-(=RWBY=)-

Chapter 28

-(=RWBY=)-

Jaune woke, to pain.

His stomach was afire, even as his head felt like it had been ground into gravel.

Through that haze of pain, it took him long seconds to get his bearings –

– and slowly, apprehension augmented agony.

He was in a steel cell, lying on a thin mattress on a steel frame bed. His left hand was handcuffed to the frame, so even as he sat up awkwardly, he was left unable to walk about. And worse, around his neck –

With his free right hand, he touched the collar wrapped around his neck. Uncomfortably reminiscent of what the slaves of antiquity would have worn, it was basically a leather belt with a metal buckle that seemed to only be remotely and wirelessly unlockable.

Already hating its feel, and utterly wary of its purpose, Jaune wanted to vaporize it right off his neck with his semblance. And so, he called upon his aura –

But it did not come.

The sheer, horrible wrongness left Jaune dizzy, and he could feel the panic boil up.

The very manifestation of his soul – the light of conscious existence, and the fire of his person – it was gone, just gone, out of reach and unresponsive.

It was a situation that just ought not to be – like being awake yet unable to move, or being alive without any memory of being you. It was blood without color, sea without water, time without hours, and love without a partner – utterly aberrant, and deeply unnatural.

Jaune had to hold back not just the panic but also the terribly strong impulse to throw up –

– and he succeeded, even if this was achieved only by punching the steel wall repeatedly, and so hard his knuckles split with blood.

It was just as well that he achieved some semblance of control over his spiraling feelings, because not long after –

The door opened, and a giant of a man entered.

Jaune was tall, yet this man was taller. Jaune was broad across the shoulders; this man was broader still. With grey dusting the sides of his dark hair, a face hard as a statue carved of stone, and eyes cold as the Atlesian everwinter, James Ironwood's presence dominated the room.

The General spoke.

"Jaune Arc."

The man's voice was deep and powerful, exuding command and authority.

"General. I see that I am in Atlesian custody."

Jaune spoke evenly, all the while ensuring his face was blank and giving nothing away.

Ironwood himself was inscrutable, as he replied,

"You are. Mistral has traditionally rejected Atlasian help in fighting bandits, but your recent incursions into towns made Leonardo fearful enough to accept our aid. My airship was nearest when the reports came in that Raven Branwen and her elites had been assassinated. You are the only one left alive."

Jaune felt some grim satisfaction, upon hearing the General offer confirmation – that he had indeed succeeded; that Raven was dead, and her semblance eliminated.

Meanwhile, the General was still speaking – coolly, and his eyes never leaving Jaune's.

"There is a piece of information that we require from you. You will provide it to us."

Jaune tilted his head. Though his mission was over, Jaune was cognizant of the fact that Salem almost certainly had a traitor amongst Ozpin's cabal. Wary of giving aid to the enemy, Jaune sought to keep things close to his chest for now. Probing, he asked,

"And what is this piece of information, General?"

James Ironwood's gaze was as steel.

"What were the last few things that Raven Branwen spoke of, before she lost consciousness and died from the poison?"

Ah.

Jaune saw, immediately, what Ironwood was after. Raven's last words would indicate her last thoughts – which would in turn hint at the identity of the young woman she had last been thinking of, to whom the power of the Spring Maiden would have gone.

And that only made Jaune warier than ever.

If Ironwood is the traitor, we lose those powers.

Of course, Jaune was in quite the bind, which made him default to the obvious way out.

"Let me speak to Headmaster Ozpin first. I'll be happy to tell you whatever you want after."

Ironwood's eyes narrowed.

"Ozpin? What have you to say to him? No, Arc. You will tell me what I want, and without delay. Consider your position."

He gestured at Jaune's neck, and the device that collared him.

"That device you are wearing injects an aura-suppressing compound into your body. It disrupts a huntsman's ability to physically enhance themselves, or to use their semblance and dust sorcery and more. Your powers will not avail you now."

That certainly explained things, and Jaune's jaws tightened even as he resisted the temptation to try to rip off the collar in question – knowing as he did that it was futile and only going to make him look weak.

"There is no escape, Arc. You are a prisoner of Atlas, now and forever."

The paramount leader of Atlas took a step forward.

Softly, and in a manner all the more menacing for it, Ironwood said,

"Do you think we have forgotten what you are? Traitor. Terrorist. Murderer."

The anger Jaune expected; the fist to his gut, he did not.

Ironwood's punch smashed him into the wall, and as pain webbed out from both his stomach and his back, Jaune had to bite down to avoid crying out.

As he slid back down onto the bed, doing his best to regain his breath with painful, ragged gasps, the General looked down at him with pitiless eyes.

"My men would glad torture you for what you did to the Ace-Operatives. As it is, I extend you this, one mercy – I will spare you that, if you give us the information we need."

Torture.

That one word, brutal in its meaning, and abhorrent for all decent human beings, made Jaune narrow his eyes and grimace, as a complex mix of emotions shook him.

There was fear, he was ashamed to admit – but incredulity too, and even amusement.

And seizing on the latter emotions to suppress the dread that would otherwise choke him, Jaune looked up at Ironwood, to gave a sharp smile, full of scorn and derision.

"Torture? Truly? If you think to resort to it, General, then you are worse than a criminal – you are a fool. Inflicting horrific pain and suffering on a human being is already an unforgivable evil, one of the worst things one person can do to another.

"But worse than that – it doesn't even fucking work, as a means of extracting truth. If the victim knows nothing, then they'll lie to stop the torture. And if they have the information you want, so valuable you're willing to violate all morality to obtain it – then they are similarly motivated to protect it by lying through their teeth. And even if you ultimately break them into confessing the truth, you'll never be able to distinguish it from all the preceding falsehoods spewed under abuse. And of course –"

Jaune bared his teeth.

"You think there are no consequences to what you do? To all the torture, all the abuse? Evil engenders opposition, and violence begets violence, with people rising up against your cruelty until insurrection has consumed the Kingdoms. Why do you think the Faunus Rights Revolution occurred, why the White Fang still wars against Atlas?"

Jaune's words were impassioned, and thrumming with both righteous fury and undeniable truth – but he might as well have been speaking to stone, or making his views known to empty air, for all that Ironwood listened, which was not at all.

The General's eyes were cold and unyielding and disquietingly free of doubt despite everything, as he said in iron tones,

"The public fears your blade, and that semblance of yours, so like your legendary ancestor's. But I see now that the danger you pose is more than just that – your cunning and sophistry are also threats."

Sophistry.

Jaune's mouth thinned, as he heard his well-reasoned arguments labelled that, and dismissed off-hand. And he could only conclude, of Ironwood –

Here's a man who will not listen – who is overconfident, in his own judgement.

And the consequences, of course, would be Jaune's to bear.

"Haspel!"

The General barked out a name, and the door opened, and a second individual stepped into the room.

It was a woman this time, brown-haired and bespectacled, and wearing the red blouse of a civilian.

The General turned to her, to curtly say,

"We will proceed with the enhanced interrogation."

"Very good, sir."

As Ironwood stepped aside to observe proceedings, the woman named Haspel went to the door, opening it and calling out –

"Jaime. Come. We are about to begin."

Haspel's associate was a young man, similar bespectacled and with bright, clever eyes; yet he also clearly huntsman-trained, given the sword at his belt. As he entered, the Haspel woman turned back to Ironwood, to say,

"General, we really can't risk what happens here leaking to the public or the other Kingdoms. And so, as I suggested earlier..."

Even before she was done speaking, the General was nodding, and retrieving his scroll to make a call.

His words, of everything that had been said so far in this cold, steel room, were the most chilling by far.

"Turn off the cameras in Jaune Arc's cell, until I order they be turned back on."

Fear, and helplessness; rage, at them and at his own weakness – they all rose to the surface, and even as they surged within him, the young man Jaime was moving forward, eyes cold and face blank.

Jaune tried – he really did.

In desperation, he darted forward, right hand extended –

– to draw the man's sword from his scabbard.

The blade gleamed, bright in the room's cold light – and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Jaune was surrounded by his enemies, but with sword in hand, he held no fear – not when he was the greatest swordsman in the world. His opponents, in contrast, seemed frozen, and on the precipice of panic, even –

– until the moment passed, and the weight of his fearsome reputation was overcome by the inescapable fact that he lacked aura and semblance. Haspel laughed, scornfully, and when Jaune lunged forward to stab Jaime in the face –

– the man dodged with ease, his aura-enhanced speed far beyond Jaune's baseline physical abilities. And then, almost contemptuously, the man ripped his sword out of Jaune's hands, before closing in and punching Jaune in the solar plexus.

Pain exploded in his chest, excruciating and intense and overwhelming.

And even as Jaune struggled to draw breath, the young man continued raining blows upon him.

A jab to the liver, and a shot at his sternum; strikes and knees to his shoulders and hips; and chops and kicks, to his arms and legs. Pain radiated out from every part of Jaune's body – coursing through his torso, and wracking his extremities.

Again and again, never stopping, without rest and without mercy; his whole abdomen was a punching bag, his limbs those of a training dummy – and Jaune's world was nothing, save agony.

And when it finally stopped –

– Jaune was left a trembling wreck, agony convulsing his body and making every breath he took a fresh hell, and a new torment in itself.

And worse – far worse –

– was the fact that, during the torture, he could remember crying out.

Bad enough he was being beaten – it was even worse, to be weak.

"Are you willing to talk now, Arc?"

The General's voice reached Jaune through the pain and self-loathing. And as Jaune looked up –

– he remembered himself, remembered the stakes.

If Ironwood is the traitor... and if I let slip that Yang is the new Maiden... then Salem's faction can kill or capture her, gain possession of the Maiden's power, and come one step closer to stealing the Relics and destroying the world.

There was only one answer.

"Go fuck yourself, General."

Ironwood didn't react, visibly, beyond a tightening around his eyes. Haspel, in contrast, reacted all too much. With a cold smile she warned –

"If you think beatings are the worst of what we will do to you, you are sorely mistaken. This is kid's stuff. After this we start cutting things off, if you know what I mean – the losses there are, I'm afraid, somewhat more permanent. And if you still hold out against that – well, have you been impaled before?"

! ! !

The gruesome picture made Jaune's throat seize in involuntary terror – and he had to assert his will, to make himself grind out,

"General, as I said, let me speak to Headmaster Ozpin. After that, I'll be happy to tell you what you want."

Jaune made his request, once more, to speak to Ozpin; and once more –

Ironwood, his face dispassionate, dismissed his appeal out of hand.

"There is no need to bother the esteemed Headmaster of Beacon with this matter. You will speak to me, Arc, and no on else. And you will tell me now – post-haste, unless you wish for another beating – what did Raven Branwen last say?"

Ironwood reiterated his demand – to be told, in effect if it not so many words, the identity of the Spring Maiden.

And more than ever, Jaune was convinced that Ironwood was the traitor – for why else would the man reject his very reasonable request to speak to the headmaster?

And so –

Even if it meant more torture, Jaune had to hold out – had to, for the world was counting on him, and failure risked the end of everything.

Jaune ground his teeth, rage and fear almost making him cry out.

If only he had his aura, his semblance, his power – then no Champion could beat him; and this traitor Ironwood would be dead at his feet, burning.

Jaune's killing intent must have leaked out, because Ironwood gave an ugly grimace.

At the same time, his scroll rang, and the General took it out to check it.

His grimace deepened even further, then; and whatever the pressing matter happened to be, he summarily told Haspel and her associate –

"I have an important call to take. We'll continue once I'm back – and for your own safety, stay out of the cell for now."

He turned on his heels and marched out. Haspel's gaze lingered on Jaune, but she obeyed the general and left too, her young associate in tow.

Jaune was hence left in the room, alone and still in agony.

The air he breathed was fire, and every movement was torture; existence itself hurt, and death itself would have been a release, were one to receive it –

– but no, such thoughts were for the weak.

Painfully, and with a ragged gasp escaping from his raw throat, Jaune pushed himself up from where he was sprawled upon the bed.

He needed a plan.

And so, quelling the pain and fear and anger, Jaune made himself think, sending his vaunted mind searching for a solution, and bending all his brilliance towards escaping this torture prison.

He wasn't going to be able to fight his way out – his shameful display after stealing a sword made this much painfully clear. And if he couldn't fight, then all he had left was his way with words.

Why not just lie to Ironwood? Why not make up a name of some non-existent Mistralian woman, and doom the General's pursuit of the Spring Maiden? This buys me time – Ozpin will learn of my capture soon enough, if he hasn't already, and can secure my release.

That seemed a reasonable plan, in the circumstances. However –

The more Jaune scrutinized it, the more he realized how likely failure would be – no matter if Ironwood believed his lie or not.

If Ironwood believed him, then Jaune's usefulness was at an end. At that point, it would make sense for the General to execute him, to deny Ozpin the chance to beat him to the Maiden, and to cover up the fact that he had violated international law – under which torture was prohibited, absolutely and unconditionally.

And if Ironwood didn't believe him – which was far more likely – than the torture would continue, until Jaune broke.

No – lying wasn't going to work.

And if that was so, then what means of escape was available to him?

Jaune wracked his brain, and as his brows furrowed in intense concentration –

– a second idea presented itself.

That Haspel woman is an aura-less civilian – what with the lack of a weapon, and the way she holds herself. If I can steal her associate's sword, and then grab a hold of her, I can credibly threaten to kill her – the huntsmen are faster than me without my aura, but not so much that they can definitely disarm me before I slit that woman's throat. They can easily kill me, of course – a bullet to the brain works well enough – but Ironwood wants me alive, for my information, and they will need to hold back. And with that advantage, I can hold Haspel hostage, and demand the use of a scroll.

My hands will be full, but I can get the young man to navigate to FriendBook. Then, I can give him my username and password, and get him to log in to my account. Finally, I'll make him send Weiss a message explaining my situation and asking her to inform Ozpin. The headmaster can then secure my freedom easily enough.

And yet, even as Jaune plotted out the course of events that could potentially set him free –

– he saw how it was doomed. There were too many things that needed to go right, but which would more likely go wrong – like being able to steal a sword a second time, or being able to grab the Haspel woman as a hostage; or his enemies acquiescing to his demand to contact Weiss, or Ozpin being able to get him out before the torture broke him.

With so many ifs and maybes, the overall probability of success was extremely low, if not nearing zero.

His fear and frustration mounting, Jaune exhaled raggedly. The clock was ticking, and what time he had was slipping away through his fingers; soon enough Ironwood would be back, and without a plan, his future would be nothing but pain and helplessness, and then – if he was fortunate – death before his courage shattered.

Think. Think, with that brilliance that so impressed Ozpin. Think, unless you want to die, screaming.

Jaune dug deep – called upon all his cunning, to craft an effective scheme. He thought, hard, until his head hurt and his temples pounded.

And –

– nothing.

Despair threatened to consume him. Whatever hope he had was now gone – vanquished, by the incontrovertible fact that the rest of his short life was going to be excruciating and brutal, undignified and abominable.

It's this fucking collar.

It all came down to the fact that he was without aura, and without power.

He pulled at it, in desperation – though of course, the leather was too tough to rip apart. Jaune could do nothing but gnash his teeth, and stew in his own impotence, as the device injected him with aura-suppressing poison.

No superhuman physical abilities, and no semblance – Jaune was reduced to being a mere mortal, one weaker than the weakest primary combat school student. Ironwood might have grimaced, in the face of Jaune's killing intent, but without the power to follow through –

Wait.

Delirious hope seized Jaune, as he realized the significance of a fact whose import previously escaped his grasp.

I can still project killing intent.

The aura-suppressing device did not block the projection of killing intent, or so it seemed; which made sense, insofar as producing killing intent did not involve the marshalling and shaping of aura, which would be what the device would be disrupting.

And if he could project killing intent, unhindered –

– then he could potentially disable his guards, steal a weapon, and then restore his powers and his freedom.

Jaune fleshed out the path forward in his mind. The things he needed to do, and the steps he needed to take – he identified them all, without difficulty or delay.

And turning the plan over in his mind, Jaune saw no significant flaws.

This will work.

And if it required killing a lot of people –

All the better. That's what Atlas deserves, for resorting to torture.

There was no time to waste; Ironwood could be back any minute now, and success hinged on his absence. And so –

Jaune took a deep, painful breath, and with as much terror and desperation as he could muster, screamed –

"Help! Please, help! My lung... it's punctured! Hurts to breathe, and I'm coughing up blood. I need medical attention now, please!"

With the information Ironwood coveted at stake, they could not afford to let him die. And then, to truly sell the lie, Jaune made himself think –

What if this fails? What if they don't believe me? What if I get out of this cell, but am too weak to fight my way free?

He didn't need to pretend to be afraid, for he was; and by focusing obsessively on how things could go wrong, he fed that fear until it overflowed, until his heart was nothing but endless terror and absent hope, until to anyone's aura sense it would have seemed that he was indeed terror-struck –

– except they would think it from dying of a punctured lung.

A lie within a lie, to lure them in.

His enemies were not fools, and the young man with his huntsman training would doubtlessly be using his aura sense to probe at Jaune's feelings, to see if what he felt lined up with his scream for help.

And since Jaune ensured they did, with his deceit –

– the door opened, with three people rushing in.

The young man led the way, face grim and a medical kit in hand. Haspel followed, eyes hard and mouth flat. A tense-looking guard brought up the rear, rifle at the ready.

Jaune closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply once more.

All the fear he felt, all the terror, all that dread unworthy of a hero who had already saved the world – he banished them all.

And in their place, he called for hate.

He drew on the beating and the threats, the pain he felt and the shame he was dealt – and from this endless well of darkness came the singular, sun-bright desire, to kill his enemies and make them suffer.

His killing intent burst forth, like scorching fire and a thousand swords, like a sky brought down by vengeful gods.

And so too were his enemies driven to their knees, terror seizing their hearts and leaving them unable to breathe.

Jaune smiled – he had to, given he what he felt.

Still shackled to the bed frame as he was, with a handcuff digging into his left wrist, Jaune had to stretch as he reached out with his right hand, to filch the young man's sword from its sheath.

His three enemies were still gasping and struggling on the floor, crushed as they were under the ongoing pressure of his killing intent.

Knowing he could not keeping this up for much longer, Jaune sought a more permanent solution.

Using his right leg to hold the young man down, Jaune stabbed the blade down into the young man's back, right above where his heart sat.

Aura flared, to defend its master against harm – but that only delayed the inevitable, as Jaune continued pressing the blade down with a deep and relentless hunger. These were going to be the longest seconds of this man's life, Jaune noted with pleasure, and he could only hope he suffered as much as Jaune himself did, under his ministrations.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Six seconds in all; that was how long it took, for the man's aura to be finally burned away –

– and for the blade to slip into his body, piercing his heart and ending his life.

Jaune turned to the guard, and repeated the same process – of a slow relentless press, leading to aura shattering and steel piercing flesh. The guard died, from a blade through the heart, and once that was accomplished Jaune turned to the woman.

Haspel.

For some reason or another, he hated her more than the others. It was Ironwood who ultimately ordered the torture, and the young man who carried it all – but they at least were professional were it. This woman – with her scornful laughs and cold smiles, graphic threats and ill-concealed glee – she made him livid, and his heart seize with loathing.

With a smile that would have sickened him if he could have seen it, Jaune said,

"You mentioned how the beating was kid's stuff, and how soon you would begin cutting. You also asked me, if I've been impaled before. Well, to the latter question, my answer is no – but I'll be glad to help you find out through first hand experience, right here, right now."

Haspel's eyes were wide with terror, and in his heart Jaune felt joy indescribable –

– and yet –

Enough.

A whisper in his mind stopped him short. It was that part of him that was cold and unfeeling; that was pure reason, and the knowledge that the ends justified the means.

It was the unlikely voice of mercy, now. It spoke, crisp and clean and cold.

You wish to torture her, and that is understandable. But consider this. She is your enemy, but her suffering would be a grave moral evil too, just as much as if she inflicted it on you.

And for what? For nothing – you have won; take your victory and move on.

Moreover, above and beyond everything, you degrade yourself, in doing this. No one can torture, and take pleasure in the pain of others, without making themselves less – without becoming the sort of person who can ignore the welfare of others. You will no longer be the sort of person who wants to save people – and if so, how then can you still call yourself a hero?

That was the decisive reason.

For if I'm not a hero, I'm nothing.

And so, with a quiet exhalation of breath, Jaune released all the hatred in his heart, before bringing the sword across in a single sure stroke.

He cut Haspel's throat, granting her the quick clean death that he would not have received, had she held the sword and he the short end of the stick.

Jaune closed his eyes.

He had come close – so close, too close – to losing himself there. That hate he fed and felt, and that the dark fire he lit within himself – it was only meant to be a tool, a means to the end of projecting killing intent, and incapacitating his enemies. And yet, inadvertently, he had become that which he pretended to be.

Never again.

Jaune swore to himself that he would never ever let his darkest emotions consume himself again – because otherwise, his life would have been a mistake.

Now – concentrate.

Jaune was far from home free, and he needed to act, quickly.

With his stolen blade, Jaune cut the leather collar biting into his neck. It was awkward, with his left hand chained to the bedpost – he had to bend down, so his left hand could hold the collar steady as his right hand sawed away at the leather with the edge of the blade.

It wasn't easy going, or pain free for that matter. The collar was a tight fit, and Jaune ended up cutting himself a number of times – albeit shallowly – as he rushed the cutting, desperate as he was to get free of it.

Eventually, he managed to carve his way through – and that done, Jaune began gingerly removing the collar.

Care was needed, since the collar had two metal plates from which needles protruded, penetrating his neck and presumably injecting the aura-suppressing compound into his body. Pulling the collar away and withdrawing the needles from his body hurt, and he bled a bit, but even worse –

– his powers didn't return right away.

Cursing his bad luck and his own foolishness, Jaune realized his oversight – even if no more of the poison was being pumped into him, some would still be circulating in his blood, and until that broke down, he wouldn't get his powers back.

And as for how long that would take...

... Jaune didn't know, and couldn't say.

There was nothing he could do but wait, and hope, and pray.

The only thing going for him was that cameras in the cell were probably still disabled – Ironwood had given the order to have them turned off until he ordered otherwise, and such an order seemed unlikely to have occurred given how he was in a rush to take his call.

And so Jaune waited. All the while, his mind was running at a thousand miles an hour, and his heart racing at much the same speed – the former because he kept going over his plans and re-evaluating his chances of success; and the latter because he saw how his odds were ever falling as the minutes passed without his powers returning.

A backup plan was better than nothing – and so Jaune moved to filch the young man's scroll.

With it, he messaged Weiss, to explain his situation and request that she contact Ozpin on his behalf. If his breakout failed – and assuming he wasn't killed outright – Jaune could then hope that Ozpin could deliver him from his prison and his torture.

Jaune also rummaged the guard's pockets for a key for his handcuff . There wasn't one, unfortunately, which Jaune supposed was a safety precaution – so the person most likely to be jumped by the prisoner couldn't also lose the key in question.

Chained to the bed by his hand, Jaune waited – and waited, and waited. The inaction and impotence was horrific, and a torture unto itself – there was nothing quite like doing naught before the coming storm, or like being helpless as all around you burned down.

Jaune waited –

– until finally, ten minutes after the uncollaring, he felt it return.

It was light and life, soul and self – fire, and strength, and the end of doubt.

Exhilaration filled him, as his aura was once again his to command, and as his powers enveloped him, like the light of the sun.

There was nothing in this world that could stop him.

Melting his handcuffs and pulling free of them with absent-minded ease – and not caring that the bed caught fire in the doing – Jaune noted that his aura was full. It was likely that Atlas got someone with the right semblance to recharge his reserves, with the goal of facilitating the initial healing process post- Kingsbane poisoning – after all, they needed him alive for questioning.

And that was something Ironwood would come to rue – Jaune would make that much true.

Jaune headed to the door, stolen sword in hand and a burning cell to his back. Exiting into a larger room with multiple doors leading to other cells, Jaune chose the one door helpfully marked with an exit sign.

Going through it, he came to an even larger room in the prison complex of the airship.

And it was there where the guards first tried to stop him.

An Atlesian soldier came charging out, rifle buttressed against his shoulder and ready to fire –

– except Jaune casually blasted him with a flamethrower-like stream of flames.

The man's aura broke within a second, but Jaune held the blast for two full seconds after that, to ensure the attack was fatal.

Mercy was a luxury he could ill afford. He was up against a whole Atlesian airship here, and if he spared his enemies, there was a good chance someone down but not out for the count would manage to get clean shot on him – and if those added up, he would be risk a broken aura and a failed escape.

And whatever happen, he was not going back into that cell.

Jaune moved quickly, dashing into the room the soldier had come in from.

His speed took the soldier in the room – an officer, and probably the captain of the guard – by surprise. The man who could not even draw his sword in time before Jaune buried him in a similar torrent of fire; and again, Jaune gave it three seconds, to make sure his enemy was dead.

It was then child's play to repeat the process, as Jaune barged into what seemed to be the resting area for the prison guards. The Atlesian soldier within, fumbling with his rifle, had no chance – he too buckled beneath the jet of fire that defeated his peers. And once more, Jaune coldly held the fire for three seconds, despite the agonized screams.

Less than a quarter of a minute had passed since engaging the first soldier. Jaune returned to the main room of the prison complex, and eyed the two other doors. One was a medic's room, it appeared, while the other seemed to be a lawyer's office, of all things. Jaune could also sense two individuals – presumably the medic and the military lawyer respectively – in the rooms.

The irony was choking – to have a healer, in this place of torture; and to have a lawyer, when you treated international law like so much worthless paper.

The lawyer and the medic were both aura-capable, Jaune sensed – and so, he presumed them soldiers, and treated them as such.

Again, Jaune took no chances – barging into both rooms in turn, and using three-second blasts of fire as before, to put each enemy down.

And even as he was fighting, his mind was analyzing –

– and noting how he was disadvantaged without Crocea Mors. Without his Anra steel blade, he could not end fights in a single, fatal instant, unless he used those fire blasts Cinder had trained him in, with temperatures hot as the sun and capable of punching right through aura and vaporizing even steel – and those, of course, cost a lot in aura.

Making a snap decision, Jaune put out the fires in the room he had accosted the guard captain in. The place appeared to be a guard room, what with its monitor screens showing the rooms and cells of the prison complex, and Jaune began searching it, in hopes of finding his ancestral blade.

A quick look around, and Jaune saw a cupboard labelled 'PRISONER EFFECTS'. Melting the lock and throwing open its doors revealed, most gratifyingly, a sheathed Crocea Mors and its accompanying sword belt.

Jaune discarded his stolen sword, before strapping on his own and drawing it.

As ever, Crocea Mors felt right in his hands. With or without it, his abilities in physical combat were Champion-level – but without, his lethality was diminished all the same, and in battle, not killing your opponent instantly could cost you your life.

Now armed with his old friend, Jaune made his next move.

He needed to destroy the engines and crash the whole airship before making his escape – otherwise, the airship would use its dust cannons to annihilate him, or else chase him down until he exhausted himself.

Ignoring his still aching body, Jaune headed out of the prison complex, to come to a large and extremely long corridor. From what he remembered of the design of these Atlesian airships – battleship and aircraft carrier and airborne assault vehicle in a single titanic floating fortress – he was in the elongated head of the aircraft, which extended from the bridge and main body of the airship.

To his right, the corridor extended a short way to the head of the airship; through the glass, he could see the clear blue sky, and the freedom it promised.

To his left, however –

A hundred meters down the long corridor, a company of soldiers headed by General Ironwood stood, waiting for him.

They appeared in no hurry to close the distance, doubtlessly wary of being annihilated by his incomparably powerful semblance.

And they were right to be wary. Jaune could, with but a thought, turn this entire corridor into a hellish inferno.

The only thing that stayed his hand from doing just that was the knowledge of just how many people he would have to slaughter to get out. Even beyond the raw moral cost in the number of lives lost, there were practical reasons to show mercy – or so Jaune realized, belatedly. Ozpin could get probably get him pardoned for his crimes, by declaring that he had been undercover against the White Fang and then against Raven – successfully thwarting their devastating Mountain Glenn attack on Vale on the one hand, and assassinating the tyrant of Mistral on the other. However, with every life he took, and every corpse he made, in this bloody and violent escape, Jaune made the odds of his own pardon worse.

Hence, the need for restraint.

Of course, if the General attacked, Jaune would have no choice but to fight, and to the death; but Ironwood, for whatever reasons, was not attacking straight away. Instead, he called across the corridor, to Jaune –

"Jaune Arc! You are strong, but so am I, and you are outnumbered besides. Fighting would be a risk, even for you. So let us resolve this standoff peacefully. The only thing I want is a single piece of information – tell me that, and you may leave the ship unmolested.

"What did Raven last speak of, before she died?"

Jaune's eyes narrowed, as Ironwood spoke. It all came back to that, for the General. And as before, Jaune's answer was no. Shouting back, he said,

"You'll like to know, wouldn't you, so as to hunt down Spring?"

Jaune couldn't make our the General's facial expression, from so far away, but he could feel the surprise all the same.

"Well, too bad! I'm in Ozpin's cabal, same as you, except you're the traitor and I am true."

The confusion radiated off the General – no doubt, in Jaune's mind, over a Beacon dropout being in the cabal, and having figured out his treason too.

"Here's my offer, General. Ask your men to stand down. Or, if they so please –"

Massive flames burst forth from Jaune, to line the floors and walls and ceiling of the corridor, like the mouth of hell itself had opened.

"– they can fight me, and die, in burning agony!"

The raging flames grew, bright and ever brighter, and Jaune could feel the soldiers' fear.

Except –

– all at once, his flames vanished. Disappeared, snuffed out, extinguished, like a candle in the wind.

It was confusion Jaune felt, at first – and then despair, as he realized some inkling of the truth.

A split second was all he had, and he made his decision then.

The ultimate sacrifice, and the last full measure of devotion – you forced it on others, and now it's your turn.

Only a coward would shy away, and Jaune was no coward.

And so, despite his fear, and despite the sorrow that he was never again going to see the girl he loved, he brought Crocea Mors up, ready to take his own life, and thereby guarantee the Spring Maiden's.

The blade was inches from his own throat, when a Schnee glyph appeared around his wrist, freezing his arm in place.

Impossible!

And a fraction of a second later –

Weiss?

A woman who looked so like his teammate, but who was decidedly not her, was plucking his sword from his hand. She was taller than Weiss, her hair shorter, and the scar Jaune so loved for its flawless imperfection, conspicuously absent. Yet with her pale complexion, piercing blue eyes, and hair a pure snow-white, there was no doubt that this was Weiss's older sister.

The shock had barely asserted itself, when even more glyphs were appearing around his limbs, binding his whole body to the spot, and leaving him immobile.

By this point, Ironwood and the rest of the soldiers had caught up. The General, on his part, was looking at Jaune with assessing eyes; and when he spoke, it was to explain –

"In case you're wondering, Arc, a backup device was implanted into your body, allowing the aura-suppressing compound to be injected into your bloodstream even if you escaped your collar. I activated the device, the moment I stepped into the nose of the airship, and sensed you within combat range."

Jaune had suspected as much, but hearing it spelled out – and hearing how his escape attempt had been all but doomed from the start – made him choke with despair.

There was only one thing he could do now.

Jaune turned to Winter Schnee, and all but begged –

"Ironwood tortured me, for information that will kill a lot of people if learnt. Please, just kill me before that happens. I'm begging you, for the sake of your sister who –"

A soldier gagged him before he could say anymore, and Jaune was left to scream into the cloth, in futile rage and dark despair. And despite the sliver of doubt that had appeared in Winter's eyes, it was clear that there would be no help coming from that quarter.

And for the General –

Frowning at Jaune, like a puzzle he couldn't solve, Ironwood waved at his men to move away, leaving only Winter and himself next to Jaune.

Leaning in, the General muttered,

"Just to let you know, Arc, I am not the traitor."

Jaune's heart stilled, then.

I don't understand.

The deepening pit of despair within his stomach stopped growing, at least for the moment, while his mind was temporarily taken over by confusion.

The General was still speaking, softly, so that no one could hear.

"For now, we'll discontinue the enhanced interrogation – but I do not apologize for using it in the first place. I didn't know you were one of us, and surely you understand our desperate need to find the new Spring, and quickly. If an ally, she must be protected; if non-aligned, she must be persuaded, or else replaced with someone friendly to us and not Salem. And if Salem's faction already has that power, then we have to start moving forces to protect the Mistralian vault.

"And now, knowing that I am on your side, will you tell me who the new Spring Maiden is?"

Ironwood signalled Winter to remove the gag, which she did.

And Jaune, having absorbed Ironwood's words, found his mind whirling at a dizzy speed, as he struggled to make sense of the situation, and to arrive at a decision.

But nothing had changed, and Jaune still didn't trust this man who engaged in torture, and who wouldn't let him speak to the headmaster.

Baring his teeth, Jaune said, for the second time that day,

"Go fuck yourself, General."

He spat his defiance, even as he knew that it would mean more torture. Ironwood had promised otherwise, of course, but the man had shown himself to be utterly ruthless, and his assurances were worth little, and less, and nothing at all.

Jaune knew that refusal to cooperate here was going to cost him – cost him pain and humiliation, cost him his body and his very existence.

But it didn't matter, because it remained a fundamental and unalterable fact –

Ironwood cannot know that Yang was, through my machinations, the last person Raven thought of, and hence the young woman to whom the Maiden's powers were given.

Jaune's legendary ancestor had gone to the stake, willing to burn for the good of others.

Can I do any less?

The answer was obvious.

No, I cannot.

And thus Jaune resolved –

– that he would endure unspeakable agony, to earn the world a dawn he would never see.

-(=RWBY=)-

A/N: Merry Christmas. Next update will probably take longer, as I'll be extremely busy with work in January.