Cover Art by CHE3ZY
Hope everyone is staying warm and is enjoying their holiday season. I am happy to give you the next chapter as an early Christmas gift. Hope you all enjoy this one.
Detention Center Delta:
Sage couldn't believe his eyes. For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating again—his mind playing cruel tricks on him like it had so many times during the last ten months of his imprisonment. The sterile white walls of his cell and the constant hum of the facility's machinery had become his world, but now, standing before him, was a figure he never expected to see again.
Adam Taurus.
"H-How did you get in here?" Sage's voice cracked, his throat dry from disuse. His wide eyes darted between Adam and the faintly flickering alarm lights casting red across the corridor.
Adam's eyes narrowed, his voice low and commanding. "There's no time to explain. We need to leave. Now."
Before Sage could reply, a groggy voice cut through the tension. Across from Sage's cell, a bed creaked, and the sound of shifting sheets filled the air. A rabbit faunus sat up, ears twitching in irritation.
"How the hell is someone supposed to sleep with that damn alarm going off?!" the faunus growled, rubbing his eyes.
Adam spun around at the sound of the familiar voice, his hand reflexively brushing the hilt of his weapon. When his gaze landed on the rabbit faunus, his usually stoic expression faltered for a moment.
"Ash?" Adam's voice carried both disbelief and relief.
"Adam?!" Ash's ears perked up, his eyes widening in surprise. He stood quickly, shaking off his grogginess.
"So," Adam said, his tone softening slightly. "This is where you ended up? I thought you'd been killed."
Ash smirked, brushing his hands down his prison uniform.
"They wish. I've been keeping my head down, waiting for a chance to get out. Guess you're that chance."
His smirk faded as his eyes shifted to the human woman standing silently behind Adam.
Neo's gaze was sharp, her smile faint but unnerving. Her presence alone was enough to make Ash visibly uneasy.
Adam caught the look and raised his hand. "Relax. She's with me. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be here."
Ash's ears twitched, his unease still apparent, but he gave a slow nod. "If you say so, boss."
Adam wasted no time, swiping his stolen access card against the panel of Ash's cell. The door slid open with a hiss. Neo followed suit, unlocking Sage's cell with a precise flick of her hand.
Sage stumbled forward; his legs unsteady from months of confinement. He looked up at Adam, his expression a mix of disbelief and hope. "What's the plan?" he rasped.
Before Adam could answer, Ash interjected. "Just so you know, I'm not the only one here. Samson and Lupa—they're both stuck in the lower security wing."
Adam's brow furrowed as he processed this new information. "They're alive?"
Ash nodded. "Alive and well."
Adam's grip on his weapon tightened. Bringing Sage out was already going to be a challenge, but now… "Then we'll spring them too."
Ash smirked, but his confidence faltered as he glanced at Neo. "This… isn't just about rescuing us, is it?"
Adam shot him a sharp look. "Keep your focus, Ash. We're wasting time." He pressed a hand to his earpiece. "Watts. You there?"
The doctor's voice crackled through the comms, his tone as clipped as ever. "I've been listening the whole time. And just a reminder, Taurus—our mission, per Salem's orders, is to extract Sage. Only Sage."
Adam's jaw tightened. "I understand that, but Samson and Lupa are my lieutenants. Her plans require my White Fang soldiers, and Ash, Samson, and Lupa are vital pieces."
There was a long pause on the other end, punctuated by a faint sigh of exasperation. Finally, Watts relented.
"Fine. I have their locations. I'll guide you there, and I'll do my best to keep the guards out of your way. You're lucky I took the liberty of killing the prison's outbound communications, disabling the automated contingency response system, and freezing the security camera footage when you got me into their network. We should be clear of inbound reinforcements. But do not—I repeat, do not—waste time. Am I clear?"
"Crystal," Adam said coldly.
"They're in Block 3-C," said Watts, "get moving."
Neo gave a subtle snap of her fingers, and in an instant, the four of them shimmered, their appearances transforming with a swirl of pink crystalline light. Moments later, they stood as perfect replicas of Atlas prison guards, complete with uniforms. Adam nodded at Neo in approval.
"Let's move," he ordered, his tone brooking no argument.
As they slipped into the corridor, the alarms continued to flash ominously, but the sound of guards rushing toward the lower wings echoed in the distance—Watts' earlier diversion had done its job. The group moved swiftly, their disguises allowing them to blend in as they made their way toward the lower security wing. Sage, still weak, trailed behind with Ash keeping a watchful eye on him.
Mantle:
The streets of Mantle were alive with energy despite the biting cold of the evening air. Bundled against the icy winds, the people of Mantle had gathered in droves to hear Robyn Hill speak. A makeshift stage had been erected at the end of a narrow street, flanked by graffiti-covered walls and flickering neon lights that reflected the grit and determination of Mantle's people. Above, Atlas floated in the sky, a glittering reminder of everything Mantle lacked.
Robyn stood at the center of the stage, her piercing eyes scanning the crowd. Her jacket was dusted with snowflakes, but she didn't seem to notice or care. Behind her stood her Happy Huntresses. They watched the crowd with silent but unwavering resolve, ready to step in if tensions boiled over.
Robyn raised a gloved hand, and the murmuring crowd fell silent. Her voice rang out, strong and clear despite the wind.
"Brothers and sisters of Mantle, thank you for coming out tonight. I know it's cold, but that's just how life is down here, isn't it? Cold. Harsh. Unforgiving."
A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
"I wish I could stand here and tell you things are going to get better on their own," Robyn continued. "That Atlas will suddenly remember who's been keeping the lights on, who's been mining the Dust, who's been paying the price for their luxury. But we all know better. If we want change, we have to fight for it. Together."
Cheers erupted from the crowd, fists raised in agreement. Robyn allowed herself a small smile before her expression hardened again.
"For too long, Mantle has borne the weight of Atlas' success. We work the hardest and endure the worst conditions, and yet we're treated like second-class citizens. Our streets are falling apart while Atlas builds new towers. Our city defense infrastructure is antiquated and when we cry out for help, what do we get? Nothing."
Joanna stepped forward and handed Robyn a datapad. Robyn glanced at it, then turned it toward the crowd, displaying charts and graphs of Mantle's dwindling resources compared to Atlas' opulence.
"This is the reality we're living in. Mantle generates a third of the kingdom's wealth, but only five percent of that comes back to us. Five percent!" Her voice rose with indignation. "We do the work, they reap the rewards. Does that sound fair to you?"
The crowd roared, voices rising in anger and agreement. A group of faunus workers near the front held up signs demanding equal rights, their faces etched with exhaustion and frustration.
"And speaking of fairness," Robyn said, her tone softening, "I want to talk about our faunus brothers and sisters. They've been scapegoated, excluded, and mistreated for too long. The recent tragedy at Beacon Academy has resulted in even more distrust towards them because of the actions of the White Fang. The White Fang doesn't speak for peace-loving faunus and we can't let negativity blind us lest we invite even more Grimm. It's time for that to change. I promise you this: when I'm on the council, I will fight for equality. Not just for Mantle. Not just for humans. For everyone."
The cheers reached a fever pitch, the faunus workers chanting her name. Robyn held her arms out, basking in the energy of the crowd. For a moment, it felt like Mantle's spirit was unbreakable.
But then, the towering monitors on the buildings flickered, drawing attention away from the stage. The noise of the crowd softened as a news broadcast interrupted the rally. The Atlesian network logo spun into view, and the familiar face of an anchor filled the screen.
"We interrupt this broadcast with an important announcement from General James Ironwood," the anchor said, her tone clipped and professional. "In a sweeping new order, General Ironwood has mandated a zero-tolerance policy for faunus discrimination within Atlas Academy, the Atlas Military, and all law enforcement divisions."
The camera cut to footage of Ironwood sitting at his desk, his expression as stern and unreadable as ever.
"Discrimination of any kind has no place in our kingdom," he said. "Effective immediately, any individual within the Academy, the military, or law enforcement division who is found engaging in such behavior will face severe disciplinary action, including expulsion, demotion, or dismissal. Together, we will build a stronger, united Atlas."
The broadcast ended with a shot of Atlas' floating cityscape, the pristine towers glowing against the dark sky. The monitors returned to their usual programming, but the crowd's mood had shifted. Whispers rippled through the sea of faces, some doubtful, others uncertain.
Robyn's jaw tightened. Ironwood's announcement had caught her off guard, and she hated being blindsided. The Atlas broadcasting network had launched a myriad of news updates from General Ironwood. The tragedy at Beacon Academy had initially left many people within the Kingdom of Atlas confused and, in some cases, terrified. General Ironwood released a detailed report about what happened at Beacon Academy when testifying before the Atlas Council.
The White Fang had managed to hack the Atlesian Knight and Paladin automated sentinels and turn them against the people of Vale. The video evidence General Ironwood released corroborated the report and exonerated the Atlas military from wrongdoing, but it still left many within the Kingdom a bit shaken up.
She quickly stepped forward, reclaiming the crowd's attention.
"Don't be fooled by a few pretty words on a screen," she said, her voice sharp. "Where was Ironwood's concern for faunus rights before now? Where was his compassion when Mantle's faunus workers were being forced into the mines under brutal conditions? This isn't leadership. This is damage control."
Robyn glanced at her team, then back at the crowd.
"Ironwood thinks he can win us over with empty promises, but we know the truth. Change doesn't come from the top down. It comes from us. From the people. From Mantle."
The crowd erupted once more, louder this time, their cheers drowning out the doubts that Ironwood's announcement had sown. Robyn clenched her fists at her sides, her resolve hardening. She would not let Ironwood steal her momentum.
Detention Center Delta:
The chaos in the prison was absolute. Smoke filled the air, alarms blared incessantly, and the clash of metal against metal echoed in the lower security wing. Prisoners battled guards, each other, and the oppressive walls around them, driven by desperation. Makeshift weapons clanged against riot shields while the wounded groaned in corners or were trampled in the commotion. Fires burned in several areas, consuming bedding and spreading acrid black smoke. All the while, a digital voice boomed over the intercom constantly.
"CODE THIRTY-THREE! CODE THIRTY-THREE! CODE THIRTY-THREE! LOCKDOWN IS NOW IN EFFECT!"
Adam strode through the chaos with calculated precision. Neo was at his side, her every step as silent and graceful as a shadow. Her semblance cloaked them both, along with Ash and Sage, in the perfect illusion of Atlas prison guards. Their movements were steady, deliberate, and controlled, starkly contrasting the pandemonium that surrounded them.
Ash marched just behind Adam. Sage leaned heavily against him. Sage's pale face betrayed his disorientation, but Ash kept him moving with gentle nudges and muttered reassurances.
"Keep moving," Adam said sharply, his tone cold and commanding. His gaze flicked to Ash. "Don't let him slow us down."
Ash grunted in acknowledgment, gripping Sage's arm a little tighter. "We'll keep up."
The group moved deeper into the prison, slipping past guards and prisoners alike. Neo's semblance ensured that no one paid them any undue attention. To onlookers, they were just more guards, moving efficiently through the fray. Adam's mind, however, was entirely focused on their objectives: Samson and Lupa.
The group finally arrived in Block 3-C and was met with the sight of a warzone.
"INMATES!" Yelled a prison guard clad in riot gear. "ON YOUR KNEES!"
The guards were banging their clubs on their riot shields as they huddled together in a defensive position.
The wolf and lion faunus were in the thick of the riot. The inmates charged them with makeshift weapons or their bare fists. Inmate skulls were cracked and guard necks were slashed with makeshift stabbing weapons, sending blood spraying everywhere. A few prisoners had even managed to scavenge firearms, their sporadic shots adding to the chaos. Amid it all, Lupa and Samson fought with the ferocity of cornered animals.
Lupa's eyes burned with determination as she swung a broken piece of metal pipe, keeping two guards at bay. Beside her, Samson's powerful frame bulldozed through anyone who dared get too close. His bare fists delivered punishing blows that sent guards and prisoners alike crumpling to the ground. The other guards were kept occupied by the other inmates.
Samson spotted them first, his sharp golden eyes locking onto Adam. For a moment, his stance shifted, his muscles coiling as though preparing to strike, but Neo's semblance dropped briefly to grant him a quick view through the disguise. Then recognition flickered across his face, and his fists lowered slightly.
"Adam?" he called out, his voice deep and rough from exertion.
Lupa's head snapped around at the sound of Samson's voice. Her expression shifted from suspicion to disbelief as she took in the group.
"No way," she muttered, her grip tightening on her makeshift weapon. "What are you doing here?"
Adam stepped forward, his voice steady and commanding. "Getting you out of here. Both of you."
Lupa scoffed, her ears flicking toward a nearby scuffle. "You picked a great time for it," she said sarcastically. "In case you hadn't noticed, this place is a mess."
Adam's expression didn't waver. "That's exactly why we're leaving now. The riot's a distraction."
"Who are they?"
"I'm sure you know," Adam replied curtly.
Neo dropped the illusion for a brief second again, giving Lupa and Samson a glimpse of Sage and Ash, earning nods from Samson and Lupa.
"Follow us," said Adam.
Lupa nodded. "Lead the way."
Neo's semblance activated again, extending to Samson and Lupa and masking them as Atlas prison guards.
Watts's voice crackled in Adam's ear again. "The route ahead is clear for now, but you've got less than two minutes before reinforcements arrive from the other prison blocks. Don't dawdle."
"Understood," Adam replied. He gestured for Neo to take point, and she nodded silently, leading the group toward the exit.
As they moved, the riot continued to rage around them. Prisoners screamed, guards shouted, and the sound of gunfire echoed through the hallways. Ash stayed close to Sage, practically dragging the lizard faunus along when his legs faltered. Samson and Lupa stayed close behind, their eyes scanning for threats.
Atlas Academy:
Dr. Haze stood alone in her lab, the pale glow of holographic displays casting faint shadows against the sterile white walls. The hum of equipment surrounded her, a comforting constant in the silence. On her workbench, rows of vials glimmered faintly under the overhead lights, each containing a carefully mixed compound, some labeled with neat handwriting, others hastily scrawled as though captured in a fleeting thought. At the heart of her workspace, a cylindrical containment chamber pulsed with faint blue light, where biological samples floated in stasis, awaiting the next experiment.
She held a vial of viscous liquid between her fingers, scrutinizing its faint shimmer. This was just one of many formulas she'd created in her attempt to build the foundation for a new breed of super soldiers—volunteers, not children. Unlike the original Guardian candidates, these soldiers would not be subjected to the grueling childhood indoctrination or the experimental surgeries that killed so many. Ironwood had been adamant about that. But Haze couldn't stop herself from mentally retracing the Guardian augmentation procedures that had once defined her life's work.
Carbide-Ceramic Ossification Grafting, she thought, turning the vial over in her hand.
Muscular Enhancement Injections. Catalytic Thyroid Implants. Circulatory and Metabolic Modifications.
Each step had been meticulously designed to push the human body far beyond its limits. Yet, no matter how precise the science, the mortality rate had been devastatingly high. She wanted to try again with a new class of candidates; she was certain she could lessen the mortality rate, but James forbade it.
Her mind wandered briefly to the children who hadn't made it. She rarely allowed herself to linger on their memories, but every now and then, a flicker of something would surface: the sound of their voices echoing in the training halls, the determined expressions during their sparring matches, the quiet tears when no one thought she was looking. They had been so young. And when the surgeries came… her fingers tightened around the vial.
She placed it down carefully, exhaling through her nose. Those memories were dangerous. She couldn't afford to dwell on them—not now, not when she had so much work to do. Her failures from the past haunted her, yes, but they also drove her forward.
The holographic display to her left flickered, and she turned her attention to the anatomical model floating above the desk. A simulation was running, displaying how one of her experimental compounds interacted with muscle tissue. The results were promising but incomplete. The drug had successfully increased tissue density and decreased lactate recovery time—hallmarks of the original Muscular Enhancement Injections. But without a stable catalyst to regulate the effects, the muscle fibers deteriorated under stress.
"Still not enough," she muttered, pulling up the chemical structure of the compound. Her fingers moved deftly across the display, tweaking the formula to include elements from the Catalytic Thyroid Implant. If she could increase cellular growth without overwhelming the system… perhaps she could stabilize the effects.
Her attention shifted briefly to a separate display, where a series of schematics glowed faintly. The designs were rough, but they marked the beginning of an idea she couldn't ignore. If these new soldiers couldn't match the original Guardians biologically, perhaps she could compensate mechanically. The Guardians' current armor was already a marvel of engineering, providing unmatched protection and environmental adaptability. But it didn't enhance their physical capabilities—at least, not yet.
She pulled up a secondary model, overlaying her initial designs with a theoretical framework. This new armor would integrate advanced biofeedback systems, powered by micro-synthesis cores capable of enhancing physical output. Augmented servos in the joints would increase strength and speed, while neural synchronization implants would allow the wearer to react faster than humanly possible. Theoretically, this armor could bring the new super soldiers to parity with the original Guardians—assuming the Guardians weren't wearing similar equipment.
She pulled a holographic keyboard closer and began sketching additional features for the armor. Lightweight titanium alloys would maintain durability without sacrificing mobility. Enhanced optical systems would provide a broader visual spectrum, similar to the Occipital Capillary Reversal procedure. Internal medical injectors could stabilize injuries mid-battle, compensating for the lack of natural regenerative capabilities. Every feature of the proposed armor was designed to address the shortcomings of the serum while pushing human performance to its peak.
Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard, her thoughts drifting to the project that had been the unintended precursor to this work: Project Sentinel. The synthetic bodies had been a compromise, a way to create soldiers without risking human lives. But Ironwood's fear of hacking after the tragedy at Beacon had shut the project down before it could be fully realized. Haze had never agreed with the decision to begin Project Sentinel or the decision to shut it down, but there was still so much potential. Now, the Sentinel prototype sat dormant at the far end of the lab, a silent reminder of what could have been.
Her eyes flicked toward it, and for a moment, she considered the possibilities. Project Sentinel had been flawed, yes, but it gave her hope for something greater. If she could merge its principles with her current work—if she could find a way to bridge the gap between biology and machinery…
No. That was dangerous territory. She couldn't afford to go down that road, not openly. Still, the thought lingered in the back of her mind, a whisper of something forbidden yet tantalizing.
Returning her focus to the serum, Haze prepared another batch. This time, she adjusted the enzyme ratios to better mimic the effects of the Circulatory and Metabolic Modifications. The compound would be tested on another tissue sample soon, but even now, she was thinking ahead. The serum was just the first step. The armor was the next.
"This will work," she murmured, her voice resolute. "It has to."
And yet, deep in the recesses of her thoughts, the shadow of her past loomed. She didn't dare think about the facility—not now, not ever if she could help it. But the knowledge of what lay buried there was always with her. The dreams of Project Genesis never truly left her, no matter how much she tried to bury them.
For now, she worked in silence, the hum of her machines and the faint glow of her holograms the only witnesses to her resolve. If she could succeed here—if she could find the balance Ironwood demanded—perhaps she could finally begin to make amends and fully move on.
Detention Center Delta:
The alarms echoed through the red-lit halls, mingling with the distant shouts and scuffles of the riot that raged elsewhere in the prison. The chaos was far enough away to serve its purpose—pulling guards and security bots away from the lower security wing—but close enough to serve as a constant reminder of the thin line they were walking.
Neo led the way, her light steps silent against the concrete floor as her semblance cloaked them in the illusion of Atlas prison guards. The group moved in tense formation, Adam just behind her, his crimson blade hidden beneath his cloak but ready to be drawn in an instant. Ash followed closely, dragging Sage along with him. Lupa and Samson brought up the rear, ready to strike at a moment's notice.
Adam raised a hand, signaling the group to halt as they approached a T-junction in the corridor. He pressed his back against the wall and peered around the corner. Two guards stood at the far end, their backs turned as they scanned a tablet, likely monitoring the riot's progress.
"Watts," Adam whispered into his earpiece. "Status?"
Watts' smug voice crackled in response. "Those two aren't going anywhere. I've looped the nearest cameras to show an empty hallway. Take them out quietly."
Adam motioned to Lupa and Samson, and they nodded in unison. The two slipped around the corner like shadows, their movements eerily coordinated. Samson reached the guards first, his massive hand clamping over one man's mouth as he wrenched him backward. Lupa pounced on the second guard, putting him into a rear naked choke. Both bodies were dragged into a nearby alcove, out of sight.
Adam glanced back at the group. "Keep moving."
Neo's illusions remained flawless, the shimmering veil of their disguises holding steady as they advanced. They passed empty cells and broken doors, the aftermath of the riot's early moments.
Ash kept one arm locked around Sage's shoulders, practically carrying him now.
"Come on, Sage. Stay with me," he hissed under his breath.
As they reached another locked door, Adam glanced up at the security camera above it. "Watts. Open it."
"I'm not a miracle worker, Taurus," Watts replied dryly. "You're lucky this wing's systems are as outdated as they are. Give me... three seconds."
The door slid open with a faint hiss, revealing a stairwell leading upward. Neo gestured for them to move, her silent command clear. Adam went first, his hand on the hilt of his blade, ready for any surprise encounters. The rest followed in single file, Ash still dragging Sage and muttering curses under his breath.
"The prison's automated defense turrets are deactivated. I'm guiding you to the landing pad where I'll be waiting. Don't be late."
The stairwell led to the mid-levels of the prison, where the chaos of the riot grew louder. Smoke drifted through the air, and faint flashes of light from stun rounds reflected off the walls. Adam held up a hand again, signaling another stop. A group of guards was gathered at the far end of the corridor, shouting orders into their comms and directing small drones toward the lower levels.
"Watts," Adam muttered, his voice low. "We've got guards in the way."
"Always something with you, isn't it?" Watts sighed. "Give me a moment."
One by one, the overhead lights flickered and went dark, plunging the corridor into shadows. The guards hesitated, confused by the sudden blackout.
"Go," Adam ordered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Neo led the charge this time, her silent grace cutting through the darkness like a phantom. She reached the nearest guard, tripping him with a well-placed kick before rendering him unconscious with a precise strike to the head. Lupa and Samson moved next, neutralizing two more guards with brutal efficiency. Adam finished the last, a quick strike from the hilt of his blade knocking the man out cold.
They dragged the bodies into an unlit maintenance closet before continuing. The prison's main exit was just ahead, but it was heavily guarded, even amidst the chaos. Watts' voice chimed in again, his tone tinged with satisfaction.
"You're welcome," he said as the monitors lining the walls suddenly flared to life, displaying live footage of the riot.
The guards at the exit turned their attention to the screens, distracted by the growing chaos in the lower levels.
Neo took the opportunity to weave her illusions more tightly around the group before she and Ash subdued them. With the threat of the guards eliminated, they strode toward the exit with practiced ease, their disguises holding firm.
Once outside, the cold night air hit them like a slap. They spotted the landing pad and briskly made their way there. Overhead the sounds of an approaching ship could be heard.
"YOU THERE! WHERE ARE YOU GOING?! WE HAVE A RIOT ON OUR HANDS!"
The group looked back to see a pair of guards running towards them with their weapons in hand. Their protests were quickly made pointless as an airship landed and dropped its ramp, allowing for the group of six to board.
Once they were aboard, Watts punched the throttle and sped out of the immediate airspace. Neo finally dropped her semblance and let out a tired sigh. Lupa and Samson stared at Neo with looks of distrust, but they were quietly reprimanded by a look from Adam.
"Good work being on time," Watts said from the cockpit.
"Wasn't planning on being late," Adam replied curtly.
Adam allowed himself a rare moment of relief, leaning against the wall of the cargo bay as the lights of prison faded into the distance.
For now, they were safe.
Mantle Auxiliary Base Training Grounds:
The training field was bleak and utilitarian, surrounded by chain-link fencing and snow. This auxiliary training base was located about 20 miles outside of Mantle and was home to many different special operations units of both Specialist and non-Specialist origin. This highly secured facility was far away from the prying eyes of civilians. There was a strict no-fly area around the base that was enforced 24/7 and the base was off-limits to anyone without a need to be there.
Mantle's ever-grey skies hung low over the grounds, the faint hum of nearby industrial machinery forming a constant backdrop. Despite the stark surroundings, the Ace Ops stood at perfect attention, their breath fogging in the cold air. They had been summoned here by General Ironwood's orders, but the details of their assignment had been vague.
Before them stood Guardian Zero-Three-Seven.
He stood tall and imposing, and he wasn't wearing his armor. Seeing him outside of his armor was extremely strange. They'd seen him and Guardians Zero-Six-Nine and Zero-One-One outside of their armor a couple of times over 10 months ago before they departed for their secretive assignment to Beacon Academy. They spotted them with Penny Polendina on those occasions.
He wore a green patrol cap, a pair of black combat boots, green military cargo pants, and a black, long-sleeved shirt with the numbers 037 etched in white on the front and back of his shirt.
On his face and neck, there were faint remnants of battle scars. They weren't very noticeable, but to the perceptive person, they could be picked up. The last mission left the Guardians with a myriad of scars on their bodies.
Harriet, the most anxious of the team, broke the silence first, shifting her weight as her sharp gaze flickered across Zero-Three-Seven.
"So, what's this about? What are we doing out here?"
Zero-Three-Seven's head tilted slightly in her direction, his movement deliberate and measured. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the calm efficiency of someone who did not waste words.
"You've been assigned to me for advanced training," he said simply. "By order of General Ironwood."
Harriet quirked an eyebrow and folded her arms. "Advanced training, huh? What exactly does that—"
"Harriet," Clover interrupted softly, his tone a gentle warning. He shifted his focus to Zero-Three-Seven, giving the Guardian a polite nod. "Understood, sir. What's the plan?"
Referring to Guardian Zero-Three-Seven as sir was a bit strange for both Clover and the super soldier. As far as Clover knew, Guardians didn't have any rank, and they did not fall under the normal chain of command. They always rendered the proper customs and courtesies to superior officers such as himself whenever they passed by them on base.
The Atlas Military's chain of command was a bit different from the other Kingdoms. It was the only military on Remnant that incorporated regular military forces as well as military-trained Huntsmen also known as Specialists. This meant there were three avenues into the Atlas military.
All non-Huntsmen personnel entered via regular enlistment or through the proper officer training programs. These personnel included regular infantry, pilots, engineers, admin, and special operations forces just to name a few.
Specialists were all graduates from Atlas Academy who chose to enter the military. Within the ranks of the Specialists, there were regular forces who undertook standard missions and special operations forces such as the Ace Ops.
Specialists were within their own section of the military. There were five levels of Specialists and they were indicated by the number of horizontal bars on their uniforms.
Level 1: equivalent to the rank of Lieutenant.
Level 2: equivalent to the rank of Captain.
Level 3: equivalent to the rank of Major.
Level 4: equivalent to the rank of Lt Colonel.
Level 5: equivalent to the rank of Colonel.
Clover was a Level 3, Harriet, Elm, and Vine were Level 2s, and Marrow was a Level 1. Specialists were always referred to as Specialists or Special Operatives, but never by their rank.
Guardians, however, had no rank whatsoever. Not on their armor and not on any of their uniforms. Clover theorized that they were Warrant Officers of sorts. Above the enlisted ranks but below the officer ranks. It was only a theory though.
Zero-Three-Seven's gaze turned to Clover for a brief moment before his attention returned to the team as a whole.
"Thank you Specialist Ebi, but please refer to me as Instructor. I'm not an officer and it wouldn't be proper for you to refer to me as sir."
Clover nodded with a small smile.
Zero-Three-Seven continued to speak.
"Your orders are to follow mine. I will assess your strengths, identify weaknesses, and improve on both."
The calm delivery of his words belied their weight. Elm gave a small grunt of acknowledgment, folding her arms across her chest. Marrow adjusted his stance, looking over at Harriet briefly, who seemed to be holding back a retort.
Clover nodded again, his professional demeanor unwavering. "We're ready when you are, Instructor."
Zero-Three-Seven didn't respond immediately. Instead, he stepped forward, his boots crunching softly against the frosted ground. He stopped a few paces from the team, his towering figure even more imposing up close.
"Your training begins now," he said. "I have no expectations of you beyond this: give everything."
The simplicity of the statement seemed to settle over the group like a blanket of tension. It wasn't a boast, a threat, or even a challenge. It was a statement of fact. The Ace Ops weren't sure whether to feel reassured or uneasy.
The pounding of boots against dirt filled the air, broken only by the labored breathing of the Ace Ops. The team of five elite operatives had been running for what felt like forever, their legs burning, their chests heaving as the strain on their bodies mounted with every passing step. The cold air wasn't enough to cool the sweat dripping down their faces, soaking their clothes, and glistening under the muted sunlight.
As for their clothes, they were not wearing their normal Ace Ops attire. They each wore clothing similar to Zero-Three-Seven. The only difference is that their black shirts had their surnames on them.
Harriet, the fastest among them, led the group, her face fixed in determination. Despite her exhaustion, she pushed ahead, every muscle in her body screaming for relief. But she didn't slow down. She wouldn't let herself. The team might have been tired, but they were the Ace Ops, and they wouldn't falter—not in front of him.
Behind them, a steady rhythmic thud of boots struck the ground. Guardian Zero-Three-Seven followed. The sound of his running was unnervingly consistent, like a metronome, unchanging even as the Ace Ops' pace wavered with their growing fatigue.
"Keep up the pace!" Harriet barked to the others, glancing back for only a split second. The rest of the team followed closely behind, though it was clear the relentless run was taking its toll.
Marrow's face was slick with sweat. He was still holding on, keeping pace with the others, but his usual energy seemed sapped, his breathing ragged and uneven. Elm was next to him, her massive frame moving with surprising agility despite her exhaustion. Even she, with her brute strength, was struggling to keep the same pace, her powerful legs feeling like lead.
Vine ran with his usual composure, but even his typically serene expression was cracking. His brows were furrowed, and his normally graceful strides were slightly heavier now, less fluid than they were at the start. And Clover, the team's leader, pushed himself to his limits, his face set in determination as beads of sweat slid down his temples. He wouldn't let himself falter—not in front of his team, and certainly not in front of Zero-Three-Seven.
They had already run for ten miles at a punishing pace, and not one of them knew how much farther they'd be forced to go. Zero-Three-Seven hadn't told them when or where they'd stop. He had only said three words before they began:
"Start running. Now."
And so they had.
Under Zero-Three-Seven's direction, their auras were deactivated—no shields, no enhancements, no stamina boosts. This was pure, grueling physical effort, pushing their bodies to their natural limits. Every step felt heavier, every breath harder to draw.
Behind them, Zero-Three-Seven ran with a calm, steady gait, his towering figure making the Ace Ops seem almost mortal in comparison. His strides were measured, controlled, and completely effortless. While their breathing grew more labored and their legs ached with strain, he didn't appear winded in the slightest. To him, this was nothing more than a warm-up—a pace so easy it wasn't even worth calling a challenge.
"Faster," came his voice, deep and calm, cutting through the sound of their footsteps. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. The tone of his voice, flat yet authoritative, carried more weight than any yelling ever could.
Harriet picked up the pace, forcing her tired legs to move just a little faster. If Zero-Three-Seven wanted them to run, then she'd run. She wasn't about to let herself fall behind. She gritted her teeth and surged forward, the wind whipping against her face as her short blond hair clung to her damp forehead.
The others pushed harder as well, though their fatigue was becoming increasingly visible. Elm's breathing came in heavy bursts, her muscular arms pumping as she pushed herself to stay in step. Marrow's tail swished low, dragging slightly behind him as his energy waned. Even Vine, whose composure rarely cracked, was beginning to falter, his normally pristine posture hunching ever so slightly as exhaustion crept in.
Clover glanced over his shoulder briefly, catching a glimpse of Zero-Three-Seven. His massive form was completely steady and unshaken. There wasn't a hint of strain in the way he moved, not a single indication that he was tired. It was as though he wasn't human—just a machine in unyielding motion.
The sight was equal parts unnerving and motivating. Clover turned back, wiping sweat from his brow as he refocused on the path ahead.
The terrain shifted slightly, the dirt giving way to uneven gravel, but it didn't slow them down. Harriet adjusted her footing instinctively, her sharp reflexes kicking in despite her fatigue. She glanced back at her team briefly, catching the sight of their worn expressions.
"Don't slow down!" she called, her voice breathless but firm.
They didn't.
"Good," Zero-Three-Seven's voice came again, calm and even. It wasn't a compliment—it was simply an acknowledgment, a statement of fact. And yet, there was something about the way he said it that made them push harder, even as their lungs burned and their legs screamed in protest.
The sweat on their faces glistened in the sunlight, dripping down their chins and soaking into their clothes. Their breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps, and yet they kept moving, their determination unwavering.
To the Ace Ops, this wasn't just a run. It was a test. A challenge. Zero-Three-Seven didn't need to say it for them to understand that this was about more than endurance. It was about pushing past limits, about proving themselves—not just to him, but to themselves as well.
And still, they ran.
For the Ace Ops, it was a battle against exhaustion, a fight to keep moving despite the mounting fatigue. For Zero-Three-Seven, it was only the beginning of their training.
The grueling weight of the log pressed down on the Ace Ops like a burden they couldn't escape, digging into their shoulders and forcing their muscles to strain as they supported the log. Sweat clung to their bodies like a second skin, streaking down their faces and soaking into their shirts. The sky overhead was now overcast, a dull gray that mirrored the exhaustion etched into their expressions.
"Down," Zero-Three-Seven's calm, level voice commanded.
In unison, the five operatives lowered their upper bodies back to the ground, the massive log resting on their chests. Their movements were slow and deliberate, the weight of the log forcing their cores and arms to work together just to keep it balanced.
"Up."
The command was sharp, though devoid of emotion. As one, the team strained against the weight, their faces twisting in pain as they pulled themselves upright, holding the log steady.
"Twenty-three!" they yelled in unison, their voices rough and uneven from exertion.
The cadence continued, relentless and unforgiving. Each sit-up was another battle, another surge of effort to fight through the burn in their abs and the aching in their shoulders. Harriet gritted her teeth, her hair matted against her forehead as she forced herself up, her muscles trembling from the strain. Next to her, Elm's powerful frame seemed almost immovable, though even she was visibly struggling, her broad shoulders quaking under the weight of the log.
"Down."
The log pressed heavily into their chests once more. Marrow's breathing was audible now, each breath sharp and heavy as he tried to regulate himself. His tail twitched slightly in frustration as he forced his body to keep moving. Clover, positioned at the center of the group, clenched his jaw in physical pain. Vine's typically calm demeanor was cracking, beads of sweat dripping from his chin as he pushed through the motions.
"Up."
The team surged upward again, grunting under the weight as they completed another rep.
"Twenty-four!" they shouted, voices loud and unified despite their exhaustion.
Zero-Three-Seven stood in front of them, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the team. His powerful arms were folded across his chest he observed them with a detached precision. There was no cruelty in his gaze, no mockery in his tone—only the unwavering expectation that they would continue.
For hours, the drill continued. The cadence of Zero-Three-Seven's commands was as steady and unrelenting as a metronome.
"Down."
"Up."
"Three hundred!"
The Ace Ops' voices grew hoarse, their shouts cracking as the sheer length of the exercise tested their limits. Muscles burned, lungs heaved, and yet none of them stopped. They didn't complain, didn't falter. If one of them began to waver, the others compensated, redistributing the weight of the log as best they could to keep moving. They were a team, and they would not let each other fail.
"Up."
With a collective roar, the Ace Ops pushed themselves upright, the log balanced across their chests.
"Five hundred!" they bellowed, voices filled with both pain and triumph.
Their faces were sweat-drenched, and their breathing was labored.
"Recover," said Zero-Three-Seven with zero emotion or empathy.
"Hoo-ya Instructor!" came the collective response of the Ace Operatives.
The shout echoed across the training field, a testament to their resilience. As the log was lowered to the ground, the five operatives slumped forward, their hands on their knees as they caught their breath.
"Stand," Zero-Three-Seven said simply.
Despite their exhaustion, the Ace Ops obeyed. They rose to their feet, their legs trembling under them as they prepared for the next phase.
"Lift the log," the Guardian instructed, his voice as calm and detached as ever.
Harriet was the first to grab hold, her fingers wrapping tightly around the thick wood as the others joined her. Together, the five of them hoisted the log into the air, their arms shaking from the strain as they brought it above their heads.
"Down," Zero-Three-Seven ordered.
The team lowered the log in perfect unison, their movements slow and controlled.
"Up."
The log rose again, their collective strength pushing it upward despite the unbearable weight.
"One!"
The cadence began anew. Harriet's jaw clenched as she kept her grip firm, her arms screaming in protest. Elm let out a guttural grunt, her biceps flexing as she bore much of the weight on her side of the log. Marrow's tail twitched sporadically, a physical outlet for his frustration as he fought through the pain. Vine's normally serene face was taut with effort, his hands white-knuckled around the log. Clover, as always, kept his focus sharp, his breaths steady even as his arms began to give way.
"Down."
"Up."
"Two!"
The process repeated, each rep a brutal test of their endurance and teamwork. The log swayed slightly with each movement, forcing the team to adjust constantly to keep it balanced. Zero-Three-Seven watched them closely, his arms still crossed as he took note of every movement, every tremor of exhaustion in their limbs.
But he said nothing. He didn't need to. The silence that hung between his commands was more motivating than any shout could ever be.
Hours went by, and the Ace Ops were drenched in sweat, their uniforms soaked through.
"Up."
Their arms felt like they were on fire, their shoulders on the verge of giving out. And yet, when Zero-Three-Seven gave his command, they obeyed.
They raised the log above their heads, their voices rising in a triumphant shout.
"Five hundred!"
The Ace Operatives' arms were trembling, struggling to keep the log above their heads. The veins in their necks were visible as they struggled in pain to keep their arms from giving out.
Zero-Three-Seven stood and watched them for several minutes with his arms crossed. The blank stare on his face did not indicate anger, sympathy, or joy.
"Recover," he said simply.
As the log was lowered to the ground, the team collapsed to their knees, their bodies completely spent. They didn't complain, didn't speak—they simply breathed, their chests rising and falling as they recovered from the ordeal.
Zero-Three-Seven stood over them and waited a moment before speaking, his tone calm and emotionless.
"Get up. We're far from finished."
Atlas Military Outpost-Argus:
The Argus Atlas Military Base was a pristine fortress of steel and precision, an embodiment of the unyielding military protocols that defined the Atlas Armed Forces. As the transport airship carrying Special Operative Winter Schnee and Guardian Zero-One-One touched down, the sharp gusts of wind from its thrusters kicked up a flurry of dust on the tarmac.
Standing at the edge of the landing pad was Special Operative Caroline Cordovin, flanked by her two assistants—the impeccably disciplined twin brothers, Lieutenant Conrad and Lieutenant Caleb.
Cordovin, a woman of unrelenting pride and sharp authority, stood with her arms clasped behind her back. Her uniform was impeccable and the rank on her uniform indicated she was a Level 5 Specialist. Her expression was one of stern expectation, though her eyes gleamed with the slightest hint of curiosity as the ramp of the airship descended. She recognized Winter immediately, her crisp uniform a testament to her position as General Ironwood's trusted Aide de Camp. But her attention was inevitably drawn to the imposing figure descending the ramp just behind Winter to her right.
Zero-One-One was clad in armor, unlike anything Cordovin had ever seen. The black and orange plates, sleek and streamlined yet undeniably combat-oriented, shimmered faintly under the sunlight. His helmet, with its broad visor that covered most of his face, gave him an air of impenetrable mystery. Unlike the soldiers under her command, there were no identifying rank insignias or symbols on his armor—just the numbers 011 etched in white onto the chest plates. He moved with the grace of a predator, his steps calculated and deliberate.
Cordovin's brow furrowed slightly, but her posture remained rigid as Winter approached, heels clicking against the tarmac with military precision. Winter, a Level 3 Specialist, stopped short of Cordovin and rendered a crisp salute to the senior woman in both age and rank.
"Special Operative Schnee, welcome to my installation," Cordovin greeted, her voice crisp and formal. She returned Winter's salute with the precision of a seasoned officer. Her gaze flicked briefly to Zero-One-One before snapping back to Winter. "It's always an honor to host one of Atlas' finest. General Ironwood always speaks very highly of you."
Winter, ever composed, nodded. "Thank you, Special Operative Cordovin. The General extends his regards and his gratitude for accommodating us on such short notice."
Cordovin gave a curt nod, her curiosity bubbling just beneath the surface. "Of course. Anything for the general. And who might this be?" Her eyes drifted to the towering figure of Zero-One-One.
Winter gestured subtly toward him. "This is Zero-One-One. He is here on General Ironwood's orders to ensure the success of my mission." She deliberately avoided elaborating, her tone firm enough to discourage further questions.
Cordovin's eyes narrowed slightly as she regarded Zero-One-One. His lack of insignias, his silent presence, and the sheer weight of authority he seemed to exude were enough to unsettle even someone as seasoned as her.
"I see," she said slowly, though it was clear she did not fully understand. "Zero-One-One, is it? I don't believe I've ever encountered someone with such... unorthodox identification."
Zero-One-One stepped forward, his voice calm and measured.
"Ma'am." He offered a sharp salute, which Cordovin returned out of reflex, though the tension in her expression deepened.
The silence hung for a moment before Conrad, one of the twins, broke it with his usual precision.
"Special Operative Cordovin, permission to speak, ma'am?"
Cordovin gave a brief nod. "Granted."
Conrad turned to Zero-One-One, his gaze sharp and analytical.
"Sir, if I may, Atlas Military protocol dictates that when accompanying a superior officer, one walks to their left. You were walking on the right of Special Operative Schnee upon arrival."
Zero-One-One tilted his head slightly, the gesture was subtle yet perceptibly inquisitive.
"It was not my intent to disrespect protocol," he replied evenly. "My priority is the protection of Special Operative Schnee, not the side I walk on."
The other twin, Caleb, added, "Protocol exists for a reason, sir. It's about maintaining order and discipline. Walking on the correct side demonstrates respect for the chain of command."
Cordovin's lips thinned as she observed the exchange. Winter, sensing the tension, interjected smoothly.
"Thank you, Lieutenants," she said sharply.
The twins immediately straightened, snapping to attention.
"Yes, ma'am," they replied in unison, though their gazes remained locked on Zero-One-One, their professional demeanor barely masking their unease.
Winter turned to Cordovin, her expression neutral but her tone carrying a hint of finality.
"Zero-One-One's role here is strictly operational. His methods may not align perfectly with standard protocol, but he is here under direct orders from General Ironwood. I trust you understand the gravity of that."
Cordovin's eyes flicked between Winter and Zero-One-One, the weight of the unspoken message settling over her.
"I see," she said, her tone carefully measured. "General Ironwood's orders are, of course, paramount. That being said, I would appreciate it if all personnel under my roof adhered to the standards of this base, even those operating under... special circumstances."
Zero-One-One inclined his head slightly. "Understood, ma'am."
The exchange left an undercurrent of tension in its wake as Cordovin gestured for her lieutenants.
"Conrad, Caleb, escort our guests to their quarters and help them with their bags. Ensure they have everything they need."
"Yes, ma'am," the twins replied, their professionalism unshaken as they retrieved Winter's bags and gestured for Winter and Zero-One-One to follow.
As they walked, the twins maintained a brisk pace, their movements synchronized as though rehearsed. Zero-One-One, walking to the left of Winter, couldn't help but notice the way the twins occasionally glanced back at him, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and unease.
"You'll have to forgive them," Winter said quietly, her voice just loud enough for him to hear. "Lieutenant Conrad and Lieutenant Caleb are exemplary soldiers, but their adherence to protocol can be... overzealous at times."
Zero-One-One remained silent for a moment before responding. "No offense was taken."
Winter allowed herself a faint smile. "Good. Because I'd rather avoid any unnecessary... incidents during our stay here."
Zero-One-One glanced at her, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. "I'll do my best to behave."
By the time they reached the guest quarters, the tension had eased somewhat, though the twins still seemed on edge.
"Your quarters, ma'am, sir," Conrad said, gesturing to the respective doors with a precise movement. Their rooms were located next to each other. "If you require anything, we are at your service."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Winter replied, her tone polite but firm. She gave them a brief nod of dismissal, and the twins departed, leaving Winter and Zero-One-One alone.
"What are your orders, ma'am?"
"We'll get settled in and then head to the base's intelligence headquarters. Any information on informants within Mistral will be located there. We need to find out everything we can."
"Yes ma'am."
Mantle Auxiliary Base Training Grounds:
The sharp whistle of Zero-Three-Seven's signal cut through the damp, chlorine-saturated air of the auxiliary base's pool. The Ace Ops stood on the edge of the deep end, their hands tightly bound behind their backs with thick cords, their ankles secured together similarly. The five soldiers—Harriet, Elm, Clover, Marrow, and Vine—were drenched in sweat already, not from exertion but from the mental weight of what was about to come.
"Enter the water," Zero-Three-Seven commanded, his voice calm, authoritative, and devoid of any shred of emotion.
Without hesitation, Harriet was the first to hop forward, her bound legs forcing her into an awkward plunge. She hit the water with a loud splash and immediately began to thrash, trying to keep herself afloat. Elm followed next, her broad shoulders tensing as she slipped into the pool with a splash. Clover, Marrow, and Vine entered in quick succession, each of them gritting their teeth as the cold water swallowed them.
Zero-Three-Seven stood at the edge of the pool, his dark, imposing silhouette framed by the artificial glow of the overhead lights. His black combat boots were planted firmly on the tiles, and his green patrol cap cast a shadow over his face. His arms were crossed over his chest as he stared down at the struggling Ace Ops, his expression hidden behind his helmet-like stillness.
"Keep calm," he said evenly, his voice cutting through the sound of splashing water. "Panic, and you will sink. Control your breathing. Fight against your baser instincts."
Harriet fought to keep her head above the surface, her bound feet kicking furiously beneath her. Her chest heaved as she gasped for air, water splashing into her face with every desperate movement. Next to her, Elm was doing her best to stay composed, her powerful legs working hard to keep her bulk afloat. Marrow was gritting his teeth as he struggled to stay afloat.
"Think," Zero-Three-Seven continued, his voice steady and unyielding. "Your body wants to fight the water, but fighting will tire you out. Relax. Use your lungs to stay buoyant. Adapt."
Clover managed to find a rhythm, tilting his head back and allowing his chest to rise just enough to keep him afloat. His breaths were labored but controlled, a testament to his leadership and discipline. Vine, however, struggled. Despite his usual calm demeanor, his body twisted and turned in a frantic attempt to stay above water. His usually serene face was contorted in a mixture of fear and frustration.
"Specialist Zeki," Zero-Three-Seven called out, his tone devoid of sympathy. "Stop wasting energy. Breathe. Think. Control your body, or the water will control you."
The Ace Ops' training was rigorous, but nothing had prepared them for this level of helplessness. They were bound, their limbs restrained, and the water seemed to mock their every effort to survive. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes felt like hours as they bobbed, sank, and resurfaced, gasping for precious air.
Elm's face was set with grim determination as she focused on small, calculated movements to keep herself afloat. "I can do this," she muttered under her breath, though her voice was barely audible over the sound of splashing.
Marrow coughed as water splashed into his mouth, his tail swishing with effort to keep him steady. Harriet, always the fastest and most confident, was starting to falter, her bound legs tiring as the pool sapped her energy.
Zero-Three-Seven's voice broke through again. "The water doesn't care who you are. It doesn't care how strong or fast you think you are. It is your enemy, and it will consume you if you let it. Adapt, Ace Operatives. Overcome."
Harriet let out a growl of frustration, tilting her head back and forcing her body to float as she gasped for air. Her teeth clenched, and for a moment, she locked eyes with Zero-Three-Seven. His expression didn't change.
"You can't stare the water down, Specialist Bree," he said simply, almost as if reading her thoughts. "The water doesn't blink."
"Easy for you to say," she muttered through gritted teeth, though the effort of speaking cost her more energy than she expected.
"Harriet," Clover barked, his voice sharp despite his labored breathing. "Save it. Focus."
The next phase began. Zero-Three-Seven pulled a stopwatch from his pocket, glancing at the time before speaking again.
"Sink to the bottom, hold your breath, and then resurface. You will do this until I tell you to stop."
There was no room for argument, and the Ace Ops knew it. One by one, they stopped their struggle to stay afloat and allowed their bodies to sink. The cold water enveloped them completely, pressing in on all sides as they descended to the bottom of the pool.
Marrow's lungs burned as he pushed himself to stay calm, his eyes wide as he touched the bottom tiles with his shoulder. He felt the crushing pressure of the water above him, the weight of his exhaustion pulling at his resolve.
They resurfaced in ragged bursts, each of them gasping for air before plunging back down. The cycle repeated, an unending rhythm of descent, ascent, and breath.
Zero-Three-Seven never moved. He remained at the edge of the pool, watching them with the cold, unflinching focus of a machine. His hands were clasped behind his back, his black boots gleaming under the harsh light.
After an hour, his voice finally broke the air again.
"Out of the water."
The Ace Ops dragged themselves to the edge of the pool, their bound hands and feet making the process agonizingly slow. Harriet was the first to pull herself out, collapsing onto the tiles with a wet thud. The others followed, each of them lying flat on the ground as they gulped down air like it was the sweetest thing they had ever tasted.
Zero-Three-Seven stepped forward, his boots clicking against the tiles. He looked down at them, his face a mask of emotionless authority.
"You survived," he said, his voice calm but firm. "But survival isn't good enough. You will do better next time."
Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving the Ace Ops to recover in silence. They didn't complain. They didn't argue. They simply lay there, their bodies and minds utterly spent, knowing that this was only the beginning.
A lot to unpack this chapter. Hopefully you all remembered those White Fang members from earlier chapters. Not going to lie, the prison escape scene was heavily inspired from the Netflix Dare Devil series. I added some clarification about the rank structure within the Atlas Military especially with the Specialists because in the original series they never made clear how the hierarchy between Specialists was established. Marrow is a Level 1, Elm, Vine, and Harriet are Level 2s, Clover and Winter are Level 3s, and Cordovin is a Level 5. The boys do not have ranks and that is by intentional design. They are black ops unit that answers to only one person. They don't have the typical career progression as someone like Winter. They are there to do one job and that's kick in doors, eliminate targets, and accomplish missions. They have a lot of freedom to operate free of the chain of command in most cases. I wanted to bring this distinction up with Rahm and the two annoying Lieutenants from Vol 6. As you can see, Jai has taken the Ace Ops under his wing and is putting them through the same training that he and his brothers underwent. he goal here is to turn them into a better team and better soldiers. Please leave your thoughts in the reviews sections. I probably won't get the next chapter out until next month. Until next time.
-Dude64