"Whole."
It was times like these that Jaune Arc wondered why his family was so intent on making him a hunter. He was only seven, for Oum's sake. And he'd much rather be a cook anyways.
At least he had some talent for that.
"Again." Rang out a voice.
A voice that Jaune wish he didn't know as well as he did.
The voice of his father, Percival Arc, who had been attempting to train Jaune in the use of a battleaxe for the last week.
Attempting being the key word.
Of course, Jaune had made no progress.
Still, he raised the axe once again.
Ignoring just how wrong it felt in his hands.
Just like every other weapon he had held within them so far.
Jaune let out a sigh, getting a slight glare from his father for his lack of etiquette.
Yet, he didn't receive so much as an errant glance for his stance.
For any other pupil, that would probably be a good thing. A sign of progress.
However, the reason the Arc family was renowned for their combat prowess wasn't because of a unified style.
It was their lack of one.
Jaune moved first, rushing towards his father as quick as he could. Raising the wooden axe, he attempted to swing it at his father, only for him to easily deflect the weak blow with the back of hand.
Jaune quickly lost his grip on the axe, sending it flying. Again.
25 meters? 30? Ah, who cares.
His father quickly raised his own axe to Jaune's neck, signaling the end of yet another duel.
Jaune held back the urge to spit in his father's eye balls. Barely.
Judging by the sigh Jaune received from his father, he had expected this outcome.
The reason for the Arc's lack of a true family style is because, unbeknownst to most of the world, their genes were a maelstrom. That meant that there would never be a perfect family style, due to how much an Arc's build could vary from one Arc to the next. And so, they made their own styles. By doing a lot of sparring, hunting, studying, and survival training.
The only subjects Jaune had shown any talent for were studying and survival. Go figure.
Jaune himself was fairly simple. Standing at 4 and a half feet with blonde hair, pale skin, blue eyes, and a face that was lacking the baby fat that a seven-year-old kid like him should still have. That was one thing he was glad for.
The constant training kept him fit and healthy.
His sisters, he had been told, had taken to the training slower.
He didn't bother to point out that his sisters didn't have to worry about lacking a weapon for as long as he had.
Or worry about having absolutely no talent whatsoever for the weapons they tried.
He did.
His sisters were prime examples of the Arc clan. Warriors, who, even though the oldest was only 18, were already accomplished. Heck, even the elders liked them. And they were in the dictionary, listed right under 'Stickly' and before 'asshole'.
His sisters were, of course, prime examples in other ways, as well.
Like his pink-haired fox-faunus sister, Miyo. Where the hell had she gotten those genetics from? Both their mother and father were human, and while Violetta (their mother) had purple hair (go figure), Percival had brown hair. Plus, she wasn't the only one amongst his sisters who were faunus, and the others weren't all foxes, either.
The magic of recessive genes, Jaune supposed.
"We're done for today, Jaune." Looking up, his father's disappointment was palpable.
Jaune held back the urge to make some witty remark.
His father still needed a factory reset for his humor processor.
"Feel free to start dinner after cleaning up, if you want. It's late enough." Percival said, looking at the slowly setting sun.
Jaune decided to do just that.
I wonder if I should mix some laxatives into their food? . . . Nah.
Cooking had always been a relaxing activity for Jaune.
As one of the few things he was good at, he made sure to savor every moment.
Seeing that the curry he was making was done, he put away his apron, and was about to go call his family for dinner, when he saw the living room was empty.
Must be off having another family meeting. Must be reeeeaaall nice to have family to confide in.
Normally, he would just leave it be, but tonight, he was especially curious. After all, his dad was the last person who's weapon he hadn't tried yet. Plus, if he was caught, he could just say he was coming up to tell them dinner was ready.
Walking upstairs, he heard voices coming from the end of the hall.
Dad's office, huh? A classic.
Percival's office was one of the few rooms in the house that was big enough for such a meeting. Even if his sister, Rosa, was off who knows where, hunting Grimm.
Drawing closer, he realized the door was open just a smidge.
A good thing, considering the house was soundproof, for one reason or another. He had a feeling he knew why, though.
Everybody likes their privacy. Especially a happily married couple.
For a family of accomplished Hunters, he really did wonder why he seemed to be the most observant of the bunch.
". . . You know as well as I do that he just, like, isn't learning. I don't know what it is, but his body just, like, isn't built for any of our weapons, ya know? I know we have a genetically diverse family and all, but how the hell did he end up with such an impossible build?" Said his sister, Violet. At sixteen years old, she was a mini-me of their mother in almost every way, besides personality. And speech patterns. It still befuddled him how she managed to learn to talk like that.
Leaning against the wall next to door, Jaune listened intently. He had a feeling what they were discussing would change his life forever. As dramatic as that is.
"I hate to admit it, but it's true. Jaune's build is somehow both bulky and lithe. Too heavy for something like guns or a whip, yet too light for something like a broadsword or a battleaxe. It's a real shame, too. He has some great footwork." Said his foxy sister, Miyo. 14 years old, and easily the most mischievous of the bunch. Probably the reason she was his favorite.
What his father said next told Jaune all he needed to hear, however.
"No point in debate. Jaune just isn't cut out for combat."
Jaune quickly headed downstairs and out the front door. He needed some time to himself.
Jaune had long ago mapped the woods surrounding his house.
Survival was his prime subject, after all. Right alongside trapping. He loved trapping.
It only took five minutes of him walking before he got to where he wanted to be.
A clearing about ten feet across, with a small stream. The tree's were close enough that there were only a few entrances, the stream deep enough that he would hear if something tried to cross. Perfect for camping, planning, and the occasional nap.
But this time, he simply needed time to think.
Grimm rarely entered this neck of the woods, and for good reason.
The Arc family were well known for a reason, after all. Men and Grimm alike feared them.
The true price of power, he supposed.
Isolation.
So much for being the 'protectors of humanity'.
He had met few people outside of his family, having been home schooled from a very young age, and all the people he did meet were hunters.
And he wasn't in need of more hunters to make acquaintances of.
The Arc compound was well isolated, hidden away from the rest of Vale, and even the world. A select few outside the family even knew where it was.
In a world that, for one reason or another, feared them, the Arcs had to stick together.
So why did he feel so . . . left behind?
He couldn't remember anything before he turned five. Good or bad. Not even flashes.
He felt like a stranger in his own home, only truly interacting with his family for training and meals.
He should be happy that his father had finally declared he had no talent for combat. He could finally become a chef, and attempt to actually connect to his family.
So why did he feel so lost?
So deep was he in his thoughts, that he missed the footsteps creeping up behind him. Something he would never had missed normally.
What he didn't miss was the feeling of a needle going into his neck.
He had barely gotten up and stumbled forward before he fell back onto the ground, unconscious.
Everything he could see was a blur.
What's . . .?
"Managed to capture an Arc, huh? Good work. Their unnaturally large gene pool should help us narrow down the genetics involved in soul modification." A female.
Who . . .?
"Indeed. It was surprisingly easy. Seems that he was too deep in thought to recognize the sound of my footsteps." A male.
"In thought, huh? Should we keep him awake for the experiments, then? That should be enough to fry his brain, and keep him from attempting to escape."
"No. It's about time we move on anyways. If the experiment fails, then we'll just leave him in the lab when we burn it. Should clean everything up quite nicely."
"Reckon Atlas will finally accept us again after we succeed? Living in a place as ugly as Vale is not exactly doing wonders for my health, and I imagine Mistral's not going to be much better, brother."
Jaune fell back into unconsciousness.
Jaune never thought that waking up could be so jarring.
He couldn't feel his body. But he could smell the smoke.
Looking down, he saw he was in some sort of open test tube. But that wasn't what was worrying him.
What was worrying him was the state of his body.
Raising his hand to his face, he saw it turning into little flecks of light, and flying away.
He was quite literally falling apart at the seams.
Huh. Is this what the end of the line feels like, then?
Was his family right to lack faith in him, after all? Would he just die here, in some lab somewhere, forgotten? Abandoned?
In the distance, he heard part of the lab collapsing.
No.
He would get out of this somehow.
He couldn't die here. Wouldn't die here.
Not before he proved them wrong.
Before he became something great.
Looking into the smoke, he felt a tug on his very being. His soul, he realized.
He extended his quickly fading hand . . .
And the smoke rushed into him.
He couldn't decide if he was feeling pain or bliss.
He could, however, tell that his body falling apart even more rapidly.
But instead of turning into light, it was turning into smoke, with what looked to be little bits of orange. Fire? Combustion?
Jaune reached for where he had felt the tug. Willed his soul to stop falling apart.
And it . . . did.
The smoke quickly returned to his body, replacing the missing pieces. Yet . . . he knew.
His body was now made entirely of smoke.
. . .
Guess that means I'm running on fumes, huh? God, I'm good.
He attempted to get up . . .
Only to flash forward, and fall flat on his face.
Let's . . . not do that again. If this is bound entirely to my will, then . . .
This time, he succeeded in pulling himself up to his feet without turning into smoke, and was surprised by how familiar it felt.
It still felt like his body.
It was just made entirely out of smoke now.
Is this . . . my semblance? How?
His parents had refused to activate his aura until they had found his weapon . . . so why? Did it activate because of the situation? Or was it something else?
Then it clicked.
The people who had captured him had mentioned something about soul modification. Had they activated his aura, just so they could take apart his soul?
It would explain why he had began falling apart after waking up. When one's aura was activated, their soul was permanently linked to their body. It's why one's aura also grew stronger alongside your body, and why Aura could heal wounds.
Though, for most, the link wasn't a hundred percent soul to body.
Looks like he had just gotten unlucky.
If they had taken apart his soul, then it would explain why his body had needed something else to fill in the pieces. In this case, smoke.
And to think, I had thought that second-hand smoke was bad for you.
And he had pieced this all together, even though he was only seven.
Man, I should do this for a living or something.
Looking around, he was surprised to see that the smoke was clearing.
Then he saw the reason why.
His body was absorbing it.
This went on for a while before it stopped. And when it did . . .
He felt whole.
Stepping outside after wandering throughout the base looking for an exit (his body had absorbed all the smoke he came across.) He was greeted by fresh air.
Across the entirety of his body.
Looking down, he saw he was quite nude.
He quickly covered up his junk.
Um . . . must've missed that in my panic. Woops?
Looking for a way out of his current situation, he felt a familiar tug on his soul. Then, it clicked.
I wonder . . .
His semblance, sensing his will, quickly cocooned him in smoke.
When it dissipated, it revealed his new getup. The one that would be his go-to outfit for the rest of his life.
Looking into a nearby puddle, he quickly took note of his new appearance.
His hair had gone from bright blonde to blonde with black highlights and glowing orange tips, and his eyes now had hints of a bright, glowing orange.
Taking a closer look, he saw the new colors shimmering in the light. It was like looking into, well . . . smoke.
Thinking about it, he realized the colors must represent the new state of his soul and body.
Just like his new clothing.
Black gloves, black leather jacket with a fur collar the same color as the highlights in his hair, complete with tips, with a black shirt beneath, black jeans, and black leather boots.
Looking closer, he though he could wisps of smoke coming off his clothing. A sign of my control?
The outfit looked weird on a seven year old, he thought.
He had heard of wearing your heart on your sleeve, but really? This was just ridiculous.
Beats paying for clothes, I guess. Definitely better than going nude.
Looking around, he saw a number of pillars of smoke off in the distance.
A town? Some sort of fire? Either way, I guess it's better than wandering around aimlessly, for now.
And so, he walked.
It was, indeed, a town.
And it appeared he had entered through the red-light district.
Judging by what he guessed to be a woman of the night being molested by a thug.
Looking around, he saw that the few people on the street were ignoring it.
What the hell? . . . Guess I'll have to do it myself, then.
Looking around for a weapon, his eyes were caught by the gleam of steel.
Steel chains.
He immediately grabbed them from the floor of the alleyway. And watched in awe as his semblance remade them.
The chain became a blackened steel, and he could see wisps of his own smoke coming off from it. A smoke that held wisps of the orange color that no doubt belonged to his soul.
He could feel the chains connection to his soul, and holding it in his hand . . .
For the first time in his life, holding a weapon in his hand felt right.
Funny that my weapon of choice is meant to be a tool. Now, where's my theme music?
The cocky smirk that split Jaune's face was the first thing the thug saw when he turned to look at him.
The second thing he saw was Jaune's chain aiming to split his face.
It hit it's mark, right between his eyes.
The thug went down with nary a sound.
Moving forward, Jaune quickly moved to check the guards pulse-how do I do this again? Oh, right-and was relieved to find him still alive.
He hated rapists, but he also hated murderers.
He didn't much care for the thought of hating himself.
Turning to look at the woman, he quickly assessed her appearance.
Loose black hair, with a bang in front of her right eye, on a face that was only slightly curved. She had crystal blue eyes, and at one point had lipstick on her lips, but the thug had apparently 'fixed' that. She wore what he was sure was once a beautiful black feathered dress (before the thug got to it) on a body with curves in all the right places.
All in all, she was a looker.
Attempting to shake off his fascination, he addressed her.
"You alright, lady?"
At his query, she quickly she shook off her shock.
"Yeah, that's not the first time that's happened," After he handed her his jacket, she continued, "Any particular reason a kid your age is that good with a chain?"
Taking a look at said chain, he quickly swung it around his right sleeve with his right hand.
"What can I say? It's the best friend I have."
She giggled.
"Is that so, sweetheart. Something I can do to repay you?" Judging by the look on her face, she had a few ideas.
Hearing alarm bells ringing in his mind, he quickly changed course.
"Actually, miss, would you happen to know of a place I can stay?" Safe?
She gave him a smile.
"You're perfectly welcome to stay at my place. Least I can do."
Safe. Phew.
"Well, who am I to refuse a lady?"
At first, she looked surprised. Then she laughed.
"My name's Claire, hun."
"Name's Jaune. Short, sweet, rolls of the tongue." He replied.
"Lady's love it?" She queried, with a raise of her brow.
"I don't know, do they?" He replied.
She let out a laugh.
"At any rate, would you mind, uh, telling me where I am?"
At this she gave him a shocked look, but it quickly devolved into a grin.
"Well, in that case, let me be the first to welcome you to Ashenhold."
At the blank look on Jaune's face, she continued.
"You know, on the island of Patch?"
Jaune's blank look only deepened.
No references this chapter.
Rewrite Hype!