• 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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Assets and Operatives (New)

Assets and Operatives

Portchester Manor was a secluded gothic edifice set behind Vale’s Green Line, in the midst of the farmland that bordered on the city itself. The estate was wide and set behind its own wall for protection against the grimm, and within that wall was encompassed woods, a spring, and a not inconsiderable amount of good grouse moor.

‘This was in my prayers,’ a poet had once written, ‘a measure of land not so large, with a garden and, near the house, a spring of pure water, and above this, a little patch of woods. The gods have given me more and better.’

The gods had certainly given the Portchester family more and better; they had enjoyed the rural idyll the ancient poets sang of without having to submit themselves to a rustic lack of creature comforts. The house from which they had presided over their large measure of land contained over a hundred rooms, including a ballroom, a library, a great dining hall, enough bedrooms for a score or more of guests, servants’ quarters, and all the other trappings of a great aristocratic family.

The House of Portchester had been old, wealthy, and prestigious; they had served the kings of Vale in war and peace, and done very well for themselves in the process: lands, titles, offices, and honours had flowed to them, increasing in every generation. But to Cinder’s mind, their story became truly interesting a few generations before the Great War, when a rash of deaths — including some that were rather sudden, unexpected, and terribly tragic — meant that the lordship of the family fell to a distant cousin, one Louis Mazzini, although he had, of course, taken the Portchester name upon his succession. Whatever his last name, old Louis had lived a grand life: married to a beautiful woman, popular with his servants and tenants, generous and kind, and only dying at a ripe old age, leaving behind a loving family. It was only after the old lord was dead that his memoirs were found, revealing — what a surprise! — that he had, with one or two exceptions, murdered all of the relatives who had stood between him and the Portchester lordship, including his wife’s first husband. Apparently, his mother had been disowned by her aristocratic family after she eloped with an opera singer from Mantle, and he had not forgiven them for their refusal to allow her to be interred in the family crypt.

Cinder could sympathise with his desire for revenge, although to be perfectly honest, she could have sympathised with his desire to murder everyone who stood between him and a plum inheritance like this one as well. Not everyone had the good fortune to be born to, well, fortune; not everyone’s good fortune lasted all their lives. Some people had to make their own good fortune in this world, even if that meant getting your hands a little dirty in the process. It was fair to say that Louis’ reputation had declined somewhat once the truth came out, but as far as Cinder was concerned, he was the most admirable of the bunch; how much better to rise upon your own merits, to win the fruits of your wit and daring, than to let things come to you through happy accident of birth?

In any event, the family had survived the shock, no one had suggested disinheriting Louis’ children for the crimes of their father, and the Portchesters had carried on. Well, to all outward appearances, at least. Apparently, they’d gotten a taste for hidden sins, and the later generations of the family had gotten involved in grimm worship. Nobody knew exactly how long the practice had been going on, but if one was to go down into the cellars, one could find a black temple, a shrine, all the necessary accoutrements for worshipping the creatures of destruction … and blood stains on the stone.

The locals had found out eventually, of course; one of the waifish village girls the lords had sought to sacrifice had possessed a strapping village lad as her beau, and said strapping lad had gotten into the manor and rescued his lass before she could be sacrificed. An outraged mob had marched upon the manor with pitchforks and torches … and the grimm, summoned by their outrage and their fury, had descended upon the whole pack of them, and in their slaughter, they had cared not for who worshipped them and who did not. And that had been the end of the Portchester family.

Understandably, nobody had been too keen to claim the inheritance at this point; in fact, nobody seemed to want the land at all. Nobody wanted to venture into the house, not even to demolish it. Local legend said that it was haunted: by the ghosts of those that Louis Mazzini had killed to get the house, by the ghosts of the victims of the Portchesters’ sacrifices, or by the ghosts of those the grimm had devoured that final night.

Cinder was not concerned. She did not fear her own ghosts; she certainly didn’t fear the ghosts of other men’s crimes. If any of them wanted to try their hands at haunting her, they would soon find out that she could be scarier than any phantom.

She was currently in the bedroom that had, when the house was in its grandeur, belonged to the lady of the house. She did not need a bedroom, but people expected her to sleep, even though she didn’t, so it was wise to retire to a bedroom of nights, even if all she did there was plot and plan and brood.

And it was, despite the dilapidated state of the house, rather a nice bedroom. Yes, there was fungus growing in one corner and black mould creeping up the walls, and it was hard to avoid the impression of rising damp wherever one looked, but if one put all of that aside and tried to imagine how it had looked in its pomp, one could recreate the dignity of the place when house and family alike were at their height. There was the dressing table at which Lady Edith, Louis’ wife, had sat while the maid arranged her hair; there was the jewellery box which no one had had the courage to rob; there was the mirror in which she had admired herself — Cinder had cleaned it with a rag so that she could see her own face in it in turn — and beyond that, there was the window at which she might have stood and looked out across the land that was so wide and beautiful and all hers.

Right now, however, Cinder was looking not in the mirror, or out of the window, but rather, at the scroll in her hand which had just gone black, Sunset having hung up on her.

“You made me a monster.”

“How tediously bourgeois of you,” Cinder said aloud. She tossed the scroll down onto the dressing table and stared at her reflection in the mirror. With one idle hand, she brushed some of her hair out of her face, revealing her other eye. “Because it’s wrong,” she said, putting an undue, almost ridiculous amount of emphasis upon the word. She wagged her finger. “It’s wrong!” She put her hands upon her hips. “You can’t do that; it’s wrong.” She snorted in derision.

“You made me you.”

The smirk faltered upon Cinder’s face, and the worst part was that she could see it happening.

What was wrong with that? What was wrong with being her? She was something to be admired, respected, revered. She was strong and bold and daring. She had such courage in her as would bend the world around her; she had such ambitions as would put the moon back together; she was such as kingdoms trembled in fear of her!

She was all alone.

And? And what of that? That was no fault of hers; that was … an accident, because certain people preferred to be so very high and mighty, to stand in judgement of her, to look down on her as though they had any right. If people would rather call her monster than take her hand, was she to blame? If she was all alone, then it was the world’s fault, not hers.

Not that she needed anyone else.

And why did Sunset have to say it like that, anyway? What had she been before that was so great that becoming more like Cinder was an awful fate for her?

She had been loved.

Cinder scowled, and as she scowled, she snatched up the scroll from the dressing table and sent Sunset a text message.

Fine. Be that way. See if I care.

The message sent, she threw the scroll back down again and moved away from the mirror. She didn’t want to look at her own reflection anymore.

“You have made me you.”

You didn’t have to say it like that.

“You have made me you.”

Then why don’t you embrace it?

“You have made me you.”

That was my intent, but I meant well by it.

The scowl remained on Cinder’s face as she looked out of the window. The grounds, spacious if a little overgrown by now, brought her no joy to look on. She didn’t want to think about Sunset anymore. She didn’t want to think about what Sunset had said … but in her mind, there was no getting away from it.

She had sought to free Sunset from the constraints of petty modern morality, to make her into … well, into someone more like Cinder, a hero out of the old epics of Mistral: violent, to be sure, and dangerous to cross, but nobody judged the original Pyrrha being either of those things. Nobody called her a monster, or even a murderer. Nobody wagged their finger in her face and told her she was wrong.

No, they called her the greatest hero of their day, the greatest that had ever lived, the greatest in the canon of Mistralian literature.

Cinder had hoped that Sunset would come to see it the same way, the way that Cinder viewed herself. Instead, the chains of modern morality, harsh though they were, and cold, and utterly lacking in romance, seemed to have tightened into a noose that was strangling Sunset, and it was … it was all Cinder’s fault.

Well, it was partly Sunset’s fault for continuing to be bound by such things, but it was Cinder’s fault as well.

She had not meant to hurt Sunset, but it seemed that she had hurt her nonetheless.

And that … well, that gave her pause. It made her think. It made her think in ways that she would rather not have thought of.

Many of the things for which she might be condemned were not near her conscience. Infiltrating Beacon, pretending to be someone she was not, gaining the confidence of those she meant to betray? That was a ruse de guerre, no different than tricking her way into a fortress. Killing those Atlesian soldiers at the tower? This was war, she was a soldier, and they had weapons in their hands; the fact that she was more skilled than they was no good nor evil thing. But Twilight Sparkle, up in the tower…

“You have made me you.”

Sunset meant the deaths of those five little people in Vale — plus this Sky Lark fellow who had Sweetie Drops so worked up, and what was she going to do about that? She had called Sunset in part to have her ego stroked a little after Bon Bon’s outburst, but instead, she had been left feeling worse than she had done before — but Cinder’s mind was not on them. No great thing was ever accomplished without violence, and no Great Man of history ever concerned themselves with the cost of their ambitions. But Twilight Sparkle…

“You have made me you.”

Cinder was what the world had made of her. If she was cruel, it was because the world had been cruel to her in turn. If she sought power, it was because power was the only way to keep yourself safe in this world. If she was ambitious, it was because this was not a world that would give you a handout if you waited patiently, or asked nicely, or were humble and good-hearted and trusted in the kindness of others. And if her ambitions threatened to trample upon others in her way, then it was only because she had seen that that was the way that men realised their ambitions in these kingdoms.

Cinder was what the world had made of her. Cinder … she was what Phoebe Kommenos had made of her.

“You have made me you.”

And you made me you, Phoebe.

That had been a cruel bit of business in the tower. Foolish, hazardous — at the point at which Mercury had informed her that Rainbow Dash was on the way, she should have made her escape as quickly as possible, claimed innocence of anything that Twilight had found, and tried to get back into the tower again and plant the virus at a later date — and cruel. She had let the Phoebe inside come out and play.

“You have made me you.”

Alright, yes, I can see how that might be seen as a bad thing.

I am not without virtue. I am cultured, erudite, and self-taught, what is more, intelligent, hard working … but that’s not what you meant, is it, Sunset?

Cinder was given a respite from these musings — for which she was very grateful — when she saw a man approaching the house, walking up the road towards the front door. She recognised him as Captain Kyle of the King’s Own Patch Light Infantry, the same grimm cultist who had escorted her and her followers through the Valish lines. Now, he approached, dressed in plain fatigues, with no insignia of rank visible and a bulging backpack hanging from one shoulder.

Cinder turned away, not even taking another look in the mirror, leaving the lady’s bedroom and sweeping down the stairs, her glass slippers clicking upon the wooden boards, until she arrived in the hallway. Rusted suits of armour stood against the wall; portraits that were so dirty that the figures within them were invisible; the wooden panels were rotting away in places, suggesting some sort of infestation. The hall ran straight ahead from the grand staircase down which she had descended, with a few doors opening — and they were all open at the moment — off said hallway.

Cinder walked briskly down the corridor to the front door of the house, opening both the double doors before Captain Kyle could reach them. With luck, he wouldn’t realise that she’d seen him from the window and would marvel at her perspicacity.

“Captain,” she greeted him evenly.

He bowed his head. “Apostle,” he murmured. “You knew I was coming?”

Cinder smiled. “I have been endowed with many gifts, Captain, and those gifts come with many abilities.”

“Of course,” he said. The good captain was a tall man, broad shouldered, with muscular arms — exposed, since he had his sleeves rolled up — and a round, bald head, although said baldness was mostly concealed beneath a green beret. “You … you are honoured indeed, apostle; I must admit, I envy you.”

Envy, you say? You envy me? You envy what I am? You envy what I have done to myself? “Serve me well, Captain, in this and in my work here, and you too shall be rewarded,” Cinder purred. Complete nonsense, of course, but the promise might carry him over some of the more unsavoury things that she might ask of him.

Captain Kyle’s small brown eyes widened. “You mean … really?”

“You sound surprised,” Cinder said. “Is that not what you have hoped for? What you have prayed for?”

Kyle hesitated. “Yes,” he admitted, “but my worship has been lax of late; amongst the men, there is little room; there are few other disciples, but if we were discovered—”

“Your position is understood,” Cinder assured him. “The outward shows of worship and obedience are important, but not as important as the faith you carry inside your heart. Keep the faith, serve when you are commanded, and all minor omissions will be forgiven. Why, simply for assisting me in this, the grimm will not trouble your men in their position.”

“Thank you, apostle,” Kyle replied. “They are not all worshippers, far from it, but they are good men, after their own fashion, and I would see them protected. That is one of the reasons why I became a disciple. Why strive against the darkness when we can serve it, and be protected by our service better than our arms ever kept us safe?”

“Why indeed?” Cinder replied. “Did you bring food?”

“Of course,” Kyle said, dumping the backpack down on the doorstep. “It is poor fare, ration packs and MREs, but—”

“It will serve,” Cinder told him. The Portchester larder was bare — or at least, it was bare of anything that Emerald or Lightning Dust were willing to try and eat — and even Cinder was not beyond the need for bodily sustenance. If Bon Bon had been more cooperative, then she could have bought them something from Vale, but that might have taken time in and of itself. This would tide them over until Cinder thought of how to best address their current position. She picked up the rucksack and moved it over the threshold, into the house and out of the way of the doors. “Thank you, Captain; this will not be forgotten.”

“Hey, Captain!”

Cinder looked around. Sonata Dusk had poked her head out of the one of the doorways leading out into the hall, and now waved cheerily with her one visible hand.

“Nice to see you again!” she added brightly.

Once more, Kyle bowed his head, “It is an honour to stand in your presence, servant.”

“Oh, you don’t need to be so formal with little old me,” Sonata said dismissively. “Just call me ‘ma’am’!” She laughed. “Just kidding, you can call me Sonata, seeing as you’re such a sweetheart. Ooh, is that food?”

“Thank you, Sonata, that will be all,” Cinder growled. She returned her attention to the captain. “And that will be all for you as well, Captain. Return to your post, and if I have further need of you, I will send Emerald or Lightning with my instructions.”

“I would be glad to receive any messenger touched by the darkness,” Kyle said, “and to obey as swiftly as I may.”

“Of course,” Cinder said, and shut the doors on him with as much haste as she could get away with. “Emerald?” she called. Lightning Dust was patrolling the perimeter, but Emerald ought to be around here somewhere. “Emerald!”

“Here I am,” Emerald replied, emerging from somewhere out of the back of the house. “Yes, Cinder?”

“This will be our food, for the next few days at least,” Cinder announced, prodding the rucksack with her foot. “Take it into the kitchen and…” She trailed off from ordering Emerald to sort it into meals for them. Mercury had been their best cook — the result of a lifetime of taking care of his father — but Emerald could produce something edible, which was more than could be said for Lightning Dust. However…

“You have made me you.”

Oh, please. You’d be lucky to be half as skilled as I am, Sunset.

“Take it into the kitchen,” she repeated, “and I will … deal with it … later.”

Emerald stared at her. “You will … are you going to make dinner?”

As a matter of fact, Cinder was — or had been — a fairly decent cook. It had been one of her many duties in the House of Kommenos, along with sewing, mending, cleaning — she could have cleaned this house, if she had had the mind — and the proper polishing of antique silverware. The origins of that particular skill meant that she did not much enjoy using it, for which reason she had kept her ability a secret from her minions. But, well … her conscience had been pricked, it seemed. She was more than just a cruel monster.

“Yes,” she said, her voice low, the words emerging almost through gritted teeth. “I will take care of it.”

Emerald continued to stare, eyes wide. “Do you … know how?”

“We’ll see, won’t we?” Cinder replied sarcastically.

“Because I don’t—”

“I’ve given you your instructions,” Cinder said sharply.

Emerald flinched. “Yes, of course you have, I’ll just take those away…” She began to walk forward, quickly but softly, as if she were treading very carefully for fear the floor might collapse under her at any moment.

Cinder took a deep breath. “Noblesse oblige, Emerald,” she said. “Take a rest, and let me take care of things.”

Emerald hesitated, stopping her tracks. An uncertain smile flickered upon her face. “Of course. Thank you, Cinder.” She picked up the rucksack and disappeared into the back of the house in the direction of the kitchen.

“That was nice of you,” Sonata declared from the doorway. “You’re not going to poison us all, are you?”

“No,” Cinder said flatly. She advanced upon Sonata, who retreated before her back into the room from which she had half emerged. It was some sort of sitting room, with a mouldy settee and a dilapidated table sitting in front of it. “There was no need for you to show yourself to him.”

“I was just being friendly,” Sonata replied.

“There was no need for that, either,” Cinder informed her.

Sonata didn’t argue. Instead, she returned to the settee and sat down upon it, resting her feet on the table. “Have you made the arrangement for my big debut yet?” she asked.

The answer to that was no, but Cinder wasn’t about to admit that. “Everything is in hand,” she declared. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried,” Sonata said. “I am kind of looking forward to being able to change out of these rags, though.”

Cinder didn’t particularly like seeing her in those either; they were an uncomfortable reminder of things that she would rather have forgotten. However, even if she had been minded to do something about it — which she was not — she couldn’t do so without the proper materials which she did not have.

Sonata seemed to realise that a response wasn’t coming, because she said, “That really was a nice thing you did for Emerald.”

Cinder snorted. “A good lord rewards her faithful servants and ensures that their needs are met, that they might serve her well in future.”

Sonata nodded. “It’s still nice of you to take care of us like that. I’m kind of surprised though, since—” She clasped her hands over her mouth.

Cinder’s eyebrows rose. “Go on.”

“It’s nothing! Nothing at all. Forget I said anything. Nothing!” Sonata squeaked.

Cinder folded her arms. “I don’t think I will. Finish what you were about to say. Please.”

Sonata smiled weakly. “Well, it’s just that I’ve heard that you … haven’t … always taken care of the people who work for you.”

Cinder grabbed a chair from the corner of the room and set in down on the other side of the little table. “What has Lightning Dust been complaining about?”

“I wouldn’t say that she’s been complaining,” Sonata said. “She’s just been … thinking aloud … where I can hear her.”

Cinder chuckled. “Then what has Lightning been thinking about?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” Sonata said. “People dying for no reason, waste of resources … doesn’t everyone think about that stuff some of the time?”

Cinder leaned back in her chair, but not too far back, because it was an old chair and might break if she put too much pressure on it. “How familiar are you with bloodshed?”

“Me? Not at all!” Sonata declared. “I’m just a singer.”

Cinder’s eyebrows rose sceptically.

“Okay, I’m a singer who can make people do what I want, but that’s just the thing:” Sonata said, “why kill people when they’re doing what you want anyway?”

Cinder was silent for a moment. As the leader of the operation at Mountain Glenn, the deaths of the White Fang might be said to be her responsibility. It was certainly not something that could be described as noblesse oblige in any way. She had sent them to their deaths, just like—

“You have made me you.”

“Cinder?” Sonata asked. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Cinder said sharply. She took a deep breath, and huffed loudly. “It is true that there has been much bloodshed, and that much of the bloodshed has so far been on our side. But no matter what Lightning Dust may huff and puff or ‘think aloud’ where you can hear her, their sacrifice was not pointless. Preserving that force in the face of a superior enemy, that would have been pointless; the White Fang became fodder the moment … things change. Plans change. Circumstances change, and with them, our designs. It is true that I had planned to use the White Fang in a way which might have preserved more of their lives, but that … became impossible.”

“You have made me you.”

All of them were willing to give their lives for the cause.

Sonata was silent for a moment. “But now you have a new plan, right?”

“Yes,” Cinder said. “I have a new plan, and I have you.”

Sonata smiled. “Thank you, for your confidence. It feels good to have someone depending on my skills.” She looked away. “My sisters … they treat me like… they always treated me like…”

“Like someone less?” Cinder guessed. “Less in talent, less in ability, less in worth?”

Sonata’s eyes widened. “How did you—?”

“I know the feeling,” Cinder told her. She leaned forwards. “We are going to show them all, you and I. We will show them what worth has lain in us undreamt of. We will change this world and make a place for ourselves in it.”

Sonata grinned. A little giggle escaped her. “Well, gee, that sounds really nice! That sounds awesome! But … what’s going to happen to me when we’re done?”

Cinder got to her feet. “Serve me well,” she said, “and I will see you set free from Salem’s imprisonment.”

“'Free'?” Sonata repeated. “You mean that?”

“I have no desire to put a collar back around your neck,” Cinder said. “You should be free, to do as you will, to shine as bright as you may, without harm or interference.” She walked to the door, stopping to look back. “This world tries to grind down people like us, but we’ll show them.”

Sonata nodded. “We sure will.”

Cinder left her there and returned to her room. The scroll was still sitting there on the dressing table where she had left it. She approached, but slowly, and stared down at the scroll for a few moments, staring at it as though she were trying to will it to move without touching it, before with a sigh, she finally picked it up, snapped it open, and sent Sunset another message.

That anger that you’re feeling? That rage that grips you? The hatred that you bear for me? That is how I feel every single day. All the fire that burns in you has raged in me for years. So perhaps now you will not be so quick to tell me to get over it, or to to keep moving forward.

And yet I am sorry to have wounded you as I was wounded.

Then she called Doctor Watts. She had a feeling it was not going to be one of the highlights of her day.

The fact that it took him an unconscionably long time to answer as she stood there waiting wasn’t a particularly good start.

Finally, after Cinder had begun to tap her foot in frustration, he answered voice only, and Cinder was greeted to the sound of that plum voice with its permanently smug, supercilious tone. “Cinder, how nice to hear your voice again so soon.”

“Arthur,” Cinder replied, with chilly courtesy.

“Thank you for providing a distraction the other night,” Doctor Watts said. “I trust you were able to evade James’ guard dogs?”

“Obviously, or we wouldn’t be speaking, would we?”

“You’re right, of course, how foolish of me. So, what else can I do for you? Would you like another virus you can squander?”

Cinder rolled her eyes. “Sweetie Drops isn’t cooperating.”

“Oh my word,” Doctor Watts said in mock surprise. “Why ever not?”

“Something to do with a death,” Cinder said. “One of her teammates was killed in the Breach, and she’s upset about it. I need you to talk some sense into her and remind her that this is a mission and that the dead boy was an enemy, not a friend. Remind her of where her duty lies.”

“Shouldn’t that be your job?” Doctor Watts asked. “I gave you Sweetie Drops, I entrusted her to your command, and now, you're saying that your leadership skills are insufficient—”

“I’m telling you that your operative has been as good as useless from the day I met her, and now, she is actively insubordinate!” Cinder snapped. “Take her in hand, or—”

“Or what?” Doctor Watts asked.

Cinder closed her mouth to suppress the wordless growl that sought to issue from her throat. The worst part was that he was right. She had no sanction other than tattling to Salem on him, and while Salem might not be best pleased that Watts was putting the operation in jeopardy out of spite — then again, she might not mind; she did encourage this kind of competition amongst her servants — it would hardly do much for Cinder’s standing in Watts’ eyes if she had to resort to such.

“If you help me here,” she said, “I will return the favour when the time comes for you to lead an operation. I — and my people — could be useful to you in Atlas. Don’t you want to see the city fall? Don’t you want to see the hope die in Ironwood’s eyes? Don’t you want to show them what fools they were to reject your genius? I can help you make that happen; I will help you, you have my word. But only if you help me here.”

Doctor Watts was silent for a moment. “I won’t talk to Sweetie Drops,” he said.

“What?”

“I have a better idea,” Doctor Watts went on. “I have another operative at Beacon, a better operative. I’ll instruct them to make contact; they can handle whatever it is you need from them.”

“'Another operative'?” Cinder yelled. “'A better operative' at Beacon? Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

“You didn’t need to know,” Doctor Watts said. “It wasn’t as though your plan had room for them.”

“You have saddled me with a useless—”

“Do you want to go over the past, or do you want my help?” Doctor Watts asked.

Cinder took a deep breath and told herself that there would be a reckoning for all these slights some time in the future. But not yet, not quite yet. “What is your operative’s name?”


“Can I have a word?”

Bon Bon glanced in the direction of the voice. It belonged to … someone she had seen around, but whose name she didn’t know. She was an Atlesian, part of Trixie’s team, the quiet one of the bunch. The quiet one who wasn’t Sunburst. She was a pony faunus, with a magenta tail descending down between her legs. She was also very tall, about as tall as Pyrrha, maybe even a little taller, taller than Rainbow Dash for certain, and although she wasn’t quite as broad in the shoulders, she nevertheless gave off an impression of strength.

The muscles on her arms might have had something to do with that.

Her arm, rather. One of her arms was a prosthetic; that was something that Bon Bon hadn’t noticed until now, partly because she hadn’t, honestly, been paying much attention but also partly because, as far as she remembered, this girl tended to go around wearing a bodysuit that covered her skin from the neck down. She wasn’t wearing that now, instead wearing a short magenta jacket with a dark hood and collar, over a white t-shirt and blood red pants. The sleeves of her jacket were rolled up, revealing the gleaming metal of her prosthetic arm, as well as the fact that the remaining arm was bound around with bandages.

Her hair was as magenta as her tail, but had been shaved off on both sides of her head, leaving only a tall Mohawk rising up in the middle like the crest of a helmet. A scar ran down the right side of her face, crossing one of her cold opal eyes.

“I don’t have time,” Bon Bon said. “I’m about to—”

“Meet your friends, yes,” the other girl said. “Make them wait a little longer.”

“And why would I do that?” Bon Bon demanded.

The other girl grinned. “Because you and I share a mutual acquaintance. Doctor Arthur Watts?”

Bon Bon had just finished taking off her armour and stowing it in her locker. That seemed kind of unlucky at the moment. But she could still reach her morningstar.

“There’s no need for that,” the girl said. “I’m a friend, and I really do just want to talk.” She smiled. “I won’t even keep you that long.”

Bon Bon left her locker open, and although she turned to face the other girl, she didn’t move away from her weapon. “Who are you?”

“My name is Tempest Shadow, of Team Tsunami,” Tempest said. “For the moment, at least. Like you, I have other, higher allegiances.”

Bon Bon was silent for a moment. “That arm … is that how you met Doctor Watts?”

Tempest looked down at the aforementioned arm. “Ursa attack, when I was a kid. You?”

“Faunus terrorists.”

“Ouch,” Tempest said. “But yes, that is how I met Doctor Watts. Unlike you, he couldn’t completely cover up my injuries — the ursa hadn’t left enough of my arm for that — but he put me back together better than most other doctors could have. And in return—”

“He doesn’t deserve your loyalty,” Bon Bon said. “I’m done with him.”

“You’re done with Cinder Fall, is what I heard,” Tempest replied. “I enjoyed hearing about that, and so did Doctor Watts. He wants you to know that. He wants you to know that he’s proud of you, putting that pompous ass in her place.”

“Watts gave me away to Cinder like I didn’t mean anything!” Bon Bon yelled. “Watts…” She lowered her voice. “I don’t need Watts’s pride. I don’t need anything from him—”

“Except his silence,” Tempest said bluntly. “Do you know how easy it would be to expose you?”

Bon Bon’s breath caught in her throat. Slowly, she began to reach for Sirius.

“I really wouldn’t do that,” Tempest said, her prosthetic hand curling into a fist. “This will go much easier if you just hear me out.”

“Why?” Bon Bon demanded. “Why are you here? If you were working for Watts all the time, then why weren’t you—?”

“Given to Cinder, like you?” Tempest finished for her. “I really couldn’t say.”

Unfortunately, Bon Bon thought that she could say. Tempest had not been given to Cinder because Doctor Watts liked Tempest better than he liked Bon Bon, valued her more, saw more potential in her.

Despite her declaration that she was done with Watts, Bon Bon was filled with the urge to bash Tempest’s head in with her morningstar.

“He doesn’t care about you,” she spat. “You might think that he does, you might think that he sees something in you, but you’ll find out, just like I did—”

“Stop,” Tempest said, a touch of weariness entering her voice. “I’m sorry, I’m trying to be as patient as I can, but I really don’t care what kind of daddy issues you have; I’m not doing this for the attention of a father figure.”

“Do you even know what you are doing?” Bon Bon demanded. “Do you know why?”

Tempest’s smile was like a knife. “We’re going to tear down the world and remake it in our image.”

A shiver ran down Bon Bon’s back. “Why? Why would you want to do that?”

Tempest glanced down at her prosthetic. “When I was a child, I had two best friends,” she said. “I don’t remember whose idea it was to go into the dark and creepy cave to get our ball back, but it wasn’t mine. I lost my arm defending them from an ursa, but when Doctor Watts was finished with me, neither of them wanted to know me. I was broken. I’d lost my humanity. You’re lucky; you’ve never had to find out how our society treats people with artificial limbs.”

“General Ironwood—”

“Gets no end of crap thrown his way for it; it’s one of the reasons I actually feel sorry for him,” Tempest said. “People look at me like I’m dangerous, they ask me what it’s like only having one arm — I have two arms, right here!” she yelled, holding up her hands. “And even that’s better than the people who ask me if my arm has a vibrate function, I mean, gods!” She bowed her head and half turned away from Bon Bon, leaning on the row of closed lockers, back bent a little. “I’m not evil because my arm is made of metal.”

“No, you might be evil because you’re planning to wreck the world,” Bon Bon said.

Tempest sniggered. “Okay, I’ll give you that one, but … if the world will not accept me as I am, then I will make a new world where I will stand amongst the mighty, and those who sneered and mocked … caged at my command.” She smiled. “Or I’ll just get a new arm with magic. One of the two, I guess.” She sniggered. “The question is: what do you want?”

“I want revenge,” Bon Bon said. “I want Cinder to pay for what she’s done, I want her to pay for Sky. But I also don’t want Lyra or Dove to get hurt. The truth is, I’m not wild about the idea of anyone else getting hurt anymore.”

The smile remained on Tempest’s face. “Unfortunately, I can’t promise that absolutely no one will get hurt from here on out, but I think I can promise the safety of your teammates, and as for revenge … that, I can absolutely guarantee.”

Bon Bon frowned. “You’re not working for her then?”

“I prefer to say that I’m being inserted into the game,” Tempest said. “Cinder’s blown it. She’s squandered her resources, her original plan has been completely derailed, and she’s scrambling to find another one; now, her new plan is not without merit, but at this point, after this many screw-ups, I don’t think she deserves to take the credit for a successful operation, do you?”

“Doctor Watts means for you to swoop in and do that, doesn’t he?”

“Precisely,” Tempest said. “But I could use someone to watch my back. So what do you say?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You don’t have to help me,” Tempest said. “But I can’t guarantee anyone’s safety if you don’t.”

Then I don’t have a choice, do I? Bon Bon thought. She wanted revenge, but it alone might not have been enough, but for Lyra and Dove … she would do anything for them. Anything at all.

Anything to avoid another Sky.

She stepped forward and held out her hand. “I’m in.”

Author's Note:

The history of the Portchester Family - or at least the parts involving Louis Mazzini - is the plot of Kind Hearts and Coronets, the crowning achievement of the Ealing Comedies, and a truly great film that I thoroughly recommend watching.

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