..

if you really want to seek the heart that guides you

take a chance with your life

and believe your calling tonight

this is the path to your future

.

survive said the prophet - if you really want to

.

RWBY

NJKA

27 Days Prior to Beacon

Evening

You are seated at a rather large table in what may as well serve as a military compound, across from a highblood general who has very little reason to consider you anything but a nuisance, in your absolute best case scenario.

This is not the most terrified you've ever been, but it's the most terrified any single person in this world has ever left you. There is a very limited knowledge base for you to draw on for etiquette in these situations where humans are concerned; were this an Alternian general you would shut up, listen, speak only when spoken to, and attempt to emotionally prepare for the very real possibility of instant death. Humans seem... gentler, overall, but you suspect if there is any place exceptions might be found, it would have to be in their military.

... For god's sake, the man's name is even eight letters long. You are aware that your own cultural assumptions have no relevance to that, but your instincts are screaming the opposite. Your claws dig into your palms, mildly more useful now that you've carefully groomed them into sharp points.

Just as you're distracting yourself by wondering why he appears to be hiding his extensive cybernetics – obvious, when they're far colder than the rest of him –he finally speaks.

"I'm going to assume you understand how abnormal this is," he says. His voice is... large, perhaps that's the best word, and like everything else about him, it registers in your mind mostly by translating to 'ADULT', which is then translated into extreme fear.

You simply nod. Best to keep things simple, show due respect while avoiding as many opportunities to screw up as possible. His demeanor seems unaffected; you'll consider that a success.

"In that case, since you've been... vouched for," one eye twitching ever so slightly, "I'd like to start by asking you a few questions."

Oh. Well, this sure is precisely what you had hoped to avoid.

"I'm told that you quote unquote 'don't legally exist.' Why?"

You do your best not to hesitate. The rhythm of conversation is vital to avoiding or inciting violence, and right now you're attempting to manage the former.

"Until very recently, I had never visited one of the four Kingdoms. I have so far been unable to safely incorporate myself into the legal system." God, you hope that came out neutrally enough.

"You would have most likely been recorded in a census of various villages near the Kingdoms. Seeing as you weren't, I'd like to know where you did grow up."

"Somewhere else," you say, and then go rigid with shock. How? How did that slip out? You couldn't even handle two questions! All you had to do was think for a moment, and now you're probably... oh no oh no he's narrowing his eyes –

"Surviving family or relatives?"

... you do your best to breathe. This isn't over yet. You still have a chance.

"None."

He nods, seeming vaguely distracted for a second or two.

"Combat experience?"

"Extensive. I defended my hi – home for the majority of my life, and have dispatched a great number of monsters since."

"Can you be more specific about that number?"

"I didn't count, but I would estimate no less than two thousand and no more than four thousand."

"Weapon of choice?"

"Chainsaw."

... There is something to be said about the efficiency of military communications. The simplicity at work here might be most of why you've been able to stay composed, sooner this is over, the sooner you'll know today is not the day you die.

Oh god, you really want this to be over. Please, please let this be over soon.

"Alternate functions?"

"None so far. I do have ideas."

"Do you have experience or noteworthy skill at fighting humans and faunus?"

"Yes."

Suddenly he's leaning forward – into your space? no, not that close, not so close as to provoke a reflexive attack – and staring directly into your eyes. If not for your aura, your claws would be unintentionally spilling some of your own blood beneath the table.

"Have you ever killed a human or faunus?"

... The answer is technically no, but you're not stupid. That aside, considering that trolls appear to be faunus in this world, you may as well have killed 'other faunus.' You have no idea what the correct answer to this question is, and if you try to think about it, you'll only hinder yourself.

He's military. He knows perfectly well that you've killed before; he's seen your eyes. The truth it is, then. You try to keep from shaking. You might even be succeeding.

"Yes."

Now he is about to encroach on your immediate territory, leaning closer yet, perhaps a foot and a half away. You have to stay calm. You cannot run and you cannot lash out. Not under any circumstances.

"Why?"

"He murdered one of my friends, attacked and gravely wounded both myself and another friend, and intended to move on to the rest of us."

You had meant to keep all emotion out of your voice. You failed.

"What do you feel about that action? Do you believe it to have been absolutely necessary?"

"I feel nothing. I carried out my duty. I do believe that it was necessary."

"Why?"

"To prevent further deaths."

"What gives you the right to take another life?"

... This time you stop for a moment and think. Here is where aliens differ wildly in their beliefs, and you would attempt to think of a calculated answer if you did not believe wholepusheredly that this man will know if you lie to him. The truth once more, then.

"Everything and nothing."

One corner of his mouth tugs upward, then reasserts itself. His posture slowly relaxes as he returns to a more normal sitting position. In a vacuum, you think this would signify that the riskiest part of the conversation has ended, but a truly clever tr – person might take such an action specifically to create that impression.

"Spoken like a true soldier," he says, and before you can stop yourself, you've already replied.

"No. A soldier kills for a cause. I killed for other people."

Neither of you makes a sound for at least four or five seconds, during which you are utterly confident that your life is about to be snuffed out like an archaic wax illumination cylinder. Then he simply... moves on.

"Why do you want to become a Huntress?"

He says it as if it's as simple as any of his other questions, when in fact it is by far the most uncomfortable. Your reasons... Well, Jade was the first to suggest it, and you know her reasons, but... why is it that you agreed? Why do you want to study the art of combat, aside from the obvious fact that anyone should want to improve their ability to kill?

"To ensure that when I fight, I will have the skill to..."

The skill to what, Kanaya Maryam? To annihilate your foes? To 'protect the people'?

"... to save them all, next time."

You don't entirely realize that you've looked down until you finish speaking. Something feels hot and prickly behind your eyes.

"And why is it," he says, "that you would rather study at Beacon Academy than here in Atlas?"

"Beacon is where my friends are," you reply, because it really is your only specific reason for caring at all about where you train, and assume that he can extrapolate from there. If nothing else, he nods in general understanding.

"I have one last question, then."

You swallow. It hurts.

"The test you're about to take will involve combat against androids that are not designed to kill, but injury or death are still possibilities. Do you accept that risk?"

"Of course."

He pushes his chair back with a screech that isn't quite painful but is definitely unpleasant, and stands. You wonder whether or not that sound was even audible to human ears, and find that you have no clear answer.

"In that case, follow me."

You're standing, now, in a very large and irritatingly white room strewn with obstacles and odd bits of crudely simulated terrain. Many of them could be used as cover, though, or even platforms for high-speed urban navigational maneuvering...

The general is watching – personally? you suppose he did interview you personally, but still – from the other side of a glass window somewhere above where he can see the entire room at once. That alone makes your flesh crawl, even if you know that he probably has no intention of murdering you at this point. You wonder if this is supposed to be as intimidating as it is.

"Your objective is to survive," he says through a sound transferral and magnification system built into the walls, and yes, this is the kind of thing you expected. "Our androids are programmed to withdraw if your aura falls into the red, which is considered a failure. Double check your aura monitor, or don't, but I'd recommend you do it just in case."

"I don't particularly care," you say. "If training machines are enough to defeat me, then I am probably better off dying here and now than being a liability."

He nods.

"Fair enough. You'll begin in five seconds. Don't disappoint me."

You unlatch the chainsaw from your dress and trigger its blade to extend and linkteeth to whirl. The roar is... comforting. All of this is comforting in contrast to the daymere of that conversation. Fighting monsters or their equivalent is something you know you can do.

Surviving is also something you can do. You've died at least once and yet here you are, still not dead for some reason. It's going to feel great to finally let go and unleash a storm of rage and destruction. You've got a lot to be angry about these days.

Five seconds are now spent. Previously invisible doors across the room from you, fifty or sixty meters distant, and the machines begin to march.

You take your first moment to assess the enemy. There appear to be six targets for now, generally troll-shaped and painted a sleek day gray, four armed with short blades extending from the wrist, two with light automatic firearms. The basic machines should be simple, but with fire support... Well, you can see why there are objects nearby to use as cover.

The melee androids begin to close in with speed that's surprising but not alarming, and the others open fire without hesitation.

This is the first moment, you think, that you truly and fully comprehend how much this world's technology differs from both its Alternian and... (Earthian) alien counterparts, because as you hurl yourself to the side and shield the bulk of your body behind a large cube of some sort, you attempt to predict the general directions the projectiles should travel, and discover that as you do so and the strange weight of the energy permeating you shifts with the intention, you can see them mid-flight.

Judging by both audio and visual cues, they are entirely subsonic... you think that if you really tried, you could probably block at least some of the hail of rounds bearing down on you after they leave their respective barrels. Not the real old you, but this you, the one with boosted senses and the surreal enhancements brought on by the presence of aura... this you would not even find it terribly difficult.

Your targets are neither quiet nor subtle, and for the moment, you don't even need a specific strategy. One pair will either split around the cube or leap over it, followed by the others.

They choose to leap, and a swing and half-turn leaves the first two bisected, crashing to the ground in a shower of sparks. Your shoulder aches, sharp and annoyed. Loudly echoing clanks ears reveal that the others plan to circle around, so you vault over the cube and kick off its edge for momentum, rushing the two farthest from you. Their allies are left to chase after you. An exercise in futility.

Most of the shots miss on their own – you are rather fast, if you do say so yourself – and the remainder you can and do deflect with the flat of your weapon. It doesn't even seem to be damaged, strengthened as it is by your aura. Amusing. You're struck for the billionth time by how parts of your recent life have simultaneously felt more real than reality and more like a video game than SGRUB.

Before they can properly react, you decapitate both machines with a single quick swipe each and turn to face the final two, letting one's blades chip and slide against linkteeth and delivering a circular hive kick to the other's middle. You only meant to knock it away, but the force actually shatters its torso, showering the floor behind it in chips of twisted metal.

Battle with a weapon like this is about fluidity, crude as it may seem at first glance; a heavy weapon demands that every blow be perfect, every motion draw from and enhance whatever motion is already in progress. In this case, since your leg is highly unexpectedly still in motion, you let yourself complete a full spin and cleave the last android in twain as though it were made of flesh instead of hardened steel. Your shoulder throbs.

Suddenly you find yourself wanting to laugh. What on Alternia are you doing? You're in an alien military compound, fighting combat androids as a test to enroll in an educational training facility focused on killing monsters. You are dimly aware of hatches opening in walls, more of those androids pouring out, but you're somewhat lost in thought. You'll have to let old fighting instincts handle the simpler work for you.

This is your life now, apparently; violent and absurd in a strangely kind world. (delegate mental processing roles, identify priority targets, draw your routes through the chaos) Honestly, you don't care what you're doing with yourself as long as there's a chance it could help you find Rose, Karkat, Dave, Terezi, anyone. (you've always been fast but now, now you can move with grace so thorough that it's almost liberating) If it happens to give you enough power to preserve the lives of all the very few people who still matter to you, well, you can't complain about that, now can you? (losing yourself to the rhythm of your steps, slashes, the chainsaw's devouring voice carving through their ranks, all of it beautiful)

You refuse to suffer another Eridan or Gamzee. (make yourself a savage dancer, trailing sparks and smoke and severed limbs) Whoever is still alive at this point has earned it apart from the insufferable clown, but... why do you have the strange feeling that he's not alive? (you can feel something worthwhile, calming, in the grinding impacts of victory and destruction) Did something happen to him during the bright haze that is your final memory from before your arrival in this place? (imagine painting the floor and walls with strings of sticky blood instead of thin spatters of black hydraulic fluid) This is really not the time to worry about the past, though, is it? (gunfire finally silent, alone in a sea of white that seethes with an ongoing crystal-fueled scream and the hiss of ruined electronics)

While your enemies may lie in pieces around you, there is no chance that this test is over, and it can't all be this easy.

A taller hatch glides open, silhouetting a much larger machine that is presumably intended to be an actual challenge. Finally.

... And your mouth goes dry when that shape properly registers in your head. Your grip on your weapon goes shaky and uncertain. This pulls at old memory, the kind that's far beyond logic, harder to parse than the idea of having to speak to a highblood general, than the idea of being allowed to do that. You've seen this shape countless thousands of times.

No troll could ever forget the sight of an Imperial drone.

It's different, right? Isn't it? It must be. They don't exist anymore, and certainly not... here.

Yes, the colors, those are different. White and silver and blue. Atlas colors. It can't be a drone with those colors, even if it looks nearly identical. You're okay. It's okay. It's just similar. Different ports for weaponry, the smell of dust beneath the metal. This must be some horrifying coincidence, a quirk of fate.

After all, if it was a real drone you would already be dead.

One of its arms ends in a long thick blade that crackles with electricity, floods the room with the stench of trioxygen. The other reminds you of the massive scatter rifles you used to see mounted on battle suits or carried by equally massive highbloods in action films and Imperially-authorized subjugation footage. Slim micro-missile pods are clearly hidden beneath the barely-visible seams of hatches in the shoulders. There's probably more weaponry, hidden far more cleverly, though you hope not a twelfth as much as a real drone's.

You are quite sure the general was honest about his machines being designed to halt their attacks at critical aura levels, but that scatter rifle could still leave you a green smear on the floor with a single shot at close enough range, even if its ammunition is subsonic as well.

This two and a half meter engine of destruction, this is the real reason you had to consent to accepting responsibility for any potentially fatal 'accidents.' Now it all falls into place.

And suddenly you have no more time to think, because propulsion mechanisms on its back have launched it right in your direction and it is, without question, faster than you in its ability to cover ground, if nothing else. God, you hope it's slower in battle.

The scatter rifle belches a spread of super-heated shrapnel – a flak cannon, not a scatter rifle, worse than you'd assumed – you hurl yourself to the floor – a few glancing pieces slice and burn at your aura – and it takes the chance to bring its massive blade in an arc that may in fact cause you to entirely re-evaluate your perception of the word 'savage,' which now seems overused in the face of this.

You can't dodge it, and that leaves only one option.

It takes every bit of strength you can muster to block, arms and knees shaking from the strain, the weapon's electrical charge wracking your aura and numbing your teeth, until a streak of blazing agony tears through your wounded shoulder and you can only slide the thing off at an angle, even though the sheer force of it sends you flying halfway across the room to land in a daze among scattered test obstacles and the rubble of artificial terrain. Move. Get up. Move!

You blink tears from your eyes in time to see the missile pods open wide, a standard six each. You're already up when they launch, and you're running for cover when you hear the sound of another volley. For a moment the sheer indignity of that is actually distracting.

What absolutely ruthless engineers equipped this thing so that each pod fired double? Small payload or not, how is there even space for that extra ammunition?

The first few missiles crash into cubes and low walls, nearly bowling you over, and then your world goes white as the rest begin to impact directly behind you, turning your sprint into senseless momentum and an enormous, painful impact. It appears you have been thrown across other half of the room and into the wall.

Unfortunate.

You're on your knees again in seconds through what feels like sheer willpower – could you attribute even that to aura? Which of your accomplishments truly belong to you? – and the world is so loud it hurts, so quiet it aches.

An excellent example of how your 'enhanced' hearing is double-edged sword.

In a dulled universe ringing out like your senses are a bell struck by a fifty kilogram hammer, you make it to your feet in time to twist barely out of the path of that blade as the machine completes a massive charge, punching it deep into the wall as though it were a lance instead.

You would love to hear the general attempt to describe a way in which that attack could have been anything but fatal.

The message is clear, however: these are the risks you're signing up for. Those too foolish to know what they are too weak to attempt are those who must die before they can become a risk to their own operations in the field. That realization puts a small smile on your face; it's comforting to know that this planet's military understands the way of the world, even if many of its residents do not.

Oh, right. You just nearly died. You may want to do something about that.

... Such as pouring every bit of strength you have left, pain be damned, into severing that blade arm before it can withdraw, focusing all your will on making that metal shred and snap, and just as the wall is losing its grip and your enemy pulls away, the machine limb comes free and slams into the floor. You can't hear the immense crash, but you can feel it all the way to the bone.

When you look back at the thing in triumph, your field of vision is consumed by the flak cannon's enormous barrel two feet in front of your face, angled downward in an awkward but successful attempt to track what must, to its targeting systems, be a rather small target.

You mouth an apology, or maybe just say it out loud; you can't tell the difference.

I am so sorry, Rose. I tried. I really did.

...

The end never comes.

He's shut the machine down.

Your aura did not waver, but he's shut it down.

There's a kindness in the general's eyes that doesn't suit someone of his station, and he waits patiently along with you for your deafness to pass – only a handful of minutes. Without boosted recovery you suspect it would have taken hours. At some point a low-ranked soldier brings you a glass of water that almost helps ease the pounding ache in your head and all four ears.

Almost.

When you can finally hear well enough to converse again, dulled or not, he presses something on his scroll, a recording mechanism if your guess is worth anything, and levels his gaze.

"Congratulations," he says. "You've more than proven yourself."

... This you did not expect.

"I don't understand. I failed to defeat the enemy."

He raises an eyebrow. Human anatomy is so very odd. You're temped to reach up and feel at yours if only because he's reminded you that they exist.

"You destroyed thirty android foot soldiers and held your own against an Atlesian Paragon-22. You've proven yourself more than worthy, and I believe that with enough effort, you have a bright future ahead of you as a Huntress."

Worthy to grasp at the very lowest echelons of power required for this career is what he really means, and now that you've had more time to think about it, it's incredible to think fighting that thing was necessary to qualify you for proper combat training.

You can't decide whether to laugh or cry.

"I failed to defeat the enemy," you repeat without really meaning to; you're putting yourself at risk, but after what you've just done it's hard to make yourself care. He rises, extends a hand. You force your exhausted body to stand along with , yes, you'd almost forgotten this custom.

"I'm sure you have your reasons for ignoring it," he replies, "but you should have that wound treated properly. It's starting to bleed through your clothes." Ah. He's right; deep, alien red is stickying your general shoulder area, and brighter trails have begun to creep down your arm. You don't quite understand what point he's making, if any, but it's more important to complete the ritual and get out of this place before you commit some breach of conduct and find yourself up against a wall in front of an execution squad.

You don't know if there's anything to be said, so you raise your own arm and extend a fist.

General Ironwood blinks. For a few short and frightening moments, you think you've missed or misunderstood something. Then he shakes his head and taps his knuckles against yours.

"Most of the paperwork will be handled internally. You'll have more forms to fill when you arrive in Vale and dual citizenship can be frustrating to iron out, but by tonight the information you've already provided should be processed. It's a shame to lose a promising Huntress, but I understand your reasons. In any case, you'll always be welcome as a citizen of the Kingdom of Atlas."

It's your turn to blink, now, and to keep yourself from snorting out loud at the idea that legal citizenship could make any faunus 'welcome' in Atlas, but you suppose the gesture is... nice, if still extremely misleading.

"It's been a pleasure, Ms. Maryam. Good luck."

"Thank you for your time, General," you say, and you don't start running until you're sure he can't see you anymore.

RWBY / NJKA

+[ J ]+

You manage to keep a professional expression on your face until Ms. Maryam is gone. Then you stride angrily to the nearest elevator, enter the code for R&D, and prepare to deal with a certain self-proclaimed genius and his ego. If the man wasn't so damned useful you'd have had him shot or dishonorably discharged years ago.

It's not far to his office. You don't bother to knock, and the fact that his door is unlocked saves you a bit of money that would've gone to repairing the damage if you'd needed to wrench it open and smash the lock in the process.

He twirls his chair around lazily and shoots you a lopsided grin. Of course he knew you were coming; even if he wasn't constantly monitoring a ridiculous number of cameras on this floor, his body would have picked up on the vibrations your movements send through the air, walls, and floor. Smug golden eyes peer at you from above those ridiculous holographic lenses he insists on wearing.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, General?"

You can't stand people who refuse to be intimidated, and this is definitely one of those people.

"Cut the crap. I know you were were watching. One of your precious Paragons nearly killed a student during testing using techniques that you should have disabled for that purpose."

He shrugs.

"Well, thorry for wanting data for your machineth when you keep cutting the budget and making uth put off half our tethting down here."

"You put a student – no, someone who wasn't even officially a student YET – up against that thing. She could have been killed. In fact, you could have shut down that Paragon remotely yourself, and you didn't."

"Oh, she wath fine," he says, rolling his eyes, and you grit your teeth hard enough to make it audible.

"She was, and I don't know why she agrees with your twisted interpretation of 'the strong live and the weak die' when it comes to these things, but that's the only reason you aren't facing a court-martial right now."

"Ha. And you think my philothophieth are arbitary."

You can feel your eye twitch.

"Look, jutht give it up with the big thcary tholdier-man routine. You know you need me."

This is pointless. You have better things to do than argue with arrogant researchers who've never even had to discharge a weapon in the field. Why did you even bother?

You leave him behind and head for your own office; Oz needs to hear his little favor worked out. If you put it off you'll be risking Glynda turning some of her wrath on you. Maybe after that you'll take some time to run diagnostics on your own prosthetics and find something you can use to re-test your artificial arm's strength. Extensively.

'You know you need me.' That's what your resident prodigal programmer said, convinced the sheer quality of his work is enough to let him get away with this kind of insubordination.

The hell of it is, he's right.