Chapter Something (i forgot)

A bit of a short chapter, meant to be a part of the last one. Something small written on phone to keep the momentum of the fic while I continue to get shitfaced! 

Also, this is just a reminder. This story is mostly a comedy, and sometimes, I'll write entire chapters just for the sake of a bad pun at the end. But every now and then, it will take a sharp turn into darkness.

Kinda like a clown car skidding off a cliff.

As usual, wat the fuck is a beta

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The White Fang's brazen attack on the Atlesian Broadcasting Company Gala, which was hosted by Director General Frieda Nachri and packed to the brim with Atlas' glittering elite, on the 13th of Frostfall, 143 AE, was the kind of near disaster that left everyone talking.

In the words of the unserious and misguided youth of Atlas. 'Shit was not bussing Fr Fr on god.'

It wasn't just the timing of it, though launching an assault during the gala celebrating the 43rd anniversary of Atlas' crowning achievement, the flying island: King of Heaven, certainly added a shitload of salt and insult to injury.

No, it was the sheer audacity of storming into a Himmel Könning celebration, a day practically designed for Atlesians to pat themselves on the back and remind everyone else of their well-earned smugness AND attacking the rich people.

They could've brush off an attack on the poor schmucks, or the rabble of Mantle, but the Nobility?!!

Let the gods curse the terrorists and the next seven generations of their families with a dog's death!

Naturally, the news spread faster than a Mantle blackout. On the Web, reactions ranged from outraged calls for justice, half-baked conspiracy theories claiming it was all staged to sell more SDC weapons, to horny posting about Jacques.

The usual suspects took to their platforms: self-appointed analysts dissecting grainy footage, doomsayers predicting the fall of Atlas, and the whole thing churning out memes and reaction pictures, and gifs.

But while the Web was having a field day, the real world was not laughing as much.

Atlas, the ever-efficient city in the clouds, was now bristling with even more soldiers than usual. The streets, still draped in Himmel Köning decorations, looked like they'd been set for a military parade instead of a festival. Civilians hurried along their conversations, hushed but tense, as patrol drones zipped overhead.

Much to the bemusement, dissatisfaction and frustration of the Flying Island inhabitants (and to the mirth and the schadenfreude of Mantle citizens below who found another reason to get drunk) a state of emergency was temporarily declared on Atlas adding to the growing belief that 'Ironwood was a uppity dickhead with way too much power.'

As expected, General Ironwood, ever the pragmatist, didn't bat an eye at the rumors and slander swirling around him. He'd long since learned to ignore the noise.

So, naturally, he declared Martial Law.

The council of Atlas, who were ever the nationalists, fiercely protective of their beloved checks and balances, and steadfast in their denial of letting the military run roughshod over them, did what any honest politician always did when push came to shove.

They let the military run roughshod over them.

Because, you know, nearly getting blown to smithereens by a bunch of lunatic terrorists tends to be a really persuasive argument.

When questioned about such matters, specifically concerns about a possible dictatorship, Councilman Sleet gave the public an amazingly long-winded, well-articulated speech, one that would've made any politician proud.

He assured the public with all the confidence of a man who'd spent years polishing his rhetoric for just such a moment that Ironwood would never become a dictator. No, no, nothing to worry about there. The General was just "taking the necessary steps" to restore order and ensure Atlas' safety.

Meanwhile, the public, eager for any sense of stability, nodded along. They might've had doubts, but the older generation had long since learned to just trust the government that made sure to reward them with a well-funded retirement, while the hot-tempered seeing the fine print youth just grumbled a couple 'man, fuck this place' then moved on to more pressing topics.

Like, of course, Jacques Schnee.

Everyone knew it; if you didn't, were you even paying attention? The debate was everywhere: "Oh, no doubt about it, Prime Jacques would totally beat the brakes off the late and legendary King of Vale, who put an end to the War. We're talking mid-diff at best."

To the rest of the world, Atlas wasn't just flexing its military muscle. It was sending a very loud message: no one would escape notice, and no one could afford to take their security for granted.

At the checkpoints, citizens endured a level of scrutiny usually reserved for customs officers on high alert for drug smugglers from Mistral, or Faunus.. For the proud and polished people of Atlas, this was uncharted territory and a humiliating ordeal they believed was meant for terrorists, criminals, or the tragically poor. And Faunus, but saying that would be redundant since the Faunus were a mix of the former three categories as far as they were concerned.

"This is barbaric! Do you have any idea who you're dealing with, you...you uniformed buffoon?!" A man would fume. It was a passionate protest, delivered with all the fiery indignation one could muster eight hours later, seated in the plush safety of his lounge, far from the checkpoint and where the terrifying officer wouldn't hear him.

"Uniformed buffoon," he repeated, savoring the insult like a rare delicacy. "I should've said that right to her face…"

But of course, he hadn't.

And deep down, he knew he never would.

Similar checkpoints were scattered across the city.

In one such checkpoint near the market district, a soldier stepped into the path of a modest car. He raised his hand to signal for it to stop. The driver a wiry human with tired eyes obeyed. He rolled down the window.

For the second time in an hour, they were randomly selected. The man had the papers out and ready before the officer even spoke.

"Your papers please," the soldier said without emotion.

The man held them out but the soldier waved them away. "Not you." He pointed at the wife seated beside the driver.

The husband's grip on the papers tightened. The woman hesitated only for a moment before reaching into her bag. Her chestnut hair fell over her shoulders. Two small, red furred ears lay flat atop her head, nearly hidden in her hair. Almost unnoticeable. Almost.

She handed the documents over without a word.

The soldier took them and examined them slowly. His eyes scanned each line with the kind of focus usually reserved for something important.

"Vale?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, doing her best to keep the nervousness out of her tone. "We moved to Atlas five years ago. We've lived in Sector 5 since."

The soldier tapped the papers against the device on his wrist, and entered the code for a check across the database for any match. His gaze lingering a moment longer. "Bit of a distance. You ever have any… issues crossing borders?"

The Faunus shook her head. "No, sir."

The soldier glanced over at the husband. "And you? Atlas native?"

"Yes sir," the man said. He leaned forward just a little to try to see what the soldier was doing.

The soldier flipped through the papers. "Purpose of travel?"

"Home," the husband said quickly. He shifted in his seat but kept his hands steady on the wheel. "we've just returned from the market."

The soldier nodded slowly but didn't look up for a second. He then spared at the kids in the backseat. They were unusually quiet.

"Unusual for the whole family to go to the market at once." The soldier's eyes didn't leave them.

"We like to go together," the father said. "Busy with work on weekdays, you see."

"Right." The soldier leaned closer, glancing into the back seat. The kids stared wide-eyed, clutching each other's hands tightly. "And you two? Helping Mom and Dad with anything exciting lately?"

"They're just kids," the father interjected. "Please, sir, we're just—"

"Relax. Just routine." The soldier raised a hand, cutting him off.

He tilted his head slightly but still said nothing. "Sector 5," he said again. "Quiet area, isn't it?"

"Yes," the husband answered. He kept his hands on the wheel and didn't look at his wife.

The soldier didn't respond right away. Instead, he stared at the woman's face. His eyes seemed to linger just a little too long.

"Anything strange happening around there?" he asked. "People coming and going? People you don't recognize? People of certain characteristics you do recognize?"

"No sir," the woman replied firmly.

The soldier stayed silent for a moment. He wasn't looking at the papers anymore. His eyes were focused on her. Then finally he looked at the husband. "Open the trunk."

The husband's grip tightened on the wheel. For a moment, he didn't respond. His jaw tightened as he glanced at his wife. She shook he head with a sad smile.

"Open the trunk," the soldier repeated, his voice colder now. His hand itched a bit closer to the rifle on his side.

The woman's breath hitched, but she said nothing. He slowly reached for the glove compartment, grabbed the keys, and turned the ignition off.

With a quiet click, he got out of the car. The soldier stepped back to give him space but kept his gaze trained on the woman. She sat still, hands tightly folded in her lap where they could be seen. The children remained silent in the back, eyes wide.

The husband moved to the trunk. He popped it open. There was nothing inside but bags and boxes, just ordinary items for a trip to the market. "Open the bags." He did as told.

The husband carefully pulled out a few items from the bags—canned goods, a loaf of bread, cartons of eggs, and a box of fruit.

The soldier didn't react. His eyes lingered for just a moment longer than necessary before he nodded.

"Alright. Move along," he said, giving the papers back.

The husband closed the bags quickly, snapping them shut with a little more force than needed.

The husband let out a long breath as soon as they pulled away. His hands relaxed on the wheel and he glanced at his wife. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," she answered quietly. But her fingers were still trembling in her lap.

From the backseat, the youngest daughter's small voice broke the silence. "Did we do something wrong? Are they mad at us?"

"No," the mother said quickly. She smiled but it was forced. "They're just doing their job."

They didn't say anything else. Neither of them believed it.

Both of them knew what the other was thinking.

Fuck Atlas.

Fuck the military

and...

...Fuck the White Fang!

It was a thought that rippled through the minds of nearly everyone on the island. The terrorists' latest stunt only fed the anger of the smug, impatient bastards of Atlas.

The city, already teetering on the edge of frustration, now had even less patience for anything that even remotely smelled different. For the few Faunus in the city, it made the already shitty life that much harder.

And of course, some were more than happy to make that known. None more readily than Mikahail Johnson, a politician man with far too much ambition, addressing a crowd with far too much time and anger on their hands.

Why should we sit back and let these terrorizing terrorists terrorize our terrorized citizens terrorizingly?" Mikahail bellowed from his makeshift podium, his arms flailing with the kind of dramatic flair that would make an amateur theatre director cringe.

The disgraced middle-aged wannabe councilman stomped his foot for effect. "These violent extremists don't care who they hurt! They don't care about our families! Our traditions! Our freedom! And yet we have a council—" his voice dropped into a mocking sneer, "—a council that sits around in their comfy chairs, letting certain men juggle two seats of power like it's some kind of parlor game. Two seats!" He paused, letting the absurdity of it linger. "Perhaps it's time certain people reevaluate their responsibilities before Atlas collapses under their so-called leadership!"

The crowd erupted into cheers and jeers, though whether they fully understood what Mikahail was railing against was debatable. The man's words had a way of riling people up, even if coherence wasn't part of the package.

He was a people's man after all. Fuck coherency! They didn't want coherency, they wanted good Ol' Nationalism and someone to blame!

"But! BUT!" He held up a finger like he'd just had a divine revelation. "Not all hope is lost. Not all leaders have failed us! Look to Jacques Schnee! A dear friend of mine—" (he wasn't)—"a hero of the Atlesian people. A man who was unjustly defamed not too long ago. A man who has done more for this Kingdom than any of them ever will!"

The crowd roared its approval. Jacques Schnee, great man they'd tell you. Spectacular. Could totally see myself having a drink with him. 

"He understands the sacrifices we must make to protect our way of life! A man of vision! A man of action!" The speech ended with Mikahail throwing his arms wide. " "That is why, once I am elected as Mayor, I promise you; no, I assure you! Atlas will no longer sit idle while these villains trample over our great city! Glory to Atlas!!"

He believed it too! As long as he kept his hands to himself around cute young interns this time, and as long as he could convince Jacques Schnee to vouch for him. Can't be too hard, they were friends, after all!

They weren't.

The crowd's cheers grew louder, fueled by pent-up frustration and the allure of Mikahail's bullshit. A few even waved small Atlesian flags, handed out by his interns beforehand.

Sadly, the famed theatrics of opportunistic and shameless wannabe great men were often lost on those not present. Across the screens of televisions and billboards, Johnson's rant was just that: a rant. His promises built no castles, and his threats dug no graves.

Most of Atlas wasn't buying his act. Those down in Mantle didn't even bother giving his speech of the day.

Least of all, those who knew the theatre of Atlesian politicians far too well.

Robyn Hill tugged at her jacket and fixed her glare on Mikahail's pompous figure as he soaked in his audience's adoration on the screen atop the building across the street. "Don't need to touch him to know what a load of shit that is," she muttered.

Beside her, Joanna Greenleaf folded her arms, unimpressed as usual. She didn't reply, but the faintest twitch of her lips hinted at agreement.

Robyn leaned forward on the ledge. "Bullshit," she repeated hoping it would make the stench less unbearable. "If that was an export, Atlas'd be set for life."

Joanna let out a quiet snort. "Wouldn't have to dig so deep, either," she said dryly.

The two women stood in silence for a moment, watching the farce play out on the screen. "But..." Joanna muttered slowly. "He's right about things needing to change. Especially after the Himmel attack. "

Robyn's eyes narrowed, and her jaw tensed.

Fucking White Fang...

"As if the fire needed more fuel..." she looked down. Below her, the streets of Mantle stretched out in patchwork. Because that's what the damn city's infrastructure was. The outskirts of Mantle proper were even worse state of litter-strewn alleys and crumbling buildings.

Happy drunks moved about, but whatever fleeting relief the people found in mocking Atlas would soon evaporate, replaced by the same old misery that clung to the city like smog.

Atlas had already been choking the life out of Mantle for decades. Now, thanks to a group of bloody extremists, that noose was about to get even tighter.

Every Faunus in Solitas, and probably the whole of Remnant, now walked with a target on their back. Balder and his little stunt hadn't just failed; it had backfired in the worst possible way.

The idiot had aimed to kill Jacques Schnee, but instead, he'd done the unthinkable. He'd turned the man into a Hero. Jacques Schnee, of all people! Hero with a capital fucking H! Meanwhile, Balder himself was the laughingstock of Atlas.

There were already murmurs across Atlas. Talk of bestowing him with titles. Honors. more Lands. Knighthood, Remnant's equivalent of rolling out the red carpet for self-serving bastards. Some were even throwing around the phrase Guardian of Solitas. Robyn nearly gagged at the thought.

sounded like a bad joke. The kind that would have the entire kingdom laughing if they weren't so busy eating up the propaganda. And it was working. She'd overheard people in the streets praising him. Talking about his bravery. His sacrifice. As if he'd done anything more than sit in his gilded office while Mantle burned because of him and his ilk.

'Bloody greedy ...'

She just hoped Balder would get shanked in jail for this. Fiona can't even walk the street now without a million eyes following her.

Her teeth clenched as she thought about it. How had those morons managed to infiltrate the Schnee manor in the first place? How had they gotten as far as they did without getting slaughtered? The Fang wasn't known for their competence, but this was a new level of stupidity.

A small, cynical part of her whispered that it might have all been part of some larger plot. But no. As much of a bastard as Ironwood was, he wasn't the type to let things spiral out of control just to make a point.

No way he'd let himself look this incompetent.

Moreover, Robyn wanted to believe that. She needed to believe that the man who once stood for something greater still had enough humanity left in him not to endanger innocents for political gain.

But belief was getting harder and harder to come by these days.

Robyn crossed her arms and glanced at Joanna, who stood quietly beside her. "Sometimes, I wonder if Mantle even has a fighting chance," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Joanna didn't respond right away. Instead, she leaned and joined her scanning the streets below. Finally, she said, "We always do. Fighting's what we're good at. It's what keeps us alive."

The leader of the Happy Huntresses looked with a surprised wide-eyed look before letting out a soft snort. "You're right. Now's not the time for pity. Not when others rely on us." This right here was why having a team to count on mattered. "But a change is necessary. The world is accelerating and Mantle will be left behind. It's time to go on the offensive."

"In that we are in agreement, Robyn Hill," A chilling voice spoke from behind the two.

Robyn tensed and turned sharply toward the voice. Standing on the opposite side of the roof, dressed in the pristine white of the Atlesian military, was a woman the happy huntress had the displeasure of knowing all too well in the past couple of years.

The newly itched silver snowflake emblem barring the sigil of a certain house that was becoming an eyesore on her chest gleamed under the city lights.

Robyn let out a quiet groan inwardly.

"Specialist Schnee," she said, forcing a smirk as she planted her hands on her hips. "Surprised Ironwood let you wander off. What a bad owner he is."

Winter Schnee stepped forward, her boots clicking against the rooftop. Instead of the expected glare or scowl Robyn expected, she wore a crooked smirk. "Funny," she said with a that was tone as sharp as her blade. "I was thinking the same thing about your pet goat. Not allowing her to roam freely? What a responsible owner you are."

Joanna bristled beside Robyn, her grip tightening on her staff, but Robyn raised a hand to keep her in check. "That's rich coming from you, Schnee," she shot back. "Tell me, do you rehearse this condescension, or does it come naturally along with the silver spoon?"

Winter wasn't impressed. "As natural as your knack for empty gestures and meaningless theatrics. Tell me, do you ever stop grandstanding long enough to actually help anyone? Or is shouting at rallies and frolicking with the trash of Remnant your idea of being useful?"

Robyn chuckled, though the sound lacked humor. The veins on her neck made it clear to Winter that the last comment had struck a nerve. "Useful, huh? Is that what you call prancing around Mantle, waving your little Atlesian flag and terrorizing the innocent?"

Winter's expression didn't waver. "If I wanted lectures on leadership, I'd consult my father, someone who actually knows what it means. But that isn't why I'm here."

Robyn's smirk faltered. Winter's hand moved toward her sword. Robyn shifted her weight, her fingers inching toward the crossbow strapped to her side. Joanna's grip on her staff tightened.

"What the hell are you playing at?" Robyn said wearily, her frown turning into a full-blown glare. "Has Ironwood lost his damn mind?!"

Winter drew her blade in one swift motion. The shadows around her feet seemed to twist unnaturally before a pair of large monochrome hounds emerged. Their red eyes locked onto Robyn and Joanna, and growls that rumbled like distant thunder left their jaws.

Her eyes narrowed .'These were—'

"Jacques Schnee' dogs." Joanna muttered next to her.

Robyn barked, her temper rising. "What is the meaning of this?"

"I told you I agree," Winter said with a smile, and the blade in her grasp buzzed loudly with an electrical current. "Reacting is no longer enough. We've spent too long waiting, hoping, and letting chaos dictate our moves. That time is over!"

The hounds growled and lunged, Winter a step behind them.

So be it! if the damn brat thought she would cower, then Robyn would teach her a bloody lesson. She raised her crossbow an—!

"Freeze!"

Robyn felt her entire body lock in place. She cursed inwardly, trying to will her limbs to move, but it was no use.

She heard Joanna let out a pained groan. The hounds pinned her to the ground, claws pressing against her chest. while the other wolf's teeth brought her comrade to her knees.

Pain exploded on the top of her head where Winter's electrical blade slammed her into the floor of the roof. Several glyphs appeared around her throat and limbs a second later. She felt the wet sensation of blood drip down the side of her head.

Fuck...

A larger Glyph shined above her, and then she nearly felt her ribs crack when a massive paw of a Griffon settled on top of her.

A piece of paper; an official document of some sorts from what little she could see.

"Robyn Hill," Winter began "You, alongside your faction, The Happy Huntresses," she spat the name like it was poison, "are hereby detained under suspicion of collusion with known terrorists and extremist factions operating against the Kingdom of Atlas. This includes, but is not limited to, harboring and providing aid to members of the White Fang, facilitating the disruption of Atlesian military operations, and inciting rebellion among Mantle's citizens through inflammatory rhetoric."

Robyn tilted her head to stare at her, stunned. "What?" she croaked, struggling against the glowing glyphs pinning her down. They didn't budge. "What the hell are you talking about?!"

Winter didn't acknowledge her outburst. "Furthermore, you are charged with conspiring to sabotage critical infrastructure, obstructing military personnel in the execution of their duties, and—" Her voice dropped an octave, ice-cold. The blade inched closer to Robyn's throat. "Attempting to assassinate Whitley Schnee."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Whitl—?! A kid. Not Jacques, the bastard who actually deserved it, but his damn kid?!

This was a setup. It had to be.

"You bastards...Has Ironwood finally lost every last shred of decency?!" Robyn's voice rang across the rooftop. "You're really accusing me of this? Do you even hear yourself?" Her jaw ached from clenching her teeth. "Is that it? No more pretending? No more acting like any of this is about justice? You just want to silence anyone who won't fall in line!"

Winter didn't so much as blink. "Your defiance is noted." Her icy tone remained unchanged. "I'll be sure to include it in my report right alongside your record of incitement and rebellion."

"You heartless bitch, this isn't over." Robyn's chest heaved with anger. "You think you've won, don't you? That you can just paint me as the villain and be done with it? You're wrong. This isn't over. This is far bigger than me, and you won't get away with it, Schnee. Not this time." 

"Oh, I'm shaking in my boots." Winter's lips curled. "Here, see for yourself." 

The last thing Robyn saw was Winter's rising boot.

Then, darkness.

...

...

"Was the pet joke really necessary, Ma'am?" Marrow asked.