Set in Motion

It was a small office for a small business. The blinds were drawn shut; the walls a basic sullen gray worn with age. The carpet was a smidge brighter in shade to the walls, the ceiling light barely enough to managably light the office itself and choked out by the ambient dust. A furnished desk with various papers, an inkwell and pen, paperweight, and filing system neatly organized atop the surface sat nearly center to the room, leaving space for two uncomfortable chairs before it and a reclineable leather one behind it. The room was silent apart from the muffled noises of labor just outside, occasionally reaching volumes that could become audible from there. The office was quaint and defined, and a meeting was taking place inside.

At the desk in his leather chair sat a man in his late sixties, whose white hair still maintained a few flecks of black just as his short beard did. He wore a fine white shirt and overalls of a faded blue, and his dark green eyes held a certain spark that someone of his position should be lacking. They briefly shone with a deep wisdom that he seemed to be preparing to impart, hands folded on top of his desk, and his teeth absently ground together every few seconds as he met eyes with the younger fellow standing across from where he sat.

"Do you understand why I've called you in here?"

The much younger man kept a straight posture, having politely refused taking a seat. He had hair the shade of dirty blonde reminding one of a light bruise only now healing up, ending without much caretaking near his jawline, which tensed upon hearing the question posed to him. Anxiously, he pinched the brim of his denim worker's hat and lowered it slightly, hiding his face even further than his bangs that ended at the tip of his nose. Smeared with grease and oils of all kinds, his clothes and hands would have appeared strange were this not almost directly attached to the factory floor.

"No, I am not aware of the reason, Mr. Petto."

This Mr. Petto heaved a great sigh, the pause longer than necessary as he had hoped the employee would say more, but to no avail.

"You know better than to call me that, Obaz. I took you in for a reason, you know... But that's beside the point. How long has it been? Two weeks?"

Obaz immediately corrected Petto down to a pinpoint;

"Fifteen days, five hours, twenty-two minutes. Sir."

Another sigh fell from Mr. Petto's lungs as Obaz still remained stiff as a board. Letting his hands separate and lay flat in front of him, Mr. Petto prepared himself for what could be an emotional event. For him at least. Seeing as they weren't getting anywhere, he began the slow climb that was communication.

"Let me tell you straight, Obaz; you have potential. Potential that goes beyond repairing heavy machinery for a small automotive factory, but still far, far from realized. You're so young... do you know how many kids your age I see with dreams of being something more? Something like a hero?"

Obaz paused to consider the question, despite it having been rhetorical.

"A rough estimate based on your age, lines of work in your past experience and personality would lead me to about... one hundred, give or take twenty, that you have seen."

Petto's hand covered his face as he lurched to the side, willing his patience not to wear out too soon. After a moment's recuperation in dead silence, he spoke up.

"I've met with many, Obaz. So many kids with stars in their eyes and dreams you could practically hold, they believed it so. Just seeing you stand there, hands at your sides, it speaks volumes about you. I want you to reconsider."

"It speaks volumes, none of which cover combat. We have had this talk, Griswold -I do not want to be a Huntsman, and I think you are wrong. Even a military position would make more sense to my skill set than becoming what you think I should..." He trailed off.

Mr. Petto sighed in agreement of this conversation's repetition, despite feeling the need to draw it back up. "Yes, it's true, you're not as talented as most of those who chase the dream. You haven't put your mind to it... but given enough time, enough practice, you could be."

"More time than I care to spend doing what I feel no calling towards."

There was another long silence. Obaz softly tapped a boot behind him to shift the obnoxious object that was caught inside, waiting for the conversation to reach a climax of some kind. After some stubborn lack of cooperation, Mr. Petto jumped straight to the point;

"As the closest thing to a father you have, I've decided that this job isn't benefiting you enough. I've pulled a few strings, and you're being tried into Beacon. Impress them, and you can take courses as a student there."

Beacon; the school where fledgling huntsmen and huntresses are trained to fight the Grimm -the place Obaz had just said he didn't want to be... As Griswold had stated, dozens of young ones had come to him in hopes of a referral. Now, Obaz' mouth pressed into a thin, wider line than it just was, a tic Petto had come to recognize as intent to argue. While normally Obaz merely added a fact or opinion to a conversation when he deemed the moment right, he had expected the lad to actually fight this road he was being set on despite it being what others would die for.

"Isn't that rather presumptuous of you? I am pressed to think this is for your peace of mind- being the retired hunter that you are, with no children to follow in your footsteps you're giving in to the temptation of using me as a substitute."

No matter how often it happened, when words spilled from Obaz with purpose past simple enlightenment they stung like hell. That wasn't to say it happened often, only when there was a stronger disagreement being held. Mr. Petto was no exception here, but being used to it by now he pressed on.

"See, that's exactly why I think you need this. You might be smart but you're a social train wreck, son. Surrounded by peers, you might learn to pull your punches."

"So I am to attend a school teaching me primarily how to hunt beasts, in order to learn how to 'pull my punches'. That does not sound right." At times Obaz' attempts to argue were easily seen through for being too literal. Petto actually managed a chuckle knowing the boy hadn't been trying to be funny.

"Of course not, it was a figure of speech. Obaz, you can't work effectively with others at all. In spite of what you might think, that is an important part of this job- and I don't employ ineffective help. You're damned smart, and your individual works are great, but one can only go so far alone. This is an opportunity I'm giving you, and the best one you have... You're being laid off until I see fit, and you won't be getting any support from me unless you give this a chance. Do we have an understanding?"

The expression on Obaz became a faint frown, which was impressive in his standards. There was a shorter pause this time before he was the one to cave;

"You leave me no choice then, sir. I will... Give it a chance." There was a shorter pause for a change, before; "If I die, which is likely, it is your fault."

Petto folded his hands in front of him, trying to hide the hint of a smile that had formed on his face. In truth, he had intended to set Obaz toward life as a Huntsman well before this but had never judged the time right.

"Alright then. I will be able to give you some advice; however, I'm limiting it to that. You will have to impress the staff there on your own, though I doubt that is a new concept to you... As some of the preparatory schools do for their students heading to Beacon, I think it would be best if you created your own weapon to wield- You have full access to tools and materials necessary for that right here. The examinations are in nine more days."

The next several days Obaz spent drawing up designs and rewriting those designs repeatedly, until finally he began casting molds. As the factory didn't carry much in the way of building arms but the raw materials in an abundance, Obaz had to invent the methods of creating each individual piece from scratch but made fine progress nonetheless. As Mr. Petto watched from the catwalk his main concern was for physically training Obaz himself. The boy was fit well enough from the nature of his work, and it wasn't as if he'd never fought before... the children at Beacon would have had formal training in the past, however. At best, Obaz knew how to fight off back alley thugs; at the start his lack of technique and quick resort to brutality may not paint a good picture. Still, he was convinced his son's ingenuity would cut a path straight through any shortcomings.

After seven days and two trial products it seemed Obaz had completed what he called 'Ascalium Galbide – Mk. III'. During this time Obaz had approached Petto with need of advice only once, asking what type of equipment served most well on average against the majority of Grimm.

It was a triform weapon; when holstered the Mk. III was set to a firearm state resembling a compact machine gun, with a sleek rectangular clip attached flatly to the side and muzzle silenced. Obaz practiced taking this off the back of his waist quite a bit as he had fastened it carefully. When switching modes of combat, the foregrip was removed and the frame of the gun revolved to create a wide hand guard over the handle and hilt of a blade that extended from the stock, meaning the sword was being held facing behind when utilized from here.

The blade had large points just beyond the end of the hilt by a few inches and was serrated for most of the climb to the tip, resembling a flamberge and meeting the impressive length of one as well. When the two sections of the handle were separated and slid apart, the shaft of a spear was created between them as well as along the remaining gun barrel while the serrated blade returned to the frame in kind, the tip stopping at the points near the base at full length but could be set to anywhere along the way, spear shaft and blade edge maintaining an equilibrium at all times.

Ultimately, the weapon was very versatile with mid range and long range combat, but also quite complex. Obaz wordlessly acknowledged Petto at this point, revealing that he had known he was keeping tabs as well as showing that he was confident in this result. The remaining time was spent practicing with the machine gun form, as Obaz had gone hunting with Mr. Petto before but only seldom- not enough to really be considered experience. The accuracy Obaz showed in his thinking didn't appear in his physical aim; the shots he took went wide of every target he tried to hit, and his frustration showed.

When the time finally came for Obaz to be sent away to the Academy, the majority of his co-workers arrived to bid him farewell. Seeing him off, Petto turned away from the shuttle and smiled to himself. Of anyone Griswold could have referred to Beacon, Obaz would come across as subpar at best, nothing close to what most young prodigies were like upon arriving at such a school, and to an extent he really was. The time would come when he'd see him again, hopefully better of the experience...

Obaz' turn to meet with the headmasters of Beacon was in little more than five minutes. He waited in one of the many seats arranged in the hall by the heavy oak doors, feeling somewhat uncomfortable in the clothes and equipment he had purchased for the occasion of becoming a huntsman; nothing really flashy like some of the other students he'd come across but far from a grease-stained shirt and overalls. The thick, black, long-sleeved shirt was pinned to his torso by several straps along his midsection and over his shoulders, meeting more tightly near his right shoulder to reinforce that area for the stock of his weapon when firing. The dark brown pants he had taken had an assortment of handy pockets before being neatly tucked inside his all-purpose, steel-toed boots. The only things he had brought with him from the factory were his gloves, which were strong and had a firm grip, and his worker's hat.

There were five more students waiting further down from him, all wearing the uniform of the school they were hailing from, discussing what they thought their chances were and recent events that may have impact on their mingling with the current student populace;

"- on top of that, I heard that this Ruby girl got let into the school, no questions asked, and she's only fifteen. Right after that, she was assigned as the leader of her respective team. The fact that this genius kid just up and appeared is probably raising the bar for us, being late to the party and all."

The heavy doors next to him swung open, the hopeful fellow that had gone in about fifteen minutes ago now leaving with his head hung low- that made six of the seventeen exchanged students coming here to apply now spurned. As he began to stand up, the girl that had taken the seat to his left continued to chat with those nearest her;

"- and there goes another one. Looks bleak, doesn't it? ... Good luck in there, guy."

It took a moment for Obaz to realize the last of the statement was directed at him, whose time had come. He looked over his shoulder to see a smile of shallow reassurance framed by auburn locks, and nodded after a short pause. He was unused to the idle chatter and easy faces these people seemed to make their day out of, and he had no time to stop and reciprocate even if he wanted. After stepping through the arch of the doorframe they swung shut behind him, making a feeling of entrapment creep up over his back.

There was a semi-circular desk at the far end of the somewhat long room, lit with a nice looking chandelier casting a gold hue over the green wallpaper and a few paintings. Multiple staff members of Beacon were eyeing him from their seats edging the rounded side; a man wearing glasses sat with coffee in a mug in his hand, judging by the black and green wardrobe this was the headmaster Ozpin he'd heard about. Next to him was a woman adjusting glasses of her own, with blonde hair and wearing a white suit and black skirt, a tattered cape pinned between her and her chair. There was an older man sitting on the other side of Ozpin with a thick moustache and bergundy suit, with a disheveled, gaunt and also bespectacled man next over. There were a few empty seats, but these four were the ones deciding whether or not he would be accepted at the moment.

The blonde woman was skimming through a set of documents for a time until she raised her head from the papers to try to meet his gaze. Obaz' hat had been removed and held behind him with his crossed hands, but his bangs still made the contact difficult. Unable to tell if she had succeeded in catching his eyes or given up trying, his attention became fully transfixed on her when she began to speak.

"Your name is Obaz Petto, correct?"

"Yes."

"No records show Mr. Griswold Petto having children presently, despite his referral in your name."

"I was taken off the streets by Mr. Petto. With no parents of my own, taking up Mr. Petto's name was intended to respect him. My actual surname is of no consequence."

"I believe I will be the judge of that, Mr. Petto."

Obaz watched the woman like a hawk, unwavering from her stern disposition.

"No prior schooling is listed here for you. Is this true?"

"Yes."

"And yet you maintained a position of 'Automotive and Hydraulics Engineer' for the last two years?"

"One year, eleven months and twelve days. But yes."

The woman paused, gleaned over the documents more closely, and then eyed him again with a bit more curiosity. Flipping through pages, she stopped shortly after she began and cited;

"April twentieth, this year. Do you remember what happened that day?"

Obaz, not knowing what event she was exactly looking for, began listing off numerous things. When he explained which model of vehicle he had worked on that day, which tools he had used and forgone to save time, the fact that he had skipped his lunch and prevented a chemical spill, he at last reached what she was asking for.

"- at 9:56 pm, the Lempwischer Car Lift suffered a breakdown while raising a Phorneous Copperago Sports-utility vehicle frame. There were two severe injuries, one being my own. Several of the worker's statements suggested this was the fault of one Mark Jaccis..."

Obaz continued to speak, and even though he had explained what she had asked for the woman was at a bit of a loss as to how she should proceed. The last thing she had expected was the frightfully accurate memory of this boy. Soon she simply held up her hand to stop his rambling, hesitating only a moment longer.

"The point I was making is that this event was recent, yet you show no obvious signs of lingering difficulties."

"... Miss Glynda Goodwitch, was it? Would you allow me to speak freely?"

There was a pause. The two on Ozpin's left glanced at each other, not knowing what to make of this, but Ozpin himself broke his established silence and answered in Glynda's place.

"If you would speak your mind, Obaz, go right ahead."

"Thank you, Sir."

There was a steady rise in the shock on each of the member's expressions when Obaz described his recovery from the incident and showed them proof of the information regarding his injuries. After putting this part to rest as quickly as possible, he hammered a verbal nail into the entire process of examining him.

"I have had no proper education before I applied for the scholarship here, however I am more than capable of learning everything these students already know from the ground up, alongside what you plan to teach us in this curriculum. Any lack of skill I might have in combat will be corrected in a matter of time... as long as I will have an abundance of it here. I will not be particularly disappointed were you all to reject my attendance of Beacon, but I am ready, willing, and able to excel under your tutelage- and turning me away, I personally find, would be a waste of the time we've all spent here talking about it."

Glynda seemed taken aback by Obaz' haste to get this over with, but the men across the table seemed amused beyond measure by this turn of events. Ozpin stood up, taking a sip of his drink while setting his free hand in front of him.

"Obaz Petto, I hereby accept you into Beacon Academy. Your first appointment is at Beacon Cliffs tomorrow at 10:00 am. Sharp. Do not be late for your initiation..."

Obaz did not show any signs of happiness or excitement. He merely bowed to each of them, muttered a thank you to Ozpin, and took his leave while setting his hat back in place. The four of them had started speaking amongst themselves just as Obaz froze at the door, turning on his heel and waiting for them to finish before crossing the room again.

"Pardon the impertinence, but I would like to ask one more favor of you. If at all possible, refraining from telling the other students of my accident and results thereof would be appreciated. Being treated differently by them would likely affect my cadence in studies. Beyond that, I believe it to be in my hands to tell others of these matters."

The four staff members stared at him, the student holding a straight face as he potentially asked them to keep a secret from his peers. Ozpin nodded to him, motioning for the others to do the same, before sending Obaz on his way out.