Carefully, creakily, a door shuddered open. Its metal surface, stripped of the ghastly, green paint by years of harsh conditions, glinted in the low light. The streetlights in this portion of Mantle lay few and far between, affording Watts some security in the dimness.
He shivered violently. The biting seasonal winds had relaxed their mad howling from earlier in the day, but the frigid chill of winter still seeped through fabric and skin, nestling deeply into the bones. Taking a moment to peer over the metal railing, he found that the snowdrifts had already clambered high along the wall and threatened to spill over onto the first-floor veranda. If it continued unabated, they may be forced to dig their way out come morning.
Ducking back beneath the safety of the awning he quickened his pace. It was highly unlikely that anyone would have actually recognized him for that fleeting moment in the darkness—especially since the city's surveillance network had been neutered—but being out in the open laid a heavy blanket of unease across his shoulders nonetheless. The sooner he was behind closed doors once more, the better. With the usual cacophony of the city muffled beneath a thick layer of snow, his footsteps drummed abnormally loudly against the paneling as he made his way towards the communal area of the tenement.
As it turned out, the 'Bronie Zaychik' that he had been corresponding with had been a real, flesh-and-blood human being and not some figment of his increasingly neurotic imagination. Though, the fact did little to settle his unease. The girl was just as capricious in the real world as she had been in the simulation, and that often led to seemingly impulsive decisions on her part. Decisions that he was often made to bear the brunt of.
It was she who owned the entirety of this apartment complex, having purchased it upon learning of its status as his final safehouse. Though, to call it an apartment or any other form of housing was exceedingly generous; the building had not been serviced in a number of decades—perhaps not since it had been initially constructed—and Watts was fully certain that it was not nearly up to code.
At present, the building housed six inhabitants: himself, Zaychik, and the four stragglers that she had retrieved from the depths of Aurum. Why exactly they had been there, he hadn't bothered to ask, but his benefactor seemed deeply amused by their plight. He wasn't particularly interested in meeting any of them.
Apparently, two of their number—Cinder's whelps, from what he had heard—had fallen victim to the sleeping agents that Zaychik had installed within the craft. He was hardly surprised; Black could be immensely brash and foolhardy at times, and the thought that those two irritants had finally received some small form of comeuppance brought a great deal of satisfaction to his heart.
The other two Watts had heard of, though only in passing. The man was a lout whom Cinder had been using to further her plans in Vale—a self-styled master thief. The notion was enough to make him gag; he cared little for that form of self-aggrandizing pageantry. The woman was seemingly his sidekick but, beyond that, Watts had been unable to turn up anything more useful.
The short walk from his quarters across the breadth of the building brought him swiftly to his destination. He turned the brass knob with some small effort, the door trembling momentarily in protest. The rust upon its hinges rebuked his efforts for a scant moment before ultimately giving in and shuddering open with a noisome creaking. He really would need to speak with management about basic maintenance; everything in the building was in a deplorable state of disrepair, though he held little hope that she would actually do anything about it.
The common area, like every other room in this tenement, was sparse and ill-fitted with its furniture. It was largely devoid of decoration, save for a dining table which commanded the center of the room, an array of chairs and a pair of haphazardly-aligned sofas, which someone had seemingly already claimed.
Watts turned his nose up at the sight. The ruffian that had been delivered to the building not even a day before had already made himself at home, reclining on the worn couch and kicking his feet—boots still on—upon the armrest. His sidekick sat contentedly at his side on the floor like an obedient, overly-protective pet.
These two, at least, seemed reasonably cooperative—they hadn't attempted an escape just yet—though a sizable portion of that was likely due to the waning physical state of the male. Despite the cocksure posturing and magnanimous words, it was plain for anyone to see that he had been afflicted by some serious malady. Sallow cheeks and an ashen complexion painted a clear picture of unhealth and his tone was perpetually laced with unvoiced strains of suppressed pain.
Watts cleared his throat loudly when the tenement's newest inhabitants failed to address his arrival, the hot pinpricks of irritation jabbing at his skin when that only granted him the barest of acknowledgements. "You're taking all of this rather well," he grumbled, lying his belongings upon the table. "I know she told you to make yourselves comfortable, but don't you think this may be overdoing it?"
"No such thing," the man snorted, finally shifting slowly into a pained, seated position. "And I'd say you're taking it better. You're looking pretty good for a dead man. Roman Torchwick," he introduced himself, before narrowing his eyes as they scanned over the sheaf of paperwork in Watts's hands. "But I guess you already knew that, didn't you?"
"I did indeed," Watts confirmed stiffly. "Though I am slightly concerned that you have knowledge of myself. I take great pains to cover my tracks, as it were."
"Not great enough," Roman said, tapping his temple. "Information is a pretty big commodity in this line of work, you know. Worth its weight in gold, and all. That and everyone down here's heard about the 'Paladin Incident,' even if most of them don't know who exactly was responsible for it."
"So I've been made into a folk-tale amongst the ruffians of Mantle?" Indignant disgust dripped from each word. "How…vindicating."
Roman snorted in derision. "That's one way to look at it, I guess. I'd say you're more of a cautionary tale. That even the powerful or smart aren't immune to moments of stupidity." A strained, mocking sneer stretched his lips at the indignant look levied his way. "So?" A look of mild intrigue crossed his face. "Why'd the good doctor deem us worthy to grace us with his presence?"
Watts held the sour glare for a moment, before exhaling heavily in exasperation. "Zaychik seems to think you are in need of a, for lack of a better word, chaperone. Naturally, that responsibility fell to me since that is clearly the best way to utilize one of the finest minds that Remnant has ever seen."
"You're a bit full of yourself, aren't you? Can't say I'm too surprised. Never met a topsider who wasn't."
"I certainly don't need to be hearing that from you—that garish suit speaks volumes of your character. At the very least, my accolades are deserved."
"Better garish than old and drab. My grandmother, rest her rotten heart, had better fashion sense than you." He shifted the topic. "So? Why did the Doctor Arthur Watts decide to come back from the dead just to join some runt's club? And to be the one taking orders, at that?"
"Who can tell," Watts grumbled, finally opting to take his seat at the table. "I daresay I've lost the plot, as some would say." He voiced the phrase with an obvious sullen note to his tone. "I've entirely lost track of what it is I'm to be doing here that isn't menial chores or," he gestured towards the stack in front of him, "clerical work."
Roman chuckled dryly. "Shrimp's keeping you in the dark, same as us, huh?"
"You don't know the half of it," Watts groused as he turned on his scroll and began cross-referencing data points between it and the numerous sheafs of paper. "You've barely been here for a day. She's been stringing me along for the last two months. No explanations, no information, just increasingly absurd instructions."
A harsh rasping noise became slightly audible, capturing Roman's curiosity. Watts had begun to grind his jaw furiously, venting his long-held grievances as he worked.
"And don't get me started on the juvenile mischief—the snide remarks, the backhanded compliments—that she-devil seems to take some form of perverse satisfaction in badgering me needlessly over the most mundane topics and has the gall to look insulted when I refuse to humor her. I would have left a dozen times over by now, but I am bound to this plan of hers for the same reasons you and your pet are."
Neo glared at him, a sharp rush of air hissing out from between her teeth. Roman patted her shoulder distractedly, calming her, much to Watts's amusement.
"And what reasons might those be?" Roman asked.
"A lack of any other true options," the doctor answered simply. "After all, nobody finds themselves wandering aimlessly through the Aurum unless something has gone terribly, terribly wrong."
Roman leaned back into the underfilled plush of the sofa, releasing a sigh. "Can't say you're wrong there. I've had some jobs go south before, but this one really takes the cake." He looked around the common area, more for effect than anything else—it was a single room with little in the way of hiding spaces. "Where's the shrimp, anyway? We'd really appreciate some answers sometime soon."
As if in response to his question, the front door creaked open once again, this time revealing the diminutive form of Bronie Zaychik. She seemed utterly unfazed by the frozen conditions outside despite her only notable form of outerwear being a thin, hooded jacket.
"I'm back," she announced, shrugging a small, plastic bag from her arm onto the table. "Dropped by the pharmacy on the way. The one off Fifty-Fourth. Those two are going to be really unhappy when they wake up so I decided to get ahead of that while I can. How's the homework going, Watts?"
"Poorly." Was the terse response. "Administrative duties are hardly appropriate for my skillset."
"Don't forget, it needs to be detailed down to the last minute," she reminded him.
"Oh yes. How could I possibly forget that part? I am telling you, Zaychik, this is a waste of time."
"It'll be relevant, don't you fret. For now, do your best, I guess," she insisted, ignoring the muttered curses that rose from the man. Her gaze settled upon the room's remaining inhabitants. "I'm afraid we haven't been formally introduced. Bronie Zaychik. And you're Roman Torchwick."
"Guilty as charged," the thief said, flashing her a cheekily disarming grin, the effect spoiled entirely as it came out as more of a pained grimace. "You mind telling us what's going on? One moment I'm passed out in a cave in the middle of the desert and the next I'm in Mantle. There's a lot of gaps that need filling-in here."
She barely batted an eye at the innocent familiarity in his tone, noting that his hand instinctively swung to where his cane would normally have been. "You'll get your explanations when everyone is here. It's a lot of dense material and I don't want to have to go over it more than once."
She gestured with a hand, and what Roman had assumed was a small stool in the corner of the room blinked to life, rose into the air and hovered towards the girl with a quiet hum.
"In the meantime," she said, "lose the coat. It's time for a check-up."
Roman shifted, eyeing the small girl dubiously. "Now listen here, shrimp. I know my roguish charm can be irresistible, but my strike zone leans more on the…" he smirked, "...taller side. Come back in ten years and I might consider it."
"Lose the snark, too," Bronie said, unperturbed. "Neopolitan has told me that you've got an old injury that needs looking at. I went through all this trouble to smuggle you guys in past the walls and I don't need you dying because you were too stupid to seek proper medical attention."
Roman's smug facade dropped immediately and he shot his partner a sour glare, to which the shorter woman merely shrugged innocently.
"Don't blame her," Bronie scolded. "Anyone with half a brain could tell that there is clearly something wrong with you. She just gave me some details. Now stop being stubborn and let me see."
Sighing dramatically in defeat, he slowly shook off the stained garment and rolled up the sleeve of his undershirt, exposing the afflicted flesh. Bronie moved to examine the wound but had barely made a step forward when the sight caused her to visibly flinch and freeze. Her eyes widened as the fabric was inched upwards, revealing large blotches of white-stained skin and a network of angry, red lines converging on a perfectly circular scar at the base of the shoulder joint.
She stood frozen for several beats, then, spurred on by some frantic burst of energy, surged forward. Before Roman could react, she had roughly grasped the pallid flesh of his shoulder with frightening strength, much to his consternation.
"You…" Bronie trailed off, the shock momentarily stealing the words from her throat. "How did this happen? What did you do?"
The last few notes had slipped from her lips as a dangerous hiss, and Roman shifted uncomfortably in surprise. "You know what this is?" He asked instead.
"I do," she stated coldly. She jabbed a finger at the exposed skin, eliciting a yelp. "That," she said, ignoring the protesting shouts and continuing to prod at the cold, deadened flesh, "is a late-stage Honkai infection."
"A what?" Roman asked in between pained cries.
Watts's brow furrowed deeply. "I thought you said—"
"I know what I said." Bronie cut the doctor off. "Infections of this degree shouldn't be possible. It's well beyond what an average person could sustain and survive. She repeated her earlier question. "How did this happen? And how long ago?"
"Around the end of Summer," Roman answered, shooting her a half-hearted glare. "I got stabbed. Look, is someone going to tell me what this thing is? In words I can understand?"
"You got stabbed," Bronie repeated incredulously, continuing to ignore his questions. "You got stabbed." She jabbed with particular viciousness at the afflicted limb. "Does that look like something a stab wound would do, Torchwick?"
"Yes? No? I don't know!" Roman snapped in exasperation. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not a doctor."
Bronie released a frustrated exhalation, finally releasing his arm and pinching the bridge of her nose. "I am well aware that you have no credentials—or any higher education to speak of," she stated flatly. "Frankly, I'm beginning to question your common sense. But I really don't think you'd need any of that to realize that this isn't normal. Hold still." She waved a hand.
"Wha—OW! Dammit!" Roman shouted as the drone floated discreetly behind him, producing a wickedly long needle and jabbing it into his arm.
"Cross-section analysis," Bronie commanded.
It answered with a series of affirming beeps, whirring and, after a few moments, a hard-light readout.
"Hm." She scanned the lines of text, muttering, "The infection's spread deep into the subcutaneous tissue. Signs of rapid deterioration of the musculature. Necrotization down to the deeper dermal layers." As her eyes scanned past a particular line, her expression dropped, the youthfulness of her face marred by heavy lines. "Particles of infected tissue seem to have entered your circulatory system."
"Alright, so what's it mean?" Roman asked, the clear concern on her face mirrored upon his own.
"Honestly?" She dismissed the terminal, a dour expression still shadowing her features. "It means you're a goner, Torchwick. At the rate it's going, I'd say you've got another month or so. Maybe two."
A deep silence fell over the room. Neo had frozen, her eyes wide as her gaze flickered between her partner, the infection and the girl. Even Watts's rhythmic tapping staggered to a halt for a moment, before resuming unabated.
All the bluster seemed to gush from Roman's sails at once and he deflated, sinking limply into the couch. The thin veneer of confidence had well and truly left him by now. "Seriously?" He asked numbly.
Bronie nodded slowly. "I'm going to need to run more comprehensive tests, but the fact that it's in your blood is a very bad sign. It means that the infection's spread to other parts of your body and will continue to propagate from there. There's no containing it once that happens. Sorry."
"No you aren't," he retorted, the words hollow and unenthused.
She said nothing to refute him and the room fell back into a tense silence, with the rhythmic feedback of the doctor's typing being the only reprieve from utter stillness.
"I'll be honest," Bronie finally said, settling into a chair across from Roman. "I had my suspicions that you had been infected when Hu—when Phoenix referred you to me. It's unusual for her to take an interest in anyone unless they're particularly noteworthy, and you don't exactly fit that bill. I had planned to use treatment as leverage in exchange for your cooperation."
"Well," Roman said, spreading his arms in a sarcastically grandiose gesture, wincing as he did so. "You got me. I'm here. The goods came in spoiled and you can't return this to sender!" His words ended in a barbed snarl. "Now what?"
"I am unsure," she admitted. "I never expected a case as advanced as this. Frankly, I'm not equipped to deal with something of this degree. Nor is anyone else on Remnant. Yours is an extreme and unprecedented case."
"So that's it then."
"Perhaps," she said. "Or perhaps not."
His downcast gaze shot back up to her and, satisfied that she now had his full attention, she continued to speak.
"There are a few mentions of a prototype device in the records that should be able to help with this sort of thing. The actual specifications are fairly technical. The short of it is that it should slow the progression of the disease. Unfortunately, I don't think there's anything we can do to stop it entirely, though I'd say it's still better than nothing."
"I'm sensing a 'but' somewhere in this."
She nodded. "But, there are two issues: First, the data is incomplete. I'd have to spend some time figuring out the missing pieces of the blueprints and we are on an incredibly tight timetable as it is. Second and, more importantly, the requisite materials for this device are impossible to obtain."
"Impossible, as in they're in some high-security vault or…?"
Bronie shook her head. "Impossible, as in the materials don't exist on Remnant."
"I'm gonna tell you straight here, shrimp. You're doing a terrible job of getting my hopes up."
"There is a chance—a slight, slight, chance—that these materials can be fabricated. However, that would require a certain item. As it turns out, it's the same item I intend to acquire and the same reason I brought you to Mantle to begin with. Our objective remains unchanged."
"That seems awfully convenient for you, don't you think?"
She shrugged half-heartedly. "Yep. But it's either that or dying. You don't seem like the sort that contemplates his mortality very often. If you'd like, I can recommend some literature on the topic. I hear Russet's come out with a new book, Five Things to Expect When You've Got a Terminal Alien Illness. Could help with coping."
"Brothers, the Doctor really wasn't kidding about your sharp tongue."
Bronie shot Watts a pointed glare, which he studiously ignored.
"Look. Whether you believe me or not, it's your only shot and it's a long one. There are a lot of unknown variables and a lot of things need to line up just right for you to even have a chance. But it's either that or death. You feeling lucky, punk?"
"Do I even have a choice?"
Bronie rolled her eyes. "Well, I could find you a nice farm out in the countryside where you can spend the rest of your days frolicking around in the fields."
"Very funny." He contemplated his options for a moment. "Fine. A slight chance is better than no chance. We're in."
"Excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got two sleeping beauties who'll need tending to soon."
Emerald awoke to the faint, mechanical whir of fans—dozens of them, judging by the noise.
Groggily, she shifted slowly into a seated position, suppressing a wave of nausea and clapping both hands to her face as her head throbbed violently in protest at the motion. Her vision swam in sickening, undulating waves. The slightest noise struck her eardrums with deafening ferocity, too overwhelming to properly parse. She shut her eyes, pressing her palms harshly into the sockets. That, at least, seemed to alleviate the pressure, if only marginally.
Once the episode had passed and she deemed it safe enough to open her eyes without endangering the contents of her stomach, she slowly relaxed her scrunched eyelids. A pallid glow, cold and harsh, seeped into her vision.
"Sorry about the knockout gas." A voice piped up from somewhere in the shadows to her left. It didn't seem apologetic in the slightest.
Emerald's eyes strayed waveringly to the source of the sound. A figure, sitting in a swivel-chair amidst an eclectic array of machinery and bathed in the glow of multiple monitors, peered at her intently. The light, dim as it was, served to illuminate a face that was entirely too youthful to be staring at her with such a detached, clinical gaze.
"I considered trying to synthesize a less aggressive version, but," the girl in the chair shrugged, the attachments on her oversized hood—reminiscent of bunny-ears—bobbing in time with her movements, "I got sidetracked and ran out of time."
"A kid?" Emerald rasped, the ensuing coughing fit bringing about another oppressive wave of pain. Her vocal chords ground painfully against each other and the words rushing up her throat came out dry and parched. "Where–" She began to ask but was forced to cease as a wave of bile surged angrily up her gullet.
"My workshop." The small girl answered the unfinished question simply. "Officially, an underdeveloped cluster of tenements in Mantle's East End." She huffed, hopping to her feet, adding as an afterthought, "Not that anyone would actually want to live here, even if they were actually just normal apartment buildings. Excuse me."
Emerald made to voice her objections as a deceptively firm hand grasped her temple but was caught off-guard by another ill-timed wave of nausea. Gently, the hand tilted her head back and a pair of slate-grey eyes stared studiously into her own. Emerald was struck by just how short this girl actually was. Seated and hunched as she was, the girl still barely stood taller than her.
The hand released her head. "Hyper-dilation of the pupils," the girl noted as she moved to take Emerald's arm next. "Bright lights are going to hurt for a while." She pressed a delicate finger to Emerald's wrist. "Elevated pulse," she said after a few seconds. Hey eyes flicked to the sheen of perspiration on Emerald's forehead and observed her ashen complexion. "You're probably feeling fairly ill right now, correct?"
Emerald nodded miserably.
"It'll subside in a few more hours. It's more or less what's to be expected, considering the dosage. I should have that adjusted. You'll be fine once you've rested and eaten."
Emerald dry-heaved.
"Ah, right." The girl fished around in her pocket before extracting a bottle which rattled as it shifted, the clattering a thundering chorus beating against Emeralds ears. "I've got some antiemetics—they're store-bought, don't worry. They should help with the nausea."
She left two small, white tabs in Emeralds shaking palm and retreated into the shadows. Emerald could distantly hear the sound of running water before she returned.
"You're severely dehydrated," she said. "If you had been out any longer, I would've been forced to stick you with an IV." She lay a glass on the bedside table. "Drink what you can for now, but don't overdo it. Other than that, get a bit more rest. It looks like the drug still has some lingering side-effects."
A small hand guided Emerald back down to the pillow, and she didn't bother trying to fight it. Almost immediately, she sunk into a fitful slumber during which she drifted in and out of consciousness for indeterminate stretches of time. The sounds of whirring mechanisms and dim lights interspersed and melded with howling desert winds, unremembered voices and half-formed memories. She settled into a murky trance—not quite dreaming but not quite breaching the surface to full wakefulness. At one point, she was abruptly made aware of loud, miserable curses interspersed with the sound of someone throwing up, but she faded from consciousness just as seamlessly.
For a timeless interval, she drifted in this twilight state, and when next she fully awoke, she found that her senses had regained much of their usual clarity. The lights within the room had brightened considerably since she had last been conscious and she was relieved to find that they no longer beat as painfully at her pupils. Groggily, she shifted into a seated position to find that she was more-or-less stable. Her head still felt muffled, as if it had been stuffed with cotton, but even that sensation seemed to fade with time.
Craning her head curiously about the room, she noted that it was heavily cluttered with various mechanical accouterments and machinery. An array of monitors and computers lay cloistered against the far wall, their fans whirring listlessly as…something…ran on-screen. From what Emerald could gather, it was highly technical and consisted of endless, nonsensical strings of letters, symbols and numbers. The 'bed' that she lay upon was not truly a bed and instead a long, flat work table—which would explain the slight ache in her lower back. An identical one lay several feet across from hers, with a dented pillow atop. It truly did seem to be a 'workshop,' as the girl from earlier had called it. Distantly, beyond the half-ajar doorway, she could hear the sounds of heated discussion and a familiar, shouting voice.
She swung her legs over the edge of the table, testing her weight against them cautiously. They seemed stable enough. When she was satisfied that she would not immediately topple over, she stood tentatively and tottered towards the aperture, each step conferring more confidence to her movements until she was able to sustain a haphazard hobble.
The door to the workshop exited to a darkened hallway, with the voices emanating from another at the end of the hall. A rectangle of warm, yellow light poured through the opening and Emerald made her way there. Upon finally reaching the doorway, she found a motley assortment of people gathered in a cramped room, though the ones currently taking center stage were her partner and the same girl that had spoken to her before.
She seemed even smaller in the full light, barely coming up to Emerald's shoulders, but the look in her eyes belayed any notion of her simply being a normal child. Though a mocking smile seemed permanently affixed to her face, the creases of emotion never seemed to truly touch the steely, grey eyes—they merely peered coldly, clinically, from behind half-shuttered lids. On a vague impulse, Emerald flared her semblance, experimentally reaching towards the mind of the younger girl.
She mentally recoiled as her probing tendril brushed against the child's conscience and she was immediately rebuffed by something as cold and unyielding as steel. It was an anachronism of sensations—sentimentality encased in an indifferent shell of cruel logic, unhindered reason driving emotion, humanity held fast by the reins of raw rationality. It was all hard surfaces and sharp corners, yet paradoxically fleshy and malleable.
In a sense, it was a similar sensation to when she had attempted to influence Phoenix's mind; everything about it was so fundamentally unnatural that her own mind immediately rejected it. She shuddered reflexively when she found that alien gaze now trained solely on herself. The knowing smirk seemed to widen, but when the girl spoke it was in the same, carefree tones that Emerald had heard earlier.
"Well!" She exclaimed. "The last of our little entourage is finally here. Are we all ready for the big reveal?"
"Like hell we are!" Mercury snarled, his fists clenched tightly. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just put you down and walk out that door right now?"
"It would be highly inadvisable," Watts interjected in a bored monotone, not even bothering to tear his gaze from his work. From the sofa, Neo and Roman watched the one-sided shouting match with varying degrees of entertainment.
"Yeah, Black, highly inadvisable," the girl echoed. "Listen to the good doctor. Though," her leer grew wider, "you strike me as the sort that requires firsthand experience. Want to give it a go?" Her fingers twitched surreptitiously, and her drone swung defensively around her. A small, cubic charm fastened to her scroll began to glow a subtle, ominous orange.
"Yeah," Mercury growled, settling into a low stance. "Yeah, I think I just might."
"Now hang on a moment!" Roman shouted, scrambling to the far edge of his seat as Neo sprung up protectively in front of him. "Injured here! I'm not looking forward to getting caught in whatever…this is."
"Injured and dying, mustn't forget that," Watts corrected.
"Yes, thank you for that entirely unneeded reminder, doctor."
"Well, Black?" Bronie asked, her expression unchanging, though she allowed her arms to fall to her sides. "Your call. I've told you what you have to gain."
Mercury held his position for a moment, a conflicted expression flickering across his face, before he straightened with a snort and trudged towards the door.
"Mercury!" Emerald shouted, but he didn't even bother turning around as he flung it open, allowing a frigid gust to blast into the room, and stalked into the darkness beyond.
Bewildered, Emerald's eyes jumped helplessly between the door and the assembled strangers before her. Bronie met her gaze and shrugged carelessly, returning her attention to a small pamphlet in hand.
After a moment of contemplation, Emerald darted after Mercury, the door slamming an echoing retort behind her.
"Was it wise to allow them to leave?" Watts asked dubiously after several moments of silence. "I would be rather displeased if all the work up to now is undone because of those two."
"It's fine." Bronie dismissed the concern, still idly thumbing through the pamphlet—a take-out directory of nearby establishments. "D'you want Mistralian or Valean?
"I am serious, Zaychik." Watts insisted urgently. "I've invested quite some time into this little endeavor of yours and I will not see my efforts ruined because those children are unable to control their tempers."
"I said it's fine," she repeated. "Did you really think I wouldn't see this coming? They'll be back soon. Torchwick!" She called to the man, who grunted a lazy acknowledgement. "Mistralian or Valean? Mantle's off the table; Watts is no-good with greasy food."
"Well, excuse me for disliking the oil-saturated mess that Mantle tries to pass off as fine cuisine," Watts snapped, still clearly irked at her idle dismissal. "I'd prefer to survive past middle-age, thank you very much."
"I wasn't taking a jab at you."
"Mistral, if you're paying, otherwise, Vale," the thief drawled, ignoring the bickering. He had returned to languidly lounging on the couch after the excitement had died down. Neo poked him. "Make that two for Mistral," he amended. He raised his head slightly—just enough that he could catch a glimpse of the small girl from his periphery. "Should a doctor be ordering take-out to begin with? What happened to all that 'apple a day' stuff?"
"I'm not a doctor," Bronie reminded him blandly. "Eat whatever you like; it's not like it'll kill you any faster than that."
She lay the pamphlet on the table. "Mistralian it is, I'll go make the order. Watts is in charge while I'm out. Don't make a mess."
Mantle's East End or, as some of its denizens colloquially put it, "The End," had always rested in a deplorable state, as if the rest of the city as a whole had designated it the dumping ground for its undesirables. As such, it naturally became the gathering point for Mantle's refuse, both in the literal and figurative senses. It teemed with the dejected and the degenerate, all scrounging about their lives in hopeless squalor.
There was nothing quite so telling to this decrepitude than the architecture itself. The East End was a section of the city that was routinely passed up for public works in favor of enhancing some of the more respectable regions, and it showed. Rather than being the exception, the dilapidated tenement that the pair of criminals had awoken in seemed to be the rule of this place; every building here echoed the same general deterioration of its neighbor. Graffiti scouring the sides of buildings and walls offered some reprieve from the pallid grey that seemed to cling to every surface, but even those had become dull and faded with neglect. The pothole-riddled streets ran narrow and claustrophobic, though this posed little concern as few vehicles cared to pass through the area, if it could be at all avoided.
Though the winter winds continued to deposit fresh layers of snow throughout the night, it did little to alleviate the disgusting dourness of the place. Even as it fell from the pitch sky, the snow, too, inherited a dirty, dark hue as each it floated through the miasma of smog and filth that plagued this place, leaving the streets stained in layers of muddy gray.
Despite, or perhaps as a result of, the overall decline of its quarters, the East End held host to a teeming nightlife. Every manner of vagrant and vagabond came out when the sun set to mingle with some of their more fortunate neighbors. On occasion, they might even receive something in the way of a free meal or drink, should a reveler prove adequately inebriated. With so many cloistered pockets of people milling about, retaining some modicum of anonymity proved difficult. The flickering neon, at least, mirrored the decrepit state of the East End, allowing the pair some small amount of privacy in the dimness.
"What a crock a'shit," Mercury snarled when Emerald caught pace with him. "She poisons us, drags us to Mantle and then has the nerve to act all high-and-mighty? I should've pulped her stupid, smug face when I had the chance."
Emerald shivered violently, tuning out the ranting of her partner; her attire was entirely unsuited to the biting cold of an Atlesian winter. Aura would mitigate the worst of it, for a time, but it definitely wouldn't last at this rate.
"Who does she think she is?" Mercury continued to gripe, kicking a nearby bin and sending the noise echoing along the streets.
"To be fair," Emerald said hesitantly, "she did kind of save us. It's either here or the desert."
"What? You're gonna take her side on this?"
"Well, I don't think I like where yours has gotten us," she snapped. Why did she even bother? She should've known better; reason wasn't going to get through the idiot's thick skull right now. "Look, just forget it, alright?"
Mercury continued to rant, pouring forth his every grievance to the frigid winter winds without signs of slowing. At some point, he became aware that his partner had been uncharacteristically silent for a while and turned expectantly towards her.
He was alone.
Wheeling about in confusion, he peered through the thinning throngs of people to no avail; Emerald was nowhere to be seen.
"Hey, geezer," he snapped at a nearby pedestrian. "Did you see where the girl next to me went?"
The man turned, an affronted expression on his face, which quickly morphed into something curiously unplaceable. Rather than answer, he quickened his pace, shooting glances over his shoulder, as if frightened that Mercury may follow.
"What the hell." Mercury turned back to find that the few remaining bystanders were openly staring at him now after the outburst. Even in the gloom, he could see that they wore similar expressions of fright, shock and, strangely enough on some, excited intrigue. One raised their scroll and snapped a quick picture. "Seriously, what the hell."
He hurried off in the opposite direction, if only to escape the unnerving stares, just to stop again when a hushed, urgent call caught his attention.
"Hey! Idiot! Get over here!" Emerald hissed, having apparently taken refuge in a shaded alleyway that they had passed earlier.
Mercury rushed to meet her. "What the hell are you doing? Don't just disappear like that."
"I tried to get your attention earlier," she snapped, "but you were too busy having a tantrum. Look." She pointed to a nearby shop window, a television in the display just barely visible from their hiding place. It played a pre-recorded loop of footage of the scarred, ruined remains of Vale. Even from the distant, aerial view, the sheer scale of the damage was unmistakable.
Mercury let out a low whistle. "That crazy bitch actually did it," he murmured. Emerald merely nodded, a conflicted expression on her face.
The scene on the television switched abruptly to a lineup of mugshots. The first couple were a number of prominent White Fang members, but as the lineup scrolled towards the end, Mercury could see his and Emerald's face peering blankly from the television screen.
"Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. What's going on?" He hissed, ducking fully into the shadows of the alley. "Why are we being blamed for that? We never even got to Vale!"
Emerald shook her head, helplessly. "I have no idea, but it looks like we won't be able to walk around carelessly. What do we do?"
"Get out of Mantle, of course. What else?"
"The city's locked down, remember? Even if we get past the walls without anyone catching us, there's nothing out there but miles of open tundra."
"Then, what? We go back and do whatever the kid tells us?"
"Do you have a better idea?"
"No…just…ugh." He sank into a crouch against the wall, head clasped in his hands in a show of abject frustration.
"What did she offer us, anyway?" Emerald asked curiously, also lowering herself into a crouch. When her partner didn't respond, refusing to meet her gaze, she asked again, more insistently. "Mercury. What did she offer us?"
"Money," he finally admitted from behind his hands. "A lot of it."
"That's it?"
"No." He hesitated. "She said she could give us a clean slate, Em. Wipe our names from every criminal database in the kingdoms. It'd be like we never existed."
Emerald shot up from her seat. "And you walked away from that? Why? Mercury, what were you thinking?"
"Look, maybe I wasn't thinking, alright?" He hissed back.
"Yeah! No shit!"
"Emerald," he said slowly, his face a curious mixture of helplessness and stubborn insistence. "We have nearly died more times than I can count in the last week because someone keeps thinking they can use us however they want. And now that kid's trying to get in on the action, too! Aren't you tired of just being someone's pawn? It doesn't matter if it's Cinder, Salem or that brat—we're expendable to them."
"So, what? Instead of going along with that, we're just going to freeze on Mantle's streets while our faces are being broadcast to the entire city? What are we even supposed to do? We don't have anywhere to sleep, we don't have money, we can't get out of the city and we can't even beg because everyone knows our faces. What's the plan here? We have to go back."
"And work for the kid. Why am I not surprised?" He hissed nastily. "Cinder threw you out and now you're just desperately trying to find a new master to tell you what to do."
"That has nothing to do with this!"
"Doesn't it? We just got cut loose. Cinder thinks we're dead. We're home free. We got out and now you're saying you want to jump right back in? Are you crazy?"
His words tore at raw scars, gouging vicious furrows into her heart and nourishing the seeds of doubt that had already taken root. "Face it, Em, you couldn't ever think for yourself. You always had Cinder do all the thinking for you and now that she's thrown you out, you don't know what to do." He stubbornly shook his head. "But that's not me; I'm done being a tool. I'm not dying for someone else's grand plan."
"So instead you'll sit out here in the cold and snow with no plan?" Emerald snapped sourly. "How is that any better?"
Mercury didn't respond, avoiding her incensed gaze.
"Look, I know you don't like her. I'm not sure I do either—there's something seriously off about her. But we don't have a choice. Besides, you never liked Cinder, but you still managed to work with her."
"Yeah, because she'd kill us if we didn't."
"Is this that much different? We're going to have to fend for ourselves if we don't accept her help, and I don't like our odds."
Mercury continued to stare glumly at the brick wall of the adjacent building, his eyes unfocused and dark. Emerald wasn't even entirely certain he was listening to her at this point. Whether she liked it or not, she knew her partner better than most. She knew him well enough, at least, to know that he would sit here as long as he could if it meant avoiding facing the music.
"You stupid, stubborn ass." she finally seethed when it was clear that he wasn't going to come to a decision anytime soon. The cold was really starting to get to her. She wasn't dressed for this. Why would she be? They had been in the desert just three days ago! "Fine," she snapped. "Do what you want, but I'm going back. Even if she only winds up giving us half of what she promised, it's still better than this." She trudged off into the deepening snow, retracing the path that they had taken. With any luck, that offer would still be on the table.
The aged hinges of the entrance to the common area had seen more use in the span of a few hours than they had in the decade prior. They screeched in protest at the sudden surge in activity, groaning miserably and shedding flakes of crimson rust as they were once again pressed into unwilling service. The metal door swung open for the umpteenth time that day, revealing Watts, Neo and Roman seated at the large table, quietly picking food from an assortment of plastic takeout containers.
"What'd I tell you? Right on time." Bronie hadn't even bothered to raise her head at the sound of the creaking door. Unlike the trio at the table, she had seemingly chosen to skip dinner and instead sat at the far end of the room, fiddling with a projector.
"It's…it's just me," Emerald called uncertainly as she shook off the snow and stepped hesitantly over the threshold.
Watts snorted around a piece of food, muttering something pointed and sarcastic under his breath.
"Oh ye of little faith. He'll be here." Bronie dismissed the complaint before scolding him, "And don't do that while you're eating. It's rude." Addressing Emerald, she invited the other girl to take one of the remaining vacant seats. "Help yourself to whatever," she called dismissively. "It's Mistralian cuisine, by popular demand."
Emerald accepted the offered seat, immediately noting the strained atmosphere around the dinner table. An awkward silence lay upon the group, a heavy, smothering blanket of seething tension and ill-concealed irritation. She found herself suddenly thinking that she should have stayed away just a bit longer—at least until dinner had concluded. The cold was far preferable to this.
Neo seemed to be the least affected by the atmosphere, as she was with most things, content to pile her plate high with an eclectic array of delicacies. By contrast, her partner was clearly uncomfortable. He had barely eaten, and his arrogant facade failed to conceal the jittering unease of his hands or mask the restless shifting in his seat.
"What's the matter, Roman, not hungry?" Emerald teased, more to have something break the oppressive silence than anything else.
"I don't have much of an appetite right now," he said, clearly relieved to have some conversation to distract himself with. "You know what they say: poor company makes the food taste worse."
Watts scoffed. He, at least, seemed to have come to some sort of peace with the situation, his expression a peculiar mix of abject irritation and blank resignation. "I should be the one complaining here, I think. Dining with street ruffians is hardly my idea of an ideal time."
None seemed to have the energy to argue further, and the table lapsed into a silence once more. This time, however, the silence did not last as it was quickly and harshly abbreviated by a sound that they had all heard countless times that day. The door groaned its tortured groan, the hinges shed their crimson flakes and the aperture swung slowly open, framing the disgruntled, snow-covered form of Mercury Black.
"See? Told you," Bronie quipped from her corner.
Like a storm, the teen raged into the room, stalking right up to the girl, who didn't even bother glancing up from her work at the noise.
"And he's gone and tracked snow all over the floor," she complained. "Would it kill you to shake off your boots, at least?"
"Cut the crap," he snapped back. "What do you want from us?"
"I'll tell you when I tell you. For now, have a seat and get something to eat."
"I'm not hungry," Mercury growled, threateningly stepping forward. "Just tell us what's going on already."
Her eyes flicked up from the device for a moment, admonishing the teen's brashness. "You've spent the last seventy-two hours in dreamland thanks to a particularly aggressive chemical agent and then proceeded to empty the contents of your stomach onto my clean, workshop table. You are dehydrated and malnourished. Eat. I'm not going through explanations twice because you passed out in the middle of it."
"Look, kid, I'm not–"
A low, protesting growl emanated from his gut. Almost as if the sound had reminded his body of its fatigue, Mercury began to sway, his head feeling light and airy. The savory, rich scent of grilled meats wafted at his nose, tickling his senses and tantalizing his appetite, spurring it to greater voracity. His gaze flickered to the veritable feast—now half gone—on the table and then back to the stern expression which was wholly unfitting on the childish face. His stomach growled again.
"...Fine."
The meal passed in uncomfortable silence, the only sound being the clattering of cutlery and the occasional shuffling whenever someone reached across the table. Roman was the first to succumb to the pressure, though his desperate attempts to prompt some form of shallow conversation with the older man sitting to his left were swiftly rebuked. Watts deigned only to respond with curt statements and, when they sufficed, unenthusiastic grunts. At the very least, he wasn't outright ignoring the thief. The good doctor, it seemed, was attempting to appear cordial—an improvement that Bronie noted with approval.
She harbored no delusions about the fractured state of the group. It was a collection of egotistical, bull-headed misfits participating in her scheme purely out of necessity. It was a delicate balancing act—one teetering on a flimsy pillar of uncertain rewards and ulterior motives. There was absolutely no way they were ever going to proceed beyond cordial, and even that would require some work. For her plan to succeed she needed…not trust, exactly—even she wasn't hopeful enough to believe in a miracle like that—but a certain degree of cooperation between all involved.
In time, the shuffling of utensils quieted, too, as the five finally had their fill and the room plunged in total silence. A tension, distinct from the previous strained atmosphere, fell upon the group. It was the electric anticipation of a new job and the allure of extravagant reward manifesting as watchful eagerness from all but one.
"Right. Well then." The quiet was broken when Bronie shifted from her seat and rose to her feet. "I'm sure you're all curious as to why I've gathered you here."
"Before that," Mercury interrupted. "What the hell happened? Why are our faces all over every television in Mantle?" The sudden satiety of his appetite had dulled the sharpened edges of his words considerably, but the vitriol was still clear for all to see.
"Not all of you, just you and Emerald," Bronie corrected. She shrugged, the ghost of a smile twitching her cheek. "Some good Samaritan reported the identities of the people responsible for the terrorist attack in Vale. Whoever it was must be quite well connected."
Watts rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath.
"A good what?"
"Nevermind."
"Sure. Whatever. And this was supposed to convince us to help you, how, exactly?"
Bronie's head tilted slightly askance. "Well, you're here, aren't you?"
"Yeah, and I'm asking you why we're better off going along with your little scheme than trying to fend for ourselves out there."
"I already told you, didn't I?" She asked. "You get a clean slate. A fresh start. As far as the majority of the world would be concerned, you four will have always been upstanding, law-abiding citizens. Sure, you probably won't ever be able to come back to Mantle, but I doubt any of you are particularly troubled by that little detail. Plus, there's a little bit of something to line your pockets with if we succeed."
"And, if we still refuse?"
An exasperated noise rushed past the girl's teeth. Mercury could not help but shiver slightly despite himself when a baleful glare became fixed squarely upon him. The gaze was cold, the steely irises flat and lifeless, like that of a doll. When Bronie spoke, a biting frost had entered her tone, more frigid than the winds outside the city's walls.
"Then you'd be even more stupid than I could have possibly accounted for." She nodded towards his partner, who had opted to keep her peace. "Emerald seems interested in hearing me out. I'd advise that you follow her example. She, at least, seems to grasp the situation you're in. Otherwise." She gestured towards the door. "By all means, go ahead and try your luck alone in the city. I wouldn't recommend it. The good general's become quite paranoid over the last month; he won't take kindly to seeing known terrorists in his jurisdiction."
"Something happen to the tin man?" Roman piped up, the small tidbit of information piquing his interest. "I've always said all that overtime will be the death of him."
Bronie scoffed, finally breaking eye-contact with Mercury. "He's losing it. The man's seeing shadows around every corner, and every single one of them wants to hurt his precious city. The lockdown, the isolation, the overly-aggressive enforcement—it's all because his faith in Atlas's security is shaking and he's started to panic. As it turns out, that works out perfectly for us."
She rounded on the group dramatically.
"Now then, if there are no more questions." Her gaze swept across the inhabitants of the room, lingering slightly as they passed Mercury. She tapped her scroll and the projector whirred to life, a three-dimensional blueprint of a building glowing to life in the center of the room.
"Ladies, gentlemen—our target."
The general reaction was immediate and unfavorable. Watts sighed, laying a hand on his face and rubbing tiredly at his eyes. Roman whistled.
"No. No, no, no, absolutely not."
"Look, kid, we're gonna be here all night if you keep exploding at everything the shrimp says. Let's just hear her out."
"Hear her out?" Mercury jabbed an accusatory finger at the flickering projection. "Do even see this? What part of that makes you think we should hear her out? It's insane! She's insane!"
A soft clearing of the throat redirected their attention to the topic at hand. "You're only partially right," Bronie corrected. "I'm not insane. Our target is Atlas Academy or, to be more precise, the Command Center beneath Atlas Academy. The living, beating heart of the Kingdom of Atlas."
A command, rapidly typed into her scroll, prompted the hologram to shift dizzyingly, revealing a complex substructure of hallways penetrating deep into the depths of the floating island. Bronie indicated towards a lone shaft that proceeded further beyond any others, seemingly to the base of the landmass, though what lay at the end was represented by a blank space.
"The Sarcophagus," she introduced. "Located a thousand meters beneath the Main Ring; it technically doesn't exist. You won't find it on any database, blueprint or map of the kingdom." She fixed each of the room's occupants with a professional gaze. "As Mercury has already guessed, we're going to rob it."
"The Relic of Creation?" Emerald hazarded a guess.
"Sorry, what's this about?"
"Later, Torchwick. It's not relevant," Bronie said before addressing Emerald. "In short, no. It's a different secret, subterranean vault entirely. I'm not terribly interested in ancient all-powerful artifacts; my goal is something else. This vault is only accessible through the service shaft located directly in the center of Atlas Command. In terms of security, it's just as strict as the Relic Vault, if not more so."
She paused for further questions, but none came. Her audience stared expectantly at her, waiting for her to continue.
"Alright," she said. "Bad news first: It's a military base. A military base of the most technologically advanced kingdom on Remnant. Suffice to say, they've got the resources to match that title, even with large portions of their network down. Clearly, a head-on assault is no good; we're going to need to approach it with a bit more finesse."
She rapped at her scroll, shifting the scene once again.
"The first of the tricky bits is this—the doors to Atlas Command's Inner Ring. Getting into the facility at all will be difficult but manageable. The Inner-Ring, however, is a different beast entirely. These doors," she indicated towards three glowing entrances spaced in even intervals along the ring, "require authorization from government personnel with a clearance level of four or higher. In other words, we need an official's access card—and a particularly high-ranking one, at that."
The scene continued to shift as she spoke, revealing another maze of hallways.
"Beyond those is another mess of hallways, each monitored twenty-four hours a day by a hefty array of surveillance cameras. Needless to say, there aren't any blind spots—the moment you step into those halls, all of Atlas Security will know."
The final portion of the map zoomed into focus: the elevator which led into unknown territory.
"After that is the elevator shaft—the biggest hurdle. Getting those doors open requires a twelve-digit alphanumeric code and the elevator requires biometric confirmation from Ironwood himself to even start. In other words, the general must be present to gain access to the vault. Try to override those controls in any way and the box goes into lockdown. You'll be stuck sitting there waiting for Atlas's finest to come pick you up.
Her eyes traced the length of the path as the view panned ever downwards. A frown creased her face.
"Passed that, things become…uncertain." She heaved a breath. "I'll be frank: I have no idea what sort of defenses lie at the bottom of that elevator. The only guarantee I can give is that any security at that point will be fully automated. As far as secrecy goes, that area is sacrosanct. Having live personnel at that level would be tantamount to sacrilege. But once that's all done, it's simple. Grab the goods and get out the way we came. Any questions?"
She looked towards the assembled group and a quartet of dumbfounded eyes stared back at her—Watts still had his hand clasped over his face and a slight grimace had drawn itself upon his lips.
Neo made a series of esoteric gestures, which Bronie nodded attentively towards.
"No," she swiftly denied. "Tunneling isn't an option. There are vibration sensors monitoring the entirety of that depth for several hundred feet in every direction. If you so much as plant a shovel anywhere in that vicinity, you'll have the full brunt of the Atlesian Military coming down on you."
Roman glanced curiously between his partner and their ringleader. "Alright, shrimp, if all that's the bad news, then what's the good news?"
Bronie gazed critically at the projection, particularly at the empty space representing their goal. "A couple points," she responded. "First, we won't need to worry about passage into Atlas proper—I've got that covered. Around a year or so ago, I went ahead and bought the freighter company that Atlas contracts to ship amenities topside. Coincidentally, Lepus Logistics has five brand-new employees starting today."
"You bought it."
Bronie shrugged. "Sometimes, the most straightforward solution is to throw money at the problem."
"Well, I can't say I dislike your style, kid."
"Second, before the shutdown, I took the liberty of compiling a dossier of every current employee at the headquarters. That includes official documentation as well as any social media, known aliases, legal records, family—anything pertaining to them in even the slightest capacity. Watts has been doing a…passable…job of isolating key individuals who may be able to provide much-needed openings." She paused for a moment. "And by that, I mean I made him read through the personal chat logs of several dozen disgruntled officials over the course of the month. As it turns out, there's quite a few unhappy people in the military. Who would've thought."
The man in question grunted irately, refusing to say a word.
"Third and, most importantly for you five, is that I only expect you to get that elevator shaft open. Do that, and your respective roles have been completed."
"I beg your pardon?" Watts asked incredulously. "You don't intend for us to see the job through to the end? You, who requires every aspect of this plan to be fully under your control, would proceed alone?"
Bronie nodded. "That's right. I told you, didn't I? I have no idea what sort of security lies beyond that point. It is an unknown and, as such, I cannot guarantee any form of success. I'm not unreasonable—I have no intention of forcing you all into what may be an unwinnable situation, nor do I think that any of you would be of any use at that point. The elevator will be enough, I'll handle the rest."
"And lets say," Roman drawled, "just for the sake of argument, that you don't make it out. How exactly are we supposed to collect on these rewards that you've promised us?"
Bronie brushed away the concern with a dismissing wave of the hand. "Don't you worry about that; I've prepared contingencies for that possibility. You'll get your rewards whether or not I'm there to hand them out to you personally—even yours, Torchwick. Provided you perform your duties adequately, of course."
"I think," Watts sat up in his chair. Despite the deep, tired bags beneath, his eyes flared with a stubborn curiosity, "that it's high-time you told us what exactly your objective is. Considering the target and the resources you've sunk into this, I doubt it is monetary gain, nor does your motive seem to be purely vindictive. What could warrant this?" He asked, gesturing towards the hologram.
Feeling the weight of five expectant stares on her, Bronie conceded. "I suppose it's only fair." She pondered for several moments mulling over how best to broach the topic before asking a question. "Why do you suppose Atlas is considered the most technologically advanced superpower?
"Money."
"Military."
"I built it."
She shook her head as three very different responses sounded out. "All true, to an extent, but I believe the actual reason lies here," she gestured towards the empty space in the projection, "in this room. Have any of you heard of the Prometheus Core?"
"You mean that conspiracy theory that they found some ancient artifact under Mantle way back when?" Emerald asked.
Bronie nodded, reciting the information as if she were reading it aloud. "The rumor goes that during the decade of reconstruction after the Great War, the most preeminent researchers of Atlas came to possess an artifact that was claimed to have been unearthed in one of the older dust-mines. They identified the benefactor as a woman who only referred to herself as Jingwei."
Watts shifted uncomfortably.
"They found that the core had several anomalous properties. For one, it was seemingly indestructible—no amount of physical damage seemed to harm it in any significant manner. More importantly, however, is that it displayed the capability to perform calculations and processes at an unimaginable level, far outstripping the technology at the time. Naturally, their first thought was to integrate it into the fledgling network. The theory goes that those researchers figured out how to interface with the Core and that it is the true reason Atlas has progressed so rapidly." Bronie paused for a moment. "I believe that the vault beneath Atlas Command is where it is kept."
"Hang on, hang on," Mercury waved his hands. "You believe that's where it's kept? You mean, you aren't even sure?"
"Not for certain," she admitted. "Again, what lies in that vault is a mystery. However, it is the most likely location."
"Alright. Let's say for a moment that we actually get this crazy plan to work. We manage to sneak into Atlas HQ. We make it through the hallways filled with military personnel. Past the door that we can't unlock. Down the elevator we don't have the credentials for. You're saying after all that, it just might not be there? That this stupid stone of yours might not even exist?"
"It exists." The voice came not from Bronie but from the introspective form of Arthur Watts. All eyes swiveled to him. He matched the inquisitive stares with a haughty one of his own. "I did design the modern specifications of the Atlesian network from the ground up. I know every last inch of that infrastructure, save for one, key component."
He leaned back, the old folding seat creaking in protest at the action as he examined the projection with renewed interest.
"Atlas command has always held their secrets close and I was never granted the opportunity to examine it for myself, but it was clearly evident that they were in possession of something remarkable," he explained. "The technologies that I was placed in charge of were impossibly advanced. In terms of efficiency, speed and sheer calculating power, they superseded anything that should have been possible at the time. Or today, for that matter. It was not a tremendous logical leap to come to the conclusion that the rumored Prometheus Core existed and that Atlas was currently in possession of it." A small flicker of excitement ghosted through his expression for a fleeting moment. "To have confirmation of its existence, however, is a different matter entirely."
"Different how?" Mercury demanded. "Why does it matter that the stupid thing exists if we can't get to it?"
"Who says we can't get to it?" Bronie asked. "Do you really think I went through the trouble of making preparations and gathering you all without a sound plan in mind? I know what I'm doing."
She glared pointedly at each of her co-conspirators to find a wide array of expressions running the gamut from mildly unconvinced to intrigued to conflicted anger. She stifled the instinctive reaction to tear at her hair in frustration, instead settling for brushing some stray, silver strands from her face and pushing her hood back.
Perhaps she had been too forceful, she thought, as she allowed the projector to die down, the holographic structure snapping back to nothingness as the lights in the room automatically flickered back to life. Perhaps she had been a tad too optimistic to think that they would fall in line so easily. It was only natural that an operation of this scale would require more than some nice words and vague assurances.
"I know that you may all have your misgivings." She addressed the group neutrally, allowing some portion of the cold, unfeeling machine to bleed into her tone. "It is understandable; what I have proposed could be interpreted as lunacy or pure fantasy. I promise you, I do have a plan which guarantees some modicum of success as long as you all play your respective parts to the best of your ability."
Her eyes flickered to the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the far wall. One thirty-seven in the morning. "For now, get some rest," she commanded. "We have a lot of work ahead of us."
As the group disbanded to their respective quarters, Watts murmured lowly, "Congratulations, children. You've traded one witch in for another."
"I heard that."
"You were meant to."
I recently realized that I've had the alt-codes for en-dash and em-dash mixed up and have been using the wrong ones up til now. I probably won't go through all the previous chapters to fix it since I've been finding myself short on time recently, but it'll be fixed from here on out.
I intend for the Atlas arc to be a full-blown heist operation with all the buildup and planning that would entail. It is simultaneously exciting and extremely worrying. I don't know if I'm creative enough to write out a convincing heist but, hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
We're still going to pop in on occasion to see what's been happening with our increasingly fragmented Beacon group, so don't worry about that, I've still got plans for them and their trek through Mistral.
Life's been busy and this chapter is a wee bit later than I really would have liked.
These endnotes always run longer than I really intend. I don't get a lot of human interaction, so I like to dump out some of my runaway thoughts down here. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed.
