Alright, next chapter. I was a little afraid that people wouldn't like the last one, since it was mostly just one conversation, but I'm glad it turned out well. Without further ado, let's get going.

He'd just wanted a drink, really.

"What do you mean, I need an ID?"

"I mean, you need an ID. Otherwise, how am I supposed to know you're at least 18?"

"Huh, why do I need to be 18?"

"Because it's the law, kid. I can't serve you drinks if you're too young, now beat it."

Ahh... laws. His mortal enemy.

Alright, perhaps that was a little dramatic, but as he walked away from the bar, he couldn't help but curse this imposing exercise of civility. Back in the wasteland, laws were just suggestions. All you had to worry about was maybe the regulators or anyone you wronged getting back at you. Even in 'civilized' places like Rivet City, laws were few and applied only to the most extreme, such as violence, theft or the like. He'd never heard of laws restricting something benign like alcohol, or even chems. Well, except for the Brotherhood, though they didn't really count, being a military organization.

He'd need to be careful about that; laws. Maybe there was some sort of manual that would tell him all of the basic rules of this new world. He'd already learned that he wasn't allowed to smoke in some places, which was a little weird.

He sighed and stalked away. There were others at the bar, and his glare flitted between the them all as he passed by, scrutinizing each movement. Everyone else had alcohol... bastards. He wasn't an alcoholic or anything, but he'd run out of moonshine a few days ago, and a decent drink every now and again was just what he needed to take the edge off. And he really did have an edge, being around so many people. They all moved and shifted and talked, maybe about him. His gaze narrowed as he left the bar, also keeping sure to listen in on their conversation, lest any of it be relevant.

"Can you believe Rebecca did that?"

"Hey man, can I take this chair?"

"So... you here by yourself?"

"Wow, someone stole all your laundry? That sucks man... "

The cacophony evaporated as he marched out into the hallway, shuffling with his back tilted towards the wall. The ground suddenly shifted beneath him. His stomach flopped over on itself, and he nearly vomited. Again. Maybe it was good that he hadn't gotten a drink. Well, it would've been better if he could get a smoke. He'd been limiting himself to just one a day, when he normally went through at least two, since he had no idea when he would next be able to buy some. Wait, what if they had rules about how old you had to be to buy cigarettes, too!?

The Wanderer continued to curse civilization as he made his way. Both his hands were clasped together in front of him, a relatively inconspicuous way to be ever prepared for an assault, such that he could quickly bring up his arms to the ready. As he walked by someone, one hand instinctively fell at his waist, where Crocea Mors would have been held if he'd been allowed to carry it aboard. As it was, he'd needed to leave it in storage until they landed.

Ugh, and he'd been so excited at first, too. No smokes, no drinks, no weapons. Riding on an airship really wasn't as cool as he thought it would be.

He walked past several large windows, not waiting to glance out at the incredible view, which would only distract him from his surroundings, from anyone who might come near. The first several days had been largely composed of him staring in awe outside of the tiny porthole window in his room, enraptured by the incredible sight of the transient ground below. The land exploded with forests and mountains and villages of all sizes, bursting forth with life. Then land had given way to sea, and the brilliant sapphire caught light from the sun with its innumerable little ripples, producing a glittering field of tiny white flames that winked in and out of existence as he stared.

He'd spent hours upon hours gazing at it all as the airship floated by. It was a compulsion, a picture of beauty and life such that he'd never dared to comprehend, living in a world barren. Even after several weeks, the occasionally glance could still steal his breath away.

He could sightsee once he got back to his room. Rushing through the halls, back towards the wall, glaring at anyone and everyone passing by, he eventually stalked back into his room and locked the door.

Quickly scanning the area, he found it was all the same as he'd left it. A tiny sliver of space with only a cot and barely enough room for his two bags. The trash can was stuffed and nearly overflowing with containers with which he'd carried food back from the cafeteria in hurried trips, along with the remains of the meals they'd made. A week's worth of frugal eating was smashed into the can, which had been emptied out a week before, having been similarly full. The smell was unpleasant, but it beat going outside, and it was certainly better than letting anyone in.

There was a sharp knock at the door. "Housekeeping!"

He leapt for the peephole, looking through and seeing an elderly woman with a cart full of cleaning supplies. "Beat it!" The woman started back, before scowling and moving further down.

Scrutinizing her until she was out of sight, he eventually stepped away and sat down on the cot, hard and unyielding. He could've slept on the floor for all it was worth. Still, at least he was alone. The ratty freighter ship carried mostly cargo, but it also had a small passenger section, mostly dirt-cheap barracks. He'd paid a lot more for a private room, even one so small, but it was worth it. He felt in his pockets, nearly empty of lien, gone was both the villagers' reward and a small stipend from Qrow. Oh well, he was alone, and that it made it worthwhile.

He booted up the pip-boy and flipped through the notes, examining the time and place that Qrow had schedule for him. He'd need to meet with a representative of Beacon for a final interview which would either confirm or deny his acceptance. So it wasn't guaranteed, even if Qrow promised that his letter would hold weight. Letter... 'letter'. Sheesh, how was he going to explain that?

He shook his head, logistics aside, there was still work to be done. He switched his pip-boy to the radio page and scrolled through the various frequencies provided by the airship until he got the right one.

"—ikos endorses Pumpkin Pete's! You too can be a champion with our great breakfast!"

Nope.

"—elcome back to Nicolas and Karen's comedy hour!"

Nope.

"—all in one news station. We're continuing our special broadcasting of excerpts from the famed documentary series 'World of Remnant'. Today's topic: The History of Menagerie."

Bingo.

The Wanderer let his pip-boy play, idly listening as he unzipped his duffle bag and rooted through its contents. He sat on the floor and placed the desired materials on his cot, inspecting them for the umpteenth time that trip. Even if he'd been forced to hand over his weapons, the airship authorities had allowed him to keep the shattered remains of both Metal Blaster and Enclave's Bane, each too far gone to be any threat.

For now.

The equipment he had was nothing compared to what he needed to get them working, let alone fully restored. The Tesla Cannon's barrel was hoepelessly crushed, and Metal Blaster's wave/particle diverter was completely broken, which was required in order to use the MF cells and actually create the damn lasers. Everything he'd seen suggested that this world wouldn't have the spare parts necessary, as dust, aura and semblances had resulted in radically different weaponry than Earth. There wasn't even anything nuclear here. That meant he needed to work from scratch.

He examined both of his weapons, which essentially had opposite problems. The driving force behind Metal Blaster's power was gone, likely irreplaceable in this new world. His laser rifle's barrel and general frame could be salvaged, its inner-working repaired, but it'd be useless with no power. The MF cells were nothing more than radioactive junk now that the diverter was destroyed. He traced a finger over the crushed weapon.

"Maybe I can power it with dust?"

No, dust certainly wasn't strong enough to generate laser beams the way a nuclear reaction could. That might work with Enclave's Bane, but a hopelessly twisted frame and barrel put it out of use, even if the tesla coil behind the actual shots remained intact. The biggest problem here was that he wasn't a scientist or an engineer. At best, he was a mechanic. He could repair the thing if it was broken, but he couldn't remake it after it was destroyed, even if he had the coil. If he somehow could, then he may potentially be able to use electric dust to charge the tesla coil, which required less power than a full nuclear reaction, thus he'd be able to overcome the limited ammo problem he now had. But that was just wishful thinking. The Tesla Coil required a specified chassis designed around Earth's duraframe steel, which was necessary to channel the coil's energy. Examination had revealed that a significant amount of the cannon's structure was missing, probably carried off into the ocean back when he first came here. That meant he'd need to get more duraframe... which was synthesized with nuclear technology. There would be literally none of it on this entire planet. Even back on Earth, only advanced weapons had duraframe in them, like laser and plasma rifles such as Metal Blaster

He looked back and forth between the two weapons, examining Metal Blaster's intact frame and destroyed core, then Enclave's Bane's destroyed frame and intact core. The Wanderer hummed, then took a few tools and removed the Tesla Coil from its ruined weapon, placing it on top of Metal Blaster, where the diverter had previously been.

"Huh... it'd take some work... but that might do..."

Any more thoughts were interrupted by a harsh, static-filled screech as the airship's intercom booted up. "Attention all passengers, we will be landing in Vale within the hour. Please be prepared to disembark."

Is that so? Well, then he might be able to see it from his window. He got up from the floor and look out the tiny porthole. The tools in his hands clattered to the floor.

He'd seen cities before. Well, he'd seen the paltry communities that the wasteland could muster, and he'd been fool enough to call those cities. Rivet City. Megaton. Ridiculous. Those were nothing more than shantytowns compared to this. This, this was a city.

The buildings stretched North, South, East, West and even up into the sky, and they didn't all look ready to collapse at any moment. Unlike everything else he'd ever seen, nothing here was centuries old and subjected to a nuclear holocaust. The paint shone vibrant, the metal still gleamed, the brick didn't crumble. Everywhere he looked he saw a champion of humanity: electric lights, modest skyscrapers, thousands of buildings, a clean sky, others airships flying about. He was witnessing a world with a luxury he'd never before the seen: the luxury of civilization. True, honest to goodness civilization. This was what places like DC and the Pitt must've looked like, long, long ago. Everything sparkled under the sun, nice and new and fresh and beautiful. A strange lethargy settled within him, a sort of awed relaxation that compelled him to stand still and bask in this human glory.

He couldn't wait to be immersed in it.

He couldn't wait to get the Hell out of this.

Someone bumped against his shoulder, and he twisted instantly to see who they were, one hand falling back on his magnum. He saw only a startled, middle-aged business who quickly gathered himself and went on his way. The Wanderer would've continued staring at him, were it not for the dozen other people around him, were it not for the blare of car horns and the constant rumble of their wheels and engines, potentially masking the sound of anyone who wished to sneak up on him.

He glanced at every detail, every person. Occasionally he would even have a second of eye-contact with someone, though they would immediately flash away and stop looking at him. Did that person look away too quickly? Had they been watching him, and only when he looked back, had they been startled and tried to furtively disguise themselves? What about her? She just walked close by, was she trying to get a good look. Damn it, I wish I had eyes on the back of my head! I'm in the middle of a crowd! There! That window, someone's in it, and they just closed the blind. What if they were looking at me!?

He kept his hand always on the hilt of Crocea Mors, shoulders hitched, ready at any moment to strike. He must have looked similar to a deathclaw just before it pounced. He snapped his head back behind him, then forward again, then back again, then forward again. His breathing quickened. No, no this wasn't good.

Breath deep. Hold. Release.

He pressed close to the side of the street, nearby the buildings, where he could cover one side of himself, where he was able to his body tilted ever so slightly such that his back largely faced the wall, covering his rear flank. This was necessary. So many people were here, and any one of them could harbor some sort of ill-will against him. Who? Why? To those questions, he had no answer. But attacks had come out of the blue plenty of times before, so he wouldn't let them happen again. Granted, he had no enemies in this world.

That he knew of.

Simple muggers, robbers or people who found him somehow useful to their machinations, whatever those might be. He was immersed in a center of human vitality, and humanity is innately insidious.

Even as he scanned for threats, he looked for something else as well. And it wasn't long until he found it: a bathroom.

He ducked inside and quickly got into the largest stall, dropping both of his bags. He shoved the duffle bag aside and pulled open the other, which he'd acquired on the airship. It was a simple sack he'd stolen from a housekeeping cart. Its contents were similarly acquired. There was someone on the airship who was really unhappy that their entire wardrobe was no longer theirs, but too bad. The Wanderer had taken care to find someone about his size, then linger in the laundry room until they eventually used it.

It's not like he had any money to buy his own, after all. He was still wearing the single pair of ratty wastelander clothes he'd come to this world with, having wrapped up and stuffed the armor into the duffle bag. Aura rendered it useless to him, as armor in this world was only good as a crutch for weaker Huntsman and Huntresses, or weak civilians and soldiers without aura. He had no intention of being weak.

He changed and stepped out of the stall, throwing his old clothes into the trash and observing himself in the mirror. He nodded appreciatively. Not half bad. If it weren't for the scar, he might even pass for somewhat handsome. The guy he'd stolen from had good fashion sense, since the Wanderer hadn't been in such a nice pair of clothes for a while. The entire outfit was composed of varying shades of blue, with the pants, shoes and a loose light jacket being dark blue. He left the jacket unbuttoned, showing off his shirt, which was a lighter shade. The varying palette juxtaposed but didn't clash, working well together. It fit him well, too. Good, since he' be wearing this for quite a while. This had apparently been the guy's favorite or something, since his load of laundry had comprised only several sets of this one outfit, all blue.

The Wanderer didn't waste any more time gawking, however, for he had an interview to get to.

The Beacon Offices in Vale. Apparently, the school was outside of the city, and they liked to maintain a presence within the urban area in order to conveniently keep ties. It was also where they met with prospective students.

It was just an office in a larger building in downtown Vale, nothing special and nothing more than what was necessary. The Wanderer could appreciate that. As it was, he'd passed by a number of garish buildings which allowed flashiness to exude from every brick, the exact opposite of everything he'd ever seen in his life before now. This was a place of extravagance. He frowned. He'd also passed by some homeless, shuffling about, crumpled cardboard signs begging for scraps held in their hands. Excess and destitution side by side. Regardless, he wouldn't be preachy, since he himself had skirted past every beggar who came close to him, pretending they didn't exist even as they held their hands and gave out their sob stories. Between the ticket for the airship and the meal plan for it, he'd been left with only ten lien.

He wasn't a charity. He didn't give things away for free.

He sighed and shook his head, both clearing his thoughts and taking another look of his surroundings. All clear. Well, mostly clear. He tilted his head and looked down the street. There was a little boy crying on the curbside. He was being dutifully masculine about it, not making a sound, only given away by shuddering shoulders. The Wanderer looked back at the office building doors, then checked his pip-boy. He only had about 15 minutes left. He looked again at the crying child, then again at the door.

He sighed and stomped down the street.

"Hey kid, what's wrong?"

The child looked up in surprise, then, as is typical for stubborn little kids, looked back away and muttered, "nothing." He even tried to subtly wipe his eyes and nose.

The Wanderer looked down at the ground in front of the boy, where the splattered remains of an ice cream cone lay. "You dropped your ice cream?"

"I didn't drop it!" He yelled, suddenly filled with anger. "My stupid sister came over and knocked it out of my hands! She's two years older than me and, and, and she thinks she can just do whatever she wants!" He looked away again, face falling once more into a sullen droop. "It cost me five lien for that... I did my own chores and everything."

The Wanderer looked at him for a few seconds. He sighed. "Here you go, kid. Go get something even better and rub it into your sister's face, will ya?" He held out the ten-lien note.

"What? Really?" The boy's eyes immediately glimmered with a new kind of hope. Innocent. An innocent hope for something as benign and innocent as a spilled ice cream cone

The Wanderer nodded.

The boy broke out into a wide smile and excitedly snatched the money. "Thanks mister, thanks so much!" He gave the Wanderer a quick hug about the waist and scurried off, giggling innocently. So innocently.

The Wanderer scowled. He put his fingers into his pocket once more, feeling the emptiness there. Damn it... oh well. He turned back towards the office building, hoping he'd be able to find the right room in time. He really could have used that money. The recent memory of the boy's smile flashed through his mind, an innocent showing of joy. Pure. The scowl instantly faded. He sighed once more as he pushed his way into the building.

He wasn't a charity. He didn't give things away for free.

He arrived not a moment too soon. The door to the waiting room had just barely closed when the door to the office itself opened. A stern looking woman entered the waiting room and looked around for just a second before her eyes landed on him. An awkward moment rolled by. Ah damn, he was supposed to say something, wasn't he? With just a moment's hesitation as he felt the words in his mouth, he spoke.

"I'm Jaune Arc," said the Lone Wanderer.

"Glynda Goodwitch," the woman replied. Her speech was curt but not impolite. She turned and around and gestured for him to follow her into the office, which he did, setting his bags against the wall as the door closed behind them. Alright, straight to business. He could appreciate that.

She stepped behind a plain desk. As she sat down, her ramrod posture, air of command and blonde hair couldn't help but conjure images of Sarah. Images that the Wanderer instantly swept from his head as he sat opposite to her.

"Allow me to formally introduce myself," she said. "I am Glynda Goodwitch, the Deputy Headmistress of Beacon Academy. Aside from the Headmaster himself, I am among the highest authorities at our school." She paused to adjust her glasses, letting the Wanderer digest the information.

He sat a little bit straighter.

"Normally, I don't interview applicants, but this is a special case. The school year begins in less than a week, that we would even consider accepting someone so late is highly abnormal." She paused once more to adjust her glasses, and the Wanderer got the sinking suspicion that she may very well be doing that on purpose. "However, a recommendation from Qrow Branwen is not something to be taken lightly. In his message to us, he said that he entrusted you with a more formal letter of recommendation, may I see it now?"

The Lone Wanderer gulped. God damn it Qrow. Still, he dutifully reached into his pocket to pull out the 'letter'. It was a napkin. More specifically, it was the same one that Qrow used during the meal at the inn, which he'd quickly scrawled on, crumpled up and thrown to him, calling it a letter. Miss Goodwitch raised an eyebrow at the sight of the dirty piece of trash, but the Wanderer sheepishly passed it to her anyway. She took it from him and held it before herself, examining the 'letter' that frankly belonged in the garbage can.

"It's from him, it really is. He... he was drunk."

"He's always drunk..." Miss Goodwitch sighed and began to unfold the napkin. "Honestly, I'd expect no less from him. Rather, I should say that I expect no more. Qrow has always been... idiosyncratic."

That was one way of putting it.

Miss Goodwitch scanned the 'letter'. It took her about two seconds to read, before she looked back up at the Wanderer. "Have you read this yet?" He shook his head. She laid the napkin on the desk, letting him take a look.

He's not bad.

The Wanderer scowled. What the Hell kind of recommendation was that? It was a single sentence that said literally nothing about his abilities. It was vague incarnate. Beacon was supposed to be one of the best school in all of Remnant, but Qrow thought that he'd be able to get him in with this piece of crap? What a damn joke!

"This is a shining recommendation," Miss Goodwitch said.

Oh. Alright then.

"Qrow's team was the best in Beacon when they graduated. That was decades ago, and he's only gotten better... despite his eccentricities. He's even been a part-time teacher at the prestigious Signal Academy, which prepares young Huntresses and Huntsman before they can seek to enter battle schools for older students, such as Beacon." She adjusted her glasses again. Okay, no way she wasn't doing that on purpose, making him stew with the little pauses. "Qrow is an expert Huntsman, and he's been in the presence of rising Huntsman and Huntresses for years. However, he's a hard man to impress. Would you care to guess how many people he's recommended?"

"I don't know... at least a couple?"

"None."

The Lone Wanderer was silent.

"That begs the question, what did you do to impress him?"

I brutally killed several people.

"Do you have some kind of unique ability?"

I can murder without guilt, and I can do it well.

"Perhaps something in your character?"

I'm a monster, and Qrow wants to fight fire with fire.

"I'm sorry Miss Goodwitch, but I really can't say."

"Well, whatever it was, you certainly got his attention, which is why you've grabbed our attention, why we're even considering letting you in so late. Care to share what your experience was?"

"We just fought some Grimm, some raiders too."

"People? You fought people?"

"Yes."

MIss Goodwitch took her glasses off her face altogether, breathing on them to produce a light mist, before wiping them clean on the hem of her cape. She leveled a fresh gaze at him once she was done, and the Wanderer knew that she'd likely thought through a great deal in those few seconds.

"I see," she said eventually. But what did she see? Maybe she was comparing his story to whatever else she knew. What exactly had Qrow told them in the message he sent them? "Qrow told us next to nothing in the message he sent us, other than your information and the date for the interview."

Oh. Alright then.

"I was honestly hoping that his... letter... would tell us a bit more about you, but I evidently hoped for too much. Nevertheless, I'd like to become more acquainted." She offered an inviting hand in his direction. "Tell me about yourself."

He did. He gave her the same vague, half-true story that he'd given Qrow: he was an outsider from an isolated little community, who'd never gotten formal Huntsman training and relied on field experience. Come from Vacuo, a shipwreck had led him to Qrow. He also mentioned that he'd only had his aura unlocked recently.

"How long?" She asked.

"Just a few weeks now."

"Is that so? How'd you unlock it?"

"I was in a desperate situation," he said, "it just came in naturally." It was the classic lie that Qrow had told him about. Aura only really managed to manifest if someone did it for you or if you did some pretty intense training and meditation for quite a while, but most people would still believe that desperation was a possibility.

"I do not appreciate dishonesty, Mr. Arc."

Shit.

Evidently, Glynda Goodwitch wasn't 'most people', or maybe he'd just done a predictably bad job at deliverying the lie. Whatever it was, he was in trouble, if her sharp glare was any indication.

"Who unlocked your aura for you?"

Welp, lying at this point would only make things worse. Time to throw someone under the bus. "Qrow. It was all Qrow. I didn't ask for it, he just did it. I was hurt from our fight and... yeah, he did it. It was Qrow. All him. Not me. Qrow. He unlocked it for me. Him. Qrow. All Qrow. All of it."

Really, really illegal. Those were words that Qrow had used to describe the crime of unlocking someone else's aura. Damn this world's laws, he'd known they'd be the end of him.

Miss Goodwitch sighed once more, something that seemed to happen whenever Qrow was brought up. She pinched the bridge of her nose and said, "It's just like Qrow to commit a felony." She put her hand down and righted her posture once more, looking at the Wanderer.

Great, she was probably going to throw him in jail now.

"Qrow's always disregarded the rules, but even he understands and respects the importance of this one. That means you must have interested him quite a lot."

Or maybe she wasn't?

"We here at Beacon are subsidized by the government, as such, we are mandated to act on any crimes."

Oh no, she totally was.

"Considering this, I'm going to choose to selectively forget that last part of our conversation."

Okay, back to amnesty. Not going to complain.

"I suggest you refrain from ever talking about how your aura was unlocked, lest others make the same conclusion as I."

Definitely, he wasn't even going to talk to people in general.

"Normally, I'd never fail to act on the law, but as I've said before, yours is a special case. Qrow may be deeply flawed, but if he saw something in you... I think I'll accept that. He wouldn't break decades of silence to speak out on nothing." She began to rifle through the drawers of the desk. "Honestly, Mr. Arc, this meeting was little more than formality. I just wanted to see for myself that Qrow wasn't playing some sort of joke. His word alone has gotten you in, and I hope that you'll repay his kindness by performing up to standard." She brought out a pen and a small stack of paper, expertly striking through them.

"You'll be issued a school ID, which functions as an official government ID, given that Beacon s funded by the Kingdom. Should you not have a scroll, you'll be provided a basic one. Housing and meals are free, so long as you are enrolled. You'll be taught the art of combat."

Excellent, that was all he needed. Once he got good enough, he'd just pack up and leave, as he'd done countless times before.

"There is also an academic portion of our education."

Hah, he wouldn't need to put any effort into that, thanks to the fact that he'd be leaving. He could just put all his time into fighting.

"Now you may think that you can eschew your academic responsibilities just because Beacon is a battle school."

Got that right.

"But should your academic scores fall too low, you'll be forced into mandatory remedial lessons, and evidence that you're purposefully ignoring your duties will result in punishment, generally in the form of detention. Repeated transgression may eventually result in suspension or even expulsion."

Shit.

"You'll be provided a comfortable living space which you'll share with your team—"

"What!?"

Miss Goodwitch looked up from her paperwork, pen becoming still. "Is there a problem, Mr. Arc?"

"Yeah, I work by myself. I won't be a part of any team."

"I'm afraid that's impossible. Beacon requires all students to have a partner with whom they work in a four-person team. If you cannot abide by this, then I'm afraid I cannot admit you."

He looked away.

"Mr. Arc?"

"It's fine."

It wasn't.

Miss Goodwitch knew that.

"You'll have to learn to work with a team while at Beacon, if that makes you uncomfortable than I suggest that you immediately try to rectify that, do you understand?"

He nodded.

She looked at him for a few seconds, before shortly returning to the paperwork. Another minute passed by in silence between the two, before she finally made one last swish with her pen and turned the papers to the Wanderer. "Here you are, Mr. Arc. Obviously, we'll need to take in more of your details for registration purposes, but the contract is ready now. Just sign here."

She passed him the pen, and he looked down at the contract. It was mostly just red-tape jargon, with some stipulations that he'd follow the law and whatnot if he wanted to stay enrolled. He'd really, really need to look up the laws here. Other than that, it seemed trivial. A thin, straight line rested at the very bottom of the final paper, beckoning him. He moved the tip of the pen close, hesitating just a second before the ink touched, then fumbling out a crude, unpracticed signature. Miss Goodwitch promptly took the contract and filed it away.

"Congratulations Mr. Arc, and welcome to Beacon Academy."

"Mistress, I believe I have something you'd like to see."

Cinder didn't turn around, merely stretching out her hand. Emerald dutifully gave her a scroll. The dangerous woman took another sip from her wine, sunlight from the bullhead's window sparkling against the glass. The screen displayed two files: one marked 'rose' and one marked '?'. Hmm, wasn't that intriguing? She settled back into her seat and examined it.

"Our agent monitoring Beacon noticed a change in their students, two have been admitted just today, ultra-last minute." Cinder looked at the first one, a slight frown forming on her face. Ruby Rose. She'd just fought that insolent girl before heading back to Mistral, and it seemed that Ozpin had decided to take her in. The reason was obvious: those silver eyes could pose an incredible risk to her and her plans. The Headmaster would likely try to take advantage of that, cultivating the girl's skill in the coming years to turn her into a weapon against Salem. She smiled. Too bad they wouldn't have more than six months.

She flipped over to the second file, failing to recognize the blond-haired young man. He had an ugly scar around one of his eyes that stretched across his cheek, working with the harsh lines etched into his face and the dull stare from his eyes to give him a greater sense of maturity than his youth would suggest. Before her was his transcript in the Beacon database, marked for 'Jaune Arc'. She glanced at Emerald.

"This is the other admitted student. He was taken in today without any earlier application, with less than a week left before the start of school." That was strange indeed. Cinder read through his transcript.

Name: Jaune arc.

Age: 17

Height: 6"1

Eye Color: Red/Blue

Sex: Male

Birthplace: Vacuo

That was all normal enough, but the same couldn't be said for the next section.

Parent/Guardian 1: N/A

Parent/Guardian 2: N/A

Semblance: N/A

Prior Combat Schools: N/A

Prior Academic Schools: N/A

Performance on Standardized Combat Aptitude Test: N/A

Performance on Standardized Academic Aptitude Test: N/A

Affiliations: N/A

Next of Kin: N/A

Work Experience: N/A

Emergency Contact: N/A

Cinder scowled.

"There's huge gaps missing from his transcript. So we decided to try and dig into his past ourselves."

"And your findings?"

"We checked in Vale, nothing. Absolutely nothing. No records of any Jaune Arc or anyone who looks likes him. The only thing we were able to find was his registration to Beacon, which happened just yesterday." Emerald sighed. "So then we looked to Vacuo, and found even less. Literally nothing, nothing at all. They don't keep good records over there, though, and maybe he moved a while back, so we decided to check through the systems of all the kingdoms." Emerald threw her hands up in the air and fell back into a seat. "Nothing! Nothing again! No records of credit cards, signing up for a club, getting an, ID, literally nothing about Jaune Arc in all of Remnant before yesterday!" She clasped her hands together and leaned forward, a smile on her face. "Buuutttt, that's when we searched by facial recognition instead. We searched for his face through all the major Kingdom networks for the last decade, and found only one other match, just a few weeks ago."

Cinder scowled. "So that means he's carefully operated outside of the cities his entire life, or at least maintained a near impossibly low profile while within them." Considering that there were many places in Remnant distant from the cities and that technology that could've tracked him, it wasn't hard for people to remain off the grid. Still, combine that with an absence of family and any official experience? And only one shot of his face? Not even in the backdrop of someone else's picture? "What was the one match?"

"Just look at the rest of the file."

Cinder scrolled down to what appeared to be a hospital report. There was a profile photo of the unconscious teen lying in bed. Her looked further down.

Condition: Multiple lacerations to limbs, deep wound inflicted to stomach

Notes: Aura unlocked shortly after wound was attained, sparing patient from fatality

That was strange. Very strange. He'd only had his aura unlocked a few weeks ago? And he still managed to survive the wilds outside of the cities, let alone get into Beacon? She continued reading, and what she saw next made her teeth clench and her eyes burn with fury.

Name: Steve Branwen

Parent/Guardian: Qrow Branwen (father)

"That bastard. That bastard dog of Ozpin. He has a son?"

"Well, from what we know of him, it wouldn't be weird to think he's gotten someone pregnant over the years, would it? Though they don't look anything like each other; it might be adoption, or just weird genes, or maybe a lie. Whatever the case, there's definitely a link."

"Definitely... that would explain the lack of records, and how he got into Beacon so late. If he's been traveling with Branwen, then it wouldn't be hard for him to stay out of sight and get all the skills of a Huntsman... he might even be from that same tribe." Cinder stared at the scroll, looking hard at the young man. It certainly wasn't a coincidence that this happened so soon after her attack on the maiden. Perhaps Qrow had decided to bring his protégé in as a pawn in their game. Whatever the case, she'd make sure to pay special attention to this one. She summoned a burst of harsh flame in one; it writhed like a batch of coiled snakes.

Oh yes, special attention indeed.

Duh, duh, duh. Qrow's little joke puts the Wanderer on thin ice, and we'll have to see how that unfolds. This officially marks the end of the prologue, with next chapter entering the canon, though it'll quickly get different in ways large and small. How Jaune acts will shape this world in numerous ways, as his past effects his current actions. And what is his past? Don't worry, once things settle down at Beacon after initiation, Jaune will have a lot of time to reflect on what's happened to him, and more will be revealed. Right now, I'm just trying to move along the plot and introduce Jaune to the characters before getting too wrapped up in his personal story, though that's the main focus of this fic. Plot demands development!

You know, I originally wrote a sizable scene for this chapter where Jaune met Pyrrha on the airship and had a brief exchange, but upon review, I realized that it added literally nothing, so I cut it. It was well over a thousand words, too. Oh well, not all ideas see the light of day. Before I began writing, I planned out most of this fic, but there's still plenty of stuff that I make up as I go, mostly the filling for the grand scheme of things that I've devised. Hopefully it'll all work out in the end.

I hope you've enjoyed my interpretation of both Fallout and RWBY's unexplained mechanics, as well as my efforts to merge them, such as VATS, why not everyone has aura, speech fails and successes. There's a lot of stuff to sift through and make sense of it, but it's honestly a lot of fun.

Anyway, come back next weekend to see Jaune finally meet the rest of the cast, and, as always, any reviews and/or questions are both encouraged and appreciated! Also, I'm gonna try and get better about publishing new chapters earlier in the weekend, rather than sunday night. It's just that I'm pretty busy weekdays, but oh well.