- To Serve With Honor -


The monstrous bass of over a dozen hidden subwoofers thrummed through Jaune's veins like a second pulse as he slid onto one of the scarce barstools against the thirty-meter-long bar that lined an entire wall of the club and was currently catering to several dozen rowdy partygoers at once with practiced ease.

Nearly as soon as he'd settled in, a bartender in the establishment's iconic black suit, blood-red tie, and matching red sunglasses materialized in front of him, staring expectantly from behind opaque lenses.

"Gin-" Jaune started to call over the din, only to stop himself with a soft curse. "Cerveza," he amended grudgingly, earning a single nod from the silent bartender before he disappeared down the bar behind half a dozen of his identically-dressed colleagues towards a line of glass-door coolers.

Heaving a deep sigh of wistfulness and remorse in equal measure, Jaune turned on his stool to lean back on the bar and stare out at the rest of the club.

The row of derelict, outdated townhouses on the outside of the building was a truly ingenious façade, disguising an extensive nightclub with a dance floor and standing room that spanned nearly half the length of the city block on their own. From the way that numerous bouncers and wait staff in suits and shades filtered in and out of the 'Staff Only' doors on either end of the bar, Jaune could only guess that the full scope of the place probably did span the entire block.

Club-goers who entered through the unassuming double-doors found on the front of an apartment building passed through a dark, unadorned atrium, where they would be stopped and frisked or run through a metal detector by one of the half-dozen suited "bouncers" manning the front. Once through the security measures, they would pass through an automatic door consisting of two monolithic slabs of translucent reinforced glass that looked like they might be able to stop a missile or three.

Through these doors, patrons would find themselves standing directly across from the DJ booth, at the top of a set of tiered stairs leading down to a catwalk; the sunken dancefloor and swirling lights waited straight ahead, while the bar and a sizeable standing-only social area sat off to the left of the entrance.

The club floor was a captivating sight in itself. Everything - the dancefloor, the stairs to the second level that ringed it, the DJ booth, and even the two-story-tall pillars that dotted the space were all made of frosted glass. Every square centimeter of it shone with the flashing and shifting light of an absurd array of strobes, spotlights, and other visual and audio equipment that ringed the ceiling above the dancefloor.

As Jaune watched, some of the partiers would filter up and down the stairs in front of the DJ booth that split off to the second level that ringed the entire club floor, where seating areas waited and hosted a few scattered parties of glitzier-looking patrons. He noted that there were more doors on this level through the same wall as the ones below, through which more suited employees and the occasional well-dressed guest passed freely.

He then felt the chill of recently-refrigerated glass brush his arm; he twisted at the waist and passed a Lien card under that arm to the waiting bartender, who nodded his acknowledgement and disappeared as Jaune took up his bottle and took a short draught, sighing contentedly at the light, crisp flavors of the Vacuan beer.

As the bottle came down, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass, and his mouth thinned in distaste at the reminder that he was currently wearing an unfamiliar face.

Well, no, he amended with a deeper scowl, not unfamiliar. Jaune was currently wearing his own face - that is, a wig in the color and style of his old hair, a pair of contact lenses that were a slightly deeper blue than his own eyes, and plenty of heavy-duty concealer that, at first glance, reduced his myriad and sundry facial scars to a few unusual divots that were easy to miss for anyone not staring him in the face.

He was also dressed in new blue jeans, sneakers, and a slightly-baggy black pullover sweatshirt with a red liner visible in the hood - a stand-in for his long-forgotten Pumpkin Pete sweatshirt, minus the distinctive bunny-head logo. A pair of brown gloves with the index fingers cut off adorned his hands to cover up more scars and heavy calluses on his palms.

In all, the whole ensemble made him look like an average, unstylish older teen at first glance. Or it would, if he could finally get himself to stop brooding and shed the dark look on his face.

'You're going to have to get used to it eventually, Am- Arc,' he had to mentally amend with yet another silent curse. 'It's dress up or get jumped and shot at every time you leave the school. Suck it up and soldier on.'

That was the other problem - he wasn't supposed to soldier on anymore. He wasn't supposed to look tense and ready for action; he shouldn't be visibly looking for and cataloging every exit upon entering a room, or eyeing every one of the several-dozen-strong legion of gangsters in the club for weapons. He was supposed to be a teenager out on the town, albeit one running an errand instead of trying to enjoy the nightclub scene.

The fact that he'd grown to loath crowded and noisy places like this after going clubbing a few times on leave with his squad mates didn't help matters much.

"This is such a pain in the ass..." he grumbled softly, taking another swig of his beer to drown the bitter taste in his mouth.

"Not your scene, cutie?"

Jaune jumped a bit as he realized that the bar was suddenly a lot emptier than it had been, and someone had sidled up next to him. He turned and took in a beautiful girl around his age with shoulder-length black hair adorned with two red feathers, porcelain skin that glittered under the strobe lights, and startling acid-green eyes highlighted artfully by red eyeliner. His eyes roved down carefully - earning a light giggle from her - and took in several black beaded necklaces, a low-cut crimson dress with a black bow around her waist, a pleated "combat skirt" with several layers of black feathers under the hem, and a pair of red over-knee high-heeled boots with black laces over frilly gartered stockings.

"Not really, I'll admit," he finally replied, raising his head to meet her gaze and mischievous smirk. "I'm here as a favor to a friend - my preference leans more towards a quiet bar than a nightclub."

"Is your 'friend' out there somewhere while you're moping around here?" she asked teasingly.

"Nope," he replied flatly. "Just me, myself, and I."

Jaune barely resisted the urge to pull away as the girl closed in and captured his closest arm, pulling it into her not-insubstantial chest. "Well then I think I might have just the spot for you and me to sit down for a nice, quiet drink," she said slowly straight into his ear, finishing her offer with a short, warm puff of breath that sent a searing bolt down his spine. "C'mon!" she added with a short tug on his arm.

He allowed himself to be pulled up away from the counter, barely remembering to grab his beer in his free hand as the "lady in red" bulled her way through the crowd lingering near the bar, shouldering unapologetically past a startled silver-haired young man as she made for one of the sets of doors that the bouncers were moving in and out of.

"I don't think I caught your name!" Jaune called over the noise as they neared the doors.

"I didn't give it!" she twirled and replied with a cheeky grin as she backed through the swinging doors into the hall beyond.

"Touché," he grumbled, earning another amused giggle.

"I'm-"

"Miltia!" another voice called from behind them. Jaune barely managed to keep himself from bowling Miltia over as she stopped on the spot and seemed to hide herself behind him, peering over his shoulder. He craned his neck around to look at the newcomer, and blinked in confusion.

The other girl was the spitting image of Miltia - the main difference being her white color scheme, her waist-length hair with a white flower in it, a white feather boa around her neck, and the white forearm-length gloves that she wore.

"We're supposed to be watching the club floor tonight," Miltia's twin hissed as she approached, only to be stymied by Miltia pulling Jaune further between them.

"Come on, Melanie," Miltia whined with a pout, "It's been hours and nothing's happened. We've got plenty of the boys out on the floor, and besides - I need a break, my feet are killing me."

"Hei's gonna have a cow if he finds out that you left your post to sink your claws into some guy," Melanie shot back testily. She paused and finally looked fully at Jaune - looking the back of him up and down in his current position, her gaze pointedly pausing on his posterior. "No matter how yummy he looks," she amended tersely.

Jaune blinked again in surprise and felt his cheeks warm. "Thank you?" he said with equal parts confusion and embarrassment.

"I'm serving a customer, Mel," Miltia cut in haughtily, tugging Jaune back a ways and clinging tighter to the arm in her grasp. "This poor gentleman looked unhappy with the atmosphere out in the club; when I asked him about it, he told me that he would prefer a quieter scene, and I was in the middle of personally escorting him to a different venue like the good hostess that I am when you so rudely interrupted us."

"Riiiight," Melanie drawled with a roll of her eyes as she crossed her arms and cocked her hip, looking between Jaune and Miltia expectantly.

After a long, awkward moment of silence, Jaune realized that he was now on the spot. "That's uh, actually pretty much what happened," he admitted sheepishly. "I came here as a favor to a friend, but I'm not much for loud and flashy clubs."

Melanie's green gaze continued boring into him, and he actually felt a bead of sweat growing under her scrutiny. Finally though, she huffed and deflated with an identical pout to Miltia's. "If you're not back on the floor in twenty minutes, I'm not covering for you with Hei," she said crossly to Miltia.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Miltia replied airily, taking the out for what it was and resuming her march with Jaune in tow.

"It was nice meeting you!" Jaune called back awkwardly to Melanie.

"Whatever!" the other girl called back and turned away, though he would later swear that there was a dusting of crimson across her pale features.

"Your... Twin sister?" Jaune asked slowly as they approached another pair of doors.

"Melanie," she grumbled in reply, "We're both bouncers here."

She then halted suddenly before the doors and brightened. "I'm Miltia," she said huskily, "And welcome... to The Den." She pushed through the doors, now pulling him along by the hand.

Jaune blinked once more as they emerged into a warmly-lit lounge. The room was about the size of the bar and social area back in the club, though it clearly only covered a single floor, as discernible by the fact that he could clearly make out the ornate moldings carved in the wood paneled-ceiling. The noise and bass of the club had faded somewhere out in the hall, and the air in here was instead filled with a soft and slow jazz melody from a trio of finely-dressed musicians occupying a brief stage on one end of the room.

He took in the more formally-dressed patrons seated around low tables on a myriad of dining chairs, armchairs, and sofas as they drank, dined, smoked, and chatted and laughed softly and politely within the refined atmosphere.

"And suddenly I feel distinctly under-dressed," he muttered in surprise.

"Don't worry about it," Militia reassured him as they approached the bar that lined half of the far end of the lounge, "You're with me."

He was finally released, and he settled into a low-backed stool next to Miltia as the bartender - dressed in the classical black vest, white shirt, and black slacks - approached and set down a rocks glass that he had been wiping.

"What will you be having, Miss Miltia?" the man asked politely. Instead of answering, Militia turned to Jaune and stared expectantly.

"Brandy and amaretto on the rocks," the phrase tumbled from his lips instinctively. Miltia and the bartender both nodded approvingly, and the latter turned to retrieve glasses and the requisite bottles as Jaune swiftly killed the rest of his beer and set the bottle aside.

"I knew you had good taste," Miltia teased as the drinks were delivered.

"How'd you figure?" Jaune shot back skeptically.

"Call it a hunch," she replied airily, taking a sip of her drink and humming in satisfaction. "Though if you'd like, I could prove my point and taste you," she set her glass down and met his shocked stare with lidded eyes and an alluring smirk.

He disguised his sheer panic behind a long drink from his own glass, and became effectively distracted as the oaky, fruity brandy and the sweet almond liqueur mingled and danced across his taste buds for the first time in what felt like far too long.

"Gods, that's the stuff," he whispered reverently.

"If you just wanted a good drink, there's plenty of better-known bars and classier clubs all over the city," Miltia said, her chinned propped up in the palm on the bar as she idly stirred the ice around her glass with one finger of her free hand. "Not that I'm complaining, but what brought you to a nightclub that you clearly didn't want to be at?"

"... A request from a colleague," Jaune finally admitted as he took another before setting the glass down and leaning forward on his arms to examine the moldings behind the shelves of liquor on the far wall. "I'm actually here on business. My friend told me to ask for a guy named Marko - it's about the attack at the Transit Plaza a few days ago."

A tense silence fell over the pair, filled in part by the soft jazz, before Miltia finally released a long, disappointed sigh. He glanced over at her, and she turned fully towards the bar and cast her gaze and disgruntled frown at the bar's polished wood surface. "So you're a cop," she muttered crossly.

"A freelancer, actually," he corrected, causing her head to shoot back up and whip towards him with a hopeful glimmer in her gaze that caused him to chuckle softly. "I'm working for the Headmaster of Beacon," he added.

Miltia deflated again slightly at that, though there was still a careful glint in her eye. "Does your work have something to do with all of these White Fang attacks recently?" she asked with genuine curiosity.

"Good guess," he said with a short nod. "Or is it an informed guess?"

"As I'm sure you've already heard, my boss might know a thing or two," Miltia replied carefully.

"I might've heard something to that effect," Jaune replied just as deliberately. "Would you happen to know if Marko is around?"

Miltia turned towards the bartender, who seemed to have been keeping half an ear on them as he wiped a glass. "What do you know, Reggie?" she addressed the man.

"Marko's off tonight," Reggie responded flatly. "Your best bet would be to come back later or go to the boss on this one."

"I'm afraid I can't afford to wait on this," Jaune said firmly. "I'd like to speak with your boss."

"Who's asking?" Reggie shot back, undaunted.

"Jaune Arc. Asking on behalf of The Specialist."

Miltia and Reggie both stiffened at the end of his sentence. After a moment, Reggie nodded and set the glass down, moving down to the far end of the bar and disappearing into an alcove.

Miltia turned back to him with an accusingly look. "Why is it that all of you nice good-looking guys are always untouchable?" she demanded half-heartedly as she drained half of her glass in one draught. "It's not fair," she added with an adorable pout as she cast her eyes back down at the bar.

Jaune uttered a short, humorless laugh. "If it's any consolation, that principle works both ways," he muttered.

Miltia's head rose, and she looked to him and took up her drink; wordlessly, the two pushed their glasses together, and then drained the rest of their beverages in one fell swoop.

And then an instant after he'd set his glass back down, Jaune turned his head and was stunned as Miltia's lips pressed firmly against his own. The heated one-sided embrace lasted several seconds before she drew back slightly, and he savored the intermingling flavors of brandy, almond, and cherries.

"It doesn't have to matter at all," she whispered, her warm breath washing over his face as her gaze burned with desire and promises.

"Miltia," a stern voice interjected from the other side of the bar. Jaune and Miltia's heads back around with startled looks - Miltia with irritation at the interruption, and Jaune looking the part of a teenager caught making out with a girl by her parents.

The newcomer was garbed similarly to the bartender - black slacks and a black vest and tie over a crisp white shirt - though whereas the latter was around Jaune's own height, this man was closer in size to a smaller Ursa.

"Your break's over," the bear of a man rumbled. "Get back out there."

Miltia huffed and glared, but shuffled out of her seat nonetheless and stormed off. As she neared the doorway, however, she turned around mid-stride, looking Jaune straight in the eye and miming a phone with one hand while mouthing the phrase, 'Call me.'

Jaune offered a wide-eyed nod; he then turned back towards Hei and swallowed thickly.

He cleared his throat and tried to regain something that resembled his dignity. "You're Marko's boss, then?" Jaune asked hoarsely, embarrassment mixing with a sudden resurgence of his injury brought on by the spontaneous dryness in his airways.

"Hei Xiong," the large man rumbled, "Most folks call me Junior. I'm Marko's boss - and Miltia's father."

Jaune's eyes squeezed shut as he reigned in his existential terror.

"Mister Xiong," he finally rasped, "My name is Jaune Arc. I'm here on behalf of Specialists Jonathan Amsel and Winter Schnee regarding the recent incident at the Commercial Transit Plaza."

"What about it?" Hei crossed his arms and demanded sharply. "I'm a business owner, and that fiasco was a whole district away from my business."

"I may be cooperating with the Vale Police Department and Beacon Academy, Mister Xiong, but I'm no cop," Jaune responded, raising his hands at his wrists in a placating gesture. "Whatever business, legal or otherwise that you might be engaged in isn't my concern. The White Fang member that was taken into Beacon's custody at the Plaza is recently deceased, and I'm here on behalf of my colleague to follow through on Marko's promise to deliver the only other living detainee to Beacon."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Xiong insisted stonily. "I run a nightclub and a lounge; I have nothing to do with whatever beef the White Fang has with the powers-that-be in Vale, and I certainly don't know anything about any captured White Fang members." The man unfolded his arms and slowly set his hands down on the bar top, leaning in and looking Jaune in the eye. "I would suggest that you settle your bill and leave, and tell your friend that he's barking up the wrong tree."

As the club owner stood to his full imposing height and turned to leave, a low rumbled grew into a growl of frustration as Jaune slammed his palms down on the hardwood and pulled himself to his feet, glaring at Hei as the other man turned around with a flat, unimpressed stare.

"Daiyu. Xiong," Jaune bit out through gritted teeth, one syllable at a time, prompting Hei's eyes to narrow dangerously. "Does that name mean anything to you, Junior?"

"Even if it did, I sure as hell don't know what you'd hope to gain by using it," Hei responded in a low growl.

"There's no implication here, Junior," Jaune stated, his tone becoming dangerously calm. "I'm informing you - in case you weren't already aware - that Specialist Jonathan Amsel was directly responsible for saving Daiyu Xiong's life in the course of resolving the hostage situation at From Dust Till Dawn several weeks ago."

The younger man's eyes narrowed as he leaned in. "Likewise, over the course of the attack on the Transit Plaza last month, the Specialist was instrumental in leading several members of the "Red Axe Gang" in the counterattack that led to the capture of two highly dangerous fighters of the White Fang's Mantle Branch - a branch that's more commonly known as the "Zealots" for their fanaticism and ruthlessness."

"These gangsters wouldn't have stood a chance in hell of securing even a single prisoner on their own without the Specialist's assistance," Jaune concluded, now standing fully upright with his mouth set in a tight line as he met Hei's cold stare evenly. "I'd go so far as to wager that the Red Axe Gang would've seen over a dozen more casualties without Amsel's intervention."

Hei was now glaring openly at Jaune; the larger man's fists were visibly and audibly clenching and unclenching with the soft crinkle of the black leather gloves on his hands. Despite this agitation, however, he was clearly deep in thought.

"You've got a lot of nerve, kid," Hei finally rumbled as he reached up and absently adjusted his black necktie, "Reg - get this guy another drink. I need to make some calls."

"Sure thing Boss," Reggie nodded, setting a clean glass on the counter and throwing in a large cube of ice. "Another of the same?" the bartender asked.

"Think I'll go for a gin and tonic, actually," Jaune replied as he nudged his empty glass across the counter with a finger.

Hei turned back towards the alcove to leave, only to stop and send Jaune one last glare back over his shoulder.

"I'd think that it goes without saying by now, but keep your mitts off of any of my daughters while I'm gone."

Reggie snickered quietly as he slid Jaune's drink down the bar; the younger man fixed his eyes on the back wall as he once again hid his reddened face behind his glass as Hei grinned to himself and disappeared.


- To Serve With Honor -


The sun has long since disappeared, and the cobblestone paths surrounding Beacon were now cast in the soft white glow of the campus's fluorescent street lamps.

Winter wished for the sixth time in half an hour for a strong cup of coffee as she strode towards a section of the grounds between the main hall of the academy and the CCT tower where flood lights were in the process of being erected and pointed towards a small hedge-lined garden.

She was ushered through the yellow and black warning tape by a pair of armed Legionnaires dressed in garrison uniforms without a word and quickly identified Sergeant Roth and Corporal Zhao under the harsh spotlights. The two men were standing near the edge of a gap in the waist-high hedgerow and facing away from her as they stared at something on the ground and addressed two other Legionnaires, along with a pair of VPD officers in blue waterproof overcoats with "DETECTIVE" emblazoned in yellow across their backs.

"Gentlemen," Winter greeted as she approached; Zhao and Roth parted and she stepped between them, and immediately froze as she recognized the body laying halfway through the hedge on sight. "... Shit," she cursed softly.

"Our thoughts exactly," Roth replied dryly.

With a frustrated sigh, Winter turned to the detectives. "What is the verdict?"

"Current prognosis is suicide," the older of the two replied with a shrug. "Service weapon with matching prints was found within arm's reach; bullet wound location suggests that he planted the barrel against his forehead and put one through his skull. Man was dead before he hit the ground."

"And I'm telling you, I've seen suicides with this weapon," Zhao insisted, "There would be propellant burns on his skin if the wound was self-inflicted; not to mention that too much of his skull is blown out for it just to have been one round. It looks to me like one round was put in at range from straight-on, while a second was delivered from closer range into the same point to pass crosswise and blow out behind his ear."

"Corporal, if you've already got this case solved, what exactly did you haul us out of bed for?" the younger detective demanded snidely.

Before Winter could step forward and respond in kind, the elder cop took a step forward and placed himself between Zhao and his colleague. "We're here at the request of Beacon Academy to investigate the death of an Atlas Military officer on the academy's grounds," the man drawled slowly and deliberately; Winter could tell from the rolling of his eyes that this argument had already taken place prior to her arrival. "The Corporal's observation is valid and has to be taken into consideration; as such, we're currently waiting for a Forensics team to arrive so that the scene can be formally processed."

"Understood," Winter responded before Zhao or the younger detective could opine. "Sergeant Roth, I see that your men already have control of the scene; we should establish a command post in the plaza over there and tape off a ten-meter radius around the body-"

"That will not be necessary, Specialist Schnee," a male voice interjected from some distance away.

Winter instinctively whipped around to snap at the interloper, only for a leaden weight to settle in her stomach at the sight of a half a dozen black uniforms leading a platoon-sized formation of Atlesian soldiers in their direction. Her blood ran cold when she finally recognized the man leading them, and her gloved hands clenched tightly in a death grip behind her back as she assumed a casual position of parade rest.

"Captain Richter," she greeted coolly, noting the simultaneous flinches from Roth and Zhao beside her - the man's reputation apparently preceded him within the Legion's ranks, or maybe Jaune had just been swapping stories. "I was not aware that you had been transferred to Vale."

"Then our operational security protocols remain mostly intact, Specialist Schnee," Alfred Richter - an older gaunt-faced man with beady little black eyes and thin gray hair - replied with equal warmth. "And it would be Major Richter, for the record."

"Congratulations." It took every ounce of restraint to keep the sarcasm and disdain from seeping into that single, dry word. "While your timely response is appreciated, sir, Sergeant Roth and his men have established control over the area. I would be more than happy to brief you on the current situation while we await the arrival of the police forensics team-"

"That will not be necessary, Miss Schnee," Richter raised his hand as he cut her short. She restrained her bristling at the disrespectful address to a short twitch of her brow as the Major continued, "My men and I will be assuming control of the area and conducting our own forensic analysis of the scene."

The Major then turned away from her completely to address the detectives. "Officers." The elder of the two looked nonplussed, while the younger was distinctly unsettled and swiftly looked away from the Major, "Your assistance to this point is appreciated and will be noted in my final report; however, your services will no longer be required. I must insist that you both vacate the premises immediately."

"Respectfully, sir," the now-disgruntled older detective protested immediately, "These are Beacon Academy's grounds, and our presence is by the personal request of Headmaster Ozpin. I'm not sure that you have the authority to-"

"I am afraid that you are quite mistaken, Officer," Richter once again unabashedly cut the man off. "If you refer to jurisdictional mapping of the academy, you will note that the area within a one hundred-meter-radius of the tower complex is ceded to the control of the Atlas Military as a security perimeter; and as the CCT is a nationalized facility, everything within this perimeter can effectively be considered as sovereign Atlesian soil. You are welcome to refer to the Headmaster or the Council for confirmation, but at this moment, I must once again insist that you both depart."

Another officer in the black trench coat and uniform of the Special Task Force separated from the formation and stepped toward the Valean detectives, trailed closely by four Atlesian troopers with their rifles held at low-ready.

"If you would follow me, gentlemen," the unnamed Captain stated flatly, gesturing with a gloved hand toward the airship docks.

The detectives hesitated, and the younger turned back and looked uncertainly to Winter and the two Legion NCOs. Zhao made to step forward, only to be stopped short as his chest plate encountered Roth's outstretched arm.

"... As the Major has stated, Detectives," Winter said slowly, avoiding the Major's gaze as she spoke, "Your prompt response and your insight have been greatly appreciated. My colleague or I will contact you in the immediate future to follow up on the investigation."

The older man finally turned and headed off without another word. The younger threw his hand up in exasperation before following after his colleague, and the escort closed in around them.

Winter watched them go for a moment before turning back to the Major, only to find him staring at her expectantly.

"I must insist the same of you, Specialist," Richter said in the same monotone. "My officers and my troops will take over matters from here."

"Major, the Captain was to stand court-martial for interfering in the affairs of an allied Huntsman Academy," Winter snapped. "Now he's turned up dead under dubious circumstances. If anything that is going on in Vale right now falls under my jurisdiction, this is unquestionably it."

"Regardless of your previous encounters with Captain Heinkel, this matter fell under my sole purview the moment that he set foot inside of the secured perimeter of the CCT tower," the Major drawled. "Not to mention that if I am not mistaken, you are currently under obligation to Beacon Academy as a guest instructor, with the semester's coursework beginning in... Seven hours? As such, It would seem to me that you have other matters to concern yourself with over unnecessarily shoe-horning yourself into internal security affairs that are beyond the scope of your rank and station to begin with."

Zhao and Roth stood deathly still and watched carefully as Specialist Winter Schnee leveraged every ounce of discipline, and ruthlessly suppressed everything that her partner had ever told her about what to do when confronted with an obstructionist STF officer. The thread was thin, and it was wearing fast with each passing moment that she had to look the man in his beady little eyes.

The distraction that saved her from an insubordination charge was equally a relief and a travesty.

Over Richter's shoulder, Winter noticed that the rest of the Legionnaires - most of whom were dressed in garrison uniforms rather than their armor - were being corralled and pushed out of their own perimeter by the arriving Atlesian troops. Some of the younger, fresher Legionnaires were readily compliant; but others - the transfers, the men who had seen combat and had had their fill of being pushed around by the Special Task Force - were less amenable to the treatment.

As she watched, two older men - a pair of Legionnaires First Class - were shoved back roughly by a full fireteam of five infantrymen in complete silver armor with the yellow trim of the Military Police. Words were said, and one of the Legionnaire's faces twisted into an enraged scowl as he took a step forward.

In response, one of the MPs leveled their rifle at the Legionnaire's chest.

Winter was brushing past Richter and his entourage as the weapon was still rising. By the time it was aimed, she was within half a dozen paces of the conflict, barely restraining the itch in her saber hand.

"SOLDIER!" she barked sharply; the culprit's four colleagues turned in unison and stiffened to attention within the same panicked heartbeat, while the last man was just a moment too slow on the uptake. By the time the rifleman dropped his weapon and turned, an enraged Specialist Schnee was within arm's reach. The trooper - a Private - had to look up slightly to meet Winter's furious gaze from behind his opaque visor. "What do you think you are doing, Private?" she demanded sharply.

"M-ma'am," the MP stuttered before catching himself. He squared his shoulders, moved his rifle to sit securely across his chest unsupported, and lowered his arms to his sides to stand at attention. "We have instructions to take control of this area-"

"That's not what I am referring to, Private," Winter interjected, her eyes squeezed shut as she felt a vein above her brow pulsing harshly. "What I am asking," she enunciated slowly, "Is what are you doing, aiming your weapon at a comrade?"

A universal intake of breath all across the plaza was the prelude to a deathly silence. Winter's eyes snapped open, and she watched with an icy glare as the Private's mouth opened and closed repeatedly without a sound like a fish out of water.

Finally, a single sigh cut through the stillness, followed by sharp footfalls. "Specialist, the Private was simply overzealous in carrying out my instructions-"

"Your instructions, Major?" Winter rounded on Richter instantly, who to his credit didn't even flinch in the face of the bare fury on her visage. "You are saying, then, that you knowingly ordered Atlesian servicemen to use the threat of force to take control of a crime scene from other Atlesian servicemen?"

"Specialist, the Foreign Legion is not-"

"Major Richter, so help me, if you finish that sentence and attempt to claim that the Atlas Foreign Legion is not a recognized branch of the Atlesian armed services; then I can neither be faulted, nor held responsible for what happens next," Winter declared, her voice carrying across the gardens to all ears.

She felt and saw from her periphery as the Legionnaires bristled and drew themselves up, most of their weapons slung or held low, but visibly prepared for a brawl. Richter wisely - or perhaps unwisely - held his silence.

Seizing the opportunity for what it was, Winter channeled every iota of Jonathan Amsel that she could muster.

"All of you, look around!"

Some tentatively broke from their standoffs to do so, but most remained fixated on their opponents. Winter growled in irritation.

"I SAID LOOK AROUND, DAMMIT!"

The shock of hearing Winter Schnee curse so cavalierly broke the rest from their trance as their heads whipped around.

"Every single one of you in this plaza is a soldier of the Kingdom of Atlas!" she declared. She stepped between a Legionnaire and an Atlas trooper and grasped both of their shoulders, spinning them around to face their peers side-by-side. "You may wear different uniforms, have different insignia, but you all serve under the same flag! You all swore an oath to serve and protect the same people!"

Winter shuffled around to stand behind and to the side of the Atlas trooper. "You regulars of the Atlas Military have forsaken a comfortable life in the most advanced Kingdom on Remnant in favor of a higher calling: The defense of your homes and loved ones against all that would do them harm."

She moved again to stand behind the Legionnaire. "You of the Atlas Foreign Legion have done the same for a Kingdom that may not have even been your own to begin with, because you knew even before signing up that you would be swearing yourself to the single most effective fighting force on this planet. You gave up everything for the chance to serve and be a part of something greater than yourselves: The defense of all mankind."

Winter moved away from the pair and strode purposefully into the very center of the standoff. "The soldiers in front of you are not your enemies; nor are they simply your allies. They are your family."

Then she turned pointedly to look at Richter as she stated, "And anyone who would try to claim otherwise is a damned fool."

Silence fell over the plaza once again. Weapons slowly fell to idle or stowed positions, as Atlas troopers and Legionnaires looked uncertainly to one another. A few exchanged awkward apologies as the two sides filtered away from one another, until the Legionnaires were gathered on the outer edge of the cordon.

"Sergeant Roth," Winter called after a minute's pause, "Collect your men and return to your stations; the Major has made it abundantly clear that we are no longer welcome here."

"Aye, ma'am," Roth called back. "Dora Section, fall in on me!"

"Caesar, on me!" Zhao called in turn, jogging out of the cluster to take charge of the other section to lead them back to barracks.

Winter turned away from the Legionnaires to find Richter and his officers staring at her disdainfully.

"The General will hear of this, Miss Schnee," the Major intoned imperiously.

"I can assure you that he will, Captain," Winter replied with an unimpressed stare.

"That's Major, Miss Schnee."

"And it would be Specialist to you, Richter."

The two exchanged one final sneer before Winter turned on her heel to follow after the departing Legion contingent.

On her way through the cordon of troopers, a few offered muttered apologies or short salutes; she returned the latter wordlessly, leaving the soldiers to mull over her words.

At the front entrance of the CCT tower complex, Roth was waiting for her alone with a grave expression. "I get the feeling that you may come to regret that little speech, ma'am," the Sergeant stated with a wry smirk.

"As usual, Sergeant, my colleague's absenteeism leaves plenty of slack for me to pick up," Winter replied with an exaggerated sigh.

"All the same, I think I speak for everyone when I say, thank you for the ringing endorsement."

"I speak naught but the truth, Sergeant Roth," Winter stated staunchly. "Petty nationalism has no place in an effective military force, especially one with a large standing volunteer service; and I for one will not stand idly by and watch our ranks tear each other apart over idiotic political indoctrination."

"Well you've certainly got your work cut out for you if you're planning to spread that message any wider than Vale," Roth muttered sourly before brightening. "All the same, you're good people, Spec. We weren't sure what to make of you guys at first; but the Chief Corporal went to bat for you without a moment's hesitation, and now the boys've seen you go to bat for us against Richter himself."

The Sergeant turned and made to enter the tower, but paused and glanced over his shoulder. "Just say the word, Spec, and you'll have a half a platoon of Remnant's fiercest soldiers at your beck and call. My only warning is: That trust isn't something to be taken lightly or abused."

Winter's soft expression hardened into a thin line. "I would never even consider it," she replied firmly.

Roth exhaled shortly through his nose, and his eyes squeezed shut briefly as a pained look flashed across his face for so short an instant that Winter briefly wondered if she had imagined it. Then his eyes reopened, and his visage was schooled into neutrality once again. "You wouldn't be the first to claim that," was all he said before he turned away and entered the tower, leaving Winter halfway up the front steps with a puzzled and conflicted frown as she pondered his words.


- To Serve With Honor -


Financial District, Asteria, Mantle

"Nordpol, Nordpol, good effect on target; repeat, I say again, repeat!"

"Affirmative, Blitzkrieg - firing four rounds H-E on previous vector, time on target fifteen seconds."

Fifteen seconds later, overpowering the ripping and snapping of exchanged small arms fire, artillery once again crashed into the upper floors of the ruined skyscraper and its neighbor. The pause in the gunfire raining down on the Legionnaires in the street allowed the NCOs to regroup and push the attack.

"THIRD PLATOON! BY SECTIONS, ADVANCE!"

"FIRST PLATOON, SUPPRESSING FIRE!"

Linear rifles, marksman rifles, and several light machine guns once more roared to life; several under-barrel and handheld launchers also sent grenades arcing up through the gaping holes in the upper floors, sending shrapnel all throughout and eliciting cries of shock and pain from the defenders.

Chief Corporal Sergei Federov stacked up on the outer wall of the skyscraper's ground level. The section's point man at the front of the stack, without looking back from the doorway or removing his finger from the trigger of his rifle, took his off-hand and reached back to tap the leg of the man behind him. The second man, after a moment of making sure that a new magazine was seated in his rifle, repeated the gesture to the man behind him, and so on.

Once the "ready pat" had trailed all the way down the stack and been turned around and sent back to the point man, a pair of concussion and flash grenades were lobbed through the doorway. The point man's visor tinted and his ear protection activated, and he pressed into the lobby just as the grenades detonated, the short automatic rifle in his hands chattering as soon as its muzzle cleared the doorframe; the rest of the men in the stack followed swiftly. Within thirty seconds the return fire ended, and the section accounted for all eight White Fang Zealots inside gunned down.

Two Legionnaires had been similarly cut down - the second and fourth men in the stack, both eviscerated by concealed machine guns in the exterior corners of the room - and two more were being treated by medics for gunshot wounds to their extremities.

"Set up security on the exits and stairwell!" Federov barked. "Markovich, Feldmann, signal Caesar and cover their ingress!"

Federov's Anton Section was soon joined by Caesar, with a fireteam from Bruno trailing inside to escape a renewed shower of automatic fire from the floors above.

"Dora and the rest of our section are pinned down on the other side of the street," the Legionnaire First Class leading the fireteam from Bruno panted as he dumped his empty magazine and loaded another. "First Platoon is running low on launcher ammo, and there are too many murderholes in the upper floors to effectively suppress with small arms fire alone."

"For the best, maybe," Federov noted with a frown, "The building's already too unstable to risk further damage with us inside, and further fire support has been redirected to saturate the Zealots' main supply route and delay their reinforcements. We'll have to do this the hard way."

To punctuate his point, the men standing guard at the foot of the stairs cried out in alarm and dove for cover as a pair of fragmentation grenades clattered down the steps and detonated, sending shrapnel flying through the room. Federov was unmoved as, on the opposite side of the lobby, the deadly shards pinged harmlessly off of his faceplate, chest plate, and pauldrons.

"Watch for holes in the ceiling, too," he warned coolly over proximity comms, "Those bastards have probably brought plenty of grenades for just such an occasion." He checked his ammunition, popped the magazine out of his rifle to check on what was left in it, and then re-seated it and started to move towards the stairs. "Stack up! Prepare to advance!"

Then the ceiling above each of the lobby entrances collapsed. Half of the Legionnaires froze, while those more experienced few instinctively dashed for the nearest walls and alcoves. Then a pair of explosions sounded somewhere above their heads.

"FIND COVER!" Federov cried out a second later, but it was already too late.


Aaron Hoess, Regimental Major for the Sixty-Third FQRR, sat at his cramped gunmetal desk in his tiny plywood-walled office, diligently hand-writing an after-action report from his regiment's action against a Zealot incursion in the Old Financial District yesterday.

A short platoon of Zealots had been spotted by surveillance aircraft and spy cameras in the district, moving equipment and supplies into three ruined high-rise buildings in the area that had excellent views and fields of fire against the firebases and barracks facilities at Gatehouse and Chapel to the east of Bastion.

Third Platoon of Friedrich Company, First Battalion, was in the area on patrols and had consolidated, linked up with elements from First Platoon, Caesar Company, and been redirected to strike at the target locations. Two of the three sites had been taken out with few issues or casualties.

The third had turned into a mass-casualty event, followed by a bloody and drawn-out firefight, after two of the Zealots there had detonated suicide charges and brought half of the structure down on Anton and Caesar Sections from Third Platoon.

The end result was thirty-six Zealot corpses for fifteen dead and seventeen wounded Legionnaires across both platoons. Hoess dulled his growl of irritation to a throaty sigh as he finished writing out the casualty figures, followed by his recommendations for training augmentations to hopefully avoid such incidents in the future - recommendations which would be ignored by the Legionnaire Training Command at Ramstein for the thirtieth time.

Caesar Section had been wiped out to the last man, and Anton was combat-ineffective - eight dead, including their two NCOs, and the rest wounded. One of the wounded was still critical, and he'd overheard the docs arguing over whether or not it was terminal as they were loading their unconscious patient into a medevac to Ramstein. Another of the wounded was crippled and was scheduled to be medically discharged in two weeks. The other two Legionnaires would be folded into Bruno Section as extra rifles once they recovered. Aaron had a meeting scheduled for later with the CO and Senior NCOs of Third Platoon, as well as the section leaders from Bruno and Dora to discuss whether it would be worth restocking the two empty squads with replacements led by veterans, or if the two survivor squads were better off being folded into other units while the NCOs transferred to other platoons or to staff duties.

The Regimental Major absently popped a headache tab and chased it with the remaining half of his canteen as his eyes danced over the Table of Organization and Equipment for the Regiment. The damned thing was being updated every other day now to keep information current for all of the relevant leadership with the losses that they had been incurring since Command had initiated a new "security offensive" to run parallel to the ongoing "urban renewal campaign" that had kicked off in Prometheus.

Apparently the Army and Legion forces in Asteria's sister city were experiencing staggering losses against well-entrenched static positions and fanatical resistance that seemed to have popped up overnight in the industrial sector. The existing garrison forces had been all but wiped out in the northern half of Prometheus, and Hoess was expecting to see mobilization orders on his desk any day now informing him that his regiment was either being reassigned or cannibalized to supplement the reinforcements being shipped east. Entire regiments were being formed out of thin air from mostly-green troops and freshly-promoted and untested NCOs and officers, and the addition of even a fraction of his regiment's veterans would raise the average time-in-grade statistic within any of the new units by years.

His foreboding thoughts were cut short by a knock at the door. "Enter," he rumbled.

The thin wooden door creaked open far enough for Chief Adjutant Mikhail Sokolov to poke his head in. "Brigadier Hofmann here for the Colonel, Major," the pug-faced Eastern Mantlese man drawled in his thick accent, "Wants to see you in his absence."

"Thank you, Chief, send him in," Hoess closed his eyes briefly and exhaled, knowing full-well that Hofmann was standing directly behind Sokolov. "That'll be all, Chief."

"Da, Major," Mikhail nodded and stepped to one side of the door, pushing it fully open to reveal Brigadier General Samuel Hofmann standing patiently at parade-rest against the far wall.

"Thank you, Chief," the Brigadier acknowledged with a short nod before stepping into the office, the Chief Adjutant closing it in his wake. Hoess pushed to his feet and offered a hand in lieu of a salute.

Where most of his peers would've raged at the indignity of the informal gesture, the Brigadier instead offered a faint grin and accepted the Major's firm handshake. "It's been awhile, Aaron," the man stated without losing his amused expression.

"That it has, Sam," Hoess agreed tiredly, "Pull up a chair if you can find one. Apologies for the mess, it's been a hell of a month and at least half of this crap is already outdated."

"I'm very familiar with the feeling," Hofmann stated wryly as he crossed the office, sliding a file box to one side and setting another on top of it to wheel the room's other rolling chair to the far side of Hoess's desk. "The entire division's been hit hard across the board with the new offensives around here; Sixty-Three Is actually the lightest-hit, but only just. Fifty-Nine is down to seventy percent combat effectiveness and if Command pulls any more units over to Prometheus, I'll have no choice but to send off a battalion and fold the rest of their Regiment in with Sixty-One and Sixty-Two."

"Dammit," Hoess breathed bitterly at that, slumping back into his chair and running his calloused fingers over his scraggly high-and-tight, his hands coming to rest over his brow. "This isn't sustainable, Sam," he muttered as he scrubbed his palms into the bags beneath his eyes. "At this rate of attrition, I'll be down to a single experienced battalion by month's end, and a lot of 'em will be walking wounded."

"Trust me, Aaron, I'm well acquainted with the statistics," Hofmann muttered darkly.

The pair fell silent for a moment, and Hoess watched as Hofmann's eyes darted about the office without his head moving. Finally, heaving a great sigh, the Brigadier leaned forward over the desk, surreptitiously drawing a blank pad of stationary towards him as he continued speaking.

"I wanted to talk to you about our options for curbing these casualties while continuing to abide by the directives from Command," Hofmann kept his voice low and conspiratory, even as one hand drew a pen from his breast pocket and scribbled a message on the pad. The Brigadier nudged the pad briefly in Hoess's direction, who peered nonchalantly at the message.

Are we being watched?

"I just don't know how we can conceivably maintain this operational tempo without getting our hands on some serious extra firepower," Hoess replied just as quietly, recognizing the deception-within-deception as his hand rested on an old report and scrawled out his reply in the margins.

Eyes straight behind you on shelf - ears in lamp and doorframe

Hoffman's eyes briefly darted to the lamp in the corner of the office, and then towards the poorly-cut trim around the doorway.

"I'll talk to Second Armored and see if I can't get a company of Wolverines recalled from the perimeter for refit and short-term mission support around the A-O," Hofmann muttered as his hand worked.

Personnel and equipment withdrawn from Prometheus - relocated to Niflheim - OpSec intact

"Any chance of getting another Fire Support Company?" Hoess asked, "Even two or three extra howitzers or a half-dozen additional mortars at each firebase would do wonders for our volume of fire for mission support. Might even be able to cut down on our number of seek-and-destroy missions if we had enough guns to flatten the targets from back here."

"I'll see about holding back some pieces when the next artillery company gets shipped east," Hofmann agreed as he watched Hoess's pen twirl across the page. "The other campaign is short on bodies, not equipment; they should be able to draw from what's already over there and we can put what's left here to better use." Hoess put his pen down.

Local assets being moved to Svartalfheim - approx. 1 week

Hofmann nodded in satisfaction and scrawled his reply before sitting back. "Is there anything else that you can think of?" the Brigadier asked as he tapped a finger idly on the message.

Asset overseas talk to the Big Man yet?

"No," the Major shook his head deliberately without breaking eye contact, "This is probably the best we can do for the moment."

After a moment, Hoess scribbled back his own question.

Is it time?

"Soon," Hofmann sighed after a long moment. "We'll be through this soon, Major. Just need to hold out a bit longer."

"As you say, sir," Hoess nodded reluctantly.


End Chapter 17


Author's Note:Still not dead, just existing. I've had this one on the back burner for a couple of months, but I figured I'd button it up and get it out in the spirit of NaNoWriMo (which I fell off the wagon of within the first three days of the month).

We'll see some more of The Club, the White Fang, and eventually get around to Ironwood's response to Winter's bold statements, as well as Beacon's press conference about Initiation. Developments are also continuing apace behind the scenes in Mantle with the uprising/war, some of which will bleed over to Vale through events and key figures within the next couple of chapters. And finally, we'll get around to Beacon classes with both Winter and Jaune here shortly.

Thanks for the support and kind words from everybody. I'm by no means a consistent publisher, but that doesn't mean that I'm not chipping away at the story sporadically or a bit at a time over the course of my radio silence, and I appreciate everyone's patience and engagement.

Stay frosty, and I'll see ya when I see ya.

-Knightmare Frame Razgriz