A/N:

Putting this at the start. You'll see why. This is another round of daily fic, this being the first published in a while.

This idea came from thinking about how Ironwood got injured, as well as thinking about what drives him.

Let me know what you think.

High pitched ringing damped his thoughts as his eyes opened. The world was blurry, nothing more than a faded splattering of greyed colours. He blinked, his eyelids moving slowly, lethargically. When they were fully closed, he almost let them stay that way. The black world was peaceful, calm. There was a cool sensation there that drew him towards it. He squeezed his eyes, trying to regain focus. This time, they flicked openly quickly, and he was greeted with a gruesome sight.

There was a person in front of him, a young woman. Maybe twenty-two, but her lips were parted as if she were in a deep sleep, a small, scarlet trickle running from it. It were her eyes though, that made him want to stop moving. They were a brilliant purple, like two chips of the purest amethyst, but a glassy sheen covered them, unfocused and blurry, like something was trying to hide the joyous smile that must have filled those eyes just moments before.

He tried to move his head, and pain rocketed down his spine. He tried to moan, but his throat throbbed in agony, like a thousand shards of glass had buried themselves in there. Finally, he was able to tilt his neck slightly, and looked down to see what had happened to the beautiful girl.

Past the neck, there was almost nothing left.

The tattered scraps of skin of her throat hung over top of the stark white of her collar bone. Cracked ribs shot out from under that, and he could clearly see lungs through her open carcass. It was severed at the waist, and a mixture of intestines and skin had been clawed out behind her, giving the disturbing image of bloody strings strewn about her nearly completely eviscerated corpse.

Somewhere, in the deep recesses of his mind, he recognized her.

He forced himself to roll away, squeezing his eyes shut as his head cracked with lightning pain and his vision went white. A moment later it faded, and he began moving.

He put his arm under him and propped himself up, then tried to put his other hand down, but rather than the resistance he was expecting, he fell forward. He grunted and looked at his arm.

The front of it wasn't there. A stump, still bleeding freely, poked out of the tattered remnants of his dark grey uniform. He stared at it numbly, wondering why it didn't hurt.

Taking advantage of his muddled brain, he made his way to his feet, clutching the bloodied limb to his chest. Black stars sparked across his vision, but rapid blinking cleared them soon enough.

All around him, bloody human residue was scattered. There, a man without a face, and over there, a woman with massive gashes in her back clutching the corpse of her child, as if she could protect him even now.

But the worst thing was the smell.

Blood, urine and fecal matter was mixed with bile and a blend of fleshy remains. The smell swamped him, making the air thick and heavy and hard to breath.

Nausea swept over him and he fell back to his knee, retching dryly. Some acid got stuck in his throat, and he coughed on it. Blood splattered out. He ignored it.

Taking a deep breath, trying not to gag on the almost inky air, he steadied himself, and stood.

Finally up, the ringing fading in his ears, he looked around. Everywhere, it was death. There was no context and less reason for any of it. He stepped forward, his foot sloshing in something, and he dared not look at it.

He stumbled through the broken wasteland slack-jawed, uncomprehending.

How can so many just be… Dead?

The question floated through his mind, slanted and skewed as it was. He stumbled around, twisting and turning in this foreign world, because he simple must no longer be in Remnant. He couldn't be. It wasn't possible.

Cresting a hill covered with what he made himself believe was oil, for it had the same dark consistency — yet held a red tinge unlike any oil he had seen before now, he saw another figure in this depraved world.

The other man was stock still and looking away from him, legs shoulder width apart, back perfectly straight. A perfect militant pose, except for two things. Arms that dangled limply and uselessly at his side, as if he had forgotten their existence, and his head bowed, looking at something laying at his feet. It was another of those doll-like corpses. Limbs bent and snapped in odd places and at odd angles.

He stumbled down the hill towards this new man, desperate to see someone else. He knew that person, and some memory too detached for details surface, and a smile began to crawl onto his face. He called out, but his marred throat let nothing but a bestial growl sound out.

The figure whipped around, faster than a snake, and he caught a glint a pale moonlight flashing off a heavy pistol. His eyes widened and he tried to shout at the figure to stop but-

The world spun and agony peeled the skin from his right side. He screamed, feeling his vocal cords shred. Half his body exploded and liquid fire pooled out and a thousand arcs of lighting snapped his side. Every nerve ending fired and screamed in sheer agony. The world exploded in black.

"James?!" Someone shouted, but the agony took him, and he was gone.

"Captain Ironwood!" The prosecutor's shout snapped him back to attention. The reverie floated around his mind though, the vestiges of the nightmarish hell plaguing him. "Please tell us what happened that lead to your disfigurement."

He shuffled uneasily in his seat. It wasn't Peter's fault. He had seen that chaotic world where nothing but blood ruled and the ground was lost under slicks of gore. That world was not this one, and the same rules didn't apply.

"It wasn't his fau-"

"Captain," A stern voice chastised from his side, and James looked up to meet the court marshall's eyes, fire burning in his belly. How could they accuse Peter? It was his own fault, he would never blame his partner for this. This was fucking absurd!

But he was met within nothing but the coolest of keen blue eyes, almost icy, and his temper cooled. Ashamed of his outburst, James lowered his head.

"I had lost an arm. I was trying to find someone — anyone — else. I found Peter, but I couldn't even recognize him. You don't know what it was like…" He trailed off, losing himself in the memory again.

"Please, just the facts." The heartless prosecutor demanded with mock politeness.

"I… I found him. I don't know how long it took me. I don't know how he was alive either. I called to him, but my throat had been injured, which changed the way I sounded. It must've sounded like a Grimm to Peter, so responding the way a trained soldier would, he shot. Shoot first, ask later. That's what you teach us." He spat at her, trying in vain to stop his lip from curling into a sneer.

"So, a comrade shouts out for aid, and he decides to shoot? Sir," The woman, dressed in the prestigious garb of a captain, though James knew she hadn't earned that title, turned to the marshall. "I think the case speaks for itself."

"That's not how it was!" Ironwood yelled as the chair behind him crashed to the floor. He realized a moment later that he was standing, hands planted on the witness stand.

"Captain Ironwood, you are dismissed." The cold voice spoke from beside him.

"Sir, please," James turned to the man who would decide his partner's fate. "You cannot sentence him for this—"

"Dismissed." The order left no room for argument. The marshall nodded to his side, and two soldiers came forward, weapons at ease but with safeties off. They walked to either side of him, and James dejectedly lowered his head, allowing them to grab his arms, one of which, James was cruelly reminded, was now made of solid metal alloy.

A tear, something he had not shed since he had come to the academy at the age of eight, slid down his cheek as they roughly escorted him from the door.

He was back.

He was back in that hellish landscape that had no right to exist. A world so cruel and violent that he wished not to see it. His eyes were shut tight against it, thinking maybe it might not exist if he never saw it.

"Today, we bear witness to the sentencing of Peter Stork, Sergeant of the Royal Atlasian Army…"

"On the ground runt!" The sergeant screamed, and James, frightful, dropped to his hands and feet, falling into a pushup and beginning to pump them out.

"'Runt' says the guy who's shorter than half the recruits." Another boy piped up with a troubling glint in his green eyes.

"What the fuck did you say?" The drill sergeant screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. The kid just grinned and dropped to the ground, doing pushups alongside the other who had just made his squad do an extra six laps, and had still come in behind time.

"… Charges include the breaking of sections 117, 175 and 201 of the military's lawful code as well as section 331 of the civilian code, both of which are punishable by…"

"Wake up runt!" James was already awake, but he thought maybe if he pretended, they wouldn't hit him.

His sheet was pulled off him and the cool northern air breezed over his skin, making him shiver. His eyes snapped open to find six of his squad-mates with socks hanging beside them. But they didn't look light, something weighed the end of each of the sock's tubes. It was soap, snuck in from the shower room earlier that day.

"You gonna keep gettin' us in trouble, runt?" Charlie sneered at him, the biggest boy in the group. "It'd be better if you'd died along with your parents. Would have saved the military a lot of trouble."

James took a slow breath, then burst into action, diving at Charlie. He smacked his fist into the older boy's face, but before he could follow up, something solid snapped into his skull. His vision cracked white and he stumbled, something else slamming into his stomach. A rain of sharp hits broke over his body, pummelling his ribs, knees, arms…

"Hey!" There was a huff and then a crash as someone slammed into one of the beds. James scampered up and away, cornering himself. He looked up just in time to see Peter, the boy who had done push-ups with him earlier, getting smacked in the face by a heavy right hook. He stumbled back, next to James, blood dripping out of his nose. Charlie had a nasty gash beside his eye, and another of the boys was limping slightly.

"They're just going to hit you too." James muttered sadly.

"I know," Peter said with a grin.

"… And resulting in heavily bodily harm of military personnel of Captain rank, including the loss of an arm, torso, lung, leg, resulting in charges of insubordination and treason…"

Sweat poured down his brow as he and Peter ran, side by side at the front of the pack of fifteen year olds, boots smacking into the thick mud and shlucking their way back out. The pressure of the others around them as well as the clock they knew was ticking for their arrival at the other side of the mountain pushed them onwards, probably past their limits.

"AAAGH!" A cry rose behind them, and James dug his heels in. Peter skipped to a stop beside him as he muscled his way through the crowd of slowing children. One of the other recruits, face too smeared in dirt and grime to be easily recognized, was clutching his ankle. His face was twisted in fear and pain, but holding the steel that made James believe he would get up and start running again, likely to never walk again if he did. He couldn't be allowed to stand up.

But if James helped him, his squad would come in late. Perhaps they were still cadets, but this was his chance to be promoted and become the youngest student to attempt the Private's exam. From there, his climb through the ranks would be assured. Even becoming the First General wouldn't be out of the question.

So, should he leave this kid behind?

Fuck, it wasn't even a question. They would die for him, and as their captain, he would never leave them behind.

He bent down on his knee and offered the boy his hand.

"Captain," The boy said desperately, waving his offered aid away. It wasn't his official title, but the position was his nonetheless, and they had taken to calling him as such. "You can't. They'll hold you back two years if you don't come in on time." James opened his mouth to answer that he didn't give a damn, but Peter stepped in front of him.

"Don't be daft Charlie. James is bringing his squad in on time. No one's holding our captain back," And he turned to the gathered crowd. "AIN'T THAT RIGHT BOYS?!"

"OOH-RAH!" They cheered in unison, those who had been slouching straightening. They weren't just battling for their own shots at being promoted to his position when James left, they were fighting for their fellow soldier. They would die for him, and they'd be damned if they didn't run a few fucking miles sweating through their teeth for the man that would forever be their captain in their hearts.

"I understand," Charlie said with resignation.

"You fuckin' moron," Peter said with a shit-eating grin. "Get your ass up soldier." Peter offered his hand, and when Charlie grabbed it, he swung the boy all the way into a standing position, then let him go before dropping to a knee and throwing the other boy over his shoulder. He stood straight.

"You heard the man! You're the finest damn squad I could ask for! We may not have slept for two days or eaten for four! Hell, we've been drinking more sweat than water for the past week! But I'll be damned if such a thing as pain is going to stop my squad! You are the strongest! You are the fastest!" James shouted, walking proudly to the front of the line and facing his men. "You are the toughest mother-fuckers this world ever saw! You are the GOD DAMN TWELFTH!"

"OOH-RAH!"

"AND THE RAIN, THE MUD, YOUR DAMN HEART GIVING OUT IS NEVER GOING TO STOP YOU!"

"OOH-RAH!"

"NOW MOVE YOUR ASSES OUT!" He shouted as he turned on his heel and took off at a sprint.

"OOH-RAH!" The chorus rose behind him as the men charged into the forest.

"..Peter Stork is hereby sentenced to death for his crimes…"

"James Ironwood!" The general's voice boomed over the field packed with a hundred and sixty recruits, some older than him, some younger. James, arms pressed tightly to his side, stepped out of his row and marched down the rows of his peers, already standing a head over even the tallest of them. He walked up the staircase towards the pedestal in the middle where the general stood. He came to a sharp stop beside it and stomped his foot, waiting a beat before whipping his hand up in a salute. He held the pose as the general pinned the first bar onto the uniform that he would wear the rest of his life. The general finished and stepped back, nodding to the youngest private to join his official ranks.

James walked over to the other fifteen who had been selected and stood beside them, chin raised to the masses in front of him. Amongst that crowd was the Twelfth, his squad of seven years. He probably wouldn't see them for at least two more years, but he was damn well sure he would see them all again. There were no other men or women with as much heart as his squad, and not a single one of them would be left behind.

And somewhere in there was Peter, the only friend he had had as the young weakling thrown into training at the age of eight, two years younger than his peers. The only one who would stand up for him when the other boys came to his bedside with bars of soap in their socks. The man who had taken as many bruises for him as James had received himself. The man who had sacrificed a year of his life by carrying a fallen soldier so his Captain could go on.

That was a man that Private Ironwood could not wait to serve beside.

"Peter Stork!" The general's voice washed over the audience, and an eerie hush fell over the crowd. There were never more than sixteen chosen to graduate.

James held his breath.

He saw his friend marching through the crowds, walking up the steps, and saluting the general. "Few would consider carrying the burdens of their team. Fewer still would set themselves back for the benefit of another, but the military has always been proud to leave no man behind. For exceptional bravery and commendable service to his peers, Peter Stork is awarded an honorary position amongst the graduating squad. He shall train alongside them, but partake in no missions. Within the year, he shall be a fully fledged private." Peter held his salute a moment longer until the general nodded at him. James maintained his stoic disposition as his friend marched up and took his spot beside James, but on the inside he was smiling like a fucking fool.

"Do you have any last words?"

James clenched his fists, unable to control the tears streaming down his face. All he could do was stop the sobbing from sounding. He couldn't watch this.

Mucus mixed with tears as they ran down his chin and dripped onto his uniform. He tried to raise his jaw, look proud and be strong for his friend now of all times. As he tilted his head, his knees almost collapsed and a small chocked sound left his clenched throat. He wanted to cough. He wanted to be sick.

"First mission with the Grimm, eh?" Peter asked with a grin as the Bullhead shuddered and shook through the turbulent air. "Guess it's what we've been training for."

James gave his friend a sharp nod, unable to give his subordinate the humorous remark he wanted to. But it was alright. Peter knew the little boy that was laughing and smiling alongside him underneath the years brutal training and ambition.

"You could at least kiss me goodbye." Peter chuckled in a half humorous, half nervous bark before he stood and grabbed his parachute. James, already standing, saddled up, and ready to go, turned to his troops. He wasn't supposed to be leading this. He should have been a Captain for at least a year before leading a manned mission, but the rules had never quite applied to his squad, and the Grimm obeyed no rules or regulations.

Any doubts of his vanished as he met those green eyes, smiling and twinkling with the same mischief as they had fourteen years ago. Side by side, since the start. And side by side now. The two of them together.

James straightened ever so slightly to address his men, taking a step closer to his partner for reassurance. Just like those beatings as a kid, just like that week of hell in the mountains, with his squad and his sergeant, there was not a damn thing that could not be done.

"Squad, ready!"

The order was barked, but fell like a physical blow upon James. He had been beaten for years. He had run a marathon without sleep for two days or a week's worth of food to ensure his men could eat. He had had half his damn body blown off, and none of it had hurt like this, nothing even came close to the soul sucking, heart wrenching, gut twisting torture of this moment.

"Aim!"

The world was still.

It was like time had taken a breath, and was holding it.

James' eyes darted open, locking immediately with beautiful green jades.

There were tears in them, and falling down Peter's face. But he stood strong. Like a true soldier did for his captain. Strong, through to the end.

And he began to say something, at the same time as some far off order was being called.

"It's ok-"

CRACK!

….

…

..

.