Jaune lay on his back as he stared up at the star-studded sky, trying to count the millions of blips of light that penetrated the utter black. His eyes drifted from the stars to the shattered moon that was waxing again, the pieces shifting slowly closer together as the time goes on. He ignores the evaporating corpse of the Ursa he cut down. The few moments of peace that occur after a fight are the brief moments he lets himself think.
He's not really sure what he's supposed to be doing.
And it scares him.
After Salem's defeat, he'd been hunting down as many grimm as he could find, getting rid of every last one that was a confirmed sighting. Humanity had finally beaten the big bad, and with the grimm weakened, there was a push into the unclaimed lands, the grimm had no chance to resist. He wasn't the bumbling idiot who faked his way into one of the most sought after academies that exists. He was a battle-hardened, loss-jaded man who had been fighting monsters for as long as he should. How many had fallen to his stolen ancestral blade? It probably numbers somewhere in the thousands, maybe even hundred thousands. He hadn't really thought about what happened AFTER the grimm were gone.
He expected to die long before that ever happened.
But he didn't and now he a soldier stuck in a war that's practically over and a weapon that has no use anymore but to be hung as a mantelpiece when all is said and done. As if that somehow isn't a insult to a blade forged to protect other and kill monsters. There's an ache in his chest that isn't physical, but he feels so damn empty with a frightening LACK of any purpose other than to fight.
No grimm means no need for huntsman.
No need for him.
He lets out a snort of derision, like there really was a need for him, he probably booted someone who would've turned out better than he did out of their rightfully deserved spot at Beacon. He sighs and levers himself to his feet, absently clasping his sword back to his belt. He scrubs a weary hand through hair that was damped with dewdrops. Part of him wonders if his job has actually become all he had left. When was the last time he talked to his old friends? They got out after the huge battle, left the fighting and all the pain of it go. But he couldn't. He didn't even now if he wanted to. With another sigh he taps the code on his scroll for a mission complete and tries to ignore the hollow pang that there is one less monster left.
One more step closer to not having any fights left.
One step close before what became his reason to live is gone.
He remembers a quote from a zombie book he once read.
'If there are no more Zacks and still one monkey...'
His lips form the words and the whispers are drowned by the bullhead approaching to pick him up, "The last skull I'll probably crack is my own."