A/N: Wanted to do something fun and not too serious with everybody's favorite punching bag/self insert/Miles Luna's biggest failure in life. Does it count as an overused trope if I'm being perfectly self-aware? In part, this is to get my mind off DxD content that I'm not feeling super inclined to work on this week. In another, smaller but arguably more heartfelt, part this is because absolutely nothing pisses off a very """specific""" part of the FNDM (you know damn well which kinds of fans I'm talking about, it rhymes with "shuri yippers" and used to rule over a site that practically no longer exists) more than portraying Jaune in anything even remotely resembling a positive view, especially if it involves any of their precious waifus. Also, because Secret Agent Cardin Winchester just doesn't sound the same and I'm not good at writing NTR.
So, yeah. We're doing spy shenanigans. We're doing oddly specific orders for copious amounts of drinks. We're doing bespoke suits with (ugh) thin lapels that are way too tight to realistically conceal a Walther in a shoulder holster. (looking at you Daniel Craig!) And hopefully, Ms. Nikos doesn't go the way of all the other Bond Girls.
Here's what we're not doing. Numbers. Stats. Gamer-esque character sheets. Who's got time for any of that nerd bullshit anyways? Certainly not me, I didn't get a B.S. in Mathematics so I could crunch numbers. I got a B.S. in Mathematics (and one in Econ!) so I could write Gigachad!Jaune shooting bad guys and pounding gin on the internet for the amusement of horny strangers with more kinks than common sense. We're operating purely on "Rule of Cool" and to a much smaller extent "Rule of Whatever Kali Feels Like Shoehorning Into The Plot" here. If you can explain why you want to do what you want to do, and if it doesn't absolutely shatter the plot, fuck it bud, why not?
So, sit back, relax, put on your favorite Bond Theme, grab your martini glass, and let's go save the world and have sex with literally every female character of note at least once. Especially the ones with the most vocal shippers.
They say there comes a moment in every man's life where the odds are so stacked against his favor, the situation so dire, that all he wants to do is fuck off to a remote farm and never interact with society again. Well, I'm pretty sure that moment for me is right now. Or more accurately, approximately three hours ago up until right now. The location? My painfully small office cubicle, in scenic (read: shitty) Mistral. The occasion? Paperwork. Let me tell you something. I've faced down hordes of Beowolves, wrestled with Ursa Majors, infiltrated White Fang bases. For Oum's sake, I even took down a Nuckelavee once, though that was with over a dozen other operatives and I still wake up with phantom soreness on rainy days from it. But paperwork? Over two dozen pages to be filled out, in triplicate, delivered to the office of the head of Huntsman Intelligence Section Six by noon today. I'm not even halfway done yet, and it's already almost 11. Why on Remnant did I take this job?
Ah, I should probably back up a bit here. Introductions are important, at least that's what Mom always says. Oum knows I won't argue with her on that, or really anything. Terrifying woman, she is. Of course, she had to be, what with raising seven kids and taking care of the lovable oaf of a Huntsman (her words, again I will not argue) that she calls my dad. I can't begrudge her that, she did a Hell of a job, or at least I like to think so. Sapphron would probably disagree, but she's off in Argus doing who knows what (I know exactly what, and yes it was traumatizing to see at the age of 10) with her wife Terra and their baby boy.
So, I guess I should probably introduce myself and stop meandering, huh? There's... not too much to say, really. I grew up in a little frontier town in north-central Mistral. Mom was a homemaker, a full time mother as the title would suggest. Dad was a Huntsman. Grandpa was a Huntsman. Great-Grandpa was a Huntsman, and Great-Great-Grandpa wasn't a Huntsman, but that's only because they didn't have a job title for it back then. Instead, he spent nine long years fighting in the Great War, killing some poor bastards that looked just like him for King and Country.
Great-great-grandpa came back after the War ended, the ink on the Vytal treaty probably still wet, and set up a little home out in the wilds. Called it Arc's Rest, the cheeky bastard. Fast forward about eighty years and here we are; it's a thriving little town with a couple Huntsmen that keep it safe, plenty of craftsmen and farmers that provide all the settlement needs, and a long line of Arcs that keep a watchful eye. Of course, with Sapphron having moved out and me in Mistral, there's two less Arcs than there were five years ago, but that's semantics really.
Sapphron left before I did, truth be told. I was probably 8, maybe 9? Something like that, I'm sure. Went and packed her bags after she finished her primary schooling and moved to Mistral to attend some big university. Four years later and she leaves again to some city called Argus, just as I'm moving to Mistral. Funny how that works out, huh? I can't blame her though, she's got a lovely wife and a kid now. I keep telling myself that I'll visit them once I get a few weeks off, and I know little Adrian is up and walking now. A not-so-small part of me really wants to be around for when he starts speaking full sentences, and no that is not because I want to be the Cool Uncle that teaches him how to swear like a sailor. Absolutely not, and I'll deny it under pain of death.
Alas, "a few weeks off" isn't much more than a sad joke in my particular line of work. I either get back from a long-term operation with enough wounds to serve as a training dummy for students at Mistral Medical, or I'm so bogged down with paperwork, like now, that I go home well after dark and down a bottle of Vacuoan Rum on my way to the futon. Lovely stuff, those Vacuoans make.
"Arc!" It's a common noise in the office, a sort of feminine howl of rage and hatred that happens to be vocalized as my last name. When you hear that noise, generally speaking, your best bet is to activate your Aura and hide behind a big desk. Not me, though. I'm a big kid (an adult as of a few weeks ago, thank you very much!) and I face my impending death like a man. Just like I do every week.
"Yes, M?" I drawl out, doing my damn best to appear studious and busily working through the paperwork. All too soon, I can hear the quiet and altogether far too terrifying stampede of dainty pumps click-clacking against the marble floor. I do my best to not raise my head, I really do. Sadly, that's not very possible when a faintly wrinkled hand strikes out like a viper, latching two deceptively strong fingers onto my ear and pulling my head up. I wish I could say I bore the pain with a grunt, but I whined like a little bitch, like I do every time. "You will look at me when I am addressing you, young ma- I mean Agent Arc!"
Yeah, that would be my boss, the Rage of Remnant, the Maniac of Mistral, yadda yadda yadda. Her name's M. Well, not really, one letter isn't much of a full name, but everybody in the building calls her M, the Councilmen of Mistral call her M, and I'm sure if she ever got around to kidnapping some poor sap for a hopefully quick and painless lay, they'd probably call her M too. Thank God that hasn't happened.
M's not a big person, though of course if she was I would never point that out; simply not what a gentleman would do. In truth she's a quite diminutive old lady, maybe 5'4 at the most. She's got short white hair, really an even more boyish cut than my own untamed mane of golden locks, and always comes dressed in a clean-cut cream blazer and dark grey pants with black or grey pumps. No ring on her finger, hasn't been that way for longer than I've been alive, and no jewelry save for a small locket around her neck. She is the picture of professionalism, which of course is undercut by the fact that she's yanking my ear around like my mother used to do when I was young and stupid. Now, M is like Mom 2.0, and I'm slightly less young and probably just as stupid. Funny how life works out, huh?
"Sorry, ma'am!" I yelp out, her hand finally letting go of my poor abused ear. "I'll have the reports for the Wind Path operation on your desk within the hour, ma'am!" I snap off an admittedly somewhat shoddy salute, and she simply snorts at that. M snatched the papers off my desk and glanced them over with poorly disguised disdain, before folding them up and tucking them away under her arm.
"We all know you wouldn't get the paperwork in on time, Arc. Fighting, drinking and fraternizing are more your strengths than accounts and balances, you silly boy." Yeah, if you couldn't tell by now, that Mom 2.0 comparison isn't just for show. M's really been like my second mom for years now, if your mom trained you for half a decade in armed combat and is also your boss and/or full-time slavedriver... So yeah, like my second mom, actually.
I just nervously chuckled at her, one traitorous hand going up to rub the back of my head in poorly concealed embarrassment. It's a tic I've had since I was a little kid, and no amount of infiltration training had managed to fully kill it, unfortunately. M notices too, the corners of her lips just barely turning up in what a lesser man would call amusement. I certainly wouldn't call it that, as I'm not trying to get my other ear pulled into oblivion. Tactful silence, it is. Tactful silence that lasts all of five seconds before she huffs, beckoning me to follow after her as she takes short, clipped strides towards her office.
It's much nicer than my cubicle, of course. She's the head of Mistralian Intelligence and has been since before my father even graduated Huntsman school. M is, and probably always has been, damn good at her job, and her office is one of the few public comforts she allows herself to indulge in. Plush carpeting covers the whole space, an enclosed room in comparison to the open floor-plan of the rest of the building I work in. The walls are fairly high, and the whole office is easily ten meters across and another ten deep. A massive mahogany desk dominates the center of the back wall, with a large clock behind where M would sit. The whole ambiance is very "Atlesian Murder Mystery villain" and I'm fairly certain that's just the way she likes it.
"A drink?" She asks, walking around to open one of the many cabinets that cover two walls of the office space. I simply nod thankfully, watching her with a bit of exasperation as she forces herself to stand on tip-toes to reach a beautiful decanter on the top shelf. Why she simply doesn't move everything from that shelf down a space is beyond me, but I'm sure it has something to do with pride. Admitting that she's a tiny woman probably rankles, and Oum knows M is strong enough to deal with a bit of reaching up for tall spaces.
It takes a few seconds for her to bring the decanter back to the desk, pulling a pair of rocks glasses that she soon after fills with the amber liquid. There's about three fingers of Argus Reserve in each glass, a healthy pour to be sure. There's a subtle sweetness to it, with notes of oak and vanilla, and in far too short a time the glass is empty, M's coming down to smack the desk soon after mine. "Delicious, as always. Your taste in liquor is second to none, M." I speak after a moment, a genuine smile stretching across my face.
"You flatter me too soon, Arc." She replies, sitting down with a huff. "You might regret that in a few minutes." Oh, what's this?
"Is something the matter, ma'am? I, eh, really wasn't joking about the paperwork, I can promise you I'll get that finished within the hour." It would be an hour of unadulterated pain, but I certainly could do it, should I put my mind to it. M simply shakes her head, letting out a long-drawn sigh that I hardly ever hear out of her. What exactly is going on here?
"I've got a bit of an assignment for you, actually. No, don't look so happy yet," she bites out with more venom than usual as my smile widens, and then shortly fades away, looking closer to her actual age than I've seen in a long time. "It's long-term. You could call it a vacation if it'll make you feel any better, but we both know those don't exist. You'll be in the field for seven months, up to a year or longer if the conditions require it." That's not particularly new; when I was 15 and a freshly minted member of the Agency, I had often gone on missions that stretched for a season at a time.
"What's the catch here, M?" I ask, respectfully clasping my hands behind my back as I stand at alert, gazing inquisitively towards her. She sighs again, probably a record for a single day at this point, and pushes forward a thin manila folder across the desk. M nods at me, signalling that I should take a look. I do... and yet I can't understand a word of it.
"You... want me to do what, exactly? Is this some kind of joke, M?" The older woman simply shakes her head, letting out the kind of resigned huff that's usually reserved for the Mistralian Council, sudden sicknesses or tax season. "You and I both know that it's anything but, Arc. You leave within a week. Pack whatever you need, there'll be a Bullhead and tickets for a red-eye flight sent to your desk. Rendezvous with the Headmaster will be at 8AM in ten days; he'll have further instructions but we simply know that he's in need of your Semblance in particular. An apartment has been provided, and we'll be setting up short-range communications with the local office hopefully within two weeks. If it makes you feel any better, I heard Vale is lovely this time of year."
I don't think I've ever said this out loud before, but I'm sorely tempted to tell M that she's a real frigid bitch right about now.
A/N: That's all for the intro!