A/N
Someone mentioned in the reviews that it's difficult to tell who's speaking in some of the dialogue. I've made some edits that should alleviate that problem. Feel free to let me know of any aspect of my writing that doesn't work for you. If it resonates with my own instincts, I'll most likely address the issue.
Chapter 6: Like Father, Like Son
Specialist Winter Schnee rehearsed the details of her report yet a third time, as the elevator made its glaringly slow journey downward, to the bottom floor of the Atlas Command Center. Her fingers tapped against the plastic surface of a thick, brown folder, containing an ordered summary of her findings.
She had already studied the material extensively, obviously, both yesterday, long after her working hours, and earlier today, during her morning training routine, as she listened to voice recordings over the drone of the treadmill.
Still, the pieces of the puzzle refused to fall into place.
As a Special Operative, Winter was used to dealing with incomplete information. Operating under sloppy assumptions was the reality of her profession. It had never come naturally to her, and by this point in her career, she suspected that it never would. Even so, this particular case felt wrong, almost disturbingly so, leading her to the unavoidable conclusion that vital specifics were kept from her.
She had the utmost trust in her superiors, but then again, this meeting would put her in a perfect position to demand answers.
Winter Schnee was not one to waste opportunities.
The double, parallel mirrors on both sides of the compartment reflected her upright figure in a series of infinite receding images… which definitely accentuated the messiness of her attire; the dark blue clasp around her waist, which was holding her white, long-sleeved coat snuggled close, was visibly skewed off-center.
Unacceptable.
Frowning, she stuck the folder under her arm to free her hands and unfastened the strap, readjusting it to a proper position. On second thought, she also repinned her hair, straightened the cuffs of her forearm-length gloves, and corrected the height of her sword belt.
When the doors of the elevator finally glided open, not before requiring another facial scan, and not one, but two different security card swipes, Winter stepped out with the purposeful stride of assured professionalism.
Two slender, black and white androids swiveled their helmeted heads at her passage, lowering dust-powered rifles only after a laser scan identified her as a non-enemy entity. Not that they could have done much to stop an adversary of her caliber, but regardless of their capacity to deal with threats, their constant, mechanized vigilance was not to be underestimated.
Winter had trained with the finest operatives Atlas had to offer, and in some way or another, they usually failed to meet her standards. Most of her associates couldn't be bothered to memorize technical manuals of equipment they'd be operating in the field, or the protocols of engagement for every possible hostage scenario.
Granted, an aerial Grimm invasion during an ongoing bank heist by a gang of highly trained rogue huntresses was… a little far-fetched, but the likelihood of the emergency wasn't the point! If an experienced instructor thought that scenario was important enough to record in a textbook, they no doubt had some valuable lesson in mind.
And it was always preferable to learn a lesson by memorizing facts from textbooks, as such, avoiding the negative consequences of life lessons, a term used by the perpetually unprepared to excuse ineptitude.
So, it was to Winter's great relief that the last decade had seen enormous leaps forward in android technology, with its applications in the military becoming increasingly prevalent across all branches. In a way, robots were the ideal soldiers, as perfect execution of protocols rarely produced mistakes or unknowns. Currently, their only limitation was insufficient firepower to match the ferocity of the Grimm or the sheer potency of Aura.
An only temporary hindrance, by Winter's estimation.
A short corridor near the elevators, as white and plain as any other in the Command Center, led her to a massive open room, bustling with activity of rushing personnel and beeping monitors.
"Get me on the line with Bullhead 718, en route from Vale to Ansel," A stern man demanded, standing behind a row of monitors, where nervous flight coordinators were busy taking calls and closely monitoring Grimm activity around the Atlesian relief teams.
"Right away, sir."
Despite the general clatter, Winter's clicking heels echoed in her ears, as technicians and analysts hurried to remove themselves from her path.
She didn't like what she was seeing. At all.
Her fingers clenched over the folder in her arms, her report was getting more and more outdated by the minute
A gigantic monitor, almost floor to ceiling, taking a significant portion of what little floor space remained unused, was divided into hundreds of smaller sub screens, showing images from news stations around the world, military drones, and headgear cameras of troops on the ground.
Ansel was a smoking pile of rubble.
The video of what looked like a restaurant caught her eye, displaying a cluster of upturned tables, previously arranged Infront of a glass wall, where unmoving forms were now shredded into a messy heap. Further inside, the ceiling had partly collapsed; a shirtless man was frantically pulling at the rubble. A hand was sticking out of the pile, waving.
It cut to a civilian's scroll, judging by the shaky, confusing motions; a Beowulf sauntered into the street from the opposite side of the road, seemingly on a pleasant afternoon stroll. It raised its head, sniffing, then proceeded to hurl itself in a massive leap, right into a thong of helpless civilians pressed against the closed gates of a flower shop.
Though the video was muted, the ensuing shrieks of terror were crystal clear in Winter's mind.
"Team 7B please report to bay 3," a voice announced over a speaker. For once, Winter paused, allowing soldiers in hazmat suits to clear a tight aisle. Behind them, two delivery workers were pushing a long cart filled to the brim with first aid kits and field rations.
Winter frowned, foot tapping the floor, checking her scroll for the time. She wouldn't allow herself to be late for a meeting with the general under any circumstances. If it came to it, she would use her semblance.
The Command Center was built like an impregnable fortress. Getting to the deeper and lower chambers required one to pass through all the previous rooms and security checks. It worked out fine most days, since the complex was designed to have the more populated and less security-sensitive locations closer to the main entrance.
During emergencies though, as one might have guessed, making way to the general's office was a painful trial of patience.
Her eyes strayed to the large monitor again. Bodies, blood, small fires, and broken glass littered the streets of Ansel. Winter's frown deepened, and she scanned the monitor, glancing over dozens of screens until she found what she wanted, needed to witness.
Huntsmen response.
Another civilian footage, this one had been taken just moments after the initial attack, according to the timestamp. Through a shattered window of an apartment, third floor at least, the video zoomed in on a thin figure standing on the roof of a building.
A woman, with dark, long hair with straight-cut bangs falling across her forehead, held a sword in both hands, pointed up while keeping its handle tucked close against her right shoulder. It was a single-edge blade with a squared guard. She was barefoot, wearing pink shorts and a tank top as if just woken up from sleep.
The woman's lips moved and Winter quickly activated a glyph. It was a subtle one, creating a slight hue around her heels that blended with the ivory floor tiles. The world slowed down, and Winter focused on the Huntress, lip-reading, imagining a cool voice.
'I prevail by fire.'
A mantra. Not an uncommon habit among young Huntsmen and Huntresses. Aura manipulation relied heavily on visualization, and pairing verbal cues with some techniques sometimes helped to focus the mind. As a child trainee, Winter herself had indulged in that practice, making long lists of candidate phrases for each of her glyphs, which, embarrassingly, she'd ranked more by their perceived elegance rather than by their efficiency.
It was an obvious weakness in the foundation of a Huntress, and it didn't bode well for the young woman on screen.
The Huntress blasted off the roof of the building in an echoing boom, showering pieces of concrete on the street below.
Winter winced.
Aura was incredibly dangerous to anything and anyone in any proximity. Civilians often held the mistaken view that a Huntress' job was primarily about eliminating threats. That was the easy part. The hard part was making sure that you were indeed eliminating threats,not innocent lives.
A civilian clashing with a sprinting Huntress would shatter every bone in their body as if hit by a semi-truck. A Huntress breaking the wrong support beam, or blasting off of the wrong roof…
The building collapsed.
Such a needless loss of life. What a shame.
The video cut to another angle, street view, showing the Huntress zipping across the gap between building tops, her face wrinkled in pained confusion. They must have compiled several recordings to get the entire sequence.
The image transitioned to an enormous Nevermore.
It was so huge that it took several seconds for Winter's accelerated senses to translate the visual data. A speck of yellowish pink under its nostrils was all that remained of the Huntress, her sword was a tiny pixelated strip falling from the sky.
But that was hardly anything compared to its rider.
A Nevermore with a rider.
"Ma'am, is everything alright?"
Winter re-activated the glyph, pouring everything she had into it. It shone brightly now, and there were several gasps from the desks surrounding her. The world slowed down to a glaze and her vision cleared, zooming in on the rider.
On the back of the Nevermore, sat an emaciated, naked man. Completely hairless, his head was shaped like a deformed egg with the wider part at the top. His brow bulged prominently, almost shadowing his nose.
He was looking at Winter, his eyes fuming like burning coals.
No.
He was seeing her, as if piercing time and space. Judging her, evaluating her worth. He was not pleased, he was-
The screen went black.
"Ma'am?"
Winter blinked, releasing a breath she didn't she'd been holding. She followed the young analyst's stare down to her belt. Her sword was halfway drawn, clenched in a white-knuckle grip.
"Your name?" Winter asked, deactivating her glyph and sheathing her sword in a slamming motion.
The analyst fidgeted with his tie and cleared his throat. "Cage Robinson, um, Ma'am. I work on, I mean, my department is working on, that is, uh, weather modeling to forecast, sorry, predict, patterns related to- "
"I need the sequence from screen 13," Winter interjected. "The one with the Nevermore. Have it sent to Specialist Winter Schnee."
"But I'm not- "
She brushed passed him. "Thank you Mr. Robinson."
That rider, creature, whatever it was, needed to be documented and investigated. The sooner, the better.
Winter called upon the visual manifestation of her aura. As always, the illusion of icy tempest over a stormy sea greeted her. The tension in her shoulders slackened and her breathing calmed to a normal rhythm.
It was unprofessional, losing herself in front of her coworkers like that. Unpleasant.
It would never happen again.
The general's office was situated at the end of yet another long, unadorned corridor. Winter performed the required identity checks, completely automated, and turned to face the security camera.
A moment later, the door clicked open with a buzz.
"Specialist Schnee, right on time," General James Ironwood greeted. "Have a seat." He was neck-deep in a mountain of paperwork, arranged in several neat piles around his desk.
As expected, the General was well-dressed and clean, but the signs of his exhaustion were clear to Winter. She noted the livid circles around his eyes and the subtle slump to his shoulders. The white glove on his left hand was slightly loose, exposing the metal of his cybernetic arm as it moved in precise strokes, signing documents.
Winter sat across from him and settled her folder in her lap "Sir before we begin- "
"Holographic call inbound from Beacon. Do you accept?" A voice said over a speaker.
At the left edge of the desk, blue light hovered over a circular platform, now collating into a humanoid, featureless figure.
General Ironwood laid down his pen and lifted his head. "What is it?" He asked.
Winter hesitated. "It's important, but I shouldn't keep Professor Ozpin waiting- "
"Nonsense." Ironwood scowled, "Gods know I've done my fair share of waiting for Beacon's headmaster." He banged his metallic arm on the desk, one paper blowing off the top of a pile. "And I trust your judgment above all else. Let's hear it," he ordered.
One corner of Winter's mouth twitched upwards. She nodded, pleased. "One of our teams salvaged a recording from the day of the invasion. It… has just recently come to my attention," Winter admitted. "A class 4 Nevermore was sighted over Ansel. Possibly class 5. And it had- "
"A rider," Ironwood grunted.
"Yes," Winter said slowly. "We've missed it somehow. You've been briefed?"
"This morning," Ironwood replied. Winter couldn't help but feel a flash of irritation that she wasn't the one doing the briefing. "Don't be too hard on yourself," Ironwood added.
There was something off about his reaction. The General was not usually one to hold back his thoughts. He was direct, earnest, and blunt, perfectly willing to voice his displeasure in no uncertain terms, even on occasions when a more diplomatic approach would have proved appropriate. When he wanted to hide something though, General Ironwood was by no means an easy man to read. Over the years working under him, Winter's best efforts to observe and note his habits had culminated in something akin to an instinctual understanding of his mannerisms, yet she could never put her finger on any obvious tells that managed to slip through his stoic façade.
"Holographic call inbound from Beacon. Do you accept?"
"Anything else we need to discuss?" Ironwood asked, ignoring his virtual assistant.
Winter hesitated, unsure if that was the right time to push. "Sir, given the new information, I must inform you that my report may not be up to standard, if we could- "
Ironwood lifted a hand. "As I said, I'm well aware of the new development. The contents of your report will suffice."
"But- "
"Accept call," Ironwood commanded.
The Holographic light flickered once, twice, then the details of the humanoid figure began to rapidly sharpen. The blue disappeared in a mosaic of colors that twirled and writhed, shaping the image until a perfect replica of Beacon's Headmaster was standing in the room with them. The halo that surrounded him was the only indication he was a hologram.
From his appearance to his past, everything about the headmaster of Beacon was an enigma, a mystery that many powerful organizations, the Atlas military included, had spent fortunes investigating. Mostly to no avail.
The early years of his life weren't documented on any database, In Vale or otherwise. For all intents and purposes, Ozpin had appeared from thin air around 150 years ago. A few black and white photos taken around the period of The Great War proved his interference on behalf of Vale, particularly in several secretive operations that historians largely contributed to the eventual fall and defeat of the Atlas, then Mantle, military.
Known as 'The Guardian of Emotional Freedom', it was to no one's surprise that Ozpin would have supported Vale against an alliance that sought to abolish arts and self-expression of its citizens. It was a subject of a great divide in current politics, both in Vale and in Atlas, and Winter was under no delusions as to how Ozpin would take her personal views on the matter. The studies were definitive; Grimm's attraction to negative emotions could be significantly suppressed through strict adherence to various social protocols, information control, and emotional training. As a special operative, it was not Winter's place to push a political agenda, but for years, she'd wished the Schnee Dust Company would focus more of its resources on emotion regulation programs, rather than on a senseless war against Faunus' rights.
"Miss Schnee," Ozpin greeted her pleasantly.
Winter hurried to her feet, bowing her head respectfully. "Headmaster Ozpin."
"James," Ozpin dipped his head towards the General.
"Ozpin," Ironwood replied idly, shuffling documents. Still very much seated.
Huntsmen and Huntresses were known for their ageless appearance, and Ozpin was no exception. He carried his age with a youthful elegance that in no way detracted from the gravity of his bearing. His shaded spectacles, low on his nose, blended seamlessly with his sharp facial features. The cane he carried everywhere was a show of passive fragility, and it did not fool Winter one bit. Not much was known about Ozpin's Semblance, fighting style, or weapon of choice, but the one rare recording of him in action, unavailable to the public but famous in certain circles, assuage any and all doubts as to his fighting capabilities. It did not reveal much. One frame, Ozpin was facing a class 6 Nuckelavee, at the time feared to be invincible, the next, it lay in two pieces on the ground.
Winter shifted in place; her report suddenly heavy in her arms. She should have prepared more thoroughly for this meeting.
"Late night, old friend?" Ozpin asked casually.
"Late night? More like late yesterday's morning," Ironwood grunted. "Rise up high enough through the ranks and eventually you become nothing more than a glorified stamp." He turned to Winter, who was about to offer her assistance. She didn't mind paperwork. "Listen to men of experience Specialist Schnee, stay in the field as long as possible." Paper crinkled in his hands. "Now I need you to forget everything I've just said, because actually, I will have to promote you at some point. Consider this an early apology."
"Of course, Sir." Winter nodded dutifully.
"Wise words Indeed," Ozpin said. "I myself am truly fortunate to have such a wonderful assistant. I daresay she makes paperwork almost bearable."
"Whoever she is, tell her I'm paying double," Ironwood said, distracted. He had a disgusted look on his face, obviously reading a request he did not approve of. "Denied," he mumbled, smashing his pad on yet another victimized document.
"I will," Ozpin offered easily, "Though I suspect Glynda would miss her students If she were to move all the way to Atlas."
"One of your teaching staff is doing your paperwork?" Winter blurted, aghast. She immediately regretted the outburst.
Ozpin smiled faintly. "Well, Glynda handles sensitive information, Miss Schnee. I wouldn't waste her talents on functionaries."
"I didn't mean to imply- "
"Don't let him fool you, Specialist," Ironwood interrupted. "But enough with that. We have more pressing matters to attend to. You may begin your report."
Winter straightened, more at ease now that they'd finished with the pleasantries. She walked over to a tripod where a projector was elevated, pointing at a screen.
"Assume we don't know anything about the situation, if you may," Ozpin said. "Start from the beginning."
Winter nodded, pleasantly surprised. It was unusual that a superior would ask her for more details. "This is Ansel," She pointed to the projected image, a bird's eye view of the town. "A frontier town south of Vale city. Population…"
Winter proceeded to present all the relevant statistics related to the town. From Its short history, founded by a team of retired huntsmen 122 years ago, to its economy's reliance on grain exports, to an exhaustive list of common flora and fauna, geography, Grimm activity, local politics and their score on the Net Emotional Index, which was the only item on her list that garnered a notable negative reaction from Ozpin. Other than that, the Beacon's headmaster only listened and nodded along attentively.
"…and construction regulations require at least six feet spacing between buildings in commercial areas, which is- "
"Specialist Schnee, get to the day of the attack, will you?" Ironwood finally had had enough. That was more in tune with Winter's past experiences.
"Sir, six feet spacing between buildings explains- "
"The death of so many civilians escaping through the alleys," Ozpin completed her thought with a somber tone. "The average, adult Beowulf is just under five feet in width, correct?"
"Yes." Winter blinked. "Exactly."
Ozpin nodded. "Excellent analysis so far, Miss Schnee."
"Thank you." Winter did not quite blush, but it was a close thing.
"Proceed Specialist," Ironwood gritted, glaring at Ozpin.
"Ahm, yes." Winter cleared her throat, quickly gathering herself. "Preceding the day of the attack, increased Grimm activity was observed around the town. In recent interviews by our agents, Ansel's huntsman office stated they had attributed the unusual activity to a graduation event that would be taking place the next week."
"Graduation event?" Ozpin inquired.
"Yearly festival. A dance to celebrate Ansel's young adults leaving town," Winter clarified. "It's possible that the accompanied anxiety had caused a shift in- "
"A couple of sweaty teenagers did not cause this, Specialist," Ironwood said.
Winter frowned. The General was not one to spend much time on the small details. But this was different, it wasn't like him to dismiss her theories like that.
He knew something.
"I agree with James," Ozpin said. Winter's frown deepened.
"Shouldn't we consider all possibilities?" Winter pressed. "I must say, there are several more irregularities. Uncommon weather patterns, disturbances to the Continental Transmit System. Several survivors hiking in designated tourist' zones reported problems with their Scrolls." Which was supposed to be impossible. Scrolls never failed. Never. "Also," Winter quickly continued, "Automatic Siren alarms didn't go off. The official statement cited technical difficulties, but…" Winter trailed off, not appreciating the way they were looking at her.
"Miss Schnee," Ozpin began, "you are well aware of Ansel's politics, as you so succinctly presented it to us just moments ago."
Winter's eyes widened. "You're implying that… the alarms were tempered with, from the inside?" The implications were unthinkable.
"Unfortunately, the distrust some hold against the common folk is such that even the remote possibility of a mass panic is enough to push them to extreme measures."
That didn't make sense to Winter. Strong negative emotions during a Grimm invasion were exacerbated by loud siren alarms, and there was definitely a discussion to made there, which she suspected Ozpin wouldn't appreciate. but to outright temper with the only warning system the town had access to, without putting in place any alternative… it was madness.
"What about the rider?" Winter was getting ahead of herself. It was not the proper way to present her report. "The pool of bullet casings we found in that clearing? And then, there's- "
"Excuse me," Ozpin held up a hand. "A pool of bullet casings?" He exchanged a look with Ironwood, a silent message passing between them.
"Yes," Winter replied, frustrated. Mostly with herself. She was completely butchering the careful presentation she'd prepared. She slid another image under the projector. It showed a wide crater in the middle of an open clearing, filled to the brim with casings. "10 miles north of Ansel," She explained. "Fifty thousand casings and counting. Our experts' current estimates go as high as half a million shells. They think all the bullets were fired in a single volley and under 5 seconds. There were no traces of dust on the scene, and for so many bullets, they found zero duds. Initial forensic firearm examination couldn't match the design to any company or military. There are no serial numbers and there's something off about the metal."
"Something off about the metal?" Ozpin raised an eyebrow.
"They couldn't tell me more," Winter admitted, annoyed at the vague description. "The lead investigator said they need to run more tests."
There was a moment of silence, Ironwood staring at her with a blank look and Ozpin deep in thought.
"…why am I only hearing about this now?" Ironwood growled, slamming his fist against the table. One pile of documents finally had had enough abuse, tipping over the edge and scattering all over the floor. No one seemed to notice. "What else, Specialist?" Ironwood asked before she could apologize, "You've mentioned hikers. Were any of them interviewed?"
Winter nodded. "The closest was a teenager, carrying his little sister, found half a mile south of the clearing, 12 hours after the initial attack. They'd both sustained serious injuries. Later tests revealed microscopic traces of black evaporation over the boy's skin, suggesting a close altercation with the Grimm." Winter's lips pressed into a thin line. "Locked Aura."
"Locked Aura?" Ozpin asked. "Are you absolutely certain?"
"Yes," Winter replied. "His medical report is quite interesting. He arrived at Vale's dock yesterday evening with the third wave of evacuations, along with the rest of his family. He is still under general anesthesia, in one of the emergency field hospitals." Winter felt sorry for the poor kid. She doubted any of these hastily-erected clinics could provide him with the care he needed. "The sister was luckier, securing a spot in Vale General Hospital, trauma department. Her Aura had been unlocked during the attack under stressful circumstances." Winter pulled out the medical files, listing a comprehensive array of injuries she found disconcerting. "Jaune and Amber Arc. Age 18 and 5 respectively, both- "
"ARC?" Ozpin asked sharply, "the Arc family, seven sisters?"
"Affirmative," Winter said slowly, "sir?"
Ozpin seemed to barely breathe. "Can't be... But what if…"
"What is it?" Ironwood demanded. "You look ready to keel over Ozpin. Out with it."
Witnessing one of the most powerful men on Remanent frozen in a state of shock was not an experience Winter would soon forget. The hologram flickered, and for a moment it appeared as if they'd lost the connection, then Ozpin reappeared and his image sharpened again. He tossed his cane from one hand to the other, its length trailing afterimages.
What was she missing? Winter leafed through the medical files again. Eight siblings, all born in Vale. They moved to Ansel at an unspecified date. Mother was unemployed. Their father was… undocumented. In fact, their parental description was half blank. For such a large family it was highly unusual. Not even a name.
"I knew the father. Nicholas Arc," Ozpin said. His posture was steady, his voice controlled, but there was an unmistakable edge to his words. "He was a huntsman."
"Nicholas Arc," Ironwood enunciated slowly, "I'm unfamiliar with the name. One of yours?"
"No. Although we had a… complicated relationship. Nicholas operated off the records, reporting to the Vale Council directly."
"But sir," Winter said tentatively, "Surely he was trained at the academy. Huntsmen licenses are within Beacon's jurisdiction, by Vale law."
Ozpin shook his head. "Simply put, Nicholas was recruited at a young age during times when politicians were preoccupied with separation of powers."
"Typical," Ironwood grunted with disgust.
"The Council wished to obtain control of their own company of huntsmen," Ozpin continued, "separated from traditional combat schools, loyal only to them. As you may have already guessed, that attempt eventually failed, else I wouldn't have offered this information so carelessly."
Did Ozpin sabotage that initiative? Winter found that notion surprisingly easy to accept. Ozpin had good intentions, she believed, but he was also a man in a position of power. Usually, men in power did not relinquish control easily.
"The failure of the program had left Nicholas in an unusual position," Ozpin answered Winter's unvoiced question. "Officially, the law required him to report to Beacon, but he never did."
"And?" Ironwood pressed when it became clear Ozpin wasn't going to elaborate. "Did you arrest him?"
"We did not," Ozpin said. "Considering all factors, the possible cost of arrest was deemed too high."
Winter winced. There were individuals with extremely dangerous Semblances. On rare occasions, so dangerous that contingency plans were needed to be set in place. The Atlas military alone had plans to neutralize thousands of huntsmen from every kingdom, enemy and ally alike.
"What was it, then?" Ironwood asked, "Teleportation? Those are astonishingly difficult to deal with. Earth manipulation? Did he threaten to demolish parts of Vale city? Or maybe- "
"Not at all." Ozpin interrupted. "Nicholas Arc did not possess a noteworthy Semblance, to the best of our knowledge."
Ironwood stared at him, as confused as Winter was, "Then why?"
Ozpin leaned forward, for once using his cane for its intended purpose. "Nicholas was a huntsman that was called upon to deal with threats our Beacon teams had already failed to contend with. He operated alone, and he did not require a team or a backup to complete his missions. His absolute command of Aura and rare physical prowess proved enough to defeat any foe. Be it human, Faunus, or Grimm."
That was, well, not impossible. But highly, highly unlikely. While Semblances did not make or break a huntsman's career, there was a celling those lacking a powerful semblance would never breach. Or so Winter had always believed.
And now, his son, a civilian with a locked aura, had apparently survived an altercation with the Grimm. Could it be…Before Winter completed the thought, another pushed itself to the forefront of her mind.
"How did he die?" Winter asked.
"By his own hands." Ozpin turned to Ironwood, as Winter was still struggling to digest the magnitude of that statement. "Nicholas Arc had come in contact with a Vessel about 14 years before his death."
"He WHAT?" Ironwood rose abruptly from his desk, pushing his chair back so hard it almost tipped over. "Why didn't you start with that?"
"A vessel?" Winter asked. Both men ignored her.
"I thought it best to provide enough context first," Ozpin said. "And now that you know, I believe we both have urgent matters to attend to."
"Don't you dare," Ironwood spat. He leaned on his desk with both hands, looking like he was perfectly willing to attempt wringing a hologram's neck. "This is a breach of contract. You are to notify me immediately of any contact made with a Vessel."
"Which does not apply retroactively," Ozpin said. "This particular contact had been both observed and come to my attention before the date of signature, as such, by any interpretation of the law, I am not required to share the information until such time I deem necessary."
"You…You.." Ironwood trembled with barely contained fury.
"Also, you may need to be reminded of another clause in our agreement, which pertains to the inclusion of additional parties." Ozpin eyed Winter with a meaningful look. "Have a pleasant day."
With that, the hologram dispersed.
Winter could only stand there in silence, as Ironwood stalked back and forth across the room. Finally, he nodded, as if reaching a decision. He pulled an enormous stack of documents out of a drawer, slamming it on the desk in front of her. On the front page, in bold letters, it said, 'TOP SECRET.'
Wordlessly, Winter sat down and began reading.
/X/
Wake up.
The gap between sleep and waking seemed absent. One moment there was nothing, and then, he was there, fully alert.
The first thing Jaune noticed was the cuffs around his wrists and ankles. He tried to lift his arm from the bed to scratch his face, but there was barely any slack. The chains were attached to the frame of the hospital bed.
The air was thick with the stench of sweat and blood. The brown fabric that formed the structure's walls reminded Jaune of a tent. It was elongated with a curved roof, with rows of beds on opposite walls. Nurses in blue and white uniforms rushed along a pathway between the two rows, seeing to screaming patients.
A woman pushed a monitor on wheels, shoving it against the wall to make room in the gap between Jaune's bed and the one next to it.
"Hold him down!" She yelled, grabbing the arm of a writhing patient. Jaune watched as several nurses struggled to contain the thrashing man, wondering why he was the one being restrained instead of the guy having seizures.
That thought led to another, which led to the reason he was there in the first place.
We have a problem.
A voice? That was…Oh. Right.
But then…Amber. Did she…
"Amber?" Jaune rasped, his throat was dry as ash. His gaze swept around, noting the IV bag hanging above his head. The bed on his left was occupied by a man with stumps for legs, and the next bed after that by a burn victim, bandaged from head to toe. He couldn't see further down the row.
"Excuse me," Jaune tried to draw the attention of the nurse with her back to his bed, the one struggling with the man having a seizure. He poked at her back with his finger, the length of the chain just barely allowing the motion. She ignored him. How rude.
There was a yellow band around his arm.
This is a color-coding system. Used during mass casualty incidents to prioritize patients.
"This is good to know, thank you," Jaune said. "But…who are you again?"
I am STEM. The system operating your body for you.
What happened to me? Jaune thought.
I've just perceived activity in parts of your brain that involve speech formation. This strongly indicates an attempt at communication. Recall that I can only discern speech when you talk out loud.
Right.
"What happened to me?"
What is the last thing you remember?
"We fought." Jaune frowned, struggling to remember. "There was a Beowulf, and, I'm not sure."
Relax. Let the details emerge on their own.
Jaune did as advised, focusing on his breathing, letting the surrounding noise wash over and around him. Slowly but surely, an image of recent events solidified itself in his mind.
"I remember most of it, I think." Jaune finally said. His eyes were lidded close and his head was tilted to his shoulder, to obscure the movement of his lips as much as possible. "Where's my sister?"
I presume you refer to the female from the clearing. She survived the evacuation and was transported to a different medical facility.
Jaune sighed with relief, but the feeling was almost clinical, as if the logical side of his brain was aware of the correct emotion, yet its physiological effects were absent. He was struck by two simultaneous realizations then. First, there was a voice speaking in his head, and he was being remarkably calm about it. Second, judging by the chaos around him, he should also be worried about the rest of his family. The two thoughts struggled in his mind for a few moments, in the end compromising on a simple statement.
"I don't feel right."
You are experiencing side effects of general anesthesia, which may include:
Confusion. Fogginess. Drowsiness. Vomiting. Dry Mouth. Sore Throat. Memory Loss. Broken Perception of Reality.
I chose not to purge the drugs out of your body.
Jaune thought about that for a long moment before voicing the unavoidable question. "Why?"
Based on your psychological profile, I've calculated a strong possibility for adverse emotional reaction upon regaining consciousness. Since I'm unable to calibrate your stress hormones barring a direct threat of physical harm or death, I allowed the drugs to alter your natural mental state.
"Why?"
You are facing a dangerous situation that requires immediate intervention.
Jaune let his body sink into the soft mattress and exhaled a deep breath. "Pardon, but I feel safe enough," he said in a small voice.
If we allow the current series of events to progress as estimated, in 17.6231 minutes, medical staff will arrive to sample your blood. Further testing of that sample will reveal the presence of nanobots. 11 days later, a warrant for your arrest will be issued. Deadly force will be authorized.
"What happens then?"
Incalculable. There are billions of likely scenarios. My information regarding the physics of this reality is incomplete.
"You are not of this world?"
I've only been operational for 53.1235 hours. The framework of this reality does not conform to my programming. Based on the acceleration of gravity, it took me 7.2 milliseconds from the point of initial awareness to determine that this planet is not the one my creators had meant for me to inhabit. Since then, I've been observing everything you have observed, and have reformulated my model of this reality 18373 times.
"Can you… help me become strong?"
It depends on the specifics of your goal and the physics of this reality. I was created to manage the motor functions of wheelchair-bound quadriplegics. I act as an enhancive agent.
"I am weak. Useless." Jaune lifted his right hand, his face twisting in distaste. "I can't even get out of these cuffs."
I have a plan, but first, I need your permission to calibrate your stress hormones.
"Why?"
In order to enact my plan, it's preferable that I purge the last residues of medication so that you regain your mental faculties, but that would result in an adverse emotional reaction that would render you unserviceable. If I'm allowed to manage your stress levels again, you will be able to perform as needed.
"You have my permission."
As soon as the words left Jaune's mouth, a pang of terror shuddered through him. There was some repressed facet of his personality screaming at him. An inarticulate voice, yet its meaning was undeniable. He was making a horrible mistake.
Or maybe not? Maybe this was his path forward. Wherever it might lead him.
But none of that mattered, because lying there in bed, amidst other wrecked victims of an unfair world, Jaune realized he never had a choice. It was robbed of him the moment he'd woken up in that clearing, broken, defenseless, and alone.
And so, once again, Jaune Arc watched his mind focus to a pinpoint intensity. He let the anger resurface and welcomed the unfamiliar clarity of his thoughts.
"Thank you," Jaune said, though he wasn't even sure what he was being grateful for. "What do I call you?"
My brand name is STEM.
"I have many questions."
I advise that you withhold further queries until we secure a safer position.
"Alright. What's the plan?"