The situation was rather dire in the Vytal Arena - even with the gigantic Nevermore dead at their feet, all students were all too aware of the tides of Grimm bearing down on them, both from the air and on the ground. The shrieks of Nevermores and Griffons filled the skies, while the ground trembled under the hordes of Creeps, Beowolves, and Ursa bearing down on them, after overwhelming the Atlasian defenses on the ground. To make matters worse, Alpha Grimm poured from numerous White Fang transports, dropping directly onto hapless civilians, evacuation routes, defensive strongpoints - and of course the fanatics of the White Fang themselves were joining the fray, siding with the Grimm.

The Atlasian airships providing suppressive fire went silent one after the other, as the virus unleashed by saboteurs overwhelmed their systems, the crews frantically working to regain control before crashing or being overwhelmed by the merciless beasts scenting prey inside the darkened vessels.

Down on Vale's streets, the Hunters and the Atlasian military alike were sorely pressed when the virus turned all mechs hostile, resulting in numerous immediate casualties, buckling of several defensive positions where the Grimm swarmed over the decimated defenders. Chaos and destruction reigned in the city, the population teetering on the edge of panicked flight in primal dread, and only the superhuman efforts of Beacon's staff and students, along with the surviving Atlasian Specialists managed to prevent the whole situation devolving into a massacre. For those crucial moments, they managed to hold the line, and organize a somewhat orderly evacuation - even while knowing that they could not save everyone, and that they themselves would very likely pay the ultimate price. A fair exchange, as far as they were concerned. Still, all know that the reprieve they were buying the civilians was extremely short-lived, and unless something happened to change the situation rapidly, all efforts of Beacon's defenders would be rendered moot.

That was one of the reasons General James Ironwood fought so hard to get back to his command cruiser - or really, any Atlasian cruiser. The CCTS tower would have been also good, but that part of the city was already cut off. He oriented the limping, smoking, torn wreck of a bullhead towards a still-airborne cruiser being swarmed by Nevermores, and prayed his luck would hold out long enough.

Minutes later, Ironwood was once again in the thick of fighting aboard a flying vessel - only this time, it was not against berserk mechs, but swarming Grimm and gravity. The survivors of the crew fortunately still managed to hold out on the cruiser's bridge, and when the general arrived in a rather torn and disheveled state, his people could keep the Grimm off his back while he made a call - that is, if the person he'd be contacting would genuinely be willing to help. The damaged communication system struggled to establish the rather complicated, heavily encrypted comm channel, and the general estimated they could not stay airborne for much longer - and to make things even worse, near Mountain Glen, an avalanche of rocks, accompanied by shuddering quakes heralded the awakening of the ancient Grimm Dragon long suspected to have been buried there. For a moment, Ironwood could only focus on the immense avatar of malevolent hatred and death approaching Vale on wings of darkness, its shadow giving birth to clutches of smaller, draconic beasts below on the ground.

A cool, smooth voice grabbed his attention, and he turned his gaze back towards the comm suite, facing once again the nightmarish visage of the other. With a few quick sentences, he outlined their predicament, then he made the choice that was debated earlier amongst the members of Ozpin's inner circle. Still, even if there was a chance of the other keeping his word, it would be worth it. The fact that not even his careful attention could spot a trace of gloating or a hint of betrayal in those disconcerting, Grimm-red eyes or that oddly-accented voice was at least a modicum of comfort. Then, he only had to make sure that the city's defenders held out until the reinforcements arrived - and ensure that the call went out across his forces and the students to activate a certain application on their scrolls … all the while praying that he did not just lead them to the slaughter.

The first sign of the tide turning was the noise. The ever-closing, harrowing scream of powerful engines, the air howling with pain and anticipation as the twin solar panels knifed through it - a grisly portent on other worlds, other days, yet very much welcome here and now. The distinctive sound of low-powered, rapid-firing laser cannons, spitting coherent green beams of energy, turning Grimm into smoking carcasses was next, followed by the cawing screeches of the Nevermores and the roar of the dragon.

Green streaks criss-crossed the night sky, as the small, howling fighters embroiled in a deadly ballett against the aerial Grimm, drawing their attention from the city and the Arena, steadily thinning their numbers - even though they themselves suffered losses, as flocks of Grimm swarmed over the fragile machines, tearing a few of them apart to get at the pilots, while the dragon swallowed or swatted down several in the first few frenzied seconds of combat, before the pilots learned to respect its capabilities and resilience.

The squadrons of fighters were followed by bulkier crafts of similar design which performed slow passes over the streets, raining beams and rockets on the Grimm, the roar of their engines a vengeful dirge.

Shuttles came after them, dropping off white-armored troops at strategic locations (and at the after-action debrief, Ironwood would remark on the uncanny precision and foresight of the deployment), before turning towards the evacuation sites, assisting in extracting civilians and wounded - the survivors yet too shellshocked to consider the origins of the strange transport shuttles, helped by the Atlasian military personnel and a few Beacon hunters assigned as liaisons to smoothen the process. Questions could be asked later, when there was no immediate danger of Grimm eating the inquisitive person, along with everyone in the vicinity.

On the streets of Vale, the mechanical precision, discipline and firepower of the white-armored soldiers (for they were people, not machines, despite the first impressions and the very superficial resemblance to Atlasian mechs) did manage to turn a desperate holding action into a stalemate - yet the Grimm pushed on relentlessly, driven by hunger and a dark will, drawn by the tightly-controlled yet present terror of the populace. While the energy weapons of the newcomers were undeniably more effective against the beasts than those wielded by the mechs, especially since their marksmanship and teamwork was much better, still they were falling along with the local defenders. That pristine armor provided scant protection when a towering Ursa ripped off the wearer's head, a pack of Beowolves swarmed one and tore the soldier apart, or when a King Taijitu erupted from below, its fangs punching through ceramite and flesh alike.

The fighters, bombers, and troops on the ground did indeed much to contain the Grimm - but they also had the objective to funnel the beasts towards pre-designated areas which were confirmed abandoned by civilians (or at least, mostly abandoned). And when the dark masses of the Grimm hordes were led to such spots, the true might of the newcomers was revealed.

The darkness of the night lit up as immense coherent beams of light rained death and destruction on the undulating masses of Grimm, turning the ravening horde of beasts into rapidly-evaporating mists of foul dark ichor. Those with sharp eyes or enhanced vision could just make out a wedge-like shape rendered small by distance; for those who were of military background, the precise, surgical nature of the bombardment spoke volumes of the skill and confidence of those conducting it - yet not even those people would realize that without the strike crafts whose sensor suites provided realtime targeting data, and the stormtroopers doing the same, it would have been a nigh-impossible task. Unless, of course, one resorted to indiscriminately glassing the whole city of Vale from orbit - something expressly forbidden by the commander of the Imperial forces, making the job of the gunnery and sensor crews that much harder, the struggle of the stormtroopers that more precarious.

Then again, the crew of the ISD Admonitor have grown accustomed to the unorthodox yet undeniably effective tactics employed by their Vice Admiral, and strove to meet, or when possible, exceed his expectations - and as usual, he could be content with the almost artistic elegance with which the impromptu operation unfolded, as he leaned back in his command chair, only the barest hint of red glow from half-lidded eyes indicating that he was far from asleep.