Dream.

Summary: Dead men don't dream. They remember.

Tags: future!AU, Grimm War, dark, old Jaune Arc remembering his past.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. RWBY belongs to Rooster Teeth and the blessed Monty Oum. This is merely a fanwork, and my only profit from this is practice in writings and self-amusement.

Chapter 03: Vale Central

Noises. Sounds. A crowded train platform, packed full of life from all far and near. Light shone through dome of glass, shining on the nest of bipedals below shuffling to and fro, of all colors and shapes and sizes.

"All passengers arriving at Vale Central Station, please follow the yellow line to the nearest security checkpoint for mandatory inspection. All passengers departing, please follow the red line..." The intercom spoke, a monotone and soulless voice of a recorded playback, heedless of whether it was being heard. His ears rung with tinnitus, the static hissings of electric cables and whistle of bells brought back to the forefront of his mind the song of shells whistling in the air and artillery strikes that hit too close. Wheels grinding on steel rails turned into tracks, and the rail tar-pitched flesh and ichor.

Blue eyes blinked, and the ringings remained. Vibrant life of all shapes and forms, noises and sounds; a liveliness too dizzying, assaulting his mind and senses. It put him on edge, the comparison between this and a nest of Grimm instantly drawn in his mind before being squashed away with a conscious effort. Then there was the air. It reeked of the bitterness of ashes and smog, long after the dust of war had settled. Engine oil and flakes of iron. Dormant, spent Dust floated thick in the air, so thick just a bit of aura could cover his fingertips with an ashen layer of that white ash, so thick he could not just smell but taste it. Blue eyes curiously stared at his covered palm, the fine dust sliding between his hand's crevices. At least he no longer need a gasmask to breath in the polluted air. The man let his free hand fall back to the trusty pommel of his sword. Not that it would help any more.

The yellow lines on the overly white station floor joined, before splitting again. Snaking lines of people with heavy luggages or children in tow, guided by thin bands of yellow. He remembered something like this, at both a land of snow and one of forest, at a checkpoint justlike this. Contrary to a memory that flashed before his eyes, the line was orderly, the people in it at ease - or as much ease as one could before such a long line of wait. There was no rush, no hurry, none that extends beyond running late for a meeting or reunion with loved ones. There was no haste in their gait, or panic in their eyes. No pushing, screamings or hushed whispers of worry. No ragged clothings, torn luggages spilling with belongings, stricken expressions or eyes puffy and haunted lifeless or filled with just the simple relief of arriving in one of the few safezones left in all of Remnant. There was, now, just ordinary people, living in a time of... peace. More or less.

Jaune Arc stepped into the line, and began the wait. His hand raised to pull the cap he was wearing low to his face. The High Council had wanted to make sure there would be no repeat of Beacon's Breach or worse, the Second Raid of Mistral thus the normally annoyable process was exacerbated to a long and arduous process that only a scant few are exempt to; consisting of an individual scan of each of your worn and carried items, your luggages unpacked and searched for any hidden or potential weapon before you are stripped naked for close-up scans, and that's before X-ray scan, Infestor check, health check and whole other pthelora of processes designed to root out 'Grimm cultists', or something like that.

Most of them had been pointedly ignored by customs officers in the extreme influx of refugees during the War.

But now there was peace, and there was no more reason for such actions. He was no longer even an active Huntsman, or high-level military personel, and thus, Jaune Arc could only wait, and it would be a very long one. Or it would be, perhaps, if not for the rather panicky person in the drab blue garb of custom security stammering and undoing the yellow ribbon to allow him exit from the line.

"Ah- Sir! Follow me, p-please." The man managed out, his nervous, waggling hand pointed at the special check-in counter. This action caught the notice of many surrounding passengers. Their eyes widened in recognition, and murmurs broke out amongst the few standing near him. Or maybe it was just the sight of Crocea Mors. With a raised eyebrow and a held back sigh for getting spotted, he allowed himself to be lead away.

Hey, is that... Paladin Arc?

No way, that's him?

You sure it is him? I don't remember him having grey hair... does he?

Maybe, I saw some news a few days ago about him retiring or somethin'...

Com'mon, it can't be. Paladin Arc's 50-60 something, right? There's no way he's that guy, he looks so... old!

58. The man held back another inconsequental sigh at that constant reminder.

He was lead to the exempt line, to a much smaller booth consisting of only a simple metal detector (hah, the irony of scanning for metal on a huntsman!) and a simple check-in table seated with a single custom officer.

To his surprise, someone was waiting for him at the counter. More to his surprise, that someone snapped to a salute as soon as he saw him.

"General Arc, Sir!" Said the man in the blue drab with the orange bandolier of head custom officer. There was something he couldn't quite place, a passing familiarity with the man. A face he could attach to a name, if he were to try to remember.

"At ease, soldier." A wry smile found its way past his ever-scowling visage, and he waved back a tired, if humored, salute. He remembered now, a face freshly out of New Beacon some ten years back. A young kid with more guts than any actual talent, spurred to take up arms by tales of heroics and propaganda without prepare for the horrors of a battlefield. "Why, Jonas, I'm no longer your commanding officer." Not for a very long time.

"Your ID, please. And you still are to me, sir." The man resolutely nodded, standing at attention even as he passed the card to the finicky officer who nervously typed into the computer. Confident and leader-like. Much unlike the pose he held inside Jaune's office after his first battle.

"This is a serious breach of regulations, you know." Jaune said in half-jest as he walked through the metal scanner, which surprisingly did not wail out in sheer horror. He remembered talking to the shell-strucken kid, advising him to leave such a hellish place as this and back behind the safer walls of Vale.

"I do, sir." He remembered that kid finding his backbone and started talking back, fire in eyes reliting, burning through the glazed curtains as he refused to leave where he was needed most. "But if I had once said to the Council where they can shove that regulations in face of a crisis, well, I surely wouldn't hesitate to say that again in face of you, sir."

He remembered reassigning that kid back to Vale with a recommendation letter.

"Ha." Jaune Arc laughed. A true laugh that rarely ever came through, and even harder to be the receiver of but Jonas did. "Knew you'd do good, son."

"Thank you, sir. I really mean it." The man smiled proudly, handing him back his ID before snapping to a salute again. "And your papers' done, sir. You may pass now."

Jaune Arc saluted back with a smile, before he passed the checkpoint. That little smile remained on his lips for a while longer until he had exited the station.

The smell of ashes only thickened; a cool breeze blew on his skin. At least, it was not snowing.

A/N: I'm sorry if this chapter was a bit short. Shout-out to Sanditos96 for putting up with my endless changes and ramblings, dude ;)

Cheerios! And have a nice one.

-P