The half-asleep Huntress wondered why she'd woken at this ungodly hour, before she heard it. Bang. Bang. Bang. She stumbled out of bed to answer the pounding on her door, making sure to grab her crossbow on the way. This was one of Mantle's safer districts—also, burglars rarely bothered to knock—but you never knew.

The door creaked open. For a few seconds she just stood there, blinking like an idiot while her groggy brain tried to comprehend why the Atlas Military would show up at her house in the dead of night. Four robotic Knight-130s and one generic soldier waited patiently on the sidewalk, led by a woman who looked remarkably like the wicked sheriff from her dream. "Ugh...good morning, Specialist." she mumbled. "What's the deal? You here to arrest me or something?" she added as a joke...mostly. She didn't really expect Ironwood to turn military-dictator overnight—but when one man controlled the army, the local Huntsman Academy, and two Council seats, going mad with power seemed like an occupational hazard.

Judging from her stony expression, Winter Schnee was in no mood for jokes today (then again, when was she?). "Sir. Contact established with target." she said into her Scroll, before offering it to the other woman. "The General wants to speak with you."

Suddenly, the Huntress felt much more awake. "Hello, General." She dearly hoped she sounded like a professional and not like a very confused woman in her pajamas. "I take this isn't a social call." He'd been away in Vale for some time now, running the kingdom by tele-conference, but she doubted he'd missed her that much—or, considering how often they butted heads, at all.

"I need you to come to Vale. Now." James Ironwood's unmistakable baritone rumbled in her ear, without any attempt at a friendly greeting (or even an unfriendly one). "Winter has a ship ready to go. I'll debrief you onsite."

His commanding tone made her bristle. Perhaps Ironwood could order his students and soldiers to jump and they would only ask how high, but she was neither. "I'm an independent Huntress, General, not one of your Specialists. Vale's a long flight. I'll need more convincing than that, if you don't mind."

Even over the call, she could hear the sound of Ironwood's teeth grinding. "Classified." he grunted. "But rest assured it's important. The security of the kingdoms is at stake." A pause. "I wouldn't ask you if it weren't. Believe me."

"You're not giving me much to work with." she sighed. "But point taken. I realize we've had our disagreements...on various topics." she said diplomatically. Where to begin—the income gap between Atlas and Mantle, maybe? The military-industrial complex? The increasing role of the state in the educational system? "Nonetheless, your commitment to protecting our kingdom—protecting our world—is something I've never had cause to doubt. Something we have in common. And if you truly think my help will make a difference...I'm willing to grant you a certain amount of trust."

"Good." Ironwood sounded relieved. "And well said. You might have a future in politics yet."

"Why, thank you." she replied with a smile. "Though I must remind you, General, Huntresses don't work for free. Now about the subject of my compensation..."

The tooth-grinding noises returned with a vengeance. "Spoken like a true politician."

Qrow hated this ship already. It reflected its owner's personality far too well for his liking. Namely it looked all shiny and impressive from afar, but a few steps inside and he was chilled to the bone. Literally. He understood the value of sticking to a personal theme—hell, he had the whole bird motif going on himself—but constantly blasting the A/C at freezing temperatures seemed excessive. Plus had he mentioned how painfully, painfully white everything was? After going up the ramp, he'd found himself in some sort of passenger cabin. Rows of seats upholstered in white synthetic leather stretched from wall to gleaming white wall, a white floor below and a white ceiling above. Gods, it was like entering an alternate universe where Mantle won the Great War! He considered whipping out a marker and adding some color to this awful place, but decided against it. Winter was probably expecting him to draw dongs on every available surface anyways. If she came back to a completely spotless ship, on the other hand, now that would really bake her noodle. She'd be tearing this place apart for days, searching for whatever hidden insult he'd left behind. Heh. Sometimes his genius frightened even himself.

Speaking of hidden, there was no sign of the person he was supposedly meeting here. The cabin was empty save for pair of soldiers standing guard at the far end. They were dressed in the standard Atlesian tin-can armor; plating covered every inch of their skin, even their faces, making them look distinctly robotic. Qrow went over to ask for directions, but got nothing except beeps and whirrs in reply. Never mind, these two were actual robots. Screw Atlas and their stupid obsession with humanoid mechs. Looking around, however, he noticed a narrow flight of stairs off to the side. As he climbed up, the ship's engines started and the deck hummed lightly beneath his feet. The stairs ended at a small landing, with a single door blocked by yet another robot. Well, well. Looked like Qrow might do a bit of vandalism after all. He began drawing Harbinger from his back. "Move it, you bucket of bolts—"

"Stay! STAY!" the robot shouted in a very non-robotic tone of panic. Its pointer finger snapped up, and Qrow suddenly found his arm locked unnaturally in place, along with the entire rest of his body. "I'm a person!" It—he—hastily ripped off his face-obscuring helmet, revealing dark skin and a messy mane of greenish-black hair. Qrow tried to make a sarcastic quip, but even his tongue was stuck. "Oh, right." The soldier lowered his hand. "Sorry about that. You kind of startled me there." And just like that, Qrow could move again. Gah. He gingerly flexed all his joints to confirm that they were still functional. "It's fine." he muttered, though in truth it had been quite unnerving to be helplessly frozen like that. Not a Semblance to be trifled with, even if its user seemed rather green. A seasoned Huntsman wouldn't have been so quick to let his guard down. "Damn confusing how you military types dress, you know that? Your robots look like humans, your humans look like robots—"

"Faunus, actually." the soldier corrected. He turned to the side, revealing the bushy tail that stuck out from his armor. "But yeah, I know. I'll get a cooler uniform when I make full Specialist. I graduated last year so I'm almost—"

That was more than enough small talk for Qrow's minuscule appetite. "All right, kid, I don't need your whole life story. Just tell me where to go."

"Uh...yeah, okay. She's right through here. I'll leave you to it." The soldier's tone was professional, but his tail drooped slightly, like Zwei's did when he was sad. He walked away down the stairs, leaving Qrow alone and feeling vaguely guilty. Shaking his head, he slid the door open. Inside was a small conference room with a table, a few chairs, and a couch (still all white) bolted to the floor. There was a woman on the couch, dressed in a black-gray coat and green scarf, with a collapsed weapon strapped to her arm. Ambiguously tan complexion, white hair, and eyes...Qrow couldn't see her eyes, for she was fast asleep, head on a cushion and snoring. He tiptoed to a spot behind her head and prodded her with Harbinger's blunt end. Luckily, this one was less jumpy than the man outside. Her hand twitched only partway towards her weapon as she stirred to life. "Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty."

"Wrong fairy tale..." she yawned. She sat up on the couch; at the sight of him, she paused with her arms mid-stretch. "Goodness. Qrow Branwen?"

Qrow grinned. It had been two decades since Team STRQ catapulted to fame by winning the 29th Vytal Festival tournament, but damn if it didn't still feel good to be recognized. To know that people remembered them, were inspired by them, made all the grief they'd gone through feel slightly more worth it. Of course, back in the day he'd enjoyed his fame in a very different way. Being a hormonal teenager who suddenly gained a boatload of admirers overnight had been...well, no need to go into detail. "In the flesh, lady."

"Hmm. You're scruffier than I expected."

"Hilarious." he grumbled. What was it with white-haired Huntresses being determined to bust his balls? "Who the hell are you, Winter's aunt or something?"

The Huntress shuddered. "Gods no. Not everyone with white hair is a Schnee. The name's Robyn, for your information. Robyn Hill." She stood from the coach to peer out the airship window. "Good, we're almost there. I swear if this turns out to be something stupid..." Outside, the form of Ironwood's flagship drew closer and closer; its hulking shape floating in the sky made Qrow oddly uncomfortable. His eyes roved over the half-dozen spines extending behind the ship, the two large cubical engines attached to either side of its base, its long, thick, black hull... "My gods." he gasped, struck by sudden realization. "It's a giant dick."

Robyn snorted. "I always thought so too."

It wasn't long before Winter's ship docked onto the larger one—at the very tip of the shaft no less, making for a very awkward image. When Qrow and Robyn transferred over, they found James Ironwood himself waiting for them, pacing a hole in the deck. "Miss Hill." He stuck his hand (the flesh one) out for Robyn. "A pleasure to see you."

Robyn shook it, smiling wryly. "Thank you, General, but there's no point lying to me." With a faint hum, their joined hands began to glow with purple energy. "I doubt—"

"I meant it." said Ironwood. The purple glow flared green, and Robyn's eyes widened. "Goodness, that bad?" she asked nervously.

"The situation is a little difficult." Ironwood admitted. He turned down a dimly lit hallway, the other two following in his wake. "We're holding a valuable prisoner aboard this ship, a criminal by the name of Roman Torchwick. He was captured by a team of Beacon students while attempting to...well, commit crimes—"

Robyn's face contorted in anger, perhaps under the impression she'd been dragged across the world to help solve a case of pickpocketing. "By crimes..." Qrow interjected before the misunderstanding could snowball. "...he means trying to launch a terrorist attack on Vale that would've killed thousands of people."

"Oh." Robyn didn't quite know how to respond to that. "That...seems bad."

"Yes. Yes it is." The hall came to a dead end, in front of an unmarked elevator. Ironwood put his face up to a scanner on the wall. "And we have strong reason to believe he has accomplices still at large. Who are planning...more crime. We've been interrogating him for the past month, but his level of cooperation, well, it leaves much to be desired."

"In other words, he's not snitching. And we need him to snitch, fast." Qrow said bluntly. The elevator doors slid open; they filed in and began descending into the bowels of the ship. "I was saying yesterday, it's time we got serious with the bastard. No more screwing around with guilt trips and good cop/bad cop and waterboarding—"

"Waterboarding?" Robyn gasped.

"We haven't done that yet!" Ironwood insisted.

Qrow shrugged. "Look, I don't know what shit they've tried, just that it's not working. So I said to Jimmy, we've got two Academy headmasters here, for gods' sake. We know hundreds of Huntsmen between us, there must be one with a helpful Semblance—"

Robyn sighed. "I see. And I was the first person you thought of, General?"

"No." Ironwood said, a bit too quickly. "...maybe."

"So I'm already seeing some problems here." Robyn held up a finger. "One, my Semblance detects lies, that's it. It can't make him talk if he doesn't want to." A second finger. "Two, I have to be holding his hand, and it literally makes our arms glow. That's a little suspicious, don't you think?"

Ironwood glared at her. "Do you take me for a fool, Miss Hill?" The elevator doors opened again, revealing a dark and cavernous space lined with locked doors. "I taught you in combat class for four years! Of course I know that!"

"Why would she use a lie detection Semblance in combat class?" Qrow asked the real question here, but no one answered. Robyn looked slightly green in the face. "Please tell me your plan isn't to waterboard him until he talks, then use me to check if it's true." she begged. "Or I swear I'm going right back up this elevator."

The general rubbed at the metal plate in his head. "Er..."

"Why don't you explain exactly how it works?" Qrow suggested tactfully. "Might be I have an idea or two."

After recent events, being in jail was almost like a vacation. Here, Roman Torchwick had no spooky fire witches ordering him around. No smart-ass minions making fun of his hair. No brain-dead animals screwing up his plans, or meddling kids screwing them up even worse. Nothing to do except sleep, do push-ups, and eat whatever they shoved through the food hole. The brownish-orange meatloaf-like substance was hardly high cuisine, but neither did it leave him craving rats and spiders to supplement his diet. Every few days Neo would even stop by for a quick sign-language chat, cloaked by her Semblance. On the downside, he was still stuck in a cell, a small one at that. It was barely long enough for a man of his height to lie down, and it stank abominably every time he used the toilet—whatever that mystery meat was, it sure was high in fiber. He supposed he should be glad there was a toilet at all, and not just a bucket in the corner (Mistralian jails, man. Never again).

Once a day, the guards would drag him out for interrogation. It was only way Roman had to mark time down here: twenty-eight sessions in twenty-eight days. Every time, Ironwood read him the same list of questions and he gave the same non-responses, until he was sent back to his cell to 'reconsider'. Today, however, the routine had switched up. They'd blindfolded him en route, and now he sat waiting in the interrogation cell, wrists and ankles cuffed to his chair. He could make out a light shining in his face, and rock music played from a speaker somewhere. Uh...okay, there was a lot to unpack here. If he had to guess, Ironwood had been reading up on Mind Games for Dummies but horribly botched the execution. Sensory deprivation was about more than slapping a blindfold on someone; uncomfortably bright lights worked better when the person could see them; the music was too soft to hurt his ears and actually sounded quite catchy to boot. Roman was unimpressed. He'd spent his adult life around people who chopped off fingers and applied Lightning Dust to your genitals as standard interrogation techniques; this was downright dull in comparison.

The door clicked open. "You know what I want, Torchwick." Ironwood's familiar voice rang out. "I'll give you one more chance to talk before we do things the hard way."

Roman turned his head towards the sound. "Hmm...I'm not sure what you want, actually." he said cheekily. "Fancy lighting, background music, and a touch of bondage. Could it be you're trying to get me in the mood for your...iron wood?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "At least buy me dinner first."

A different person snickered. "Damn, Jimmy. Looks like he wants it the hard way, huh?" The stench of stale liquor assaulted Roman's nostrils; he recognized that smell and that voice from Mountain Glenn. "You too, Qrow Branwen?" he said with a shit-eating grin. "I suppose being Ozpin's gofer is a lonely life. Can't blame you for craving my—"

Qrow snorted. "I rate you six out of ten, tops. And you smell like shit."

"Excuse me?!" Roman snapped. He couldn't help it if his only clothes had acquired a bit of B.O. over a month in the slammer. They'd provided him a prison jumpsuit, but like hell he was wearing that. Orange went horribly with his hair. And really, a six! "Guess what, pal, you're not exactly a ten yourself. Not with that prison-hooch stink."

"Ladies all over Remnant would disagree. A few men too." Qrow boasted.

"Lucky them." Roman said sarcastically. "I'm sure that's two minutes they'll remember the rest of their lives. I always thought that giant scythe of yours was compensating—"

He was shoved him roughly back in his seat. "I've got nothing to be ashamed of." Qrow growled. The Huntsman's foul breath washed over Roman's face and made his nose wrinkle. "More than you could handle, for sure. The Original Harbinger would tear your rect—"

"Too much information!" a female voice shouted.

"Yes, Qrow, this...doesn't seem relevant." Ironwood seemed to be barely holding his bile in. Wuss.

"Fine." Roman felt a sharp yank on his collar. "Let me level with you, Torchwick, I don't like you very much. You've tried to kill my nieces...what, four times now?"

"Hey, they started it!"

"And believe me, I wouldn't mind finishing it." Qrow said without missing a beat. "Lucky for you, you've got info we need. But if you won't talk?" The hand on Roman's collar moved to his throat. He heard a series of menacing clicking noises, presumably from that absurd dick-compensating weapon unfolding. "Seems to me there's no point keeping you around."

Roman yawned ostentatiously. "Bluff." A painfully obvious one, at that. Qrow Branwen could try to act dark and edgy all he liked, but he was still a Huntsman, Ozpin's golden boy no less. Roman knew how men like him thought. They considered themselves heroes, deep down, and heroes had to obey all sorts of silly rules—'no randomly beheading prisoners' among them.

"I apologize for my colleague." The unknown woman spoke again. Oh boy, time for the good cop. "The Atlas Military would like to inform you of the many benefits of collaboration. Including but not limited to a 20% larger jail cell, one hour of exercise time per day, and meals composed of recognizable food substances." Soft, feminine fingers loosely grasped his own. "It would also be a good start towards redeeming your life of crime."

Roman laughed. Gods, whoever this was sucked at her job. The dialogue was cringeworthy to begin with, plus her wooden delivery made it clear she was reading from a script and was probably repulsed by having to touch him. "I've already said everything, lady. Your boss just can't get it through his thick head. I'm the one who planned all this, okay? Me. Nobody else. I did it because, uh...I like crime. And I'm eeeevil." He drew out the last word with relish.

"Not everything." Qrow said. "There was a woman—not your ice cream girl, the one who helped you escape, the night you met Ruby. Red dress and fireballs ring a bell?" Roman couldn't suppress a twitch of surprise. "Don't pretend she isn't real. Glynda Goodwitch personally exchanged shots with her. So tell me, who is she?"

Damn it, Cinder! It was just like her to make his life harder, even when she wasn't physically present. He honestly had no idea why she'd decided to tag along on the Dust robbery that night, and that night alone. "Nobody important." he lied. "Some muscle I hired for the job. Didn't really know her."

"So you just let random people join your heists? No background check, nothing? Hell of a criminal mastermind." Qrow's voice dripped with sarcasm. Roman's professional pride would not let him to answer yes to that. The Huntsman's footsteps paced round and round his chair like a circling Beowolf. "Come on. You've got to have a name at least."

"No."

"What, you scared of her?" Qrow taunted, then proceeded to do a horrible impression of chicken. Ironwood groaned in the background. "She got some super scary powers keeping you in line?"

Roman gritted his teeth. "No."

"Hmm. Or do you think she'll still bust you out of here?"

"No."

"Are you going to say anything but no?" Ironwood asked.

"No."

The general huffed. "At least you're honest about that."

"Aww. What a loyal little boy you are." Qrow patted Roman on the head as if he were an overgrown puppy. "Ever consider what might happen if no one saves you, though? With your rap sheet, you're looking at a life sentence. On the bright side, that might not be long." he added with faux cheer. "I don't know if your criminal friends will want to stay friends, after they find out you tried to blow up the city with them in it. Could be they'll send someone to stick a sharpened toothbrush up your butt, huh?"

Ugh. Roman's 'back door' clenched at the image, but it was nothing he didn't already know. He was well aware of the bitter bargain he'd struck. Cinder's plan would demolish his criminal empire along with the rest of Vale, and if word of his role got out, he'd no doubt be reviled by rogues and honest men alike. But the awful truth was that she, with the endless hordes of Grimm at her back, could not be stopped. Better to live on his knees than die on his feet. "I'm not worried." he insisted.

"Whatever you say." Qrow gave his hair another patronizing rub, then went quiet for a good minute or so. "Well, maybe you've got a point. Jimmy here doesn't exactly have the best bad-guy catching record." he finally said. Ironwood let out a wordless growl of discontent. "I mean, someone broke into the CCT tower last month. Right under his noise, and they got away clean. Tell me, Torchwick...did your red woman do that too?"

The room suddenly felt ten degrees warmer. Of course, Roman knew perfectly well that she had. Why, Cinder had called him the morning after just to brag. She'd gloated about how perfect she'd been and how no one could possibly ever trace it back to her, smugly contrasting it to his own misadventures in stealth. Well, clearly she wasn't as perfect as she thought, not that it mattered. If the authorities had more than guesswork to go off, they wouldn't be asking him. Just keep denying. "No. I don't know anything about the CCT."

"Shame. You know, I've actually been thinking about that night a lot." Qrow continued. "Unlike the other Academies, Beacon's not in the middle of the city. King Oswell built it three hundred years ago when he wanted a new castle, and he chose a spot that could hold out against a siege. It's surrounded by high cliffs, and the cliffs are surrounded by the Emerald Forest on three sides. Even on the west side facing Vale, there's a big lake in the way. The only real way in is by ship—"

"I know that, dumbass! I live in Vale!" Roman interrupted. That story was written on every tourist brochure in the city, and probably taught in every elementary school on Remnant. He didn't understand the point of such basic exposition, not unless there was an audience of invisible aliens in need of history lessons.

"Fair. My point is, it's not an easy place to sneak into. Unless you can somehow turn into a bird, heh." Qrow chuckled at his own joke, but nobody else did. "More likely, whoever did it was allowed to be there. Maybe they were disguised as an Atlas soldier, that'd be rich. How's that for a theory, eh?"

"It's stupid." Roman said, for once honestly.

"Or maybe they were a student." Qrow suggested. "Right under Ozpin's roof, imagine that! How about now, getting warmer?"

Roman managed to keep perfectly still this time, something he was quite proud of. "Still stupid."

"From Shade, maybe?" When Qrow spoke again, his voice had lost some of its dry and detached tone. In its place, Roman detected a hint of urgency, excitement almost. "I hear they don't ask many questions in Vacuo."

"Wait, what?" And just like that, alarms started going off in his head. In spite of his deliberately unhelpful answers, Qrow's questioning had somehow advanced another step closer to the truth. Perhaps it was mere luck, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something fishy going on, something he wasn't seeing. Wasn't seeing... "This blindfold, get it off. Or I'm done talking!" Instinctively, he tried to remove it himself, but his hands were still bound. He strained helplessly against the cuffs...and against that strange woman's grip. With a sinking feeling, he suddenly realized she'd been touching him this whole time. "Let go of me! LET GO!"

His blindfold was abruptly pulled off. Roman swore loudly as his eyes sizzled in the bright light. When his vision cleared, he finally got a good look at his three interrogators. Qrow was looking down on him from above, Ironwood sat grim-faced in a corner, and a white-haired woman stood in front of his chair, slathering her hand with copious amounts of hand sanitizer. "You! You did something to me, didn't you?!" Roman accused her. "Everything else was just cover! The blindfold, that cop show nonsense, the dick jokes—"

"Not the dick jokes, that was all Qrow." the woman sighed. She turned to Ironwood and bowed her head stiffly. "Looks like he figured it out. Sorry I couldn't help more, General."

Qrow patted her on the back. "Not your fault, Robyn. That Shade question was probably a reach." Fucking Semblances, Roman thought numbly. In hindsight, this entire setup, every single thing he'd mocked and found stupid, had all been for one purpose—to mask the sight and sound of her doing her thing. Was this how all the people Neo tricked with her illusions felt? Lulled into complacency, until some girl pulled the rug out from under them with her broken-ass powers? And gods, what would Cinder think if she found out? If she took it as a betrayal...Roman might be relatively safe up here, but Neo had to sleep in the same room as that monster!

"...but where do we go from here?" Ironwood was asking. "There are hundreds of students at Beacon; we'll have a hell of a time narrowing that down. I still think—"

The woman (Robyn?) crossed her arms. "I'm still not helping you torture him."

Qrow scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I might have one more trick. Tell him how your Semblance works, Robyn."

"Are you serious?" Robyn questioned, receiving a single nod in reply. "Um...all right. So the deal is, when I touch—" She stopped mid-sentence, scowling. "Hey, can we turn that music off? It's getting annoying!" _

Semblance: Lie Detection

User: Robyn Hill

Destructive Power: E/Speed: B/Range: E/Persistence: A/Precision: A/Development Potential: D

Lie Detection activates when user and target's hands are touching (gloves and prosthetic appendages that serve the purpose of a hand are acceptable). When target makes a verbal statement that can be evaluated as true or false, their hands will glow green if true, or red if false. Objective statements are evaluated based on the target's belief; as such the Semblance is not omniscient. Subjective statements are evaluated according to the value judgement of the user, based on the target's knowledge.

Roman was confused. "Uh, okay? Why are you telling me this?"

"Now use it on me." Qrow ordered. Robyn grabbed his hand, and their forearms started shimmering purple. "There. Now you'll know everything I'm telling you is true." Green.

Ironwood frowned. "We're not authorized to disclose...you know..."

Qrow waved his free hand dismissively. "Relax, Jimmy. I know what I'm doing." Red. "Gods damn—okay, I won't say anything super secret." Green. "So. Torchwick. I don't know who exactly your boss is. But I do have a pretty good idea of what powers she's got and what she wants." Green. "I've crossed paths with her, uh, associates a few times. And I know people who've got more experience. A lot more." Green. "Now, I'm not sure what you get out of this. Maybe she's promised to share the goods with you. Or at least spare your life. Wrong. We know how her sort operate. They use people...until they're no longer useful." Green.

"Use people until they're no longer useful?" Robyn repeated incredulously.

"Shut up. It's phrased perfectly fine, all right?" Red. "Oh for—anyways, look. I'm guessing she needs you right now because you know Vale. But when she's done her business in Vale, where does that leave you?" Qrow paused expectantly, but there was no glow. "Hey, what gives?"

"It only works on statements." Robyn told him. "Not rhetorical questions."

"Okay, let me rephrase. Besides your network, you've got nothing going for you. You're average in a fight. You don't have a Semblance. And no offense, you don't strike me a true believer type. In the end, that just makes you a guy who knows too much. And they don't like people knowing too much." Green. "By 'don't like', I mean they dispose of them. And by 'dispose', I mean murder." Green. "So what'll it be, Pumpkin Boy?"

Roman opened his mouth, but only a hoarse croak came out. His throat was as dry as the Vacuan desert. He was dimly aware of how damp his clothes felt around the armpits; that would stink to high heaven later, but right now he had bigger concerns. Horrible visions filled his head, mostly of himself burning to death while screaming in agony, and of Neo burning to death while...not screaming. "Assuming that...that your ridiculous theory is true." a voice spoke up, so weak and shaky it took him a second to recognize it as his own. "And I tell you what you want to hear. I want you hold her hand and guarantee me that you'll...that you'll win."

Qrow pulled a face. His lips twitched a few times, but eventually he let Robyn's hand drop and turned his back to Roman. "I think I've told you enough, Torchwick. Choose wisely. You don't have much time left." He walked out of the room with nary a glance back. "What the hell was that?" Robyn demanded, as Ironwood moved to usher her out as well. "I have so many questions—"

"Classified." Ironwood grunted.

"He just implied there's some sort of shadow cabal trying to, I don't know, destroy the world?" Robyn protested. "You can't expect me to just—"

"Miss Hill, please. I'll increase your mission fee if—" The door slammed shut, cutting out the rest of their conversation. Roman was left alone, stewing in his thoughts and doubts and fears. Especially fears. There were a lot of those to go around. Thoughts of money and power were cast by the wayside; all he wanted right now was to survive the week without being skewered by Huntsmen or eaten by Grimm or squished by robots or gunned down by terrorists or roasted by their supposed allies...

...damn, that was a lot of ways to die.

What the hell did I get us into, Neo?

"Get back here, you stupid midget!" Cinder roared. "When I get my hands on you—!" Truth be told, she hadn't figured out exactly what she'd do. The implied threat, however, did not convince Neo to stop running down the hall. One might fairly wonder why Cinder was chasing her supposed ally with semi-murderous intent. Two minutes ago, she had been sitting in her dorm with the rest of her 'team', doing things that normal students who were definitely not planning to conquer Remnant with OP elemental magic did. Then her Scroll buzzed with a text message. That was never a good sign. Watts's missives always came across as vaguely insulting, Tyrian only ever sent all-caps gibberish, and Salem mangled her texts in ways only a millennia-old senior citizen could. Sometimes Cinder had to spend hours deciphering them; one did not simply ask the immortal Queen of Grimm to explain herself.

But this time, it was from the contact she'd labelled 'Cowardly Lion'. Leonardo Lionheart's grovelling introduction took up two entire paragraphs. There were the typical assurances that he was hoping for her success, that he was doing his best to lower Haven's academic standards, that his loyalty to the cause was absolute, and that could she please tell Salem how loyal he was and how Her Grace should definitely not feed him to a Wyvern, blah blah blah. Cinder skipped to the important part. Apparently Ozpin and Ironwood had sent messages to the other headmasters—interesting. Saying they'd made a breakthrough in interrogations, and requesting files on all exchange students—wait, what?! She'd turned to Neo to politely ask some questions, only for the girl to immediately book it out the door. What a disgrace. Sure, perhaps her 'polite asking' had involved screaming Neo's name angrily...and making her eye glow with arcane power...and using her Semblance to disintegrate a chunk of her desk...but still! Emerald would have stayed and taken her lumps. That was the problem with other people's minions; they were all such sensitive little cupcakes.

Anyways, that was how she found herself in this situation. Chasing a multicolored (well, single-colored; Neo was still disguised as a dark-haired Haven student) mute through the corridors of Beacon. Considering how Cinder stood a full foot taller than her quarry, it was slightly infuriating how their running speed seemed about the same. Flinging Maiden fireballs in public was probably a bad idea, but damn if she wasn't tempted. If Roman had tattled on her, it'd be a shame to go down without causing a few fatalities. She'd like to see his face when she cremated his friend—lover? adopted daughter? whatever the hell Neo was to him—to the point she fit in a matchbox.

Neo dashed around a corner, causing Cinder to lose sight of her for a few seconds. When she reached the corner herself, she saw nothing but an empty hallway. "Damn it!" She had a flash of panic before rational thought kicked in. There we no doors either side of the hall, only a stairwell at the far end which she doubted Neo could have reached so quickly. Suspiciously conveniently for a shape-shifter, suits of armor stood on display stands against both walls. If Cinder had taken the time to read the informational plaque (she didn't) she would have learned these were replicas of the armor that Vale's royal guards had once worn. "I see. You're one of these, aren't you?" she said smugly. She lifted her leg and gave the nearest armor a solid kick. It hit the floor with a loud metal clang; the helmet came off and rolled away. "Well, not that one."

Two sets of footsteps ran up from behind. "What the hell's going on?" Mercury demanded, but she ignored him in favor of knocking over another suit of armor. "Or that one." A third one went, followed by a fourth. A cacophony of crashing metal echoed off the walls. Broken-off gauntlets and greaves and cuirasses and other fancily-named armor parts littered the floor. "Come on, you can't hide forever!"

"Ma'am, we're in public—" Emerald began nervously.

"What is that racket?!" A woman's voice shouted, scandalized. A tall figure emerged from the stairwell. Blonde hair. Light glinting off glasses. A riding crop, smacking ominously against her palm. Goodwitch. "Miss Fall." Ozpin's deputy hissed. "I'm not sure how Haven operates, but if you must vent your rage on inanmate objects, Beacon has training arenas for that. Kindly cease destroying school property."

She doesn't know. The professor looked furious, to be sure, but showed no sign of recognizing her as anything worse than an unruly student. Despite the trouble they were about to be in, Cinder felt herself breathing easier. "Ah...Professor." Emerald said weakly. "We, um, we thought we saw a Geist in one of these—"

Goodwitch palmed her forehead. "I don't want to hear it, Miss Sustrai." She waved her riding crop, and the broken armor all levitated back into place. "Detention, you three. Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. I've had quite enough of cleaning up after children...not their mother..." Muttering under her breath, she marched down the hall and out of sight.

Cinder waited a minute to be sure she was gone, then coughed and addressed the empty air. "All right, you can come out now." No response. "Look, I won't do anything...drastic. I'll even excuse your earlier insolence. I—I need you." she admitted grudgingly. "And you need me too. Don't forget that."

That did the trick. A cloud of shimmering pink particles appeared, the telltale sign of Neo dispelling an illusion. She hadn't been a suit of armor, though. Instead, a nondescript wastebasket suddenly transformed into a girl wearing a Haven uniform. Mercury burst out laughing, while Cinder's eye twitched. She really should have known. The trash was much more Neo's style.

"...so that's what happened." Cinder explained. In the end Neo had returned to the dorm room, somewhat against her better judgement. Her 'team leader' had generously forgiven her for running away...and not apologized at all for implicitly threatening to make her into melted ice cream. Such was life. "What do you have to say for yourself?" For the approximately thousandth time, Neo gestured irritably at her mouth. "I knew that! Figure of speech!" Cinder snapped, tossing over a notebook and pen.

How did you even find that out? Neo scribbled. The private messages of Academy headmasters didn't seem like easily accessed information. Maybe Cinder's stunt at the CCT tower had something to do with it? Neo was a killer, not a computer scientist; the Internet was practically magic to her.

Cinder dodged the question. "Not important. What I want to know is, what the hell is Roman doing?" She picked up a random book off her desk (their Grimm Studies textbook, as it happened) and incinerated it, presumably to prove how not-fucking-around she was. "Answer me!"

Neo twirled the pen nervously. Her longtime partner was, it had to be confessed, not a man of principle, but he still followed the age-old law of the street. Snitches got stitches. And while Roman might sell out the others if he thought he could get away with it, he would never risk her being caught up as well. Roman wouldn't betray us, she wrote. Besides. If he really did they would just arrest us. Not bother with more questions.

"She's got a point." Emerald conceded. "Seeing as Goodwitch didn't, you know, try to blast us on sight."

"Wonderful. So Roman isn't a traitor, just stupid." Cinder tossed the smoldering remains of that poor book aside. "He had one job! One! All he had to not was not blurt out our secret identities! How do you even screw that up?"

Emerald nodded consolingly. "I'm sorry, ma'am. It must be hard for someone brilliant as you to endure this." That would've been a wonderful piece of sarcasm, were it not for the fact that she was 100% serious. Neo wanted to vomit.

"I can't believe he fucked up again." Mercury groaned, sprawled on his bed. "This is what, four times now?"

"Five." Cinder corrected. "Counting the time I had to save him at that Dust shop."

Mercury shook his head. "Gods. At least we won't need him much longer, eh? Just three more days..."

"Perhaps we shouldn't wait that long." Cinder muttered, rubbing at her neck. "A lot can happen in three days...for all I know Roman might say our names in his sleep...no, no. I won't have it! Not when I'm so close!" Mind made up, she grabbed another random book (some sort of action comic) and burned that too for dramatic effect. "Change of plans. We're going tomorrow."

"Just like that? But—" Emerald began.

"I was going to read that!" Mercury whined.

Cinder pretended they hadn't said anything. "Almost everything's ready, anyways. The Grimm have been in that tunnel for months. The second virus was finished last week. I'll tell Adam to move the Fang into position—bastard's been baying for blood all year, he should be happy to attack early. All we have to do is light the fuse."

"But it's the doubles round tomorrow. My Semblance—" Emerald said hesitantly. Cinder whirled on her, eyes literally blazing. "Are you incapable, Emerald?" she snarled. The green-haired girl shrank back, frantically shaking her head.

"Hey, look on the bright side. We won't have to do that detention." Mercury joked. "Leave it to us, Cinder. We'll figure—" He paused and sniffed the air suspiciously. "Is something burning?"

"Huh, now that you—" Emerald looked down, only to find a small but growing fire on the carpet underneath her bed. "OH SHIT!" She snatched a blanket and dived under the bed to try and beat out the flames. It was strange how worried she was, considering they were planning to burn down the entire school anyways. "Mercury, help me!" And that was why you always put out your cigars (or burning books) before tossing them. Like Smokey the Ursa said, only you could prevent forest fires.

Naturally, Cinder did not lift a finger to help them. Instead, she turned to face Neo and put a hand on the mute's shoulder. "Be a dear and make sure Roman gets the message, won't you?" Her benevolent smile didn't quite reach her orange eyes. "I'm a merciful woman, Neo. I believe in second chances. Sixth chances, even. Regardless of the...mistakes so far, so long as all goes well tomorrow I'll honor the deal. Release you from my service. But..." Neo's shoulder suddenly felt uncomfortably warm. "Another 'mistake', and I won't be so kind. Even if you somehow escape me, I'll see to it that the Grimm hunt you for the rest of your miserable lives. Are we clear?"

Neo nodded. What else could she do? Cinder's smile widened. "Good girl. Off you go." Still in disguise, she stumbled out the door, out of the dorms and into the Beacon gardens, to a secluded spot surrounded by bushes and hidden from prying eyes. There, she finally let herself slump to the ground. By all rights, she should have felt relieved their indentured servitude was ending soon, but all she felt was nameless dread chewing at her guts.

Her eyes found the Atlesian airship overhead, where all she loved in the world sat locked up on a castle in the sky. She really needed to talk to Roman. Surely she'd feel better about all this, once she saw his confident grin through the tiny cell window. Surely he'd tell her that everything was under control, that whatever he'd done was a clever ruse to bamboozle Cinder and Ozpin alike and ensure the two of them came out on top. For as long as Neopolitan had known Roman Torchwick, he had never let her down. All she had to do was trust him like always...right?

Well, that was different, wasn't it? The spotlight will return to our cast of psychotic teenagers next time, but I thought I'd devote a chapter to the people who are making actual important decisions and set up for the coming storm of shit. Team Oz isn't about to sit on their hands and wait for a 17-year-old girl to solve their problems, not in this universe. Like...I get the show is PG-13, but considering how things turned out with Ironwood, I'm a bit surprised he didn't try any 'enhanced interrogation techniques' on poor ol' Roman.

Speaking of Roman, I do hope it doesn't read like I dropped his IQ to 0 for the sake of plot. I kind of interpret him as guy who's legitimately smart and charismatic, but tends to overestimate what he can handle. To be fair he does seem to realize he's in over his head with Cinder—but as the manner of his death showed, not how far in. Here, though, it's starting to dawn on him how bad his situation really is...

Also, was anyone expecting to see Robyn Hill show up? Me neither! Kind of nervous about adding her; I feel like the Atlas characters don't really have a standard fanfic personality (thanks to 90% of fics being set in the Beacon era). I figure she's still doing typical activist stuff at this point, just not as anti-establishment as she'd get later.

So, uh, why the hell did I even do this? It may or may not been to make Cinder trigger the BIG FIGHT early because I am too lazy to write more tournament battles. Yeah. Expect my other original plots to be of similar quality (and now you know why I mostly stick to canon).

Oh, and to the guest reviewer who left a super long review on the last chapter, thank you. You're going to make me blush. I try to play it cool in these author's notes, but really I crave the validation of Internet strangers as much as anyone, and it makes me happy knowing someone is enjoying this story so much.