"And you're sure that she wouldn't let me join you?" Pyrrha asks, staring at me. I keep forgetting just how green her eyes are until she's looking at me. It's not weird or anything, but it always makes me think she knows something embarrassing. That, and it makes her a little scary sometimes.
"I'm pretty sure yeah. She talked a bit about how one-on-one stuff is better than group activity if the skill gap is really large and, uh," — I gesture at myself — "Yeah. Don't think it gets much bigger than this." I'm not lying. I'm not being completely forthcoming and it twists my gut to say it, but I am telling the truth. Goodwitch said that these sessions are for my benefit, and I don't think having Pyrrha around would provide much help.
I'll make it up to her. Somehow.
"Well, I wish you the best of luck," Pyrrha says, breaking eye contact and turning back to her book. "Be sure to get something to eat after you're done." I heave a mental sigh of relief and head out the door.
"Gotcha Pyr. See you later!" I say, adding in cheer I don't really feel as I turn my head to wave behind me. Ren nods back and Nora smiles broadly.
"Break a leg!" she says as the door closes. I shake my head and walk towards the sparring rings, this time smiling a little more genuinely. The three of them are awesome. There might be better words for it, but that one fits. They're always willing to help out, whether it's with a receptive ear or extra training sessions or just breaking the tension with a laugh. Without them, I'd probably have flunked out in the first month of classes.
I mean, that's kinda the problem, but it's not their fault. I'm just trying to deal with it.
Once I get to the ring, I switch out of my uniform and into my combat outfit. I mean, it's still just shoes, jeans, and a hoodie, but since it's a Huntsman wearing it it's a combat outfit. Then I go through my pre-fight checklist. Straps tight? Check. Shoes tied? Yup. Stretched out? Still don't get why it matters, but yeah. Crocea Mors ready? I draw it and take a few practice swings. Well, it's not that flashy but it's a thing. I take a moment to look at the sword and smile. Swinging it around outside of a fight is a bad habit, and Pyr's drilled the importance of treating dangerous weapons like, y'know, dangerous weapons into my head a million times, but I can't help it. This is a sword doesn't have the same weight as actually using it, and I'm at Beacon isn't the same as landing a blow in a spar or killing Grimm. It's proof the I made it, that I actually belong here.
Then I remember why I need these extra sessions, and the illusion shatters. I let out a sigh. I'm going to need a serious psyching up.
I check my scroll. Still early. Good. Don't want to be late for the first session. I sheath my sword, then head out into the ring and scan the place. Completely empty, which isn't that surprising. There are other practice rooms, and Goodwitch probably used her privileges as teacher to reserve this one. Also, sparring in the sun is way more fun than whacking away at each other inside. I hear a door open and turn towards the ringside entrance to the women's locker rooms. It's Goodwitch, but...
"Is there a problem, Mr. Arc?" she asks, arching an eyebrow. I shake my head furiously.
"No, no, nothing like that. It's just," I fumble for words, then motion towards her. "You look different."
"I should hope so," she says, adjusting the massive two-handed sword that's resting on her shoulders, like she just rolls up next to her students with a completely new weapon every day of the week. "If I didn't, I might have to start worrying about the state of your eyesight." She's also not in a skirt and heels anymore. Now it's just some yoga pants and a poofy white shirt, barefoot. Once I realize what I'm basically checking out the legs on my combat teacher I tear my gaze away.
Down, Jaune! You grapple with Pyrrha all the time and it isn't weird!
"Uh, why the change?" I ask. Goodwitch rolls her eyes and steps into the ring. She's still taller than me, but not by a lot.
"Mr. Arc, I typically fight with my Semblance. If sparring with Miss Nikos isn't going to help you, simply being knocked out of the ring by a piece of debris certainly won't." Right. I feel my face flush. "As you do not have a ranged option, the primary area of concern for you appears to be melee skill. In order to facilitate that, I intend to assault you with a variety of weapons until you can adapt to any fighting style. Today, that means a longsword," she finishes, unsheathing the blade and twirling it twice before falling into a stance with one leg forward, the sword resting diagonally on top of it. "Now, attack me."
Well, if that's what she wants...
I draw Crocea Mors slowly, deploy the shield, and turtle up. I haven't ever seen Professor Goodwitch use a weapon other than her crop, but she's probably used to teaching a lot of different people a lot of different things. If she's not better with that sword than every student here, I'll eat my shoes.
I move closer, slowly circling. She adjusts her stance to keep facing me, impassive.
Okay, so that's not going to work. Time for a different approach.
I feint a little, swiping at the air a mile away from her, and she doesn't respond. Worth a shot. Welp, time for glory.
I take three steps forward and go for a slash at her head, down and to the right. She moves into it, does something complicated involving the hilt of her sword, my shield, and suddenly my arm's at a very painful angle.
"Since you lacked the element of surprise, you tried several different approaches. A commendable choice on your part," Goodwitch says conversationally. Her sword is also held across my throat and I try to breath more shallowly. "When it comes to application, your actual strike was pedestrian. I understand that you don't want to commit to blows against a superior opponent, but if you don't place some sort of pressure on me, I'll just counter-charge you like this." She holds me there for a moment and I keep gritting my teeth against the pain. I think she's forgotten that she has me in an arm bar. "Are you listening to me?" she asks.
"Different approaches good, lack of commitment bad," I whisper. "Now can I have my arm back?" She releases me and I stumble away, working my shoulder and elbow. It kinda feels like the time Pyrrha showed me joint locks, but a million times less gentle.
Good. It means I know where I stand.
I turn around and fall back into my usual stance. Glynda's holding her sword over the shoulder this time, eyes focused on my center of mass.
"Again."
After that the tone was set for the... spar? Tutoring session? One-sided beating? Whatever it is, we get into a routine pretty quick. I go after her, she beats me into the ground, tells me what I did wrong, and lets me try to fix it. When I mess up on the same thing twice, she goes after me and shows me how it's done. Once I recover from whatever injury she almost makes serious, I try again.
And again.
And again.
At some point after I get knocked to the ground by a stab to the stomach ("When your opponent outranges you, never retreat."), Goodwitch checks her watch, then walks off the stage. I groan and lever myself up as she sheathes her sword.
"It appears that our time is up for the day," she says, shouldering the weapon, now slightly less dangerous. I don't think she's even started sweating. "I commend you on your fortitude and ability to take both abuse and criticism. It does you credit."
"Thanks?" I say, not sure how to take that. I think it was a compliment?
"On the other hand, once a week sessions are more appropriate for students working on an extra credit project. For building competency, I would like us to meet no fewer than three times a week. Now that you know what these sessions look like, can you manage them on Saturday mornings and Monday afternoons as well?"
I think about it. Pyrrha's training sessions are on weekdays, but sacrificing two of them for Glynda's lessons is one hundred percent worth it. When we do stuff on weekends, it's usually in the afternoon, so giving up the morning means missing the occasional team-bonding brunch. Sucks, but, again, worth it.
"I can make it work," I answer, collapsing my shield and sheathing my own sword. I'm going to be sore in the morning, but at the end I could feel myself understanding the fight, not just trying to stay alive. "Thanks again, Professor Goodwitch," I say, walking over to her and extending my hand. She looks at the hand for a second, then back at me. I keep the smile on my face, even if it feels weird. She shakes my hand, hesitantly, then nods back.
"We will resume on Saturday, then," she finishes, walking off to the women's locker rooms. I watch her for about a second before I realize what I'm doing and shake my head.
Time to shower off and head back to the dorm. Maybe grab dinner from the cafeteria if they're still serving good food.
I wonder what the daily special is?
I strip off my active wear and change back into work clothes. I don't particularly mind the pencil skirt and heels, but it's nice to get a little more physical from time to time. I sigh as a voice in my head that sounds disturbingly like Peter makes an off-color comment about getting "physical" with a student. Please. If all it took was a Huntsman's physique and a reasonably attractive face to tempt me, I'd have been dragged in front of a review board well before now. No, there's something about fighting, about more intimate teaching, that's satisfying on a personal level. I've looked after children from time to time, and I can confidently say it's not maternal instinct. I certainly enjoyed the clash of steel on steel more than grading student essays.
I take a moment to groan and rub my temples. One would think that Beacon's academic standards would mean that everyone would know how to construct a sentence, or run a basic analysis of Dust. One would that think that, and one would be wrong. I still run into basic spelling and grammar errors, and all the students turn in their assignments through their lapscrolls, all of which have basic writing programs that can correct the most abhorrent errors in minutes.
I put back on my teacher mask and head out into the corridor, towards my office. Towards those terrible essays and elementary errors in basic mathematics.
I let out an internal sigh. Then I run through the list of reasons why, despite the tiny aggravations, Bart's coffee addiction (not too strong a word), Peter's lapses in common sense (though they're frequent enough that I have to wonder whether he's deliberately baiting me sometimes), and Ozpin's... eccentricities, that I still love what I do.
The star students. I didn't lie when I told Jaune I have no favorites. Such a thing would be unprofessional and violate the basic principle of teaching. On the other hand, when you do find someone who approaches problems from a completely unexpected angle, who masters the fundamentals so perfectly that you have to encourage them to break the rules, or is otherwise simply head and shoulders above their peers, it is gratifying beyond words to hone their skills.
Moral obligation. Could I, perhaps, have a more enjoyable job killing Grimm out somewhere on the frontier? Perhaps. Would that do as much good? Certainly not. Any number of people can pick up a sword and stick the sharp end inside of a Beowolf, while far fewer can show someone how to do so properly. On my own I could perhaps defend a town. In an institution of learning, I can train hundreds of others to do the same. Addition versus multiplication. A simple comparison, and one that comes down firmly on the side of teaching.
My friends. Is the term presumptuous? Perhaps, but I do not believe that one can work alongside a group of talented individuals towards the same goal and be only coworkers by the end of it. Bart goes out of his way to keep us all caffeinated, Port is a veritable font of anecdotes and surprisingly helpful ideas, Peach handles far more work than the rest of us put together, and Kitsune is...
Well, Kitsune patches up the students well enough, the nature of her method aside.
Half of us have fought together, and the other half have suffered through the misery of students, which is battle enough. These are some of the few people who I can truly relate to, and that alone would be worth any number of terrible essays.
If only they weren't all either too old or women!
I keep the scowl on my face from deepening until I get to my office. Then I let loose a snarl and being putting together a pot of tea. Again! Again it comes back to the lack in an aspect of my life. Hardly a new occurrence, and no less irritating for it! No one knows why there are so many more women than men in the Hunter schools, but the skewed ratio is a fact, and those lucky enough to secure a partner in the same line of work guard them more jealously than any amount of wealth. Divorces are rare, and being a rebound is distasteful for a number of reasons.
I glare at the kettle as it burbles along, absentmindedly flicking paperwork into stacks based on priority. Student assignments, then finances, then requests from other teachers. I preemptively stamp Peter's requests for more live Grimm. A man of his word indeed, and one who will not repeat his mistakes twice. Then I float over a third year's paper on low-lethality measures against criminals without Aura and begin grading.
Working with the written word is an acquired skill. This goes for both reading and writing, and in order to edit something one must be at least a level above the writer in question. When I began teaching, I barely outstripped the students. Every day was a day of learning, of reconsidering how I would approach my own work. Every night was a struggle to keep ahead of the my pupils, assisted by criminal misuse of highly caffeinated tea. Now? I tear through the submitted schoolwork in less than two hours. Considering the volume of work and the depth of my revisions, it should be a triumph. Instead it leaves me unsatisfied. I've seen the arguments before, and even when they're well executed it's rarely anything more than a brief consideration.
The kettle whistles, hot enough to circulate the flavor of the leaves but not so hot as to roast them. I pour myself a cup, savor the scent, and sip away, eyeing the financial forms resting on top of my desk. Generally speaking, Ozpin handles the most complicated paperwork, but even he has to sleep. So the slush gets offloaded to me, the only other person with remotely similar amounts of authority. Most of it could conceivably be kicked down to a secretary or someone of similar position, but just because something can happen does not mean it should. The year I tried such a system of casual inspection of forms "approved" by the temporary employee revealed no fewer than seven egregious lapses in judgement, along with a general lack of critical thought and basic bureaucratic skill. Should a more capable individual magically appear on the Beacon payroll, I will pursue their services. Until then, I am stuck working perhaps the least satisfying job available to me for no less than an hour a day.
When I snap, the first thing to go will be the fax machine.
I finish my cup of tea and resign myself to another exceedingly banal afternoon.
XXX
Once the last of the financial forms is filled out (with only one terrifying arithmetic mistake to break the monotony) I pack up my lapscroll, weapon, and a few requests from the faculty. Work never ends, and I've found that considering my colleagues' requests at the end of the night helps me keep a finger on the pulse of the school.
The cafeteria has been closed for some time by the time I get there, so I simply grab some noodles, sauce, onions, and beef. Simple fare, but it's fast and low-effort for the amount of pleasure it generates.
Once I'm back in my quarters I kick off the heels, let down my hair, and put on some music. Electric strings, drums, and piano notes fill the apartment and I feel a small smile slide across my face. The nicer speakers were a non-trivial expense, but worth it. That, and the sound-proofed walls. I let the sound run through me as I prepare dinner and the day's worries fall away. Old habits die hard, and one of the first habit I developed was never bringing business to the dinner table. Grandma hammered it into Mother, Mother enforced it with Father, and I appear to have picked it up as well. No matter how much work is left at the end of the day, violating the sanctity of the meal with something as dull as a job typically got met by glares and gentle swats to the back of the head. Even if I could squeak out a few more billable minutes, time spent enjoying good food and better music is never wasted.
Once the washing up is done (another habit, this time picked up from years of solitary living and a desire for cleanliness) I switch the music to a playlist, head into my bedroom, and pull a novel off the bed stand. It's nothing literary, not in the way that Philip Wreath or Garnet Machado earn the title, but nor is it precisely pulp. A story of swords and sorcery, which understands where it stands and simply tries to do the best it can within the niche it's carved free. Are there better stories? Perhaps. Ones where the effort comes through so clearly, so earnestly? Where they embrace both the limits and the strengths of their chosen medium and genre?
I turn the page, entranced.
Doubtful.
