AUTHOR'S NOTES: Another somewhat quiet chapter, but we do need to catch up with Salem and Co., plus finish out Blake's homecoming. More action next time, I promise.

Also, the middle part of this chapter gets a little disturbing. Reader discretion advised.

Mezhgorye-2

Near Mount Yamantau, Russia

5 June 2001

Salem waited patiently for the MiG-15UTI Midget to taxi to a stop underneath the camouflage netting, the jetwash billowing her cloak around her. Once the engine powered down and the canopies opened, she stepped forward as a ground crewman brought forward a ladder. She held up a hand and he stopped.

Emerald Sustrai looked down from the cockpit. "How goes it?" Salem asked.

"Maybe you should ask her, ma'am." Emerald really didn't want to respond.

Salem nodded and stepped over to the second cockpit, just behind the first, over the wing. "Cinder? How are you?"

It was something of a rhetorical question. Cinder sat up so that Salem could see her better. Her eyes were sunken holes, without the burning intensity that had been there before. She was clearly exhausted, and as she turned, she could not stop a spasm of pain on her face. Salem gave a short nod. "I see. The arm?"

She glanced forward to Emerald, but Salem cleared her throat. "I want to hear it from you, Cinder. Not her."

Cinder coughed. "It's…better." Her voice was still barely above a whisper, but at least she could speak.

"Does it hurt?"

Cinder looked down at her new arm. It was dark, sinister, functional; there were very few asthetic parts of it. It was not heavy, made of some composite material grafted onto her shoulder, the same material the latest GRIMM were built from, connected to the remaining nerve ganglia in her arm after it was amputated. Those nerves were inflamed and painful, and every move Cinder made sent tendrils of agony up her shoulder. Knowing Salem would want to see, she uncurled the fingers with her good hand, then forced it up so Salem could inspect it. The artificial fingernails were silver, the only part of the arm that wasn't black. She didn't have to respond to Salem's question; it was obvious on her face.

"I thought it would," Salem said. "I admit that we are rushing your convalescence, Cinder, but you will be needed." She turned to Emerald. "Take her up again."

Emerald shook her head. "Miss Salem, with respect, that isn't a good idea. She can handle the stick all right, but her throttle movements are jerky. In these old MiGs, that can be a real issue. I'm helping as much as I can, but…"

Salem let her finish, her hands behind her back. "I understand. Take her up again."

"But it's the third time—"

"I gave an order, Miss Sustrai." There was suddenly steel in the placid voice, and Emerald had to look away from those red eyes. Salem looked back to Cinder. "Do you think Ruby Rose will care if you're tired? If you're in pain?"

Cinder gritted her teeth. Ruby Rose. The girl haunted her dreams. Pyrrha Nikos was Cinder's equal, but she'd shot Pyrrha down, and further broken her by killing Jaune Arc. But it had been Ruby that had brought her down; there had been several times Cinder had woken up in a cold sweat, hearing the sound of metal tearing, watching the F-16 ram her F-22, the right wingtip of the red-trimmed fighter missing her head by only a foot. And then the flames. Cinder saw the fingers of her new arm twitching, the fingernails clicking against the canopy frame. "No," Cinder snarled, then pulled the arm back in and reset it on the throttle. She closed the canopy. Emerald sighed and did the same, and started the engine back up as Salem walked away.

Juneau International Airport

Juneau, Alaska, United States of Canada

5 June 2001

Qrow Branwen stood in his flight suit at the side of the hangar his F-117 had been placed in, and shivered with the cold. Normally June was fairly seasonal even in Juneau, but a freak storm had passed through, dumping snow on the town during the night. The runways were being cleared, but the cold winds still came off the high, beautiful mountains that surrounded the city and the inlet. He took a swig of whiskey from his flask, savoring the artificial warmth.

He turned as a police car pulled up behind the hangar, and two uniformed men stepped out. It was not airport police, but Juneau city officers. He pushed off the hangar and stuffed the flask into his flight suit. He wasn't drunk, so they weren't here to keep him flying under the influence.

One of them met him halfway while the other remained by the car. "Major Branwen?"

"That's me," Qrow confirmed.

"Sir, I'm sorry to bother you this morning, but I'm afraid we have to bring you back to the station."

"What for?" Qrow asked in surprise. "I haven't done anything."

The policeman scratched the back of his head. "Well, sir…we really need to discuss this back at the station…"

"Officer…" Qrow read the name on the man's jacket. "Officer Weeks. Either tell me what I'm being charged with or let me go. I have a mission to fly."

"Sir, you're not being charged with anything—"

"Nice speaking with you." Qrow turned around and started walking away.

"She was murdered, sir." That stopped Qrow. He turned back to face Weeks. "The waitress at the End of the Line."

"Jesus," Qrow murmured. Juneau could be a rough place, and murders at the End of the Line were not unknown. They were, however, rare, and never among the staff. "Okay, why talk to me?"

"You were seen talking to her last night."

"That's all I did." Qrow had thought about taking the waitress to bed; they had met several times before, and in the short conversation they'd had after Raven had left, she had left indications that she was willing. But he was tired from the long flight to Juneau, and mentally tired from speaking to his sister. He wondered for a moment if Raven had killed the waitress, but that made no sense. Though Raven Branwen did not have a problem with murder, she never killed without reason, and there was no reason to kill a random waitress at a hole-in-the-wall bar.

"Still, sir. We'd like to take you—we'd like it if you could come in and answer a few questions."

Qrow thought about it. He could simply walk away; if they weren't charging him, they couldn't hold him. If the police got too insistent, he could simply make a phone call to Rissa Arashikaze—if he could find her card in all his pockets—and that would be that. But now he wanted to know what had happened to the waitress. "All right," he finally said, and followed Weeks back to the squad car.

The Juneau Police were polite enough to Qrow: any uniformed fighter pilot that came through Juneau was a Huntsman or a Huntress, and the people of Alaska held them in very high regard. Instead of an interrogation room, he was in a waiting room, with comfortable couches.

He hadn't been there long when a tall man in shirt and tie walked in, smoking a cigarette and carrying a manila folder. Qrow smiled; the man looked like he'd been chosen as a police detective from Central Casting. He stubbed out the cigarette and put out a hand. "Glenn Stier."

"Qrow Branwen." They shook hands, and Stier sat. "Coffee?" he offered, and Qrow held up a mug; he'd already helped himself. "I suppose there's no point talking around this." Stier opened the folder and let a few glossy photographs fall out onto the table between them.

Qrow's mug stopped halfway to his lips, and he set it down. "Fuck," he said in part amazement, part horror.

The waitress had been cute, her black hair done up in a Chinese style, just the kind of petite girls Qrow was partial to. No more. Her too-wide brown eyes stared upwards into nothingness, her face stretched and drawn into what looked to be a silent scream. Qrow had seen enough battlefield wounds to know that she hadn't died screaming—she'd died gasping for air. Below the cute face was a horrible, ragged slash across her throat; her upper torso was bathed in blood.

And that wasn't the worst of it. Qrow looked at the other pictures, fighting down the urge to vomit. The waitress had been found naked, tied to a bed, probably in the loft above the bar. Her torso was covered in small burns; there were bite marks on her legs, thighs and arms. "God," he breathed.

Stier nodded. "Major Branwen, I've been on the force now for fifteen years. Seen a lot of crazy shit in my time; people go nuts up here during the winters. And this isn't the worst murder I've seen, but it's in the top five."

Qrow forced himself to look at the pictures again. "She was tortured."

"Near as we can reconstruct, she was tied to the bed, then burned with a cigarette, repeatedly, over her entire body. And then whoever did this to her started biting her." He pointed to her wrists and ankles. "The poor girl must have been utterly terrified. She actually scraped off layers of skin trying to get free. Once he—or she—was done torturing her, he cut her throat. We found a pair of scissors next to the bed."

"And no one heard her screaming or anything?"

Stier shook his head. "A gag was found at the scene. Professionally done, not just a scarf stuffed in her mouth. Whoever did this has done it before." Qrow realized the detective was looking at him.

Qrow put up his hands. "Whoa, now. I did not do this, man. We talked, that's all. Then I went back to my room at the Dew Drop down the street."

Stier said nothing for a long moment, but kept staring. Then he sighed and leaned back onto the couch. "Given your reaction to the pictures, I guess you're clear. That and the receptionist at the Dew Drop Inn did see you come in. The checkout guy at the Wal-Mart also verified you bought a bottle of Southern Comfort around eleven last night. We think that's when she started being tortured. Have to wait for the coroner's report, of course."

"So I wasn't a suspect after all?"

"We had to be sure, Major Branwen. You do have a record." Qrow smiled in spite of himself for that. There were probably quite a bit of drunk and disorderly conducts, driving under the influence, a few simple assaults, and at least one count of grand theft auto and arson in there. Any of those normally would've ended a military career instantly, but Ozpin had always smoothed things over for him. "There is also the matter of the woman you were seen speaking with at the bar." Stier held up a grainy picture of Raven, obviously taken from a CCTV camera. "A friend?"

"She's actually my sister. She didn't have anything to do with this." I hope, Qrow thought. Raven didn't torture people, but he wondered just how much his sister had changed. "She left at least two hours before. Trust me, detective, she's long gone. You'll never find her. Believe me, I wish you could, but she's probably halfway down the coast by now." And don't even try, Qrow added silently. Raven might not torture, but she certainly wouldn't mind cutting a Juneau PD detective's throat and leaving him in a dark alley.

"All right." Stier pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offered one to Qrow, who took it. After they lit up, Stier blew smoke in the air. "Which brings me to my final question. What were they torturing a waitress for?" Another look at Qrow.

"Detective, I won't lie—I undertake special missions for the Air Force. But I never said anything to this girl, other than turning her down when she said she wanted to sleep with me." Qrow chuckled sadly. "Now I wish I had. We just made small talk. I didn't talk about work, other than I was a fighter pilot—but hell, half the people in that bar knew that when I walked in."

"You're sure?" Qrow nodded. Stier sighed. "And no idea who could've done this." Qrow shook his head. "Well, all right then…we won't keep you any longer, Major." Stier got to his feet, and shook hands with Qrow, who also got up. "Thanks for your cooperation."

"No problem." Qrow checked his watch; still plenty of time. Reaper flight wasn't due to leave until 0300 the next morning; he just needed to be at Elmendorf AFB before they left, and that was a good twelve hours off. Elmendorf was a about 150 miles south of Eielson, and it would give him enough cover to trail Reaper to Japan.

As Qrow left, Stier spoke. "Major." He took a draught of smoke, blew it out. "When someone does something like this, it's for one of three reasons. One, they want information. Two, they enjoy it. And three, they're sending a message." He fixed Qrow with a stare. "Watch your ass, Major."

"You bet." Qrow tossed him a salute as he left the room.

The Belladonna Lodge

Paisley, Lower Scotland, Menagerie

5 June 2001

"Mom…" Blake sighed. "Quit looking at me like that."

"I can't help it, honey." Kali reached out and touched her daughter's shoulder, again as if to reassure herself Blake was real. "You've gotten so skinny! You need to eat more."

Sun Wukong poured himself some tea. It was sweeter than he was used to, but still excellent; one problem at Beacon and aboard the Reagan had been that the Americans really didn't know how to make a good pot of tea. He forced himself to look at Ghira Belladonna; the alternative was either to look at Blake or look at Kali, and looking at either made him feel the father and husband's stare. "So…you did know where Blake was."

"Blake couldn't communicate with us," Ghira rumbled, "but I still have some backchannel contacts in the US Marines. We knew she was at Beacon."

"We were horrified when we heard the news," Kali said, sipping her tea and continuing to look at her daughter. "We were both so worried about you, Blake."

Ghira chuckled. "She was worried," he said, nodding at Kali. "I knew you were fine."

Kali rolled her eyes. "Oh, certainly. Which was why he was pacing a trench into the floor and kept pestering the State Department every other hour." Ghira gave sort of a harrumph and drank his tea. Blake smothered a giggle; her father hadn't changed.

Sun chose that moment to open his mouth, which wasn't the best decision he'd ever made. "You guys had nothing to worry about. I've seen your daughter in action, and man does she have some moves!"

Ghira set down his teacup very loudly, and his head came around like the main battery on a battleship. "And what is it, exactly, that you mean by that, Captain Wukong?"

Sun swallowed. "Um…she's one hell of a fighter pilot, uh, sir. I mean, she's almost as good as me. The way she throws that Tomcat around, it's like…er…I have a lot of respect for her. As a pilot. And a fellow officer. And not her looks or anything."

Ghira regarded Sun like a cat regarding a mouse it had cornered. "Are you saying my daughter isn't beautiful, Captain?"

"Uh, no sir! She is very beautiful! Quite attractive! Ah, not that I had noticed or anything, just in passing, you know…guy noticing a girl, that sort of thing…" Seeing his imminent death in Ghira's eyes, Sun took the opportunity to pour another cup of tea with his tail. "I say, this is some good tea!" He slurped it down, burning his tongue in the process.

Ghira turned back to Blake and thumbed at Sun. "Did he just follow you home, or what?"

Blake thought of how best to answer that, in a way that wouldn't end with Sun's grisly death. "Kind of?"

Kali appraised Sun. He had wisely buttoned his shirt rather than doing his usual show of abs, but she could still tell what lay beneath. After looking him up and down, she turned to Blake. "I like him. You have my approval, Blake."

"What?" Ghira thundered. Sun wondered if he should make a dash for the balcony window or the front door.

Kali regarded her husband mischeviously. "Oh now, come on, my love. Grandbabies come along sooner or later."

Blake nearly shot out of her chair, turning bright red, while Ghira made sounds of apoplexy. "Mom!"

Her mother's peals of laughter were cut short by the thump of the front door knocker. Ghira looked towards the door. "Dammit. I forgot about the fucking meeting."

Kali raised an eyebrow. "Language, Ghira. Not in front of the children."

Ghira grunted as he got up from the low table they sat around. Kali had been trying to cure him of his cursing for years, but it while one could take a Faunus out of the Royal Marines, one could not as easily take the Royal Marines out of the Faunus. He walked through the living room, down the hallway to the front door, muttering imprecations under his breath.

"Everything all right?" Blake asked.

"Mm. Poor timing. On everyone's part." Kali put her teacup down. "It's a meeting, Blake. With the White Fang."

"The what?" Blake shot to her feet.

Kali quickly got to hers and put a hand on her daughter's arm. "Blake, you know they can operate openly here. Trust me, it's not Adam Taurus, and I sincerely doubt it's Sienna Khan. More than likely it's the Albain brothers. Please, Blake, you're safe here. Your father will reschedule the meeting."

I'm not safe anywhere, Blake wanted to say. Not for the first time, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming here, that she was endangering her parents by doing so—not that Rissa Arashikaze had given her much choice. God, was that what that damn spy wanted? To draw Sienna or Adam into the open by using me as bait? She thought about running, but where could she run to?

And then she remembered Adam's words: you always run, Blake.

She wrenched her arm away from her mother and stalked towards the door, ignoring her mother's pleas. Sun jumped up to follow her.

Blake got there just as Ghira had greeted the Albain brothers. She'd only met them briefly during her time in the White Fang. Fennec Albain was well-named: he was a fennec, very short, with huge ears that rose from a closely cropped head of hair. Corsac, his brother, was a wolf Faunus, big, stocky, with smaller but still prominent ears and a shaggy tail. They were not twins, and in fact were only half-brothers, but they looked enough alike that some people mistook them for at least fraternal twins. Both Faunus wore sharp-cut business suits, with a White Fang pin in their lapels—the blue emblem, rather than the red, clawed one Sienna preferred.

Corsac saw her first and his ears went up in surprise. "Miss Belladonna!"

Fennec was a little better at concealing his emotions, but he looked surprised as well. "We had no idea you'd returned, Miss Belladonna."

Blake thought that was a good thing; it meant the White Fang weren't watching Holy Loch. "Flew in on the morning flight to Prestwick," she lied, and walked up next to her father. She wasn't sure why; she probably should have hid. But Blake was tired of hiding. "How are you, gentlemen?" She held out a hand.

Corsac was old-fashioned: he came to attention, bent over, and kissed her hand. "A pleasure to see you again, Miss Belladonna." Fennec, again, did the same.

Ghira noticed Sun standing just behind, and decided hospitality extended to him, as well. "Sun Wukong, this is Fennec and Corsac Albain, of the White Fang." He deliberately omitted Sun's rank; the less the Albains knew, the better.

Both Albains bowed, but Sun didn't bother returning it. "What are those psychos doing here?" he snapped.

Corsac smiled and put up his hands. Blake noticed his claws were well manicured. "Mr. Wukong. I'm not sure what you may have heard about our organization, but I can assure you, we're nowhere near as ferocious and evil as the media might have you believe."

"The media, hell," Sun returned. "We saw it firsthand. At Beacon."

Blake's eyes never left the Albains. "We saw them slaughter unarmed men and women." She remembered the body of Ciel Soleil, lying next to her burned out F-15, and the dead security policemen. To say nothing of all the dead fighter pilots, shot down by the White Fang on the ground or Adam in the air.

Ghira folded his massive arms across an equally massive chest. "Well, gentlemen? Is that the lay of it?"

To Blake's surprise, Fennec sighed, and nodded slowly. "It is, Mr. President. As much as it pains us to admit it, Miss Belladonna and Mr. Wukong are entirely correct."

"Explain," Ghira ordered.

"Our North American branch is no longer operating under the orders of High Leader Khan. They have gone rogue. They have disavowed the peaceful approach we've been taking towards reconcilation with the humans, for a more…direct approach, I am afraid." He glanced at Blake. "They have chosen to follow Adam Taurus."

"Oh, bullshit," Blake growled. "Sienna Khan was at Beacon! I saw her! So did plenty of others—"

Ghira held up a hand. "Blake, please."

Corsac looked pained. "Miss Belladonna, I do not know who you saw at Beacon, but I can assure you, it was not the High Leader. There are other tiger Faunus—"

"I'm not blind!" Blake shouted. "Goddammit, I saw her—"

"Enough!" Ghira's command instantly quieted her, as it always had. Almost always.

"She was not there," Corsac insisted. "Our High Council has long suspected the existence of a splinter group under Mr. Taurus' command, but this incident has confirmed it."

"Incident?" Sun yelled. "People died, you idiot!"

"And we regret that considerably," Corsac said, as Ghira shot Sun a warning glance.

Fennec stepped forward to look up at Ghira, who had about three feet on him. "Mr. President, we came to assure you that the actions of the White Fang at Beacon do not represent the actions of the White Fang as a whole."

Ghira looked down at him. "Then why didn't High Leader Khan come herself? Why did she send both of you?"

Fennec stepped back, and sighed. "It was originally her intention to do so, Mr. President, but unfortunately we have reason to believe that foreign organizations may try to assassinate the High Leader. We have heard rumors of a CIA plot." Oh, wonderful, Blake thought to herself. Maybe she was bait, after all. "In any case, High Leader Khan wishes to assure you that she will meet with you at the nearest convienence, as soon as we can be assured she will be safe. She will bring ample documentation from our council meetings, as well as a strategy to bring Adam Taurus and his group to justice."

"I will inform the Ruling Council of this," Ghira replied. "And High Leader Khan can rest assured there are no foreign plots to kill her. Or domestic ones." He put a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "But not today. I have not seen my daughter in some time, so I'd like some time to reconnect with her."

Both Faunus smiled. "Of course," Corsac said. "We completely understand." He gave a quick, respectful bow to Kali, as did Fennec. Neither acknowledged Sun's existence. "It is good to see you again," Corsac said to Blake. "We were saddened when we heard you had left the White Fang, but given your, ah, history with Adam Taurus…it is understandable."

Blake fought back the thoughts of Adam, and the urge to plant her fist between Corsac's eyes. "Thank you."

"If you ever decide to come back, you know where to find us," Fennec added. "But it is a wearying fight, at that."

Her mouth quirked into a predatory smile. "Who said I'm done fighting? Maybe I just found better allies."

"Of course. May we remember you to Ilia Amitola?"

Blake was taken utterly by surprise, which was Fennec's intention. "Ilia? She's here?"

"Why, yes. Not here in Glasgow, but over in Edinburgh. I will let her know you're back, if that's all right."

"Uh, sure. Yes, that would be fine. It would be good to see her again." Blake managed to recover. She did want to speak to Ilia. She knew it was Ilia who had almost shot Weiss down over Mountain Glenn, and that Ilia had spared the security police sergeant in Iowa. She doubt anyone in the White Fang knew about the latter; Sienna would have had her killed for that.

"Gentlemen?" Ghira said, and the Albains knew a dismissal when they heard one. They inclined their heads, turned as one, and walked down the stairs.

"What a bunch of assholes," Sun observed.

Ghira shooed them back, closed the door, and turned to Sun. "Captain Wukong. This is my house. And while you are in it, you will comport yourself with the dignity and grace befitting your rank, and not use foul language or insult my guests, no matter how much they may or may not deserve it." He shook his head at the monkey Faunus. "You should know…I don't like you very fucking much."

The Albains got into their car. As they shut the door, Fennec smiled. "An interesting development, Blake Belladonna returning home."

"Very," Corsac agreed.

"Should we inform Adam?"

Corsac grinned and turned the key. "Most certainly."