The Valish Treachery (New)
The Valish Treachery
The sound of a shot drew Yang's attention.
She turned, feet twisting on the metal of the docking pad, looking to her left, the direction from which the shot had come. Team YRBN — or Team YRN, or YR_N, or however you wanted to write out the name of a team that was to all intents and purposes down to just three members — was on the flank of the Beacon position, with other Beacon teams holding the docking pads that curved around to their right on the southern face of the arena, while to their right were the Haven teams running up the east side.
To Team YRN's right was Team BALL, and it was Team BALL that Yang could see when she turned, locked in combat with a griffon that had broken away from the battle and managed to set claws and feet upon the docking pad.
Yang's own feet, and her hands too, itched to get over there and help them out, even though she knew that she shouldn't. Helping out was what Rainbow Dash and her reserve was for; if Team BALL felt like they couldn't handle it, then they could call for backup, or if Yang felt that they couldn't handle it, then she could call for backup on their behalf — they had all been patched into the Amity Arena intercom, which meant that everyone could hear them, even the spectators, but on the other hand, it meant they didn't have to waste time calling one another up — but what she couldn't do, or at least what she wasn't supposed to do, was leave her own position to rush off to someone else who she thought might need the support.
If she did that, there was no telling what might land on her docking pad unopposed.
Yang knew all that, but she still kind of wanted to go and do it anyway.
But, honestly, it didn't look as though Team BALL needed the help; as Yang took a step back to see how it was going from just inside the promenade, they seemed to have things pretty well in hand. Lucius Andronicus was standing in front of the griffon, using his little flamethrowers to keep it at bay with jets of fire; meanwhile, Lavinia had gotten up onto the griffon's back and was unloading her gun into the nape of its neck, as well as dealing repeated strikes with both arms.
It brought a smile to Yang's face; it was a gutsy move — the griffon might try and take off with Lavinia still on its back — but one that would get her the kill if everything went well.
And the threat of the griffon taking off might be why one of her other teammates — Yang couldn't put a name to him; she thought that she remembered the names of Lavinia's other teammates, but she couldn't tell which of them was which — had grabbed hold of its tail. That, or he didn't want the griffon using said tail to whack Lavinia from behind.
Or it might be both.
The final member of the team was attacking the griffon from the side, hacking away at it with a scimitar so extravagantly curved it was close to curling back on itself. The griffon turned on him, but it was too late; it barely had time to do anything before it collapsed, dead, smoke rising from the body.
Lavinia hopped off the smoking remains before they disappeared, curtsying graciously as she accepted the congratulations of her teammates, signing to them that they deserved some of the praise for themselves for their efforts, patting her brother on the arm. Then she spotted Yang, looking at her from across the Promenade.
She waved with one hand.
Yang waved back, then signed, You okay over there?
Lavinia gestured around her, as if to ask if it didn't look like she was okay, before signing back, We're managing. You?
We're fine; it's all quiet, Yang signed. Maybe we'll get some fun of our own soon.
Lavinia offered her a thumbs up, which Yang returned, before she returned her attention outwards, to the skies where the grimm battled the Atlesians.
Night fell early in the autumn, or at least the darkness did; it would get dark earlier than this, for sure — there were still a couple of months left before the longest night of the year — but Yang missed the long days of high summer when you could have seen a lot better at this time; as it was, they were reliant on moonlight. The moon was full, even the broken fragments were visible, but even so, Yang would have preferred the sunlight.
Apart from anything else, it would have felt better. There was something about the daylight that made fighting the grimm better than doing so in the dark.
"Someone's made a new friend," Nora observed.
"Isn't that the point?" Yang replied. "Isn't that why all these students came down here from Haven and Atlas? Besides, she fought a pretty good fight, didn't she? I think you'd like her too if you got to know her."
"I'm sure I would," Nora agreed. "If I could understand her the way you do."
"Oh, yeah, right," Yang muttered. "That … you don't read sign language, do you?"
Nora shook her head. "Ren does, don't you, Ren?"
A little, Ren signed.
Nora rolled her eyes. "Showoff," she said. "Just because you can do everything doesn't mean that you always have to."
"I've never claimed to be able to do everything," Ren declared. "I've always been disappointed that I can't compose poetry."
Yang blinked and said nothing, unsure if he was joking.
Judging by the stillness of Ren's own face, the failure of even a hint of a smile, it didn't seem as though he was. Yang guessed she shouldn't have been surprised; Ren was very rarely joking.
"And besides," he went on, "as far as sign goes, I could only get by in an emergency; I'm not sure that my knowledge is equal to a conversation."
"At least you know some of it," Yang said. "Most people don't bother to—" She stopped, realising that this could be taken as a rebuke to Nora. "Sorry, I didn't mean to— you didn't go to combat school, so it's easy to see why you never picked any of it up; I didn't mean anything by it." She looked back to Ren. "Though that does make it very impressive that you managed to learn any."
"Like I said, Ren can do everything," said Nora. She glanced at him, and the smile faltered on her face a little bit. "Almost everything."
The little girl was crying.
She was dressed as Pyrrha, albeit with shoulder straps holding up her top, and she was kneeling down on the floor of the promenade, sobbing gently. There was no sign of anyone with her.
Arslan jogged towards them, her footfalls soft on the metal floor, and knelt down in front of her.
"Hey," she said. "Hello there, Miss. Are you okay?"
The little girl looked up at Arslan through the bangs of her Pyrrha wig; she sniffed but said nothing.
"There's no need to be shy," Arslan told her. "The Golden Lion only bites bad people and monsters."
The girl sniffed again. "Mom says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."
"Yeah, but you know who I am, don't you?" Arslan asked. "I'm Arslan Altan; I'm not a stranger at all, so you can talk to me." She paused. "So, your Mom, huh? Is she around here somewhere?"
"One minute she was holding my hand, and then we were trying to get out, and then I let go and then there were so many people and I couldn't see and I'm scared I'm really scared, I—" she sobbed.
"It's okay," Arslan assured her. "It's okay. Let me help you." She leaned forward and breathed on the little girl's forehead. Rainbow, watching, wasn't sure exactly what was supposed to achieve, except that it seemed to do something because the little girl stopped sobbing almost at once, her eyes widening as she looked up at Arslan.
"Do you feel better now?" Arslan asked.
The little girl nodded.
"Of course you do," Arslan told her. "You're a lioness, and a Mistralian too." She smiled. "You don't need to be afraid. What's your name?"
"Chryssy. Chryssy Ceres."
"Nice to meet you, Chryssy Ceres," Arslan said. "And where are you from?"
"Eleusis."
"Eleusis?" Arslan repeated. "Wow, that's a great place, that is. I love Eleusis. I think the Eleusinioi is my favourite event of the whole tournament calendar, after the great tournament in Mistral itself." She leaned forward. "Between you and me, even though I'm supposed to be retired, I might keep competing in the Eleusinioi because it's just such a nice place to visit."
Chryssy gasped. "Really?"
Arslan nodded. "Upon my honour as a warrior. All the temples and the choirs and the dancers, I love how you can just walk down the street, and there'll be like a dozen people performing something or other, and performing really well too, and organised. It doesn't really happen anywhere else. Not even Mistral is quite like it." She paused. "Now, what do you say you come with me and my friends, and we'll see if we can't find your Mom; how does that sound?"
"Okay."
"Okay, come on," Arslan said, scooping Chryssy up in her arms and carrying her back to where her teammates and the rest of the reserve waited.
She was not the first lost child that they had come across. Rainbow wasn't sure how so many parents could be so careless with their kids, but she supposed that it had been a pretty tense situation and a pretty dense crowd.
It was still kind of a thick crowd in some places, although the promenade had been freed up considerably by the opening up of the interior of the arena; most of the spectators who had once crowded the promenade, crushing one another while they waited for an airship, had retreated into the maintenance corridors, and those that were still on the promenade tended to be clustering by the doors to those same corridors.
Despite the fact that you could hear the sounds of the battle going on in the skies between the Atlesian forces and the grimm, despite the fact that you could occasionally hear the sounds of fighting coming from the arena itself — albeit only briefly at a time, and nobody had needed to call for help yet — there were promising signs that people were calming down after their initial panic at the grimm attack. It wasn't business as usual by any means — nobody was manning the popcorn or the hotdog stands trying to make sales — but Rainbow had seen people making their way, a little furtively as if they were ashamed of themselves, towards the vending machines. It was a little weird, kind of a good thing, and at the same time pretty obvious. After all, who could say exactly how long they would be stuck up here before the General's airships cleared the skies? People were bound to get hungry or thirsty.
Rainbow wondered if she ought to ask Pinkie to start-up the hotdog stand or the toastie maker at the coffee place and start distributing stuff for free; people might appreciate something a bit more substantial than a chocolate bar or a packet of crisps — especially since crisp packets seemed to have more air than crisps in them these days.
Maybe later. Hopefully, this lockdown wouldn't last that long.
Arslan led the way, with the rest of the group following her around the circumference of the promenade to the information desk, a gently curving white counter where a monitor on the wall still displayed the timetable for that day's all-concluded matches. The employees who had manned the counter during the day had fled, taking themselves off down into the corridors with everyone else, and so now, Twilight and Fluttershy sat behind the pristine white surface, while Applejack leaned against the desk and Maud Pie stood at ease nearby, her hands clasped behind her back, her expression as rigid as if she'd been on parade.
Chryssy Ceres was not the first child that they'd found who'd gotten separated from her parents or guardians or whatever, and there were still half a dozen other children who hadn't yet been reunited with theirs. Pinkie was taking care of them, with a little help from Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo, all not far from the information desk where they could be kept an eye on without disturbing Twi and Fluttershy.
"We've got another one," Arslan said, plonking Chryssy down on top of the desk. "Got separated from her mom."
Twilight sighed. "You poor thing. What's your name?"
"Chryssy Ceres," Chryssy said, sounding more confident than she had done before.
Twilight nodded. "And do you know what your mother's name is?"
Chryssy shook her head.
Twilight smiled. "Okay, well, never mind." She leaned forward, and spoke into a microphone on the second level of the desk, below the counter that was visible from the outside. Her voice emerged out of the speakers mounted all around the arena. "Can the mother of Chryssy Ceres please come to the information desk? That's the mother of Chryssy Ceres, we have your daughter waiting for you." She kept smiling as she said, "I'm sure your mom will get here very soon, but until she does, you can wait over there with my friend Pinkie Pie."
"Hey there!" Pinkie cried as Arslan picked Chryssy up again, lifting her off the desk and putting her down on the ground with the other children. "My name's Pinkie Pie; it's nice to meet you! And your name is Chryssy, right? So tell me something, Chryssy, do you like balloon animals?"
Chryssy nodded eagerly.
"Alrighty then!" Pinkie cried as she pulled a fully inflated pink balloon out of her hair and instantly began twisting and folding it in her hands, the balloon squeaking as she moulded it into the shape of a prancing horse, forelegs up in the air.
"It's a pony!" Pinkie declared as Chryssy clapped her hands in delight.
Arslan looked at Twilight, and then looked back at Rainbow and the others. "How—?" she said, pointing at Pinkie. "How … where did she—?"
"Don't ask, sugarcube," Applejack said.
"In the nicest way, the answer is usually 'don't ask' when it comes to Pinkie," Flash added.
"You know her?" asked Cardin.
"Yeah, we went to combat school together," Flash explained. "I went to Canterlot with all of these girls."
"And you're still single?" Russel exclaimed. "Wow, I had no idea you were such a loser."
Flash was the bigger man in more ways than just his height and didn't deign to reply.
Rainbow approached the desk. "How's it going?" she asked.
"We—" Fluttershy began, and then hesitated for a second. Her voice was very quiet, even by her standards. "People aren't coming to get their children as quickly as we thought."
Rainbow winced. "Well, we've cleared people off the promenade, but probably the interiors are pretty crowded now; maybe it's taking them a while to get up here. But apart from that, any issues?"
"There are still a few people who seem to think we know when the skybuses are going to show up," Twilight said, with a wry smile. "But other than that, no, it's okay so far. And Pinkie and the girls are doing a great job."
"Come on, everyone," Apple Bloom cried. "Let Sweetie Belle know how much we all want to hear her sing! Sweetie Belle! Sweetie Belle!"
"This is bullying," Sweetie Belle groaned.
"Not at all, darling," Rarity declared with amusement. "It's simply a little push to get you out of your shell."
Rainbow grinned. "We'll leave you to it, since you're doing so well," she said, and led the others away, continuing around the promenade to see what was going on around the whole circumference of the Amity Arena.
Umber Gorgoneion yawned. "I don't know about anyone else, but I thought that being trapped in an isolated location under siege by the grimm would be a little more exciting."
"'Exciting'?" Blake repeated. "Would you rather the grimm were attacking us instead of fighting the Atlesian fleet?"
"It would certainly raise the drama of the situation, wouldn't it?" asked Umber.
"And put people's lives at risk!" Blake stated hotly.
"True, true," Umber murmured. "But helping lost children isn't what I go to school for."
"Personally, I prefer a fight with less at stake," said one of Umber's teammates, a mouse faunus about the same height as Weiss, with a long tail dragging along the ground after him. On his head, he wore a loose-fitting cap with a peacock feather in it.
Umber shifted uncomfortably. "Well … you may have a point, Reap; I will concede it."
"Boring is good," Rainbow said. "Boring is great. So long as it's boring in here, it means that the fleet is destroying the grimm out there, and that is very, very good."
Let's just hope it stays that way.
"It seems," Blackthorn huffed, "that General Ironwood has still not committed any additional forces to the defence of the Amity Arena."
"Ah, well, never mind," Sonata said. "They'll all get a fight, one way or another. Now," — she stretched out her arms and cracked her knuckles — "is everyone ready?"
Blackthorn smiled. "Our ships are still moving into position, but your friends are ready and waiting, and it would be best if they were to start the fight first."
"Yeah, yeah, it would," Sonata agreed. "It would look kind of weird to people if you started a fight before the excuse for you starting a fight … started." She laughed. "Oh, this is going to be so much fun!"
She bounced up and down on the tips of her toes. This was it! This was it! This was always her favourite part, when you just set everybody running wild and brought down a kingdom in a seething mass of anger and hatred.
Oh, if only my sisters could be here to see this.
She didn't miss their condescension, or their smug sense of superiority, but now that the moment had arrived, now that she was about to achieve — on her own! — the destruction that delighted them … she was a little disappointed that they weren't around to witness it.
If they could see me now…
"Isn't this exciting, Cinder?" she asked. "We're going to have the Best. Night. Ever!"
"Yes, Mistress," Cinder whispered. "It's wonderful."
"Aww, you're not worried about your friends, are you?" Sonata asked, turning towards her. "I tell you what, if you're a very good girl, I'll let you kill them yourself; how does that sound?"
Cinder's smile didn't reach her eyes, but she wouldn't have been smiling if she hadn't been angry enough that a part of her — and not a teensy tiny part, either; a fairly big part of her — hadn't wanted just that.
"That's right," Sonata murmured. "That's right. You might feel guilty about it, you might even feel conflicted, but inside, you hate them, don't you? Sunset, Pyrrha, you hate all of them."
Cinder closed her eyes. Her voice was hoarse. "Yes, Mistress."
"And why shouldn't you?" Sonata asked, a musical lilt in her voice as she just gave Cinder a little bit of reinforcement in that regard. "They defeated you. They abandoned you. They left you to die." She smiled. "They left you to me. So why shouldn't you pay them back for everything they've done to you? Why shouldn't they pay for all their faults?" She giggled as she turned away from Cinder. "Okay, General, let's kick this party up a notch!"
It was an armoured truck, the kind used to transport money cards between banks.
This truck didn't look like it was transporting money; it was painted a monotone matte black, without the logo of a security company on the side like you'd expect to find. The windows were tinted black too, so that Martinez couldn't see a security guard in a helmet inside — or anyone else, for that matter. The driver, and any passenger he might have, was as hidden from her as the contents of the vehicle. All she could see was an armoured truck, the bulky armour plating visible on the bodywork, with its headlights set to maximum so that they glared into her eyes and made her raise her hand to shield them, as it came flying around the corner at speeds that deserved a ticket under any circumstances.
And considering that the truck was heading straight for the gates of the power plant, it was fair to say that these were not any circumstances. What did an armoured truck want with a power plant? What were they there to collect or drop off? Dust would be brought in by a tanker.
And why so fast? What reason did this truck, or any vehicle, have to be driving so fast towards gates that were closed — unless they wanted to smash them open?
Martinez grabbed the radio in her own truck, holding it up to her mouth. "Martinez to all units: stop that truck. Repeat: stop that truck; do not let it reach the power plant." She let the radio fall down onto her lap. "I hope you're ready, Mallard," she said as her right hand found the gearstick and shifted into first gear. Her foot pressed down on the accelerator. "'Cause I think this night is about to get interesting."
She popped the handbrake. The undercover truck leapt forwards with a jolt that threw Martinez and Mallard forward in their seats. Martinez’s hand found the gearstick again, and the truck sped up as she switched quickly between gears to match her increasing speed. Her other hand gripped the wheel steadily as she raced in pursuit of the armoured truck.
One of the uniformed cars, its sirens flashing, had already moved forward to partially cover the gates. The black armoured truck tried to turn, maybe in a desperate attempt to manoeuvre around the police car while still passing through — in every sense — the gates, but it was too late, and the truck was going too fast. One of the officers had time to get out of the car before the armoured truck slammed into it, ploughing the police car into the metal gates that warded the power plant, partially smashing through them, wedging the police car against the corner of the gateway where it met the perimeter wall and getting stuck itself thanks to the same police car that it had stuck. The armoured truck growled, its engine straining, its wheels spinning, but though the police car's body was crumpled and battered — indeed, because it was partly crumpled and battered — it couldn't be moved any further into the plant.
And neither could the armoured truck.
Martinez began to slow down. She switched her left hand onto the wheel, and with her right hand, she reached for her pistol.
The officer who'd still been in the car when it was hit was trying to crawl out. The officer who had already gotten out, looking around to see that all the other cars were converging upon his position, or else the officers were already getting out of theirs, drew his sidearm as he approached the armoured truck.
Martinez braked, stopping her own truck and opening the door. As the crisp, cool air entered the cab, she could hear the officer commanding whoever was in the armoured truck to open the door and come out with their hands up.
The armoured truck was illuminated in the lights of many police cars, marked and unmarked. It sat there, dark and silent, no answer to the officer's command.
Martinez got out of the car, drawing her pistol as she did so. Mallard did likewise, holding that sword thing that he'd hoped to use as a huntsman. Other officers, uniformed and detectives, did the same, all with their weapons drawn and pointed towards the armoured truck as they waited to see what the occupants would do.
The uniformed officer, aware of so much backup, approached the door.
The door opened.
Martinez’s finger tightened ever so slightly upon the trigger.
A young man — about the same age as Weiss, maybe a couple of years older — got out of the truck. He was skinny and very pale, like he didn't get out of the house and into the sun enough. He was dressed all in black, just like his truck, a long black leather jacket that screamed 'trying too hard' and a black shirt with a skull on it. His dark hair was shaved on the back and sides in an uppercut, which really brought out how long and angular his head was; it was doing him no favours whatsoever. He held his hands up above his head and shuffled along the ground.
His voice trembled as he said, "The dark is rising! The rough beast is slouching towards Vytal! She has four horns and shall claim four crowns!"
Martinez rolled her eyes. Grimm worshipper. Maybe it's the fact that the Vytal Tournament is over got him worked up. But, while most grimm worshippers were pretty pathetic in her — admittedly limited, because they mostly weren't organised enough to commit organised crime — experience, nevertheless, she had come across a couple who were cold as ice.
And the entire Valish Police Department hadn't been put on standby because of a couple of kids who thought that the Vytal Festival was a waypoint on the road to the apocalypse.
As the uniformed officer pushed the kid down onto the ground and started to cuff him and read him his rights, Martinez turned away, eyes scanning the surrounding area, the rooftops, the—
The loud and lengthy blaring of a horn alerted Martinez and the other cops to the approach of a lorry barreling down the road. It was a real big rig, long nosed, towing a long SDC trailer after it. Martinez tried to aim for the cab, but the headlights were so bright that they blinded her, she couldn't see who was driving or — once the lorry was coming towards her — anything but the brightness of the headlights that was bearing down upon her.
Martinez threw herself to one side, rolling along the tarmac of the road as the lorry smashed through the intervening police cars, scattering police officers in all directions to avoid being run over until it skidded to a halt with a screech of brakes.
The trailer doors popped open, and men and women poured out. They wore bandanas, sunglasses and ballcaps to hide their faces; they wore armour vests over their shirts and blouses; and they had rifles, submachine guns, and shotguns in their hands.
They opened fire, the muzzles of their guns flashing to light up the gathering darkness. Police officers, caught in the open, went down; others returned fire as they scrambled to take cover. Martinez saw Cote, the Menagerie liaison whatever, firing with one hand while she dragged Weatherly behind a car. She saw the uniformed officer who had been arresting that kid from the armoured truck lying face down on the ground as the kid himself scrambled for the safety of his friends.
Martinez could have shot him in the back — her finger tightened on the trigger — but he was unarmed, and there had to be lines that separated you from the villains, or else you couldn't really talk about being the good guys no more. Instead, she shot someone who actually had a gun in the kneecaps, and while he had a gun, he turned out not to have any aura because he dropped his rifle and went down on the ground, shrieking and moaning in pain as he clutched at his legs.
Mallard charged towards the cultists who had piled out of the truck, firing his pistol with one hand while he brandished his sword with the other. He tried to parry the bullets with it, like he’d actually been accepted into Beacon or something, but he didn’t get them all because he staggered and nearly spun around when one hit him in the shoulder. Still, he kept on going, she had to give the kid that.
Martinez, still firing, got up and went after him because she certainly wasn’t going to let him charge in there like that by himself. She just wished she had her pick-axe handle with her.
Unfortunately, she’d left it in the van.
Mallard reached the first grimm worshipper — assuming that was what they all were, what with this whole thing looking like a set up and the first guy talking about the rough beast and the four horns and all that crap — and slashed at him with his sword; his opponent parried with the shaft of his rifle, but Mallard pistol-whipped across the side of the head.
Good boy.
The guy didn’t go down just yet, but it hurt him harder than it would have if he’d had any aura, because he dropped his gun and started groaning in pain. Mallard hit him again, with the hilt of his sword this time, and the guy went down.
Martinez had almost caught up when Mallard found his next opponent, a pretty muscular dude, bald and not wearing a cap over his head, nothing you wouldn’t find in most dive bars in this town, right down to ripping the sleeves of his plaid shirt to show off his grimm tattoos. Mallard slashed at him sideways; tattoo guy ducked nimbly beneath his slash and hit Mallard in the gut with the butt of his shotgun. Mallard doubled over with an ‘oof.’ Tattoos hit him again, in the chin this time, not hard enough to knock him head over heels but to stagger him backwards, certainly.
Mister unexpectedly capable reversed his shotgun again so the barrel was pointing into Mallard’s chest.
Martinez yelled as she shot him, firing three rounds into his chest. He had aura — as she might have guessed — so it didn’t hurt him none, but it did stop him from taking the shot at Mallard.
And then Martinez was right on top of him. She ploughed into him before he could take a shot at her either, bowling him over with the force of her momentum so that they both went down in a heap on the tarmac — with Martinez on top. He tried to hit her with the shotgun barrel; Martinez took it on the wrist, and what with them being so close, he didn’t have room for a big swing, so it didn’t hurt her aura that much. She, on the other hand, didn’t need a lot of room to smack him in the face with her pistol grip, straight down, one hit after the next like she was hammering down a particularly stubborn and annoying nail doing some DIY. One, two, three, four, he tried to hit her again, and she blocked it with her other arm again, grabbing the shotgun barrel and wrestling with him for it while she hit him. He tried to headbutt her, his bald head erupting upwards, but his beefy red neck was too short to get to her. Five, six, seven, eight, his aura broke, and the ninth hit put him to sleep — and it would give him something to wake up to, as well.
Yeah, that’s what you get, Martinez thought.
She’d emptied her pistol, so she grabbed the guy’s shotgun — it wasn’t like he’d be needing it anymore — as she got up.
“Mallard, get back, find cover!” she yelled, firing the shotgun at the nearest target and blowing him sideways across the road.
She began to retreat herself, pumping the shotgun as she did so. She felt a couple of bullets strike her, putting a couple of nasty dents in her aura, but she found the shooter and shot them next. She pumped the shotgun — only to find that it was empty.
Aw, come on! Martinez threw the shotgun away and, she wasn’t ashamed to admit it, ran; there was no point in standing still or walking slowly while getting shot at only to see your aura chipped away. Better to run and make it to cover where you might do some good.
She threw herself to the ground and skidded under the van to take cover behind it. She could hear the bullets slamming into the metal on the other side but so far none of them were actually punching through it.
Although they were shattering the windows and getting glass all over Mallard, who was crouched behind the door.
“What do we do, El-Tee?” he asked, shaking some of the shattered glass off.
“Get away from there,” Martinez said, reloading her pistol and gesturing for him to come over to her, away from the window and, as importantly, away from the door.
He crept towards her, and as he did, she crept around him.
“We do what we can to keep them away,” she said, opening the door on their side. “And we call for backup.” She raised her arm up and fired a few shots blindly out of the broken window on the driver’s side as she groped with her other hand for the radio. She found it and pulled it over to her.
“This is Lieutenant Martinez of the Flying Squad; we have an emergency at Batterham Power Station, shots fired and officers down, requesting immediate assistance.”
There was no reply. There was only silence from the radio.
Martinez waited a couple of seconds, then pressed down on the button to transmit again.
“This is Lieutenant Martinez at Batterham Power Station; we have shots fired and officers down, requesting immediate assistance. Can anyone hear me?”
There was more silence, silence that didn’t last that long, but it seemed longer when Martinez was leaning into the cab of her truck with bullets slamming into the door.
Then the radio lit up.
“This is Lieutenant Traxler, requesting backup at Kingston Relay Tower; we are under attack.”
“This is Captain Benson, shots fired at South Bank Power Station, requesting immediate assistance from all available units.”
“This is Sergeant Keel; we need help from any available units at VBC Studios, officer down, repeat, officer down.”
More and more requests for backup rolled in: from the skydock, from power stations, from CCT relays, everyone was requesting backup; no one was announcing that they were on their way, not to Martinez, not to anyone or anywhere.
Everyone needed help, but nobody was coming for them. It was as if the entire of the VPD had been deployed, and they still didn’t have enough officers.
But that … that couldn’t be right. No, no, it was a lot of officers, and yeah, if everywhere was under attack, then they were going to be stretched thin, but what about the other shifts, what about rotations, what was command doing about all this? Heck, what about the military?
Why wasn’t anybody answering?
Was anybody even listening to them?
Ironwood felt that he had reason to be satisfied with the way the battle was going so far.
Not least of which was the way that the battle was presently contained to the skies around the Amity Colosseum. He had no doubt that, at some point tonight, the grimm presently massed around Vale would commence their attack — that was why he didn’t dare weaken his own forces on the perimeter to defend Amity — but every moment they delayed gave his forces more time to destroy the grimm around the arena and get the people out of there. Not to mention get his students down so that any who wished to join the battle could do so. He couldn’t say that they wouldn’t be welcome.
The other reason he had to be satisfied was that his forces were winning. Yes, they had suffered losses in the defending squadrons, and that was always a tragedy, but in return for those losses, they had defended the Amity Arena, prevented almost any grimm from landing on it, and were gradually whittling down the numbers of the grimm to nothing. If things continued on this present trajectory, then it couldn’t be long until the grimm around Amity were destroyed, with no civilian casualties.
It was enough to make him wonder why the battle had been opened in this way. He supposed that if the grimm had managed to destroy Amity and kill everyone inside, it would have been very demoralising, but had they really thought that was likely?
Only one thing disturbed him. Only one thing prevented his unalloyed satisfaction, and that was the slow but steady movement of the Valish destroyer Terror towards the Amity Arena.
Whose side were they on? What did they intend? If Cinder was right, then the Valish military, in thrall to a Siren, could not be trusted. As such, he had no choice but to regard the glacial approach of the Terror with suspicion. But what was he supposed to do about it? He couldn’t order his ships to open fire without cause, and if he did, there was a good chance his officers would refuse to obey him.
And, though he was prepared to open fire, if he had to, for the good of Atlas, for his fleet, for the good of humanity … he didn’t want to be the one to fire the first shot. If this was the start of a war between Atlas and Vale — though for gods’ sake, he hoped it wasn’t — he wanted history to record that it was Vale, not Atlas, who fired first.
But that lofty sentiment, and the fact that hardly anyone knew the truth — the possible truth — about the Valish Defence Force, meant that his hands were tied. He could watch the Terror coming, but he couldn’t act on his misgivings.
“Hail them again,” he ordered des Voeux.
“Yes, sir,” des Voeux replied. He bent down a little over his console. “Valish warship Terror, this is the Atlesian cruiser Valiant, what are your intentions, respond, over.”
He waited, and Ironwood waited too, as the seconds entered into double digits.
“No response, sir,” des Vœux confirmed.
Colonel Sky Beak cleared his throat. “Ahem, General Ironwood, if I may—”
Ironwood turned around to see Sky Beak gesturing with one hand towards the communications station.
Ironwood considered for a moment. He trusted that Sky Beak was not under the influence of the Siren — he’d been on Ironwood’s ship, and none of the rest of his crew were under her control — but at the end of the day, he was still a Valish officer.
And the Valish were not yet their enemies.
He nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sky Beak said, clicking his heels together as he quickly crossed the CIC, his boots squeaking on the polished floor, until he stood over des Voeux and his console.
Sky Beak bent down and said, “Terror, this is Colonel Sky Beak of the Mount Aris Light Dragoons, please respond.” He fell silent, waiting. Waiting for as long as Ironwood had waited for a response, and to just as little avail.
Sky Beak exhaled wordlessly. “Try hailing General Blackthorn.”
“We’ve tried,” des Voeux said.
“Then try again!” Sky Beak said sharply. He sighed. “I apologise. Please.”
“Do it,” Ironwood instructed.
“Yes, sir,” said des Voeux. “Hailing Valish Headquarters now.”
“General Blackthorn,” Sky Beak said. “This is Colonel Sky Beak aboard the Atlesian flagship; we’re tracking the Terror and Valish airships moving towards the Amity Colosseum, but Terror isn’t answering hails. We should coordinate our efforts to protect Amity with the Atlesians.” He paused, a drawn out pause in the hope of an answer that did not come. “General Blackthorn? Will someone damn well answer?!”
“Colonel Sky Beak, please step back,” Ironwood said, calmly but firmly.
Sky Beak did as he was bade, but as he made his way to stand behind Ironwood once more he said, “I don’t understand it, General; why won’t they respond?”
“I don’t know,” Ironwood lied.
“Sir,” Irving spoke up from the sensor station. “The Terror is picking up speed.”
“What about the Zhenyuan?” asked Ironwood.
“Keeping clear of the Arena, sir.”
“Signal all ships and squadrons,” Ironwood said. “Tell them to keep their distance from the Valish as much as possible without compromising the defence of the Amity Colosseum.”
“General Ironwood!” exclaimed Sky Beak. “I know that the lack of response is concerning, but—”
“I hope that the Valish are joining us in defence of the Amity Arena and all the people on board,” Ironwood declared. “And our forces will continue to prioritise that defence. But, in light of the circumstances, in light of the complete silence both from the Terror and from the Valish high command, I can’t afford to be complacent.”
“Okay, people,” Spitfire said, “you heard the man: stay away from the Valish.”
“I thought they were on our side,” Misty said.
“They probably demanded their own special part of the sky to defend so that they can say they contributed,” remarked Soarin’ derisively.
“That’ll do, Five,” Spitfire told him. “I don’t know why we have to steer clear; I just know what we’ve been told, so let’s follow orders, do our jobs, and wrap this up so everyone can get off that arena and go enjoy their party.”
Speaking of wrapping things up, she targeted a nevermore and hit it with two shots from her laser, turning it to ashes.
With Silver Zoom on her wing, Spitfire rolled her Skydart so that she could get a look at the Valish — without getting closer to them; she wasn’t disobeying any orders — as they approached. Their warship was moving faster now, picking up speed even as it was reaching the point where it ought to have been slowing down; it should have moved faster to get here then slowed as it reached its intended position.
But Spitfire was more interested in the fighters that were gathered around the destroyer like fleas on a dog. There were thirty-six of them, an entire wing, keeping pace with their warship for now, arranged in a protective formation. They were flying Atlesian airships, old AF-14 Tomahawks. The Tomahawk had been a fine airship in its day … but that ‘in its day’ was doing an awful lot of work in that statement; it was a relic at this point, they’d all been retired from Atlesian service years ago, and the Valish should have done the same; they probably hadn’t been willing to spend the money on it, just like they hadn’t been willing to spend the money replacing their warships until now, but what that meant was that even the Mistralians had better airships than they did, even if not so many of them.
And yet, for all that, the Valish were still better off than any Atlesian Skyhawk pilot.
And the Tomahawk certainly looked nice, she’d give it that. With its swept back wings, its unobtrusive engines mounted at the rear, its fuselage pointed like a missile, it looked the part of a fighter; Spitfire would even go so far as to say that it made her Skydart look ugly.
But air battles weren’t beauty contests, and they weren’t won by the best-looking airship but by the best performance.
And on that score, the Tomahawk had been left behind.
Not that it mattered. The Atlesians were winning this battle without any Valish help, and they would win it with or without any Valish help. Soarin’s attitude might be impolitic towards their hosts, but he was pretty much right: the Valish were showing up late to the party so that they could grab a slice of the credit, so that Councillor Emerald could go on TV tonight or tomorrow morning and say ‘we helped!’
As those thoughts passed through Spitfire’s mind, the Valish Tomahawks began to change position; instead of swarming all around the Valish destroyer, they moved to cluster exclusively on the port side, leaving the starboard side unprotected.
Or leaving it clear.
Having sped up, the Valish warship began to slow down again; it was approaching the Atlesian cruiser Resolution, which was turning towards it even as it moved on a course which would take it past the destroyer’s bow and away from them.
The Valish destroyer also began to turn, presenting its now-unmasked broadside towards the Resolution.
Its gun ports were open, all cannons pointed towards the Atlesian cruiser.
Spitfire’s eyes widened. They wouldn’t.
The Valish fired.
Twenty guns mounted upon the broadside blazed with fire, obscuring the ship itself in a wall of flame. Then it was the turn of the Resolution’s port side to be consumed with fire as explosions ripped along the flank of the vessel. She staggered, shoved sideways by the force of the impact, listing slightly to port as smoke and flame rose from her wounded side. She dipped a little in the air; Spitfire could see secondary explosions bursting within, lighting up the night sky.
Spitfire’s comm lit up, the voices of her pilots filling the cockpit.
“What the—?”
“Did the Valish just fire on Resolution?”
“What do we do?”
“Was it an accident?”
“How do we—?”
“That’s enough!” Spitfire yelled. “Get it together, Wonderbolts; we—”
She stopped, as she saw the Valish fighters peel away from their destroyer, splitting up and beginning to streak through the air in pairs.
Two of them were coming straight for her and Silver Zoom.
“Wonderbolts, take evasive action!” she commanded. “Do not return fire until we have the go ahead from command.” Spitfire turned away from the Valish, increasing the power to her engines to increase speed, hoping to outrun the Valish Tomahawks until she had permission to fight. She switched to the command channel. “Wonderbolt Lead to Command; come in, Command.”
Ironwood tightened his jaw. So, it was true. What Cinder had told Miss Shimmer and Miss Nikos about the Valish military had been correct. They had been subverted, and now, they were their enemies.
He almost wished that he could be as shocked about this as the rest of the officers and crew on the bridge.
Almost, because if he were as shocked, then he would have lost his ability to respond, but nevertheless, it would have been … a relief, perhaps, a weight off his conscience not to have seen this coming.
To be like Fitzjames, who had half risen out of his seat with an oath, like des Voeux who was staring at the image of the damaged Resolution with astonishment, like the rest who seemed to have been stunned by what had just happened.
Colonel Sky Beak also seemed to have been shocked by what had just happened. His voice was weak, almost feeble as he murmured. “I … I don’t understand; I—”
“Colonel Sky Beak, you will surrender your sidearm immediately,” General Ironwood commanded without looking at him. “Sergeant Wallis, take his gun.”
“Yes sir.”
“You,” Sky Beak began. “You can’t think that I—”
“What I think is irrelevant, Colonel; what I know is that a Valish ship has just fired on one of my own. For that reason alone, I cannot allow you to remain armed.” It was hard on the Valish Colonel, who by virtue of being up on Ironwood’s ship probably hadn’t been affected by the Siren; but it was, if nothing else, the response that his crew would expect from him in this situation — not to mention the possibility that Sky Beak might prioritise his loyalty to Vale over his good sense. “Des Voeux!”
Des Voeux started, tearing his eyes away from the monitor. “Yes, sir?”
“Patch me through to the Resolution,” Ironwood commanded.
“Aye aye, sir,” des Vœux replied. He started to work, then hesitated. “Sir, Wonderbolt Leader is hailing.”
“Put them through,” Ironwood said.
“Aye, aye, sir,” des Vœux repeated.
“Command, this is Wonderbolt Lead,” Spitfire said. “The Valish have just opened fire—”
“I’m aware, Spitfire,” Ironwood said.
“And now their fighters are moving to engage,” Spitfire added. “Request— what are your orders, sir?”
“General!” Sky Beak cried. “There has to be some—”
“Be quiet, Colonel,” Ironwood said sharply. “Sergeant, you will escort the Colonel to his quarters and keep him there under guard until I see fit to release him. Spitfire, no, des Voeux, signal all units: the Valish Defence Force has just launched an attack on the Resolution. We don’t know how deep this madness spreads, but all units are to be on their guard and have permission to defend themselves if attacked. Spitfire, all Valish forces around Amity are to be treated as hostile, but your priority is still the defence of Amity Arena and preventing any grimm from gaining entry.”
Nevertheless, there was a note of grim satisfaction in Spitfire’s voice as she said, “Understood, sir. Over and out.”
“Now, put me through to the Resolution,” Ironwood instructed.
“Yes, sir,” des Voeux replied. “Patching you through now.”
“Resolution, this is Valiant,” Ironwood said. “What’s your situation?”
The reply from Major Cochrane, officer commanding Resolution, was preceded by a cough. “Multiple direct hits on the port side, sir,” she said. “Hull breaches, fires on multiple decks, point defence systems are compromised. Situation excellent; I’m coming about to return fire with the main guns.”
“Can you handle it?” Ironwood asked. “That sounds like an extensive list of damage.”
“It’s a Valish rust bucket who’s lost the advantage of surprise,” Cochrane protested. “Sir, if I can’t blow it out the sky, I deserve to hand in my commission and Resolution deserves to be on the scrap heap. Leave this to us.”
Well, this certainly dented her morale, Ironwood thought. “Very well. Good hunting, Cochrane. Ironwood out.” He turned to Schnee, who as far as he could tell had not moved at all. She had been stood there, waiting for his order.
“Major Schnee,” he said. “You will take a small force and compel the surrender of the Valish high command.”
All as they had discussed earlier, of course, but if Fitzjames and the other officers heard him giving the order, it would be so much the better — it would stop them wondering why he and Schnee had come up with a plan ahead of time.
The fewer awkward questions the better.
Schnee saluted. “Yes, sir!”
“Wait!” Sky Beak shouted. “General, wait, let me go with them!”
Ironwood looked over his shoulder. Sky Beak stood in the doorway of the CIC; he wasn’t resisting the sergeant enough to get himself a rifle butt driven into his gut, but he was failing to obey the hand on his arm.
“You want to force General Blackthorn to surrender and order his forces to do the same,” Sky Beak went on, talking quickly; the words tumbled out of his mouth. “Having a Valish officer present would— might make things easier. Might make it seem less like a coup. Or an Atlesian takeover.”
Sergeant Wallis pulled him away.
“Wait,” Ironwood said. “Hold, sergeant.”
He thought for a moment. The Valish colonel had a point; when it came to order the Valish to stand down, if General Blackthorn refused to give the order, it might be of assistance to have a Valish officer, a high-ranking officer known to other senior officers, who could declare that he was relieving General Blackthorn of his command and taking his place.
It might not work; there was no guarantee at all that soldiers under the control of a Siren would obey him, or obey an order to surrender for that matter.
But that didn’t mean that it wasn’t worth trying.
Ironwood glanced at Schnee. If she wasn’t comfortable with the idea, then he wouldn’t force the colonel on her.
“I will do what you think best, of course, sir,” Schnee said softly, in a voice that conveyed no opinion upon the matter.
“Major Schnee will be in command; you will be an observer,” Ironwood informed him.
“Of course.”
“And you will be unarmed,” Ironwood added.
“You can put me in cuffs to suppress my aura, if you like,” Sky Beak muttered.
Ironwood’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You’d go in defenceless?”
“To prevent bloodshed and the start of a war?” Sky Beak asked. “To prevent devastation befalling my home?” He swallowed. “Yes, I’d like to think I would.”
It was impossible not to somewhat admire the man for that, but Ironwood’s admiration did not extend so far as declining to restrain him. “Then I wish you luck, Colonel. Sergeant, restrain the Colonel and hand him into the custody of Major Schnee.” He turned to Schnee. “Get it done, Schnee. And get it done quickly, while there’s still a chance to stop this before it gets out of hand.”
Schnee came to attention, her boot slamming onto the deck. “Count on it, sir. You can rely on me.”
Stats
Page generated in 0.041 seconds
Total duration
919 users online
465,455 hits today, 2,561,572 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®
And so it begins, the Valish betrayal commenced and things are just picking up steam from now on! I am excited to see the reaction of the rest of the cast to the betrayal next chapter and I’m still cautious because of what exactly is Sonata’s plan Rn, because she must know that the Vale Military is weaker than Atlas’ so what is her trump card...
Well... that happened. Can't say it was unexpected but still...
Atlas is fully aware The Valish are attacking them.
Sunset, you might want to get your butt over to the First Councilor's residence or at least warn him since your priority is the Siren.
And the excrement has properly impacted the rotary aperture atmospheric recirculating apparatus.
Outstanding response time, Martinez! While the night is far from over, you still prevented the city from losing power. I'm sure you'll be getting a good number of medals after tonight, all well-earned!
I applaud Colonel Skybeak. His actions and selfless commitment to averting a war will single-handedly go a long way in dousing the fallout. He's a proper credit to the uniform.
It's small, but that much will help a bit of Ironwood's state of mind by Volume 7.
11835490
Sunset's priority is Cinder, the Siren, and even General Skybeak. But she should definitely get a warning to Emerald all the same, as Blackthorn's ordered someone after the First Councilor.
11835505
That was hilarious.
11835521
True, and in regards to Skybeak, you can't fault Ironwood for not trusting him. Sure, he's been on the Valiant the whole time and is almost certainly no affected by the Siren song because of it, but Ironwood’s not taking any chances.
Still, Skybeak's willingness to try and get the Valish to surrender indicates a desire to gain back trust.
11835527
Of course!
And just as good, if Blackthorn can't be pacified before Sonata is neutralized, if the worst happens for Blackthorn, we need a respected Valish officer present to verify the legitimacy of Atlas' lawful retaliation. Furthermore, a sane Valish officer must witness and, therefore, establish that Blackthorn had lost his mind and that this was the actions of one madman and not the Vale government. After tonight, Skybeak will be the best hope in preserving what's left of the Valish military's integrity.
11835527
I don't believe it's a matter of Ironwood not trusting Skybeak. I believe it's political theater: He cannot let it be known that they know about the Siren or the possibly of Vale turning hostile in advance. Since Skybeak is a Valish officer and a Valish ship has outright opened fire on them, standard procedure, even if Ironwood was to believe that Skybeak wasn't involved in whatever was happening, would be to have Skybeak unarmed and restrained.
11835487
Outside of the element of surprise, I believe Sonata's trump card to balance the odds is the literal Grimm tide that is about to hit Vale proper, plus the Grimm Cultists trying to sabotage everything.
That being said... Sonata doesn't want Vale wiped off the map; You can't feed off the population of a dead city after all. It is fully possible that Sonata simply plans to abandon the Valish military to be wiped out by Grimm and Atlas while disappearing into the population of Vale herself. A shell shocked Vale occupied by Atlas (the seeds of hated towards which she had promoted for months now) would be a wonderful feeding ground for her and her sisters. Full of hate and fear from both sides.
All she really needed the Valish military for was to be apart of the distraction to get the relic, assassinate Emerald and as much of the government as possible to destabilize the kingdom and to turn Atlas hostile to Vale. After that they might serve as enforcers of her will in the siren's new kingdom but... she can get other enforcers. Hell, if Atlas does end up occupying Vale she would likely be able to turn the peace keeping force into her new, personal enforcement team due to the hard feelings Atlas will likely have in general about the betrayal and the bullshit they're going to be putting up with.
Once the Vale military has done its job, she can abandon them at her leisure.
Love how this story evolved.
11835547
That is a very important point that highlights how stupidly strong Sonata is in the rewrite. Now that she can just directly mind-control instead of just fan the fires of anger she has put herself in a situation that she wins no matter what. The situation is too hot, so whoever ends on top once the dust settles is still going to be susceptible to Sonata, as long as she herself is not taken down any outcome gives her a win (yes, even Vale being completely destroyed, since the emotions from that would make the other kingdoms easy targets to her).
11835770
And thanks to all the negative emotions she's been absorbing, she's super strong magically that it makes it worrisome if Sunset were to take her on 1v1. I mean, according to Cinder, Sonata's magic blasts hit far harder than Sunset's, and I don't think Sunset could get mad enough to fuel her own magic and even the odds (reminder: In the original, Sunset was so enraged that she obliterated her human counterpart and her counterpart's bestie's soul)
Of course, it's more likely Sunset will try and take out Sonata, only to be intercepted by Cinder not holding back, Maiden powers and all.
11835837
I find it far more probable that it goes the other way, first Sunset deals with Cinder and then they go together to deal with Sonata. Sonata alone is way above Sunset right now, plus "friendship" vs the Siren's song and all that.
11835903
I agree. That sounds more plausible and more fitting with the Friendship Is Magic themes the MLP: FiM and EqG titles are supposed to bring over to RWBY in this crossover. Plus, it could salvage the "Suicide Squad" theme in the first version of SAPR Vol. 4 after SAPR Rewrite Vol. 3.
I think you're totally forgetting there's a character called Sunset
11836273
Wdym? People are taking Sunset into consideration
11835837
Sunset has no chance of winning in a 1 vs 1 with Sonata. Don't get me wrong, i would LOVE to see that, but we all know she can't do it alone. She will probably try hit and run tactics until reinforcements arrive.
Also what do you mean in the original she blaster her and her friends counterparts souls?
11837661
Original version stuff. Happens post Volume 3 (Hence why I used spoiler tags) so I won't say more
Crap, I didn't realize Russel had attacks that could pierce aura.
Shoutout to my man, Nameless Beat Cop #1, who ran a crown vic equivalent at an ARMORED FREAKING TRUCK, threw himself out of it, got up, drew his sidearm, rolled up on the driver - who, for all he knows, could be wearing an S-Vest or have rigged the truck into a VBED - and just arrests the guy. What a legend. He is just not having any of this terrorist crap. He's done.
I wonder if VPD headquarters is still, you know, around. Rough night for Martinez, Malard, and Nameless Beat Cop #1. Jokes aside, Martinez' closing thoughts are fairly haunting.
What a couple of absolute professionals. I've said many times that Ironwood in your story is fantastic - indeed, he's one of my favorite parts - but Sky Beak is a solid dude as well.
I just love it when competent people act professionally in the capacity that they are supposed to be competent in.