Wow, thanks to everyone for getting NATWWAL the #1 most favorited RWBYxFallout fic! I'd like to thank my family, my friends, the academy…

I realized that last chapter I wrote "him" instead of "his" at some point and it infuriated me. I don't think it's worth it to take it down and reupload just because of that, but meh. I always get pissed off when I go back and see a typo. I even went over last chapter TWICE to make sure I was happy with it, but there was still the mistake. Ugh. Guess that's just what will happen with thousands of words.

Every day had been full of work of some kind. Free time in the last few weeks had essentially ceased to exist for Jaune. If he wasn't training vigorously with the others, then he was doing research for traces of Earth on Remnant. If he was doing neither of those, he was either sleeping or trying to sleep.

That was why he came to enjoy the rare moments that were more calm, like the one he currently found himself in.

Jaune sat in a communal lounge with the rest of his team and Ruby's. His girlfriend sat beside him, leaning against him as she listlessly looked through her scroll. He himself was reading a book on archaeology, skimming through the chapter about the Englo. Archaeology on Remnant was a niche and poorly resourced field, generally because ruins were far flung or taken over by grimm.

This book was proving as unhelpful as the last. Weeks had dragged on, and he still came no closer to uncovering any hidden truths. It seemed like the origins of the Englo—who most certainly were earthlings—was truly and effectively shrouded in mystery.

As his research became less and less fruitful, Jaune instead turned more and more to physical training. He practiced with the others, ran, lifted and did everything a healthy young huntsman needed to do in order to be a most excellent killing machine.

He and his team had competed to represent Beacon for the Vytal Festival. Jaune personally didn't much like the spotlight, but the others were excited about it. It would also be a great way to give Bishop the middle finger, to say, "I'm not afraid of you. You can't hold me back from accomplishing something."

So he had trained hard and competed hard, and both RWBY and JNPR were waiting to see whether or not they would be accepted for the tournament.

That lead up to this particular moment: he and the others had just finished a long day of sparring and exercise, resulting in a lazy haze. The lethargy left them all quiet and relaxed.

The lounge was arranged as a series of couches around a coffee table, allowing people to drop off their stuff there or kick up their feet to relax. Nora and Ren were hunched over the table, with the latter advising the former on some of their new homework. Pyrrha watched the latest episode of that game show she liked so much. Weiss studied with a dozing Yang. Blake watched a video on her scroll with a frown on her face.

Jaune himself felt like a nap. He hadn't slept too well the night before, and the couch was cushy and comfortable; Ruby felt nice beside him. He closed the book and let his eyes slide shut. Everything felt quite gentle for the moment. It would be easy to knock out for an hour or so…

"Ugh," Blake sneered with disgust. "These people make my skin crawl. I can't believe someone can get away with saying stuff like this on tv."

The angry tone of her voice made Jaune open his eyes. Blake usually kept her feelings reserved, but she would certainly not be quiet when something riled her up. There were some things guaranteed to get her blood boiling.

"What is it?" Weiss asked.

"Just look at this," Blake said. She unplugged the earbuds from her scroll and turned it around for them to see the screen.

They saw none other than Frederick Fantoche. The man was quite young for a politician, just in his late thirties. With a photogenic and healthy face, he made for a different impression than was given by the decrepit old power brokers that ruled Vale. Prime Counselor Sparrow, for instance, was eighty years old.

Whenever Blake got angry at something on her scroll nowadays, it was probably related to the White Fang or the New Dawn. As the video began, Jaune quickly understood why Blake was mad.

"In the wake of the Breach, one would assume that Sparrow and his clique would do the responsible thing," Fantoche said. The footage displayed himself behind a podium, addressing a crowd in a packed room.

"You would think that we would boost the resources for our defense and security. And they have. But not nearly enough! And what else do they do? They sell us out to Atlas!"

Boos and hisses filled the crowd, and Fantoche waited several seconds until it died down to speak again.

"Now I'm sure there are good people over at Atlas. There are some good people in charge, and there are good people on the streets." Fantoche paused for a moment, allowing his last words to linger in the silence. "But being reliant on a foreign power is simply irresponsible. Where's our sovereignty? What happens if Atlas decides we're more useful as a colony than an ally? Should we not have pride in our own ability? Should we not be prepared to stand on our own two feet, if need be? Why are our tax dollars being used to finance a foreign army's occupation of our nation?"

Jaune didn't think this part of the speech disagreeable. Honestly, the guy had a good point that it was dangerous to rely too much on a suspiciously authoritarian country. What he said next, however, quickly became more problematic.

"And with matters of security," Fantoche said. "Our leaders seem unwilling to take things seriously. We know who the perpetrators were, the White Fang!"

The crowd was filled with even more loud and vicious jeering than before.

"That's right," he said. "Be angry! I'm right there with you. I'm mad. I'm mad as all hell, because this tragedy came along and the people in power aren't doing what must be done. We know what communities aid and abet these crimes. We know the places abroad that finance and support these monsters. These terrorists are, without a doubt, the single greatest threat to our safety and our way of life.

"We know where they're coming from. We know the groups of people who hate our society. So why is there not more efforts to keep these groups, both at home and abroad, in line? Why isn't there? We all know who it is that's the threat, don't we? Why aren't we singling out these problem communities directly? We know who they are."

Someone in the crowd yelled something, and while the video did not pick up perfectly, it was not hard for Jaune to tell out what the person had said.

Faunus!

"We know who they are," Fantoche said without directly addressing what had been yelled. "Don't we? Why aren't we ramping up police pressure and surveillance? Where's the enforcement of order? We know the threat. So why don't we do something about them?"

"Animals!" someone in the crowd yelled.

"What assholes," Jaune said with a scowl.

"Amen to that," Yang grumbled.

Blake huffed and turned the video off, then chucked the scroll down onto the couch beside her. She crossed her arms, scowled and slumped back into the couch.

"It's not as if saying crap like that is what's making faunus angry in the first place," she muttered. She grumbled something unintelligible before leaning over and pulling a book out of her backpack. She then proceeded to read her novel angrily.

These were certainly interesting times. Jaune had seen racism firsthand in the wasteland, though that was from humans to mutants. He had never forgotten the beggar ghouls or how people had treated Fawkes.

Jaune leaned back and idly looked up at the ceiling, thinking things over. He had been scared when he first saw a ghoul, of course, but it didn't take long for anyone with half a brain to figure that they were people all the same. He had trusted Fawkes with his life.

He would never forget that monkey girl he had for a nurse, the first faunus he ever met when he came to Remnant. Honestly, it wasn't hard for him to make the transition from mutants to faunus. Different species, but people all the same.

Bishop certainly would not believe so. And didn't that just make things more bizarre? Just what in the world was making bigot supreme side with the White Fang?

Jaune scowled and reached for his scroll. Better to distract himself with its screen than let thoughts of Bishop creep up into his head and drive away his good mood. Was it a good mood? Well, certainly a relaxed one at least. His anxiety and feverish urge to research had decayed with time and lack of new findings. Really, the biggest thing to worry about was whether or not they were to be accepted to the tournament…

Speaking of which, Jaune pulled up his emails and glanced over them. He saw a message from the Office of the Headmaster. He immediately set aside the hint of anticipation that sprung up. Emails from Ozpin's office were hardly uncommon for all the students, so it was probably nothing too important.

He opened it, and his eyes immediately shot wide. It was a list of the teams that had qualified to fight for the Vytal Tournament.

"We did it!" he shouted. Ruby yelped beside him, suddenly startled, but Jaune didn't take notice. He smiled wide and declared, "RWBY and JNPR are gonna be in the tournament!"

She lived in a small and less than excellent apartment. Just a studio, her living space made up little more than a mattress, a desk, a sparse kitchen and a bathroom that never got the water as hot as one would like. The paint chipped in places, and the air conditioning had not worked in a year. It was in a safe enough neighborhood, though, with clean air and a nearby park. The apartment building was squat and dreary, but whenever she was dissatisfied with it, she reminded herself that she could not afford much more with her security guard pay.

The woman had just finished taking a shower; she walked out of her bathroom in a towel, picked up the remote and flipped on the tv. The sun had yet to rise, for it was 5am. This woman was preparing for a day of patrolling around Vale's docks. (The companies had boosted security for the docks ever since Torchwick's heist months ago. Unfortunately, said boost did not include pay raises.)

She yawned and sat down on her bed, flicking idly through the stared blearily at the bland commercial playing on her tv, barely taking in the words of the white-toothed presenter who wanted to sell her the next revolutionary kitchen implement. Outside her apartment, an ambulance blared.

That reminded her that, just the other day, some stupid fucking faunus had gotten hit by a car just down her street; damn roadkill made her late for work that day, what with the road close and her not being able to pull out her car.

The thought put a scowl on her face.

The strong emotion, however, did not stay with her long. She was no longer much in the business for feeling strongly. At least not when she was cooped up in her bare apartment or patrolling the docks.

She glanced to a box by the door. In it was a dark green uniform; the sight of it made her smile a little. Now that, was something worth feeling about. That was something worth being alive for.

Beside the box was a spear as tall as her, gleaming with wicked sharpness. It was the weapon she had made when she was still a student in Beacon. Before she was expelled, that was.

That thought made her frown.

This was her painful cycle. Every time she looked at the uniform given to her by the New Dawn, she felt good. She felt a sense of purpose. She felt like she was doing something right. But then she would remember the security uniform in her little closet and that sense of accomplishment would be wiped away. She would see her spear and be proud, but then she would remember how her career was murdered before it began.

"I'm a huntress, damn it," she said under breath. Hatred seethed in her voice.

She looked at a picture on her wall. It was a young girl with purple hair beside an older man; he brandished a huge smile and a giant axe. With one hand proudly on the girl's shoulder, there was no mistaking the picture for anything but a father and his daughter.

It always put her in a melancholy mood, but she never had the heart to get rid of it.

She looked back to the weapon, Parting Gift. Its strong staff she had repainted green to show her allegiance. Its steel blade shined with constant polish. She never brought it with her to the docks, where she was given a baton and some pepper spray "to keep people safe."

God damn humiliating.

Keeping people safe? The only time she had ever really done that—the only time she had ever fulfilled her purpose in life—was at the Breach. She had become a huntress to protect humanity from whatever threatened it, and that was what she did. For that one incredible moment, she had gotten to do her duty.

She shook her head and kept surfing the channels, until finally she stopped on something that made her smile. It was a news report of Frederick Fantoche's latest speech.

She looked over on her desk, where a stack of flyers and pamphlet were laid out. As a member of the greenshirts, she had been entrusted with guarding their meetings and rallies, but of course she also got involved with the campaign itself. Every ounce of effort was required to get Fantoche and the New Dawn into government.

Some had even asked her to run for office. Fantoche himself had shook her hand and had a long conversation with her after the Breach, a meeting she would never forget. He seemed to be one of the few who was not trapped in Vale's modern stagnation and ignorance. He himself had told her he would be glad to have her as a councilwoman, and she was certainly in consideration for the party's list of candidates.

She would really have a shot at getting to office, especially since she was undeniably worthy of respect after her heroism at the Breach. She had been among the only hunters at the scene when it happened, aside from those kids from Beacon.

Fucking brats.

Just thinking of them made her blood boil. The absurdity of it. One of them was a faunus. All of them had signed off on some letter condemning "blaming faunus communities" for the violence. Who the hell else was worthy off the blame?

As if that weren't bad enough, they were also robbing her of her medal ceremony. Apparently, since they were considered "threatened" they were hiding up in Beacon. The awards ceremony for medals of bravery from the city was to take place up in the school, as such.

When she had been expelled, she had been unequivocally forbidden from stepping foot on Beacon property ever again.

"I'm worth more than this," she said through bared teeth. The way she said that would innately unnerve any ordinary person, for it was the sort of voice that crawled out when one was willing to do vicious things—a primal display of that person's capacity for ferocity.

She would be getting her medal in the mail, no fanfare. Undoubtedly, Sparrow was glad to avoid a photo op with a proud member of the New Dawn like herself.

That old bastard. He really ought to die. A lot of those self-serving rats in power should be dead. That would make things better.

A lot of people needed to die.

"But here I am," she muttered. "This is it." The woman hung her head and looked down at the floor.

She was twenty-three, and yet it seemed like so many things had already been cut short for her. Those brats in Beacon were living the good life, but she was here in her little apartment with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company. Nothing but her thoughts and her hopes. The New Dawn gave her hope…

"Now I'm going to let Lisa take over to give us a recap of the week," said a news anchor.

The woman jolted to attention. She reached for the remote control as fast as she could to turn off the tv, but it was too late.

The commercials had given way to the news, to a woman with purple hair. She was known across Vale, well-liked also. She had her name and face all over the television. She had achieved what she wanted.

"Lisa Lavender here—"

The tv screen became black as the lone woman in the apartment jammed the power button with enough force to make the remote creak ominously in her grip.

"Damn bitch," she muttered under her breath. Her chest had suddenly begun to rise and fall quickly, and hyperventilation did not seem far off.

She growled and chucked the remote against the wall; it loudly bounced off and clattered to the wooden floor. Following that, the apartment was eerily quiet. The silent black tv stood guard, hiding away the video of a successful news reporter. A successful person.

The woman growled and got up off the bed. She got about making breakfast for herself; that meant she poured out a bowl of cereal before recalling she had run out of milk the day before.

"This day's really just trying to piss me off, huh?" she asked to herself, slamming the fridge shut. Groceries would have to wait for that evening. In the meantime, she ate a couple of pieces of white bread. She would just have to buy a bit more at her work's cafeteria for lunch.

Then she hit her hair with the blow dryer, put on her drab security uniform and applied a touch of makeup. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and looked in the bathroom mirror.

Doing this always displeased her. In the mornings when she had to check herself in the mirror with her grey outfit and dull hat, she could not help but feel like was looking at a failure. She had her aura unlocked. She had training. She had a weapon. She had a semblance. She was, by all means, destined for something more than this.

"The New Dawn will change that," she said with an affirmative nod.

Then she strode out the bathroom and headed to her door, now with some hopeful thoughts. Her name may be put in among those in priority for the party list. If they won a great enough percentage in the next election, then there was a very real chance she could get a position on the council. That bitch on the tv might have to interview her… and then who would be the success?

That put a real smile on her face as she reached the door… then stopped.

She saw a letter that had been slipped under her door, probably while she had slept.

She scoffed at it. Just another piece of junk mail.

She bent down, picked it up and was just about to frisbee it to the trashcan. Her hand stayed after she noticed something written on the envelope in gracious cursive letters.

Viola Lavender

Her own name. A personal letter, then? Certainly not from family, and her only friends were in the New Dawn. She didn't peg any of them as the type to send letters, though. Hm… a love letter?

"Ugh," she groaned. How trite and unpleasant that would be.

Nevertheless, she pried the envelop open and pulled out the letter, which had this to say:

Miss Lavender,

I am writing on behalf of an organization that recognizes your skill and dedication. Your actions at the Breach are nothing short of heroic, and for them we commend you. After some research into your person, we have concluded that you have you have been robbed. Your discharge from Beacon was unjust, and all humanity was deprived of a valiant protector. We recognize your potential for something great.

We are a group of people dedicated to doing what is necessary to ensure the welfare and success of humankind in the face of all its obstacles. We understand that the animals present a threat to society just as the grimm do. I believe you may share the belief that something must be done. Moral degeneracy abounds and must be eliminated. We think you possess the goodness of character and strength of will to assist in this cause.

Our organization is one that strives for justice through action. We pursue strength and vitality for humanity. We are unafraid to do what is necessary. We recognize you as a hero. If you are truly dedicated to the cause of human supremacy, then please wait by the corner of Church Street and Blue Boulevard at midnight Friday.

A mix of emotions came over Viola. She felt a heavy haze suddenly form in her head, along with a rock in her stomach. The letter had suddenly dragged up her hopes and frustrations, bringing it all to the uncomfortable forefront. Human supremacy? Those were dirty words in the modern world. She and others at the New Dawn spent their time denying whenever people called them that—though behind closed doors they embraced the label with pride.

Was this just some joke? Was this something from the New Dawn? A trick? A danger?

These thoughts and more flew through her mind as she read the last piece of the letter. There was no name where the signature was supposed to be, or at least she did not recognize it as a name. There were two words in a language she did not know:

Semper Fidelis

I'm pretty sure this isn't how terror organizations recruit new members, but it's dramatic and I'm not about to look up the intricacies of extremist recruitment on my computer. Nope, don't want my FBI agent getting suspicious.

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