• Published 31st Aug 2018
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SAPR - Scipio Smith



Sunset, Jaune, Pyrrha and Ruby are Team SAPR, and together they fight to defeat the malice of Salem, uncover the truth about Ruby's past and fill the emptiness within their souls.

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Every One Thinks Meanly of Themselves (New)

Every One Thinks Meanly of Themselves

Every one thinks meanly of themselves for not having been a soldier.

That was a quote by a man who had, amongst other things, compiled the first dictionary. He had never been a soldier himself, so presumably, he spoke from his own personal experience, but it was no longer true. To be truthful, General Ironwood doubted that it had ever been true, even when it was said, but nevertheless, the words had been on his mind somewhat for the last few days.

Since he had seen the look in Twilight’s eyes as she begged him to let her fly Dash’s airship in support of the kids down in the Breach.

Something that he should have noticed, and done something about, some time ago.

There was a lot of that going around at the moment.

Ironwood drummed his fingers on the table. He had let down Twilight, and Penny too. One by allowing her to think meanly of herself, and the other by asking too much of her.

Come to think of it, the latter might equally apply to Dash and to Soleil as well. Had he asked too much of all three of them? Asked too much of them, and not enough of Twilight? And did he need to add Belladonna to that as well? He had asked as much of her as he had of Dash, Soleil, or Penny, and she had less reason to give it.

Well, the only thing to do in the circumstances was to start making it right, as best he could.

He meant to start with Penny and with Twilight, the ones most obviously affected by his poor judgement, then he could speak to the others later, before Team RSPT left for Atlas.

For now, though, he was in his office, waiting upon a visitor.

The door into said office slid open with a gentle hiss, and Ozpin walked into the room. His cane tapped lightly upon the floor.

“Ozpin,” Ironwood said. It was not a surprise to see him – you couldn’t just sneak up onto the Valiant; Ironwood had known he was coming since his Bullhead had requested permission to land in the docking bay – but he was nevertheless surprised that Ozpin was here, and he allowed that surprise into his voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Well, I had nothing else to do, so I thought that I’d come and see you, James,” Ozpin replied lightly. He paused for a moment. “Well, rather, I thought that, since you so often come down to your ship to see me in my office that I might return the favour for once. I must say, it’s a long walk down all of these corridors.”

“It gives me time to have a chair brought in for important visitors,” Ironwood murmured dryly.

Ozpin chuckled as he sat down on the other side of Ironwood’s desk. He gripped the head of his cane in both hands. He swivelled slightly in his chair, so that he was a little side-on rather than facing Ironwood directly.

“I suppose I should congratulate you, James,” Ozpin said softly. “You are the hero of the hour.”

“I command heroes,” Ironwood replied. “I don’t claim that title for myself. The men and women where the metal meets deserve your praise, not me.”

A slightly wan smile appeared on Ozpin’s aged features. “Come, James, we both know that isn’t how this works. When the histories of these last few days are written, yours is the only name that will feature. Future generations will read that it was General Ironwood – and however many of his nameless, faceless soldiers – who stepped into the Breach – or the Breach – and delivered Vale from darkness. The name of the formation, the ships involved may be noted also, but the men and women? The children? All… gone. All forgotten.”

“Considering the names of some of those… children,” Ironwood said, “leaving aside whether we really ought to call them that in view of what they’ve done and been through, I don’t think that names like that will necessarily fade into the abyss of memory.”

“Perhaps in Mistral, they will remember Miss Nikos,” Ozpin allowed, “but is it not the Atlesian way to forget the individual and remember the group?”

“Then why do you assume my name will be remembered?” Ironwood asked.

Ozpin did not reply to that. He didn’t say anything, and a silence lapsed between the two men, stretching out for a little while in the confines of the office. Outside the window, a pair of Skybolts looped past as they made their patrol circuit.

Ozpin glanced down at his cane. “I owe you an apology, James.”

“There’s no need-”

“There is no need,” Ozpin said, cutting him off, “for you to be the bigger man, James. Despite what you may think, I am quite capable of admitting when I’m wrong. And I was wrong. I thought that your forces would be… a dangerous distraction, a hindrance, but… they were necessary. When the grimm came through-”

“When the grimm came through, your students stood alongside mine to hold them back,” Ironwood reminded him.

“Indeed, but it was your airships that sealed the Breach, your androids that covered the retreat of the children and bought time, your soldiers that sealed the perimeter. It is not for nothing that you are acclaimed for the actions of your forces, and so, for that, I owe you an apology. If you had done as I wished and not come, then… I dread to imagine what would have happened.”

“If I hadn’t come,” Ironwood said, “then my children would have been caught up in the middle of this as the grimm ran through the streets of Vale. Which is why I came: so that my ships, my forces, my weapons would be here to support and to protect them when… it was clear that something was going to happen, even if I didn’t anticipate this. I wanted to make sure that when whatever was about to happen happened, that my students weren’t hung out to dry in the middle of it.”

Ozpin smiled thinly. “And here I thought you came to protect Vale, James.”

Ironwood was quiet for a moment. “If it had just been a question of Vale… I would have stayed away when you asked me to before the semester started. I don’t… I don’t disobey you lightly, Oz, I hope you understand that. But with my… my children at stake, I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave them hanging in Vale with all of this going on.”

Ozpin nodded, if only a little. “Your loyalty does you credit,” he murmured, “and as I said-”

“You don’t need to say it again,” Ironwood assured him. “Especially since I’m not the one who deserves to have it said to me.” He paused for a moment. “Oz, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“How did Vale get like this?” Ironwood asked. “A military that has no ships on stand-by, whose soldiers aren’t trained to fight outside of a narrow range of conditions, how did it get like this?”

“I believe the phrase is ‘guns or butter,’” Ozpin replied. “In the years since the Great War, Atlas has consistently chosen guns, while Vale has consistently chosen butter. I hope you won’t attempt to suggest that the lot of the average working individual in Mantle isn’t worse than their equivalent in Vale. What Vale lacks in Atlesian technological advancement, I believe it makes up for in its collectivised welfare system.”

A lot of good that will do against the grimm, Ironwood thought to himself but kept it to himself. What he said, in as even a tone as possible, was, “You’ve been on the Council for a long time.”

“As you know,” Ozpin said, “I’ve always trusted in the huntsmen that we train at Beacon as the chief bulwark of Vale’s defences.”

Ironwood had no desire to rub salt in that particular wound, so he asked, “What’s the news from the outer settlements?”

“The grimm continue to wait nearby, without attacking,” Ozpin said.

Ironwood frowned. “Strange.”

Ozpin looked at him. “You think so?”

Ironwood tapped his fingers lightly upon the table. “Let’s assume that the grimm massed – only massed, not attacking – in order to draw huntsmen away from Vale.”

“Indeed,” Ozpin said, “let us assume that; it seems probable.”

“Salem’s plan – or Cinder’s plan, whoever came up with the idea – is pretty clear now,” Ironwood said. “They wanted to draw the huntsmen away from Vale to render it vulnerable to a grimm attack, an attack that they intended to orchestrate using the White Fang as their pawns; they used them to mine the Mountain Glenn tunnel, always planning to unleash a horde of grimm directly into the city – a city that would be denuded of huntsman thanks to the threats to the outlying settlements. Then, when my forces arrived, they decided to try and implant a virus in the CCT that would… well, I didn’t ask Twilight to analyse the virus, only to get rid of it, so I don’t know exactly what it would have done, but I’m guessing that it would have caused havoc with our systems and hindered our ability to respond to the assault. Except…”

Ozpin waited a moment. “'Except,' James?”

“Except, once Cinder was made, why go ahead?” Ironwood asked. “She had to know that we’d inspect the tower’s systems and find the virus, and without the virus, she had to know that the grimm would be attacking directly into the teeth of our defence – hell, she invited us to Mountain Glenn to find out what she was up to, throwing away the advantage of surprise. It was daylight madness to waste all of that build-up and all of her resources like that, so why did she do it? And why are the grimm still threatening the settlements? I understand why they didn’t attack before, but now? Why not withdraw and conserve her forces? Or if force conservation doesn’t matter, then why not attack and see if they can’t score some tactical victories?”

“Valid questions,” Ozpin said. “However, they assume that the campaign has been decided and that all our enemy may hope to accomplish is to win some tactical victories amidst the overall strategic failure.”

Ironwood’s frown deepened. “You don’t agree?”

“I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself, James,” Ozpin answered. “You – your forces – are the victors… but don’t let it go to your head.”

“This isn’t a question of letting anything go to my head; it’s a question of winning and losing,” Ironwood declared. “Cinder massacred her own allies in the White Fang; she threw away everything that she spent the past year building up to. All that she had done was leading up to this moment, and she blew it. We won. Her White Fang is gone, her grimm are dead, her route into Vale is shut off.”

“And yet, always, after a while, the shadow forms and grows again,” Ozpin whispered.

“After a while,” Ironwood replied. “It takes time.”

“Cinder Fall was neither killed nor captured,” Ozpin reminded him. “If she had been, then I might agree with you, but she was not. And, as you yourself pointed out, she invited us to Mountain Glenn. She, as you say, threw away the advantage of surprise. I fear the endgame is not yet behind us. I fear this was just another move, part of a strategy we do not yet discern.”

Ironwood bit back a curse. “So what do we do?”

Ozpin was silent for a moment. “We must find a guardian,” he murmured.

“Have you chosen yet?”

“Not yet,” Ozpin murmured. “And besides… they’ve all been through quite enough for the moment.”

“Indeed,” Ironwood agreed, his own voice soft and calm.

“And, since this is not over yet, I would be grateful if you forces could remain here, at least for the time being.”

“Of course,” Ironwood said. “I’m not going anywhere until the Festival is over.” He hesitated. “Oz… don’t be too hard on yourself. You’re not the only one who has fallen short of the standards you set for yourself lately.”

Ozpin looked at him. “How so?”

“Twilight,” Ironwood said. “Penny. Penny has been injured on a mission that she probably shouldn’t have been on, and Twilight…” He sighed. “‘EveryoneEvery one thinks meanly of themselves for not having been a soldier.’”

“Ah,” Ozpin said. “To be surrounded by huntsmen and huntresses-”

“Bringing her here was a mistake,” Ironwood interrupted. “One which I’ll correct next year; if Apple wants to come back, then she can take up the fourth spot in… Raspberry, again? Perhaps I should try and find a new team name. In any case, making Twilight part of a team was my mistake. There were other ways. Next year, I can find someone else to take that spot, but for now… I just need to make Twilight feel… not so lesser. I’ve always prided myself on my connection to these kids, but I… I didn’t see it happening until it was too late.”

“You and I have had our differences and our disagreements James, but I’ve never doubted your leadership abilities,” Ozpin said. “I didn’t appoint you to be headmaster of Atlas because of your generalship but because… because I thought the students would be lucky to have you. Whatever is needed for Miss Sparkle, I have no doubt that you will find it.”

“Thanks, Oz,” Ironwood said. “I appreciate your confidence. Really.”

A light on the corner of his desk flashed, indicating incoming communication. “Excuse me,” Ironwood said, pressing the discrete button to open a channel to the CIC. “This is Ironwood.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said Lieutenant des Voeux, “but the Valish Council is on the line, requesting to speak with you.”

“Hang on,” Ironwood said, temporarily muting himself. To Ozpin, he said, “Do you know what this is about?”

“No, but that doesn’t surprise me,” Ozpin said. “I’m not in particularly good odour with the rest of the Council at present.”

“I didn’t think I was, either,” Ironwood muttered. He unmuted himself. “Patch them through to my office, des Voeux.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

A holographic image appeared above Ironwood’s desk, a long image displaying the faces of four out of the five members of the Valish Council as they sat in chambers. The room in which they sat was dim, and it was hard to make out their faces; in fact, they were little more than silhouettes, outlined against what little light there was behind them.

However, their voices – or at least the voice of First Councillor Aris – came through loud and clear. “General Ironwood,” she said, “I hope that we’re not disturbing you.”

“Not at all, Madam Councillor,” Ironwood replied, “although I currently have Professor Ozpin with me.”

“Madam Councillor,” Ozpin said courteously.

“That is no trouble,” Councillor Aris replied, although her voice seemed to sharpen at the recognition of the headmaster’s presence. “In fact, it is quite convenient. My apologies for not inviting you to this Council session, Professor, but as you know, four members is a quorum.”

Ozpin said nothing. There wasn’t much to say, at least as far as Ironwood could tell. It was a snub, at best, to have had a meeting behind his back, but at the same time, what good would calling it out do?

Ironwood was more worried about what they had been meeting to discuss. Was it possible that they were so petty that they intended to order him and his ships out of Vale? They had the authority to do so; if they did demand that he leave, it would be very hard for him to stay – as he had cause to lament before, these weren’t his own councillors; he couldn’t just ignore them and dare them to try and fire him if he didn’t like their instructions. If the Valish ordered him out, he would have to do as they said – or risk an international incident possibly leading to war.

Yes, let’s file that under ‘last resort.’

“As you are both no doubt aware,” Councillor Aris continued, “the recent attack on Vale – following the persistent activities of the White Fang – have led to questions, both in and out of Vale, over whether it is wise or proper that the Vytal Festival should go ahead here in our kingdom.”

Ozpin cleared his throat. “Madam Councillor, the Vytal Festival-”

“You have said quite enough already, Professor” Councillor Aris snarled. “A period of silence from you would now be welcome.” She took a deep breath. “Vale has already committed a great deal of money into preparations for the Vytal Festival, and we have every intention of hosting a successful tournament and all the other events surrounding it. To do otherwise, to allow Mistral to host the festival as some in that kingdom have had the gall to propose, would be to concede… to concede too much. No, the Vytal Festival will go ahead in Vale, the Council is committed to that. I am going to ask this once, and I expect a more honest answer from the both of you than you have been wont to give me in the past: do you know of any reason why the festival should not go ahead here in Vale?”

“No, Madam Councillor,” Ozpin said.

Ironwood looked at him over the hologram. Really, Oz? After what we just finished discussing?

“General Ironwood?” Councillor Aris asked.

Ironwood hesitated. Ozpin believed that the situation was not over yet, and his reasons were convincing… but then, they had never planned to postpone the festival in the face of the threat, even when the threat was much greater than it was now. “No, Madam Councillor.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Councillor Aris said flatly. “The Council concurs, but we recognise the importance of confidence, both here and in other kingdoms: confidence in our ability to host a safe and successful festival, confidence in the safety of their visiting students and tourists. Confidence that everything will proceed as it should, with no surprises. And so, for that reason, the Council has consulted with our counterparts in Atlas and decided, General Ironwood, to request that you take over as head of security for the Vytal Festival.”

Again, Ironwood glanced at Ozpin. The old man showed no visible reaction to the slight. “That’s quite an honour, Madam Councillor,” Ironwood said, choosing his words with great care, “but it is custom that the headmaster of the host school is also the head of security.”

“Professor Ozpin sat in his tower while Vale was in danger,” Councillor Aris said acidly. “Do not mistake this as a sign of the Council’s confidence in you, General; I hold you as much responsible for this catastrophe, and for the deaths of six Valish citizens, as Professor Ozpin. But you are, as far as the public narrative goes, the hero of the Breach and the saviour of Vale. News that you are taking personal charge of security will reassure doubters at home and abroad.”

“I see,” Ironwood murmured. “Thank you for your candour, Madam Councillor.” He paused, considering. “I have certain conditions.”

“'Conditions'?” Councillor Aris repeated.

“I want a free hand to act as I see fit without the need for your authorisation and approval,” Ironwood said. “I don’t want you tying my hands anymore.”

“Bloody cheek!” Councillor Aspen barked.

“Aspen, that’s enough,” Councillor Aris murmured. “You ask a great deal, General.”

“You approached me, Madam Councillor,” Ironwood replied. “If you want me to make your festival secure, then I will secure it, but I won’t lend you my name just to give you some credibility.”

Councillor Aris took a moment to reply. “Very well,” she said. “In matters of Vytal Festival security, you may act as you wish, without reference to this Council or anyone else. Congratulations, General Ironwood; we’re all counting on you.”

“I won’t let you down, Madam Councillor,” Ironwood said as he hung upon them.

“That was bold of you, James,” Ozpin observed.

“I’m sick of those people holding me back,” Ironwood grunted. He had still not forgiven the way that Councillor Aris had prohibited him from doing anything to support the students when they had gotten into trouble in the Emerald Forest. “If they want me to run security, then I’m going to do it my way.”

“I have a suspicion that I’m not going to like this,” Ozpin murmured.

“I want to put androids in the grounds of Beacon, and the surrounding area,” Ironwood said. “It’s not the only measure – I’d like to put them on the streets of Vale, but I recognise I still need the Council’s approval for that – but I think it will reduce people’s nerves when they see that the fairgrounds and the school and the coliseum are well-protected. Plus, I’ll be bringing in a third squadron from Atlas, with troops and all other equipment. If there is another move coming, we’ll be ready for them.”

“I hope so, James,” Ozpin murmured, “but now, I will leave you, to address Miss Sparkle’s concerns and to plan security for the Festival.”

He rose to his feet. Ironwood did likewise, saying, “Thanks for coming, Oz. It was good to talk to you.”

“Likewise,” Ozpin said, turning away. His cane tapped on the floor as the door slid open.

“Oz,” Ironwood said to him, making Ozpin turn and look back. “You still have my respect.”

Ozpin did not reply, nor by any means offer any acknowledgement of the general’s words. He simply turned away and walked out of the office to where a young officer was waiting to escort him back to his airship.

The door slid closed again. Ironwood stood, casting a shadow across his desk, looking at the door without really seeing the door.

Now, he had to find something to say to Twilight.


Last year, over break, Twilight had spent some time volunteering at the hospital in Canterlot. Specifically, she’d volunteered at the hydrotherapy pool there: taking names, collecting the dues, making the tea, making sure that nobody drowned. Most of the people who came in to use the pool were sweet old folks, like Applejack’s Granny Smith, whose legs or knees or hips might be starting to go and who needed the supported exercise in a way that water could provide. But there was this one boy, or a young man… he’d been in a car accident that had left him completely paralysed. His mother, his sister, and two paid carers had brought him in each week in a large, cumbersome wheelchair, and each week, they had gotten him into his swimming trunks and manhandled him onto a stretcher, which was then picked up and lowered by a hydraulic arm into the water, where he floated in their chair, moving him gently over the surface of the shallow pool, moving his arms and legs to stave off muscle atrophy, moving him so that he could feel movement, could feel for a moment that he was not confined to that chair.

He never talked, he couldn’t, but Twilight remembered him; she remembered him enough that she had some sketches of a bodysuit that would connect directly into the cerebral cortex and allow people like that to move around under their own will, the suit obeying them in ways their arms and legs no longer would.

Mostly, she found that she remembered his face; no, she remembered his eyes, the way they looked at her, the way they looked out at the world.

The eyes of a prisoner, trapped in his own body, unable to escape. Helpless.

Penny’s eyes were just the same now, as she lay on the table in the workshop that had been set aside for her aboard the Valiant. Her face was frozen, her whole body was frozen; she had been disabled pending total repair. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t speak; only her eyes could move. And those green eyes stared up at Twilight with that same helplessness that she remembered so well from the paralysed boy.

Like him, she was trapped by her own body and its faults.

Unlike him, Twilight had more to offer than sketches and ideas that might not amount to anything. She plugged a cable, running into a computer on a desk in the corner of the workshop, into the socket on Penny’s hair-bow. She smiled. “I’m sorry about this, Penny. Just give me a second, okay?”

Penny did not look reassured by this. She looked no less helpless, no less a prisoner; the look in her eyes was no less imploring.

And no less uncomfortable to look at.

Twilight turned away, crossing the workshop in two brisk strides to walk to the computer. “Trust me, Penny, just a second. Okay,” – she began to type – “your speech centre was scrambled by the attack, but if I can connect directly to your core processor and then re-route…” Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “Yes, that’s right; bypass speech centre and connect directly to external… and done! At least I hope it is.”

“Does this mean I can talk again?” the voice that emerged from the computer’s speakers was not Penny’s voice. It was mechanical, and very obviously so, and rather masculine in its depth besides. But it was a voice, and Twilight could hear it. “This is wonderful! Wait, why do I sound like this? Why don’t I sound like me?”

“Because your voice is not innate to your being, Penny,” Twilight explained. “You have, in your throat, what are essentially artificial reproductions of vocal chords designed to serve the same purpose: to generate sound. Your father, and Uncle Pietro, selected those vocal chords; they chose the pitch and range of your voice to suit their own preferences. You sound… you sound like your father wanted his daughter to sound like.”

Put like that, it sounded a little controlling, but what alternative was there? Nobody got to choose their own voice, after all – if she had, Twilight would have chosen to sound a lot more like Rarity – and Penny was no worse off in that regard than anyone else just because her voice had been deliberately selected rather than being random.

In fact, in as much as her voice had been selected, one could argue she was better off than some people who ended up making some rather unfortunate sounds.

“This computer,” Twilight continued, rallying after that brief moment of hesitation, “doesn’t have vocal chords, and although the speakers can produce a range of sounds, to produce a replica of your voice would require a lot more programming than I’ve had time for or will have time for before we get to Atlas.”

The holographic emitter next to the computer stirred to life, and a hologram of Twilight appeared. Well, no, it was not quite Twilight Sparkle; it was… it was Twilight Sparkle as she sometimes wished she was, and not just because she wasn’t wearing glasses: more confident-looking, with a stronger pose and better posture; more beautiful, too, with long straight hair falling down past her waist like the heroine of a romance comic.

Midnight, for it was she, said, “You did experiment with several different voice programs during my creation, and I still have them in storage. I could transfer them to the terminal, and Penny could pick one she likes.”

“Well, when I did that-” Twilight began.

“What kind of programs?” Penny asked.

“You could sound like Applejack, whoo-ee!” Midnight declared, slipping smoothly out of her own voice and into Applejack’s distinctive drawl. “Let’s round-up them long-horn steers and then get the rest of the chores done. Or you could sound like Rarity, darling, oh, isn’t that fabric just delightful?”

“Yes, thank you, Midnight!” Twilight squawked sharply. “I think Penny gets the idea.” She laughed nervously. “I… I thought, when I was programming Midnight, that it might be nice if my wisdom and advice came from a friend. After all, my friends are all the best parts of me, so it made sense in my head if Midnight should sound like one of them. Still beside me, still giving me helpful hints on what to do. But, the more I thought about it, the more I worried that it would seem like, I don’t know, seem disrespectful, or maybe like I was making fun of them. So I decided to go with something… like my voice, but with a mechanical filter on it so that it didn’t sound like me.”

“I see,” Penny replied. She was quiet for a moment. “I’d kind of like to sound like Pyrrha, or maybe Sunset, but I don’t want to seem rude or disrespectful either. I think I’ll just stick with this.” She paused for a moment. “How is Ruby?”

Twilight’s brow furrowed. “It’s… nobody’s quite sure, Penny. She’s still in the hospital; she hasn’t woken up yet.”

“But she’s going to be okay, isn’t she?”

Twilight hesitated. “I… we all hope so. Study of magic is… non-existent, but it seems that her powers shouldn’t have any harmful side-effects, so on that basis… the odds aren’t bad.”

“That… that’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Penny, that’s good,” Twilight replied. At least, I hope it is.

“And everyone else is okay, aren’t they?”

“Well… the Breach was not without casualties,” Twilight admitted, “but Pyrrha’s fine, and Sunset and Jaune and Rainbow and Ciel, so I suppose, from that perspective: yes, everyone else is okay.” She smiled. “You don’t have to worry about anyone else.”

“Do you think they’ll come visit me?” Penny asked in that new and unfamiliar voice.

“If they do, they’ll hear you like that.”

“Pyrrha won’t care,” Penny declared. “She didn’t care when she found out I was a robot; she won’t care that I sound like this.”

“Then I’ll have Rainbow ask them to come,” Twilight promised.

“Thank you,” said Penny.

The door opened. It was locked, with a code to which only a few authorised personnel had access to, but it was still something of a surprise when General Ironwood walked in.

“General?” Twilight said.

“Salutations, sir,” Penny greeted him with all the enthusiasm of which her temporary voice was capable. That wasn’t much, but it was the thought that counted.

General Ironwood blinked as the door slid shut behind him. “Penny?”

“Yes, sir; Twilight fixed up a way that I can talk. It doesn’t sound like me, but at least you can understand what I’m saying.”

General Ironwood glanced at Twilight, who let out a nervous chuckle. “I’m afraid it’s the best I could do at short notice, sir.”

General Ironwood chuckled. “If Penny doesn’t object, then who am I to object?” He walked around the workbench on which Penny lay, until he was standing on the other side of her from Twilight. He reached out and took her hand. “How do you feel, Penny?”

“I can’t feel you holding my hand, sir,” Penny said, “but don’t let that stop you.”

A smile crossed the General’s face briefly. “Alright,” he said, and his voice was so gentle that he might have been putting a young child to bed for the night. “I’m sorry, I just… old habit, I guess.” Nevertheless, as Penny had requested, he did not let go of her hand. “But how do you feel?”

“I don’t feel much,” Penny admitted. “Except… kind of embarrassed. I’m sorry I let you down, sir.”

“You haven’t let me down, Penny,” General Ironwood assured her. “I am the one who let you down, and I’m sorry for it.”

“Sir?” Twilight and Penny said at once, and Twilight was sure that if Penny could have expressed her emotions normally, she would have sounded as disbelieving as Twilight did – as disbelieving as Twilight felt.

“I shouldn’t have sent you into Mountain Glenn,” General Ironwood declared. “I asked too much of you too soon. You were… created to do great things, and I believe you will, but the reason why I had you enrolled in school, the reason I want you in the Vytal tournament, the reason why you aren’t already out on the battlefield is the fact that you still have so much to learn. You and Dash and Soleil… I should have thought less of your courage than of your inexperience. I didn’t, and I placed too much on you before you were ready.”

“But I still-”

“When a mother bird pushes her chicks to fly too soon, and they fall from the branch to the ground, where does the fault lie, Penny?” General Ironwood asked. “With the young chick whose wings simply haven’t grown big enough, or with the mother who ought to know enough to realise that?”

Penny was silent for a moment. “Does this mean you’re my mother, sir?”

General Ironwood chuckled. “It means I should have known better, Penny. Now, I’m sure that there are lessons that you can learn from what happened to you down in Mountain Glenn, and I want – I expect – for you to take those lessons to heart, but I don’t want you to be discouraged or disheartened, I don’t want you to think that this reflects on you in any way. Will you promise me that you won’t do that?”

Penny took a moment to say, “I’ll try my best, sir.”

General Ironwood nodded. “You’ll grow stronger, Penny. Remember that, and remember that you are not a failure. Remember it, and don’t let anyone tell you different, not even your father. Especially not your father.” He placed Penny’s hand gently back on the workbench, and only then did he release it, rather than letting it fall to the surface with a thunk. He straightened up and looked Twilight in the eye. “I think that I owe you an apology as well, Twilight.”

Twilight blinked rapidly. “What… what makes you think that, sir?”

The General’s expression didn’t alter. “How long have you felt… how long have you thought meanly of yourself?”

Twilight recognised the quotation to which the General was referring. “How did you know, sir?”

“I finally recognised it from the look in your eye when you asked to fly during the battle,” General Ironwood said. “I probably should have done something about it after the incident in the tower, if not before. When did it start?”

Twilight hesitated for a moment. “On the train.”

General Ironwood frowned momentarily. “You should have said something.”

“You would have patted me on the head and told me not to worry about it, sir,” Twilight said. “Like you’re about to do now,” she added.

General Ironwood did not, in fact, move to pat her on the head. In fact, he didn’t do or say anything. He just stood there, looking at her, his blue eyes looking rather sad.

So much so that Twilight absurdly started to wonder if she ought to apologise.

“Twilight?” Penny asked. “What’s the General talking about? Why do you… think meanly of yourself. Is that what you said, sir?”

“Yes, Penny, I did,” General Ironwood replied. “An old quotation: Every one-“

“'Every one thinks meanly of themselves for not having been a soldier,'” Twilight said softly, cutting the General off.

“Twilight,” Penny said. “Is that true? Do you?”

“Shouldn’t I?” Twilight asked. “What have I done? Nothing!”

“You helped make me,” Penny pointed out. “Or do I not count because I haven’t done anything yet either?”

Twilight winced. “No, Penny, that’s not what I-”

“If you thought about it for a moment, Twilight,” General Ironwood said, “you’ve done more than any of us.”

Twilight frowned. “Sir?”

“You uncovered Cinder’s treachery,” General Ironwood reminded her. “You uncovered the virus that she planted in the CCT; you brought back warning about the coming attack.”

“But that… anyone could have done that last one, sir.”

“Perhaps they could,” General Ironwood allowed, “but how do you think the Breach might have gone if our androids had turned against us, or if, thanks to that virus, we’d lost communications, or targeting, or even control of our airships? How much worse might things have turned out if Cinder had continued to operate under our very noses? Vale was saved. For the loss of just six lives, Vale was saved, and I will take that, gladly. Vale was saved, and while many people took part in the saving, you deserve as much credit for it as anyone, and more than some. More than me.”

Twilight scoffed. “You’re just trying to make me feel better, sir; you-”

“Anyone could have organised that defence, once they knew what was coming,” General Ironwood said. “Schnee, Rouge, Fitzjames, any competent major or colonel could have done what I did.”

“And anyone with a certain level of expertise could have done what I did, sir,” Twilight pointed out. “I didn’t… I didn’t-”

“Fight?” General Ironwood asked.

Twilight glanced down at her hands. “Yes, sir.”

General Ironwood reached into the breast pocket of his coat. “I don’t keep my sidearm loaded, but I do keep a clip handy just in case,” he said, producing said clip. With his thumb, he flicked one bullet out into the palm of his ungloved hand. “You know what this is?”

“Of course I do, sir; it’s a cartridge.”

General Ironwood nodded. “One of millions produced in the factories of Atlas and Mantle every year, along with every gun to fire these cartridges, and every rocket, and every grenade, and every other weapon that we wield against our enemies. How many of the people who work in those factories, how many of the people who make the cartridges like this one ever see combat?”

Twilight folded her arms. “Few, if any; only those employees who just happen to be veterans.”

“And yet, where would we be without them?” General Ironwood asked. He put the round back in the clip, and the clip back in his coat pocket. With his ungloved hand, he took off the glove that concealed the other, revealing the gleaming metal of his prosthetic. “This was made for me by the Polendina brothers,” he reminded her, “neither of whom have ever served a day in uniform, and yet, they have served Atlas as well as any soldier; more in fact.”

“You’ve made your point, sir,” Twilight murmured. “A little heavy-handedly, but you’ve made it.”

“And so will you,” General Ironwood continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. “Once you get your own lab next year.”

“Huh?” Twilight felt as though she must have misheard the General.

“Placing you here was a misallocation of resources,” General Ironwood said. “One that not only wasted your talent – albeit in a way that seems quite fortuitous now – but also damaged your morale. I’m afraid that it’s too late to change the composition of Team Rosepetal before the Vytal Festival, but once the year is out, I’ll make sure that you get your lab in the research division. You can choose a small team, one or two others - or you can work alone if you’d prefer - your own budget, your own projects. Civilian or military applications, just submit it to me, and I’ll evaluate it upon its merits.”

Twilight’s eyes widened. What General Ironwood was offering was… well, it was what every researcher dreamed of. Independence, the chance to pursue their own ideas, the chance to lead their own team, the chance to prove yourself with results, the chance to see the fruit of your own mind turn into something solid, tangible, useful.

She thought about the paralysed young man. With her own lab, her ideas for a suit that could give him a measure of freedom once more need no longer remain sketches and draught notes.

It could be real. It could be real, and it could help.

It could help… so much more than her learning how to be proficient in weapons usage could.

“General,” Twilight murmured. “Are you… are you serious about this?”

“I’m always serious, Twilight,” General Ironwood replied, which, while not entirely true, was certainly belied by his present demeanour. “I’m sorry for not considering how putting you in this environment might make you feel, but I’m certain that once you get back to work, all of this will seem like a distant memory. Chaining you down in an academy was a mistake; you should be free to soar, as high as Atlas itself.”

“I… I will,” Twilight declared. “I promise, I won’t let you down, sir.”

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