- To Serve With Honor -
The shingled and flat rooftops of Vale's Commercial District flashed by beneath them, and Jaune breathed deeply; he frowned as the simple noise came out of his external comms as a harsh rasp.
Then the aircraft started to slow, and soon came to a hover; the street below was choked with white and black police cruisers, with dozens of officers in blue scattered between them, hunched low behind the cars and aiming their sidearms towards a storefront at the end of the street.
The three-way junction that the store resided on was completely blocked off by a mix of cruisers and vans, and at the store's main entrance, three figures in hooded black bodysuits and white vest-like armor held Dust carbines at the ready, each of their faces hidden behind stylized white and red masks that resembled the bone facial plates of the creatures of Grimm.
Spotting a hole clearing in the crowd of officers beneath the hovering Bullhead, Winter glanced over and nodded to Jaune; then, she stepped out the open air, and allowed gravity to take over.
Jaune watched her fall with distant wonder. Aura was a hell of a drug; it allowed Huntsmen and Huntresses to take hits from speeding vehicles like a gentle shove, shake off stabs and slashes like grazes from fingernails, and stick a landing from forty meters straight up like they had skipped a step coming down the stairs.
Winter landed gracefully amidst the crowd, crouching slightly and balancing herself by holding her arms out from her sides; then, she blew a stray hair from her vision, stepped aside, and looked back up to the Bullhead.
Jaune reached back and banged twice on the cockpit door, and then departed with aircraft with a short hop.
Then his mind immediately drew a blank on how to channel Aura to cushion a landing.
'... Crap.'
'... Shit.'
The second he jumped into the open air, Winter remembered that they hadn't actually practiced landing strategies in well over six months, and bit out the short curse in her mind.
He was in no real danger; Jaune had enough conditioning and experience under his belt to come out of a drop from that height unscathed, Aura or no. That said, there was something to be said for first impressions, and hitting the asphalt and tumbling in a heap of armored limbs would hardly constitute a dignified entrance for a supposed Airborne Legionnaire.
Jaune must have recognize the dilemma as well, because a moment later, his landing was heralded by a thunderous boom.
The pavement beneath his boots bowed, and a web of cracks spidered outwards from the point; his knees bent slightly, but he otherwise remained unmoved, face hidden behind the blank visor, shotgun held loosely across his chest as a cloud of dust radiated up and away from his form.
The air stilled following the disturbance, as everyone within range turned or glanced to the source; only to start or shuffle apprehensively away from the impassive monolith that had appeared in their midst.
The stillness broke as the Bullhead overhead moved away, and Winter moved to Jaune's side and glanced around at the bewildered police officers. Jaune himself craned his neck and looked around the area deliberately, cataloguing details such as weapons, armor, and the few prominent rank insignia scattered throughout the morass of first responders. People shied away from his unseen gaze as he did so, and he gave a resigned sigh that probably didn't do anything to help his case.
Winter tapped his shoulder, and pointed towards a large black semi trailer down the street; he nodded in agreement, and his lips twitched in wry amusement as officers pushed each other out of his path when he strode forward through the crowd. He didn't need to look back to know that Winter was trailing him at a sedate and dignified gait.
Outside of the rear of the trailer in question, three people were gathered around a card table, surveying a row of Scroll tablets which appeared to be displaying separate angles of the storefront. One of them slapped the side of the trailer in frustration as a short squawk of apology came over the radio clipped to his uniform jacket, and he ran a hand over his thinning brown hair in frustration.
"I'm putting the owner of his heap under a damned microscope after this is over," the harried looking man swore, turning from his fellows with his hands clasped around the back of his neck. "There is zero lawful justification for having reinforced and tinted storefront windows that are impervious to high-powered thermal scanning!"
The second member of the group was a woman, swathed in a worn and faded, but still eye-catching crimson leather trench coat. Her sly tawny gaze was veiled beneath a matching crimson wide-brimmed fedora with a black satin band around the base, which sat atop a full head of voluminous auburn hair. She raised a hand to her mouth and tittered softly at her colleague's frustration. "I don't know about that. Torchwick and his boys have become fairly innovative with their scouting techniques; I wouldn't be surprised if they have a van parked a few blocks over right now, loaded with equipment and cursing flunkies that are having the same problems as we are."
"Carmen, please stop antagonizing Paul with the problems that we could have, and focus on the ones that we already do have," the final man, an older gentlemen with a large head, devoid of any hair to speak of, sighed as he adjusted his forest-green tie. The silken ball at his throat was already cinched beyond recognition of any particular style of knot; most of the tie was tucked between his white button-front shirt and his brown tweed waistcoat, and contrasted against his rumpled blue jeans and tawny leather derby shoes. A leather pistol belt sagged off of one side of his hip under the weight of a black-barreled army-style revolver with worn wooden grips.
Winter chose that moment to make their presence known, coming to a stop alongside of the trailer and calling out. "Chief Reagan!"
The Chief of the Vale Police Department - the bald gentleman - turned at the waist, and his face seemed to age a further ten years, the line of his mouth faller deeper into despair at the sight of the Specialist and her companion. "Speaking of problems," he muttered to himself, before straightening and turning completely to greet the pair as they joined the gathering at the table. "Specialist Schnee - so glad that you could join us."
"We're trying to negotiate with these animals for the first time in years, and you invited a Schnee and an attack dog," the officer drawled accusingly. Carmen, the lady in red, reached over and swiftly cuffed him across the back of the head; he took the blow with a wince, but remained unapologetically irate.
"Play nice, Paul," the woman chided as her eyes passed straight over Winter and latched onto Jaune, sweeping up and down his form with an unreadable intent that almost made the young man fidget. "Though, I do agree somewhat with my colleague's sentiment in wondering how exactly this situation calls for the presence of one of Atlas's worst-kept secrets."
Winter scowled faintly at the older woman, while Jaune's helmet tilted to the side in silent puzzlement; though Carmen giggled at the gesture, the other two men looked on in quiet discomfort at the featureless headgear.
"You requested the Atlas investigators," Winter said, gesturing to herself and Jaune. "We are here."
"And I was under the impression that one of you was being replaced by Ozpin's handpicked representative," Reagan rebutted wryly.
"I can leave, if you would prefer," the elder Specialist deadpanned. Paul guffawed, Carmen choked back an unflattering snort, and Chief Reagan bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Now you're just being difficult, Winter," the Valean senior officer grimaced.
"It is not as if you honestly have a 'best' option in this matter. From what Ozpin has already told us, his representative is an untrained vagabond of barely two years older than my own sister. Meanwhile, as the Commander has so astutely observed, you have at your disposal myself, the eldest daughter of the White Fang's favorite target," she waved a hand to herself, before pointing to Jaune, "And a highly-trained, fully-equipped, and experienced former Legionnaire who can get through all three of the terrorists down the street before any of the ones inside could recognize that he was amongst them."
Jaune bit down harshly on his tongue to restrain himself from correcting his superior, knowing that it wouldn't help either of their cases.
"We all know that there's no such creature as a former Legionnaire, Miss Schnee," Carmen recited dutifully. "There are only Legionnaires, dead Legionnaires, and non-Legionnaires."
'Thank you.'
"Be that as it may," Winter pressed on valiantly, "Ozpin's representative has yet to arrive, and because my own involvement in this scenario is… Ill-advised, Specialist Amsel is technically the most useful of the two of us in the current situation."
"I promise not to blow anything up," Jaune chirped helpfully, and the Commander flinched at the sudden introduction of synthesized baritone. Winter imitated Chief Reagan's previous gesture.
"So it speaks," Paul muttered.
"And is there reason as to why you can't speak to us like a normal human being?" Reagan inquired pointedly.
"Jack was injured recently, in an encounter with a White Fang agent when we stopped to investigate an incident en route to Vale," Winter explained. "Several of the wounds on his face and neck are still sensitive, and one caused short-term damage to his vocal cords; his helmet minimizes the wounds' exposure to open air, while the internal comms system allows him to continue to communicate with minimal strain."
"My pretty face isn't so pretty right now, and I have a bit of a sore throat," Jaune summarized aptly; the three Valeans snorted, and Winter quashed a long-suffering sigh, glaring at him out of the corner of her eye instead.
Further inquiry was halted before it could begin when the sea of officers around them stirred suddenly, and the radio at Paul's chest squawked again.
"Shots fired inside of the store - I say again, shots fired in the store."
Paul fumbled with the clasp on the device, and pulled the receiver closer to his face. "Are there any signs of casualties?!" the Commander barked.
"No telling, sir. Snipers have a line through the front door, but no eyes on the hostages - wait, the White Fang have just closed the front door. We're now completely blind."
"We're coming up on two hours," Carmen gestured to a digital timer visible inside of the command trailer, red digital numbers flickering rapidly as the time ticked upwards. "They've already chased off the negotiator, and now the ones inside are becoming desperate and twitchy. We're about to hit the point of no return."
Reagan ran both hands over his head and rested them on the back of his neck, his square jaw set tightly as he stared up into the gold and red of the morning sky. "I can't send you in, Winter," he mumbled apologetically.
"Then send Jack," Winter pressed. "I've trained him for situations like this, and his instincts are exemplary. If it comes to a fight, he will get the hostages out alive."
The older man turned and stared at Jaune, his eyes boring straight through the blank faceplate into his soul. They both drew up to their full heights - Jaune standing level only by merit of his boots - and moved to stand face-to-face.
"This isn't Mantle, son," Reagan stated gravely, "This isn't your war."
"All I've ever wanted to do since I learned how to fight was to protect people, sir," Jaune replied. "It means everything to me when I actually get to do that. You know the Legion, sir - the Mission above all else. Those people in there are my mission. Give me the go."
Reagan continued staring. "I didn't ask James for a fanatic with a trigger finger, I asked him for a thinker. This isn't a soldier's game, boy; collateral damage has a meaning beyond an after-action report, and every death, regardless of whose it is, is a bad thing. Can you look me in the eye and tell me that, when faced with the choice between the easy route of pulling a trigger, and the hard choice of not, that you can abstain?"
Winter gaped at the Chief's gall, and she could tell from the slight quiver in Jaune's hands that he wasn't going to abide it.
"There is nothing easy about 'pulling a trigger,' sir," Jaune hissed, and the words out with an otherworldly treble. Paul flinched, but Reagan remained unperturbed. "You might think that I'm a remorseless, hard-charging grunt that gets some kind of thrill from killing living beings. You think less of me because my appearance fits the bill; but I'll tell you that there are others, some who even wear this same uniform, that look down on me because I don't fit that profile.
"Believe it or not, Chief Reagan, I'm tired of killing people just because someone else behind a desk doesn't like them or a thousand of their closest 'conspirators.'" Jaune shifted his head slightly to look towards Winter. "I've been given the power, and the opportunity to choose my own battles, and to finally back my words with action. And I'm going to use that power, here and now, to end this and get those people out safely."
He drew himself up and stepped forward until he was chest-to-chest-plate with the Chief of Police. "I am not an instrument of mindless violence. I am a Specialist, a trained soldier, and a human being; and right now, in the absence of Specialist Schnee or Glynda Goodwitch herself, I am your best asset. Let me go."
Winter held her breath. Despite wearing the face of a soldier, his were not the words of a trooper requesting to be aimed towards a battle and let slip. Jonathan Amsel was not the man wearing the uniform; it was Jaune Arc, awaiting the chance to take the first steps back into his life.
Reagan glanced over either shoulder to his companions. Paul looked less than enthusiastic, but otherwise offered no word of dissent; while Carmen smiled slyly back from beneath the brim of her crimson fedora, and nodded. The Chief looked back to Jaune, closed his eyes, and bobbed his head once.
"Armory van is that big ugly grey thing behind me," he jabbed a thumb back towards an armored car a hundred meters away, "Get them to issue you stun rounds and grenades. You have a baton?"
Jaune flicked his right wrist, and a matte black rod telescoped out from a compartment in his gauntlet, ending with a crossguard in his hand. Reagan nodded in satisfaction.
"What happens here is very likely going to color our interactions for the rest of your career, Mister Amsel. No. Casualties. Can I count on you?"
"Yes sir." Jaune took a single step backwards, and offered a crisp salute. Winter blinked, and Reagan quirked a brow in surprise, but swiftly returned the courtesy.
"Confer with the SWAT team lead before you execute - make sure that they know what's going on so that they can render appropriate support."
"You don't have a plan."
Winter's words crackled through his earpiece as a statement, rather than a question. "Of course I don't have a plan!" Jaune hissed back on internal comms, "I never have a plan! I've always followed your plans, or else completely winged it!"
"'Winging it' is not an option with civilian lives at stake."
"Thank you for clarifying that, ma'am," he drawled thickly. The Legionnaire was worming his way through the crowd of police standing between the armory van and the on-site SWAT teams.
"Dial it back, Specialist," Winter growled. "I may just leave you to come up with your own plan for once and call it a learning experience."
"Alright, alright; my apologies, ma'am," Jaune sighed. "So, I have thirty rounds of twelve gauge bean bag and twenty rounds of double-ought, seventy-two rounds of forty-five FMJ, a carbon-steel knife, and a baton." He took a breath, and idly tugged back the bolt of his shotgun partway, revealing a translucent shell stuffed with a miniscule black-and-blue patchwork sack. "Make that thirty-one bean bag," he amended before continuing.
"From what you've told me already, the front wall is the only method of entrance or egress, unless they decide to use the Dust in the store to blow out one of the reinforced interior walls. They have three fighters blocking line-of-sight from the outside of the door, and seven more inside scattered around the floor. The only solid cover inside is the sales counter in the center, while the floor shelving is thin enough that it only constitutes concealment; and there is no stock room or restroom inside of the shop, because the owner is partnered with the café next door." Jaune stopped and exhaled. "Am I missing anything so far?"
"Negative; your information is accurate thus far," Winter confirmed. "Besides that, we have confirmation of two hostages: The owner, an elderly human male with a balding head of grey hair, wearing a gray shirt, black slacks, and a red apron; and one customer, a teenage girl in a black hoodie, black boots, black tights, and grey cutoff shorts."
"No physical description on the girl?" he quirked a brow.
"The only footage was pulled from the street cams when she came in around zero-four-hundred. She entered the area and went into the shop with her hood up; so the only characteristic that we can confirm is that she is fairly petite in stature. 'She' might even be a very oddly-dressed 'he,' for all we know."
"A small hooded teenager, visiting a twenty-four-hour Dust shop at four in the morning," Jaune repeated dryly. "Absolutely nothing suspect about that; no sir."
"I thought I ordered you to dial back the snark."
"You made it sound like a somewhat-agreeable suggestion at the time," Jaune corrected nonchalantly. "I'm approaching SWAT. Any last words of wisdom?"
"I feel like I should be the one asking you for last words of any sort."
"Now who's being snarky?" he chuckled.
"Chief Reagan does not want me to be seen by the criminals at any point in the interim, so I will not be in the first response should anything go awry." She spoke in terse bites, but trailed off in resignation nonetheless. "Remember what I said on the Bullhead - the White Fang in Vale are not diehard martyrs like their Atlesian counterparts. I would not be surprised if most of the group here are close to your age and scared out of their wits. You are the more… Sympathetic, of the two of us; I would advise that you try to use that to your advantage first and foremost, and only resort to force if the situation should escalate beyond recovery."
"You're calling me soft!" Jaune exclaimed with mock-annoyance.
"Like a marshmallow," Winter affirmed; he pictured her solemn nod, and choked back a snicker. "Tread cautiously," she said seriously. "Comparatively undisciplined they might be, it does not make them any less dangerous."
"'Professional soldiers are predictable,'" Jaune recited, "'The world is full of dangerous amateurs.'"
"Where did you hear that?"
"Chief Sergeant has a knack for all of the different ways that the world can kill you."
The link fell into heavy silence, which Jaune took as his cue to switch back to external speakers. Not a moment too soon, either, as the leader of the VPD SWAT team - the man's face hidden behind a black balaclava - stepped up to meet him.
- To Serve With Honor -
Carmelo Paxton fidgeted at his post, leaning up against the end of a tall, sturdy shelf loaded with sealed bags of numerous types of granulated and crystalline Dust. His cut-down carbine was clenched tightly in leaden hands, his index finger on the pistol grip and as far removed from the trigger as it could be after his last nervous slip had sent a hypersonic iron-ceramic sliver careening into the floor a meter to his left. The site of impact still smoked faintly in the corner of his visage, and he repressed another apologetic wince as he noticed two of the others examining the cracked and peeling vinyl around the spot.
Putting seven armed men together in the same room and leaving them to wait for the police force outside to make a move was a recipe for slaughter, Pax decided. Guns were held constantly at the ready, tempers were frayed to the point that most simple conversations devolved into pointless arguments and aggressive gesturing, and his tail was getting pinched by his belt, again.
The Coyote Faunus snarled silently in irritation, taking a hand off of the stock of his carbine to reach back and tug at his belt and waistband to free the sensitive hairs of his canine appendage. While the White Fang's leadership typically allowed for the customization of uniform parts to accommodate prominent Faunus traits, a mandate had recently come down stating that, for all members assigned to Dust robberies, unaltered uniforms were to be worn beneath disguises to ensure as much anonymity as possible. As such, his bushy brown-and-grey tail was stuffed haphazardly into the back of his black fatigues, and a few hairs would occasionally slip free when he shifted and become pinched between his belt and one of the belt loops, sending unpleasant jolts from his tailbone all the way up his spine.
"You could just let it out, you know," a small voice came from behind and below him, "It's not like any of us are going to be going anywhere anytime soon."
Tiny Voice made a good point.
"Sure, Carmie! Why not print up your own wanted posters while you're at it?"
"It's because of you and your obnoxious little motormouth that she knows our names in the first place, Alvin," Pax bit back with a hidden eye-roll, taking a measure of satisfaction in the sneering rodent Faunus's high-pitched squeak of indignation. All three participants stiffened, however, when a booming call came from across the room.
"What did I just get done telling you idiots about arguing in front of the hostages?" the Sergeant called out. Pax turned and noted that all three of the mission's heads were currently staring squarely in his direction, no doubt glaring at him and Alvin from behind their masks.
"Sorry, Sarge!" Alvin chirped back immediately.
"Just… Take a post in the northwest corner and cover the doors," the nominal leader of the mission growled tiredly, pointing towards a spot on the other side of the shop that had a decent view of the front wall from behind a low set of shelves. "And Pax, stay focused," he added half-heartedly. Carmelo brought his free hand to his brow in an informal salute.
After a few moments, in which Alvin relocated to his post and the others chafed at the silence, the three commanders resumed their huddle, exchanging hushed words and gestures.
"Sorry," Tiny Voice whispered apologetically, "I didn't mean to get you guys in trouble."
It was depressing that Pax could easily believe it. Nevertheless, he released a frustrated puff of air, and did his best to focus on an 'intimidating and in control' mindset.
"Just keep quiet while we get this sorted out," he muttered back, keeping his sight fixed firmly on the doorway.
"... You guys know that they're not just going to let you walk, right?" The voice was quieter still, if that was even possible. "It's one thing if one of you got caught running away… But now we're all here, and the police need something to show for it after all of the other stuff that you've already gotten away with. Not to mention that they're not the only ones who'll want you to answer for this…"
The last bit was nearly inaudible, and spoken with such remorse that Pax simply couldn't bring himself take it as the threat that it really was.
"Don't count us out yet," he stated simply, thinking back to the news that their cell had received shortly before departing the previous night. "These old dogs still have a few tricks up our sleeves."
He heard the voice blink. "Isn't that…?"
"It's not racist, it's a figure of speech," Pax quickly defended, earning a short giggle before silence encompassed the immediate area once more.
It was the overbearing quiet that allowed every occupant of the shop to catch the murmurs that arose from the other side of the heavy front door. Whatever conversation was taking place was indiscernible, even to Pax's keen ears.
What was apparent, however, was the faint static that arose whenever one particular voice was raised. It was similar to the niggling sensation that he would get whenever someone turned on an old television in an adjacent room of his childhood home; even if the volume was turned down too low to be heard, the device's presence was still evident from the vibrations in the air.
After a minute, though, the voices fell silent. No breath was drawn, and all eyes were fixed on the richly-stained oak door. The Sergeant slowly raised a hand and glanced around the room, gesturing with two fingers towards the entryway; nods were sent back, and carbines and pistols were gingerly raised in the indicated direction, as the fighters all feared that being the first to break the silence would be the final trigger for the calamity that they had waited for all morning.
The gleaming brass door knob rattled, and muscles and trigger fingers tensed sharply in anticipation. The door finally swung open, and for an instant, many of their deepest fears were realized.
One of their own comrades had opened the door, and was attempting to make herself as small as possible on the outside of the doorway. The effort was pointless, as even at the girl's full height, she would have passed as little more than a hill beside a mountain.
Worn black boots capped with brushed steel crossed the threshold, each deliberate step crashing in time with the room's collective pulse. Thickly-woven dark grey cargo pants rustled faintly, accompanied by the clinking of numerous small pouches on a pistol belt. A thick gunmetal chest piece wrapped around sheer black fibers, and matching metal pauldrons rested on broad shoulders. More inky fibers trimmed with a pair of parallel crimson lines trailed down to flat gunmetal gauntlets, and ended in a pair of gloves that looked to have been dipped into a pool of fresh blood, barring a strip of cracked black polymer across the knuckles that looked to have seen a fair bit of abuse.
Pax's gaze reached the top of the figure as it came to a rest, and he forgot how to breathe.
'Where is its face…?' his mind demanded, internalized terror beginning to surface. 'Where the hell is its fucking face?!'
An unadorned gunmetal oval sprouted from atop a thick armored collar, fused to the front of a plain black helmet. The visage swept across the room, causing heart palpitations and breathless gasps as it passed; it settled on Pax, prompting him to become conscious of the lack of oxygen in his body. Eyes wide behind his mask, the young Faunus inhaled deeply through his nose, but dared not to exhale until the featureless countenance finally turned away. He swallowed thickly, only to be stricken by the dusty vacuum left in place of saliva.
"And just who the hell are you supposed to be?"
Heads snapped towards the Sergeant, whose unseen gaze remained unabashedly fixed on the strange figure's absent visage.
The same heads turned back in time to watch the elliptical steel plate tilt faintly to one side.
"Your last chance for deliverance."
The synthesized baritone evoked a chill to accompany the jolt that shot up Pax's spine as the electrical ring assaulted his ears with greater vigor than ever before.
"And what exactly does that mean?" the Sergeant pressed through gritted teeth, his muscles coiled tightly under the offensive against his senses.
The figure seemed to take note of this, as it slowly raised one hand, and one finger, while reaching up with the other hand the side of its head. It pressed against an unseen indentation between its collar and helmet, and a hiss of escaping air filled the void. A crease appeared in the smooth metal at the center of the shape, and the group winced in anticipation as the lower section of the mask retracted into the upper, to reveal…
… A completely normal human mouth, which was currently curled into a frown at one side.
"Sorry about the theatrics," the young man - probably not much younger or older than Pax himself - apologized, his voice quiet and hoarse. "I've just got this thing with my throat right now," his stance loosened as he pointed to his armor-encased neck, "And the helmet makes it easier to speak clearly. I guess I've never had to actually talk to people with sensitive hearing while wearing it before."
He cleared his throat with a pained grimace before continuing. "Anyway, I hope you'll understand why I want to try and keep this short. Basically, I'm your last opportunity to sort this out peacefully before somebody does something stupid and people get hurt."
The Sergeant, looking relieved at the break in the previously oppressive atmosphere, still bristled at the man's words. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"
"It's an observation," the man shrugged. "You're jumpy, everybody outside is jumpy, everybody has guns - there's an obvious conclusion if we're all stuck here too much longer. I want to avoid that." He glanced around the shop, pausing on the old shopkeeper, and then again on Pax; who in turn only managed to avoid being baited because of a sharp glance from one of the Sergeant's cohort. "Where's the other hostage?"
"Now hold the fuck on!" the Sergeant's other companion stomped a short ways in the man's direction, face twisted into a snarl that displayed a set of elongated canines. "You still haven't told us who the hell you even are to be barging in here and making demands of us!"
"To be fair, I didn't just barge in," he observed mildly, "Your friends let me in after I talked to them. But, well… Basically, I'm a Specialist."
It sounded like there was supposed to be a capital letter in there, but it was hard to tell for sure from his impassive expression.
"Which means…?" the Sergeant prompted with an unimpressed drawl and a confused gesture of open hand.
"Well, I deal with unusual problems," the man shrugged again. "I'll admit that hostage situations are kind of new to me, but the Chief outside is at a bit of a loss after you chased off the first negotiator. So, here I am."
"So let me see if I've got this right," the Sergeant held up a hand, the other one rising to pinch of nose bridge of his mask. "We chase off the scrawny little PhD in body armor, and Vale's Chief of Police decides to send in a… Specialist... Unarmed, in full combat armor, with no experience and an irritating voice changer?"
"I wouldn't say I'm inexperienced," the man protested indignantly, "I'm just…" he scratched at the back of his helmet and seemed to struggle to find the right words, "... A different kind of experienced."
The aggressive fighter from earlier took another step forward and brandished his carbine. "You've got ten seconds to start making sense before we chase you out," he growled lowly, now only a few paces from the intruder.
The Specialist's nerves fell away from his expression, and he took a single step forward - stooping down and reminding everyone of just how uncomfortably large he was in that armor - and pressed a single finger into the side of the offending weapon. "I'm a soldier," he enunciated slowly.
He then pushed off sharply with his gloved finger, and sent the aggressor staggering backwards several steps. The rest of the sagging rifles and pistols in the room snapped up, and the soldier returned to his previous position, calmly raising his hands to shoulder height, palms facing outward.
"We're running out of time, and my voice is going again, so I would suggest that you listen carefully." Any hesitation had left his voice, and the soldier spoke at a clipped pace, as clearly as his hoarse tone allowed. "There are well over a hundred police officers outside of that door, spread out over a block in every direction. There are also at least three SWAT teams, armed to the teeth and itching to go. You aren't regular criminals - you're all fighters. But you're also totally out of your depth."
The assembled Fang bristled, but the soldier carried on bluntly. "In this room, you have two innocent people who are guilty of nothing more than being here at the wrong time." Pax closed his eyes and gritted his teeth in frustration.
"I have fought against the White Fang before," the soldier admitted candidly, even as fingers tensed against triggers around the room. "And in doing so, I have recognized that you have no interest in harming innocent people. We are here, now, as the result of an unfortunate series of events beyond the control of anyone in this room; but inside of this room, we will decide how this story ends."
"'We?'" one of the others parroted incredulously. The Specialist nodded resolutely and continued.
"We. Now, the way that I want this to end is with me walking out of the door behind me along with your hostages, while you surrender peacefully to the VPD outside to be taken into custody and stand a fair trial. I can see," he added quickly as Pax and several others moved forward, "That that isn't agreeable to you guys. So, let's talk about this. What can I offer you that would allow me to walk out of here with those two?"
"Legislation ensuring Faunus workers' right to unbiased consideration for employment based on qualification, and an official statement of condemnation of the treatment of Faunus citizens and workers by the Schnee Dust Company and the Kingdom of Atlas," the Sergeant rattled off faithfully, earning a short cheer of agreement from Pax and the others.
"I can't give promise you that," the soldier sighed. "I can put you into contact with the Chief of Police and the Council of Vale if you agree to release the hostages."
"The moment that we release the hostages, we will be shot without hesitation, and this whole incident will be censored by the media before breakfast," the Sergeant accused.
The soldier was silent for a few moments, before offering a rebuttal. "Leniency in exchange for disarmament and cooperation with law enforcement."
"Privilege from arrest," Pax blurted out; many heads snapped towards his direction, and he felt his cheeks flush crimson as he shrank back and tried to become one with the shelves behind him.
Instead of scolding him, however, the Sergeant offered him a faint nod, and then looked back to the soldier expectantly.
The Specialist's visor tilted towards the floor contemplatively. Finally, he looked up again - briefly glancing to Pax, before looking back to the Sergeant.
"I can't promise that the VPD won't try to arrest you-"
"Then we have nothing left to discuss," the Sergeant interrupted coolly. Pax took the unspoken cue with a knot in his stomach.
The soldier didn't move, even as three of the fighters holstered their pistols and drew crimson blades, moving at glacial speed and slowing further as they crept closer and closer. Pax let out a thin breath as he fought to keep his carbine lined up on the soldier's chestplate. Beneath the dull steel of the visor, he watched the corner of the soldier's expression tighten into a frown.
"Stop." For some inexplicable reason, the three oncoming fighters did. They exchanged looks, but none dared to look back to the Sergeant, already able to picture the Bear Faunus's own irate scowl, wordlessly fighting to push them onward. "Listen. I can't control the actions of the police outside. But, that's not to say that I'm powerless."
"What can you even do?" the Sergeant snapped. "You can't influence public policy, and you can't grant us immunity from the droves of humans outside that would like nothing more than an excuse to take our heads. So then, soldier. What. Can. You. Do?!"
"I can stop you!" the soldier croaked back. His voice cracked when his throat beat out his shout, and a hushed snicker ran through the ranks of the White Fang. It died as soon as they noticed that he still hadn't moved, and his lips were now set in a thin line. "I can stop you," he repeated quietly, unseen eyes sweeping around the room. "I won't allow innocent people to come to harm when I am in a position to stop it, and right now, I'm here. And I can stop you. Or…" he trailed off, and finally moved - pivoting on his heel until one shoulder was towards them, and the other towards the door.
"Or I can stop them from harming you, if you agree to let these two go."
"Bullshit," the Sergeant snapped immediately. "You would stand between us and hundreds of cops to save two people? When you've already claimed that you can take us all? You're either a compulsive liar, or the worst kind of fucking lunatic hero!" The Bear scowled in disgust and spat into the space separating him from the soldier.
The soldier's fists tightened in response, and Pax's pulse spiked in anticipation of the terminus. Four high-capacity electrically-accelerated carbines and three swords against one man that stood, body and soul, between the White Fang and martyrdom.
Carmelo Paxton didn't want to die. But right here and now, faced with the choice between death and the sham that was pushed onto Faunus and called "Justice," he could at least fight for his right to decide his own fate.
But the soldier didn't take the plunge. He didn't lunge at one of the melee fighters, didn't try to cut and run for the hostages or the door, both only a few powerful strides away. Instead, he raised his hands, and Pax braced on the trigger.
The clenched fists rose - and then continued to rise, and settled on either side of his helmet. Someone's breath audibly hitched, and the headgear rose up and away slowly, eventually coming to be held loosely in one hand off to the side.
Pax's earlier estimate was proven correct: The young man in front of him was likely a few years his junior. In the context of the whole face, he had a sharp jawline, cratered on one side by a cluster of circular indentations beneath the skin. His complexion was of sun-starved honey, almost pale enough to disguise the faint scar beside his eye. The upper reaches of the midday sky gazed around the room, meeting each masked face in turn before settling back on the Sergeant.
The soldier looked tired. His face and eyes were beset by lines, casting shadows and leaving the impression of an unspeakable weight upon his visage. Paxton found that he could sympathize with that kind of exhaustion right now.
"If you'll believe me," the soldier said slowly, "I'll tell you that I'm not a liar. And I can't say that I've ever qualified as a 'hero.' But, I am a man of honor; because my honor is all that I have left to call my own.
"I told you already that the people in this room would be the ones to decide the outcome of this day, and I meant it. Some of the people out there might want you arrested; more of them might want you dead. The Council of Vale might want you dead, or they might want to make an example of you." His expression darkened noticeably. "Your own superiors - and mine, for that matter - might want us alive, or they might prefer to have us as martyrs." Pax's throat clenched at the thought. "But they're not here. If they really wanted to have a say in our fates, then they would be in here with us - but they're not. So I don't really give a damn what they want."
"What I want," he spoke with grave finality, "Is for no one to die here. What I want is to take these two innocent people, if you'll let me." He heaved a great breath, and his eyes became alive with fire. "And then what I want - if you'll put your trust in me, and take me on my word and my honor - is to see to it that you're all seen on your way… With the knowledge that if we ever find ourselves here again, my honor will demand that I see you all brought to answer for your crimes."
The soldier let the final threat hang. After a moment of intense staring, he seemed to take too deep of a breath, and descended into a fit of rasping coughs.
For once, the Sergeant was surveying his troops. The hulking Faunus was looking around to meet the eyes of each of his subordinates in turn. Most were wary; but all seemed equally weary of their situation, to the point that the moderates were readily agreeable, and even the hardliners were on the fence.
Pax's thoughts ran a tortoise's race. Without looking down at his wrist watch, he knew that two hours had passed; one hundred and twenty minutes, seventy-two hundred seconds, spent cooped up in the same fifty-odd square meters of shop. How long had it been since he had taken his post? Well over an hour, at the least. The tiredness enveloping his mind was suddenly accompanied by a terrible aching stiffness in his legs and feet, and he leaned back unconsciously against the end of the shelves.
He had been pulled straight from guard duty for this job. He had been told that the entire operation would last two hours, tops, to round out the eight that he had spent pacing the catwalks and alcoves of the White Fang's storage facility. Before that, he had worked the morning for his uncle on the edge of the industrial sector, helping the old man's shorthanded crew offload and set up a new box-packing machine that would hopefully bolster production at his dry-goods plant, which had fallen on hard times because of a new government bill that promoted trade with Vacuo and dropped the market prices of a number of his products.
Pax shook his head to dismiss the hazy tangent. By all rights, he should have been back at his apartment right now, snatching as much sleep as possible before he would have to turn up for a full day shift at the plant in - he finally glanced down at his watch, and then looked back up and swallowed a loud, frustrated groan - exactly two hours.
When the Sergeant finally reached him, Pax barely hesitated to nod with as much conviction as he could muster. He'd rather have the soldier with them and against them, doubly so in their current circumstances.
"Alright," the Sergeant finally said aloud. "What do we need to do?"
The soldier blinked in apparent surprise. "Um… Well, first off, wait one minute." He raised the helmet from his side and seated it back on his head; he then pressed a button the side and turned slightly away, raising a hand to disguise his mouth as he spoke quietly, presumably into a radio.
Pax could've shouted and jumped for joy; they were finally going home.
Then he heard Tiny Voice inhale faintly, and whisper.
"What's that nasty smell?"
Dreams of freedom and a warm bed cracked and fell away like shards of a broken mirror as Pax took his own whiff. His throat seized at the stench, and his head whipped around towards an air vent in the back corner of the shop, above the spot that Alvin had been stationed before the soldier arrived. From the innocuous grey metal slats, a pale yellow cloud wafted continuously into the open air, dispersing a short distance away from the vent until it was practically invisible.
Pax's gaze turned back to the soldier, and the Coyote snarled loudly, drawing the attention of the Sergeant. "They're gassing us!" he snapped to the other Fang.
The soldier's helm snapped towards him at the same instant as everyone weapon in the room was raised for the last time.
"So that's your game, then?!" the Sergeant boomed with righteous indignation, "Keep us talking until everybody's dead on their feet from your nerve gas?!"
"What?!" The soldier's incredulity sounded pretty convincing, Pax would give him that. "No! I swear to you, I never-"
"Never gave the order? It was just in your back pocket for when you decided that you'd had enough of talking down to the gullible Faunus?!"
"I had nothing to do with it!" the soldier snapped, "This was my operation, I told the police to stay the hell away and let me sort this out peacefully!"
"'Peacefully?'" the Sergeant drawled back mockingly. "Well even if that's true, it looks like you were wrong, Soldier Boy! Because guess what? All that good shit that you were talking about 'deciding our own fates'? Well, that's all well and good for you humans." The Bear Faunus spread his arms wide, gesturing with one hand to the vent, and the other to the rest of the White Fang around the shop.
"But in humanity's eyes, the fate of the Faunus has been decided: So long as we draw breath, we will never be allowed to know acceptance, or prosperity, or peace!"
The Sergeant smacked a spade-sized hand against the action on his carbine; the weapon responded with a low whine and a dull red glow through its circuitry, which was quickly echoed all throughout the room.
The soldier stood stock-still for a long moment, before glancing around the room and being met only by the Grimm-masked visages of the White Fang, faces twisted into snarls of unfettered hatred.
"It doesn't have to be this way… I don't want it to be this way!"
Pax snorted at the weak murmur of protest, and the Sergeant shot the human a derisive grin. "Well then take this lesson to heart, boy - one man's hopes and dreams alone aren't going to change the way things are. That's why we exist. And now, you're standing in our way."
The solder shook his head slowly; his mouth set in a thin line, and the rest of his expression unreadable behind his blank visor. "Well then, I suppose I'll just have to stop you after all."
The Sergeant's grin twisted into feral amusement. "Is that right? Tell me, Soldier Boy: You and what army?"
The soldier's head stopped shaking, and the human heaved a great sigh. Then, his head snapped forward sharply, and the rest of the helmet snapped into place; when it turned back up, the Faceless Soldier returned the Sergeant's gaze flatly, and Pax felt his rage falter as the drone of static filled the air again.
"It must be hard to see through all of that hatred. Otherwise, you'd already recognize the truth that's staring you in the face." The Soldier rolled his neck and popped his knuckles, eliciting a series of dull cracks that reverberated throughout the space. "I don't need an army."
Pax's heart dropped like a rock when the Soldier's wrist snapped out, and a slim black baton appeared in his hand with a piercing metallic ring.
"I am Legion."
The Soldier moved. Gunfire erupted. And within the same instant, Carmelo Paxton's world was filled with a new kind of pain, to be replaced shortly after by a black, unknowing void.
End Chapter 3
Author's Note: Hello again! My post-secondary education hasn't killed me. Taken a pretty good chunk out of my dignity and personal finances, certainly - but I digress.
I do apologize for the wait for this chapter. Plenty on my plate already, and on top of that, this guy was actually a serious pain for me, because I wasn't sure at first about how I wanted to approach the standoff. That being said, this time was what I needed to come to a satisfactory conclusion and produce a quality product, so I ultimately do not regret the tradeoff.
Carmelo Paxton is an entirely original character (to my conscious knowledge), and will continue to serve in the future as an insider perspective on life within the Valean White Fang. He's down and out of the fight for now, but he'll come back into play in the next chapter to wrap up the situation and get eyes on a critical transition within the plot. A few short notes on some of the other characters introduced here can be found under the "Production Notes" header in my profile bio.
Overall, while I do readily admit that I had a lot of trouble getting into the swing of writing this one, I ended up having quite a bit of fun once I got the neurons firing, thanks in no small part to Crosswire. It's noticeably dialogue heavy; but I feel good about the writing and the direction of the narrative, and now I'm looking forward to closing out this event and moving forward with Beacon and Vale in the lead-up to the start of the semester at Beacon.
So, Jaune Arc had his go at resolving the situation - and he very nearly succeeded. Unfortunately, "nearly" only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades; and it's now on Specialist Jonathan Amsel to put an end to this regrettable disaster.
Tune in next time for our thrilling conclusion - same time, same station.
-Knightmare Frame Razgriz