Maximilien Volkov.
It was a name that, decades ago, carried no weight. Just another faceless nobody in Atlas, where lineage dictated worth and the right surname opened every door. He had none of that. No legacy to lean on, no wealth to cushion his failures. Just his own mind, his own hands, and a refusal to accept that he would be anything less than the men who had been handed their futures at birth.
But it hadn't been easy.
It hadn't been by his own merits alone.
It was luck, or perhaps it wasn't luck.
Because Atlas didn't reward merit.
It rewarded connections.
Who you were depended on who you knew.
It hadn't been as if it was a guarded secret in Atlas. The writing on the wall was clear if you looked close enough.
A shame, it was. The younger him was far too blind and pig headed.
Maximilien had worked. Harder than anyone around him. While others coasted on their names, he burned through sleepless nights, refining his skills, proving himself again and again. He didn't just master his trade—he studied the world of those who ruled it. He memorized the etiquette of high society and practiced their mannerisms, their speech, their customs, molding himself into the kind of man who should have belonged among them.
And yet, it was never enough. No matter how much he excelled, no matter how flawlessly he imitated their ways, he remained at the bottom, overlooked in favor of lesser imbeciles who had been born to the right parents.
The injustice of it festered. He seethed as fools climbed past him, as incompetence was excused while his own efforts went unnoticed. Or rather, they were ignored.
Maximilien Valkov, a mere young man barely into his twenties, had almost broke from the unfairness of it all.
Until he saw Him.
It was during one of the many gatherings of Eisenstadt Industries, where the so-called elites of Atlas met. Maximilien had been unfortunate enough to attend. Not as a guest, of course—perish the thought—but rather to ensure the event went smoothly. A glorified servant forced to watch from the sidelines while his supposed betters indulged in their excess.
Meanwhile, the incompetent buffoon who had stolen his promotion: a two-bit whore whose only merit was being born to the right bloodline was free to gloat and mingle with those who actually mattered.
The privileged looked down from their ivory towers, raising their noses at fools like him. Fools who still clung to the naive notion that merit meant anything in Atlas.
"Not like us," their eyes seemed to mock and belittle.
Then, He arrived.
A representative of the Schnee family and the vice-president of Schnee Dust Corporation, bearing the surname of his wife's family—Jacques Schnee.
To say the temperature had dropped would be an understatement.
The idle chatter dulled, laughter stifled as if caught in the throats of those who had been so carelessly indulging just moments before. Glasses were set down more carefully, spines straightened, and those who had been basking in their own importance suddenly seemed much smaller.
Maximilien had seen men command respect before. He had seen officers, politicians, corporate titans, and men born into power who wielded it with the arrogance of entitlement. But this was different.
Jacques Schnee was not born to this. He was not one of them. And yet, they feared him.
The Schnee Dust Corporation was smaller then, and its influence was growing but not yet absolute. And yet, he carried himself as though he belonged. No, he didn't belong. He ruled over them.
Jacques Schnee was not one of them, not truly. He was no Huntsman, no decorated officer, no heir to an old and venerable lineage. He had come alone, without an entourage, without the weight of an established name to shield him.
And yet, he was looking down on them.
Not even a decade older than Maximilien, Jacques was man whose presence required acknowledgment and deference, even if they whispered his name with the same vitriol reserved for Faunus.
Maximilien had watched, keenly, as Jacques moved through the gathering. He was smooth, practiced. Cordial, but never ingratiating. The nobles spoke to him with thinly veiled condescension, and he gave just as hard if not harder, for now. He smiled, he nodded, he indulged their pleasantries, but all the while he was measuring their worth, their weaknesses.
He found them wanting.
Maximilien continued his duties through the evening, but his attention never strayed far from Jacques Schnee. He tracked him in the periphery, watching as the man navigated the room. Then, at some point, cold blue eyes met his own brown eyes.
Jacques Schnee, in a flash, seemed to take him in at a glance, from his posture, his expression, the way he carried himself, what was inside his mind, and even peered into his soul. And in that instant, Maximilien felt exposed. Not in the way he had grown accustomed to in Atlas, where men of status looked past him as if he were an entertaining monkey, nor in the way those same men had been eyed by Jacques with mild amusement and veiled disappointment.
No, it had been a different kind of look, one which was very familiar.
Jacques' gaze sharpened, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. It wasn't condescending. It wasn't dismissive. It was assessing.
And for the briefest of moments, Maximilien was a boy again, back in the streets of Mantle. Back where every glance carried a meaning, where respect was measured in who looked away first, where the wrong expression could be taken as an invitation for something you didn't wish for.
It was not the gaze of a nobleman.
It was the gaze of someone who had grown up knowing that the world wouldn't hand him anything without a fight.
A look of someone who understood him.
'The fuck you looking at, pussy?'
Had he been a woman, Maximilien might have fallen in love.
The next day, he quit his job and applied at the still-growing Schnee Dust Company.
It had been a reckless move, one that made no sense on paper. He had no connections, no guarantees, and yet he'd never felt more certain about anything in his life. He didn't want safety. He didn't want to rot away in some stagnant position, waiting for men lesser than him to throw him scraps.
He wanted to work under him.
Because if there was one thing Maximilien knew in his bones, it was this—Jacques Schnee wasn't like the rest of them. He wasn't some soft-bellied noble playing businessman, nor some clueless heir squandering an inheritance.
No, Jacques was something else entirely.
The years went by, and Maximilien's already outstanding work ethic doubled. Unlike his wasted time in that circus called Eisenstadt however, it actually paid off.
He rose.
He started at the bottom, working logistics—analyzing shipments, optimizing routes, ensuring every lien was accounted for. Then came supply chain oversight, where he streamlined efficiency to the point that his superiors believed he was falsifying reports.
He was audited.
Maximilien had expected scrutiny. Accusations. Some pathetic middle manager trying to put him in his place. Instead, he was called into an office far grander than anything he had ever stepped foot in.
Naturally, Jacques Schnee, who had finally succeeded the tired Nicholas Schnee, took notice.
They officially met for the first time.
"You're either the most competent man in this company," Jacques said, "or the most creative liar."
Maximilien, who had spent his entire life proving himself to lesser men, felt something unfamiliar.
Respect.
He met Jacques' gaze, standing as straight as he could. "I get results."
For a moment, silence. Then—
Jacques smiled.
Every promotion, every responsibility placed upon him, he shouldered without complaint. It wasn't just work—it was proof. Proof that Atlas had been wrong to overlook him. Proof that merit did matter, at least under the right leadership.
By the time he was overseeing entire divisions, Maximilien no longer questioned his place. He belonged here. He earned it.
And yet, no matter how high he climbed, he always knew—this wasn't his empire.
It was Jacques'.
So, while Jacques built the empire, Maximilien protected it.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Schnee Dust Company Official Statement
The Schnee Dust Company remains unwavering in its commitment to the strength, security, and prosperity of the Kingdom of Atlas. In times of uncertainty, unity is not just encouraged—it is essential. Together, we will continue to forge a stable and thriving future for all Atlesians.
Recent remarks made by President Jacques Schnee have been taken out of context in a manner that misrepresents both his message and his intent. His words were a reaffirmation of the values that have long guided Atlas: resilience, responsibility, and an enduring dedication to progress.
The SDC fully supports the efforts of the Atlesian government to ensure peace, maintain order, and protect the way of life we have all worked so hard to build. We stand firmly with those who believe in the promise of Atlas and reject any attempts to sow division or unrest.
We recognize the challenges before us, and we do not take them lightly. The Schnee Dust Company will continue to work alongside the kingdom's leadership, security forces, and the broader community to uphold the safety and prosperity of all its citizens. Atlas stands unshaken, and so too does our resolve.
Together, with strength and purpose, we move forward.
#AtlasStrong #EnduringExcellence #SDC
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Minister, I assure you, everything is under control." His tone was calm with reassurance, not dismissal. "The statement was not a deviation from our shared goals but rather a reaffirmation of Atlas's resilience. A reminder of our unity."
A sharp response. He let it pass, allowing the silence to stretch just enough to throw the person on the other side to register how costly his words could be before continuing.
"Yes, I understand the concerns, but this is not a crisis; rather, it is an opportunity. The President's words, while impassioned, are not a departure from policy."
Another protest, softer this time. He allowed a slight, knowing hum of acknowledgment.
"No, there will be no further surprises. You have my word."
The tension on the line ebbed, not gone, but manageable. Good.
Maximilien Volkor was the hammer that crushed inefficiency, the scalpel that cut out weakness. Logistics, finances, workforce management—he handled it all with precision, ensuring that everything operated at peak efficiency.
That was what it meant to be the Second-in-command of the Greatest empire the world had ever seen.
Competitors who thought they could encroach on his company's markets found themselves undercut and suffocated until they either backed down or collapsed entirely.
Unions that got too ambitious suddenly found themselves disorganized.
Within the company, he was feared in a way Jacques never was. Jacques commanded respect and even then, the President was far too important and busy dealing rulers and kingdoms, but Maximilien? Maximilien was the one people dreaded seeing outside their office door.
And that was fine. Because he wasn't some fool chasing glory for himself. He wasn't looking to be the king.
He just wanted to make sure the right man stayed on the throne.
So, he dealt with unexpected issues as swiftly as possible.
But, sometimes....
Maximilien put his scroll down, and bit down on his knuckles to stifle the scream that wanted to be released.
Sometimes, unexpected issues came from the president himself's latest whims—a sudden wish for wage hikes, desire for unnecessary infrastructure improvements, and, God forbid, ethics reforms.
Most of all, waking up to a headline about Jacques Schnee releasing a statement defending their enemies and calling half the government traitors.
Maximilien nearly choked on his coffee that morning. Luckily, he was blessed with the composure of a man who had dealt with far too much, he grabbed his face with both hands and let out a long, long suffering sigh.
"We've arrived, sir," his personal chauffeur/secretary/occasional therapist/definitely-not-lover, Elizabeth, announced as the car passed through the holographic gates. Maximilien released his face. "...I think."
Her hesitation was justified. The Schnee Manor had changed since he'd last ventured here. Taller gates. New security measures and weaponry. More cameras. It seemed paranoia had become fashionable in high society. Or maybe Jacques had finally decided to acknowledge that most of Atlas despised him.
There was also a massive, several-hundred-feet Serpent coiling around the security tower and glaring menacingly at the car.
For unrelated reasons, Maximilien prided himself on making sure to visit the restroom before he left.
It also reaffirmed that, yes, the sudden burst of misplaced morality was no doubt a result of the attack. Stress did strange things to a man. Some crumbled, some hardened, and some, apparently, decided to start making reckless changes to a perfectly functional system.
As the vehicle came to a smooth stop, Maximilien allowed himself one last moment of quiet. Then, with the practiced precision of a man who knew he was right, he stepped out onto the pavement.
The familiar crisp and biting chill of Atlas greeted him, but it was nothing compared to the cold dread in his stomach.
"Mister Gris," he nodded to the older gentleman whose biceps were larger than Maximilien's torso, while the rest of security went on to check his vehicle and other sorts of what their jobs entailed. Security was important, after all. A proper deterrent against all manner of problems, including the occasional idiot who thought throwing a brick through a Schnee window counted as political activism.
He received a grunt of acknowledgment and nothing else, mostly due to the fact that the head of security seemed to be engaged in a rather heated game that resembled chess.
Resembled was doing the heavy lifting. From what little he could see, the pieces were in places they absolutely shouldn't be, and his opponent was a large toad. For his sanity's sake, he pretended he hadn't seen it.
"Don't let me interrupt," Maximilien said.
The toad croaked. Gris grunted, motioning him forward. A pawn was moved sideways.
Straightening himself, he allowed security, after the brief but necessary check-up, to escort him and his aide to the entrance of the estate.
Inside, the air was noticeably warmer with the scent of expensive polish and freshly cut flowers, a reminder that wealth, when properly maintained, could be a beautiful thing. Maximilien barely had a moment to appreciate it before he found himself face to face with the head maid, Ohma.
She spared him a not-so-polite look behind a poker face.
Maximilien adjusted his glasses.
"Lady Ohma," he greeted professionally.
"Mister Volkov," she returned, voice as dry as the Atlesian tundra and just as welcoming.
Ah. So she'd heard.
He supposed it was inevitable. The staff always had their ears to the ground, and given how the Schnee Manor had functioned long before Jacques took over, Ohma likely saw any change to the status quo as a personal insult.
Which, frankly, was the correct response.
"I assume you were expecting me?" Maximilien asked, brushing some imagined dust from his sleeve.
"Oh, I had expected yet another migraine." Her expression was carefully neutral, but the faintest twitch of her brow was practically an outburst by her standards. "But I suppose that remains to be seen. Sir Jacques is presently with his Lady wife in the solarium."
Like water over a duck's back, Maximilien let both the jab and the mention of the president's estranged and unexpected company (yet again, after what happened...)pass without comment.
'Danger rekindles old flames like a gust upon dying embers, perhaps?' he kept the thought to himself.
The maid made a deliberate show of stepping aside to let him through. "They will lead you to him."
The they in question was neither a formal pronoun of respect nor a discreet reference to a waiting party of maids or butlers.
They weren't even human.
It was a herd of oversized white hares. Rabbits. Bunnies. Whatever one wished to call them, the sheer number of them clustered together made it impossible to focus on anything else.
A sound that wasn't quite a whimper left him, but once more, he ignored it for the sake of his sanity.
"Oh, so cute," his aide, Elizabeth, muttered behind him.
He ignored that, too.
The herd of hares turned in unison and then hopped forward, suggesting this was, in fact, perfectly normal. Of course, it was. Why wouldn't it be?
Maximilien didn't react beyond adjusting his glasses again and following their lead. Elizabeth, on the other hand, hesitated for half a step before quickly catching up, murmuring something under her breath about how "Atlas elites really did live in another reality."
Occasionally, one would pause to nibble on a houseplant or stare at him with large, unblinking red eyes, as if evaluating his worth, and shake its head in disappointment.
He didn't dignify that with a response.
Through the halls they went, past opulent chandeliers polished marble, and through the garden where he spotted a particularly cross Doctor Scarlatina yelling orders at his crew installing a tower of sorts across the yard. A sudden noise had him look up.
There was a massive black bull running upside down on the ceiling. None of the servants around them seemed particularly concerned about this.
He stopped walking. Stared.
The bull kept running in place.
Doctor Scarlatina threw his clipboard at an engineer. Someone screamed. Sparks flew from a console.
Maximilien exhaled through his nose, nodded to himself, and kept walking.
This was fine.
By the time they reached a set of intricately carved doors, Maximilien was thoroughly done with the day, only to be brought back when a woman's scream startled the hell out of him.
But before he could even ask if she heard the same, the earlier scream was followed by the unmistakable angry bellow of his boss.
Instinct, and the worst possible assumptions, had him moving. He shoved open the doors, hand halfway to his gun.
He found...he wasn't sure what he found, actually.
Lady Willow Schnee—the woman who should've embodied grace, beauty, and class—was currently thrusting her hips and humping a inflated ball like a vulgar schoolboy, fists pumping as she bellowed, "It's a GOAL!"
Across from her, Jacques Schnee who happened to be her husband, the president of the Schnee Dust Company, and a man who had faced down assassins, corporate takeovers, and the man whom he looked up to the most, was currently holding what could only be described as a semi-holographic Grimm by the jaw as it snapped at him. "Like hell it is!"
"It counts!" Willow shot back, hands on her hips, still out of breath from her... celebration.
Jacques looked like he was actually considering throwing the damn thing at her. "It's a fucking foul!"
"It's called strategy!"
"It's called attempted murder!"
Maximilien turned to look at his aid, hoping that she'll give him answer and finding—for fuck's sake, Elizabeth!
He turned back to the scene, still utterly lost.
Was this really why he had come? To reason with Jacques Schnee, the man he admired most? To check on him after everything?
Instead, he found a mental institution.
The guard played some fucked up chess game with a frog.
A pack of oversized white rabbits hopping around like this was perfectly normal.
The lady of the house and his boss behaving like a couple of vulgar ten-year-olds.
His most trusted aide and sole ally, Elizabeth, cradling a giant dog with stars in her eyes like she had just found her new best friend.
It was at this precise moment that he came to an important realization.
He should have stayed in the car.
Luckily, before a treacherous thought could cross his mind, his eyes met those of the man who changed his life.
Jacques's brows furrowed. "The fuck you looking at, pussy?"
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sole of her boot moved in slow motion.
Or at least, that's how it felt.
In reality, it had probably been a fraction of a second, but in the middle of a fight, time had a way of stretching itself thin. Every detail sharpened—the flex of a muscle, the shift of a stance, the glint of metal catching the light. She didn't just see it. She felt it.
Which meant she knew exactly what was coming next.
The shield snapped up. Not a surprise, but fast enough that instead of slamming into something solid and satisfying, her punch met cold metal. The impact jolted up her arm, and yeah, her knuckles were gonna be real pissed at her later.
She barely had time to register it before the counter came.
Low sweep. Quick. Aimed right for her legs. She twisted before it could take her out completely, using the momentum to keep herself upright but still not fast or positioned right enough to deal with the follow up strike. The spear smashed into her cheek, and her boots skidded against the floor, kicking up dust as she caught herself.
Damn. That was good.
She dragged a glove across her mouth, grinning. "Okay. That one I felt."
And then she shot forward again.
fists up, shifting her weight just enough to keep her movements unpredictable. Going in blind was dumb—she'd learned that the hard way—but standing still? That was worse.
The shield came up again, but this time, she was ready. Instead of going for a direct hit, she faked high, baiting the block, then pivoted hard and swung low. A hard jab to the ribs—nothing brutal, but enough to make her opponent shift.
There. An opening.
She went for it—hooking a leg around the other girl's ankle, aiming to throw her off-balance. But before she could actually press the advantage, a hand snapped out, grabbing her wrist in a grip that was way stronger than it had any right to be.
Crap.
Before she could pull away, she was yanked forward—right into a shoulder, flipping her straight over. Instinct kicked in before she could think—her arms tucked in, back rounding, rolling with the momentum instead of fighting it. She hit the mat hard, but she turned it into a back roll, pushing off the ground the second she landed.
On her feet again. Breathin—Clang! The shield slammed her face, and her back slammed back into the ground.
She tried to ignore the stars in her vision, and attempted to jump to her feet only to feel her opponent pin her under her weight. Her fingers flexed, and immediately the damned shield pinned her right wrist while a heeled boot held down her left wrist.
She felt the spear's blade press lightly next to her jugular.
Pyrrha smiled down at her. She had a nice smile
"I yield," Yang sighed
"You're getting faster," Pyrrha said, easing off and offering a hand.
Yang took it, letting herself be pulled upright. Her back still ached from the slam, and she was pretty sure she'd be feeling that shield to the face for at least an hour, but whatever. She'd had worse.
"Yeah, well," she huffed, rolling out her shoulders. "Gotta keep up somehow."
Pyrrha tilted her head, giving her that thoughtful look. "You rely a lot on instinct."
Yang wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her glove. "That a compliment or a critique?"
"A little of both." Pyrrha's spear spun once before resting against her shoulder. "Instinct is important. But if you lean on it too much, someone can use it against you."
Yang clicked her tongue. "Yeah, yeah. Don't get predictable. Got it."
Pyrrha smiled again—small, knowing. "You're already improving," she said. "But I think you could do better if you had a plan before engaging."
Yang grinned. "Planning's for nerds."
Pyrrha just gave her a look.
"Fine, fine. Maybe a little planning," Yang groaned. "Not sure it'll do a whole lot against you, though. You just flattened me."
"You give me too much credit." Shaking her head, Pyrrha smiled—mild, unreadable. "In a real fight with real ammo, I wouldn't be so eager to engage in close combat against you and your gauntlets. The rules favored me in the spar, that's all."
Oh, how humble. Yang was pretty sure that in a real fight, she'd get thrashed even harder. She'd probably get snatched up by Pyrrha's Semblance and slammed around like a chew toy. "Unless you've got some secret big weakness, I doubt it."
"You might be surprised. Every fighter has weaknesses. It's just a matter of finding them." Pyrrha hummed, tapping a finger against her chin. "I noticed you keep throwing your right hook first."
Yang blinked. "Huh?"
Pyrrha lifted her spear slightly, stepping into a loose stance. "You favor your right side. It makes your first move predictable."
Yang frowned. "Okay, so… I throw with my left instead?"
"You'll be less likely to get a shield to the face." Pyrrha said teasingly.
Yang laughed, and Pyrrha's chuckle soon joined her laughter.
"Thanks again, by the way, for agreeing to this," Yang said, grabbing a towel from nearby and tossing a bottle of water to Pyrrha.
"Of course. It's always good to train with different fighting styles."Pyrrha caught it effortlessly, twisting the cap off with a small nod. "With the classes suspended, it's not like there is much to do but train."
"You still did me a solid. I needed this." Yang said before she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. "I'm sure you would have preferred to be straddling another blonde."
Pyrrha sputtered, nearly choking on her water. "Wha—I—Yang!"
Yang cackled, wiping her face with the towel. "What? Just saying, I'm probably not your first pick for all that pinning action." She wiggled her eyebrows again for good measure.
Pyrrha's face turned an impressive shade of red. "That's not—I wasn't—!" She exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to her forehead. "You are impossible."
Yang grinned. "I try."
Pyrrha groaned, but there was a small, exasperated smile tugging at her lips. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you wanted to lose just to set up that joke."
"I will neither confirm nor deny such accusations," Yang stated diplomatically. She looked at the digital clock on the wall before muttering. "Hopefully, they haven't killed each other while I was away."
"Weiss and Blake?" Pyrrha asked with a frown.
Yang didn't reply, but the look on her face was a good answer.
Pyrrha winced. "They were getting rather… heated as of late. Last night, Jaune tried to talk to Weiss about it and...uh" She scratched her cheek. "...He came back crying."
Damn.
"Yeah," Yang muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. To say the last week was a bitch would be an understatement.
It wasn't fair that Weiss had grown up in some fancy Schnee mansion, hearing all the worst things about Faunus her whole life while her old man apparently was making the life of others living hell. She understood that he was still Weiss' old man.
It also wasn't fair that Blake had spent her whole life caring about the down rotten and fighting against people like the SDC just to be spat in the face from the actions of those same people.
It wasn't fair that an attack neither of them had anything to do with had made everything so much worse.
Yang's fingers slowed against the back of her neck. Blake was her partner. Not in a romantic way or anything, but still—partners. That meant something. And she got it. Maybe not fully, maybe not in the way Blake wanted her to, but she understood enough to know that the Faunus didn't deserve to be scapegoated. That losing their homes, their safety, their lives—it was wrong. It was cruel.
That was the morally right position to take.
Yet…
"It's easy to talk when it's not your family's life on the line! Would you stay on that high horse of yours if it was Ruby instead?!"
Weiss's voice repeated in her head nonstop. Those words had been full of something Yang hadn't expected to hear from the Heiress: fear.
And Yang had stayed silent. Not because she hadn't had an answer. She did. She had an answer the moment she heard that question.
She just didn't want to say it.
Right and wrong didn't mean shit when family was involved.
If it were Ruby, if it were Dad, if it were anyone she loved...
Then that meant that Jacques, who was supposedly a demo,n wasn't really different from her. Maybe that Yang wasn't nearly as good a person as she thought.
Maybe just like the woman who gave birth to her, Yang would simply...
So, she had snapped as she always did whenever she was afraid, and the whole argument would turn into a three way shouting match which was fucked thing to inflict on her poor lil Sis.
Ruby, who just wanted them all to get along. Rubes, who stood there with wide, helpless eyes while her team blew up in front of her.
Yeah. Real great big sister moment, that one.
Yet the whole shitfest stayed with her. Hearing how bad Weiss' dad was from Blake and the rest of the world, and seeing how Weiss defended him. what if that meant Jacques, the supposed demon, wasn't really all that different from her?
Maybe she wasn't nearly as bad a person as she liked to think. Maybe—just like Jacques Schnee— the woman who gave birth to her was also...
She clenched her fists.
No. She wasn't going there.
Yang shook her head, and slapped her face a couple of times to get her shit together.
No point in spiraling. She'd fix things. Probably. Maybe.
Yang sighed and grabbed her jacket, throwing it over her shoulders as she glanced at Pyrrha. "Well, thanks for knocking me around. Helped clear my head."
Pyrrha chuckled. "Glad to be of service."
With one last stretch, Yang made for the door, bracing herself for whatever mess waited for her outside.
She didn't a mess, well not a literal mess, instead she found—"Dad?!"
Taiyang Xiao Long stood in the hallway, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between relief and exasperation. "There you are. I was starting to think I'd have to track you down like a runaway puppy."
"Oh my god, Dad!"
Taiyang barely had time to brace himself before Yang all but tackled him, wrapping her arms around him in a rib-crushing hug. He let out a grunt but hugged her right back, patting her back.
"Easy, easy! I'm not that young anymore," he chuckled. "You trying to break me?"
Yang grinned against his shoulder before pulling back. "No promises." Then, narrowing her eyes playfully, she poked his chest. "What the heck are you doing here? You didn't write, didn't call—should I be offended?"
"What can I say? I was in the area." Taiyang smirked, then ruffled her hair like she was still a kid. "Figured I'd swing by and check on my girls. And good thing, too—looks like you've been keeping busy." He glanced behind her at Pyrrha, who had been politely standing off to the side, watching with a small smile.
"Oh, right! Pyrrha, this is my old man. Dad, this is Pyrrha Nikos, the totally awesome champion of Mistral."
Pyrrha gave a small, polite wave. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."
"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Nikos." He offered a small nod.
Yang tilted her head, brow furrowing. "Wait, why are you even here?"
Taiyang shrugged. "The good Headmaster gave me a call. Apparently, the school's in need of a combat instructor."
Yang's eyes widened. "Wait—combat? Like, full-time teacher combat instructor?" Wait wasn't that Professor Goodwitch's job?
"Yep. And I thought, 'Eh, what the hell?'" He grinned. "Figured I might as well make myself useful."
Yang stared at him like he'd just announced he was moving to the moon. "You? in Beacon?"
"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, kid." Taiyang put a hand over his heart, feigning offense.
"No, I mean, okay, yeah, a little bit of that, but mostly, what made you change your mind? You always said you were set with Signal Academy?"
"Well, things change. Ozpin made a pretty convincing case, and, y'know, I figured it'd be nice to keep an eye on my girls. Besides, can't have you slacking off while I'm not looking." Taiyang's smile softened just a bit and took a more brittle tint. "And well, things changed."
His grip on her shoulder tightened a bit. Yang actually looked at him then. Really looked.
He was tired. Not the usual kind of tired from training students or chasing after her and Ruby when they were kids and defintely not from the trip from Patch to Beacon. No, this was the kind of tired that sat deep in the bones. The kind she remembered from when Mom—
Her throat felt a little tight.
Taiyang squeezed her shoulder, the grip just a little firmer than before. He didn't say anything, but the weight of whatever was on his mind lingered.
She forced a grin. "Didn't think you'd miss me that much."
Taiyang chuckled, but it was quieter than usual. "You kidding? The house is way too quiet without you two causing trouble."
Clearly seeing the way in which the mood was heading, Pyrrha bless her heart quickly dismissed herself with a goodbye.
She watched her practically flee down the hall, and honestly? She didn't blame her. The conversation was heading into awkward family drama territory, and Pyrrha was far too polite and nice to be the type to stick around for that.
"Yang," Taiyang said, pulling her focus back.
Yang sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. "Alright, lay it on me. What's really going on?"
Taiyang hesitated for just a second—just enough for Yang to catch it.
Then he forced a grin. "What, a dad can't check in on his kid without it being a thing?"
Yang arched a brow. "Dad."
"Yang."
They stared at each other.
Taiyang sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "I just figured—The world's got some crazy stuff going on lately. Thought it'd be good to, y'know, be around."
Yang crossed her arms. "That's not all."
"…No. It's not."
"Let's go get your sister." Something tightened in his jaw before he sighed again. "I'd say it's about time you two know more about Summer."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The chamber was dim with only the soft glow of ancient mechanisms casting long shadows across the stone. Deep beneath Beacon Academy.
It was neither too dark nor too bright, just as he preferred it.
Ozpin was never really a fan of the dark. From the Grimm lurking in its depths to the uncertainty it represented, to the God of Darkness himself, he found little comfort in it.
He wasn't particularly fond of the light either.
He was also, for no grand or noble reason, particularly cross with deer. Elks, gazelles, and any other similar hoofed creatures fell under this grudge as well.
It was, perhaps, a little petty of him. Given everything, one might think he'd have more important things to hold a grudge against. And yet, here he was, standing in the dim, flickering glow of the underground chamber, distinctly aware of how much he disliked the dark, the light, and every hoofed creature in between.
Not that any of it mattered right now.
He took another sip from his mug of now cold, stale, but familiar chocolate. His gaze drifted back to Amber. She didn't stir. She never did. She was still breathing, if you could call it that shallow and uneven thing breathing. A life barely hanging on by a thread.
The machines beeped steadily, reassuring him that, yes, she was still alive, and no, there had been no miraculous recovery in the last five minutes.
This wasn't how things were supposed to be.
Amber was meant to be strong, powerful as the Fall Maiden in full command of her abilities. Instead, she was here, caught in limbo, her soul fractured, her powers incomplete. Salem had seen to that. And now, after all his careful planning, all his years of preparation, the best he could do for her was… this.
This was the best solution he could come up with.
Pathetic.
The self-loathing had dulled over the years, settling into something almost comfortable, like an old coat that fit just a little too well. But moments like these, when he was forced to look at his failures laid bare before him, it still found ways to sink its claws into him.
With a slow sigh, he pulled out his scroll. A few taps, a message sent to a certain man with a certain deer.
...Why did it have to be a deer?
Jacques would receive it soon enough. Whether he would listen, well… that was another matter entirely. But the offer had been made, the pieces set in motion. And for all his careful maneuvering, Ozpin could do nothing now but wait.
He supposed, in the end, whether he was a devil, a champion, or some other poor bastard stuck in a game even he didn't wish to play, it mattered little.
Though if he had a choice, he rather hoped Jacques was a devil; if only because his dealings with gods had always been more trouble than they were worth.
Ah well. Such was life.
Glynda was already dealing with the Council, making sure the recent war-happy fever didn't settle too deeply in their hearts. It was a thankless job, but if anyone could make politicians feel like unruly children in a classroom, it was her.
Qrow was in Mistral, doing what he did best: being exactly where he needed to be, just in time to clean up a mess. Or make one. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.
James… well, he trusted James to manage things in Atlas. For now.
And so, all that was left for him was to wait and hope—no, pray—that it all didn't come crashing down spectacularly.
As it always did.
Fingers crossed.
He took another sip.
He hummed at the taste.
Cold. Bitter.
Fitting.
Ah well.
Such was the existence of the Hero Ozma.