[RWBY] RWBY Shorts

[Sliverhero]

THE PATH TO HEAVEN: part 6 and interlude 2

Beacon Forest : Ruins

Fear doesn't just attract Grimm.

It feeds them. Weiss felt it the moment Jaune froze, rage boiling beneath his armor, uncertainty cracking through him like a fault line. Around them, Ruby's fear, Yang's tension, Blake's dread, Pyrrha's desperation... And Worm-Jaune's terror.

The forest answered. Branches snapped. Red eyes ignited in the dark. Beowolves poured from the trees, Ursa forcing their way through undergrowth, larger shapes lurking behind them. The air grew heavy, oppressive. Jaune didn't move.

His fists trembled. "I don't know what to do anymore," he said quietly. Worm-Jaune staggered back, massive form scraping stone. Weiss saw it then, clear as day. The monster was afraid. Not of the Grimm, but of Jaune. Jaune inhaled sharply. Clock Up. Weiss blinked. And the Grimm were already dead.

No.
That wasn't right.
A heartbeat ago, the clearing had been crawling with them. Now ash drifted where bodies should have been. Weiss spun, summoning a glyph beneath her feet, eyes searching wildly.

"Where..." A Beowolf collapsed in front of her. Not struck. Not thrown. Collapsed, split apart as if something had passed through it after time had already moved on. Weiss's breath hitched. She couldn't see Jaune.

There was no blur. No streak of motion. No distortion in the air. Just results. Cause and effect severed from one another. Another Grimm vanished. Then another. An Ursa froze mid-roar and simply… ceased to exist in one piece. Its head hit the ground seconds later, like reality was correcting a mistake.

"This isn't speed," Weiss whispered. "This is..."
Time skipping. Like pages torn from a book. Jaune flickered into existence for less than a fraction of a second,already standing still, blade lowered, Grimm dissolving around him. Then he was gone again. Weiss gasped. Her glyphs shuddered beneath her boots, unable to calculate trajectories that no longer existed.

There was no battle.

Only timestamps.

Before.
After.
Before.
After.

Fire erupted from the treeline. Cinder Fall stepped forward, flames carving through the forest, herding Grimm into spaces that emptied themselves a heartbeat later. She didn't look at Jaune, only at the outcome.

"Tch. You really attract attention," she muttered.
A ripple of distortion. Neo appeared atop a fallen pillar, parasol spinning as she descended into the swarm, striking Grimm that vanished before her blows could fully land. Mercury followed, kicks landing where targets had already died. Even they were reacting to what was left behind. Jaune wasn't moving fast. He was moving where time couldn't follow.

Weiss's hands shook. "I can't see him," she said aloud, voice thin. "I don't understand what he's doing." Yang didn't answer. Ruby couldn't speak. And Worm-Jaune... The towering creature had retreated, claws digging into stone, body shaking. Weiss realized with a chill that the monster wasn't watching the Grimm being destroyed.It was watching Jaune. Afraid.

The final Grimm dissolved. Only then did Jaune appear fully, standing in the clearing as if he had never moved at all. Clock Up disengaged. Time snapped back into place. Weiss exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath.

Ash settled. Smoke drifted. Jaune turned toward Worm-Jaune. The massive creature sank to one knee, golden fractures dimming along its chitin as it struggled to remain upright. Jaune approached slowly. "You don't get forgiveness," he said, voice steady but cold. "Not from me." Worm-Jaune bowed his head.

"But you get a chance," Jaune continued. His gaze flicked briefly to Pyrrha. "Because someone believes in you." "She better be right." Jaune's eyes glowed faintly beneath his helmet. "I'll be watching," he said. "Every choice. Every step." "If you turn on this world..."His blade hummed softly. "I'll end you."

Silence.

Jaune straightened, looking past them,toward Beacon, toward the world beyond the forest.
"For humans," he said. "For Faunus." "For everyone on this planet." He looked back once, at the Worm, at Pyrrha, at Team RWBY. "This world gets protected," Jaune said firmly.

"No matter what it costs."

And then he turned, walking into the forest.
Leaving behind a battlefield the world itself had been too slow to witness.



INTERLUDE


The forest was quiet again.

Too quiet.

From their vantage point above the ruins, Glynda Goodwitch stood rigid, riding her staff as if anchoring herself to reality. Her eyes never left the clearing below, where ash still drifted, and time itself felt… unsettled.

Ozpin did not speak. That alone unsettled her.
"…That wasn't a semblance," Glynda said finally, voice low and controlled. "Nor Dust. Nor any form of magic I recognize." Ozpin's cane tightened in his grip. Below them, the two figures remained separated by distance and meaning.

One was human, Jaune Arc, yet wrapped moments ago in an armor that should not exist. Not Aura. Not technology. Not relic. Something Stranger. The other… Glynda swallowed.
"…What was that thing?" she asked. "That creature Pyrrha protected."

Ozpin did not answer immediately. When he did, his voice was strained. "I don't know." Silence stretched. Glynda turned sharply. "You don't...?"
"I don't," Ozpin repeated, more firmly now. "And that is a problem." They had assumed, at first, something simple. Two young men. Similar height. Similar build. Same face.

Twins, perhaps. A rivalry. A tragedy. Some dramatic fracture like something torn from a play. Ozpin had seen enough of those. But that assumption had shattered the moment the transformation occurred. Skin tearing into chitin. Aura warping into something other. A human shape collapsing inward, not into Grimm, but into something that chose to exist that way.

"That wasn't possession," Glynda said slowly. "And it wasn't corruption." "No," Ozpin agreed. "It was… deliberate." Below, Jaune spoke his warning and turned away, leaving the creature kneeling behind him.

Ozpin felt something twist in his chest. "And the armor," Glynda continued. "The speed. That… Clock Up. "

She shook her head. "I couldn't track it. I couldn't sense it." "That frightened you," Ozpin noted. "Yes," Glynda said sharply. "It should frighten you too." It already did.

Ozpin's gaze drifted, not to the battlefield, but inward, to his long memory. All those Reports, those Whispers.

Villages saved by something that wasn't Huntsman or Grimm. Stories of monsters fighting monsters. Of people swearing they'd seen familiar faces where none should be.

Reports of Doppelgangers, Shadows and Creatures wearing humanity like a borrowed coat. Ozpin had dismissed them, who wouldnt .
Mass hysteria, he'd said. Stress. Trauma. New Grimm variants. Perhaps even a rare semblance manifesting in similar ways across different individuals. Comfortable explanations. Safe ones.But now… "…There may be truth in the madness," Ozpin said quietly.

Glynda stiffened. "Ozpin." "For the last year," he continued, ignoring her, "people have been seeing things that do not fit our categories. Things that act with intent. With morality." He looked down again at the clearing, at the space Jaune had occupied.

"At things that wear human faces and still choose to protect and who knows what else."
His fingers trembled around the cane. "I do not like being wrong," he admitted. Glynda frowned. "You're allowed to be." "No," Ozpin said softly. "Not about this."

The world, as he understood it, was built on patterns. Cycles. Grimm. Humanity. Magic. Relics. And now, this!!!

Something had stepped outside that structure.
Something he could not name. Something he could not control. "…If these things exist," Glynda said carefully, "if they've been here longer than we realized..." "Then I have been blind," Ozpin finished.

For the first time in a very long while, the Headmaster of Beacon Academy felt something dangerously close to fear, Not of Salem, or of the Grimm. But of the realization that the world still held secrets... And they were no longer content to stay hidden. And if he is wrong in his knowledge then what else he is wrong in.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Synopsis: Don Diavolo or Il Convito di Pietra (The Stone Banquet)

An original grand opera in two acts, written by the great Arminiusian Wolfgang Theobald Cherusci, set in the opulent yet treacherous land of Nova Quitalia — a realm where ancient myths walk among men and intrigue abounds.

Act I: Intrigue and Deception
In the glittering capital of Romulus, the powerful Giovanna family — known as Passione — prepares for a grand wedding that promises to unite two great houses. Diavolo Una, the cunning and ambitious nobleman of the Una family, seeks to forge an alliance through the marriage of his daughter Trish Una to Giorno Giovanna, the noble and virtuous son of Don Dio Giovanna. Don Dio Gionata Giovanna, a man of unwavering honor and strength (embodying the chivalric spirit rather than tyrannical ambition), welcomes the union as a path to lasting peace between their feuding families.

During the lavish wedding festivities, Diavolo dispatches his loyal yet timid servant Doppio to lure Don Dio away from the crowd. In disguise, Diavolo strikes the fatal blow with a sword, murdering the patriarch in cold blood. With masterful deceit, he shifts blame onto a shadowy "boss" of a rival faction, sowing chaos and positioning himself to seize control of the Giovanna fortunes.

Giorno, grief-stricken yet resolute, vows vengeance upon the unknown killer. Accompanied by his loyal companions Guido Mista and Narancia Ghirga, he sets out to uncover the rival boss. Diavolo, ever scheming, redirects suspicion toward the honorable Bruno Bucciarati and his gang, sparking a fierce confrontation between the two groups. Amid the turmoil, Diavolo sends the increasingly reluctant Doppio to infiltrate the Giovanna estate and steal crucial bank papers that would cement his dominance.

The plot thickens when Jean Pierre Polnareff, a gallant knight-servant from distant Gallia in service to the Giovannas, catches Doppio in the act. In a swift and merciless duel, Diavolo intervenes and slays Polnareff, silencing the witness forever.

Meanwhile, Trisha overhears her father's chilling confession of his crimes. At the same moment, Giorno and Bucciarati's gang realize they have both been manipulated by the same hidden hand. Trisha flees her family's villa to warn Giorno, and together — now allied with Bucciarati's group — they unmask Diavolo as the true architect of the bloodshed.

Diavolo strikes back by accusing Giorno of kidnapping his daughter, alerting the city authorities and forcing the young heirs and their friends into hiding. In a moment of solemn reflection, Giorno returns to the churchyard to honor his father's grave: a towering marble statue of Don Dio in full golden armor.

There, they encounter Diavolo and Doppio, and hide to spy on him. The villain gloats over his impending triumph, dismissing Trisha as expendable — he will soon claim a new wife and new heirs. In mocking defiance, Diavolo invites the stone statue to attend his victory banquet. To his shock, the statue rumbles a deep "Sì" in acceptance — Giorno's perfect imitation of his father's voice. Unnerved but defiant, Diavolo departs with a trembling Doppio.

Act II: Judgment and Redemption
The final act unfolds at Diavolo's opulent dinner party in his Romulus palazzo. Trisha confronts her father publicly, pleading for him to repent his sins, confess the truth, and exonerate Giorno (one of the opera's most difficult pieces, written for only the best sopranos). Diavolo coldly refuses, imprisoning her and plotting to use her as bait to lure his enemies.

Suddenly, the doors crash open. A figure clad in golden stone-like armor, voice resonant and commanding, enters: Giorno, disguised as the animated statue of his father, channeling Don Dio's presence with unearthly perfection.

Terror grips Diavolo. He bids the quaking Doppio to prepare a place at the table for their "guest." The spectral Dio refuses the meal, declaring instead that he has come to invite Diavolo to dine with him — in the realm beyond.

With a fateful handshake, Diavolo accepts. An icy chill descends upon the hall. The apparition pronounces divine judgment: this night, Diavolo shall perish. Multiple times, mercy is offered — repent, and be spared eternal torment. Each time, Diavolo defies it in arrogant fury.

At last, the abyss opens. Horrific demons, akin in shape to insects fused with man, materialize in their multitude — embodiments of endless, inescapable retribution. They proclaim Diavolo's fate: not mere death, but an eternal cycle of dying, his suffering boundless and unimaginable. As Doppio cowers beneath the table in gibbering horror and Giorno is still in shock and awe, the demons seize the screaming Diavolo and drag him into the infernal depths.

In the aftermath, Giorno and Trisha present irrefutable evidence of Diavolo's crimes to the authorities, clearing their names and restoring order. The survivors of the groups — now united under Giorno's benevolent leadership — vow to forsake vengeance and live in piety and justice.

The opera closes on a note of hard-won hope: Giorno and Trisha wed in a ceremony of true alliance and love, while the traumatized Doppio resolves to seek a new master, one preferably free of such apocalyptic drama.

Finis coronat opus.

- - -

I present to you a synopsis of an opera for Remnant, based upon Jojo Part 5 and Don Giovanni.

Consider it an invitation to others to expand on the culture and lore of Remnant.

 

[Sliverhero]

La Strega del Bosco e il Cavaliere Ritornato

(The Witch of the Forest and the Knight Who Came Home)

A legendary tragic play in three acts, attributed to the pre-Kingdom playwright known only as "The Pale Scribe." First performed centuries before the Huntsman Academies, the work blends myth, theology, and forbidden history.


Act I: The Knight Who Crossed Death

The curtain rises upon a primeval forest, ancient and untouched, its towering black trees surrounding a solitary spire of stone. Here dwells Salema, the Witch of the Wood, feared, immortal, and abandoned by gods and men alike. Her opening aria mourns eternity without meaning, life without end, and love stolen by fate.

From beyond the forest comes a miracle: Ozpinus, the Golden Knight. once slain in service to mankind, returns from death itself. Sent back by higher powers to guide the world toward harmony, he bears divine light upon his armor and sorrow within his soul.

Their reunion is tender and restrained, laden with disbelief. Salema, hardened by centuries of isolation, dares to hope again. Ozpinus confesses that he defied the gods' command not to return to her, choosing love over obedience. Against the will of heaven, they reunite.

The act concludes with their vow: to abandon the world's cruelty, to build a life hidden from gods and kings alike. The forest blooms unnaturally as the witch's curse momentarily lifts, and the chorus warns that love born in defiance invites divine consequence.

Act II: The Children of Light and Shadow

Time passes. The forest clearing becomes a humble home filled with warmth and laughter. Salema and Ozpinus now have four daughters, radiant and unnatural children born of magic and resurrection. Each exhibits powers unseen among mortals, bending reality with instinctive ease. Salema embraces this truth, teaching her children to wield their gifts freely and without shame. She envisions a future where her family will never kneel to gods who abandoned them.

Ozpinus, however, grows increasingly troubled. In solemn soliloquies, he reflects on his divine charge: to shepherd humanity, not to elevate his own blood above it. He fears that the world will not tolerate such power and that the gods will not forgive such defiance.

Tension fractures the household. Ozpinus secretly resolves to limit the children's power and to hide them from the world, while Salema rejects restraint outright. Their arguments crescendo into tragedy when divine judgment looms unseen, Grimm shadows encroaching at the forest's edge. The act ends in dread: husband and wife divided, love poisoned by destiny, and the chorus lamenting that even paradise cannot survive when built upon disobedience.

Act III: Ashes Beneath the Trees

The final act opens amid chaos. The forest writhes, Grimm circle, and fear grips the children. A confrontation erupts between Salema and Ozpinus, not of hatred, but of irreconcilable belief. He pleads for caution, repentance, and obedience to the gods' will. She demands defiance, survival, and vengeance against the heavens.

In the confusion and terror, catastrophe strikes. The children perish, their deaths never shown directly, only implied through shattered light, falling petals, and the parents' screams. Whether by Grimm, divine punishment, or the consequences of their parents' choices remains deliberately ambiguous.

Ozpinus collapses in horror, recognizing that his attempt to serve both gods and family has destroyed them all. Salema, broken beyond grief, rises transformed, her sorrow crystallizing into wrath. She denounces the gods, mankind, and Ozpinus himself for bringing fate's cruelty to her door.

Ozpinus begs forgiveness, offering to remain, to atone, to rebuild. Salema rejects him utterly. Declaring eternal war upon the gods and the world they govern, she casts him out of the forest forever.

The final image is stark:
Ozpinus departs, condemned to endless reincarnation and lonely duty. Salema remains, immortal once more, now a Queen of Grimm and vengeance.


The chorus closes the play:

"Thus was love reborn and slain,
Thus were gods defied and proven cruel,
And thus the world inherited a war
Older than history itself."

Epilogue

In later centuries, the play is often censored, rewritten, or dismissed as allegory. The mention of magic is always theorised to be a primitive form of explaining and understanding what aura and semblance are in those times. The reborn and immortal aspects of the two main character must have been put in place to give the play unnecessary drama that it doesnt need. Headmasters refuse to comment on the play origins. Yet the final line is always preserved:

"Beware the knight who comes home, for he never returns alone."

Finis.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Synopsis: The Tragicall Historie of Camelot or King Arthur

Written by the great playwright Billius Schakkenspell, this is a romantic historical tragicomedy in five acts, set in the past of Albion, whose eternal capital remains the gleaming castle of Camelot — a bastion of chivalry and ancient magic perched upon misty cliffs and surrounded by enchanted forests filled with Grimm and other dangers.

Principal Characters (with their Shakespearean correspondences)

• King Arthur Pendragon — The noble but grieving monarch of Albion (Cymbeline)
• Queen Morgause — Arthur's ambitious and treacherous second wife, a sorceress of subtle poisons (the Queen)
• Prince Mordred — Morgause's arrogant and brutish son by her former marriage, covetous of power (Cloten)
• Princess Guinevere — Arthur's virtuous and courageous daughter by his first queen, named for her (Imogen/Innogen)
• Sir Lancelot du Lac — A valiant knight of humble origins, raised at court and secretly wed to Guinevere (Posthumus Leonatus)
• Sir Agravain — A cunning continental knight from Gallia, sly and boastful (Iachimo)
• Sir Bedivere — Lancelot's loyal companion and servant (Pisanio)
• Sir Belinus — A banished lord, living as a hermit in the wilds of Albion (Belarius)
• Sir Gawain and Sir Gaheris — Belinus's adopted "sons," brave young warriors unaware of their true birth (Guiderius and Arviragus — in truth, Arthur's long-lost sons, kidnapped in infancy)
• Merlin — The enigmatic prophet and advisor, appearing in visions (Jupiter/the Soothsayer)

Act I: Courtly Intrigue at Camelot
In the grand hall of Camelot, King Arthur mourns the disappearance twenty years prior of his two infant sons, taken in the night. Influenced by his cunning second wife, Queen Morgause, he seeks to secure his line by wedding his beloved daughter Guinevere to her son, the vainglorious Prince Mordred.

Yet Guinevere has secretly married Sir Lancelot du Lac, a peerless knight of mysterious low birth raised at Arthur's court. Furious at this defiance, Arthur banishes Lancelot to the continent. Before departing, the lovers exchange tokens: Guinevere gives Lancelot a sacred bracelet woven with her hair, and he bestows upon her a ring bearing the Pendragon crest.

Queen Morgause, plotting to elevate Mordred, feigns support for the lovers while secretly brewing poisons and schemes.

Act II: The Wager and Deception
Exiled in Gallia, Lancelot boasts of Guinevere's unmatched fidelity among the knights there. Sir Agravain, a smooth-tongued Gallian, wagers a fortune against Lancelot's ring that he can seduce the princess. Lancelot accepts, staking his honor.

Agravain travels to Camelot bearing gifts and flattery. Failing to woo Guinevere openly, he hides in a great chest delivered to her chamber (under pretense of safeguarding treasures). By night, he emerges, memorizes the secrets of her room — including a mark upon her breast — and steals the bracelet from her arm as she sleeps.

Returning to Gallia, Agravain presents the "proofs" to Lancelot, convincing him of Guinevere's betrayal. Maddened with jealousy, Lancelot orders his servant Bedivere to slay her upon her arrival in the wilds.

Act III: Flight and the Wilds
Guinevere, warned by Bedivere of the order, disguises herself as a young page named Fidelio and flees Camelot to seek Lancelot. Prince Mordred, enraged at her rejection, pursues her clad in Lancelot's armor.

Lost in Albion's ancient forests, Guinevere encounters a cave dwelling where the exiled lord Belinus lives with his two valiant "sons," Gawain and Gaheris. Touched by their noble bearing, she joins them as Fidelio. Unbeknownst to all, Gawain and Gaheris are Arthur's kidnapped heirs, raised in rustic honor.

Mordred confronts the brothers; in the ensuing duel, Gawain beheads the prince. Guinevere, taking a potion from Morgause's physician (believing it a restorative), falls into a death-like sleep.

Act IV: War and Vision
Gallia's King Josef Arc in Lutetia demands renewed tribute from Albion, refused by the King's nationalist fervor. Gallian legions, led by Caius Lucius, invade. Lancelot, repentant yet despairing, returns disguised to fight for Albion but is imprisoned, as he is seen as a spy.

In prison, Lancelot dreams a vision: the ghosts of his ancestors beseech Merlin, the then deceased wizard and advisor to Arthur, who descends in thunderous glory, promising that the lion's whelps shall reunite with the Pendragon and bring peace.

Act V: Reconciliation and Revelation
In a fierce battle near Camelot's walls, Arthur is captured — but rescued by Belinus, Gawain, Gaheris, and the disguised Lancelot who escaped from his prison to save his King. Albion triumphs.

Captured Gallians are brought before Arthur. In a cascade of revelations: Guinevere awakens and is reunited with Lancelot; Agravain confesses his deceit; Queen Morgause's poisons and plots are exposed (she commits suicide, unrepentant); Belinus reveals the true identity of Gawain and Gaheris as Arthur's sons.

Mordred's headless body confirms his fate. Merlin interprets the prophecy fulfilled. Arthur pardons all, restores tribute to Lutetia in a gesture of wise peace, and blesses the unions of Guinevere and Lancelot, welcoming his lost sons home.

The play ends in Camelot's great hall with feasting, forgiveness, and the promise of a renewed golden age — though shadows of future strife linger unspoken.

Notes:

This play, one of Billius Schakkenspell's later works, is difficult to categorize. It is technically a history but alters the events so dramatically from what was commonly believed at the time to have been the true events of Arthur I's reign as the first true King of Albion it hardly qualifies, even compared to liberties taken with plays such as Lūteus Imperator. It has comedic elements but these are also accompanied by significant drama and tragedy. It's slightly rushed third act is also a rarity for the great playwright, though as it was a commission from Lord Ozymandias of Furth-on-River who insisted on being present at every step of the play, it is understandable. It was one of Schakkenspell's most ambitious undertakings, though this would pale next to his later play (also commissioned by Lord Ozymandias) entitled The Witch and the Knight, based upon a play by an ancient Quitalan playwright known only as "The Pale Scribe".

OOC Notes:

Well you gotta have a Shakespeare equivalent if you have a British Empire equivalent, right? So here's a take on Shakespeare's Cymbeline, featuring many of Arturia (and subsequently Jaune's) ancestors. And yes, the names were so legendary people still kept getting named them and ending up in somewhat similar positions, though they often had much happier endings.

 

[Sliverhero]

Time for some forbidden history.

An Extract from the Annals of Unclean Faiths and Calamities Upon Remnant

Collected and transcribed in the later Age of Kingdoms, from fractured testimonies, censored monastic records, and the words of those who did not long survive the telling.


On the Sect Known Only as the Drowned Star

Let it be stated plainly, before ink is committed too deeply: much of what follows is uncertain, contradictory, and drawn from accounts twice or thrice removed from the event itself. No scholar has claimed direct observation and lived. Those who insist otherwise were found raving, or were not found at all.

The sect is referred to in scattered records as the Drowned Star, the Congregation Below, or most commonly in warning edicts simply as the Forbidden Cult. Its true name, if such a thing exists, is not written here. Where it has been written elsewhere, the parchment has rotted black, or the eyes of the reader have failed soon after.


Of Their Nature and Practices

Unlike the common heresies that plague frontier villages, this cult did not seek power, wealth, or even dominion. All surviving testimony agrees on one point: they sought remembrance by something vast and ancient, a presence not native to Remnant, yet aware of it long before humanity learned to fear the Grimm.

Witnesses describe their rites as slow, patient, and performed in places where the land itself seemed old and wounded, coastal chasms, drowned cities, caverns beneath stagnant seas, and ruins that predated recorded history. They wore no consistent symbols, only scars, brands, and masks that suggested not beasts, but depth. It is said they did not pray in words, but in waiting.


The Behavior of the Grimm

Here the accounts grow most troubling.

Multiple military logs, village records, and Huntsman testimonies, later sealed by Kingdom decree, describe Grimm behaving in ways that defy all known instinct. Rather than attack nearby settlements, caravans, or even manifest Maidens, the Grimm would divert, converge, and hunt the cultists themselves.

One account from the Vale frontier states:

"The Beowolves did not howl. They did not rage. They moved as if drawn by a current, ignoring us entirely. A Nevermore passed overhead without striking. It followed the chanting."



Another record, attributed to an Atlesian observer centuries later, notes that Grimm would circle cult sites but not cross certain boundaries, as though fearful of what the cult sought rather than the cult itself.

This alone caused early Huntsman orders to classify the sect as Extinction-Level Heresy.


The Account of the Storm-Woman

A single ancient chronicle, heavily damaged by water and salt, tells of an event now considered apocryphal but repeated too often to dismiss.

It speaks of a woman of great power, unnamed, who stood upon a coastal rise as the sky tore itself apart. Thunder bent to her will. The seas rose and fell at her command. Many later scholars believe this to have been an early Maiden or something akin to one.

Yet when the cult emerged from the black surf below, chanting in rhythms that "hurt the wind," the Grimm did not turn upon her.

Instead, they turned away.

The storm broke around her, but the Grimm surged past, heedless of lightning and wrath, to descend upon the robed figures below. The chronicle ends with the line:

"She was mighty. They were expected."



Of Giles and the Warped Flame

In later centuries, fragments of the cult surfaced within human history itself, most notably through the infamous Giles, remembered in common texts as a murderer and war criminal, but named in suppressed archives as the Drowned Flame.

Giles was not alone.

He served a master whose name has been struck from nearly every surviving document, though marginal notes describe him as learned, charismatic, and unafraid of the deep places. This master is believed to have introduced coastal rites, star-aligned calendars, and the practice of "answering dreams."

Giles, it is said, did not understand the full scope of the cult's purpose. He merely believed he was preparing the world for a cleansing fire. His master knew better, and vanished before judgment could be passed.




Final Warnings and Suppression

All records agree on the cult's ultimate goal only in the vaguest terms. They did not seek to control the Grimm, nor to destroy the Kingdoms directly. They sought to call something awake.
Something that even the Grimm: creatures born of endless hatred, refused to stand near.

The final sealed edict of the old Vale Council ends with a warning never meant for public eyes:

"Whatever name they whisper into the abyss, it is not a god that answers.
The Grimm fear it.
And the Grimm are not known for fear."


Thus ends this extract. May it remain forgotten.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Bubble Towns in Remnant

Definition and Origins

Bubble Towns (sometimes derisively called "Grimm Bubbles," "Wall Blisters," or simply "Outskirts") are formal and semi-formal satellite settlements that form adjacent to the primary defensive walls of Remnant's major cities and fortified towns. They are constructed in many ways, from scavenged materials—leftover Dust-mining slag, ruined stone from abandoned outposts, broken airship hulls, corrugated metal, or local rock quarried from nearby terrain. These communities "bubble" outward from the main city's perimeter, often connected by narrow gates, elevated walkways, or long walled corridors reminiscent of ancient historical designs (e.g., the Long Walls of Athens, which linked the city to its port).

The phenomenon has existed throughout Remnant's post-Moonshatter history, but emerged most prominently in the post-Great War era, as populations swelled due to migration, refugees, industrial booms, and better Grimm control technologies. With main city walls already at capacity and expansion costly (requiring massive expenditures of labor and resources), authorities often turned a blind eye to squatters building just outside. Over time, some Bubble Towns have been retroactively incorporated during city expansions, becoming new districts (e.g., the lower terraces of Mistral's capital or suburbs and industrial fringes of Vale).

Types of Bubble Towns

1. Organic/Squatter Bubble Towns: Informal settlements inhabited by the poor, immigrants, refugees, outcasts, and day laborers. Walls are patchwork and hastily built, offering minimal protection.
2. Corridor-Linked Towns: Purpose-built extensions connected by long, fortified roads or walls to the main city, allowing safe transit for workers or trade to smaller communities near the major cities.
3. Planned Industrial/Expansion Zones: Government- or corporate-sponsored bubbles for factories, mines, or housing booms, often starting as temporary worker camps.
4. Penal Bubble Towns: Deliberately isolated prison communities, designed as "Grimm traps" (detailed below).

The Penal Bubble Town Strategy: "Bait Districts"
One of the most controversial applications is in penal policy. Certain Kingdoms (notably Atlas, Vacuo, and some Vale and Mistral sub-provinces) construct prisons as isolated Bubble Towns far from core populations but linked by guarded corridors. The rationale is coldly pragmatic: concentrated negative emotions—despair, anger, regret—from prisoners act as a powerful Grimm attractant. This draws hordes to the site's walls, where automated turrets, Huntsman patrols, or military/paramilitary forces can cull them efficiently.

• Mechanism: Grimm are lured in predictable waves, preventing scattered attacks on civilian areas. Prisoners are told this "serves the greater good" by thinning Grimm numbers.
• Examples: The infamous "ICE-17" outside old Mantle (now destroyed) was a walled compound where inmates mined Dust under guard; Grimm sieges provided "live-fire training" for Atlas cadets. In Mistral, remote island-like bubble towns off the coast or in grasslands serve similar roles. Some high security prisons in Vale and many normal prisons in Vacuo are kept outside the main walls of major cities and act in this capacity,
• Ethical Debate: Officially framed as utilitarian defense, critics call it state-sanctioned cruelty, exploiting prisoners as bait.

Societal Implications
Bubble Towns can be a sign of class divides across Remnant, while simultaneously enabling survival in a Grimm-dominated world.

• Economic Role: They house the labor force for undesirable or dangerous jobs outside the city walls (mining, waste processing, menial services). Incorporation brings taxes and infrastructure; neglect breeds black markets.
• Demographic Concentration: Many have high Faunus populations due to discrimination pushing them outward in some provinces of the Kingdoms. Many White Fang recruits emerge from these areas. Most however are a reflection of the demographics of their cities and reflective of their roles.
• Grimm Dynamics: Proximity to walls offers some safety, but overcrowding and poverty generate constant low-level negativity, attracting smaller Grimm packs. This creates a feedback loop: more attacks → more fear → more Grimm.
• Political Tension: Councils debate "cleansing" vs. integration depending on the type of bubble town. Radical voices (e.g., hardline White Fang) view them as proof of systemic oppression; more pragmatic voices see them as necessary to allow the population to expand, vital resources to be exploited, or defense in depth against Grimm incursions.

 

[Sliverhero]

Time for even more Forbidden history this time with Giles master.

A Composite Extract from the Annals of Unclean Faiths and Calamities Upon Remnant

Black Archive Concordance — Cross-Era Suppression

Recovered from multiple sealed repositories beneath Vale, Mantle, and old Mistral.
Compiled by unknown hands across millennia.
Annotations attributed to at least nine separate authors—some contradicting, some continuing one another mid-thought.
All copies ordered destroyed. None fully were.


On the One Called François Prelati

Where Giles burned, another watched.

This is the enduring failure of common history: that Giles was the architect of the Drowned Flame, that his madness was singular, and that with his death the heresy ended. Suppressed records disagree. They insist quietly, insistently, that Giles was never more than a vessel.
Willing. Devout. Replaceable.

The name that surfaces beneath scorched margins, ritual erasures, and sigils of interdiction is always the same:

François Prelati.
No birthplace is agreed upon.
No kingdom claims him.
No era contains him.

He appears suddenly in records that should not intersect: a scholar of forbidden astronomy in pre-unification Vale; an itinerant mystic along Mistral's drowned coastlines; a court thaumaturge dismissed from Mantle long before Atlas named itself, cited for "unsafe inquiries into Aura persistence beyond mortal continuity."

Each time, the descriptions align.
Soft-spoken. Educated. Unhurried.
Eyes that did not rest on people, but on what stood behind them.

On the One Who Preceded the Kingdom of Steel

Long before Atlas rose, before Mantle armored itself in iron and certainty, proto-Mantle engineering logs speak of a figure known only as the Consultant.

He advised against deep bore drills near the northern coasts. He warned that certain pressures, once relieved, could not be resealed.
He spoke of Aura theory with a fluency that would not be formalized for centuries.

The logs note no accent.
No origin.
No aging across decades of appearances.

When Mantle's council demanded lineage and credentials, the Consultant simply ceased attending meetings. Construction continued.

Test sites were later abandoned, not due to revolt or collapse, but because Grimm descended directly into the excavation shafts, ignoring surface settlements entirely, as though responding to something beneath the worksite.

Only much later were these logs cross-referenced with cult annotations and a single recurring name scratched into the margins:
François Prelati.

His Teachings

Prelati did not preach worship. He discouraged it. What he taught instead was attunement.
Fragments of his instruction describe the world as layered: stone upon memory, memory upon thought, thought upon something older still.

He taught that the Grimm were not Remnant's greatest calamity, but its immune response, violent, blind, and terrified. "They do not hate us," one fragment attributes to him.
"They hate what notices us."

It was Prelati who formalized the cult's calendars, aligning rites not to moons or seasons, but to stellar occlusions, tidal irregularities, and periods of collective dreaming. It was he who taught the discipline known as answering dreams: the controlled surrender of Aura during sleep, allowing something vast to brush the soul without fully entering.

Most who attempted this went mad. Some did not wake. Those who succeeded were never the same.

On the Matter of Continuance

Here the annals hesitate. Ink thins. Margins fill with warnings. There are repeated, heavily disputed rumors, never confirmed, never fully erased, that François Prelati did not fear death. Not as zealots claim to transcend it, but with the familiarity of one who had already crossed it and returned… sideways.

Contradictions persist:

A man burned at the stake in Mistral, Prelati confirmed dead, followed decades later by his appearance in Vale, unchanged. A drowned corpse recovered from northern waters, face matching contemporary sketches, while records place Prelati alive elsewhere at the same time.

A Huntsman report declaring a successful kill, followed weeks later by an addendum:
"Correction. The body was his. The voice afterward was not."

One marginal note, written in a steadier hand than most, reads: "He does not move from body to body. He teaches bodies how to let go."


Whether this implies possession, succession, or something more profane is unresolved. The annotator vanished soon after. His chambers were found empty, smelling faintly of salt and ozone.

On the Multiplicity of Claimants

Across centuries, at least five individuals, three women and two men were executed, imprisoned, or erased under the charge of being François Prelati.

Each claimed the name without hesitation.
Each demonstrated identical knowledge of forbidden stellar cycles, Grimm avoidance thresholds, and the rites of the Drowned Star.

Descriptions conflict: A silver-haired woman in Vacuo who laughed during immolation.
A Mantle archivist who corrected his interrogators' dates. A Mistrali priestess who stated under truth-binding Semblance:
"I am not him. I am where he was needed."



Autopsies, where permitted, show no shared physiology. Grimm behavior, however, was identical.

The Pattern of Grimm Response

Initial sightings of a Prelati claimant do not provoke attack. Grimm avoid the region. Lesser Grimm fail to approach. Mid-tier entities circle but do not engage. Only with prolonged presence do heavier manifestations appear.

Ancient Nevermore variants.
Leviathan-class entities.
Forms without modern classification.

Not to destroy the claimant. To contain the location. Multiple military analysts, separated by centuries and unaware of one another, reach the same conclusion: "The Grimm behave as if awaiting authorization."



If the claimant is eliminated early, escalation ceases. If the cult's activity deepens, if rites near completion, then Grimm no longer hunt the person. They hunt the ground.

Of the Hunters

It is often said that great men have hunted François Prelati across history. This is accurate, and incomplete. Kings ordered his death.
Huntsmen swore oaths. Scholars turned executioners. All failed.

Names are redacted, erased, or lost. Deeds survive without authors. Yet one fragment recurs across eras: a record of a lone hunter, appearing again and again at the edges of Prelati's movements.

The name is never fully written. Only two letters persist.

OZ

In the oldest strata, he is described as "the first Huntsman, though the title did not yet exist."
In later accounts, he appears as a counselor, a general, a headmaster, a man who arrives too late yet somehow always knows where to look.

Marginal notes suggest he has pursued Prelati longer than any Kingdom has existed. One damaged entry reads: "He has killed Prelati before. It did not end."

Another, written centuries later in a different hand: "OZ hunts not to win. He hunts to delay."


Of Nearing Completion

Several records agree on one final terror: the most dangerous phase is not Prelati's rise, but the moment when he or they, is no longer required. In regions where cult activity ceased without suppression, Grimm numbers dropped to zero. The land did not recover.

Aura destabilized. Dreams synchronized.
Navigation failed. Children spoke words they had not learned.

A pre-Atlas tablet recovered from a collapsed coastal vault bears a final carving: "When the door remembers itself, the key may sleep."


Closing Censure

Let this be written only once more.
If Giles was the flame, then François Prelati was the oxygen, patient, unseen, and essential.

He does not seek thrones.
He does not command the Grimm.
He does not fear death.

He prepares.

And when it finally stirs..

The Grimm will already be waiting.
And so will OZ.

Thus ends this concordance.
May its authors remain unknown.
May its subject never be found.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Der Vampyr von Albion

A grand romantic opera in three acts. Music by Himmel Marchener. Libretto adapted from ancient Albion chronicles and the mythic tales of the Joestar bloodline. Premiered in Kölln's Royal Theatre, circa the 1900s of Remnant's calendar in Arminius.

Principal Characters

• Sir Jonathan Joestar – noble young lord of the ancient Joestar house, baritone (Ruthven/Johann von Wohlbrunn analogue)
• Lord George Joestar – Jonathan's honorable father, bass
• Erina Pendleton – Jonathan's pure-hearted beloved, soprano
• Dio Brando – ambitious orphan taken in by the Joestars, powerful tenor (the Vampire Lord)
• Sir William Zeppeli – eccentric Quitalian master of mystic Aura arts, tenor
• Robert E. O. Speedwagon – loyal street-born ally from the rough districts of Camelot, baritone
• Lady Malham – high priestess of a secret midnight coven, mezzo-soprano
• Chorus of Albion nobles, villagers, coven members, and spectral undead

Setting
The misty isles of Albion, in the grand estate of Joestar Manor outside eternal Camelot. An age when Dust technology was new, and Aura is commonplace but many ancient arts of that great power are now but whispered of in legend. And ancient stone masks of forbidden power lie buried in forgotten crypts before the Moonshatter.

Act I: The Oath and the Mask
In the great hall of Joestar Manor, Lord George Joestar welcomes the orphaned Dio Brando into his home to repay an old life-debt. Dio, burning with ambition and resentment, bows outwardly while inwardly scorning the noble family. Jonathan, honorable and trusting, offers friendship, but Dio humiliates him in a public duel, stealing a kiss from the gentle Erina Pendleton to wound Jonathan's pride. Jonathan fights back, and Dio is humbled... For now.

Years later, Dio and Jonathan are practically brothers. Jonathan is close with Erina. Dio is outwardly planning on becoming a lawyer and going into politics. All the while, he plots to steal the Joestar fortune. During a storm, Dio unearths a sinister stone mask in the family crypt. When blood from a minor wound touches it, the mask awakens, driving bone spikes into his skull. He rises transformed — a vampire lord, immortal, thirsting for blood and dominion.

Lord George discovers Dio's dark experiments. In fury, Dio strikes him down, draining his life before the horrified household. Chaos erupts; Jonathan swears vengeance. Dio flees into the night, abducting Erina as leverage and prize.

Act II: The Midnight Coven
Jonathan, driven by grief and love, pursues clues through Albion's shadowed moors. In a ruined abbey, he interrupts a midnight rite led by Lady Malham, high priestess of a secret vampiric cult. Dio has joined her coven, promising them eternal night in exchange for loyalty.

Jonathan is captured and brought before Dio, who gloats over his newfound power. Erina, imprisoned yet defiant, refuses Dio's seductive offers of immortality. As Dio prepares to turn her, Jonathan is rescued by the mysterious Sir William Zeppeli, a wandering Quitalian master who teaches the ancient Aura art of Ripple breathing (Hamon) — channeling the soul's life-energy through the body to combat creatures of darkness.

Together with the rough but loyal Speedwagon, who has witnessed Dio's horrors in Camelot's underbelly, Jonathan trains in secret. Zeppeli warns that the battle will claim a sacrifice.

Act III: Dawn Over the Manor
The final confrontation returns to Joestar Manor at dawn. Dio, now commanding an army of ghoulish thralls, prepares his coronation as eternal ruler of Albion. Lady Malham and the coven chant infernal hymns.

Jonathan, Zeppeli, and Speedwagon storm the manor. In a series of blazing duels lit by Aura energy:

• Speedwagon holds off the undead horde.
• Zeppeli faces Dio directly, transferring the full mastery of the Hamon School to Jonathan at the cost of his own life.

Jonathan and Dio clash in the great hall. Dio's vampiric strength and regeneration seem invincible, but Jonathan's Ripple — pure as sunlight — burns through the darkness. In the climax, Jonathan drives a Ripple-charged sword through Dio's heart as the first rays of dawn pierce the windows.

Dio's body disintegrates in golden flames. Erina is freed; the coven scatters. Jonathan, gravely wounded, collapses in her arms as Speedwagon kneels in respect.

The opera closes with a solemn chorus at sunrise: though evil is vanquished this day, the ancient mask endures, and the Joestar bloodline must forever stand vigilant against the night.

NOTES:

Naturally this one is based on JoJo Part 1, and Der Vampyr by Heinrich Marschner. Arturia was a fan of it in her youth.

 

[Sliverhero]

A Redacted Addendum to the Common Histories of the Great War
Filed under: Irregular Influences, Suppressed Causes
Circulation Prohibited Beyond the Academies


Most citizens of Remnant know the Great War as it is taught: a clash of ideologies, of crowns and councils, of color and culture. Textbooks speak of Mantle's rigidity, Mistral's excess, Vale's reluctance, Vacuo's abandonment. Dates align. Banners fall. Treaties are signed.

This version is true. It is also incomplete.

What follows is not taught because it cannot be neatly diagrammed. It does not fit into speeches or memorials. And those who first attempted to record it often did not finish.

Of the Hands Beneath the Table

Before the first mobilizations, before the embargoes and conscriptions, there were smaller movements...quiet ones.

Fraternal orders that were not fraternal. Study circles that met at odd hours. "Philosophical societies" embedded within officer corps, trade ministries, and cultural councils across every Kingdom. They did not fly a single banner. They did not agree on symbols. They agreed only on direction. These cults, if the word applies, did not command armies. They advised them.

A recommendation here: escalate rather than withdraw. A suggestion there: suppress negotiations, for weakness invites annihilation.
A forged report. A delayed message. A general reassigned at precisely the wrong moment.

None of these acts alone caused the Great War.
Together, they ensured it could not end quickly.

Of Influence and Atrocity

Later analysts would note peculiar consistencies across all fronts: Orders that resulted in mutually assured devastation, issued without clear strategic value.

Entire battalions deployed into terrain already marked, quietly as compromised. Cities evacuated after supply lines were cut, rather than before. Witness testimonies from veterans describe moments where commanders spoke words that did not sound rehearsed, nor wholly their own. Moments of unnatural certainty. Of decisions carried out with reverence rather than reason.

There are sealed medical reports of soldiers who survived battles only to later insist they had agreed to die, but forgotten why. These records are fragmentary. Many were burned. Others simply stop.

Of Mantle, Before Its Breaking

Before Mantle fell, before its allies fractured under the strain, there was a final convergence.
The cult networks had grown bold. Their rites, once scattered, began to synchronize. Observatories reported anomalies dismissed as equipment failure. Aura researchers recorded fluctuations attributed to battlefield stress.

It is now believed the primary locus lay far north, beyond sanctioned borders, at a site whose coordinates are still classified and whose name has been scratched out of every surviving map.
And toward that place went a single figure.

Of the One from the Arc Line

The records do not agree on how the unknown hero arrived. Some say he walked alone through blizzards that should have killed him.
Others claim he was escorted by Huntsmen who later could not recall his face.
One account insists he was already wounded when he departed, and never slowed.

What is consistent is what followed.
That day, the sky was said to bleed, not rain, but color, staining clouds as if the world itself had been cut. Across Mantle and its allied territories, people reported hearing voices that were not carried by air. Some wept. Some screamed. Some laughed until their throats failed them.

A percentage of the population, no two sources agree how many, simply broke. They raved of doors opening the wrong way. Of stars pressing too close. Of something vast rising, unfolding, reaching...

Several witnesses swear they saw a silhouette climbing into the heavens, so large it might have brushed the shattered moon itself.

And then...

Nothing.

The pressure ceased. The voices ended. The thing was gone.



The Final Report

A later communiqué, released only in part, states that the young man from the Arc family sacrificed everything to disrupt the cult's designs. Not merely his life, though that too, but his name, his place, his memory's anchor in the world.

The report's author admits something unusual:

"I cannot remember his face.
I cannot recall whether I loved him, followed him, or was born of the same blood.
I know he mattered to me.
I know that I knew him."



Every attempt to reconstruct his identity collapses into uncertainty.Son or daughter.
Brother or sister. Lover. Friend.

The only artifact that remains verified across multiple independent recoveries, iis a shield, battered beyond recognition save for one mark:
The Arc symbol.

No initials.
No inscription.
Just the crest.

Of What Followed

Within weeks, cult communications across Remnant fell silent. Several high-ranking officials resigned without explanation. Others vanished. Grimm activity along certain fronts dropped sharply, unnaturally so.

The Great War continued.
But historians note that from that point on, escalation slowed. Plans unraveled. Catastrophes that had seemed inevitable… did not occur. The war still claimed millions.

It simply did not claim everything.

Closing Annotation

Public history teaches that the Great War ended because the Kingdoms learned to listen to one another. The suppressed records suggest something else intervened first. Someone stood where the world was thinning. Someone paid a price no ledger could record. And in doing so, ensured that when Remnant remembers the Great War, it remembers survival, not extinction.
The shield remains in storage.

No one who studies it too long can quite remember why they started.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Weiss Schnee, assigned as Jaune Arc's bodyguard for the day, stood rigidly in her tailored Huntress gear, her rapier Myrtenaster at her side. Today was no ordinary assignment—Jaune was meeting Jacques Schnee, her father, to discuss contentious tariffs on the Schnee Dust Company. The weight of it pressed on her, her usual poise strained by the looming confrontation with the man who'd shaped her childhood into a cold, calculated game.

Jaune, in a sharp navy suit that made him look far more authoritative than his usual scruffy self, adjusted his tie nervously behind the desk in his office.

"How do I look?" He asked.

"... Adequate," she decided on. Jaune nodded.

"Anything last minute I should know about him? Any strategies he uses?"

Weiss snorted, her voice sharp but controlled. "He's a manipulative, lying snake who only cares about his money. He'll say anything to get you to believe he's on your side, and then slowly, he'll take, and take, and take… until you have nothing left to give. He has his Dragon Faunus enforcer, Fafnir, he'll use to make himself look more intimidating."

Jaune nodded, unfazed. "Gotcha. Just like Tangy coached me."

Weiss blinked. "Tangy?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it," Jaune said, waving it off as his Scroll pinged, signaling the meeting time. He glanced at it, then casually scrolled through a food delivery app. "So, what would you like for lunch, Weiss? I have to order in after the diner."

Weiss's jaw tightened. Her entire life with Jacques had been about punctuality—being early, never late, always on his time. "What are you doing? He's ready for you!"

Jaune didn't look up. "Nah. We're going to be late on purpose."

Weiss's eyes widened. "I… why?!"

"My sister's a business major and runs her own PMC," Jaune explained, still scrolling. "She gave me some advice: whoever makes the other party wait has an advantage over the other. This is a show of dominance, Weiss. We can't let your dad think he can order us around."

Weiss froze, realization dawning. Her father did make others wait—a power play she'd never questioned. "That… bastard…"

Jaune grinned. "So! We're going to let him stew for an hour and then come in. Sound good?"

Weiss hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "I… suppose so…"

"Great!" Jaune said, tapping his Scroll. "Schwarma, maybe? You said you wanted something greasy and messy once, right?"

Weiss, still rattled, muttered, "…Honestly, given the situation… Yes, the greasiest, messiest food available."

They ordered, ate a leisurely lunch, and an hour later, strolled into the conference room on the lower levels of the Government Tower. Jacques Schnee sat at the head of the table, flanked by his tall, ominous bodyguard, a dragon Faunus with a cybernetic mask, red eyes, and large, ominous wings wrapped around him. His expression was unreadable, but Jacque's was: a mask of barely concealed irritation. His chair, subtly shorter than standard, forced him to look up at Jaune—a detail Weiss noted with a flicker of amusement.

"Well! It's about time, Councilman Arc!" Jacques snapped.

Jaune stood casually at the opposite end. "Oh? Was it?"

Weiss stood behind him, nodding curtly. "Father." Her tone was ice.

Jacques regained his composure, his voice oily. "Weiss… I trust my daughter made the time of the meeting known to you, Councilman?"

Jaune shrugged. "Hm? Yes, but I had other matters to attend to."

Jacques's eyes narrowed. "What matters?"

"Matters of state, Mister Schnee," Jaune replied coolly.

"I have been kept here for over an hour, Councilman!" Jacques barked.

"Then I'm sure you're ready to talk. Shall we?" Jaune said, unfazed as he sat down.

Weiss stepped forward, her voice sharp. "Please, Father. Refrain from shouting at the councilman again. It is… unbecoming of you." She inspected her nails, feigning disinterest.

Jacques bristled. "Why is my daughter here anyway?"

Jaune leaned forward. "If you feel alarmed with her here, we can send her away. Along with your bodyguard. Just one-on-one."

"I am not alarmed!" Jacques snapped. "I am here to discuss these tariffs being unfairly placed upon my company by your government! And I will not be insulted by a mere councilman—!"

Jaune stood, slamming his hands on the table, making everyone but Jacque's bodyguard jump. He took a deep breath.

"I can see you're not interested in having a proper conversation, Mister Schnee. The utter contempt you've shown me, my people, and your own daughter has made clear no negotiations will take place! We won't have any discussions until you're ready to act like a civilized human being! Good day, sir!" He stormed out.

Jacques gaped after him, speechless. Fafnir, his bodyguard, stared after Jaune with his usual inscrutable expression.

Weiss raised an eyebrow, her voice cool.

"Well… it seems that will be all for today. Have a pleasant day… Father." She bowed curtly and followed Jaune. Inwardly, she was frantic as she hunted her charge down.

In a sideroom, Jaune was pacing, taking deep breaths but grinning like he'd just won a spar.

"Phew… okay… that was a rush… Hey, Weiss."

"What was that?!" she hissed, torn between awe and frustration.

"Phase One," Jaune said, still grinning. "I need you to wait ten minutes, then go back in and say I'm a loose cannon, totally unreasonable, but you managed to talk me into resuming negotiations. Emphasize that I'm unpredictable, crazy even. Can you do that?"

Weiss's mouth opened, then closed.

"What?! Why?! Why don't we just leave now?!"

"Trust me," Jaune said, his eyes steady.

Weiss grumbled, "Fine! I'll wait…"

Ten minutes later, she re-entered the conference room, looking put-upon. Jacques was on his Scroll, frustration etched into his face as Fafnir continued to loom. Weiss cleared her throat.

"Father…" she said, her voice troubled.

Jacques looked up. "Weiss! What are you doing here?"

"I've successfully convinced Councilman Arc to give you another chance. Just one," she said, side-eyeing him. "Though I warn you, he's not happy right now, and not in a particularly understanding mood. Quite unstable, actually. One minute he was throwing a chair against the wall, the next asking me what I'd like for lunch. Please… try not to screw this up a second time. For our sake, of course."

Jacques looked surprised but nodded. "No… of course. I had no idea what you were putting up with here among these people, Weiss."

Weiss ignored him, leaning out the door. "He's ready for you."

Jaune strode in, still looking cross. "Just so you know, Mister Schnee, I am only here because your daughter pleaded your case. Remember that."

Jacques, now cautious, nodded. "Yes… of course… If you would please sit down, Councilman Arc?"

They sat, Jacques turning on his slick charm. "These tariffs being applied to my company… it seems counterproductive, Councilman. After all, the SDC is a global company, making anyone and everyone rich who invests in it—"

"Save for the locals, of course," Jaune cut in.

Jacques started. "I-I assure you, those are exaggerations—"

"Mister Schnee, come now. We're both men of the world, are we not? I may be young… but I'm not stupid," Jaune said with a small smile. "Clearly, things have been going badly for your company in the PR game… and it can't all be due to your rivals, can it?"

Jacques gritted his teeth. Weiss, feigning disinterest, flicked her eyes to her father's frustration with quiet satisfaction.

"That said," Jaune continued, "it's a massive company. You can't be responsible for all of it, can you?"

Jacques hesitated. "…Yes. I am only one man."

Jaune nodded. "Of course… If the locals decide to use slave Faunus labor outside of Atlas's ability to enforce the laws, well… that's hardly your fault, is it?"

"Yes, very much so," Jacques said quickly. "I am, after all, only a businessman."

"But you can understand our reluctance to allow your further expansion in Vale, correct?" Jaune pressed. "These things keep happening anywhere your company sets up shop. It's a very bad pattern, you see. I do have to look to the interests of my constituents. Nobody will vote for someone who lets their relatives become slaves."

Jacques flinched. "Slaves is—is a harsh word—"

"Yes, it is," Jaune said, unyielding.

"You see, Jacques, your company has become indispensable to Atlas… but it is not indispensable to Vale," Jaune continued. "Your patents on many of your technologies have either expired in Vale or have been duplicated or improved upon, and are being used by our local companies. A tariff on you may cause us some short-term pain… but it will let our industry catch up. And then… what will you do?"

Jacques looked aghast. "You… you can't be threatening me, Councilman Arc."

"Threatening? Hardly. I'm just telling you what will happen," Jaune said coolly. "Nationalism can be dangerous, but no less than your own. The SDC is functionally a part of Atlas's foreign policy now, and we all know it. At present, I see no incentive to letting the SDC continue to do things as they always have. Do you? Would you take such a deal?"

Jacques swallowed. "…I suppose I wouldn't."

"Then why should I?" Jaune asked, leaning back.

Jacques's eyes gleamed, shifting tactics. "Well… there are other forms of deals one could make… between the two of us. Why, we should be friends, do you not agree, Councilman? My lovely daughter is already close to you."

Jaune raised an eyebrow. "Hmmm… I do like her more than you, Mister Schnee."

Weiss stayed silent, her jaw tight, but her eyes flicked to Jaune with a mix of gratitude and tension.

Jacques pressed on. "After all… the two of us could come to some reasonable arrangement, through my daughter…"

Jaune's expression darkened. "I'm sorry… this negotiation is worth marrying your daughter off to me?"

Jacques stammered, "I… well—"

"OUTRAGEOUS!" Jaune roared, slamming the table again. "That's your offer?! Your own daughter?! RIDICULOUS! How DARE you devalue your daughter so much in front of me!"

Weiss glanced at her father with an "I told you so" expression, her lips twitching upward.

"There's a vote to cut off all Dust trade with Atlas this Thursday in closed session, and I intend to vote yes!" Jaune continued. "The fact you're willing to give her up means it's that crucial to you!"

Jacques raised his hands. "All right, all right!" He took a deep breath. "…What are your demands?"

Jaune leaned forward. "The tariffs remain as is. If you want our business, do it properly: we're cutting regulations to improve our business. Lobby your own government for it so you can compete for our business on a fair battleground. However…"

Jacques frowned.

"However…?"

"I could agree to a shortening of the tariffs. Say… four years? More than enough time to improve your own industry," Jaune said.

Jacques countered, in some irritation, "More than enough time to improve yours!"

Jaune smiled. "Yes, of course… but the alternative is a total embargo. Oh, it would be short… but very painful for you. More painful for you than us, wouldn't you agree, Mister Schnee?"

Jacques scowled. "…Two years."

"Three," Jaune shot back.

"Two and a half!" Jacques snapped.

"I'll have to clear it with the Council, of course," Jaune said smoothly.

"Of course—" Jacques began.

"And improving the image of your business will help with that immensely," Jaune added. "Valean inspectors to your foreign mines would help, as would Hunters being involved. They are an independent international force, after all."

Jacques bristled. "I can't have Hunters interfering in my business—!"

"You mean… foreign influence over your business?" Jaune asked pointedly. Jacques glared, but nodded.

"I suppose..."

They argued several other points, for close to an hour, before Jacques finally scowled… But nodded.

"…I'll have to clear it with my stockholders… but… I believe we can come to terms."

"Excellent," Jaune said, standing. They shook hands.

"You'll be getting the first drafts by tomorrow," Jaune said. "Everything in this room has been recorded, after all."

Jacques's face tightened. "…I see…"

"Have a nice day," Jaune said, turning to leave. He headed out without a second look back.

Jacques looked at Weiss, who raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Father?"

"…What are your feelings for Arc?" he asked, his voice probing.

Weiss's expression was stone. "…Apologies, Father, but my feelings regarding Councilman Arc are nobody's concern but my own."

Jacques shook his head, exasperated. "Good. He would be a terrible son-in-law."

Weiss muttered under her breath, "If only that meant something."

Jacques frowned.

"Hm?"

"Nothing, Father," Weiss said, turning to leave, feeling Fafnir and Jacques' stares on her back.

In Jaune's office, he was sprawled on the couch, sweating and breathing deeply. "Haa… hooo… haa… hooo…"

Weiss closed the curtains, her voice dry. "You know, if Yang caught you sweating and grunting like this, she'd have some very crass words to say…"

Jaune chuckled weakly. "I-I know… geez… Tangy ran me through this over the Scroll like thirty times. And I still feel like I almost lost my lunch."

Weiss gestured to the couch. "Lie down."

Jaune complied, and she pulled out a blanket, draping it over him. "You… need to rest, Jaune Arc. Don't think I haven't noticed you've been overworking yourself lately."

Jaune smirked faintly. "Heh… so you did notice?"

She glared, chopping his head. "Take this seriously, you dolt!"

"Ow," Jaune muttered, then sighed. "Still… nice to know you care about me. Sorry I was such an idiot before."

Weiss flushed. "Of course I do!" She stammered, "You're my… f… fr… frie…" She smacked him with a pillow. "TAKE A NAP!"

"URK!"

"Besides…" Weiss softened, "you… weren't an idiot in there. So I don't know why you're apologizing."

Jaune smiled. "I'm only not an idiot because I listened to my big sister… and you were there."

Weiss's lips curved slightly. "I understand the feeling… But in my opinion, you handled that quite well."

"Thanks…" Jaune closed his eyes, snoring softly within moments.

Weiss brushed the hair from his eyes, whispering, "You really are still a dolt, aren't you…" She stood, turning off the lights. "Sleep tight, Jaune," she murmured, shutting the door.

Outside, Yang ambushed her with a broad grin. "Heyah~!"

Weiss yelped, then composed herself, clutching her chest. "What are you doing here?!"

Yang smirked. "It's my shift now! But I'm just checkin' on our favorite Ice Queen and Councilman. Heard you two had a meeting with your dad. How'd it go?"

Weiss sighed, a small smile breaking through. "He… didn't puke. He was actually… impressive. Annoyingly so."

Yang's grin widened. "That's my man."

Weiss frowned, her voice sharp. "Listen, your—" She made an exaggerated vomiting motion, clutching her stomach as if the thought of Yang and Jaune actually together was physically painful. "'Boyfriend' is asleep inside. Be quiet, will you? Don't bother him with your nonsense!"

Yang's lilac eyes sparkled with mischief. She leaned in, grinning.

"I'll be really quiet, don't you worry about a thing~."

Weiss's frown deepened, her eyes narrowing.

"Why did you say it like that?"

Yang's grin widened, all teeth and teasing. "Maybe you'll learn when you grow up, Weisscream."

She slipped past Weiss, sneaking into Jaune's office and shutting the door with a soft click.Weiss sputtered, her face turning a furious shade of red.

I should go… I don't care about Arc. Certainly not with Xiao-Long and her stupid fake boyfriend thing with that stupid idiotic-!

Unable to resist, she crept forward and eased the door open, her curiosity overriding her usual restraint.

Inside, Yang sat on the couch, Jaune's head resting gently on her lap as he snored softly, cocooned in the blanket Weiss had draped over him earlier. His suit jacket hung over a chair, his tie loosened, and his face was serene in sleep, a stark contrast to the commanding councilman who'd faced down Jacques Schnee. Yang gazed down at him with a tender smile, her fingers brushing lightly through his messy blond hair. The scene was infuriatingly intimate.

Yang's head snapped up, her lilac eyes flashing as she spotted Weiss peeking. "Hey!" she hissed, keeping her voice low. "Beat it! He's sleeping!"

Weiss's face flushed scarlet, her whisper venomous. "Yes… thanks to me!"

Yang's glare didn't falter. "Well, stop trying to wake him up!"

Weiss, trembling with rage, spat, "You! You skank!" She turned and slammed the door shut. In the hallway, she muttered furiously under her breath, "You win this round, Xiao-Long… you and your… stupid, restable-on body."

That's all she was jealous of. That's all. Not that she cared what Arc thought or felt! Not at all!

 

[Sliverhero]

Fall of Beacon : The Machine That Ended an Army
Beacon Tower shook as flames licked the broken spires. Jaune Arc stood between Pyrrha Nikos and Cinder Fall, his shield raised even though he knew it wouldn't matter. Pyrrha was barely standing. Cinder's bow was already forming, molten glass pulling itself into shape.

"End of the line," Cinder said coldly.
The world screamed. A blue shape tore through the tower wall like it wasn't there, smashing into Cinder with enough force to crater the floor. She skidded across the platform, barely stopping herself from going over the edge.

Hovering where she'd stood was a machine.
Sleek. Sharp. Silent.
Metal Sonic.
Jaune didn't hesitate. "Metal. Target confirmed."
Metal Sonic's red eyes locked onto Cinder.
TARGET IDENTIFIED: CINDER FALL
ANOMALOUS ENERGY SIGNATURE DETECTED
THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME

Cinder rose slowly, eyes narrowed. "You again…"
Metal Sonic vanished, not moved, vanished.
A sonic boom cracked the air as he reappeared behind her, striking with precision that sent her flying. She fired back instinctively, arrows blazing through the air.
Metal Sonic intercepted them mid-flight, movements so exact it looked unreal. Shields flickered for fractions of a second, only where needed. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
MAIDEN ENERGY CONFIRMED
DRAIN PROTOCOL: ACTIVE

Energy tendrils snapped outward, latching onto Cinder. The stolen power surged violently, lightning flashing as it was ripped out of her, resisting with everything it had. Cinder screamed in rage as her strength collapsed. Her aura flickered wildly, then dimmed.

Pyrrha stared. "He's… taking it." Jaune clenched his fists. He knew what Metal Sonic was built for. Cinder hit her knees, drained so much, its as if her very soul was drained.
DRAIN COMPLETE
SUBJECT STATUS: COMBAT INEFFECTIVE
TERMINATION ADVISED

Metal Sonic's arm reconfigured, energy rapidly focusing into a lethal blast. Jaune stepped forward instantly. "Stop."The cannon hesitated.
JAUNE ARC PRIORITY COMMAND RECEIVED
REQUESTING JUSTIFICATION

Jaune didn't plead. He reasoned.
"She didn't plan this alone," he said firmly. "Beacon, the White Fang, Grimm everywhere..this was coordinated. She answers to someone higher up." Cinder laughed weakly. "You think you matter..." "Quiet," Jaune snapped, never taking his eyes off Metal Sonic. "She's an information asset. Alive, she's leverage. Dead, she's useless."

Silence. Then thousands of calculations ran behind Metal Sonic's glowing eyes.
TACTICAL ANALYSIS COMPLETE
PROBABILITY OF SUPERIOR COMMAND STRUCTURE: HIGH
SUBJECT VALUE: INTELLIGENCE SOURCE
TERMINATION: DENIED

The cannon powered down. Metal Sonic stepped forward and struck Cinder once, precise, controlled. She collapsed instantly, unconscious before she hit the floor.
Pyrrha exhaled shakily. "He almost killed her."
Jaune nodded. "That's why stopping him mattered." Metal Sonic turned away, attention already shifting. Below them, Beacon burned. White Fang forces flooded the streets. Grimm swarmed unchecked.

NEW OBJECTIVE: BATTLEFIELD SUPPRESSION
HOSTILE ELIMINATION: PRIORITY

Metal Sonic launched skyward. What followed wasn't chaos. It was systematic destruction.
White Fang units were erased before they could react. Metal Sonic struck supply lines first, then command clusters, then remaining forces, always in that order. Weapons failed mid-aim. Vehicles were disabled in seconds. Grimm packs were shattered before they reached civilians.

Students only saw flashes of blue light and collapsing enemies. "He's not fighting," Pyrrha realized. "He's dismantling them."
In the streets, the White Fang tried to regroup.
They never got the chance.
Entire units vanished in moments. There was no retreat, no surrender only sudden impact and silence. Grimm were destroyed just as efficiently, ripped apart before they could overwhelm huntsmen and slaughter citizens.
HOSTILE ORGANIZATION: WHITE FANG
STATUS: ELIMINATED

Only the leaders remained.
Adam Taurus and the surviving commanders engaged together in desperation, Aura flaring as they attacked in unison. Metal Sonic walked through it. Every strike was countered. Every opening exploited. Aura shattered under perfectly timed blows. One by one, the leaders fell hard.they lived barely only by luck.

Their Aura flickered weakly, almost gone, bodies refusing to respond.

SURVIVORS IDENTIFIED
COMBAT CAPABILITY: NEGLIGIBLE
THREAT PROJECTION: ZERO


Metal Sonic turned away, not for mercy, but for efficiency.

From Beacon Tower, Jaune watched the city below."There's… no White Fang left," Pyrrha said quietly. Jaune nodded, stomach heavy. "Nothing that can regroup." Grimm were already retreating, their numbers broken, their advance shattered. Metal Sonic hovered above the city, scanning relentlessly.Beacon was still burning,
but the enemy army was gone.Metal Sonic wasn't dangerous because he was strong.
He was dangerous because he decided when wars ended.
And tonight....

An army learned what that meant.

Blake : POV

My Aura was gone, completely gone. Not flickering. Not recovering. Just… empty. Yang was beside me, one knee on the ground, gauntlets cracked, breathing hard through clenched teeth.
Adam stood a few steps away, calm, composed.
White Fang surrounded us in a loose circle. No rush. No shouting. They knew we were finished.
Adam's blade rested on his shoulder.
"So," he said quietly, eyes never leaving mine, "this is where it ends." Yang leaned closer to me. "Hey," she whispered. "Eyes on me, Blake."
I tried to answer. Then the air screamed.
A high, metallic shriek tore through the street, like sound itself was being forced out of the way. Something dropped between us and the White Fang.The impact cracked the ground. Smoke rolled outward in a sharp wave.
Standing there was a machine.

Blue metal. Sharp lines. Red eyes that swept over the entire street in less than a second.
Then it spoke, flat and emotionless.
"PRIORITY DIRECTIVE ENGAGED.
PROTECTING TWO OF JAUNE ARC'S ROMANTICALLY SIGNIFICANT ASSOCIATES."
Yang blinked. "…Romantically what?"
I didn't get a chance to respond.
Because the machine looked up.
And the White Fang stopped being an army.
It vanished. Not ran. Not charged. Just vanished. The first fighter went down before the sound reached us. Another dropped a heartbeat later. Weapons shattered mid-raise. People didn't even have time to scream. The machine reappeared behind them. Then above them.
Then inside their formation. It didn't flail or rush. Every movement was exact, terrifyingly calm. Attempts to regroup were erased instantly. Grimm that rushed in were destroyed mid-lunge, never reaching anyone. Yang's voice was barely audible. "Blake… there's nothing stopping it."
She was right. There was no resistance that mattered. Adam finally moved. He charged, Aura flaring bright, blade screaming through the air with everything he had. The machine caught it. Not blocked, Caught!!! The impact cracked the street. Adam was thrown back hard, skidding across the pavement, Aura flickering wildly. Banesaw rushed in from the side, roaring.
One strike was all that was needed. Banesaw flew through a wall and collapsed, unmoving, Aura barely holding. Silence fell. The White Fang was gone. Not retreating. Gone.

The machine stood in the center of the street, eyes glowing brighter as it scanned.
"HOSTILE ORGANIZATION: WHITE FANG
STATUS: NEUTRALIZED." Adam groaned, trying to rise. His Aura flickered weakly, barely there. Banesaw didn't move. They were the only ones left. The machine looked at them. For a moment, I thought this was where it ended. Then...

"SURVIVORS LOGGED.
COMBAT CAPABILITY: INSUFFICIENT."
It turned away. Not mercy. Calculation.
It walked toward us and stopped.
"STATUS CHECK: PROTECTED ASSETS."
Yang let out a weak, breathless laugh. "Assets. Wow. Romantic ones, apparently." Despite myself, despite everything, I felt a shaky smile tug at my mouth.

"Do you remember him at Beacon?" I whispered.
Yang snorted softly. "Yeah. Standing outside our dorm like a haunted lamp post." "He waited three hours," I said. "Because Jaune told him 'friends hang out nearby.'" Yang shook her head. "And Penny. Oh my god, the music." I could see it clearly.

Metal Sonic, rigid as a statue in the courtyard, holding a speaker like it might explode. Playing the same song over and over because Penny had said she liked it once. Penny clapping happily. Jaune slowly dying of embarrassment.
Yang huffed. "He tripped over a chair because Nora moved it." I swallowed. "That machine," I said quietly, "just erased an army." Yang went still. "Yeah." She stared at the empty street. "And he didn't look any different." That was the worst part. Same shape. Same voice. Same precise movements.

The only difference was the situation.
Back at Beacon, Metal Sonic tried to understand people. Tonight, there were no people to understand. Only threats to remove. The machine looked once more at the empty street, then launched into the sky, gone in a flash of blue light and thunder. The sound faded.

Yang leaned back against the wall. "Next time Jaune says his dad builds 'support units,' I'm calling him out." I let out a quiet breath. "Please don't. I don't think he realizes what that means to everyone else." Yang smiled faintly. "Yeah. He still sees the guy who helped Penny pick music." I closed my eyes.

So did I. But now I also saw the thing that had stood between us and death, and decided who lived based on numbers alone. Yang nudged my shoulder gently. "We're alive." I nodded. "Because of him." She paused. "Still allowed to be terrified though."

"…Very allowed."
Somewhere above Beacon, a blue streak crossed the sky. And for the first time since the Fall began, I couldn't tell whether that made me feel safer or watched.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

@AndrewJTalon, is Titanmaster_117, over on SB, doing ok? his last post a bit dark, even for him.


the ghosts of Aslanmas: we did not think this thought.
Jacques: YOU GET A PRESENT! YOU GET A PRESENT! EVERYBODY GETS A PRESENT! BWAHAHAHAHA!!!


either Vale in on fire or someone's a parent... again.
or Jaune ends up becoming Father Winter à la Santa Clause.

Click to shrink...

I hope he is. Now! An excerpt from The Good Book of the Tablebreaker Religion:

Saint Polly's Epistle to the Hermodians

Chapter 1

1 Polly, sanctified by the grace of the Table Breaker and bound in holy union to Saint Eustace, a witness to the deceptions of the underworld and the triumphs of faith, to the faithful in Hermod, who dwell amid the chill of progress and the whispers of old myths, ensnared by the tales of the Brother Gods:

2 Grace to you and peace from the Divine Spark, who through the Table Breaker has broken every illusion and curse, revealing the true light that no shadow can overcome.

3 Beloved, I write to you as one who has beheld the snares of enchantment firsthand, much like High King Peter who warned the Mistralians against the wisdom of this world that leads to folly before the Divine (Peter to the Mistralians 1:13-16). In my journeys beyond the veil—into the depths where reason falters and faith must stand firm—I encountered illusions that sought to deny the overworld, the sun, and the very paradise promised by our Lord. So too, the fables peddled in your academies and halls, tales of the Princess in the Tower and the Lost Knight, serve not as truths but as veils drawn by usurpers. These stories, spun from the threads of the so-called Brother Gods, purport to explain the origins of Remnant, yet they unravel under the scrutiny of the sacred texts and logic, exposing the Brothers not as creators, but as rebellious spirits who corrupt and deceive.

4 Recall the fable as it is told among the pagans: The Princess, imprisoned in her tower of sorrow, sought to defy death through cunning and magic, raising her beloved Lost Knight from the grave. For this, the Brother Gods—those twin deceivers, one cloaked in false light, the other in overt shadow—cursed them with immortality, dooming the Princess to endless wandering and the Knight to perpetual rebirth in vessels not his own. They claim this punishment upholds the "balance" of their creation, forbidding mortals to tamper with life and death. But herein lies their great lie, as King Caspian discerned in his Meditations, where he exposed the dualistic heresies that posit equal forces of growth and decay—a falsehood that elevates created beings to divine status, denying the sole sovereignty of the uncreated Spark (Caspian, Meditations Book VII:4).

5 Why, then, do the Brothers punish what the Table Breaker freely bestows? Our Lord raised the dead not as a transgression, but as a foretaste of his redemptive power: he called forth the afflicted from their graves in compassion, as recorded in the Chronicles of the Disciples, summoning the lost to life to glorify the Divine (Chronicles 4:7-9). These acts were not curses but blessings, miracles that drew souls to faith, as the Four Stewards raised the fallen in his name, fulfilling his command: "Heal the sick, raise the dead, comfort the weary, cast out shadows" (Sermon by the Sea 5:8). If the Brothers were true creators, loving their handiwork as a father loves his children, would they not rejoice in such restorations? Instead, they inflict eternal torment upon the Princess and Knight for mirroring these deeds, revealing their hypocrisy. As Saint Eustace argued in his Contemplations, true divinity acts from perfect goodness, not from jealousy or caprice; the Brothers' wrath exposes them as fallen beings, akin to those divine entities who rebelled with Jadis, seeking to hoard power they never possessed (Eustace, Contemplations Book IV:5).

6 This curse further demonstrates their disregard for creation, in stark contrast to the Table Breaker's boundless love. The Brothers, having supposedly forged Remnant, abandoned it in disdain when their "balance" was challenged, leaving humanity and Faunus to the mercy of Grimm and strife—like negligent artisans who shatter their flawed work rather than mend it. But the Table Breaker, the true incarnation of the Divine Spark, did not abandon us to the Ice Witch's freezing fist; he willingly laid his body upon the Stone Table, enduring sacrifice to add our lives to his eternal glory, not to hoard them as the Witch did. As Queen Lucy wrote to the Argusians: "Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his kin" (Lucy to the Argusians 1:20), and so he broke the Table, tethering his life to ours in redemption. Where the Brothers curse immortality as punishment, stripping joy and purpose, the Table Breaker promises eternal life as gift: "I came that they may have life and have it in the paradise beyond the shadow of death" (Sermon by the Sea 7:10). Their indifference—cursing lovers for seeking what the Divine freely gives—proves they are no creators, but usurpers who pervert Thy order, as Jadis perverted the seasons with her endless winter.

Chapter 2

1 Beloved Hermodians, consider my own trial in the underworld, bound to the Silver Chair of enchantment, as a parable for discerning truth amid deceit, much like Mister Tumnus exhorted the Typhons to hold fast to faith against the illusions of false oracles (Tumnus to the Typhons 3:1-3). There, a sorceress—kin to the Brothers in her serpentine guile—sought to bind us with spells, denying the existence of the overworld, the sun, and the paradise beyond. "There is no sun," she whispered, "only the lamps of my realm; no Table Breaker, only the shadows I command." Her words wove a web of reason divorced from faith, tempting us to believe that Remnant's surface was but a dream, much as the Brothers' fables tempt you to accept their dual reign as reality.

2 Yet we resisted, not by worldly logic alone, but by the signs implanted in our souls: the memory of the sun's warmth, the lion's roar echoing in our hearts, and the unyielding truth that faith perceives what eyes cannot. As our companion declared, stamping out the enchanting fire, "Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things—trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and the Table Breaker himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones." This is the triumph of faith over illusion, as King Edmund urged the Quitalans: "Awake from the sleep of sin, and the Table Breaker will shine on you" (Edmund to the Quitalans 1:25). The Brothers' curse upon the Princess and Knight is such an enchantment—a tale that inverts divine mercy into tyranny, portraying compassion as burden rather than blessing, to mask their own fallen state.

3 For if they were creators, their acts would reflect perfect love, not punitive spite. The Table Breaker's miracles spread light: his disciples, empowered by the Spark, turned deserts to gardens, healed nations, and defied Grimm with Aura born of faith. The Brothers, by contrast, spawn endless curses, their "gifts" of relics and pools mere baits that ensnare, as the Princess discovered in her doomed quest. Queen Susan teaches in her epistle that evil is not a force but a privation of good; the Brothers embody this, their "creation" a mere distortion of Thy true work, their immortality a hollow echo of eternal life (Susan to the Jotuns 4:4). They punish resurrection because it exposes their impotence—they who could not prevent the Table's breaking, nor stem the Church's growth across Remnant.

4 Therefore, as one redeemed from the Silver Chair's bonds, I exhort you: cast off the fables of the Brothers, those usurpers who joined Jadis in rebellion, corrupting Thy creation with Grimm and lies. Cling to the Table Breaker, whose love redeems even the enchanted. Let reason serve faith, as in the teachings of Valiant Queen Lucy—faith seeking understanding, that you may see through the illusions to the paradise he builds (Lucy to the Argusians 3:2).

5 Now may the Spark of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by his power you may abound in hope (Edmund to the Quitalans 1:24-25). Amen.

- - -

-Hermod would be a city in Jotunheim, a part of Anima with a Norse-like culture north of Mistral proper. I wanted to explore how the Tablebreaker religion would resolve the tale of the Two Brothers in its theology. And Christian theology presents plenty of alternatives that fit how petty the Brother Gods are, and still allows for something greater than them to exist. This doesn't deny their magical power but it is a different force than the magic used, and it's not perfect. But I thought Polly would be a good choice to write about the Brother Gods and how to address it in a Christian-inspired theology.

Plus, anything that mocks CRWBY's 12 Year Old's First Time on Reddit view of religion is all good.

 

[Sliverhero]

This idea is that some of the cast are Reincarnate souls who been reborn over the eras of remant and at beacon they are with each other , now they have to regain their memoires

Those Who Remember, and Those Who Feel

Beacon Academy was loud.

Too loud for how quiet Jaune Arc's thoughts suddenly felt.He stood in the main courtyard, fingers fumbling with his transcript as if it might explain the strange pressure building in his chest. He had barely arrived. barely lied his way into the academy and already something felt… off. No....Not wrong, instead it feels more like familiar. He though a feeling he had, he looked up.

A girl in a red cloak was laughing nearby, silver eyes bright, voice tumbling over itself as she spoke too fast and moved too much. For a split second, Jaune forgot how to breathe. He is thinking, I know her. The thought struck him with quiet certainty, not panic. It made no sense. He had never met her. He was sure of that. The girl Ruby Rose, suddenly stopped mid sentence and glanced his way. Their eyes met.

Her smile faltered. Just a little. She tilted her head, brows knitting together as if she'd heard a sound no one else could hear. "Uh," Ruby muttered, more to herself than anyone else, "why do I feel like I've seen you… die?" Jaune blinked. "I ... what?" Before either of them could unravel that thought, a calm, steady voice cut in from behind him. "Excuse me." Jaune turned and there stood Pyrrha Nikos stood there.

World-famous. Composed. Confident.
And staring at him like she had just found something she'd been missing her entire life.
Her hand hovered near his shoulder, not touching, as though some instinct warned her against breaking an invisible boundary. She seemed almost startled by her own hesitation.
"I'm sorry," Pyrrha said carefully. "Do we… know each other?" Jaune shook his head, a little too quickly. "No. I mean... I don't think so." Pyrrha smiled, polite and practiced. But her eyes said liar, not to him, but to the universe itself.

Nearby, Weiss Schnee paused mid-step as the shadow of an airship passed overhead. The Schnee insignia gleamed against the hull.
For a heartbeat, the world shifted. Ruins, smoke. A simple salute held too long. Someone she loved standing where they shouldn't have been. Weiss sucked in a sharp breath and clenched her fists. "Get it together," she whispered, shaking the sensation away. Across the courtyard, Blake Belladonna froze when Yang Xiao Long laughed. The sound hit her like lightning, Not any form of attraction she knew but a strange sense of recognition.

Like finding a lighthouse she'd been steering toward for centuries without realizing she'd been lost. Yang noticed Blake staring and raised an eyebrow. "Uh… hey?" Blake swallowed. "Have we met?" Yang grinned easily. "Not unless you've been secretly punching monsters with me for years." Blake didn't laugh. At the edge of the courtyard, Ren stood with his hands folded behind his back, watching everything unfold.

Nora leaned against him, chewing on a candy bar she definitely wasn't supposed to have yet.
"They're early this time," she said quietly.
Ren nodded. "Much earlier." Unlike the others, there was no confusion in his eyes. No fleeting unease he couldn't explain. When he looked at Jaune, Ruby, Pyrrha, Weiss, Blake, and Yang, he didn't question the weight in his chest. He just knew.

He remembered standing beside them under skies that no longer existed. He remembered battles erased from history, victories that never stayed won. He remembered holding Nora's hand at the end of worlds, promising, every time that the next life would be different.
Nora followed his gaze, her grin softer than usual. "They don't know yet," she said. "Do you think this one will stick?"

Ren closed his eyes briefly. "It feels… different."
Nora tilted her head, watching Jaune's awkward laugh, Ruby's instinctive warmth, Pyrrha's quiet gravity. Watching Yang drift closer to Blake without realizing why. "Yeah," Nora said thoughtfully. "That's what you said last time too."

Ren allowed himself a small, almost fond smile. "True." They stayed where they were , and do what tell always do watching and waiting, getting ready for the time their family is together.

They knew better than to interfere too soon.
Across campus, far from destiny-heavy conversations and soul-deep recognition, Cardin Winchester sat on the edge of a bench near the locker area, tightening the straps on his gauntlets. His leg bounced nervously.

Initiation loomed, and no matter how loudly he bragged, the truth was simple, he was scared.
He looked up as someone passed by.
Velvet Scarlatina walked across the courtyard, adjusting the strap of her bag, ears flicking slightly as she reviewed her class schedule. She slowed for just a second, no reason she could name and glanced in his direction.
Their eyes met. The feeling hit both of them at the same time. Not memory, not understanding.

Just a strange, uncomfortable sense of familiarity. Velvet frowned, heart skipping. Why does he look… does she know him? Cardin scowled and looked away first. "Tch," he muttered. "Get it together." Velvet continued on, unsettled, unable to shake the feeling that they had stood like this before, on opposite sides of something important. Something unfinished, something that was once was but torn away from them.

High above it all, unseen and silent, Ozpin watched from his office window. His gaze moved from Jaune and Ruby, to Pyrrha, to Weiss, Blake, and Yang.Then to Ren and Nora.
Then to the countless smaller threads tightening across Beacon. Too many pieces were aligning. Too many souls were finding each other too quickly. Salem would feel it soon.

Below, the reincarnated stood together for the first time, not knowing why they were drawn together, only that being apart felt wrong.
Jaune looked between Ruby and Pyrrha, heart pounding. "Maybe," he said slowly, "we're supposed to know each other."
Ruby smiled, softer now, uncertain, but real.
"Yeah," she said. "I think we are."
And deep within their souls, something ancient stirred. Not a memory, Nothing but a promise.

 

[Sliverhero]

Part 2
The Ruins Remember

The forest was wrong. Jaune felt it the moment his boots hit the dirt. Initiation had scattered them across the Emerald Forest, teams forming through chaos and instinct, but the air itself felt heavy, like it was watching. Towering trees loomed overhead, their canopies thick enough to blot out the sun. Somewhere above, cameras hummed softly, hidden among the branches.
Jaune and the others just naturally joined together.

Nora skipped a few steps ahead, hammer resting on her shoulder like this was all a game.
"Well!" she said brightly. "This place still gives me the creeps." Ruby glanced at her. "Still?"
Nora froze for half a second.Then laughed louder than before. "I mean—uh—now. Creeps me out now." Ren didn't look at her. His eyes were on the trees. On the faint glint of metal half-buried in bark, Cameras. He stepped closer to Nora and spoke so quietly only she could hear him.

"Give me ten seconds." Nora's grin sharpened. "Ooooh. Distraction time." Before anyone could question her, Nora suddenly gasped and pointed deeper into the forest. "OH NO," she yelled. "IS THAT A GRIMM WITH, LIKE—EXTRA TEETH?"
Yang spun. "Where?!" Nora bolted forward, shouting increasingly dramatic nonsense. "IT'S GOT TOO MANY EYES! AND I THINK IT'S JUDGING ME!" The team's attention snapped to her instantly. That was all Ren needed.

He exhaled slowly, centering himself, not just his breathing, but something older. Deeper.
A Grimm lurked nearby, drawn by fear and noise. Ren stepped deliberately into its awareness, guiding it with subtle movements, gentle shifts of aura and intent. The creature lunged.
Ren dodged, not toward the team, but toward the trees. The Grimm crashed through the underbrush, its mass slamming into thick trunks. Wood cracked. Branches shattered. One tree fell, then another each impact tearing through hidden surveillance equipment.
Metal sparked and thw cameras went dark.
To anyone watching, it would look like an accident. Grimm activity. Environmental damage. To Ren, it felt like clearing space in the world where truth could breathe. When Nora finally doubled back, panting dramatically, she gave him a quick thumbs-up. "Ten seconds!" she stage-whispered. "Na-nailed it."

The team regrouped near a break in the forest where ancient stone jutted from the earth.
Old Ruins so much older than history remembered. Jaune stared at them, chest tight. Thinking that his aura is flickering weakly but is some reason thin and unstable. Every step through the forest had felt like walking through a dream he'd forgotten.
Pyrrha noticed immediately, once she payed attention to jaune, seeing all the wounds on him.
"You don't have your aura," she said softly.
Jaune frowned. "I—I thought I did."
Ren turned to him then, eyes calm but heavy with meaning. "You never needed it before."
Silence fell. Ruby blinked. "Before what?"
The ground hummed beneath their feet.
Blake pressed a hand to her temple. Weiss's breath caught. Yang clenched her fists, heart pounding without knowing why.

Images surfaced, fractured and incomplete.
Jaune running through this forest, bleeding, exhausted, alive anyway. Steel in his hands that felt like part of him. Falling. Standing. Falling again. "I've been here," Jaune whispered. "I've… done this." Pyrrha stepped closer. "You walked this forest without aura," she said, voice trembling, not with fear, but recognition. "You survived because you already knew how."
She met his eyes. "May I?" Jaune nodded.
Pyrrha placed her hands over his chest and focused. Aura flowed, not forcing, not overwhelming, but unlocking something that had always been there.
Light flared.
Jaune gasped as warmth surged through him—stronger than he expected. Familiar. His stance shifted without thought. His grip steadied. His movements felt practiced.

Yang stared. "Okay. That's new."
Ren spoke quietly. "No. It's remembered."
The ruins listened. Stone vibrated. And then...
The world tilted.

Not collapsing, but sliding sideways, like a page turned too fast. Stone became smooth beneath their feet. Broken pillars straightened. The forest receded. They stood in a town that no longer existed. Not the town, but one of many.

Sunlight spilled across wide streets and low stone homes. Banners fluttered softly in the breeze. Children ran laughing through the square, some already carrying faint sparks of aura. Parents called after them, smiling, unafraid. Jaune felt years settle into his bones.

This body was his. Older. Scarred. Known.
Ruby knelt near a fountain, helping a child fix a broken toy. Weiss and Winter spoke quietly at a watch post, not of war, but supplies. Blake and Yang stood together, guarding out of habit, not fear. Ren rested beneath a tree. Nora leaned against him, relaxed in a way that felt heartbreakingly rare.

And Cardin... He leaned against a wall, arms crossed, scolding kids practicing with wooden swords. "You don't swing like that," he grumbled. "You'll knock yourself over." They laughed. Velvet captured it all with a humming camera a new creation of her. It was peaceful, not perfect as nothing is but chosen for a simple life.

But it would never last, the warmth withdrew.
The air tightened.Two figures stepped into the square. Salem arrived first, pale and unmoving, eyes sharp with calculation.Beside her stood a man Jaune recognized instantly. Not Ozpin but the wizard knight Ozma. This incarnation was robed in white and gold, eyes burning with conviction. "You should not exist like this," Ozma said. "This place defies the will of the gods." Jaune stepped forward. "We're protecting people." "You gather souls," Ozma replied. "You teach them to remember.

Humanity must move forward or be judged." Salem laughed softly. "They grow without us," she said. "Without intervention. That is unacceptable." Ren moved to Jaune's side. Cardin followed.

"This ends here," Jaune said. Ozma's grip tightened. "You force my hand."What followed was not a battle. It was a correction. Stone collapsed precisely. Barriers shattered. The town was dismantled, not destroyed, but removed. Jaune fought Ozma, steel against light. "You taught us to protect humanity!" "And you taught them to defy the gods!" Salem struck, not to kill, but to separate.

When the dust settled....
Only three stood, Jaune, Ren and Cardin. The town was gone. Salem turned away. "This path leads only to grief." Ozma lingered. "The gods will not tolerate defiance." The vision shattered. They were back in the ruins.

Ruby fell to her knees. Weiss wept silently. Blake trembled. Yang burned with fury.
Jaune clenched his fists. "That wasn't the end."
Ren shook his head. "No." "There are more," he said quietly. "Different towns. Same result." He looked toward the sky.

"Before the wizard and the witch lost their children… there were many tragedies like this."
Silence. "So this time," Jaune said, standing tall, "we will be remembering everything." Far away, Salem felt the echo stir And in a quiet cliff, Ozpin paused, haunted by a town he could not remember, and many a choice he once believed was right.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Pyrrha Nikos had always been alone in a crowd.

Back in Mistral, at Sanctum Academy, she was the Invincible Girl—untouchable, literally and figuratively. Tournaments, cereal boxes, sponsorships, agents scheduling her every breath. People cheered from afar, whispered about her feats, but no one ever just... talked to her. No one dared sit next to her in the cafeteria without asking for an autograph first. She smiled politely, signed whatever was thrust at her, and went home to an empty dorm room that felt more like a trophy case than a living space.

Then came Arslan Altan.

Arslan was everything Pyrrha wasn't allowed to be: grounded, intense, unflinchingly serious. Training to become a warrior nun in the Tablebreaker Church, she moved like poetry in violence—bare-handed strikes that could shatter stone, aura control so precise it hummed like a hymn. She moved and spone with quiet authority, and from the moment they sparred in their first Sactum academy exhibition, Arslan locked onto Pyrrha like a heat-seeking missile.

"Pyrrha Nikos," Arslan had said after their match, bowing deeply. "You are a worthy opponent. I challenge you to prove who is the superior warrior between us."

Pyrrha blinked, flustered. "I... thank you? But it was only an exhibition—"

"Next time, we settle it properly."

And that was how it started.

The challenges escalated quickly, but never in the arena. Arslan, in her infinite stoic wisdom, decided that true superiority could only be determined through... everything.

First came the pie-eating contest at the Mistral Harvest Festival. Arslan cornered Pyrrha outside the tournament grounds, arms crossed, expression grave.

"Pyrrha Nikos! I challenge you to a pie-eating contest to determine who is the superior warrior between us!"

Pyrrha stared at the table piled high with blueberry, apple, and pumpkin pies. "Arslan, this is... a festival booth. For charity."

"Precisely. A warrior must endure hardship. Begin!"

They sat. The bell rang. Pyrrha, ever polite, took dainty bites at first. Arslan inhaled pies like a vacuum, face utterly serious, crumbs on her cheeks but eyes burning with competitive fire. By the end, Arslan's stack was gone, Pyrrha's barely dented.

"I... concede," Pyrrha said, wiping her mouth.

Arslan nodded solemnly. "Victory is mine. You fought well."

Pyrrha smiled hesitantly. "That was... fun, actually."

Arslan paused, then gave the tiniest upward twitch of her lips. "Indeed."

Next was rock-paper-scissors. In the middle of the Sanctum library, no less.

"Pyrrha Nikos! I challenge you to a best-of-twenty-one rock-paper-scissors contest to determine who is the superior warrior between us!"

The librarian shushed them furiously. Pyrrha, cheeks burning, agreed just to end the scene. They huddled over a study table, fists pumping.

Rock. Paper. Scissors.

Arslan threw rock every. Single. Time.

Pyrrha, trying to be strategic, varied her throws—and lost spectacularly.

"You... always throw rock," Pyrrha pointed out afterward.

"A warrior must be unyielding," Arslan replied, as if that explained everything.

Pyrrha laughed—a real, surprised laugh that made Arslan's ears turn pink.

Then came the shopping mall. Arslan appeared outside Pyrrha's favorite boutique, arms laden with bags already.

"Pyrrha Nikos! Today we shall go shopping and to the salon. We will determine who can achieve the greatest beauty, and thus prove who is the superior warrior between us!"

Pyrrha's agent nearly had a heart attack when paparazzi photos surfaced of the Invincible Girl trying on dresses with the stoic Haven prodigy. Arslan critiqued outfits with military precision: "This red complements your hair but lacks defensive coverage." At the salon, Arslan sat ramrod straight while stylists fussed over her platinum blonde hair, declaring, "Shinier hair denotes superior vitality!"

Pyrrha's hair ended up in loose waves, Arslan's in a sleek ponytail that somehow looked even more intimidating. The stylists declared it a tie.

"Acceptable," Arslan said. "For now."

There were more. Who could sneak into the back row of a movie theater longest without getting caught (Arslan lasted until the credits; Pyrrha got nervous and confessed halfway). Who could eat the spiciest street food without flinching (Arslan's face turned red, but she did not flinch; Pyrrha teared up and conceded immediately). Who could win more prizes at the arcade (Arslan dominated rhythm games with monastic focus; Pyrrha swept the crane machines with Polarity cheats she felt guilty about).

Pyrrha's agent banned "unscheduled public appearances." Pyrrha obeyed—mostly—but found herself looking forward to Arslan's dramatic declarations. They were the only times anyone treated her like a normal person. A rival, sure, but someone who saw her, not the pedestal.

Still, as fun as it was... Every challenge felt like proof Arslan was obsessed with beating her, proving dominance. It hurt, in a quiet way. Why couldn't Arslan just... be friends?

So when Arslan came to Beacon for the Vytal Festival, it weighed heavily on her mind.

"What's wrong, Pyr?" Jaune asked, noticing her tense mood at breakfast.

"It's Arslan," Pyrrha sighed. "She was my rival at Sanctum and now..." She winced as Arslan stared intensely at her from across the cafeteria."

"So, want us to break her legs?" Nora asked cheerfully. Pyrrha shook her head.

"No! No, not that! Just... Well... She was so perplexing."

"Oh? How?" Jaune asked, leaning forward. Ren watched Arslan carefully as Pyrrha spoke.

"Honestly, it was kind of fun in some ways, but also exhausting. Arslan wouldn't stop challenging me to duels. Duels at movies, restaurants, the shopping mall..."

Jaune paused mid-bite of pancake. "Wait, wait—she challenged you to duels as part of your rivalry at places other than the ring?"

"Yes! Like who could eat more pies or who could get their hair shinier or who could sneak into the back of the theater without getting caught longer... My agent hated it!"

Jaune stared. Nora snorted syrup. Ren kept eating calmly.

"...But did you hate it?" Jaune asked gently.

Pyrrha frowned. "I mean... sometimes it was fun, but I just wished she could be friends with me."

Jaune set his fork down. "Pyrrha. You went to movies, dinners, games, and had fun together, right? You were friends."

Pyrrha's eyes went wide. "Wait... we were?!"

"Yes," Jaune said with a nod. "I mean, she's a Stonebreaker Nun. Of the order of Saint Peter-Right?"

"Yes...? Is that important?" Pyrrha asked curiously.

Jaune sighed.

"To them, a rival is basically their best friend," he explained. "The person who helps them grow, become better, stronger, as a warrior and person."

Pyrrha blushed deeply.

"Y-You mean...?"

"She could have at least said as such," Jaune groaned, slumping forward onto the table. "Why are all Huntresses freaking insane...?"

Ren, without looking up, patted Jaune's shoulder with one hand while feeding Nora another pancake with the other.

Nora beamed. "Because we're awesome!"

Pyrrha blushed furiously. "I—I suppose you're right. I feel rather foolish now."

Jaune lifted his head, grinning. "Hey, at least you figured it out eventually. Better late than never."

Later that week, during a joint training session with visiting teams, Arslan approached Pyrrha—this time without a dramatic declaration.

"Pyrrha Nikos."

Pyrrha tensed out of habit. "Yes?"

Arslan shifted, almost shy. "Would you... spar with me? As friends."

Pyrrha's smile lit up the training yard. "I'd love to."

They fought—beautifully, fiercely, evenly matched. When it ended in another draw, Arslan offered her hand.

Pyrrha took it, pulling her into a quick, awkward hug instead.

Arslan stiffened—then relaxed, hugging back.

From the sidelines, Jaune watched with Ren and Nora.

"See?" Jaune said. "Told you."

Nora cheered. "Friendship through violence! The best kind!"

Ren nodded. "Efficient."

Arslan then let Pyrrha go.

"I am sorry I did not make my intentions clear-"

"I am sorry I didn't recognize it," Pyrrha said softly.

"Well..." Arslan glanced at Jaune, and then back at Pyrrha. "I have a new challenge. Let us go out with our teams and see who can have the most fun!"

Pyrrha grinned.

"I would like that!"

 

[AndrewJTalon]

RWBY, JNPR, SSSN, and a few others were all in a Secret Father Winter... And so...

Nora: "Ooh! Money? Who gave me this?"

All: "Weiss."

Weiss: blush "What?! Everyone could use some money!"

Nora: "Aw, I wanted pancakes!"

Nora's Brain: Money can buy many pancakes!

Nora: gasp "Explain!"

Nora's Brain: Money can be exchanged for goods and services.

Nora: "HOORAY! THANK YOU WEISSY!" Hugs her

Weiss: blush "Well... At least someone appreciates me!"

Yang: "Uh huh. Well... Let's see... What did I... Huh? Goggles and a headscarf? And a tool set?"

Jaune: "That's from me. My dad and sister both ride motorcycles, so I asked them what you needed. I mean, your hair is really pretty when you're riding your bike in the wind and all, but keeping it covered means it doesn't get caught or ruined."

Yang: blush "Ah, well... Thanks, VB. Heh. Maybe I'll give you a special gift later~."

Jaune: "But that's not how Secret Father Winter works-"

Pyrrha: "Jaune! How about you open my gift to you?"

Jaune: "Oh, thanks Pyr!" opens it "Oh wow! Swing Dance lessons! Great! But I already know how to do it."

Pyrrha: "Oh, um, I don't! You could take me!"

Jaune: "It would be nice to teach you something, even if it's useless."

Pyrrha: "Oh, it isn't!"

Yang: "Or you could take me, Stud. I'd love to learn how to swing it with you."

Pyrrha: "I-I need the lessons more!"

Weiss: "You're seriously arguing over who gets to spend time with the Dolt?"

Jaune: "We could go dancing, Weiss!"

Weiss: "Fat chance!"

Jaune: "Aw..."

Sun: "Let me see my gift... Ooh! A weapon cleaning kit! Let me guess Blake, you got me this?"

Ruby: "What? No! I did! Everyone needs a good weapons cleaning kit! Especially you!"

Sun: "I... Oh. Thanks kid."

Ruby: pouts "I'm not a kid dangit! Blake! Open your gift!"

Blake: "Very well..." She opens it. She blinks "This is just a link to Neptune's Flashygram page."

Neptune: "Of course! What would be a better gift that the gift of moi?"

Sage: "That's a non-refundable gift, isn't it?"

Neptune: "HEY!"

 

[Sliverhero]

Remember part 3

For this one I decided to try intersect two povs hope it works.

The ceremony moved forward whether Ozpin was ready or not. Students stood in neat rows across Beacon's great hall, faces bright with excitement, nerves, and ambition. Banners hung high above them, stirring faintly in the air. Glynda stood at the edge of the stage, posture perfect, eyes sharp and observant.

Ozpin held the scroll. His voice was steady as he spoke, practiced over lifetimes. But his mind was not in the hall. It was elsewhere, during a time far older than Beacon. Far heavier than the moment demanded. How many times have I stood here? he wondered.

The ruins did not fall silent. They listened.
Stone still thrummed beneath their feet, echoing lives that had never truly ended. The air was heavy with memory, pressing down until breathing felt like wading through water.
Ruby was the first to break. She dropped to her knees, hands clutching at her chest as if something vital had been torn free.
"I..." Her voice cracked. "They were calling me Mom." Yang froze. Weiss sucked in a sharp breath. Blake staggered, catching herself against a broken pillar. Pyrrha's knees buckled, and she sat hard on the stone, eyes wide and shining. Jaune felt it then, the final lock breaking. "They were ours," he said quietly.

Ozpin's gaze drifted across the crowd, and for just a heartbeat, the faces blurred into others.
People who had trusted him., who believed in him. They followed him. All the People he had failed. Villages passed by because they were inconvenient. Communities that did not fit neatly into the gods' design.

Souls who only wanted to live quietly, raise children, grow without judgment. He had told himself it was necessary. That obedience was wisdom. That the Brother Gods knew better.
That his role was to guide humanity within their rules, not question them. Coward, a quiet voice whispered, not accusing, just true.

Yang turned on Jaune, eyes blazing and shattered all at once. "You knew?" "I didn't," Jaune replied. "Not until now." The memories surged. Not visions imposed by magic , but lived experience finally returning home. Ruby remembered teaching a little girl how to hold a wooden scythe, too big for her arms.
Yang remembered lifting a boy onto her shoulders so he could see festival lights.
Weiss remembered arguing budgets not for kingdoms but for schools.
Poor Winter alone on an airship, looking out the window remembering different lives, including standing watch so children could sleep without fear.

Blake remembered bedtime stories and lessons on listening, to danger and to hope.
Pyrrha remembered guiding small hands, never pushing, always believing.
And Jaune...
Jaune remembered holding them as the world collapsed. Not one child but Several looking up for him to protect them. His children, Their children together. To his his greatest rage and sorrow he failed.

He dropped to his knees, hands pressed to the stone like it might keep him from breaking.
"I tried to keep them safe," he whispered. "We all did." Ruby crawled to him and buried her face in his chest, sobbing. Yang wrapped her arms around both of them, shaking with silent rage.
"They were taken," Blake said hoarsely.
"No," Pyrrha said, voice trembling with certainty. "They were erased."


Ozpin thought of Salem.
Not the witch she became, but the woman she once was. The one who begged him to stop accepting divine cruelty as fate. The one who wanted humanity to move on, to live without being corrected. If only you had been allowed to move on, he thought. If only I had chosen differently. The scroll felt heavier in his hands.
How many tragedies had been born not of malice, but of inaction?
Of choosing order over compassion?
Of following commands instead of conscience?
His eyes drifted, unbidden, to a blond boy near the center of the crowd. Jaune Arc stood straight, expression calm, almost thoughtful.
Too thoughtful for a first-year. A soul that wants peace, Ozpin thought. And yet... Fear coiled quietly in his chest. If they remember… will it already be too late? And worse, should I even try to stop them?

A quiet footstep echoed through the ruins.
Ren and Nora stood apart from the others, near the heart of the ancient stone. Nora's usual brightness was gone. Ren's calm held devastation beneath it. "We remember too," Ren said. Nora knelt, pressing her palm to the stone. "Ours were different." Jaune looked up. "You and Nora." Ren nodded. "Always." "Same souls," Nora whispered. "Different names. Different laughs." Her voice wavered. "But they always ran toward him first." Ren closed his eyes. "And they always slept better when she sang."
The ruins seemed to breathe with them.

Ozpin inhaled, grounding himself. The present demanded his attention. "Ruby Rose," he said aloud. The girl stepped forward, wide-eyed but determined. "From this moment forward," Ozpin continued, voice clear despite the storm inside him, "you will be known as Team RWBY."
Applause followed. Smiles. Relief. Names continued to be called. Partners assigned. Teams formed by chance, by fate, by forces Ozpin could no longer pretend to understand.
"Jaune Arc. Pyrrha Nikos. Lie Ren. Nora Valkyrie."Ozpin paused, just a fraction of a second. "Team JNPR."

Weiss wiped her eyes at the ruins and forced herself to think. "If those towns existed… then the vaults existed too." Jaune's head snapped up. "Yes," Ren said. "Our vaults." "And the original one," Jaune added. The stone beneath them answered, vibrating deeper, older than memory. "Before Maidens," Ren explained. "Before keys. A vault hidden not just from humanity…" "…but from the gods," Blake finished. "Is it still there?" Ruby asked softly.
Ren closed his eyes, sensing. "Yes. Anchored outside the cycle. Untouched." "So they didn't take everything," Yang muttered. "No," Jaune said, standing slowly. "They never could."

Ozpin watched the newly formed teams settle together. They laughed quietly. They exchanged looks of trust. They looked like they can be the next hope for the people.
They could be a good batch, he thought. Strong. Kind. Capable.If the world allows them to graduate. If I allow them.
For the first time in centuries, Ozpin did not feel like a man guiding humanity forward.
He felt like a witness...
Standing at the edge of a story that might finally move beyond him.

At the ruins, Jaune felt it again. Not metal or magic, but only a single glorious purpose.
Something being forged deep within his soul, not to destroy creation, but to end judgment.
"It's almost ready," he murmured. Ruby looked up. "What is?" Jaune met her eyes, steady and unafraid. "A way," he said, "to make sure no one ever loses their children to the will of gods again."

Far away, Salem stirred.
And in a way, a wizard felt a grief he could not name...
And feared a reckoning he might finally deserve.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Another reason Glynda dreaded Jaune Arc being at Beacon... His family.

Nick: bursts into a classroom "PROFESSOR PORT!"

Port: "Nick, old boy! How are you? Merry Aslanmas!"

Nick: "YOU TOO! Come on, Jaune! We're going on a Holiday Train Ride! All your friends are invited! There will be eggnog, hot cocoa, candy canes, cakes, and plenty of Grimm to kill! I even got you an autocannon!"

Jaune: "WOOHOO!"

Ruby: "What kind?"

Nick: "The kind that shoots 20mm rounds 1000 times a minute of Aslanmas cheer!"

Ruby: "YAY!"

And Isabel, surprisingly... Is almost as bad.

Isabel: "All right everyone! Our Aslanmas Sweaters are all ready, and all ugly! Let's take fun photos while wearing them!"

Weiss: glares at Yang and Pyrrha... And Ruby... And Blake... And May... "Why are they all so tight except on me?"

Blake: "You know why."

 

[AndrewJTalon]

The Saint Lucy's Orphanage had transformed its main hall into a proper winter wonderland for the fundraiser. Warm wooden walls glowed under strings of golden lights, shelves overflowed with donated toys, and hand-painted Aslanmas banners fluttered gently overhead—lions rampant, stars of the north, the whole bit. At the center sat an honest-to-goodness carved oak throne piled with furs and pillows, flanked by a massive evergreen draped in paper chains made by the kids.

Jaune Arc—decked out in deep red and blue robes trimmed with white fur, silver embroidery swirling like wind and snow, an ushanka atop his head, and a very authentic-looking beard—was in his element. Father Winter, Remnant's own guardian of joy and miracles, boomed with laughter that echoed off the rafters as each child climbed up, whispered their dreams, and scampered off with candy canes and wide eyes. Arslan Altan, in a deep green tunic, green cape and pointed hat that somehow still looked dignified on her, stood at his side handing out small wooden toys and offering the occasional dry remark when a kid got too grabby.

During a brief break, Jaune sighed and slumped back in his throne.

"I still can't believe I got 'voluntold' to do this by Professor Goodwitch."

Arslan smiled gently.

"You're perfect at it: Your gestures, your kind eyes, the voice-"

"It's rough on my throat," Jaune mumbled, rubbing his Adam's apple.

"The children adore it," Arslan said. She rested a hand on his forearm, "And you're bringing joy to them. Hope. That is the core of the season, and the mission of Father Winter."

Jaune blushed, and slowly nodded.

"Thanks," he murmured. "Still, why did you volunteer?"

Arslan flushed slightly, and cleared her throat.

"I too enjoy making children happy," she said quietly. "Sometimes I can be intimidating."

Jaune chuckled.

"Not as an elf you aren't."

Arslan made a face.

"That is another issue. Elves weren't in the Good Book. How did they get added in? It feels sacrilegious somehow."

"Well," Jaune tried… But he trailed off as his eyes went wide behind his half-moon spectacles. "Oh no."

Team RWBY and the rest of JNPR walked into the main lobby of the orphanage, all decked out for the cold weather.

Why are they here?! Jaune thought frantically.

Jaune's stomach dropped straight through the throne, but Father Winter didn't flinch. He just adjusted his beard and boomed,

"Ho ho ho! Welcome, young huntresses and huntsmen! Come, come, the night is merry and full of wonders!"

Arslan raised one perfect eyebrow at him. "Subtle," she muttered under her breath.

"Not like I have any choice," he muttered back.

First came Ruby, practically vibrating with excitement. She bounced right up and plopped onto his lap without hesitation.

"Hi Father Winter! Okay, so I've been really good—mostly—and I'd like some of those new high-precision micro-tools for Crescent Rose, the ones from Atlas with the adjustable torque settings? Oh, and…"

She paused and worried her lower lip. She glanced back at her friends beyond the garland covered fence, and looked back to Father Winter.

"... And I wanna be a good leader. Like, a really good one. My team's kinda crazy and I'm scared I'll mess it up. Since I've messed it up a lot."

Jaune's heart squeezed. He rested a gentle hand on her shoulder.

He didn't know what Jaune Arc should say, but he knew what Father Winter would.

"Little Rose, you'll do fine. Sometimes leading means laying down the law with love—and you've got friends who'll stand with you. That tall blond boy on your sister team, Jaune was it? He'll help. He believes in you."

Ruby's eyes went comically wide. "How did you—?!"

Father Winter tapped the side of his nose. "Wouldn't be much of a winter spirit if I didn't know these things, now would I?"

Ruby squealed, kissed his cheek, and zipped off shouting "BEST TRADITION EVER!"

Weiss approached next, arms crossed, cheeks pink. She perched on the edge of his knee like she was afraid of catching something.

"This is absurd and I am here under protest. You'd better not be some pervert in a costume."

"Only the finest volunteer, my dear," Jaune assured her in his deepest Father Winter rumble. "No judgment here."

"Indeed," Arslan said.

Weiss huffed.

"I'm only doing this because Ruby insisted. But... fine. Can I be a better friend? To Ruby, to... to my other friends? I don't always know how."

Beneath the beard, Jaune smiled softly.

"Ice can hide the warmest heart, child. They already see the good in you. Meet them halfway when you're ready—no rush. Friends are patient."

Weiss blinked, then gave the tiniest smile. "That's... actually decent advice for a holiday volunteer." She stood, smoothing her skirt. "Thank you."

Yang sauntered up next, grinning like a cat in cream. She dropped into his lap with deliberate flair.

"Hey there, big guy. Got room for one more?"

Jaune coughed, cheeks burning under the beard.

"There are children present, Miss Xiao Long."

Yang laughed. "Relax, I'm good. Motorcycle could use a tune-up—maybe some new shocks? And..." Her voice softened, just a touch.

"What?" Jaune asked softly.

"A boyfriend would be nice. Someone who gets me. Not a jerk, not a creep. Someone I could maybe ride across Remnant with someday. There's this dork at school—total goof, but he's sweet. Real sweet. Competition's fierce, but I play to win."

Jaune chuckled warmly. "Sounds like this fellow's denser than a fruitcake. Subtle hints won't work on an idiot like that. Just tell him straight, my dear. Courage is the best gift."

Yang's grin turned sharp and hopeful. She kissed his cheek. "Direct. I like it. Thanks, Father Winter."

Blake lingered at the back until Ruby literally dragged her forward. Ruby then skipped back with a smile. Blake scowled at her and then back at Jaune. She coughed.

"Ruby blackmailed me," she muttered, ears flat under her bow as she sat stiffly.

"You never have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable," Jaune said gently.

Blake exhaled. "She made this feel like a confession."

She looked over at Arslan, who stared back impassively.

"No judgement, and nothing leaves here," Jaune said gently.

Blake shook her head, worrying her lower lip.

"I just... I want to know if I can ever forgive myself. For everything."

"That's a heavy gift to ask for," he said softly. "But running from it won't make it lighter. You've got people who care—people who'd stand with you if you'd let them. Maybe start with one. That monkey boy over there donating toys? He looks like he'd listen."

Blake followed his gaze to Sun, arms full of boxes, laughing with some kids. Even though he wore a parka, he still had it open to show off his bare chest.

Something softened in her eyes.

"Yeah. Maybe I will." She stood. "Thanks."

As she walked toward Sun, Jaune leaned toward Arslan. "Exhausting, but good-hearted."

"Agreed," Arslan said dryly.

Ren approached next, expression calm but faintly pained. He lowered himself onto the throne with the dignity of a man attending his own execution. Jaune coughed.

"You don't have to sit if—"

"Tradition," Ren said simply. "I'm Pathist, but Nora loves Aslanmas. I just want her to be happy. All of them happy. I don't want to lose this family." His voice dropped. "I'm afraid of losing them. I bury it."

Jaune rested a hand on Ren's arm. "Burying fear doesn't kill it. Face it with them—train, grow, stand together. That's how you keep what matters."

Ren nodded slowly. Then, quieter: "It's absurd no one else has noticed it's you."

Jaune's eyes crinkled. "Right?"

Pyrrha came last among his friends, shy and hesitant. She sat carefully, hands folded in her lap.

"I um… I've never done this before," she admitted. "Well not outside staged events. I just wanted to… To do it for myself, you know?"

Jaune nodded slowly.

"It's all right," he said, "Say whatever you want."

Pyrrha was silent for a bit, before she began to speak, slow and soft.

"I just want courage," she whispered. "To be honest with the people I love. I'm so used to being the Invincible Girl... I'm not sure who I am without it. And there's this prophecy from when I was young—that I'll rise high but fall, live bright but burn out fast. It's hard. Because there's someone I… I really care about and he has no idea and I just…"

She paused and shook her head.

"I feel like such a coward for not being honest."

Jaune's heart ached. "Prophecies are just stories until we write the ending. Fate brought you friends who love you—all of you, not just the champion. Be brave enough to show them the real Pyrrha. You've got the courage. You've always had it."

Pyrrha's eyes shimmered. She kissed his cheek gently.

"Thank you." As she stood, she smiled at Arslan. "Hello, Arslan."

Arslan inclined her head. "We should spar sometime."

Pyrrha took a breath, wore a glamorous smile.

"I never wanted to continue our rivalry-"

"I do, but as friends," Arslan said softly, "That's all I have ever wanted from you. I am sorry I did not explain it properly."

Pyrrha blinked, surprised and touched. She beamed.

"I'd... like that very much."

After Pyrrha left, Arslan murmured, "I thought she knew I considered her a friend back at Sanctum. Clearly I was not direct enough. She should not feel so alone."

"She's lucky to have people who notice now," Jaune agreed quietly. Arslan flushed and smiled gently.

Then came Nora—full launch, arms wide, nearly knocking him backward even with the bulk of the throne holding him up.

"Father Winter! I want Renny to smile more and be super happy! And for me to be happy with him! And Jaune-Jaune to stop being such a sad sack! And Pyrrha to open up! And pancakes forever!"

Jaune laughed, hugging her tight. "All reasonable requests. Consider them delivered, little thunderbolt."

Nora hugged back fiercely, then whispered in his ear, "You're the best, Jaune-Jaune. Secret's safe."

Nora flounced off, joining the rest of their friends. He smiled and waved back at them as they headed for the exit. He leaned back in his throne, his heart light and full of joy.

He was riding high—actually feeling pretty darn good about himself—when a local mother guided her fussy toddler forward. The little girl, maybe two, clambered up his knees. He reached out to hold her when she grabbed a fistful of beard for balance, and yanked.

The entire fake beard came off with a loud rip of spirit gum.

Arslan lunged, throwing her elven cape in front of Jaune's face just in time to block the kids' view, but every single one of his friends—gathered near the exit with hot cocoa and cookies—saw everything.

Dead silence.

Jaune coughed awkwardly, beard dangling from one hand.

Nora's eyes narrowed into a terrifying glare at the oblivious toddler.

"YOU BROKE THE SPELL! NOW I WON'T GET MY WISH! THANKS A LOT, KID!"

"NORA, STOP YELLING AT CHILDREN!" Jaune shouted, voice cracking back to normal.

"NEVER!"

Ruby's mouth hung open. Weiss looked like she'd been slapped with a fish. Yang was gaping, her entire face bright red. Blake's ears were straight up in shock under her bow while Sun doubled over laughing hard. Pyrrha's hands flew to her mouth. Ren just closed his eyes like he was praying for patience.

Arslan sighed, long and suffering.

"Happy Aslanmas, everyone."

- - -

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

And elves on Remnant have capes because I say so.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Mia had her own little bed wedged right next to Jaune's in the JNPR dorm, a tiny fortress of blankets and stuffed animals. He was trying (really trying) to let her stay there all night, to give her that sliver of independence she'd need someday. Most nights she still ended up crawling in with him anyway, but tonight she'd stayed put.

Until she didn't.

She woke up groggy, eyes sticky with sleep, and padded barefoot out of the room on a mission she only half-remembered. Down the hall, past the correct kitchenette, straight into RWBY's.

The only light came from the open fridge door. Yang stood hunched in front of it, hair tied up in a messy bun, tank top and shorts, muttering to herself.

"Where did Ruby put the eggs now?... I keep telling her those are for protein…"

A small voice, soft and uncertain, floated up from the doorway.

"Mama…?"

Yang spun around. "Wha—?"Her eyes landed on Mia, barefoot in her pajamas, clutching her teddy bear, rubbing one eye with a fist.

She dropped to a knee instantly, voice hushed. "Mia? What are you doing up so late?"

"Mama… Had bad dream… Want water…"Mia toddled forward and wrapped both arms around Yang's neck.

Yang went very, very still.This had happened before, years ago, with a much smaller Ruby.But Mia wasn't Ruby.

"Sweetie… I'm not…"Mia just hugged tighter.

Yang's heart cracked right down the middle. She scooped the little girl up with one arm, settling her on her hip. "Do you want it extra cold?"

"Yeah… With lemon…"

Yang smiled, small and shaky. "Alright… let me cut you a lemon then…"She set Mia on the counter, sliced a wedge of lemon, poured cold water into a plastic cup with little crescent moons on it, dropped the lemon in, and carried both cup and child to the couch.

"…Do you want to tell me about your dream?"

"Mmhm… Daddy was fighting… He was fighting darkness… It all got dark… And I screamed for him… He didn't come…"

"Darkness?" Yang pulled Mia into her side; the little girl burrowed in without hesitation, face pressed to Yang's ribs. "And then you woke up?"

"Mmhm… I saw Daddy. He was okay… He's tired. And sad."

"Sad? Why is he sad?"

"He misses you… He works really hard for me and stuff…"

Mia lifted her head, eyes huge and earnest. "Why'd you have to go away…?"

Yang's throat closed. Raven's back as she walked away. Summer's grave. A hundred nights asking the exact same question.

"I…" Her voice came out strangled. "Sweetie I'm… so sorry…"

"Daddy says you didn't wanna go…"

"No… No I didn't. But I… I didn't have a choice." The words spilled out before she could stop them, raw and aching. "But every day… I miss you… and your father so, so, so much, Mia. And I'm so proud of you… for who you've become. And I… I…"

Breaker, Jaune, I'm so sorry for this.

"I love you and your father so much… and I'm so sorry…"

Her eyes burned. She was losing the fight against tears when Mia wriggled up and settled herself in Yang's lap, arms around her neck again.

Snuggled close, Mia's voice faded into a sleepy whisper. "Love you Mama…"

A single, broken sob slipped out of Yang. "…I love you too Mia…"

She didn't go to the gym. Didn't move an inch. She sat there on the couch until her own eyes drifted shut, Mia's warmth anchored against her chest, and slept.

- - -

Morning came soft and gray.

Jaune woke, saw the empty cot, and didn't panic. He'd done this dance before. Hoodie on, hair still a mess, he checked their common room, then padded to RWBY's door and eased it open.

Thank the Breaker.

Yang was curled on her side, cheek resting atop Mia's blonde curls. Mia's arms were still looped around Yang's waist like she'd never let go.

Jaune's shoulders sagged in relief. He crossed the room quietly and crouched, gently shaking Yang's shoulder. "Yang?"

She didn't wake at first—just tightened her hold on Mia with a sleepy murmur. He tried again.

"Yang."

Her eyes fluttered. "Huh… wah…" She smacked her lips, blinked up at him, and then everything crashed back in at once. "Jaune?! Um… it's… I didn't—"

"It's okay. Mia wanders off sometimes when she sleeps."

"I… yeah… ok…"Yang's voice shook. She didn't make a single move to dislodge the child glued to her front.

Jaune carefully slid his arms under Mia and lifted her. For a second Mia clung to Yang, tiny fingers fisted in her tank top.

"Hey sweetie… Time to wake up…"

"Nnngh… Mmph…" Mia pouted, curled into Jaune instead, and promptly went boneless again.

Jaune chuckled under his breath. "All right. Another hour."

He carried her back to JNPR, tucked her into the little bed, and returned to find Yang exactly where he'd left her—curled into a tight ball on the couch, arms wrapped around herself.

He sat on the coffee table in front of her. "Everything okay?"

She was quiet so long he thought she wouldn't answer. Then, hoarse and barely audible:

"…She called me Mom."

Jaune froze. "…O-Oh…"

Yang nodded, slow. "I was… getting ready to go work out… since the gyms are usually empty at that time… And I guess… since she was so tired… her kid brain saw my blond hair… and… everything… and thought I was her."

"I see…"

She swallowed hard. "I wanted to tell her that I wasn't her… just… her Auntie Yang… but she… Jaune, I'm so sorry."

"I… I'm sorry, Yang."

"No! Nonono, it… It's okay."

He sighed. "…You know, when she looks at pictures or vids of Katy? It's like… It's like she's looking at a stranger."

"…I get that actually…" Jaune blinked, confused. Yang turned to him with a sad, tired smile. "This happened with Ruby too once… when we were younger…"

"Oh? Oh," Jaune's tone changed as he realized. Yang slowly nodded.

"Yeah… when Dad shut down after Summer died… I took care of everything y'know? I cooked, I cleaned… Heck, I helped teach Ruby how to read so she wouldn't make a fool of herself at school… Learned how to make a mean omelette at seven…" She tried for a laugh; it came out wet. "And Ruby? She idolizes Summer… or at least the idea of her… because Summer died before she could ever really meet her in a sense."

Jaune stayed silent, letting her spill.

"And then one night… when I turned off the lights and told Ruby good night? I heard her in the dark say 'good night mom' back…"Her whole body shook. "I… I was seven years old, Jaune…"

"Oh God… Yang…"He pulled her into a hug without thinking. She folded forward and cried quietly into his shoulder while he stroked her hair—slow, careful, the way he did for Mia.

"I… I was seven years old… doing laundry for three… cooking for three… while doing my homework, homeschooling my sister… Ruby never called me that again… I don't think she even remembers it but… but when she said that… I didn't know what to do Jaune…"

Jaune kept stroking her hair, trying to pour every ounce of comfort he had into the motion.

"…I… I wouldn't know what to do, either…"

Yang didn't answer, just relaxed a fraction and inhaled shakily. "So when Mia called me her mom? It was… it was like I was seven all over again… but this time it was…"

"…It was?"

"…I don't know Jaune… wrong? She… I get that she was tired and confused but… with Ruby… Ruby is my sister. She's family. But with Mia? She's… gods I don't know how to explain this. She's yours Jaune. She's not mine. But when she hugged me tight… told me she had a bad dream… about how much you miss Katy… I panicked… and for five minutes, to her… I was Katy Arc. And I'm so sorry Jaune."

"…It's okay, Yang… Look. I don't… I don't know if it's wrong. I just know… I mean… She was smiling in her sleep after a nightmare. And you did that."

"We will have to talk to her about her Mom… Being gone. It's like, she kind of gets it? But she doesn't… Really understand it."

He sighed. "I just… I'm sorry if it brought back bad memories, Yang."

"It's… It's fine. There's no way either of you could have known."She forced a grin that wobbled hard. "I just wish Ruby fell asleep as easy as Mia does, y'know? When she was younger?"

"Yang…" He looked at her, worried. "…If you don't want to be a mom I—I get it."

"You kidding? I'd love to be a mom… have my own kid you know? Smother them with so much love they'd never be afraid of me leaving them…"She winced. "I just… I wish I didn't have to get an early access pass to it y'know? No offense! I—oh gods that sounds so messed up given the context…"

"No, no… I get it." His voice went dark, quiet. "I do… I feel like I grew up ten years overnight when Katy…"

"It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong. She just… Even if she doesn't know her, she misses her. So… Thanks for being there for her."

Yang's smile turned soft, real. "For her? Anything…"She rested her head on his shoulder. They sat in silence a moment, then she added, small smile against his hoodie, "You know… from one single parent to another?... You've done a mighty fine job, Mr. Arc."

"Well… You did a great job with Ruby, Miss Xiao-Long." He smiled back.

"Heh. Don't I know it…"

"Thanks though, Yang. Um… Look. My team, you guys… You've been helping me out a lot. I know it's selfish to bring her with me…"

"Not really… Again, I'm probably the only one who can kind of, maybe relate to what it's like… being you. And if right now, Ruby was still five years old? I wouldn't want her anywhere else but with me here either. Besides… she's adorable! Who wouldn't be okay with her around here, livening up the place?"

She nestled deeper into his shoulder. "We're here for you… I'm here for you. And always will be…"

"…Thanks Yang."He wrapped an arm around her and held her close.

"…Just… Don't let me do anything stupid. I promised I'd always be there for her…"

"Don't worry… even without her around, I'd be doing that anyways I think. And honestly, just like how I'm here for you, I'm here for Mia too."They sat, comfortable, quiet. Then: "….Hey do you think Mia would want to come to the gym with me at some point? No, that's crazy right?"

"I think she'd love it. Just take it easy on her, huh? She just figured out jump rope."

Yang snickered. "Can you imagine Mia throwing Weiss around like a ragdoll at… what is she now? 4? Or better yet, Cardin?"

Jaune actually laughed. "That would be funny."

"Maybe I'll ask her… once her hour is up."She tilted her head to look up at him, cheek still on his shoulder, his fingers still threading gently through the ends of her hair. "You wanna join us? Could be fun."

"I would love to."

"Cool." She smiled, turned forward again, and tried to hide her red cheeks.

It's… a date I guess. I mean… not a date-date, a friend date. With a friend and his adorable child. Totally not a date.

…Probably.

 

[Sliverhero]

Remember christmas interlude
Set in the not to future.

Snow fell differently on Beacon now.
Not heavier. Not colder. Just… slower, as if the world itself wanted to linger. Lanterns lined the upper walkways, glowing gold and soft blue, their light reflecting off frost-kissed stone. Someone Ruby, inevitably, had convinced the faculty to allow decorations that absolutely did not meet standard academy austerity guidelines. Paper stars, ribbon-wrapped railings, even a small evergreen growing in a reinforced planter, adorned with mismatched ornaments from every kingdom.

They called it Aslanmas now, not Christmas, not anymore. For many its a remembrance day, others a defiance day, but to the few a promise.
Team RWBY and JNPR sat bundled together near the courtyard fire pit, mugs steaming in their hands. Velvet perched on the low wall, sketchbook forgotten in her lap. Cardin leaned against a pillar nearby, arms crossed, expression unusually thoughtful. Winter stood slightly apart, posture formal out of habit, but she hadn't stepped away.
Not tonight.

Ruby broke the silence first, voice soft. "Do you remember… the first one?" Yang snorted quietly. "Which one? Before the gods? During? Or after everything went wrong?" Ruby smiled faintly. "All of them." The fire popped. Snow hissed as it touched flame. Jaune stared into the embers. "Before… it was simple. No speeches. No meaning layered on top of meaning." His voice warmed with memory. "Just food, bad songs, and kids trying to stay awake." Velvet nodded eagerly. "They'd fall asleep everywhere. Under tables. In boots. Once, I found one curled up in a basket of yarn." Blake smiled at that, eyes distant. "Stories mattered more than gifts. Not the ending, just the telling."

Weiss exhaled slowly. "After the gods came…" She hesitated, then continued. "It became controlled. Measured. Approved." A bitter edge crept in despite herself. "Joy with limits." Winter closed her eyes briefly. "I remember standing watch while children slept," she said. "Armed. On a holiday." A pause. "I thought it was duty."
Yang glanced at her. "You kept them safe."
Winter opened her eyes. "I tried." Ren spoke quietly. "During the worst years… Aslanmas was forbidden in some places." His fingers tightened around his cup. "But people still lit candles. Quietly. One per child." Nora leaned into him. "And sang," she added. "Soft. So the gods wouldn't hear."

Cardin surprised them all by speaking. "We hid bread," he said gruffly. "If you shared food, you shared guilt. So we did it anyway." He shrugged. "Didn't know why, just knew it mattered."
Jaune finally looked up. "They couldn't erase it," he said. "That's why it scared them."
The fire crackled brighter for a moment, as if agreeing. Ruby stood and lifted a small, crooked ornament, a wooden scythe carved by hand. She hung it on the little tree. "For them," she said simply. No one needed clarification.

Far from Beacon, in a place untouched by seasons but still marked by time, a table stood between two immortals.No Grimm. No weapons.Just tea and two still grieving parents.
Salem set a small candle between them and lit it with a snap of her fingers. "Ten years already," she said quietly. Ozpin adjusted his glasses. "You're early." She gave a humorless smile. "So are you."

They sat. Silence stretched, not hostile, just careful. "She loved the snow," Salem said at last. "Even when it hurt her lungs." Ozpin nodded. "She used to steal my cloak. Said it smelled like old books and safety." Salem huffed softly. "She was wrong about the books." "She always was," he replied.

Another pause.

"The other one," Salem continued, voice softer, "used to hum when she thought no one was listening." Ozpin's fingers tightened around his cup. "I remember." They drank, no accusations tonight, No blame against eachother. Just memory and their own guilt.

"They call it Aslanmas now," Ozpin said.
Salem looked at the candle. "Good. Names matter." "Yes," he agreed. Then, quietly, "They're still alive, in them." Salem didn't answer immediately. When she did, it was almost a whisper. "Then perhaps… this time… we let them finish the story." The candle burned steady between them.

Back at Beacon, snow continued to fall.
Jaune closed his eyes and felt it,deep, quiet, unwavering. Not wrath. Not vengeance.
Resolve. Aslanmas was never about what was taken, It was about what endured, what to give and to bring hope.
And finally somewhere beyond gods, beyond cycles, something long denied was finally learning how to breathe again.

 

[TheFabulousCustodes]

Team RWBY's Not So Jolly Early Aslanmas!
​

Ruby - "Stupid early morning mandatory Nondescript Winter Holiday assembly!"

Yang - "When I find the person that started the war on Aslanmas, those holiday backstabbers better be ready to catch some hands!"

Ruby - "Ditto!"

Weiss - "Honestly, this worked up over an assembly, and having to open presents an hour later! You're acting like someone stole the gifts from the team gift exchange before we leave for our respective homes later today."

Blake - "Those of us that are leaving. Personally, I'll be enjoying the peace and quiet with virtually everyone gone."

Ruby - "The presents! Team RWBY to the common room!"

A short time later in the Team RWBY/JNPR Common Room
​

Blake - "Is it just me, or do our presents look..... different?"

Ruby - "Did Jaune, and his team open ours by mistake?"

Yang - "Our names are on them though...."

Weiss - "The White Witch took our presents! I knew your shenanigans that you kept dragging me into would land me on the naughty list! Now her servant Krumpus has stolen my gift, and left a punishment instead!"

Ruby - "Weiss, I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything. Look, I'll open my gift first, and I'm sure everything will be fine!"

*Ruby opens her wrapped Aslanmas box, and reveals a collection of freshly baked cookies*
​

Ruby - "See, nothing wrong at all! Just a box of freshly baked, perfectly normal, non evil cookies."

*Ruby proceeds to take a big bite of a cookie*
​

Ruby - "Gggghhhkkk!!!"

Weiss - "See, I told you they were punishment!"

Yang - "Rubes, are you ok?!? Are they poisioned?!?"

Blake - "Those don't smell like poision, I think they're...."

Ruby - "Even worse than poison! They're oatmeal raisin, and I need milk to wash my mouth out!"

*Ruby vanishes in a cloud of rose petals in the direction of the cafeteria*
​

Blake - "Well, who's next?"

Yang - "I'll go next, it's not like anything bad can come in a card."

*Yang tears open her envelope*
​

Yang - "Motorcycle license suspension!?! How many points?!? Oh crap, they notified Dad too?!? I've gotta go!"

*Yang darts out of the Common Room*
​

Weiss - "Well, It's just the two of us now that those dolts are gone, and an envelope each."

Blake - "Open them at the same time?"

Weiss - "I suppose we may as well."

*Riiiiiiip*
​

Weiss - "SENSITIVITY....."

Blake - "TRAINING?!?!"

*Elsewhere at Beacon*
​

Ozpin - "Ahhh, there you are Glynda, I see you've received some presents already!"

Glynda - "You might say that, Headmaster."

*Ozpin stares at the pile of presents, and baked goods which Glynda is currently munching on*
​

Ozpin - "Glynda, are you playing at being Krumpus again? I know Team RWBY's antics this year have been...."

Glynda - "Excessively disastrous? A tsunami of paperwork? The looming cause of carpal tunnel in my wrist?"

Ozpin - "......can I have a cookie too?"

*Flicks her riding crop at Ozpin's hand*
​

Glynda - "No."

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Weiss Schnee stormed into the JNPR common room, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, cheeks flushed with irritation. Ruby was late—again—for their study session, and with midterms looming, Weiss had zero patience for her partner's chronic tardiness.

She shoved the door open, ready to unleash a tirade, only to freeze at the sight before her. The room looked like a textile explosion: cotton stuffing scattered everywhere, bolts of cloth draped over chairs, and plushies—dozens of them—in various stages of completion littered every surface.

Jaune, oblivious to her entrance, was scolding Ruby with mock severity. "Ruby, you can't just make puppies. You have to make other animals too!"

"But puppies are the best!" Ruby protested, holding up an adorably chubby beagle plush.

Weiss finally found her voice. "What the heck are you two doing?!"

Jaune looked up, startled. "Ruby, look—oh, Weiss. I thought Ruby told you? We're making plushies for the orphans."

"Yeah!" Ruby chimed in, beaming.

Weiss blinked. "The orphans?"

"St. Lucy's," Jaune explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I volunteer there sometimes, and they asked if I could round up some plushies for the upcoming Aslanmas."

"Pyrrha's even going for a visit," Ruby added proudly.

Weiss narrowed her eyes, folding her arms. "Is this some kind of effort to ask me out?"

Jaune recoiled. "What? No!"

In the corner, Nora was happily stitching together something with far too many heads.

"NORA!" Jaune barked. "Real animals!"

Ruby glanced at Weiss sheepishly. "Sorry, Weiss. Ruby was supposed to tell you. She can study with you now if you want..."

Nora held up her creation triumphantly. "It is real! It's a hydra!"

"Not Grimm!" Ruby cried.

"But Grimm are real!" Nora countered.

Jaune pinched the bridge of his nose. "We want animals that won't scare the kids, Nora. Try a pony."

Ruby turned to Weiss with a hopeful grin. "You wanna join in?"

Weiss hesitated, glancing at a small plush dog on the table. "...Well." She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. "They are rather cute."

"Yeah," Jaune said, shooting Ruby a pointed look. "All the animals are cute. Dogs and otherwise, Ruby."

Ruby huffed. "Dogs are awesome! Cats suck!"

The door creaked open again, and Blake stepped in, her expression darkening instantly.

"What was that, Ruby?" she asked, voice low.

Ruby's eyes widened. "I didn't mean cat Faunus! I mean cats!"

Yang, trailing behind her sister, smirked. "She meant all cats. Especially you, KitKat."

Jaune gasped theatrically. "How could you, Ruby? I thought you loved all animals. I was gonna invite you home to meet baby Archie, thought you'd make good friends with him..." He let out an exaggerated sad sigh.

"He's such a hard worker," Jaune continued, voice trembling theatrically. "Keeping the farm clean of rodents."

Yang snickered. "Uh-oh, Rubes. Looks like you stuck it to VB there."

Ruby flailed. "Ah! I didn't mean to! Sorry, Jaune!"

Jaune turned away dramatically. "No, no, I get it. Too much to ask. Maybe Blake would like to come tour the place..."

Blake's lips curved into a sly smirk. "Why, I'd be happy to, Jaune."

Ren, having just wrestled the multi-headed abomination from Nora's grasp, gave Jaune a flat look. "Hey. You having fun making Ruby feel bad? Because I thought we had a quota to meet."

Nora, undeterred, held up a new set of plushies. "I also made a whole sloth family! See? They have claws—for hugging!"

Jaune held up a particularly derpy-looking hippo. "That's... great, Nora. But one sloth family is enough. Look, isn't this hippo adorable too?"

Nora wrinkled her nose. "Not that one."

Jaune groaned, then turned to the newcomers. "Can you all give me a hand? You can see the talent I'm working with here."

Yang flexed her fingers. "I'm pretty sharp."

Jaune tossed Blake a calico cat plush, then handed Weiss a corgi that bore an uncanny resemblance to her own beloved pet. Weiss stared at it for a long moment.

"...Hmph," she muttered. "I'll give it a shot."

Jaune beamed and pulled both Weiss and Yang into quick, grateful hugs. "Thank you both so much! We need a lot more plushies. All Ruby and Nora want to make are puppies and sloths. I need variety."

Weiss stiffened. "Don't—don't touch me!"

Yang just laughed. "No problem!"

Jaune spread out several sheets of patterns on the table. "Here are the patterns. Pick an animal, trace it, cut the cloth, and I'll show you how to put it together."

They settled in. Pyrrha, naturally, sewed with machine-like precision and speed, her plushies turning out flawless every time.

Two dozen animals later, Jaune surveyed the growing pile with satisfaction. "Good job, everyone! We're nearly a quarter of the way there."

Yang held up a plush with an extra head or two. "What did you make, Weiss? A tribble?"

"At least it doesn't have two heads," Weiss snapped.

"I gave it character!"

Jaune lightly bonked Yang on the head with a rolled-up newspaper. "Yang. Real animals. No extra heads or limbs."

He leaned over Weiss's work. "Weiss, don't be so conservative with the cloth for the limbs. A little extra length helps them pop out."

Pyrrha held up another perfect creation. "How is this, Jaune?"

"Wow, Pyr," Jaune said, genuinely impressed. "You've made such good plushies. I bet you'll make an awesome mom someday."

Pyrrha flushed bright red.

Yang scowled.

Jaune glanced over. "Uh, Yang, your plush is spewing stuffing..."

"Hm? Oh." Yang looked down, then smiled sweetly. "Hey, mind walking me through the process, Ladykiller?"

Jaune sighed. "Alright, let's go through it again." He gently took Yang's hands, guiding her through the stitches, showing her how to close seams and join pieces properly.

From across the room, Nora muttered to Ren while sewing a reluctant pony, "Ren, you think Jaune will ever get less dense?"

Ren gave her a long, silent stare.

"I mean, miracles happen, right?"

Ren stared harder.

Nora whimpered. "Right?"

Pyrrha's eyes burned with jealousy as she watched Jaune with Yang. Yang, blushing faintly, shot Pyrrha a smug smirk in return.

Ren subtly pointed toward the oblivious Jaune, then at the heart-eyed glares flying between the two girls.

Nora looked skyward. "Oh Brothers, please... make Jaune less dense. For his own sake."

Jaune, missing every cue, reached over and sewed a little pink heart onto Nora's latest sloth. "Hey, I'm not that dense. See? How's that?"

Nora deadpanned.

She prayed harder.

Jaune shrugged. "Whatever. Hey, anyone see where Moo-deng went?"

Ruby hugged a round, squeaky-looking baby hippo plush to her chest. "She's mine!"

Jaune gave her a disappointed look. "Oh... what happened to 'puppies are best'?"

"She's like a hippo puppy!"

"And she's meant for a special little girl downtown who specifically asked for her," Jaune said, holding out his hand.

Yang snickered. "Ooh, Ruby's in trouble."

Ruby pouted. "I know, I know. I just wanted to enjoy her for a little. Appreciate my masterwork!"

"I think you mean my work," Jaune corrected. "I let you sew on the tiny tusks."

"I still helped!"

"Ruby... the hippo, please."

"We're not going right now, are we?"

Pyrrha held up an identical hippo, sewn in record time. "I made you another one, Ruby!"

"Woah! You did it so fast and it looks great... but I'm attached to this one. Hmmm..."

"Think of the children, Ruby," Pyrrha said gently.

Ruby sighed dramatically. "All right." She handed Moo-deng over.

Jaune smiled at Pyrrha. "Thanks, Pyr. I owe you." He turned to the group. "Come on, everyone. Plenty more to go. We're going to make a lot of kids happy this Aslanmas."

Pyrrha shot Yang a smug little look.

Later, Jaune noticed Weiss tangled in a nest of thread and sighed. "Weiss... would you like some help again?"

Weiss struggled futilely. "Ugh. If you're so incompetent—"

"You are," Blake interjected dryly.

"Have you knit anything?!" Weiss snapped.

"Yes." Blake gestured to her pile of lopsided, vaguely feline plushies.

Jaune rubbed his temples. "Weiss! Blake! Come on, ladies, can we try to work together productively?"

He offered help to both. Weiss relented with a huff. "If... if you must."

Jaune eyed Blake's chaotic pile judgmentally.

"I never said I was any good at this," Blake muttered.

"Here," Jaune said softly, taking Blake's hands in his. "I'll show you."

"You have very gentle hands," Blake observed quietly.

Jaune chuckled, a little nervous. "Well, for work like this, you kinda have to. You're making something to bring love and joy to kids. That requires a gentle touch."

Pyrrha and Yang both glared daggers, jealousy flaring bright.

Ruby bounced over, holding up her newest creation: a detailed octopus clutching a tiny gun in each tentacle.

Jaune's forehead throbbed. "Ruby... no weapons on the animals. We're trying to show them the gentler side of nature."

"Nature is kill or be killed!" Ruby declared. "Rules of naturre!"

"Gentler, Ruby!" Jaune pleaded. "I said gentler!"

Nora began humming the tune loudly.

Yang laughed. "Come on, stud, they'll love it!"

"Breaker, save us," Jaune muttered.

He turned the puppy-dog eyes on Ruby—kicked-puppy eyes, really.

Ruby groaned. "Urrgh... fine. I'll just give the guns to these toy soldiers. Happy?" She pouted.

Jaune's smile was serene. "Very happy. Thank you, Ruby."

He glanced at Weiss's growing pile of slightly misshapen but improving plushies, then at Blake's slow but steady progress under his guidance, and finally at the chaotic, joyful mess around him.

They still had a long way to go, but for the first time all evening, it felt like they might actually pull it off.

 

[Abramus5250]

Twas the night before Christmas and all throughout Salems castle
Her minions were dealing with quite the hassle.

Traps were lain, designed to inflict maximum pain.

They would capture that magical ball of holiday fat.

Santa clause would regret calling Salem a brat!

Alas as the villains plotted and toiled they didn't know that their plans were already foiled.

For Santa had a special gift to give from his sleigh.

A thermonuclear detonation that turned night to day.

Click to shrink...

Salem emerged from her ruined castle hold, her minions scattered or now ash I've been told.

"Fly my pretties!" She cried into the night, with pools of Griffons and other monsters taking to flight. "Bring me that fat man from off his sleigh ride, so that I might finally skin his worthless hide!"

Yet Santa was clever and up his sleeve was an Ace, for in the skies formed a new foe to face. As Grimm soon found themselves beset by a blizzard, mighty and conjured by a white winter wizard. He rode atop a most mighty great reindeer, whose blasts from his nose vaporized Grimm who drew near.

"You shall do him no harm with your evil flock, for I," bellowed the man, "am the Winter Warlock!"

From his hands came streams of white snow and great thunder, and it was here that Salem had realized her most unforeseen blunder. Snow had built quickly in these dark lands of Grimm, and it was with panic she knew her chances were slim. From the snow emerged forms that caused Grimm to breathe their death rattle. The famed legions of Frosty had arrived to do battle.

Drums in the deep played on in this night, a tireless drummer beating with all of his might. Her great flock of monsters within the dark skies, soon scattered and trembled as doom filled their eyes. The drummer rode atop claw, beak and feather, this great titan immune to their attacks and the weather. Reformed he had been, for crimes thought unbearable.

"Behold, vile witch, Eon the Terrible!"

The air grew colder as Salem pressed on, believing this battle could somehow be won. Then a voice whispered as Grimm pools froze, and there a bite at the end of her nose.

"Jack Frost," she cried as Grimm fell and shattered, and suddenly survival was all that mattered. Her hordes were used as a last ditch resort, to hold the line while she fled her ruined fort.

Yet her frenzied escape to parts unknown, was soon blocked by the very seeds she had sown. Chunks of coal rained around her as they pelted the ground, and from the blizzard emerged Santa, who with a sigh, frowned.

"Poor little Salem, so broken and sad, yet even on this night, you could not help but be bad. Children all over pray for peace in these times, so that they may celebrate with friends and family without scars from your crimes. Yet plans to destroy and plunder you intended to follow, and this night we decided it was something we would not allow."

"You do this every year, you fat red reprobate, and because of that, once more I must relocate!" Salem was evil, mean and haughty, but in Santa's eyes she was, above all, naughty.

Santa then shook his head and took up a pose, an aura of threat running from his head to his toes. "You will learn true power, Salem, by gosh and by golly, for I unleash on you my Stand: MAXIMUM JOLLY!"

 

[Sliverhero]

Remember part 4 : A meeting of love that can spark a war.
The leaves fell and brushed the edge of the courtyard after the teams left to head to the dorms. Cardin told his team to head straight as he has someone to talk to. Velvet stood apart from the others, to wait once cardin was free. They would look awkward to anyone watching them. But its not because they didn't belong, but because memory had weight, and it settled differently on them.

Velvet was the first to speak. Her voice was soft, almost careful, like she might scare the past away if she raised it. "Do you feel it too?"
Cardin nodded. He didn't cross his arms this time. His hands hung loose at his sides, heavy with things he hadn't carried in years. "Yeah. Not all at once. Just… enough." She smiled faintly. "You always felt it first." He huffed. "You always noticed before I admitted it." They shared a glance, and the world slipped, just a little. It wasn't Beacon.

It was wind and ash and banners torn by fire. A city still standing, barely, at the beginning of something no one yet called a war. He remembered being taller and broader. Horns curling back from his temples, wrapped in cloth so they wouldn't mark him as a target too early. A bull Faunus, standing in a crowd that pretended not to see him. She remembered being human, fully, undeniably human. Brown hair braided tight so it wouldn't catch, hands stained with ink and blood in equal measure. She had stood beside him anyway.
"You're going to get killed," she'd told him then, practical as ever. "You're going to get arrested," he'd replied.They both stayed, no matter what they always stayed. Velvet swallowed. "We were so young," she said. "We thought if we stood between them, Faunus and human. That it would mean something." Cardin's jaw tightened. "It did." She looked at him. "It just wasn't enough."

The reliving memory sharpened.

A child crying in the back room. Hidden under floorboards reinforced with hope and fear. A boy with dark hair and eyes too sharp for his age. Horns just beginning to show. "Run when it starts," Velvet had whispered, pressing a symbol into his small hand. Not a weapon. A name.
Taurus. "Find people," Cardin had added, kneeling despite the pain in his leg. "Don't let them tell you what you are." The boy had nodded. He never cried once, but they could see he wanted to. Velvet's hands trembled now. Cardin noticed, and gently covered them with his own. "At least he lived," she said. "At least one line made it through." Cardin exhaled. "Didn't know what he'd become. Only that he'd survive."

They didn't speak the rest, they didn't need to.
The memory darkened, the wizard from the so called jewel of the world, the leader that is said to be the hearld of the gods. Calm eyes filled with certainty that order mattered more than people. They had stood together then too. "You don't have to do this," Velvet had said, voice steady even as the world burned around them.

"I do," the wizard replied. "Because someone must decide." Cardin remembered stepping forward. Remembered the certainty, not rage, not vengeance. Just refusal. "Then it won't be you." They hadn't won. But they hadn't yielded either. Their stand small, defiant, impossible to erase, became a story, after they killed a leader.

But as things go, it was a rumor, then it become a spark, others took it up. Salem's whispers found the anger already lit. What began as grief became fire. What began as defense became war. The Great War did not start with hatred.
It started with people realizing they could say no.

Velvet blinked, breath unsteady. "We never got to see how bad it became." Cardin looked toward the others leaving the hall, Jaune standing tall, Ruby burning quietly with purpose, Ren and Nora side by side as if they always had been. The others quite in their minds, and mannerisms. "Maybe that's okay," he said. "We weren't meant to finish it. Just… start something." She followed his gaze. "They're better than we were." He nodded. "we get another chance, all of us Together."
Velvet smiled, tears finally slipping free. "I'm glad it's them, with us too." Cardin squared his shoulders, something old and resolute settling back into place. "Yeah. Me too."

Thw leaves falling between them slowly deliberate, unafraid. As if showing whatever gods once judged the world, whatever cycles tried to grind it down.Some things endured.
Not because they were permitted. But because people stood together, remembered their children, and chose again and again, to say no to monsters.

 

[AndrewJTalon]

Jaune gets trained by his Aunt Mordred, and he develops a taste for a better kind of fighting...

- - -

The docks were a mess of overturned crates, scattered dust crystals, and groaning White Fang goons strewn across the concrete like discarded puppets. Roman Torchwick leaned on his cane, hat slightly askew, watching the chaos with the weary expression of a man who'd just realized his payday was about to evaporate.

Jaune Arc stood in the center of it all, Crocea Mors planted point-down like a victory flag, chest heaving with excitement rather than exhaustion. His team—and RWBY, because of course they'd all piled in—were finishing off the last few stragglers with casual, almost bored efficiency.

Nora launched one thug into a shipping container with a gleeful "HOME RUN!" Yang punched another so hard he skipped across the water like a stone. Pyrrha flicked her javelin and sent three more flying in perfect formation. Even Weiss was icing them in place with a sigh of "This is beneath me."

Blake stared at the carnage, ears flat. "We... we didn't even break a sweat."

Roman lit a cigar with trembling fingers. "Yeah, well, congratulations, kids. You win. Happy?"

Jaune turned to him, eyes shining with genuine disappointment. "That's it?"

Roman paused mid-puff. "...Come again?"

Jaune gestured dramatically with his sword, golden aura still flickering around him like a lion's mane. "Where's the passion? The conviction? The dramatic monologue about your twisted philosophy of crime and chaos? I was ready! I had counterarguments prepared! We could've debated the nature of power while clashing blades under the moonlight!"

Roman stared at him like he'd grown a second head.

"You... you want to debate philosophy? While fighting?"

"Of course!" Jaune said earnestly. "What's the point of a battle if it's not about ideals? About proving whose way is right through strength and words and dramatic poses?"

Yang snorted, wiping blood off her knuckles. "VB's been like this since Auntie Mordred got done with him. Fights aren't fun unless there's speeches."

Roman took a long drag. "Kid, I'm a thief. I steal things. I get paid. I don't do... whatever this is."

Jaune's shoulders slumped. "But you're Roman Torchwick! Master criminal! You have flair! Style! That cane-gun thing is awesome! Come on, give me something! 'Society is corrupt and only lien matters?' 'The system keeps the little guy down?' Anything!"

Roman glanced at Neo, who was perched on a crate licking an ice cream cone she'd somehow acquired during the fight. She tilted her head, gave a tiny shrug, and made a certain gesture spinning her finger at her head to denote a simple message anyone could understand: He's crazy.

"Look," Roman said, exhaling smoke. "I'm not dying on some hill of ideology for minimum-wage grunts. You beat us. Great. Arrest me or whatever. Just... stop talking."

Jaune sighed, sheathing Crocea Mors with a dramatic flourish that would've made Auntie Mordred proud. "Fine. But you're really missing out. A good philosophical debate mid-battle is the best."

Blake muttered, "This is the weirdest night of my life."

Neo hopped down, offered Jaune a tiny thumbs-up and a silent slow-clap for the entertainment value. Then she grabbed Roman by the collar and started dragging him toward their escape route.

Roman yelped. "Hey! Gentle! I have a reputation—!"

"Reputation for running away without a cool speech," Jaune called after him, genuinely sad. "We could've been arch-nemeses!"

Roman's voice echoed back as Neo hauled him into the shadows. "Kid, you're a complete weirdo! I like my kneecaps unbroken and my flesh unburnt, thanks!"

They tried to charge after him, but they vanished as though an illusion was cast.

The Bullhead arrived minutes later, Vale PD swarming to collect the unconscious terrorists. The teams stood around, catching their breath.

Yang slung an arm around Jaune's shoulders. "Cheer up, VB. Not every criminal's gonna give you the epic showdown you want."

"I know," Jaune said mournfully. "But these guys were supposed to be hardcore revolutionaries! And they folded like wet paper! Where's the drama? The conviction? The 'you'll never understand my pain' monologues?"

Pyrrha's eyes were doing that thing that made Weiss edge away again. "You were magnificent, Jaune. The way you cleaved through three of them while declaring the righteousness of justice..."

Nora bounced. "And when you did that spin-slash thing and yelled about the warrior's spirit? SO COOL! I gotta do that, with EXPLOSIVES!"

Ren nodded. "Terrifying, if not the most efficient way to do it."

Ruby was staring at her scroll. "Guys... the internet's already calling him 'The Philosophy Knight.' There's gifs."

Weiss pinched her nose. "We're never living this down."

Blake just sighed, long and suffering. "I left Adam for this."

Jaune perked up slightly. "Hey, at least Neo seemed to enjoy it! She was smiling the whole time!"

Yang laughed. "See? Even the mute psychopath thought you were entertaining."

Jaune brightened. "Really?"

"Really."

As they boarded the Bullhead, Jaune looked out over the docks one last time.

"Next time," he said solemnly, "we find criminals with standards."

Yang patted his back. "Sure thing, Drama King."

Somewhere in Vale, Roman Torchwick nursed a drink and muttered to Neo:

"Next time we pull a job, we do it quietly. No speeches. No philosophy. Just in, out, lien."

Neo held up a sign: But he was kinda cute when he got intense.

Roman groaned. "Not you too."

 

[AndrewJTalon]

The dock at Mountain Glenn was a graveyard of rusted shipping containers and flickering floodlights, the perfect stage for a dramatic showdown. Adam Taurus stood atop a stack of crates like he owned the night, Wilt drawn, Blush sheathed, red hair whipping in the wind. Blake's team—plus JNPR, because of course they all came—fanned out below him.

Blake stepped forward first, Gambol Shroud ready. "Adam, this ends tonight."

Adam tilted his head. "Blake. Still running away from the hard choices, I see."

Blake used her clones to try and flank Adam, charging. He calmly deflected her strikes, and unleashed a red Moonslice, so artfully executed that Blake narrowly dodged out of the way... And the shipping container behind her split in two.

"I've stopped running!" Blake cried. Adam shook his head.

"You can't stop running from me, my dear Blake. I am your fears made manifest. You can't come up with the courage to face me on your own."

"I face you with my friends!" Blake cried.

"Yet all our true battles are within us," Adam spoke calmly, walking towards her, "And those battles are always fought alone. You can't escape this truth. All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks. But in each event—in the living act, the undoubted deed—there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask. If man will strike, strike through the mask! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall? You remain a prisoner of your own lack of understanding, Blake!"

Then Jaune pushed past her, eyes sparkling like a kid on Aslanmas morning.

"Wow... That was awesome! So calmly delivered! And from Moby Dick, too!"

Adam blinked, a pleased look on his face. "You know it?"

"Totally! Also: Here's my Aura Slash!"

Jaune swung Crocea Mors in a wide arc. A massive golden crescent of pure aura roared out, carving a trench through the concrete and forcing Adam to leap aside with a graceful flip.

Adam landed lightly, mask hiding his grin but not the excitement in his voice. "Impressive... Golden Lion's Roar?"

Jaune beamed. "You know it?"

Adam spun Wilt with a flourish. "So, you're descended from Arturia Pendragon?"

"Yeah! She's my Nana! And my auntie Mordred trained me."

Adam actually paused. "...She was so terrifyingly cool."

"I KNOW, RIGHT?!" Jaune practically bounced. "You're all right, masked man!"

Blake's eye twitched. "HE'S A CRAZY TERRORIST!"

Jaune turned, frowning. "Blake! I am talking with him right now! Don't be rude!"

Adam nodded solemnly. "Yeah, Blake. Don't be rude."

"WHAT?!"

Adam sighed theatrically. "She's my ex."

Jaune's eyes went wide. "Oh wow."

Adam shrugged. "Does she still do that screechy thing when she's upset?"

"All the time!" Jaune said immediately. "It's really annoying!"

Blake made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like a teakettle about to explode.

Yang leaned over to Weiss, whispering loudly, "Ten lien says they become besties before anyone throws a punch."

Weiss rolled her eyes but didn't take the bet.

Adam hopped down from the crates, landing a respectful distance away. "You know, Jaune Arc... I've waited a long time to meet a human who understands. Dramatic battles. Debating the meaning of life. The philosophy of warriors."

Jaune nodded vigorously. "With massive explosions and super cool attacks!"

"YES!" Adam gestured dramatically. "The essence of a warrior's life is fighting for your ideals while making it look as awesome as possible! How else can you express yourself truly except in the crucible of battle and debate?!"

"TOTALLY!"

Blake threw her hands up. "I thought you wanted to liberate Faunuskind and rule over mankind!"

Adam waved a hand. "I can want two things at once! Maybe three." He paused. "Actually, I'm kinda hungry. Sandwich?"

Jaune perked up. "Ooh, me too!"

Adam looked at Blake expectantly. "Blake?"

Yang stepped forward instantly. "I'll get Jaune a sandwich."

Blake stared at her partner in betrayal. "WHERE'S YOUR SELF-RESPECT?!"

"What?" Yang shrugged, grinning. "I'm not getting your ex a sandwich."

Nora, who'd been vibrating in place the entire time, finally exploded. "Can we fight now?! Please?! I wanna see the cool finishers!"

Ren sighed. "Nora..."

Pyrrha had that look again—the one that made a starving tiger after meat take pause. Ruby was openly staring between Jaune and Adam like she'd just discovered a new weapon type.

Adam and Jaune ignored everyone else, deep in discussion.

"So," Jaune said seriously, "if we ever fall in battle against each other—"

"It has to be the coolest, most epic finisher ever," Adam finished.

"Yes! And whoever wins has to go, 'To the best enemy I ever had.'"

Adam snapped his fingers. "In front of a sunset!"

"Or a thunderstorm!"

"Thunderstorm during a sunset!"

Blake screeched, "ARE YOU BOTH TWELVE?!"

Yang nodded thoughtfully. "I dunno, that does sound pretty cool."

"YAANG!"

Adam turned to Jaune, completely sincere. "Your girlfriend has taste."

"She's not my—wait, really?" Jaune glanced at Yang, who suddenly found the ground very interesting.

Blake pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is not happening. This is a nightmare. I'm in a nightmare."

Weiss muttered, "For once, we agree on something."

Adam clapped Jaune on the shoulder—carefully, because even he could tell Jaune's aura reserves were ridiculous. "Tell you what, Jaune Arc. Next time we do this properly. Full dramatic showdown. No interruptions. Cool poses. Philosophical monologues. The works."

Jaune's grin could've powered Vale. "Deal! You're the best arch-nemesis ever!"

They shook on it like gentlemen.

Blake stared at the sky.

"Am I being punished for my sins?"

"We both are," Weiss sighed.

Nora raised her hand. "Can I be your arch-nemesis too?"

Adam considered it. "You have a hammer that shoots grenades. That's definitely worth a second glance."

"YESS!"

Ren dragged Nora away before she could hug Adam. He shot a glare at them. Jaune shook his head.

"Bro Code, Adam," he said. Adam hummed.

"Good point. Forgive me Ren. I did not mean to encroach on a fellow bro's girl."

Ren turned red. Nora gasped.

"REALLY?!"

"I-I didn't mean that-I..." He shook his head and sighed. "Thank you?"

"You're welcome," Adam said.

As Team RWBY and JNPR started herding everyone back toward the Bullhead (because apparently the mission was over?), Jaune waved cheerfully.

"See you next time, Adam!"

"Looking forward to it, Jaune!"

Blake trudged after them, muttering under her breath.

Yang slung an arm around Jaune's shoulders. "So... sandwich?"

Jaune lit up. "Yes please!"

Blake's ear twitched. "I hate everything."

From the shadows, Adam watched them go, a small, almost fond smile under his mask.

Finally. A worthy opponent.

 

[LordofBones]

*The Fall of Beacon*

*Yang's unconscious. Jaune is all that stands between Blake and Adam.*

Jaune: "Adam Taurus! You just want Blake for vengeance, all to fulfill your own sick desires!"
Adam: *scoffing* "You're a fool, human. Blake hides her guilt and her cowardice beneath a veneer of self-righteousness. Nothing has changed, eh my love? Accept your true nature and return to the fold."
*Blake shakes her head, trying not to cry, and tries to push Jaune behind her towards the door. Jaune's unmoved.*

Jaune: "Her true face, huh? We're her friends, Adam; we know what she's really like. Behold, Blake's real face!"

*Jaune flashes a picture of an openly smiling Blake in her yukata, hair damp from her bath, holding a steaming cup with her eyes closed.*

Jaune: "Yes! It's a photograph of Blake, fresh out of the shower and having a cup of tea!"
Blake: "Wha-"
Adam: "Hrk! How did...no, it doesn't matter! A picture will not save you, my love, nor will it save your little friends!"
Jaune: *nonchalant* "Guess you don't want it then."

*Adam yells in horror as Jaune casually sets the photo on fire.*

Adam: "What are you doing?!"
Jaune: *grins* "Got you."

*Jaune supercharges Blake's semblance. The room is filled with Blakes of different types as she stares in disbelief: gothic Blake, schoolgirl Blake, gyaru Blake, sukeban Blake, swimsuit Blake, maid Blake, playboy bunny Blake, kunoichi Blake, dancer Blake, princess Blake, geisha Blake, edgelord Blake, White Fang Blake, sultry secretary Blake, single MILF Blake, Taimanin Blake, and so many more.*

*Adam recoils, eyes wide. His nose starts bleeding."

Blake: "WHAT?!"
Jaune: "My semblance allows me to supercharge Aura and the semblances of others, Adam. Creating an entire world of Blakes is well within my power. A picture, you say? Even a mere copy can surpass the original. Let's go, Adam Taurus. Do you have enough Blakes in stock?"
Adam: "I...I....I...YOU WIN, ARC! TRADE WITH MEEEEE!"

*Adam lunges, drooling, and proceeds to get bodied by a glowing Blake, her eyes shadowed. He skids across the room and slams into the wall, passing out with that dumb grin on his face.*

Jaune: "That's done, let's go help the rest."
Blake: *eyes narrow* "Hold it right there, Jaune. What did you mean with copies being better than the original?"

 

[Sliverhero]

Remember part 5
Once the teachers put their notes together, they slowly to start to notice something, about the new rising stars of the new batch of students.
As such as they talk to eachother, the day unfolded in fragments.

Not as a single lesson, but as a series of small, quiet disturbances that settled into Beacon's halls like dust no one remembered stirring. For Port as he was watching he was impressive as
The Grimm was fell cleanly, too cleanly and sharp for a huntman's student to make on their own. It was too fine and perfect.

Weiss Schnee stood with her rapier lowered, breath steady, posture precise. The creature did not thrash. It did not linger. It simply ended, as if the fight had concluded long before it began.
Professor Port felt it then, not recognition, not memory but the odd sensation of hearing a melody played on the wrong instrument. As he watched her he started to notice things of her form and skills, they were familiar in shape and unplaceable to the source.
That step back, that slight The angle of the wrist. That very refusal to overextend.
All this put together are giving him deji vu of
Forms that were no longer taught., not because they were ineffective, but because time had moved on. Because wars had rewritten what "efficient" meant.

Port cleared his throat. "Well executed," he said, louder than necessary. Weiss inclined her head and returned to her seat. Port adjusted his mustache and told himself it was nothing.
Still, long after the class moved on, the motion lingered in his mind like a half-remembered drill.
Oobleck

The markings should not have meant anything.
They were old. Fragmented. Written in a dialect that predated standardization and favored implication over clarity. Professor Oobleck delighted in such things, puzzles were his joy.
But when Jaune Arc leaned over his shoulder and spoke, the delight stuttered. "It's a warning," the boy said gently. "Not to underestimate it. Bound prey remembers how to hunt." Oobleck stared at him, shocked.

That phrase had taken entire teams months to translate accurately. It required understanding context that no longer existed. "Oh?" Oobleck said lightly, though his fingers tightened on his cup. "And where did you learn that?" Jaune shrugged, embarrassed. "Family records."
Oobleck laughed a bright, quick sound and wrote the phrase down anyway, circling it twice.
He did not ask another question.

For Glynda, she decide to test things out as she wonder why ozpin is so weirded out by these students, so Ruby Rose and Cardin Winchester faced each other on the sparring floor. Glynda expected imbalance and she expected an easy victory for Ruby.

Instead, she watched two students adjust to each other with unsettling speed. Ruby fought close, slipping beneath strikes meant for taller opponents, turning her size into leverage. Cardin countered without rage, without excess, each movement measured, controlled. Then Cardin's weapon slowed, not from interference but from doubt. He released it mid-swing and continued bare-handed, stance shifting into something older, tighter, almost reluctant. The match ended without a victor.
Glynda dismissed them, eyes narrowing just slightly. Their Files did not account for their instincts, acting.

Now they are onto to Professor Peach first aid courses as the class went on. And peach is talking about the various ways to heal.
The room smelled of antiseptic and clean linen.

Yang Xiao Long raised her hand. "If you don't have Dust," she said, casually, "you can slow bleeding with ground silverleaf and sun-root paste. Keeps infection down too." Professor Peach paused. "Those plants," she said carefully, "are… difficult to acquire."
Yang tilted her head. "Really? They used to grow near riverbanks. You dry the leaves wrong and they lose potency, though." Peach thought on the way she used the words Used to. Peach made a note she would revisit later, heart beating just a little faster than before.

At the Mechashift class Nora is working on a present for jaune. Nora hummed as she worked, pieces spread around her like a puzzle already solved. "This one's for Jaune," she said cheerfully, fitting a gear into place. "It'll balance better if the rotation stays internal."

Mulberry leaned closer. "What design is that?"
Nora beamed. "Clockshift."
Mulberry just looked at her in silence and confusion. As Clockshift wasn't a category, It was a precursor. A prototype methodology abandoned when full mechashift proved more adaptable. "No one uses that anymore," Mulberry said. Nora shrugged. "Yeah, but it's really stable. Slower to change, but harder to break." Mulberry watched the mechanism tick softly into alignment. It was Stable, and hard to break. He said nothing more. Then it was the head librarian turn to talk and he does say whater is the next to talk as he meintion what he experienced.

The library was quiet, as it always was.
Blake Belladonna stood at the counter, hands folded around a list written in neat, careful script. "I'm looking for these," she said.
Osbuse adjusted his glasses, scanning the titles. His brow furrowed. "These volumes are… obscure," he said slowly. "Some aren't even catalogued." Blake nodded. "They're usually shelved under regional philosophy, but cross-referenced with pre-war political theory."
Osbuse stared at her.

"…You're correct," he said after a moment. "I didn't know we still had them." Blake thanked him quietly and disappeared between the stacks, moving as if she already knew where she was going. He remained at his desk, unsettled by the feeling that the library had just revealed something it had been keeping from him.

the next incident was when ren and pyrrha decide to build an old helper for them. During the class Ren and Pyrrha would worked in silence. Metal plates aligned, servos fitted. The beginnings of a structure rose between them, compact, purposeful, defensive. Professor Mulberry stopped in the doorway. "That design," he said carefully, "fell out of use before the Great War." Pyrrha looked up. "Yes, sir. Huntsmen made them redundant." Ren adjusted a stabilizer. "But they're good for holding ground." Mulberry nodded slowly.

Holding ground. A concept that had gone out of fashion. By evening, Beacon returned to its usual rhythm. Classes ended. Halls emptied. The day's small oddities dispersed, unremarked aloud. The teachers did not speak of patterns.
They did not share their unease.

They only felt it, a quiet pressure, like history pressing its hand against the present, not to warn… …but to see who would notice.
And outside, the leaves continued to fall.
Unafraid.l As if they remembered a time when the world changed not with monsters…
…but with people who learned, slowly and together, to stand their ground.

 

[CountvonBarnOwl]

Right, I promised a Cyber-Whitley idea, here's my Cyber-Whitley story. I had written it with the intent of both showing off Whitley finally dipping my talons into the long-awaited world of Cold Colors. Personally, I think Frosted Pop Tart is a better pairing name for Whitley x Neon, because Frosted Strawberry Milkshake (a pop tart flavor) is a mouthful. And it is very rude to talk with your mouth full, so I probably won't be saying that too much. Nonetheless, I am personally open to alternative pairing names for Whitley x Neon.

Anyway, this is a sort of first meeting, a glance across the room when Neon first caught sight of Whitley. We've come up with some pretty wild stuff.

Spiel is over, on with the show.

Frosted Pop Tarts

Episode 1: Evacuation

Whitley had been packing up the SDC tent on the fairgrounds when everything went to pieces.

He had watched Pyrrha Nikos kill Penny Polendina. And he listened as some maniac hijacked every CCT frequency. Whitley cut his onboard CCT connection instantly, then he quarantined, and vaulted it and any ancillary programs that could be used as backdoors, all manually. A hack-job like this was not the sort of thing that a cyborg who wanted to keep living could take lightly. So he went in manually, from his organic brain, to the Cortical Control Module that served as the link between it and the rest of the Apogee System, before opening a three-layer digital machine and routing all of his network connections through the innermost, with containment and hard-kill protocols programmed into the other two.

The absoluteness of the isolation of the inner machines, the time dilation that he experienced to enter the myriad of individual command lines by thought, and the mild headache that it caused, put him out of any mood to pay attention to the substance of what the deluded idiot had been saying. He could always pull it from his black box if command was interested. His Scroll was also bricked. And he wasn't going to chance the virus getting into his body by connecting into any of the 200s. Anybody who could hack the CCT itself could probably make a 200's cybersecurity protocols look like a 130's. So he'd be relying on radio, if that.

Whitely wasn't worried. He had a gun, and beneath his glove of synthetic skin and hair he was a metal endoskeleton wrapped in a carbon nanotube musculature, both of which armored. Nothing compared to a true ICE Dragon frame. This body a fraction of the strength, inferior (albeit much more human-looking) set of optic sensors, and a radio communicator which, though it had zero profile, had only forty percent of the true unit's range. Still more than a match for most short of a Hunter, and he could still top a hundred and ten in a flat run.

And that left alone the ace he had up his sleeve. For an instant, an evil smirk formed on Whitley's face as he contemplated his masterpiece. If for whatever reason he was forced to make a career of the army, he would see it become the centerpiece of cyborg combat doctrine. And if not, he would see it done anyway, he was the premier test pilot for the ICE Dragon after all. This Whitley promised himself as he forced the servos behind his facial fibers to realign into a neutral expression.

Then he heard the commotion. The grounds had gone quiet in the wake of the broadcast, but suddenly they had gotten loud again. Outside of his tent Whitley saw a trio of unmarked Bullheads land in formation. As the doors of the Bullheads opened Whitley had already leveled Panzerstecher. He held his fire, leveling the forty-nine centimeter long pistol that looked and loaded more like a howitzer than handgun at the head of the Ursa Major that had begun scenting the now terrified bystanders. The doors opened completely. And alongside the Grimm, were Grimm-masked Faunus, armored and hooded members of the White Fang, armed with machetes, axes, and those blocky, piece-of-shit Dust-infusion guns that were popular with Vale's criminal element.

Whitley held for a split second longer. The Grimm in the bullheads we restrained, but the restraints looked weak. And they barely seemed to acknowledge the White Fang soldiers. He wanted to record every detail of what was happening before he zeroed in on the eye of the large Grimm.

And then he fired.

The 14.5 millimeter round, designed for use in heavy machine guns, screamed out of his pistol and crossed the gap between himself and the Ursa in hundredths of a second. One of the orange lights of its quasi-sapient malice burst and wept black ooze, and the other grew dim as the fiend slumped.

Other Grimm now emerged from the cargo bays of the Bullheads, and under the cover of gunfire that raked across the fairgrounds. 'Just when you think the people can sink no lower, they disappoint you.' Whitley snarled in his head. He didn't begrudge the White Fang his new body. Not with all of the good that had come of it. But if tonight's little stunt was their operation, they would answer for it.

He unlocked the breech block of his pistol, and let the spent shell fall out, before snapping it back into place before twisting the whole receiver a quarter-turn in the opposite direction. As he ran toward the Bullheads, Panzerstecher began to transform.

Being charged by someone with an obviously mechashift weapon shook the White Fang fighters from the stupor that came with their Ursa's death. The ones with rifles and pistols began to fire before they had fully aimed. Not that it would have made a difference if they had, Whitley didn't see any heavy weapons among them, and unless those infusion weapons were loaded with Hardlight or Gravity Dust, they wouldn't be getting through his frame's armor. Maybe enough Lightning Dust could short him out or slag his pseudo-nerves. Actually, the more he thought, the more scenarios he imagined in which those puny, clunky guns could overcome his defenses. Best not to chance it.

Whitley wove through the streams of gunfire. Perceiving reality through the Apogee system in its active state was like watching reality through an extreme slow motion camera. Whitley could sidestep each bullet individually, and feel each shift of Panzerstecher's servos realigning the hexagonal barrel into the edges of a blade, or unfold the grip into a guard along the gun's outer trunnion, exposing the trigger to access from the breech block, which now served as a weighty grip.

And he was using it to swing the blade in a wide arc into the head of one of the Beowolves that had come out of the bullhead that held the dead Ursa. He held the trigger and the HF blade - in the shape of an angular ikakalaka, - sung as it smashed its triangular head into that of the Beowolf. The beast died in an instant. Without breaking his stride, Whitley's arm snaped back and caught the other Beowolf on the backswing. The Grimm howled in rage and agony at the partial amputation of one of its limbs, and began chasing Whitley toward the Bullhead.

Dodging bullets up close was the same as dodging at a distance. His passive sonar showed that White Fang fighters had dismounted the other Bullheads to goad the Grimm onward, and the Grimm were already closing the gap with the panicked festival goers. Excepting that Beowolf with the half-severed arm, chasing him into the White Fang squad who had been too shocked by the death of their Ursa to dismount timely, and who were only now getting underway. The Bullhead's engine was now the only thing between them and a grinning cyborg. Whitley jumped and Panzerstecher took a bite of the Dust turbine, and a clean, timely, precise takeoff became a jerking roll as the pilot fought to regain control of the lamed aircraft.

Whitley landed in the midst of the White Fang soldiers and swung his humming blade once. As limbs, armor, and weapons part in its wake, he looked up at the bullhead, lurching above, about to fall on the White Fang squad, himself, and the Beowolf. He had already made his decision. He only wanted confirmation that the cargo bay door was still open before acting.

It was. And he jumped into it with his frame's maximum output. As he rose, he swung Panzerstecher wildly, scoring the plate of metal that made up the opposite door with half a dozen red-hot crosses, and gouging out uneven chunks from the panel. Momentum, mass, and acceleration carried him through through the wrecked door with ease, and the compromised Bullhead crushes what remains of his foes below.

Then, it exploded. The force of the blast caught up to him near the apex of his jump, further delaying gravity's attempt to wrangle the recalcitrant cyborg back into line. Righting himself in the air was no challenge. He was almost all machine and he had enough experience with Gravity Dust to know what physics would and wouldn't let him get away with. He twisted his upper and lower half in opposite directions like a cat, and no further, he wasn't going to rip his synthglove just to reorient his fall.

Whitley felt his full weight land on two shoes of fine Quitalan leather for the second time. With their expert craftsmanship, they held, but it was clear that they would not last the night. He stood up, and emitted another sonar ping. 'More than a few returns,' he thought, and visual confirmation that he had crashed the White Fang's party harder than expected. About a dozen stragglers stood at various distances ahead of him or off his shoulder, vengeful fury overwhelming their desires to continue inflicting their notions of justice on the festival-goers. And unsurprisingly, a few of the Grimm looked to be doubling back in their direction.

Whitley ran at them, and Panzerstecher sang anew. Whitley saw the terrorists raise their guns, point and fire. He saw where all of the bullets would be, and where the follow-up shots would be along their flight paths as well, assuming the fire of the guns remained constant. He saw his path through all of them, and that of his blade.

What the throng of Faunus in the armor of the White Fang saw, for a brief moment, was a short, scrawny teen with disheveled white hair and a frayed shirt and vest, barreling at them at speeds only their top fighters, like Adam Taurus could surpass, waving a sword and sporting the White Witch's own smile.

"Ein!" Whitley shouted as Panzerstecher came down on the closest of the Grimm-faced Faunus. Whitley may have been a brain in a case, but the dirty business of battle had gotten his blood up. "Drei," he stepped left of the fusillade and swung wide, through the midsections of two more of Menagerie's finest. "Vier," Panzerstecher rose again, and snagged another one under the chin with one of its points. "Funf," Whitley continued as he drove the HF blade into the head of another foe and ignored the sound of his synthglove tearing at the wrist when he spun his hand a full 360 degrees to do it.

A smaller, more tightly grouped cluster waited ahead of Whitley. They wouldn't have enough time to shoot at him very much, but a burst of gunfire was still a burst of gunfire, and he didn't feel like chancing it with only a ninth of his armor. He dropped low, his whole body below knee-level. He kept his head down, and relied on sonar to perceive his foes. His legs moved more like a rock climber's than a runner's, and he used his free forelimb to pull himself forward along the ground. "Acht!" Panzerstecher cut one's legs off at the thighs, bisected a second, and gutted a third on another sweep as Whitley pushed himself up into the air with his free limb. For less than a millisecond he was above the last of the White Fang fighters, "Neun!" He crashed like a meteor, Panzerstecher's head leading, into the last of the Faunus.

Whitley rolled to absorb the momentum. And he rose covered in enough grime to exceed the aggregate of his whole life prior. But he did not stop. Panzerstecher came up again, hooking a Creep in the jaw and ripping it in half as Whitley pulled the blade along its torso. An Ursa, not a Major like the one he had killed before, reared up to swipe him with sword-length claws. Whitley ran headlong into it. He spun his right wrist, like a propeller, and the Panzerstecher's vibrating blade pureed the flesh of the beast's right flank as he ducks under its paw and vaults its right knee.

Again, Panzerstecher rises and falls. Another Beowolf falls with it, and the fairgrounds go quiet. Whitley looked around, and then up. His optic sensors picked out innumerable flying Grimm swarming the Bullheads and Airbuses fleeing Amity Arena and Beacon's skydocks.

"That's right, I'm going to have to get out of here eventually." Whitley muttered, as the hot haze and fog that he had rode through that throng of foes cleared from his mind. He examined his blade briefly. Panzerstecher was clean, the heat and oscillations of the weapon kept it pristine. That was more than could be said for the rest of him. "And get out of these wet rags." His vest was shredded and frayed at the back from the exploding bullhead, his shoes would likely burst in a minute, his right sleeve was ruined, his left was covered in dirt, his tie was gone, and he was soaked crimson all over.

-

[Meanwhile, between Beacon's Sports Pitch and Training Halls]

-

"WORST VYTAL FESTIVAL EVER!" Neon Katt screamed as she narrowly dodged the sweep of an Ursa, and cracked its knee with her Nyan-chuku. She followed with a hip-check as she glided past it on her roller skates. "All yours Kobalt!" She shouted as she leveled out and rolled back around, as if he needed to be told. The next thing she heard was a shotgun blast followed by the racking of a fresh shell. The Ursa was dead. Unfortunately, the Big Ursa was alive and well.

'The Big Ursa,' as Neon had just dubbed it, was larger, covered in heavier pieces of bone armor, with more spikes and protrusions at a less regular pattern, and currently battering its way through the Bleachers.

She heard the crack of Ivori's rifle, and saw a breakage form along the thick plate of its skull mask below its eye, and noticed the way its shoulder began to leak black sludge. The beast staggered from the glancing blow, but it had been exactly that, a glancing blow. It regained its footing on the next stride and continued toward them.

"That wasn't its eye." She heard Flynt shout, as much as he could shout, exhausted as he was.

Team FNKI's leader had pushed both his Aura and his lung capacity to the limit, covering the team's northwestern withdrawal from Beacon's frontal courtyard. Now he was hunched, huffing and puffing, and had relegated himself to guarding their sniper, Ivori, from flanking or overhead Grimm with the occasional blast of his trumpet.

"I'm entirely aware," Ivori replied, cycling the action of his rifle and resighting the Ursa.

By the time he had fired again, the Grimm was already swiping at Neon.

She had known it, instinctively. They were only first-years, but Team FNKI already had enough practical experience to know each other's rhythms in the heat of combat.

Plus, Atlas' unique emphasis on small unit tactics forced every student to understand how quickly things happened in close combat, how to anticipate, think, and adjust in microseconds, as well as how to avoid forgetting the many constants and variables of the CQC equation, and how to hedge against yourself and others for when someone inevitably did.

Neon leaned back outward, maximizing the distance between herself and the trajectory of Ivori's 11.6 as it crashed into the Ursa's skull plate.

Neon committed further to the bend, not even stopping after the gangly, bladed bludgeon that was the Ursa's arm cleared her.

Only when she felt her hand touch the pitch did Neon tuck her legs in and turn her backbend into a balancing act. She used her tail to maintain equilibrium and let all of her weight push down on her left hand using her right to spin her nunchucks up to speed.

Then she sprang up. In a flash, she came eye-to-eye with the monster, the armor of it's right cheek reduced to a ruin of bony fragments that wept black ooze.

Her arm was already moving, her weapon crashed into the uneven arrangement at the apex of her swing. Its momentum vanished in an instant, depleted across too many uneven surfaces to channel the force.

Some fragments absorb and dissipate the impact, but others are pushed in, causing or widening half a hundred punctures across the right side of the monster's face.

The laws of physics assert themselves and the force of her strike throws Neon beyond the reach of the Ursa's retaliation.

By the time she came down, Kobalt had already came in to finish the Ursa in the manner that he dispatched its smaller cousin.

He awkwardly snuck his top-loader under the armpit of the Ursa's outstretched limb, pulled the trigger, and completely demolished that side of the Ursa's head from below.

The beast's remains began to evaporate as Neon lazily rolled back to Flynt and Ivori, and the fatigue finally set in.

"I'm not... fucking... doing that... again." She declared as she braced herself on her knees.

"Wouldn't get my hopes up." Ivory replied as he topped off his rifle.

"We're too exposed on the pitch, we need some mass and uneven terrain between us and the Grimm before they come again." Flynt surmised as Kobalt jogged up to the group, shaking the pain out of his right wrist as he did.

"What's that building there?" Kobalt asked, pointing over Flynn's left shoulder.

Any distinguishing markings that the rectangular, six story building could have had were collapsed, along with the building's right side. Right now it looked to be a burnt ruin. Like everything else in Beacon.

"That's the admissions and admin office, I think." Ivori started off slowly before snapping his fingers. "Remember, we got here and you thought it was one of the dorms and north was that way?"

"That wasn't my fault. How was I supposed to know that this place was designed like a funhouse for drunks?" Kobalt replied with a gesture.

Flynt and Neon both laughed, and Ivori smiled.

We'll hide up there, collect ourselves, and move for the skdocks, West-Southwest," Flynt iterated with a smile that was perhaps too wide, "during the next lull in the fighting. If we're lucky, something will still be there and we can make an escape. If not…" Flynt paused as apprehension settled over the whole team. "We'll cross that bridge when we get there. Move out." He finished, turning about.

They entered the building in standard formation. Kobalt led with his shotgun, identifying all potential lanes of fire before stepping out of line to cover one. Neon followed him, her weapon whirling, and primed with a Plant Dust crystal - she had been low already, and beggars could not be choosers - and in a low stance that would let her charge or dodge an ambuscade at less than a moment's notice. Flynt followed her, ready to give her a boost with his trumpet or to pick a corridor that Kobalt hadn't covered.

With Neon's "clear front," he chose the latter, sweeping right. Ivori hung back for a moment before following Flynt, ready to give a thirty six gram greeting to anything or any one that might pop out ahead of the group, or around their flanks. With Flynt's own report of "clear," Ivori moved in with a last 360 degree sweep before slinging his rifle and unlatching his whip.

"Room I'm facing, stairs right side. They look stable." Kobalt muttered, audible just enough for his own team to hear. "Good, we'll follow you up," Flynt replied. "Neon, Ivori, switch places." They nodded. Neon's Roller skates were a great boon for mobility, over even ground, but in too difficult terrain, or on stairs, they were an encumbrance, and Ivori's whip needed room. The best solution that Flynt had thought of, in their time together so far, was to send him up second and minimize his downtime.

By the time Flynt and Neon had gotten up, Kobalt and Ivori had already systemically checked every entryway into the room that they had entered. A feat in itself, considering this room that they were in was some inlet to the stairwell that could be accessed from six different hallways. "Up the next flight," Flynt commanded. Nobody questioned him. The process repeated, and repeated again when Flynt ordered the team up to the fourth floor.

"This way," Flynt picked a hallway at random and the team proceeded through it in formation. "Hold. Kobalt, room on your left. Everyone else, in after him."

The room was a mess of tipped over filing cabinets that had vomited their contents everywhere. Dossiers, files, grades, records, all and sundry carpeted the floor below team FNKI's feet. There were two desks in the room, set up to make it feel almost like a ticket booth, and made the room ideal for holding against intruders. The room was clear, fortunately, and its windows on the far side offered a view of the CCT tower complex.

Team FNKI collectively slumped to catch their breaths. "Kobalt, if anyone comes through the door..." Flynt did not even bother finishing the order as the fatigue set in. "No prob," Kobalt replied as he collapsed onto his backside, resting his orienting his body so he could both rest his gun across his legs in a safe orientation, and fire it through the door. He was rather exposed given the room's layout. But he could not bring himself to care further.

"When we get back to Atlas, I am seriously getting my gun rebored up half a mil, and seeing what I can do to bump the muzzle velocity." Ivori grumbled as he staggered across the mess.

"Why not just use an AM rifle instead?" Neon whined back at him.

Ivori answered with a single finger, "Different style of shooting, remember the leader of the team that took you guys out in the doubles round? I can't do that. I'd have to act like a long-range Kobalt."

"You're still overreacting," Neon answered back. "That Ursa Major had to be some kind of aberrant, maybe the precursor to a new variety." Her statement wasn't unfounded. 36 grams of metal at 820 meters a second could ruin a smaller Beringal's day. Two failing to shatter an Ursa's mask, even if one was glancing, was just bad luck. One could be understood. It had been a Major. But two? Nigh impossible.

Ivori would have retorted but he slumped and sank into a heap instead.

After a few moments of recuperation that had felt like hours, Neon spoke again. "Anyone got a spare Ice Dust crystal... I'm out."

Flynt pulled one from his pocket and wordlessly tossed it to her. Neon opened the breach at the base of her Nyan-chuku and dropped the crystal in.

"Right. Any other requests?" Flynt asked. "No? Alright, we're moving out." Sore joints whined as the Hunters-aspirant rose. "We'll drop out via the collapsed side of the building and make for the skydocks at full speed." Flynt explained, "Kobalt."

"Yeah?" The team's shotgunner responded.

"If you have any Barricade slugs on you, load them now. Nothing stops us." Flynt said, his voice hardened with a mix of fatigue and grim resolve.

Kobalt propped himself upright and began unloading his shotgun, collecting the shells, and reloading it with high brass hulls painted phosphorescent purple, and stamped with four arrows pointing at a circle. Wry smiles filled the room, seventy six grams of hardened steel with a liquid-state Gravity Dust surprise inside would be enough to send a Paladin packing.

The team exited in standard order, Kobalt's shotgun leading the way. He held the point as they walked through the increasingly unstable hallway. If it could hold him, it could hold any of the other three.

Then came the drop. Four stories was nothing with Aura. It was a straight shot to the arrangement of columns that marked off Beacon's grand entry causeway, but Team FNKI would be completely exposed.

Neon dropped first, she was the best suited for this specific sort of danger, and took off toward the skydock as soon as she hit the ground.

They were almost home free. There was just one last obstacle to overcome.

A Paladin-class walker.

Fortunately, it was facing away from her, and other students, so many that she had recognized from the tournament and from after, were swarming it.

'One final effort, then,' Neon thought, passing a girl on a hoverboard coming the opposite way as she struck the Paladin's ankle joint, encasing its whole lower leg in ice.

She spun backwards and let herself glide along her trajectory, partially to see her team hot on her heels, but mostly to see what the Paladin's guns were doing. Kobalt stopped for a second, and started running again, but in the interval, he fired a slug that crumpled a joint and ruptured the ammo feed. He was far from the only student to attack. The Paladin had received an encore for the whole tournament.

By the time Team FNKI completely rejoined the other students, the Paladin was wrecked.

Now, she could be exhausted.

"We... won..." Someone, Neon didn't see who, said from the battered crowd of exhausted students.

But that individual had spoken too soon. Three more Paladins emerged from the direction that Team FNKI had come from moments ago. And they had infantry support.

"Why? Why? Whyyyy..?" Tears began to well up. They had been so close. She didn't close her eyes. She wanted to see light for the last time, even if it was a line of flashing muzzles.

Strangely, the final hail never came. The White Fang platoon advanced on them slowly, methodically, almost like real soldiers.

"Any Faunus among you who puts their hands up and walks thirty paces into the grass to my left, your right, will be spared." A Paladin pilot announced over his walker's speaker.

Nobody moved.

"Again, we do not wish to kill Faunus. We are interested in justice, and liberation, not murder." The White Fang officer piloting the lead Paladin reiterated.

Neon caught his double-meaning and snarled. Huntsman Law was an upper year course, but she had seen enough crime shows to know the trick. Murder was not killing, murder - specifically - meant unjustifiable, inexcusable killing. Apparently, the White Fang did not think today's events qualified.

Again, nobody moved. Neon mentally prepared to raise her middle finger and tell that deluded cunt exactly what she thought of him. If she was to die, Neon Katt would die giving as good an account of herself as possible. And here, that meant dying defiant, wounds in front.

Three seconds passed. Then five. It made the White Fang's offer almost sound sincere. Neon would have thought more on it. Then a pair of rockets not slammed into the Paladin farthest to her right.

Then it happened, all at once, all in a flash. Two rockets tore out from somewhere, far and off to her left, and slammed into the leftmost Paladin. Neon turned toward the tree line about a hundred meters away as it came alight with muzzle flashes and tracer fire as the White Fang platoon fell like wheat before the scythe.

Perhaps not as totally, some of them miraculously found time to scramble for cover, any cover, either dropping prone or running for the safety of the wreck, or either of the standing war machines.

Then something emerged from the trees. Fast and low, but trackable for a Huntress Aspirant, it climbed across the ground, instead of running.



Snow white hair, glowing blue eyes, and ruined clothes, Neon Katt recognized the face from the recent run of Dust commercials, the SDC's head of both Marketing and Accounting. Whitley Schnee. In his hand was a spade-headed broadsword with a motor and matrix worked into the hilt and guard, telltale signs of an HF weapon.

She eyed him up more and more. As he jumped and corkscrewed through the crossfire, Neon noticed that she and the other Aspirants had been completely forgotten as the White Fang battled the enemy in the trees.

She reacquired the Schnee. He had reached the height of his jump, and was falling like a meteor, his leg already extended as far as it could go. But as he fell his leg began to spin, all the way around, and it began to blur, it behaved more like a drillbit than a limb.

'Cybernetics,' Neon thought. 'He's a cyborg. Unless he's a robot. Like Penny Polendina had been.' No, impossible. Someone would have found out something by now if a Schnee scion was entirely machine. Prosthesis? After an injury, perhaps? The world wasn't short on people who wanted to hurt the Schnees.

He came down on the leader Paladin like an axe, his leg cutting a molten gash that threw up splashes and globules of red-hot metal while he fended the machine's arms off with his sword. Another pair of Rockets struck the third Paladin, and unlike the first, it exploded spectacularly.

The explosion snapped Neon back to reality. She tapped Flynt, next to her, on the shoulder. "CHARGE!" He bellowed, and the aspirants took off as one for the White Fang infantry.

"CONTACTS RI-" a more adroit militant screamed.

He dropped in the next instant, three red trails following him down, as charging Hunters-Aspirant poured fire into their intended targets, but not before his own gun flashed. Neon didn't feel impacts deplete the remains of her Aura, and hoped that everyone else on her side still lived.

The momentum of the charge halted just short of contact when the students realized as one that their salvo had finished the White Fang forces off.

Then, Whitley Schnee bent farther back than a person should be able to as he wrenched a man in an up-armored pilot's suit from the red glowing gouge in the armor of the Paladin's cockpit.

The boy threw the man to the ground, and dropped in after him, landing in a hunch practically on top of the White Fang officer, before growling a lurid threat into his now-captive's ear. She didn't know what, but she, and the other students got a very good look at his cybernetic right leg, free of both clothes and a snythglove.

Then, Neon spotted movement in her peripheral vision. From the tree line came a number of decidedly worse-for-wear Atlesian soldiers whose uniform and kits marked most of them out as Aeromarines.

"Prisoner captured, as ordered, Captain." The boy said, handing a pistol and blade that he must have fished from the White Fang lieutenant. As the Schnee boy and the captain conversed, Neon's brain started picking out details

Not all of the soldiers were Aeromarines. Hangers-on and followers picked up on the way? Remains of shattered units?

Then Neon noticed their weapons. Some looked salvaged. Others, she had never seen before. And she saw more machine guns and rifles with underslung grenade launchers than anything else. It made sense, they must have come up from Vale, and fought every centimeter of the way. Their leader was a captain, who carried an MMG-98, but there was hardly more than half a platoon of men total, and that included the wounded being carried by their uninjured comrades.

The rest could comfortably be called the walking wounded, their bandages and wrappings reinforcing Neon's earlier conclusion. They must have come up from Vale. And Vale was likely in much worse shape than Beacon.

"Cade- Aspirants," The captain corrected himself. "Who is in charge here, who speaks for you?"

"Flynt Coal, leader of Team FNKI, Atlas. No unified chain of command established, we're just the students that have trickled and fought our way up to the docks so far." Flynt answered, giving the officer exactly what he was looking for.

"Disposition?" The captain asked.

"Five-six teams maybe, no casualties." Flynt replied.

"Right," the captain answered, "my men are almost all wounded, but we offer assistance holding the skydock." The captain continued.

Be our guest. We need every hand we can get." Flynt assented.

The now handcuffed White Fang commander was slung over the shoulder of the Schnee boy without ceremony. And Neon nearly exploded laughing, as the grown man vainly and valiantly struggled to wiggle-worm his way to freedom from atop the shoulder of a boy who she probably had seven or eight centimeters on without her skates.

As she held back her laughter, her brain worked all the while. 'His sword mechashifts into a large bore pistol, got it. Where does flesh end and the synthglove start? Where is his processing control implant? Are his eyes cybernetic too, or do they just sparkle like that? Damn, his bangs look cute over his forehead like tha- No, bad Neon…' She thought as she heard the whoosh of hot air and the roar of engines.

A flotilla of air-buses bullheads, mantas, dropships of a sort she hadn't seen before and other ships besides were docking wherever they had room. The back ramp of one craft slid down and a squad of men wielding more of those heavy next-gen bullpup carbines with the underbarrel weapons ran out and established a perimeter.

Behind them came a lieutenant general, by the two repetitions of the pattern on his hochrot collar tabs and pair of stars on his shoulder boards. Neon filed the rest of the details about his appearance away in her brain. His hair was orange and curly, but his beard had already gone gray. He had a crescent-shaped scar that wrapped under his right eye, up his nose, and over his eyebrow. At his waist a massive saw-toothed weapon with an S-shaped grip was hooked onto a customized sword frog along with a sawed-off shotgun, or obrez, of some kind.

His eyes, steel blue, flickered onto the aggregated aspirants and Neon felt herself stand up a little bit straighter.

Then the feeling was gone. So that was what aura, in the CCTnet sense, felt like. She had seen general officers before. Ironwood and a few other members of the staff had spoken at the Academy. But this was the second time one interceded in the field. The first had been Ironwood, a few hours ago, but this man had a thing for presence.

He approached the Aeromarines. "Warrant officer," he acknowledged Whitley, the junior officer, first, "Captain?" The intonation gave away an unfamiliarity that he lacked with Whitley. Whitley knew the general.

'What are the Schnees up to with the army? Or is it the other way around? It would explain the cybernetics.' More for Neon's brain to chew on over the course of the ride home.

"You have a prisoner for me?" The general's accent was Midgardian, comically so, as if he was a mad scientist from an old movie.

The White Fang officer would presumably have retorted when the general shoved him, or simply stuck a hand in his face, "And I see you have wounded. Tell me captain, are the men who cannot walk stable?"

"Yes, general." The captain's reply was short.

"Bring them aboard immediately, I was a medical officer in the Jaegers before I transferred to R&D." He supplied as he turned around, walked two paces, and turned around again. "Also, all Atlesian cadets are ordered to embark on the ships present to return home. They should get us to Flipper City, or at least some place where we can get to Flipper City from. Anyone not part of my remit, but wishing to evacuate is welcome aboard, anyone not wishing to come with us stay here. I know at least two other friendly flotillas are converging on this airspace."

"That's us. Team FNKI, let's move." Flynt directed, and they, as well as the other Atlesian students who were still upright began walking toward the ramshackle flotilla. But the battle had ended on an optimistic note. The sky now was largely clear and friendly forces were converging on Beacon from the air.

Only for Flynt to pause on the last step up the ramp of a dropship. "I am not looking forward to writing the AAR on this."

End

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Would you guys believe that I had been writing this whole damn thing bit by bit since my last post on this forum? Finding a satisfying way to end things off was a pain in the ass. I went through two different drafts involving a third POV character (Captain Krasnukhin, 477th Aeromarines, Azure company), but his story is one I couldn't tell in the 1400 words that I allowed myself, or in the 1500 words I actually used. But, I have been convinced to write the story of Krasnukhin and friends as an interlude sooner or later, when I get around to it.

As always, writing feedback and criticisms are accepted, I want to improve. Especially with endings, I have a few ideas where my weaknesses lie.