Here we go.

Cover Art: Mystery White Flame

Chapter 12

The more people that put their heads together, the stupider they become. That was why you couldn't trust a bureaucracy to be anything other than useless. Beacon, Vale, Atlas, they hadn't been able to figure out Cinder or her plan despite all the little clues he'd been drip feeding them. The absolute morons were still focusing on the White Fang, seeing them as the true threat despite the fact they'd never been this organised or well-equipped before.

Personally, he blamed Atlas. Those stuck-up pricks liked to dwell on their own superiority so much that they must have just accepted the fact their old enemies were suddenly this good as being a result of Atlas' enemies being the best in the world. They already stuck to the notion that the White Fang's hatred of them was unjustified, as if Atlas were a beacon of faunus hospitality.

Morons.

He couldn't even blame Red's team anymore since this would have been taken out their hands. The fault lay with Ironwood, Ozpin, the Council of Vale and Oobleck – because fuck Oobleck.

"Do they not even think it's suspicious Cinder's team suddenly gained a new member!?" He wated for the silent response, then remembered that member was Neo. "Right. I'm on my own. Man, this place feels too quiet now. It's crazy how much noise a mute girl can make."

Oh, he'd enjoyed it at first. Having the house to himself, not having her stealing his food or eating his desserts out the fridge – and not putting on his dressing gown over her own so she could have double warmth while he stomped around half-naked. The simple pleasure of laying in the bathtub and not having Neo impatiently banging on the door.

But the allure wore off quickly. Roman had ever been a social animal, casually engaging even his victims in conversation, and living alone reminded him of back after his team died and when he'd quit Beacon.

"Bad enough Cinder steals my minion but now she ghosts me as well." Roman checked his scroll again, and his last message to her asking if she had any orders. "No response. Hm. Does this mean I'm being kept out the loop or there's nothing left to do?"

Obviously – painfully obviously, but to everyone other than Beacon and Atlas – Cinder was planning her big move during the festival. It was downright stupid to think otherwise. He was still amazed at the gall of the Council to keep it running when they knew the White Fang would target it. He was more amazed that people still wanted to attend despite the risk.

If they truly thought this was just the White Fang being terrorists, then they had to know Amity would be a great target for them. Who the hell accepted that, but then bought tickets for them and their family to attend? It was bonkers. And, sure, he got that the festival was a big economic thing from the government's point of view, but letting it go ahead and then having civilians die en masse wasn't going to be a vote winner.

And Cinder definitely hadn't used all the dust he'd stolen at Mountain Glenn.

"Gahhh." Roman clutched his head and rocked on his sofa. "And it's going to look like I'm behind all this! All because no one else wants to do the responsible thing and call the event off!"

What was a thief to do – steal the council themselves and hope the next elected one had more common sense? The city was even more useless when an election was on, as literally everything stopped in favour of campaign trails, empty promises, and media personalities ranting about how the other side was awful and would destroy Vale. Vale's entire election system basically worked on the basis not of who was best for the kingdom, but who wasn't the worst. A best of two evils scenario.

Cinder hardly needed to even try at this point. The festival would continue, the White Fang would do what they do best – cause a ruckus and then die – and Vale would be left reeling from the greatest tragedy since Mountain Glenn. Better yet, they'd be looking for someone to scapegoat since the politicians weren't going to admit it was their fault.

Enter Vale's sexiest thief, stage left.

"Ugh. There's no way I'm taking the fall for her." Roman flipped his cane up and down, catching it out the air. He could almost imagine Ozpin's tears in the distance. "I threw a fight with an arrogant teenage housecat to get this far. I'm not failing after that!"

Roman mis-timed his catch and winced as the cane smacked him atop his head. Sighing, he fell back on the sofa, acting for all the world like he hadn't intended to catch it in the first place. It rolled across the wooden floor and under the coffee table.

"What am I meant to do? I've tricked Cinder once or twice but relying on the authorities to wise up and catch her isn't going to work. They're hopeless. I need to do this myself." He pinched the bridge of his nose, clenched his eyes shut and snarled, "But what am I meant to do? Steal the Vytal Festival itself!?"

/-/

Cinder grunted as her scroll went off once more. It was Roman again, asking what the plan was or what he should do. The useless man kept needing direction, and she had none for him. After all, the "plan" had been for him to be captured by Ironwood. That ship had quite obviously sailed.

But Cinder would be damned if she was going to admit to him that she was out of ideas.

Let him think she was angry instead.

With a sigh, she accepted the call. "What now? I've already told you I have no work for you right now."

"Cinder. Darling." Roman's tone never failed to annoy her. "I was actually calling to double check my own plans wouldn't stop on your toes."

"Oh?"

"Yes, see, you said I should do my best not to act suspicious and, well, sitting around doing nothing certainly isn't my typical behaviour. I was planning a little heist. Actually, quite a big one. Something suitably dramatic to draw attention away from what happened earlier in the week."

A heist, hm? It was so very Roman, so he was right that it would lower suspicions. A distraction, though? She hadn't planned for one and they didn't really need one, but that wasn't to say it couldn't be useful.

Roman was ultimately not needed in any of her plans so there was no reason to worry if he got caught or not. Hell, he might even get taken to Ironwood's ship if he did, bringing her original plans back in line. And if not, and he succeeded, then it was just another thing for Ozpin to worry about, taking attention away from her and her team.

But, of course, she wouldn't admit to liking his idea.

"If you absolutely must amuse yourself this way, then go ahead," she said, airily. "But I assume you won't be targeting Beacon."

That was the only way she could think of him causing her trouble.

"No, no. I'll be going after a target in Vale. I'm thinking it might be my biggest heist yet, something to really capture the headlines."

What a pathetic little man, a narcissist to the core. He just had to be the centre of attention. Cinder rolled her eyes. She knew she was arrogant, but much of that was deserved and she didn't require validation to know it. Roman was like a little baby screaming in a supermarket, demanding people notice him.

"Yes. Yes. Go ahead, then."

"You don't want to let me in on your plans, so I don't accidentally get in the way?"

"My plans aren't so fragile that you could ruin them," she replied, taking an arch stance. She could hear his annoyance and basked in it. "So go and sate your ego if you must. I'm sure we'll all enjoy watching the fruits of your labour."

Roman didn't miss her sarcasm, but she hung up before he could get the last word in, then turned off her scroll and leant back. Out the corner of her eye she noticed Neo – or Mint – staring at her and guessed at her wishes. The girl was wasted on Roman, but it cost Cinder nothing to humour her.

"Your father is in need of someone to stroke his ego and is planning another robbery." It was always interesting to watch Neo's eyes change colours as she blinked, and to ponder what it meant. "I'm sure it will be something suitably trite. Perhaps he'll fail to rob another bank and make a fool of himself a second time."

Neo's lips tugged down. With a silent snarl, she pirouetted on her heel and stormed out the dorm room to sulk.

"Shall I—?" began Emerald.

"Follow and keep her out of trouble," said Cinder.

"Yes ma'am."

Hmhmhm. Even with the breach not going precisely to plan, the ball was still very much in her court. Soon, the Vytal Festival would come, and then she would show the world just how fragile their peace truly was.

Nothing would get in her way.

/-/

It was always nice to have permission from your scary boss, even if he knew she'd take this poorly. Roman tugged his high-visibility jacket tighter over his body and tipped his hardhat down over his forehead. The black wig attached to the underside of it concealed his distinctive orange hair from view.

People looked at him and said he stood out – but a lot of that was down to his hair and his outfit, and even more to his theatrics. When both of those took so much of a person's attention, it was funny how much your other aspects could slip by. A calculated move on his part.

Well, no, it was actually just him wanting to stand out, but it worked – so he was going to say it was calculated. If you claimed responsibility for your moments of genius, unintentional or otherwise, then people would believe some of them.

The foreman at the checkpoint looked over his fake ID and nodded, not even checking it against Roman's face. He was here, in uniform, and they were all underpaid and overworked. No one cared enough to do more than the bare minimum.

The Atlesian soldiers at the second checkpoint did more, but they were only looking for faunus – trying to weed out the White Fang. Oh, they'd arrest Roman Torchwick if they saw him, but it wasn't like he was going to be anywhere around here. Terrorists were a much bigger concern, so Roman stood with his arms out as a soldier checked him for concealed weapons, non-too-subtly looked for a tail or ears, and then signalled him through as he moved on to check the next poor guy.

There were a lot of people to check, over a hundred today alone, and Roman had made sure he was around the middle of the pack. At the point where they'd be falling into a routine. A couple of faunus had been pulled aside for "administrative errors" on their paperwork. None of them had been seen again.

They wouldn't have been killed – Atlas wasn't that bad – but they were probably being questioned by soldiers asking intrusive questions and being given the "we understand why you're frustrated, sir, but this is just a regular check we perform on randomly selected contractors. It's nothing to do with you being a faunus" speech.

After all, the White Fang were faunus and terrorists so there was definitely no profiling in saying all faunus are terrorists, right?

Right!?

Typical Atlas. Roman rolled his eyes as he sat between two men on the Bullhead's seats and strapped himself in. They rose up jerkily, several of the idiots making complaining sounds as they grasped their seatbelts, unused to flying. Luckily, it wasn't a long trip and they were soon landing, and then shuttled out to wait in a large crowd while foremen and supervisors stood on a raised wooden platform, debating how best to get the work done. A consensus was eventually reached and the man in charge climbed up with a megaphone in his hand. The crowd of workers, with not a faunus among them, quietened.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Amity Colosseum – your home for the next two days! Our job is to get this marvellous piece of engineering ready for the Vytal Festival, because there's less than a week until the tournament begins and then this flying island will be playing host to almost a hundred-thousand guests, workers, stallholders, and visitors."

Roman chuckled under his breath.

"We're all here for one reason – because the part-time pay was brilliant!" There was laughter among the crowd. "An opportunity like this only comes around every eight years, so let's all do a good job and make sure we're hired again."

The crowd cheered. Roman raised his fist but said nothing.

"Now, you're all going to be given individual marching orders. We have some that'll need to work on the surface with erecting barricades and stalls. Others will be working on the stadium stands, the bleachers, commentary boxes and the changing rooms."

"The arena itself is off-limits as they have something special planned for that which we're not allowed to see, but don't worry about getting in trouble as they won't bother installing that until we're gone. Pay attention to the maps you'll be given, stay out of the areas marked as such, and be careful on the edges! While there are nets and barriers to catch those that fall, you better believe we'll make you pay for the trouble collecting you will cause! Now, form four orderly lines so we can get the information packets handed out."

Roman joined a line at random and waited patiently, finally receiving his packet along with a small plastic key card that would unlock the door to his temporary accommodation. It was cheaper and easier to have contractors live on Amity than shuttle them back and forth each day.

It also kept them working as opposed to going off for a drink or meal.

Next, they were given a tour around the main attractions of Amity including some of the backstage stuff like the competitor tunnels and the VIP boxes. A lot of it was cluttered and messy, and it made sense. Amity hadn't been used for two years now, since the last Vytal Festival, and it had been left in a bit of a state.

While he was sure cleaners had come on to clan up the horrific mess left by so many guests, there was a thick sheet of grime and dust that had built up in the years since then, and the stadium wasn't really in any state to be used. It'd all need freshening up, with new coats of paint, sealant, repairs, cleaning, and even some new construction here and there to close up damage caused by previous combatants in the fights. The grassy field around the arena itself looked like it had taken an artillery strike. Potholes everywhere.

The cost to maintain all this would have been ridiculous, and Amity was only really used every two years anyway, so it must have been a lot cheaper to just let the mess lay and then pay extra for a legion of locals from whatever town hosted the festival come on and deal with it. Even if they were paid three times the going rate, that'd still be cheaper than paying twenty-four months' worth of salary for a sizable staff for this place, not to mention having to deal with recruitment, HR, admin, accounts, and everything else. This was so much easier for Atlas.

"Cushy job, eh?" a middle-aged balding man said, elbowing Roman in the side. "Not every day you get to stay in a place like this."

"Quite." Roman did his best not to sound affronted.

"Say, you look kinda familiar. We met?"

"We might have run into one another at a bar or something." Roman idly gave the man a once-over, then threw out a made-up name. "McNally's?"

"Don't know that place."

"Or you don't remember it. Does anyone bother to remember the names of half the places they go to?"

"Ha! I guess not. We must have shared a drink or a game of pool. Your face is twigging my memory somehow. Ah well." The man shrugged and let the matter drop. "Maybe we can get one after all this is over with."

"I'll drink to that, friend. A toast to what's to come."

"Hard work and good pay?"

"Something like that."

/-/

What followed was two days of gruelling labour.

From most of the people, at least. Roman still had to do some labour so as not to get fired, and that was painful on his delicate hands and sensitive skin. Cleaning toilets with acid-based cleaner that left his skin peeling was the worst, and someone would pay for it when this was all said and done.

Sacrifices were necessary in this line of work, however, and Roman could still remember the early days when he'd had to do a lot of heavy lifting. It was thinking about the glory to come that kept him going, waking up each day at 8am to have a shitty mass breakfast at 9am, then work, followed by cheap lunch at noon, more work, a takeout dinner and then sleep.

They were treated like slaves.

Well, he was, because the account and bank he'd given led to a fake account so he wouldn't be actually getting paid for all this work. The others were more willing to put up with the aggravating foremen and crappy food. The fact he was working for free burned a hot hole in his stomach, but he soldiered on until the last day.

Finally, finally, the stadium was refreshed, the halls renovated, fresh coats of paint laid, and accumulated grime and dust had been cleared from hallways. Barriers were constructed, maps and directions put up, and banners and signage was all in the right place. They'd even carted first aid equipment and supplies from Bullheads to storage rooms, including a whole lot of dust to keep the engines running.

It had taken two days but the contractors, exhausted but glad to be done with it all, were shepherded onto aircraft to take them back down to Vale, replaced with a small number of Atlas soldiers who would take care of basic security.

And Roman, of course, concealed in a storage cupboard with an open laptop hacked into the security cameras around the floating island. Hacked was a strong word, considering he'd just sort of walked into the security room with a mop and logged himself in to download a virtual computer device while cleaning the place.

But it sounded better, so "hacked" it was.

Slightly more real in hacking terms was the device he'd paid one of his contacts good money for, which would allow him to break into and listen to the radios the soldiers were using. He'd even been able to get Roman a list of personnel from Atlas, or, more specifically, from the Valean database. Atlas had to make Vale aware of the names of very citizen they'd brought, and while that didn't include sensitive military info, it did give names, bios, and a few details.

Roman sat cross-legged and watched as the four teams spread out, listening in for over an hour as they slowly gave away subtle things like call signs, squad designations, and even names.

Meanwhile, he typed those names into the cracked database as he got them.

Another hour ticked by in silence, the soldiers becoming just a little less alert. The White Fang would have to fly up to Amity to get on, and it wasn't like Vale wouldn't notice the unidentified object in its airspace. Even if one was identified and allowed, they'd have to explain why they wanted to land on Amity. Short of a faunus with wings capable of flight – was that even a thing? – there was no chance of the White Fang getting on here. And there'd been no faunus allowed among the contractors either.

It was gone midnight when Roman finally made his move, clicking on the microphone and activating the voice changer.

"Squad B, report immediately."

"Reporting, sir!" a nervous man sounded off instantly. "General Ironwood? Sir, is there a problem?"

"Your squad is being relieved," said Roman, marvelling at how gravelly his voice sounded. "Private Makken's wife has entered labour and is requesting his presence at Vale General Hospital. We are moving a new squad out to replace your own rather than leave you down a member. You are authorised to take your Bullhead down to Vale and land at Vale's West Commercial Airport."

"Sir, yes sir! We'll do that straight away. Should we wait for our replacements?"

"There's no need." Roman forced a deep chuckle. "And congratulate the private on my behalf. He'll be given a few days leave to celebrate the new arrival and get used to his new responsibilities."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir. We're leaving now."

Roman turned out their contact and waited fifteen minutes. His camera caught the shuttle leaving, and the other squads raised some small curiosity about it that he listened into.

"Should we contact command about it?" asked one.

"They wouldn't have left without being ordered to in the first place. Do YOU want to be the one to question orders this late at night?"

"Not really. But, I mean, shouldn't we…?"

"We should keep quiet and do our jobs is what we should do."

Ah, soldiers. So to the point, so obedient, so eager to follow orders as long as they came from a known source. Good soldiers did as they were told, after all. They followed orders and obeyed without question, because it was always assumed those in command had proper reason for giving them out.

Roman activated the comms again. "Squad A, report. This is General Ironwood."

"Sir! Reporting! Amity is under control, sir."

"Good. The contractors have reported a problem with one of the engines, however. While there's no immediate risk or concern, we've dispatched a specialist engineering team to take care of it and need them to be escorted up to Amity immediately. I need your squad ready to vet and collect them on the ground, then bring them back up and take them to engines."

"Of course, sir. Where are we needed?"

"You are to collect them at East Commercial Airport,"Roman said, smirking to himself. "They should arrive within the hour. Given the White Fang threat, Sergeant Hands, I should not need to stress the importance of vetting the engineers when they arrive."

"Understood, sir. I will demand proper identification and perform checks as necessary."

"See to it, then. A new team is being dispatched to replace Squad B. You will be relieved at the normal time. Ironwood out."

"Sir! Squad A out!"

Another few minutes and the cameras watched the second Bullhead depart.

Roman gave it another fifteen from there.

"Squad C, report in."

"Squad C reporting in. Sir, Squads A and B have left Amity. Requesting confirmation that these were orders given."

"You have confirmation, Sergeant Moor. The orders came directly from myself." Roman lowered his voice. "Do you have concerns about them, sergeant?"

"No, sir!" the man panicked. "I only wanted to make sure, sir!"

"Hm. There's no harm in being cautious, sergeant, but remember that I have a view of the bigger picture. There are reasons behind your orders."

"Yes sir! Understood, sir."

"Good. I have a task of utmost importance for your squad."

"But… sir, Amity will be left defenceless!"

"This is an opportunity that can't be passed up! An empty arena does not matter compared to a chance to capture Torcwick and bring an end to this farce right now! And it won't be defenceless, sergeant. We have operational command of the cameras remotely and can lock down all systems. We also have three squads en route to Amity to relieve you all. This takes priority. Roman Torchwick has been sighted with a stolen Valean Bullhead and several members of the White Fang. We believe they are intending to make an attempt at reaching Amity."

"What do you need us to do, sir?"

"We do not have permission to open fire in Valean airspace and risk them crashing onto civilian buildings. I want your squad to fly down and investigate the warehouse district on the western part of the city. Your orders are to be visible and to deter the White Fang from taking to the air, not to locate and engage. I repeat, do not engage."

"Understood, sir. Our squad will make a show of force to prevent enemy action. Will additional squads be sent to engage?"

"Huntsman support is being dispatched from Beacon. It seems the locals want to try their hand at this before allowing us. Let them. If they succeed, it will be all well and good, and if they fail then it will serve as a reminder as to why we were chosen to take over security for the Vytal Festival."

The man chuckled. "Understood, sir. We'll go rattle our sabres and scare off the animals."

"Good work, sergeant. Await further contact from myself as to an update on the huntsman team. Ironwood out."

"Squad C out!"

Too. Damn. Easy. The final Bullhead took off and left, and it knew it was leaving Amity alone, but it trusted in the war machine. They had their orders, and Atlas had more than enough men to rotate them out early with fresh reinforcements. If General Ironwood said new squads would be dispatched, then new squads would be dispatched. Even if they were to go and contact command now and seek clarification, it would take time for them to find it. Someone would have to go find Ironwood, talk to him, double-check the orders hadn't come from him and then find out where they had come from.

And none of that really mattered because Roman set the cameras to loop the last 10 minutes of footage, let himself out the storage cupboard and headed to the control room.

None of that mattered because he unlocked the door using his worker's pass and stepped inside, and because he didn't have to crack the outdated security when his contacts had simply found the name of the soldier in charge of it back in Atlas, then trawled online until they could purchase his most-used login credentials that had come out in one of hundreds of leaks from various sites over the last few years.

Sure enough, the officer had gone with a frequently used and memorable password, and Roman was into the system within minutes. A flying island like this ought to have been an impossible thing to understand, but the benefit of Atlas having made it to be shared and used by the other kingdoms was that it had to be simple enough to use by those who weren't part of Atlas' military.

Which meant it controlled based on commercial flight controls.

Like Bullheads.

Which Roman knew how to fly.

"Remember, Cinder…" Roman whispered, giggling manically. "You told me I could go on a big heist. You gave me permission."

Far above Vale, Amity Colosseum began to move.

/-/

"SIR! SIR!"

General Ironwood winced as the pounding at the door roused him. Bright light from early sun shone into his eyes but he forced himself to stand, and grabbed his white overcoat, throwing it over his sleeping clothes so he could look at least a little presentable.

But this sounded like an emergency, so he simply buttoned it up and padded barefoot to the door, unlocking, and opening it. Winter was outside and looked more frazzled than he'd ever seen her before.

"Specialist Schnee. What is wrong? Report."

"Sir!" she practically cried. "We've lost Amity Colosseum!"

Four words.

Ironwood should not have had as much trouble processing four simple words as he did at that moment, and yet his brain simply could not compute them. He tried two times before giving up.

"What does that even mean…?"

"Amity, sir!" Winter pointed to his window. "It's been stolen!"

Ironwood followed her finger and looked outside to the conspicuously empty spot in the sky where Amity Colosseum had floated just the night before.

Two seconds later, he hit the floor in a dead faint.

/-/

"Ma'am!" Emerald was trying to rouse her from her stupor. "Ma'am, what should we do?"

"…"

"Ma'am…?"

Cinder had no answer, could not answer, because her brain was too busy short-circuiting as she – and probably most of the world – watched the broadcast provided to Lisa Lavender to play out on the day's news. A recording from a flamboyant man with orange hair sitting cross-legged on the edge of a floating fortress.

"That's right!" Roman shouted, holding Ozpin's cane victoriously in hand. "I, Roman Torchwick, have committed the heist of the century! For I have not stolen mere baubles or possessions! I have stolen something that has never been stolen before!"

He leaned in toward the camera with a manic grin.

"I have stolen the Vytal Festival! And if you want it back, you will need to listen to my demands! Firstly, I demand a statue of solid gold of my glorious visage to be added to the Vale Museum in honour of this moment. Ideally, it should be light enough for me to steal at a later date. Secondly…"

Bubbles and spit frothed at Cinder's lips, dribbling down her chin.

"Grbllpblllspblll…"

"Ma'am!?" Emerald panicked. "Mercury, help! I think she's having a stroke!"

"Fuck!"

Neo watched it all with a wild grin.

Next, he'll steal Christmas!

Next Chapter: 7th May

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