Cover Art by CHE3ZY
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Solitas:
The icy winds of Solitas whipped through the barren landscape surrounding Detention Center Delta, a maximum-security prison buried deep in the tundra. Two Atlas guards walked briskly toward the main entrance, their features unobscured. One was tall and lean, his sharp cheekbones and focused eyes giving him a distinct presence. The other was shorter, stockier, with a prominent mustache and a square jaw.
The two guards moved in sync, swiping their ID badges at the checkpoint. They passed through the multiple layers of security without incident, nodding briefly to their fellow guards stationed at various posts. To anyone watching, they appeared as ordinary Atlas personnel, making their way through routine patrols.
Once they were safely out of sight, the taller guard raised a gloved hand to his ear, pressing a concealed earpiece nestled within. His voice was low, measured, and laced with tension.
"We're in," Adam Taurus murmured, his tone controlled but carrying a note of restrained intensity.
A voice crackled to life in his ear. Dr. Arthur Watts, seated comfortably in a small airship parked miles away, watched the prison's schematics on his laptop, his fingers dancing across the keyboard with precision.
"Good. You're going to need to move quickly. Head to the electrical maintenance bay and locate the prison's mainframe servers. I need a hardline connection to bypass their internal security."
Adam glanced at his partner, the shorter guard by his side, who gave a small, silent nod. Neo's eyes gleamed with mischief beneath her disguise, her expression almost playful. She didn't speak, but she didn't need to. Her powerful illusions had rendered them perfectly disguised.
The two impostors navigated through the sterile hallways of the prison, moving with a disciplined ease that betrayed no hint of their true identities. With Neo's semblance cloaking them in flawless illusions, they looked every bit the part. Atlas personnel gave them only passing glances, none the wiser to the intruders in their midst.
Watts' voice crackled again, a hint of impatience underlying his tone. "Once I'm in, I'll locate our target."
They were here on Salem's orders and so failure was not an option.
Adam's lips twitched, his distaste for Watts briefly flashing across his face. But he kept his voice level. "Understood. Just make sure you hold up your end, Watts. We don't plan on sticking around any longer than we have to."
"Believe me, I have no intention of prolonging this," Watts replied dryly, though a trace of amusement crept into his voice. "Get moving."
Adam gave Neo a subtle signal, and the two of them picked up their pace, their boots echoing faintly against the sterile floors. They approached the steel doors of the electrical maintenance bay, just as Watts had directed. Adam's hand hovered over the control panel, and with a swipe of the stolen ID badge, the door unlocked with a soft click.
Outside the prison, in a desolate, snow-laden field, two bodies lay crumpled in the ice. The real Atlas guards, stripped of their IDs and weapons, lay still and lifeless, their expressions permanently frozen into that of dumbfounded shock. Though marred by their own blood pooling around and under them, their faces and bodies were identical to the guises that Adam and Neo had taken on; guises that were now moving again within the perimeter. Their original owners could only lie upon the red snow as their ghosts stalked the prison walls.
Back inside, Adam adjusted his posture, settling more comfortably into his borrowed appearance. Neo gave him an approving look, her silent satisfaction almost palpable.
They moved deeper into the prison, their eyes cold and focused, as Watts' voice guided them through the final stages of the plan.
Somewhere over the North Sea:
The low, steady hum of the Atlas military transport echoed in the cabin as it soared through the skies. Winter Schnee sat with a composed poise across from Guardian Zero-One-One. His orange WRAITH armor gleamed under the harsh, sterile lighting of the cabin, the yellow visor masking his eyes and, with it, any semblance of humanity—though Winter knew he was far more than just his armor.
They'd been in flight for over an hour now, the familiar silence between them hovering somewhere between camaraderie and formality. Though she'd worked alongside Zero-One-One on numerous occasions, Winter found herself still wanting to know more about him. There was an air of mystery that clung to the Guardians, one that even her years in Atlas' military intelligence had yet to unravel.
Clearing her throat, she broke the silence, her tone respectful but casual, hoping to ease into a conversation without unsettling the delicate boundary between them. "I hope the flight's not too monotonous for you, Zero-One-One. We've still got two hours to go."
Zero-One-One's helmet inclined slightly toward her; his posture as formal as ever. His reply was cordial, each word measured with precision.
"Not at all, ma'am. I don't mind the quiet."
Winter offered a slight nod, allowing herself a hint of a smile. "Calm moments seem to be a rarity with the state of the world now, don't they?"
"Indeed, ma'am," he replied. There was a trace of warmth in his tone, an unusual but welcome reminder that behind the armor was someone who understood the pressures and burdens of their shared duty.
Winter crossed her arms lightly, relaxing into the back of her seat, the smallest crack in her otherwise disciplined demeanor.
"Time is a luxury in our line of work, it seems," she agreed, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Still, I can't complain. We have our responsibilities, and I intend to uphold mine to the fullest."
"Your dedication shows, ma'am," Zero-One-One replied, his tone sincere.
She acknowledged his words with a soft nod, feeling a quiet sense of pride at his approval. "Thank you, Guardian. Coming from you, that means more than you might realize."
For a moment, Winter's gaze lingered on his visor, her mind briefly drifting to a memory she rarely spoke of. She had always respected the Guardians—no soldiers in all of Remnant could compare to their skill in battle. But with Zero-One-One, it was more personal. He'd saved her sister, Weiss, on more than one occasion. Yet she owed him for that… and perhaps that debt fueled her respect, her interest in the mystery surrounding him.
"Do you mind if I ask you something?" she ventured, keeping her tone light.
"Feel free, ma'am."
"How long has it been since you and your brothers were stationed back at Atlas?" She tilted her head slightly as if mulling over her own question. "I don't think I've seen much of you since… well, Beacon."
"Just over 5 weeks, ma'am," he replied. "We've spent most of that time in training. Routine adjustments and testing new equipment. General Ironwood wants us as sharp as possible."
Winter nodded thoughtfully, her gaze focused, a small crease forming between her brows. "It sounds… intense. Your training, I mean."
"Only what's necessary, ma'am," he replied simply. His tone held the same quiet professionalism that characterized all his responses, yet Winter couldn't shake the feeling that there was more hidden beneath his words. The Guardians didn't just train like any other soldiers. They lived for it, breathed it, as if they had been shaped and molded solely for the battlefield.
"Well," she said, her voice softening slightly, "I suppose that's part of what makes you Guardians so remarkable. Atlas owes a lot to you and your team."
"Thank you, ma'am," Zero-One-One responded with a subtle nod. "That means a lot. We're here to protect Atlas, its people, and humanity."
The way he said it, so resolute and unwavering, stirred something in Winter. She hesitated, glancing down at her hands, which she had unconsciously clasped together. Part of her wanted to keep the conversation light, but another part—the part that had seen glimpses of the Guardians' near-deadly injuries weeks ago—needed to know more.
Taking a steady breath, she shifted the conversation, the transition now feeling almost inevitable.
"Speaking of protection…" She looked back up at him, her voice lowering slightly. "Marrow told me about what happened when you and your team returned to Atlas a few weeks back. He said you came back in… less than optimal condition."
Zero-One-One held her gaze—or at least, the direction of his visor didn't waver. She could see the slight shift in his stance, a nearly imperceptible hesitation before he replied.
"It was a… challenging mission," he said, his tone careful, almost distant. "But we completed it as best we could."
Winter waited a moment, hoping he might continue. When he didn't, she leaned forward slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You nearly died out there, didn't you?"
The silence that followed was thick. He wouldn't answer.
"I… I know it's classified," she admitted, glancing away, feeling an odd vulnerability in asking him directly. "But I can't help but wonder who… or what… could be so dangerous as to bring the Guardians to their knees."
"With respect, ma'am," he replied, his voice even, but there was a faint, almost reluctant edge to it, "I'm afraid I can't tell you that."
Winter exhaled slowly, as if she had expected as much but still felt the weight of his words.
"I understand." She met his visor again, her gaze softer, her voice gentler. "But know that you have my respect, Guardian… now and always."
"Thank you, ma'am," he replied, his tone carrying a hint of gratitude. "It's an honor to serve alongside you."
They sat in silence for a moment, the unspoken understanding between them settling into something comfortable, almost familiar. Winter glanced at Zero-One-One's orange armor, her gaze tracing over the plating, each scratch and dent a testament to his countless battles. It was rare for her to feel this relaxed around most people, but there was something grounding about Zero-One-One's presence. It reminded her of Atlas itself: stoic, unbreakable, yet somehow reassuring.
After a beat, she leaned back, her voice lighter, the tension in her shoulders easing as she shifted the conversation.
"Have you been to Argus before? It's one of the more scenic places in Remnant, though I imagine you're used to a more… hostile, austere landscape."
Zero-One-One shook his head. "No, ma'am. Most of my assignments have kept me on field deployments. I've read the reports on Argus, but I wouldn't say I'm familiar with the area."
"Well," Winter began, a faint hint of a smile touching her lips, "you're in for a treat. Argus is… unique. It has a strong Atlas influence, of course, but the people of Mistral add their own flair. You'll see Mistrali architecture, open-air markets, sprawling courtyards, and gardens. It's like a clash of cultures in the best possible way."
She hesitated as if realizing how uncharacteristic her words sounded, before adding, "My… family has a property there. I visited often as a child with my family."
Zero-One-One inclined his head slightly. "It sounds… different from the cityscape of Atlas. I imagine the climate is a bit more forgiving as well."
Winter chuckled lightly, a sound rare and genuine. "Much more forgiving. Atlas' cold can feel… relentless, but in Argus, there's significantly more warmth, even in the evenings. I think that's part of why the people there have such a different outlook. They're more relaxed, yet fiercely proud of their heritage. There's a… stubbornness, you could say, in the Argus way of life."
Zero-One-One listened intently, his posture unwavering but his visor angled just enough that she felt his attention was solely on her. It was strange, having a Guardian so focused on her words. It made her feel… seen. Respected.
"Do you ever get time to explore during deployments?" she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
"Not often, ma'am," he replied, his voice carrying that usual calm professionalism. "There are times between missions when we're stationed in a location for a while, but those are usually spent training or preparing for the next assignment. Exploration is… a luxury we don't often get."
Winter tilted her head thoughtfully. "That's a shame. You're missing out on a lot of what makes Remnant worth protecting."
He paused for a moment, as if considering her words, then replied, "Perhaps. But I don't think much about it, ma'am. The mission is the priority."
She nodded, her respect for him deepening. His commitment to his duty was unwavering, and though she knew it came with a cost, she also knew it was what made him and his fellow Guardians so extraordinary.
"Well, if we get a moment in Argus, I might insist you take a look at the markets. They have these stalls full of colorful fabrics, spices, and street food. It's a sensory experience. The people there are lively, too. Not as… reserved as in Atlas." She let out a small chuckle, recalling memories from her childhood. "I remember once, a vendor tried to convince my sister to trade her shoes for a fruit basket. Weiss didn't know how to handle it. The whole scene was… amusing."
Zero-One-One's posture shifted slightly, as though he found the thought amusing as well, even if he wouldn't openly laugh. "That certainly sounds like Weiss, ma'am. I'll keep an eye out for fruit baskets, should we get the opportunity."
Winter smirked. "See that you do, Guardian."
After a pause, Winter looked at him, curiosity still lingering. "And what about you? Surely you have stories from past deployments. I've seen some of the reports highlighting the things you and your team accomplish. They're… impressive."
He hesitated, as though choosing his words carefully. "There are… a few, ma'am. Most of them are fairly straightforward. Clearing out Grimm infestations, hunting down White Fang cells, neutralizing rogue elements… nothing particularly glamorous."
Winter watched him closely, noting how he dismissed his accomplishments as though they were routine. "You make it sound so simple," she murmured, half to herself. "Your mission success rates are perfect. Your Guardians regularly accomplish the impossible."
Zero-One-One shifted slightly; that rating was no longer 100%, and with it, their guarantee for success was no longer certain. Their failures had quickly mounted since the disaster at the tournament; starting with their inability to keep Penny safe, which had snowballed into a hard-fought, but futile effort to prevent the fall of Beacon Academy. To top things off, they were unable to kill Salem, leaving their lifelong objective unfulfilled. His hand tensed a bit but quickly relaxed when he responded to Winter.
"It helps to have good armor, ma'am," he replied with a bit of humor, "and a good support network from the Atlas military."
A flicker of admiration passed over her face. "You and your brothers are… truly remarkable. Few soldiers could handle the kind of assignments you face."
She noticed his visor dip slightly, perhaps in acknowledgment of her compliment. He responded with quiet humility. "We're just doing our duty, ma'am. Nothing more."
They sat in silence for a moment before Winter spoke again, her voice carrying a softer, more personal note. "Duty… it's something that runs in my family as well. My grandfather instilled it in me from a young age. To serve, to protect. I think that's why I understand what you and your brothers do… and why I respect it."
Zero-One-One remained silent, but Winter sensed he appreciated her words, even if he didn't express it openly. She continued, her tone becoming lighter.
"Though… I will say, the Schnee family version of 'duty' was perhaps a bit more… rigid." She chuckled, a wry smile forming on her lips. "I remember when Weiss and I were young, our father would have us practice etiquette drills until we knew how to balance tea cups while reciting company policies. Weiss would always get bored halfway through and start improvising. Our poor instructor nearly fainted the first time she did that."
Zero-One-One seemed to listen intently, and though his helmet betrayed no emotion, Winter thought she could sense a subtle shift, as if he were absorbing a part of her world he hadn't considered before.
"Weiss was certainly… spirited," he commented with a small smile hidden under his helmet.
"She is. Strong-willed, too. I'm proud of her." Winter's voice softened. "She's always had a… a way of finding her own path, even if it means defying expectations."
Zero-One-One nodded. "I can confirm she is. She struck me as determined… and kind."
Winter's gaze flickered to him, a subtle acknowledgment of a shared history neither of them would openly address. "She's lucky to have had people looking out for her," Winter said, her words layered with a quiet gratitude. "I… am grateful for that."
A silence passed, and then, sensing it was time to draw the conversation back, Winter straightened, her formal tone returning. "Anyway, perhaps when we reach Argus, I'll show you around the markets… if duty permits."
"I'd like that, ma'am," Zero-One-One replied.
Winter smiled slightly, feeling a quiet bond settling between them. Though their lives were worlds apart, they were both soldiers, bound by duty and a shared respect that needed no further explanation.
"There is something else, though," she said.
"Yes ma'am?"
"If you can tell me, I would like to know your name. Addressing you as Guardian or Zero-One-One seems very impersonal and addressing you by your cover name of Rahm Tangerin wouldn't be accurate."
Zero-One-One pondered her question for a moment. This was the first time anyone ever asked what his true name was. The times he was asked his name when he was under the guise of Rahm Tangerin didn't count. What she was asking for was impossible. Not only would he not be able to tell her his real name as it would surely be classified, but the fact was that he truly didn't know what it was. He had this internal conversation with himself when he, his brothers, and his little sister went with Professor Ozpin into the field on their student mission. Guardians were once people too. They had lives, families, and even names. Any memory of their original names was long forgotten. Their names were their designated numbers now, but he couldn't tell her that. He thought carefully about his response, ensuring it wouldn't be breaking protocol.
"I'm afraid my name is classified ma'am," he replied, prompting a small frown from Winter, "but between us, you can call me Doc when in private."
A small smile came to Winter's countenance, happy with the small amount of progress of getting through the Guardian's metaphorical, and very literal, armor.
"I take it that's your nickname?"
Doc nodded.
"How did you earn that name?" Asked Winter.
"I'm afraid that's a story for another time," replied Doc.
"Fair enough, Doc," Winter said with a small smile.
The airship continued its flight through the clouds, carrying them toward Argus and the unknown challenges awaiting them. And for now, that shared understanding was enough.
Atlas Academy:
The training room echoed with the rhythmic, almost mechanical thud of Zero-Three-Seven's movements. Dressed in simple black workout gear, the Guardian moved through the space with fluid, lethal precision. His form was a striking mix of sheer power and agility, an echo of the years he'd spent training alongside his brothers to be the peak of human performance and beyond. Each breath was measured, and controlled, though a faint tremor of strain lingered beneath the surface.
He started with gymnastics, moving with surprising lightness and agility for his size. He began with a warmup routine on the high bar, followed by the pommel horse, and then the still rings. Despite his size, he moved with grace and agility that would make the best gymnasts on Remnant look like amateurs.
His feet barely made a sound as he launched himself into a series of backflips and handsprings. He was impeccably balanced, despite the numerous scars worn across his body, both fresh and aged. Upon vaulting through the air, he twisted through the wind with a masterful acrobatic grace. However, his landing was less so, his muscles caught in a brief, but painful throb. He exhaled sharply, refocusing, determined to master his own limitations once again.
Moving to the weight racks, Zero-Three-Seven selected a bar weighed down with massive plates, stacking them until it held a staggering 2,400 pounds. He still wasn't at 100 percent, and this was pushing the edge, but he needed to test himself, to see if he could bear that familiar weight without giving in. His grip tightened around the bar, knuckles turning white as he lifted, his muscles straining, veins standing out against his skin. Every sinew in his body tensed, his mind blocking out the lingering aches as he forced himself through the lift. With his feet firm on the ground, he raised it high above his head, his jaw clenched, feeling the tremor in his arms. Slowly, he lowered it back down, setting the weight down with a loud thud that echoed through the empty gym.
Next came the heavy bags. One by one, he unleashed a series of devastating blows, his fists slamming into the thick material with enough force to send shockwaves through the bag and his own bones. Sand spilled out from the tears he inflicted, scattering across the floor as each strike ripped deeper, the sound of ripping fabric mingling with his heavy breathing. He pivoted and drove his knee into the bag, and watched it explode into a cloud of sand, each grain falling like dust in the dim light of the gym. Yet, after a particularly forceful jab, his arm tensed painfully, reminding him of the poison that had once flowed through his veins. He paused, drawing a steadying breath before moving to the next bag, refusing to let the weakness define him.
After the endurance trials, he moved to the armory to select a set of knives and a short sword, testing their weight in his hands. Under the pale lights of the training room, he moved through a routine, knife and sword flashing in deadly arcs as he practiced both offensive and defensive maneuvers. The blades sang through the air, his footwork precise as he danced with invisible opponents. Yet, a slight delay in his reaction made him grit his teeth. His body's natural rhythm wasn't fully aligned, each strike and parry tinged with lingering limitation. Still, he finished the exercise, each cut and thrust an extension of his discipline and skill.
Finally, he entered the shooting range, pulling on a pair of noise-canceling headphones, and selected an M9G pistol with a drop holster and an MA19 assault rifle. Setting up his targets, he focused on his breathing, his mind entering a laser-like focus as he aimed. Shot after shot rang out, each one hitting on the bullseye with perfect, flawless accuracy. He went through the sequence of fire drills, switching between his rifle and his sidearm with expert fluidity. His precision was almost surgical, a product of years of training and combat experience. Yet, one bullet strayed slightly off-center, a hair's breadth away from perfection. He paused, his hand tightening on the weapon briefly, before he forced the feeling down and focused on his next shot, restoring his perfect aim without a single outward sign of frustration.
He checked his watch and saw that it was now noon. He'd been in the training facility since 3 in the morning. Zero-Three-Seven finally stepped back; his body weary but his spirit tempered by the grueling routine. He took off the headphones and holstered his weapon, his mind quieter than it had been all day. The silent walls of the shooting range seemed to close in around him, and in the emptiness, he was left with his thoughts.
He recalled what Doc had told him before he left for Mistral.
You should check on Pyrrha.
His brother's words lingered in his mind and after a moment's hesitation, he turned and walked out of the range. His decision was made. He knew he shouldn't but something in him knew he couldn't ignore Doc's advice.
He returned to the Guardians' private locker room, stripping off the sweat-soaked workout gear and stepping into a cold shower. The cold stream cascaded down his frame, washing away the rigors and grime of his training, though it did little to soothe the weariness gnawing away at his mind. When he was done, he toweled off and changed into a standard-issue Atlas military uniform, lacking any rank or insignia. He completed the ensemble with a fully encompassing helmet; the visor obscured his face entirely, while the suit masked his build and the scars that adorned it. Upon a glance at the mirror, he had transformed back into a faceless soldier once again.
Somewhere over Vale:
The Atlas military cargo airship hummed quietly as it cruised high above the ocean, cutting a path through the cold, thin air. Inside, Guardian Zero-Six-Nine sat alone in the cargo hold, motionless, his form engulfed in the dark shadows of the compartment. His green armor hugged his powerful frame, its imposing bulk reminiscent of a walking tank. Like a faceless sentinel, he stared straight ahead, his silent, unblinking red visor absorbing the dim lights from the cockpit.
For nearly 10 hours, he had remained in this stillness, awaiting the drop zone. Time blurred in his mind, not a hindrance, but merely another data point to observe. The timer on his HUD was ticking down. They were getting close to the drop zone.
In the silence, he found himself remembering. Memories surfaced of Beacon Academy, where he had once walked among Huntsmen-in-training, a soldier masked in the guise of a student named "Terre Verte." He had been ordered to observe, to protect—and she had been a primary target for that mission, the red-caped girl with boundless enthusiasm and unbreakable will. Ms. Ruby Rose.
Zero-Six-Nine had initially been nothing more than an observer in her world, assigned to shield her from unseen threats. However, he quickly became an integral part of her world. He had watched her train, her skill with that scythe—a marvel of engineering she called Crescent Rose—demonstrating an almost preternatural aptitude for combat. She had spoken to him often, innocent questions about weapon techniques and design, and lastly, an invitation to share a meal to discuss his knowledge of weapons. She had admired what she believed was his insight, unaware of his true nature.
He had left that invitation unanswered, as the Ghost Protocol had been enacted and Terre Verte was no more. Yet, now, it lingered in the back of his mind as the pilot's voice crackled through his helmet's comms.
"We're approaching the drop zone, Zero-Six-Nine. ETA one minute."
He stood up, his armor's servos barely whirring as he moved with mechanical precision toward the open cargo door. The freezing wind bit into the cargo hold, whipping around his body and tugging at the red-tinted visor. He checked the altimeter one last time: 30,000 feet. A high-altitude insertion. Routine.
The red light above the door switched to green.
Without hesitation, Zero-Six-Nine stepped into the void, plummeting into the night sky. His body sliced through the freezing air in a controlled descent, falling like a stone through the heavens. The wind roared past his helmet, the clouds whipping by him in blurs of gray and silver as he fell. His HUD automatically adjusted for altitude, velocity, and distance to the target landing site.
With a cold calculation, he engaged the disposable thruster pack. A controlled burst of energy slowed his descent, stabilizing him as he neared the ground. Trees materialized below, growing larger and more defined with every passing second. He activated the thrusters one last time to cushion his landing, his feet connecting with the earth in a powerful, silent impact.
As he straightened, the thruster pack detached, crumbling into fragments designed to leave no trace. He glanced around the dark forest, taking in the thick, towering pines and the silvery moonlight that filtered through the branches, casting fractured shadows across the forest floor. The air was crisp, alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures, yet he was silent, his presence concealed by the vastness of the wilderness.
He activated the adaptive camouflage, his armor flickering before blending seamlessly with the shadows. All he had on him was his weapons, ammo, some field rations, some toiletries, and whatever else he could fit in his armor's storage compartments. He would be on his own out here. Anything else needed would need to be secured on his own. He knew the general layout of Patch; he had studied it meticulously, though he had never ventured this close. Somewhere through these trees, beyond the quiet streets and rural homes, was the place where she lived.
And so, like a specter of war, he moved silently into the forest, his steps measured, precise, vanishing into the night without a trace.
Atlas General Hospital:
The lights in the physical therapy room were dim, giving the sterile space a quieter, more intimate feel. Pyrrha Nikos sat slumped in a wheelchair, glaring at the parallel bars in front of her as though they were an enemy she had to conquer. The room was filled with others working to regain their mobility with state-of-the-art gym equipment and the faint scent of disinfectant. She could feel the weight of her mother's gaze on her, watching patiently from a nearby bench, but it only made the knot in her stomach tighter.
Pyrrha adjusted her grip on the wheelchair's armrests, inhaling slowly through her nose. Her physical therapist stood beside her—calm, patient, and always encouraging.
"Whenever you're ready, Pyrrha," he said softly.
The urge to stand burned in her. But every time she tried, her ankles—scarred and slow to heal from Cinder's arrows—felt stiff, fragile, and foreign, as if they no longer belonged to her. The sharp ache in her abdomen from Cinder's third arrow still lingered, a piercing reminder of her brush with death. But worse than the grievous pain from her wounds was the growing weight in her heart.
She could still see Penny's shattered body in her mind. The tragic battle she never should have fought. The moments she'd spent clinging to life after Cinder's arrows found her.
And I failed him too.
Her grip tightened. She tried not to think about Jai, but it was like trying to stop a flood with her bare hands. He was gone, just like Penny, just like Terre and Rahm, just like so many others. She had asked a nameless soldier—her last hope in those final moments—to find Jai, the boy she'd possibly been in love with. But Jai never returned.
The therapist crouched beside her again. "Let's try standing, just once more."
Pyrrha nodded, forcing herself to focus. Her hands slid to the metal bars in front of her. The cold steel bit into her palms as she gripped them tightly. With a sharp breath, she pulled herself upward.
Pain radiated from her ankles, like knives slicing up through her calves. She fought against the fire in her muscles, her legs shaking beneath her as she forced herself to stand. Her arms did most of the work, her legs too weak to carry her weight properly.
"Good, Pyrrha. Just a little longer," her therapist coaxed.
The muscles in her abdomen screamed in protest, but she gritted her teeth and took a shaky step. Her left foot dragged, and her leg buckled immediately. She gasped, the pain stealing her breath, and before she could stop herself, she crumpled.
The therapist caught her, easing her back into the wheelchair with practiced care. "It's okay," he murmured. "You're doing fine. We'll get there, step by step."
But Pyrrha's composure was already cracking.
She buried her face in her hands as the tears came, hot and bitter. "I can't do this." The words spilled from her in a broken whisper. "I can't... I'm useless. I couldn't save anyone. I'm nothing but a failure."
Her mother, Helena Nikos, was at her side in an instant. She knelt beside the wheelchair, her expression soft but resolute. "You are not a failure, Pyrrha," she whispered, brushing her daughter's hair from her tear-streaked face.
"I killed Penny," Pyrrha sobbed, her voice cracking with raw guilt. "I begged that soldier to find Jai, but he never came back. I—" Her breath hitched, anger and grief swirling together until it was too much to bear. "I lost everything."
Helena gathered Pyrrha into her arms, holding her close. "You didn't lose everything, my love," she murmured, her voice steady and gentle. "You survived. And that's what matters now."
From a far shadowed corner of the physical therapy room, a tall figure in Atlas military armor stood motionless, watching Pyrrha with quiet intensity. The soldier blended into the dim light; his posture relaxed but alert. It was Zero-Three-Seven, hidden beneath the familiar guise of an Atlas soldier.
He wasn't supposed to be here—technically, this was a personal mission. But Doc had suggested it, and the idea had settled in his mind in a way he couldn't quite ignore. Doc had been right. He needed to see her, even though she was no longer officially his mission.
He and Melon saved her and Ruby from Cinder's destructive burst of power. He had carried Pyrrha to safety, leaving her with the medics. And then she had begged him— Bring him back to me.
She didn't know that Jai had been standing right in front of her. She didn't know that the man beneath the armor—the one who had carried her from the battlefield—was the very person she had been crying out for.
Zero-Three-Seven had been trained to suppress emotions, to act without hesitation or attachment.
Jai Gris was dead. That was the cover story. But Pyrrha didn't know that he was standing right there. And even now, as he watched her struggle through her physical therapy, he felt... something. A sense of duty. A need to protect her, even though she was no longer his responsibility.
Pyrrha's sobs gradually quieted as her mother held her, whispering soft reassurances. The therapist gave them space, stepping back to let the moment settle.
From the corner of the room, Zero-Three-Seven shifted slightly, his hands clasped behind his back. He had come here to see if she was okay. To make sure she was still fighting, still alive. And she was—though not without struggle.
He watched her closely, unmoving. She was still the same Pyrrha Nikos—the warrior who had stood her ground against impossible odds. But now, she was broken, fragile in a way he hadn't seen before.
His hands tightened into fists at his sides. He wanted to step forward, to tell her that she wasn't alone. That he was still watching over her. But he knew he couldn't.
And even if he did step forward, what could he say? She didn't know who he really was. To her, Jai was gone.
Forever.
And Zero-Three-Seven—he didn't know how to be anything other than a Guardian
He lingered for a moment longer, his gaze softening slightly as Pyrrha wiped her eyes and sat up a little straighter. She was still fighting, even through the pain. And that was enough—for now.
Without a sound, Zero-Three-Seven turned on his heel and slipped out of the room, vanishing into the sterile halls of the hospital. He would return to base, unseen and unnoticed. But he would be back. He always would be, as long as Pyrrha needed him.
Because even though she didn't know it, he was still watching over her.
Always.
Island of Patch:
The quiet clinking of forks against plates filled the small dining room of the Xiao Long household. It was a modest home, one that had seen its fair share of laughter and warmth over the years, yet tonight, a somber air hung over the table like a thick fog. Taiyang sat at the head of the table, his face a careful mask of forced optimism, but his eyes betrayed a glimmer of sadness. He had hoped a family meal would bring some comfort to his daughters, to remind them that they weren't alone in their grief, but the silence was deafening.
Ruby and Yang sat across from each other, each with a hollow look in their eyes, both lost in their own worlds. Ruby poked at her food absentmindedly, eyes downcast, her expression one of quiet contemplation. She tried her best to engage, to give her father some semblance of normalcy, but her heart felt like it was a thousand miles away.
Yang, on the other hand, was barely present. She sat slouched, her eyes fixed on her plate, although it was clear she had no appetite. Her face was drawn, and the darkness under her eyes hinted at countless sleepless nights. Her right sleeve was pinned up, hiding the absence of the arm she had lost in the Battle of Beacon. She moved as little as possible, and her gaze, once fierce and fiery, was dull, haunted by memories that replayed endlessly in her mind.
The family dog, Zwei, lay curled up near the table, his head resting on his paws as he whimpered softly. Even he could sense the heaviness in the room, his normally cheerful demeanor subdued as he watched his family in silence. Every now and then, he glanced up at Yang, his tail giving a hesitant wag as if to cheer her up, but even Zwei's warmth couldn't penetrate the sorrow that weighed her down.
Tai forced a smile, breaking the silence with a light-hearted tone, although his voice wavered ever so slightly. "So, girls, remember when we used to do this every Sunday night? Have dinner, play a board game, or watch some terrible movie afterward?" He chuckled softly, trying to ignite some kind of reaction, some spark of the past.
Ruby glanced up and offered a faint smile, her eyes meeting his for just a moment. "Yeah… those were fun times, Dad."
Yang, however, remained silent, her gaze still locked on her untouched plate. Her expression didn't change, her thoughts buried too deep to be moved by Tai's attempt at nostalgia. Tai sighed, the optimism fading from his face as he realized his effort was falling flat. He looked at Yang, his heart breaking a little more with each passing second.
After a few more minutes of stilted conversation, Ruby set her fork down, the clinking sound seeming louder than it should in the stillness of the room. "I think… I need some air," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Tai nodded, forcing another small smile. "Of course, sweetheart. Just… don't stay out too long, okay?"
Ruby offered him a faint nod before she stood, sparing one last glance at Yang, who hadn't moved. She knew her sister needed more time to heal, more space to deal with her pain, but seeing Yang like this—empty, broken—hurt more than she could put into words. She turned and headed toward the door, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet house.
Once outside, Ruby took a deep breath, letting the cool night air fill her lungs. The sky was clear, stars scattered across it like diamonds, and the silver glow of the moon cast an eerie yet peaceful light over Patch. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the chill seep into her bones. It was quiet, almost too quiet, and in that silence, the weight of everything she had lost settled on her shoulders.
She closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting back to her friends. Weiss… Blake… Pyrrha… The memories flooded her mind, each one tinged with pain. She wondered how they were all doing, if they were as lost as she felt. Weiss was back in Atlas, confined by her father. Blake had disappeared, leaving without a word. Pyrrha… well, Pyrrha had nearly died, and Ruby had no idea if she'd ever fully recover. Mentally, at least.
Ruby's hand instinctively moved to her pocket, where a folded letter rested. She'd written it a while ago, a plea for Jaune, Ren, and Nora. She knew she'd need their strength, their friendship, if she was going to continue on this journey. I need to send it sooner or later, she thought. I can't do this alone.
As Ruby stood there, lost in thought, a figure watched her from the shadows. Unseen and unmoving, Guardian Zero-Six-Nine observed her. His orders were simple—watch her, protect her, ensure no harm befell her. He was there as a silent protector, a shield that she could never know about.
Perched within the darkness, he analyzed her stance, her expressions, noting every subtle sign of distress. Her shoulders were hunched, her gaze distant, such that he could almost feel the turmoil swirling within her. Her mannerisms were nothing like what he remembered of his time with her back at Beacon, so quiet and void of the excitability and cheer he'd come to associate with her. Part of him wanted to step forward, to offer her some sort of comfort or assurance. But he couldn't. The mission took complete precedence and required absolute discretion. Keeping her safe was more important than his personal feelings. Too important. To that end, he had to keep himself hidden, always watching, but never interfering. That didn't stop him from establishing a security perimeter around her home, though.
Ruby looked out into the night, her gaze falling in his direction for a brief moment. Zero-Six-Nine held his breath, pressing himself further back into the shadows, his body blending seamlessly with the darkness. For a second, he thought she might have noticed him, but then she shook her head and turned back toward the house, oblivious to his presence.
As she walked away, Zero-Six-Nine remained in place, his eyes never leaving her figure until she was safely back inside. The door closed, leaving him alone under the stars, still as a statue, his vigil unbroken. He would remain there, a silent guardian, hidden in the darkness, ensuring that she was protected from any threat that might come her way.
But as he watched her, he couldn't shake the sense that she was fighting a battle far deeper than any he could defend her from.
Detention Center Delta:
Adam and Neo moved silently down the sterile, concrete corridors of the high-security prison. Their strides were brisk but controlled. Watts' voice crackled in their earpieces, guiding them through the labyrinthine halls of the prison from the relative safety of the airship miles away. The man took a certain delight in orchestrating from afar, his smooth voice dripping with arrogance.
"You're just one corridor away from the maximum-security wing," Watts drawled. "But there's an unfortunate number of guards stationed near your target. Nearly a dozen from the security scans I'm reading."
Adam let out an annoyed huff. He was not one to back down from a challenge, but a dozen guards were too many to take down without drawing attention, even for him.
"We need a distraction, Watts. I thought you were supposed to be keeping them out of our way," he said in a low voice, irritation seeping through despite the layers of professionalism.
A pause on the other end, followed by a soft chuckle. "Oh, trust me, I'm more than capable of managing that. I simply thought you'd enjoy a bit of… creative chaos," Watts replied, a smirk evident in his tone. "Give me one moment."
Adam exchanged a look with Neo. Beneath her disguise, she was calm, unfazed, with the faintest glint of anticipation in her eyes. She lived for this—the thrill of deception, the ease with which they slipped through enemy territory. But this mission required finesse, and Adam knew that patience would reward them soon enough.
Back on the airship, Watts' fingers danced over the glowing screens of his terminal. With a few keystrokes, he accessed the control system for the prison's lower-security wings. Prison cells, all holding low-priority inmates, lined the screen like a grid. He zoomed in, locating the central control for their electronic locks.
He grinned, almost admiring his handiwork. "Time to start the show," he murmured, pressing a final button.
In the lower-security wing, alarms blared as cell doors suddenly clanged open in unison, the locks disengaging with a mechanical hum. Prisoners blinked, stunned for a split second by the unexpected freedom. Then, the chaos erupted.
Inmates surged from their cells, a writhing mass of bodies hungry for revenge, escape, or even just the pure joy of disruption. Shouts and yells filled the air as prisoners took out weeks, months, and years of pent-up frustration on anything and anyone around them. Some ran toward the exits, only to be met by an overwhelming force of guards flooding into the wing to contain the riot.
Fists flew, bodies collided. One prisoner, a hulking brute with a crude tattoo snaking up his neck, tackled a guard, wrestling his baton away and using it to pummel the man into submission. Another guard was thrown against a wall, his weapon skittering across the floor as two inmates descended on him with animalistic rage.
The guards, now overwhelmed, struggled to hold the line. They attempted to form a blockade, shields up, batons raised, but the sheer numbers and intensity of the prisoners forced them back. The inmates, now armed with whatever they could scavenge—broken pieces of metal, confiscated batons, even makeshift shivs they had hidden in their cells—pressed the advantage.
A young guard shouted orders, his voice panicked as he called for backup over his radio. "We need reinforcements in the lower-security wing! Multiple prisoners are loose, I repeat, we have a full-blown riot on our hands!"
But the prison's resources were already stretched thin, and response time was delayed. Chaos reigned. The halls filled with the heavy stench of sweat and blood, as the prisoners fought not just for freedom, but to lash out at the system that had contained them.
Back in the maximum-security wing, Adam and Neo moved swiftly, taking advantage of the distraction. They encountered only a few guards along the way, each one responding to the riot that threatened to spiral out of control in the lower wing. The two intruders advanced until they reached the thick, reinforced doors of the maximum-security sector.
Watts' voice cut in again, smug satisfaction evident. "The guards are occupied, just as planned. You have a clear path to Lacertilia. Door controls are unlocked and cameras have been killed."
With a slight hiss, the heavy door slid open, revealing the long, dimly lit corridor beyond. Neo took point, her footsteps soundless as a shadow as she scanned the area. Adam followed close behind, his hand resting on the gun secured to his holster, ready for anything. Despite the apparent calm, his body remained tense and alert.
They rounded the last corner, stopping outside the cell. Inside said cell, Adam's eyes rested on the familiar sight of his long-lost lieutenant, Sage Lacertilia. The lizard faunus looked as though he'd seen better days.
"Sage," said Adam.
The nigh catatonic lizard faunus looked over just as the physical illusion of Neo shattered, revealing Adam Taurus.
"A-Adam?" The lizard faunus couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"You have some information I need."
Looks like Winter is getting on friendly terms with Rahm. Terre is in for an interesting mission. Jai couldn't ignore Pyrrha and had to see her. Setting things up for the rest of the volume. Sage has finally come back to relevance. Let's see what info he can provide Adam. Let me know what you all think. Hopefully I can get the next chapter out soon. See you next time.
-Dude64