A/N: Nothing is owned by me.

Chapter 6

The sun sat low in the sky, casting long shadows upon the makeshift military camp. Soldiers, both men and women, were milling about, chatting and attending to various tasks. The hum of activity was interrupted by the loud clearing of someone's throat over a megaphone.

A ramshackle stage, constructed from wooden planks and draped with the flag of Vale, stood at the center of the camp. Upon it, Jaune, wearing his characteristic Captain Vale costume, took a deep breath and stepped up to address the crowd. His gaze traveled over the sea of faces, each marked by fatigue, determination, and the countless battles they had faced.

"How many of you are ready to help me sock Old Ironwood on the jaw?" Jaune's voice echoed with an enthusiasm, an attempt to rally the weary troops. His bright eyes searched the crowd, eager for a response.

But the soldiers just stared back, their expressions unchanging. The camp was silent except for the distant chirping of crickets and the crackling of campfires. It was as if the weight of the war had sucked the spirit out of them.

Undeterred, Jaune clapped his hands together, attempting a different tack. "Okay...I'm going to need a volunteer."

From amidst the crowd, a voice tinged with sarcasm rang out, "I already volunteered. How do you think I got here?"

Heads turned to the source of the voice: a rugged soldier with a beard and a beret. It was Timothy Dugan, who has a knack of speaking in unwanted situations. A few soldiers around him chuckled. The tension in the crowd started to dissipate, replaced by a hint of mirth.

However, another voice, eager to stoke the fire, shouted, "Bring the girls back!"

A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Jaune, sensing the change in mood, sighed in exasperation. "I think they only know one song, but...I'll...see what I can do..."

Timothy Dugan, ever the joker, piped up again, casting a side glance to his companion, "We trust you, Captain Vale." With a smirk, he added, "Where do they get these guys?"

Before Jaune could respond, there was a sudden flurry of motion in the crowd. A tomato, red and ripe, sailed through the air aimed straight at Jaune. With quick reflexes, he lifted his shield, deflecting it with ease. The tomato splattered onto the stage floor.

"Guys, we're on the same side here!" Jaune exclaimed, trying to maintain control of the situation.

But the crowd was now restless. A chant started, gathering momentum like a rolling stone, "Bring back the girls! Bring back the girls!"

Realizing that the situation was getting out of hand, Jaune took cover behind his shield, moving swiftly to the backstage area. As he did, the curtains parted and a group of female performers in vibrant costumes stepped out.

The crowd's chants slowly died down, replaced by appreciative cheers and claps.

The quiet of the night blanketed the area, leaving a sense of solitude. The faint glow from a lamppost spotlighted Jaune, seated on the edge of a wooden stage. His fingers moved with careful precision, sketching the whimsical image of a chimp, dressed as a captain, balancing effortlessly on a unicycle. The sketch was intricate, reflecting Jaune's current situation.

Behind him, the faint sound of footsteps echoed. Without glancing up, Jaune remarked, "That was quite a performance."

He then felt the presence of someone and finally looked up to find the sharp and poised figure of Whitley Schnee approaching. The younger Schnee maintained his sophisticated aura, even in this casual setting. Jaune chuckled "The crowds I'm used to are usually more... twelve."

Whitley, smirking slightly, observed, "I understand you're 'Vale's New Hope'." His eyes wandered to the glimpse of a costume peeking out from Jaune's overcoat.

A tad embarrassed, Jaune quickly shut his coat, trying to hide the vibrant costume beneath. "People buy bonds, bonds buy weapons, weapons win wars. Sales rise ten percent in every city I visit." He recited, almost as if he'd been trained to.

Leaning against a post, Whitley arched an eyebrow, "Guess Councilman Brandt gave you the lecture. Just to add, it also fills my coffers. After all, Vale is buying weapons from me."

Jaune exhaled a heavy sigh, the weight of his situation evident. "Guess I really have become a hero."

Whitley offered a sly smile, "Don't be too down. I heard you recently signed a deal with Pumpkin Pete to appear on their cover. They only do that for star athletes."

"And cartoon characters," Jaune added, casting a glance to his chimp sketch.

Whitley's gaze followed Jaune's to the sketch. He hesitated a moment before speaking, "I'm sorry we couldn't do more for you, Jaune. With Merlot dead, the super soldier operation is in shambles. Orion isn't willing to put you on the battlefield. For the council and Brandt, you're more of a propaganda tool or lab rat than a real warrior. But the good news is Orion is pushing for Huntsmen on the frontlines. Give it a few months, and maybe I can pull some strings."

Interrupting Whitley, Jaune's voice was firm, "I understand, Whitley. I hold no grudge against Orion or Councilman Brandt. I owe a lot to both of them. It's just… All I wanted was to honor the promise I made to my brother. To carry on his dream of becoming a hero and making the Arc name proud. I failed him at Beacon, and now, becoming this…" He motioned to his drawing, "I now understand how Pyrrha must have felt."

There was a silence, filled only by the rustling of the trees and the distant murmur of the camp. Whitley reached out, placing a hand on Jaune's shoulder, an unusual gesture of comfort for him.

The somber moment was suddenly interrupted by the distant rumble of engines. Both of their heads turned to see a convoy of trucks and an ambulance making their way to the medical tent. The soldiers, visibly tired and injured, disembarked slowly, pain evident in their faces.

Whitley's eyes, always so controlled, hardened. "Looks like my cue to leave."

Jaune's expression also clouded over. "Hydra?"

Whitley simply nodded, confirming Jaune's suspicion. "Schmidt was moving a force through Sanus."

The air in the camp was thick with tension. Soldiers with varying degrees of injuries lay in rows, their wounds being efficiently tended to by the gleaming Ultron bots. Their mechanical precision stood in stark contrast to the human pain they were addressing.

Jaune's eyes, filled with concern, scanned the area as he and Whitley stepped into the camp. Off to the side, May Marigold, her hair neatly tied back, was engrossed in some reports. Without waiting for her to notice them, Whitley swiftly approached and took the papers from her hands.

"What are the numbers?" Whitley's voice was firm, demanding a quick answer.

May, though startled, answered efficiently, handing him the detailed report. "200 men went up against them, less than fifty came back. Your patients are all that's left of the 107th. The rest were either killed or captured."

Jaune's heart dropped. He stared at May, disbelief and horror clear in his eyes, "The 107th?"

May, a bit puzzled by his sudden intensity, blinked and replied, "Yes, what?"

Unable to contain himself, Jaune's voice rose in desperation as he rushed towards her, "Is there anyone named Sergeant Cardin Winchester on the list?"

Whitley, who held the report, quickly skimmed through. The lines on his forehead deepened as he muttered, "I don't see…"

But Jaune wasn't done. He listed off more names, each one increasing his evident distress, "Russel Thrush, Dove Bronzewing, Sky Lark?"

Whitley looked up, his face a mask of regret, "Jaune, I don't see any of the names you mentioned on this list."

May, trying to offer some kind of solace, quickly interjected, "This is only the patient list. They could be on the casualty list."

With hope clinging to his voice, Jaune shot back, "Can you please check it?"

May's face softened, her voice hesitant, "The casualty list is managed only by the commander but..." But Jaune was no longer listening. Without waiting for a full explanation, he sprinted out of the tent, heading straight for the commander's office.

Whitley, sensing the urgency, gave a fleeting glance at May. "Come on," he said, his voice a mix of concern. Without a second's delay, both hurried after Jaune

Jaune pushed through the flaps of the commander's tent, urgency filling every inch of his body. The atmosphere inside was charged, as the walls were lined with maps, documents, and aerial photographs. Commander Orion, looked up from his desk, his eyes narrowing as he recognized his visitor.

"Well, if it isn't 'the star-spangled man with the plan,'" Orion greeted, his voice dripping with derision. "What is your plan exactly?"

Ignoring the jibe, Jaune cut straight to the point. "I want to see the casualty list."

Commander Orion's hand moved to touch the rank insignia on his collar as he leaned back in his chair. "You don't get to give me orders, Captain."

Jaune remained persistent, his voice tinged with a desperate edge. "I don't need the whole list. Just one name: Sergeant Cardin Winchester from the 107th. Just tell me if he's alive or not."

At that moment, the tent flaps rustled again and Whitley, followed by May Marigold, stepped inside. Their faces were fraught with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. Orion's eyes flicked towards May. "You and I are going to have a conversation later that you won't enjoy."

Whitley, usually cool and composed, was the first to interrupt the charged atmosphere. "Orion, why don't you entertain the lad? He's just asking for information on his friend—"

"It's *Commander* Orion, Mr. Schnee," Orion cut him off, his tone unyielding. "While I respect you for the help you are providing, I will request you not to interfere."

May Marigold, sensing the escalating tension, decided to interject. "Sir, Arc is only on loan to the Council. Officially, he is still under Vale Military. There is no harm in sharing the list."

Commander Orion surveyed each face in the room, as if weighing the merits of their arguments. Finally, he sighed and relented. "I've signed more condolence letters today than I'd care to count. But the name does sound familiar. I'm sorry."

The blood drained from Jaune's face, his limbs feeling suddenly heavy. His eyes trailed to a map of Anima pinned on the wall, then to an aerial photograph of Argus military base. Gathering himself, he spoke up, "What about the others? Are you planning a rescue mission?"

Orion scoffed, "Yeah, it's called 'winning the war.'"

Jaune pushed forward, "But if you know where they are—"

"They're thirty miles behind the lines and in the most heavily fortified territory in Mistral," Orion interrupted. "We'd lose more men than we'd save. I don't expect you to understand that because you are a chorus girl."

Jaune's eyes tightened, stung by the insult but more by the bleak reality

"I think I understand pretty well," he retorted, locking eyes with Commander Orion.

Orion straightened up, his demeanor radiating icy authority. "Then understand it somewhere else. If I read the posters right, you've got some place to be in a half-hour."

For a split second, Jaune's gaze remained unyielding. His fists clenched by his sides. But then, his shoulders slightly slumped in defeat. "Yes, sir. I do."

Without another word, Jaune turned on his heel. But as he neared the exit, his gaze lingered on the maps, trying to etch every detail into memory.

Backstage, a cacophony of instruments tuning, dancers whispering in rushed tones, and footsteps echoed as the musicians and performers hurriedly prepared for their next number. The heavy velvet curtains rustled, casting dim light and shadow over props, racks of costumes, and musical instruments.

Mr. Langley, known as Brandt's Aide, moved with a frantic energy, weaving his way through the organized chaos. His sharp eyes darted across the room, scanning for Jaune. "Where the hell is Arc?" he bellowed, his voice rising above the din, "Anyone seen him?"

Without waiting for a response, he spotted the four dancers from the earlier motorcycle act, prepping for their next performance. He swiftly approached them, grabbing their attention. "Get out there. Now! Stall!" he ordered, pointing them towards the stage.

In a near synchronized flurry of movement, each girl moved towards the shelf containing their iconic lettered helmets. They had a routine, and each knew her place. The last girl swiftly snatched her "E" helmet, sliding it over her curly locks. The one beside her did the same with her "L" helmet. The rhythm continued as the second girl grabbed the "A" helmet. However, when the first girl reached the shelf, her fingers grasped empty air.

A sudden panic crept over her face, her eyes wide as they darted around. Her designated spot on the shelf was vacant. "Where's my helmet?"

In the high-tech military aircraft, Jaune sat clad in button fatigues, the conspicuous stolen 'V' helmet firmly on his head, contrasting with his casual cap shirt. May, with a focused look on her face, activated a holographic projection displaying Argus Military Base.

The flickering blue light showcased the base's intricate design. "Argus Military Base," May began, her voice methodical, "One of the most formidable Atlas strongholds in Mistral, now under Hydra's grip. As you can see, it's spread across multiple islands in the harbor, connected to the mainland by that massive suspension bridge."

Jaune's eyes darted between the islands on the projection, trying to commit their details to memory.

"Each island has a designation," May continued, pointing them out in succession, "Island A1 has that huge rock spire, while A2 is mainly for storage. The real target, though, is A3. From the intel we've gathered, it's a prison housing numerous POWs."

Jaune nodded, absorbing the information.

From the captain's chair, Whitley Schnee voiced out, "We should be able to get you right to the front door."

"Just as close as possible," Jaune responded, gripping the armrests of his seat, his mind already racing with strategies.

"And when I land," Jaune added, voice firm, "if someone yells at me, they're getting shot."

May raised an eyebrow, "They'll shoot back, you know."

He showed her his star and striped-patterned shield strapped to his back.

Meeting her gaze, Jaune said, "I understand Mr. Schnee is a half-mad man..."

"Hey!" Whitley voiced out.

Jaune continued, "But why are you helping me, Miss Marigold? Once we land, you'll be in hot water."

May shot him a quizzical look, "And you think you won't?"

Jaune replied, "Not as deep as you."

May sighed deeply, "I see too much of myself in you, trying to save friends. It'd be pretty hypocritical of me not to help."

Jaune raised an eyebrow, "Like the Happy Huntresses?"

In an instant, May's demeanor shifted. She shot up from her seat, her fingers closing around Jaune's collar, pulling him close. "Who told you about that?"

Jaune's eyes widened in surprise. "I just..."

Whitley interrupted, "Shit..."

May glared at the pilot. "You really have a big mouth, Whitley Schnee. How many times have I told you not to talk about my past?"

Whitley chimed in, trying to defuse the situation, "May, it was just part of a little improv talk I was giving Jauney boy. It was nothing personal. Look, how about I treat you at Gustav after all this is over? You know, the fanciest restaurant in Vale?"

Before May could retort, a sudden explosion rocked the plane, throwing them off balance. Anti-aircraft fire streaked past the windows, with another shot hitting the plane's side.

Whitley, eyes on his control panel, exclaimed, "Looks like they've found us!"

May's focus snapped back to the mission. "How far from Argus?"

"Not much," Whitley replied, wrestling with the controls. "But we won't make it much further!"

May quickly pulled a sleek device from her pocket, pressing it into Jaune's hand. "This is a transponder. Activate it when you're ready, and we'll find you."

Jaune glanced at the device, noting the Schnee Industries logo. "Are you sure it works?"

Whitley smirked, "It's been tested more than you have."

Another explosion jolted the aircraft. May gestured towards the open plane door. "I'll draw their fire. Your priority is A3 and those prisoners."

"How much farther is A3?" She asked Whitley.

"About two miles northwest," Whitley answered, executing evasive maneuvers from some shots.

As the winds howled outside, May shouted over the din, "I will give you a boost, Prepare your landing strategy!"

Jaune's confusion was evident. "Prepare what?"

Without warning, May grabbed his leg, using her strength to launch him out of the plane. His shouts faded quickly in the roaring winds.

Whitley glanced over at May, who still had a hard look on him, swallowing hard. "So, Gustav...?"

In the depth of night, the Argus Military Base is shrouded in a cloak of semi-darkness, only occasionally interrupted by glaring spotlights that sweep the surroundings. The perimeter is fortified, with the only sounds being the soft hum of vehicles and the occasional shout of a patrolling guard.

Jaune strategically positioned himself amidst the underbrush and the treeline and tried to meld with the shadows. A hint of anxiety clouds his eyes as he scans the moving guards and the convoy of trucks that are being ushered into the base.

Suddenly, as a headlight from a passing truck sweeps the area, Jaune flattens himself against the earth, suppressing a breath. The light's trajectory just misses his camouflaged position. Timing his move perfectly with the rhythm of the patrolling vehicles, he springs up, leaping deftly into the cargo space of the last truck.

His entrance isn't as quiet as he'd hoped. Two men, dressed in full black tactical gear and goggles, turn sharply in surprise. Their eyes, the only part of them visible, widened in shock. Jaune, without skipping a beat, gives a brief, sardonic smile. "Fellas," he says casually before delivering swift, calculated punches. With swift movements, the two guards are rendered unconscious and promptly ejected from the moving truck.

The vehicle rumbles on, and Jaune can sense they're approaching the central compound. A barrier looms ahead. A gate guard approaches the driver's cabin, his hand raised in a signal to halt. Papers are exchanged, commands given. Jaune hears the guard's footsteps approaching the back of the truck.

In the dim light of the cargo hold, a glint of red, white, and blue stands out. It's Jaune's iconic shield, positioned strategically among the military supplies.

As the cargo door is pulled upwards, the guard is momentarily blinded by the sharp reflection of a spotlight against the shield. WHAM! Without warning, the shield bursts forward, striking the guard square in the face. He crumples instantly, rendered unconscious by the unexpected blow.

Emerging from the dimness of the truck's interior, Jaune steps into the base's inner sanctum. He retrieves his shield, letting its weight settle comfortably on his arm. Using shadows as a refuge he made his way to a large building looming ahead.

In the depth of night, the Argus Military Base is shrouded in a cloak of semi-darkness, only occasionally interrupted by glaring spotlights that sweep the surroundings. The perimeter is fortified, with the only sounds being the soft hum of vehicles and the occasional shout of a patrolling guard.

Jaune strategically positioned himself amidst the underbrush and the treeline and tried to meld with the shadows. A hint of anxiety clouds his eyes as he scans the moving guards and the convoy of trucks that are being ushered into the base.

Suddenly, as a headlight from a passing truck sweeps the area, Jaune flattens himself against the earth, suppressing a breath. The light's trajectory just misses his camouflaged position. Timing his move perfectly with the rhythm of the patrolling vehicles, he springs up, leaping deftly into the cargo space of the last truck.

His entrance isn't as quiet as he'd hoped. Two men, dressed in full black tactical gear and goggles, turn sharply in surprise. Their eyes, the only part of them visible, widened in shock. Jaune, without skipping a beat, gives a brief, sardonic smile. "Fellas," he says casually before delivering swift, calculated punches. With swift movements, the two guards are rendered unconscious and promptly ejected from the moving truck.

The vehicle rumbles on, and Jaune can sense they're approaching the central compound. A barrier looms ahead. A gate guard approaches the driver's cabin, his hand raised in a signal to halt. Papers are exchanged, commands given. Jaune hears the guard's footsteps approaching the back of the truck.

In the dim light of the cargo hold, a glint of red, white, and blue stands out. It's Jaune's iconic shield, positioned strategically among the military supplies.

As the cargo door is pulled upwards, the guard is momentarily blinded by the sharp reflection of a spotlight against the shield. WHAM! Without warning, the shield bursts forward, striking the guard square in the face. He crumples instantly, rendered unconscious by the unexpected blow.

Emerging from the dimness of the truck's interior, Jaune steps into the base's inner sanctum. He retrieves his shield, letting its weight settle comfortably on his arm. Using shadows as a refuge he made his way to the large building looming ahead.

**Inside the Hydra Compound**

The unforgiving fluorescent lights inside the compound painted an eerie ambience, revealing grimy walls lined with cages and the cold clank of metal. A distinct chatter of guards echoed as they shuffled and ushered prisoners into the facility.

Amid the chaos, a stocky guard with a stern demeanor took a commanding position, surveying the proceedings. With an authoritative air, he ushered the prisoners forth while occasionally conferring with other guards. Prisoners, chained and desolate, slowly trickled in, their faces masks of resignation and fatigue.

One warder, more brutish than the rest, motioned for the prisoners to move into the cage. As they did, he took sadistic pleasure in prodding and pushing them. His truncheon, a symbol of his unchecked power, came down viciously onto a guy with a striking light-green mohawk, amidst his otherwise shaved head. The prisoner winced, holding back his anger. He glanced over at a fellow prisoner with combed back, dark blue hair and growled, "You know, Sky, one of these days, I'm gonna get my own stick."

Before Sky could reply, the warder, fuelled by the audacity of the comment, lashed out and kicked the mohawked prisoner. This man stumbled and crashed inside the cage, knocking into other prisoners.

Down the line, countless other prisoners, a testament to Hydra's tyranny, were pushed and prodded into similar cages. The somber silence is only punctuated by an occasional groan or curse.

Sky reached down and helped his friend up. "Always quick with those quips, eh Russel? Any word on Cardin?"

Russel's expression grew dark, his jaw clenched. "They've moved him. Some big shot wanted a guinea pig for his experiments. I swear when I get out of here —"

"If we get out of here," interrupted a voice. From a corner of the cage, another man, with light-brown hair neatly combed to the left, looked up, his eyes almost closed in a distinct squint.

"Come on, Dove, don't be like that. The Commander will send reinforcements," Sky replied, trying to infuse hope into his voice.

Dove huffed, "I'm just being realistic, Sky. The Commander isn't foolish enough to raid Argus for us. He knows the risks."

Sky's hope wavered, his voice softer, "But he wouldn't abandon us … Right?."

Russel, sensing the defeat in Sky's voice, wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "We'll find a way out. Rescue Cardin and burn this damn place to smith—"

"WHO GOES THERE?" The familiar, vicious voice of the warder cut through their planning. But before they could even comprehend what was happening, they saw the unimaginable: the warder, body limp, flew through the air, crashing right above their cage.

Perched with an air of authority, truncheon in hand, was a figure unfamiliar to them. In the dim light of the compound, the emblem on his shield became more visible.

Russel, surprised as the rest, raised an eyebrow at the stranger's outfit, "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"

With a resolute voice, the stranger declared, "I am... Captain Vale."

From the corner, Dove muttered a single word, capturing the collective sentiment, "Merde."