A/N: Prep for the upcoming mission. Hope to have Agent Arc in Beacon proper within like ~2 chapters, god willing. As always, please read and review! I'm constantly trying to improve my writing so any technical advice you guys have is more than appreciated.

Three Days Later

When I was seven years old, I rode on a airship for the first time. My dad took the whole family, all ten of us including little baby Iris, a newborn at the time, on a week-long trip into Mistral's capital, my current home. I remember it pretty fondly; Iris was as peaceable as a baby could be, not crying or fussing overly much. Saphron was in her junior year of high school at the time, a moody 17 year old with all that that entailed, but even she wasn't making a scene every other occasion that she could. It was... nice, calm in a way that living in a home constantly crammed full of people, in a town that practically worshiped your last name, simply never was.

Of course, there were complications. I mean, what family trip goes perfectly? The minute the airship took off, I was green to the gills, and a lesser man would have probably denied this, but I puked like a dying man for the entire duration of the trip. Seven hours of flight, seven long, humiliating hours. I still wake up with nightmares about that first time, the faces of poorly concealed pity directed at me from my sisters, my parents, and even other passengers on the flight. I spent that seven hours barely able to see said faces, of course; I was stooped over a toilet-bowl or headfirst into a paper bag almost the entire time. That was the trip that we learned I had terrible motion sickness when up in the air.

Mom, the angel that she is, spent our first day in Mistral City going from pharmacy to pharmacy looking for solutions to it. I'm not terribly surprised that what she found wasn't effective, but the thought counted, and I could tell that she was genuinely worried for me. It's been over a decade since then, and the issue still hasn't been fixed, per se. Oh sure, I can handle flights without my stomach rising up through my throat and my lunch going out the end it initially came in, but it's still not comfortable by any stretch of the imagination. Flights, I guess they just suck for me.

Why am I talking about flights, you may ask? Well, to put it succinctly enough, I'm currently on one. Now, I know what you're going to think, but it's not quite that simple. When I say I'm on a flight, I mean that in a fairly literal sense; I am hanging rather precariously on top of a flying vehicle. No, it's not because I couldn't afford economy, thank you very much. My job pays well. It just happens to pay well enough that I acquiesce to missions that involve clawing my way with Aura-enhanced fingers onto the hull of a bullhead, currently cruising at an altitude of 35,000 feet in the sky. The air up here is incredibly thin, obviously, and if it weren't for the atmospheric mask and thick flight-suit that I'm currently wearing, even my Aura wouldn't be able to protect me from the elements.

It's a rather ingenious suit, a big middle finger to the lab coats over in Atlas that think they have a monopoly on bleeding edge tech. Full adaptation to over a dozen atmospheric and dangerous weather conditions, thin dust-powered exoskeleton "bones" that cover my arms and legs and allow me to more easily move around with the turbulence and associated nastiness, and most importantly a compact but fully serviceable parachute with auxiliary thrusters on my elbows and feet, ready to deploy and guide me to safety if I need to jump. With the way this final mission before I head to Beacon seems to be going, I'm afraid that may be more than just a shitty possibility.

It started out easily enough; the Mistralian Council suspected that the plane I'm currently dangling off one side of was housing weaponry that went against Page Who Knows of the Treaty of I Don't Care signed in Some Year That Really Doesn't Matter. The important info? Plane. Bad Guys. Weapons. Pretty simple stuff for a pretty simple guy like myself. M had briefed me on the mission-relevant specifics yesterday, and I'm set to meet with her one final time in two days. After that, I get two days to pack my bags and I'm off to Vale to rendezvous with Headmaster Ozpin to see what all this Beacon business is about.

The operation itself started nearly twelve hours ago, at the ass-crack of dawn because of course the Gods hate me and won't ever allow me a full night of rest. I had woken up, donned the simple charcoal suit and black tie that I wore to work every day, picked up the bag that M had delivered to my office and been off. The first step was reconnaissance, as it always is. Four hours spent staking out the tiny airport that the bullhead had been set to take off from. It was a good hour or two out of Mistral City proper, not quite far enough to be considered the countryside but certainly away from any major settlements. I arrived at 7AM, and there were perhaps half a dozen bullheads stationed in total; it wasn't small enough to be considered a private airstrip but certainly no major business came through here. From what I could tell, mostly budget airlines and small shipping packages came in and out. In short, it was the luckiest place to get a shipment of weaponry out of the city without attracting unwanted attention. Unluckily for them, I'm the very tenacious sort of unwanted attention, and I don't leave the trail once I've caught a scent of foul play.

Within the first two hours, I had spotted several armed men entering the airstrip and leaving through back-doors. Their uniforms were fairly close to what the security would wear, but I haven't been an amateur for years now, and the subtle tells of shoes that were still carrying some dirt and an extra number of bags along their sides told a different story. Security for the airstrip wouldn't be going in and out often enough to have grime on their footwear, and simple guards would have carried a sidearm and a baton for dealing with basic disturbances, not the heavy bags at their sides that most likely denoted long rifles or shotguns. There was definitely something fishy here, and I intended to find out what.

The second clue came towards the end of my stake-out. A Gorilla Faunus strode in, flanked by two other Faunus on either side. I'm not a small man by any means, but he would have easily towered over me, almost 7 feet in height. The group of five was dressed rather inconspicuously, heavy wool coats for the coming cold months and dark grey trousers tucked into calf-high black boots. A bit stiff and perhaps too military for the regular person, but not exactly rare. Remnant wasn't a forgiving place, and it sure as hell wasn't full of forgiving men. I simply watched them walk past, noting how one of the four guards had kept his hand close to his hip the entire time. An open door and a gust of wind later and his secret was revealed, a momentary glimpse of his firearm peaking out the side of his hip before he pulled his coat close to him. Naughty, naughty; you know you can't bring toys like that onto a plane, Mr. Suspicious Faunus Man. Wait, fuck, that sounds sort of racist...

Regardless, I knew I had to get to wherever they were heading. The nice thing about going to common places in a suit and walking like you know exactly where you're supposed to be is that the average security guard doesn't really react to you moving around. A quick flash of my doctored ID, courtesy of M as always, and I was taking unhurried strides towards a back-door that I had seen the "security" using rather frequently, while the real security slowly but surely closed down the airstrip and evacuated civilians. Time to figure out what sort of evil shenanigans are afoot.

I opened the door rather loudly, drawing attention to myself in a way that I'm certain would have M pounding her head against a table. "Good afternoon, gentlemen! How's the packing coming along?" I said in lieu of announcement, noting with thinly veiled amusement that about half of the people had done their best to appear inconspicuous and continued to pack up the big wooden crates in the back of the room, while the other half had "jumped the gun," so to say... by literally drawing their guns and aiming them right at me. Always nice to know I'm dealing with morons, I suppose. I put my hands up slowly, palms facing the crowd in as non-threatening a manner as I can convey, letting a lazy sort of grin stretch across my face. "Oh, no need for any sort of violence, boys. I'm just the OSHA Inspector, heard there was some misuse of forklifts happening in the back."

"Kill him!" One of the four Faunus guards from earlier snarled, dumping half a magazine in my general direction. This seemed to be the impetus for everybody else to join in, the aforementioned first group also joining in as they drew their guns and opened fire. I simply stood my ground, not moving an inch as the bullets pinged rather uselessly around my body. Ah, Aura, I do love you so. It took a full five seconds for the warehouse full of morons to stop firing, kicking up a whirlwind of dust (thankfully not Dust) and wood-chips. Once the air cleared, they simply saw me, a veritable hill of spent and flattened bullets, and a thin white light separating us. I have to say, the look on their faces right now is really working wonders for my health.

"My turn," I simply state, jumping into action not a moment later. A slight compression at the thin cuffs at each of my shirt sleeves unfurls a set of light body armor, wrapping around my frame as it mechshifts from the suit of a gentleman of repute to the suit of a knight. A very modern looking knight, given the kevlar and stab-proof sheets surrounding me as opposed to big hunks of steel plate, but a knight nonetheless. I call this Lorica Segmentata; designed it myself with some help from the lovely lads over at R&D. From the neck down, I'm practically impervious to most conventional rifle calibers and bladed weapons, and with my Aura augmenting the plates, the impact of Dust rounds is substantially lessened as well. They wanted to add a helmet that would shift upwards from my collar, but everyone knows that takes away from the aesthetic appeal. Helmets are for mooks and pansies. Also, I get ridiculously bad hat hair.

As I wade into the sea of bodies, I lash out with hands and feet, small and quick motions delivered with the explosiveness of years of training. I don't hit hard and I don't over-extend to get more force; quite the opposite. I fight as conservatively as possible. M always told me efficiency and durability wins fights, and her advice hasn't failed me yet. Knee kicks, elbow thrusts, ankle sweeps, short punches and grapples are my bread and butter. The first few come in rather haphazardly, clearly not trained to coordinate in a fight. One goes down almost instantly, an aura-enhanced knee caving his pelvis and likely intestinal organs in with a sickening squelch. The second swings in with a wild haymaker, brandishing a knife that I'm sure he thinks he can stick in my neck. I catch him at the elbow, leaning in to deliver a short jab to his jugular. Neck, crushed; he goes down like a sack of potatoes shortly after. The third is just barely smarter than the first two, letting off a few shots from his pistol as he backs away to gain space. I simply follow after him, taking one large stride forward as my hand lashes out and grasps around the handle of his gun, wrenching it away from me. My second hand comes in immediately after, doubling him over as I drive a fist into his gut.

With his gun held in one hand and his body rag-dolled over my fist, I twist the mook around, using his own firearm to pepper the rest of the crowd. They seem to be catching on rather quickly, and I'm only able to put down three more bodies before the rest have ducked and dived under machines or furniture, trying to gain safety. Sounds good in practice, but to me it's practically nothing. I dump the man I'm holding, his pistol clicking empty as I do, and take a massive lunge forwards. Aura can do incredible things, the least of which involve jumping damn near five meters in the air and coming down like a meteor.

The concrete is cracked and shattered like a spiderweb as I land, dust flying even further into the air. They're smart enough to still shoot at me, but not quite smart enough to realize it won't do very much against my Aura, or my suit. It takes a few minutes, but eventually all that's left is myself, three of the original four guards, the gorilla Faunus, and about a dozen corpses between us. "Yeah, I'm really going to have to send in a complaint after this, you guys aren't OSHA compliant at all!" I simply grin, breathing somewhat hard after the fight. Two of the three remaining guards come in to attack, while the third and the gorilla Faunus rush out the back, the third guard running backwards as he continues to spray bullets at me from his sub machine-gun.

These two are substantially harder to fight than the run of the mill mooks I was putting down. They're clearly trained fighters, and worse yet trained as a pair; they move so fluidly that one would think they were extensions of the same mind, two limbs connected to one body. Two limbs currently brandishing mechshifting spear-rifles, how fucking lovely. The first comes in low, his pole-arm sweeping towards my legs, while the second shifts his weapon to firearm form, sending a Dust round my way. My response was to jump back, just barely avoiding the edge of the spear as I lean into a crouch to escape the bullets. The dust round impacts a few feet above and behind me, and I can feel the intense heat of Fire Dust licking at my back. Not great conditions for an enclosed space, they'll either get to me or take so long that Mr. Gorilla (again, that sounds a little bit racist, I'm sorry) and the final guard can escape with the crates already loaded onto the bullhead.

I have to get serious now; no more time for games. "Alright, fuck it." I reach behind myself, a thin rectangular box coming loose from the back of my armor with a pneumatic hiss. It unfolds rapidly, the sides opening and expanding as they unfurl into a grey kite shield four feet high and two and a half feet at its widest. From the top of the shield I draw a hilt, the blade of a long-sword similarly jettisoning out until my main weapon is fully extended to a length of four feet. This is my main weapon, Crocea Mors.

It's been in my family since even before great-great-grandpa fought in the war, and the changes made since have been incredibly minimal. In fact, the only thing I've really done to it was allowing the blade to shift out from the hilt, allowing the sheath-shield to take up slightly less space than usual. Well, that and a few Dust upgrades, but my parents still haven't found out about those and I'd really like to keep it that way. Criminals talk too, you know? Who knows what they could say in a cell that would somehow, inevitably get back to my mother.

The second of the guards steps forward, taking careful aim as he lets loose half a dozen well-placed shots of Dust rounds towards my center mass. Thanks to Crocea Mors, I'm able to angle them upwards, great gouts of flame bursting towards the ceiling and definitely scaring the shit out of anyone unlucky enough to have not left the building by now. The first guard is quick to follow, smashing at full speed with his spear against my shield. I buckle, and take a step back, before I manage to push him off with a great heave. Unfortunately, that opened my side up to the sharpshooter, and I'm sent flying back after he manages to hit me twice with Dust rounds.

I smashed into the side of a wall, nearly going right through it, and I'm hard-pressed to regain my wits as both guards come in, keeping me on the defensive and certainly quite dazed from the hit. The armor does a great job of mitigating the real damage, as does my monstrously large Aura, but it still hurts no matter what. A few more seconds of this cat-and-mouse game of dodging later and I suddenly lean forwards, going on the offensive for the first time since I downed all those grunts.

Crocea Mors swings out, the Aura-enhanced blade cleanly shattering through the barrel of the rifle, before I dart in and bash him with my shield. As he's stumbling back, definitely nursing a broken nose, I pivot on my back foot and barely manage to parry the spear, driving the tip of my shield into the concrete directly behind me as my senses scream danger. Not a moment too soon, as I hear the dull thud of bullets, regular rounds thank Oum, hitting my shield. As the spear-wielder darts back in for a quick jab, I manage to flow around his attack, my now-free hand latching out to trap his arm at the armpit, squeezing mercilessly until I can hear his shoulder pop and dislocate. Crocea Mors is quick to follow, and a moment later the guard's head is cleanly separated from his shoulders, what minimal Aura he had utterly smashed through with my breaking of his arm.

I twist back wildly, my hair damp with sweat and my eyes wild as I take in the bleeding guard behind me. He's fallen since letting off those last few bullets, and I think he may be concussed after my rather savage shield bash. This one can stay alive for questioning. "End of the road, pal." I spit out, a twist of my wrist unfurling a set of small Gravity Dust-powered bolas that tie him up rather nicely. A quick punch to the temple and he's out cold.

"Fuck, I can't miss that plane," I mutter, mostly to myself. Now that the room is cleared, I rush into a quick jog, turning around the corner just in time to see the bullhead begin to take off. Absolutely fucking not. Another compression on the thin wristbands I wear activates the atmospheric suit, my armor shifting once again as the servos whir and twist into place. There's a grappling hook of sorts that comes with the suit, more like a staple gun with a thin steel line attached to the projectile, but it's what I've got, and it's what I use, aiming carefully as I embed the "hook" several inches deep into the metal hull of the bullhead. The line becomes taut in no time, the bullhead rising lazily and taking off, with me dangling about thirty feet below it. God I fucking hate this job sometimes.

Well, this still beats a red-eye to Vale, right?

A/N: Part two of this mission comes next, and then the flight to Beacon! Plot-related shenanigans! Flirting with older women! Getting involved in Dust Robberies! As always, please read and review; it means the world to hear your feedback.

Here's a question. Who do you want in the harem? Let me know in the reviews, and why!

To address the Guest Reviews:

Guest says: "Jaune as a spy similar to James Bond? You have my attention:

Haha, thank you! Hope I can keep your attention. And yes, there is some definite 007 inspiration taken for this story. Gadgets, cool cars, suave Secret Agents, doomsday devices, cute women that probably die (oh god oh fuck Pyrrha what are you doing) and the rest will all be here. I hope you enjoy the new chapter.