- To Serve With Honor -
As his first target crumpled under the force of his right hook like a marionette with its strings cut, Jaune was already twisting in place to observe the rest of the room.
The two remaining gunmen that had been hanging on the fringes of the cluster had disappeared from sight, either behind the register counter, or towards the edges of the room, hidden from sight by tall shelves containing bags upon bags of lesser-quality granulated Dust.
Meanwhile, the White Fang commander had withdrawn along with one hostage, the shopkeep, and was taking a post within the waist-high confines of the sales counter. The three sword-bearing fighters - initially stunned at the speed and power displayed by Jaune's first blow - now recovered and spread themselves out at his front and towards his flanks.
"There is no way that this plays out where it ends well for you!" Jaune barked, only to instinctively raise his arm and stumble as a sword crashed into and was deflected off of his angled gauntlet.
"I could say the same for you, Soldier Boy!" the commander shot back with a sardonic grin. "And I'd also say that if our best possible outcome at least allows us to avenge our fallen brothers and sisters, then I'll take it and settle for nothing less than complete success."
The pistol in the commander's free hand snapped up, and Jaune was forced to dive awkwardly back into the nearest aisle. A round still brushed over the face of his chestplate, the tiny glowing projectile carving a thin furrow through the brushed composite metal like the edge of a hot knife through butter.
More rounds snapped above his head as he landed roughly on his back and slid for a short distance with a shrill squeal of metal on linoleum, until he finally skidded to a stop halfway down the aisle.
Rows and rows of sealed paper bags and tins of Dust lined the high shelves, obscuring his view of the encircling White Fang fighters - and more importantly, removing him from their immediate line of fire, lest they risk activating the volatile substance with a misplaced shot. The melee fighters must have recognized this hazard, as they had opted to withdraw rather than give chase while their commander was firing on him.
Rolling over into a push-up position and climbing to his feet sluggishly under the weight of his armor, Jaune paused in a crouch and ran a gloved finger over the new trench in his chest plate with a frown beneath his visor. 'That one isn't going to buff out,' he observed with a resigned sigh.
The Legionnaire's lamentation was interrupted as the crash of booted footfalls echoed from the rear of the store. Jaune inhaled deeply; and when he exhaled, he took off at a sprint, and reached the end of the shelves in time to ram shoulder-first into one of the last two gunmen at full tilt.
His charge lasted for half a second, before both men came to a dead stop with a sickening crunch of bone and yielding drywall as his impromptu crash pad slumped to the floor, unconscious and probably concussed.
A tiny voice squeaked from somewhere behind Jaune. "On your left!" Sure enough, a short glance revealed the final gunman lining up a shot with his carbine.
Without missing a beat, Jaune stooped and seized the unconscious fighter by the collar and hem of his jacket. With blood set aflame in his ears and on the edges of his vision, he hefted the body to shoulder height, and with a roar of defiance, hurled the comatose terrorist at his own bewildered comrade.
Jaune was trailing shortly behind his projectile; and when the two White Fang fighters hit the ground in a pile of tangled limbs, he was there to end the short-lived bout with a swift stomp to the head that shattered his opponent's Aura and knocked him out cold.
The immediate threat effectively removed, Jaune was finally able to glance over to the source of his helpful hint; his hidden gaze came to rest on a bundle of black and grey clothing huddled up on the floor against one of the aisle shelves.
'Found our second hostage,' he noted with satisfaction. "Are you hurt?"
"I feel like I should be asking you that," the mousy, and decidedly feminine voice replied; Jaune could swear that there was a lilting note of amusement in the statement. "B-but no, I'm fine," the girl stammered quickly, this time with an appropriate degree of apprehension in her tone.
"Good," he acknowledged with a short nod, turning his body to double around to the opposite side of the store. "Then stay here, stay low, and stay out of sight; I'll call you when it's clear for you to come out." He stopped short of taking off, and twisted his head back vaguely in the girl's direction. "By the way - what's your name?"
"... I'm Daiyu," she replied shyly. "And… Thank you, for not killing them."
Jaune quirked a brow - was she a sympathizer? Or just one of those rare kind souls? "Call me Jack," he eventually stated, "And I don't want or need to kill them; it's not my place to pass that sentence."
The girl nodded, uncertain of how to respond. She settled for huddling back further into the shelf, once more becoming an unobtrusive bundle of cloth on the floor.
Jaune turned back to his last victims and absently kicked their carbines away, at the same time straining his hearing to try and discern whether or not the three swordsmen had decided to give chase; but the store had fallen deathly silent.
He stood fully upright and peered cautiously over the tops of the shelves - only to immediately realize that visual stealth was an exercise in futility, thanks to the massive brushed steel beacon over his face.
This was made even more apparent when a round from a handgun snapped past his head, forcing him to duck back down into cover and keep moving on his flanking route.
"You'd best surrender now, Soldier Boy!" the White Fang commander's voice boomed and echoed around the high ceiling of the store, "The old man doesn't seem particularly appreciative of my offer of a new air hole for his skull!"
"Let the man go and face me like you know something about honor and dignity!" Jaune snapped back instinctively; he immediately flinched and cursed himself as several pairs of boots thundered into action.
Two of the three Fang swordsmen rounded the shelves in front of him, crimson blades held aloft; a short glance behind him revealed the third swordsman at his back, creeping towards him slowly.
The commander appeared a ways behind the pair at his front, dragging the old shopkeep along in a headlock and holding a pistol aloft in his free hand. The burly Faunus sneered at Jaune and pressed the barrel of his weapon to the top of the shopkeep's balding head, eliciting a panicked whimper from the elderly man.
"Honor is for Huntsmen, and other people with the power or the privilege to claim it," the commander drawled. "For the rest of us without that power, that birthright? Honor is a fantasy reserved for idealists and dead men."
Jaune's breath hitched, and the hollow steel hilt of his baton crumpled under his white-knuckle grip.
"You know what, friend?"
The fighters' wary advance faltered at the growl that emerged from the impassive colossus.
"You're right."
The lone swordsman at his back lunged, his blade set to impale the soldier. Jaune took everyone by surprise when he hopped back and to one side, at the same time swinging an arm out and clotheslining his would-be-killer with his gauntlet. The Faunus's feet slipped out from beneath him, and he hit the floor clutching at his throat.
"A person requires some kind of power in order to uphold a claim to honor," Jaune continued, his tone changing into something conversational as he stepped over the prone form of his assailant. "However, I think that you've got the wrong idea about just what constitutes that power."
Jaune lunged, baton held forth and swinging. His weapon was met by another sword, whose owner was dispatched with an uppercut to the stomach and a sharp smack across the face from the metal bludgeon.
"It doesn't take Aura to have honor." He parried the final swordsman's crosswise slash, and replied with a boot to the fighter's stomach that sent the Fang staggering back drunkenly. "It doesn't take fancy armor, high-end weapons, or top-notch training."
He continued to walk towards the commander at a sedate clip. "Not gonna lie; those things are all pretty useful," he admitted, "But they're not absolute requisites to being honorable."
The last fighter had recovered and advanced cautiously back into melee range, striking out with a measured swipe that was once again parried. The Faunus hopped back to evade the knee aimed at his stomach, and made to riposte – only to recognize that the soldier was now well and truly inside of his guard, and currently had an iron grip on both his sword's hilt and the accompanying hand.
A single brief application of vice-like pressure brought the swordsman to his knees with a cry of pain, which was immediately cut off by a knee to the face. The unconscious body slumped to the floor accompanied by the faint clatter of chips of shattered ceramic hitting tile, and Jaune was left staring down the White Fang commander at ten paces - a shivering old man between them, and three bodies at his back.
"The White Fang certainly isn't lacking in conviction," Jaune allowed, "But what you're missing instead are discipline, vision, and compassion."
The commander's scowl was shaky as his masked gaze swept over the three unconscious bodies on the floor, and the soldier finally recognized how surreal it must feel to be receiving a lecture on the ethics of warfare while watching your subordinates being casually decimated. Jaune sighed wearily and restrained himself from running a palm over his faceplate.
"Look, I get where you guys are coming from. I jumped headlong into the service thinking that I was going to be a hero for all mankind; then they put a gun in my hands, put me in front of people, and told me that it was either me or them."
He spun the baton around in his hand, and pressed on the end with his free hand until the segments compressed back into the mangled housing. He slipped the compacted bludgeon back into his gauntlet, and folded his arms across his chest, staring flatly at the commander. The Faunus man's headlock on the shopkeep had loosened somewhat, and the barrel of the pistol had drifted slightly offset to the terrified man's head.
"For a long time, I thought that that was it; I was a killer, and that would never change because the people that controlled me wouldn't allow it." Jaune's head tilted to one side, and a small, wistful smile crossed his lips. "But then, someone came along and showed me the only thing keeping me from being the hero that I'd always dreamed of… Was myself."
Jaune took another step forward, eliciting no reaction from the distracted White Fang commander. "I've made mistakes," the soldier declared, "Taken lives without due process. Shattered families and friendships from behind weak excuses of duty, patriotism, and 'not having a choice.' And these mistakes have earned me nothing but wisdom that I could've just as easily gained without the death and destruction that I caused."
The soldier stood his ground within spitting distance of the terrorist and his hostage, and held out his hand, palm up and fingers splayed. "Now I'm giving you the opportunity to learn that for yourself, without making the same wasteful mistakes that I did. Let the old man go. And if you think you need to put up a fight to avenge your comrades, then put 'em up and come at me."
The White Fang commander stared at the hand in silence for a long moment, and Jaune felt a bead of sweat collecting at the edge of his brow.
Then, the commander exhaled through his nose, and holstered his handgun on his belt. "If it means that you'll finally stop preaching at me like you aren't already planning to punch my lights out, I'll let the old man go," the bear of a Faunus grunted, uncoiling his arm from around the shopkeep's neck and shoving the elderly man away roughly. The former hostage hit the linoleum floor with a startled cry, and immediately crawled out of sight with all due haste.
This left the two giants in an impasse at ten paces; arms hanging loosely at their sides, fists clenched tightly in anticipation.
"Thank you," Jaune offered off-handedly.
"Shut up and hold still," the commander growled, dropping into a lower stance and raising his fists in front of him. "I need to punch you until my justice comes out."
Jaune mimicked the stance; and then he blinked, and the last Fang standing was suddenly flying at him with a chambered punch and a mighty roar.
- To Serve With Honor -
The second report of shots being fired sent the entire Vale Police force into a barely-competent frenzy.
The sheer number of people crammed into the surrounding streets made maneuvering as an individual a nigh-impossible task, resulting in officers forming into rippling blue blobs of humanity that flowed amorphously through the rest of the sea, narrowing and expanding in size as necessary to move in whichever direction they desired.
At the command trailer, however, the waves parted and broke as they encountered the invisible and impenetrable barrier of Specialist Winter Schnee's icy stare. As a result, the VPD commanders and their guest were left with two meters of space in any direction; any unsuspecting officer that dared to break the unspoken perimeter was rendered immobile with a sharp glare of contempt before being swiftly sucked back into the swell by their colleagues.
As this organized chaos went on, Reagan, Carmen, and Paul remained apparently oblivious, their attentions fixated squarely on the surveillance and body camera feeds and radio chatter in front of them. The Chief and the Inspector stared at a few monitors each with the same intensity as toddlers encountering television for the first time; while Paul's hand never seemed to move away from the receiver on his collar for more than half a second before another call came in that required his attention.
'He'll be needing a chiropractor for whiplash before the morning is over,' Winter noted with a touch of vindictive amusement as the portly man's head snapped back to his radio for the tenth time that minute.
"Do we know what happened yet?" she asked once more.
"Short burst of small-arms fire from multiple automatic weapons simultaneously, followed by silence, and then handgun fire," Carmen recited matter-of-factly.
Winter shot her a deadpan stare that bore heavy overtones of 'Thank you, Captain Obvious.'
Carmen sent an indulgent smile in return.
"It seems pretty obvious what happened," Paul chimed in after releasing his radio; he waited a beat, and then sighed quietly in relief as no further reports came in. "Your attack dog botched his negotiations, and was probably just ventilated for his troubles," he concluded with a nonchalant shrug.
Winter and Reagan turned and gaped at the man's audacity. "Paul!" the Chief barked sharply.
"Calling it as I see it, sir," Paul replied unapologetically. "He wasn't qualified to go in, and this is where it's gotten him."
"He isn't dead," Winter stated flatly. Paul stared back at her; his lidded eyes carried whispers of sympathy, while the quirk of his lips spoke whole volumes of condescension.
"Miss Schnee, while I understand that Aura is one hell of a drug, I've also yet to see anyone survive concentrated gunfire and a magazine of pistol ammo to the head, Aura or no."
Reagan opened his mouth again to silence the man, only to stop when someone broke through the cordon and strode purposefully towards the group. The incoming officer was halted in the dead zone between the commanders and the perimeter by Winter's glare, and flushed and shrank back upon realizing that all eyes were now on him.
"Out with it, Lieutenant," Reagan sighed wearily.
"S-sir," the officer stuttered in affirmation. He took a shaky breath to collect himself, and then looked to Paul. "The engineers and techs have confirmed successful deployment of the sleeping gas into the shop's ventilation system."
Eyes all around grew wide, before one pair of cold blue irises narrowed in rage. Someone gestured to the messenger, and the Lieutenant - recognizing the drastic shift in the air - gracelessly dove back into the sea of uniforms.
Paul winced and finally had the decency to look sheepish. "To be honest, I had forgotten all about issuing that order."
Winter responded by crossing the distance between them. The Specialist's heeled boots gave her some height over the VPD commander, and she leveraged every centimeter as she glared frozen hellfire down onto the man.
"So," she bit out, "Your negotiator failed. You called for our support, either before or after issuing the order to deploy sleeping gas against Faunus terrorists – who, for your information, happen to have heightened olfactory senses." She enunciated the phrase with as much condescension as she could muster, and further emphasized it by jabbing a gloved finger into his chest with every strained word. "You decided that you did not feel the need to place any stock or faith in my colleague's abilities, knowingly sent him into the area of effect, and then conveniently forgot to countermand the order with the belief that it would be less of a hassle to gun down murderers than to subdue, arrest, and incarcerate terrorists."
She stared down at the incompetent filth in front of her with all of the contempt that she could muster, accompanied by a venomous scowl that prominently displayed her impeccably whitened incisors. "Just calling it as I see it," she concluded through gritted teeth; she then stepped back, turned on her heel, and returned to her previous position.
Reagan regarded the two of them impassively for a long while thereafter as the crowd continued to bustle around them all. Carmen, on the other hand, zoned in on Winter, observing with unabashed amusement as the Specialist swiftly schooled her features into measured discontent.
Finally, as Paul started to squirm under the scrutiny, the Chief heaved yet another great sigh, and turned fully to face Winter. "In light of Commander Umber's mistake, I'm willing to overlook this incident with regards to our arrangement-"
He was silenced by the ring of shattering glass echoing across the block. The commanders and the Specialist all zeroed in on the monitor bank, and immediately took note of the newly-missing east window of the storefront – as well as the burly White Fang fighter lying flat on the pavement some three to four meters from his impromptu exit.
A hulking form of grey, black and maroon followed the terrorist through the window, albeit under his own power and at a decidedly more sedate pace.
Winter took a moment to shoot the thoroughly bewildered Commander Paul Umber a Cheshire grin before she launched herself into the sea of officers in the direction of the fight.
"Has anyone ever told you that you punch like an Ursa?" Jaune asked conversationally as his boots crunched over the shattered glass from the window. The comment was the best he could do to simultaneously acknowledge and distract himself from his aching ribs – several of which may or may not have been fractured. "I mean that in the most complimentary way, of course," he added as an afterthought.
"I've… Heard that one… Once or twice," the White Fang commander panted as he pushed himself to his feet, his exposed arms and hands relatively unscathed for having been thrown through bodily through a window, thanks to his Aura. "Anybody… Ever told you… That you're a mouthy… Dodgy… Obnoxious little fuck?"
"Yeah, I get that one all the time," Jaune admitted with a small laugh, resting one hand on his hip while the other rubbed the back of his neck above his armor's collar. "Though if you're so upset about the 'dodgy' part, you probably don't want to meet my mentor."
The banter was interrupted by multiple short whines from behind Jaune; he craned his neck, and took note of the three door guards aiming down their rifles.
The noise was reciprocated and multiplied tenfold from behind the commander, where dozens of Vale police and SWAT officers leveled their weapons at the downed commander and the three guards.
"Lower your weapons!" the commander barked to his last surviving fighters. "Cover that window and don't let the cops inside!" The burly Faunus drew himself back up to his full height, rolled his neck, and cracked his knuckles loudly. "The soldier and I are going to settle this between us. Do not interfere!"
"That goes for you lot as well," Jaune called across the street, his faceplate swiveling back and sweeping across the front rank of enraptured officers. "You people have already done enough today," he added in a low growl – more to himself than anything, but loudly enough that several of the onlookers took note and twitched uncertainly.
Then the two juggernauts were leaping at each other again, fists outstretched and ready to exchange devastating right crosses.
Jaune had already taken one of those in the last few minutes, and he wasn't particularly enthusiastic to accept another. As he entered the commander's range, the Legionnaire twisted at the waist and shifted his fist into an open palm that reached out and guided the incoming punch to brush across his front; he then carried the twist into a full spin around his opponent's flank, accumulating enough momentum in the process to drive a harsh jab into the Faunus's kidney.
The Fang grunted, but allowed the motion to guide his own body into a spin; coming out of the turn, he lashed out with a spade-sized hand to grab at Jaune's helmet, intent on grappling him in to hammer at his defenses from point-blank range. Jaune ducked beneath the grab, pushed the arm aside again, and took advantage of his low stance to drive a jab into the commander's hip, causing him to falter.
The exchange continued as such for several moments, every attack and defense launched from well within arm's reach. The Faunus committed his full size and power to every blow, so much so that even an incomplete deflection magnified the searing ache in Jaune's wrists from a mere fraction of the sheer force.
Fortunately, his deflections were successful more often than not, and were followed up immediately by his own short jackhammer blows to the commander's organs and joints. His training with Winter was finally paying off: For the first time in his short and rich combat history, Jaune was the faster fighter, and he was using every iota of that speed in tandem with his respectable power and control to rapidly wear down his opponent's Aura and defenses.
Finally, his golden opportunity arrived. The Faunus released a shout of frustration, and loosed a haymaker that was fit to remove Jaune's head from his shoulders; the soldier responded immediately, diving low inside of the commander's guard and jamming his shoulder into the bear's midriff before shoving him off sharply and sending the giant into a drunken stumble.
A steel-toed boot caught the back of the commander's knee, dropping him with into a kneeling position. A sweeping hammer blow caught the side of his head, and he was sent into an awkward spin that ended with him flat on his back, staring up into the sky as his vision swam.
Jaune stepped closer, intent on keeping his opponent down until he capitulated; but as soon as he crossed into arm's reach, the downed commander's hand snapped out with reptilian speed, and captured his ankle in a vice grip.
The grip yanked inward, and the soldier was suddenly flat on his back, a Grimm-masked face looming over him as several hundred pounds of muscle and adrenaline-fueled hatred pressed into his diaphragm and fumbled to find purchase around his throat.
"Just lay down and die, you bastard!" the Faunus hissed venomously, spittle spattering across the blank metal faceplate as fingers finally circled his neck above his collar and squeezed.
Jaune tried to snarl back defiantly, only to find that precious oxygen had been replaced by mounting pressure from the blood in his head that was unable to move anywhere else. His own gloves scraped and pried at the arms holding him captive, but found no give whatsoever in the iron grip.
He was running out of time, he realized, now fighting desperately to control his shallow breathing as the rest of his body bucked against the hold to try and achieve a position with better leverage. He twisted at the waist to allow one leg to swing up and around; on the first drop, the heel of his boot found the small of his opponent's back, but still yielded no quarter.
The second swing, however, finally allowed Jaune to hook his leg around his assailant's lower back. Pressing his entire body up with all of his strength caused him to roll over on his shoulder, until the commander was now on the ground, with Jaune looming over him.
Even through this, the ursine brawler's grip barely faltered, and darkness was creeping into the edges of Jaune's vision. The soldier raised an armor-encased knee and jammed it down into the commander's diaphragm, and began mercilessly laying punches into his face.
There was no more form or elegance to be found in this fight. It was now a struggle for survival – two men at war with one another in body and spirit, with the mutual understanding that to show weakness or mercy before surrender was to invite a swift and messy death by prying fingers and hammering fists.
The commander's mask fractured under the onslaught, followed shortly after a sharp, sickening crack that indicated a broken nose. Rivulets of blood and phlegm streamed from the Faunus's mouth and nose, and several teeth were knocked loose and subsequently lost in the fray.
Finally, just as darkness was about to overtake Jaune's vision, the death grip on his neck loosened, and then fell away limply. His opponent's head rested on the asphalt, which was now cracked from the kinetic energy of his blows that had originally been translated through the shield of Aura, before that too had given way. Unseen eyes stared through swollen lids and a broken mask into the pink morning sky; the only remaining indication of life being the faint rise and fall of his barrel chest beneath a dirtied white ballistic vest.
With great effort from burning muscles and pained airways, Jaune slouched to his feet and stepped slowly away from the White Fang commander's defeated form. Several SWAT offers broke away from the front ranks of the cordon and tentatively approached the prone body, shying away from the impassive form of the last giant left standing.
The soldier's gaze lingered on his former opponent for a while, until he finally turned to face the three remaining gunmen, and regarded them with his arms hanging limp at his sides.
"Lay down your weapons," he called to them, "Your commander and your comrades are defeated. The fight is over; surrender and you'll be taken into custody and given fair trials like the rest of them."
"You were the one that promised a peaceful solution!" one of them snarled back, gesturing with his carbine towards the shattered window. "We have no reason to trust anything that you say!"
"You're right on both counts," Jaune agreed tiredly, his stance unchanged. "So you have no good reason to believe me when I say that I never wanted this; but that choice was taken from me, and now the best that I can do is offer you my word that all of you will be treated fairly and impartially."
He raised one arm vaguely and gestured towards them with an open, upturned palm, fingers splayed. "You can take either take me at my word," he then gestured aside towards the officers behind him, "Or you can resist, and die meaninglessly where you stand."
The White Fang survivors glanced amongst themselves, towards him, and towards the officers and snipers that had them in their sights. Finally, with matching scowls, they discharged their weapons' power cells and let them clatter to the concrete before raising arms above their heads in capitulation.
The dam broke, and dozens of officers swarmed around the guards, some restraining them while even more moved through the shop door and the broken window to secure the interior. A SWAT officer moved to stand alongside Jaune and craned his neck towards the blank mask inquisitively.
"The hostages are inside," Jaune reported in soft, clipped words. "One young girl, unharmed last I found her; and the store owner, who is unharmed for the most part, but should probably be checked over by a medic." The officer nodded and opened his mouth to speak; but Jaune was already turning and ambling back towards the cordon.
His mouth was set in an absent frown as the crowd parted around his path towards the command trailer. Winter materialized out of the sea and fell into step beside him, matching his sedate pace with a look of concern.
"Who gave the order?" he inquired distantly.
"The police commander, Paul Umber," she replied evenly. "You can't touch him, Jack. Our position is tenuous enough as it is-"
"I'm just going to put his head through a squad car windscreen," he interjected lazily. He then contemplated his own words for a moment. "Maybe two. Just until I get the point across."
"You mean until you feel better?"
"No; in that case, I'd have to put him through a Bullhead windscreen. From the outside. While it's flying."
He stopped involuntarily mid-stride; glancing down, he noted with detached annoyance the small black snowflake glyph that was currently gluing the sole of his boot to the street.
Winter stopped just ahead of him, turning completely to face him and placing a gloved hand on his shoulder pauldron. "Get your head on straight, Corporal," she ordered quietly with a lidded and unimpressed stare.
"I refuse to silently abide this travesty, ma'am," he drawled back acidly, drawing on his acquired vocabulary to fully communicate his displeasure. "I don't care if this was caused by incompetence or blatant sabotage, because either way, heads are going to roll."
"And I promise you that I will do everything in my power to ensure that the responsible parties are censured for their actions," Winter hissed back, "But as it is, Jack, you are done. If you go in there swinging and spitting fire, any and all credibility and goodwill that we have accumulated from this incident will evaporate into thin air. All three of them are fully expecting you to come back and do just that, and I am telling you we cannot afford to speak out in anger – I'm not even sure if you would even be allowed to speak in your own defense."
The two stood at odds for some time, Jaune's own willpower holding him back more so than Winter's hand or her glyph. They both recognized it, even with his guise of exhaustion; and finally, her eyes softened, and she released her Semblance with a light, tired sigh. He remained in place and continued looking back at her expectantly.
"You might not like the means, Jaune," she spoke softly, "But you achieved the end. Take your victory and walk away."
"A pyrrhic victory like this is no victory at all," he growled, "The battle's ended, but the war is only going to drag on longer because of it."
"You are correct," she closed her eyes and admitted, "But this is Vale. The war here is fought with words as much as action; and it is not one that you will win as you are now."
The material of his gloves creaked as his fists clenched; his breathing was slow and shallow even as blood roared in his ears.
And then he met her pleading gaze once more, and everything - his rage, his indignation, and the last dredges of adrenaline - deserted him.
Jaune sighed and shook his head in defeat. Winter patted his shoulder once and withdrew her hand.
"Let's get this over with," he muttered, reluctantly squaring himself upright. She nodded in agreement, and he fell into step beside her as they crossed the remaining distance to the VPD command unit.
- To Serve With Honor -
The Specialists found the VPD triumvirate in the same position as when they'd left. All three turned to regard the two Atlesians - Carmen with the same naked intrigue, Paul with carefully controlled apprehension, and Reagan with casual impassiveness.
"Twenty-seven minutes," the Chief finally declared, folding his arms across his chest and nodding in approval, "Not a bad runtime for resolving a hostage crisis. You made a promise, and you certainly delivered, son."
Jaune's faceplate stared back for a long moment. The brushed steel plate sported several fresh scratches, as well as a faint indentation on one side where his opponent had tried and failed to deliver a knockout punch.
He wanted to be indignant. He wanted to curse and rant, to call the people in front of him out for every perceived and evident failure of the operation that would have been his victory to seize if not for their hubris and incompetence.
But in the end, getting shafted in the field by the upper echelons was nothing new. It had gotten Jack into trouble many times before, and it looked like that same theme would be recurring for Jaune well into the future.
So, deciding that it was worth neither the wasted breath, nor the risk of speaking out of line, Jaune nodded back to the Chief in silent acknowledgement.
Reagan at least had the decency to acknowledge the elephant on the street. "I do believe that Commander Umber has a few words to offer in regards to the operation's setback," he gestured a hand towards Paul, who started with a weak cough.
"Yes, the… Unfortunate miscommunication, which led to the deployment of knockout gas in the middle of your action." The Police Commander tugged at the collar of his uniform and muttered something indecipherable under his breath. "That was on me; I set my technicians going on that a few hours ago, and forgot that they were even at it when you two showed up. Sorry about that."
Jaune could see in his peripheral vision that Winter's arm was tensed and ready to reach over and grasp his shoulder.
He still had the baton sheathed at his wrist. A flick of his wrist would release the battered bludgeon into his grasp, and a short wind-up would send it flying head-first with enough force to knock the man on his ass and possibly fracture his nose-
Jaune gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. 'Get your head on straight, Corporal,' he repeated Winter's earlier words like a mantra. 'You're not a violent psychopath, you just haven't had your coffee yet.'
"So long as we're not in for a repeat in the future, then I'd say that it's water under the bridge, sir," he finally choked out; the synthesizer covered up what little rage managed to slip out.
Then a revelation snapped to the forefront of his mind, and brought a small, twisted grin to his lips.
"Just so that we're all on the same page, however, I will need to document the incident in my formal report," Jaune added casually. Commander Umber's budding look of relief faltered, and his complexion started to pale. "And, given the current uncertainty of our standing here in Vale, Specialist Schnee and I will also need to file copies of our reports with not only the Vale Police Department, but also Atlas High Command, and Headmaster Ozpin as well - just to be cover all of our bases."
Winter started imperceptibly at her own name; once she had fully processed Jaune's words, however, it took all her years of discipline to keep from beaming with pride at her pupil.
Paul's head whipped about as he looked to either Carmen or Reagan for support. The detective's smile glowed with insincere apology; while the Chief took a deep breath, and exhaled with a short chuff of resigned laughter.
"I guess that's only to be expected under these circumstances, isn't it?"
Carmen nodded sagely in agreement, and Paul lowered his head in defeat.
"In any case, I am certain that you all have other matters to attend to in closing out this incident," Winter observed. "We will be in touch later on to finalize arrangements for access to the ongoing investigation."
"Very well," Reagan nodded in acquiescence, "I can have one of my officers drive you both to the airship terminal-"
A deep rumble reverberated through the street beneath them, and was followed a scant moment later by a distant cacophony of ruptured earth, shrieking steel, and crumbling masonry. Smoke started billowing into the sky from a location several blocks away.
The police radio band lit up, and Jaune's heart stilled.
"We're under attack! The prisoner convoy is being attacked by White Fang insurgents! Car Two-Eight was just blown sky-high by an explosive device! Multiple officers down! WE NEED BACKUP NOW!"
A black glyph materialized beneath Jaune's feet; it shattered almost instantly under a greater force of willpower and Aura, and the Legionnaire took off at a dead sprint towards the sound of conflict, heedless of the cries for caution and consideration that petered off in his wake as he parted the sea of uniforms through sheer presence.
The SWAT team members that lingered and apparently awaited him at the edge of the sea became taller, darker forms; familiar faces all hidden behind the same blank steel mask as crass jabs and bleak humor were bandied about, accompanied by gestures with the large black battle rifles and machine guns that each man cradled in his arms.
'Same shit, different day - right Jack?' a familiar voice that was not his own echoed through his consciousness with an audible grin.
"Different time, different station, same old shit," Jaune agreed aloud, accepting his shotgun and equipment belt with a nod from one of the men. He cinched the belt around his waist, drew a magazine from a pouch, fitted it into the mag well of his weapon, and slapped the bolt catch to send the first shell home.
"Let's go for a walk, gentlemen."
End Chapter 4
Author's Note: I'll admit, I seriously dragged my heels on this one towards the end; but, I think that it turned out alright after I had that extra time to stew on it.
Next time: Jaune takes an unplanned stroll down memory lane through a hail of gunfire, and we meet the new player in the local White Fang who wants to revolutionize the way that insurrections are fought in the Kingdom of Vale.
(It won't take as long as this one, I swear.)
See you all in the next one.
-Knightmare Frame Razgriz