The rules are the same. In the Garden of Forking Paths, only one future may be lived—the other futures are for the other lives. Team RWBY never formed. They have lived happily ever since.

Chapter 1: Paths Collide

The Emerald Forest sagged under the summer rain. Little banks of mud pooled at the bases of every tree and wherever the grass dipped or parted. It had been raining for the past two days, and tiny rivers were flowing into standing bodies of water. The school seemed to rest atop the small hill that led down to the forest, quiet and motionless yet shimmering in the grey. Blake could see the pale glow of Beacon's spire, even though she shouldn't have been looking.

In front of her was a syllabus—or what was supposed to be the first of three. Beside her laptop was an index card with a general outline for her syllabus' format. Elsewhere, she had notes about her course plans. But nowhere, not in her modest house nor in her learning, was there an answer to her question: What was a good first impression? Even in general, she lacked an answer to this. But more pertinently, what was a good first impression to give to students?

She had her office hours, the means by which students could contact her, and a placeholder space for whatever course the syllabus would be retooled for. Most professors she had, even at Beacon, considered this a sufficient introduction. However, those professors who went the extra mile and tried to endear themselves to their students stuck in Blake's mind, and that's why she tried writing an "About Me" section. She had tried four times.

"Welcome to, [Course]!" the syllabus read. "I am a professor of Literature, Ethics, and History at Beacon Academy, and my specialization concerns the White Fang's transformations and impacts on Human-Faunus relations. I am an avid reader, a lover of cats, and a huntress."

Blake wanted to write "—not necessarily in that order" afterwards, but both that idea and the paragraph as a whole seemed painfully disingenuous. And dumb. Golden eyes squinted at her laptop's holoscreen for a moment, as if solving a puzzle that never existed, taking a sip of her tea. Then something pulled her gaze again, and this time it wasn't her frustration. Something small and fuzzy had brushed against her leg, and when she looked to her right, she found her cat. Its paws were on her armrest, and it meowed.

"Hi," she said. "Do you want to write this for me?"

Meow.

"Of course not. You just want to chase bugs."

Longer meow.

When Blake reached out to pet the marled-grey cat, she was interrupted by its jumping up on to her lap. As soon as it found a suitable place to sit, it looked back up at its owner. "Oh, Silver." Blake shook her head. "What am I going to do with you?" She could write a paragraph about her cat. That could be fun—it'd certainly make the introduction less awkward. "But you don't deserve that. Because you're just a cat."

Silver lay down, purring. With a sigh, Blake resigned to her position, knowing that she was now a prisoner to her cat's slumber. She had gotten Silver during her junior year, and her team had taken a liking to her in the same way they had taken a liking to Blake: that is, for about a week. This little fuzzball had gotten her through so much—injuries, finals, grad school. And now they had a house of their own. Well, it was kind of leased to her by the academy, but her belongings were here, and she liked how the other teachers in the villa kept to themselves. One hand roamed across Silver's ashen fur while the other closed her syllabus document, deciding not to save. She opened a new document and stared at its blankness.

She did this for a few moments. It was blank. Then it was still blank. And then it was intimidatingly blank. Therefore, she turned away, taking a pen from a mug and beginning to draw on the index card beside her.

Blake started with some wings. She didn't know where she was going with this, but she knew wings were a good place to start. Once she had a rough outline of the wing, she moved on to the back, then to the tail feathers. And when it came time to draw a head, she decided this bird would be a seagull. Really, it was the only bird she could draw—thanks to Ms. Maugancorp's Intro to Drawing class, she could only draw an assortment of fruits and this one dumb seagull. But, somehow, not together. It was a class she had looked forward to at first, but it turned out to be a class that completely wasted her time. At least it was an easy A, and at least the bird turned out all right. For the most part. The feet, due to fading interest, had become stick feet composed of three lines each.

And no time at all had passed.

Would Silver mind if Blake moved her? Probably. Did Blake care? Unfortunately.

With this in mind, Blake turned back to her document and tried again. "Welcome to [Course]!" she wrote, foregoing contact information with the knowledge that she'd probably delete this draft, too. "I am a professor of Literature, Ethics, and History whose specialization deals with White Fang transformations and their effects on today's culture. I have recently received my master's degree in History from Beacon Academy, and this will be my first semester—"

She stopped here. For some reason, this introduction just wasn't working. She deleted it, feeling herself get frustrated. Why couldn't she do this? Why couldn't she just say something real about herself? Why did it always have to be about the things she did? Why not the person she was?

Blake was sweating.

She could feel herself beginning to stick to her clothes and her clothes beginning to stick to her chair. Silver awoke, raising her nonexistent eyebrows. The Faunus' breaths were coming harshly now, and her vision was fading. In her panic, Blake reached for her neck, trying to check her pulse. It was way too fast, and when she tried to calm herself with deep-breathing exercises, inhaling deeply with the intent of exhaling slowly, her vision went blank and the rest of her senses became muted.

This lasted for what seemed like only a few seconds in Blake's panic, but it could have been much longer, too. Whatever the case, Blake's physical senses came back quickly.

Quickly, harshly, and all at once, and they brought acute pain and burning right along with them through her entire body. She experienced a nauseating surge of vertigo before falling and hitting the ground heavily, her right arm twisting under her and pulling a ragged cry from her lips.

Blake's entire body felt like it was bruised and on fire. Her heart was pounding in her ears, racing desperately as if trying to overcompensate for the loss of something, and she was drenched in sweat. She couldn't get back up. Her muscles wouldn't obey.

Another screech was heard, and she thought it might have come from her, but that thought vanished in an instant when she realized that she was not in her house and that the creature approaching was most definitely not Silver. Far, far from being Silver. It was a Grimm. A Geist, in its Petra Gigas form. It towered with the trees.

Blake's huntressing instincts kicked in immediately, foregoing any confusion about the change in scenery. She could indulge her confusion later. Right now, she was facing imminent death. Her body was still in massive amounts of sudden pain, and her muscles still refused to respond, but that giant rock monster wasn't going to wait for her to get up. Blake had no other choice but to push through her agony and force herself to move. It was excruciating, raising herself to her knees, wave after wave of searing pain coursing through her veins, scorching her like rivers of traitorous magma.

Her vision was still all wrong—dimmed—and her heart wouldn't slow, but Blake got to her feet, trembling and unable to use the arm she fell on. She felt completely off-balance, there was the metallic taste of iron in her mouth, her knees seemed to be on the verge of buckling, and that Geist was only getting closer—dangerously so. She couldn't fight it. There was no way. Gambol Shroud was nowhere to be seen and she was in no shape for acrobatics. She had to run.

So, Blake took a limping step to turn away from the Grimm creature and almost fell down again, cursing how disorienting and muted everything felt. At least that monster wasn't too fast on its stone stumps—or, at the very least, it didn't seem to be in any hurry to finish her off. Maybe because she would likely die anyway, even if she managed to escape.

Blake didn't know where she was. All she knew was that she was surrounded by trees—not the regular kind of the Emerald Forest—and that she had to get away somehow. She took another step, reaching out with her working arm to lean part of her weight against the nearest tree trunk. There was something yellow covering most of her forearm. It was shiny and plated—Blake's mind registered a metal grieve of sorts, maybe armor. She didn't own anything like that. It didn't matter.

She pulled herself forward and took a few more agonized steps, knowing that at this rate the Geist would catch her within the next few moments. She didn't want to die. Whatever was happening, she still had a lot of things she wanted to accomplish. Places she wanted to see. Students she wanted to teach. Wrongs she wanted to right. No matter how she had gotten here, Blake did not want to die.

Yang jolted, gasping as she hit the floor, her world spinning. Immediately, there was a hissing noise and a patter of clicks and scratching, but those soon faded to nothing. Yang moaned and rolled over, staring up at the plain taupe ceiling for a moment, dizzily watching it twirl. There was a ringing in her ears and she could feel her heart pounding in her whole body.

And then she realized.

"Son of a—"

Another hiss interrupted her, and Yang sat up straight, breaths heavy and shallow. She looked around for the source of the noise, senses groggy yet oversensitive, and noticed a grey and white cat nearby, baring its small fangs at her, fur standing on end. Was that—? Was this…? What? Whatever this was, it was highly anticlimactic.

Yang remembered her injuries and pain, all of which she suddenly couldn't feel anymore—at least, not really. She still felt a numb, tingling sensation where her wounds should have been, but the pain was gone. Frantic and still panicking, Yang scrambled to her feet, forgetting about the small feline, and felt herself over rapidly.

For one thing, she couldn't find any injuries. Like the pain, they were gone. And as odd as this was, the observation did help Yang breathe easier. For another thing, she wasn't wearing the same clothes, which was even more bizarre. Also, her arms were slimmer. And…her boobs were smaller, too. Yang's eyes widened, a new sort of panic taking over. She was about to hurry and search for a mirror, but then she stopped and took a deep breath in.

I'm dreaming. "I'm just dreaming," she muttered, trying to convince herself further. That's what it was. There was no other explanation. She was in a battle with a Petra Gigas and it… It had been about to kill her. She didn't want to admit that, even in her mind, but the thought made her shiver. She had done her best, and now this was some sort of near-death experience. It had to be.

Maybe she'd make it out alive, but…

Yang shook her head. Whatever was happening, she needed to make sense out of it. If she was going to be stuck here for the duration of a dream, she may as well keep active in case she woke up or—

Yang pushed her mind to a more benign—if not happier—place and finally observed all the papers on the desk in front her. Notes on top of spreadsheets on top of books. It looked like a lot of work. Jokingly, Yang wondered if she really had died and this was her punishment for something terrible she had done in life. Because, to be honest, she had done a lot of terrible things—some of which she was even proud of—and this terrible drawing of a sparrow on the desk was the cherry on top of her just desert. This may not have been the fire and brimstone kind of afterlife, but all that paperwork was pretty much just as bad.

Whatever the case, it couldn't be real. And that thought sufficed to calm her, for the most part. She would wake up—or she wouldn't—and still have her D-cups. At least, she'd have the knowledge that D-cups were the reality of things. Not this…whatever this was.

Feeling more confident about the impossible nature of her situation—everything seemed so vivid and sharp, after all—and laughing a bit at the…choiceness of her priorities, Yang tested her boobs again and decided they weren't too much smaller than her regular chest size…and were actually a little firmer, too. She could live with that for the duration of this dream. She shrugged and then squeezed again for good measure. Yeah, they were good.

But then a quiet growling noise made Yang remember the cat.

She switched her attention to the feline, seeing that it didn't look any friendlier than before. It was creeping closer. Yang tentatively stretched out her hand, murmuring, "Good kitty. I'm not gonna hurt you. Don't eat me."

It bared its fangs again.

Yang narrowed her eyes. "Don't make me eat you!"

The cat stopped its movement forward, though, and Yang came to the conclusion that she wouldn't get hurt anyway. None of this was real, right? She could do whatever she wanted! As such, Yang walked past the cat, which pawed harmlessly at her leg, and stopped by the window behind the desk to look outside. It was pouring out there—Yang could hear the rain ping and thud against the roof unnaturally well, to the point where it was honestly annoying—and the fog made it hard to see past the fifteen-yard mark. The only things she could make out were the silhouette of another house and a gravel road fading into the fog. Yang creased her eyebrows as she tried to make heads or tails of the situation, scratching her abdomen absentmindedly, and then she paused.

Something was different.

Well, duh. But something was different.

Yang lifted her shirt and stared at her stomach. "Weh!" she quacked, genuinely disappointed. Her abs weren't as defined, and she was…slimmer, in a graceful sort of weird way. Also, her skin was paler—sort of olive—and smoother, as if she hadn't gone outside all that much. What kind of dream even was this?

That's it, Yang decided. It was time to find a mirror. Because, apparently, out-of-body-Yang was totally changed in appearance.

There were two doors here, a proper one along the longer wall and a sliding one along the shorter. Yang decided on the second for the sake of adventure. She finally put her shirt down and wandered out of the small room—what had seemed to be an office—and found herself in a very modest living room that lacked a holoscreen. There was a sectional wrapping around a glass coffee table with some books on it and a large bookshelf not far away with even more books within. Books, books, books…and more books. Punishment.

"This is…totally death." The words didn't fail Yang this time. She knew she was only joking, even if doubts still festered in her mind's darkest corners. "Crap," she said, trying to smirk. "I'm so dead. And now I have to live with a cat."

It's not that she didn't like cats. It's just that they were untrustworthy and mostly conniving. All they wanted was affection on their own schedule and food whenever they demanded it.

That stupid grey cat was following her, likely looking for a meal or an apology that Yang probably owed it for being hurt by its poor, poor claws. It had such a bad posture, spine arched the way it was. But Yang disregarded it as best she could. If she was going to be dead, or if she was going to be dreaming, she might as well enjoy not giving a darn—because what could hurt her now? She passed the books she would never read and the living room she would never use—mostly due to the lack of worthwhile entertainment—and went to the kitchen. Maybe they had ambrosia here. Or pizza.

But just as she stepped into the linoleum heaven, Yang paused, catching something at the corner of her eye. For a moment, her spine went rigid and her adrenaline surged again. She saw a flash of black moving in the same direction as her—had the Geist followed her? Was this not a dream? Was she even dead?

Yang clenched her fists and pivoted on feet that, for some reason, weren't accustomed to the movement. She looked all over for that specter, ears deafened under the rain or her panic, and she was ready to continue fighting. That is, until her eyes landed on the mirror she had stopped searching for. Yang lowered her guard and hurried over to it.

In front of the blonde was a girl with black hair. This was…a really weird dream. If this was supposed to be an out-of-body experience, and if she was supposed to be having this right before she died, why did her mind cling to this image? The girl before her had golden, almost honey eyes, and she stood about the same height as Yang—or maybe a little bit shorter, but Yang could forgive herself for not knowing how tall she looked. This girl before the blonde had hauntingly catlike features, eyes curved upwards at their outer corners and pupils faintly, but not certainly, slit vertically. Yang smiled, perhaps at the strangeness of everything or at the fact that the Geist wasn't here, and even this girl's smile looked like a cat's, what with her sharp canines. Not in a spiteful way, though.

"Well, hello, gorgeo—" But then Yang cut her vanity off, interrupting the pose she had meant to strike. In a small, awed voice, she observed, "I have cat ears."

Yang could feel something on her head wiggle, and when she moved a hand to touch whatever it was, making sure the reflection was actually a reflection, she found a pair of velvety-soft ears. And with their touching came a loud, scratchy noise, as though Yang really could hear with those things. Oh boy. "Does this mean I have some deep-seated want to become a Faunus or something?" From her right side, the cat, back still arched, hissed again. She amended, "Or is this God's way of teaching me how to forgive cats?"

She pushed one of the ears down and watched it flick back up to attention, wincing somewhat at the slight noise it made. She noticed her hearing was way, way better than it used to be, and probably for the worse. "If I get out of this alive," she sighed, "I need to find a shrink. I thought my life was supposed to flash before my eyes or something, not someone else's."

Then, as if disregarding that last sentence, her eyes scanned left and right—not for the Geist or for that cat, whose judgments meant nothing to the near-dead blonde—before her hands reached up to touch her not-D-cups again. "Who even am I?"

This began a search across the house. Yang knew it to be a house because there were a few things she could tell by looking out the window: this place was level with the ground, there did not seem to be any neighbors attached to this building, and there were two doors leading outside, one to a foggy front lawn and the other to a rainy backyard with a complicated monkey bars setup. Whoever's house this was, if this house was anyone's, Yang could not be sure. It was devoid of identifying articles—no bills, no awards, no photographs—and it was organized, too. Well, except all those stacks of books. And the papers with illegible notes on them, which were only illegible because they had a bunch of jargon Yang didn't care to read.

What she did find, though, was a bedroom. It should be said that Yang considered herself a good person. Growing up with a younger sister and having to be said younger sister's surrogate mother, she knew what personal space meant and why it was important. So, even though this was a dream, barging into and rummaging through someone else's room, which seemed so unshakably real, was still a bit…taboo. But, at the same time, Yang had to know why she was here, why she was suddenly a Faunus, and why she wasn't fighting that Geist anymore. She held her breath and entered.

Whoever's room this was, it was just as organized as the rest of the house. The bed was made with an almost military level of meticulousness, and the closet, although drawn open, revealed a rack of clothing that had been separated by color, function, and whatever other classifications Yang could not fathom. What caught her attention, though, was a single, almost out-of-place pennant hanging on the wall beside this bedroom's window.

It read: "Haven Academy."

What a weird dream. It wasn't anything necessarily unique—heck, Yang had once dreamt she was Zwei, which was fun, so dreaming that she was someone else and that she was in an entirely different kingdom wasn't completely unfounded. What was weird about this dream, however, was the context. Yang had engaged a Petra Gigas-form Geist, and had been winning relatively, until one of the boulders she broke was replaced by another, larger one, which had unfortunately come from right behind her. Again, this dream wasn't unfounded—she had been knocked out more than a few times and had dreamed during a few of those instances—in fact, her Zwei dream had been a result of one of those knockouts—but considering how she always remembered these dreams in hindsight and never in the moment…

What was important was that she wake up—and soon. Just because she was unconscious didn't mean the danger had gone away. Yang could still feel her heart pounding inside whoever-this-was' chest. But despite the urgency, Yang felt calm, and everything was so detailed. Maybe she was already dead and this really was some kind of afterlife, punishment or not.

Amid the mysterious home, the unfamiliar body, and all the cat's hisses, a pit of dread dropped heavily into Yang's gut at this reminder of probable death.

Ruby.

If Yang was dead, or even on the brink of death… Oh…Yang wanted to throw up. She wanted to punch and destroy something suddenly, but… Ruby… Oh, God. Her sister was going to be devastated. She was going to be alone. She was a big girl now and had grown up into such an amazing, sweet, kind, strong woman, but…

Oh, God.

Yang's legs gave out. She hit the floor not nearly as hard as she expected, and her back thudded against the wooden bedframe. But she didn't care—she just wanted to wake up—needed to.

Wake up!

She growled in her throat. This wasn't working. "Wake up!" she shouted, all the previous humor having left her and someone else's voice coming out at the top of her lungs. But she didn't care about either of those things. Yang was going to die, and her body wouldn't even let her resist this fate.

She groaned miserably, screamed what she could, and then her emotions and words finally collapsed in on each other into a series of choked, resentful sobs. She tried to hold them back, tried to stay strong and will herself back into the realm of the conscious. But nothing worked. She was still stuck in this house, in this body, and she was going to die. It wasn't even a possibility anymore. It was reality.

"Ruby…" was all she could mutter. Tears burned all the way down from her cheeks to her chin, and she felt weak. Thoroughly weak. Like she could fall through the floor. Even her fingernails digging into her palms lacked the heartful strength they used to have. She just wanted the numbness to be over. She just wanted to go home to Ruby.

Yang sat like that for a while, trying and failing to hold back tears for the sister she'd leave behind and racking her mind for some sort of awakening willpower, until a fuzzy presence sidled up against her. When she felt something coarse and warm press against her shaky hand a few times, Yang looked down at the feeling's source. It was that cat—that grey and white jerk—and it was trying to comfort her. In response, unsteady fingers ran weakly through its fur and moved to scratch its ears. Yang felt dizzy, her heart racing again, probably because of the sudden surges of emotion in this short amount of time—the conflicting calm and stress, the worry and the comfort, the coming to terms with just how alone Ruby would be—but this cat made things a bit easier. Just a tiny bit.

Yang looked ahead at the bedroom's closet. Its doors had mirrors on them. Yang saw that her foreign, golden eyes were bloodshot, and her makeup had begun to run. The cat was curled up against her side, not purring but not hissing. And Yang was going to die.

Blake powered through the agony by sheer force of will and, with a frustrated, pained cry, broke into a heavy, teetering sprint. Her boots collided with the dirt loudly, each footfall sending excruciating shocks through her legs, and she had to hold her broken arm against herself, but she never looked back. She was too weak. All she cared about was escaping. And she tried to accelerate, tried to keep her momentum by using her good arm to push forward against the nearby trees, but the more she ran, the more labored her breathing became and the less oxygen she had to keep her going.

To say the least, a dirt path so close to her location had not been on the list of things Blake had hoped for so soon. And when she stumbled forward onto it, left with nothing to keep her upright, she fell to her knees again, panting harshly and staring at the ground, both wondering if this was some sort of miracle and how she'd find the strength to get up. Splatters of red appeared on the dirt beneath her face, and Blake quickly realized she was bleeding. No surprise, really. Her injuries felt like they were extensive and covering almost the whole of her body.

She couldn't stay here. She had to get up. She had to keep running. The ground rumbled, followed by loud cracks and leaves rustling, and Blake tiredly looked behind her, seeing the ominous shadow of the Grimm approaching through the trees. She moaned and coughed before forcing herself to her feet once more, breaths coming ragged and uneven. Her peripherals were starting to turn to black. She wasn't going to last much longer. Her body was shutting down.

Blake focused on the path ahead of her and began running again, sharp spikes of pain shooting up her legs with each step and threatening to make her knees buckle. She must have been functioning almost entirely on adrenaline now. How she was even capable of continuing on in this state was beyond her.

There were dark spots that had appeared in her vision, and Blake thought it was because she was about to pass out, but the spots were getting bigger and becoming more distinct by the second. They were people. There were people running to meet her. For all Blake knew, she was in the middle of nowhere and couldn't fathom how this was possible, but now they were in danger, too.

"Go back," she tried to yell, but her voice only came out in a rasp and she started coughing again. This slowed her down, but she kept trying to warn them, to tell them to get away while they still could. Unfortunately, they only kept coming closer. They were all going to die. Blake included.

Her strength gave out. She felt herself start to fall, but someone caught her by the shoulders and forced her to look at them in the eyes. But Blake was losing consciousness. She couldn't even make out their face properly.

"We're here to help!" the person exclaimed, shaking her, trying to stop her from fainting. "Stay with us! You're going to make it!"

It was a nice sentiment. Blake held on to it as best she could. "You need to leave," she muttered, gripping the man's jacket tightly—mostly to keep herself upright. Her voice—and everything else, really—seemed so distant and foreign.

"We are. We're leaving and getting you to safety," he assured, and now he was the one holding on to her, letting her lean most of her weight on him. Someone else took hold of her soon after, and Blake felt herself lifted off her feet. Her head rested on something warm and firm, and she wondered if she might just have a chance of making it after all. But she was so tired, in so much pain, and nothing felt right. She couldn't even feel her aura. It was as if it were gone.

Blake tried to stay conscious. She was aware that she was being carried, she could hear very distant yelling and the Petra Gigas screeching, but no matter how hard she battled to remain awake, to figure out what was going on, she couldn't do it. It all was too much. Her body went limp in the arms holding her, her eyes closed, her breathing slowed, and then there was nothing.

She opened her eyes again about a second later.

For a moment, Blake was confused, as if she had just woken from a vivid dream, staring at her closet like it would provide an explanation, and then she blinked a few times and rubbed her face. She was in her house. In her room. With the rain pouring outside and her cat curled up against her leg. There was no Grimm, there were no people, and she was not being carried.

Blake let out a long sigh—half in relief, half out of being at an absolute loss. Silver rustled and then moved onto her lap, where she sat and stared up into golden eyes curiously. She meowed and then pushed her head against Blake's chest, and Blake ran her fingers through Silver's fur absentmindedly.

There were several questions in Blake's mind vying to be addressed first. Nothing made sense right now. She had no recollection of walking into her room or sitting against her bedframe—a strange action for her to do in the first place. One moment she had been trying to write a syllabus and the next she was running for her life from a Petra Gigas. And now she was back home. But she didn't remember falling asleep or even being tired. In fact, she remembered sweating and having a far too fast pulse before…before…

What, exactly? What had happened?

It couldn't be a dream. Blake had felt incredibly disorientated and the…event was equally dimmed, somehow, as if she'd been looking through fogged lenses. But the pain had been so real, the sheer panic and total change of scenery so whole…

Blake's heartbeat accelerated a little, the singular memory causing some of the stress to return. She scratched Silver behind the ears, trying to find some comfort. Blake had been in her fair share of battles and desperate situations, and some of her past injuries had been life-threatening, but she had never been so close to death. The experience was not pleasant—and that was an understatement.

She groaned and passed her hand through her hair, and it was then that she caught sight of her reflection in her closet's mirror. She did a double-take when she realized her eyes were puffy and some of her makeup had run.

"Did I cry?" she muttered, quickly wiping her eyes in confusion and embarrassment—not that Silver would judge her for shedding tears or that there was anyone around to notice this slight, but Blake hadn't cried in…years. Had this…vision really affected her so much?

But there was still the question of how she had moved from her office to her bedroom. Blake felt like she was missing a piece of the puzzle—several, really—and the picture she was trying to see was abstract at best.

She could try retracing her steps. Maybe there would be a clue to jog her memory. Blake took Silver and put her on the floor before standing. She crossed the hall and made her way into her office, cat following right behind her, and paused. Everything seemed to be in its place, nothing disturbed, except the open sliding door leading into the living room. Blake didn't remember opening that. Nevertheless, Blake sat at her desk. Her laptop's screensaver had come on, a number of koi fish swimming around in gentle circles, and this made Blake narrow her eyes. It was set to come on after ten minutes of inactivity.

Blake took a deep breath in and slowly exhaled. If the event had only been a dream, she doubted it would have lasted as long as it did or carried her into another room. The unconscious mind worked fast, after all. Ten or more minutes had elapsed, as proven by her computer. Then Blake actually checked the time, and although it didn't reassure her much, she calculated that around fifteen minutes had gone by. This meant the amount of time that had apparently elapsed was equal to the amount of time Blake felt like she had been escaping. It must have been a vision of some sort. She noticed her cup of tea on the desk beside her laptop, and her gaze froze on it.

Carefully, Blake reached for the cup and brought it to her face. She breathed in, smelling the tea and searching for any unnatural odors. There were none. It was just green tea, no milk or cream or sugar or anything else added to it. She even tasted it again to be sure, but it was absolutely normal, albeit cold.

Okay, so I wasn't high.

Blake put the cup back down and creased her eyebrows. It was disquieting, knowing what being on the brink of death felt like. Faced with her own mortality, Blake realized how much she wanted to live. She had pushed past her limits, had fought through the agony and ran despite the wounds and lack of aura if only to give herself a chance, however infinitesimal. But why had this…lesson, if it could even be called such, manifested itself so suddenly and so strangely through a vision? It didn't make sense. And Blake didn't like not knowing how it happened because it meant she did not have control over it, whatever it was. It could happen again. Maybe it wouldn't, but it could, and the simple prospect of it occurring during one of her classes mortified Blake. Her body had moved from one place to another without her knowledge and reacted to the vision by itself. If there was a next time, who knew what her body would do? The thought was a little scary. Her reputation was on the line.

What had triggered it?

Silver meowed just then, demanding attention. Blake looked over at her, and the cat jumped onto the Faunus' lap once again. Blake sighed. "You saw what happened, didn't you?" she asked the feline, but Silver only blinked at her calmly, expressing affection. "If only we spoke the same language. You'd think I could understand at least half the things you yowl about." Blake couldn't, of course. She hadn't been brought up to understand kitty-talk. What a story that would have been.

And while she was on the topic of stories, the young woman remembered the syllabus she was failing to write. Blake didn't know what to think of the vision, she couldn't explain it or fully comprehend it—nor could she be sure if it would happen again or if it was a one-time thing—and while it certainly worried her, that syllabus needed to be written. As much as she was tempted to try and find out more, Blake knew her priorities.

She wanted to teach. She wanted to share her knowledge with her students, if only to help them understand the world they lived in and to encourage them to make morally sound decisions. They were the future and the guardians of Remnant. Having an impact on their lives had been one of the motivating factors that urged Blake forward when she was faced with imminent death, somewhere at the back of her mind. That much was real about her, she knew now.

It might not have been much, but it was certainly a start and it was certainly tangible. Blake cared about others, and she cared about shaping the world in some way or another—it was what she had tried to do over and over again throughout the multiple stages of her life. And now she may have actually had a chance at doing it right this time.

With this, Blake found the inspiration she needed to write her syllabus.

Y'ALL THOUGHT I WAS DONE WITH FAN FICTION? YEAH? WELL, ME TOO. BUT I'M BACK AND STILL SPINELESS, AND WE'RE ALL GONNA SUFFER FOR IT. BUT THIS TIME'S GONNA BE DIFFERENT! (!) I SHALL WRITE A NOVEL. LIKE, THIRTY CHAPTERS. OR SOMETHING. THAT'LL GET ME LAID, RIGHT?

Anyway. So, yeah. Novel. The plan is thirty-something-or-so chapters with word counts between 6,000 and 15,000. It's gonna take a while, so settle in. Failure to keep your arms, legs, and children inside the NOVEL at all times will result in mild disappointment. :(

Also, full disclosure: I DON'T WANT TO GET LAID. NOT THROUGH FAN FICTION. DO YOU REALIZE HOW HUMILIATING THAT WOULD LOOK ON MY RÉSUMÉ?

With that settled, I shall see you yonder morn, mine lovelies! Ich liebe dich. Yes, dich. 3