"We need to talk."

Pyrrha hadn't known what to expect when she returned from brushing her teeth and found Weiss, Ren, and Nora waiting for her in their room, with a nervous-looking Jaune pretending to read in the corner. If she was completely honest with herself, though, there was only one reason they would be here.

"About Prince Lelouch, you mean," Pyrrha said. Weiss's eyes narrowed.

"About how you know the Britannian, yes," she said, crossing her arms. "I think we all deserve a bit of an explanation."

Some part of Pyrrha had hoped that they would let it go. It was some small, scared part of her. A younger part, that she'd left behind, or hoped she had, years before. This wasn't like her. Not anymore.

But there was no escaping this, and another, better part of her wanted to get this story off of her chest. It hurt to hold it in, maybe more than it scared her to tell it. And, she'd made a promise; She'd noticed the looks Ren and Nora gave her when they thought she wasn't looking, the guarded looks they were giving her now—if she didn't follow through, she might lose her new friends as quickly as she'd made them. Right now, she was creating a rift in her team. She'd mend it. Even if they looked at her differently. Even if they judged her and were ashamed to be on a team with her after they heard.

"Okay, then," Pyrrha said, taking in a deep breath. "You'd better go and get the others, if they want to hear it too—I'd prefer it if I only had to tell this story once."

Weiss nodded curtly, then stalked out through the doorway, leaving the team alone. They all looked at each other for a moment.

"We're sorry if this is hard for you, Pyrrha. We just need to know," Ren said, softly. Pyrrha nodded, and resisted the urge to look down at her boots.

"Look, whatever you're worried about telling us, it's fine," Jaune said from his desk, "none of us are going to judge you for it, right, guys?"

"Depends on what she has to say," Nora said.

"Nora—" Jaune began.

"Britannians are bad news, Jaune. You wouldn't understand. Whatever Pyrrha's done to have a debt to a Britannian prince—"

Pyrrha heard the implication, and recoiled.

"I'm not a traitor, Nora! How could you think… do you really believe…" Pyrrha said, words failing her. Of course that was what they thought. She'd known that. But, something about hearing it out loud… it hurt. It must have shown on her face, because Nora's expression softened.

"Ah… I mean, I didn't…" Nora said, trying and failing to find something to say.

"Look, let's just wait to hear what Pyrrha has to say, all right? No judgements or fighting until then. We're a team. We'll work through this together." Jaune said. Pyrrha hadn't noticed him get up, but he was now standing with his arms crossed between them.

The silence that followed was agonizing. But, after a few endless moments, team RWBY arrived—and Pyrrha began.

The stadium was lit blindingly bright, the crowd was so large their cheers shook the walls, and Pyrrha was nervous. It was the second time she'd come to this tournament. She remembered the absolutely amazing feeling of victory, the glow of joy it had left in her and her mother for weeks afterwards. She'd proven herself to be the champion of her generation. Now, a year later, she was here again. This time, the stakes were unbearably high.

"Pyrrha? Are you well?" Her mother said, bringing Pyrrha sharply back into focus.

"Yes, mother." She said automatically. Her mother raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"Really? Then what did I just say about your performance during your last match?" Her mother asked. Pyrrha panicked.

"That… I was sloppy?" Pyrrha said.

"No, the opposite— you were almost too good," Pyrrha's mother said, smiling. The old scar above her eye crinkled into a zigzag—a comforting familiarity. "You need to relax a bit. You're going to need to stay loose and stay sharp when you're fighting your next opponent."

Her next opponent. Her mother said that so casually… no, Pyrrha could see the steel in her eyes too. This wasn't just any opponent. This was The Opponent.

For three long years, the All-Mistralian Youth Combat League Championship had been restricted to the Free Mistralians, an act of protest against the occupation. This year, that had changed. The board had opened up the Championship to schools from the occupied territories, claiming that it was unjust to punish Mistralian students for their own occupation. It was a fair point, but missed the far more important issue entirely—the schools in Nihon were now occupied and under heavy watch by the Britannians, who kept them around only so that they could continue to send Nihonese fighters to die fighting the Grimm instead of Britannian ones. Those who joined had to reject their Nihonese identity and become "Honorary Britannians". In the eyes of true Mistralians like Pyrrha, this was despicable. Few within the League wanted them to be allowed to join, and the board itself was suspect—it was widely believed that they had only done this due to bribes given by the Britannian Prince reigning in Nihon, Clovis, a name universally spat upon and reviled.

Worse than the honorary Britannians, however—only a few teams had shown up, and they'd been defeated and disqualified early on—was that, to the surprise and horror of all, a team of Britannians had chosen to attend. Even worse, they had done well. Extraordinarily so. They were from a little-known academy, founded by Britannians in Nihon back a few years before the war, owned by the Ashford family. It wasn't even primarily a combat school—most of its students were mundanely studying the arts and sciences. Despite this, the two had cut their way through match after match, downing opponent after opponent. They'd both made it to the final four, where they'd ended up facing each other. Now, there was only one. Her last opponent.

This wasn't a fight she could afford to lose.

"Pyrrha. Really, daughter, you need to focus." Her mother chided, putting a hand on her shoulder. Her face was drawn into a small smile, but her eyes were obsidian—sharp and determined. No one Pyrrha had ever known had pulled off an expression quite like the war-face of Olympia Nikos.

"You should know, if you lose… we'll be fine. But you can't lose, and you won't. You're better than him. You're stronger, you're tougher, and your skills and weapons give you the edge. Be careful, he hasn't shown his semblance yet—he might be holding back. Still, you deserve this win more than they do." She smiled a little wider, then, and something fragile flickered in her eyes. "You'll do us proud, your father and I. We're already so proud. It's time to make the country as proud of you as we are. Time to beat them, finally."

Her mother had chosen the exact right things to say, whether she knew it or not… though she probably did. Now, Pyrrha wasn't nervous. She wasn't scared, either. She'd packed both of those feelings away, deep inside. No, now, for one of the few times in her life... Pyrrha was angry.

Suzaku woke to a clatter and something slamming against the wall. He sat up, and immediately regretted it as his vision began to swim.

"Ah, hey, what…" He mumbled.

His vision was just starting to clear. He heard someone gasping, frantically, as if they were… choking?

"Well, well, well, it looks like I was right, eh Lelouch?" Someone said.

He blinked several times and his eyes finally adjusted to the sight of Kallen, somehow a solid foot off of the floor and pressed against the wall, clutching at her throat. In an instant, he was up, rushing forward in a gust of wind.

"I wouldn't if I were you," the voice said again, and suddenly C.C. was there, staring at him, with a knife pointed directly at his face. Suzaku skidded to a stop.

"What—what do you think you're doing?" Suzaku said, half bewildered, half furious. "Let her go."

"You want me to free a would-be assassin? How foolish are you, little knight?" C.C. replied, frowning at him.

"You don't know what you're talking about. She's no assassin," Suzaku said. Kallen, a murderer? It wasn't possible. The Kallen he knew, the Kallen he'd befriended—she was a lot of things, but dishonorable and cowardly were not among them.

"Oh? And what else would you call a person you found standing above your sleeping partner, trying to put a knife through his throat?" C.C. said.

"Why should I believe anything you say? All I have is your word," Suzaku said. With a flex of his semblance, he summoned his blade—Kusanagi—to his hand, accidentally blowing all of the loose papers on their desks into a storm in the process.

"Put her down. Now," He said, pointing the blade at C.C.'s face. Kallen was beginning to turn blue, and he could see the desperate pain in her eyes. "I don't want to hurt you, but I will."

"C.C.," another voice said, "put her down."

They both turned and saw Lelouch, sitting up in bed. He had a grim look on his face Suzaku remembered from an older, darker time. The sight of it filled him with dread.

"She tried to kill you," C.C. said, evenly.

"And she failed. She's no use to us dead." Lelouch replied, eyes narrowing at his partner. With a shrug, C.C. released her grip, and Kallen collapsed to the floor. Suzaku dropped Kusanagi and went to her, holding her up as she sobbed and gasped for breath.

"It looks like your suspicions were correct after all, C.C." Lelouch said after a moment, blearily wiping sleep out of his eyes. "Odd that she'd come all this way and wait this long just to make an attempt now."

"This doesn't make sense. She wouldn't do this," Suzaku said, glaring back at his old friend. He hated the look Lelouch was giving him, like a brother coming to tell his sibling that their parents had died.

"C.C. wouldn't attack her without a serious reason. If she says Kallen was trying to kill me, Kallen was trying to kill me," Lelouch said.

"You really trust her that much?" Suzaku said, glaring at the green-haired woman who now leaned against the headboard of Lelouch's bed, watching bemusedly.

"I trust her enough," Lelouch replied. C.C. frowned at him, but Lelouch didn't break eye contact with Suzaku.

"He's… he's right. I did try…" The girl shaking in Suzaku's arms croaked. She'd stopped coughing—her aura was doing its work—but she still seemed too weak to sit up. She looked drained. And, as her words filtered through to Suzaku, he began to really consider the possibility…

"Well, then, that's a confession," Lelouch said, eyes narrowing. "Believe it or not, Suzaku, this isn't the first near-miss assassination attempt I've been through in the last year. It's starting to become a bad habit."

"Should I kill her, then?" C.C. asked, as if it was nothing. If Suzaku had hackles, they would've risen. Lelouch just looked annoyed.

"No. We need her alive. More importantly, she's Suzaku's partner—there's more at stake here than eliminating an assassin," Lelouch replied.

Suzaku stared at his old friend. He knew that he'd changed, but this… were they really just calmly discussing murdering one of their classmates, one of their friends? When had Lelouch become so cutthroat? It was horrifying. But, then… had Kallen really tried to murder his friend, in cold blood, in his own bed? He could feel the confusion, the dread, and the revulsion building within him… but then again, who was he to judge?

Even so, he'd thought they were better than this, hoped beyond hope…

"So, Kallen, now that we've been properly introduced, I have a question for you," Lelouch said, sliding out of bed and walking over to stand above the two of them. Kallen looked up, and to his alarm, Suzaku could see more hatred than fear in her glare.

"Why do you want to kill me?" Lelouch asked.

It was strange, when she first saw him in person. Part of her had thought he looked taller, on the battlefield, when she'd watched his previous matches. If he'd been an animal, he would've probably been a heron. He was still tall, to be sure, but he was as thin as a spear—and probably twice as easy to shatter. At least, that was the idea.

They met in the middle of the battlefield, as was customary. The walk out felt glacially slow, and the crowd had died down to mostly muttering and jeering. When they both got out to the middle, she could see his outfit in alarming detail. He'd worn almost armor, which wasn't surprising—his main defense was speed. He'd dressed in dark grey, tan, and gold—the uniform of his school, apparently—with a dash of color in the form of a violet sash. He wore a visor of the same color over his eyes, but took it off when they both reached the center circle. His eyes were, somehow, the same shade; apparently the Britannians were as fashionable as they were evil. His hair was an odd yellow color, almost golden.

"So, I guess this is it," He said with a smile, sticking out a hand. Pyrrha didn't take it. Instead, she just stared back at him in silence. She felt perversely satisfied as his stupid smirk faded, and the crowd jeered louder as it became obvious she wasn't going to shake his hand.

"Ah. Well, okay then," he said, lowering it back to his side. "Best of luck to you," He said.

"I'm going to destroy you," Pyrrha said, quietly. The boy said nothing.

"Did you hear me, Britannian?" She said, louder. The crowd was cheering now. "I'm going to beat you, you honorless, worthless Brittanian scum!"

The crowd roared in approval. The referees did nothing. The boy stayed silent, just stared back, looking uncomfortable.

High above, the countdown started. Pyrrha fell back into her stance, and stared down her enemy. He fell into his as well, one she'd been studying endlessly for the last few hours. It was elegant, flashy, and in a few key places, vulnerable.

As soon as it hit zero, the horn blared—and Pyrrha raced forward.

Memories welled up—her father and mother, sparring as she watched. Both of them, leaving together, waving goodbye as she cried in the arms of her cousin.

Pyrrha rammed her Akouo into the fool Britannian—or tried to, as he ducked out of the way. She swept Milo across her back to deflect the boy's rapier as it lanced forward, and then extended Milo as she continued into a slash, nearly catching the top of the prince's head as he sidestepped away.

Her cousin and aunt talking quietly in another room while an advertisement played on T.V.—buy Victory Bonds, defend the homeland!—and hearing popping sounds in the distance.

The Britannian had dodged back for a moment, attempting to gain some breathing room, and she hurled Akouo at him. He tried to deflect it, only to have the force of her strike spin him out of position. She sprinted up and leapt at him, delivering a full-force kick with both feet to his back that sent him sprawling. The crowd roared…

Gunfire roared just over the horizon as her cousin and aunt dragged her, kicking and screaming, up the hill with their luggage. A crowd of people, all scared, or sad, or haunted-looking, trudged beside them. Behind them, she could see smoke, and fire—her home was burning…

The boy recovered, but she was only getting started. She rolled, picking up Akouo from where it fell, and came up into a couch. With Milo perched on the edge of her shield, she fired once, twice, three times as she rose to her feet and advanced. The Britannian managed to block two of them, somehow deflecting them off of his blade, but the third caught him in the gut and knocked him back to his knees. Pyrrha closed in.

For days, they'd slept outside, or on benches, or in stadiums, or on buses. They'd lost some of their things on the way. Pyrrha's bag was long-gone. They all stank of sweat. None of them had been able to shower or bathe since the first day they'd run. Her aunt said it would all be over soon, but Pyrrha could hear her crying at night.

She didn't expect the lunge that caught her, now, in the gut, knocking the wind out of her—it slid right under her shield, a vulnerability she hadn't accounted for. She stumbled back, and the Britannian boy was back up, sword flickering everywhere, almost faster than she could block or deflect it. Milo and Akouo held, but the boy was undeniably fast and surprisingly strong. Over fifteen among the dozens of slashes and stabs should have gotten through to hit her solidly despite her shield, but with careful touches of magnetism she deflected them all just enough to miss her. She ceded ground, gritted her teeth, and waited.

Then, there was the day they saw the ships fly over. Flyers snowed down all over the city, and Pyrrha grabbed one of her own. Atlas had come, the old ally. Atlesian armies had joined the fight to drive back the invader. Everyone was celebrating—her aunt found a cake somewhere, and the three of them ate it with their hands, happy in the first time for forever. The news was all good: they were driving them back, pushing the Britannian devil back into its cage. Their village had been retaken. They were going to go home.

Pyrrha had had enough of dancing around. Spotting a slight gap in his rapier form, too small to take advantage of normally, Pyrrha used her semblance and willed his sword to swing just wide enough to open up that gap—and then turned Akouo and rammed its edge into his chest. The boy stumbled back, bending at the middle and gasping out a breath. Pyrrha advanced, stabbing and slashing with Milo and bashing his rapier out of the way with Akouo at every opportunity. She could feel him getting weaker, and she grinned at the taste of victory.

Then they got back to the village, only it wasn't the village anymore. Everything Pyrrha had known had been burnt to the ground or crushed under the Britannian war machine. Her pink-and-flower-painted room was gone. Her window where she looked out at the stars was gone. Her father's garden where she used to play pretend, fight imaginary Grimm and pirates and vampires, was gone. Even their little forest, their safe little grove with its apple trees and red-and-gold in autumn, was gone. All that was left was the hilltop and piles of rubble. She cried, and kept crying, but stopped when she heard that the war was over—her parents were coming back.

At last, she smashed his sword arm one time too many, and his rapier drooped to his side. The scoundrel's eyes widened in alarm, and he began to say "I yiel—" but she wasn't done. Akouo rammed into his face, silencing him and bowling him over. She stabbed Milo through his rapier's guard, pinning it to the arena's sand-covered wooden floor, and let it go. She grabbed Akouo in both hands, and slammed it down onto her enemy—once, twice, three times…

And her parents did come back. Her mother straggled in, bloody and worn, eyes full of ghosts. Her father rolled in on a cart the next day. Pyrrha wasn't allowed to open the box—they said his face wasn't the same anymore, that there wasn't much of him there. The next day they put it in the ground, where all the name-stones had been before the Britannians crushed them.
Nihon was lost, along with so many of her friends. They hadn't even won.
Pyrrha helped her mother put the village back together, working day in and day out when her mother couldn't—piece by piece, person by person—but every day she went to her father's place on the hill, and cried, and cried.

Pyrrha barely realized it when the boy's aura broke. She'd stopped paying attention to his shouting, replying with Akouo and her fists. She felt it when he screamed, though—felt his ribcage creak under Akouo's strike, felt something soft squish under her fist, and stopped.

The crowd was still cheering. Pyrrha stared at the back of her hand, wondering why there was blood on it. She looked down—her gauntlet had cut open his cheek, and blood was pouring down.. His visor had fallen off, somewhere along the line. He was staring up at her, in pain and terrified. She slid off of him, and stood up.

She felt numb. She'd burned through the anger. But there was pride, there—she'd finally won. For her country. For her father. For herself. It wasn't much consolation—less than she'd hoped for, at least—but it was something.

Pyrrha turned back to the boy. He was getting up, staring at her with alarm, wariness, and exhaustion. She walked up closer to him, and looked him in the eyes, unwavering. Then, she spit in his face, and walked away.

The judges finally called the match in her favor, and the crowd roared in approval.

"Do you really need to ask?" Kallen croaked, sitting up and glaring at Lelouch with a hatred Suzaku knew all too well.

"You'd be surprised. There are people all over the world who would be happy to slit my throat, each with their own reasons," Lelouch said.

"What a surprise." Kallen replied, hoarsely. Lelouch chuckled, though his eyes stayed deadly serious. Suzaku mentally chided Kallen for that bravado, though it was just like her—but the thought jarred with their current situation. Kallen, his friend, his partner, an attempted assassin… were there more things he didn't know about her? Should he do what he could to protect her from Lelouch, or was it the other way around?

"Clever comebacks aside, reasons are important to me. I'd like to know yours before I decide anything," Lelouch said. He paused, staring at Kallen for a moment, waiting.

"Fine, then," Kallen said, pulling away from Suzaku to stand up. She wobbled a little, but tried to stand tall to face Lelouch.

"I did it for Nihon. For everything your people took from us. For everyone your people took from us. For myself. For revenge, after what we had to go through—" Kallen began.

"Your people—Kallen, you're Britannian," Lelouch said, confused. Suzaku was shocked. What was she saying? Her parents were both Britannian, he'd even met the Stadtfelds once, on accident…

"No! I'm Nihonese, damnit, and I'm proud of it!" Kallen cried. "My father might have been Britannian, but I belong to my mother's country, and Grimm take the invaders!" Kallen was trembling with some emotion between rage, zeal, and underneath—which probably only Suzaku could fully see—terror.

Then again, what did Suzaku even know about his partner? He'd thought that she was an unusually accepting Britannian woman, a capable and loyal friend, someone he could trust to have his back with anything. He'd brought her with him to help his friend, and she'd come, just because he asked… he thought it was because she was adventurous, courageous, and because she valued their friendship. Had she just used him to get to Lelouch? He'd taken her into his confidence…

Suzaku had a thought, then, that shook him to his core: if C.C. had been any slower, he would've been responsible for Lelouch's death.

It took him a moment to notice that Lelouch was talking.

"So, you're a nationalist, then?" Lelouch asked.

Kallen didn't answer, just crossing her arms defiantly.

"But you were partnered with Suzaku a year ago… this was just opportunistic." Lelouch Narrowed his eyes. "So the Lady Stadtfeld is not your mother, I take it?"

Kallen spit in response. "That woman isn't even family. Neither is my father. Let them know, when you have them kill me, my name was my mother's name—Kozuki!" She shouted. Lelouch raised an eyebrow.

"That's a strange request of you to make, but if you say so. Another important question: are you affiliated with any particular group, or working on your own?" Lelouch asked. Kallen barked out a laugh—one that Suzaku saw through, or at least thought he did, to the terror underneath. Then again, apparently he had never known this person at all.

"As if I would ever tell you." Kallen retorted.

"I see. Probably a small group, then," Lelouch said. Kallen flinched, and Lelouch grinned a feral grin.

"Ah. Apparently I was right," he said. Kallen stared, eyes wide.

"What—how—" She said, spluttering.

"If you were alone you probably would've said so, or claimed that you were part of a larger group that you supported. If you were part of a larger group, you would have said so—terrorism is pointless if no one gets the credit. Therefore, it was likely that you had a group of some kind, a group that was too small to want credit—maybe even a single cell of a handful of people, one that could be fully destroyed if a single one of their members was compromised," Lelouch said, watching Kallen carefully as the color drained out of her face.

"I…" Kallen said, mouth hanging open as she struggled for words and failed to find any.

"It's a good thing I'm not on the anti-terror taskforce. If I were, I would probably call you in for 'questioning' and have all of your friends imprisoned or shot," Lelouch said, smiling humorlessly. Suzaku felt like he was going to be sick. Kallen looked worse.

"Of course, I do have contacts. It could still happen," Lelouch said, looking her dead in the eyes. "But… I'm not going to make that call. Not yet."

"I'm… not afraid, of you." Kallen ground out. Suzaku knew it was a lie—he suspected Lelouch did too. Lelouch, though, just sighed.

"Yes, I'd gathered. I just wanted to let you know what position you've put yourself into and give you a chance to think it through," he said. He glanced around the room, then shrugged. "Well, that's all I have to say. If no one else has anything they want to talk about, I'm going back to sleep," Lelouch said, turning around. All three of the other occupants of the room stared as the Prince walked back over to his bed and drew back the sheets.

"…what?" Kallen said.

"I'm going to sleep. It's late," Lelouch said, as if that was somehow helpful.

"You… aren't you going to…" Kallen tried.

"Kill you?" Lelouch supplied, helpfully. "No, not tonight, anyway."

"But… why?" Kallen asked. Judging by C.C.'s expression, Suzaku got the impression that she was wondering the same thing, though with less confusion and more curiosity.

"It would be a waste. Of a good warrior, of my friend's partner—and from what I can tell, an otherwise good person." Lelouch said, and then shrugged. "I feel that you're worth a second chance. Given what you must've been through, I would've probably tried the same thing. Don't make a habit of it, though. I'm not usually in the mood for third chances."

"Where the hell do you get off saying you know anything what I've been through?" Kallen hissed, and Suzaku once again wished that she hadn't. Lelouch turned fully around and looked at her.

"I know." He said, dangerously quiet. The smile had vanished. There was something about the way he stared back at her, something in his eyes, that made even Suzaku shiver… something that summoned up memory of clambering over bloody rubble, hiding in spider-filled crawl-spaces from the monsters and monstrous men outside, eating moldy wheat to survive. Kallen must have seen it too, because she said nothing. A lifetime of memories could have filled the silence.

Then, Lelouch shook his head, grabbed his rapier from where it leaned against the bedside table, unlatched the window, and leapt out into the night.

"Did he, just…" Kallen asked, looking back and forth between the window and Suzaku for confirmation that she wasn't hallucinating, a confirmation Suzaku wasn't in the mood to give. He stood and shrugged. He turned away from her and walked without really thinking about it over to his own bed, and wordlessly crawled into it.

He felt utterly, completely exhausted... but he wasn't going to be getting any sleep that night.

It was like a bad dream. Pyrrha had thought it was over, but apparently the Britannians didn't agree. There were always two stages to this tournament, the singles round and the doubles round. The singles round was the most prestigious, to be sure, but to win the doubles round was no small thing and the Ashford Academy team was dangerously close to doing it. They'd made it to the last round—they were going up against the strongest youth team that Mistral had to offer. Pyrrha had never taken part in the doubles events, but she knew the final Mistralian Champions well: Scarlet David and Sage Ayana. Both were skilled swordsmen normally, but they'd come armed with new weapons and new energy this year, and it showed. Scarlet's Cutlass and pistol combo was working wonders, and while Sage still relied mostly on his sword, he'd used his new beam cannon—one of the biggest weapons Pyrrha had honestly ever seen—to excellent effect when stuck in difficult situations.

The Britannian boy and his partner were, she supposed, a fitting challenge. The boy was strong, apparently recovered from his crushing defeat only days before, and his partner was even more capable when paired with the boy.

She was a strange one. She'd armed herself with two oversize bladed metal hand fans, and made significant use of her sparkler semblance by creating bright flashes of colored light and explosive popping sounds to distract her enemies. Her costume followed the same color scheme as the boy's, but highlighted in jade green instead of violet. It was bizarre. No one wore school uniforms to the championship. Usually, no one even wore matching uniforms. It was easier to be remembered, giving one a better chance of being scouted, if one was wearing something unique. Apparently they hadn't gotten the memo.

Regardless, as the fight began, Pyrrha found herself more and more annoyed that the Britannians were still here. The girl—whose name, as she was finally forced to check, was Milly Ashford—began to dual with Scarlet. She seemed to alternate between taunting him, cackling for reasons Pyrrha shuddered to imagine, and redoubling her efforts and speed into a terrifying whirlwind of fan blades. Whenever Scarlet attempted to take aim, a bright light like a firework would explode into his gaze and he'd be pushed back onto the defensive.

Meanwhile, the boy, one Louis Lamperouge, danced around Sage with the same vile grace he'd shown days before. Sage wasn't as fast as Pyrrha was, making the boy far harder for him to hit. Lamperouge ducked beneath, sidestepped, and flipped over Sage's strikes, all while landing small blows of his own and weakening the bigger fighter. Scarlet managed to get in a few good hits on the Ashford girl, but then the two Britannians began to switch positions in a disturbingly effective show of teamwork. It was as if they could read each other's minds. They covered each other's backs and helped each other disorient, distract, and break down their opponents. Pyrrha gritted her teeth, but she had to admit, they were capable. Then, finally, the girl with the fan backflipped into a fierce uppercut with her fan and sent Scarlet arcing out of the ring, and there were only three.

Sage roared out some kind of challenge—it was impossible to hear out in the stands where she sat—and pulled the beam cannon off of his back. Lamperouge and Ashford rushed in. The cannon blasted once, then twice. It was at such close range, it was almost guaranteed to hit, and it did, hurling Lamperouge back into the wall in front of the stands. The Ashford girl, however, could not be stopped. Leaping over the cannon, she smashed foot-first into Sage's forehead, toppling the tall Mistralian to the ground. He attempted to get up, trying to flail out and hit his assailant with the beam cannon, but ended up only slamming it into the ground. Blinded and disoriented by flashing lights and small explosions in his ears, Sage was forced to surrender to the Britannian girl, sending most of the crowd to booing and, to Pyrrha's irritation, some cheering as well. The girl strode off towards the exit, ready to claim their prize, and Pyrrha wanted to vomit.

Just when it all seemed over, however, something went very, very wrong.

The beam cannon, bent and battered on the ground, began to glow. Then, it got brighter. Then, it got too bright. Then, in one of the rarest equipment malfunctions in history, it began to fire. It was as if it had been overloaded. The fire burned too hot, melting through the metal wall of the arena itself, and as Sage frantically rushed away from it, his foot bumped into the cannon and it began to turn.

Pyrrha looked where it was going and saw, to her absolute horror, that it was drifting towards the judges box. Two of them had already left for deliberations. One of the judges had called in sick that day, and so instead they'd asked for one of the reserve judges to fill in. Her mother had volunteered. Her mother, who now sat alone, peering down at a set of notes in the judges' box.

Everything seemed to slow down.

Pyrrha felt herself leaping out of her seat, over the wall, into the arena. She heard someone screaming—it might have been her. She felt as if she was running through water. Better than anyone, Pyrrha knew exactly how fast she could run—and exactly how fast she couldn't. Deep in her heart, she knew… she wasn't going to make it to the machine in time. The beam burnt its way in an arc along the wall, boring into the metal itself. Had Pyrrha been more aware, she would've been grateful that no one was sitting in that row of seats, the Honorary Britannian section. She saw her mother look up, pause for a moment, then begin to realize the danger, just as the beam began to cut into the glass of the box.

Then, the Britannian boy came out of nowhere. He'd sprinted, faster than Pyrrha would have thought possible, from where he'd been thrown during the match. Without even a moment of hesitation, he plunged his blade into the malfunctioning cannon and twisted it and its beam back away from the judges' box—and the cannon exploded.

Pyrrha stumbled to a stop as she watched the boy thrown backwards. He arced high, twisting in the air over the stadium before slamming stomach-first into the ground at least forty feet from the ex-cannon. In the explosion-startled silence of the stadium, all Pyrrha could hear was her heartbeat racing in her ears… and a sharp, horrifying pop-crack that the boy made when he hit the ground.

He lay there, horribly silent and motionless, and for a moment everything was still.

Then, the Ashford girl screamed and ran to his side, and suddenly everyone was shouting and crying and the medics ran out onto the field and Pyrrha was sprinting to her mother. Pyrrha engulfed her mother in a hug. The two of them watched as the Brittanian boy was rushed away in an ambulance.

Then, Pyrrha collapsed into her mother's arms and wept.

Afterwards, she vowed to treat everyone, even those she hated, with professional respect. She would not make the same mistake twice.

It was only days later that they saw the news, and she learned who it was that she'd shamed so terribly and who it was that had saved her mother's life.