A/N: New chapter for your reading pleasure, you lovable degenerate fucks. A little bit shorter than usual, but I hope you enjoy.
For the record, hanging out of a moving vehicle is pretty nauseating after a few minutes under the best of circumstances. Dangling off the side of a moving vehicle nearly 7 miles up in the air can be best described as "heinous." The wind alone would be enough to blind and choke me if not for the atmospheric suit that Lorica Segmentata provided, and the thin claws extending from the exoskeleton are quite literally all that keep me from becoming the world's largest failed egg drop, Aura or not. The whole suit is powered by thin lines of grafted Lightning Dust, which generally speaking is an absolute bitch to maintain, but now I couldn't be more thankful for them.
A grunt and a rather sloppy swing of my claws is all it takes to step, or rather crawl, forward. It takes me a few minutes to work my way up to the top of the bullhead, just a few meters behind where the pilots would sit. If I time this just right...
A ha! I drop in right at the juncture between cockpit and storage, rising from the impromptu crouch that I had thrown myself in. The final guard, unfortunately enough, is right behind me, moving in with admirable swiftness and locking his arms around my neck in a textbook triangle choke. I struggle for a few seconds, his burly arms applying incredible pressure against my throat, before bucking my hips and dropping to my knees simultaneously, using my Aura to turn what would have been a snapped neck into bodily throwing him against the side of the plane. The guard impacts the wall that separates cockpit and storage with a deafening crash, almost immediately trying to get back to his feet. Not so fucking fast!
I jump in, exploding from my kneeling position to land on him knees-first, driving the wind out of the downed guard for a second time. With the exoskeleton still activated, all it takes is a quick application of pressure before my "claws" are embedded past his Aura and straight through his throat. The corpse, because that's definitely what he is now, is rather gruesome even by my workplace standards, his neck absolutely mangled and the spinal column all that keeps his head atop his shoulders. Even that doesn't look too sturdy; those claws go deep.
I huff, catching my breath for what may be the first time since this whole mess started. The aches go deep, and even with my admittedly quite impressive Aura capacity, it's not particularly soothing or relaxing to be thrown around a warehouse, climb a flying plane and get choked half to death before noon. This two days of paid leave better be fucking worth it; maybe I'll go visit Sanctum and see how little Jade is doing. She should be in her... second year? Wait, no, third. Oum, time really flies when you don't have a social life, huh? Of course, knowing M, I'll be sent off to Haven to make sure those two chuckle-fucks from our brother agency haven't bungled anything major yet instead of a chance to see my middle sister. Not much of an undercover operation when your team and your leader have the same Oum-damned name, is it? Fucking rookies, I swear.
Alright, break time's over; back to business. I creak my neck, working out what little stiffness remains from the triangle choke earlier, and stride in, a powerful kick making light work of the door leading to the cockpit. "Anybody want some drinks?" I bellow, lashing out with a rapidly expanding Crocea Shield to the throat to knock one pilot out cold. The other is in a bit of a tight spot, and in a morbid way I sort of feel bad for the guy. I mean, really; it's not like he can get up and just not pilot the bullhead, right? Not like there's another pilot to handle that anymore, though of course I may have had something to do with that. Whoops. "Listen, friend, just point me out to where your buddy King Kong is at, okay?" He's trembling, one shaking hand pointing back to the storage area. "Thank you." I give him a low bow, hearing more than seeing the relief apparent on his face by the way he exhales, before turning back and sending a donkey kick straight to his temple. Goodnight pilots!
Alright, so if I was a big Gorilla Faunus, where would I be hiding? Well, there's a small section of empty seats. There's a plane bathroom with the door clearly open. And, of course, there's a bunch of crates with tarps thrown over. "You can come out now, Professor Bobo. The circus just left town, they didn't want to take you with them." I deadpan, watching with a rather bored expression as the absolutely massive Gorilla Faunus throws off the tarp concealing him... and a dust-powered LMG. "Are you fucking insane?" I scream, ducking to the side as he lets out a war cry and opens fire, reducing the few chairs and wooden crates thus far to splinters and kindling in seconds. Even with my Aura up, that many rounds in that short of time is going to chip through my defenses sooner or later. A few make their way past and impact against my shield, sending pangs of throbbing pain into my shield arm. The moment of distraction costs me, as one rather lucky bullet grazes my torso, a hiss of agony all that comes from my voice as bullet shards tear into Lorica Segmentata and carve a thin but freely bleeding furrow across my upper ribs. I really can't take much more of this.
I roll to the other side, plastering my body flush against the side of a metal crate, wincing with each dull thud of a round impacting steel. Thank Monty those aren't Dust Rounds! Even over the whine of the LMG I can hear the Gorilla Faunus stepping closer, each ponderous plod of his boots bringing him nearer and nearer to me. After a few seconds, the whir of the bullets flying ceases, and I can hear him cursing and muttering as he detaches the box magazine, no doubt rifling through the crate for another. The good news is that with all the dust and flying debris, not to mention the sound of the cabin depressurizing, he hasn't quite realized I'm scantly feet away. The bad news is that he definitely just found another box magazine, judging by the telltale click and the whirring of barrels. Now or never!
I turn around, planting both feet square against the side of the metal crate. The Gorilla Faunus sees my head poking out, whipping the heavy gun over to bear, but it's too late. With a grunt of exertion and the flexing of both muscle and Aura, I kick out, sending both Faunus and crate flying back. They impact against one side of the cargo plane with a wet splat, and I can tell that even with Aura that can't have felt good. I'm breathing harshly at this point, short pants and wheezes all that come out as I stumble over, both sword and shield of Crocea Mors out and ready to end this charade.
It only takes five or six steps to reach the area of impact, and I stab Crocea Mors cleanly through the crate, the front-most half foot or so going cleanly through both crate and Faunus with the jarring metallic crunch of metal grinding against metal. The Faunus simply groans, blood already leaking copiously from his frame. His chest and upper legs have been wholly crushed by the crate, and if it weren't for his Aura he'd probably be pulped beyond recognition by that last attack. I'm not doing much better, my whole body bruised and my lower torso bloodied. Lorica Segmentata's Exoskeleton has definitely short-circuited at this point, and even if it weren't mangled horribly by that .308, it probably would have run out of juice by now.
The Faunus lets out a hiss of pain as the sword breaks through the crate and deep into his gut, blood bubbling up through his throat and out his mouth in two rivulets. "Long... Live... The White Fang." He croaks out, before raising one fist in a victory salute. A small button is attached to his wrist, and as he compresses it, I can see thin lines of Dust igniting in wires running down his body. This crazy fuck had a suicide vest on!
My eyes widen, a split second all I have as I leap backwards. I've always pushed my Aura to its limits in both training and missions before, but now the sense of urgency has never been greater. My body is sent careening through the half-demolished door to the cockpit, continuing all the way through as I manage to snag the downed but still living pilot. We go further still, my poor back shattering through the glass of the cockpit and out the plane entirely as an eruption rocks the vehicle.
We're in free-fall a moment later, the cargo plane going up in a blaze of glory that both deafens and blinds me. The light, the heat, the sound, it's all too much, and for a moment I can feel myself losing consciousness, the black encroaching on my vision rapidly. No! Absolutely fucking not! With enormous effort, I manage to stay alert, shutting my eyes tightly as I breathe in and out to stabilize myself. It's an old trick the Atlesian Specialists came up with maybe fifty years ago. Cycling Aura through my respiratory system while I take powerful inhales and rapid exhales to stave off the nausea and pain means that I'm able to just barely avoid blacking out.
In a few seconds we're going to hit peak velocity, and I probably won't have a chance to grab the similarly free-falling pilot after that. Crocea Mors darts out, my wrist working overtime to angle the blade just right, catching the flat of the sword against a belt loop and reaching out with the other arm to grab him at the same time, angling his limp body until he's held across my broad back and shoulders. Alright, captive is secured, now to hope that my parachute is still working. I pull against the release mechanism once, twice, thrice. Not good. In the wake of the battle, or more likely the resulting explosion, the parachute isn't deploying properly. The thrusters work, thank Oum, and as they deploy I angle both my elbows and my feet downwards, activating all four auxiliary devices at full level. The effect is rather jarring, as I can feel our bodies slowing down dramatically, though nowhere near enough to help us from free falling. The ground is coming closer rapidly, to the point where if the parachute doesn't deploy, we're toast.
"Oh for fuck's sake, come on, work Oum damn it!" I curse, yanking the parachute deploy mechanism over and over. We're easily at 5,000 feet now, if the altitude meter in my suit is still working. I sure fucking hope it is; much shorter than this and things might get hairy. The thrusters are still working overtime, reducing our speed, but at this point death is still a certainty.
The pilot groans softly, still out cold thankfully. That might just be it! Working as quickly as I can, I limber up his body in mid-air, bringing him down until I'm essentially squeezing the man's body between my elbows and knees in order to still make usage of the auxiliary thrusters. A few moments of blind scrabbling and I'm rewarded with the discovery of an emergency parachute attached to the thin pack on his uniform. A swift prayer to Oum and a rapid tugging on the deploy mechanism, and we are finally floating down. "Oh, fuck me, this was too close. I need a fucking break." The pilot starts to come awake, stirring slightly as his eyes flutter open and he lets out a rasp. "Oh shut up, you." I mutter, reaching behind his neck and pinching a few nerves. Ah, back to peace and quiet. Damn near pissed myself today.
The Next Day
I have to say, of all the perks that this job provides, access to private facilities with Dust-powered hot tubs are very high up on the list. They're incredible devices, truly Polendina-level ingenuity. What's so special about them, you may ask? Well, it's like a tub of water, right? But, and this is very important, they have jets of hot water that massage your poor muscles. Is that just a standard hot tub? Yes, perhaps. But nothing really counts as "standard" after jumping out of an exploding plane and spending three hours interrogating a bound captive in the middle of a forest, before having to wait another thirty minutes for the auto-driver function on your car to come pick you up. So, in fact, this hot tub is quite special. The fact that it's located at the topmost level of Mistralian Intelligence is just a nice plus. There's a gym one floor down, and I often make usage of both, one after the other. Today, it's just the one.
The jacuzzis themselves are lavish, big enough to comfortably seat up to a dozen adults. The water is incredibly hot, and I'm fairly certain M mentioned adding some sort of mineral to help relax muscles a few months ago. Nothing beats a nice afternoon in one of these devices after a long day of work, and I haven't had many longer than today.
As I close my eyes, leaning back to enjoy the few scant hours of peace and quiet I do have, I can hear a muffled chuckle. That's fine, no big deal. I can still just enjoy the peace... and... nope, the quiet is ruined. Wearily, I crack one eye open, my arms still held up on the sides of the jacuzzi and my body relaxed, the water reaching up to my clavicle. The vision in front of me isn't exactly new by this point; in fact it's quite old, and at this point extremely unwelcome. Yet another stupid antic from the moronic pair over at our so-called "partners in intelligence," the rather stupidly named United Network Command for Law Enforcement, imagine my fucking shock. As usual, I can't enjoy a single thing in life; the Brother Gods truly must hate me.
"What do you two assholes need now? I was trying to enjoy the moment here."
One of the two simply grins wider, a prehensile tail whipping out with incredible accuracy. I've seen him choke men to death with that tail as if it was child's play, but today it's simply snatching my mocha from its spot atop the shelf. Fucking asshole. The other shakes his head, standing outside the tub entirely. He's clothed as he usually is, the finest designer suit (though not quite as nice, I must add with absolutely no smugness whatsoever) and white shirt, with a loosened black tie hanging around his neck. Of course he wouldn't step foot in the water, and of course he wouldn't pull his idiot partner back in line.
"Just going in for a soak, Agent Arc. We Section Two Agents need some downtime too, you know?" The first responds, taking an intentionally loud slurp from the coffee. My coffee. The coffee I paid far too much money at the local StarDust for. The iced mocha that I was planning to enjoy after my soak in the hot tub. It takes a herculean effort to not outright snarl at the cheeky fucker.
"Big assumption of you, George of the Jungle; everybody knows your partner is the one that can speak above a sixth grade level." I bite out, turning to the second, silent as of yet. "So I'll ask again before I have to get up and string up your partner by his tail for interrupting my sacred hot-tub time, Neptune. What. Do. You. And. Sun. Want?"
Oum above, I hate these men from U.N.C.L.E.
A/N: Oh, what's this? I'm bringing in other spy movie universes? Fuck yes I am. In case you didn't get the reference, Neptune and Sun are the Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin of Remnant. They already have this hilarious buddy cop shtick going in RWBY Chibi, and it was just too perfect of an opportunity to pass up. Neptune is definitely more Illya and Sun is definitely more Napoleon, in case that wasn't pretty obvious.
Next chapter: Last one before Beacon! Talks with M and the S and N of SSSN! A certain benefactor makes her appearance! What are the villains up to? Find out!
As always, please read and review.
To address the guest reviews:
Guest says: "Cute women? One better be neo XD Sorry Jaune x Neo is my fave and jaune being suave would be interesting to see how that goes with a tiny criminal whos a bit of sadist XD Femme fatales, am i right XD"
Yeah, Neo and Jaune will definitely be involved! Getting it on with the villain's hot female companion is practically a Bond staple at this point, no way am I passing up on that!