No Ones PoV

It was a quiet day on the ocean, the kind of calm that left flags hanging limp and waves rolling smooth beneath the steel hull of the M/V Adventure. The liner, aged but reliable, pushed through the waters south of the four great kingdoms, carrying hundreds of Faunus to the island of Menagerie. A haven for their kind, far from the cities and slums where they were treated as less than human. The sea was their path to freedom. Their only path.

The Adventure was no ordinary passenger liner. She had no grand ballroom, no gold-plated chandeliers or fine marble interiors like the ships that sailed from Vale to Atlas. Instead, her walls were armored with scrap steel, her decks lined with mounts for small arms. Dozens, possibly hundreds, of machine guns, autocannons, and cobbled-together weapons bristled from every angle. They weren't there for decoration. They were there for survival.

Grimm were the reason. Creatures of darkness and fury, drawn to emotion, destruction, and despair. Though Faunus attracted them less than humans, the difference was slim. Out here in the open water, with no land in sight, one Grimm encounter could spell disaster for everyone on board.

So far, there had been none. Just the lapping of waves against the hull and the low thrum of engines pushing the ship along at twenty three knots. Some passengers sunbathed on the forward deck. Others gathered near the observation rails, children laughing, playing in the filtered sunshine of a cloudless afternoon. Inside the ship, the low hum of conversation filled the dining lounges, arcade rooms, and passenger cabins. The crew, though alert, remained calm. It had been a good voyage.

But peace rarely lasted.

On the bridge, the Grimm detecting radar gave a soft ping. A signal blinked into existence just off the port bow. It hadn't been there before.

"Unknown signature." The radar operator muttered, frowning. "Could be a sensor ghost, or..."

The Executive Officer glanced at the display. "We don't have time to check it. We're already running late." The Captain gave no order to change course. The Adventure kept going. Then, moments later, a different call came in.

"Three vessels approaching." The XO said sharply. "Fast movers. Bearing one-eight-zero off our starboard stern."

The helmsman squinted through the bridge windows. "Those markings. SDC. Schnee Dust Company freighters."

That name sent a ripple of unease through the room. The SDC, the wealthiest Dust enterprise in the world, was infamous for its treatment of Faunus. Slave labor, unpaid contracts, 'missing' workers. They had no business out here. No cargo routes. No excuses.

"What the fuck do those human bastards want?" The helmsman muttered darkly.

"Watch your tone." The Captain said calmly. "They could just be passing through on their way to Mistral. XO, open comms."

"Yes, sir."

The comms officer keyed her mic. "SDC freighters off our stern, this is the M/V Adventure. Please state your intentions."

There was a moment of silence, then a voice answered. Cold. Male. Authoritative.

"M/V Adventure, come to a full stop. We are seizing your passengers under the directive of the Schnee Dust Company. Do not resist, or we shall have the Atlesian Military hunt you down." Gasps filled the bridge.

"You can't do that!" The comms officer shouted into her headset. "There's no jurisdiction here!" The voice didn't flinch.

"We have a warrant. If you do not comply, we will sink your vessel and fish any living slaves out of the water." The line went dead. The crew stared at the radio. Silence hung in the air like a thunderhead.

"Shit." The comms officer whispered. "They're serious."

"I knew it." The XO spat, his fists clenched.

The helmsman turned toward the Captain. "Orders, sir?" The Captain didn't hesitate.

"Sound battle stations. Broadcast a general distress signal across the CCT. Keep all passengers inside and lock down the decks. Weapons free."

"Aye, sir!"

Red alert lights replaced the normal glow of the ship's interiors. Klaxons wailed across all levels. Overhead announcements barked orders for passengers to move inside and remain calm. On deck, crew members ushered families into the superstructure. Children cried. Parents clutched luggage and each other. Some passengers screamed when the SDC ships came into view. Black freighters barreling across the waves, smoke belching from their stacks, steel prows cutting the sea like knives.

Each vessel bore the faded snowflake of the SDC, and scrawled across the smokestacks in flaking white paint were those three cursed letters. The lead ship's deck was crowded with armed men. SDC private security. They carried harpoon guns and boarding rigs, preparing for assault.

Without warning, the first harpoons launched. Great black-tipped spears fired from the freighters, slamming into the liner's starboard side with metallic shrieks. Cables whipped taut. The liner shuddered as it was slowly reeled in like a hooked fish. But the Adventure had teeth.

Machine guns erupted across the deck, stitched lines of fire carving into the SDC freighters. Bullets pinged off steel plating. One gunner scored a direct hit on a boarding ramp, detonating it mid-deployment. Another sprayed a cluster of uniformed guards, sending them scattering for cover as glass shattered and alarms rang aboard the enemy ships.

"Keep firing!" The XO barked. "Do not let them reach the hull!"

More harpoons fired, embedding deeper into the liner's flanks. Sparks danced across the deck as grappling claws scraped over metal. The SDC vessels were getting closer, pushing through a hailstorm of bullets with ruthless precision.

The Adventure fought back with everything it had. And it wasn't just steel and fire. It was rage. It was survival.

This was not just a ship. It was a lifeline, a dream, a promise of something better than slavery or death. The Faunus aboard weren't soldiers, but they were survivors. And the crew wasn't going to let them be dragged back into chains. Not while they still had ammunition. Not while they still had a heartbeat.
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Far away rolling across the surface of the sea, slicing through the cold, inky waters like a blade, the Leviathan moved with terrifying grace. A mechanical behemoth that dwarfed even the largest warships of Remnant's navies, she glided in near silence, her presence a ghost beneath the waves.

Inside her command deck, lit by soft blue glowpanels and flickering data screens, Alex sat calmly in the captain's seat. His fingers rested on the armrest, drumming in idle rhythm. The sea had been quiet for days. No targets, no broadcasts, no Grimm. Just a long, uneventful patrol beneath the world.

But that was starting to change. The soft chirp of proximity alarms broke the stillness. Four blips appeared on the wide tactical display projected in front of him. They clustered together, one slightly ahead and surrounded by hundreds of micro-signatures. Even before the SONAR system triangulated the sound, Alex knew what he was hearing. Gunfire. Rapid bursts. Explosions. Hull impacts. Screams transmitted as faint echoes through the ocean's body.

He leaned forward in his seat, eyes narrowing.

"Hm... Four vessels. Sounds of battle at close range." He muttered, his voice calm, thoughtful. "No Grimm detected. That's no naval skirmish. That's something else." Yeah, Alex had figured he was on Remnant when he looked out the window and saw the moon.

The holographic interface in front of him reconfigured with a simple voice command. From the ceiling above, two thin circular control surfaces, resembling the rings of a classic RC controller, descended and hovered into place in front of his hands. With a flick of his fingers, the system connected. A shimmering green grid expanded across the display, and in its center, a new feed emerged.

"Let's launch the helo and see what's happening before I begin firing." He said, adjusting his grip. "As soon as I decide who I want to shoot... I'll let the missiles speak for me."

Outside, on the Leviathan's massive aft flight deck, the ship's gunmetal-black Apache roared to life. Twin rotors spun up with a rising metallic whine as hydraulics adjusted its arming configuration, AGMs, rocket pods, an underslung 30mm chain gun, and anti-armor warheads, all loaded and ready.

With an almost animal growl from its engines, the helicopter lifted off the deck. Water misted and swirled behind it as it rose into the air and raced ahead, guided by Alex's hands through the holographic control rings.
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The battle had raged for over eight minutes. Eight long, desperate minutes where the M/V Adventure had fought tooth and nail to stay afloat and protect the civilians aboard her decks. Her weather-worn hull shuddered with each impact, scorched by explosions and scarred by gunfire from all directions. The Atlesian marked freighters had boxed her in, their heavy weapons pounding relentlessly, while makeshift defenses on the Adventure retaliated with whatever ammunition they could spare.

Smoke billowed from the wounded transport as Faunus crewmembers and volunteer defenders scrambled to move the wounded. The ship's deck was stained with the signs of battle. Blood, shrapnel, broken weapons. The Adventure was bleeding, but she hadn't died yet.

Above the chaos, something new stirred in the sky.

The whine of rotor blades cut through the din of battle, sharp and unfamiliar. Heads turned upward as a sleek, black aircraft hovered above the carnage. Its design was unlike anything they'd seen in modern use. Aggressive lines, bristling with weaponry, and a faint, unnatural glow from beneath its fuselage. It didn't belong to the Atlesians. It didn't look like anything from Menagerie either.

"What the fuck is that thing?!" One sailor shouted, pointing upward with a bloodied hand.

"No clue!" The medic barked back, dragging a bleeding crewmate by the collar. "Now help me get your friend inside unless you want him to bleed out!"

"R-Right! Sorry, ma'am!" He stammered, recovering quickly and rushing to lift the man's legs as they ducked under the rail and into cover.

Another sailor sprinted toward the medic, waving frantically. "Medic! We've got another man down. His Aura just failed!"

"I hear you! Just hold on! I'm coming!" The medic yelled over the gunfire, sprinting across the open deck under a hail of lead and energy bolts. "Keep him stable!"

Inside the bridge, Captain Rourke stood braced at the command console, one hand gripping the edge while the other flicked through damage reports. The ship rocked again with a fresh impact, the groaning of metal echoing through the floor.

"Sir." The XO called out grimly. "Ee're running low on ammunition. We've only got thirty minutes of sustained fire left, tops."

"Keep firing. And start broadcasting continuous distress signals." Rourke ordered, voice tight with tension. "And someone get the attention of that aircraft circling above us. That thing didn't come from Menagerie. It came from the opposite bearing. Meaning there's a vessel nearby, and it might just be our savior."

"On it, Captain." The helmsman responded, hands white-knuckled on the controls. "But with all due respect... how do we signal a gunship like that?"

The comms officer turned from his damaged station. "CCT's useless up there. The aircraft's not answering. It's either encrypted or off grid. We need something low tech."

Rourke turned to the XO. "Options. How do we talk to the skies without a satellite?"

The XO scratched at his singed sleeve, thinking fast. "Maybe we could send one of the Faunus up with a message. They're agile enough to avoid incoming fire if they're fast."

Rourke frowned. "That's just asking the Atlesian bastards to snipe them mid sprint. Good thought, but no."

The helmsman offered next. "Could spell out a message using our wake or exhaust. Like skywriting but with smoke."

"If our engines hadn't been crippled, I'd say go for it." The captain sighed. "But we're dead in the water."

A lookout near the bridge hatch poked his head in. "What about signal flags, sir?"

"Too exposed. They'll just be torn apart the moment we raise 'em."

Then, the comms officer's eyes lit up. "Wait. I remember something from academy. Old naval methods from back when CCT had no oceanic range. We used signal lamps. Morse code. Flashing letters, one at a time. I still have the translation log in my locker."

Rourke's eyes narrowed with hope. "Grab it. Dust it off and get a damn lamp aimed at that bird. Let's see if old-school can still save lives."

The officer saluted and sprinted through the damaged superstructure, weaving between steam vents and smoking wreckage. He burst through a narrow maintenance hatch and climbed a rusted ladder onto the upper deck, squinting as wind buffeted his face. The black helicopter still hovered above, an ominous sentinel watching silently.

He found the lamp. An old emergency spotlight bolted near the upper radar dish. He knelt beside it, wrenching the control box open and yanking the wires into place. With a flick of a toggle, the light flickered, then steadied.

Book open on his knee, he began to signal.

'M/V Adventure. 146 souls on board, 130 passengers 100 of those 130 being children. The freighters are attempting to take all who are useful.'

The flashes continued, deliberate and clean. Below him, the battle still raged. But above... the gunship hovered, watching. Waiting. And now, perhaps, understanding.
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The storm of battle was far from over, but a flicker of hope had pierced the smoke choked sky.

From high above the carnage, the black helicopter hovered like a bird of prey. Its rotors chopped the air in a steady rhythm, cutting through the chaos below as its pilot leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the battered ocean liner beneath. The M/V Adventure was barely afloat, scarred, burning, and surrounded by hostile SDC freighters. Yet despite its wounds, it fought with tooth and nail, defending those aboard with a ferocity Alex Orr hadn't expected. Then, something blinked in the corner of his vision.

A soft staccato flash from the deck of the liner. Small, rhythmic pulses of white light. Old-school Morse code. Alex leaned closer, watching carefully as the message slowly spelled itself out. His jaw clenched as the meaning hit him like a rifle butt to the gut.

"Those sick bastards..." Alex growled, his voice low and cold. "They're hammering a civilian liner..."

He didn't need any more convincing. With one fluid motion, he dropped his hand onto the control yoke and toggled a separate joystick. One linked directly to Leviathan's surface command. "Lock onto the trio of ships surrounding the liner and open fire. Push the engines. I want torpedoes under every one of their keels." There was a brief silence.

Then, a battery of anti-ship missiles jetted from Leviathan's forward launchers with a fury that split the sky. They streaked across the ocean in tight formation, their wakes boiling the surface as they skimmed mere feet above the waves. Hunters screaming at Mach 3 toward their prey.

Alex smirked beneath his breath, then reached up to toggle another control. A pivot mounted spotlight bolted to the undercarriage of the chopper. His fingers danced across the handle as he began to flash his own message downward.

Stand By. Hellfire Inbound.
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Below, aboard the Adventure, the deck was in shambles. The bridge windows were cracked and blackened, and sailors bled across the steel with torn uniforms and tired hands. Most of the crew had already retreated below decks, patching one another up and waiting for their Auras to regenerate. Only a few, those too stubborn or too angry to hide, remained at their stations.

Captain Rourke leaned against the plotting table, sweat streaking down his brow. "XO, how bad is it down there?"

The XO wiped soot from his face. "Not good, sir. Community spaces are packed. Aura burnout, some minor injuries, some... not so minor. We've got volunteers topside still returning fire, but we're losing bodies. Fast."

"Any response from that aircraft?" Rourke asked, glancing toward the open sky.

"If there was, we missed it." The XO said bitterly. "Kid working the signal lamp got hauled off on a stretcher five minutes ago."

"Well." The helmsman murmured from his seat, gently stroking the brass of his wheel, "let's hope they got something. 'Cause I don't think the old girl can take another hit."

"Radar contact!" The operator suddenly barked. "Something coming in low and fast. Too fast for Grimm."

"What is it?"

Then, as if the skies themselves answered, the Leviathan's missiles struck home.

The first enemy freighter took two hits amidships. Its hull buckled inward, flames erupting as fuel tanks ignited. The second was torn open near the stern, its deck folding in half as fire engulfed the bridge. The third didn't even have time to scream. It cracked in two like a dry twig, keeling sideways into the sea.

The high tension cables anchoring the Adventure snapped with thunderous cracks, slapping across the water like whips. Suddenly, they were free.

"There's our chance!" Rourke shouted. "Get us the fuck out of here! Full power!"

"Aye, sir!"

The surviving engines rumbled to life. Though sluggish, the liner began to turn. Scorched, bleeding, but moving again.

The lookout at the top of the crow's nest leaned out, scanning the dark horizon with a pair of binoculars. "Smoke sighted, sir! Unknown vessel approaching! That aircraft's headed back toward it!"

Rourke nodded slowly. "That must be our ally. Raise signal flags. Tell them to follow us to Menagerie."

The sailor bolted from the bridge and climbed to the top deck, pulling the heavy flag locker open. Within moments, bright signal flags whipped into the wind, spelling out a simple but direct message.

Follow Us
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Back at sea level, the Leviathan's turrets turned, rotating with smooth, mechanical precision. Her guns roared to life again.

Explosions rocked the sea, lighting the night with orange fireballs. SDC sailors screamed as their decks were torn apart, their hulls splintered by torpedoes or shredded by autocannon fire. One freighter tried to return fire, only to vanish beneath the sea as the Leviathan blew it in half.

Alex, glanced at the horizon where lifeboats bobbed like broken toys on the waves. A few Atlesians had survived, huddled in orange rafts, clutching their gear and praying someone would rescue them.

They looked up, and saw Leviathan's cannons aimed directly at them. Alex exhaled hard, his finger hovering near the fire control switch. His mind buzzed, but his heart pulled him back from the edge. No. Not today. He backed off.

His eyes shifted toward the Adventure. Flags waved in the breeze, their message clear even to the untrained eye. He squinted.

"Hmph. They want me to follow them," he muttered. "Probably can't make speed and want an escort in case trouble comes back." It was a wise move.

Alex settled back into his chair, taking a deep breath. "Alright... set a course. Follow the liner. Stay sharp."

The Leviathan's helm turned, her massive engines shifting her behind the Adventure. The storm had passed, but the air was still heavy with smoke, death, and uncertainty. And up ahead, rising from the sea mist like a mirage, the shadowed coast of Menagerie came into view.
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A/N: And done. DrFrostwire0, kuwebby2 what do you think? Also Andy you might find this chapter familiar.