Archive of Our Own ^beta

Starlight Glimmer hummed to herself as she walked down the bare grey corridor, well aware that she was being watched, even if she were to ignore the two guards flanking her to provide her protection she hardly needed. The walls, after all, had eyes and ears.

The prison as a whole was a dull, grey affair, constructed in the no-frills utilitarian aesthetic so common within the Atlesian military. Certainly, while efforts were made to ensure the inmates weren't tortured or deprived — beyond that which was needed to keep them safely segregated from society, that is — no particular efforts were made for their comfort either.

While security had tightened up, certainly, her new position on the Provisional Council — or perhaps not so provisional anymore, considering General Colton's rather vocal opinion on the matter — still granted her levels of access she had never dreamed of before. Well, with a little help from her fellow councilor, Robyn Hill. Colton and Ironwood's seats may be virtually untouchable, especially after the Chrysalis incident — and that upstart, Swiftwing, might have the support of the settlements, but that support would surely wane in time; she'd make sure of it, if she had to — but the true power in Atlas lay in the Twin Cities, and everyone knew it.

Not everyone in prison had lost the franchise as part of their sentence, after all, and if others wanted to ignore such a potential voting bloc over something as inconsequential as "betrayal of their oaths," well, she wasn't willing to make that same mistake. Certainly, they had seemed … receptive … to her message.

And besides, in these unstable times, their particular skill sets might prove useful.

Right now, though, she was looking to pay a more personal visit to a particular inmate, recently convicted.

She stepped into the visiting room and smiled sweetly at the woman in prison overalls seated at the table, manacles hanging from her wrists. So far, she had been a cooperative inmate, and for that, Starlight was grateful; it meant she could shoo her escort outside and speak privately, for the room — intended for inmates to consult with their attorneys — was soundproofed and free of listening devices.

"Hello, Phoebe."

The Mistrali woman looked up and glared at her.

"Starlight Glimmer," she hissed. "Why have you come here? To gloat?"

The two had crossed paths on occasion, when Starlight was researching legends in Mistral. It was the cover with which she'd justified this visit, for all that such interactions had been … less than pleasant. Starlight had seen hints of her … predilections then, but no one had been able to prove anything.

Until, that is, the scrutiny Phoebe had come under when it was discovered that the terrorist infiltrating Beacon as a Haven student, Cinder Fall, was actually her stepsister, Ashley Little-Glassman, long thought dead. An awful lot of skeletons had been dug up at that point, some of them quite literally.

"Ah, so you heard about the election?"

Phoebe snorted. "It would have been difficult not to, given how freely my fellow inmates speak your name."

"I see." Starlight took a seat. "But to answer your question, Phoebe, no. I'm not here to gloat. I'm here to listen."

"Listen to what?" asked Phoebe warily.

"To whatever you can tell me about your stepsister," Starlight replied. "So. Who is Cinder Fall? Who is Ashley Little-Glassman?"

She leaned forward, hands on the table.

"Who is the Fall Maiden?"

"—going by the name 'Cinder Fall,' reportedly the Fall Maiden and believed to be responsible for the destruction of the Furchtlos, remains at large—"

"Turn that off," Gilda — Councilor Gilda — Swiftwing growled. The world didn't stop turning just because some other kingdom got attacked. Besides, wherever this Cinder Fall was, she'd have to be suicidal to come to Atlas, even with her new Decepticon allies. And if she did, well, that was a problem for then, not now.

Right now, she had other issues to deal with.

When she'd started her campaign, she hadn't really expected to win. In fact, she had half-suspected she'd been set up to fail, but … orders were orders. And now that she was on the Provisional Council … well, now what?

To suddenly have her hands on the levers of power … and to think, she owed it all to Rainbow Dash. Well, Rainbow Dash's friends, but why split hairs? After all, they were her friends now too, apparently, no matter how many times she rebuffed them.

And … well, the people outside the Zwillingstäler — the twin cities of Atlas and Mantle — did need help. The number of petitions coming from the outer settlements was … unsettling. It wasn't easy to dismiss their requests either. Much of the time, they weren't asking for money but other resources: airships or Huntsmen, construction materials, medical supplies, food.

Other times … other times, they were just giving updates on the status of the settlements. It was like they were happy just to have someone listen to them. Some of them even came out and said just that.

She'd first joined the cause to help the faunus. But … there were a lot more faunus to help than she'd thought. And some humans too. That thing with Team Scarlet and the Crystal Prep principal was just one particularly egregious example.

She still wanted to free the faunus, but … she couldn't help but wonder just what the White Fang was doing there.

There was a tone from her intercom, and she reached over to activate it.

"Ma'am, you have a call." There was a meaningful pause. "Line Ten."

"Thank you, Mary. I'll take it now. Patch it through."

The holocall flared to life, but instead of the image of her caller, she was only greeted by a shadowy silhouette against a blank background, the only brightness and color coming from the White Fang mask superimposed over the silhouette's face.

"Number Ten," she greeted. She didn't actually know the Atlas Chapter's leader's name, or even what he looked like. She'd only met him twice — once when she'd joined and again when she'd been tasked to run for office — and both times, they'd met in seclusion and darkness, smoke-filled rooms where secrecy and urgency abounded; both times, he'd stayed obscured and spoke through a voice distorter. As he did now.

"Gilda," the distorted voice greeted her. "I see you've been settling in well." He paused. "I know you've been pushing to spread the fleet out to leave Atlas vulnerable; keep at it."

"Of course, sir." That … hadn't been why she'd been pushing for that, but … perhaps it was better not to let on.

"We have received additional orders from the High Leader on how the chapter is to proceed in the coming months. The part you'll play in it is critical." Gilda braced herself for the upcoming order. "I will need access codes for the old Royal Courthouse in Mantle."

"They change them regularly," she cautioned. The courthouse might have been built centuries ago — and in Mantle, which didn't always receive timely upgrades — but the courthouse was an exception, and its security was fully modernized. "I won't have access to them more than a week in advance."

"That will be sufficient."

"Very well," she said. "Anything else?"

"For you? Not at the moment," he said. "The High Leader had some … additional instructions, but they require some … tweaking."

Gilda refrained from reacting.

"Understood."

The Rainbow Bar & Grill was a cozy little place with excellent food and drink, a small stage for live entertainment, and a staff that knew who was fighting for Mantle. The bell above the door jingled as Robyn Hill pushed it open, allowing music to spill from within.

The singer under the spotlight on the stage was a young blonde, Maisie Coryphee, if Robyn remembered her name right. She made a point to know as many of her followers as she could. As she entered, Robyn was greeted by friendly waves and smiles, particularly from her three closest, most loyal comrades.

Fiona Thyme waved cheerfully as the leader of the Happy Huntresses smiled and approached their booth, the two Happy Huntresses who were serving as the close protection detail she now warranted as a member of the Atlas Provisional Council peeling off to give them some privacy. Not that she really needed them — she was more than capable of taking care of herself — but with the status came an image to uphold.

"How'd it go?" Fiona asked as Robyn took a seat with them.

"Well enough, I think," Robyn answered the sheep faunus. "Ciel Soleil may parade around in an Atlesian uniform like a good little soldier, but she accepted the pamphlets and remained polite enough."

"You're optimistic," May Marigold observed.

Robyn arched an eyebrow. "You think so?"

"With her family history?" The blue-haired girl snorted. "The fact that she can stomach it as much as she does means she's probably tossed that out in favor of embracing her inner Atlas puppet."

No, she wasn't projecting. Of course not.

Robyn pursed her lips. "Maybe," she said, then shrugged, "but if so? C'est la vie. She may be the most decorated, but she's hardly Mantle's only hero."

"You're the only hero Mantle needs," Joanna Greenleaf interjected bluntly.

Robyn smiled and shook her head. "Please. We all know I'm only doing what's right for Mantle. As much fun as it would be, attacking Ironwood's — excuse me, Colton's — lackeys isn't going to get us what we want, not when I'm sitting on the Council."

Fiona frowned. "Isn't that a bit harsh? I mean, it's Joe Colton. Maybe you could talk to him, bring him over to our side. I mean, if anyone, he would remember what Mantle used to be like before Atlas took everything, right?"

"He's why Atlas took everything," Robyn reminded her sternly. Her expression softened. "I'll talk to him, of course, but it's best not to hold out too much hope. What's important is that I have a Council seat now, and given how successful our fundraising has been throughout the election, I'd say we have the support to make some real changes around here."

"Speaking of our fundraising," May interjected, "I'm a little concerned about some of our major donors. Extensive Enterprises and Arbco have never been particularly politically active in the kingdom before. They may try to exert some influence."

"So what?" Robyn fired back. "Look, Ironwood has the Jägergewerkschaft pulling for him now, Colton has the military, the SDC's been quietly backing Glimmer, and Swiftwing has a literal A to Z of smaller, family-owned companies in her corner from Apple Produce to Zest Mining. Arbco gives us a line on dust and other resources, and by supporting me, they gain popularity in Mantle. It's a win-win, and if they want more," — her eyes narrowed dangerously — "I'll deal with them."

There was a loud vibration from Robyn's pocket, and she reached inside to bring out her scroll. She opened it up, checked the message, and promptly sighed in aggravation. "Council business, again. Couldn't they have sent that message when I was still in Atlas twenty minutes ago?"

"Did they say what the meeting's about?" asked May curiously.

"Yeah, it's another one of Swiftwing's harebrained schemes to help the sticks," replied Robyn.

"That girl's got to get with the program and realize that she's supposed to be the councilor for the whole kingdom, not just backwaters like Canterlot and Sednashaffen," groused Joanna.

"You can tell that to her face," Robyn informed her. "Joanna, Misha, you're with me. Let's not keep the Little Bird waiting."

With that, the trio left once more, leaving at least one of Robyn's lieutenants to look at her retreating form in worry.

"May?"

"Hmm, yes, Fiona?"

"Does Robyn seem … different to you lately?"

"'Different'?" May tilted her head a little as she considered the question, then shook her head. "Of course she seems different, Fiona. She's on the Council now. She has a lot of responsibilities now and the power to fulfill them. That kind of stress would affect anyone."

Fiona was unconvinced.

"Maybe…"

"Personally," continued May, "I think she's just realizing how much farther we still have to go, now that she is on the Council."

Colton looked with a critical eye out the window. The building he was in overlooked the massive blue-water shipyards that Sednashaffen was famous for, even back during the Great War. Next to them was, of course, the largest port for the Atlasmarine on the continent, big enough even to support a large trading community that persisted until the winter froze the straits shut. The actual city itself, by contrast, was absolutely tiny in comparison.

"So you're absolutely sure that the build site hasn't been discovered?" he asked in Mantellian, looking out of the corner of his eye at the yard boss, one Tyson Adelacution.

"Of course, sir! We pride ourselves on discretion!" purported the man with a rigid salute. "Arbuckle Aquanautics is built just like her ships: no leaks."

Colton looked back at the yard boss with a hint of humor in his expression. "But you're building an airship."

The man smiled in turn. "Well, decompression at fifty thousand feet will kill you just the same as flooding at sea level. We'd rather if neither happened on the Flagg or the Sylvia, if it's all the same to you, sir."

"Oh, I'm not complaining," replied Colton with a laugh just as there was a knock at the door. "Looks like that's our cue to go."

He walked over to the yard boss and shook his hand in a firm but controlled grip. "Ty, you're doing good work here, and your facilities are fantastic. Keep it up."

"You're welcome, sir. It's a pleasure to serve," replied the yard boss with a jovial grip and smile of his own.

As they broke away and the yard boss headed for the door, Colton called after him. "Hey, pass along my compliments to the rest of the guys here. They deserve to know their work is appreciated."

"Can do, sir!" the boss replied before opening the door and stepping out.

As the man exited, another entered. This one was holding an electronic tablet and dressed in a brown jacket with green helmet prominently featuring the stars of a Generalleutnant. This was General Hawk, the head of the Atlasheer's specialists and the man to succeed General Flagg as head of the secret army G.I. Joe.

Colton still wasn't fond of the name, but at this point, he felt it might be a losing battle, considering how often he had to fight it.

"Things going well, sir?" asked Hawk.

"The construction is," answered Colton lightly as his gaze turned out the windows again. "Everything else is a bit more of a question."

Hawk swaggered up beside him. "We do seem to be in a target-rich environment, sir. Who do we strike at first? The Decepticons? Salem? One of the smaller threats?"

"Everyone and no one," replied Colton. "Hence the defensive stance and scouts."

Hawk was silent for a moment before replying. "You know, while you were on ice, we haven't always been welcome in the other kingdoms, no matter our intentions. They'd ask why we were there, why Atlas kept trying to hold up the world."

"What did you tell them?" asked Colton.

Hawk's reply was somber. "'If we don't, who will?' After this vote, it seems we're going to find out. Or maybe that was inevitable when we pulled back just before the Battle of Vale."

Now it was time for Colton to have a moment of silence before replying. "I never intended for our position as the world's guardians to be permanent. I thought that it would last maybe a decade, tops, before it went back to normal, before everyone else got back up on their feet."

Vale and Vacuo may have won the Great War, but Vacuo was … Vacuo, and the war itself had been fought on Valish and Mistrali soil, ironically leaving Mantle — Atlas — as the kingdom with the most intact industry and infrastructure.

"Instead, I find out no one else bothered rebuilding their defenses enough to properly stand on their own, and Atlas has been shouldering it all on its own, spending blood and treasure for the other kingdoms."

"Certain favorable trade deals and the interkingdom influence has proven very beneficial to Atlas."

"Not the point," Colton growled. "It's like the world's been frozen in stasis, just the same as I was."

Colton couldn't see it, but with Hawk's next words, he knew that the temporally younger man was smiling. "Sir, as simple as sticking you back in stasis would be, I think there are better ways to resolve this crisis."

The senior general barked out a laugh. "I'm glad you say so, because if I wake up another sixty to seventy years later and find out that nothing has changed for a second time, I think I'd go mad."

Hawk laughed as well, at least for a time, and then things got serious again. "I know you didn't like some of the tactics we've adopted over the years, but we have been trying to bring about the society you planned for back in the day."

"That I planned for?" echoed Colton rhetorically. "I got these ideas from my buddy, the guy everyone calls the Last King of Vale these days. He was the one who introduced me to the idea of a representative republic; I hadn't even heard of a thing like that before. When he was laying it all out, I thought he was a little nuts, but he convinced me that this was the way to go, that this was the way things had to go. Looking out at the world, I'm more convinced than ever that he was right.

"Tell me, Hawk, would Councilwoman Swiftwing have even a third the base she does now if the people living outside the Zwillingstäler felt they were being represented?"

"Probably not," the other general answered honestly. "It's the same everywhere save Vacuo, but I think we got it the worst up here. The people out here in Sednashaffen, in Stratusburg, in Appleoosa-3, in Seaward Shoals, in just about any place you can name, they just don't like Atlas, and they really don't like Mantle."

"What this place needs is a revolution," vowed Colton, bringing his right fist into his left palm. "This place has been locked in ice for too long."

"No, we've got the MARS-brand Weather Dominators™ to take care of that now," Hawk informed him dryly.

Colton sighed. "I walked right into that one. You know, I still find it weird, looking out across Zwillingstäler in the middle of winter and seeing lakes that aren't frozen over. It's like a little slice of Sanus in Solitas. Not sure I like it."

There was a brief pause, and Colton gave Hawk a sidelong glance. "That wasn't a suggestion that the mad science machines should be turned off, mind you."

"Of course, sir. Would never think of it," replied Hawk quickly and perhaps almost convincingly before offering Colton the tablet. "Here's the latest report, by the way. The new high-altitude aircraft designs we got from the technology the Decepticons let us steal off them should allow us to set up a new network of balloons we call stratellites. It will be a great replacement for our current long-range sensor net. No more of Salem's agents slipping through the cracks."

"Good, good," complimented Colton. "Guess this report says why we can't do just plain satellites?"

"That's the thing, sir," Hawk said with a certain edge in his voice. "The darn things just don't work. None of the spaceship designs work. Our best theory right now is impurities in the fuel, but we're double checking to be sure."

"Good, can't let any leads escape us," agreed Colton. "Though, speaking of energon, how goes nailing Jacques Schnee to the wall?"

"He's a slippery one. Not only have his lawyers been trying to stall out the process, but the SDC's been moving most of their remaining operations to Mistral," explained Hawk.

"It's a criminal investigation; how are they stalling things out?" asked Colton acidly.

Hawk sighed. "Jacques Schnee has backed a lot of politicians over the years, and they in turn have appointed judges loyal to him. We've tried to stop what we can, but there are enough of them that his lawyers were very much able to put his case in the docket of one."

Colton's eyes narrowed. "You are not to 'interfere' with the judicial process anymore, am I clear?"

Hawk snapped to attention. "Sir, yes, sir!"

"You shouldn't have done that at all, but now it's too late for that," lamented Colton. "You meant well, and I can respect that, but leave this to the people whose job it is: Ironwood, Swiftwing, and me; we'll take care of this."

"Yes, sir," confirmed Hawk.

"There's a right way to do things, Hawk," Colton murmured. "I founded the Joes to fight Salem, not meddle in politics or tip the scales of justice. That process is what we're fighting for."

Hawk nodded slowly.

"I'm getting too old for this, Hawk." Colton sighed. "I was old before I was put on ice."

"Even so, we're all glad to have you back, sir."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Colton snorted. "I'm only one man, Hawk. I did my best to rebuild this kingdom, but it's got to learn to stand on its own, choose its own future. It can't rely on any one man. Or any five men, for that matter." He shook his head. He was rambling now. "Dismissed."

"Sir!" Hawk snapped to attention and saluted before leaving.

Colton gazed out into the distance in a roughly southwesterly direction as he considered his next move. In his mind's eye, he once again saw the purple crystal spires of Salem's fortress groping towards heaven from the blackened landscape. He wondered if any of the headmasters — the recently-exposed cabal that had now led the fight against her … for the most part — had ever even seen it. He supposed Ozpin had … assuming Ozpin really was his old friend returned; he wasn't sure yet, and until he was, he couldn't risk trusting any of the headmasters.

Colton hadn't actually expected to return from that mission, but his plans to rid the world of the Staff of Creation — a linchpin of Salem's plans — had necessitated the most up-front, in-her-face distraction they could muster.

That had been one reason he had created the Joes: to carry on the fight once he was gone. The others … Oz wouldn't have understood.

Colton had learned what it felt like to have the fate of a kingdom resting on his shoulders, and just a few years in, it had begun to wear on him. He couldn't imagine having to carry the whole world for millennia. That was far too big a burden to rest on one man, no matter how old or wise, or even the four headmasters it had since been shared among. Better to spread the weight further, ease the burden, and minimize the vulnerability if anyone was removed from play, even temporarily.

And besides, to fight a war, one needed an army, after all. A shadow war just called for a shadow army.

But maybe, with at least part of that war being dragged out into the light, it was time for part of that army to follow.

While it didn't reach the legendary corruption of Mistral, the Polizei Mantle was understaffed, underfunded, and unmotivated. Oh, sure, it had all sorts of surveillance equipment — an extensive camera network, patrol drones, and all the whiz-bang latest gadgets Atlas needed field-tested before abandoning — but keeping all that remotely functional drained away money that could be better used to expand and properly compensate the police force itself.

For Robyn Hill, that had once been a double-edged sword. On one hand, their ineffectualness had demanded she clean up the streets personally, and the corruption that was endemic in this kind of environment — all the way up to Commissioner Reeve at the top — meant there were few she could trust. On the other hand, the overworked and underpaid Mantle police had never bothered looking too deeply when she'd taken matters into her own hands, nor had they looked too closely when dust shipments were … "misplaced" or "miscounted."

Of course, now that she held a seat on the Council, now that she was respectable again, the inadequacies of Mantle's police force had very much become a negative.

But there was one person in City Hall she could trust, at least.

"Mister Mayor," she said, stepping out of the shadows in his office.

"Rob—! I mean, Councilor Hill!" he cried out in surprise, his chair screeching along the floor as he bolted to his feet. He shook his head and gave her a warm smile, not the one he plastered on for public appearances as he sat back down and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "You know, you're on the Council now. You don't have to creep around like this anymore. Sit, sit!"

She offered him a smile in return as she took the proffered seat. "Call it old habits."

Mayor Roger Bloodfort was perhaps her only ally in the halls of power, even in Mantle. Oh, certainly, there were always fresh, young faces getting elected to the board of aldermen, but the grind and corruption always got to them before long, but Roger? Roger stayed true, even though she could see the strain it put on him, balancing the city's needs against the taxes it could impose in light of what Atlas already extracted from the people of Mantle on a daily basis. It may not be as grandiose or bloody as the Last Stand of Horatius, which had earned Roger's Mistrali-Valish ancestor the epithet that had since been passed down the family line, but in Robyn's opinion, it was no less heroic.

"Yeah, well," he said as he turned to the wet bar behind him, one of his few vices, "keep it up, and you're going to give me a heart attack, one of these days. Drink?" He held up a bottle of hard cider, the cheery apples on the simplistic label vaguely familiar, marking it as coming from one of the outlying settlements.

She waved it off. "No, thanks, Roger. I came to see how things were going on what I asked you about last time."

One of her first steps after the election had been talking to Roger. Whereas he usually fed her information where her … unorthodox … methods could make a difference, she'd asked him to focus his attention elsewhere. With a seat on the Provisional Council, she had her thumb on the scales of the kingdom's vast wealth. She could make a real difference. But she didn't want to do something symbolic but ineffective, like, say, pouring more money into the Polizei, which would only get siphoned off by corruption and bureaucratic waste.

She needed to be as surgical as she always was, just on a larger scale and with different tools.

"I wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't asked me to look into it," he admitted, "but there's a lot of stuff moving through Mantle to Park Place: dust, rations, munitions. I think the General's planning an expedition."

Robyn pressed her lips thin at that.

The Provisional Council had voted to keep the bulk of the Luftflotte close to home, close to the twin cities of Atlas and Mantle, instead of sending them out on foolhardy expeditions to the far-flung reaches of the continent or further still to the ungrateful southern kingdoms.

Or rather, they had voted to bring the ships home from foreign ports and then failed to achieve any consensus on sending them out again, which was perfectly fine with Robyn. She and Glimmer agreed on keeping them nearby, but Colton and Swiftwing had wanted to send them out in penny-packets across the continent, while Ironwood — thoroughly outvoted, now that he no longer had two seats to lord it over everyone — had opposed bringing them home in the first place.

Was Colton going to start deploying the fleet on his own authority as Commanding General? Beyond bringing them back to the kingdom, there was no Council edict on what to do with them, thanks to the deadlock, so he could theoretically do it, but she'd thought him more politically savvy than that. Heck, even Ironwood was more politically savvy than that.

Or was Ironwood going to flip? With Colton and Swiftwing, they could net a three-two majority and deploy the fleet to the far corners of Solitas.

She clenched a fist at the thought. Either one would leave Mantle vulnerable. Atlas too. She couldn't allow that.

"Thanks for letting me know about this; I won't let them get away with it," she vowed. "Seriously, thanks. I don't know what this city would do without you, Robert."

Robert smiled that kindly smile of his. "Think nothing of it, Robyn."

"Was there anything else? Is there anyone else plotting against Mantle?"

"No, not that I can … actually, now that you mention it, there was one other thing."

"What is it?"

"A small thing, a trifling, rather," he assured with careful calm. "I don't want to get you too excited, but the Huntsman's Union has been rather close to Ironwood of late, as you know, and they've also been moving a fair amount of dust into their office in the city. It's probably nothing — Huntsmen do use a lot of dust, as you know — but I thought you should know, just in case. Some people might worry that they're planning to hold the people of this city hostage for Ironwood with some sort of bomb. A ridiculous idea, but in these trying times, that could make people jumpy. Perhaps the people can be calmed down if you talk to them?"

Robyn felt a psychosomatic chill run down her spine. She appreciated what Robert was trying to do for her, the saving he was trying for, but … but she could absolutely see Ironwood holding Mantle hostage with a bomb. She couldn't just come out and condemn such conspiracy theories out of hand; she needed to check if they were conspiracy fact first.

She instead put on a fake smile. "Don't worry about it, Robert. I'll figure it out."

She would send the Happy Huntresses to break some legs, and if they found anything, they'd destroy the Huntsmen before they could destroy Mantle.

"Thanks, seriously," she repeated.

"Happy to be of service, Councilor Hill."

She waved goodbye and left the mayor's office with a little hop in her step. It was good to have people she could count on.

Robert Bloodfort waited until he knew that Robyn Hill was on her way out, and then his smile twisted from kindly to cruel, all pretense falling away as a sinister chuckle bubbled up from within him.

This was … too rich. She genuinely had no idea about the dagger poised to strike her down, even as she welcomed it with open arms and a smile.

His smile twisted further into a snarl, and his hands tightened into fists as he recalled why he was doing this, the insults and misfortune heaped on him and his by her and hers. No, Robyn would see the city she loved burn — he would see to that — and it would be by her own hand.

And when she looked upon the ashes of her handiwork, realized her part in it all, and sank into despair, then — and only then — would he allow her to die.

His reverie was interrupted by the door opening once more, and the mask briefly snapped back into place before it registered who had entered.

She closed the door and turned to face him in full. Draped in the multicolored robes and gemstones of her so-called holy station at the Avgit temple, decorated head to toe in the ill-gotten gains of her thievery, Prioress Jezabel Nero was a portrait of libelous loveliness. She greeted with a hungry smile detached from all moral concerns.

"Robert…"

"Jezabel, my love," he said, and dashed forward to embrace her.

They kissed a kiss of death, the slaughter of millions secured between their lips.

"I missed you," she hissed in his ear as their hungry caresses traveled all over their bodies.

"And I you," he replied, teasing her neck with his teeth. "Tell me, what news do you bring for me today?"

She let out a deepthroated chuckle as dark as his own. "Oh, Robert, it's been quite fruitful. A certain crate of contaminated food destined for disposal found its way into a consignment for Berndike Primary School. Any child that eats that will be dead within a day."

"Excellent, excellent, Jezebel. And the man you had do this?"

"Dead. I had it stowed in the bathroom of a fifth floor apartment. It should keep that trail cold and give the owners a wicked fright when they come home."

"Wonderful! Robyn will be furious, she'll blame the shipping company—"

"And the things she'll do to them will be positively awful," finished Jezabel, flashing him a debauched smile. "No one will want to work with Mantle after that."

"And the city sinks ever deeper into despair, while Robyn Hill becomes more isolated and more convinced than ever that only she can save the city," Robert said before laughing and grabbing hold of Jezabel's head. "Brilliant!"

"Oh, Robert, I'm only following your lead," she tittered. "Mantle might have recovered if it weren't for your efforts. It was you, after all, who plunged the city into ever greater depths of darkness and twisted every part of Robyn Hill's life to send her down the path you decided for her: the path of destroying her family's legacy."

"And even now, she doesn't even realize it!"

He laughed again, and this time, Jezabel joined in.

It wouldn't be long now. The time was fast approaching when Mantle would be destroyed at Robyn Hill's hands, and she would do it gladly.

The irony would almost pay back what her wretched family did to his. Almost.

James Ironwood despised feeling powerless.

It was a flaw, he knew, and he'd adapted to deal with it when it was necessary, but that didn't make excising the discomfort any easier. It was why he preferred being a general to being a headmaster. As a general, he could ensure his troops had the full might of the Atlesian military backing them up, keeping them safe — or as safe as they could be, in their line of work — but as a headmaster, even his best efforts ended with him watching them graduate to face the dangers of the world — human, faunus, and Grimm alike — alone, armed only with the best training Atlas — or, indeed, the world; for all that Beacon had the reputation and attracted some of the best talent, there was a reason Atlas usually swept the fourth-year bracket at Vytal — could offer them, with him helpless to protect them any further.

Good training was one thing, but everyone made mistakes, and thousands of tons of Atlesian steel and firepower made for a significant margin of error when it came to the safety of his people. And if even that proved to not be enough … at least as a general, he'd know what they were dying for.

And he never felt more powerless than times like now, lying immobile — paralyzed from the neck down — staring at the ceiling above as Dr. Pinchas Ignatius Norman Koddle performed the necessary maintenance and recalibration on his cybernetics. It was why he kept finding excuses to put it off, but Dr. Koddle had finally put his foot down, the ornery old surgeon unimpressed by titles, rank, medals, or physical prowess.

And while the immobility was disconcerting, it still beat being fully sedated in some ephemeral way.

The sterile room was brightly lit, of course, and well equipped; Atlas Academy boasted a full hospital, no mere infirmary, and the facilities were naturally top notch.

"So when are you planning to shave off that beard?" asked Dr. Koddle bluntly, his voice sounding muffled, coming from somewhere near his leg.

"I'm not. I'm planning to keep it," answered James.

"Sounds like a coping mechanism."

"For what?"

Koddle paused, and James could feel the level stare the surgeon was giving him. "I don't know, stress from those protest letters we keep getting in the mail? Some teachers are even getting them at their home. Parents calling at all hours of the night wanting to get their kids out of school.

"It's not that bad," James insisted defensively.

"You're right, it's worse," Koddle said. "You know, it's a damn shame you're not the traitorous dictator everyone says you are; otherwise, you could put a bullet into that Starlight Glimmer's head, throw her off the bow of your Valish battlecruiser, and be done with it."

"I have a Valish battlecruiser now?" James deadpanned, because somehow that was the most ludicrous part of that statement.

"Apparently, your new wife brought it with her, since the Valish government has so many of the darn things laying around that they can just hand them out like candy." Koddle snorted. "Like I said, shame it's not real. If they had enough of those things lying around, they wouldn't need us to protect them."

James stewed in his thoughts as Koddle continued his work. Recent meetings with the other members of the Provisional Council were proving frustrating, even more frustrating, ironically, than they had been with their late predecessors. On the other hand, it was refreshing to be dealing with the newly-elected, people who still remembered who put them in those seats.

Still…

"Do you think I made the right call?"

He knew that he could count on Koddle for his honesty.

"Depends on which call you're talking about, but generally? No."

Brutal honesty. If the man were a Huntsman instead of a doctor, that would surely be his weapon's name. He was certainly lethal enough with it as is.

"I mean about the vote on where to put Atlas's forces."

Perhaps he should have specified that from the start.

"Never should have happened in the first place. Should have just given the placement decision back to the Commanding General. It's not like all the other kingdoms have burned their status of forces agreements yet. Though those Mistralians are getting mighty ornery about us having left them to the faunus's tender mercies."

Typical Atlesian answer really: give more power to the military; they'll take care of things. Maybe it was his being forced out, and maybe it was Glynda's influence, but … somehow, that answer just didn't sit as well as it used to. Though the stuff about the Mistralians was right, and was definitely pretty disturbing.

"So you agree that we should have sent the military back into the world?"

That would, after all, have solved most of their problems.

"I don't agree with you wasting everyone's time with a dumbass protest vote, no," Koddle said with a derisive snort. "You were the deciding vote between two dumb options, and you should have gone with the less dumb one. Stringing it out like this just wastes everyone's time."

"I don't know; it could be argued that in this state of limbo that the Commanding General has a lot more wiggle room."

"That's dumb, and you know it."

That … was fair. When he'd been Commanding General, James himself had been careful to act as scrupulously as he could, going through the Council whenever possible. While Colton could, in theory, deploy the fleet as he saw fit, that authority had never been tested, and the last thing Atlas needed right now was a constitutional crisis. Or, well, what would be a constitutional crisis if Atlas actually had a constitution.

Maybe Colton was onto something there.

"Well, okay then, I'll … I'll put forward a new proposal then, formalize the Commanding General's authority to deploy. Maybe Swiftwing could be convinced to go along with it if we get certain guarantees."

"If you really want to butter her up, you should send your wife to girltalk her over to your side."

That made sense, but…

"I don't want to use Glynda like that."

"Why don't you try asking her first? See if she'll go for it. I'm telling you, it'll work. That councilor will sweat so much, you'll be able to surf her down the hallway."

What.

"That's some … colorful language, and I'm not sure how medically accurate it is."

"Accurate enough. Now, Mister Conspiracy, how are you going to beat the Decepticons, throw the Queen of the Grimm into a volcano, heal the divides in society, and defeat Sienna Khan in single combat?"

"Is that all?"

"For now. There'll probably be another problem making itself known soon, just you wait. Now, shut up and let me finish. I don't get paid for therapy."

Whitley Schnee watched the news feed with no small amount of boredom. For the most part, they weren't actually reporting anything new, just regurgitating what was already known about the trial, but until that trial was finished, Whitley himself was stuck in limbo.

The room he was in was one of many in the vast Schnee manor designed for entertaining guests, but rather than a ballroom or games room, he had turned it into a media room. Instead of a dance floor or pool table, a massive hard light television took center stage, surrounded by gaming consoles and media players of all sorts. Unlike holographic screens, this one used hard light dust to generate near-lifelike facsimiles of the broadcast … subject to the limitations of the signal, of course.

It was hideously expensive, of course, but only the best for the Schnee family. That was perhaps the only thing Father would have approved of, though. Video games and movies were gauche forms of entertainment, after all, and didn't fit the "old money" he pretended to be.

Whitley shook his head and scoffed at the performative theatricality of the whole production. It was as pointless as Father's posturing to a pedigree he married into.

Certainly, his father had the best lawyers money could buy, and he'd spent many years lining his pocket with politicians at all levels, many of whom had appointed judges that now presided over the courts, but everyone knew that wouldn't save him.

After all, Jacques Schnee — Jacques Gelé — was a traitor, not just against Atlas, but against the whole of Remnant.

But until this farce of a trial finished, Whitley's life was stuck in neutral, going nowhere — unable to go anywhere — and so, he watched.

"How goes the trial?"

"Judge Redfern has recused himself," he answered. "Apparently, it's been revealed the mayor who appointed him received significant donations to her reelection campaign from the SDC."

"If they're holding out for someone without an opinion on your father, they're going to be waiting for a long time."

He'd given Starlight Glimmer — Councilor Starlight Glimmer — the run of the manor. And why not? If she could be trusted with the kingdom, why not trust her with such a small part of it? And the Schnee manor had top-notch security; it gave her a place to relax without worrying about her security. How could he deny her that? Especially after all she'd done for him.

It was because of her that he — well, officially Mother — had taken the step of relocating SDC assets abroad, safe from the grasping reach of the rest of the Provisional Council. He supposed it should not have come as a surprise that the previous Councilors had been looking to fill their coffers by thieving away his grandfather's company, but Starlight had warned him that such thoughts still echoed in Atlas's halls of power.

They wouldn't be able to save everything, of course; some assets were more difficult to move than others. Most notably, the manor could not be moved, and Mother would not.

"Was there something you wanted, Whitley?" she asked gently, disturbing him from his thoughts.

Oh, yes. He had asked her to stop by, hadn't he?

"Yes," he said with a short nod. "I noticed some recent orders to our overseas branches, for Security to keep an eye out for that terrorist woman, Fall. What's that about? Do you think she'll target the company?"

"While possible, I don't think it's particularly likely," she admitted. "But it would make some things more convenient if she did."

Whitley frowned. "What things?"

"Tell me, Whitley, what's your favorite fairy tale?"

"The Smith's Apprentice," he answered after a moment's consideration. It wasn't exactly the most popular tale, nor was it obscure, but something about the way the protagonist's reputation inflated itself and how he overcame much stronger and more capable warriors with cleverness and guile … it appealed to him greatly.

There was a glimpse of something in Starlight's eyes for the briefest of moments, and then a knowledgeable smile spread across her lips. "Have you ever heard of The Red Queen?"

Whitley racked his mind for a few seconds. "No, I don't think I've heard of that one before."

Starlight seemed satisfied by that answer. "I thought not. It's not a story your tutors would have told you."

"What's it about?" asked Whitley.

"It's a story about a wise and cruel bandit who becomes a sorceress and then a queen, in the process becoming so powerful that the only thing she fears is losing her power. Which, of course, is what eventually happens. It's something that she should have seen coming, since that's how she got her power," Starlight explained with careful grace. "Though the really special part about the story is that it's not really a story; it's real."

Whitley was at this point completely enthralled. "What does that mean, Starlight?"

"You've heard what the Beacon headmaster testified about Cinder Fall, about her magic." It wasn't a question. Whitley nodded anyway. "What he very carefully didn't say is how she gained that power. The Red Queen first took her power — and in turn, had it taken from her — by slaying its previous wielder, by looking her in the eyes as life faded from them." She paused. "After some research, it turns out there was a line of them, all of them young women, warring across Anima over generations, until a band of heroes — led also by a young woman — slew the last one. Afterwards, the heroes disappeared, and with them, the powers, never to be seen again."

"Until now," guessed Whitley.

"Until now," Starlight confirmed. "Cinder Fall is the latest Red Queen, and if another young woman were to slay her, then they would become the Red Queen in turn."

Whitley smiled. "I'll tell Miss Ferny to have her men be on the lookout for her. I can spin her some tale about how catching Cinder would be a useful bargaining chip for the SDC. Then, once she's in custody, you can travel there and kill her personally."

"Have your message in writing, and let me review it first. We wouldn't want Miss Ferny getting the wrong ideas," Starlight insisted. "And thank you, Whitley. That's sweet of you."

Calliope Ferny clenched her hand as she watched the hidden audio/video feed of the room where young Whitley Schnee was "hanging out" with Councilor Starlight Glimmer.

A brief flash of the councilor's head being crushed in between her hands flashed to mind.

That bit of pleasure relieved some steam, even though she wished it was for real.

The councilor clearly wanted Calliope out of the picture, possibly because she thought of her as a competitor to that power she craved. The story itself seemed nonsensical, and even if it was even partially accurate, these magical powers would be of minor use at best in the modern age. There was no reason to track them so vigorously.

But Councilor Glimmer didn't want her around, and so, Calliope Ferny would be very much around. If, in the unlikely event that the powers were useful, the powers could be acquired, then Calliope would acquire them herself. She would do it for the simple reason that Starlight wanted those powers.

Still, that was for the future, and she was a busy woman in the present.

She brought out her scroll and began to thumb for her received messages. As she did, a news article caught her eye.

It was an article about General Colton having just announced the formation of a special counterterrorism task force to combat the new — and newly revealed — threats to Atlesian security.

"—new Special Counter-Terrorist Unit Delta, already being referred to in some circles as 'G.I. Joe' in honor of General Colton."

"RAAAAAGH!"

Sunset howled with rage as she pitched the remote through the holographic screen that she had been watching.

"Hey, Sunset, how are you— Hurk!" Sunburst choked out a strangled cry as the remote collided with his throat and hit its off button.

"How DARE they?!" the flame-haired woman roared to the heavens. "Those FOOLS! Don't they know who they're dealing with? I'll make them pay for this insult!"

"Oh my goodness, Sunburst!" Trixie cried as she entered the room and found Sunburst heaving and flopping about on the ground. "Oh good, you're not dead yet."

Sunset continued to rant. "This is the work of Celestia and her minions, I know it! She's taken from me my place in the shadows, my chance to rule the world!"

Trixie waved her hand. "Eh, Trixie gives it an eight out of ten. Not great, not terrible."

"I will have my revenge!" Sunset raved.

Lightning Dust furrowed her brows at her monologuing teammate even as her thoughts turned dark. I hope Arslan beats you senseless in that exhibition match.