Chapter Twenty One: Snake's Den
Their subterfuge was a calculated decision.
Not the smartest, not the bravest, but easily the least bullet-riddled.
Because while Quin trusted Revenant with his life, he also deeply respected the potential of high-velocity gunfire. Neither of them had training against firearms, nor did they have a spell for "fuck off, bullets" yet.
Sooo… Plan B.
Smile wide, act soft, radiate just enough confused intern energy to be mistaken for harmless.
And pretend like he wasn't mentally mapping every exit, guard station, and potential improvised shield (hi, random crate) as he strolled leisurely into a den of angry, armed, and ideologically passionate Faunus.
He sorta, maybe, kinda forgot to tell Revvie about the change in plans though.
The hideout smelled like rust, old oil, and the general dampness of a place that hadn't been mold-free in decades.
The walls were corrugated metal stitched together with salvaged panels, insulation spilling out like the stuffing of a bear that lost a fight with a shotgun. Graffiti curled around corners, chalk sigils, sloppily stenciled slogans, and one suspiciously anatomically correct drawing of a moose.
Overhead lights buzzed on and off, their power failing every so often.
And, unfortunately, people were looking.
White Fang, at least a dozen, though Quin tried not to be obvious about counting them. Some crouched by old power cells, others leaned on crates eating ration bars. A few glanced up at his passing with suspicion, boredom, or something he liked to call "shoot on sight" energy.
Pistols rested close, and swords closer.
The whole operation looked less like a hardened terrorist organization and more like a very tense airsoft committee with bad funding. A lone flag was duct-taped to a central beam, bearing the infamous wolf-head symbol of the White Fang.
Quin resisted the urge to say anything clever.
Barely.
He kept walking, while Revenant glided beside him like a knife in a sheath.
If this was the belly of a beast, he was here to give it indigestion.
Eventually, they'd find someone in charge… or someone pretending.
Then?
Wait for the right moment.
Drop the head of the snake.
And pray everyone's too busy screaming to pull a trigger.
---
Eventually.
They reached another door, this one had real guards and not twitchy radicals in hoodies, but full-blown "we've killed before" types.
Custom armor, bone charms, and rifles that looked well-maintained and terrifyingly expensive.
Quin slowed his steps, hands loose, ready to open his inventory. The doll strayed behind him, fiddling with one of the straps on his jacket.
Huh, guess she's bored.
One guard stepped forward: tall, broad, and clearly a lion Faunus. His golden mane was braided loosely down his shoulder, a long scar running up his neck like someone tried to unzip him once.
He was the kinda man who absolutely bitten someone in a bar fight.
"Was told to talk with Kline about joining up," Quin said, flashing a grin that tried to sell charm but probably screamed 'mentally insane.' "This the place, Mufasa?"
He was definitely pushing his luck.
( 🎲 3 - Failure.)
The guards didn't smile, not even a twitch.
Mufasa- the name had stuck immediately and permanently -just stared him down with golden eyes that had all the warmth of the IRS.
He exhaled sharply.
"Proof," the lion said, roughly and suspiciously british. "We don't let humans walk in just 'cause they've got the confidence of one."
Quin tilted his head and locked eyes.
A couple seconds passed.
He just continued to stare.
Another couple seconds.
Then Mufasa gave a short nod, finding his feline eyes proof enough, before turning towards Revenant.
"And the lass?"
She didn't respond at first.
The doll was picking at the seam of her sleeve like a bored student during detention. Her brain caught up a second later. Her fingers froze.
Quin sighed. Great.
He slowly, very slowly, reached over and took her wrist.
She blinked up at him, half-confused, but more perplexed than anything.
"No sudden moves, yeah?" he whispered, tugging her glove down before she could decide violence was the answer.
The fabric slid down, just enough to reveal porcelain-white joints.
Segmented, spherical, and not an ounce of skin or tendon in sight.
The kind of joints you'd see on a high-end ball-jointed doll or a low-budget horror film.
Her fingers flexed with eerie grace, curling like spider legs.
"She's an armadillo," Quin offered helpfully.
And because he couldn't help himself, he added.
"Her joints are weird."
Revenant's head slowly turned toward him, inch by threatening inch.
Ah.
Shit, he was sleeping on the couch.
Wasn't he?
"I meant unique," he backpedaled, tugging her glove back up. "Beautiful, special, artisanal even-"
She was still staring.
"…I'll take you shopping again."
No change.
"I'll get you more belts?"
Still nothing.
Mufasa snorted, clearly, he had a girlfriend too.
"That'll do," he said, stepping aside.
The door hissed open with a mechanical sigh, cold filtered air washing over them like the promise of a cleaner crime.
"Down to the left and beyond the containers... You'll find Kline."
He added, almost as a mercy, "And try not to piss off your lass again, you won't recover."
"She's not m—" Quin started.
Whatever, he's going on the "Stab" list.
Something his tactical consultant advised was a good idea to have.
He strode through the door first, muttering something like a prayer, hands running through his hair.
Revenant followed, her weird joints clicking once with the final hiss of the door sealing shut behind them.
Perfect infiltration.
He looked around, his golden eyes darting around to look at the 'Inner' hideout.
The first thing Quin noticed?
Containers.
Like, a lot of them.
Enough shipping containers stacked floor-to-ceiling in a wide industrial cavern that it felt less like a base and more of a supply depot for the Atlesian military. The air was cooler here, filtered better, probably had functional AC too, but it still carried the familiar scent of rust and strained electronics.
Rows of metal monoliths stretched in every direction, tagged with numbers, White Fang slogans, and the occasional dent shaped suspiciously like someone got kicked into it. There were catwalks overhead, narrow steel bridges zigzagging between stacks.
The acoustics were... terrible.
Every footstep echoed.
Every breath felt way too loud.
And every whispered "oh shit" risked being an announcement.
He let out a low whistle. "Wow."
Revenant glanced sideways, eyes tracking a cable running along the floor like it was a tripwire.
"Now, this is what you call a headquarters," he whispered. "Nothing like ours."
She didn't comment... thankfully, cause he grew to enjoy that dainty apartment.
Some of the containers were open, turned into makeshift rooms- bunk spaces, supply closets, ammo dumps. One even had a couch in it, barely, and the shell of what might've once been a coffee machine.
Someone had scrawled "NO GODS ONLY CLAWS" above it in marker.
A side door was left ajar, and Quin caught the tail end of a conversation... something about working with brats, that shouldn't be too much of a hassle really.
So, he paid it no mind and kept walking.
Carefully.
Trying not to look like he was casing the joint even though he absolutely was.
Revenant matched his pace, not a step behind, nor a sound made.
She was quiet like a shadow.
And also probably planning how best to weaponize the environment, which was comforting in a weird way.
Eventually, though the third aisle of stacked crates and past two more heavily-armed guards who looked like they hated their jobs, was a door marked with a painted red fang symbol.
Quin stopped in front of it.
"Wanna go first, or should I try more stellar one-liners?" He said, glancing over at Revenant.
She stared at him blankly.
So obviously, he knocked.
Three quick raps, the kind of knock you'd give a potential employer that you don't necessarily want a job for, but accepted that money was money in the end.
The container hissed slightly as a magnetic lock disengaged.
Then, the door slid open.
Inside?
A desk, some old maps pinned to a wall, and a man sitting behind it all like he absolutely did not want to be here.
Kline.
Or at least, he hoped it was him.
Because if this was just someone's admin assistant, boy, were they getting promoted today.
"Knock knock," Quin said, stepping inside like he hadn't just trespassed into a high-level terrorist compound.
Because he didn't, he was invited.
"You Kline?"
The man behind the desk looked up, clearly unimpressed.
He had sharp facial features, snake eyes, and a streak of white running through otherwise dark hair, not from age, but stress. He was older than Quin, maybe late thirties, early forties. His coat was cleaner than expected, collar stiff, but the room around him was organized chaos.
Maps, crates, stacks of paper bound in string, and cracked mug that said "#1 Fang Dad" in flaking paint.
He didn't stand up.
Didn't reach for a weapon either.
Just squinted.
"Who are you?"
"Freelancers" Quin replied, leaning sideways against the doorframe.
Kline's eyes flicked past him towards Revenant, who stood on her toes to peer over his shoulder, gave a little wave as well, copying Quin.
Kline exhaled slowly, then nodded toward the one empty chair opposite his desk.
"Sit."
Quin gave a faux salute and took the seat akmost instantly. "Appreciate the hospitality... must say, your boys outside are a delight."
"They're on rotation from Menagerie," Kline said, not rising to the bait. "So, who sent you?"
"No one."
"Try again."
"I mean it," Quin emphasized, resting his arms on the desk like this was a negotiation and not the prelude to being shot. "We're free agents, been doing a bit of merc work up in Vale, got wind that the White Fang might be looking for talent, and well, decided to offer ours."
Kline stared at him a little longer as he, slowly, started to lean back in his chair, and folded his hands together.
"You're confident for someone who just walked into a deathtrap."
"Oh, absolutely," Quin hummed. "Haven't you heard? Confidence is bulletproof."
The man sighed.
"What do you want?"
"To help," Quin answered, then after a moment added, "For pay. Maybe snacks."
Kline's expression didn't change. "You're either stupid, desperate, or dangerous."
Quin grinned. "Yes."
That got the tiniest flicker of amusement from the older man, barely there though, was gone in a blink.
"You'll be vetted."
"Understandable."
"There's a trial period."
"Of course."
"You screw up, you vanish."
"Wouldn't dream of screwing up," Quin said, before immediately glancing at Revenant. "I mean, not twice."
Kline finally stood, stretching slightly, then turned toward a wall-mounted panel and keyed in something. There was a low hum from the door as it unlocked behind them... they didn't even notice it was locked in the first place, honestly.
"Fine," he said. "You want in, you get your first job tomorrow."
He pushed forwards a clipboard, with an entire list of rooms and, using a pen, circled around number 17.
"The armoury, go get a basic set of gear, now get out of my office."
Quin pushed himself up. "You know, you're very charming when you're grumpy."
Kline turned back toward his desk like the conversation was already over. "One more thing."
The two both stopped.
"You pull a weapon inside without an order..."
He paused for dramatic effect
Quin took this opportunity to push the doll forwards again. "Revvie! Use Backstab!"
She just glared daggers at him, before reluctantly flicking her hand to the side.
Two razor-thin white claws shimmered into existence and zipped forward in a blink of an eye.
SHHK
Kline was cut into three neat, steaming pieces before his chair even tipped over.
There was a long, hideous moment of silence.
She turned to look at Quin, her eyes just full of disappointment at what her opponents had been lately.
"...well fuck, that was more effective than I thought."
Another moment or two passed.
She crossed her arms. "Backstab? Really?"
He waved her off. "It's a classic, roll with it."
"You make me sound like a fool."
"Now, don't put words in my mouth... plus, you handled it perfectly."
She pointed at the still-warm chunks of Kline on the floor. "This is what you call perfect?"
"It was a spur of a moment thing," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Also, Mordred thought it'd be funny."
His plushie squeaked inside his jacket, cramped between the synthetic fibers.
"Hmpf... forget the toy, you called me Revvie?"
"It was in the moment!"
"You sounded like a twelve-year-old."
"…which is now suddenly cool again, so thank you."
She didn't blink. "You're an idiot."
"An idiot with a perfect infiltration record, thank you very much," he muttered.
Only because he only had the one, but she didn't need to know that.
She muttered something about him being a glorified jester and just stood guard at the door. "Next time you want someone decapitated, just say so."
"Oh? And ruin the drama?" Quin shot back with a grin. "C'mon, we've got a whole terrorist hideout to not die in."
He flicked open his system, tapped through the [Units] tab and hit [Resummon] on multiple entries.
A pulse of white light washed the room, shimmering with raw magic as shapes flickered into existence.
BLORP
BLOMP
SQUELCH.
Four slimes popped into place, wobbling happily... they've long since abandoned their accessories, though it was far more likely they ate them.
SKRRAAK.
The Stone Imp unfolded itself from a crouch, clutching its forked hatchet in one hand and a bundle of sticks in the other.
CLANK.
Nine pikes clattered into formation, armor gleaming, their long pikes scraping the ceiling.
BOK-KAW!
The Vorpal Chicken landed smack in the middle, feathers ruffling like it owned the place... as a few crumbs fell from its beak.
Quin flicked his eyes toward the Imp hiding the sticks under the deck and the chorus of slimes, who seemed perfectly content wobbling in place, blissfully unaware of the fight coming their way.
"Alright, Imp," He started, pointing like he was ordering coffee. "You and your squishy friends are to ambush... sneak around, find something to stab, slime, or generally terrify... I know, I know, you're basically a brick, but still."
The Imp just stared at him before slinking off, dragging the slimes behind like a creepy conga line of goo.
Quin turned to the chicken, who pecked at the crumbs it arrived with. "VC, you... just kill whoever, you'll be fine."
It probably would too, it did handle several hardy Grimm in under a minute.
His gaze shifted to the pikes. Half were cradling their weapons like nervous toddlers, the others stabbing into furniture...
They were spies, I promise.
"Okay, squad," He called, trying to sound like he had a plan, "you're with me and Rev... follow us, try not to get shot, and when things get hot, stab the fuck out of whoever's shooting."
One soldier clanked forward. "So basically, 'pray and stab'?"
"Pretty much,"
His doll's head tilted back with mild exasperation. "I can't believe I'm stuck with you."
"Look, I'm not a miracle worker… they've got pointy sticks" he shrugged.
The pikes shifted in unison, boots thudding like a badly tuned drumline... he just ignored the one cradling their pike like a baby, thats the guy with Trudy.
"Let's move," Quin ordered, sliding the glowing menu away and stepping out first.
The cavernous warehouse swallowed their footsteps, echoing like an electronic rock concert.
The Imp and slimes climbed onto the containers ahead, the chicken dove to the side bobbing past, while the pikes lumbered behind their two leaders.
The faint murmur of voices and distant footsteps wove through the maze of stacked containers.
Quin's heart quickened.
This was going to get messy.
"Try not to die," he muttered, glancing at the murder doll.
Her eyes gleamed faintly.
"Speak for yourself."
And with that, the motley crew plunged deeper into the belly of the snake.
2698 Words
///////////////
Sorry for the late chapter! Got a bit discouraged from some criticism, so I decided to just redo the entire chapter from scratch. Hope you enjoy!