Chapter 22
Perspectives
The morning came sooner than Jaune Arc might have liked, the previous evening having been a painful reminder of just how far behind he still was in comparison to his friends. The fact that the majority of his friends consisted of some of the best Huntresses of his generation was of little comfort to him, neither mentally, nor, what mattered now, physically. The muscle soreness was a reminder of his summer spent training, and wasn't that just a wonderful thought to wake up to?
Weiss had been a harsh taskmistress; something he'd expected, even asked for. Pyrrha insisting on pushing him hard immediately afterwards had been backbreaking and humiliating in equal measure. At least she'd been winded at the end of it all, he reminded himself.
"Yayyy," he groaned quietly at his tiny victory.
"Good morning, Jaune," Pyrrha said cheerily from her seat on the edge of her bed, still in her loose silk pajamas. Her hands were busy with brushing out the few kinks she'd managed to put into her flowing crimson mane overnight.
"Morning," he grunted in response. "I suppose you slept great at least?"
"You didn't?" she asked innocently.
"I'm just peachy. Not like I got run over by the Argus Limited or anything," he grumbled.
"I had to find where your limits were, Jaune."
"Tell that to my arms. Or my legs. My wrists would also like a word."
"I will say that in spite of some bad habits you've picked up, you've come a very long way in your development."
"Gee, thanks, Mom," he groused, slightly muffled by the pillow against the right side of his face.
Pyrrha's smile faltered and her hairbrush froze in place. After a moment, her hands ended up in her lap, her gaze focusing on them as a sigh escaped her lips. "I suppose I deserved that," she said flatly.
"I wasn't trying to be mean, Pyr. I...I'm sorry," he said, failing to find a better explanation.
"No, I should be the one apologizing, Jaune. I kept telling myself that it was for your own good, but if I'm being honest, there was a little frustration in there as well."
"I couldn't tell," Jaune replied, a slight scowl marring his face as he propped himself up on an elbow. Pyrrha looked up to face him again, staring at him for a long moment before his lips curled into a wry grin, eliciting a tittering giggle from her.
"That wasn't nice, Jaune."
"And beating me to a pulp was?" he shot back, sitting up and stretching, getting a wet, crunching pop out of several joints.
"That which does not kill us makes us stronger," she replied with a smile as she resumed brushing her hair.
"Sensei did always say they were beating the weakness out of me."
"I don't know that I'd put myself in the same category, Jaune."
"Yeah, you're definitely prettier," he shot back casually through a yawn before his eyes snapped wide. He saw that Pyrrha wore much the same expression as he did, her blush threatening to outpace his own.
"I wasn't, I...I didn't mean it!" Jaune blurted out.
"You don't?" Pyrrha asked, her jaw slack.
"No! Yes!" he replied anxiously, still trying to recover his wits.
"I don't understand."
"Yes! You're one of the most beautiful girls I've ever met, and I…" he trailed off, his eyes darting about the room, briefly contemplating escape through the window next to his bed.
"Jaune?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah?" he answered, hesitant and nervous.
"That's hardly the first time someone's told me that."
"Oh. Sorry," he said, hanging his head. There had been several conversations last year about her 'adoring' fans that had left him at once confused, outraged, and saddened on her behalf.
"But," she began with a raised finger, "that's one of the few times it's ever made me feel special."
"That's...good, right?"
In answer, Pyrrha stood and took the handful of steps necessary to reach his bedside before leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Very," she said simply, standing up again and finding Jaune beet red now. "I'll just go get dressed in the bathroom, alright?" Pyrrha said, retrieving her full uniform and underclothes from her closet before heading into the bathroom.
"Yeah, sure," Jaune said, voice barely above a whisper as he stared intently at the wall, doing his damnedest to forget what he had just seen, his mind briefly flashing back to Initiation of all things. He barely registered the door shutting behind her, as the latch wasn't closed completely when it did. It was instead left with a sliver of open space that he was sorely tempted to exploit, if only to get a better understanding of what he'd glimpsed moments before.
Taking the high road, and not betraying everything his mother and older sisters had ever taught him about being a gentleman, Jaune instead buried his face in his pillow, letting off a heavily muffled scream of frustration. He might even have found it amusing to know that Pyrrha was doing much the same with a fluffy towel in their shared bathroom, her realization of the reason for Jaune's blush having hit her as she was closing the door.
His venting done, Jaune rolled out of bed, ambling over to his closet to pull on his trousers and shirt over the boxers and undershirt he'd worn to bed. His feet were still bare as he walked to the door to the common room. ""I'm going to make sure Ren and Nora are up, Pyr. We need to leave for breakfast in a little bit."
"Okay!" she called back, her voice muffled as she slipped on an article of clothing.
Or took one off...
Stop it, Jaune chided himself.
He found the common room empty, which wasn't surprising given how heavy a sleeper Nora was, and the couple's bedroom door closed. He knocked firmly on the door, getting a wordless growl in response. After a few moments, and hints of a conversation behind the door, he knocked again. "Guys?" he asked, checking the small clock on the TV screen saver and finding the window for getting breakfast before their first, shared class of the day closing rapidly. "We're running out of…" he trailed off as the door opened a crack, a very disheveled Lie Ren poking his head out of the gap.
"Jaune? What is it?" he asked. If Jaune didn't know the man better, he'd swear Ren was actually nervous about something.
"We're almost out of time to...oh, I didn't know you two had gotten breakfast already," he said after taking in Ren's appearance.
"We...haven't?" Ren replied; confused or guilty, Jaune couldn't decide.
Instead, he reached out, dragging his index finger across Ren's chin, holding it up to show a sheen of moisture. Jaune sniffed it briefly before popping the digit in his mouth.
"And you're going to tell me that's not maple syrup?" he asked accusingly.
Ren blanched at the question, pausing for several awkward seconds before answering. "No. No, I am not," he answered cautiously.
"Reeeeennnnn, I want mooorrrrrre," they both heard Nora groan needily from behind the door.
"Wow, sounds like she's really hungry. Me and Pyrrha are heading to the dining hall in a few, go ask Nora if she wants to come."
"I'll do that," he answered cautiously with a wide-eyed stare, closing the door slowly.
"Since when is Ren a messy eater?" Jaune asked no one. "Probably Nora's fault," he muttered, wandering back to his bedroom in search of shoes and socks.
"I still think this is a bad idea, Adam."
"I wasn't aware I'd asked for your opinion, Ilia," he replied gruffly, adjusting a strip of cloth to serve as an eyepatch over his left eye to complete his disguise. Flipping the hood of a light sweatshirt over his horns took several attempts, a growl of annoyance echoing in the tight space of the disused sewer tunnel the White Fang had been using to get in and out of Vale proper for months now.
"We still don't know who sent you that message," Ilia implored. "Don't you think it's awfully convenient that you got an exact address for her now? I still don't trust the human, and we need your leadership if we're going to continue bringing our Brothers and Sisters together. They listen to you. I listen to you," she added, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"If we truly want to rebuild, then we need her back in the fold. I don't entirely trust Watts either, but there's no way he knows what she means to me. To us," he added quickly.
"And if she doesn't want to come back?"
"Then I will do what I must to convince her. For the Faunus." Adam adjusted the long, narrow box under his arm, the garish gift wrapping concealing Wilt and Blush from casual inspection.
"Are you sure that you can?" she asked skeptically.
"No," he admitted reluctantly. "I'm the only one she'd even listen to. You know that. Besides, with the security leaks, I can't risk sending anyone else."
"I'm still not happy about this," Ilia muttered, her skin shifting to a brick red color.
"We all do what we must, Sister Ilia. You have your task, I have mine. I know we've done the recon, but if you don't think you can grab him, back off. You're too valuable to just throw away on a whim."
The unexpected compliment made Ilia blink, even as backhanded as it was, her skin tone slipping back into her normal range.
"You can count on me," she replied, her voice gaining a harder edge to it.
"I know," Adam replied, a vicious smile curling his lips. Listening carefully, Adam looked up to the manhole cover above them, the heavy steel grating affording what light there was down below. It weighed over two hundred pounds, but wasn't an obstacle for an awakened Aura, Adam easily lifting the slab of metal and sliding it slowly aside. A quick glance around the narrow alleyway showed they were in the clear, and he climbed into the muggy morning air. He accepted his concealed weapon as Ilia handed it up, before she hopped easily to street level. Adam slid the cover back into place with his foot, a soft clank heard as it fell back into place.
"Strength and honor, Ilia."
"Strength and honor," she echoed. The two of them each turned, walking down the alleyway in opposite directions.
A full lecture hall was thankful that they had been given a reprieve from their hyperkinetic history professor, though a good portion of the class wasn't a big fan of the current speaker, either.
"The turning point in the siege of Vytal was the infiltration of Kaiser Jurgen's camp by the Praetorians of King Ozymandias. The ensuing fight was in close quarters, and removed the power of the Mantlean Navy from the equation. The Valerian attack favored their strength, highly trained individual warriors, and negated the numbers and superior weapons of the Mistrali and Mantlean armies, respectively," Weiss concluded, a self-satisfied smile on her face.
"While that is correct, Miss Schnee, it is not wholly accurate, either. Would anyone else care to clarify the point?" Dr. Oobleck asked of the class.
"Jurgen and Qian Po were dumbasses for even coming ashore before the battle had been won," Cardin Winchester chimed in sarcastically, surprising no one.
"That's closer to the truth, but you're still not there, Mister Winchester," Oobleck replied, stunning several students with Cardin's insight. "Mister Arc! You look like you know the answer."
"I wanted to let someone else answer. Wouldn't be fair," he replied.
"Oh, you're a historical scholar now?" Weiss sniped, still sore about being told she was wrong, apparently.
Jaune simply pursed his lips, taking a deep breath before speaking. "The turning point of the siege of Vytal happened before it even began. General Aurelius Arc convinced King Ozymandias to make his stand there instead of evacuating the Valerian and Vacuan forces to the mainland after the assassination of Sheikh Suleiman, which would have saved lives in the short term, but ultimately would have lost the war." Weiss' eyes flicked wide for a moment as she put two and two together, before her lips slanted in a disgruntled pout.
"Correct! In two weeks, Vacuan sappers managed to build a massive tunnel network in the mountains which enabled the defenders to withstand naval bombardment mostly unharmed for the duration of the siege. The ships that had been originally tasked with ferrying the armies across the ocean for an invasion of Mantle instead fought a delaying action against the Mantlean Navy, to buy time for the defenders. The Battle of the Line, while ultimately a Mantlean victory, ultimately led to the dissolution of Mantle as a kingdom and the founding of Atlas."
King Johan and Khan Qian Po came ashore to oversee the final victory their generals had assured them, not knowing that the lack of a counter-offensive was merely a trap. They sought to be present when Ozymandias was forced to surrender, to cement their victory as quickly and painlessly as possible. Their headquarters camp had been built over a section of the Vacuan tunnels, which enabled the Valerian Praetorians to bypass their defenses completely and ultimately force a parlay between the three remaining Kings of Remnant. That meeting led to the dissolution of all four monarchies and the institution of democratic rule across the world. What lessons can we learn from this mistake?" Oobleck asked at last, several pencils spared the fate of bursting into flame had he continued. The wiry professor paused for a moment to toss back a good swig from his coffee decanter.
"Watch where you step?" Yang volunteered.
"Don't mistake meekness for weakness." Pyrrha added.
"Let the army do their damn job?" Cardin provided.
"That wasn't a question!" Oobleck countered quickly. "That...is your assignment. Ten page essay on the lessons to be learned from the siege of Vytal, and how they can be applied to modern society, due next Friday," he added, getting a low groan of protest from the class. "Reading assignments! Black's History of Vale, chapters five through nine, and Kallenmeier's Chronicle of the Great War, chapters sixteen and seventeen. Dismissed!" Oobleck shouted, the sound of the students standing and collecting their things now dominating the room.
"Are you actually related to Aurelius Arc?" Pyrrha asked, shifting her book bag over her shoulder, a wan smile on her face.
"My great grandfather," Jaune replied easily before he saw the set of her face. "What's the matter?"
"My own great grandfather, Eutarkos Nikos. He was a great admirer of Aurelius, and spoke about him at length in his book, Combat in the Third Age."
"Oh? That's pretty cool. I wonder if they ever met." Jaune immediately regretted bringing it up when Pyrrha grimaced.
"Eutarkos served as the personal bodyguard to Qian Po," she whispered.
"Oh," Jaune said simply, his own eyes finding the floor. A pregnant pause followed, the partners finding themselves alone in the classroom save for their professor, who was busy getting set for his next class. "Well, it was a war, right? I don't hold it against you, Pyr. Matter of fact, you have a copy of that book?" he asked, getting a nod and a soft smile. "I'd like to read it some time, I think," he added, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.
"I think you'll enjoy it, Jaune. I have the first edition my father gave me here at Beacon. But later. We need to get going."
"Yeah," he said. "I just can't wait for Peach to make my ears bleed again."
"Your Aura can handle it, I promise, Jaune."
"If you say so," he replied, sounding unconvinced.
"Come on, you," she added with a soft chuckle and a playful shove to the shoulder, leading the way out of the classroom.
Jacob Frost nudged the faucet closed with his elbow, shutting off the flow of warm water as his hands dripped over the basin. Shaking droplets of water from them, he did a thorough job drying his hands with paper towels, a display of professional cleanliness for the woman and child seated behind him in the exam room.
"Now then, Missus Carrick, is our little Benjamin needing anything other than his vaccinations?" Frost asked, his voice full of warmth and concern.
"No, Doctor Frost. Not that he's told us about, anyway. Took a while to get more than two words out of him, let alone convince him to come along. Stubborn as a...well, you know." she completed the thought, the rotund woman's eyes finding the floor.
Frost chuckled softly at the gaffe, turning around to find the boy in question not paying any mind to his guardian's words, his long, pointed donkey ears perked in interest as the five-year-old poked at a small anatomical model on the end of the counter with a single, curious finger.
"A mule isn't the same as a donkey, Missus Carrick."
"I...I suppose not," she admitted sheepishly.
"And I rather admire them, actually. Such useful animals. Quietly going about their work with little complaint."
"We don't get many Faunus at Amundsen's, really," she added.
"Is that why you came to the clinic?"
"Well, yes and no."
"Oh?"
"Doctor Silverman is on vacation, actually. Plus, we have to make every Lien count, and you're more familiar with Faunus than he is anyway."
"On that we are in agreement," Frost remarked dryly, the barest hint of irritation bubbling to the surface. "All right, Benjamin, hop up here and let me take a look at you."
The wire-thin Faunus complied after a moment, clambering onto the examination table and plopping his butt in place. Frost performed various, perfunctory tests on the boy, checking heart and lung function, as well as shining a light to look at eyes, ears (both pairs) and throat.
"His weight aside, he's an otherwise healthy young boy," Frost pronounced absently, already checking the chart for the next step.
"We just got him in last week. God knows how he'd been managing on the street, the poor dear."
Frost set the folder down before plucking a paper towel from the small tray it covered, revealing a small, unlabeled bottle and a syringe, complete with needle. Benjamin's eyes went wide at the sight of the needle, clearly not a fan of the idea.
"Relax, Benji. We all have to get our shots," Mrs. Carrick reassured him.
"It's just a little prick, all right?" Frost added, drawing clear fluid into the syringe and flicking it to clear the air bubbles before setting it back down on the tray. He next donned a pair of rubber gloves before tearing open a small alcohol prep pad. "Roll your sleeve up, son."
With ease born of practice, Frost administered the injection, getting only a slight hiss of pain before it was over. Pulling the needle free, he disposed of it in the sharps container on the wall, followed by his gloves in the trash can. "Booster shot in six months, Missus Carrick. And this is for being such a good boy," he added, producing a cheap, cellophane-wrapped lollipop from one of the cabinet drawers. Benji's eyes lit up at the treat, dispelling any lingering pain instantly.
"Such simple creatures," Frost remarked as the lad eagerly tore the wrapper off and jammed the pop into his mouth.
"Boys," she said with a smile, unknowingly missing the point. "What was he missing, by the way? I didn't see a label on that bottle."
"The usual: Grimm pox, MMR, polio, whooping cough. We do our own titration here; lets us stretch what Lien we get here at the clinic. Each dose is based on body weight. No sense giving a forty-two pound boy a prepackaged dose listed for fifty to seventy-five."
"I guess not," she conceded.
"Any questions?"
"No, Doctor Frost, thank you."
"Wha' happen' your hand?" the boy asked from around his sucker.
"Benji!" she admonished him. "Don't be rude!"
"Innocent curiosity," Frost deflected easily. "I was in a house fire when I was a few years older than you."
"Did ih hurh?"
"Quite a bit, actually."
"Oh," he said, finally feeling the inappropriate nature of his question.
"On that note, I think it's time for us to get going."
"Yes, ma'am. Take care. I'll have Sarah send a reminder to the orphanage for his next appointment," he added, exiting the exam room into the hallway. "See you soon, little mule," he muttered softly, his paternal smile morphing into something far more sinister. Reaching into his pocket for his Scroll as he walked down the hall to his private office, Frost closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clearing his mind of one task to focus on another.
He closed the office door behind him, a quick flick through his contacts finding Wilson Goldhamer, the call app opened with a simple tap.
"Hey, Doc," was the immediate response, a voice gruff and cold on the other end of the line.
"Just checking in, Wil. Everything prepared?"
"Aside from this rooftop bein' as empty as the Solitan steppes, yeah."
"I had presumed our mutual friend had a weapon waiting for you," Frost said, his voice growing dark and irritated.
"Yeah, well, I…" Wilson began before a high-pitched beep could be heard. "Wait one," he added, the sound of movement coming across before Frost could hear a chuckling grunt. "Now that's clever."
"Found it, have you?"
"Yeah, had it in a disguised junction box."
"Ah. Is it enough to do the job?"
"And then some."
"Good. Just remember; minimize collateral damage," he admonished.
"Son of a bitch won't know what hit him."
"Best of luck, Wil. Anna would be proud," he added, tapping the call closed prematurely as a nurse knocked on the door. "Yes, Kayla?" he asked, knowing full well that his other two assistants would be busy wrangling the herd in reception.
The young woman in question opened the door, a well-used clipboard under her arm. "Full slate, Doctor Frost. Room two has a gouged antler, still in velvet and bleeding like a stuck pig. Three fell off a playground swing and landed on her tail wrong, possible fracture, x-rays are in the chart folder. Four is Timmy Brown, ear infection. Again," she groaned.
"Now, now. He can't help it, the poor thing. Bat ears are a royal pain to keep clean. Do I have time for lunch afterward?"
"I think you're clear 'til two, but let me double check."
"Thank you, Kayla," he replied, and she took her leave from the office.
Frost sighed softly, allowing his thoughts to wander briefly before he found his eyes once again drawn to the picture on his desk. A weathered photograph with a burnt corner almost concealed by the frame, it held the image of two small children. A boy of perhaps nine years, and what had to be a younger sister by their shared genetics, no more than five. Perched on his shoulders, the girl's face was a giddy smile, mirrored by her brother's grin beneath her.
"Always for you, Jackie." he whispered.
"Does anyone know why Grimm dissolve at different speeds?" Professor Thumbelina Peach asked, her voice a mixture of a three-pack-a-day chain smoker, a chainsaw, and fingernails on a chalkboard. "Miss Valkyrie, would you care to enlighten the class?" she droned.
Having her concentration broken from her favorite pastime, chattering excitedly at her boyfriend, Nora's eyes blinked twice before she registered the question. "Sure! I mean, if you want 'em dusted fast, you just have to hit 'em harder!" she replied with a smile as broad and enthusiastic as her penchant for explosives. "Works for me!"
"Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't. Anyone else have an answer?"
"Younger Grimm smoke up quicker too!" Ruby Rose added, her hand shooting up. She immediately realized she'd made herself the center of attention and shrank a bit, her hand dropping onto her desk. "Right?"
"That's also part of it, good job, both of you. Miss Nikos? I believe you had your hand up as well."
"Yes, Professor. According to a study published by the Valerian Grimm Research and Investigation Directorate seven years ago, they identified over twenty possible contributing factors to the decay rate of dead Grimm, but none of them were entirely conclusive."
"That's correct. It appears to be completely arbitrary, with much more research required. GRID, despite being criminally underfunded, plays a pivotal role advancing our understanding of the creatures of Grimm. I don't know if any of you are considering a career with the Directorate, but it's vital that you file thorough after action reports. Paperwork is an important part of your profession," Professor Peach reminded them for the third time this week, most of the class either planting their face firmly onto their desks or tuning her out completely again.
Wilson Goldhamer blinked at the abrupt end to the Scroll call, but deferred to his Daikunshu's judgement in that regard. An Atlesian Army veteran, he was used to taking orders with minimal justification, and he trusted Jacob Frost implicitly. He'd been plucked from being a dishonorably discharged soldier, trying to decide between suicide and the Dust mines, and given a new lease on life for him and his family both. The unforeseen consequence of their immigration to Vale could hardly be put at Frost's feet, and was, in fact, the reason he was sitting with his back against the large air conditioning unit on top of the Wainwright building.
That the fast-talking stranger had delivered on his promise was surprising enough, but this?
He could work with this.
The tall, fake junction box attached to his current backrest had yielded a weapon he never thought he'd see again, and certainly not outside Atlas. The Austech SA-12 was state-of-the-art weaponry straight from the inventory of the mightiest military on Remnant. It was capable of one-shotting an Ursa Major at over two thousand meters; Wil had done so twice before. The optics alone cost more than the modest house he'd purchased in Vale, and the ammunition wasn't exactly cheap either.
He turned to his left, hefting the weapon to his shoulder and looking into the scope. The reticle was clear as day, just like he remembered it, and Wil swung his aim around to where he knew the target would appear. The sightlines were as good as he could have wished, and his egress secure as well. It was almost too perfect, but he found himself increasingly uncaring, given the opportunity before him.
His little Anna, the light of Wilson Goldhamer's world, would indeed be proud of her papa today.
Setting the heavy artillery down, Wil reached for his Scroll again, a favorite local business about to get more of his hard-earned Lien. This purchase, however, was an investment in the future, and one he was glad to make.
Adam munched on his hot dog, sustenance and cover rolled into one as he sat on the edge of a large planter box a block down the street from his destination. He'd purchased the snack from a street vendor on the corner, a Faunus, naturally, and the snack wouldn't weigh him down in combat if it came to that. If he'd staged any closer, he knew he'd likely be detected, if he hadn't been already. Adam Taurus took advantage of the shadows when he could, but he wasn't a creature of the darkness like Ilia.
Or Blake.
To say that he was conflicted about Blake Belladonna was like saying he had minor philosophical differences with the Sanguine Brotherhood. Necessity and purpose had put him here, and would drive his actions as always, but it did little to help the nervousness threatening to bubble to the surface. He took a deep breath, crumpling the paper wrapper into a ball, tossing it into a battered public wastebasket and retrieving his 'gift' before moving down the street.
The dilapidated warehouse didn't look outright abandoned, not to someone who'd grown up in the slums of Mantle, and so Adam worked his way closer, trying to convey the casual ease he wasn't feeling at the moment. Dirty windows offered glimpses into the interior, half-organized wooden crates of various sizes stacked and scattered about the floor of whatever business had gone under. Giving a glance over his shoulder, Adam casually slipped into a doorway alcove, waited ten seconds and then tried the door itself. The knob was turned slowly and quietly, offering little noise or movement for anyone on the other side of the door to notice.
Hopefully.
The door opened a crack, and Adam peered into the shadowed gloom of the interior, fully expecting an ambush. He slipped the patch from his eye and unboxed his weapon, setting the wrapping aside where he could reuse it if necessary, the now de-bulked weight of Wilt and Blush a decidedly comforting presence in his left hand. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the door aside and slipped in, closing it behind him just as quietly as he'd been trained, if not moreso. He slipped the hood off to remove any obstructions to his vision, taking careful inventory of what lay before him.
The layout was almost a maze, the lines of sight broken and his routes of travel convoluted. The footing was cluttered with crumpled packing paper and loose bits of straw, making silent movement extremely slow and distracting. His intended target was far from someone easily cornered, he reminded himself, the barest hint of a smile as he caught a whiff of sandalwood and cinnamon, an odd blend of scents for most, but a signature for the woman he'd come for.
A sharp, distinctive crunch sounded underfoot, several shards of a broken lightbulb nigh impossible to spot even for someone whose attention wasn't darting around the room. Adam's smile vanished in an instant, Wilt drawn in the blink of an eye and barely intercepting a vicious sword strike from above. His assailant continued sailing through the air above him and disappeared over a row of crates, the attack over as soon as it had begun.
Adam advanced slowly, listening for the slightest hint of noise and getting nothing but the faint cries of seagulls from the nearby waterfront. "I'm not here to fight you," he called out, waiting a long moment before rounding a corner. The narrow gap he saw wasn't comforting, the path behind him not much better. Focusing a trickle of Aura into his legs, he jumped up nearly to the ceiling, landing nimbly on a narrow, swaying catwalk. His perch lasted but a second before a pair of kunai flew out of the shadows, cleaving two of the half inch steel suspension cables like they were cobwebs. The twenty foot section of catwalk Adam was standing upon spun on its long axis, dumping him from his vantage point to crash through and splinter several smaller boxes, getting a grunt of frustration out of him.
He rolled to his right, dodging the catwalk section when the next pair of kunai cut the other two cables allowing it to crash to the floor. "I just want to talk, damn it!" Adam growled, growing increasingly frustrated. The adjacent section of catwalk pivoting on its last two points of attachment with the ceiling didn't help matters, several hundred pounds of steel swinging through the spot where he'd just been standing. A quick slash of Wilt with a healthy dose of Aura behind it cut the catwalk loose with a projected arc of crimson energy.
Adam shifted position again, getting away from the wreckage and alighting on top of one of the taller crates to afford himself a better vantage point. Even if he was frightfully exposed, he could at least see an attack coming from farther away and deal with it.
In theory, at least.
A wide, circular slash exploded outward from within the box he was standing on, turning his perch into a spray of broken wood. Without solid footing, he couldn't push off to redirect his course, ending up exactly where his opponent wanted him, a falling axe kick catching him in midair and driving him into the floor. The rebound was hardly better, a second, roundhouse kick throwing him back against the steel beam supporting a staircase, bending it visibly. Adam's Aura held, the barest flicker of red indicating the stress put upon it, and he managed to land on his feet, bringing his gaze up again and searching his surroundings.
He raised his chin even further when he felt cold steel pressed hard against his throat, Aura sparking in protest against the razor sharp edge. He might have brought Blush around to fire behind him, but that was preempted by another arm wrapping around his left from behind, pressing the point of yet another kunai between Adam's third and fourth rib.
"What do you want?" he heard, half growl and half whisper.
"I'm just here to talk," he grunted out, managing to not hiss in protest when the blade at his throat pressed a little harder. An uncomfortable silence followed, punctuated by a single, long sigh immediately behind him.
"Your reflexes still stink, little bull."
"It's good to see you too, Kemuri-Sensei," Adam answered, risking a little bit of a smile. This was confirmed as he felt the weapons pinning him in place disappear. Sheathing Wilt, he turned to regard his teacher, finding the dark grey of her tunic unchanged from the last time he'd seen her, even if the black panther tail lashing irritably behind her was flecked with a few more gray hairs than he remembered. The loose trousers matched the tunic, bound halfway down the calf all the way to the ankle, with a well-worn pair of black tabi covering the feet. Steely gray eyes could be seen, but not much else, Kemuri's face concealed by a balaclava.
"Over there," she ordered gruffly, nodding towards the warehouse office.
Adam wasn't stupid, or inexperienced, enough to walk directly into the doubtlessly trapped sanctum of his former teacher, and so he approached to single story structure with a degree of caution. Kicking a small box across the floor, he grunted in satisfaction when it stopped in front of the door, frozen in a small ice Dust explosion. "Where there's none, there's one. Where there's one, there's two," he muttered, remembering a lesson he'd learned the hard way at Kemuri's feet. Spying a broom leaned against the wall, he used it to awkwardly actuate the lever-style doorknob, rewarded with both the click of the door opening and a grunt of satisfaction from his Sensei.
"Guess that lesson stuck after all. You do remember how to make tea, correct?"
"Yes, Kemuri-Sensei."
"We'll see. Set's in the corner over there," she instructed, walking past him and taking a seat on a low cushion centered against the back wall. She pulled off her balaclava, allowing a long braid of hair to fall freely to the middle of her back, glossy black dotted with gray much like her tail. A weathered, stern face watched Adam go about the menial work warily, Kemuri's nearly perpetual scowl colored with caution now. From her name and complexion, it was obvious to even the casual observer that she was of Mistrali extraction, and thus her precise age was indecipherable.
Adam activated the small fire Dust brazier, a cast iron teapot filled from a canteen quickly coming to a boil. Throughout the process, he snuck glances around the room when he could, finding it clearly lived in, but ramshackle nonetheless. The walls were dirty and stained from use, but the room itself was clean and well-kept. A simple cushion on the floor for sleeping laid next to a small trunk, Kemuri's existence famously ascetic. Several canes of bamboo and rattan were stacked in the far corner, a small shudder running up Adam's spine at the memory of being on the receiving end of Kemuri's chosen training tools.
A small bamboo spoon portioned out the appropriate measure of green tea powder into the brew pot, this one of simple glazed pottery. Whisking precisely fifty strokes, he replaced the lid to preserve the warmth of the tea, the black lacquered tray holding two cups for service. He poured in silence, offering Kemuri the first cup before taking his own. She took a small sip, her gaze never flinching from her former student.
"Acceptable," she pronounced begrudgingly.
"Sensei, I…" Adam began, trailing off when she raised a finger.
"You want to talk? Fine. I'll give you one stick, kohai," she said, her voice a low growl.
Reaching to her right, Kemuri plucked a stick of incense from a plain brown envelope, planting the bare end into a small, sand-filled bowl alongside several burned out stumps. A small lighter got the stick burning and a quick puff of breath snuffed the flame back down to a glowing ember, the wisp of smoke that followed carrying the telltale scent of sandalwood and cinnamon that he remembered from his youth.
"Talk."
"I've come to ask you to come with me, and to help train the next generation of the White Fang. You would be given a place of high honor among us, Kemuri-Sensei, rather than having to scrape by in the shadows cast by humanity. You have so much our fighters can learn, if only you would agree to teach them. You have the chance to leave your mark on the Faunus, on the world, for generations to come."
Adam paused, trying to gauge Kemuri's reaction.
"I knew I should have bought the shorter sticks," she muttered darkly. "You walk away from my training to join the White Fang. Eight years later you show up on my doorstep uninvited, and then on top of that, you offer me things I don't want. Things I've never wanted."
"Our brothers and sisters need your guidance, your strength!" he implored her.
"You want me to join the White Fang," Kemuri stated flatly.
"I want you to join the rest of the Faunus. You have skills, gifts, that few among us possess. You didn't shirk your responsibility to the Faunus during the Revolution, why now?" he asked, Kemuri's brow furrowing in anger.
"I fought a damn war to make sure no one could tell me where to live and what I could do with my life, long before you were born, whelp. Do not presume to tell me what I owe my supposed family. I've done my share, cut short more lives than I care to count. I don't follow orders, never have, never will."
"I'm not asking you to, Sensei."
"Oh it'll look like a sweet deal at first, but I've made a life out of not getting put back in a cage. Be grateful that you never knew what that felt like, kohai."
"It's not…" Adam protested before he was cut off.
"Oh, of course it isn't. Not yet, not at first. But day by day, week by week, the slow tightening of the strands until I'm on a leash," Kemuri spat venomously. "Besides, I only teach one student at a time. You've known this ever since I took your scraggly ass under my wing. I have a pupil, one with a far greater destiny than you'll ever have."
"I never thought I'd see the day when the great Kemuri would be afraid of a fight," he growled back, instantly freezing as the point of her chokuto appeared under his chin again with the barest whisper of noise.
"Choose your next words very carefully, little bull," she said, voice colder than an Atlesian winter. "I let you in here, alive, only because you were my student once. A student who left before they were finished with their training because the White Fang needed his glory-seeking pissant self. A student who never learned the temperance to go with their strength, no matter how hard I beat it into him. A student who, years after I taught him what it truly meant to be a warrior, decided to ally himself with the very worst of humanity. You fight for the Faunus, huh? How many Faunus were hurt or killed because of that stunt your precious White Fang pulled? How many Faunus will be hurt or killed because of the target you've now painted on their backs? You wail and gnash your teeth about oppression, but you've never felt what it's really like. My grandfather was an actual slave, you little shit."
"You're right, we've come a long, long way. But we're still not where we need to be."
"Perhaps not. Adam, if you could wave your hand and make humanity disappear, entirely, every one of them dead, would you do it?"
"If that's what it took," Adam replied without hesitation. With even less pause, the flat of Kemuri's blade smacked him in the forehead.
"And that's why I will never ally myself with you. You're marching straight into another war, kohai, and over what? A minor wage disparity? Words hurting your feelings?" she demanded, sheathing her weapon on her left hip. "Caleb Taurus is rolling in his grave at your weakness."
"Humans put us in cages, Kemuri. That happened. The cullings, happened. You know this."
"Both sides can point to atrocities, Adam. They kill us, we kill them. It goes back and forth until everyone's dead. It doesn't matter who started this, not any more. It matters who ends it. Ninety percent of Remnant is uninhabited except for the Grimm, you damned idiot, and you're engaged in a blood feud that's going to make that number worse."
"Blood calls for blood. Or have you forgotten that, too?"
"Oh I'm old, little bull. I have no illusions of that. But I've forgotten more than you'll ever know about what it means to be a Faunus. I've sweat, I've bled. I've lost," she added, voice falling into a much softer timbre.
"Then you are refusing to aid us," Adam stated more than asked.
"I am," Kemuri said simply, her posture confident and calm.
"So be it. If you don't want to lose more, stay out of our way, Kemuri," he said, slowly getting to his feet.
"Your pride will be your downfall, Adam Taurus. I take no comfort in that. You have skill. You had potential. I can only hope that as few people as possible pay the price for your folly. My charity ends when you walk out that door. Don't come back again."
"I won't. I'll make sure to send you a message when it's safe to come out of the shadows," he added, his voice bitter even as he offered her a mocking bow.
"I'll be dead and gone long before that happens, little bull," she fired back, still staring him down in spite of the scowl he wore. He thought, however briefly, of taking his frustrations out on her, striking her down for her insolence, but immediately thought better of it. In spite of his own growth as a fighter since leaving her tutelage, the outcome of that fight was hardly certain.
The office door closed behind him, blue eyes sparing one long glance over his shoulder before he began to walk in earnest. He was halfway across the warehouse floor when he caught a glimmer of red against the window, the office already engulfed in flames. Permanence was a luxury in Kemuri's world, and the old panther was as ephemeral as they came. Resetting his eyepatch and hood, Adam exited the warehouse, bending down to retrieve his gift box. Replacing Wilt and Blush within its confines, he began to stand, until the glint of sunlight on a single blond hair on his pant leg caught his eye.
Adam plucked the hair from his trouser leg, examining it for several seconds. He sighed contemplatively, knowing Kemuri was hardly above deception and misdirection, and indeed the hair could have come from anywhere. Yet something still nagged at his mind, and he forcibly shoved the puzzle aside to concentrate on resuming his cover and blending in with the rest of the pedestrian traffic, long strides putting distance quickly but surreptitiously between him and what was to be a major fire.
The clatter of a belly chain being dragged through a narrow steel hatchway had become a far-too-familiar sound for Roman Torchwick, he thought silently. The drug collar keeping his Aura in check was also a constant companion, the open sores from the injection sites a simply delightful bonus feature of the accursed device. And the less said about the lack of proper grooming products in the Valerian prison system, the better. These burdens he could bear; unwillingly, mind you, but still not breaking his cocky facade. The bright orange jumpsuit with matching canvas shoes, however…
That was beyond the pale.
A firm tug tightened the chain around his waist, a small padlock securing the restraints in place. The whole assemblage kept Roman's hands bound at waist level immediately in front of him, and was yet another iteration on a familiar theme.
"Open twelve," one of the guards outside the cell called over a radio, a buzzer sounding before the door lock popped, allowing it to be slid to the side. "On your knees, Torchwick."
"Wife still not putting out, eh, Sergeant Jackson?" Roman answered, a wry smirk on his lips even as he complied, kneeling on the concrete slab built into the wall that had served as his bed since he'd been transferred from Atlesian custody. "At least you still think I'm attractive." Roman's hair hung low in his eyes, the one thing he'd not given up upon his incarceration. Tempered steel shackles ratcheted around his ankles, reducing his steps from the self-assured cadence of a gentleman thief to an awkward, shuffling gait that was more befitting the elderly and infirm.
"All right, Roman. Move your ass."
"I'm going to miss our conversations, truly," he snarked, getting a gentle shove in the back to usher him out the cell door.
"I'm not," Jackson answered.
The three of them marched down the catwalk of the cell block, several catcalls from Roman's adoring fans, as he called them, echoing off the cement walls of the facility. Prisoner movement was one of the few noteworthy things during an otherwise dull day of incarceration, especially when it was likely the last time they'd see one of the few truly famous criminals in the Kingdom of Vale.
Security checkpoints were passed without a fuss, Roman's escorts curt and firm with their speech and orders. After a short while, they entered a long tunnel, the off-white color of the prison paint scheme now replaced with unfinished concrete and exposed pipes. Their footsteps echoed softly as they walked nearly a hundred yards to the end.
"Now this is exciting. Finally letting the rookie outside the walls? One step closer to your dream of being bare...naked...with a...girl!" he snarked.
"Shut up," the younger of the two guards, Q. Negron according to his nameplate, fired back dismissively, adjusting his mirrored sunglasses a touch before slicking a hand back through a short, platinum blonde buzzcut.
"Or boy. I won't judge, I promise."
When that didn't elicit a response, Roman sighed wistfully.
"They just don't have fun guards any more."
"Ya see, kid, just like they taught you in the academy. You don't rise to the bait, and they don't win," Jackson pronounced sagely, inserting a key into the control panel for the elevator at the end of the tunnel. A cheerful chime sounded instantly, the doors sliding open to reveal an empty car. The three men entered, Roman placed facing the back wall while they selected the fourth floor from the panel behind him. The doors closed and the car lurched into motion carrying the trio upwards.
With another chime, the elevator came to a halt, prompting Jackson to mutter "What the hell?"
The doors slid open, and the two guards found themselves face to face with a robed Judge Lane, the short, wiry old man famed for his brutally tough stance on crime, as well as a side job refereeing prize fights.
"Gentlemen," he said curtly, stepping into the secure elevator with the three men.
"Your honor," Jackson replied.
The door closed again, and Roman chanced a glance over his shoulder in time to see Lane nod to Negron, who returned it with a knowing smile on his face. He was overtaken with a sense of dread now, which was only reinforced when Negron began to speak.
"Say, Sarge? It's a real pity we couldn't keep Mister Torchwick here from falling down in the shower this morning, isn't it?" the young man sneered, pressing the emergency stop button with a wicked grin. "I mean, it's just our word against his, right, your Honor?" he asked, drawing Roman's gaze again to the diminutive jurist behind him. Without a second's pause, Judge Lane mimed zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key, the only noise in the car that of the alarm bell from the e-stop.
"Let's not be uncivilized here," Torchwick tried to protest, switching to a pained grunt when Jackson slammed him into the wall of the car, his prison jumpsuit bunched into the guard's fists.
"Says the piece of shit who led the Grimm into Vale," Jackson growled, releasing his grip with one hand before balling it into a fist that quickly found a home in Roman's solar plexus. Doubled in pain and wanting to vomit the swill that the prison kitchen claimed was breakfast, Roman fell to his knees, barely able to keep his face from slamming into the floor.
"Might wanna back up, Sarge, this could get messy," Negron added, shaking out his right leg.
"Don't get too into it," Jackson warned, stepping back regardless. "Has to be believable."
"I only need one," Negron replied, smiling wickedly. With a speed Roman couldn't fathom, his leg swept into motion, his eyes slamming shut reflective of his highly vulnerable state. The impact echoed in the small elevator car like a gunshot, Roman flinching once again before he stopped, opening an eye to cautiously glance at his surroundings. He was honestly surprised he wasn't dead, given the ringing in his ears, but that was nothing compared to the shock generated by the limp body of Jackson, his back sliding slowly down the wall. The man's face was a bloody mess, the slight tilt in the neck revealing that he was bleeding from the ears as well.
"Reminded me of my dad. Sanctimonious asshole," Negron muttered, pulling off the mirrorshades and dropping them into his breast pocket. "Get up," he ordered, yanking Roman onto his unsteady feet. Looking up, he caught the gaze of his unlikely savior, dark grey eyes staring back at him set in a face that bore a bemused smirk.
"Well, this is unexpected. I thought you'd skipped town by now," Roman said, testing his lungs with a deep breath.
"You are an inspiration to punks in ski masks everywhere. Wouldn't want them having to make do without a role model," Mercury Black snarked back.
"No, no, Mercury. I was just expecting someone else to be a little more reliable, that's all. OW!" he barked, barely able to keep his balance while hopping on one foot and in shackles. Roman cut his gaze down to his side, expecting Judge Lane, only to find a scowling Neo Politan glaring back at him, the (thankfully) blunt end of Hush having slammed down on the top of his foot. "Took you long enough," he told her, a wry smirk on his face and Neo's eyes rolling in response, a slight smile blooming to life on her face.
"Needed the right window," Mercury clarified on her behalf.
Roman took another look around the elevator and did a double take. "Wait a second, you talked!"
Neo simply held her Scroll aloft, the official Judge Lane soundboard app open on the screen. She tapped the most prominent button, getting his trademark "Let's get it on!" out of the device.
"That's...actually brilliant," Roman remarked, shrinking back from the needle-sharp blade that appeared mere inches in front of his eyes. "Not that you aren't always spectacular, wonderful even!" he quickly backpedaled.
Neo preened a moment, a knowing smirk on her lips.
"You can kiss our collective ass later, Roman. Turn around," Mercury ordered gruffly, plucking Jackson's keys from his belt and getting to work on the restraints. In moments, he was massaging his wrists, hissing in pain as the scabs from his collar sores were ripped open by the device's removal.
"I assume you two have a plan?" he asked, flexing the feeling back into his fingers.
Neo simply offered him a cocky smile, reaching up and flipping open the escape hatch in the ceiling with the tip of her parasol.
"Planning is my middle name, carrot top," Mercury added, turning off the radio on Jackson's belt, which had started blaring traffic demanding to know what was going on in the elevator. He dropped his own radio, but oddly kept Roman's collar, slipping into a cargo pocket.
"A hand?" Roman asked, getting a raised eyebrow from Mercury before the latter interlaced his fingers to boost Roman through the trapdoor. Neo leapt up after him, alighting on her feet with preternatural grace. The last of the three left below pulled out the emergency stop and tapped the button for the top floor of the building. A quick hop later, Mercury joined them, kicking the trapdoor shut and securing it with a padlock for good measure.
The elevator began to move again, the whir of machinery in the dark not comforting Roman in the slightest. What little light they had showed him the rapidly approaching top of the elevator shaft, complete with a bevy of sharp metal edges and surfaces to mash them all into a fine red paste. Thinking before he spoke, he glanced at his partner, only to see Neo affecting an air of boredom as she rode the top of the car. That she was so casual about it spoke of planning and foreknowledge, and thus he favored her with a wry grin that she mirrored in turn.
Neo's smirk turned to a silent giggle when Roman had to abruptly duck when they hit the top of the shaft, a protruding I-beam ending up half an inch above her multi-colored coif, and much lower in relation to his own lanky frame. "We're going to have a talk later, young lady," Roman grumbled from his seat on top of the elevator car. Neo simply mimed a blabbing mouth with her free hand before following Mercury through the open side hatch onto the roof of the building.
Roman blinked against the late morning sun, the odd perspective of being several floors up preventing him from recognizing their surroundings immediately. What did catch his eye, however, was the Bullhead transport parked on the other side of the roof, Mercury and Neo both making a beeline for the aircraft. She had switched guises back to Judge Lane, and wouldn't that be a fun conversation for that cranky old fart when all was said and done? Roman jogged behind them, still cursing the residual effect of the Clademanimol that he'd been forced to endure since his transfer to Valerian custody. He clambered up the ramp, which began to close behind him as the engines whined to life.
"Care to do the honors?" Mercury asked, gesturing towards the cockpit.
"Where's the air...crew?" he asked, the question dying on his lips as he spotted the two uniformed VPD pilots crumpled on the floor. "No complications at least," he muttered, slipping into the pilot's chair, already checking instruments and displays for a very abbreviated preflight checklist. "Here goes nothing," he said to the others, slamming the throttle forward and getting the Bullhead airborne.
"Where the hell...ah!" Mercury said, grabbing the aircraft emergency tool from the bulkhead next to the door. "Head out over the bay," he instructed.
"Way ahead of you," Roman replied, already threading between buildings as they began to slowly gain altitude.
"All right, this is where things get messy," Mercury added, hefting the combination hammer/hatchet/prybar with a chagrined look.
Roman glanced at Mercury, and then to Neo, who wore a squeamish grimace on her face.
"I'm not going to like this part, am I?"
"There you are, you son of a bitch," Wil muttered softly, hands flexing on his weapon in anticipation.
Taking time to get things lined up properly, he put the crosshairs exactly where they needed to go, already envisioning his target's demise. A professional soldier, through and through, Wil understood the dangers of firing such a powerful weapon within the city, and took great care to pick his moment. Turning slowly in place as his target moved into the killbox, he tracked every little shift in course until his moment came at last. The thunderous roar of a Bullhead at low altitude provided an excellent distraction, drawing attention as well as concealing the noise of his weapon, an even two kilograms of pressure on the trigger discharging the payload with the barest hint of smoke in its wake.
Moments seemed to stretch for hours, Wilson's eye glued to the scope, able to see the faint trail behind his shot until it intersected with the target. There was a distant puff of red, and the bastard who had as good as murdered his precious little girl dropped like a stone.
"I got him, Anna," he whispered, finally letting the SA-12 fall off his shoulder. Wil took a deep breath to start clearing the adrenaline from his system, and then placed the weapon back where he'd found it. He pulled the pin on the delayed thermite/Dust demolition charge, seeing the length of military grade fuse cord would give him roughly thirty minutes before the device ignited and completely slagged any evidence he might have left on the weapon. More than enough time to make his exit and yet soon enough that the police likely wouldn't find the SA-12 before it was destroyed.
For the first time in a long time, Wilson Goldhamer felt a degree of happiness in his heart, an enemy of humanity removed from the face of Remnant once and for all. He carried this back to work with him, picking up and paying for the order of tacos he'd placed earlier in the day, thus securing his alibi and avoiding any questions from his subordinates as to where he'd been.
Adam Taurus checked his burner Scroll for anything from Ilia for the fifth time since leaving the warehouse, again coming up empty. He wasn't worried, mind, just thorough. Electing to keep moving rather than risk drawing the attention of the Vale Police Department for the unforgivable crime of loitering while Faunus, he kept his pace along the waterfront, observing the low income housing sprinkled among the warehouses and docks. The fact that he was seeing a substantially higher percentage of Faunus among the people around him was not lost on Adam in the slightest.
His horns were concealed once again under his hoodie, though anyone who knew what they were looking for would spot him in a crowd easily enough. There was a White Fang safe house half a mile up the road, a forgotten basement under a small apartment building with a sympathetic superintendent. The human owner, of course, wouldn't deign to sully their shoes by setting foot in the place, let alone keep the building up to code, and so they were allowed free rein to use the space as they saw fit. And if he did raise an objection, well, the Fang had a bone to pick with the man regardless.
In a just world, humanity respected the Faunus, even feared them for their genetic superiority. Despite the setback he'd suffered, Adam was damn well set on bringing that world about, one sword stroke at a time, if need be. If he happened to rise through the hierarchy of power along the way?
So be it.
Putting the big picture aside for a moment, he let his uncovered eye drift to the waters of the bay, glinting under the late morning sun. One of the few good things about Menagerie, he had always thought, were the scenic ocean vistas of Kuo Kuana. The memories attached to simpler times in his life, learning at the feet of Kemuri-Sensei before moving into the ranks of the White Fang at the age of sixteen, his combat prowess allowing him to rise rapidly within the ranks. As she'd just reminded him, she hadn't taught him everything, but indeed it was more than enough. The few Huntsmen who'd thought to interfere in his plans directly, well…
He was still here, they weren't.
Adam knew, and fully admitted, if asked by someone whose opinion mattered, that he was a monster. Such men were necessary to bring about change on the scale needed to install the Faunus in their rightful place in the world. There would be a brave new world, surely, even if he wouldn't be able to live in it. Adam accepted this, taking solace in few things in his life any more. A simple life, with a regular job, and a family; that was for the people, not their protectors.
He'd allowed himself the luxury of that dream once, and it had cost him. The weak had their hearts broken, but Blake's betrayal had simply strengthened his resolve. He'd thought she could be someone who understood, someone who could perhaps even give him that small sliver of the normal life that in spite of his mindset, he did truly desire. However, it was not meant to be, her naivete and weakness leading her to apply her talents to protect the Kingdom, the status quo.
Disappointing, yes. Painful, somewhat. Deterring him from his course?
Not a chance in hell.
Adam sighed, turning from the ocean and its daydream-inducing magic to continue on his way. The short wall keeping pedestrians and vehicles alike from ending up in the harbor was painted with garish graffiti here and there, several instances of the White Fang's emblem dotted throughout giving him a little bit of hope. An individual, a single voice, could be silenced. A movement could not.
The distant howl of a Bullhead quickly became not-so-distant, the pilot flying erratically between the taller buildings of downtown Vale, heading for the water. Adam could tell from experience that whoever was behind the stick was either very good, or very bad, several near misses punctuated by the vehicle scraping its belly along the roof of a building three blocks away before it began to gain altitude as it passed overhead.
As he watched it depart, Adam could feel doubt and uncertainty gnaw at his stomach; something felt off. Beyond even what one would think of what had to be an aircraft theft, the sense of personal danger nearly made him break cover, his hands clutching at his gift wrapped weapon hard enough to crumple the packaging as he cast his gaze about.
The barest glint of sunlight on glass, half a mile away and five stories up, caught his eye, a surge of adrenaline flooding into him as he saw the puff of smoke from an Atlesian SA-12 being fired. The rocket streaked low above the buildings, directly towards his position, and he remembered exactly why the things were so feared. Originally designed for taking down large Nevermores and Teryxes, Atlesian soldiers had found them quite adept at locking on to ground-bound Grimm as well, not to mention anything else the steel boot of Atlas wanted to grind into the dirt.
Instead of panicking, or even just waiting to get turned into a fine red mist, Adam watched the missile sail directly overhead, catching up with the errant Bullhead just over the water. The warhead detonated in a puff of red fire dust precisely five meters behind the aircraft and the resulting cone of shrapnel continued on at transonic speed to perforate the Bullhead's left wing, quickly inducing a fire in the engine as well as crumpling the wing structure like wet tissue paper. The port side engine nacelle separated almost immediately, the rest of the aircraft plummeting in an axial spin that quickly ended when it struck a grain barge head on, an even bigger explosion blossoming to life before the wreckage teetered briefly and sank below the bow wave, the tugboat crew scurrying like ants over the vessel and their charge to bring it to a stop.
Adam blinked at the turn of events before collecting himself, picking up the pace before anyone with a badge or Huntsman's license thought it a good idea to question him regarding what he'd seen. He felt like he'd dodged death twice today, now.
"Come on, come on," Cyrus Roan muttered anxiously, waiting for his Scroll call to connect. The ringtone at least told him the other end was online, just not being answered. After another two rings, there was a click, and a series of chirps and beeps before he heard that damnable voice again.
"Is it done?" an oily baritone voice asked from the device.
"Yeah, yeah. Properly logged into evidence as part of the case."
"Good."
"A little grisly, don'tcha think? I mean, I get the control board, but a severed…"
"I think, you obey. You will forget I ever contacted you, and I will forget you exist. That was the deal."
"You said you would erase the IA inquiry!" Cyrus reminded the mysterious caller urgently.
"It will be like it never happened. Your colleagues will not pursue the matter, and your wife will not discover your...predilections."
"You leave her out of this!" he growled.
"As we agreed. Goodbye, Detective Roan."
The call went dead, and Cyrus took a shuddering breath, the adrenaline giving him a bad case of the shakes. Taking a few moments to compose himself, he slid the drawers of his desk shut, a small key locking his case files away until he came back to work in the morning. Hardly the most personable of people, his colleagues didn't think much of it when he walked through the squad room with only a few muttered farewells to the few detectives still in the office. A single flight of stairs brought him to ground level, a wave from the desk sergeant returned perfunctorily as he made his way out the back of the precinct building to the parking lot.
One of the few bright spots of his month, his new ride was a state of the art Atlesian police cruiser, unmarked of course. All the automatic bells and whistles were nice, but with the state of Vale these days, Cyrus was most grateful for the heavy armor plating and bulletproof glass the vehicle sported. His ride could shrug off anything short of a heavy machine gun or dedicated breaching charge, which was definitely a plus in an increasingly paranoid man's book. A simple tap of his Scroll to the door handle unlocked it, and he slid into the ergonomic if not overly comfortable driver's seat.
Pulling out of the lot, Roan eased his baby onto the thoroughfare, a short stretch of downtown driving ahead of him before he could take the turn onto Seaside drive on his way home. He lived within his means, certainly, but the small home he'd managed to secure on the fringe of the wealthier Marina District was still a source of pride for him. Tapping a virtual button on the frankly ludicrously-sized hardlight display in the center of the dashboard, an image of his wife flickered to life in moments.
"Hey baby!" she chirped happily, getting a smile from Roan in response.
"Hey, sugar. I'm leaving the office now, you want me to pick up anything for dinner?"
"Pizza?" his wife replied with a shrug. "Carino's is on the way home, right?"
"Yeah, go ahead and call in the order for pickup."
"Okay, I'll see you in a little bit, okay? And be careful! Someone crashed a Bullhead into a barge this afternoon," she added.
"Yeah, we're investigating that. We still have that bottle of chianti?"
"Maybe? I'll look in the pantry."
"Okay, baby. Love you," Cyrus Roan added with a smile.
"Love you, too."
The call terminated with a firm, but pleasant two-note chime. Cyrus passed the last of the tall buildings that made up downtown, cresting the edge of the hillside that led down to the water's edge. He allowed himself a soft chuckle as he saw every light on the way down turn green, his foot pressing gently down on an accelerator pedal he hadn't quite gotten the feel for, if his jolt of speed was any indication.
Cyrus eased off the pedal, a feeling of dread overcoming him as the vehicle not only didn't slow down, but began to accelerate, quickly building speed as it rolled downhill. He shifted his foot to the brake pedal, swearing vehemently when that one didn't want to work either. He was two blocks from the T intersection onto Seaside, and fast running out of options, the steering wheel not responding to his input either. Hitting highway speed, Cyrus' car crashed through the concrete railing, narrowly missing pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk, a brief moment of weightlessness felt before the vehicle impacted the water ten feet below.
Cyrus couldn't tell whether or how long he lost consciousness for, but the acrid smoke of the airbag charge hung heavily in the air of the cabin as he shook his head to clear the cobwebs and immediately regretted it, a concussed skull reacting poorly to such stimulus.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered, the barest trickle of water heard coming in through the bottom seam of the door. "Okay, relax," he told himself, seeing the water level halfway up the cracked windshield. It was just a matter of letting the pressure equalize before he'd be free to open the door and escape.
In theory, at least.
Without warning, or his input, Cyrus heard the door locks actuate, frantic stabs at the unlock button quickly forgotten when the four windows each opened precisely four inches, seawater now pouring into the cabin of the vehicle. Detective Roan, thinking quickly, took several deep breaths, drawing his sidearm and firing half a magazine of slugs into the driver's window, webs of cracks spreading from the reinforced glass as the laminated layers absorbed the gunfire without breaking. Before any bystanders could even report the accident, the vehicle disappeared beneath the surface of the water, coming to rest on the bottom twenty feet below the surface.
The non-Semblance, non-Faunus record for a person holding their breath underwater was nearly six minutes.
Cyrus Roan utterly failed to break it.
Arthur Watts watched a small camera feed with detached amusement, the satisfaction of a device fulfilling its purpose always a source of pride for the man. The murky, underwater imagery was finally reduced to a gentle ebb and flow, rather than the thrashing of a man desperately trying to stave off his own death.
Thus satisfied, Watts tapped a button next to the camera feed, the small control device unlatching from the car's diagnostic port under the hood, falling to the harbor floor and sinking into the mud before it slagged itself by activating the onboard thermite Dust charge. The water hid the small device's demise from view, and the few bubbles of steam generated mingled with the last lingering air pockets escaping from the car.
Closing the control application on his tablet scroll, he switched to the VNN feed in time to catch the tail end of an interview with Augustus Wolfe.
"...and even more telling, Lisa, is that the unwed birth rate among Faunus has dropped below the average for the Kingdom. The prospects of real change and jobs worth having have invigorated the Faunus community of Vale, helping to turn them away from behavior that is ultimately self-destructive. I believe a brighter future lies ahead of us all, Faunus and Human alike."
"Thank you, Councillor Wolfe," Lisa Lavender said with her trademark faint smile; pleasant but not friendly.
"Any time, Miss Lavender," the wolf Faunus replied with a smile that was far more fatherly and warm.
The pre-recorded interview cut off, the camera feed resuming in the VNN studio with Lisa and Roger Stone, the latter taking up the broadcast duties for the moment.
"Back to our top story of the evening, the Vale Police department has conducted their first press briefing related to the escape of convicted terrorist Roman Torchwick, set to be sentenced today in Vale Superior Court for his role in the Breach of Vale. The police confirm that the bodies of two individuals in Vale PD uniforms were found in the wreckage, as well as additional blood and tissue evidence indicating the high likelihood that Torchwick and both of his accomplices were killed in the crash. The question of who fired the missile that shot down the bullhead transport is still under investigation, though Vale PD has vehemently denied that they were responsible."
Watts turned off the VNN feed, taking a sip of his coffee and allowing himself a slight smile at his foresight and planning coming to fruition. The small building he'd secured in a quiet industrial park was serving as a base of operations for now, the perfectly level concrete pad in the center of the room specifically built for the microchip printer he was assured by Jacob Frost he would receive tomorrow. The human supremacist had been grateful for the help he'd received and was reciprocating for a fellow believer, after all.
Several workbenches and tool cabinets were also present, a fitting workshop for an engineer and scientist such as himself. The security measures he'd installed in the building worked like a charm as well, the two squatters who'd tested them now residing in a compost heap on the other side of Vale. The living arrangements were sparse, a few cots arranged around a small Dust stove with a cheap dinette set adjacent, but Arthur was a man who valued mobility above all, even if the internal security of Vale was laughable compared to the police state that was Atlas.
A single electronic chime alerted him to the loading bay, a camera feed confirming it was the people he was expecting. The automatic door trudged slowly upwards with minimal noise, nothing about this current hideout having been skimped on, surely. Watts glanced at his coffee setup for a moment, debating whether it was too late for a good cup and deciding against it. A large delivery van backed carefully into the loading dock, shutting off as the door cycled closed again. The door slid upwards, and Watts had to suppress a smile, keeping up appearances and all that.
"You're late," he stated flatly.
"Yeah, well, traffic was murder. Some big fire down by the docks. The detour to meet your pet detective didn't exactly make it easy either," Mercury Black grumbled as he hopped down from the vehicle, Neo and Roman in tow, the latter wearing a pair of jeans and a hooded pullover, his hands stuffed sullenly into the central pocket.
"And your other task for the evening?"
Mercury simply held up the large bag of Mistrali takeout with a wry smirk. "They were out of lo mein so we got fried rice instead," he said, walking over and placing the food on the table.
"Not to sound ungrateful or anything, but was this really necessary?" Roman demanded angrily, brandishing his left hand, bloody bandages almost concealing the fact that he was missing his little finger.
"Do you want to be Roman Torchwick: dead terrorist, or Roman Torchwick: most hunted man in Vale?" Watts countered with a barely raised eyebrow.
"And what else is this going to cost me?" he asked, his temper clearly frayed.
"A favor, nothing more, nothing less."
"I don't think you understand who you're dealing with here," Roman replied testily before Hush smacked gently into his chest. He looked down into her eyes, seeing soft exasperation writ large across her face. That alone gave him pause, Neo's silent pleading enough to get him to rethink things. "Well, far be it for me to look a gift horse in the mouth. At least he's not threatening to burn us alive, right?" he asked, getting an impish grin from Neo as she shook her head. "So what's the favor?"
"I need your expertise in breaking into a vault," Watts answered, allowing himself a small smile at the newest member of his crew.