So it is done: Atlas (Patreon)

James Ironwood was a man with the highest understanding of ‘professional ethics’. It was not just one or two occasions where ‘Captain Jimmy’ had turned against his own commanders or subordinates. All precisely because he treated his job descriptions or orders with even more care and zeal than was expected – or even required – of him.

No, there were always reasons for writing rules, good reason. Reasons that hundreds of people had died for. Rules that had been scrutinized for tens of thousands of hours, establishing each rule and law. Rules that were practiced and constantly monitored and improved.

But alas, the written word had not always kept up with what the people in Remnant had discovered. Oftentimes, this cruel world of theirs forced upon its people the necessity of upholding the ‘unwritten’ rules and ignoring the written ones.

It was impossible to rewrite an entire collection of laws or all of the army's job descriptions every year. Equally, it's impossible to rearrange the entire huge system every day after analyzing every fact by analysts or in the reports of those in authority. Some things are self-evident, even if they are perhaps wrong in the literal sense.

For example, the law of non-attraction of Grimm.

It states that, if Grimm were attracted by negative emotions – didn't that mean that, technically speaking, anyone that is experiencing negative emotions was guilty of attracting Grimm?

It was a law created from the specialists' understanding of Grimm behavior, from the state's necessity, from the gaze of the vast systems of surveillance, punishment, and protection of the population of Atlas. But it was only a law written by humans, which could not react perfectly to all possible situations and conditions.

Doing so would be counter-productive to the effect it wanted to achieve.

So, patrolling policemen did not arrest every crying baby, whose negative emotions, technically speaking, are indeed attracting Grimm. But still, grabbing crying babies from their mothers is beyond stupid. Nor did they arrest every actor enacting a tragedy in a TV drama. And certainly, no policeman would break into the home of an arguing young couple with a gun to their heads and shout that he would arrest them now unless they immediately made up and went out for a romantic dinner.

Technically speaking, using only cold logic – a policeman who sees a violation of the law must stop that violation. And with the existence of the law on preventing Grimm attraction – all policemen should have done just that. But no one did.

Simply because, in addition to formal logic, there had to be an understanding in a policeman's mind of how exactly he was supposed to behave in each particular case. Understanding when they were supposed to use the cold, formal logic of a marshal of justice and when he was supposed to use his human understanding.

The kind of policeman who could not, at some point, retreat from his job description and ask himself whether they should follow an order, was an ideal executor. They would be a machine performing the absolute function of ensuring the functioning of human society – but at the same time also too dangerous a weapon to be left unchecked.

General James Ironwood was just such a weapon.

He always followed orders to the letter, practiced his function to the fullest he’s capable of. And therein lies the danger – his determination to always do exactly what he was supposed to do…

According to his understanding of his own function.

If James Ironwood had become, for example, a simple captain, whose function would have been to support the defense of Atlas? To provide soldiers with decent weapons, to procure supplies in case of a siege, and to lead in its defense? James Ironwood would have become the most perfect army man in the world, as if born and bred exclusively to perform that function alone. It could be said that James Ironwood would have been the perfect commander.

But James Ironwood wasn’t a simple commander – nor a specialist, a squadron leader, a ship's captain, or even a fleet commander…

James Ironwood was what he was now, a general. And so, James Ironwood acted as a general would. A man on whose shoulders lay hundreds, thousands, millions of lives.

This was as true for as he was a General for Atlas as he was acting as Ozpin's closest associate, fighting a powerful enemy. On James' shoulders rested the lives of men…

How did it come to this?

After the formal meeting with Ghira and… the White Fang Delegation – James had left the meeting, citing a need to attend an urgent business elsewhere… James wasn't even lying.

His attention was now direly required, Atlas’ future hung in the balance – tens of thousands of incidents, tens of thousands of things he needed to see, to fix, to change…

His soldiers stood beside him… but their footing was unsure.

Atlas's army was teetering on the edge.

Hundreds of thousands of thoughts, doubts, decisions, all of them drifting across his mind.

Do they think I can't see it?

The soldiers stood in attention before his appearance, their uniforms left much to be desired – their expected immaculateness missing. And through it all were the gazes left behind in his wake… From the grunt to the highest officers, James could feel their gazes.

Do they think it's all my fault?

The officers smoke in silence and whisper to each other while nobody sees them – they talk about Mantle, about the army, about the General himself.

Do they hope that one day I just won't wake up?

The politicians – the executives, the petty administrators, they try not to show up on his doorstep, preferring to send dry reports from their workplaces – fearing for their lives perhaps?

Are they preparing a plan of betrayal?

The workers try to pretend that nothing is happening. Some idly wander around the blocked streets, littered with barricades, sipping alcohol from a bottle as if nothing had happened… their haggard appearance, their eyes sunken and blotched dark, spoke otherwise.

Once again, I have no choice…

What if he just kills them all? Tell his soldiers to raid the summit site.

No, no, it's no use…

Trust between the various parties was pretty much non-existent – each delegation arriving with its own security detail, ready to react… He would fail before he even started.

Was this all… really my fault?

The writing’s on the walls are written in thick black paint – screaming hatred towards the rich, Atlas, humans, him, the army, the robots – anything the eye can see.

Is it really my fault?

The soldiers in Mantle, who patiently watched the workers of yesterday, now all potential dissidents, the traitors who defected to the other side, and the professional brigands and today's heroes… All were watching his actions like a hawk.

I just wanted to do what was best…

Everything the General did was just trying to make things better. To save the state, to save the people, to save order…

And yet, here he has arrived to… The end.

General Ironwood knew he was going to die one day. Like any grown man, he was keenly aware of his own mortality. He was definitely made most aware of it when he had looked it in the face, years ago, when half of his body had been torn away from him. Yes, James Ironwood absolutely knows that he would die, one day, eventually…

He sometimes wondered how he would die, as any living thinking person had thought about it at least once. In the army, when he was faced with death every day, he thought about it many times – imagining the moment when his breathless body would be placed in the coffin.

How would that go now?

He imagined a guard of honor – not that he needed nor wanted it, especially after his death, but it was how the most influential men and illustrious heroes of Atlas were buried, the General included…

He wondered if Ozpin would even shed a tear. Would his deputies drink to his repose? Would someone unveil a plaque on his house – would they write about him in the history books?

Oh yes, they will, so many will… What they write, though? He could scarcely imagine.

James thought about the fact that one day he would die on a mission. That his body would not be found, and his funeral procession would be the stomping of scavengers' feet. That perhaps there would be no funeral and the people who had been close to him would simply sigh, perhaps hoping that the reports were false – that he would, despite the impossibility of such a thing, return home.

Never did James Ironwood think that his death would become a national celebration.

His subordinates, his soldiers, the people of his state – would they celebrate? Drinking not to his repose, but to the joy of his passing?

He tried to do what was best.

To destroy criminals, to show the power of Atlas, to bring the will and laws of society to the people, to save the world from Grimm!

He just wanted to be a hero!

Like any man growing up, he carries a piece of who he was in the past, James Ironwood, somewhere in the back of his mind, retained that little piece of boyhood dream. The boy that ran with a branch, imagining it as a sword, trying to catch up with his peers, bursting with laughter.

James Ironwood just wanted to help everyone.

To quell a rebellion – was that wrong? To save the people from the bloodshed and chaos of civil war, to protect them from the Grimm. Striving to allow people to walk the streets in peace without fear of being met with a blade or a bullet when they turned down another street. Was that so wrong!?

Is it wrong to limit the power and influence of the most corrupt man in all of Atlas? Is it wrong to try to apprehend a criminal? And is it wrong to sacrifice money to save people? Shouldn't he have inspired people to unite in the face of crisis? And if they can't be inspired – make them unite!

Did I not deserve praise for it? No, instead he was condemned for his actions.

James Ironwood used to wonder how he might die.

Maybe an outlaw's bullet, maybe poison from an agent of Salem. Perhaps even the claws of an Ursa, as he was suffering even simple exhaustion, left without food or water in the heart of Solitas.

James Ironwood has always thought a lot about death.

James heard a knock on the door, before answering in a low husky voice – his hands gripping his companion of the last few days, after months of sleeplessness and reflection. “One moment.”

Relaxing his fingers, James allowed the hand holding the gun to slack and in one motion hid it in the drawer of his desk.

Not tonight. I still have a chance. I can still win it all back.

After closing the desk drawer in his office after one last look at his gun, James looked up and answered hoarsely again to beckon his guest in. "Come in…”

***

Kaiser Quartz has always tried to strike a peculiar balance between waiting for his chance, and trying to incorporate all factors into his plan.

The only worthwhile lesson Jacques Schnee had taught him.

What a pity for Kaiser that it was Jacques who had seized his fate, had appeared in the right place at the right time and had charmed the heiress of Nicholas himself…

If Kaiser had been a little more attentive and influential, had played his hand a little differently – perhaps he would have been in that place? He would have been Remnant's most powerful man, the man who held Atlas and all the world's dust supply in a steely grip… and hopefully not be foolish enough to lose it all in one day.

It was only a little mental experiment, though.

The wheel of time had turned, and fate had taken a different path, and Kaiser Quartz was who he was now.

The de facto ruler of Atlas.

Many believed that it was General Ironwood who held the keys to the soaring city, to the entire frozen continent – and, in a sense, they were right. James held the official power of Atlas – but James had always been a blind fool. General, huh? In a different, more perfect world, where a 'General' was just a position separate from the government, he would have been perfect, the best general of all Atlas. The ruler of Atlas only had to keep a few simple facts about James in mind, put some framework into the plan created for any of the General's unexpected moves, and everything would be perfect.

James, the enforcer, that was willing to sacrifice everything, willing to carry out the order perfectly. As James understood it, at least…

I wonder who exactly decided that the General should have the strongest political power in the state?

The council of all the states – the four kingdoms, consisted of five positions. Five positions – head of the Army, Hunter Academy, Foreign Policy, Domestic Policy and then the Economic Policy. Without going into detail, whether mere men, supposedly elected by the people, could have performed the functions of ideally governing an entire state with just five people at the helm is a question for another time.

If one person wished to voice an opinion that went against the rest – the Council would have four chances to speak out against it. That's not so bad, four chances for someone to notice a mistake.

But humans are social creatures.

It was only natural that employees working in the same field, in the same place and in similar positions, meeting each other regularly, would create social ties with each other. The director would probably turn out to be at least friends with his deputy, and the two workers behind neighboring machines would probably exchange a few words with each other, at least during a break. That is human nature.

In the higher circles of power, this truth has eroded a little. Fewer meetings in the workplace, frequent lone travels – but it has not disappeared completely. People form social bonds, it's simply in their nature, they become acquaintances first, then friends, and then close friends… No small number of marriages have grown out of acquaintances at work.

What would happen if two out of five people, on old friendship, agreed to support one of the proposals together?

It might seem that the Council would have three chances to block the initiative – but it really doesn't. In the end, what started as a governing body of five, would turn into a dictatorship of one in all but name.

Democracy… A surprisingly unfortunate form of government.

It would take two more people – no less than the number who supports the initiative, and one more person to block it. In other words, in the event that even just two Councillors decide to push one idea – it will take the intervention and support of all the other Councillors, all three, to challenge the decision.

If just one of the Councillors hesitates, there will be a confrontation, of which of the two camps can convince the last doubter. An internal struggle would then ensue…

Instead of fulfilling its function, the Council would become the worst of quagmires.

This is why the Council system itself was flawed.

Instead of solutions and arguments to support an idea, backstabbing, and games of 'favors' would be the name of the game.

So, what would happen if one person initially had two seats on the Council?

Then every decision that comes into the general's head can only be blocked if all other councillors oppose him…

The most ideal position. The General only needed to find rapport with one other person, form an alliance, if perhaps an unstable one – and he would have become unstoppable.

But the General did not do so.

A perfect tool indeed. Not connected to politics, just performing a function…

General Ironwood's place was both fortunate and unfortunate at the same time. Had he been only a General – but one that is outside the Council, he would have been a national treasure in Atlas, a hero, a legendary figure of modern heroism.

Instead, because of his position as the sole head of the Council, all of Atlas’ failures became his own.

On the other hand, he was exactly where he needed to be.

The General had no place on the Council. The Council, with its constant backstabbing,  dozens of shady dealings behind each other's backs, the behind-the-scenes meetings and ‘private’ conversations – and…

The General was not about to play these games.

Like a hammer of justice, he had come down on the heads of all, regardless of rank, connections, and families… the perfect tool.

All that was needed was to point that hammer at the right head.

Technically speaking, indeed, with two seats on the Council, now comprising only of three people, the General held an absolute majority, possessing, in effect, the sole power to make and repeal laws.

All one had to do was to prompt him as to which law he needed to make and repeal at the right moment.

Heads flew from the shoulders of the most powerful, seemingly invulnerable.

And Atlas exposed its rotten gut.

Remnant's most powerful state, the colossus… standing on clay feet, as it turned out.

And as the winds of change blew in from the small state from the ass-end of the world, Mount Glenn, the colossus shuddered. And, with a crack and a rumble, the giant which had once covered the world in its shadow, cracked, then collapsed, shaking the whole of Remnant.

Everyone now knows that no matter how the summit ended, Atlas would not stay on top of the world. The time of Atlas’ supremacy was over, and the vultures have now come to pick off its corpse.

That didn't mean that all of Mantle's factories or all of Atlas's money would disappear in an instant, nor did it mean that the political entity Atlas would be wiped off the world maps. It remained possible, but not guaranteed, the occurrence of just such a thing depending on the outcome of the summit negotiations, that Atlas might not come out so badly.

But the Atlas state, the one it had been before, no longer possesses the possibility of remaining.

There were many possibilities of exactly how the situation would turn out – but none of them involved a return to the status quo.

The Atlas state – what it had been all along – would be destroyed and forgotten.

Kaiser Quartz knew that it was in such troubled waters that the biggest fish lived. He just needed to hold out his hand, and no one would notice how he would grab himself a couple more companies, a couple more positions, a couple more millions. But then why would he?

On the other hand, why shouldn’t he?

Kaiser Quartz didn't consider mindless accumulation of wealth as his main goal in this world, all of it was just a preparation, a stage of accumulating resources, before he could put them into something bigger. Kaiser didn't want his entire life to be spent hoarding money or building his financial empire.

If he had wanted such a thing, there are much easier ways, much more lucrative ways he could achieve it.

No, what Kaiser really wanted was to help people. In a sense.

To build a better state, to give them a better army, to make Remnant stronger – to push it a little further towards its perfection… All molded by his own hands, of course.

And if he had to burn Atlas to the ground to do so?

Well, Kaiser was more than willing to pay that price.

However… With a sigh, Kaiser was forced to rise from his seat, as he looked at the small clock that measuredly counted down the elapsed hours, minutes, and seconds. As much as he wants to wax in soliloquy about his future plans, right now, he has to come to a decision.

Depending on exactly how the summit would go – he might have to flee Atlas, at least to Mantle, which is prepared for his arrival. It would be the much safer option. But, if he were to stay in Atlas, Kaiser could keep his actions in Mantle much more discrete.

The possibility that his actions in Mantle could be brought to the light would be… Problematic.

Few would be able to see, in his previous actions, something necessary for the whole of Remnant, for humanity. His soul transmigration experiments alone…

Those experiments needed to be kept under the strictest secrecy.

Yes, they had yielded almost all the necessary information for his projects to proceed – but in addition to that, there was also the matter of the 'traces' it left… Quite remarkable traces, damning ones as well. No one would believe him that his works were for the benefit of all.

Which meant that Kaiser needed to…

Clean up.

After all, if he was expecting Atlas itself, nay, Remnants itself, to enter a new historical era…

It was unbecoming to enter that one, leaving a trail.

***

Looking at the devastated laboratory, his laboratory – Watts felt a strange mixture of emotions in his soul.

There was plenty of fear, anticipation, but in no small part, Watts' mind was occupied by another, very strange emotion.

Sadness.

No, not the kind of sadness that could overcome a man who had just made a monstrous mistake or hurt his friend.

The summit of the most influential people was to be held tomorrow. And regardless of how it would turn out in the end, when the eyes of Remnant's most influential people were focused on Mantle and Atlas – he, as an officially dead scholar, needed to stay away from them.

Especially with his very… Specific research materials in his luggage.

After another couple of seconds, Watts heard the stomping of feet behind him – the last batch of equipment had been loaded, and it was time for him to say goodbye to his past. The place where he had proven to himself and the world that he was a genius that would change the world.

Casting one last glance at the devastated room behind him, Watts took a few steps before stopping as he was to turn into the corridor. He could hear footsteps approaching.

Closer, closer, and closer… Now!

With a flash of movement, as the gray uniform of the porter and driver, who were to take the rest of the equipment away, flashed at the edge of his perception, Watts rushed forward. A moment of confusion was all he needed.

With his hands clasped around his throat, Watts shifted his weight momentarily onto the driver – this close, Watts could see the look of confusion, then anger, then understanding on the man’s face. Then the struggling started, and Watts had to do his very best to hold on.

Watts had an awakened aura, but unlike many that had one, he had not trained at a Hunter’s Academy. Initially, it was because his Aura had been so weak that he had simply been overlooked by the recruiters. And afterwards, when someone caught sight of his file – Watts was already positioned as a researcher associated with the army – too valuable a position to send him to the Academy along with the rough and tumble Hunters-in-training.

Still, as a part of the Army, Watts had received the necessary lessons in self-defense and passed regular army standards, but his abilities as a Hunter were not fully up to par. And so, as he choked the life out of the porter, he could only hope that his weight and will to live would be enough to deal with the pawn Kaiser had sent. A pawn to make sure that the clean-up was total.

The fallen man resisted for nearly ten seconds, managing to pound his fist into Watts' head and wherever he could reach. Fortunately, for Watts, fortified by his aura, the man’s flailing wouldn’t even leave a bruise. Slowly, the man stopped moving entirely.

After waiting a few seconds to make sure that the man is dead, or at least incapacitated, Watts stood up sharply before bringing his boot over the collapsed man's neck and bringing it down.

The soft cartilage of his neck crumpled under his foot with a slight crunch. Waiting for the man's death rattle to end with his boot still around his neck, Watts leaned sharply over the man's twitching body, quickly removing his clothes.

The cloak… Yes, there it was – the holster with the pistol.

Kaiser overestimates his own cleverness, or perhaps he’s too up his own ass to underestimate Watts. How could Watts miss that his research was, in fact, finished? That all the information had been taken out, and the equipment too was being prepared for the ‘newcomer's’, his replacement. That his data was being ‘sanitized’ to prevent one from thinking that this scientific progress had been paid for with the lives of thousands of innocent people?

Which left only Watts himself, and Kaiser that knew the full truth?

Get rid of Watts and the job was done. No one would have thought to look for the long-dead scientist in the slums of Mantle – and his body, meanwhile, would have been burned in one of the ovens. A perfect crime…

But Watts, to Kaiser's misfortune, was neither a newcomer to this world nor a fool.

Quickly pulling the clothes off the man, picking a car key off of his pants before the body would decide to commit what the dead usually do immediately after death, Watts started changing. After shedding his previous attire, before placing the gun of the would-be assassin on his hip. With that done, he picked up a small bag hidden in the recesses of his old lab.

Collecting these items without Kaiser's knowledge was difficult enough…

After looking around once more at his old lab, either out of nostalgia or just paranoia, he wasn’t sure. Satisfied with whatever he was looking for, Watts took a brisk walk heading for the exit, towards the parked car that was supposed to drive him away. Or his corpse for disposal, more likely.

Like many cars in Mantle's slums, this one was an old van with frayed gray paint and no readable number plates – exactly the sort of thing that wouldn't attract attention in a slum. Not the most ideal, given the recent attention to all cars moving around Mantle, but that was all Watts could ask for.

Quickly slipping into the driver's seat, and after turning on the car and into idling, Watts immediately opened his bag.

A cheap shaving machine – a couple of dust batteries. Not enough time for a clean shave.

Watts paused for a second before exhaling.

His posh mustache remained a trait he was proud of – having grown his in his youth, and kept immaculate, trying to appear more 'grown up' and 'solid' in the company of experienced scientists and engineers.

Pressing the button, Watts swiped sharply over his upper lip, getting rid of it. But still, it wasn't enough of a disguise.

Next up was his head of hair – he needs to change his appearance as much as possible in the short time he has. Kaiser was surely expecting the last van to return soon.

By the time Watts' head began to look almost bald, the machine's batteries had stopped working, forcing him to put it away. He was glad that there was no mirror, or he might be tempted to put a round in his own head by the travesty that he would see.

Now with a cap on top, contact lenses, glasses on top and his disguise was perfect… it would do regardless.

Watts looked at his surroundings, at the empty street, before putting pressure on the accelerator pedal, slowly making the car move.

Fortunately, he didn't have to travel very far – the equipment was to be taken out through the opening of the Mantle mine, the entrance to which was also located in Mantle.

A curved road, a bend, and a turn later, and he made his way to the mine shafts through the abandoned entrance, passing through an ad-hoc barricade. As he passed, he received an instant nod from a man who was standing by the entrance. After which, a couple of faunus appeared from deeper inside the mine, the very men who would be carrying the equipment…  Together with Watts.

Opening the door and first dropping the Duffel bag under the passenger seat, Watts climbed out of the cab before glancing at the approaching man in gray uniform. Why do these secret henchmen like to wear gray so much? Is that some kind of uniform or dress code?

“Is everything there?” The Faunus glanced at the van.

“Yes, the lab has been emptied out," Watts tried to lower his voice, hoping that the paranoid Kaiser was using people that don’t know each other well, and that his disguise would hold.

“Good," The man nodded, and then one of his hands went to the side. "Thank you for your service.”

After another moment, a click came to Watts' ears – the sharp sound familiar… to see the black muzzle of a gun.

"Have I been exposed?" Watts cursed. "Or did Kaiser plan to get rid of the driver as well? That bloody paranoid bastard!"

His aura could withstand one, maybe even two shots up close – but if his opponent had already drawn his gun, it was a crap shot if he was lucky enough only to receive two… There’s not enough time and space to dodge!

The sharp bang, caused a shot of adrenaline to Watts’ system. Reflexively, Watts dove to the ground in the cab as best as he could. His action and panic caused him to miss the fact that he wasn’t feeling any pain, and that his would-be executioner now spotted another hole in his cranium, its content now spread out in the mine.

It took another moment for Watts' heartbeat to calm. Hearing no further shots, he foolishly rose up to look towards the outside of the cab, to see one of the faunus workforce with a gun pointed at his hapless assassin. With another loud bang, the assassin’s face is now an unrecognizable mess of pulped brain matter and blood.

Turning around, Watts sighed as he looked at the approaching faunus. “I suppose you’re…”

“From Aifal," The advancing faunus nodded, a young lad with a wolf's tail protruding from his trousers.

Watts only smiled at his good fortune.

The best way to stay afloat in the underworld when your previous employer decides to get rid of you?

Find a new one!