Author's note at the end of part 3
Words in italics: thoughts, dialogue in a foreign language, radio communications, and flashbacks.
PARADIS CITY
PART 2
"Good morning. I'm Lisa Lavender with Vale News Network, bringing you a tragic update on the recent attack against a Schnee Dust Company freight train. Authorities have now confirmed that the missing crew members—left stranded in the Forever Fall Forest after the train was decoupled—have been found. And the news is devastating.
According to officials, all crew members who remained aboard the abandoned section of the train have been killed. While exact details are still being withheld, sources close to the investigation have described the scene as, quote, 'gruesome.' Multiple bodies were discovered in and around the wreckage, showing clear signs of a brutal assault."
Admiral the Duke of Glenn Street, Harbor District, City of Vale, 7:57:04
"Man, Henry. Where did you learn to cook? This shit is so good."
Mendez chuckled between bites, shaking his head. "My abuela taught me. She was the master chef of the family. One of the few things she enjoyed while living under the Caudillo's regime."
The four members of 2 Patrol sat in their SUV, the scent of warm eggs and chorizo still lingering in the air. The radio blared upbeat music, filling the vehicle with energy.
"Bamboleio, bamboleia, porque mi vida yo la prefiero vivir así! Bamboleio, bamboleia, porque mi vida yo la prefiero vivir así!"
Outside, in the early morning, the area close to the harbor was coming to life. Workers shuffled out of coffee shops, gripping steaming cups and brown paper bags, ready to start their day as they made their way to the entrance gates. The crisp air carried the briny scent of the sea, mingled with the faint aromas of diesel fuel from docked cargo ships and of coffee shops brewing fresh coffee and baking delicious pastries. A security guard stood at the checkpoint, scanning ID cards with quick, practiced motions, before sending the workers on their way.
Mendez crumpled his napkin and turned to Almog and Brown in the backseat. "Alright, you guys ready?"
Almog adjusted his hard hat, glancing at Brown. "Yeah, boss."
Mendez checked his watch. "We meet back here at 1500. If you are spotted, do not engage—fall back to the designated meeting point on Haven Street. Clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Muy bueno. Get to it."
Almog and Brown exited the SUV, pulling their jackets tighter against the cool morning breeze. With toolboxes in hand, they blended seamlessly into the flow of workers, their steel-toed boots clanking softly against the pavement. They moved with the ease of men accustomed to being ignored.
At the rear of a weathered brick building, they found the metal stairway. Brown gave a casual glance around before they ascended, their footsteps echoing faintly against the iron. At the top, the rooftop stretched before them, empty except for a few ventilation units humming in the morning air.
Brown crouched near the ledge, carefully setting down his toolbox. Instead of wrenches and pliers, the case held binoculars and a rangefinder. He flipped open the clasps with a quiet click and lifted the binoculars to his eyes, scanning the docks below.
Beside him, Almog retrieved his scroll. A brief ring, then Mendez's face flickered onto the screen.
"Mendez, we're in position."
Mendez gave a firm nod. "Copy. Keep an eye out and keep us posted." The call cut off.
In the SUV, Mendez slipped his scroll back in his pocket, glancing at Dube in the driver's seat.
"Let's move."
Dube gave a short nod, starting the engine with a low rumble. The SUV pulled into the city streets.
Centenary Street, Commercial district, City of Vale, 10:02:12
The morning sun bathed the commercial district in warm light, casting long shadows across the bustling streets. Though it was still early, the sidewalks were alive with activity—shoppers flitting between storefronts, couples sipping coffee at outdoor terraces, and street vendors calling out their latest deals. The air carried the rich aroma of fresh pastries and espresso, blending with the occasional waft of exhaust from passing cars
Corporal Kyle Anderson moved through the crowd with practiced vigilance, his sharp gaze scanning faces, hands, and movements of the people surrounding him. Years of urban combat had drilled wariness into him, and though Vale was far safer than the war zones he had known, he couldn't shake the ever-present tension coiled in his gut.
His teammates, however, were more relaxed, their postures looser, their eyes drifting casually across shop windows and street performers. Their combat fatigues had been swapped for civilian clothes—denim jackets, hoodies, and button-downs. Underneath, their pistols remained hidden but always within reach.
A hand clapped gently on Anderson's shoulder. "Hey, Kyle, you okay? You look tense."
"I'm fine. Just don't like crowds," he muttered.
She gave him a reassuring smile before stepping ahead, taking the lead. He followed.
After a short walk, the group stopped outside of a small pharmacy.
"Need help?" Anderson asked.
Blair waved him off. "No, I'll be fine. Be back in a minute."
She disappeared inside, the glass door chiming behind her.
Left outside, Anderson glanced over at his teammates, Barry Sanderson and Moses Disraeli, who were mid-argument.
"Yeah, but they're still seasoned fighters," Sanderson insisted, gesturing as if trying to physically push his point across.
Disraeli scoffed. "Seasoned fighters in a controlled environment. Rules, refs, safety measures—they've never fought outside a ring. Take that away, and they wouldn't last against someone who fights dirty. The big crime syndicates see them as threats, Barry. You think they'll just ignore people like Pyrrha Nikos? As soon as she graduates from Beacon, she'll have assassins on her tail for the rest of her life."
"Well, they know what they're signing up for," Sanderson countered.
Disraeli shook his head. "Do they? You think those kids chose to become gladiators? The best of them—Nikos included—were pushed into it. Parents, sponsors, schools... It's a pipeline. A child soldier factory with a fresh coat of paint."
Anderson, silent until now, finally spoke. "He's right, Barry."
Both men turned to him, surprised.
Sanderson feigned offense. "Come on Kyle, you could take my side for once. I feel like you play favorites."
Anderson slung an arm around Disraeli's shoulder. "What can I say? Moshe is my favorite."
"Cry about it, Barry," Disraeli teased, grinning as Sanderson flipped him off.
Before the banter could continue, Anderson's gaze snapped forward. "Speaking of the devil."
The group turned, following his line of sight.
Across the street, Pyrrha Nikos walked with three fellow Beacon students, the sunlight catching the crimson strands of her hair. Whatever levity had existed among the soldiers disappeared.
Disraeli, quiet and contemplative, muttered under his breath, "See, the conqu'ring hero comes. Sound the trumpets. Beat the drums..."
Anderson exhaled slowly, watching the young woman. She had no idea, did she? How many had walked her path before, only to be cut down before their prime? Powerful forces around the world feared people like her—talented, disciplined, powerful. They wouldn't let her grow into a true threat. One day, she'd hear the click of a hammer behind her head or feel the cold bite of a blade against her ribs.
And she wouldn't see it coming.
"Ahem."
Anderson snapped out of his thoughts. Blair stood beside him, two bags in hand.
"I've got everything we need," she said.
Anderson nodded, dropping his arm from Disraeli's shoulder. "Let's move. We're close."
Junior's Club, Commercial District, City of Vale, 10:19:37
After a few minutes of walking, the club's neon sign came into view. It flickered, but it was barely visible in the daylight. Silence emanated from inside the premise, in stark contrast to the thumping bassline that could be heard outside during the regular hours. A message stating that club was closed for repairs was tacked on the door.
Anderson turned to Sanderson and Disraeli. "You two stay here. If anyone suspicious comes by, let us know."
"Yes, sir."
Anderson and Blair entered. They were greeted by an uncharacteristic silence. As they reached the main area, the full extent of the destruction became clear.
The once-pristine dance floor was a disaster zone. The massive disco ball that had once hung proudly from the ceiling was now shattered across the floor, surrounded by deep cracks in the floor. Pillars were fractured, furniture was overturned, and shards of glass glistened under the dim club lights. Parts of the floor in the center were caved in.
"We're closed. Come back later." A tired voice echoed from behind the bar.
Junior Xiong, looking far worse for wear, was restocking shelves while also repairing broken ones, his back to them. His usually slicked-back hair was slightly disheveled, and a faint bruise bloomed on his cheek.
Anderson feigned surprise. "Holy shit, Junior. What the hell happened?"
Junior turned, his expression shifting from irritation to recognition. "Ah, Kyle Anderson, it's you." His tone softened slightly. "Some crazy girl came in demanding information. She didn't like my answers." His gaze flicked to the shattered remains of his club. "And this is what I got for my trouble."
Anderson raised an eyebrow. "Must've been one hell of a girl."
Junior snorted. "You have no idea."
But then his eyes dropped to the suitcase in Anderson's grip. His face hardened.
"You're not here to check in on me, are you?"
Anderson smiled slightly. "Let's talk in your office."
Junior hesitated, the muscles in his jaw tensing as his eyes flicked toward the exit, then to the money. Finally, he exhaled sharply and motioned for them to follow.
They followed him up a staircase to the second floor. At the entrance to the private lounge, Junior swiped his keycard, unlocking the doors. The lock clicked as the doors swung open, revealing the lounge that doubled as Junior's office. The air was cooler here, but thick with an unspoken tension.
Melanie and Miltia Malachite lounged on a couch, their relaxed demeanor masking the watchful way their eyes tracked Anderson and Blair.
"Hey, hottie," Melanie purred, stretching lazily. Miltia smirked and gave a slow wink.
Anderson smirked. Behind him, Blair rolled her eyes in annoyance.
Junior sighed. "Girls, out. Make sure no one wanders in."
The twins groaned. "But Junior—"
"No buts."
"Ugh, fine." Melanie blew Anderson a kiss as they left, Miltia flashing a playful grin.
Junior rolled his shoulders, tension creeping back into his frame as he gestured toward the couch. "Sit. Drink?"
Anderson sat, setting the suitcase on the table between them. "We're on the clock."
Junior gave a bitter chuckle, pouring himself a generous glass of whiskey. He took a sip, his expression tightening as the alcohol burned. Setting the glass down, he eyed the suitcase warily.
"So, what can I do for you?" he asked, keeping his gaze on the suitcase.
Anderson flipped it open.
Junior's breath hitched slightly. "Damn." His fingers twitched slightly before he masked the reaction. "That's a lot of money."
Anderson leaned in, his voice dropping slightly. "250,000 Lien. Enough to cover your repairs, your men's medical bills... and your brother's bail."
Junior stiffened.
Blair watched him closely, reading the microexpressions flickering across his face. The slight clench of his fist. The flicker of his gaze toward the exit. The faintest shake of his knee.
Anderson let the silence drag, letting Junior feel the weight of what was unspoken.
Then, finally:
"I heard you wanted out," Anderson said smoothly. "That true?"
Junior's lips pressed into a thin line. "Things are getting... complicated."
Anderson gave a slow, understanding nod. "I get it. But let's be clear—this isn't an offer. It's a reminder." His fingers tapped the suitcase. "Take the money. Keep playing your part. Don't make us reconsider our arrangement."
Junior exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. His usual bravado was thinning, replaced by something more raw.
"And if I say no?"
Anderson's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Then my superiors are going to have a very different kind of conversation with you. And trust me, Junior, that's not a discussion you'll walk away from."
Junior's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
Anderson sat back, letting him process the inevitable.
Junior let out a dry chuckle, though there was no real humor in it. "Damn. You really are your boss's dog, huh?"
Anderson's smile remained unchanged. "Think of me as an insurance policy. You keep cooperating, and you keep your little empire intact. Stray, and... well, let's not dwell on that."
Junior looked down at the money for a long moment before sighing in defeat. "Alright. What do you need?"
Blair, who had remained silent, finally spoke. "Intel on Torchwick's latest hits on Dust dealers."
Anderson added, "And the location of a stolen shipment the White Fang took from an SDC train yesterday."
Junior exhaled, rubbing his temple before pouring himself another drink. He downed it faster than the first. "I don't have anything on the cargo ship." He sighed. "But Roman was here the night my club got trashed. He wanted to know about the next SDC Dust shipments. Didn't say why, and I didn't ask. He paid well."
Blair crossed her arms. "That's it?"
Junior ran a hand down his face. "That's it. But there's something else. There are rumors he's working with a group from outside Vale."
Anderson raised an eyebrow. "White Fang?"
Junior hesitated, shaking his head. "Doubt it. Adam Taurus wouldn't trust a human like Torchwick, let alone work with him. If anything, I'd expect them to gut each other before teaming up."
Anderson and Blair exchanged a glance.
That was enough for now.
Anderson stood, extending a hand. "Pleasure doing business."
Junior took it hesitantly, but as he tried to pull away, Anderson's grip tightened.
The tension spiked instantly.
Anderson's voice was soft but laced with steel. "One last thing." He leaned in slightly, his gaze locking onto Junior's. "If this conversation finds its way to the wrong ears... if I even suspect you're selling intel to someone else..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
Junior's pulse jumped. "O-of course not."
Anderson held the stare a moment longer before finally releasing his grip, his smile returning like a blade slipping back into its sheath.
"Good."
He turned to Blair. "Let's go."
As they left, Junior poured himself another drink, but his hands weren't as steady as before.
Then his scroll buzzed.
[250,000 Lien transferred.]
A second notification followed immediately.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Xiong. Do not disappoint us, or the consequences will be dire, for you and your associates."
Junior stared at the screen, his jaw tightening.
Then, without a word, he drained his glass in one go.
Tukson's Book Trade, Commercial District, City of Vale, 11:47:23
"Gosh, today can't get any more boring."
Lydia sighed as she placed another book on the high shelves, standing on her toes to reach the top. The scent of old paper, ink, and dust filled the small shop, settled under the warm glow of LED candles. Her boss swore that the dim lighting gave the store a cozy atmosphere. She mostly found it frustrating—it made organizing shelves harder than it needed to be.
The bell above the door jingled.
"Welcome to Tukson's Book Trade, home to every book under the sun," she called out automatically, still reaching for a stubborn book that refused to fit properly.
A deep, composed voice responded. "Is Tukson here?"
Lydia gave up on the book, setting it down on her trolley before turning around.
The man who had spoken was older, his presence exuding quiet authority. He was flanked
by three younger men, their postures relaxed but their eyes sharp.
She hesitated. There was nothing openly threatening about them, but something told her they weren't here for light reading.
"Uh, yeah. Lemme get him for you." She disappeared into the back, speaking briefly with her boss.
Moments later, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor was followed by two sets of footsteps approaching.
Tukson emerged from the back, already speaking. "Welcome to Tukson's Book Trade. What can I…"
He trailed off the moment he saw Lloyd. Then, his face broke into a grin.
"Well, I'll be damned."
"Tukson." Lloyd's greeting was warmer than usual.
Tukson shook his head with a chuckle, checking his wristwatch. "Didn't think I'd be seeing you this early in the day." He turned to Lydia.
"Hey, how about you take your break a little early? I'll handle the customers."
Her eyes lit up. "Really? Thanks, boss!" She didn't waste time, grabbing her coat before heading out. The bell jingled as the door swung shut behind her.
Now, it was just them.
Tukson leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "It's been a while, Alfred."
Lloyd nodded. "It has."
Tukson gave a half-smile. "And I'm guessing this isn't just a social visit."
Lloyd's expression turned serious. "We need intel on the White Fang."
Tukson exhaled, running a hand over his jaw. "Alright. Let's talk in my office."
He turned, leading the way to the back.
De Pass glanced at his men. "Baird, Paddy—stay here. Anyone suspicious walks in, let us know."
"Yes, sergeant," Baird replied as he and lance-corporal Patrick "Paddy" O'Sullivan took up watch.
By the time de Pass entered, Tukson and Lloyd were already seated, familiarity evident in their posture. It was the kind of ease that only came with years of trust.
Lloyd gestured toward de Pass. "Tukson, this is my second-in-command, Sergeant Gary 'Lion' de Pass. Gary, my old friend Tukson."
Tukson stood, shaking de Pass's hand. "Heard a lot about you. Lloyd doesn't give out compliments easily, so I assume you've earned them."
De Pass chuckled. "That's good to hear."
Tukson eyed him curiously. "Where'd you get the nickname?"
De Pass reached under his shirt, pulling out a silver pendant in the shape of a lion. "My ancestors descended from the tribe of Judah, alav hashalom, and they adopted the lion as a family crest."
A flicker of recognition crossed Tukson's face before his expression warmed. "Ah. Now that is a history worth carrying." He gestured for de Pass to sit. "Your people have always been good friends to us Faunus, even when it wasn't convenient for them. That means something."
De Pass rubbed the back of his neck, a little caught off guard by the sincerity. "We just do what's right."
Tukson nodded, then turned back to Lloyd, his tone shifting to business.
"Alright, Alfred. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't important. What do you need?"
Lloyd leaned forward. "You heard about the train heist?"
Tukson sighed. "Yeah. Straight from Blake Belladonna's mouth."
Lloyd raised an eyebrow.
"I've been in contact with her for months," Tukson explained. "She wanted out. After she escaped, I took her in and questioned her. She didn't know much."
He pulled a folder from his desk drawer, sliding it across the table. Lloyd flipped it open, scanning the handwritten notes.
De Pass spoke up. "Where is she now?"
Tukson took a sip of coffee before answering. "She left early this morning to take the entrance exam at Beacon. Passed with flying colors."
Lloyd exchanged glances with de Pass.
"She's under Beacon's protection now," Tukson continued. "Their students are granted immunity under the Treaty of Vytal." He set his mug down with a quiet clink. "I made sure she knew not to do anything reckless. Not with you lot watching."
Lloyd flipped through another page before setting the folder down. "Any leads on the stolen cargo?"
Tukson shook his head. "No. But one of my informants told me that Adam Taurus and Roman Torchwick met recently."
That got Lloyd's full attention.
"Do you know what they discussed?"
"No. But I can tell you one thing." Tukson leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter now. "Adam doesn't work with humans. Ever. He barely tolerates Faunus who don't share his ideology. The fact that he even sat in the same room as Torchwick?" He shook his head. "That's not normal."
De Pass frowned. "Then whatever they're planning must be big."
"As unusual as it is, we have to assume it's dangerous," Lloyd added. "And we need to shut it down before it escalates."
Tukson nodded, determination setting into his features. "I'll have my informants dig up whatever they can. If they find anything, I'll contact you."
Lloyd smiled. "Thanks, Tukson."
As Lloyd and de Pass stood to leave, Tukson suddenly spoke.
"Alfred."
Lloyd stopped, glancing back.
Tukson had also stood, his expression more serious than before.
"What are you going to do about Blake?"
A beat of silence.
Lloyd held Tukson's gaze. "I don't know."
Then he turned and walked out.
Tukson stood there for a long moment before sitting back down. A troubled look crossed his face as he reached for his coffee.
It had gone cold.
Harbor District, City of Vale, 12:13:27
The midday sun hung high over the harbor, casting long shadows between the rows of warehouses and stacked shipping containers. The air smelled of salt, diesel, and the faint metallic tang of rusting steel. Seagulls squawked overhead, circling above the docks where workers moved sluggishly through their lunch breaks.
Under the scorching sun, Almog adjusted his grip on his binoculars as his radio crackled.
"Almog, Brown, this is Mendez, what's your status?
"Mendez, this is Almog. We got nothing yet. How about you?"
"Nada. We're thinking of going into the port, but it's risky without proper cause."
A sharp psst from Brown made Almog glance sideways. "Hey, Eli. I got visual on something—or rather, someone."
"Mendez, stand by." Almog lowered his radio and lifted his binoculars. "Where?"
"Small warehouse at one o'clock. Guy smoking a cig, leaning on the wall."
Almog found him fast—a lean man with a large scar on his cheek taking a break, cigarette pinched lazily between his fingers. He looked unassuming at first, but as Almog zoomed in, something caught his attention. A tattoo on the man's neck—a white, White Fang insignia embedded in the middle of a blood-red rose—the mark of the White Fang's Vale branch. His grip on the binoculars tightened.
"Mendez, we have visual on a potential White Fang operative in the harbor, at warehouse," He looked for the building's number, "number 14."
A short pause. Then Mendez's voice came back, more alert. "Good job. Keep an eye on that warehouse. Paul and I will find a way inside. Mendez, out."
Almog lowered the radio. "This just got interesting."
Down at the port entrance, Lance-Corporal Paul "Zulu" Dube tapped the steering wheel as he surveyed the security post ahead. "So, we going in?"
"Yep," Mendez replied. "Just need to find a way in without setting off alarms."
They watched for a few minutes as vehicles entered and exited, passing through the security checkpoint. Most drivers had proper identification and clearance badges, which neither of them had. Then, as luck would have it, the checkpoint guard—an older man with graying stubble and a slouched posture—leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, nodding off.
Dube smirked. "Well, that's convenient."
Mendez scanned the area. Near the booth, two high-vis jackets and hard hats were casually draped over a nearby railing.
"Hang tight." He slipped out of the SUV, moving with deliberate ease, as if he belonged there. With a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, he grabbed the jackets and hard hats, then slid back into the passenger seat.
Dube grinned. "Nice work."
Mendez tossed him one. "Put it on. We're dock workers now."
Dube put on the disguise and reached for the control panel inside the booth. A large green button marked "GATE OPEN" sat prominently on the console.
With a casual flick of his fingers, he pressed it.
The barrier buzzed, then slowly lifted.
Dube didn't waste time. He eased the vehicle forward, driving past the sleeping guard without so much as a second glance. As the SUV rolled onto the docks, Mendez exhaled.
"Too easy."
Dube chuckled. "Gotta love union breaks."
They drove cautiously through the port, passing massive, stacked containers and cranes lifting cargo from ships. Most workers were on their lunch breaks, leaving the area far less populated. Eventually, Dube stopped at a stop sign. Dube pulled out his binoculars.
"I think I see our target."
He passed them to Mendez, who focused on Warehouse 14.
"Yep, that's it," the corporal confirmed. "How do you want to do this?"
Dube tapped the steering wheel in thought. "We get a little closer, then stake out the place on foot."
"Good call." Mendez pressed his radio. "Hey guys, Paul and I are gonna park and proceed on foot. Anything we should look out for?"
A few seconds later, Almog's voice came through. "Yes, boss. There's an open container about 50 meters out, 11 o'clock from the warehouse. Sits on top of a rusted Mistral Diggings container. Minimal signs of activity."
Mendez nodded. "Copy that. Keep your eyes peeled. Mendez, out."
Dube pulled into a small side parking lot, killing the engine.
"You see the container?"
"Yeah. Let's move."
Both men got out, slipping into their high-vis jackets and hard hats. Disguised as dock workers, they walked at a casual pace, blending in as they made their way toward the containers.
Dube pointed ahead. "We can climb those containers, hop onto the one we need, and slip inside."
"Good plan." Mendez pressed his radio. "Brown, Almog, any movements in our sector?"
Brown responded shortly after. "Negative. You're in the clear."
"Copy. Moving now."
They picked up their pace, transitioning into a light jog, then a sprint as they neared the stacked containers. With practiced ease, they vaulted up the first container, using momentum to pull themselves up.
Mendez knelt, cupping his hands. "Boost up."
Dube stepped into his hands and launched himself up to the next container, then reached down, gripping Mendez's forearm, and hoisting him up. One jump left. They shared a glance and nodded before leaping.
The short distance made it easy, and within seconds, they were inside. The container's interior was a makeshift dockworker hideout—a stained couch, a battered fridge, and a few overturned crates used as tables. An old pedestal fan rattled in the corner, lazily pushing hot air around the enclosed space. A square opening had been cut into the container wall, facing Warehouse 14—perfect for surveillance.
Mendez pressed his radio. "Brown, Almog, we're in position. Any visuals?"
Seconds passed before Almog's voice came through. "We still got eyes on the guy smoking. He's moving toward the road."
Dube peered through the opening. "Got him." He passed the binoculars to Mendez, who zoomed in.
"Almog, anything we should note?"
"The guy has a Whiskey-Foxtrot tattoo on his neck, left side."
The man turned slightly, giving them a clear look. Dube snapped a quick photo.
"Got him."
A sudden voice through the radio made both of them tense.
"Guys, you've got a group of workers approaching your position. 10 o'clock. Heading straight for you."
Mendez didn't hesitate. "Solid copy. We're bailing. Meet you back where we dropped you off. Mendez, out."
He tapped Dube's shoulder. "Let's bounce."
They moved fast, slipping out of the container just as the group of workers neared. Walking briskly, they avoided drawing attention. Sliding back into the SUV, they saw the workers climbing into the very container they had been in just moments earlier.
A breath of relief.
"Mendez, this is Almog. We're making our way down. You guys okay?"
"Sí. We're leaving the harbor."
"Once we regroup, can we grab a bite? I'm starving," Brown chimed in.
Mendez chuckled. "Of course. Mendez, out."
He buckled in and gestured to Dube. "Let's get out of here."
Dube started the engine. They rolled out, leaving the harbor behind.
The Hideout, [REDACTED], City of Vale, 20:23:39
After spending the entire day out in the field, 1 Troop had returned to the hideout by late afternoon. The team leaders worked tirelessly, writing up their reports for Captain Lloyd, their tired eyes scanning documents as they pieced together the day's findings. The hum of conversation filled the air, but one thing was missing—3 Patrol still hadn't returned.
Inside Lloyd's office, Mendez and Anderson stood at ease, waiting for their turn to report. Lloyd checked his watch for the third time, impatience etched across his face.
"Where the bloody hell is he?" he muttered.
As if on cue, the door swung open, and Sergeant de Pass entered, supporting Corporal Cameron, who was clearly struggling to stand upright.
"S-Sir!" Cameron declared, a little too loudly.
Lloyd immediately caught the slurred speech, and before anyone could react, the overpowering scent of alcohol filled the room.
"Jesus fucking Christ, John." Lloyd's brows shot up as he took in Cameron's disheveled state. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, his movements unsteady. He motioned for de Pass to bring him a chair. "Are you alright?"
"I'll manage, sir," Cameron muttered as de Pass set a chair down next to Mendez before carefully easing him into it.
Without a word, de Pass grabbed a bottle of water from the desk and handed it over.
"Thanks, sarge." Cameron took a long sip, exhaling as if it was the greatest thing he had ever tasted.
Lloyd folded his arms. "What the hell happened?"
"The coppers tried hick to give me alcohol poisoning," Cameron slurred, his face half-serious, half-amused despite his state. "As hick you can see, I'm hick still alive. Barely."
Anderson and Mendez remained still, but Lloyd didn't miss the way their shoulders tensed—they were clearly fighting to hold in laughter.
Cameron took another sip of water before continuing. "Sorry for the hick smell, cap'n. I made one of them hick laugh while he was drinking, and he hick spat his entire bloody drink on me! hick"
That was too much.
Anderson lowered his head slightly, his shoulders shaking as he struggled to stay composed. Mendez clenched his jaw, his lips twitching, his entire body fighting not to break. Even Lloyd had to glance away for a second, his mouth twitching in a rare moment of amusement.
Regaining control, Lloyd cleared his throat. "Are your guys okay?"
Cameron waved dismissively. "Yeah, they're hick fine." He took another sip, his voice half-slurred but confident. "I think the coppers figured out we were hick trying to get intel out of them, so they hick tried to do the same—by hick targeting me." He grinned proudly. "Don't worry though, I hick didn't spill the beans. Except in the car on the way back."
That did it.
Anderson let out a wheezing laugh, shaking his head, while Mendez rubbed his face, shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Even Lloyd exhaled sharply, the closest thing to a chuckle they'd get from him under normal circumstances.
Cameron, still unfazed, took another drink of water.
Lloyd sighed. "Did you at least get anything useful out of them?"
Cameron nodded, still grinning through his hiccups. "Didn't take hick long. Once they started talking, they didn't stop." He swirled the empty bottle in his hands. "They said there's been suspicious activity at the harbor at night—unmarked vans and trucks entering the docks, cargo unknown, but probably more stolen Dust."
Attempting to push himself up, Cameron barely got halfway before his body betrayed him, sending him collapsing back into the chair. Mendez instinctively reached out, steadying him, but de Pass stepped in, taking charge.
"Alright, John. Let's get you to bed."
Cameron dug into his breast pocket, pulling out a USB stick and placing it on Lloyd's desk.
"Body cam footage," he explained, his voice slightly clearer now. "Figured it'd come in handy. The coppers shared some hick bad stuff too. You… you might want to send the footage to the VPD."
Lloyd picked up the USB stick, rolling it between his fingers before reaching out and giving Cameron a firm pat on the shoulder.
"Go get some rest. You can bring me your full report tomorrow."
Cameron smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Boss." He forced himself upright, wobbled for a moment, then threw up a half-sloppy salute before de Pass grabbed him by the arm, guiding him out.
As they passed, Mendez and Anderson patted Cameron's back, shaking their heads in amusement as they wished him a good night.
Once the door shut, Lloyd turned to the two remaining corporals. "Any luck?"
Anderson straightened. "Junior gave us some solid intel. He said Torchwick visited him the night his club got trashed—wanted Dust delivery schedules." His expression darkened slightly. "There's also talk that Torchwick's working with someone from outside the Kingdom. Junior wasn't sure if it was the White Fang or someone else."
Lloyd nodded, then shifted his gaze to Mendez. "And you?"
"We had visuals on a potential White Fang agent at the harbor," Mendez replied, passing Lloyd a printed report. "Bald guy, big scar on his right cheek, and a barely hidden White Fang tattoo on his neck."
Lloyd flipped through the pages, stopping at the photo.
"Now, that guy could be a deserter or something," Mendez continued, "but with what John said about nighttime activity at the docks, this guy might be the day shift for their little operation."
Lloyd set the report down and steepled his fingers, his gaze shifting between Anderson and Mendez. He could see that they were thinking the same thing he was—the pieces were all there, but they still weren't quite fitting together.
"There's something else," Lloyd said, voice measured. "I spoke to an informant earlier today. They told me that the White Fang and Torchwick might be connected—or at least, that there's been chatter about some kind of collaboration."
Mendez frowned. "So, Torchwick is working with the White Fang?"
"Not necessarily." Lloyd shook his head. "That's the problem—we don't have enough. We know Torchwick was after Dust delivery schedules, and we know the White Fang hit that train, but we don't have direct proof that they're working together."
Anderson rubbed his chin. "If the White Fang hit the train, and unmarked vans are showing up at the harbor at night, then it's possible they're moving stolen Dust shipments through the port."
"Exactly," Lloyd said. "And if Torchwick is involved, that means he's either moving the shipments for them or taking a cut." He tapped a finger on the desk. "But if that's true, then why the hell did Torchwick need Junior's intel on Dust shipments?"
Mendez leaned forward. "Maybe he needed more. Just because he got a cut of one operation doesn't mean he's fully in the loop. He might be trying to expand his own business, or hell—he might even be double-crossing them."
Anderson exhaled through his nose. "Which means if we go in now, we don't know what we're walking into."
Lloyd nodded. "Exactly. We still don't have enough to confirm the extent of this operation. We know something is happening at the harbor, but if we want to shut it down, we need to find out who's running it and where the shipments are going."
The three of them fell silent for a moment, the weight of the situation sinking in.
Mendez sighed. "So, we keep watching."
"For now." Lloyd picked up the USB stick Cameron had left on his desk, rolling it between his fingers. "I'll contact command and give them an update. I'll also share our findings with the VPD—after I've watched this." He nodded at the USB.
Anderson gave a tired smirk. "Think the coppers gave us anything useful?"
Lloyd exhaled. "Let's hope so."
He paused for a moment before continuing. "Good job, lads. I'll contact command for further orders. You're dismissed."
The two corporals nodded and exited, leaving Lloyd alone with his thoughts for a brief moment. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. The pieces were coming together—but something still felt off.
The door opened again, and de Pass stepped back inside.
Lloyd glanced up. "How is he?"
"He's okay. Blair's checking on him before she turns in for the night."
Lloyd nodded, then leaned back in his chair. "Good."
De Pass stretched, letting out a quiet yawn. "I think I'm gonna hit the sack, captain."
"Go ahead, Gary. I'll watch Cameron's body cam footage, then I'll go to bed."
De Pass gave a quick nod, stepping toward the door. "Good night, sir."
Lloyd returned the nod. "Good night."
As the door shut behind him, Lloyd let out a slow breath. The room was silent now. He reached for the USB stick, inserting it into his computer. The screen flickered as the files loaded.
"Now," he muttered, cracking his knuckles as he prepared to sift through the footage. "Let's see what the bobbies had to say."
To: Prof. Ozpin
From: [REDACTED]
Cc: [REDACTED]
Subject: [REDACTED]
Headmaster Ozpin,
We wish to bring to your attention concerning intelligence regarding the recent Dust robberies and the deadly train heist. Our latest findings suggest that [REDACTED], the orchestrator of the robberies, and [REDACTED], responsible for the train heist and the murder of its crew, may be collaborating.
Intelligence gathered from multiple informants confirms that [REDACTED] met with [REDACTED] and obtained a detailed schedule for Dust deliveries covering the next three to four months. That same day, [REDACTED] was also seen meeting with [REDACTED], though the nature of their discussion remains unknown. However, mere days later, the SDC train heist was executed, raising serious concerns about pre-planned coordination between these individuals.
We have already shared our findings with the VPD, but this development is deeply troubling. The apparent cooperation between [READCTED] and [REDACTED] is highly unusual, given Taurus' extremist ideology and Torchwick's criminal background. The motivations behind this alliance remain unclear, but given the potential threat to Vale's national security, we must act swiftly to uncover and dismantle their plans.
We urge you to bring this matter before the Council with the utmost urgency. All gathered evidence has been attached for your review.
Respectfully,
[REDACTED]
Author's notes
See the end of part 3 for the author's notes.
Leave a comment. Any constructive criticism is welcome.
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Glossary:
- Caudillo: a military leader, usually a military dictator. Here used in reference to [REDACTED].
- Whiskey-Foxtrot: phonetic alphabet acronym for the White Fang, "W" being "Whiskey" and "F" being "Foxtrot".