I watched Antlers. The movie felt unfocused thematically and a bit too quiet. The monster design, though, was dope and makes it worth a watch imo.

Wires ran through his body like veins; compacted chips rested in his head like the assortment of neurons that constitutes the organic brain; cooling fluid pooled and flowed throughout his body like blood; titanium bars reinforced with earth dust ran up his back like the spine, encased his head like the skull, crossed over his chest like the sternum, ran up his arms like the humerus, ran down his legs like the shin and holistically formed a framework like the skeleton. Jaune Arc was a recreation of a human—completely different in materials but exact in function. His physical requirements and his mental processes might differ from the average person, but what does it mean to be human if not to differ from the average? Whatever "the average" might happen to mean. On that day, a week into his overseas voyage and hours into a cool sleep, he did something quite human indeed. He had a dream, which his resting and mechanical mind created as a by-product of its quasi-inert functioning.

He dreamt of electric Grimm.

The creature reminded him of himself. It looked like a beowolf, but clearly was not. Its red eyes glowed like any Grimm, but it did not have the same malice and raw hate in those eyes as did the living monsters fueled by agonizing anger. It had cold and unfeeling eyes, like red lights that blink on when a patient in a hospital bed is confronting an emergency. It was black all over, like a Grimm, but instead of a thick hide it had smooth steel skin still crisscrossed with soldered lines. It had huge teeth, sharp on one side and serrated on the other like bowie knives; there was no capacity for mercy in its jaws, for those teeth could only end something painfully. It had a snake for a tail, one which crept up from behind and wavered in the air, its red eyes glowing and its fangs glistening; each fang was a pointed screw. The creature brought up a huge paw, tipped in claws sharp and serrated like its teeth.

A hollow growl came up from its throat, marred by unnatural crackling sounds , for the microphone lodged down its gullet was not calibrated quite right. That made it no less terrifying.

Jaune's eyes shot open. He was covered in sweat. (Technically, it was not sweat so much as a sophisticated mimicry produced by moisture sucked in from the air and excreted again through artificial pores. Another laborious step in achieving perfect imitation.)

For the first time, he really became aware of just how confined he was. The crate was tight and dark, and he knew that he could not leave.

He sighed and closed his eyes again, but he did not go back to sleep. The dream had been too vivid. Scary, but not nefarious enough to be a nightmare. It had felt real, and he did not like that.

"One sheep, two sheep, three sheep…"

"Penny…" Ciel put her hands on her hips. "You need to get up."

"But I don't want to."

"You have to."

"Says who?"

"Me."

"Why?"

"You haven't left my couch in three days."

"Is that a problem?"

"It is."

Ciel sighed and sat down on the couch's armrest. "When we agreed to let you stay with me, the hope was that your spirits would be lifted a bit."

Penny mumbled something incomprehensible and looked at the TV. They currently occupied the little living-room section of Ciel's studio apartment.

Her friend sighed and sat down on the armrest of the couch. She laid her hand on Penny's head and stroked her orange hair. "I got word from the general. The plan is still to have us join the academy and compete in the tournament."

Penny stared half-heartedly at the TV, which played a cartoon about two mice escaping from a cat. It happened to be a boy and a girl mouse, gallivanting together on their silly adventure.

Penny shook her head. "I don't want to."

"I—"

"It won't be the same," she said. "We were supposed to be a part of a team. Me, you, Leif and another agent. Now what?"

"Now, we're going to get another specialist to round out the team," Ciel said. She patted Penny's hair gently. "I'm sorry… but we have a responsibility, don't we?"

Penny watched as the TV screen cut to a commercial for toothpaste. A woman smiled back at her with big, shiny white teeth.

"Leif is out there somewhere," Ciel said. "We just have to trust them to find him."

A man walked onto the screen, and he smiled just as wide.

"We're supposed to be protectors of Atlas, right? I'm the specialist, taking out bad guys. You're the Fighter, designed to smash Grimm ten times your size."

The man and the woman turned to each other, and their clean smiles shone even brighter.

"We still have a duty."

The man and the woman came in for a kiss.

Penny snatched the remote controller off the coffee table and turned the TV off with one strong click.

Ciel sighed. "Listen, I'm not saying to get over it. I'm not over it. Leif was my friend, too. It's hard.

"But we still have responsibility. To Atlas, to ourselves."

"I…" Penny pushed herself up into a sitting position. "I guess you're right."

Ciel scooted over and sat down on the couch beside her. She put an arm around her friend's shoulder and brought her close. "Listen, I'm sure they're hot on his trail."

They were hot on his trail. The bullhead sped high above the ocean waves. Light scout ships had been traveling the sea lanes for days now, looking up and down the possible routes by which the ship could have gone. It didn't help that the damn thing had had to divert twice due to poor weather, inadvertently throwing them a bit off track; but now, a scout ship had gotten a positive reading on their target, and now, they were closing in.

The ship was named Boaty McBoatface, as all good ships ought to be named. A freighter of humble size that had departed Boggindorf bearing lumber and stone, the hearty harvests of Atlas's deep environment.

Now the bullhead captain turned on the radio: "This is unit 15 of the Atlas Ocean Guard. Crew of the Boaty McBoatface, please respond."

The radio crackled and a raspy man responded. "Hey there miss, this is the captain of the Boaty McBoatface. Responding to your call."

"Hello captain," the pilot said. "We're closing in on your location. Investigators have informed us of possible illegal contraband that has been smuggled covertly on your ship. We are invoking Section 31b of the Maritime Subjugation Law. We will be boarding your ship and searching for the contraband. Please comply, this will not take long."

"Affirmative, miss, my crew won't give you a problem. What are you all looking for?"

"I am not at liberty to disclose what the contraband is, only that it is contained in a wooden crate. One just about large enough to contain a person."

"Oh yeah, I think I might know what you're looking for."

"Excellent. We'll be arriving in ten minutes."

The pilot turned off the radio and looked back over her shoulder. The bullhead was packed to the brim with ten specialists. Winter Schnee herself kept her hand on her saber's hilt.

"Then they meet some moon people. And then fight them, but then the moon people are like wait there are these two gods here and they do some magic stuff and make crazy magical objects and something and give people crazy magical powers and…"

Jaune had resorted to making up stories to keep himself interested. This one involved a group of feisty teens with superpowers who went on adventures. A pretty cool premise, if he did say so himself.

He shut up when he heard some people enter the hold.

"They're getting here in like five," said one man. "Just let them do this."

"Oh come on, you don't want to see what it is?"

The footsteps came near.

"I don't think they'd be happy."

"Ah come on, it's fine. Might be some wads of cash? Ever thought of that? Or maybe something cool we can tell stories about."

The men stopped right in front of Jaune's box. One hefted a crowbar and jammed the straight end inbetween the lid and the body of the crate. He grunted and threw his weight down into the crowbar. The wood creaked for a moment, before the nails sprung free and the top popped off.

"Huh, that's underwhelming," said the other man.

Laying in the box was nothing but a mannequin. Its dull plastic skin colored red-tan like clay; its flat eyes incapable of looking at anything; its bald head just waited for a wig; it wore rather a simple black shirt and jeans.

Beyond being a little creepy (as most mannequins are), it was utterly unremarkable.

The workman scratched at the stubble on his chin and peered down with greedy brown eyes that shined like copper and looked for gold. "Maybe there's something worth a lot inside it?"

"Maybe," said the other man, "but I don't think we should be pushing our luck." He grabbed the cover and slid it back on top. "Let's skedaddle before the Ocean Guard gets here and raises hell."

"Yeah…" The man sighed glumly and pounded the cover back onto the box with his crowbar, haphazardly fastening it again with its now crooked nails.

"Come on, they'll get here in a few minutes."

Winter and her team pulled open the large sliding doors on either side of the bullhead and rappelled onto the ship. The crew cleared away as the specialists dropped on deck, frightened by the sudden appearance of men and women with guns and swords who definitely did not fit their image of the Ocean Guard, who were supposed to be navy washouts.

"Um, hello miss," the captain said as he respectfully tipped his white but grease-stained nautical hat. He addressed none other than Winter Schnee herself, who proudly strutted across the deck. Her boots clanged against the cheap metal surface.

"Captain," she said curtly. "Direct me to the cargo hold."

He did just that and hauled open a big metal door, flicked on some dim old bulbs and led her down rusty old stairs to the storage hold. They were flanked by old crates and sacks that smelled like musty earth and wood, denoting the heavy stone and lumber stored there.

"Oh man!" Another workman looked at them nervously with his copper-brown eyes. He scratched the stubbled at his chin idly and excused himself.

Winter ordered the captain away as well. Then she drew her sword and approached the crate.

"If you're in there, Pursuer," she announced, "then exit now. Show yourself. Hands up. We will take you back into custody, dead or alive."

"Technically not dead or alive, ma'am." Another specialist reported. "I believe that 'active or inert' were the words used—"

"Save your semantics for another time," Winter clipped.

With no answer coming from the crate, she lunged. The tip of her saber slid right under the lid; she twisted her sword, and the cover cracked right off as Winter drew the sword up and ready for a slash. The other specialists raised their rifles, ready to fire.

The box was empty.

Jaune, disguised as one of the workmen, nervously scratched his newfound stubble and walked speedily across the deck, between rows of big rust-flaked storage containers. He nodded frightfully at a specialist he passed, but the soldier contemptuously ignored him.

His eyes flashed up, saw the bullhead hovering above. He also saw the ropes still dangling down from the bullhead's side doors. When he reached the edge of the ship, he saw that they were stopped dead in the water, and there was ocean for miles.

"Ah man…" He shook his head, already coming to a conclusion that he did not like.

"Ah man…" someone said. "Am I seeing things?"

Jaune whipped around. He froze when he saw none other than the workman who had earlier opened his box, the one who's face he currently wore. He panicked.

"Drugs," Jaune said automatically. "Lot's of drugs. You."

"Me?" The workman looked down at himself, as if that would somehow confirm or deny the statement.

"Yes, you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"What drugs?"

"All of them."

"I don't feel like I'm on drugs."

"Exactly."

The man looked back up at Jaune, then down at himself once more. He shook his head and sighed. "Not again…"

As the workman moped and plodded away, Jaune headed for the ropes hanging from the bullhead. He ran and leapt, grabbing the rope and pulling himself up. His robotic tends made short work of the climb, even though the rope swung and whipped both with the wind and the bullhead's own swaying; he scaled the whole way with the grace, speed and strength of a monkey. It felt natural to him, as if doing this exact maneuver—using a rope to get up to a bullhead—was ingrained into his system. It probably was.

He grunted and hauled himself up into the aircraft. He hopped up to his feet and raised his fists. He saw no more specialists, so he breathed a sigh of relief.

He dramatically sucked that sigh back up when noticed that the pilot was still in the seat. Thankfully, however, the woman had big headphones on, and she focused on the dials in front of her.

Jaune gulped. This was it. This was a big test for him as a spy, as a fighter, as a crusader for justice (or whatever he was).

I just need to knock her out, right?

Yeah, just that. No need for anything too nasty. A single chop to the neck would put her right out. It would be hurtful, yeah, but she'd be fine.

Jaune approached the pilot, stepping slowly and sneakily. He stopped just behind her and raised his hand above his head, ready to strike straight down. He gulped. It was going to be so easy. It would only take a second. He knew exactly how to do it, again likely from practice now forgotten to him; but it was like riding a bike. He would just bring his hand down and—

He tapped the woman's shoulder.

She looked at him and gasped in surprise. Then she scowled and took off her headphones.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Sorry, but I really need you to get out of the seat. I kind of need the bullhead."

"Ohh… you're the guy, aren't you?"

"What guy."

"The robot guy."

"I don't know any robot guy."

"Sure."

"Listen, could you please leave?"

"And go where?"

"I would like you to get out the chair."

"No."

"Do it."

"No."

"Do it... or else."

The pilot raised one eyebrow. "Or else what?"

Jaune raised his hand up in the air again, fist open, ready to deliver a consciousness-ending chop. "If you know what's good for you, then get out of the chair!" He adopted his best attempt at a scowl as he spoke.

She looked unimpressed. "You're not going to do anything, are you?"

"I…" Jaune deflated and let his hand fall down. "No…"

She chuckled. "Huh, you're actually kind of a nice guy, I guess. Streetlamp Salad, right? That's what you called yourself back in Boggindorf?"

"How'd you know that!?"

"Are you kidding? Streetlamp Salad is without a doubt the worst alias I've ever heard in my life. My two-year-old could come up with a more convincing fake name."

"Ah man…" Jaune sighed, wounded that his first major attempt at espionage had apparently been a failure. "Maybe your kid should be a spy, then."

"Oh I hope not, would worry me sick," the pilot said with a laugh. Mom mode kicked in. "Actually"– she fished her wallet out of her pocket –"got a photo of her right here."

"Aww…" Jaune cooed as he leaned in and looked at the picture of an especially cute little blonde baby playing with a toy train set.

"Isn't that a picture of an especially cute little blonde baby playing with a toy trainset?" the kid's mom asked with odd specificity.

"It definitely is! Got any others?"

"Yeah, have a few in my bag back there, hold on a sec." The pilot unbuckled, shuffled past Jaune, rooted through a knapsack tied to the wall and then produced several more photos. "Here they are—"

She turned and saw Jaune now in the pilot's chair. He smirked.

"Well. Should have seen that coming," the pilot said. She shook her head, thoroughly disappointed in herself but also not blaming herself for succumbing to the parental need to brag about one's children. Speaking of. "Hey, still want to see the photos?"

"For sure!"

Jaune leaned over and "awwwwed" again at a few more pictures of the baby eating applesauce, playing with a dog and walking in a backyard.

"Guess I'll just rappel out of here now," the pilot said, pointing at the side of the ship and the several ropes still dangling down.

"You know how?"

"Yeah. You know how to fly the plane?"

"Yeah. Well… I think I do."

"You think?"

"I know."

"For your sake, I hope you do." She wrapped a gloved hand around a rope and readied to slide down.

"Oh, but tell the kid hi from me!" Jaune insisted.

She sent a thumbs-up back. "Sure thing! Well… maybe I can't? You're a fugitive, after all."

"I am?"

"Yeah."

"Ah, bummer."

"You didn't know?"

"Didn't really think about it."

The pilot shrugged. "Good luck, I guess."

With that, she jumped out the plane, hands firmly around the rope. She slid all the way down and firmly planted her feet on the deck.

She had barely done so when the ropes lifted away, pulled by the rising bullhead.

The aircraft turned, its engine flared, it nose dipped and it hurtled away from the ship, off and over the open ocean.

"Uh oh." She nervously rubbed her cheek. "I didn't think he actually knew how to fly."

Winter Schnee shouted: "Where in the name of all the gods is the bullhead going!?"

The pilot gulped.

Uh oh, he got out the box. Wherever shall he go now?

I looked at a map of Remnant to figure out this whole segment. Let's just say that he got intercepted halfway to Vacuo, and that won't be his next destination just yet. I've sort of ad-libbed the plot for now, haha.