Ochre light beckoned from beyond shuttered lids, its glow seeping into the darkness, its warmth caressing cheeks rosy from the wind's harsh nipping. The midwinter chill, which had settled heavily in an oppressive layer over the ground, was wholly absent. In its place, the dying embers of a late-summer eve kissed the flesh, still lively enough to carry the day's warmth, but underscored by a certain briskness which innervated the senses and stirred the mind.

Navy eyes shuddered open abruptly, flickering wildly for a moment before realizing where this was. He was here again. A forest clearing in the midst of the gloaming.

It wasn't the first time he had come here over the course of his journey. This scenery, this dream—and by now he was certain that it was a dream—beckoned to him from beyond the wall of sleep, as if someone, somewhere were inviting him in. But there was never anyone else.

He slowly rose to his feet, already knowing what he'd find but realizing that he would have to walk the path regardless. At the end of this lightly-wooded road, a mansion, serene and impossible would loom, like an ancient sage presiding over its forest. He would try the door, but find it resolutely barred, as it had been so many times before. And then he would wait. He would sit upon the stoop and wait a timeless age for a sun that never set, for a night that never fell and for a new day that would never come. He would wait until his consciousness bled from the dream back to reality, and he would wake with a start, having forgotten everything about the night's excursion.

This time, however, something was markedly different. That stillness which had always been wholly unperturbed had vanished. Thatches of wild grass whipped about in agitation, the branches of surrounding trees groaning as the gusts bid them to bow before their might. With a start, he realized the sky was moving, the clouds above lazily drifting, casting their behemoth, intermittent shadows along the field. The sun, in its eternal descent behind the horizon, had finally, perceptibly, begun to sink, inviting the dusky hues of early evening to lay claim over the land.

The door to the mansion was ever-so-slightly ajar, the flickering candlelight behind beckoning him in. With the dredges of muted dread coalescing in his stomach, he strode forth and walked the halls, tracing the path that he had followed innumerable times before. The resplendent lights of the days of yore were gone now, his way illuminated only by an occasional, dying candle. The paper doors, most of which lay open, revealed nothing but barren, empty rooms, a heavy mat of dust layering the straw floors.

The winding path of the candles guided him down a set of halls he recognized. The way to the heart of the mansion. The sitting room.

It was the same as it had always been. The same sparsely decorated room, the same, pristine, tatami mats, and the same woman, knelt upon a cushion, nursing a steaming cup of tea. Everything, the same as it had always been, but, nonetheless, something was off.

It was difficult to tell, but her eyes held a vague vacancy, as if some part had been gouged or burnt out and the void filled haphazardly with what remained. She glanced at him, the distant look clearing slightly, and she nodded her head in acknowledgement. Jaune could see nothing but formless, fathomless mists where there had once been solid, grounded certainty.

"I apologize for inviting you in such a state," she said as he took his seat across from her, her voice soft and lacking some of its usual rigidity. "The pieces reflect the whole, and I regret to say that I've forgotten a number of things. I am afraid that this will be the last time you visit this place, Jaune Arc."

Despite the differences, her voice, her mannerisms—they were all achingly familiar.

"You're her," Jaune rasped, pausing for a moment to clear his throat. "You're her," he repeated more confidently. "You're Master Hua. The old Master Hua. Not that person who keeps saying she's you."

Flowing grey locks fluttered as her head shifted slightly askance, as if mildly amused. "I am but a fragment of the whole," she said simply. "A single plume amongst many. But that is not the reason you've found yourself here, is it?"

He averted his gaze, staring deeply into the amber liquid. He knew why the path of his dreams continued to lead him here. He had desired it. He had come to seek guidance from the one person he knew could offer it. He had lingered at a crossroads for far too long, and someone had finally come to force a choice. What he was doing was right—he was sure of it—yet the chastising look that clouded his Master's eyes was heavy beyond compare.

"You intend to try and save Miss Nikos." She said after several moments of silence. The question was not asked but stated as a matter of fact.

"I do."

"Knowing fully what the consequences that such a route would entail?"

Jaune hesitated. Hua—the other Hua—had detailed with painful clarity exactly what Pyrrha was capable of now that she had become…that. What his choice would cost.

"I do," he repeated. "If she's still in there, if there's even the slightest chance, I'm going to save her."

"I see." She placed her cup down with a small exhalation. "And there is nothing that can be said to dissuade you from this course."

"No," he insisted even more vehemently, the heat in his breast rising and loosening his tongue. "She did nothing wrong! All Pyrrha ever wanted to do was help people. That's why she followed Ozpin's stupid plan. That's why she chose to become the Maiden. She didn't want any of this."

"Perhaps she did not," his mentor agreed, "But that does not change the fact that she is dangerous. In time, her mind will erode. Every facet of her conscience will be scoured from her being and replaced with nothing but malice. A flame that desires to consume all."

"She's still Pyrrha."

"Perhaps," she conceded. "Perhaps in some manner or other, a fragment of her will still resides within that form. It matters little. Remnant will burn."

"How can you be so sure?" The cup creaked in his fist, its contents sloshing dangerously. "No one's tried to talk to her. No one's tried to help her. No one's done anything except say that she needs to be killed. Isn't this what heroes are supposed to do? Save the people who need to be saved? How can you give up so easily?"

A look that bordered on pity flashed across her face. An expression of intermingled understanding, contrition and, oddly, regret. "I never trained you to become a hero, Arc," she said quietly. "I trained you in the only way I knew how—as a soldier, a warrior. Our duty is to protect, even if it means that some must be sacrificed to that cause—the path of a protector is long and difficult." She echoed one of the first warnings she had ever given him, reminding him of the mantle that he had willingly taken up.

"Then…then maybe I don't want to become a protector. Maybe I just want to save the people I care about. I won't sacrifice her."

"Even at the expense of all else?" She paused, bowing her head slightly at his silence. "I have seen it happen before. Flames that swallowed an entire continent. Countless lives lost. So many precious things and people, reduced to naught but ashes on the wind. These are the stakes you gamble on, Arc. The things that you risk. All for the life of one woman. Would you truly allow this?"

The words, biting and harsh, scorched and died in his throat. His tongue lay useless and bitter in his mouth. Yet, stubbornly, resolutely, he nodded.

The grooves in her brow deepened, a tiredness that he had never seen before pervading her expression. "Do you know the Inventor's Wish, Arc?" She asked.

"The fairy tale?" He asked, taken aback by the sudden shift in topic.

"Indeed." She traced the rim of her cup. Her eyes remained fixed on her finger, but those tranquil depths gazed elsewhere, somewhere far beyond. "Once upon a time, a man—a genius inventor—lost the person who meant the most to him in the world. He devoted his life to seeking a way to return the one thing which he was forever unable to create—life.

The path was a long and arduous one, fraught with peril, and all along the way he abandoned pieces of himself. What remained of his faltering humanity, he forsook, that he may have more time. What remained of his waning morality, he discarded, that his path may be clear.

In time, he learned to forge the vessel—and many things besides—but it was a hollow husk and nothing more. The vital force, he could never truly replicate. The mind may seek out a new vessel, but a vessel cannot gather the fragments of the mind. What he sought to accomplish—it could not be done. Yet still, he persisted. Even when others told him of its impossibility, even when the entire world rose up against him…he persisted.

For the sake of his obsession, he bore ever-greater sins, collecting the weight of countless sacrifices along the way. For the Inventor, no price was too great, no act too unthinkable, if it brought him even a step closer to that singular goal."

She paused, resorbing her own words. The distant haze in her eyes coalesced into something as hard as steel. When she spoke again, it was with the sour tinge of regret.

"It was the most steadfast of love which rained calamity from the heavens and sowed atrocities across the world. The purest intentions, which brought mankind to its knees time and again. Humanity could only rise to its feet so many times before it fell for good. The Inventor died, unfulfilled, alongside the world that he doomed."

A deep silence fell upon the room. Outside, night had well and truly taken hold for the first time. Resplendent hues of somber purples and cool blue shadowed the courtyard. The moon, glistening and full, rose arduously in the east.

Jaune knew what she was implying—he would have to be a fool not to. He knew what the smart choice was. He knew what a proper huntsman ought to do. But, he was not a proper huntsman. He was a fake, through-and-through. To forsake the one person who had well and truly believed in him—how could he possibly do that? What was the purpose, he wondered, in wanting to become a huntsman if he couldn't even save a single girl?

"How far upon the Inventor's path do you intend to travel, Jaune Arc?"

His master's face had slackened, an odd vulnerability present that he had never seen before. Though her features remained as youthful as ever, the haunting burden of time and unending duty conferred to it a sense of great age. Her head, bowed slightly in remembrance, bore a weight that only she knew.

"How many concessions do you expect to be granted? How many favors do you think the universe will offer? Will you demand that the world cease its turning? Or that the heavens shift to align with your desires? How many lives do you intend to lay upon the altar of your wishes before you finally decide it is enough?"

Her voice had begun to grow muffled, as if he were hearing her through a layer of cotton. The edges of his vision began to darken and bleed, warm motes of light sparking occasionally in the shadows.

"And," she said, her voice a thousand miles away. She fixed him in place with a sharp stare, its fierceness reminiscent of the other Hua. "What will you do if Miss Nikos proves to be beyond saving?"

"What will you do?"

Normally, Jaune's dreams washed away upon waking, like silt upon the shore. That question, however, remained branded upon his mind, burning and insistent, when he became fully conscious.

Blearily, he shifted out of his sleeping bag, shivering as Mistral's gales sunk deep into his bones, thoroughly dispelling the warmth which the dream had conferred to him. The embers of the previous night's fire glowed feebly, frantically scrabbling to consume what little fuel remained in the pit. He kicked a clump of snow to extinguish it fully.

"What will you do?"

He didn't know. Of course not. And he couldn't afford to think about it now. Not while they still had yet to find the source of his troubles. Scanning their hastily-made camp, he noted the woman sat across the pit as she gazed blankly through the densely wooded thicket which they had claimed for the night's rest.

"Didn't try to kill me in my sleep." He grunted, rifling through his pack for their dwindling supply of rations. The perishables had long since been either eaten or thrown out, leaving them only with forlorn scraps of bread, now hardened to the point of causing pain, along with whatever he had been able to forage over their travels.

"You say that every time you wake up," she pointed out, glumly resting her head on her flesh hand and not even bothering to spare a glance in his direction. Her other arm, as well as her absent leg, had been substituted with prosthetics—older models, outdated by at least a decade and much less responsive or mobile than anything modern. Around her wrists, a pair of silver manacles glinted in the early-morning light. Jaune hadn't bothered fastening them to anything. Even if she did attempt to flee, there was unlikely to be anything for miles. She wouldn't get very far before succumbing to the cold.

"Hm." He tossed a wrapped pack towards her, leaving her to fumble with barely-responsive, metal fingers. "We'll be back on the road before noon."

Silence, heavy and oppressive, reigned over the campsite for the next half-hour as they ate, broken only by the crinkle of Cinder struggling with the food's packaging, her replacement limbs poorly calibrated to handle anything more intricate than rudimentary coordination. Though, if she desired help, she never asked—he wasn't terribly inclined to oblige even if she did.

He allowed her freedom from the shackles while they moved, at least. Insisting that she wear them would only slow them further. They had been fortunate enough to successfully stowaway on a freighter train days after they had arrived in Mistral's western port, taking refuge in a shipment of various armaments and dust eastward-bound for the Central settlements. They were eventually forced to part with their transportation and trek on foot as Cinder directed their trajectory sharply northward, prompting a steep decline in their progress.

Her remaining leg had been irreversibly damaged in her fight against Pyrrha, losing the majority of its sensation and motor function. Functionally, it was even more of a hindrance than her antiquated prosthetics. She was forced to rely heavily on a cane to mitigate the deficit. Thankfully, so long as they didn't stray too far from the worn paths, the way was reasonably smooth, offering few hindrances beyond the thick powder of newly-fallen snow or the occasional fallen tree. Even so, their speed was necessitated to the quick hobble of his companion, a fact that wore heavily at Jaune's patience.

"There," Cinder finally noted as ashen structures slowly came into view upon cresting a hill. "Another one."

The accumulated snow abruptly lessened as they approached the town, with the snowbanks in a large radius around the settlement tapering off in a sharp incline. The newly covering snow was just a few inches thick, little enough that it had visibly absorbed the dull grey of the soot beneath.

They approached from the southern gate, which was little more than a pair of half-burnt wayposts. Like the others they had visited, living or dead, this settlement sported an odd quality seemingly unique to Mistral—It lacked walls, employing only the most rudimentary of fences to deter the local wildlife.

This far from any major kingdom, the only aid they could have hoped to receive were any combatants native to the town and, briefly, Jaune wondered just how they had managed to fend off the grimm when they left themselves so unguarded. The idle curiosity fluttered from his mind just as quickly as it had come. Unimportant. Focus on the matter at hand.

The path through ashen streets was a short one, and it did not take long to reach the town center, where a massive crafter had been gouged. The scorches were darkest here, the snow nearly black from the soot accumulated beneath. They stopped to stare at the scar in the center for a moment. Easily two-dozen feet deep, possibly more, with a diameter just as wide.

"You know the drill," Jaune finally said after a moment's lapse. "One hour. Go."

They split up, scouring the town for anything even remotely usable, with Jaune claiming the western half. It would be quick work—the settlement was small and thoroughly devastated. He doubted they would find anything. They never did.

Just as he had with every other ruined settlement, Jaune struggled to conjure any substantial reaction to the destruction. Even as he pilfered through toppled buildings and their scant few belongings, he found himself dissociating the materials from matters of real consequence. They were rubble. Random assortments of stone and coal. Nothing more.

The scorched structures, once surely home to precious lives and treasured memories, stirred no horror, no sadness. Neither did the vaguely humanoid clumps of ash which littered the streets, nor the occasional personal effects which had managed to escape the conflagration, if only partially. A blackened toy here, a withered doll there—all signs that people had once lived and died here—none of it reached him. It was all just blank, echoing emptiness, a dull apathy settling in his breast, hollowing him from the inside out, and all that could be found in the resulting void was a single goal.

They convened at the town center after the allotted hour had passed with little to show for their searchings. Whatever had happened in this settlement, it had been hot enough to scorch even the underground winter food stores, and any supplies that hadn't been entirely reduced to smoldering heaps were damaged well beyond usability. Their only consolation was that some of the ruined husks dotting the streets still sported a roof. They wouldn't have to sleep exposed to the elements tonight.

"What exactly is your plan?" Cinder asked after they had taken stock of the situation and found their prospects suboptimal.

Jauned raised a brow in muted surprise. It was rare that the woman volunteered any dialogue that wasn't prompted by himself or strictly necessary. She had kept to herself, for the most part, maintaining a cold, withdrawn silence.

"We make camp for the night and head out in the morning. Same as we've been doing."

"That is not, what I mean," she hissed, the feeble tinders of her usual temper igniting. "You have us traveling through Mistral to find your monster girlfriend; do you have a plan when we do reach her? You won't be beating her in any fight."

"What's it matter to you?"

"It matters because I don't want to get burnt when you run in there trying to talk to that thing and end up getting wiped off the face of Remnant for it. If this is all just some elaborate suicide attempt, I'd appreciate if you left me out of it."

"And why should I care about what you'd appreciate? What part of any of this makes you think I give a damn about your thoughts? This—all of this—is your doing. You made this happen, so just shut up and play your part in fixing it. If you don't like it, maybe you should try escaping with your semblance. Or maybe the maiden's power."

Cinder's fists clenched, her metal digits creaking audibly as they ground against each other. Words, sharp and cruel flicked to the tip of her tongue, daggers which she knew would dig at the most tender flesh, but they were stifled when their gazes locked. The eyes of a dead man.

Cinder had seen that look in many faces before. She had seen it in vagabonds and tramps, in people who had lost, in the ravaged and the destitute. They were the eyes of one who had discarded everything. One whose sole directive was survival at the expense of all else. Beyond pride, beyond ego, beyond will or morality.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the rules that the boy had been shackling himself with were falling away one by one, and she didn't dare risk them undoing any faster. For now, she was safe. He was still bound, his own righteousness ensuring her preservation. So she held her tongue.

"That's what I thought," Jaune said, turning on his heel and striding to a nearby shelter. "We're setting up camp. Get a move on."


Just after noon, when the sun hung highest in the sky, a stranger strode into the border town of Asagao.

Even if the settlement hadn't been relatively small, the traveler stood out like a sore thumb, towering well over the tallest citizen by at least a foot. Eyes, guarded and distrustful, watched him, tracing his path from the northern entrance to the town center, with many abandoning the task at hand to follow, albeit at a great distance.

It was not often that strangers set foot in the settlements. The myriad towns of Mistral's Coalition barely tolerated each other as it was—more out of sheer necessity than anything else—but for what was clearly a foreigner to walk into their midst; it was a rare occasion, indeed.

Yet the lightning had not struck. The man had not been forced to flee. There he stood, a behemoth of a human being, walking calmly to the tavern as if there was nothing wrong. He passed into the town's central building and disappeared from view.

The door clattered open, and a stout, old man behind the wooden counter peered up curiously, blinking at what he saw. "Sorry, big guy," he said, speaking slowly as he took in the entirety of the man's appearance. "I'm afraid we don't have rooms for travelers here. Doesn't sit well with the locals."

Hazel raised a brow. That had been the most cordially that anyone had greeted him upon setting foot in Mistral.

"Feel free to resupply, though I doubt it'll do you any good. Shipments have been coming in pretty thin lately. It's all being routed north. Who knows why." He hopped from his stool rummaging through bins and trays, producing what meager provisions he still had on hand. "It's mostly surplus from the harvest. Mainly the stuff no one else wants. Not much else out here, really. The caravan up from Argus still hasn't made its way down yet, which is mighty odd. They usually pass through right before the first snow falls."

"I…see." Hazel inspected the assortment of withered roots and vegetables. Not the best, but they would do. "I'll take as much as you'll sell me. But is it alright for you to do this? No one else seems to take too kindly to my presence here."

The old man shrugged carelessly, reclaiming his stool. "Well, that's Mistral for ya. She takes care of her own and leaves everyone else in the lurch. You never really get used to it." He winked slyly, "not even after they've gone and made you their mayor."

"That is…quite an achievement."

He belted out a hearty chuckle. "Damn near impossible is what it is! I really had to pull my weight to make that miracle happen. Mistral was kinder back then. Now…eh, not so much."

"I'm sure. But my question still stands; doesn't the Coalition have rules for something like this? For outsiders?"

"Bah, 'course they do. They've got rules for just about everything." He waved away Hazel's concern with a flippant hand. "We're just a small exterior settlement. No one in the Center cares about what goes on out here. They sure won't be sending out the enforcers if I do happen to help the occasional traveler along. Heck, do you know how long it took them to send a Priestess when we were still getting established? A year! A whole year! We had to fight off the grimm by hand in those days. It was a heck of a time."

"Hm."

"Ah," the old man coughed in embarrassment. "Sorry, sorry. I've been told I ramble a bit too much. Erm, where were we? Oh, right. Consider it a welcome-to-Mistral gift. These are dangerous times; it's best to give help when you can."

He was cut short when a raucous clamor began clanging outside, the sound loud enough to resonate throughout the settlement.

"They're ringing the bells," he said, perplexed, "I haven't heard that sound in a long time."

"An alarm? What for?"

"Grimm," he answered. "Close to the town borders. It was an old system we used when we still needed to fight them off by hand. It's been decades since they were last used; I need to see what's going on."

Hazel raised a hand, bidding the old man to pause for a moment. "Sir," he rumbled quietly, "let me take care of this. As thanks for your hospitality."

"By all means! But I doubt there'll be anything left of them when you get there. The grimm don't tend to stick around once the lightning starts striking. Either way, I'll need to make my way out there, too. This may be a small, sleepy town, but when duty calls, one must answer."

They made their way to the northern entrance where a crowd had gathered. Strangely, they seemed far less fearful than Hazel had expected, with some of the members chatting and gossiping amongst themselves. Most seemed to treat the situation as a curiosity rather than any real threat. Towering over the throng, he could immediately see what had garnered such attention.

It was a beringel, but one more hideously warped than any he had ever seen. Thick plating lay layered over large portions of its body, a glossy, smooth material that defied any implication of a natural origin. Its limbs, which should have ended in grasping, humanoid fingers had been reduced to powerful, blunted clubs of the same, inorganic material. What fur lay exposed was clearly singed and smoking, and a radius of scorched earth and burnt foliage smoldered around it.

Even as Hazel observed this, a thunderous flash of heat and light roared down from the cloudless sky, searing blinding white into his eyes for a moment before fading away, leaving the scent of ozone and smoke in its wake. Silence reigned and the assembled townsfolk began to filter away, assured of the beast's destruction.

Their idle murmurings were abruptly cut off when the beringel roared belligerently through the haze, beating its plated chest with great, resounding gongs. From all around himself, Hazel could hear frantic whisperings erupt. Why hadn't the lightning deterred the beast? Where were the guards? A restless panic rifled through the crowd when the smoke cleared, revealing the grimm standing firm, a definitive absence of any true injury present on its porcelain armor.

Its head jerked up and towards the crowd as the succulent strains of unease and fear finally began to filter from the masses. It took a lumbering step forward, saliva dribbling unhindered from its ill-fitted jaw. Some screamed, releasing another alluring plume of negativity, beckoning the behemoth ever closer. It took another step.

And so did Hazel.

Heavy boots crushed the gravel beneath with stoic, stolid surety, the sound commanding the attention of grimm and man alike. The swathes of bodies parted in deference as the giant strode forth to meet his foe. He grasped at his belt as he walked, producing a sizable crystal of deep sunset from the sachet at his waist.

He thrust it into his right shoulder, not even wincing as the jagged shard bit deeply into his flesh, lodging itself into the prodigious musculature. Coursing, orange veins glowed against his skin as highly-refined, pure energy flowed into his bloodstream, coalescing as deposits of solid rock upon his arm.

With a roar that rivaled the Beringel's, he barreled forward, trampling a direct path to his foe with impunity.

As if stunned by the sheer audacity of the action, the grimm faltered for a moment—long enough for a hard, stony fist to find its mark, crashing into the shell plating its chest. It staggered backward, a clear crack running through the breadth of pristine white. Another punishing blow found its mark, sending a new set of spiderwebs crawling from its origin.

The grimm retaliated with a clumsy thrust of its own, only to find its mismatched limbs batted aside with contemptuous ease. Hazel roared again, his thoughts consumed by the haze of combat. Another crystal—a light azure in color—found itself lodged into his other shoulder, and a glimmering sheet of ice rushed to coat his left.

He weaved between the Beringel's savage strikes, repaying each haphazard blow with two of his own. The crackling frigidness of his left left a translucent layer over whatever it struck, while the heavy hammer of his right shattered each freshly formed sheet with a snapping retort.

Left, right. Left, right. Form and shatter.

The ice condensed and crept into the cracks and divots left by stone, gradually widening the wounds before being shattered, only to reform once more. Over and over and over again. It was a show of brutal efficiency, his blows doled out in rapid succession until, finally, the durable plating shattered, revealing the fleshy, black thing beneath. With a final thrust, he beat both fists into the grimm's exposed chest, flowing ice permeating the hide and shattering with a cruel finality as the monster faded away to nothing.

Hazel stood alone, breathing deeply as the frenetic high of battle drained from his system. He released a rumbling sigh, allowing his fists to fall, relaxed, to his side. The pair of crystals, now fully spent, dissolved away, their glowing veins fading along with them.

He made his way through the silent crowd. Even now, their uncertain, distrustful stares weighed him down from all sides. They parted as he passed, granting him a wide berth with none wanting to stand closest to the "Western barbarian," as he had heard them call him.

"Is it that unusual?" He asked when he finally rejoined the old man. "Grimm attacks? This is a small settlement. You have no walls and only a handful of guards. Does it not happen more often?"

The old man shook his head, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I can't recall the last time the grimm came close enough to cause any real trouble, let alone trigger the bells. Before a Priestess was assigned here, I suppose? How many decades is that now?"

"You've mentioned a priestess before. What is her significance to the town's safety?"

"Everything!" He answered. "They're divine maidens who serve directly beneath her Grace." He paused, clapping his hands together and bowing his head slightly. "One is assigned to every settlement. They call the lightning, which is why we don't need walls."

Hazel recalled the searing heat which had fallen directly upon the aberrant grimm. "They…can call lightning?" An uneasy twisting roiled in his gut. "And there's more than one?"

The old man nodded enthusiastically. "Blessed with a fragment of her Grace's divinity, they are. Keeps all the baddies away. Not just grimm, either. Bandits, criminals, anyone who looks like they might be trouble gets sent packing." He paused, the creases on his weathered face becoming even more pronounced. "That big one, though—awfully strange looking—he didn't even seem phased by it."

The old man seemed to ponder for a bit, mulling over a decision before he spoke again.

"Tell you what, big fella," he nudged Hazel in the side, wincing as his elbow struck what felt like a rock. "I'll let you take one of the vacant rooms upstairs for now. You're a wanderer, aren't you? Don't have anywhere to be? Then, why not set up shop here for a little bit? At least until I get in touch with the Clergy. Once they send someone out here to check on the priestess you'll be free to go wherever you like in Mistral. I'll put in a good word for ya. In exchange, you help me out with some errands and keep us safe, in case any other troublesome grimm come wandering around these parts in the meantime. Heck, I'll even throw in meals for free. What d'you say?"

Hazel weighed his options. While it was true that he had no real goal in mind, he wasn't certain that staying put was what he was supposed to be doing, either. Something about this town troubled him. It was not the suspicious or hostile looks flung his way—he was used to being met with fear or even outright hatred in his tenure as Salem's lackey. Something about the settlement, its fanatic fixation on the divine, its faith in its God, rang uncomfortably within him. He was reminded of the manic, evil, little man that he had once been his co-conspirator.

"Fine," he finally decided after several long moments of deliberation. "One one condition. I want to meet this Priestess of yours."


White walls and metal halls. That was the entirety of this place's layout. Whether it be a room, a corridor, or even just a simple supply closet, everything here looked so damnably identical.

Mercury had realized early on that attempting to rely on visual cues would be a practice in futility. The halls' homogenous nature and repetitive layout made for a disorienting mess, and the lack of adequate signage on any of the rooms did little to help the matter. Instead, he had committed his intended path to memory, following the intricate diagrams that the kid had forced him to study ad-nauseum. So far it had worked—at least he hoped it did. It was difficult to tell. To quell his uncertainty, he had taken to chanting the instruction beneath his breath as he walked.

Left at the first fork, past the next two intersecting halls and a right at the third. A scheduled patrol—duck into an adjoining storage closet until they pass. A handful more winding turns and he should reach his goal without any major incident. The standard-issue uniform he wore helped to dissuade undue suspcion, but it was best not to let anyone glimpse him too closely. He grimaced. He was a wanted felon, after all.

He continued along his way, murmuring the directions as he went, almost working himself into a trance as his body mechanically moved to follow the ingrained instructions. So focused was he on the mental layout that he had constructed, that he entirely neglected to properly survey his surroundings. He was jolted from his single-minded reverie by the pneumatic hiss of an automatic door and his sudden collision with another body.

Mercury stared, wide-eyed and uncomprehending, at the man who had suddenly emerged from one of the adjoining rooms—a break room, if the view beyond the swiftly shutting door was any indication. The pristine white of the man's uniform—one clearly belonging to a high-ranking officer—had become soiled with the contents of the disposable, paper cup in hand. An aromatic, rich liquid seeped into the pristine linen, spreading across the upper portion of his military coat and staining the variety of shining accolades adorning his right breast.

The man, a full head taller than Mercury, glared down, speaking in gravelly tones. "I don't recognize you, son." He said, a sour expression affixed upon his aging features. "Identification, if you please. What's your name?"

"G-Gallium, sir." Mercury said, handing over the scroll with his false credentials.

The man's brown twitched. "Hm. Do you have a last name, Gallium?"

"Dark, sir. Gallium Dark."

The edges of his mouth, heavily obscured by a bristling mustache, curved downwards. "And, Mister Gallium Dark, I assume you have a ranking."

"I…ah…Private, sir. Private Gallium Dark."

The old man nodded. "Well then," he briefly scanned through the identification "Private Gallium Dark. Do you know what it is I am currently looking at?" He indicated to the dark splotch on his lapel.

"A stain, sir?"

"That's right, a stain. It looks like your eyes are working just fine, so maybe it's a problem with your brain. Tell me, Private Dark, do they teach you to watch where you're going in the academy?"

"Sir?"

"It is not a difficult question, private.

"I…yes sir."

"Then why is it that I currently have a stain on my coat, private?"

"It was an accident…Sir," he hastily appended when the man's quirked brow threatened to shoot into his hairline.

"An accident," he repeated. "I see." He glanced down at Mercury's identification once more. "Private Gallium Dark, currently on reserve and assigned to…clerical duties." A nasty smirk stretched his lips as he pocketed the scroll. "Maybe my memory is going bad, private, but I don't know of any such soldier stationed at headquarters. Why don't you come with me and we can have a nice, long chat about it in Interrogation?"

Mercury bolted, his augmented prosthetics carrying him halfway down the stretch of hall before the old soldier had managed to pull his sidearm. Distantly, he could hear an alarmed call from behind even as the man gave chase.

Mercury dashed through the winding hall, thoroughly disoriented. He tried his best to recall the path that he had taken to get here, but his bearings had become hopelessly scrambled after he had dashed past several diverging corridors with no appreciable change in scenery. Any notion of purposeful escape was a fleeting hope, and the best he could do was keep moving. Maybe he'd get lucky and stumble upon the exit. Or maybe he'd be able to buy enough time for one of the other—

Something heavy and large barreled into him as he crossed an intersecting path, driving the air from his lungs and the frenzied thoughts from his mind. His head bounced soundly on steel and he reeled back for a moment, dazed, before something immediately shoved his face into the cold floor. An oppressive knee dug painfully into the center of his back, pinning him, and his arms were rudely twisted behind him.

"I got him, sir!" A voice shouted from atop and Mercury groaned as the rushed clanging of boots thundered towards them. A pair of cold cuffs snagged and pinched flesh as they found themselves snapped around his wrists.

"Ugh. Alright!" He shouted, just barely managing to formulate the words through the dull thudding in his head. "I give! Get me out of here!"

His vision went black. His arms were no longer bound. The phantom pains of the sudden assault bled from his body and he shot upright, the oppressive weight wholly absent. He reached up, his hands pulling the ugly, leering device from his head. A kid stared dully at him from behind a line of monitors.

"How many times is this now, Black?"

"Hell if I know," he grumbled, swinging his legs over the edge of the table—the same one he had first woken up on. "That wasn't in the recordings. Why was that old guy there?"

A withering look. "Pattern nine, variant twenty-seven," she recited. "Colonel Marsh may take an early coffee break in the event of excess inebriation the night prior. In this case, there is a chance that you may run into him as you pass by the break room in Block Three. Occurrence rate: roughly six percent."

"Six perce…Whatever. Fine. How did he know that I was faking it."

"He didn't. You just annoyed him. And your improvisation needs work."

"Bastard." He stretched, a satisfying series of pops sounding as his joints decompressed. He nodded towards the adjacent table, where his partner lay with her own garish helmet. "What's she doing?"

"Same instance as yours," Bronie said. "Looks like she's made a fair bit of progress. Good for her. Too bad the base is on high alert now and she's probably going to get caught." Her eyes traced something on the screen. "Aaaand…yup. There you go. Captured. She even managed to get the General's scroll, too. Pity."

Emerald shot up in much the same way Mercury had, fumbling to get the device off. Her gaze jumped between Bronie's stoic expression and Mercury's annoyed one.

"Really?" She asked. "Again?"

"I'm afraid so," Bronie said. "But you did well, take a break. I need to check in with the others anyway. As for you, Black, ready to go again?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Just put the HOMU back on."


Elsewhere, in a bustling club situated at the heart of Mantle, a songstress had taken center stage.

From lush, crimson lips fell dulcet tones of unmatched clarity—husky and soft, yet strong enough to fully enthrall the attention of all present. When the first notes left her lips, the establishment had immediately hushed, all gazes alighting upon the starlet on the stage.

The tune was a classic from Old Mantle, passed down through generations long before the sprawling metropolis had come and the flying fortress blotted out the sky. It was a soft, lilting melody whose chorus rose to a powerful, moving crescendo—a perfect match to her delicate, yet firm, voice. Mesmeric, entrancing, the tune faded into silence with a haunting refrain which brought the audience to their feet after a beat of silence, applauding uproariously. Amidst the din, she bowed and blew kisses, basking in the adoration for a moment before sauntering from the stage and the lights.

Making her way to the bar, she scanned the counter for a certain man, quickening her pace when she found him. Easily, she slunk into the neighboring seat. "Johnny, darling," she called, flagging down the bartender. "A Vacuan Dry, please. Top shelf."

"Yes, miss. The usual."

"That's a good boy." She allowed herself to get comfortable, throwing a sidelong glance to the bespectacled man at her right. Salt-and-pepper hair, usually neatly combed, now lay in a vague state of disarray, several stands coming undone every time he ran a hand through it. His glasses were slightly askew, sliding marginally whenever he leaned to tip another helping of something cloying and harsh down his gullet.

"Well, darling, how was I? Did I steal your heart? Capture your very soul? Do tell me you loved it, won't you?"

"You have a lovely voice, as always, Miss Chartreuse," he complimented, the uncertain slur to his speech signifying that he was already several drinks in.

"You can tell me that every night and I'd still love it, darling," she tittered cheerily. "And how many times must I tell you? You can just call me Char. Chartreuse is just such a mouthful, isn't it?"

"Mm." He hummed, taking another clumsy draught from his glass, some of the heady, amber brew spilling down his front.

"Oh dear, you've spilled a bit. Here, let me get that." Taking a towel, she dabbed delicately at the stain, her fingers lingering for a moment at his breast pocket. Her head bobbed reflexively in affirmation and she drew back. "Don't you think you've had a bit much, darling? You look unwell."

"Bah. Nothin like a drink after work." He exhaled heavily. "I deserve it, you know! Always have to remind the others why we're doing our job. It's for the people. The people! But no, it's always taxes or military or construction in Atlas. Atlas! The place doesn't need any more additions but they keep pushing. Meanwhile, Mantle's like this."

Chartreuse observed him, concerned, as his tone grew more and more belligerent. "Are you certain you're alright, darling? You've been coming quite often; work must really be taking its toll on you."

His breathing was ragged, hitching on something that could have possibly been a stifled sob. "Sometimes I think everyone forgets that you Mantlens are Atlas citizens too. It's aaaaall just one big city. But all anyone ever cares about is Atlas, Atlas, Atlas!" His volume rose alongside his agitation, prompting the woman to lay a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

"There, there, I'm sure it'll all turn out just fine." She patted his shoulder sympathetically, her other hand surreptitiously sliding the remainder of his drink away. Her eyes flickered to the old, grandfather clock in the corner. Any time now. "It's quite late, your wife must be worried sick."

"Haven't got one," he slurred. Subconsciously, he leaned into the caressing hand, his head beginning to droop. "Have to…work. Always…work."

"You poor thing!" She said, her hand rubbing soothing, rhythmic circles on his shoulder, straying lower and lower down his lapel with each rotation. "Such a hardworking man shouldn't have to come home to a cold, dark house! It's a travesty! A travesty, I say! Isn't that right, Johnny?"

"Absolutely, miss." The bartender answered as he swung by their seats, discreetly disposing of the man's drink and proceeding to his next patron in the same motion. "A proper travesty, that."

Chartreuse smiled fondly as he retreated. "He's such a darling boy, isn't he?" She asked, withdrawing her hand from her companion's coat and sitting upright in her seat. "I've been singing here since before he started, you know. Wasn't much of a barkeep then, but just look at him now!"

There was no response, and a quick look confirmed that the man was no longer conscious.

"Oh my, someone's dozing off! Poor dear must be exhausted! In that case, you'll pardon me for a moment, won't you, darling? I have to freshen up a little before my next set. You'll stay and listen, won't you?"

The man's head had slumped fully onto the wooden counter, his breathing settling into a steady, shallow pattern.

"That's what I like to hear. How I adore my fans. Johnny." She snapped her fingers to capture the youth's attention. "I'll be going for a smoke, let the manager know, would you?"

She strode from the bar, making her way from the bustle of the evening crowd to the rear exit, the pleasant smile sliding from her face as she passed into the darkened, vacant hall and out the door. She was greeted with a shock of frigid air stinging at her bare arms, the revealing dress doing precious little to shield her from the chill of the Mantlen winter. Best to do this quickly, then.

"I wouldn't believe it if I didn't see it with my own eyes," She said, sauntering towards a man leaning impatiently against the brickwork. "Roman Torchwick, in the flesh. For you to be back in Mantle so soon—you never struck me as the careless type."

He snorted. "Trust me, if it were up to me I wouldn't be anywhere near this dump. Everything in this city's as rotten as I remember. Unfortunately, work had other plans. Were you able to get it?"

"It was far too easy," she replied, pulling a scroll from her purse. "I almost feel guilty with the amount we agreed on."

"Thanks, Char," he said, accepting the device. "And you can take that up with my employer; she's the one footing the bills."

"That's Chartreuse, to you, Roman," she said curtly, the gentle sensuality now wholly absent from her tone. "Hearing you call me that makes my skin crawl."

"You don't seem too bothered when it's the drunks."

"It's called customer service. The patrons come for an experience, and I happily provide. Or did you really believe I talk like this now, darling?" She asked, mimicking her earlier affectation. She sighed, crossing her arms. "I guess I don't expect you, of all people, to know a thing about that."

He shrugged, rifling through the small satchel at his side. "It's not really part of the job description."

"Clearly. So?" She asked curiously. "I guess I shouldn't ask why you need Sleet's scroll? This must be quite the high-profile job if you're targeting a councilman."

"You get smarter and smarter every day," he muttered, distractedly counting through an envelope of thousand-lien cards. "Sleet's just a stepping-stone. We get what we need here and he goes back to his sad, little life none the wiser." Finishing, he looked up, quirking a brow. "What? Worried that we're going to get him in trouble?"

She hummed vaguely, a slight frown working its way onto her face. "Unlike you, I do take some exception to setting up the innocent. He's a sweet man. Very hard working—too hard working. A touch uptight, if you ask me. But a good man nonetheless. I daresay I would have trouble finding sleep if I knew that this would get him into any serious trouble."

"You say that, but you still took the job."

"Work is work," she said simply. "That said, be a dear and do try to avoid any unnecessary collateral damage." She brushed an errant lock of blonde from her shoulder. "It's not often someone on the council makes their way down here; he's good for business. Everything about him just screams topsider, and he's drinking in my club. It makes this place seem a bit high-class, wouldn't you say?"

"The day anyone actually starts calling this place 'high-class,' I'll eat my hat." Roman offered her the envelope. "Fifty-thousand, as promised. I'll have the scroll back within the hour. Think you can keep him there until then?"

She scoffed, snatching it. "Have you seen me? Any man would stay at that bar until the sun came up if I asked him to."

"Where do you get all that self-confidence from, I wonder." He rolled his eyes and pushed off from the wall, straightening his coat. "Say hi to the Ma'am for me."

"Tell her yourself," she shot back. "You know how fast word travels down here. She wants to see you."

"Yeah," he replied dryly. "So she can run me through. I know that woman. She's not the sort to let a grudge go. I'll pass."

She sighed, shaking her head. "Paranoia is a poor fit for you, Roman."

"I prefer to call it a keen understanding of my situation. It's how you survive in this business. Besides, I'm not wrong, am I?"

Chartreuse grimaced. "No," she finally admitted with a dry chuckle. "Surely, you wouldn't blame a girl for trying, would you? Ma'am said she'd pay a hefty bonus."

"I sure would," he shot back. "Now get, or else I'm going to sic Neo on you."

Her face paled, the teasing smirk dropping entirely. "You're bluffing."

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the alley, and, suddenly, the petite girl appeared at Roman's side, smirking viciously.

"Alright, alright, no need for the dramatics. I'm going."

Roman trudged through the back alleys, his bravado fading immediately as his contact slipped back into the club. He leaned heavily against a wall to catch his breath, his partner peering worriedly up into his pallid face. He waved her away.

"I'll be fine. Let's just get this thing back to the doctor."

He made his way to an unmarked van parked in the adjoining lot, its heavily tinted windows offering little insight into the interior.

"You really do have a way with words, don't you Torchwick?" Watts asked as soon as the door clicked open. "What was that you called it? Your roguish charm? It really is no wonder you've got women flocking to you in droves."

"Oh, shut up," he groaned, sinking into the passenger's seat.

Watts ignored him, deftly catching the scroll Roman tossed his way. "Though I'm afraid you may have botched the landing. For future reference, it is considered poor etiquette to threaten the woman you're courting."

"I was not courting her," the thief ground out. "She's a business partner. Now can you please get to work? We've got a time limit here."

"I am working." The scroll had already been hooked up to his computer, an esoteric array of symbols and letters panning rapidly across the screen. Watts sat with his head bowed eagerly towards the monitor, his eyes thirstily drinking in the information. "It may come as a surprise to you, but most people are actually capable of multitasking. For example, I can insu—Oh blast it all."

He swore in annoyance as the small, spherical drone in the corner suddenly clattered to life, its myriad of lights blinking erratically as it struggled into the air. "Hello, hello, anyone there? Come in." From its speaker, a tinny voice, staticky and barely intelligible spoke.

"Answer it. I'm busy." He batted the small robot to Roman, who stared at the blinking device, perplexed, before offering it to Neo. She glared dully at him, pointing towards her own throat.

"Oh. Right." He sighed. "I guess it has to be me." He fiddled with the robot, attempting to operate it to no avail. All the while, the voice on the other end seemed to be growing more impatient.

"The button, fool," Watts finally snapped. "Press the button on its back. The red one."

"Ah, um, yes hello?"

"About time. Oh, wow, the quality is worse than I thought it'd be. That's what you get for relying on antiques. That you, Torchwick? I take it you've got the scroll, then?"

"Yeah, The Doctor is working on it right now."

"Good. How's it going, Watts?"

"Well enough," he answered. "Shoddy craftsmanship, as always. Truly, what are they teaching the new recruits? There we are." He exhaled triumphantly, his fingers positively flying over the keys as he eagerly delved through Atlas's secrets. "The poor devils really thought this would be enough to keep me out."

"Yes, yes you truly are amazing, Doctor Watts. Make a copy of the councilman's credentials and anything else you find that might be important. Clock's ticking."

"No need to tell me. Let's see here. Revenue reports, revenue reports, bribes to local television networks, revenue reports, council summaries, requests to expand military expenditure…oh my." He paused at a single article.

"That doesn't sound good," Roman said, twisting around to glance curiously over the doctor's shoulder."

"I suppose it would depend on what you consider good." His eyes lingered upon a single line in the report, rereading it several times over. "It would appear that Mistral is mobilizing for war."


Got hit with a nasty case of writer's block this month, so this chapter's out much later than normal. I've got all the important beats planned out, but getting from point A to point B can be a bit troublesome sometimes. Had to cut a section because I couldn't get it properly figured out

I knew I would have trouble characterizing Cinder and Jaune's interactions because they're so intrinsically opposite to each other, but I didn't expect it to be that difficult. Still don't think I really did it justice.

Many of Mistral's settlements are Japanese words that relate to flowers in some way, so I'll continue with that scheme whenever I need to refer to any random Mistralian settlement by name. Asagao is Japanese for Morning Glory.

Then again, Mistral's also got places like 'Argus' and 'Brunswick Farms,' so I don't really know what's going on over there.

I am unsure what the demonym for something from Mantle would actually be. I don't think it's ever been stated in the show. Most countries seem to just append an 'N' to the end of the name, so Mantlen it is.

I do my best to edit, but I always find that I miss some stuff well after the fact. Please don't hesitate to point out if something's clearly wrong that I didn't see.

Not much else to say. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.