GAHHHHHHHHHHH Finals are over! Expect more chapters in the weeks to come as I finally have time. Latin final? Done. Paper on the history of Jerusalem? Done. Paper on languages in Pompeii? Done. Final on classical Greek society? Done. College btfo (tho I do still have to go to work almost full time for the next week)

Also, I haven't mentioned it before but I'm a huge fan of the Quintessential Quintuplets. I'd highly recommend it. I even based Jaune's confession to Ruby loosely off of Nino's confession to Fuu-kun. (Nino best girl.) I really like that fake-out maneuver, and I think I'll use it in most every confession scene I ever write. Anyway, I just bring it up because the last chapter finally revealed the final pairing and… without spoils, I'll say that it hit the feels.

Another feel-smashing manga, but far more painful, is Land of the Lustrous. Goodness gracious, the suffering never ends in my favorite manga. It hurts, but I can't get enough of the nihilism and psychological fracturing. At this point, I hope everyone (main character included) dies, if not because I hate them then just to put them out of their misery. The brutality of the story certainly fits well with my own storytelling preferences too, lol

Anyway, I'm also beginning work on another creative project, which I will announce in due time.

Jaune hobbled through the hallway. He breathed heavily, though that was not really because of the exertion. Sure, it was somewhat difficult to hold himself up with a pair of crutches, but it hardly accounted for his near-hyperventilation.

He saw the entrance to the infirmary up ahead. He stopped. He turned around.

He didn't know exactly where he was going, but it felt like there was an invisible wall between him and her, and he didn't dare get too close to it.

Instead, he limped further away. A few military personnel passed him by, but they left him alone aside from a few quick glances. It was like he was infected.

He walked by a large window that looked out the side of the ship. And there, he stopped to look out, tiredly resting his forehead against the glass. From it was a view of the nighttime city. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since the Breach. The sun would be rising soon, but for now, it was still dark. He saw city lights. Flashes here and there, all sorts of colors. Beyond the large outer walls were vast, dark expanses where the world was consumed by the inhuman.

He did that for a while. He looked down at the city, wondered how many people were living and how many were dying. How many people were down there, walking around, because he'd saved them? How many weren't walking or breathing at all, because he'd failed them?

He looked up to the sky. The sky. Some of the people here complained about the city smog, but it was nothing to him. Vale's night sky might as well have been crystal-clear to someone from Earth. Even if the stars were scant, at least there weren't dark, polluted clouds snuffing out any hope of ever seeing one.

Although, stargazing by Beacon was certainly better. Further from the city lights, they shined like so many incalculable pieces of jewelry. He liked looking up at that. He'd thought about asking Ruby to join him. Maybe they still could.

He sighed.

But then it also reminded him of that damning secret: his otherness. The reason Bishop had come and taken her hand. He would be reminded the whole time, as he and Ruby looked at constellations unnatural to him, that he was a liar and a freak and undeserving of the life he now lead.

The stars confirmed Remnant's foreignness to him. He had looked up celestial charts to see if the lights of Remnant's night were like his old world's, only to find them—of course—completely different. There was no little dipper or big dipper. No ursa major or minor. None of the zodiacs. No Orion's belt.

Orion.

Jaune closed his eyes and sighed, letting himself sag against the wall.

How much of an idiot had I been, to seriously think that I was the only thing that could have come here from Earth?

Not ignorance, but denial. Of course, the thought that he was not alone had occurred to him, but as was the specialty of Jaune Arc, or the Lone Wanderer, or Maxwell Noble, or whatever the hell kind of name he happened to go by at the moment: he lied to himself. He forced things down. He warped the world into a way that fit his own vision, because daring to look into the periphery was too unpleasant.

Bishop was dead because he had to be dead. Earth was all behind him because it had to be.

Because he wanted it to be.

And because of that petty want, Jaune and his team had been defeated, a terror attack had been accomplished and Ruby had lost her hand.

He sighed again.

At least not everything from Earth was bad. Despite sharing barely any time with the deathclaw, Jaune already counted him as a trustworthy ally. They had, after all, fought together; and they were united in hate and origin. In fact, he had more in common with Orion than he did with almost anybody else he'd met on Remnant.

But how the hell were they supposed to meet up again? Orion was strong, strong enough to have certainly taken care of the White Fang left behind. But Jaune was in no shape to covertly go back to Mountain Glenn for a secret meeting; he had no way to get there, his leg was broken and Bishop was certainly watching him like a hawk.

In effect, he was trapped like a bird in a cage. Undoubtedly, Bishop was after him, and how careless he had been until now.

So no, he couldn't go all the way back to Mountain Glenn. The best he could do for Orion was omit his and his peoples' existence when drafting the report. Then he could only hope they weren't discovered by the inevitable investigation from Vale.

God… what else? Who else?

Jaune closed his eyes and thought back to that rushed, blurry moment. The fight. The last moments on Earth. He saw the big alien device, colored a noxious yellow, shooting out bolts of vibrant lightning. Only a few came out. One hit behind him, where Orion must have been. One struck Bishop and Arthur. Then one struck him.

He remembered vaguely others shooting in different directions… he thought he remembered one annihilating a wall. That meant a chunk of cement had been hurtled through time and space into Remnant.

Or it would be hurtled. Time seemed to be a non-factor when it came to the bridge between their worlds. Orion had been here for decades, while Jaune had only been here for months and Bishop must have been here for years. Have things from Earth been here for centuries? Thousands of years? Or maybe just minutes? Had some other member of the Enclave just gotten warped in even as he thought about it? Or…?

A member of the Brotherhood? More allies? He'd been there with the Lyons Pride… but they'd all taken cover behind him. Not to say that at least a few of them could have been picked up by the lightning…

Then killed when they were brought in a mile above ground, or in the ocean. Reflecting now, Jaune realized just how incredibly lucky he'd been, winding up on a beach instead of the deep water or the hard cliffs.

His fists tightened.

I've been behind. I've been lazy. I've been stupid. There's so much more at work here… and I'm going to find it. I'm going to dig it up. There has to be more than just me, Bishop and Orion. There has to be. If it's a friend, then they'll work with me. If it's an enemy, then I'll kill them. If it's anything else…

I'll destroy it. Nothing on Earth belongs here on Remnant.

I'll crush it all. The hellhole of a planet I left behind won't come here and corrupt Remnant, too. I'll fucking kill Bishop and his new Enclave. This time. This time will be diff—

"So, this is what you're reduced to."

His eyes snapped open and he started. Jaune nearly lost his balance, but he managed to lean against the wall in time to keep from falling. He looked to the one who'd surprised him.

Weiss Schnee.

"You act so tough, but then all you can do in the face of defeat is mope all alone. After your failure, all you're doing is running away," she said. Her voice was hoarse, and it cracked a few times as she spoke. She glared at him with bloodshot eyes. "Then again, that's what you did last time as well, right?"

Jaune blinked. He looked at her. He suddenly felt very empty inside, and all thoughts escaped him.

"You told us before that you'd run away after you got your last team killed." Weiss set her hands on her hips, stared him down. "She got hurt because she was saving you. She got hurt because you were crippled. She got hurt for you." She sneered. "It should have been you."

Without another word, Weiss turned and marched away, heels clicking loudly against the steel floor.

Jaune was at a loss of what to think. His mind was blank. He felt tears well up in his eyes.

He sniffled, then turned away and hobbled down the hallway some more. Eventually, he came upon a bathroom, stumbled in, clumsily locked the door behind him and then limped to the sink. He leaned over it, letting his crutches clatter to the ground as he stared into the mirror.

He stared at himself. He saw a few tears run down his cheeks. He hated himself for that.

Stupid bitch. Stupid, mean, selfish bitch.

But she's right. She's very right.

Jaune wiped his eyes with sleeve, then stared into the mirror again. Now, his left eye was almost as blood red as his right eye, a mix of sleep exhaustion and tears making that happen.

Pathetic.

Jaune turned the faucet on, then splashed cold water up into his face.

Pathetic.

He leaned over and rested his forehead against the mirror.

Pathetic.

"If you're going to be pathetic, then do it on your own time. And when you're at war, and people depend on you with their lives, then no time is your time."

Someone very smart and very brave had told him that. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Someone with unflinching courage and honor. Someone who was armed with the strength of a will and a cause, who had never surrendered, who had always won the fight. Someone who had tried to impart a bit of that wisdom unto Jaune. At least, before he'd run away.

Run away, and come here. Come here to a bathroom, where he was wondering how things had gone so wrong.

"If you are weak, then the people who rely on you will get hurt, and they will die. So, don't be weak. Or at least try not to look weak. Because like it or not, other people may be looking up to you."

Terse, simple words with a simple view of the world. There are things that have to be done, so we must do them. Doesn't matter what. Doesn't matter how. Get it done. Words like that had formed solid ground beneath him back when his father had died. Back when he thought that the enemies they faced were too much to handle.

"They bleed like anything else."

Jaune looked into the mirror. He sneered.

Pathetic. Don't be pathetic. This isn't your time.

He scowled. A resolute, uncompromising kind of scowl, which mimicked the same exact kind that they would have worn.

"Pity won't help you now, or ever. Fate is cruel. You deal with it or you die. That's all we ever can do in this world."

Jaune had thought those words cruel when he first heard them. But there was truth in them that he couldn't long deny. He'd gotten back to the fight. He'd helped destroy the Enclave. All with another's leadership…

"I wish you were here," he whispered.

Jaune knew exactly what the reply would be: "Well I'm not here to hold your hand. Waste more time moping in this damn bathroom, and you help no one. Get it over with."

Breathe deep. Hold. Release.

Jaune closed his eyes. Screwed them tightly shut for a long, dark, second. When he opened them, he forced out a new resolve.

Breathe deep. Hold. Release.

He wiped away the tears and blew his nose, then turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face. A few minutes came by, and he looked halfway presentable again. At least he didn't look like somebody who'd just gotten finished crying.

He wouldn't slouch from here on out. He wouldn't mope. He wouldn't look down at the floor, all despondent and pathetic-seeming like he had been thus far.

He left the bathroom in crutches and forced himself back into the infirmary. He imagined that his old role model would give a slight nod of approval at that moment. He'd gotten so mixed up having fun and focusing on himself, that he'd forgotten his responsibility as a leader. He'd forgotten that he owed so much to these people he cared for.

He stopped before the door to the infirmary. Hope would have nothing to do with this. Sarah had scoffed at hope. She found purpose and comfort in duty, in dedication, in discipline.

Jaune shifted one of his crutches so he was holding it, instead of leaning on both of them. This perhaps, would make him look a little less sad and unable. The feat would have been impossible without his aura, but as it was, he was able to contain his pain and wooziness and balance mostly on his good leg. He had to suppress a pained groan as he awkwardly placed some weight on his bad foot. However, he took a deep breath, steeled himself and entered the infirmary once more.

Somebody asked him what he'd talked about. He was silent as he made his way back to his seat, Pyrrha eyeing him as he came down. He answered the person, stating simply that he'd told them about Bishop, and he reaffirmed that Bishop would be defeated, once and for all. A few words, simple and cold. But they got the point across, and maybe his hard, stoic face and posture conveyed that sense as well. He certainly looked different now from the slumped-over, beaten boy who'd hobbled out of the room.

"We'll kill him," he said, "because he bleeds like anything else."

And Jaune almost believed himself.

Nighttime had come upon the city of Mantle, which had so many artificial lights to keep the shadows at bay. Nevertheless, there were still dark corners and alleys that inspired paranoia and fear. Beyond the city limits, it was even worse, as the night blanketed the land and enforced a cold malaise of unease.

Further from the city and higher in the sky than Atlas itself, was a large battleship, one of several that circled protectively around the cities. Within this ship many military personnel went about their business, but one in particular was retiring to rest for the evening.

The Specialist marched down the narrow hall, and others got out of their way. Such was expected, as deference was to be paid to the fearsome operatives, especially one that had a giant black sword on their back.

The Specialist wore a faceless mask and strode confidently down the narrows, chilly halls of ship before entering a large common sleeping room. From there, they strode by rows and rows of cramped bunk beds, before reaching a destination at the back: personal rooms. Such was a benefit given to the elite specialists, that they were allowed to have their own rooms aboard ships they served on.

They opened a heavy steel door, entered and closed it behind them, then sealed away and alone. The room itself was small and spartan, but a simple cot, desk and drawers provided greater comfort than most got on a battleship, on top of being private.

The Specialist sighed and took their sword off their back, letting it rest on the wall, then went and sat down on the bed. They sighed again, glad to have their aching feet finally take a rest after days on end of relentless patrolling, reporting and training. They kicked off their boots and took off their helmet, relishing in finally being able to breathe free of the mask.

Breathe deep.

Hold.

Release.

The Specialist let out another sigh, easing the muscles in their body and slouching somewhat, now retired in the privacy of the little room. They sharply cracked their neck, which sounded liked the bones were shattering.

Then they pulled out their scroll to quickly catch up on the goings-on of the world. They first checked some sports reports and nodded approvingly when their favored soccer team's star player was cleared to play once more. After that, however, it was straight to the news. It was not a surprise, what the headlines were.

TERROR ATTACK IN VALE!

Of course, they had already heard of this. Just a day ago, a major terror attack by the White Fang had been perpetrated in Vale, one which had the city scrambling, police in the streets, violence towards faunus and large talk and little action by the politicians.

But the Specialist had been so busy that they hadn't gotten the chance to see much video of the event. So now they stopped and took a second to look at the footage. It was certainly an intense scene, of smoke rising, of Atlas drones gunning down a few Grimm. Then the footage cut to a scroll-cam's video, which depicted a brief duel between some young blonde man in the distance against someone with a fire-sword. The Specialist looked at that burning weapon.

They glanced at their own black claymore which rested against the wall. The big thing was quiet and still, but imposing nevertheless, like a sleeping lion.

Then the footage changed back to the newsreel, and it depicted a few young hunters being taken into an emergency Atlas medical shuttle, a sort of ambulance with wings, which would take them back up to the ships. However, what caught the Specialist's attention was the young blonde man who was taken aboard, who was now more clearly visible. It looked like he had a scarred face…

Then the newscast switched again, with the title: Hero Team from Beacon

"Four young hunters in training from Beacon Academy were on a mission when they were heroically able to intervene and mitigate the damage of the attack," said the news anchor. Then the profile pictures of all four of the trainees were shown on the screen.

They went stiff.

"Team JNPR: Jaune Arc, Pyrrha Nikos, Nora Valkyrie and Lie Ren. Together they…"

Blonde hair. A scarred eye. The exact same face. The exact same weapon. Maxwell...

That bastard is here after all.

The Specialist crushed the scroll in their grip.

Jaune had finally been dozing off, slowly falling into a kind of hazy respite from the constant thinking of the battle and of Bishop. He'd been up for nearly two days, with anxiety and adrenaline forcing him on. Now, his eyelids were heavy, his limbs felt like lead and he shook as if it were cold in the room. It seemed that his body finally was about to—

Then someone shook his shoulder. He snapped back to attention and looked around, saw that the others had all nodded off to sleep in their stiff little waiting room chairs.

All except one.

"Hey," Pyrrha said. Her voice was dry and sounded fit to break, weak. Dark bags had settled under her eyes, which he probably matched. Those pretty green eyes of her were bloodshot and misty as they looked at him. "How are you feeling?" She sounded like she was sick.

Jaune blinked. He looked away. They hadn't spoken since back on the train, when she'd looked at him, covered in blood. Is that all she saw him as now? Would that continue to be all that she saw?

"Better," he said. "Just a little bit." His voice was raspy, and he sounded almost sick as well.

"That's good…" Pyrrha trailed off, averting her eyes.

"Is your head feeling better?" Jaune asked.

"Something like that," she replied. "I've got a bad headache, but I don't think it's a full concussion. That would be bad… I'm just very disoriented."

They were both quiet.

She leaned to her aside, away from him. "I'm glad they gave you a shower," she said. She faced away from him. "You looked horrible."

All covered in blood.

"I'm sorry if I scared you," he said. "Crocea Mors is a nasty thing."

"It's a cruel weapon," Pyrrha agreed.

"Yeah." Jaune sighed. "It was originally made for Bishop, actually."

Pyrrha didn't respond immediately when he said that. A mix of surprise and disgust flipped in her stomach. "Is that so?"

"Yeah," he replied again. "His dad originally had four different swords made for him and some other captains in the Enclave. Bishop took that fire-sword, Rubra Mors." He looked down at his sword, leaning beside his chair. Within that heavy, bulky sheath was a mean, monstrous blade. "They took Crocea Mors off of the corpse of some captain, and eventually I got it."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and there were another two. One was really big and the other was just a regular sword…" Jaune sighed and glanced back down. "I'm not sure why I ended up with the meanest one."

"Some say that a person's weapon reflects their character."

Jaune clenched his fists.

"I don't think that's true," Pyrrha said. "Weapons are weapons, and they all hurt people, no matter how pretty they look."

Jaune let out a breath. He crossed his arms, feeling cold. "Are you afraid of me, Pyr?"

She didn't answer immediately, and the hesitation burned him.

"Not really," she said. "But somewhat."

He gulped.

"I hurt a lot of people back in the wasteland," he said. "You had too… just to survive. A lot of things, like what I did back on that train."

"Hm." Pyrrha didn't look at him.

Why did I say that. Why did I tell her that.

Jaune reached one hand up to his neck and massaged his throat, which suddenly like it been grounded raw with sandpaper.

"That doesn't really surprise me," Pyrrha said. "We all figured you had a very hard life back there, and you probably did some things…"

She trailed off, thinking about just how to word it…

"I don't know," Pyrrha said. "I suppose it would be hypocritical of me, considering that I knocked out people on that train but then left them to die in the tunnel. I'm supposed to be a huntress, and things like this were inevitable…"

She shook her head, weakly.

"I feel like a little girl playing a game."

"What?"

She shifted and twisted away, showing just her back to him. "It's shameful. The Champion. That's what I'm supposed to be. Then I froze back there in combat, and I get knocked out with a brick to the head and you nearly die and…" She took a shaky breath. "And… there are a lot of things I've been thinking about."

"I can tell." Jaune looked at his partner, or really, he looked at her back. Slowly, he reached out a hand and placed it on her shoulder. She flinched when he did, but she let him pull her around, so that she faced him.

She was crying.

"Pyr…"

"It's just…" She shook her head and sniffled. "Never… I've never fought someone that strong, and I've never seen things like that…" She wiped her eyes. "And here's the champion…"

"Come on," Jaune said. "Don't be like this, you…" He gulped, recalling his times with Peach. "No, no it's alright. However you feel, that's how you feel, don't judge yourself for it."

"I… I don't know what to feel," she said. She took a shaky breath, looked down at her hands. "I don't think… I don't know. I got into fighting as a sport, but now…" She shook her head. "Now I know there's so much more." She squeezed her fists. "So much."

"Yeah." He didn't know what else to say.

She tensed up, looking down at her fists. She trembled. Until suddenly, she breathed again, letting out a breath she'd held for a whole minute, and then it was as if her body went limp. Her muscles relaxed and she slouched back into her seat, looking dully ahead.

"But… no," she said. "No, I don't hate you. It was scary, but I don't hate you for it. I'm not really afraid of you, either." She looked up at Jaune, and he looked back at her. "Because I know who you are, and I know you're a good person at heart."

Jaune thought back to two kids, blown apart by a grenade. He clenched his jaw.

"I know you won't do things like that to the innocent."

Jaune was silent.

"I…" Pyrrha breathed shakily. "It's just hard. All hard. But I suppose that that's what war is like, then."

Jaune nodded.

"I…" Pyrrha shifted in her seat, leaned her shoulder again his own. "You took care of that creep, you saved me at the docks and you've tired your hardest to be a good friend ever since. I'm glad to have you as my partner." She rested her head on his shoulder.

Whatever ill-feelings that had been swimming inside of him, suddenly evaporated. Jaune smiled, and his eyes burned. He wrapped an arm around Pyrrha shoulders, drew her in closer and rested his head against her own.

"Me too," he said. "I wish I'd known you and everybody else since the day I was born." He would have apologized for his behavior in the first trimester, if he didn't already know by now that Pyrrha would just shush him for it. Better, to just be here in the moment.

"Me too," Pyrrha said. He wasn't sure if it was the lingering headache or the brutal situation that was making her so much more sentimental than usual, but Jaune would appreciate it nonetheless. He liked the feeling of her warmth beside him, for it was a naturally comforting thing, to have family near.

"I'm glad I didn't freak you out too much," Jaune said. "I was afraid you'd hate me after seeing me like that."

"I don't," Pyrrha said. She sighed. "But you did freak me out. I felt like I was going to vomit after you high-fived me."

"Oh."

"But… I don't know. I trust you. You're a good person."

Something twisted in Jaune, but he didn't dare voice dissent he knew she'd angrily shoot down.

"Just… it's okay." Pyrrha sighed and snuggled closer against him. "Let it be okay."

Jaune closed his eyes.

"Yeah, that sounds good."

Yang woke with a start. She saw someone leaning over her and flinched back, immediately aware, immediately scared, immediately hearing that mocking voice in her head—

Before she realized who it was.

"Dad!" She jumped out of her seat and threw her arms around Taiyang Xiao-long's neck, dragging him into a vice-like hug. She shut her eyes and buried her face in chest.

"Hun…" her dad didn't say much, but only wrapped his daughter in his arms, completing the embrace.

A few seconds went by, then a few more, then a few after that, before Taiyang slackened his grip. "Sorry," he said, "but I've got to go in and talk to Rubes."

Yang sniffled. Another second, and she forced herself to step back. When she did, she saw her father's gaunt, tired face. It was a kind of expression she hadn't seen him wear for years, not since the earlier days of Summer's death.

She thought she might vomit.

She sat back down into her chair, feeling incredibly weak in her body and in her mind. She looked around, noticed that they were still in the waiting room, that the others were passed out around them, that this horrible situation was real. And she realized that dad wasn't alone.

Qrow, Headmaster Ozpin and General Ironwood all stood beside her father, and they each held grave, if determined looks. They looked down at her with a mix of pity that made her queasy.

"Ruby woke up," Taiyang said, "so we're going to try and talk to her." He settled a hand on his daughter's head before she could speak more or get up. "We're going to be talking to her about some important stuff, though, so if you can stay back here for a little while longer, that'd be great."

"I…"

"You think you can do that, firecracker?"

"There are medical procedures that my ship is specially equipped to handle," Ironwood said. "And we'd like to present them to her after a debriefing. You'll be able to see her once she's had some more rest afterwards. Soon."

"Gods… but what happened to her?" Yang asked. She looked at her father with pleading, worried eyes. "Jaune said she did something, like some sort of aura-blast or… and then she's been knocked out for so long…"

"We're going to talk with her and the doctors," her dad said. "Just try to keep as calm as you can, alright? It will all be okay." He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "I'm here now, and it'll all be okay."

He patted her head, and then walked to the door into the infirmary, following a doctor inside and in turn being followed by the other men.

Yang was left alone, then, utterly exhausted in so many ways and too anxious to go back to sleep now. She looked down at her hands, which shook visibly. She heard those words.

So pathetic in so many ways.

Her shaking fingers brushed against her neck, which was still sore and bruised, even if the swelling had died down and her aura was doing the work of restoring her. She felt tears well up in her eyes. She'd never been beaten like that. Of course, in spars she'd gotten smacked around all the time when she was younger, but then there was always a referee to call it if things got too rough or if someone's aura got low.

But in the real world, there was no such thing. Only death would be the end, especially when fighting a monster like Bishop Beauvais. She glanced to Jaune, and for the first time since she'd met him, she truly understood exactly why he was the way he was.

The fear. The sense of fear instilled into her as she looked up at her taunting killer… it was a kind of fear she'd never known before. Because she'd been staring death in the face. And she had not done so courageously. She hadn't looked death in the eye, as brave and haughty as ever. She would have begged if she wasn't being choked. She was only alive because her bitch of a mother saved her out of pity.

She was afraid. She was so pathetic, in so many ways.

Yang looked at Jaune, and she knew now that his whole life was defined by that kind of fear and that kind of feeling.

She saw him cuddled up with Pyrrha, fast asleep. She would have been enraged at the sight of her sister's boyfriend getting so comfy with another girl, if it hadn't been Pyrrha. As incompatible as the astute champion and the rough wastelander may have seemed, those two had begun to form their own particular kind of siblinghood. Aside from Ruby herself, Yang figured that Pyrrha had gradually become the person closest to him.

Yang looked to the side, at her own partner. Blake was curled up on her own seat, head dipped down, eyes shut. She twitched occasionally in her sleep, which wasn't a very good sign of whatever dreams she might be having, or whatever thoughts may have been coursing in her subconscious.

Tentatively, Yang reached out a hand towards Blake's own. She carefully touched her partner, then gingerly wrapped her fingers around Blake's. She squeezed lightly, and it felt good in a way she couldn't exactly describe. She looked at Blake as she slept for a little while, and she couldn't help but think how glad she was to have had her now. Even if Blake wasn't the best with words or the most emotionally responsive, she'd been there, and she'd made Yang know she would stay with her through this.

Yang squeezed her hand again, lightly.

Her eyes wandered a little lower, however, to where Gambol Shroud rested on the ground. It had proven little match for Bishop, even unarmed. But it was still a keen, deadly weapon. A sharp blade.

And as Yang caught sight of it, she also saw something else. Something that she constantly saw wherever she looked, something that she always had to deal with, something she'd taken great pride in. Her own hair.

She let go of Blake's hand and grabbed fistfuls of the hair. Just like he had.

For years, she and Summer and Ruby would bond over doing their hair together. And after that, Yang would have to take over some more of the responsibilities. Life around the house was hard for a little while, but one way she was always able to relax, one time when it didn't feel like she was doing things for Ruby or for her dad, but for herself, was whenever she'd taken care of her hair. It really was beautiful. Or at least, it had been. Bishop had torn and worn plenty of strands, and it had been left unwashed since then, so now it was just flat and greasy in a way she usually would never have allowed.

Her hair. Her stupid fucking her that had nearly gotten her killed. If she'd only been able to hold against Bishop for a minute more, for seconds more, then that could have made all the difference. Weiss and Blake could have found her, helped her, delayed Bishop long enough for reinforcements to come. If it weren't for her hair ending the fight so quickly, then Ruby might still have her hand.

So childish. Only fighting other people in the ring had made her an idiot. This was real the world, no more games.

Yang picked up Gambol Shroud and left the room.

The sun had just barely risen, calling the beginning of another scorching day in Vacuo. The light unveiled a brutal scene in the brutal city.

A crowd had gathered in a square before a huge gate set in an even larger stone wall with mounted turret positions. Beyond the great gate was an even greater sight: the huge ziggurat that was Shade academy, separated by high walls from the rest of the seedy city. Before the primary entrance to the academy was now a raucous mob of people clad in grubby clothes, all clamoring hatefully, enraged. On the rooftops nearby, people in finer and cleaner clothing watched from booths and under umbrellas.

For the huge steel doors of the gate were wide open, and within the entrance stood a host of grizzled hunters. Their weapons weren't fancy like the ones seen in the eastern and northern kingdoms. No, they had swords and spears and hammers; they had large, gnarly guns. Nothing too pretty, but vicious bringers of death nonetheless. They wore white linen clothes that covered them head to toe, which were stained with sweat, mud and blood. The looks in the eyes of the huntsmen and huntresses of Shade struck fear into those who would stand against them.

But no one in the crowd feared, for they were not angry at the hunters, but at the one who kneeled among them. He was a skinny man now stripped naked except for his underwear. Tattoos covered most of his body, including his face. He kept his head down, staring at the ground.

More hunters before the gate formed a line and stopped anyone from getting too close, though there were certainly people who tried to throw bricks or bottles past the line, little outbursts of hatred that went without retaliation.

People from around the city were there to see it happen. Those few who could afford scrolls had them out and were recording. Many of those with scrolls had large packs by them with projector equipment inside, and undoubtedly later that night there would be showings throughout the city. Less enterprising people were there just to watch, be it by standing in the crowd or hauling themselves up onto the nearby granite buildings or watching from the pricey specialty booths on roofs, constructed just for this reason.

A figure appeared atop the gate to Shade academy, and that summoned a cheer from the crowd. The figure, an older woman with a single cracked horn coming out of her forehead, wore the same white linens and fierce face as the hunters below her, but she had a heavy, crude iron chain around her neck.

Another hunter handed her a microphone, and as he did so, a horrendously loud static squeal shot from the large system of speakers strung along the top of the wall. It lasted for a moment and served to quiet the crowd. All was quiet for a second more, before the figure spoke:

"People of Vacuo, the man before you has been found guilty of spilling blood within the neutral ring of the city. He solicited a woman for her body, and he killed her. He did it while drunk. He did it while on his way to deliver opium from the lower steppes. He is a member of the Black Stars. He is the son of the boss of the Black Stars."

Stunned gasps came from the audience.

"But that does not matter," continued the woman. "No one is exempt from the law of the city, and no one will be spared the justice of Shade."

A pregnant pause passed, during which the crowd stared at the man, who was bruised and battered and limply kneeled before the hunters.

"By my order as the headmaster of Shade Academy," said the woman, "he is sentenced to death."

A second went by. A single, silent second.

Then someone cheered. And then, someone else followed. And another, and another. Then the entire crowd was yelling again in a single giant roar, a vicious barrage of hate.

The Headmaster stepped down from the platform above the entrance and disappeared into a tower along the wall.

Below, a new figure yet unseen emerged from behind the ranks of the hunters. The sight of them send the crowd into an even greater furor.

This new hunter was dressed exactly the same as their comrades, clad in loose white linen which was frayed, torn, patched and stained from years of use. It was so dirtied as to now be practically brown.

But the most prominent difference was the mask this one wore. It was a dull, scratched guard mask of simple iron. Despite the crude material, however, the art itself was of good make. Typical Vacuan construction, whereby the skill of the individual can be imposed even upon the limited materials at hand.

Such that this mask was startlingly evocative of a snarling lion.

This figured stepped forward, and the crowd began to chant: "Lion! Lion! Executioner! Lion! Lion! Executioner!"

The Executioner stepped forward and drew their weapon from its scabbard. It was a simple sword, but notable for its oddly dark metal. The blade was a dark, vicious black; it matched in hue the skin or scale of any Grimm.

They held the sword high and brought it low. No time was wasted on showmanship or drama or making too much of a performance out of a grizzly deed. With one swipe, the man's head was cut off.

The crowd roared, throwing curses and vitriol at the corpse of the transgressor.

The Executioner cleaned off their sword by sliding it against their pant leg, where there was already a dark, dry stain, one which had been built over years upon years. Then they turned around and walked back into the academy compound. A few other hunters dragged back in the head and body of the transgressor as the doors swung shut again and secured the safety of the fortress.

The crowd outside died down and dispersed, leaving the hunters in the main courtyard before Shade's ziggurat. From the windows of the academy many students were watching; they may have been forbidden from attending the execution, but they always strained to get as good a look as they could. Other students peered from nearby training rings where they'd been pretending to spar, or from around the various equipment sheds where they'd been pretending to browse supplies.

The Executioner sent them stern looks, and every student quickly ducked and averted their eyes from the gaze from the lion's gaze.

"Master," one of the hunters said, "the Headmaster said they would like to speak with you immediately."

"Yes, I know." The Executioner's voice was coarse and husky through the thin grates carved in the mouth of the mask. "I will—"

The Executioner suddenly stopped talking, and they hitched their shoulders, leaning over. They coughed, then again, then again after that. An awful, loud, painful-sounding coughing fit suddenly came through the lion mask, sounding all the more warped through the iron construction.

"Master!" A hunter ran up and placed a hand on the executioner's shoulder. "Do you need to get to the nurse again?"

The Executioner kept coughing, but shook their head and brushed away the hand. The coughing died down a few seconds later, and they were able to stand straighter again, if still a little stooped. Their chest heaved as they wheezed, trying to control their breathing.

Breathe deep.

Hold.

Release.

Breathe deep—

The Executioner coughed again, prompting the hunters around to exchange worried glances. But that proved to be the last cough, and the executioner waved their hand, seeking to swat away the others' worries like one flatting away flies.

"I'm alive," they said. "I've lived and breathed a hundred years, and I'm not going to stop that now. Soon, yes. But not right now." The Executioner nodded. "Too busy to die today."

"Of course," one of the hunters replied, understanding it was impossible to bend the stubborn old master's will.

"Now," they continued, "tell the headmaster that—gah!"

They stopped again, but this time, instead of coughing, the Executioner reached their hands up and cradled their head. The old hunter shook, then fell to their knees.

A blaring pain shot into their mind and pulsed there, as if someone had driven a huge, jagged nail through their skull and now smashed it in with a sledgehammer, each strike driving the pain in deeper.

But with each jolt of pain came another fresh sensation. An image. A sound. A taste. A smell. The executioner saw things, heard things, felt things that were not at all happening in the courtyard of Shade Academy.

They saw a blurry vision of a man—no, a kid—holding a sword. It was a dark black sword… the executioner's very own. The young man swung it this way and that…

Then the same young man, sinking down into a stance, then another, then stepping back and getting into another, doing that again and again and again… working the same routines…

Then a face. It was blurry and hard to recognize, but a face nonetheless. Was that blonde hair? And the eyes… the eyes were strange. One burned with flame.

And the feelings from this person… hate, anger, sadness, determination. A fatal potion of the darker human emotions…

Then it was gone. The visions ceased to be as soon as they had come. The pain in the Executioner's head disappeared in an instant, leaving only an odd vacuum of sensation that persisted for a moment, making the executioner momentarily light-headed and disoriented.

Several of the other hunters, however, were by their side, kneeling and looking with concern.

"Master, are you okay?" one of them asked.

"What did it show you?" asked another.

Seconds went by. Then a minute, then a minute more. The Executioner took time to regain their breath and to think. They said nothing, just contemplating the thoughts and the vision, like one trying to sort out the meaning of a dream just after waking up, clinging to details and messages before they could be swept away and forgotten.

"I… there…" the Executioner began tentatively, then nodded as the meaning became more certain.

"Yes… there is one more student I have yet to teach."

So my imagining of Vacuo is something like irl war-torn areas in the middle east but especially Fallout and the kind of feudal nuttiness you see in Game of Thrones. Certainly going to be very different from what the show eventually may depicts, but ah well, I don't care much for keeping straight to everything canon.

And before people start banging the Arkos drums: no

Cuddling =/= romantic love

I MIGHT write an arkos story, with the heaviest MIGHT that can be added. I've had an idea for a different RWBY crossover that I think is interesting but I certainly don't have the time for, not if I also want to get some other creative work off the ground.