Now, our luck may have died,

and our love may be cold

But with you, forever, I'll stay

We're going out where the sand's turning to gold

So put on your stockings, baby, 'cause the night's getting cold

Four — Hope Gets Higher

You're on the clock. Get to work.

In the end, I let Pyrrha pin me to the tree with her spear. Not how I usually preferred her to pin me to things. The guilt of it, the despair almost made me regret it, but when she smiled— I knew. It was the wrong thing, the wrong fucking thing, but I couldn't turn her down. Not for anything. Not even if it meant my death in the long run.

But I was on the clock. There was work to be done, and I refused to let myself wallow in emotions better left to Grimm-bait. Torchwick had given me a few pieces of information, fresh stuff, stuff I hadn't known before. Like the White Fang were working with her willingly. That I hadn't known, and it hardened my heart to whatever might be necessary in the long run. He'd also provided the information of her associates' identities, and I planned on hunting them down and denying them to her at my earliest opportunity. By persuasion, if I could. With blood if I had to. Morality had exited the equation the exact moment that Pyrrha, living Pyrrha, had let me lead her straight to the relics.

"Luck," I told her. "Rookie mistake, bumbling my way into an easy initiation." Lies. I'd known where the relics were and exactly how to get there, and so consequently avoided endangering her. Have you ever loved someone so deeply, so truly, so wholly and with every ounce of your being— heart, mind, body, and soul— that you'd do anything for them? Not just die. Dying for someone is easy. Any man or woman can do it. But kill for them? Look into the eyes of another human being, up close and personal, know you're the reason the light has gone out of them, and feel nothing about it at the end of the day? I have. I do. If I needed to burn Vale to the ground to keep Pyrrha Nikos safe, I would.

I had irons in the fire, but nothing pressing, nothing urgent that required immediate or constant attention. So I enjoyed the first few weeks of class, basked in the warm balm for my soul that was the presence of my friends. I kept my scores on written and physical tests deliberately average, top half of course, but nothing outstanding, nothing excellent. Excellence would draw attention. But then one morning—

"Mr. Arc. Can you tell me why the faunus proved victorious over General Laguna?" I swallowed, glanced at Cardin. We had exchanged friendly greetings so far, nothing more, but I knew what was right and what was wrong.

"Superior night vision combined with better leadership at the platoon and company levels allowed faunus battalions to engage human units at night, destroy the opposition, and carry the day. Or night, as it were."

The answer, rote as it was, bought me time to think. Cardin opened his mouth, and I shot him a glance over my shoulder. His jaw closed with a clack. I shook my head, once, and made a "cut it out" gesture at him. Around us, the classroom was silent.

"What were you going to say before Mr. Arc stopped you, Mr. Winchester?"

I closed my eyes.

"It's easy to train animals." I tire of these children's games, I thought. To my surprise, it wasn't anyone who usually got into it with Cardin over his racism that took the bait. This time, it was Ruby. They sniped at each other for a moment, but then Professor Oobleck brought the class back under control. I checked the time. 10:27.

Perfect. I stood up. "Professor, I don't feel so— hrk-" I lied, and made my way out of the class. I had just bought myself the better part of four hours. Hour into Vale, two hours searching, hour back, and I'd be back in time to pretend to be laid up in the dorm room with a stomach bug and ignore my team.

Alas, the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft a-gley.

"Jaune? Do you need to go see the medic?" Pyrrha asked. I made sure I was slouching as I turned. I considered lying, telling her I just wanted some fresh air and I'd meet them at the next class. Then I reconsidered. Our first moments alone since initiation, and I was already thinking how best to lie to her. Our first moments alone, because I had done my best to never be alone with her or the rest of the team.

"No," I said, and stood up straight. I wondered what perverted lecher had designed the Beacon female uniform. "I'm going out into Vale."

"You're skipping class? For what? Why?"

"I have... Things I have to do," I said evasively.

I read the expression on her face, the hurt in her eyes. She was hurt that I hadn't trusted her. And hurt that I was lying to her.

"Things? What's more important than your education as a Huntsman? That will be your life on the line one day, you know." You. You're more important than my education, my life.

I didn't tell her that.

"I know," I said with heat. More heat than I'd expected, than I'd planned. But she wasn't telling me anything I didn't know. "I could do the stuff they're giving us to do in the first year in my sleep."

"Really?"

"Yes. But I'm going out into Vale so I can see what's available on the bottom end for me to work with. I'm not materially prepared. I'm going to go fix that."

"If you need help building a gun or modifying your sword—"

"The sword stays the way it is," I interrupted her. Something flashed across her face before I had a chance to read it. "I'm sorry for being short, but the sword stays as is. I was just going to go look for, like, a handgun."

Something crossed her face, and I watched Pyrrha Nikos set her jaw with determination. I swallowed. "I'll come with you," she said. "If you're as ahead as you say you are, then you can help tutor me. If not, I'm not going to let my leader get in trouble on his own." Pyrrha Nikos? Need tutoring? Never.

Pyrrha Nikos' word was— is— will be— as good as gold.

She didn't— wouldn't let me get into trouble on my own. Instead she accompanied me out to Vale on the late morning Bullhead, seated next to me. Beacon extended quite a bit of loose rope to first-year students— but most of them hung themselves with it and were typically prevented from going out into the city whenever they pleased again until second year. But I'd checked the school's founding charter, and the rules, and the student handbook, and as long as a student was succeeding in classes, the professors didn't care where we were. Unless we were getting into trouble.

We arrived at the station shortly, and I admired the architecture. The Vale Central Air Terminal had been built at the height of the art deco fad, and so consequently was sleek and linear, with huge skylights in the ceiling and a geometric fountain in the very center of the building. At night the fountain would be lit by spotlights, while outside was lit too— in shades of dark green and purple. I checked my scroll.

10:48. Fuck it.

"Let's get an early lunch," I told Pyrrha. Out of the corner of my eye and a well-placed terminal store's glass, I saw two lean young men pick us up and start following us. Roman's men, or White Fang? I could take them if I needed to. One of them wore a black shirt and slacks, and a white coat. The other was sensible, and was wearing light slacks and a navy coat.

"W-what?"

I turned and gave Pyrrha my full attention. Her green eyes widened, and a faint red made itself known on her fair skin. "Lunch, early," I said. "My family is Valais— not old school, like some others, but old enough. I know a good spot near the Terminal and on our way."

"Oh," she said. What are you thinking? What can I do to make you happy? I didn't ask.

I led the way out of the Terminal, and into Vale. The city breathed, huge and slow inhalations and exhalations, its own throbbing heartbeat. Right now things were slow— it wasn't yet lunch hour for the majority of the city's day workers, and so the presence of the Capital Garrison wasn't super heavy. But they were there. A fireteam of four troopers, in black armor and armed with light machine guns and ammunition backpacks watched us as we exited the terminal. One of them, with a stripe of red paint on his shoulders, nudged another, and their helmets swivelled to track us as we walked. Even in the bright midday light, the red eye-lenses over blank face masks glowed with an eerie light. Four blocks down, black armor against the bright colors of civilians and civilian life, four more of the Garrison. Their heads swivelled to look in our direction, too, and I knew they were talking to each other in their helmets. No sound emerged from them, except the shifting of armor and armor undersuits.

"Jaune, who are they? I've never seen them before," Pyrrha said quietly. She shifted so that she was more angled directly to the troopers, and I knew that she had forgotten we had left our arms in Beacon.

"Special Armored Capital Garrison," I said. "They're a paramilitary auxiliary to the Royal Vale Gendarmerie. They provide specialized backup for when the regular cops run into things they can't handle— Huntsmen, riots, terrorists."

"Are Huntsmen and riots a usual problem for the city?"

I shook my head. "No," I confirmed when I realized she hadn't seen me. "But someone is stepping up their attacks. There's been a string of Dust robberies, too. The City Council don't think they're related, and the Royal Army has petitioned to allow a couple of units inside the pomerium, the border, but Parliament's screeched about it. They're worried about the security situation ahead of the Vytal Festival."

"Aren't you— aren't you concerned?"

Yes. "Nah. Garrison troopers are cops first, soldiers second. They all have ranks like Detective and Patrolman and stuff." One of them stepped toward us. His armor was like the rest— covered three quarters of the body, black, a helmet, red eye-lenses. He wore a gold stripe on his left pauldron, and I know the Valean flag would be on his right. Garrison troopers went into combat with the left pauldron leading, and so the flag was on the right pauldron so as to not be marred by bullets or Grimm. Embossed into the chest piece was the lion with paw on shield of the Gendarmerie.

"Officer," I greeted neutrally when he arrived at us. We had stopped, and I wrapped an arm around Pyrrha's, the better to present an unthreatening image.

"Citizens," The trooper's speakers crackled, and what came out was deep, intimidating— something more akin to a demon. Then the helmet recoiled, and a hand went up to his face. The lower part of the helmet dropped away and dangled on leather ties. He'd cut himself on the jawline shaving.

"Oh, sorry about that." That was a young man's voice, and I placed him at around twenty-one years old. "I just wanted to come over and say I recognized the Beacon uniforms, and thank you for all you're doing to keep the city safe. My mom and sister live outside the walls, and it's thanks to you that I can sleep knowing they're protected. Can I get your autographs?"

I stopped. What? This had never happened to me before. What? What do I do? What should I say?

Pyrrha rescued me, like she always had, like she always does, like she always will.

"Of course," she smiled, and drew us into a pose with the trooper for a selfie with the trooper's scroll. Numbly, I gave a generic thumbs up and a smile, but Pyrrha's smile could have powered a sector in the city, and she flashed a V for victory. The scroll flashed a couple of times, indicating pictures had been taken. It was expanded, and we signed it— to Forrest! Keep your chin up and head in the fight! Pyrrha Nikos and Jaune Arc.

Something inside me had— had shifted. I had never been through that, and it was only long experience and instinct that let me lead Pyrrha to the diner for lunch. I ordered coffee and a burger with fries. She ordered a salad with chicken. I sat, quietly, and looked out the window so I wouldn't have to look at her. Or her. There were two Pyrrhas seated across from me in the diner, and I wondered when the Pyrrha with blood splattered across her cuirass had shown up.

We sat in uneasy silence. On the wall behind me, a hardlight television set was playing something about the Royal Army and Parliament—

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Pyrrha watch either the television or myself. I knew which I'd prefer, of course, but it was more likely the news that she was watching.

" —an excellent victory today for the Kingdom and people of Vale!" A man was saying. I watched the curve of Pyrrha's neck and thought about how satisfying it would be to drive the air, the breath, the very concept of life itself from Cinder Fall's throat.

" —increasing the operational tempo, now, before this year's winter, means that the Grimm will have no time to recollect themselves and press our brave settlers on the frontier! Winter will allow Vale's excellent Hunters to do their jobs, and the Army will resume operations again in the spring."

Our food arrived. I tore into mine— seven sisters and fighting to be fed first can do that to a man. Pyrrha ate quietly, politely, and — is she lingering on those tomatoes and grapes for a reason?

I blinked, and the offending ingredients were gone. Surely my imagination. She batted her eyes at me. I felt a flush redden my cheeks, and perhaps I ate a fry too aggressively because Pyrrha giggled.

Then her eyes narrowed, and she glanced back up at the news.

"Jaune, you're from Vale, right?"

I nodded.

"What's going on with the Valean Army?"

"Valaisan," I corrected. I turned to watch images of troops— in lesser versions of the armor that the Capital Garrison sported, in a flat gray— marching, rifles shouldered and bayonets fixed, each face hidden by a helmet and cloth gaiter, with unit colors unfurled and waving brightly. I swallowed. At a command we couldn't hear, the troops brought their rifles forward in a salute, and an officer lifted his sword. The camera panned back, and we were able to watch as miles of troops, tanks, armored fighting vehicles passed a cheering, waving crowd of civilians. It wasn't in Vale— I could tell that much by the police uniforms dotted along the parade route.

"It's a passing out parade," I said quietly. "This passing out is because they're being sent to the frontier, not graduating something, though." Unbidden, unwilling, I recalled the casualty numbers for the most recent effort of this kind— an operation when I had been a boy of eight. Nine years. Nine years, and they were trying again.

"Jaune... Why do you look like that?" I remembered the news stories mom and dad hadn't wanted me to see. The heavy one with the juicy stuff, on the ten o'clock news, not the sanitized stuff the kiddies would see at six. I remembered the broken bodies, whole sections of forest or fields burning. The casualty reports. One unlucky town lost every man in their previous high school graduation class. I swallowed, the food suddenly bitter ashes in my mouth.

"Have you ever looked at what goes on when these things happen? The casualty numbers?" I ignored whatever she was going to say, bulling ahead, my voice low and angry.

"I have. In good operations, where the planning and logistics and tempo and unit numbers are just right, and resistance is light... An infantry battalion is five hundred men, Pyrrha. In a good operation, a fourth of those will come home crippled beyond help or dead. One hundred twenty five men. In the bad, three hundred or so. In the worst ones, entire units are wiped out. Five hundred men or more, Pyrrha. Disappeared into the frontier. Never seen or heard from again."

A hand went up to her mouth, and she looked like she wanted to be sick. I didn't blame her. This was why I had decided to become a Huntsman. To be the light between civilization and the howling dark, to be the shield against evil. So that some mother's son would return to her at the end of his mandatory service. That could have been you this year, an insidious voice whispered in my ear. Coward. Hiding behind Aura, while those men only have rifles and plas-ceramic.

"By the Brothers," Pyrrha Nikos whispered. "Why? Why do that to those— those— those boys? What's so worth it?"

I shrugged, bitter and hurt and I didn't know why.

"There's not enough Huntsmen," I said. "There's never enough. Atlas decided to get around the problem by building robots. Vacuo is half nomadic. Mistral has more people than they know what to do with, so losing frontier villages left and right doesn't hurt you like it does us. We have mandatory service with only a few exceptions. Women, Hunter students, and careers vital to social cohesion or the war effort."

Pyrrha swallowed. "So if you had failed initiation—"

"That would be me in one of those columns, and not even my family name would have kept me out of it."

Pyrrha reached across the table and took my hand in her own. "That's why you're at Beacon, isn't it? Behind the talk about a family legacy— you felt you could contribute more as a Huntsman than a soldier."

I nodded, unwilling to give voice to any of my thoughts or feelings that told me to lay my other hand on her own. Or worse.

"But why... Only men?"

I smiled bitterly. "Women are worth more carrying and raising the next generation of Vale's first line of defense. It's not the walls and automated turrets that keep the city so safe. It's them. They conduct burn operations and go into nests with thermobarics and air-fuelled explosives, they provide draws that lure the Grimm and keep them away from the villages and towns that feed the cities that fuel the armies that keep the villages and towns safe. Vale trades blood for time, Pyrrha. Oceans of blood, and still never enough time."

Her hand squeezed my own so tight I thought it would break. I channeled Aura into it, to keep that from happening. Before I realized what I'd done, Pyrrha recoiled, horror on her face.

"Jaune," she whispered. She clenched her fist, and I realized what she must have felt— that little, tiny piece of her soul inside my own, from when that Pyrrha had unlocked my Aura. Unbound by distance and infinite in death, Pyrrha's voice whispered in my mind.

"How? I don't—"

"I'd never hurt you," I whispered. She swallowed, and I clenched my hand into a fist. "I'll tell you, if you really want. But you won't believe me. I'm going to go find a handgun. I'll meet you at the Terminal at three, if you want to talk. If not... I'll see you at Beacon." I tossed enough lien on the table to cover the meal for both of us, plus a tip, and then strode out of the diner, fists clenched hard enough for my nails to dig into my palms.

You really fucked it up this time.

Yes. Yes I had. I wandered, hands in pockets, not seeing or looking where I was going, not caring.

"It's alright, Jaune. I'm still here."

And wasn't that peachy? Living Pyrrha to my front, and a— a not currently engaged in the act of breathing Pyrrha to my rear, shadowing my steps. I wanted to sob. I swallowed my fear and whirled on my heels to confront her, to say something, anything. Instead I saw the living Pyrrha round the corner, arms wrapped around herself and her head low. I stopped in my tracks.

"Hello again," she said, when she stopped in front of me. She reached out a hand, took my hand in her own. She closed her eyes. After a moment, she opened them.

"I don't know how," she said. "But... It feels right, and I know you've never hurt me. And I don't think you ever could. So I won't ask, or pry. When you're ready, partner." She moved. Graceful, lithe— like a dancer. She moved, and when she had settled, my arm was wrapped around her shoulders and her arm was wrapped around my chest, and we fit together like two halves of a coin.

I swallowed. This hadn't ever happened before. But could I complain? I wasn't dead. She wasn't dead. We weren't miles apart. I would take my wins where I could get them.

"What kind of handgun were you thinking about?" I smiled at her question.