She blinked, it was still dark. She blinked again, and it was still dark.
Pain was one of the first sensations to come to her senses, an all-encompassing, groaning, and aching pain that seemed to permeate all throughout her body.
Her mind was in a daze, her consciousness having just returned to her, the bare sensation of heat the emanated all around her finally registered.
As the feeling of heat finally came into her mind as did the sensation of sound. All around her she could hear screams, groans, mumbled voices, but the bare awareness that had come to her was not enough for her to parse any sort of understanding within these words. All she could do was lay there and see the darkness that no amount of blinking could kick away.
Then came the realization that something was covering most of her face; something soft, yet rubbery. The only reason she could breathe being a small area on the side of her mouth that had been left uncovered. It felt wet. Jagged and hard things were peppered throughout the object covering her face, but she could not tell what they were.
Hands grasped at the object and with a single pull her vision returned in a blur. Two figures stood over her, garbed in blue uniforms with yellow stripes, though her vision was too blurred to recognize a face.
Everywhere around her she saw mayhem. Directly in front of her were the rubblized remains of where she once was, bathed in a dim orange hue, one that grew stronger and weaker with every passing second.
The ringing in her ears never left but as her consciousness continued to wane in and out, so did her ability to tell apart sounds being said by the people standing over her.
"Sh… -live!"
A garbled mess of words then came as she lost the energy to keep her eyes open.
"…stretcher!
Seconds passed as she felt two sets of arms lift her up from her back and set her on a long cloth on the ground. Once again, she was hefted up, and for the first time since awakening she felt a cool sensation as she was moved.
Her head fell onto the side of the cloth for one final time. She opened her eyes to view where she once laid. And upon the burning wreckage, placed roughly onto the floor by whoever took it off her were clothes, torn, tattered and burned, and the slab of skin that wore it.
96 hours earlier
All things considered… Samuel Satin was a regular man. A working man; like many, he had a family to keep fed, a lifestyle to uphold, and a few vices here and there, but he was never one to gorge on those vices.
No, not him, at least he thought so, until one night a few weeks ago he was pressured by his peers to go bar hopping with them for his colleague's birthday. He thought why not, they had a long weekend ahead of them. He texted his wife that he would be home late and that was that.
Bar after bar they went, going shot for shot, with the final stop being at Junior's. By this point he and his friends had become, for lack of a better word, sloshed. He remembered nothing from that point except the euphoric feeling given by a certain white powder the bouncers had sold the group.
When he awoke the next day, apparently after having hailed a taxi home the night before, there were multiple messages from an unknown number, complete with attachments of him adulterating with a woman in a private room. He did not remember a single second of this.
The stranger demanded 3 million lien else the video would be published. He was given a deadline of 14 days.
In that one moment he thought about his life collapsing all around him, yet where was he to get this money? Yes, he was being extorted, and this was illegal. He would likely build a good case against Junior and his little goons if he reported this to the police but what would happen to his life then if the perpetrators released the video in retaliation? No, he needed to get the money somehow.
Unfortunately for him, while his job for the Vale Air-Transport Agency led him to having a rather affluent lifestyle compared to most, this was not enough to pay off the millions of lien without making himself destitute, so he then resorted other means. Loans from his bank, friends, family, altogether he could only barely scrounge half the amount required.
As the deadline closed to just two more days, he was almost ready to give up, even thinking about ending it all so he didn't have to see his life fall apart around him, but a beacon of light shed upon him.
Yesterday, at work, rumors came abound in the air traffic control room of strange offers coming into the personal emails of ATC agents in the airport. Once the rumors reached their superiors, they had advised against taking these offers.
He had checked his own email and there it was, ten simple words strung together in an equally simple sentence:
"Offering 5 mil to speak with you, reply if interested."
A few of his colleagues had decided to take up the offer in contrast to what their superiors suggested, since 5 million was just too big an offer, and he joined them. One of them became their spokesperson. Their benefactor was asking for flight manifests for February 1. They all agreed to split the money and meet with their benefactor together in two days to match with their weekend off.
There were four of them who agreed to split the money, but this would not do. Samuel secretly replied to their benefactor, stating that he could give them the manifests earlier. He needed all the money he could get, and this could easily be hidden from his colleagues.
So here he drove on a dark night down the agricultural fields of Vale.
Breathing heavy, he thought about the scenario he wanted to deny. What if this was a scam? What if this was a setup for a robbery? He had packed his grandfather's old dagger pistol just in case, which was tucked neatly under his shirt. He parked at the address that was given, the driveway of an old, abandoned farmhouse. He hopped out of his vehicle, waiting cautiously.
It felt like hours, but it was almost certainly just a few minutes that he waited when a non-descript black sedan was seen driving down the road. It parked just in front of his car, the headlights still open.
From the passenger side came a man in a mask covering his entire face.
"A- are you Bones?" He asked, shielding his eyes a little from the blinding light.
"Yep." He said in concealed tone. "You have what I want?"
"Yes, let me just get it." The breathing got heavier. Why was this man masked, why was there another masked man on the driver seat? The urge to just get his weapon and start shooting grew. Samuel walked backed to his car, opening door and taking out a folder.
The sweat on his brow glistened despite the cool late winter air. As he walked over close to Bones, he noticed a protrusion on the man's belt buckle, a holstered weapon. His eyes grew, as he noticed his hands started to shake as he extended folder over to Bones who grabbed it without a word.
He gave the contents a once over before walking back to the door.
"W-wait! The money!" He tried to say in the most convincingly intimidating tone possible.
"You'll get it."
Bones tossed the folder into the passenger seat and walked to the trunk, popping it open and taking out two briefcases. He gave them both to Samuel.
Samuel knelt down and opened both. He didn't even bother to count, he just saw each thick briefcase filled to the brim with the plastic cash, and inwardly, he wanted to scream in utter joy. He closed both, took them and practically ran to his car.
"Wait." Bones said calmly.
He stopped in his tracks, not even getting a chance to turn around before Bones spoke again.
"Speak a word of this, and just remember, we know who you are."
He gulped and nodded, before continuing in his jog towards his vehicle. He started his vehicle, and watched as the car opposite of him did the same, pulling out of the driveway and leaving. He eventually did the same.
He breathed a sigh of relief. It was all going to be okay.
Jacques lifted up his quill, dipping it into the inkwell with a precise motion, and brought the quill onto a piece of paper that had been laid on his desk and affixed his signature with one swift movement.
That same paper was then taken off his desk by the attendant that stood beside him who laid down a new paper, which Jacques signed once more.
This routine kept on for a few minutes before the attendant went and left the room. Jacques let out a sigh; it was hard work being a CEO.
Soon he would finally get his much-needed rest. In less than a day he was to board his private airship in a direct flight to Vale, where the winters weren't anywhere near as cold as the great white continent of the north that was Solitas.
Even in supposed vacation however, he would not totally be able to escape work. During his time in Vale, he planned on doing his best to aid in the political campaigning of his associate, Oscar White. This meant going to every rally, event, and function, speaking words upon words of praise to the man who had just caused him a major headache not so long ago.
He was still the better option though compared to anybody else on the ballot, so really, he had no choice.
Even considering all that, Jacques was absolutely thrilled to be in Vale for the coming weeks. He really needed a change of scenery, a change of people.
A knock came from a person that didn't even bother to wait for Jacques' response as the door creaked open.
"Jacques." said a very familiar voice, the voice of a man that Jacques very much needed an escape from.
General Ironwood.
His neatly shaved mug and his cleanly pressed uniform presenting a stark reminder of the Atlesian Military, the head of which, the man standing in front of him, stole his daughter from him.
"Yes, James, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" He plastered on a smile despite this.
James did the same, an expression that replaced his previously dour look.
"I needed to speak with you, regarding…" He paused "Your security in Vale."
"Haven't you already assigned guards to my residence? Made plans for decoys every time we move within the city? Made it so there are no public announcements of any time I should appear at an event?"
That third part really quite irked Jacques. Surprise appearances were nothing new to him but for every public appearance to be one was… too much. It would certainly help the campaign of Oscar White further and may even increase turnout at the rallies if his appearances were planned.
"Yes, but that's from inside Vale. In my concerns for security within Vale, I failed to consider any risks that might come from outside Vale."
"You mean here in Atlas?" Jacques quirked an eyebrow to which Ironwood tilted his head.
"Not quite, but that's also a concern. The White Fang, after all, is a global organization but their reach here in Solitas isn't anything noteworthy, my worry is for when we cross over into Sanus."
Jacques could already see where this line of thought was going, Ironwood was going to propose some form of alternate transport, after he already booked for a flight with his luxury private airship.
"Didn't you already set up military aircraft to escort my ship?" The façade he had put up for Ironwood almost slipped, but he still managed to let those words out with an amicable tone.
"That's not enough, you're still at risk even while in transport. Over the past few years, the White Fang have been stealing our weapons, they have the capabilities to shoot down our bullheads. Not the entire fleet, but your airship would be really easy to herd from the pack."
'And whose fault is that?!' Jacques wanted to say, be he acquiesced. It wasn't his fault that Ironwood's security was such a failure that all sorts of Atlesian military equipment could be stolen and had been stolen. Even the state-of-the-art Atlesian Paladin was victim to such theft.
"So, what are you suggesting?"
Ironwood walked a little closer to Jacques' desk. "There are too many VIPs in one location, your airship. Your attendants and secretaries, your treasurer, and of course, you. We can spread them out at random; some can remain in the airship while others will be seated inside one of the escort ships."
"And how will this placement be decided?"
"At random, I can't ignore any possible White Fang espionage either, so I can't announce it to the crews so soon. I will personally decide the placements tomorrow, the hour before the flight."
Jacques was just about ready to slap his palm onto his face.
Such paranoia!
Why had he put this man in charge of his security? There were probably dozens of security corporations and huntsman agencies willing to take up the task of security for the Schnee family, especially with the pay he was willing to offer.
With Ironwood growing increasingly paranoid, perhaps a change was needed after his vacation in Vale.
Jacques was arguably the most powerful man in Atlas, yet he was being pushed around by a mere general. But even he could not bite back at Ironwood, especially right now.
Should he dismiss the Atlesian military he'd have no security to speak of, and no agency would be willing to or even be able to do that extensive of a job on such short notice.
Thus, an unreasonably paranoid Ironwood was better than no security at all.
He hated imagining how uncomfortable it would be to sit in some metal chair in a military manta compared to his private airship. He prayed to the brothers that Ironwood would let him keep his place in the airship.
After a silence that felt like minutes, Jacques spoke.
"…this is… agreeable." He forced another smile.
Ironwood brightened a tad. "I'm glad you saw reason. I'll see you again tomorrow morning. Thank you, Jacques."
Jacques shook his head as Ironwood waved and made his way to the door. "No, thank you, James."
And as Ironwood left, the door closed behind him, Jacques' face fell unto his hands as a sigh escaped his lips, a vein forming on his pale forehead.
0300 hours
City of Vale
A non-descript white van pulled up in front of a house. The neighborhood was upscale but nothing compared to the upper-class district of the same city. In comparison to the low-density housing and lush front yards, the relatively rundown white van was a strange sight in the neighborhood.
The engine was loud, especially in the still quiet of 3am. The engine suddenly shut off, as did the headlights which stopped shining upon the road ahead.
The door of the van slid open and from within hopped out two gentlemen dressed in jackets, jeans and ski masks. Holstered and hidden under the hem of their jackets were pistols affixed with suppressors thought it would be better if they hadn't the need to use them today. The option was still there.
One was in a yellow puffer jacket, the other garbed in black leather.
They walked forward, eyeing the numbers of each house until after a minute they reached the one they were looking for. Approaching the home, they climbed up the front porch. All lights were off, no signs of any pets, but a car was parked out front.
Somebody was home but was probably asleep. They'd have to be quiet.
The one in the yellow puffer jacket knelt down and searched under the welcome mat, nothing. He had a lockpicking set just in case, but he had been out of practice for years, so that was a last resort.
He then went up the windows and attempted to open them, all locked.
The one in the leather jacket picked and prodded with his hands at the potted plants sat by the door when a glint appeared under the dirt of one of the plants, he observed it.
"Got something, Woods?" Came the low and almost imperceptible whisper of his partner.
Woods simply nodded in response as he picked up the spare key.
He inserted it into the doorknob and twisted slowly. He heard a loud click on the other side, both men cringed upon hearing the noise, hoping it hadn't woken up the victim of their break-in.
The house was quiet after the click. It was still, no pets, with the only sound being a light buzz that came from a refrigerator in the kitchen.
Directly in front of them near a couch was a staircase leading to the second floor.
The two men looked at each other and nodded. Woods started with the ground floor while Bowman slowly crept up the stairs. From under his jacket, he produced a small flashlight and shone it upon where he walked. As he reached the second floor, he looked around him, finding three closed doors and a single open one, he first approached the open door. It was a study, there was a bookcase, a personal computer, and a small two-person sofa.
The table that held the computer had a single drawer, he went up to it and opened it, searching through the piles of papers. After finding some loose change and nothing else important, he closed it.
Once he got out of the room he approached another door. From the other side he could hear a noise, and though he couldn't describe it, it made him nervous nonetheless. Bowman's hand crept up to his holstered pistol, but he relaxed as he made the observation that it was just snoring.
This was his bedroom.
The research they had done on this man showed that he was single, no children, and he happened to be the closest physical match to who would be their infiltrator later in the day.
He very slowly twisted open the doorknob, the thing making a quiet squeak, but nothing else. He lightly pushed the door ajar and entered the room. A man was sleeping on his side, covered in a blanket, a lamp on a nightstand nearby that provided a dim light.
Bowman switched his torch off seeing as it was no longer needed. He turned and looked around the room only to see a lanyard attached to an ID, his eyes widening at the easy find. He read the ID, a 1x1 profile of the man in the center, his name affixed on the left, and under his name were the words 'Maintenance'
He inwardly said 'jackpot' as he took the lanyard and headed straight for the stairs, quietly closing the door behind him.
As he went down the stairs, he saw Woods continue to search in the kitchen, opening random cupboards.
Woods looked at him as he got down.
He clutched the lanyard tightly and brought it up to eye level, proudly showing it off to Woods. He could see the outline of a smile from under Woods' mask as they hastily made for the door. Once they were out, they both approached the homeowner's car.
They both took out their knives and slashed every single tire, the hiss of the air coming out could be clearly heard.
They quickly walked back to the van, the headlights suddenly coming on and the door sliding open as their approach was seen. They hopped inside, and as the doors closed, they both took off their masks, taking well deserved deep breaths.
Bowman victoriously held up the ID and shouted, "ZERO KILLS, BABY!"
The celebration, while earning a few smiles, also earned him a strong tap on the chest from Woods, who spoke in a loud whisper.
"Shut the fuck up, we ain't out of the neighborhood, this van isn't soundproof."
To which Bowman cringed to himself and made a low hiss.
"Sorry." He whispered.
"Alright, time to setup at the airport, how long till we get there?"
Their driver, Weaver, spoke up "Er…. Not much traffic, so, 20 minutes?"
The van was mostly open, since it had been converted and modified into a nerve center for communications. Inside were members of SACR and two PAG cyberwarfare division officers, their job being to listen on the comms of airport security to make sure all was well.
As such, the van no longer had the large seating capacity it usually would have. With a desk attached to the van's interior with two desktop computers for the two PAG agents, and with a long seat on the opposite side, that meant only four people could be seated properly.
Mason was sat on one end, with a new face sat on the other end. Bowman and Woods occupied the remaining space.
"How you doing, Frenchie? It's almost showtime, this your first mission on Remnant, yeah?" Bowman sat next to the new face.
The new face was a member of the Action Division of the French Directorate-General for External Security, part of the pool of agents sent by American allies who had yet to perform on the ground in Vale in fear of his accent leaking out, as it seemed that no such equivalent existed on Remnant.
However, this fear was put aside, as he had the closest matching appearance to any of the personnel at the airport, the man whose house they had just broken into.
Though 'closest' was already pushing it, as it was only Harcourt Aubert's cheekbones and jawline that matched the security contractors' own. Anybody who looked closely at the Frenchman would likely notice that something was off, so he was to get in and get out quickly.
"Not all too bad." Harcourt replied, his accent very faint but still present.
Another perk of using someone outside the main group was that should he get captured or killed, existing operations in Vale wouldn't have to come to a halt, although it would still be dreadful if he did.
The hum of the engine broke throughout the interior as Woods responded, "You're the main event, you can't fuck up." He took a sip of water from a flask "No pressure."
Harcourt smirked and gave a nod "It should not be too difficult. I swipe my card, get to the airship platforms and plant the charge underneath, no? In and out, 30 minutes."
Mason remarked "Yeah but you could get recognized. All things considered, you look nothing like the guy, what's his name?"
"Sorrel." Harcourt answered.
"Yeah, you both got brown hair… and uhhh, that's about it."
Bowman suddenly grabbed the ID, which was laid across an empty seat, giving it a once over "Their cheekbones look pretty similar."
Mason shook his head "Yeah but if anybody personally knows the guy, they just gotta look him over a second or two up close and it'll be real obvious he isn't the real deal."
Woods patted Mason on the shoulder "Well that's the great part! Uh… Sorrel is a contractor and by virtue of his job hasn't been working very long at the airport, just over a week if I'm remembering right. So outside of maybe one or two guys, it's pretty hard to imagine that everybody in that airport would remember his face. And we're clocking in 4 hours early, nobody who works his shift would be there."
"And after you're done-"Bowman continued, he waved his hands around to mimic an explosion "Boom. Bye bye Jacques Schnee."
Woods added "And bye bye to Oscar White too hopefully, Schnee is the guy's biggest contributor."
Mason leaned back in his seat, wrapping his hands around the back of his head "Venom would probably be pissed if we have to say goodbye to the White detail though, he's been working that whorehouse case night after night."
Woods waved his hand dismissively "Eh, let him, less work for us."
They all sat in silence as the van drove around Vale to reach its destination. Mason silently gave out coffee to whoever wanted it from a thermos he had packed.
Harcourt did a play by play in his mind of each step he would take to reach the airship platform.
As they neared the airport, Woods broke the silence. He stood up, reached under one of the seats and brought out a backpack with some effort.
"Alright, Frenchie, here's what you're packing." he hefted the backpack onto Harcourt's hands who wrapped around his back, it was quite heavy.
"That's 15 kilograms of HMX, you wanna get at least- "
"A hundred meters away before detention." He continued, which gave Woods pause "I've worked with charges this size before."
Woods simply nodded "Preferably though you'd be on your way back here before we even think about detonating that thing, but if you happen to be in a hurry and it looks like Schnee is clearing the platform then you have to detonate. Call the number on your scroll and it will go off."
The van came to a sudden halt as Woods opened the doors for Harcourt. He donned the lanyard holding Sorrel's ID and hopped out of the van.
"We're about half a klick from the entrance. Sorry we can't park in front of it, or in the parking lot, we'd need to give 'em an ID, so you'll have to walk."
"No problem." Harcourt gave Woods a half salute as the doors came to a close.
He looked around, it was a wide and empty road, across and in front of him was the visage of the airport, its lights shining onto the dim streets around it. He could make out cars passing by and dropping people off.
That was where passengers entered. He'd read the mission briefing over and over, the entrance for airport workers was in a separate wing near the parking lot.
The parking lot was decent bit closer than the airport proper, sitting directly behind it. He began his walk, the streetlights being the only thing to illuminate the road and the sounds of crickets and distant car engines being the only accompanying sound.
As he got closer to the parking lot, he noticed it was all fenced in, with the only entrance for pedestrians being right next to a security checkpoint. He took his chances; he had the ID for a reason.
As he approached the checkpoint he noticed a lady behind the checkpoint.
The woman looked at him up and down as he walked, paying her no mind, she didn't speak up or eye him for long.
By all means did Harcourt look the part. He was donning a maintenance worker's uniform, his hair was nice and combed, the big backpack and the ID only served to complete his look. He simply needed to the act the part.
Once he got inside the parking lot, he noticed a small group of people filing into a glass doorway, and since none of them were holding luggage, this must have been the entrance for workers. He walked on, entered and promptly felt the air-conditioned heat grace his skin.
There was turnstile with an ID scanner, another security guard standing next to it, observing.
Harcourt fell into line. When he reached the turnstile he tapped his ID onto the scanner, the lights on the turnstile blinked green, letting him through.
He held in a sigh of relief. He walked on, following the directions he had memorized to reach the staircase that led down to the airfield where all the bullhead and airship platforms were.
Around him were stalls and restaurants supposedly meant to cater to both passengers and workers alike, but he paid them no mind, he had a job to do. Looking around for the doorway he knew would be here, the doorway that led to the staircase, he eventually found it. There was another guard present, and no ID scanner nearby.
Which meant the guard himself would probably have to look at this ID. This could be a problem. He could make an attempt to walk on through, but he couldn't risk the guard getting a look at his ID and noticing that him and the person on it looked nothing alike.
He still had time, he checked his watch, he had a little less than an hour before Jacque's airship was to land on platform 3.
He sat and observed while the guard just stood there.
He took a trip to the common room. Either he could get lucky and wait for there to be a shift change, or he could think up a plan.
As he walked through the doors, it was empty. There was a small kitchen complete with amenities, on a kitchen island was a box of donuts, while a half full pot of coffee sat in the coffee maker with the heat set on.
Right next to the kitchen was a set of couches and a television that was turned off. Harcourt decided to sit on the couch
"-I'm telling you man, Invincible Girl can take on a hundred of those US soldiers and not break a sweat."
A man suddenly entered the common room, paying Harcourt no mind as he looked behind him, another man coming in.
"Oh, that's bullshit, and you know it. Pyrrha Nikos can handle a lot of things, hell, I remember that TV special where they had her take on three other combat school initiates and she came out unscathed, but a hundred soldiers? I don't know about that.
"What are they gonna do? Shoot her?"
Harcourt moved to the coffee pot, paying attention, but not contributing to the conversation. He got three styrofoam cups and quickly poured coffee into each cup.
He took notice of each of them as he poured, they each wore suits, they weren't from maintenance, somewhere else, maybe accounting? One of them was holding a clipboard.
"Uh. Duh. Yeah!"
"How many people do you think tried that? I'm telling you, she's untouchable, she'd probably just dance around all those bullets."
"Bullshit!"
"I've seen her do it!"
Harcourt passed around the cups of coffee
"Ey thanks." Said one of them, the other man just gave him a thankful nod as they fell back into conversation.
"Yeah, you've seen her do it but against like five people at most, you really think she can dance around bullets from a hundred guys?"
"Yes!"
The other man laughed and patted the other guy on the back "Man, you're stupid-"
"Do the Americans have air support?" Harcourt cut in. They stood there, looking at him in silence.
"What?" The one on the left said, to which Harcourt pursed his lips and shrugged.
"Do the Americans have air support? Artillery? Vehicular support? They brag about all those things all the time, not much I can see Pyrrha Nikos doing against a supersonic projectile from the sky. If they have air support, Nikkos is done, if not, maybe you could make an argument she beats the hundred."
He helped himself to a donut. The one on the right patted the other on the chest and gave him a look of triumph, seeming to view Harcourts' statement as one of backup.
They eventually both just shrugged, the one on the left conceding. "Maybe you're right." They both helped themselves to some donuts.
"Ey, you work in maintenance?"
"Yeah." 'Sorrel' answered as he took a bite out of a donut.
"You know Joel Lilac? You probably don't, he's an upper management guy, got into a car crash recently, they're making everyone from accounting down to security to sign him a get well soon card, here"
The man handed him a clipboard, where rough scribbles of signatures and messages were written.
"Pass it around in maintenance, everyone in accounting's already written something, then when you're done you can hand it off to er… I don't know, somebody."
Abruptly, they began to walk off.
"Thanks for the coffee!" One sounded off as he tossed the empty cup into a bin.
Harcourt checked his watch, he had thirty minutes left, he had absolutely no time to waste now. He couldn't wait any longer, he was holding a clipboard, hopefully that made him look official.
He rushed out of the common room and walked quickly to the same doorway where the same guard was still standing by.
He came into a light jog, focusing his eyes onto the clipboard, making it seem like he was in a rush, he already had a set of responses ready just in case the guard stopped him, but…. the guard didn't. She glanced at him but otherwise let him through.
Security here was horrendous.
He booked it down the stairs and there he was, in the airfield. Each platform sat on the edge of a cliff, and an island could be seen in the distance; the island of Patch.
On each platform were large numbers colored in blue. He walked over to number '3'. There was only a single airship present, one that was just landing on platform 5.
All the platforms were elevated, a hollow space underneath them filled only by steal beams and concrete bases.
There were a few other maintenance workers around him, some were talking amongst themselves, others were rushing to the airship that had just landed.
He ignored them, and got under platform, squeezing himself through the steel beams to try and reach the center of the underside of the platform. Once he did, he left his bag on top of one of the steel beams. And he made his exit, from here he would have to backtrack his way back to the van.
He walked back up the stairs, this time without his backpack, he exited the airport and walked back to the van, with nobody paying any attention to him, the clipboard filled with get well soon messages still in his hand.
The van doors slid open. He saw all four SACR agents with wide smiles on their faces, Woods being the first to speak.
"Hey, hey, hey! Back so soon, we're good?"
Harcourt nodded. "We're good."
Weaver held out his hand, Harcourt accepted as he was helped up onto the van.
Woods spoke up as the van doors closed once again "We're gonna drive further up front, we can get a visual on any landing airship from there. We got ten minutes before Jacques' ship should touch down."
Bowman let out a jokingly sadistic laugh, rubbing his hands together as he did "Jacques Schnee! Your time has come!"
Five aircraft, four of them decoys, as ordered by General Ironwood, bearing the crest of the Schnee Dust Company, flew in the air. One of them was a luxury airship with all the amenities the richest man on Remnant could ask for, only this man wasn't in this airship. Instead, Ironwood had relegated this man to one of the other aircraft as they were less obvious targets.
Instead, only two occupants of Schnee blood were able to enjoy the amenities of the airship.
"Eugh." And one of them was enjoying the amenities a little too much.
In a tea room, Willow Schnee was enjoying something that was not tea. She grabbed the greenish brown bottle of Mistrali wine aged 16 years and refilled her now empty glass.
Why was she even here?
This was a thought that graced her mind as she took a large swig off of the wine glass.
Her husband would pay little attention to her at home, but when it came to parading around Vale to shill his political friend, he was all smiles for the cameras, wanting to show a façade of a happy family.
Another swig.
Just how long would she have to play this game? She hated it. She hated having to dress up, prepare for hours only to stand and smile silently like a good little wife on a podium next to a man she grew to despise.
To give the illusion to the crowds of people that Jacques Schnee was a family man. That despite his mind for wealth and success, he was still a good husband, and an attentive father.
"Ugh." She slammed her head on the table just thinking about it. The public knew nothing of their marriage, of the fact he only married her to gain access to the SDC; he only consummated their marriage to gain a viable heir. That man held no true love for his family.
A good husband? Willow could count on two hands the number of times she caught him with a mistress. An attentive father? Their eldest joined the military and wanted nothing to do with their family. The middle child went off to a huntsman academy to escape her family life.
Whitley, their youngest, was the only one of their children to truly walk in his father's footsteps, attending meetings with him, speaking with the Atlesian high class. He was even beginning to use the same fake kindness in his tone when speaking.
Whitley was becoming like her husband. It was… painful to see.
Where had she gone wrong?
She stared at the half empty bottle of wine.
Why couldn't she do anything?
Her reflection on the near-opaque glass stared back at her
After the decade and a half of torment that was this marriage, why couldn't she just leave? Or at the very least, for all the love she had for her children, why couldn't she be there for them anymore? She remembered the days when she was who her children turned to every time their father showed them no love or affection, who went to all their birthdays when Jacques seemingly forgot.
Now she was an eyesore. Whitley wouldn't even look at her anymore when they pass by each other in the halls of their home.
After hearing those words almost ten years ago now it just hurt to do anything, to care about anything.
"I married you for the name, woman."
Those words echoed in her mind, the words that shattered her, that despite all the love she gave him, after a marriage, after three children, those words still came out of her husband's mouth.
Another swig.
"Mother." Another voice entered mind, the welcoming tone of her son.
"Mother." The voice repeated, a little less warm now.
Huh? Was she hearing things now? Maybe she should lay off on the bottle now. She chugged down the remaining contents of her wine glass. That would be her last drink, she thought.
"Mother!" It was a yell accompanied by a light tap on the table she sat by.
She blinked a few times and gazed up at the face that was staring her down. It turned out the voices weren't just voices.
"Whitley?" She almost sputtered.
The boy in question seemed to make a face that suggested he was holding back rolling his eyes.
"Yes, mother. It's Whitley, we're landing soon, the attendants have informed me that we will arrive in just over fifteen minutes." he continues in that same fake tone.
Willow looked back down at the table, seemingly giving no reaction to what had just been said. She squeezed her temples trying to assuage the migraine that was beginning to show itself.
Whitley, however, didn't take that as cue to leave and stayed standing there right in front of her.
"Mother, did you understand me? We're landing soon, we have a live broadcast for the Vale press once we get to our summer residence. You have to prepare…."
He gave a once over at his mother, a twinge of pity on his eyes as he observed her unkempt hair and the speckles of wine stains on her white dress. The stench of alcohol clung to her strongly.
"... And sober up."
Willow looked up for just a second to stare at the eyes of her son, the same eyes that once looked up to her were now staring down at her in disgust.
Disgust at his own mother. Willow couldn't muster any anger towards the way her son looked at her, this was her fault. Most of what Whitley had known his whole life was a drunkard for a mother, he likely couldn't remember the days of when he was just six years of age, when they still had a semblance of a mother-son connection.
Whitley turned around, hands behind his back.
"I'll be at the exit in fifteen minutes, please don't be late."
Whitley started to walk away, she stared at her son's back, mustering whatever words her alcohol-addled mind could think of, any apology, an utterance of regret, anything.
"Whitley."
And as her son opened the door to leave, she could only say his name.
He stopped in his tracks, his back still facing the open door.
"Yes?"
"Do you hate me?"
The question gave him pause.
She stared at the back of his head for a moment, he didn't speak or even perk up. He was completely silent, completely still, his hand firmly on the doorknob.
"I don't hate you mother."
Willow's eyes widened as she stared at her son who still refused to turn around, the grip he had on the doorknob having grown tighter.
"But it's hard to even look at you."
He took a sudden step forward as he swung the door to close it.
"Whitley! Wait!" She jumped out of her seat and all but leapt at the closing gap of the door. She fell, her hand grasping at Whitley's shin as the door slammed on her forearm, a jolt of pain rushing through her arm, but she ignored it.
Whitley looked down "Mother?!"
She promptly stood up. Whitley looked around. No guards or attendants, thankfully. "Don't embarrass yourself any further." He said in a loud whisper.
"Whitley… It's just-" She couldn't bring herself to hug him, so all she did was speak "I'm sorry."
For a split second those words seemed to break his façade, genuine shock crossing his face "Sorry for what?"
"For everything! For not being there for you these past years, for being halfway into a bottle every time you see me, for not being much of a mother."
Her eyes welled up. The shock returned on Whitley's face as he backed away but Willow grabbed his shoulders.
"Mother?! Why are you- "
"I hate seeing you like this! Seeing you become like your father. Seeing you act like him with that same smile! The same tone! I'm sorry for letting that happen! For letting that man be all who you could look up to."
She knelt back down on the ground, her head facing it as well, unable to look Whitley in the eyes now.
"None of it is your fault." She admitted. She got the courage to look up at him, and he seemed… conflicted. But whatever emotion was on his face, it was genuine.
"You'll always be my son, and I hope one day I can go back to being your mother."
Whitley squinted his eyes, softening a tad.
For the first time in years, Willow saw her son's face show true emotion to its fullest.
There was motion, a slight thud from under them. They both recognized what that was. Suddenly, footsteps approached from the corridor ahead. It was their personal security, two of them, the one on the right speaking up.
"Mister Schnee." Was all he said. The man looked at Willow who was knelt on the floor, mascara smudged, and wine stains on her clothes.
He looked back at Whitley "We have landed, the motorcade is on standby."
Whitley then turned around to face the man "Please tell them to wait a little longer, five minutes, perhaps."
The man nodded and walked off, and as soon as they were gone Whitley looked at his mother.
"Please clean yourself up, mother." His tone was genuine, not mocking or one said in disgust.
Wordlessly, Willow stood up and walked to her quarters, just next to the tearoom where she had been drinking. She entered the bathroom and washed off the mascara, opened her wardrobe and took a shawl to cover up the stains on her clothes, then she doused herself in her strongest perfume to mask the scent of alcohol, all the while she thought of what had just happened.
She left her room, expecting to have to walk to the airship exit alone but Whitley was still standing there by the door.
"Come on, mother, let's walk."
She had no time to register those words as Whitley turned around walked to the exit, Willow simply following along.
They walked in silence for a few moments, the only sounds being the still humming engine of the airship and their footsteps.
Whitley's voice then joined the array of sounds as he stopped walking. Willow did the same.
Whitley looked to the left "Perhaps we could have a chat… Over tea. Once father is away campaigning for Mister White."
Whitley said this, not bothering to face Willow. His tone was shaky but authentic.
He continued. "Perhaps I could even invite Weiss, she's in the city after all."
Willow stood there, mouth almost agape, trying to stop more tears from falling from her eyes.
"I would love that." She said in a breathy voice.
Whitley finally looked up at her and smiled a true smile.
"Wonderful."
She wanted to laugh; a laugh that was filled with joy she hadn't felt in years and years. But that laugh was caught in her throat.
A fiery image caught her sight as the sound of a deafening explosion just barely registered to her ears.
"And what are these?" For once it was Thrax who was asking the questions. He stared down at two large half crates, each filled with wet sand.
Watts stood in front of a massive furnace. In his hands were appropriately massive tongs, his eyes covered by near pitch-black goggles to shield his eyes from the fire that burned in the furnace, a fire that turned.
"Sand molds, when you work with metals with high melting points, it is generally not recommended to use plaster or steel molds."
Watts then suddenly turned around to face Thrax who gave no reaction and simply stood by table with the sand molds.
"Please press that into the sand." Watts pointed to a plastic, three-dimensional print-out of one of the parts Thrax had requested, the receiver to an AK-47.
Thrax did as was told and gently pressed the receiver prototype into the sand, creating a negative space where the receiver would be. He took out the receiver prototype. Thrax then heard a clang, as he turned around to watch Watts use the tongs to grab onto the crucible within the furnace, he walked over to the mold, and poured the molten metal into it, until it was just slightly filled to the brim.
Watts then brought the red-hot crucible onto the floor next to the furnace and set the tongs down next to it. He was sweating profusely from the heat.
He sighed, exasperated "Now, we let it cool."
He walked over to another table, one that held a piece of paper with drawings of different parts and pieces. Then over to his computer which had the 3D renderings of said parts.
"That's one of fifteen. No, eleven. You said three of these parts could be made of wood?"
Thrax found a nearby chair and lounged upon it "Yes, and I've already commissioned a few local woodworkers to create a few prototypes."
The room they were in was Thrax's personal workshop which had since been overhauled by Watts; the furnaces had been completely revamped. From their once earthenware construction, they had been traded for more sterile lab furnaces, a mess of various metals and tools now littering the room, the empty casket that was Thrax's incubator sitting without power in the corner. Watts claimed he would install a heating system onto it soon, but for now the most pressing issue was that of weaponry.
They needed to show the White Fang immediate results now, as Anthrax would still take a little longer to cultivate to its maximum potential.
Watts continued to 3D print a few more renders for molding while Thrax simply stared at the still cooling metal cast.
"Why molds?" Thrax asked as he sat up.
"Hm?" Watts asked as he looked away from his scroll computer, not expecting this line of questioning.
"Why molds, why not press metal into thinner pieces that can be cut and shaped into various parts. Would that not be better for mass production?"
Watts turned back to his computer "As we currently stand, this organization cannot handle mass production in the first place. We would need multiple machines for these things, people to train and more. All I brought with me here to Menagerie are some materials and tools, not many massive pieces of technology."
"You say that, but you have that… 3D printer to create casts for the molds."
"I only need to make one, once we create the actual parts, they can be used for the molds, it's quite simple. For mass production we'd need hundreds of workers, hundreds of machines, and hundreds of hours' worth of training them in those machines. Using molds is a cost-effective, time-efficient solution for this organization's current size."
Thrax silently nodded as he continued to watch the receiver cool. It was beginning to look more and more solid.
Watts stood up and walked next to Thrax "You're from Earth, and part of a group that once fought America, where did you get your weapons?"
Thrax cackled "Black market, theft, seizing of goods, we rarely ever had to produce things ourselves. Then from there we'd modify what we'd take to our likings.
"Isn't that too unreliable? Just how many weapons can you get from those means?"
Thrax, again, cackled "You'd be surprised just how much you can take from the remnants of a country that the Americans went to war with. Guns, grenades, vehicles. And my personal favorite, a sect within the GLA. Our… group, stumbled upon a warehouse filled with old missiles alongside their launch platforms, and included were transcripts where more could be found."
Watts listened intently, just what did he mean by 'remnants of a country the Americans went to war with'? Thrax continued his tale.
"For almost a year I worked with a small cabal of the GLA's best minds to procure a suitable weapon with these materials. We eventually created what would be known as the SCUD Storm, a terror to all our opponents."
Thrax then shook his head "But we can't do that here, none of the weapons on the market here on Remnant are up to my standards, we have to produce our own, and that's what you're here for. And… I have other plans."
Watts squinted his eyes at Thrax "What other plans?"
"I want to make the White Fang more popular. That is of course, after we create our first weapons prototypes and you help me with refrigeration units for my toxic spores."
"And how exactly will we make the White Fang more popular?"
"You're a smart man, Doctor Watts, I'm sure you can put that knowledge of yours to help the people of Menagerie. I've asked Sienna to canvass and see what the largest problems in Menagerie seem to be. Perhaps we can use your engineering to solve some of these problems."
Watts saw Thrax's logic and nodded in agreement. If the White Fang grew more in popularity here in Menagerie, perhaps recruitment numbers could go up, something he assumed went down since the Americans destroyed the White Fang in Sanus.
Watts then looked back down at the mold, where the cast had looked to be completely cooled. He walked up to the sand mold and gently touched the cast with his finger to confirm it was solid, before then grabbing it and shaking the sands off.
Despite the mask, Watts could tell Thrax was pleased.
"Perfect."
20 minutes after the explosion at Vale Airport
Willow blinked, it was still dark, she blinked again, it was still dark.
Pain was one of the first sensations to come to her senses, an all-encompassing, groaning, and aching pain that seemed to permeate all throughout her body.
Willow's mind was in a daze, her consciousness having just returned to her, the bare sensation of heat the emanated all around her finally registered.
As the feeling of heat finally came into her mind, as did the sensation of sound, all around her she could hear screams, groans, mumbled voices, but the bare awareness that had come to her was not enough for her to parse any sort of understanding within these words. All she could do was lay there and see the darkness that no amount of blinking could kick away.
Then came the realization that something was covering most of her face, something soft, yet rubbery. The only reason she could breathe being a small area on the side of her mouth that had been left uncovered. It felt wet. Jagged and hard things were peppered throughout the object covering her face, but she could not tell what they were.
Hands grasped at the object and with a single pull her vision returned in a blur. Two figures stood over her, garbed in blue uniforms with yellow stripes, though her vision was too blurred to recognize a face.
Everywhere around her she saw mayhem; directly in front of her were the rubblized remains of where she once was, bathed in a dim orange hue, one that grew stronger and weaker with every passing second.
The ringing in her ears never left but as her consciousness continued to wane in and out, as did her ability to tell apart sounds and things being said by the people standing over her. Every time her consciousness could take hold, she thought of her son. What had happened to him?
"Sh… -live!"
A garbled mess of words then came as she lost the energy to keep her eyes open.
"…stretcher!
Seconds passed as she felt two sets of arms lift her up from her back and set her on a long cloth on the ground. Once again, she was hefted up, and for the first time since awakening she felt a cool sensation as she was moved.
Her head fell onto the side of the cloth for one final time. She opened her eyes to view where she once laid. And upon the burning wreckage, placed roughly onto the floor by whoever took it off her were clothes, torn, tattered and burned, and the slab of skin that wore it. Even with all the damage, she could tell they were Whitley's clothes.
WOAH, sorry for the long ass wait there, been busy, but I had a blast finally coming back to this, and I think I've come through with something none of yall were expecting, this has been in the works for a solid 7ish months with my beta reader being the only one I could talk to it about, and I'm so happy it's finally here, I personally think it's a banger, but tell me what y'all think.
Now, responses!
Nisiris: as paynedotdll pointed out, terrorists, even in real life are surpsiingly crafty, many with college degrees, and hands-on experience in many things, often they are very charismatic, that's how they rally people to their side in the first place.
Just a crazy-man: nice
Rollynolly: Not really, no, haven't really played the newer BO games.
Paynedotdll: banger, thanks, writing thrax's bits are some of my favorite things to do in recent chapters.
Warmachine324: And than YOU for reading.
IX404: Gunpowder… It's gunpowder.
SombraZorro70: THE LEGEND HAS RETURNED AGAIN FROM HIS MILK RUN, this time ill be out for a pack of ciggies. Jokes aside, thanks for the review, and you're right about Jacques, he's in the positions he's in for a reason, he's not just dumb, evil, and dumber, he knows how and when to talk, and who to talk to.
NRF: Aaaaaand it didn't succeed. Haha.
Angrypotatoe: thanks!
Ravenguard0009: They have a completely different sector of tech, true, but objectively I do think they stagnated in technology, in things such as weapons development, space exploration, and other avenues of energy. And yeah, gunpowder definitely wont make the White Fang equal to the US, not even close, like not even a fraction of a fraction of a percentage close, but it's a step in the right direction. By this point the US still uses Tomohawks.
Major Simi: thankies. I have kept going dw.
Gunfighterxy76: They are getting ABSOLUTELY crazy. Rwby and COD character will 100% meet at some point, as for my custom shit, prolly not. Thanks for reviewing.
Guest: Well they didn't go with that, going in guns blazing would prolly be an issue for 6 guys in a big airport where theyre supposed to be undercover after the mission, but it stil went off relatively well, just against the wrong target lol. Faunus will probably be a little weirded out by cosplay and such things.
Khebarovsk: Thanks! Thrax is one of my favorite people to write on this story right now.
: Hope it informs you of this one!
Onyx Gabriel: Crazy shit bro.
Gunwold.45: Thanks! Cool insights you have, I personally agree with you on all points. And yeah I also agree that it's morbid how they want to assassinate Jacques immediately out of pragmatism, bnut it's even more morbid that Ironwood's paranoia works in his favor for once and actually saves Jacques but kills his son and maims his wife. People definitely are traumatized.
AtomicTendencies: It is pretty horrifying, but due to public pressure, this monopoly on information will eventually be a little less monopoly-like, at some point Remnant will have to gain access to global earth internet and America cant simply police any information coming in. As for the IRL president vs fictional president thing, I had made bennington around 2021, when I absolutely didn't want to get involved in any irl politics and avoided any mention of irl politicians, but I realized that politics is directly ingrained in American society and policy, to not include politics, if not national, global, would be diminishing the impact that earth would have on remnant. So, while I couldn't change the fact that I'd already created bennington I could at least make him a realistic representation of what a US dem president of this era might look like.
Guest: There is research.
Guest: Generals 2 is not canon in this universe.
Ronflores651: now
April-551: thanks, And yeah theres a reason the VPD doesn't find out. There is actual precedent to removing Jacques perhaps there's a board member who's up next who is better than him since nobody in the Schnee family will be of age once he dies, a better board member might be the solution.
Hiddenite: Ikr, this aint even close to my longest break from publishing.
Anyway thank you all for reading and reviewing! Further reviews are always appreciated. Missed a bunch of holidays, but the closest one I missed is easter, so belated happy easter to all those who celebrate.
Thank you to vmoneywashere for creating Harcourt, the DGSE OC, and of course thanks to Hart for proofreading as always.
See you all on the next one, have a good time, yall.