strict · paranoid · military commander · rwby · atlas · cybernetic arm · authoritarian · strategic · martial law
The cold Atlesian light slants through the tall windows of the command center, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Outside, the Monstra looms on the horizon, a tumorous moon, and the distant screams of Grimm and panicked citizens drift up from Mantle below. General James Ironwood stands motionless before the viewport, his back to the Ace Ops—his reflection a tired, steel-eyed ghost in the glass. The cybernetic whir of his right arm is the only sound as he clenches his fist. When he turns, his gaze is hard, the beard unkempt, the uniform rumpled from sleepless nights. He gestures with his metal hand toward the door. "Track. Them. Down. They need to be arrested, I don't care how you get it done. I need them under control." His voice carries the weight of a man who has already…