- To Serve With Honor -
In the short ten-minute flight from the Commercial Transit Port to Beacon, the Specialists' airship had picked up three escorts - two Bullheads from VPD SWAT, and a "Caracal" gunship from the Vale Defense Force.
Compared to the bulbous and lightly-armed Bullhead that was the mainstay transport of Remnant, or the thin cigar-shaped profile of Winter's personal airship, the Caracal was somewhere in the middle in terms of its aerodynamic profile, and smaller in overall size. However, the Caracal's twin winglet payloads of missile pods - as well as the recessed autocannons in the chin and the light artillery-grade cannon concealed in the belly - allowed the tiny Close Air Support aircraft to exude a subtle predatory aura, which was multiplied by a factor of ten when one of the gunships was called on to unleash an Alpha Strike on a Grimm horde.
Jaune silently admired the Caracal as it fell into a patrol pattern around Beacon's airspace, and their own ship touched down in the open plaza nearest to the infirmary wing. When he turned the copilot's seat around to face the narrow passenger compartment, he finally spoke.
"I'm sorry, Daniel," he rasped, "I had no idea that this would happen; but I should've just stayed put anyway. I should've known that Adam would retaliate, and I never should've asked you to put yourself in harm's way like this, knowingly or not."
The Doctor - perched in an alcove seat beside the gurney that held the restrained and unconscious Zealot - responded with a dismissive wave and a weary smirk.
"If I held a grudge against every person that I got hurt in the company of, I wouldn't be on speaking terms with most of my own family," Grey stated bluntly. "I've been in risky businesses in my personal and professional lives for over twenty years now; I'm well beyond being surprised or offended anymore. I'm alive, you're alive, and we've both got all of our important extremities; so I call this water under the bridge."
Between lingering guilt and existential shock at this information, Jaune was understandably speechless. With a lump still in his throat, he chose to nod reluctantly and leave it at that.
The rear hatch was opened from the outside, and a fireteam of four VDF soldiers clad in olive-green canvas uniforms and black boots, web gear, and helmets moved swiftly up the ramp and took positions at the corners of the gurney. The man nearest to the pilot's seat - wearing two blue chevrons on either shoulder - nodded to Jaune and Winter.
"Specialist," the man nodded respectfully to Winter. "Chief Corporal," he added towards Jaune.
"Corporal," Jaune nodded. "You'll escort the prisoner and Doctor Grey to the infirmary?"
"Aye, Chief," the Corporal affirmed. "Deputy Headmistress Goodwitch is waiting in the foyer for both of you."
"Thank you," Winter acknowledged simply. "And thank you, Doctor," she added to Grey, who again waved dismissively and gingerly took to his feet. The Doctor placed a hand on the gurney, and joined the soldiers in offloading the Zealot.
Even after the gurney and the escort party had departed, Winter and Jaune remained in their seats - Winter facing the front windscreen, and Jaune staring out of the rear hatch at something far beyond anyone else's perception.
"You clearly have some insight regarding the General that I am missing," Winter finally spoke without turning to look at her colleague. "What do you anticipate his response will be in this scenario?"
"If this had taken place in Solitas, there would be a military-exclusive briefing and a short public spin campaign," Jaune responded immediately, never shifting from his position - hunched over, elbows on his knees, and his good hand wrapped around his opposite elbow above the sling on his arm. "But considering that this took place in a foreign Kingdom, he can't afford not to respond; and in fact, this might be a situation that he was anticipating when he sent us here. The White Fang's presence alone is enough to justify an investigation, but an attack on Atlesian servicemen? That's a textbook casus belli."
"An act of war," Winter repeated softly. "Would it really come to that?"
"Mankind has gone to war over less," Jaune replied firmly.
Winter had nothing to say to that.
After another minute of silence, the pair gathered their resolve and left the airship, only to find Glynda Goodwitch waiting outside of the doors into Beacon's main hall, tapping her heel with a glare that was both impatient and resigned.
"The Headmaster is waiting," Glynda said neutrally as they approached. "As is General Ironwood."
"Joy," Jaune replied flatly. "Can I take a raincheck? I think I might still be concussed."
"How is that any different from the last three times you've talked to the General?" Winter demanded tiredly. Jaune shrugged in response.
"I just think that being allowed to abstain from meetings on account of a recent head injury is a principle of decency that I've been denied for a while now," he shot back with a twinge of honest indignation.
"The General has insisted that you both attend," the Deputy Headmistress interjected. "However, you will be debriefed individually; I'm sure James will be amenable to keeping the conversation short if you inform him of your condition."
"'Amenable' and 'James Ironwood' are two things that I've never heard together in a sentence," Jaune stated flatly.
"Enough griping," Winter finally snapped, starting towards the doors and slapping the back of her gloved hand lightly against Jaune's chest on her way past. "We have our orders; on the bounce, Specialist."
"Turning my own catchphrase against me…" he sighed, moving to follow her, "A betrayal most foul, Specialist."
- To Serve With Honor -
Having drawn no equipment and taken only his issued carbine for the stakeout and strike, Pax was swiftly and tersely dismissed by Tajra as the rest of the Zealots ambled off to sort themselves out. More than a few sour looks were thrown his way, which he met with his own stormy expression as he departed and made for his reassigned squad bay on the other side of the compound.
His path through the halls saw him pass several duos and trios of White Fang members on patrol, clustered at intersections and along hallways, and almost universally staring at Scrolls that undoubtedly streamed news coverage from the aftermath of the Transit Plaza incident. More than a few eyes glanced up from those streams, and narrowed upon sighting him. Other than suspicious or dirty looks, however, no words were hurled his way - a small mercy, considering the circumstances.
Twenty minutes of ambling found him outside the designated door, a sign on the portal indicating that, unlike last time, he was definitely in the right place. Pax breathed a small sigh of relief and reached for the handle.
He then jumped in shock when the door was thrown open, and the burly, bandaged arms of his Sergeant snapped out like twin constrictors; the man's heavy hands latched onto his shoulders, and the smaller Paxton was yanked bodily into the squad bay, the door slamming shut behind him.
From the narrow walkways between the bunks, Pax prepared to voice a protest - only to lose track of his tongue upon sighting a pair of cheap card tables set up in the middle of the room, surrounded by eight chairs - six of which were occupied by veteran and well-respected senior members of Vale's White Fang.
"Carmello," a short, stocky, youthful-looking gentleman with short brown hair and the thick, curly horns of a ram adorning his head, greeted genially. This man, the Sergeant Major - the chapter's enlisted counterpart to the infamous Lieutenant - waved a hand at the nearest empty chair to Pax's prone form. "We were just talking about you. Pull up a chair - our friend Tukson is about to deal the first hand of the game."
His heart dropped into his stomach as the Sergeant's hands once again found Pax's shoulders, pulling him back to his feet - and then a few centimeters off of them into the air - and carried him towards the proffered chair.
Pax swallowed dryly as his backside met the cheap aluminum seat, and the eyes of several of the most influential men and women in the Eastern Sanusian White Fang unanimously latched onto his masked face - Tukson in particular not looking away even as his fur-adorned hands started swiftly doling out playing cards.
'Out of the frying pan, as they say…'
- To Serve With Honor -
The elevator was both painfully slower and faster than Jaune would've preferred under the circumstances. He could hear rather than feel his teeth grinding, and had to consciously relax his grip to keep his already-white knuckles from popping any further.
"You've done this a dozen times, Chief," he whispered to himself, his eyes shut as he tried to center himself. "You're a professional. And he's the leader of the strongest military on the face of Remnant, so hostility is counterproductive. Get in, debrief, ask for your sword, and get the fuck out. That's your O-Plan. Get it done."
Jaune released his tensions in one final long, shaky exhale. Then a small chime sounded, and the journey ended.
The elevator deposited Jaune alone into the currently-empty office of the Headmaster. The man himself was off at some other location, still neck-deep in jurisdiction talks with the VPD and the VDF.
The desk was currently in its lowered position, a pedestal of some sort sitting in the middle of the surface and glowing a dim blue. Upon his approach, the device emitted a faint chime; and a few seconds later, the figure of General James Ironwood materialized in blue hard light.
"Specialist," the General greeted, his voice delivered in immaculate quality from hidden speakers and sounding as if he were actually standing in front of Jaune.
"General Ironwood," Jaune responded, snapping to attention and offering a stiff salute, "Specialist Amsel reporting as ordered, sir."
"At ease Mister Amsel," Ironwood ordered with a short wave of his right - cybernetic, Jaune knew - hand. "Major Engels from the CCT briefed me on the official events of the day, but I'd like to get the news from the target himself; so please, enlighten me."
Jaune bristled internally as Ironwood fell into the habit of refusing to refer to him by his given rank unless he thought Jaune had done something noteworthy. Nevertheless, he lowered his arm, fell into a modified position of 'parade rest,' stared a hole through the General's hologram, and soldiered on.
"I departed from Beacon on a civilian commuter transport bound for Vale's Commercial District at eleven-twenty-five hours this morning," he recited in as monotone a voice as he could muster. "I was in the company of Beacon Academy's resident physician, Doctor Daniel Grey; we were heading into the district for the purpose of picking up supplies and personal effects in preparation for the beginning of the semester next week.
"We were in the company of twelve other passengers; my threat assessment on boarding the transport noted no irregularities amongst the other travelers or the crew. We touched down at the corresponding terminal in Vale at eleven-forty-four hours, disembarked through the covered open-air pavilion that served as the terminal, and started across an open plaza to enter the city.
"Approximately twenty meters beyond the terminal exit, I was conversing with Doctor Grey, and looked up to assess our surroundings; it was at this point that I noted a hole that had been cut cleanly into a third-story window on one of the buildings on the north end of the plaza, from which a spotting laser was emanating. At that same moment, the White Fang strike team hidden in this and three other buildings around the plaza fired a volley of shoulder-launched Rock Dust missiles at Grey and I. Given the circumstances, it is safe to infer that I was the target of this attack."
Jaune took a short breath before continuing. "The first volley trapped Grey, and knocked me off my feet and into, but not through, the wall of the terminal. A second volley knocked me across the plaza in the other direction for nearly thirty meters, where my travel was halted by a stone bench. I'm fortunate that I was able to relatively brace for both attacks, as my Aura mostly held under the missile impacts; however, my arm-" he gestured with his sling, which had been applied by the paramedics in Vale, "-was broken on contact with the bench, and I was briefly rendered unconscious. I survived, but the bench wasn't so fortunate, and I was buried by the rubble," he finished dryly.
Ironwood actually offered his own wry snort, though it could have been amusement or derision. "Quite. I'm told you rallied and managed to muster something resembling a counterattack; please continue."
"Yes sir," Jaune replied slowly, his mind racing as he contemplated how to phrase the next bit. "My body was obscured from the ambushers by the debris, and I was spared a follow-through by some… Concerned locals who were responding to the incident. When I came to, I was able to drag myself across the square to an alleyway to address my worst injuries; I then took stock of my sidearm, located the attackers' nearest firing position, and assaulted it, killing two terrorists and subduing a third."
"Well done on that, I would say," the General interjected again; Jaune effortlessly crushed his twinge of pride. "Am I to understand that that prisoner is currently in Beacon's custody until Vale is able to internally sort out jurisdiction?"
"That is my present understanding of the situation, sir," Jaune nodded.
"Is there any chance of this prisoner being remanded to our experts at the CCT?" Ironwood pressed.
Jaune again had to repress a shudder. "Not to my understanding, sir," he shook his head, his expression carefully neutral. "If I'm correct, our 'experts' would be from the Special Task Force, the members of which are banned from Beacon's premises. The prisoner is also currently undergoing medical treatment for gunshot wounds sustained prior to my assault and is not likely to be mobile until after the jurisdiction issues have been resolved."
The General's figure sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll have to leave it to you and Specialist Schnee to have a crack at him, then," he reluctantly conceded. "I'll expect any findings to be summarized and submitted to the local commanding officer by the time that the prisoner is remanded to Vale."
"Understood, sir."
"Speaking of the local units," Ironwood continued, his arms moving from behind his back to fold across his chest, "Am I to understand that you've requisitioned resources from the CCT garrison for use in… 'Asymmetrical Counter-Terrorist Actions'?"
"That is the official terminology that we have assigned to it, yes sir," Jaune nodded unabashedly. "Thirteen improvised explosive devices produced in the styles of various Mantle-based insurgent groups, including the White Fang Zealots."
"And you also requisitioned members of the security detachment to deploy these devices within the Kingdom?" the older man pressed sternly.
"That is correct, sir."
"And what results do you have to show for these… Tactics?"
"The first deployment of a device - planted and supervised on-site by a Legionnaire of the local garrison - resulted in six terrorists confirmed dead including three Zealots, as well as at least four confirmed enemy wounded," Jaune recited clinically.
Ironwood's eyes widened in surprise before narrowing, and one gloved hand rose to rub his chin. "... Impressive," he admitted after a moment.
"I would also like to note that Adam Taurus was among the enemy combatants injured," Jaune struck the final blow.
At this, the General visibly started. "Very impressive," he acknowledged with a slow nod and a minute quirk of his lips. "Unorthodox, but effective. Though I suppose that effectively summarizes your personal M-O, doesn't it Miser Amsel?"
"'I am the Blade which strikes at the Foes of Atlas,' General," Jaune recited dutifully, biting back the urge to gag at his own words.
"Well said, Specialist," Ironwood replied approvingly. "What might I offer you to aid in this campaign?"
"My original requisition included surveillance equipment that my triggermen could leave behind to monitor target sites, as well as to document and observe the effects of the devices in the aftermath," Jaune responded immediately, "However, the garrison commander personally rejected this proposal, which prevented me or my triggerman from being able to verify the severity of Taurus's wounds in the aftermath. I would appreciate it if this rejection could be overturned, and if you could speak to the commander and remind him of the importance of our mission here in Vale."
"Consider it done," Ironwood nodded as he observed Jaune with a gimlet eye. "Anything else?"
"My weapon, sir," Jaune immediately responded. "I was informed by the R&D Division that I would be receiving it upon my arrival; however, I have since been told that the delivery has been delayed indefinitely due to restrictions on the issuance of experimental weaponry to personnel in non-combat environments. This has been a major hindrance to my performance, particularly against highly-trained combatants such as Taurus himself," he added the last bit pointedly.
As he received this news, the General's look became puzzled, and eventually bordered on consternation. "I can assure you, Mister Amsel, that this delay is certainly not from any edict of mine," Ironwood stated. "I will personally see to it that your weapon is released and expedited to Vale immediately."
"I would appreciate that immensely, sir," Jaune nodded, for once with genuine gratitude. "Is there anything else that you'd like to know?"
"In fact there is, Jaune."
The Specialist stiffened - he despised the fact that he was forced to reveal his given name in order to accept his commission - and he failed to fully suppress a minute scowl. It would've been easy for the General to miss, but the man was unfortunately engaged with the conversation for once.
"I understand that there is some friction between you and I, and has been for some time-" Ironwood said candidly; it was difficult to find genuity in his words, on account of his droning, placating tone.
Behind his back, Jaune's balled fist turned white, and his knuckles popped.
"-But I would like to believe that you and I can at least mutually acknowledge that we are both consummate professionals with regards to our respective roles and pursuits," he trailed off expectantly.
"As you say, sir," the Specialist replied monotonously, holding staunchly to his position of parade rest.
"I trust that you will carry out your mission in Vale because it is in our mutual interest and shared responsibilities," he continued, "However, beyond that, I am concerned that the connections that you've cultivated in Mantle may lead to some… Personal conflicts, in the near future. As such, I wish to ask you two questions, and two questions only."
Jaune settled for a single short nod of acknowledgement.
Ironwood folded his arms across his chest again, and fixed Jaune with a grave expression. "Answer these questions honestly, and I will leave you and Winter to pursue your mission to whatever extent you desire. You will be expected to bend to a small number of Ozpin's whims as he continues to be your host; but you will have my leave and blessing to pursue the investigation in your waking hours with the full authority of Atlas at your disposal."
"Winter and I will gain full access to the resources and intelligence of the CCT garrison for the purpose of fulfilling this mission? And Atlas will back us if and when we are forced to press local entities for access to information?" the Specialist asked flatly.
"Within the scope of military expediency and political reason," Ironwood clarified carefully. "I need you to verbally acknowledge these terms and agree to them."
Jaune knew that he couldn't afford to hesitate if he wanted the General to hold any belief in his responses. He nodded immediately.
"I agree to these terms."
"First question," the General cut to the chase, "What was your original motive for enlisting in the Atlas Foreign Legion, and what is your motive for continuing to serve today?"
"I originally enlisted because I was rejected by Beacon and saw Atlas as my last opportunity to serve and protect the people of Remnant with honor and distinction; it was an ill-conceived, poorly-researched, and incredibly naïve motive," he answered candidly and dispassionately.
"At present, however, after my various… 'misadventures' in the service of Atlas, I've decided that I am content to simply survive the remainder of my service contract, protecting my comrades to the best of my abilities, until such time that I am able to peacefully separate and fade quietly into obscurity to live out the rest of my life as I see fit," Jaune concluded, genuine exhaustion creeping into his voice.
Ironwood scrutinized the young man for several long moments before nodding once. "I appreciate your candor," the General intoned. "Second question; a simple "Yes" or "No" will suffice, but your honesty is paramount."
Jaune once again nodded deliberately.
"Have you had contact with Erwin Diedrich Rommel?"
Every muscle in his body contracted simultaneously, and Jaune could only hope fervently that it wasn't as painfully obvious over the CCT connection as it was physically painful.
"The former District Commander of the Mantlese capital? The son of Field Marshal Heinrich Rommel?" he clarified neutrally.
"The very same," Ironwood affirmed gravely. "Have you had contact with this man?"
A single moment passed, and then Jaune held the General's gaze and shook his head.
"No sir," he declared firmly, "I have never had contact with General Erwin Rommel."
A tense silence fell over the line and the room as Ironwood's steely blue eyes bored into his soul from thousands of kilometers across the world.
Finally, the leader of Atlas nodded in satisfaction. "Your weapon will be released in short order, and Major Engels will contact you to pass on your credentials for access to Atlas's databases and resources at the Vale CCT."
"Thank you sir," Jaune replied simply. "Will that be all?"
"Send Specialist Schnee up next," the General ordered. "That will be all; you're dismissed, Specialist Amsel."
Jaune offered a short salute, and spun on his heel and marched from the room; he felt Ironwood's eyes boring into his back the whole way, right until he felt the elevator begin to move.
Once it did, Jaune slumped forward against the wall of the car, and heaved a shaky sigh of relief.
"Dammit, Chief," he breathed raggedly, too lowly for any potential listening devices to pick up. "What have you gotten me into?"
The connection from Ironwood's end was momentarily severed; the General decided from memory that he had about four minutes until Jaune and Winter traded out. Ensuring that the line was fully disconnected, he keyed the terminal on his desk for another line.
"General, I apologize for the disturbance," the voice of the Commandant of the Prometheus Secured Zone greeted monotonously.
"Get on with it, Colonel, my time is short," Ironwood shot back; he'd never been fond of the military's propensity for empty apologies and platitudes.
"Of course, sir. I wish to ask your permission to proceed with my Urban Renewal campaign ahead of schedule."
"On what grounds?"
"Critical time-sensitive intelligence, sir. Assets in the area have identified a location in the Restricted Zone that we strongly believe to be a fully-functional munitions factory that has been providing arms and ammo to the insurgents on an unprecedented scale."
The General's eyes narrowed, and he bit back a snarl. "And why are you just finding out about it now, Colonel?" he demanded sharply.
"Because we were only able to identify a leak when the Captain sent word about your tacit approval. The surveillance apparatus monitoring the area identified a massive spike in activity minutes after the message was received by my office; the insurgents operating the factory have begun to demobilize their stocks and equipment ahead of our first-strike package. This may be our only opportunity to cripple the manufacturing equipment before it is scattered out piecemeal to other cells beyond our immediate reach."
Ironwood massaged his brow. "Have you issued any of the requisite notices to the former residential spaces in the area?" he grumbled.
"I have not, sir. We have not had the time to set up distribution, nor do we now wish to do so for fear of prompting our adversaries to hasten their withdrawal."
"... Good," he finally grunted. "Any noncombatants illegally occupying spaces in the vicinity are to be considered collaborators and subject to the same rules of engagement as the insurgents operating the facility. I'll have Blue-Nine and the Seventeenth Strategic Bomber Group moved on-station to the south of the battlespace and placed at your disposal." Ironwood took a single deep breath through his nose, and then glared into the open space as he issued his final directive to the Commandant.
"We've suffered these pests plaguing our nation for too long, Colonel; it is long past the time for Mantle to be torn down and brought fully into the fold of Atlas and the modern age. Burn it all to the ground."
"As you command, General. Atlas Prevails."
"Atlas Prevails."
The call ended, and Ironwood scowled as his main line to Ozpin blinked again. He took a deep breath and schooled his features into a small, genial smile, which grew just a little more genuine when the form of Winter Schnee materialized in front of his desk. "Specialist Schnee," he greeted, his hands clasped behind his back.
"General," Winter returned tensely. Ironwood's smile faltered for an instant; the Specialist's normally relaxed and confident parade-rest stance was stiffer than usual, her eyes sharper and beset by the beginnings of bags at the corners, and her mouth set into a thin line.
"Is something the matter, Winter?" he pressed gently. By the immediate effect of her shoulders ratcheting back just a bit further, and by the ghost of a scowl that crossed her lips, he immediately realized that the personal touch was a poor choice in this scenario.
"If you have the time, sir, there are some concerns that I'd like to express on behalf of myself and my colleague with regards to the operating procedures of ourselves and the other Atlesian forces in Vale," she rattled off in a clipped tone that brooked no debate.
A sense of dread settled into the corner of the General's mind as he nodded and began the debrief.
- To Serve With Honor -
"Raise ten," the Sergeant Major grinned, tossing a Lien card into the pot.
"Call," the Sergeant grunted, flicking his own card haphazardly.
"Fold," Tukson muttered, throwing down his cards; two of the others followed suit, and the table looked expectantly to Pax.
"... Raise twenty," the youngest man at the table offered uncertainly, sliding two of the currency cards into the pot from his own modest stack. The Sergeant Major's eyes narrowed in response, and the Sergeant hummed curiously - though the sound came out as more of a low rumbling.
"Call," the senior most NCO finally acquiesced. The Sergeant wordless followed suit, and both older men flipped their cards.
Half the table groaned in disgust at the full house of Jacks over Nines in front of the Sergeant Major; including the Sergeant, who swept up his meager three-of-a-kind Queens and tossed the cards onto the deck.
Pax swallowed thickly and offered an apologetic little smile as he flipped over four Tens, eliciting an even louder groan from the assembly.
"You stay in that damned seat and let me win my money back, Paxton," the Sergeant Major ordered in a half-hearted growl. He then glanced around the table, and his eyes narrowed slightly as his features took on a more collected and business-like mien. "And now that we've shed our stragglers-" he added in reference to the two staff officers who had bowed out half an hour ago, "-We can finally get down to brass tacks."
"... If I might ask, Sergeant Major," Pax piped up, slowly and quietly, "Was it really necessary to have me intrude on your game for this? Couldn't I just have been debriefed normally?"
"It's all about deniability, son," the Sergeant Major answered. "The Commander or the Lieutenant were going to expect us to drag you aside at some point, but the weekly game with Tukson here leaves it ambiguous as to whether we brought you in to shoot the shit or to plot treason."
Pax blinked slowly, and felt a chill pass down his spine as he uncertainly asked, "... Am I allowed to ask which reason that is?"
"Depends," the Sergeant Major answered candidly. "What day is it, Tukson?"
"It's Tuesday, Sergeant Major," Tukson replied dutifully.
"Damn," the SNCO sighed, "My contract says I'm not allowed to plot treason on Tuesdays. Guess we're gonna swap scuttlebutt instead."
Pax sighed quietly in relief - and on an afterthought, leaned over to his neighbor, a long-time Corporal from another squad, and whispered, "We have contracts?"
"News to me," the young antlered woman whispered back amusedly.
"Alright, boys and girls, sober up; time to act like grown-ups," the Sergeant Major clapped his hands. "Keep dealing those cards, Paxton, I'm not done with you yet," he pointed and added as an aside.
The table turned to look at Pax as he set the cards down to shuffle them. The Sergeant was the first to ask.
"What the fuck happened out there, Pax?"
Pax closed his eyes - his mask was sitting on the table beside him, so the gesture was obvious - and he exhaled shakily from his nose. "I was given explicit orders by Commander Taurus when I was read into the operation that I'm not to discuss the details with anyone until he or the Lieutenant cleared me to do so," he finally rattled off in a single breath, his eyes squeezed shut. When he opened them, his gaze darted around the table as he shrunk back in his seat.
The Sergeant snarled and smacked his hand on the table, hauling himself from his chair and causing Pax to flinch back sharply - only for the larger man to be stopped by Tukson's hand on his arm.
"Take your seat, Sergeant," the Sergeant Major instructed, "Paxton's being a good trooper and following orders, and we certainly won't be the ones to fault him for it."
Pax looked uncertainly between the man and his aggravated Sergeant and waited for the other shoe to drop.
"Instead," there it was, "We're going to discuss what we know, and then we're going to try and get into the Commander's head for a minute and figure out just what he's playing at. And if young Paxton here might happen to nod along once or twice, well…"
A bead of sweat trickled down the side of the beleaguered young trooper's face as the conversation resumed with all eyes once again studying him intently.
'What did I do to deserve this?'
- To Serve With Honor -
Jaune and Glynda elected to wait out Winter's debriefing in the staff lounge, which was deserted as usual. Jaune served up tea for the both of them - an excuse to hold his distance and work through his post-brief jitters, with Glynda helpfully pointing out Port's hiding spot for his exotic tea blends - and the pair relaxed in high-backed chairs beside a window overlooking Beacon's central plaza.
"If I may be so bold," Glynda began as Jaune finished texting their location to Winter, "How exactly did this animosity between you and the General come to be? I've always known James to be the stubborn sort, but I can count the number of my acquaintances with whom he shares a genuine grievance on one hand."
"It's an ongoing saga of nationalism and stupidity that still gets my blood pressure up," Jaune grumbled in return as he pocketed his Scroll. "You're aware of the fact that I'm the first Mantlese Specialist in over thirty years, right?"
"Ozpin mentioned as much, yes," Glynda nodded, taking a sip from her steaming cup as her brow furrowed in confusion. "Why is that? I was under the impression that the Legion and the regular military were on amicable terms after working together for nearly half a century."
"For the regular troops, this is true," Jaune admitted. "Legion units are overseen by Army officers fairly often on assignments in the Secured Zones; and assignments in the vicinity of Atlas itself are usually made up of a one-to-one ratio of Legionnaires to Army personnel." He shrugged slightly and took a drink before adding, "We don't really have any beef with your bog-standard Atlas personnel; most Legionnaires - myself included - just think that our regular military counterparts are… Sheltered. Coddled might be the better phrase."
He turned and stared out at the edge of the plaza towards the northern pathway that led to the CCT; a pair of Atlesian troopers could be seen meandering up the path on 'patrol,' their weapons slung as they chatted and wandered aimlessly. "Cutting-edge weapons and equipment, cushy assignments, ethical orders… Stuff that most soldiers take for granted."
Glynda looked on strangely at that, and Jaune finally noted her gaze and coughed awkwardly.
"I don't mean to raise any uncomfortable subjects," he quickly backpedaled, visibly drawing in on himself.
The Deputy Headmistress set her cup and saucer down on the window's ledge, drawing one arm across her chest and resting her chin in the palm of her other hand with a long sigh.
"I truly wish that I - that we here in Vale - could claim ignorance to the… Horrifically detailed rumors… That have been trickling out of Solitas for decades," she started slowly, "But the simple fact of the matter is, the regime that James now heads up is the foremost economic and military powerhouse on Remnant. The labs and factories of Atlas produce goods and technology that are decades ahead of any other Kingdom in almost all fields of industry, and the Atlesian combined arms doctrine ensures that Atlas maintains or can achieve a military presence in any or all of nearly thirty percent of Remnant's landmass within twenty-four hours."
Jaune's brows shot up in surprise - that last terrifying little factoid was news to him.
"Strategically, this is rightly unsettling to anyone with half a brain," Glynda continued unabashedly, "But in the context of the Grimm being humanity's greatest adversary, it is a necessary sacrifice of sovereignty that the rest of the world makes in order to keep people safe."
"And if Atlas is actually abusing that global access and mobility to swiftly and violently suppress dissidents?" Jaune pressed before he could stop himself. Glynda winced sharply and her expression fell, and his fire dimmed instantly. "I'm sor-"
"You're right," she cut him off, "You don't need to keep apologizing. What has previously been nothing more than a distant and unsettling possibility to us has been - and still is a part of - your reality, and you shouldn't be made to feel wrong for expressing your opposition to it." She paused and sighed again, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose above her glasses. "If anything we should be the ones feeling wrong for turning away from injustice for the sake of convenience."
The pair fell into a heavy silence, taking a few more short drinks each.
"I suppose I never finished my thought on the military," Jaune finally acknowledged. "The regulars in the services are fine by us; the Legion's issue is with Ironwood's Special Task Force."
Glynda made a short noise of understanding, accompanied by a small grimace. "I would imagine that their role at home is a little more intrusive than simply sneaking into places that they shouldn't be?"
Jaune snorted at that. "'Intrusive' is a gross understatement. The STF are commissars, intelligence, counterintelligence, and military police rolled into one jackbooted package. Outside of Atlas, STF officers are placed at most levels of command inside of every Legion unit; the weaselly little bastards stick their noses into every aspect of day-to-day operations, always 'steadfast and vigilant against sedition and treachery.'"
His look was decidedly sour as he sighed in agitation and scratched at the back of his neck. "They're also the ones who are responsible for placing or redirecting blame for failed missions and botched operations. Those bastards have been responsible for slapping a lot of good Legionnaires with dishonorable discharges and jacked-up accusations of treason, which exacerbates the Legion's already-endemic turnover rate from combat casualties."
His rage abated, and then withered and died to be replaced by melancholy. "I think I've lost as many friends to them as I have to the insurgents," he finished softly.
Glynda wanted to reach over to place a comforting hand on his arm, but stopped when he finished his cup of tea and set the cup and saucer down on the windowsill, rising slowly and crossing his good arm under his sling as he stared out towards the west, up the path towards the CCT.
"After so long, we've become accustomed to overlooking them as a fixture," he pondered aloud, "Even as we lose good men to them every day. It's like they're working on some sort of twisted quota system to see how many Legionnaires they can discharge in a week, and the sad fact is, they're damned good at that job."
His expression tightened, and his entire body visibly tensed in renewed anger. "Then I became a Specialist, and suddenly I'm supposed to have some sort of power over them," he growled in frustration, "But because of Ironwood, I'm still under as much scrutiny as I ever was as a Legionnaire; probably even more, thanks to the bastard's paranoia."
He glanced aside, and noted Glynda's look of uncertainty. "He's convinced that I'm trying to set myself up as an icon for disenfranchised soldiers and refugees in Mantle," he explained, "That I'm cooking up some plot with all of his opponents and detractors to overturn the entire regime in Atlas."
Jaune turned back to the window and snorted derisively. "The thought hadn't even crossed my mind until Jacques Schnee explained it to me," he confessed, his lips twisting into a smirk of wry amusement.
"But now Ironwood is set on keeping me sequestered as far away from my men as he can manage while still being able to claim that he's making good use of me as a military resource," the Specialist finished tiredly. "Winter got caught up in all of it because she sponsored me, and now she's just confused and upset.
"I'm sure you're aware that not long ago, she was Ironwood's favored protégé - there were even rumors that he was training her as his successor," he looked to Glynda, who nodded in affirmation. "Well, then she was deployed to Mantle for a high-priority mission against the White Fang that had her attached to my unit; and everything seems to have gone to shit for her career since she met me."
"... But why?" Glynda finally blurted out in blatant puzzlement.
Jaune barked out a bitter laugh and shook his head. "Beats the shit outta me," he replied bluntly. "You'd have to ask the woman herself, because I can't even begin to fathom what the hell she saw in me, or what happened afterwards to kick off this whole clusterfuck."
He fell silent immediately after, his face falling into a contemplative frown. His mouth opened and closed a few times as he struggled to find his next words for several minutes.
Finally, he closed his eyes and sighed, and then looked back to Glynda with that same tired, earnest stare that had drawn out her sympathies on previous occasions. "And call me selfish, but I wouldn't change how it happened for the world," he confessed softly.
"... Even your capture?" the Deputy Headmistress asked quietly, "Even… Even the torture?"
Jaune closed his eyes again, and without a word, shook his head.
The pair fell into silence again after that, Jaune's eyes closed as he collected his thoughts, his form completely still.
"You know something, Glynda?" he blurted out, causing both of them to start; Jaune himself flinched and glanced aside awkwardly, before continuing. "I don't hate Adam, or the Fang."
"Why not?"
"Because we've fought each other so many times, and we've been fighting each other for so long, that we know each other better than anyone else."
There was a brief pause, and Jaune visibly hesitated; then he awkwardly reached into his left pocket with his right hand and drew out a small, battered silver flask. Ignoring Glynda's bewilderment, he unscrewed the cap and took a short draught from the vessel, before sealing it again and tossing it underhand in her direction.
She fumbled and caught the flask, and immediately turned it over in her hands. The once-pristine surface was worn almost to a brushed texture, and numerous small dents decorated the outside. It was then that she noted the faint insignia and inscriptions on the front face, near the neck: An expertly, albeit crudely-etched wolf-and-claws of the White Fang, alongside the staff-and-crown of Mantle.
The two emblems had probably been carved at different times, as Mantle's sigil was more worn than the Fang's emblem; but below the sigils were carved two columns of initials, each running down half the height of the flask. The Mantlese list was currently two names longer than the Fang list.
"This flask has been passed along as a gift or a spoil-of-war for nearly four decades," Jaune elaborated, accepting the vessel and turning it over in his hand. "It tends to stay with one person longer in the hands of a senior enlisted man; otherwise those lists would probably be a lot longer. I received it as a gift from Aaron Hoess, the Sixty Third's Regimental Major - and my recruiter - after I was commissioned as a Specialist.
"There's little trinkets like this floating around on both sides from as far back as the Great War," he continued, pocketing the flask and letting his good hand rest in his lap. "When the Zealots have it, it's topped up with moonshine, rum, or vodka; and when Legionnaires have it, it has whiskey, brandy, or gin." He offered a slight grin, "Claiming the flask is considered good fortune for as long as it has the original contents; but when it's emptied and topped up with fresh liquor, it becomes bad luck for the holder."
His grin widened as he looked at Glynda. "Still have the Chief's favorite gin in here, so I'm aces for a bit while longer," he added proudly, "And when that's gone, I'm gonna find some Patch whiskey and then send it back to Charlie for him to hold onto; I think this might be the longest time that this flask has ever been away from Solitas."
Jaune cleared his throat and shook his head, his grin abating. "The point is, after fighting against the same enemy for so long with no end in sight and no obvious victories or defeats to be had, people on both sides start to ask questions like, 'What's the point?' And well, when the Legion started asking those questions a few decades ago, Atlas formed the STF," he trailed off with a short, dark look before continuing.
"We know their tactics, they know ours, and every time somebody tries to change things up, it becomes something of a game figuring out how to respond; and then when new stuff doesn't work, we go back to the same old song and dance. So we all fight as hard as we've ever fought, but off the field? Or in those awkward moments where we're face to face and no one is shooting, and no one else is watching? We're all just… People." he said with a shrug. "We're killing each other, but the guys who've been around for long enough don't have it in them to hate each other anymore, y'know? 'Cause at the end of the day, we're all just soldiers fighting because it's our job and we don't really know anything else."
Glynda shook her head slowly in wonderment, and Jaune twitched slightly at the look of pity that came over her face. "... That's so sad," she finally whispered, and the knuckles of his right hand turned white beneath the cover of his sling.
"That's life," Jaune bit out tersely, "Remnant runs on Dust, Grimm kill people, and the Legion and the Zealots fight. Some things are just the way they are because that's how they've always been, and nobody knows what the world would look like if things were any different."
The two fell silent again, and Jaune's Scroll finally chimed; Winter was coming down from the office.
"... But it doesn't have to be, does it?" Glynda whispered as they waited, more to herself than to Jaune.
"Doesn't it, Glynda?" Jaune replied. "You said it yourself: Atlas has impunity so long as they provide technology and protection to the rest of the world. If James Ironwood says that he wants things to stay the way they are, then who are you or I to say anything different that might jeopardize the safety and comfort of Remnant?"
The Deputy Headmistress wore a visibly stricken look at that; and it was at that precise moment that Winter walked in.
The senior Specialist took one look at Glynda, and then fixed Jaune with an unimpressed stare. "I have to deal with the General, and you're down here making both our lives more difficult by causing our colleagues to have existential crises?!" she demanded.
Jaune raised his hand in surrender. "In my defense, she's the one who asked," he replied unapologetically. He swiftly moved to redirect his partner's ire by asking, "You read Ironwood the riot act about having vulnerable Atlas troopers wandering around in Vale?"
Winter grimaced in disgust, and that was all the answer Jaune needed. "You want me to go and rough up the garrison commander while you 'convince' him to increase his force deployments?" he offered, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into his voice.
"Ask me again in a week," Winter replied absently and habitually. She turned and looked to Glynda, who appeared to be rejoining reality. "I imagine that Ozpin wants to have his turn at discussing the day's events?" the Specialist asked tiredly.
"He's still in a conference with the military and police regarding the jurisdiction issue," the Deputy Headmistress replied, "I'm sure he'll be content to wait until tomorrow. In the meantime, I would suggest that both of you take the opportunity to sort your affairs and get some rest."
Jaune was out of his chair and halfway towards the door as Glynda finished her sentence. Winter shot a sour look over her shoulder at her partner's back, and nodded gratefully to Glynda before trailing after him.
Winter nearly ran into Jaune out in the hallways, as he had stopped and was staring down at his Scroll. "What's the problem?" she bit out.
"It's started," Jaune replied tersely. "The Air Force just launched a bombing raid on Prometheus."
"What?!" Winter snapped, peering over his shoulder; on the screen was a photo from somewhere in the Prometheus Secured Zone, the lens pointed towards the sky and the monolithic Atlesian battleship floating above. Dozens of smaller forms ringed the behemoth; Jaune zoomed in on the photo, and the Specialists were both able to identify the silhouettes as dozens of Condor Heavy Bombers.
A timer dinged on the display, and habitually, Jaune's thumb navigated to the menu of the photo viewer app and deleted the picture.
"He's going to level the Restricted Zones and kill thousands to pave the way for redeveloping the rubble into full Industrial Settlements," he muttered, "I just can't believe that they've actually hit their target numbers to be able to go forward. No one was expecting the populations to actually level out on their own for another ten years at least…"
"What do you think set him over?" Winter asked softly.
"Either the STF's Spooks hit on something big that they couldn't ignore, or something's been going on to significantly affect the target populations," Jaune replied, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "But even multiple concentrated offensives from Atlas in the last year haven't been able to budge the numbers this much; so someone or something on the other side of the fence in Prometheus has been making a play that either directly or tangentially caused the math to even out."
He shook his head and growled softly in frustration. "Somebody in Mantle is trying to change the game. What the hell is happening up there…?"
- To Serve With Honor -
Prometheus Restricted Zone, Mantle
Three Hours Earlier
Insurgent Munitions Factory
Major Erich Honecker of der Freie Mantle Volksarmee stood on a rickety, half-rusted catwalk outside of what used to be the factory manager's office.
On the factory floor below, surrounded by mostly-intact and miraculously-upright masonry walls and blown-out windows, dozens of his fighters and even more refugee volunteers scrambled about in a grand display of organized chaos, transferring thousands of crates and cans of weapons and munitions onto carts in the center of the room.
At an unspoken signal, hidden doors on either end of the long room opened up; the carts loaded to bursting with guns and ammo trundled out of one door, while a new train of empty carts entered from the other door to replace them. The cycle which had paused for a scant few seconds began anew before the new carts had even come to a stop.
"We're never going to be able to move all of the material and equipment, Herr Major," the Hauptmann at Erich's shoulder whispered in panic, "Ironwood's dogs have already caught wind of our movements; our spies have reported spikes in activity at air bases across the continent, and a battleship has just been spotted casting off from its berth in Atlas and moving this way!"
"We don't want or need to move everything, Captain," Erich replied calmly, even as his mind raced through their contingency plan. "We need to leave enough behind to convince Atlas's investigators that they were able to hit us before most of the material was evacuated. If Ironwood learns of the true extent of this facility's operations and we lose the element of surprise, the next phase of the campaign will end before it can even begin."
The Major turned to fix his adjutant with a stern glare. "Go below and make sure that the blasting charges in the tunnels are properly wired and primed; we will have a very finite window of opportunity for this deception to play out properly."
The Hauptmann saluted sharply, and scrambled back into the office towards the stairs.
A few seconds later, however, Erich's ears detected a low, loud whistling coming from somewhere behind him, and a shiver of dread trailed down his spine.
"TAKE COVER!" he roared, vaulting over the railing. As he fell, an artillery shell struck the roof above his previous position, and he rolled to a rough landing on the factory floor and narrowly avoided being buried under a ton of bricks and twisted metal from the collapsing roof.
He looked up towards the floor, and noted with distant pride that only a few of the workers had broken for the exit; the rest continued doggedly moving supplies, and a few were even starting to break down the manufacturing equipment for transport. Outside, shells began to fall on the surrounding buildings and on the administrative offices in the front of the factory.
"WE'RE OUT OF TIME!" Erich roared again, drawing the attention of his men and volunteers. "LEAVE THE REST OF THE MUNITIONS AND TAKE ALL OF THE EQUIPMENT THAT YOU CAN! WE'RE LEAVING IN FIFTEEN MINUTES, WITH OR WITHOUT IT!"
"YES SIR!" his troopers barked back, redoubling their efforts.
Then the thin metal double doors on the western wall were kicked in, and a dozen rifle-toting White Fang Zealots stormed in and took up positions along the wall, their weapons held loosely at the ready.
Most of Erich's men dropped their cargo and drew a medley of outdated handguns and machine pistols; but Erich held a hand up as he moved towards the entrance to greet the newcomers.
A man in a heavy cloak and a standard White Fang mask entered, flanked by a pair of larger fighters - one with a marksman rifle, and the other with a medium machine gun cradled under one arm like an assault rifle.
The cloaked man's form shifted, and one arm extended from beneath it towards Erich, a bat wing running from the middle of the forearm up to mid-bicep.
"Erich," the winged man greeted in a bored drawl.
"Yuma," Erich nodded, shaking the man's hand briefly, "Thank you for answering our call."
"We have forty volunteers outside to help move equipment in exchange for shelter and safe passage," Yuma cut straight to the chase. "The men in here will stay behind to hold the line against the Legion's ground offensive."
"The entire nation of Mantle thanks you all for your sacrifice-"
"Cut the sanctimonious patriotic bullshit, Erich, it makes me nauseous," Yuma interjected with a scowl. "I'm here because of the weapons that you promised; and to save a few of my people and kill Atlesians. I don't give a shit about your dead nation or your 'cause,' so save your breath and stop trying to delude yourself."
Erich fought down his indignation, and settled for a clipped nod of acknowledgement. "We're going to seal the tunnels in twenty minutes; we'll move the fighters outside in fifteen to put up anti-aircraft fire and a smokescreen."
"You heard the man!" Yuma called over his shoulder to the Zealots around him. "Get the refugees in here and prioritize machinery over munitions; we'll be using whatever's left to fight the holding action. MOVE!"
The Zealots, as well as the smattering of young and frail Faunus and humans that poured in after them, joined the crowd in dismantling equipment and throwing everything onto the trains.
Several minutes later, with nearly half of the machines loaded and the carts beginning to move again, the booming and whistling artillery fell silent, prompting a pause in the floor's activity; the barrage was soon replaced by a low droning that quickly grew louder.
A boy in an outdated, oversized military blouse fell over himself through the door. "THE BOMBERS ARE HERE!" he cried.
"GET THOSE CARTS MOVING!" Erich shouted, "EVACUATE TO THE TUNNELS! DON'T STOP FOR ANYTHING! GO!"
The fighters in the crowd broke from the refugees as the latter poured into the far passageway after the carts, and the door slid shut behind them. An over-strength platoon was left behind, made up of Zealots and Mantlese humans and Faunus. A few hard-eyed men and women from amongst the refugees had also stayed behind as volunteers to run supplies for the defenders.
"Man the machine guns and flak cannons and start staging ammo and anti-tank missiles!" Erich barked, setting his men into action, "You all know where our fighting positions are! Make sure that the mines and demo charges are primed, and let's give these Atlesian bastards hell!"
"Thunder Two-One is approaching the drop zone," the pilot of the lead Condor Heavy Bomber reported, "No counterfire or ground movement to report so far."
"Roger that, Two-One," Thunder Two Actual's voice crackled over the cockpit radio, "Line up on your attack vectors. All aircraft, open bomb bay doors."
"Opening bomb bay doors," the bombardier drawled in reply.
As the bay doors of the fifty-year-old bomber creaked open, the whole craft was rocked sharply when a puff of smoke appeared off of their left wing; the bomber's commander stumbled at his post beside the tactical display.
"Reading multiple flak positions in and around the target compound," the co-pilot reported, "Volume is negligible, but their shells are flying hot and straight."
As the pilot peered out of his front canopy at the bombers off of his wings, Thunder Two-Four - flying fifty meters below and a hundred meters off of Two-One's one o'clock - exploded violently in a brilliant flash of light; when the blue-tinged smoke cleared, the debris and the spot in the air that the aircraft had previously occupied were crackling with dissipating electricity.
"Enemy ground fire has Lightning Dust shells mixed in!" the pilot called out, "We need to climb out of range of those guns!"
"Negative," the commander responded sternly, "We'll lose more aircraft if we have to reposition and come around for another pass. Stay on course and prepare to drop."
Another bomber from Thunder Two disintegrated under concentrated fire a moment later, the debris glowing bright orange and smoldering even in the sub-arctic air; the commander listened as the wing commander reported three more losses in quick succession. Still, these losses were negligible as the head of the formation reached the drop zone. "Bombardier, you're cleared hot."
"Bombs out!" the bombardier called back from his compartment in the lower part of the nose. The whole craft rattled with each mechanical chunk-chunk-chunk as two dozen of the five hundred kilogram bombs left the bay in quick succession and freefell to Remnant.
The commander looked back to his display and switched to the CCTV feed from the bombsight's camera. Within a few short seconds, the ground below bloomed with a few, and then dozens, and then hundreds of orange blossoms as Thunder Squadron - the first of three bomber squadrons in the raiding wing - rained hell down on the Prometheus Restricted Zone and the insurgent munitions factory.
"Thunder Two-One, send B-D-A," the wing commander called over the radio.
"Wait one," Two-One's commander responded, watching as the tail camera tracked the center of their drop zone while the smoke cleared. When it cleared enough for a blue light to show through, a guttural snarl of surprise and anger ripped from his throat. "Command, be advised, the enemy has deployed a Hard Light Shield over the target compound!"
"WHAT?!" the wing commander shouted back in outrage
Indeed, the factory - as well as at least two other buildings within a short range of Two-One's target area - had sprouted brilliant blue umbrellas of overlapping hexagonal panels.
The aircraft started rocking again as flak erupted in front of them; the commander stumbled and choked as his knee slammed into one of the metal steps leading up to the pilots' positions. "What the fuck is happening?!" he demanded hoarsely through the pain.
"More flak positions to the north!" the co-pilot reported with barely-contained panic, "And the ones behind us are still firing!"
The volume of fire outside noticeably doubled, and the shriek of metal drew the crew's attention to the airframe integrity display; an unexploded shell had just ripped a massive hole in the lumbering bomber's right wing.
"IT'S A TRAP!" the pilot barked, "ALL THUNDER AIRCRAFT, DIVE AND CROSS OVER THE MOUNTAINS TO THE NORTH!"
Just as the pilot finished transmitting, the bomber was blown to the left as the right wing disappeared in a blue cloud; the stub where the wing used to connect to the frame then started to ice over rapidly, increasing from frost, to a thin layer, to clumps and spears the size of bricks that began quickly spreading over the rest of the aircraft.
"WE'VE BEEN HIT BY AN ICE SHELL!" the tail gunner reported in a panic as the frame continued to careen to the left and downward.
"ALL HANDS, BAIL OUT!" the commander barked, his hands already scrambling for the parachute recessed beside his control console.
Then the cockpit area around him disintegrated in a ball of fire and brimstone; he absently noted as he fell that he could no longer feel anything below his waist.
"Herr Major," a Volksarmee message runner greeted with a crisp salute, "Observers are reporting ninety-five-percent casualties amongst the enemy's first bomber squadron."
"Hervorragend," Erich hissed in vicious satisfaction.
"However, the remaining enemy bombers are massing and preparing to attack all at once," the messenger concluded grimly. "We have also confirmed a dozen wounded and five dead from the first wave, and a significant portion of our fortifications are heavily damaged."
The Major nodded. "We have anticipated this. Have the predesignated flak guns demobilized to their fallback positions - the same for the Hard Light Shields. We will need to preserve those for the coming attack."
"Jawohl, Herr Major," the messenger saluted once more, and then ran off.
Erich turned to his Zealot counterpart. "You may doubt my voracity, mein junger kamerad," he said to Yuma, "But I say again, with all honesty, that we cannot thank you enough for standing with us on this day. This is but the first of many great blows to be struck against the Atlesians, and they would not be possible without your support."
Yuma hummed in reply; but his expression visibly softened, and he nodded shortly in acknowledgement.
Another runner emerged from the rubble, and saluted both men. "Forward scouts have confirmed light armor and mechanized infantry mustering at Forward Operating Bases Barbican, Portcullis, and Drawbridge," he rattled off, "As well as heavier units mobilizing from Tower and Bailey."
"As anticipated," Erich repeated. The runner departed as suddenly and swiftly as he came. "Will you be staying with us for this battle, my friend?" he asked Yuma.
The Zealot shook his head slightly. "I need to report back to my superiors, and I'll likely be reassigned to another front."
"A shame," Erich noted dryly. "Please, pass on my thanks and regards, both for the volunteers and for the use of your artillery."
"Of course," Yuma nodded. He turned and moved to shed his cloak, but hesitated. "Sieg Mantle, Herr Major," he muttered reluctantly.
Erich smirked, both at the younger man's awkwardness, and at the clipped Mantlese. "Fair winds and swift tides to you and yours as well, Yuma," he replied earnestly.
The young Zealot nodded before throwing his cloak off of his arms, allowing the webbing of his wings to catch the breeze; he took off at a light run, and then launched himself into the wind, flying off low over the rubble to the northeast.
Erich's expression fell into stony impassivity after that, as his adjutant stepped up at his shoulder and watched the Faunus depart with a sour look. "I am not fond of relying so heavily on animals, Herr Major," the Captain sneered.
"'The enemy of my enemy,' Herr Hauptman," the Major replied flatly. "Grievances can be put on hold until a more stable juncture. In the meantime, these 'Zealots' are a critical asset, if only because of their wealth of combat experience and their sheer ruthlessness. We need only give them direction and resources, and turn them loose to rip and tear and smash at our foes - to give their lives where we would otherwise have to spill precious Mantlese blood."
"As you say, Herr Major," the Captain nodded hesitantly. He then sobered up, "We have confirmation of enemy ground elements approaching our position in force; the next wave of bombers is also nearly upon us."
"Have the men button up to weather the next wave," Erich ordered. "When the enemy's attack begins, it will finally be time to show the Tin Man just how foolish he and his predecessors truly are to have ever believed Mantle to be defeated."
End Chapter 12
End To Serve With Honor Volume 1
Author's Note: So, as stated in the line above, this is the end of my V1. Volume 2 comes next, and marks the beginning of the Beacon semester, where we'll start running into some more canon characters, and settling into the cast's "routine" for the rest of the story. I'm looking forward to it, because I'm hoping to draw some good and proper "WTF" reactions from the roster changes.
Otherwise, we've taken our first look at the state of the insurgency and the combat in Prometheus, a former Mantle industrial city in eastern Solitas. Just to clarify: Asteria, the city in which Jaune was stationed for most of his time on the front, is in western Solitas, to the north of the Kingdoms/cities of Atlas and Mantle.
Just gonna say, I enjoyed the hell out of writing that last cluster of scenes in Prometheus. Writing warfare is one of my strengths and joys, and I may go back after this story is finished and write a prequel, sequel, or side story covering the War in Mantle.
Thanks go out to my good friends Crosswire, Strata-Assassin, and Ikedawg43 for pre-reading, feedback, and assorted consultations on this chapter.
I'm finally settling into a new job, and I'm hoping to have Chapter 13 up before I have to move apartments later this year. In the meantime, feedback and constructive reviews help me keep my shit straight in terms of things like plot and tone, and are always welcome.
Thanks for reading, and I'll catch y'all later - different day, different time, same old station.
-Knightmare Frame Razgriz