"Mr. Arc."

The words were in Professor Goodwitch's usual clipped, no-nonsense tones. They held no trace of the Red Huntress' sarcastic apologies, but that proved nothing. They did hold every promise of instant detention. Being ambushed by those words in that tone was a cruelty in the hallways between classes. Jaune snapped to stillness. "Yes, ma'am?"

She pulled up her oversized scroll, breaking eye contact for a moment. Jaune was grateful for this; Professor Goodwitch's gaze made him feel like he was being slow-roasted alive. "There is a pattern developing, Mr. Arc."

Jaune forced himself to swallow. "A p-pattern?"

"In your behavior."

Did that mean she knew about his being the HuntsMan? How could she know? Had the Red Huntress penetrated his secret identity as easily as he'd penetrated hers? And he was caught here without his costume, or his weapons, without Wonder Zwei to assist him, without so much as a witness to tell the tale of his untimely demise—

"You are routinely late to classes that follow the lunch period," she continued, double-checking her assertions on her scroll as she went. "And yet you never seem to be around during your lunch period. You're never in the cafeteria during these times."

Play dumb.

"What's a cafeteria?"

Professor Goodwitch blinked.

Not that dumb.

Professor Goodwitch's gaze slowly rose to encompass Jaune and make him feel as if he was in a trash compactor. "Mr. Arc," she said sternly (even by her standards). "Where were you last period?"

Jaune knew the standard superhero playbook for avoiding questions: deny, deflect, make counter-accusations. He'd tried deflecting, which didn't work, which left him two choices. He picked one.

"Well, where were you last period?"

Professor Goodwitch's resting witch face intensified, and Jaune knew that he'd chosen poorly. She made a small, swift flicking motion. Jaune made an echoing, much larger motion.

Jaune sighed. "Yeah, I guess that was kind of out of line."

"You think so?"

Jaune looked down at her—or was it up? Being invisibly hung up by the ankles was disorienting, and the blood rushing into his head didn't help. "Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Apology accepted." She released her telekinetic hold on him; he clattered helplessly to the floor. "Not that it's any of your business," she continued tartly, "but I was teaching my third-years their Advanced Dueling class."

That… was the sort of thing Jaune should have looked up before lobbing counter-accusations. "Yes, ma'am."

Her gaze softened infinitesimally. "Mr. Arc, despite my demeanor, I am here to help you. I think I know what's going on with you here."

Jaune had only just gotten to his feet when these words hit and promptly froze him solid. "You do?" he said.

"Yes. You are hardly the first student to struggle upon arriving at this school, and find… unhealthy outlets for your frustrations."

Confusion joined terror in careening through Jaune's mind like it was a house of mirrors with a bouncy-house floor.

"You're going down to Vale to get restaurant food that reminds you of home," Professor Goodwitch said sympathetically.

For a moment, Jaune was suspended in disbelief. Relief flooded him afterwards. "Yes!" he said, too loudly to be convincing even to his own ears. "Yes, absolutely, I'm… homesick! Comfort food just goes over sooo well."

"It happens every year," said Professor Goodwitch, nodding along disapprovingly. "Every year, some students can't help themselves, and pack on extra weight—despite all our physical training—that is not muscle. While you, Mr. Arc, could certainly afford to fill out, we should take care that you do so in productive ways."

"Yes, ma'am," said Jaune. By then he would have agreed to almost anything to end the interview.

"For starters, your attendance at the Beacon cafeteria at lunch is now mandatory."

"But—" he began.

"Do not start with me, Mr. Arc," she said, her hand lowering in the direction of her riding crop.

Her interruption had been a blessing, Jaune realized. His instinctive answer would have been, "But then I can't go on patrol", which would have required him to explain what patrol he meant, and that would have been disastrous. Swallowing thickly, eyes darting down to her wrist, Jaune said, "Yes, ma'am."

"They may not make food quite like home, but Beacon's chefs are talented. They can work around any imaginable dietary restrictions." She pursed her lips. "I'm not saying I exactly believe Miss Belladonna's claim that she's a pescatarian, but we humor her request all the same. Make an appointment with them."

"Yes, ma'am."

She surveyed him one last time, as if scanning for any other hints of wrong-doing, before nodding in apparent satisfaction. "I'll see you in class, then."

She strode away. Jaune leaned against the lockers in partial collapse, like his bones had just turned to jelly. He'd survived, but it'd been a near thing.

"Arf!"

Jaune gazed daggers down at Zwei. "Great timing, coming in after I don't need backup."

"Mrr?"

Jaune nodded. "You're right, she is scary. I guess I don't blame you after all."

"Arf!"

"But I think we can rule Professor Goodwitch out as the Red Huntress," Jaune went on. "I'll double-check her schedule, but I think she's been teaching during some of the Red Huntress' rampages."

"Arf!"

"But that just puts us back at square one! Who else do we know who has telekinetic powers?"

"Hello again!"

"Pyrrha!" said Jaune with a violent start. The red-haired Huntress was on the approach, a look of great cheer on her face. "Sorry, I didn't see you coming! I was, you know, lost in my thoughts."

"You can be quite thoughtful," she said generously.

He smiled. Even with this enormous puzzle before him, with his secret life bedeviling him, she could still make him smile just by showing up. "Were you coming back from the cafeteria?"

"Headed that way, actually," said Pyrrha, as the smile fell from her face. "I had some homework to catch up on, so I worked right through lunch."

"Tell me about it," said Jaune. "Sometimes I think I bit off more than I can chew."

Pyrrha looked surprised for a moment, then giggled uncontrollably.

Jaune looked at her in bafflement. "What?"

"That was a pretty good joke," said Pyrrha between laughs.

Jaune was still at a loss, but he didn't let that stop him. "Well, you know me! Call me the Laughter Master!"

"I just might," said Pyrrha. "Shall we eat together?"

"That's a good idea, I'd like that," said Jaune. It was true: lunches with her always did seem more enjoyable than eating on his own. "By the way… what does "pescatarian" mean?"

Off they went, chatting happily. Zwei, his duty done, trotted back towards the Team RWBY dorm.

Roman Torchwick paused before the shut door to adjust his beloved hat and tug around his collar. Was it just him, or did it seem tighter around his neck? Also, hotter?

"No need to worry," he said, turning to look down at his companion. "After all, what's really the worst she can do, eh?"

Neopolitan was fully capable of informing him exactly what their acquaintance/boss/"nefarious queen" could do to them, but they both knew Roman was as unlikely to ask a sincere question as to give a sincere answer. Without waiting for a response, he opened the door.

Inside was a warehouse office, one that overlooked the storage space below with large windows, although said windows were curtained shut. The manager's desk was bare of paperwork. On it, instead, was Cinder Fall, wearing her customary red dress, and looking like she had been spending far more time brooding than planning.

Roman could appreciate that. Being a villain was at least half performance art.

"Sooo… hot stuff!" said Roman, spreading his arms wide to suggest an openness he did not possess. "I'm sure you have a good reason for pulling me up here, away from the many, many things I'd rather be doing—some of them things you've told me to do, just for the record… What's on your mind?"

"The many, many things you'd rather be doing," Cinder repeated in an idle tone of voice. She wasn't looking at Roman. She was looking at her hand, apparently at her nails. They were, Roman would admit, exquisitely manicured nails. Cinder had a sense of style, something he respected in megalomaniacs.

"That's right," Roman replied.

She didn't respond for another moment, continuing to gaze at her hand. That hand caught more of his attention when she snapped her fingers, causing a small flame to appear. It was a casual motion for such an uncanny power, one that set Roman's skin crawling. The flame danced from fingertip to fingertip like it was alive.

"Things you'd rather be doing, like… playing around with 'the HuntsMan'?"

Now, at last, Cinder turned her head to look at Roman, who resisted the urge to squirm. "You are in my employ to do truly nefarious things," she went on. "Yet you insist on wasting time dorking around with a nitwit student and letting him—letting him!—get the better of you."

"In the interests of full accounting, your kids didn't exactly do a bang-up job either," Roman said.

The flame on Cinder's fingers flared for a moment before she brought it back under control. She clearly remembered Emerald and Mercury underestimating the HuntsMan—to their cost—as vividly as Roman did. "Oh, I know, and I have… discussed the matter with them. But even after that, you've had this ridiculous back-and-forth going with "the HuntsMan", and now this new meddler. If I wanted incompetence and wasted time, I could get that anywhere, at rates far lower than yours."

Roman sighed. "Okay, first off, can you not play with fire the whole time we're talking? It's not exactly conducive to clear communication. Neo, if you would…"

Neo wet thumb and forefinger on her tongue, reached forward, and squeezed Cinder's flame between her fingers. It went out.

Cinder blinked in befuddlement. "How did-?"

"Let me tell you something, scary flame lady," said Roman, tucking his cane under his arm as Neo blew gently on her forefinger. "Do you know what's the difference between amateurs and professionals?"

Cinder narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What?"

"Standards, darling, standards. Could I simply blow away the HuntsMan with a few shots from my cane? Eh, probably. Could I send Neo to find where he sleeps and slit his throat in the night? Sure, I could."

Neo clapped eagerly, as if asking permission to do just that.

"But professional courtesy," Roman said reprovingly in Neo's direction, "demands we show more respect than that."

Neo pouted like an adorable child being denied a toy (the toy, in this case, being homicide). Cinder gave Roman a supremely unimpressed look. "You're extending 'professional courtesy' to a powerless loser in a stolen cape?"

"He knows the conventions," Roman said. "He knows the patterns and the rhythms. He appreciates and honors me as a villain, and I'm obliged to return the gesture. It's not up to me, toots. I don't make the rules."

Cinder's exasperation became audible. "I hired you specifically for your expertise in breaking rules, Roman!"

"No, you hired me for my expertise in breaking laws," Roman corrected. "There's a difference—the same difference that separates amateurs and professionals."

Cinder hopped down from the desk and strode towards Roman, eyes alight with her fury. "I do not need to be lectured on proper villainy by someone who wanted to booby trap a flan!"

"Deadly desserts are something of our specialty, I'll have you know," Roman retorted. Neo smiled and faked modesty. "We have a brand to maintain."

For a moment, it seemed like a further outburst might erupt out of Cinder. Instead, she deflated. "Just know," she said wearily, "that the only reason I'm not barbecuing the both of you is that replacing you would be too much trouble."

"Sounds like we're irreplaceable, Neo," Roman said dramatically.

Neo held up a sign saying, "She's too kind".

"Just tell me your distraction will be ready in time for the next phase of the plan," Cinder said.

"I always deliver," said Roman with a bow.

"Except when you don't," Cinder said flatly. "Like before the semester began. And at the docks. And…"

"I always deliver when it counts," Roman amended testily. "Death Tractor Ten will be in place on schedule."

Cinder growled. "And why are you calling it that?"

"Marketing, of course. Showmanship is of vital importance." As if to emphasize his point, Roman tipped his cap at her.

"Well, hopefully this device of yours isn't all name," Cinder sneered at him. "Like the Death Ray, or the Brain Scrambler, or the Trap-o-matic, or the…"

"Those inventions were fine," Roman insisted, though his agitation escaped his control. "They were undone by extenuating circumstances."

"And user error," said the sign Neo held up, but Roman elbowed her and she dropped it.

"Very well," said Cinder, and she nodded at them. "Make sure of it this time, Roman, or you'll find yourself on…" She snapped her fingers, lighting her flame again, "…the hot seat."

Neo rolled her eyes and raised a sign that said, "Leave the puns to the blonde."

"Of course," Roman said, retreating back through the door and out of Cinder's presence. Neo followed daintily. As soon as the door was shut, Roman turned an accusing glare on her. "You just had to keep poking the bear, didn't you?"

"Look who's talking, 'toots'," read Neo's sign.

"Touché, Neo. Touché."

The binder hit the surface of Pyrrha's desk with an ominously heavy thump.

"Here's what I got," Nora said, effervescent with pride. "Different nuisance laws you can break without actually hurting anyone!"

"I won't be breaking any laws!" Pyrrha squeaked.

"Suuuure," Nora agreed, in such a way that Pyrrha couldn't tell if Nora was being sympathetic or sarcastic. "It's just for curiosity, and lemme tell ya, I was plenty curious!"

"I… see," said Pyrrha, eying the binder. "It looks like a larger report than any paper you've written for class."

"Well, yeah, because this one was interesting."

"That is really a lot of laws," said Pyrrha skeptically. "Are you sure all of these, are… ah, 'nuisance laws'? Things that don't really matter?"

"Absolutely," said Nora. "It's easier to pass laws than lift 'em, and people forget, especially if they're things no one really wanted to enforce anyway, so you end up with way more laws on the books than people care about."

"And none of these matter, right?" Pyrrha persisted.

"Probably," Nora said with casual (and alarming) indifference. She flipped the front cover open. "Just in case, I included sections on Mistral and Atlas, but I had to tear myself away from Atlas 'cause they've got soooo much nonsense going on up there. Did you know Atlas has a law against mispronouncing 'Atlas'?"

"What other way would you pronounce it?" Pyrrha said, grasping for a lifeline.

"Beats me. Totally legal to mispronounce "Mantle", though. Oh, and there's no Vacuo section, it's not like they've got any laws that really stick. Where's the fun in civil disobedience if everyone's like, "Oh, must be Tuesday"?"

"No one's doing this for fun," Pyrrha said sternly, but too automatically. The moment the words were out, she gave an 'eep!' of panic as a cold feeling swept through her.

"Ah-ha! Then what are they doing it for?" said Nora, swooping in for the kill with a giddy expression.

"Nothing!" Pyrrha tried, but far too late.

"C'mon, this is waaaay more than just curiosity. Someone wants action, and I am so in!" Nora said, cracking her knuckles. "Who's the target? Who's taking them on? What's the plan? Spill!"

"No! You've got it all wrong!" Pyrrha said in alarm, hoping her waving hands would bring things back to some semblance of order.

The thought was in vain. "Well, fill me in, then," said Nora. "How am I gonna help if you don't give me the lowdown?"

Pyrrha's brain, stewing in panic and short-circuiting as it was, still keyed on the one word. "Help?"

"You betcha!" said Nora, pumping her fist. "Didja think I'd look into all these ways to make a mess and not want to put a few into action?"

That was a terrifyingly good point. Pyrrha really hadn't known what she was getting into, accepting Nora's help. Apparently, when you asked Nora for help, you got as much help as she thought you needed.

"Like this one!" Nora said, throwing the binder open. "It's against the law for a woman to shave her head without her husband's permission! Wanna get married so you can shave your head without telling me? That'll really stick it to The Man!"

Reality, it seemed, had passed Pyrrha by. It hadn't even waved. How rude.

"Nah, your hair's too pretty for that. How about over here, it says it's actually legal to shoot your husband if he's in Vacuo, you're in Vale, and there are at least five witnesses." Nora frowned. "Wait a minute! I thought I was only getting all the illegal things to do! Who cares about what's legal? Let's try—there! Yeah, that's a good one: it's illegal to scream underwater!"

Pyrrha's fitfully sparking brain gave a hiccup. "Underwater… screaming?" she repeated, and tried to work out the logistics of such a feat. "How would you even…?"

"Boring," Nora interrupted. "That wouldn't bother anyone, what's the point?" She flipped through several more pages—though how she was reading the laws so quickly while upside down was something Pyrrha couldn't comprehend—before stopping abruptly. Nora slowly looked up at Pyrrha with the expression of a pyromaniac walking into a match factory. "Here we go," she said.

Madness was contagious. It had to be.

Because Pyrrha found herself agreeing with Nora.

This was something she could do, and it might even be fun.

Next time: He was a dark and stormy knight, even when the weather was good. To what heights will the HuntsMan go to continue his war on crime? Will the Red Huntress' next act even be recognized as an offense? Will Zwei do anything besides be cute? And can the HuntsMan perfect the art of metaphor in time? Find out in THVTRH:NON Episode Three: Over the Top.