- To Serve With Honor -
The light of the setting sun set the distant Vale skyline alight against the amethyst backdrop of the Vytal Sea. Glynda admired the peaceful scene from Ozpin's window, the clock face facade on the glass casting a great shadow in onto the stone floors of the office, across which Ozpin was pacing absently.
The Deputy Headmistress regarded her superior with a mix of concern and amusement. It wasn't often that a thought so confounded the revered Headmaster of Beacon, after all; not to mention that it was gratifying to see the man placed in a position which she knew quite well.
The window faded back to a luminescent aquamarine as the last beams of light trickled away, and Glynda finally decided that she should address the elephant in the room before the poor man started into another pot of coffee. "If you're truly so concerned about his mental health, you would be better off helping me to expedite Mister Arc's evaluation than working yourself up over his existing profiles and your own theories."
"There are two particular types of creatures that have served to thoroughly vex me throughout my many years, Glynda: Teenagers and soldiers," Ozpin grumbled, gesturing into the empty air with one arm while the other was held tight to the small of his back. "No matter how many of either I encounter and seem to puzzle out, another will always come along and completely confound any and all logic or reason that I might have previously associated with their kind."
"You're preaching to the choir in at least one regard," she smirked as the emerald wizard continued to mutter sourly to himself. When his path veered towards the desk, she swiftly vacated the space and moved to another window as he gracefully flopped into his excessively artful and complex swivel chair.
"I am afraid that the damage inflicted to Mister Arc's mental state by his short but colorful tour of duty may very well exceed even my most pessimistic expectations," Ozpin sighed, slouching forward to rest on his desk and pinch his brow between two fingers. "I had hoped that his partnership with Miss Schnee would've done more to repair that damage by now; but it would seem that even a comfortable station and a respectable peer and mentor have not managed to break through to him."
"Certainly not through any lack of effort on Winter's part, I'm sure," Glynda remarked wryly.
The Headmaster sent her a perplexed glance, to which she replied with a knowing tilt of her lips; but when the ageless man tilted his head faintly, the Deputy Headmistress groaned lightly in exasperation. "She's completely infatuated with him, Ozpin," she stated as the most obvious fact in the world.
She narrowly avoided shouting in frustration when he had the gall to chuckle and shake his head in disbelief. "I'm serious! I'll be absolutely astonished if they aren't sleeping together by the end of the semester!" she declared firmly.
"You've always had a yen for office romances, Glynda," Ozpin chuckled good naturedly, his chair spinning away before she could rein in her shock and properly protest the idea. "Regardless of our temporary colleagues' hypothetical relationship, it would seem that we will need to keep a closer eye on our dear Legionnaire's psyche in the coming months. It wouldn't do for him to be paralyzed by indecision over something so benign as an identity crisis in the course of the events to come."
Glynda grudgingly refrained from pointing out the irony in that statement, instead choosing to turn her thoughts towards future arrangements for Jaune's treatment. "I'll see to it that he receives the treatment and support he needs to overcome these obstacles," she nodded.
"Hold onto that thought for later, if you will," Ozpin instructed with a short shake of his head.
Glynda's mental processes stumbled, and she blinked in confusion.
"I'm sorry?" she stated as a question.
"No need for apologies," Ozpin carried on unrepentantly, "Once we have reached a more stable juncture in our state of affairs, you are more than welcome to see to it that Mister Arc is treated in full for his myriad conditions." He turned to face her once more, his mouth hidden behind his folded hands as he regarded her easily. "For the time being, however, it simply wouldn't do to so severely upset his current mentality, lest we risk compromising his operational effectiveness."
"For Gods' sake, Ozpin, the man has no regard for the value of his own life!" Glynda exclaimed with rapidly mounting anger. "You have a nineteen-year-old combatant that can emotionally flip-flop between the ages of seventeen and forty at the drop of a hat! He's lived his short adult life brushing off the deaths of close friends and comrades with a few passing words and a drink, and now you've placed him in a position to slow down and reflect on those losses in an unfamiliar environment, with no indication of how he's going to react to his own actions!"
She drew closer to the desk as she raved, composure deteriorating as her hands flew up to punctuate her ire. "If we don't approach this issue with the intent to fix it, he's fit to either jump in front of a bullet for Winter without even thinking about it, or go postal in the middle of this very school!"
"Which is why we will do precisely enough to see that such outcomes are avoided," Ozpin replied peaceably, which only served to incense Glynda further. "The fact of the present matter is that Mister Arc currently stands as one of, if not the single most experienced and disciplined authority in combating this particular strain of militant terrorism. This is in no small part due to his unique ability to look past emotional losses and continue to see the greater tactical and strategic picture of the situation, and to act according to his observations."
"What you call unique, I see as unhealthy and definitively self-destructive," Glynda interjected in a low growl. Ozpin raised a finger and pressed home his point undaunted.
"Mister Arc and Miss Schnee are mutually stabilizing and driving forces for one another," he stated simply. "So long as we can keep at least one of them focused on the task at hand, the other will be compelled to follow along."
The Headmaster momentarily closed his eyes and exhaled heavily from his nose, before looking back up to fix his deputy with a resolute stare. "Vale needs Mister Arc as he presently is - nothing more, and nothing less."
"You're saying that we are going to knowingly take advantage of a mentally unwell and potentially volatile young man, and that we are are to stare this problem in the eyes - on a daily basis, no less - and do nothing about it until he's served his purpose to you?!"
"To Vale, Glynda," Ozpin corrected chidingly, "A sacrifice of the few for the good of the many; it is a concept that I can guarantee you Mister Arc is intimately familiar with."
Her rage abated, only to be replaced by a familiar sense of resignation and remorse. "Because what is one more dead son in a war of eternity," she muttered bitterly under her breath.
"His efforts will be handsomely rewarded once his mission has ended; we will do right by him someday, Glynda." Ozpin now pointedly refused to meet her gaze as he spoke softly.
Glynda Goodwitch could only clench her fists until her knuckles turned white, and bite her lip until it nearly bled. The soft chime of the Scroll at her hip harmonized with a tone from the Headmaster's terminal, signalling an end to the conversation as the elevator began to hum softly across the room. "I'll arrange for Port to conduct his initial evaluation within the week," she said. Ozpin nodded wordlessly and collected himself as she spun on her heel and crossed the room.
"You're not going to stay to hear Mister Arc's debrief?" he called from behind her.
"I'll read his report and review the surveillance footage later," she replied tiredly without looking back.
The elevator chimed and doors slid aside, admitting a fatigued Legionnaire. He was still adorned in his scored and dirty armor, the scarred grey helmet held tightly to his hip. The white scars on his face stood out against his flushed complexion, and the cotton bandages around his neck were stained copper with recently-dried blood, probably from agitation or overexertion.
Even blackened and bruised with all of the physical evidence of his past and present deeds on display, Glynda could only describe the small and weary smile that he offered her as painfully genuine.
"Miss Goodwitch," he greeted with a respectful nod. She pasted a bland and vaguely sympathetic smile across her lips.
"Mister Arc," she nodded back politely.
He stepped past her to greet the Headmaster. She slipped hurriedly into the elevator. Once the doors were shut and the car was moving, she close her eyes and leaned against the brushed steel doors, pounding a fist weakly against the metal and letting out a wordless curse.
- To Serve With Honor -
Jaune halted several paces from the front of the desk. "Specialist Amsel reporting as ordered sir," he droned automatically, accompanied by a brisk salute.
Ozpin waved his hand dismissively with an amused smile. "At ease, Mister Arc," the Headmaster drawled, "Thank you for joining me. I do apologize for the late hour; I'm certain you'd rather be resting and recovering from today's ordeal."
"It's not a problem, sir," Jaune replied habitually, exhaustion creeping into his tone. "What can I do for you?"
"I was hoping that you might be able to offer your perspective on a few curiosities that I and the esteemed commanders of the Vale Police Department took note of in the after-action reports."
"I'll give you what I can, sir, but my training and experience really only deals with the White Fang's Solitas chapters," Jaune noted slowly.
"Hence why I am asking for your perspective," Ozpin said with a gesture. The Specialist made a noise of comprehension and nodded; then he blinked when the Headmaster pushed a button, and a panel in the floor in front of the desk slid aside to release a relatively comfy-looking armless chair. At the same time, Ozpin's computer terminal disappeared into the desk, and the desk in turn retracted slightly into the floor, creating more open air between the two.
"Being the Headmaster comes with some perks, huh?" Jaune observed dryly. Ozpin chuckled lightly in response, gesturing a hand to the chair.
"The bells and whistles are for distracting dignitaries and bureaucrats while I'm squeezing them for the money to keep the lights on," the older man smirked as Jaune settled into the chair, his armored frame almost uncomfortably flush with the edges of the seat. He set his helmet on the floor between his feet, and then fixed his gaze on the Headmaster.
Ozpin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and folding his hands in front of his face. "I've already been read into the after-action review conducted with the survivors from the SWAT unit," Jaune winced sharply at the phrasing, "So let's start with the tactics displayed by the White Fang today."
"What did the VPD have to say about that?"
"Our dear keepers of the peace are rather stumped and stumbling on the matter," Ozpin sighed. "Which is why you are here."
Jaune coughed awkwardly. "Right. So, I guess stuff like that ambush hasn't happened around here before?"
"That would be a no," Ozpin replied flatly.
"... The setup for that ambush sounded like a textbook Fang tactic for hit-and-run incursions in Atlas and settlements of comparable size," Jaune finally admitted, leaning forward and resting a gloved hand on his knee, the other coming up to scratch at the dawning scruff on his chin thoughtfully. "The Atlas chapter likes to stir up discontent by targeting law enforcement and first responders in densely-populated areas, both to maximize total casualties and property damage, and also to generate a lot of negativity in a hurry so as to tie up the military with the Grimm."
"Has Atlas developed any effective countermeasures?"
"Matter of perspective," Jaune shrugged. "The attacks haven't stopped, but the countermeasures, the response times and their effectiveness have improved by leaps and bounds.
"In terms of tech solutions, most of Atlas's emergency vehicles have been up-armored, or equipped with detection devices - or countermeasure dispensers in the case of military and law enforcement. Tactically, there are Skyhawk-based quick reaction units like mine on standby twenty-four-seven in most major municipalities to provide rapid site security and to respond to armed threats."
Ozpin nodded thoughtfully. "Did you have an opportunity to analyze the site of the initial attack?"
"Not so much," Jaune sighed. "I was focused on Taurus in the moment, and then Winter pulled me out as soon as the EMTs hit the scene. Between times zero and end, I had other priorities over site-survey."
"Understandable," Ozpin acknowledged, though he failed to hide a displeased frown. "I will forward you a copy of the CSI report as soon as it is made available to me; I would appreciate your analysis of the area, particularly in how such an ambush would stack up against the analysts' reconstruction of the scene."
"I'll have a look at it." Jaune offered a slow nod, his eyes narrowing slightly. Why was the Headmaster so insistent on pursuing that angle? "Was there anything else?"
"Yes, your engagement with Adam Taurus."
Jaune blinked at a small noise, and realized that his fists had tightened to the point that he had popped his knuckles without realizing it. "Taurus is a highly trained and incredibly skilled combatant," he rattled off automatically, "I knew that he would be present going in, and I was also aware that I was improperly equipped to give him a proper fight; but when he had his people start to withdraw, I realized that I had an opportunity to ratchet up the pressure by keeping him talking long enough for reinforcements to move in, and maybe I wouldn't have to fight him at all."
He grimaced, rolling his forearms unconsciously and unintentionally showcasing the deep grooves that had been cut into his bracers. "Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful in that respect, and he was left with enough time to cut apart the SWAT detachment while I was recovering from his attack."
Ozpin's scrutinizing gaze bored into him; he was able to keep from fidgeting or diverting by the grace of having dealt with Ironwood's after-action shakedowns.
The Headmaster reclined slightly, his steepled hands resting in his lap as he contemplated Jaune. "You moved to engage a combatant against whom you had already previously failed - quite recently, I might add," the man said, as much a statement of fact as a question.
"I've dealt with Taurus and his kind before," Jaune retorted, only to wince immediately, "The Mantlese White Fang, that is - particularly high-level fighters with access to Aura and Semblances. Taurus is a respected commander as well as a fighter because he's as observant as he is charismatic. The membership of the Vale chapter is new to him, and he's capable of recognizing that they're fresh and untested; so based on my experience, I determined that he would be focused on recovering personnel and securing his reputation with the local units rather than throwing barely-trained fighters into a blender against a Legionnaire and a dozen veteran shooters from SWAT."
"And just how were you able to so quickly and confidently draw this conclusion?" Ozpin drawled, skepticism and accusation bleeding into his voice out of the blue.
"Because it's a decision that I myself would've made in his stead," Jaune snapped.
The air stilled, and Jaune's grip tightened again as he berated himself. Not only for snapping, but for so cavalierly declaring that he could - and would readily - identify with a terrorist's tactics.
He flinched when the Headmaster chuckled softly.
"Then it's clear that I'm looking at the right man for the job," Ozpin finally declared with an air of satisfaction.
He could only respond with a bewildered look and an instinctive question of, "Sir?"
He was expecting an inquisition like he knew was waiting when Winter finally found the time to properly grill him. He was expecting oblique accusations to the effect of him having delusions of grandeur, or some kind of death wish.
What Jaune wasn't expecting as he followed Ozpin's lead, rising to his feet and stepping around the desk to grasp the man's proffered hand, was a simple and apparently honest statement of:
"Excellent work today, Mister Arc. I can already tell that you're just the man that we need on our side in these trying times to come."
"T-thank you, sir," he could only stammer, as the Headmaster turned and paced back towards the grand window on the far end of the room, the glass becoming transparent as he approached.
"Chief Reagan has already informed me that he intends to comply with Commander Umber's insistence on blacklisting you from commanding their police forces," Ozpin called back over his shoulder. "Unfortunate in a practical context, but ultimately of little consequence given our current strategy of sending you incognito and 'under the radar,' so to speak."
"But if I'm going in as a green Huntsman-prospect; how am I supposed to offer my experienced input without outing myself?"
"Get creative," Ozpin replied easily, turning to face him. "Your official residence at the school means that Jaune Arc has easy access to not only the entire staff of Beacon Academy, but both members of the Atlas investigative team as well. Call it a learning experience; simply be careful with how much your "learning" affects your outlook on daily affairs, lest your colleagues and contacts in the VPD become put off by overtly foreign or militant views."
Become Jaune Arc the Huntsman, in short. Leave Jonathan Amsel at Beacon, but have him on metaphorical speed dial when the situation called for an alternative perspective.
Leave the Legion behind, until the situation desperately called for the services of an irreverent and efficient killing machine.
Jaune forced down his unease, and paid no mind to the painful knot in the pit of his stomach. "I think I understand, sir."
"Wonderful. I do believe that that is all that I wished of you for tonight, Mister Arc; thank you for your time, as well as for preparing your report in such an efficient and comprehensive fashion."
"Just doing what I'm good at, sir."
"Quite. Be sure to find Glynda at your earliest convenience in the next day or two; I recall that she has an administrative matter that she wished to have settled with you in the near future."
A personal call with Deputy Headmistress Glynda Goodwitch - didn't that just twist his guts even tighter. "I'll get it taken care of tomorrow," Jaune replied, suppressing a grimace. "Have a good evening, Professor."
"And you as well, Mister Arc," Ozpin returned with a nod and a genial smile. Jaune turned on his heel and swiftly departed the office, hoping that a change in altitude would alleviate some of the weight that was cast over his heart and his mind.
- To Serve With Honor -
He gave up on the thought of sleep sometime past midnight. Slinking silently from the sheets, he laced up his boots and draped his field blouse - a flat grey jacket with crimson piping and trim - over his shoulders for warmth.
A brief exploration of the access menus in his Scroll allowed him to remotely disable the motion sensor on the door and quietly edge it open enough to slip out. Glancing back inside briefly, he noted with satisfaction that Winter slept soundly as ever. A guiding hand allowed the door to slide closed noiselessly, and another Scroll command from a few steps away reactivated both the sensor and the lock.
Jaune's feet carried him at a sedate walk through the halls of the mostly-empty staff dorms, the few live-in administrative and support personnel having been spread widely across the length of the floor to maximize individual privacy. A short minute had him entering the upper levels of the central section of the academy, and after a few more minutes and an excessive number of broad and winding spiral steps, he stepped out into the night air.
He let out a huff of annoyance at the fact that the temperature was still positively balmy, even at one in the morning.
"Two short years and I can't even enjoy nice weather anymore…" he sighed as he headed down the path to the airship docks, shucking off his blouse and folding it over his arm.
The jacket was intended as an intermediate uniform option, utilitarian and durable while retaining some of the style and formal trimmings of the dress blues uniform. Matching grey shoulder boards adorned the epaulettes, each decorated with two crimson-piped bars denoting the rank of Corporal.
It was a damn sight more dignified and comfortable than the Legion's high-collared monkey suit of a dress uniform, in Jaune's opinion.
He slung the jacket over his shoulder by the collar, only to pause as he heard a clatter on the pavers behind him. Glancing back, he found a stout silver case resting on the path a few steps back. His eyes glazed over briefly, and he let out a soft curse as he recognized the object, hastily doubling back to scoop up the rectangular case and check it's battered and burnished surface for new scuffs.
He eventually reached an observation platform jutting off the main walk and took a post at the railing, setting his Scroll aside as the line rang and then tried to connect. As he waited, his drew the case from the pocket of his sweats on a whim, fishing out of cigarette. A search of the other inner pocket of his blouse uncovered the matching lighter; and as he clenched the stubby cancer stick between his teeth and lit the end, the call finally went through.
"And here I thought you had sworn off smoking after Alexandros introduced you, and you nearly hacked up your lungs," a thick Mantlese accent drawled in amusement.
"Found his case and lighter in my blouse when I went for a late-night stroll," Jaune finally rasped after taking the cigarette between two fingers and blowing a thin stream of smoke. "Kinda glad I did, to be honest; been a hell of a day, and Winter's keeping me dry until I can get out on my own time and find a quiet bar in the city."
"The missus is keeping you on a short leash these days, ja?"
"She's a little overbearing and gun-shy after Taurus nearly sliced my neck open again," he admitted grudgingly, finally turning from the stars hanging over the bay to look at the screen. "Like I said, it's been a day. How're you holding up, Abel?"
Charles Abel, Jaune's fellow Legionnaire and best friend since Basic, shook his head with a weary chuckle. "I am in charge, if that tells you anything about how things have been lately."
Jaune's eyes sharpened, and shaking fingers brought the cigarette back to his lips. "Aren't you still a Second Class? What the hell are you doing leading a team?"
"First Class, thank you very much," the blond-haired, blue-eyed Mantlese native corrected with a wag of his finger. "And I am leading your whole section, not just my team."
Smoldering ashes fell from his lips as he gaped at his colleague. "Where the hell is that fucking useless Corporal that I trained before I left?!" he demanded sharply.
He paled when Abel used his hand to mime a gun, stuck two fingers between his teeth and dropped his thumb sharply.
"Locked himself in the staff bunk when I was not looking and had an intimate moment with his sidearm," the Legionnaire First Class deadpanned. "Had to kick in the fucking door again, only to find his grey matter painted all over the back wall." The other man sighed in annoyance, "I had just managed to get the verdammt lock replaced after you kicked it in the last time; it will almost certainly be another three months at least before Supply will give me another."
Jaune barely registered the distracted grumbling, too busy raking his fingers harshly through his crew cut and biting his tongue to keep from roaring his frustration into the still night air. After a solid minute of silence, he settled for slamming his knuckles into the stone railing, skin and stone yielding in equal parts under the blow; he stumbled back drunkenly and loosed a torrent of venomous Mantlese blasphemies.
"Your accent has improved," Abel noted once Jaune stepped back into the Scroll's view.
"It feels more natural when I want to get wring someone's neck," the Specialist acknowledged absently. "When did this happen?"
"Three days ago. Regimental has already promised a replacement, but he will not be cycling in from Ammer until next week."
"What're his credentials?"
"Marksman with five years in. He has led a sniper section before, but this will be his first regular infantry command; still, he is coming recommended by the Chief himself, so I would wager that he has a decent head on his shoulders."
A bit of the weight lifted from Jaune's shoulders, but his face was still set in a deep apprehensive frown. "Anyone else I should know about?"
"That you should know about?" At Jaune's glare, Abel sighed and closed his eyes. "Koch got winged by a battle rifle last week; his shoulder is fractured, but he will survive and he has three weeks of medical that he has opted to take at Ramstein. Should do him some good." The man gained a sour look, and he refused to meet Jaune's eyes.
"Spill, Charlie," Jaune pressed stubbornly.
"... Isaev bought it last week to a missile," the Legionnaire finally admitted, his face falling slightly. "An RPG team got a flank off on us during a gunfight in Residential; he was vaporized instantly. We barely found enough of him to fill a shoebox."
Jaune wracked his guilty brain for a long moment before he flinched in recognition. "The Eastern machine gunner," he grimaced. "His assistant?"
"Had just set him up with a fresh box and fallen back to help the medic treat a casualty from another section," Abel responded peaceably. "Isaac was the only one, and Xiong took out the shooter not a second later. He was torn up about it for a few days, but let us just say that the Corporal has been an effective distraction."
With a disgusted shake of his head, Jaune drew and lit another cigarette, shifting it to the corner of his mouth. "He wasn't a bad kid, he was just out of his depth," he said of the Corporal.
"He was two years older than you, and he was almost willfully incompetent," Abel argued. "Besides, I am not going to dissuade any of mein kinder from speaking ill of the dead if it keeps them commiserating with one another and not spending too much time alone with a straight razor."
"... Fucking shit, Charlie," Jaune finally bit out after a long pause.
"This is why I am going to stop filling you in, Jack. You need your head in the here and now in Vale, not in Asteria where you cannot do anything about us or for us," Abel stated flatly.
"It's still my section, Charlie!" he snapped.
"It has not been your section for six months, John!" Charles snapped back, getting as close as either felt safe to speaking Jaune's real name over a Scroll call. "You are a verdammte Specialist, now! The world is your oyster! You are home, you are building your future! It is time to get your head out of the snow and move on with the real world!"
His fist slammed into the rail again, taking a chunk out of the masonry and sending it tumbling through the darkness to the waters below. "You're telling me to forget about two years of my life, Charles," Jaune growled through gritted teeth. "You know as well as I do that there is no such thing as an ex-Legionnaire."
"You are being dramatic, John," Abel rolled his eyes, "I am not telling you to forget your life with us, I'm telling you to move past it. We will all carry the Legion with us long beyond our time of service; however, you are in a unique position where you have seen some of the worst that it has to offer and been allowed to walk away from it."
"Don't say it, Abel," Jaune begged hoarsely, absently tucking the cigarette case into his coat out of the Scroll's view. "I already know what you want to say, I don't need to hear it."
"I think that you do, my friend," Abel shook his head solemnly. "You are not Corporal Dimitri Alexandros, John. You are still alive. And I think that I speak for the entire section when I say that it is better that way for everyone."
The back of his throat tightened painfully, and anger and shame prickled at either side of his eyes as he bowed his head.
"You have been given an opportunity, John," Abel carried on, losing none of his previous gravitas. "You are not meant to be wasted on the life of an enlisted man. You have experienced it, yes, which will make you all the more valuable in command."
"I'm not a leader, Abel," Jaune sighed weakly at the old argument. "I've yet to lead a unit and bring everyone back alive."
"A misfortune of circumstances that would dissuade a lesser man," his friend dismissed doggedly. "You have led willing men into battle knowing the risks of their profession and with an objective to be accomplished with the aim of saving more lives; and while it is true that lives have been laid down and lost, I have yet to hear of a mission under your leadership where the outcome has not been a net-positive, if not an outright victory."
Abel was talking sense, but it still sounded too callous for Jaune's guilty conscience to accept.
"As I was saying, you have been placed in a unique position, my friend." Abel started to tick off his points on his fingers, "You have been transplanted into a marginally more secure and comfortable branch of military service under the terms of your original service contract; as such, you are only obligated to four more years of service, as opposed to a renewed six."
"I'm not an idiot, Abel, I know what kind of benefits I've gotten from trading the Legion for the Specialists," Jaune snapped irately. "I'm in a cushier branch with more authority and a shorter service contract than most, making more money with nominal access to better weapons and equipment. Not to mention that in my current posting, I'm technically outside of the reach of regular military bureaucracy."
"You have it made in Vale, John!" Abel threw his hands up and declared dramatically. "Home field advantage, educational and networking opportunities, kickass battle scars!" The Mantlese man looked affronted at the dubious stare that Jaune was giving him. "Chicks dig scars, John! You have to own that shit!"
"Riiight," Jaune drawled slowly, "Because looking like I was hanged, clubbed across the head, and ate a load of birdshot is sexy."
"Confidence and ambiguous physical evidence are two-thirds of an attractive war story."
"What's the other third?"
"In the case of a bar? A sufficiently intoxicated, dim, or accommodating audience."
"Drunk, stupid, or game," Jaune shook his head incredulously. "I can't tell if you're speaking from experience or talking out of your ass to cheer me up."
"Little of column A, little of B," Abel admitted, waggling his open hand noncommittally.
"My point is, I have had to twist your arm to get you to have any fun in Solitas. Now you are about as far away from all of this grim shit as I could possibly want you to be, and Vale is your oyster. It is high time for you to step away from the twenty-four-seven soldiering mentality and live your life while you still have it."
"Don't you mean while I'm still young?"
"I am cheering you up, not lying to you," his friend deadpanned. Jaune barked a laugh in reply.
The connection fell into a comfortable silence as Jaune contemplated the idea.
"I just don't know, Charlie," he finally admitted, "I've tried to imagine living my life like a normal person, doing a job that doesn't involve going out with arms and armor every day and killing people… and I don't think I can anymore."
"I am not judging, John, considering that I am not much better," Abel shrugged. "But Beacon has resources for Huntsmen, ja? Counseling, classes, all of that good scheiße? It is just a matter of taking advantage of what is available to you."
"And if it's not available to me?"
"You tell me, idiot; you were the one who managed to get our entire squad issued factory-new rifles and ammo after a few hours with the Quartermaster."
Jaune groaned as he heard, rather than saw, Abel's waggling eyebrows. "If I've told you once, I've told a thousand times, Charlie; I didn't fuck anyone for those guns!" he barked indignantly as he cursed the heat rising in his face.
"'Don't Ask, Don't Tell,' John," the other man grinned. "I keep telling you, in an all-male military, getting frisky with another guy is considered a relatively mild predilection."
"Still, that's not my speed, Charlie," Jaune denied, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly as he waited for the heat to die off.
"Clearly too much of a leg man, considering your present company."
An image of Winter and Glynda Goodwitch standing across from one another - their prominent hips shifting unconsciously as they spoke - caused another spike of fire under his collar.
He took another drag of his dwindling cigarette, only to inhale too sharply and fall into a coughing fit when Charlie laughed knowingly - and he realized that the video feed was still on.
"I have heard that most Huntresses outshine supermodels. Has some other deadly fräulein caught our dear Corporal's eye?"
"First off, Winter and I do not have that kind of relationship, so it wouldn't matter either way-" Jaune rebutted fervently.
"Not for a lack of trying on your part, I seem to recall," Charlie grinned broadly.
"-And second, I've only met one other Huntress so far."
"So either the stories do them justice, or you have spent too much time with Miss Schnee and are looking for a change of pace."
"She's the Deputy Headmistress of Beacon, Abel!" Jaune barked incredulously.
"Hot for teacher? Color me impressed, Jack; shooting for the stars."
This conversation was going the wrong way fast, Jaune suddenly realized. "I need to try to get back to sleep," he growled tiredly.
"Some pleasant dreams ahead, I am sure," Abel laughed. The other man then sobered up, and his smile fell into a tight, thin line. "Get some help, John. It will help you to do your job, and it will also be good for you in the long run."
"I'll look into it, Charlie," Jaune conceded wearily. "Give the section my regards, and tell Xiong not to go picking fights with Atlas troops that you're all gonna regret later."
"Yes, Dad," Abel drawled, rolling his eyes. "Try not to go picking fights with the bull until you are ready to take him by the horns and pay him back properly."
Jaune paused, and a sense of dread overtook him as he struggled with his next words. "... Charlie?"
"Ja?"
"Are we… good people?"
Jaune was staring off into the distant sea, but he could see Abel squeezing his eyes shut as he inhaled sharply.
"... Would you like to rephrase that?"
The cigarette in his hand finally burned out, the ashes and smoldering filter crumbling between insensate fingers and falling to the cliffs below. The scars across his body burned in its place, and a hand reached up to cup his jaw, his palm brushing over the fresh cotton bandages at his throat.
"Are we monsters, Charlie?" Jaune finally croaked.
Across the world, hunched over a battered Scroll and a too-small steel desk, Charles Abel exhaled, suppressing a wince as the bandaged gunshot wound on his abdomen protested.
The twenty-year-old Mantlese native ran a hand over his closely-shorn platinum blond hair, his fingers crossing seven old stitches on the right side of his scalp.
The desk below him was mostly clear for once, a sheaf of signed papers sitting in a tray to one side. The Scroll rested in a charging terminal, held upright at an angle. A handful of objects were arrayed around it.
To the right of Jaune's conflicted frown sat a battered and deeply scored combat knife, fifteen centimeters long and wrapped in a dark grey cloth. The copper-stained edge peeked out accusingly from beneath the fabric.
Beside it rested a disassembled handgun, the exposed barrel scored with carbon from Dust propellant. Four empty magazines laid beside the frame. He could vividly remember emptying every one of them.
To the left of his best friend and former section leader, a small pile of dingy metal tags had resided for as long as he could remember, the collection growing every day. Each of the twenty-three individual tags was embossed with a name.
Charles knew them all by heart. Could see every smiling, or scowling, or terrified face when he read each one.
Could feel the burning shame as his eyes ran over the other three new tags that he would never admit to Jaune.
Outside of the frame of the camera, he reached out and took hold of the knife and the oiled cloth, drawing it into his lap below the edge of the desk and allowing his hands to absently continue trying to remove the copper stains so that he coud take a stone to the blade and restore it's deadly edge.
"We are the product of our surroundings, my friend," he sighed, "As much as we are the sum of our choices. In our time, we have committed monstrous acts - this, we cannot and should not deny."
He leaned back and allowed his eyes to drift up the wall, to the tattered powder-blue flag bearing a silver staff ringed by a crown.
"Some choose to become monsters - to seek peace of mind by embracing the nature of their actions. For is it not easier to accept a monster being a monster, rather than a man committing the acts of one?
"But some men do not accept this course," he continued in the same distant, contemplative voice. "Some realize the evils that they have committed; a few dismiss them as necessities in pursuit of a future peace.
"But even fewer reject evil; and they seek penance by accepting the past, and using it to fuel their drive for the strength to achieve the same ends without resorting to evil means."
Charles wrapped the cloth around the blade again and set it aside, hunching forward and meeting Jaune's eyes. "We have seen the evils that men are capable of justifying in the pursuit of 'peace,' my brother," he intoned gravely. "And it is now on us to rise above our acts, and the acts of those who would use us as tools to evil ends."
He offered his friend a tired smile. "You are stronger than you realize, John. And I believe that you can be one of the few to see us all to a better future. The others see this as I do, and this is why we will follow you. Because you want our world to change, and even now you are pursuing the strength to see your - our ambition - made real."
"So right now, I want you to use your strength to move beyond the evils of this place. Find your peace and move forward with your ambitions. And if your journey returns you to us, know that we will be here to lend you our strength once more."
It took Jaune some time to find his words, as his heart and his head swelled with emotion.
"... Thank you, Charles," he was finally able to choke out.
"Rest now, John," Abel ordered softly, "Like you, we are are survivors. It is here that we shall remain; and we will speak again soon."
"Of course," Jaune nodded, feeling exhaustion beginning to overtake him. The connection cut out, and he slipped the device back into the pocket of his sweats.
His tired mind was still swimming, but his shoulders somehow felt lighter as he draped his jacket across them. He lit one last cigarette and paced the grounds until it burned out.
By the time it did, he was at Beacon's central plaza, contemplating the grand marble statue - a hooded and caped man and woman, bearing a sword and battle axe respectively, standing stalwart above a monstrous Beowulf.
It was pretty naive, he mused, for Huntsmen and Huntresses - the most individually powerful protectors of mankind - to consider these mindless creatures to be the greatest threats to civilization. To not even consider that some of the worst monsters in history wore human skin.
Ignorance truly was bliss. But then, he supposed, the older generations weren't quite so blind, were they? Even as they studied and fought against the Grimm, students still trained against human opponents - against each other and even real Huntsmen and soldiers. An ambitious and optimistic approach to training the next batch.
Si Vis Pacem, Parabellum. If you want peace, prepare for war.
Right now, the Huntsmen Academies seemed focused on preparing their students for peace in hopes that such a notion would stick.
Jaune had already fought in a war. Had studied on the battlefield, paid a tuition of innocence and blood. Committed evil at someone else's expense, and to another's benefit.
Ozpin wanted to make protectors of the peace?
Jaune would prepare them for war.
But first, he had to figure out how to get out of his own war.
- To Serve With Honor -
Glynda groggily shuffled into the staff lounge at a quarter to six, and was greeted by the smell of brewing tea and fresh coffee. She savored the heavenly aromas for a long moment, before realizing that she was not the one responsible for them.
Her gaze swept over the room, finally settling on the man hunched over a thick tome at one of the far tables, outlined by the first traces of morning light as he nursed a plain white ceramic coffee mug. He was dressed in a grey military jacket with crimson piping, two chevrons stitched onto each of the twin boards adorning broad shoulders; his sleeves were rolled crisply to his upper arms, showcasing lean and defined forearms and biceps crisscrossed by fading bruises and a smattering of thin white scars.
Her eyes finally reached his face, noting that he hadn't seemed to register her presence; his face was beset with lines that aged him beyond his years. A weight settled on her conscience as she took in his sunken eyes; he hadn't slept.
But her leaden stomach did a small flip when he finally glanced up, and his eyes came alight as he offered her a small, honest smile.
"Miss Goodwitch," he greeted with a nod, "Good morning. Sorry, the tea's going to be another minute; I realized that I'd forgotten to put some on when I made the second batch of coffee."
"Good morning, Mister Arc," she returned evenly, "It's no problem; I appreciate the gesture regardless." She hesitated a moment, before finally working up the gumption. "If you don't my asking… How long have you been here?"
His hand reached up to scratch at the thin blond hairs on his chin as he considered the question. "I think I finally found this place around four," he replied sheepishly, "I spent a while in the twenty-four-hour section of the library digging around in the course syllabi and the library directory trying to find the right textbooks and resources."
Glynda's face fell, "You haven't slept?"
"Can't say that I have, unfortunately," he shrugged. "Happens every once in awhile; I usually just end up taking a long walk and then finding something to occupy me until the day shift wakes up."
Her brows creased, "I see."
For some reason, further words failed her. She knew that she should press the issue - ask for further clarification and then suggest a solution or offer a referral.
But the Headmaster's words were swimming around in her head and causing all sorts of havoc. Not even that, but who was she to say that this young man even wanted her help? Maybe Ozpin had the right of it; maybe the task at hand required her to cover the bases, but leave well enough alone.
Something at the edge of her mind snarled at that notion, and she was left paralyzed by indecision.
So occupied, she didn't notice as Jaune rose from his seat and turned off the squealing kettle. He set the metal carafe on a pad beside the basket of assorted pouches of tea before refreshing his own cup of coffee.
"Hey, uh… Miss Goodwitch?"
She started internally, finding that he was leaned against the counter with his mug in one hand, his gaze uncertain and wandering - trying to meet her eyes, but usually settling over her shoulder or on a different part of the room.
"Yes?" she finally responded, cursing herself for having soured the mood.
"I was wondering…"
He trailed off, rolling part of the inside of his cheek between his teeth for a moment. He huffed in irritation and closed his eyes for a moment, before finally meeting her eyes again.
"What sort of mental health resources does Beacon have available?"
Glynda's entire train of thought derailed and reset.
"A member of Beacon's faculty is certified and serves as our resident psychologist," she stated without hesitation. "Would you like me to set up an introductory meeting?"
"I… would appreciate it," he accepted reluctantly. He paused and contemplated something before continuing.
"I never trusted the military shrinks in Atlas," he frowned, "They sent so many of my men back with some half-baked words about 'honor and duty,' and the same medication that made them into paranoid or addicted wrecks. Even when Winter suggested that I go see a private practice as a Specialist, I could never be too sure about who was running on state funding and would give me the same load of crap."
Glynda felt her scowl twist to mirror his own. "Rest assured, our resident is a veteran Huntsman with a vested interest in seeing issues brought to the fullest resolution that he can offer."
"Who is your resident, anyway?" Jaune asked in a lighter tone with a quirk of his brow.
Before she could answer, the staffroom door slid open, and a booming voice speared through her every complimentary thought and made her cringe slightly in surprise and dismay.
"Oh-ho, what do we have here?!" a jolly, masculine baritone echoed, perfectly befitting the rotund mustachioed man to which it belonged. "Glynda my dear, an early morning rendezvous in the staff lounge with a strapping young suitor? How scandalous!"
"Good morning, Peter," Glynda replied over her shoulder through gritted teeth with a roll of her eyes. She turned back to apologize to Jaune, only to find his features morphed into a sly and boyish smirk.
"A rendezvous, you say?" the audacious little bas- Jaune drawled before taking a sip from his mug, "Why didn't you tell me, Miss Goodwitch? I would've put my coffee down."
She fixed the young man with a flat look as Peter crossed the room with a hearty laugh. "That's our Glynda, lad - incredibly forward in combat, but never so much in matters of the heart." The Huntsman offered a spade-sized mitt, prompting Jaune to shift his mug to his off hand to shake it. "Peter Port, at your service."
"John Amsel," Jaune replied easily, before adopting a puzzled look, "Or Jaune Arc, maybe; I'm still not really clear on who I'm supposed to be around these parts."
Glynda rolled her eyes as Peter barked another laugh. "Ah, our newest Teaching Assistant! You'll be sitting in on my Grimm Studies lectures, then. Understandable about the confusion," the man leaned in and adopted a conspiratorial stage-whisper, "Old Oz's harebrained schemes usually end up like that, you see. Why, I once ended up playing three members of a barbershop quartet while investigating a smuggling outfit in Mistral's Central District; pulled it off, but the gig was absolute murder on the chords."
"I'd have paid to see that," Jaune chuckled honestly, saluting with his mug.
Glynda cleared her throat, prompting both men to glance back at her. "Mister Arc, this is Professor Peter Port - Beacon's resident psychologist."
She reveled in the way that both men's eyes widened comically in surprise before they exchanged a look.
"I see," Peter hummed in comprehension. He clapped his hands together, and his expressed shifted into a genial smile. "Well, it's a bit early yet for business. But what do you say, lad - are you free today?"
"I- yeah," Jaune stuttered out haltingly; for a moment, Glynda felt bad about throwing the poor boy under the bus so cavalierly.
It went away quickly enough. He'd asked for it, after all.
"Topping," the Professor said cheerfully. "Now then, enough of the heavy stuff for the moment. I, for one, could do with a bit of kip and a cup at this early hour; Glynda, are we still expecting service at six?"
"Of course," she nodded. "The kitchen staff will have a light breakfast set up here on the weekdays by six o'clock," she elaborated for Jaune's benefit.
The Legionnaire blinked in surprise. "Sweet," he acknowledged approvingly. "Though I suppose that means I'll have to get Winter through our morning workout a bit earlier," he added thoughtfully.
Internally, the Deputy Headmistress grinned her wholehearted endorsement.
She could get used to having another staff member around with a sense of discipline - particularly one so close to the students' age.
Ozpin would have his Specialist and Huntsman, and Jaune Arc would receive the help that he needed.
'Subverting authority is kind of satisfying,' Glynda mused.
Ozpin was no dictator; he would come to understand and appreciate her dissent on this matter, she was certain.
End Chapter 6
Author's Note: Welcome back, everybody.
We're a little heavy on dialogue and light on action, this chapter; but, we're also getting through the requisite build-up to shit properly hitting the fan for Vale with regards to the White Fang.
Not to mention that we're, oh, maybe three chronological weeks from the start of the semester at Beacon. You'll probably come to notice when we get there that I've called a few audibles with regards to the freshman lineup.
So, we got to meet Legionnaire First Class Charles Abel, Jaune's best friend from Basic Military Training, and general partner-in-crime on the Mantlese front (note that Charlie's line are marginally more fun when read with a German accent).
We also got a bit of rebellious maternal educator Glynda, calling her own shots and doing good by the younger folks.
Nothing could possibly go wrong for Ozpin from that, right?
Next chapter we'll meet back up with our favorite doggo-dude, Carmelo "Pax" Paxton, and take a peek into the new day-to-day life of the Vale chapter of the White Fang. And, we'll also get a look at the practice of Peter Port: Huntsman Psychologist Extraordinaire.
(I am neither a psychologist, nor a veteran; but I do enjoy writing Peter Port, so it'll be a fun learning experience for everyone.)
Thanks go out again to Crosswire for offering his two cents on this one.
Thanks everyone for tuning in, and I hope to see you all again in the next chapter.
-Knightmare Frame Razgriz