The commencement of war was as brutal as it was sudden.
Far beneath the vaunted grounds of Atlas proper, the civilians of Mantle were shocked awake by a cacophony of explosions cascading across the outer walls. Shells, larger than a man, rained relentlessly down upon the populace, with little standing between them and certain obliteration save for the translucent sheen of the city's barriers. Barriers that could not possibly hold.
Through the walls of her workshop on the East End, the sounds of destruction came through as the muffled gongs of an all-too-familiar tune. They were the drums of conflict pounding out a melody that she had "heard" too many times before. A song that demanded her full attention.
Slowly, Bronie pulled herself from her seat, lips tight, eyebrows furrowed. The time had come, yet something nebulous and insistent bid her to stay. A dreary mixture of weariness and spite pulled at her limbs, chaining them to the earth. She drooped.
Really now, what was another generation lost, anyway? Another kingdom fallen? Human lives were short. Human lives on Remnant, shorter still. If the end came a bit early for them, so what? A year, a decade, a century—all trivial spans. More would come to take their place and then they would gladly repeat the mistakes of their forefathers. A wheel that just kept turning. And she was expected to help them?
She braced a hand against the countertop, leaning heavily on it for stability. The eyes in the mirror gazed back blearily, unfocused. Something within her was slowly withering, but she couldn't quite understand why. She shoved the sensation down, fixing her expression into a hard frown. It would pass soon enough. It always did, leaving her just that little bit more empty.
It was nothing new, the cruelty of war. Nothing she hadn't already "seen" a hundred times over. The broken bodies and souls left in its wake. The remains of lives lived trampled beneath conquering feet. She had seen it, and she despised it. She could do nothing to stop it, but she knew someone who could. Someone who had slept for far too long.
So she shrugged off the chains and straightened into a more respectable posture. She might have only been a pawn in a long, convoluted scheme—a pale imitation who could only yearn for authenticity—but even pawns had their role to play. Rest could only be aching longing. A fantasy, and nothing more. The eyes in the mirror refocused, a scowling visage glaring back at her through the cool glass.
A stranger's face. Her face. The same one that she had always known, but not the one that she should wear. Small discrepancies littered the reflection, memories that were not truly her own insisting that everything was just a little off. Hair, a touch too blue. Face, far too lean. Expression, much too lively. It was all the same, but none of it fit. Her memories insisted that she wasn't supposed to smile the way she did. Smirk her devious smirk the way she did. Grimace or groan the way she did. In fact, the face that her memories conjured rarely showed much of any expression at all.
She scoffed bitterly at her reflection. "You're kind of a bore, you know that? I think I prefer me as I am."
The silence swallowed her words. The being in the mirror continued to stare ruefully back. She shook her head.
"Would it be possible to find a more ungrateful child, or one with less heart than I," she recited quietly, then sighed. "Really, now, what am I even doing?"
The door to her workshop groaned open painfully, seemingly echoing her sentiments as if it, too, wished to remain as it was. Sealed. Undisturbed. It was a sound that resonated throughout the dusty bones of the tenement, setting the place alight with activity. She became all-too-aware of the whistling pipes and scabbing paint. The frayed, wrinkled carpet that gave way to weathered wood. The smell of rust, and dust, and the faintest trace of mold. Age and decay. Inevitability.
"You're late." Watts said simply when she trudged into the common area, a single brow arching. Around him, in various states of post-awakening stupor were the rest of her entourage.
She blinked. Had she really taken that long? She shook the fog from her mind, startled that it had even been there to begin with. Her thoughts had been wandering far too much recently and, right now, she needed the entirety of her focus. There would be time for daydreaming later.
"Right," she said, the words dry and strangely distant from her own lips. "Showtime."
Though the private docks of Lepus Logistics were situated closer to Central Mantle, Bronie had deemed such a space too public, considering the company she kept. Instead, they would be setting off from the rarely-used port in the east. Much like the rest of the quadrant, the eastern port was neglected and under-utilized—perfect for her purposes.
It was also adjacent to the region where the bombardment was heaviest, and, as their craft took off, the group was treated to a scene of morbid magnificence. Enormous chunks of steel crashed into the city's barriers with muted booms, deforming from the impact and skittering along the flashing surface. Undetonated dust residue flared, just for a moment, in vibrant, violent clouds and, with each strike, the shields shone a brilliant gold, glaring a harsh rebuke before the next volley would repeat the process. At times, there would be a lull in the barrage, only for it to begin anew moments later.
"It's something else, isn't it?" Bronie asked, blankly watching the violence unfold through a porthole. "People talk about war like it's just a big fight, that you just need to wipe out the enemy before they wipe you out. But then you see something like this. How many people are going to die when those walls come down? How many lives, destroyed for absolutely nothing? How many children burned; how many families torn apart? In the end, it's not the guys upstairs that hurt the most. Doesn't matter how right you think you are, or how badly you think the world's screwed you—the moment you fire that first shot, you're not the victim anymore."
Emerald and Mercury, in particular, stared aghast at the impending storm. From this high up, they could only just make out the bodies below swarming, fleeing to the relatively safer confines of the inner city. Like ants fleeing an inferno. They had seen the people who lived on those fetid streets. Scoundrels and rogues, degenerates and vagabonds, but, ultimately, people cut from the same cloth as themselves. If fate had played out differently, it could have been them down there, and then what? They'd probably perish, and for what? This is what they had been trying to accomplish in Vale? What Cinder had accomplished? What was this supposed to prove?
"Well, that's enough pontificating," Bronie said, her tone turning professional as she strode to the center of the craft. "Eyes forward, everyone. We've got an ETA of ten, so let's go over the plan again."
"How many times is this now?"
"You can sit this out if you like, Torchwick; I prefer to be thorough. It's your ass on the line, not mine. I've always got a way out, can't say the same for you."
She paused, waiting until she was satisfied that there would be no more complaints.
"Now then, the first order of business once we get inside is establishing a forward operating base. Watts and I will station there until it's time for us to move." She indicated to a point on the holographic floorplan that her drone had materialized. "The supply closet off of hall N21 in the north is ideal. Custodial shifts aren't due to change until daybreak, so we shouldn't be disturbed. From there, Torchwick's on eyes, Neo's on explosives, Black's on placements and Sustrai's on acquisitions. I really hope I don't need to go in-depth on any of your individual duties."
A chorus of muttered 'no's'
"Good. Remember, we're on an extremely strict timetable. The inner-ring is shielded from external frequencies—nothing in or out that isn't strictly part of Atlas's network. Fall behind and things are going to start falling apart. I don't care how you do it, make sure you stick to your clocks. Am I understood?"
She nodded in satisfaction at the affirmations.
"Good. Just one final thing to move into place." She tapped at her drone's interface, speaking to it as she worked.
"Set frequency to Mistral's First Aerial Division, unit three. Reroute all outbound and inbound communications." She waited for a moment. "Kuma-03, proceed to rally point four-seven-two and maintain altitude. Ready AP shells on primary artillery and set elevation to twenty degrees. Target coordinates are fifty by ten-eighty–six. Estimated distance, thirty-thousand meters. Hold position and await further orders."
She looked up to several blank stares.
"A little contingency plan," she explained. "I took the liberty of borrowing one of Mistral's ships for this operation. Just in case. Now, look sharp, all of you. We're landing."
Within moments, their craft had settled on a landing pad, bay door opening to admit a frazzled-looking guard. He scanned over the occupants of the ship before asking, "Shipping manifest?"
Bronie handed over a sheaf of papers. "Craft designation LL-024. Crew of six carrying a shipment of various small-arms and explosives."
The man accepted the papers without question, as if he hadn't just been addressed by a girl who looked like she still attended a junior academy. He scanned over the sheets distractedly, constantly shooting glances to where distinct blooms of light could just barely be seen. He waved them through. "Looks to be in order. Head to the waiting area while we unload. It'll probably be a while."
They were escorted by another set of nervous-looking guards past the loading bays to a point where a large congregation of people had been gathered. Most seemed to be wearing the standard Lepus Logistics uniform, though there were a handful that differed—likely individual contractors. Many seemed to be growing increasingly aggravated, shouting complaints to the guards as their patience wore thin.
"There's the service entrance," Bronie said, pointing past the crowd.
Neo tugged at Roman's sleeve, a look of worry on her face. She flashed several hand signs.
"Neo's wondering how we're supposed to get through that," he translated, pointing to the people milling about. "Her semblance can keep us hidden, but that doesn't really mean anything in a big crowd like this. The moment someone bumps into one of us it all comes apart."
"Simple," Bronie said. "We just walk. You can drop it now, Neo. Best to conserve your energy for later."
"You really expect them to just let us walk in, no questions asked?"
"Yeah. I really do. I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve, you know. Now, stick close; don't make me work harder than I need to."
With the sound of sloughing ice, Neo's illusion faded away, yet, strangely, no one seemed to pay them any heed. Confidently, Bronie took the lead, forging a path through the swathes of people. The crowds seemed to part as she passed, granting her a wide berth, as if deferring to royalty, yet no gazes fell upon her. She paused after several steps, shooting them a strained, impatient glare, demanding they follow.
As they walked, visions of elusive, fluttering things tugged at their periphery, commanding their attention, but vanishing the moment their eyes shifted to catch them. They passed through the service doors and security checkpoints without even the slightest hint of recognition, fondly stopping once they had reached their designated target.
It was a simple room, just large enough to comfortably fit the six of them. Illuminated by sterile, white lights, several tall shelves lined the walls, reaching from floor to ceiling and containing various maintenance miscellany.
The moment the door shut, Bronie swayed, leaning heavily against the steel and waving them away while she regained her composure.
"Just keeps getting harder and harder," she muttered, straightening and slinging the large bag from her shoulders. "Give me a boost, Black."
"Why me?" He asked in annoyance.
"Because Neo and Sustrai are too short, Torchwick looks like he's about to keel over and I'm afraid I'd snap Watts's geriatric bones if I step wrong. Stop complaining."
Using the boy's hands as a platform, she clambered up the shelves and snapped open a metal panel near the ceiling. After a few seconds of fiddling with the internals, she jumped back down, a wire trailing behind her.
"Alright we're jacked into Atlas's systems, though I can't do much with it right now." She knelt, producing a neatly pressed and folded Atlesian uniform for each of them from her bag. "Get suited up."
Within a matter of minutes, they had shed their shipping uniforms and five freshly-minted Atlesian Privates stood before her. She nodded.
"Yep, you all look…really forgettable. This'll do."
"What about you?" Mercury asked.
"What about me? You really think I'd be fooling anyone with this body? Making sure there's no one to see me sneaking around is your job, Black."
She shook her head, exasperated.
"Places, people, places. We don't have time to be dawdling."
Three doors, equidistantly spaced, barred the inner-ring of Atlas high command from the rest of the facility. It was at one such door that Roman and Neo now waited, hidden in plain sight from the handful of people milling about the area.
Roman fiddled with the digital watch on his wrist to kill the time, restlessly double-checking that it was functioning properly while Neo vigilantly scanned their surroundings for potential threats. Both nearly jumped when Zaychik's voice finally sounded in their earpieces.
"Everyone in position?" She asked.
Roman pressed a finger to his ear. "Southeast here, ready."
"Southwest, likewise," responded Black's voice.
"Alright. Ladies, gentlemen, start the clocks."
Roman palmed at the watch, manipulating it with practiced motions. A soft chime sounded in his ear and a timer blinked to life on its face, steadily counting upwards. He glanced at Neo's and found that hers had also begun to tick, perfectly synchronized with his. They shared a glance and a nod and strode towards the door.
It was a simple design—a wide slab of unadorned steel set into the wall with a small, black sensor plate sitting astride. Neo placed her scroll on the plate, the mechanism beeping as an image of the councilman's forged credentials flashed on the screen for a moment. They both released a tense breath when the door hissed open smoothly, revealing the white halls that they had seen so often in the simulations.
They passed into the inner-ring, their earpieces squawking a harsh feedback as they crossed the threshold. The buzzing continued for a few moments before the line to the outside world went dead entirely. The pair shared another look. Just a pair of lunatics who had willingly wandered into the belly of the beast. They were well and truly on their own now, and there was nowhere to go but forward.
The room in which the primary security servers were housed was one of the least accessible locations in the base, for good reason. It was the lens through which Atlas's eyes "saw." Before the network shutdown, everything that happened in the kingdom filtered through this singular hub. Now, however, it was constrained merely to the going-ons of the military base itself. For most, it would be impossible to gain unauthorized access to such a space, but, luckily for Roman, he had Neo by his side.
With her, there was no need to dodge the frequent patrols or evade the innumerable cameras set up at every possible point—her semblance took care of that. The most difficult portion of the trek was the brisk pace they needed to maintain in order to meet their allotted deadlines.
It only took a few minutes before they were standing outside the server room, the large, red sign on the door adamantly forbidding entry to non-authorized personnel. Neo tapped his shoulder, giving him a concerned nod before rushing off on her own, the heavy pack in her arms jostling as she ran. Roman watched her until she disappeared around a corner then heaved a sigh, allowing his shoulders to slump.
His current condition being what it was, he had been assigned the least physically demanding task. Unfortunately, they were far too shorthanded to allow Neo to chaperone him throughout the course of his duties.
She had been given the task of placing surprises at set points throughout the base—notably at critical junctions that connected the inner-ring to the rest of the structure. It was a task that she took without much gusto and a heaping amount of worry. She had been able to escort him this far, but from here he would have to operate without the support he had long since grown accustomed to.
"There's no problem," he muttered to himself. "Just need to hook up some wires and get out, that's all. You're the greatest thief in the world; this should be a piece of cake."
A single chime in his ear. The number ten flashed insistently on his watch for a moment before resuming its count.
He slinked through the door into a room housing an array of cylindrical consoles, each pristine and unnaturally clean, just like everything else in this base. The technician had, assumedly, gone on his break, leaving the area unoccupied and giving Roman about fifteen minutes to work unhindered.
Kneeling at the first console, he studied the various tools he had been given for the task. A screwdriver, a series of burner scrolls and a small box, plain, save for a port on one end and a clamp housing a wickedly pointed needle on the other—something the shrimp had referred to as a retrofitted vampire tap. He wasn't particularly well-versed when it came to tech on the job—they usually had a guy for that—but the concept was straightforward enough. Snag the right wire, hook up a scroll and give her some time to work her magic. Easy enough.
He peeked cautiously around the server rack towards the door before prying off the immaculate housing to reveal a jumbled mess of cables beneath. He huffed in annoyance and began fishing around in the uncomfortably small opening, squandering precious seconds as he did so. Everything had been kept much neater in the simulations. Atlas really needed to hire better techs.
He managed to extract a thick, yellow wire from the console's innards, snaring the tap's fangs about its diameter and firmly snapping the device shut, piercing the thick cable. After a few moments, the scroll shone to life, lines upon lines of black and white text rapidly scanning through it. He carefully replaced the entire contraption inside the console, snapping the panel back on and screwing it into place. That wasn't so bad—idiot-proof, as the shrimp had put it.
He straightened with a heavy groan, surveying the other terminals in the room. One down, five more to go.
"Aaand we're in," Bronie declared as a number of surveillance-camera monitors flared to life on her scroll. "At least, for the southwest quadrant."
"Feeding prerecorded security footage now," Watts reported, working steadily at his own device.
Bronie nooded, speaking into her earpiece, "Black, Sustrai, you're clear. Move." Her eyes scanned through the images on-screen, taking stock of the situation. "Pattern four, no variant."
Watts frowned as he watched the cameras, seeing Mercury and Emerald enter from the southwestern door to the inner-ring and immediately split up.
"I nearly forgot how much I despise these corridors."
"It's all just white and grey," Bronie agreed. "Makes you feel like you've been locked up in a crazy house. They're really committed to the whole look, aren't they?"
"Atlesians are not known for their devotion to artistry."
"Yeah, no kidding."
Mercury had seen enough of these halls to last him a lifetime. By this point, he knew how many of these dull, steel panels lined the walls of this particular corridor, how many bolts riveted each one in place, and which of the bright, sterile bulbs overhead would soon need changing. He knew where the emergency supply hatches were and which fire extinguishers had long since passed their replacement date. Which section of floor squeaked and wiggled when a certain amount of force was applied. Which of these automatic doors lagged just a second behind the others.
He had learned far too much useless information about these halls—certainly far more than could ever be of any practical use for him later, assuming he made it that far. Frankly, he could confidently bet any amount that he knew this base more intimately than even those that worked here. Case in point, the man he was currently trailing.
He was a reedy, fidgety man—the sort who looked more at home sheltered behind a book in some disused corner of the library than draped in the technician's uniform of a high-security facility. Mercury took care to keep his distance; he had learned the hard way that most of Atlas's techs were the highly-suspicious sort. Not so far back that he might potentially lose him around a corner but not so close as to draw suspicion. As they approached an intersection, he allowed his footsteps to slow to a crawl, lingering half a hallway away.
Emerald should be making her appearance anytime now. She had been the one to take the long way around, her semblance making it easier for her to swiftly traverse the base undetected. Distantly, he could hear the rapid footfalls of light feet echoing just out of sight.
Like clockwork, she burst from around the corner in a hurry, crashing into the man with a yelp and sending both toppling to the ground with cries of alarm.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" She exclaimed, a nauseatingly sugary tone coating each word. She sprang to her feet in an anxious flutter, grasping the man's arm to help him up.
"R-right," he muttered, "well, maybe watch where you're going next—"
The burgeoning tirade stuttered to a halt when he took note of who exactly had bumped into him. Emerald fluttered her lashes prettily.
He coughed nervously. "Errm, no, no, it's my fault. S-should've been paying attention. Are you alright?"
"I'm fine! It was just a little tumble." Emerald said. "I didn't hurt you, did I? Oh, there's a bit of dust on your back." She patted at his coat, "Let me get that."
"Ah, I, um. Thanks." He gathered his scattered belongings and straightened, puffing his chest out. "N-no need to worry about me, I'm made of much sterner stuff than that!"
"Oh, that's so good to hear. Listen, I don't want to be rude, but I really need to be somewhere right now, so I've really got to get going."
She hurried past him, nodding politely, a pilfered object concealed in her palm. She had only made it a handful of paces before the man spoke up once more.
"U-um, just a moment, please!"
She froze, turning to smile a sweet question at him.
He scratched the back of his head nervously, the seconds stretching on as he seemed to struggle to find his words. "S-say, I don't think I've seen you around before. Weird, huh? We both work here but we've never run into each other." A nervous chuckle.
Emerald lifted an eyebrow. A vague sense of unease began to roil in her gut, her legs tensing, ready to bolt at a moment's notice.
"I, uh, work System Security so maybe our breaktimes just don't line up or something. So! Um, would you maybe want to get a coffee or something later? Maybe talk a bit, get to know each other a little more?"
The saccharine smile stretched painfully and she had to restrain herself from slapping a palm to her face. Say what they would about the kid, but her intel was scarily accurate, right down to the man's preferred type. She was suddenly deeply regretting molding the face she showed him to those exact specifications.
Two soft chimes in her earpiece. The smile stretched a touch further.
"I'd love to!" She ground out. "But I've really got to get going for now. Specialist Schnee has some really urgent business that she asked me to take care of so I can't stick around."
"Um! So, uh, ah…"
Why did he have to stretch out everything he said so pointlessly? Just spit it out! She didn't have time for this!
"Uh, coffee? Where were you thinking? Maybe Marron's? Or that new chain, Bucky's? I've heard good things about The Roast on West Fourth and Main."
"All of them sound lovely," she said, the words coming out more as a strained hiss. "I'm sure you've got good taste, so why don't you pick?"
She apologized profusely and attempted to leave several more times, each time delayed by his persistent badgering until she finally agreed to an arbitrary meeting-time and place that she couldn't be bothered to remember. She strode off with a huff, almost running down the hall. Passing Mercury, she deftly slipped the object into his palm in the brief moment their paths intersected.
"Keep your time," he muttered a low warning, pocketing it.
"Yeah, yeah, I got it," she quietly snapped back.
He snorted, then passed her, quickening his pace to catch up with the man who had gained a notable pep in his step.
"Sustrai is behind schedule," Watts noted.
Bronie nodded. "Just have to hope they can adjust. A thousand lien says she misses her rendezvous."
"I already told you. No. Betting."
She clicked her tongue. "You really need to learn to lighten up. It's not as if it changes anything—It was all out of our hands the moment they passed through those doors. Might as well have some fun with it."
"...both meetings?" he asked after a hefty pause.
"Yep."
"Make it two-thousand."
"Deal."
Withdrawing another object from his opposite pocket, Mercury drew level with the man just as he was about to disappear behind the door to the Network Division's station.
"'Scuse me!" He said, stopping him. "I think you dropped this back there. It looks pretty important." He held out his hand, offering a black, Atlas-emblazoned datastick.
Any residual giddiness the man may have felt melted away immediately. He paled, patting frantically at his pockets, eyes widening at the conspicuous emptiness. With a trembling hand, he accepted the device.
"Thanks," he said, voice shaking slightly. "Y-you just saved my ass. The Division Director would've had my head if I lost this."
"That important, huh?"
He nodded fervently. "High security stuff. Keys to the system and all that. Thank you. Thank you so much."
"Sure thing, just be a bit more careful next time."
With the package delivered, Mercury continued along his way, his stride picking up substantially when the coast was clear. He followed the path that he had practiced countless times over. By now, he was actually able to distinguish between the innumerable, homogenous halls, but it no longer mattered. He could've made the trip blindfolded, if need be, and, within a few minutes, he reached his destination.
He knocked at a door at the far end of the facility, swinging it open with a slight creak. This sector was clearly older than the other portions of the base. Though it was still kept clean, there were obvious signs of wear and aging on the dulled metal panels. The door, likewise, was still on hinges, as opposed to the automatic sliding doors the rest of the facility used.
"Shift relief," he said, stepping into a cramped, well-lit room. "I'm Private Dark, from the Reserve. I've been sent to take your place."
The room's single occupant, a middle-aged woman, looked up tiredly from the sheafs of paper she was rifling through. She pulled off her headset and gave him a dull look. "I didn't hear anything about that. There's still an hour left in my shift."
"Higher-ups want everyone well rested, just in case. Looks like they might even need us reserve members on the lines if things get really bad out there."
She snorted. "I'm not even registered as a combatant anymore, but anything's better than this shit. I'll be glad when they finally get the network issues sorted out. Whose bright idea was it to go back to manual dispatch?"
She stood, stretching with a groan.
"I'm gonna go catch some shuteye in the lounge before my next shift. You sure you know what you're doing up here? Holler if you wind up needing help. Dispatch commands have been coming in nonstop; I've barely been able to keep up."
He waited until the door fully shut before shoving the sheaf of papers away and pulling his own, slightly wrinkled, set out instead.
Torchwick had hijacked their eyes. It was his job to hijack their ears.
"Maintenance Squad M4 to the West Observatory immediately," he read. "Shield generators require tuning."
From the base's cafeteria, a set of men dressed in technician uniforms hurriedly departed.
"Reserve Squad A6, report to the docks."
A group rushed from their barracks.
"Fourth Carrier Division, scramble orders are in effect."
He continued to read through the thoroughly-penned list, and, one-by-one, people began to filter out of the base's central area.
"Ground assault, ready for deployment."
And on it went. By the time he finished running through the list, all personnel had been cleared from the inner-ring, leaving a path of empty corridors from the north entrance to the central shaft.
His earpiece chimed thrice.
Three chimes saw Roman hastily snapping the final panel back into place. The process had taken much longer than he had expected, and he was now running well behind schedule.
Just as he was preparing to vacate the server room, the pneumatic hiss of the door caused him to freeze, wide eyed.
Slowly, it slid open, and he found himself locking eyes with an equally-surprised Atlas recruit.
Atlesian high command had been thrown into a chaotic frenzy. In the span of less than twenty-four hours, the worst possible scenario had come to fruition, and Ironwood was expected to spearhead the response.
To say that their position was unfavorable would be an understatement. The majority of Atlas's military prowess had long since been mechanized and, with the network crippled as it was, were currently non-functional. The only vessels that still exclusively operated on manual input were the decommissioned crafts from the previous war, and having them resemble anything remotely combat-worthy would take more time than they could realistically afford.
Radar systems dark, fire-control modules offline and poor visibility. Sending ships out to drive off the Mistralians would be, quite literally, a shot in the dark. Ironwood suppressed a groan, his thoughts straying as he marched through metal corridors. Just how had the situation devolved so rapidly?The threat of war had always loomed between Atlas and Mistral, but both had managed to keep an uneasy ceasefire over the years.
Both nations had experienced an abnormal explosion of growth following the cessation of the Great War and, though they had been allies in that particular conflict, swiftly found themselves vying for dominance with increasing frequency in the decades to follow. Border disputes and clashes over territory—particularly, over Mistral's northern seaboard—continuously strained the tensions between them, nearly culminating in conflict when Atlas declared they were to install a military base on the coast of Mistral's most prominent northernmost settlement.
It was the closest they had come to conflict since the Great War, yet even that situation had been resolved peacefully. So why had Mistral chosen to strike now? Why go out of their way to send troops deep into enemy territory, and why at such an inopportune time? Whether it was a fluke or by design, they had attacked when Atlas was at its weakest, placing the kingdom in dire straits.
Perhaps fearing—rightfully so—that Atlas's defenses would prove too formidable an obstacle to breach without expending an unreasonable amount of time and resources, the Mistralian fleet had instead opted to fire upon Mantle. The reasoning was clear enough—they hoped to force Atlas into a siege situation. If Mantle were to be lost, so would their only supply line to the undercity. Without a means to have resources sent up, Atlast would be forced to subsist on whatever goods it had stockpiled. If they were unable to repel the invading force before those resources became depleted, surrender would swiftly become their only option.
The situation was grim, but it was at times like these that Ironwood's senses were at their sharpest. His focus had become refined, honed to a razor's edge, focused on a singular task. It would be a difficult campaign, but Atlas had the upper-hand in sheer firepower and her soldiers were the best in the world. Victory was not entirely lost, and the burden of that victory lay squarely upon his shoulders.
Yet, he found other obligations vying for his attention.
He should have been figuring out how to make the most of their limited military might, but was instead making an entirely unnecessary trek across headquarters. He had been in the midst of drafting an attack plan when he had been interrupted with a missive from dispatch requesting that he report to the interrogation rooms. Who had thought it appropriate that he be called upon to deal with petty disputes?
He forced himself to remain calm, his features to retain their cool stoicism, suppressing his irritation with practiced diligence. This, too, was a part of his duty. He would resolve whatever issues required his attention as expediently as possible and return to more pressing matters shortly.
Arriving at the designated location, he found a soldier—a private, judging by the badge on her lapel—standing patiently at attention. She saluted as he approached.
He raised a questioning brow, asking, "Private…?"
"Jade, sir."
"Private Jade," he repeated slowly. "I am sure that you are aware that Atlas is currently undergoing an unprecedented crisis, so I assume there is a very good reason why my presence has been requested here."
"Of course, sir. I came across a suspicious individual when I was making my rounds through the southwest quadrant. He attempted to flee when I confronted him, so I apprehended him."
"And I assume said individual is currently in this room."
"Yes, sir."
"And you didn't, instead, think to keep him in holding until a more appropriate time?"
She grimaced slightly. "I recognized him as one of the high-priority targets on the circulars, sir. He kept saying that he had information that you really needed to know. Something about a vault in the academy?"
Ironwood stiffened, the frayed nerves straining tighter still. He released a low, steady breath. "I will speak to him. Standby, private."
"Yes, sir."
She moved to unlock the door, only to be flung stumbling backwards as it burst open when she turned the handle. She toppled with a cry, clipping Ironwood as she fell.
"My apologies! Sir, I swear I cuffed him to the desk!" she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet, hands fumbling to withdraw her sidearm.
Though his hands remained bound, the prisoner had apparently managed to escape the bonds chaining him to the table and had thrown his full weight against the door the moment the catch had come undone. Unfortunately for him, the action had also sent him sprawling to the floor, leaving him defenseless.
"Stand down, Private," Ironwood said evenly. He had already drawn his revolver, keeping it leveled squarely on the suspect. "I'm afraid it would take much more than a simple pair of handcuffs to keep this man contained, wouldn't it, Roman Torchwick?"
The thief grinned a wan, tired grin. "Guilty as charged. Though, may I say that it's an honor to finally make my acquaintance with Atlas's illustrious tin man?"
"That's enough from you. Why don't you get back in there and take your seat. Behave, and we can get this over with quickly and painlessly."
The private's gaze flickered with alarm between the firearm and the criminal. "Sir," she said, "allow me to accompany you. He might still have something up his sleeve."
"That will not be necessary, private."
"But, sir—"
"That will not be necessary, private," he repeated, his voice quiet, yet dangerous. "Stand by."
"...Yes, sir."
Ironwood joined Roman in the room alone. The moment the door clanged securely shut, his neutral expression seemed to stiffen, growing even colder.
"Roman Torchwick," he said, "I will remind you that it is well within my jurisdiction to neutralize a known threat to the state should his continued existence prove to be a detriment. It is in your best interest that you tell me what you know."
"Resorting to threats already?" Roman drawled. "What's the matter, tin-man? Not able to talk without the gun? Maybe all that gossip about you compensating for something is true after all?"
"I will not repeat myself again. Consider this your only warning. What do you know about the…" he trailed off, glancing towards the large, one-way mirror that stretched across the wall behind him. The room wasn't scheduled for use today, there shouldn't be anyone listening. "...the vault? And why do you feel the need to warn me about it?"
Torchwick sighed, rolling his eyes skyward. "I don't know, Jimmy-boy. Maybe I've decided to turn over a new leaf and came here to answer for my crimes."
The gun cocked with an ominous click.
"Alright, alright," Torchwick yelped. "Let's not do something we might regret later. I'm here to barter, happy?"
"No." The revolver remained where it was. "Keep talking."
"Things have gotten a bit too hot with my…employer. In the interest of self-preservation, I decided to cut ties. On the plus-side, I've got some intel that I thought you might be interested in hearing. Specifically, what she's planning on this fine, fine night. It's some real juicy stuff, I tell ya."
The gun lowered, an eyebrow raising slightly in turn. Ironwood remained silent, a clear sign for the thief to continue.
Torchwick visibly relaxed once his life was no longer in any immediate danger, the relief lubricating his silver tongue. "Naturally, there's a catch. I know what everyone up here likes to call people like me, but the sheer fact of the matter is that I'm a businessman, pure and simple. And businessmen never give up the goods for free. I'll tell you what you want to know, and in exchange I want a full pardon and protection. A clean slate. Kinda like community service."
"You aren't in any position to be negotiating, Torchwick. I suggest you spit out whatever you want to say and we can grant you your protection in a maximum security cell.
"Oh, Jimmy-boy." He leaned forward, a trace of the cocksure leer flitting about his lips. "I think you're really, really going to want to hear this. Here's a freebie: someone's got their eyes on that little vault of yours, and they know how to get in."
"Knowing and doing are two entirely separate things," he retorted coolly.
"Oh, trust me, if there's one thing my employer's good at, it's doing. She's had this whole thing planned from the start. She even used that big fireworks display outside to sneak in here without anyone knowing. She's a few steps away from swiping your relic, and you'd be none the wiser if it weren't for me. So, what do ya say? I got the scoop, do we have a deal?"
Ironwood's expression faltered, and the firearm fell limp at his side. "Fine. You can have your deal. Start talking."
"Good. First thing's first, she knows how to get to the vault without needing the lift. Heck, I wouldn't be surprised if she were there now and just waiting for her lackeys to get their hands on that maiden of yours."
"That's impossible," Ironwood denied. "The only other way in would be through hundreds of meters of solid stone, and we'd immediately pick something up on the sensors if someone were to try and dig their way in."
"If they were to try and dig their way in," Roman stressed. "But she doesn't even need to do that. Remind me, what did this big hunk of rock used to be before you all decided you liked it better a couple dozen miles off the ground?"
"A dust quarry that was put out of commission after the war. Are you implying that they intend to take advantage of that? Every shaft was sealed before the land was converted."
"Every shaft? You sure about that? The main ones, sure, but every single shaft?"
"Of course," Ironwood said curtly. "They were quite thorough with—" His eyes widened, and his free hand drifted up to clasp at his chin. "The ventilation shafts," he realized.
"Aren't you a clever boy, Jimmy. I'd clap, but I'm a bit tied-up at the moment. Turns out that solid stone isn't quite as solid as you think. You all put a lot of effort into plugging up the main shafts, but completely forgot about the vents. As it so happens, one of those vents runs real close to that nice, big, empty space under the academy."
Ironwood stepped a few paces back, his mind ablaze with scenarios. Torchwick's employer had known about the vault, the relic and the maiden. It did not take a great leap of the imagination to guess who the ultimate mastermind behind this plot was, even if Torchwick wasn't working directly under her. Most likely, he had received his orders through some form of middleman. Maybe even one of Her direct subordinates.
"Operative Schnee," he spoke into his comms device. "Have Ace-Ops stationed at the medical bay. They are not to leave under any circumstances. Afterwards, proceed to the vault; I will arrive shortly."
"So?" Roman asked impatiently after a curt affirmative sounded over the radio. "Some good stuff, right? We square? Am I free to go?"
Ironwood turned back to the criminal, his eyes flat and cold. What had Torchwick's role in this scheme been? Had he been used as an intermediary, perhaps? For reconnaissance? A means to obtain resources? Whatever it was, it was clear that his usefulness had passed, and that he had now been declared a liability
"Hellooo? Jimmy-boy, anyone home in there? Care to get me out of these cuffs?"
Ironwood nodded thoughtfully. He knew about the maiden and the vault. He had become a liability.
"No."
The gun flew up. Dust ignited with a sharp retort. A brief flash of the muzzle. Smoke, followed by the limp thud of a body hitting the floor.
Ironwood held the stance for a moment, back ramrod-straight, one arm holding the gun aloft, the other curled neatly behind him. He lowered the revolver just as the door swung open, the private dashing in, glancing about in alarm. She froze at the sight before her, not even flinching as the door slammed shut behind her.
Ironwood spoke in even, measured notes, seemingly unfazed by the sudden act of violence. "Take the body to cold storage and inform Mortuary Affairs. Have a cleaning crew sent down here, too."
The private stared, aghast at the mess that coated the wall and floor. "Yes, sir," she managed to force out. Stooping, she grasped the corpse beneath the arms and began to drag it from the scene.
"Private."
She halted. A chill rushing up her spine. "Yes, sir?"
"Atlas is in crisis at the moment. If any other enemies-of-the-state are found on Command premises, all personnel are authorized to utilize lethal force. Do I make myself clear?"
She gulped. "Yes, sir."
"Good."
He left, leaving her to take care of the mess. The moment the heavy door snapped securely shut, the private vanished. The bloody mess painting the walls evaporated, and the body lying on the floor, likewise, disappeared. The room was immaculate and empty save for Torchwick—the real Torchwick—who stood by the wall, admiring the sizable hole in the metal paneling.
"That revolver of his really packs a nasty punch. I'd hate to be the sucker who got hit by that. What happened?" He asked into empty air, glancing towards the mirror.
Emerald's voice sounded over the intercom. "He shot you."
"Really?" Roman winced. "Ouch. Seems like a bit of an overreaction. Tin-man's really gone off his rocker, hasn't he? I bet you enjoyed making him see that."
"I would've enjoyed it a lot more if it were real." She fiddled with the scroll she had managed to snag when Roman had sent her stumbling, cocking her head at a noise in her ear. "That's four chimes, let's get moving. Unless you'd rather wait for Ironwood to come back?"
Roman's gaze flicked quickly back to the impressive hole. "I'll pass."
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
After three chimes, Bronie and Watts hurriedly vacated their storeroom, leaving all their equipment behind. It was all encrypted beyond anything Atlas would ever be able to crack, and taking it all would only slow them down.
They entered the inner-ring through the northern entrance, striding purposefully through the deserted halls. With no one around to stop them, they made swift progress, coming across Emerald and Roman as they converged on the central shaft.
Upon catching sight of the pair, Bronie wordlessly pulled out two thousand-lien cards and handed them to Watts, who pocketed them without question.
"So?" She asked. "How'd it go?"
"Hook, line and sinker," Emerald said, handing Bronie the scroll. "Right now, the General should be down in the vault."
"Perfect." She jacked into Ironwood's scroll, a command prompt of swiftly flashing characters immediately filling the screen. "How're we looking on time, Watts?"
"Nearing fifty minutes. Neopolitan should have finished arming the last of the explosives by now."
"Good, then everything should be set. Detonator ready?"
"Ready."
"Blow it."
Watts clicked.
A moment of silence. Two. A look of confusion crossed his face, and he clicked it again. More silence.
"Watts. What's the matter."
"It would appear that it is not functioning properly," he said, striking the device a few times and clicking it several more, all to an identical result. "This may be a problem."
"You put the batteries in it before we left, right?" Roman asked.
He froze.
"Seriously?" Bronie hissed. "Give it here."
She fished around in her pocket for the spare battery. Watts handed her the detonator, having enough decency to at least look somewhat abashed.
"Pay attention, you old fool," she reprimanded, snapping the device open. "You lose focus for even a moment and someone's going to wind up getting hurt. There." She clicked the detonator one more time.
At once, every pathway that led to the inner ring rumbled with cataclysmic force, the noise bouncing and echoing a surprising distance down empty halls.
Silence reigned for several moments after the initial clamor, save for the somber crackling of flames and falling rubble. It was broken by a clean ding, as the doors to the elevator hissed open. Everyone turned in surprise to see that Bronie had already stolen the access codes from the general's scroll and summoned a carriage.
She turned from it to the assembled group. "Well, it's been a pleasure, ladies, gentlemen. We part ways here. Take the pre-planned escape routes and, if all goes well, we'll meet up at base."
She stepped into the box, but paused when someone cleared their throat.
"I intend to accompany you."
Bronie quirked a brow, an expectant, yet distinctly uncomfortable look flashing across her face for a moment. "Of course you do. I don't know what's down there," she tried to dissuade him. "For all we know, we won't be coming back up here."
"That is of little consequence. It was my understanding that you always have a way out? The last of Atlas's great secrets lies just before me, Zaychik. Did you truly expect me to simply walk away from it?"
"No, not in the slightest," she sighed. "I could see it in your greedy little eyes from the start. But a girl can dream, can't she? What's down there is kinda personal for me, y'know." She seemed to struggle internally for a moment before shaking her head. "Whatever. Suit yourself, it's not like I can stop you from following. But I'm not stopping to save you if things go wrong. Not when we're this close. Whatever happens past this point, it's on you."
"I would expect nothing less."
"Right," she sighed. "Well then, best to be quick about it. Those explosions aren't going to keep people out forever. Torchwick, Sustrai," she nodded towards the two remaining members, "I'll be seeing you."
Watts deigned to offer a grimm nod, which they returned before turning on their heel and rushing off.
Their steps clanged ominously as they boarded the metal carriage. The doors slid shut with a low hiss, the locking mechanism harshly snapping back into position. One final hurdle. To get the box moving, they would need a retinal scan and fingerprint from Ironwood himself.
Bronie fiddled with the General's scroll, scoffing as she did so. "Geez, the man actually went ahead and set up fingerprint and facial-recognition login. I thought I'd have to go through his medical records, but It's like he wants me to steal his biometrics."
"I doubt the solution here would be so simple as to present that data to the sensors, would it?"
"Unfortunately not," she said. "RABBIT's still got a hand in system security this far in, and she's not about to fall for something like that. Luckily, I've got a solution for that too."
"No need to keep me in suspense. What do you have in mind?"
"Nothing fancy. If a fake won't do, then there's nothing to be done but give 'em the real thing." She glanced down at Ironwood's biometric information on her scroll. "Iris pattern noted. Do you know the basic structure of the human eye, Watts?"
"You know that I am not a medical doctor."
"Clearly. Your bedside manner is atrocious. It's pretty simple, really. Sclera, cornea, iris, ciliary body, lens, retina, vitreous fluid and a few more specific bits of tissue, all arranged in a particular pattern. That's all the human body is, really. A mass of assembled components with a series of chemical reactions and electrical signals to get it moving. Like some sort of fleshy robot."
She raised her scroll before her, the small, orange cube-charm dangling from it.
"Imitation Archive," she intoned, "Fragment of Reason."
The charm shone a bright twilight, its glow momentarily eclipsing the dim lights of their carriage. As if being painstakingly traced from the ether, a small orb began to coalesce in Bronie's palm. An itching burn tickled at Watts's skin, and his aura crackled slightly.
"Fabricate the proper materials, follow the blueprint, and it's pretty easy to put it together yourself, see?" She rolled the object—a disembodied, cerulean eye—delicately between her thumb and forefinger in a macabre display. "Just need the fingerprint now."
Watts stared, stunned, as another radiant glow produced a disembodied finger. "What was that?" He managed to ask.
"A thumb. You have two of them."
"You know what I mean."
"Nothing too notable, really," she said evasively. "It's just a fake. A fraction of the greater whole. An imitation that could never match up to the real deal. But it's enough for little things like this."
She held the eye up to the elevator scanner and pressed the thumb onto the pad. After a few short moments, the interface flashed green, the console unlocking. Bronie hesitated at the panel, her finger hovering over the button that would begin their descent into the unknown.
"You sure you're ready, Watts?" She asked. "Last chance to turn back. We might never see the light of day again after this."
He shot her an impatient, withering look and nodded.
"Fine, it's your funeral."
This chapter was difficult to write. I knew how I wanted it to go, but managing a bunch of different scenes that are happening concurrently and flowing into each other at different points in the sequence was a nightmare to figure out. I'm not completely happy with how it turned out, but this is about as good as it's going to get. It's going to be a long while before I attempt to write something like this again.
This is the first part of what was supposed to just be one big chapter. I felt that it flowed better if I split it up. I'd like to say the latter half will be out soon, but by this point I think we all know how absolute crap I am at keeping deadlines. I'll at least try to keep the wait under month since it shouldn't be a long chapter.
Mistral's about to go full Nanking.
