Cover Art by CHE3ZY
Howdy everyone. Same old same old. Work's been a grind lately and I may end up moving in the next 8 months. Got a lot to figure out in that time. But in the meantime, please enjoy this chapter.
Mistral City:
Smoke and dust hung thick in the air. Sirens echoed across the city streets of Mistral. The suicide bombing had turned a once-crowded plaza into a nightmare of flames, screams, and scattered debris. Zero-One-One stood still for a moment; he quickly scanned his body for any injury. Minor burns, and a few cuts, but nothing serious. His eyes locked on Winter Schnee's unconscious form in his arms. Her aura had taken the brunt of the blast. She was alive and well; just simply knocked out.
Civilians screamed in every direction, running, crying, collapsing in shock. Zero-One-One ignored them. He was already moving.
As he stood, cradling her against his chest, he pivoted on instinct, just in time to catch the charging figure sprinting toward him from the smoke.
A White Fang insurgent, face masked and wielding a curved blade, leaped forward with murderous intent.
Zero-One-One didn't flinch.
With his left arm securing Winter, he drew the pistol holstered within his jacket in one fluid motion. The assassin lunged; blade aimed for his ribs. Zero-One-One fired once.
The impact of the bullet snapped the faunus's head back mid-stride. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless before it hit the pavement.
The crowd shrieked louder. Chaos multiplied. None of it mattered to Zero-One-One.
He kept moving.
From a balcony above, obscured in the shadows of a sign, a faunus leaned over the railing. His arm bore a distinct White Fang tattoo. He raised a scroll to his mouth and spoke urgently into it, eyes fixed on the pair below.
Zero-One-One's eyes flicked upward. He saw the faunus. The gesture. The tattoo. A call was being made.
With expert aim, the Guardian placed a shot between the lookout's eyes, dropping him dead. They weren't out of the woods yet, though. He needed to get her to safety. They needed to disappear. The objective hadn't changed—protect Winter—but now the threat was active and mobile. He had to get back to Argus immediately.
With practiced speed, he slipped into a nearby alley, avoiding the larger roads already echoing with police and civilian vehicles. He moved quickly, eyes scanning for an opportunity.
Three blocks down, he found a narrow street lined with unattended vehicles. Most were intact. One was an older black sedan that was in good condition. It wasn't the ideal getaway vehicle, but it would do.
Zero-One-One shifted Winter's weight in his arm before he punched the driver-side window with the heel of his free hand's palm. Glass shattered in a clean break. He unlocked the door, slipped inside, and gently placed Winter into the passenger seat, buckling her in. Her head rested against the window; her hair lightly streaked with soot.
The moment he touched the ignition panel; he heard tires screeching and engines roaring.
He didn't look up right away. His hands worked the wiring beneath the steering column with clockwork precision. Sparks flared once and then twice before the engine coughed to life.
He looked up into the rearview mirror just as the first vehicle turned the corner at the far end of the street—an unmarked black van. Then a second. Then a third. Headlights flared like hunting eyes locking onto their prey.
Zero-One-One threw the car into drive.
The tires spun for half a second before catching grip, and the sedan shot forward down the narrow road. Bullets slammed into the rear panel as White Fang insurgents opened fire from the lead vehicle. Civilians screamed from behind alley dumpsters and storefronts, diving for cover.
In the rearview mirror, he could see the three enemy vehicles gaining on him.
Just him, the mission, and the woman in his passenger seat.
Outskirts of Mantle:
The dropship cut through the sky, high above the frozen outskirts of Mantle. Inside, Guardian Zero-Three-Seven stood by the ramp, still and silent. The soft hum of the ship's systems was the only sound, muffled by altitude and pressure. A red light overhead blinked in rhythm. Wind speeds, altitude, and trajectory were displayed on his HUD, but he didn't need to look. He'd done this before many times.
"Drop in thirty seconds," came the pilot's voice, calm and clipped.
Outside, the world was clouded in darkness and snow. No city lights out here. No patrols. Just empty white stretched across the tundra, broken only by the faint silhouette of Mantle's lights far in the distance.
The ramp hissed open.
Green light.
He stepped off.
For several seconds, there was nothing but falling. The wind whipped past his helmet. Thin clouds streaked by. His body cut through the air in a controlled dive, the faint hiss of high-altitude descent lost to the wind.
At a thousand feet, he rolled his shoulders and activated the thruster pack. A low pulse kicked behind him, enough to slow the descent without drawing attention.
Boots hit snow.
He landed in a crouch, letting the momentum bleed into the powder beneath him. No noise. No witnesses.
He stood.
The field was quiet. Snow drifted in lazy waves across the ice. Trees, bare and black, dotted the edge of a forest farther out. No lights. No movement.
A shimmer passed over his armor, and he faded from sight.
The snow crunched softly underfoot as he moved forward, leaving no trail behind him.
Mistral City:
The stolen sedan roared through the misty streets of Mistral, its tires shrieking as Zero-One-One took a sharp corner with practiced precision. Behind him, three black vans gave chase, engines howling like beasts scenting blood. Their headlights cut through the city's haze, bouncing across rain-slick asphalt and terrified civilians leaping out of the way.
Zero-One-One's hands were iron on the wheel. Winter slumped unconscious in the passenger seat, her seatbelt secured tightly across her chest. He spared her a glance. Her breathing was steady, no new injuries. Good.
Gunfire erupted behind him. Automatic fire peppered the street around his tires, sending sparks flying. He swerved between two civilian cars, narrowly avoiding a collision. His mind operated with the speed and precision of a battlefield AI—every movement calculated, every obstacle noted. He wasn't just driving. He was hunting… and evading… simultaneously.
A van pulled up hard to his left. A soldier inside leaned out, rifle raised.
Zero-One-One reacted instantly. He yanked the wheel right, cutting across a flower vendor's stall—pots and petals shattered into the air. Civilians screamed and dove for cover, but no one was hit. He angled the sedan into a narrow street, the White Fang van trying to follow close behind.
Perfect.
He twisted the wheel sharply and slammed the brakes, a sudden stop that made the pursuing van overshoot. Zero-One-One floored the gas again and clipped the rear quarter panel of the van with a brutal pit maneuver.
The result was catastrophic.
The van spun out of control, tires shrieking as it rolled over a curb and slammed into a power transformer. Sparks burst from the impact—then came the explosion, fire billowing skyward as the vehicle was engulfed in flame.
Two vans left.
Zero-One-One darted through a roundabout, weaving between civilian cars. Every twist of the wheel, every pump of the brakes was a dance—aggressive, precise, lethal. A second van surged up from behind, closing in fast. In the rearview, he saw its side door slide open. A Faunus with a rocket launcher took aim.
"Not today."
Zero-One-One slid the pistol from its holster. With one hand on the wheel, he aimed behind, his eyes flicking between the rearview and the road.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The first shot shattered the gunner's skull. The second pierced his chest. The third struck the van's front left tire.
The tire blew.
The van lurched violently, skidding across lanes before colliding with a garbage truck parked on the side of the street. The sound of shearing metal and shattered glass echoed like thunder.
One van left.
The third and final van, more cautious, more calculated, hung back just out of pistol range. Smart. Zero-One-One's jaw tightened. This one wouldn't be easy. He turned onto a sloped street lined with food carts and low-rise apartments, adjusting his approach to minimize civilian risk.
He swerved through the tight corners with supernatural finesse, ducking through alleyways and side streets. The van matched him move for move. This driver wasn't an amateur.
He spotted a construction site up ahead with scaffolding, exposed piping, and a partially paved road. He accelerated. The sedan hit the rise of a shallow incline and caught air for a split second before landing hard. He didn't brake. Just kept moving.
The van followed—less graceful, heavier.
Zero-One-One used the delay. He jerked the wheel, sliding the sedan sideways into a narrow space between stacked shipping containers. The van tried to follow, misjudged the turn, and scraped its flank against a forklift. Metal screamed. Sparks flew. Civilians ran in every direction.
He floored it out of the gap and spun back into the main street—just ahead of the final van, which had barely corrected course.
Still on him.
But the playing field had narrowed.
Zero-One-One glanced at Winter, then back at the road.
The last van revved up, determined to end the chase. But so was he.
Island of Patch:
The morning mist hung low between the trees as Zero-Six-Nine sat on a moss-covered stone, finishing the last of his meal. A few rabbit bones were neatly stacked beside him, stripped clean. Nearby, a handful of dark berries lay in a tin cup, their sweetness long gone from memory.
His expression, as always, was unreadable. The forest around him was still, peaceful in the way only nature could be after Grimm had been driven out. He had done that already. Quietly, efficiently. Any threat to Ruby had been neutralized before it had a chance to become one.
He cleaned his knife with a cloth and set it down beside the rest of his gear. Then, he pulled a small compact mirror from his pack and unfolded it. There was no hesitation as he began to shave, dragging a straight razor carefully across his jawline. The blade's motion was steady, unhurried. A quiet routine, nothing more.
The cold air bit at his face, but he didn't flinch.
It had been over a week since he arrived in Patch.
In that time, he'd been eating off the land. Sleeping in different places each night. Always staying just far enough away to go unnoticed, always close enough to intervene if needed.
Ruby hadn't been in danger since his arrival. No Grimm. No hostile movement. No indication that anyone even knew she was here.
But that didn't change his posture. He didn't relax.
He wouldn't.
Once the shave was finished, he dipped a small cloth into the stream nearby, wiping his face clean. The last of the foam was gone in seconds. Then came a quick brush of the teeth, a rinse, and a spit into the dirt.
Everything done quietly and with precision. Like always.
Zero-Six-Nine stood and packed his gear away, rolling it up and sliding it back into place with a few practiced motions.
Above him, birds called. Distant wind rustled through the trees. Somewhere, not far from here, Ruby was probably waking up.
He didn't let himself dwell on her. Not often. But every now and then, when things were still, like now, his thoughts wandered.
She was important. Her silver eyes and her role in defeating Cinder Fall made her a target.
That was why she needed protection. That was why he was here.
But there was something else too. He didn't know what to call it. He didn't even know how to recognize it. He just knew that when she smiled, it lingered in his mind longer than it should. When she spoke, her voice stayed with him after.
That wasn't mission-related.
He tried not to let it get in the way.
He stood and scanned the tree line. Still quiet. Still nothing out of place.
Satisfied, he moved off through the woods, steps silent. The underbrush gave way underfoot without a sound.
His presence remained unseen. And Ruby remained safe. Whatever else stirred beneath the surface, he kept it there. Unnamed. Unacknowledged. There was a mission to complete. That was all that mattered.
Mistral City:
The tires screeched as Zero-One-One swerved through an intersection, narrowly missing a civilian scooter. His hands were a blur on the wheel, guiding the battered sedan with a surgeon's precision. The last White Fang van was still on him, relentless and fast, but so far, it hadn't managed to outmaneuver him.
The city's skyline flashed past in blurs—billboards, balconies, neon lights—all swallowed in the chaos of high-speed pursuit. Zero-One-One twisted through another narrow alley, then swung wide onto an open boulevard. Pedestrians leaped aside as he threaded the sedan between them like a needle, never once losing control.
Winter stirred beside him. A groggy moan escaped her lips as her head rolled toward the window.
Zero-One-One didn't take his eyes off the road. "Winter. Stay with me."
She blinked, her pupils adjusting to the light and movement. "Wh—What's going on?"
"Ambush. White Fang. You were knocked out in the blast. You're safe now, but we're still being pursued."
Winter instinctively reached for her sidearm. Her eyes cleared, and within seconds, the soldier in her was back. "How many?"
"One van and looks like we've got company inbound."
As if summoned by the words, the high-pitched whine of motorcycle engines tore through the night air. Zero-One-One glanced into the mirror—three motorbikes, each ridden by a White Fang operative armed with automatic weapons and bladed gauntlets. They swerved between cars with terrifying agility, converging on both flanks of the sedan.
"Here they come."
One of the bikers accelerated up to Winter's side of the car and raised his weapon.
Before he could fire, Winter rolled down the window, drew her pistol, and put a clean shot through the rider's chest. The motorcycle wobbled, crashed into a parked vehicle, and exploded in a burst of sparks.
Zero-One-One veered hard left to avoid a produce cart and then spun the wheel into a 180-degree drift around a concrete pillar, throwing the remaining bikers off balance. The car fishtailed wildly until he punched the gas, realigned, and launched forward again like a missile.
Another biker raced up beside the driver's side. Zero-One-One didn't hesitate and slammed the wheel right, smashing the rider between the sedan and a lamp post. The motorcycle burst into flames as the rider crumpled beneath it.
The last biker looped in behind them, weaving aggressively.
"Hang on," Zero-One-One warned.
He yanked the parking brake for a moment, feigning a loss of control, then released it and twisted the wheel hard. The sudden, whip-like maneuver sent the rear of the car crashing into the biker's front wheel. The collision flung the motorcycle end over end before it slammed into the pavement in a shower of sparks and oil.
Three bikers down.
The White Fang van accelerated, determined to take them down. It opened fire—rounds ripped through the rear window and seats. Winter ducked as glass shattered around them.
"Drive!" she shouted.
"I am driving," Zero-One-One replied flatly, spinning the wheel as they hit a hairpin turn near the edge of Mistral's industrial district. Steam hissed from vents in the street. Overhead, smokestacks loomed like skeleton fingers clawing the sky.
The van followed, refusing to fall back.
Zero-One-One spotted a cargo truck ahead—broad, slow, taking up both lanes. He narrowed his eyes.
He dropped the gear and floored the gas.
"What are you—"
"Trust me."
He ramped the sedan onto the sidewalk, surged forward, and shot the car through the narrow gap between the truck and a line of scaffolding. The space was barely wider than the car itself. Metal grated against the sides. Mirrors shattered. Sparks lit up the undercarriage.
They burst out the other side cleanly.
The van tried the same maneuver—but its larger frame didn't make it.
The front bumper caught the scaffold's support beam. The impact sent it spinning sideways into a half-built loading ramp. The van hit the incline, went airborne for a sickening moment, then flipped end-over-end before crashing down on its roof with a thunderous slam.
Silence returned, save for the crackle of flames and distant sirens.
Zero-One-One brought the sedan to a slow stop just outside the industrial yard. Steam hissed from the engine. He stepped out, scanning the wreckage. No movement—until a groan escaped the back of the van.
One survivor.
"Wait here," he told her.
Zero-One-One approached the vehicle with his weapon drawn. He gripped the mangled rear door and tore it open with brute strength. Inside, a White Fang operative lay half-crushed, bleeding heavily from the leg. He raised a shaking pistol, but the Guardian knocked it aside and smashed his elbow into the man's jaw, knocking him unconscious.
Without a word, Zero-One-One stripped him of his weapons, then reached into his jacket and retrieved a pair of handcuffs. He secured the operative's wrists behind his back and hoisted him over a shoulder like a sack of grain.
Winter watched from the car as he opened the trunk and dumped the prisoner inside.
She blinked, confused. "What are you doing?"
Zero-One-One calmly returned to the driver's seat, buckled his belt, and checked the mirrors.
"He's going to answer some questions."
Winter stared at him for a moment—then nodded slowly, accepting the cold efficiency without further argument.
"Alright," she said. "Let's go."
And they disappeared into the shadows of the city, one step ahead of the chaos still unraveling behind them.
Mantle:
The soft hum of machinery filled the dimly lit lab, a steady, familiar rhythm that echoed off the steel walls like a heartbeat. Screens lined the room, their pale glow casting long shadows across the workbench where Dr. Pietro Polendina sat, his posture hunched but focused, his hands steady despite their trembling.
His glasses slid slightly down the bridge of his nose, forgotten as he leaned in close, a small soldering tool in one hand and a fine filament of synthetic nerve fiber in the other. A lens mounted to the side of his chair helped him see the delicate circuitry he was reattaching—golden threads no wider than a strand of hair that once carried Penny's thoughts, her laughter, her kindness.
"I will bring you back," he murmured to himself, not for the first time.
A quiet chime pulsed from one of the monitors. A readout was updated. System integrity at 76%.
Better than yesterday.
He allowed himself the smallest smile.
Penny's chassis was laid out across a sterile table in front of him, her frame sleek and newly reinforced in places, delicate in others. He had made improvements—not out of necessity, but out of love. Small changes. Strengthened stabilizers in her legs. A more efficient power core. A new type of fiber for her neural links, designed to handle memory better. Preserve more of what made her…her.
But the most important parts, he hadn't touched. Her core program—her aura matrix—remained untouched, stored safely on a secured drive in the far corner of the room. That file was everything. The last proof of who she had been.
"I won't lose you again," he whispered.
A light breeze stirred the papers on his desk as the lab's ventilation system kicked in. The scent of solder, sterilizing alcohol, and metal lingered in the air—clean, clinical, but not cold. Not anymore.
On one of the nearby monitors, a series of green bars pulsed rhythmically—heart-like. Dr. Polendina paused and glanced at them, watching for several seconds.
Stable.
He made a note in his journal, handwriting looping with care and precision.
Neural integration proceeding smoothly. Aura core has not rejected link structures. Emotional response triggers are dormant, but showing consistent pathways. Potential for memory retrieval intact.
He set the pen down and leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, slow breath. The faint creak of his mechanical legs echoed beneath him.
Progress.
Not success. Not yet.
But hope.
He reached out and gently rested a hand on the edge of the table beside Penny's arm—still unfinished, its plating open, wires like veins visible inside. A soft brush of his fingers against hers. Cold metal to cold metal.
"You're almost home, my girl."
He said nothing else.
He didn't need to.
The machines kept humming. Lights flickered gently overhead. Outside the lab, the city of Mantle was quiet beneath the snow.
But inside the lab, the future stirred—small, slow, and full of promise.
Somewhere in Mistral:
The warehouse was dark and quiet, lit only by a few flickering industrial lights hanging from exposed rafters. Dust clung to the stale air, and the only sound was the subtle drip of water echoing in the distance. The White Fang operative slowly stirred, groaning as he awoke to the feeling of cold steel against his wrists. His eyes snapped open, panic blooming in his chest as he realized he was handcuffed to a steel chair.
Across from him stood two figures.
The woman was calm, collected, and coldly professional. Her military posture was straight with her arms behind her back, eyes sharp and clear like ice.
Next to her loomed a man, tall and powerfully imposing. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared. The way he stood, still as stone yet brimming with barely contained potential violence, was enough to make the prisoner's blood run cold.
Winter stepped forward, her heels clicking against the concrete floor. She stopped just short of the chair.
"Let's begin, shall we?"
The White Fang soldier said nothing, glaring at her with defiance.
Winter's voice was calm. "You were involved in the ambush at the café. We want to know how you knew we would be there."
The operative remained silent.
Winter's eyes narrowed, though her tone stayed neutral. "Who told you?"
No response.
She began to pace slowly. "You were a part of the White Fang cell that coordinated with operatives during the Fall of Beacon. Who inside Mistral helped you?"
Still nothing.
She turned to face him directly again. "What is the White Fang planning now?"
The operative spat at her feet.
Winter didn't even flinch. She stepped back slightly and exhaled through her nose, composed and focused. "I expected as much."
From his spot in the shadows, Zero-One-One remained still. Watching. Listening. Every muscle was ready to act if even the slightest hint of danger presented itself. He had already cleared the perimeter when they arrived, ensuring no one had followed them here. It was safe—for now.
Winter walked to a table beside her and pulled up a metal chair. She sat down, crossed her legs, and folded her hands on her knees. Her eyes studied the prisoner for a long moment before she spoke again.
"Torture won't work on you. You've likely been trained to resist it. You've probably even endured it."
She leaned forward slightly.
"You see, I know your type. Fanatics. True believers. You've convinced yourselves you're fighting for something noble." Her gaze hardened. "But you've become everything you once hated."
Still no answer.
She tilted her head thoughtfully. "There's something I've always found interesting about the White Fang."
She stood and walked slowly behind the man. "You're all so brave. So willing to die. But when the right fear is applied…" She stopped behind him and gestured toward the towering figure still standing in the dark.
"Do you know who that is?"
The operative glanced up at Zero-One-One.
Winter's voice was colder now. "He's a Guardian. You may know them by another name." She leaned closer to the prisoner's ear. "The Harvesters."
The change was immediate.
The prisoner went pale, his bravado cracking. He looked at Zero-One-One again, this time with real fear in his eyes.
Winter stepped in front of him again. "He's one of the monsters you tell stories about to scare your recruits straight. And the only reason he hasn't started asking the questions is because I haven't let him."
The silence grew thick.
"He's not here to talk," she added softly. "He's here in case I get tired of trying."
The prisoner finally cracked. His voice was hoarse. "We knew about the meeting because Adam had someone inside Mistral's intelligence web. Said it came straight from someone close to Haven Academy."
Lionheart.
The operative continued. "We were ordered to wipe out all Atlas intelligence assets in the city. You were the last two."
Zero-One-One's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He was already drawing his own conclusions.
"And the plan moving forward?" Winter asked.
The prisoner hesitated. Then: "They're going to assassinate the Belladonnas. Make it look like Atlas operatives did it. They want a war between humans and faunus."
"When?" Asked Winter.
"I…I'm not sure," he replied. "I would guess a few months from now. Adam made it clear that he needed to solidify his control over the White Fang before that happened."
Winter and Zero-One-One shared a silent look.
The White Fang operative looked between the two agents of Atlas, desperation creeping in.
"I told you everything. I swear."
Winter stared at him, her face unreadable. After a moment, she turned her head slightly.
"Zero-One-One."
Without a word, the towering figure moved. The prisoner's eyes went wide with terror.
"Wait—wait, you can't do this!"
Winter cut him off coldly. "I'm afraid it's out of my hands now."
The last thing the White Fang operative saw was Zero-One-One's hand snapping forward, and then…
Crack.
His body went limp, neck twisted at an unnatural angle.
Zero-One-One let the corpse slump forward in the chair and stepped back.
Winter looked at him. "We're done here."
Zero-One-One gave a single nod. "We need to get back to Argus. You need to return to Atlas."
"I know."
The two left the warehouse in silence, their mission in Mistral complete—but the storm that lay ahead had only just begun.
The road stretched on endlessly under the dim glow of moonlight, the stars barely visible through the low-hanging clouds. It had been ten hours since Zero-One-One and Winter left Mistral behind. Ten hours of winding through rural backroads, avoiding main routes or anything that even resembled civilization. Zero-One-One remained behind the wheel the entire time—alert, calculating, and calm. Not once did he yawn. Not once did his grip on the steering wheel loosen.
Winter had dozed off somewhere around the three-hour mark, her body still reeling from the explosion and adrenaline crashes of the day. Her head had rested against the window for hours, soft breaths fogging up the glass. But now, with the skies turning an even deeper shade of blue-black and the clock on the dashboard blinking 2:58 AM, she was awake.
She watched him quietly, stealing sidelong glances between stretches of road. She wasn't sure what fascinated her more: the way he hadn't shown the slightest hint of fatigue, or the sheer focus etched into his every movement. His hands never left the wheel, not even to adjust the heating when the cabin turned cold. His eyes never flicked toward her—only ahead, watching, planning, anticipating.
Winter's gaze dropped to the faint dark stains on his shirt. Blood.
"Doc," she said softly.
He didn't look at her. "Yes?"
"That blood... you didn't tell me you were hurt."
He finally glanced her way. "I wasn't. Not really."
"Not really?" she repeated, concern thick in her voice.
He shook his head. "It's from the explosion. Some shrapnel grazed me. It didn't go deep. My aura handled the rest."
Winter looked away for a moment, trying to keep her emotions even. She remembered that moment—how he had shielded her body with his own, taking the brunt of the blast without hesitation. She was alive because of him. Astra wasn't so lucky.
Her voice lowered. "You didn't even hesitate."
"It was my mission," he replied plainly. "To protect you."
They fell into silence again, the hum of the tires the only sound between them. But Winter couldn't let go of the sight of the blood or the weight of what he had done for her.
As the car rolled through the outskirts of a small town—one of the many they'd avoided earlier—Winter spotted a modest hotel ahead, its neon sign flickering. She leaned forward, her voice firm.
"Pull in there. We're stopping for the night."
"No," Zero-One-One replied immediately, keeping his eyes on the road. "We're close to Argus. I need to get you back to Atlas command."
"I'm giving you an order," she said sternly, turning toward him. "Pull in. Now."
A brief pause. He looked at her from the corner of his eye and saw the steel in her gaze. He relented with a faint exhale through his nose and guided the vehicle into the hotel's parking lot.
Winter climbed out, her boots crunching on gravel. "Stay here. I'll get the room."
Zero-One-One nodded, engine idling as he scanned the area. She stepped inside the small, dimly lit lobby and approached the front desk. A tired receptionist greeted her, barely looking up. Winter asked for a room and paid in cash. Within minutes, she returned to the vehicle, a key in hand.
"Room 6. Around the side," she said.
He pulled the car into the parking lot's shadowed corner, close to the entrance. He exited the car and followed her to the room. It was small, outdated, but clean. A single queen-sized bed, a chair, a nightstand, and a bathroom.
Winter dropped her coat on the chair and turned toward him.
"Take off your shirt."
Zero-One-One blinked, slightly confused. "Ma'am?"
"So I can examine your injuries," she clarified. "I want to make sure you're okay."
"I told you. I'm fine. My aura's done the work."
"That wasn't a request," she said, folding her arms.
He hesitated, then slowly pulled off the blood-streaked shirt. Winter stepped closer, ready to inspect fresh wounds—but what she saw froze her.
There were no injuries. The cuts and grazes had fully closed. Not even bruising. But what caught her breath were the scars. Long, jagged lines ran across his chest, shoulders, and down his spine. They weren't the kind that came from combat. These were precise—surgical. Like someone had taken him apart and put him back together.
Her voice was barely above a whisper. "What happened to you?"
He met her eyes. "Surgery," he replied.
"That... doesn't look like any normal surgery."
"It was a long time ago," he replied, brushing past her to sit on the edge of the bed.
Winter didn't press further. She could tell by his tone—by the wall he'd put up—that this wasn't something he wanted to talk about.
Instead, she sat across from him in the chair and watched him quietly for a moment.
"Thank you," she said finally.
He looked up. "For what?"
"For saving my life. For protecting Weiss. For everything."
A faint pause. "You don't have to thank me. It's my job."
"Still," she said softly, her voice warm, "thank you... Doc."
Something subtle shifted in his expression. He gave a small nod. "You're welcome, Winter."
She stood and stretched slightly. "You should get some rest. I'll keep watch for the rest of the night."
He frowned. "Unnecessary. I'm fully alert."
"That wasn't a request either," she said with a slight smirk. "It's an order."
He stared at her for a moment, then slowly nodded again. "Yes, ma'am."
Zero-One-One lay down on the bed, resting his head against the pillow. He was asleep almost instantly—his breathing steady, his expression peaceful for the first time since they'd left Mistral.
Winter sat back in the chair, her eyes never leaving him. She kept watch like she promised. After everything he had done for her, it was the least she could do.
The room had settled into a deep, still quiet—muted by thick motel walls, the hum of the neon sign outside, and the occasional distant call of night birds. Winter sat in the lone chair near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, posture upright despite the weight of exhaustion starting to catch up with her again.
She hadn't spoken since Doc had closed his eyes.
He had fallen asleep without hesitation, dropping into rest the way only someone used to danger could. No wasted movement, no signs of vulnerability. Just pure, trained efficiency.
Winter watched him in silence, her eyes roaming across his face and then down to the blanket she had draped over him earlier. She still saw the scars in her mind. Jagged surgical incisions up his spine, across his ribs, down both arms—evidence of something more.
She didn't know what kind of procedure could require such extreme modification on someone so young. And she didn't want to imagine it tonight.
But somewhere around 4:15 in the morning, that calm was broken.
Doc's breathing, once steady and slow, began to hitch. His head twitched slightly to one side, brows pinching in what looked almost like pain. Then his fingers began to curl inward, clutching at the edge of the blanket. The muscles in his arms and chest flexed—tension forming like coiled wire beneath his skin. His breaths came faster, sharp, and strained.
Winter's eyes narrowed. Not out of suspicion but instead concern.
She leaned forward slightly, watching carefully. He wasn't waking. His eyes stayed shut. But whatever he was seeing behind them, it wasn't rest.
PTSD.
That was her first thought. She'd seen it before in decorated Atlas veterans—especially operatives who had gone into deep cover for extended tours or who had survived long isolation. But this wasn't just trauma. This was conditioning. A buried response that didn't die even when he slept.
She didn't wake him. Something instinctive told her not to.
Instead, Winter slowly moved from her chair and knelt beside the bed. Quietly, gently, she reached forward and took his hand in hers.
For a moment, nothing changed.
But then, like something eased in his subconscious, his fingers relaxed. His breathing began to slow. The tautness in his shoulders lessened, and the grip he had on whatever nightmare plagued him loosened. His hand—calloused, warm—remained in hers.
She didn't let go.
Winter stayed there beside him in silence, her other hand resting atop his gently, grounding him. Whatever had twisted him in his sleep had passed. Now he slept more peacefully. Less like a weapon, more like a man.
That was probably the most confusing thing about him of all. He was a battle-hardened veteran, and yet he was also just a boy. She wasn't that much older than him. She was twenty-three, soon to be twenty-four very shortly. She once thought he and his brothers were older, but that quickly changed when she saw them without their helmets. They were just boys, and yet they weren't at the same time. Truly, she didn't know how old he was, but she surmised he was anywhere between 18 and 19 years old.
Just who exactly are you?
She didn't smile. She didn't speak.
But her eyes softened.
The time crept by slowly. 4:30. 5:15. 5:52.
At exactly 6:00 a.m., his eyes opened.
Winter was already back in her seat, posture composed, face unreadable. But she'd left the chair just a little closer than before.
Doc sat up immediately, his training returning with the morning light. He blinked twice, adjusting to the faint gray light leaking in through the curtains.
"You're awake," Winter said softly.
He nodded once. "Six o'clock on the dot."
"I noticed."
Doc ran a hand down his face. "You didn't sleep."
"Didn't intend to."
"You should have. We still have a few hours of travel ahead."
"I'm aware," she said. "But you needed the rest more than I did."
He studied her face for a moment. "Did I say anything in my sleep?"
"No."
She didn't lie—but she didn't tell the whole truth, either.
He reached for his shirt and slid it over his frame. Winter's gaze lingered just long enough for him to notice, but not long enough to warrant a question.
"You didn't wake me when I stirred," Doc said.
"I didn't think it would help."
There was a long silence.
He turned his eyes toward the window. "We should move. We can have you in Atlas airspace by late afternoon if the roads stay clear."
Winter nodded, standing. "Agreed. I'm glad you got some rest," she said.
Doc adjusted the strap on his shoulder. "Thanks to you."
Winter's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Let's go, Doc."
They exited the hotel room together, the door clicking softly shut behind them. Outside, the world was slowly waking, mist still clinging to the hills beyond the cracked roads. The air was brisk. Birds chirped. The motel parking lot was empty, save for their vehicle.
The mission wasn't over. Far from it. But for now, they had survived. Together.
And that mattered more than either of them could say out loud.
Mantle:
The wind in Mantle bit like it always did—sharp, dry, and bitter. Snow drifted in lazy waves through the gray sky, settling atop slanted rooftops and cracked sidewalks. The homeless shelter, tucked between two soot-stained buildings, barely held together against the cold, but the crowd gathered outside wore smiles. Robyn Hill's truck was pulling up, and hope came with it.
The old transport rumbled to a stop, its paint chipped but its sides still emblazoned with the Happy Huntresses' crest. As the back doors swung open, people cheered.
"There she is!" someone shouted.
"Bless you, Robyn!"
"You're an angel!"
Robyn jumped down from the passenger seat.
"Alright, let's get you all fed and warm!" she called, voice bright with energy.
Fiona, Joanna, and May followed close behind, climbing out with grins of their own. They moved fast, unlocking crates and preparing to distribute the food and clothing they'd collected over the past week.
But the cheering stopped.
"Uh, Robyn?" Joanna's voice was low, uncertain. She held up a spoiled bag of rice—the seal was broken and its contents were full of mold.
Fiona was already prying open another crate. Her expression fell. "The clothing's torn. Ripped up—like someone slashed it."
Robyn hurried over, pulling open more crates with growing urgency. The same story repeated—food too far gone to eat, clothes soaked or shredded. The cold air suddenly felt much colder.
The crowd behind her shifted, their hope turning to disappointment.
A man near the front sighed. "We waited all morning…"
"I'm sorry," Robyn said, voice heavy with guilt as she turned to them. "I don't know what happened, but this—this is not what we promised."
The people didn't yell. That was almost worse.
She faced her team. "Did anyone check these before we left?"
"We did," May said, brows furrowed. "Everything was intact two nights ago. We locked up the warehouse ourselves."
"Then someone got in," Robyn muttered. "And we're going to find out who."
She turned back to the crowd. "I swear to you, we'll be back. Tonight, if we have to be. With food that won't make you sick and clothes that'll keep you warm. That's a promise."
The crowd parted to let the Huntresses through as they piled back into the truck. Silence followed them now.
Their warehouse was colder than outside. The power had been cut.
Robyn clicked on a flashlight, its beam slicing through the dark. The supplies they'd left behind were ruined—canned food pried open, dried goods spoiled with chemical rot. Clothing strewn across the concrete floor, all of it slashed and mangled.
"What the hell…" Joanna whispered.
May dashed to the back office where their surveillance rig was set up. "I'll pull the cam footage."
She returned minutes later, pale.
"It's been wiped. Every drive. Cleaned like it was never even used."
Robyn swore under her breath. "This wasn't some random vandal. Someone planned this."
Fiona nodded grimly. "Someone who wanted to send a message. And make sure we couldn't trace it."
Robyn looked at the crates, the remains of their hard work destroyed without a sound or clue. She stared at them for a moment too long, as if trying to piece together something that wasn't there.
May stepped outside to check their vehicle.
"Uh, Robyn?"
They followed her out.
The transport's tires were shredded. The fuel line was sliced. The undercarriage was cracked—sabotaged with precise, surgical damage.
"No one saw or heard anything," Fiona said quietly.
"Locks weren't broken," Joanna added.
No alarm, no witnesses. No signs of entry or escape. It was like a ghost had walked in, torn their work apart, and vanished.
The Huntresses stood together in the cold, weapons held loosely, eyes scanning the empty street.
But no one came. No one watched. No one moved.
Robyn lowered her weapon. Her voice was barely a whisper. "We're being watched."
Argus-Atlas Military Outpost:
The cold, sterile lighting of the SCIF vault hummed softly around Zero-One-One as he stood before the secure communications terminal deep within the Argus Atlas military base. The steel walls, layered with signal-dampening panels and reinforced bulkheads, offered absolute security. Behind the locked blast doors, only classified ghosts lingered.
Zero-One-One, now clad once again in his WRAITH armor, stood motionless with hands clasped behind his back, helmet tucked under one arm. He'd left his armor here before leaving for Mistral with Winter to avoid drawing attention. He was back to his normal appearance; the disguise having long been shed. The screen flickered for a moment before resolving into the sharp image of General James Ironwood, seated behind his command desk. His expression was hard.
"Report," Ironwood said without preamble.
Zero-One-One inclined his head. "General. The operation in Mistral was compromised. The White Fang knew of our meeting location with Agent Astra. They executed an ambush. Agent Astra was killed in action."
Ironwood's jaw tightened, though he said nothing at first.
"Before she died," Zero-One-One continued, "she confirmed the presence of White Fang influence within Mistral's government—connections that go higher than we expected."
Ironwood's face darkened. "Lionheart."
Zero-One-One gave a slow, grim nod. "I believe he is compromised. It explains the White Fang's awareness of our movements."
He then reported the interrogation. "We captured one of the White Fang operatives responsible. Before his execution, he revealed their objective: to incite a global race war. The Belladonna family is the next target. They intend to kill them and frame Atlas for the act. The estimated time until they carry out their assassination is a few months."
Ironwood stood now, leaning on the desk. "Salem's hand… she's pushing the world to tear itself apart from within. If that plan succeeds, we'll lose any remaining cohesion between the kingdoms."
He turned back to Zero-One-One with grave urgency. "Listen carefully. You are to stay in Mistral. Locate the remaining White Fang cells. Hunt them all down. And when you're done-"
"Lionheart," Zero-One-One said, finishing the sentence.
Ironwood gave a single nod.
"What of the Belladonna family?"
"I have Zero-Three-Seven on an assignment currently," Ironwood said. "He will be redirected to Menagerie soon once he is done. He'll ensure no harm comes to them."
"Understood, sir."
"And Winter?"
"She's ready for departure."
"Then get her on a shuttle. I want her back in Atlas ASAP."
"Affirmative."
The call ended. Zero-One-One stood in silence for a moment, then turned and strode out of the vault.
Outside the SCIF, the morning light of Argus had breached the mountains, and the Atlas military base was fully awake. Personnel moved in efficient formation, vehicles rumbled across the tarmac, and airships drifted between the hangars like silent sentinels.
Winter stood at the base of a waiting shuttle, dressed sharply in her pristine Atlas military uniform. Similar to Zero-One-One, she had shed her disguise and returned to her usual look. Her hair was neatly tied back again, her posture composed—but the fatigue of recent days clung to the edges of her expression. In one hand, she held a secure briefcase containing the data disc Astra had given her—everything the late agent had gathered on Mistral's rot from within.
The two identical twin lieutenants eagerly took her bags aboard the shuttle. She offered them a curt nod of thanks before turning to see Zero-One-One approach.
He moved with deliberate precision, quiet against the concrete. Fully armored once more, he looked every bit the operative born from shadows and war.
Winter stepped forward.
"Everything in order?" she asked.
Zero-One-One nodded. "Ironwood received the report. You're to return to Atlas with the intelligence. He wants you there ASAP."
She looked up at him for a moment, her eyes catching his own behind the visor. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For everything. I'm glad we had the chance to work together."
He hesitated. Then, removing his helmet, he gave her a small, unpracticed smile. "The pleasure was mine. I'll see you in Atlas again, but for now, I remain here."
There was something resolute in his voice, something final. Winter sensed it but didn't pry. He hadn't told her his next move, but she could feel its weight.
When he extended his hand to her, she didn't take it.
Instead, she stepped forward and pulled him into an embrace.
Zero-One-One stiffened for a moment; then slowly returned the gesture. His arms wrapped around her with surprising gentleness for someone built to destroy. He had to lower his height a bit to make it less awkward.
"You're to remain safe," she said, firm but sincere. "At all times. That's an order."
He nodded against her shoulder. "Yes, ma'am."
She pulled back slightly and placed a kiss on his cheek. A gesture full of warmth, of care—not romance, but a familial kind of love. A silent thank-you for saving her life, for protecting her sister, for being the one person she could trust when everything went to hell.
She smiled softly at him. "Until next time, Doc."
He offered her a parting nod. "Until next time, Winter."
Winter boarded the shuttle. The ramp rose behind her with a hiss of hydraulics. The engines powered up, and the aircraft rose into the pre-dawn sky.
Zero-One-One watched it until it disappeared beyond the clouds, alone on the landing pad.
Mission one was complete.
Now, the real hunt began.
Island of Patch:
"Is this it?" Nora asked, bouncing slightly in excitement.
"Yeah," Jaune nodded, stepping forward and slinging his duffel over his shoulder. "This is the place."
Ren's expression was calm as they walked up the path, the front door opened before they could even knock.
"Hey there!" Taiyang said with a warm grin, brushing flour off his apron. The family dog, Zwei, barked excitedly and bounded down the steps toward the new arrivals, immediately launching himself at Nora, who caught him mid-air with a giggle.
"Hello," the three members of team JNPR said collectively. Nora's greeting was by far the most energetic.
"Come in, come in," Taiyang said, waving them inside. "Ruby's been pacing the floor all morning."
As they entered, the friendly scent of home-cooked food filled the air, and there she was—Ruby, standing just beyond the living room in her signature cloak, now more worn than before. Her silver eyes widened as she spotted them.
"Guys!" Ruby cried, rushing forward.
They embraced her all at once. Laughter and relief filled the air as the friends reunited for the first time since the fall of Beacon. Ren gave her a small, gentle smile. Nora squeezed her so tightly that she practically lifted her off the ground. Jaune didn't say anything right away—he just hugged her.
"I'm so glad you're all here," Ruby whispered.
Outside the house, unseen and silent, Guardian Zero-Six-Nine knelt in the treetops, his armor blending with the shadows. His helmet's optical sensors zoomed in on the window. From his vantage point, he saw everything.
Back inside, after the joyful reunion had simmered down, Jaune glanced around.
"Where's Yang?"
Ruby's smile dimmed slightly. She looked down. Taiyang stepped in.
"She's upstairs… but she's not doing great. She… hasn't been herself lately."
There was a long pause. Ruby nodded and gently excused herself to help her dad with the guest beds. That left the others to linger in the living room, glancing at the stairs. Jaune sat back on the couch, lost in thought.
"She's been through so much," Ren said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jaune clenched his fists. "I know. That's why we have to see her."
"Are you sure that's wise?" Ren asked, hesitant. "She might need more time."
"Maybe," Jaune admitted, then looked up. "But she also needs us."
"I'm with Jaune on this," Nora said, already halfway up the stairs.
The three of them climbed the creaking steps. The hallway was dim and quiet. They stopped outside Yang's room. Jaune gently knocked.
There was a long pause before they heard her voice, soft and distant. "Come in."
The door creaked open. Yang lay in bed, her golden hair slightly messy. Her remaining arm rested across her stomach. The other sleeve of her shirt was folded and pinned where her arm had once been. Her gaze turned toward them—dull and tired.
"Hey," she said. Her voice held a small trace of her old self, but it was faint.
"Yang…" Jaune stepped inside first, followed by Ren and Nora.
"We missed you," Nora said, sitting at the edge of her bed with a gentle smile.
Yang offered a half-smile. "Thanks, Nora. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to come downstairs."
"That's not true," Jaune said. "You were—are—one of the strongest people I know."
Yang looked away. "Not strong enough. I couldn't do anything at Beacon. I…I lost…"
They all knew what she meant. She hadn't just lost her arm—she'd lost a piece of her spirit.
Nora reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You're still here. That means you can fight. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually."
Yang didn't respond. Her eyes stayed on the window, far away.
Ren looked at Jaune and gave a small nod toward the door. It was time.
"Alright," Jaune said softly. "We'll give you space. But… Yang?"
She turned her head slightly.
"I'm not giving up on you," he said. "None of us are. We're here. And when you're ready—we'll fight together again."
She didn't answer, but something flickered in her eyes.
They stepped out of the room, the door closing softly behind them. Down the hall, Ruby watched from the stairwell, a quiet gratitude in her eyes. She wasn't alone anymore.
Team JNPR, minus Pyrrha, has made it to Patch. Who is responsible for the sabotaging of Robyn's supplies? Rahm and Winter make a pretty good time if I do say so myself. Winter kissing him was nothing romantic FYI. I know plenty of girls who do that sort of thing haha. But it definitely looks like Winter might ask some questions about the Guardians. Leave a review and let me know what you think. Until next time.
-Dude64