A/N: Nothing is owned by me

A bit short chapter than previous, i will cover transformation in next chapter

This chapter covers lot of history and backstory and how it tied to cannon lore from vol3

Also let me know what do you think

Should I give more RWBY characters a dark backstory?

Casting:

James Ironwood: Adolf Hitler (kind of)

Johann Schmidt: Johann Schmidt: Red Skull


Chapter 3

The recruits sit in the dark room, their eyes glued to the projector screen. The only sound is the projector's low buzz as it starts to play the film. A bright red background flashes on the screen, contrasted by a black queen chess piece that seems to hover in the air. The image creates a sense of dread and danger that is hard to shake off.

From the shadowed corners of the room, a voice emerges — velvety smooth yet dripping with malevolence. As it begins to speak, there's a hint of smug satisfaction, as if the speaker relishes the very chaos they describe.

"This is not a tragedy. This was not an accident."

The camera shifts, revealing shocked and fearful faces of civilians, their expressions mirroring the terror evoked by the speaker's words.

"This is what happens when you hand over your trust, your safety, your children, to men who claim to be our guardians..."

As the speaker's voice continues, several audience members squirm in their seats, a deep unease settling over them. Jaune, among the recruits, is visibly affected. His fingers curl into a tight fist, knuckles white.

"...but are, in reality, nothing more than men. Our Academies' Headmasters wield more power than most armies, and one was audacious enough to control both ..."

Images flicker across the screen: large academies, formidable headmasters, armies in formation, all interspersed with scenes of destruction and mayhem.

"And yet, what do we have here? One nation's attempt at a synthetic army, mercilessly torn apart by another's star pupil. What need would Atlas have for a soldier disguised as an innocent little girl?"

The film cuts to a shot of a little girl, eerily innocent in appearance but with eyes that hint at something more.

"I don't think Grimm can tell the difference. And what, I ask you, is Ozpin teaching his students? First a dismemberment, now this? Huntsmen and Huntresses should carry themselves with honor and mercy, yet I have witnessed neither."

The film displays scenes of Ozpin, followed by footage of huntsmen and huntresses in combat — brutal, unrelenting, no mercy shown.

"Perhaps Ozpin felt as though defeating Atlas in the Tournament would help people forget his colossal failure to protect Vale when the Grimm invaded its streets."

Vivid images of Grimm attacking Vale flood the screen, chaos and destruction everywhere.

"Or perhaps this was his message to the tyrannical dictator that has occupied an unsuspecting kingdom with armed forces."

A shot of Ironwood, standing tall and imposing, his expression cold and calculating.

"Honestly, I haven't the slightest clue as to who is right and who is wrong. But I know the existence of peace is fragile, and the leaders of our kingdoms conduct their business with iron gloves."

The screen displays scenes from the different kingdoms, where leaders meet in hushed tones, plotting and scheming.

"As someone who hails from Mistral, I can assure you the situation there is... equally undesirable. Our Kingdoms are on the brink of war ..."

A visual of Mistral in turmoil is displayed, the land dark and people in despair.

"So I ask you: When the first shots are fired... who do you think you can trust?"

The screen goes black, the only sound being the resonating echo of the question.

The silence is shattered by the narrator, an older voice filled with both wisdom and pain: The "Many in Vale might remember this as the beginning of the end. Five years ago, this very speech led to chaos, inducing a devastating Grimm attack coupled with a brutal onslaught by the White Fang."

Images of the Grimm tearing through the city, the devastation and loss, play in haunting succession

The narrator paused, letting the weight of the words sink in before continuing, "The origins of the speech remain a topic of debate. Some argue it could be the work of extremist factions like the White Fang, striving to sow discord among the kingdoms. However, a significant number attribute it to General Ironwood, pointing towards his unsettling ties with Mistral's influential leader, Johann Schmidt."

Images flickered across the screen, painting a haunting visual of the events that followed. "Ironwood's subsequent actions only fueled these suspicions. In the aftermath of Beacon's fall, he wasted no time consolidating his power in Atlas. The democratic council that once stood as a beacon of justice and governance in Atlas was swiftly executed under his watch. Martial law was declared, and what followed can only be described as a bloodbath."

The screen showcased a few images of the atrocities. Most were blurred out, but the implications were clear enough to send shivers down the spines of the recruits. Charred buildings, the haunting glow of eyes in the dark, and shadows of Grimm lurking were suggestive enough.

"Under Ironwood's regime, dissent became a crime," the narrator continued, his voice dripping with disdain. "Anyone voicing opposition, or even mere skepticism, faced severe repercussions. Life imprisonment for some, while many were executed without trial."

Photographs filled the screen, showing prominent figures from Atlas's political arena. Many were marked in gray, indicating their tragic fates. Renowned activists, politicians, and thinkers – their voices were silenced, one by one.

"And amidst this rising tyranny," the voice deepened further, "Ironwood's connection with Johann Schmidt became increasingly evident. Schmidt, once a fringe extremist, quickly rose to power, bolstered by the might and influence of Ironwood."

The screen displayed a black-and-white photograph of Johann Schmidt, a stern man with sharp features, his eyes cold and calculating. Beside him, a slightly blurry image of Ironwood, their association clear.

"In an era of growing uncertainty and tyranny, the people of Remnant found themselves at the mercy of two power-hungry leaders. Leaders who would stop at nothing to reshape the world according to their vision, even if it meant plunging the entire realm into darkness."

The narrative voice retained its gravitas, compelling attention, "On the tragic day of the Fall, the citizens of Vale displayed remarkable bravery and resilience. The true spirit of humanity was laid bare for all to see, challenging the despair brought by the Grimm."

The film reel displayed images, each capturing a moment of heroism. Jaune's eyes flitted across each frame, recognizing familiar faces in the midst of chaos. There was Glynda, wielding her magic with unyielding determination. Qrow, his scythe slicing through waves of Grimm. Ren and Nora, fighting back-to-back, their bond evident even amidst the turmoil. And then there was Ruby, Coco, and several others he had come to know, each engrossed in their valiant struggles.

Transitioning from the Huntsmen and Huntresses, the images began showcasing the unsung heroes of that fateful day: the soldiers and ordinary citizens. Brave souls who might not have had the same training or powers but fought with equal vigor. Families shielding their young, store owners defending their livelihoods, every individual making a stand.

However, as the narrator continued, the tone took a melancholic turn. "That was also the day Vale came face to face with a harrowing truth - heroes, despite their might, are as mortal as the rest of us." The reel showcased haunting visuals. Rows of bodies, their identities concealed under pristine white sheets, yet the magnitude of the tragedy was palpable. Debris of shattered buildings had trapped unfortunate souls, with only their lifeless limbs protruding. And amongst these heart-wrenching scenes, discarded weapons symbolized the final moments of some valiant Huntsmen and Huntresses.

A somber silence enveloped the room as an iconic image dominated the screen. It was Pyrrha Nikos, the invincible girl, lying amidst the ruins of Beacon, as the blood pools around her. Beacon tower looming in the background, partially destroyed. Her eyes, which once held so much passion and determination, now stared emptily into the void.

The whole room could feel the palpable grief, but none more so than Jaune. He sat motionless, every fiber of his being focused on that heart-wrenching image. His knuckles white from clutching the armrests, the sharp intensity of his gaze reflecting a storm of emotions.

Though the narrator's voice persisted, offering context and details, Jaune's world had narrowed down to that one image. An emblem of lost innocence, a symbol of sacrifice, and a painful reminder of a cherished friend.


The dusky atmosphere was dominated by the fragmented appearance of Remnant's moon, casting an ethereal glow. Jaune sat on a stone bench, the cool, unyielding surface a stark contrast to the warmth of the night. The only sound was the gentle rustling of leaves, punctuated by the quiet clink of a bottle he pulled from his pocket.

Just as the cap was about to pop open, a voice interjected. "I wouldn't recommend it," it remarked, firm yet gentle.

Jaune jumped slightly, turning to see Whitley Schnee, his smile both enigmatic and familiar.

Without waiting for a cue, Whitley sat down beside him. "It's better not to drink today. You have a big day tomorrow," he advised.

Placing the unopened bottle beside him, Jaune inquired, "What brings you here, Mr. Schnee?"

Whitley chuckled, "Just Whitley is fine. And, I'm here to see Vale's first super-soldier."

Jaune sighed deeply, looking defeated.

Perceptive, Whitley asked, "What happened, did you not like the movie? I thought it was pretty inspirational."

"I kinda lost after the fall of Beacon part," Jaune began, his voice quivering. The weight of his memories pressed down on him. He swallowed hard before continuing, "...seeing all that death and gloom."

Whitley's smile was gentle, almost comforting. "Oh, then you missed all the inspirational parts they were right after that." But as quickly as it appeared, the smile vanished, replaced with a more introspective expression. "You knew them right?"

Jaune's gaze returned to the fragmented moon. "Not many, but yeah… there were a few," he replied softly.

Turning to face Whitley, Jaune's brow furrowed in confusion. "Can I ask you one question?"

Lost in his own thoughts, Whitley took a moment before responding, "Sure."

Jaune hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Why are you choosing me? I mean, you, Dr. Merlot, and the commander could find thousands of candidates better than me."

Whitley's eyes held Jaune's with an intensity that made the latter shift uncomfortably. "I guess that's the only question that matters." He paused, taking a deep breath as memories flashed across his eyes. "You know, I had heard about you… before all this war and mess." He also looked towards the moon, "I know you used to chase my sister."

Jaune sat in silence

Whitley's voice took on a sarcastic tone, "And no, my sister didn't tell me anything." Whitley paused, still looking at the broken moon "We haven't spoken a word in the last 3 years." Another pause "When she was at Beacon, she used to write to our eldest sister, Winter. She just doesn't know I had already hacked Winter's scroll a long time ago."

Jaune raised an eyebrow in surprise, prompting a smirk from Whitley. "Anyway, I don't think Winter read her messages, but I did. She'd complain about a 'blond doofus' giving her trouble and ask for advice." Whitley Chuckled as he looked at Jaune and remembered something, "It was a fun time," he mused, a wistful tone creeping into his voice.

The atmosphere grew heavy as Whitley continued. "Then the fall of Beacon happened. Ironwood went mad. War started. And Everything just went to hell" he look solemn

"My father was pumping money for Ironwood's war, Winter decided to marry Johann Schmidt - the evil guy. Weiss Just disappeared. We thought she died somewhere in a corner. My mother… She sought solace in alcohol. I was completely lost, with no purpose."

Jaune, despite the weight of his own pain, listened intently, captivated by Whitley's tale. "After 6 months, Weiss returned. She and my father had a massive argument. He wanted her to embrace her role as heiress, but she chose she wanted to continue the path as a huntress. In the end, he discarded her and she vowed never to return to Atlas. My mother was distraught and then…"

"Your father committed suicide," Jaune finished softly.

Whitley gave a weak smile. "Well, that's the official story."

"I was there that day, in my room, trying to catch a few hours of rest amidst the chaos of our house. Suddenly, the unmistakable noise of a commotion echoed from below."

He took a deep breath, fighting back the overwhelming emotions. "When I went to investigate, the scene that met my eyes was... horrifying. My mother stood there, with a bloodied knife in hand, the red stark against the immaculate white of her dress. At her feet lay my father, lifeless, covered in countless stab wounds."

Jaune was stunned, rendered speechless by the candid revelation.

"Yeah, talk about dark and grim," Whitley attempted to lighten the mood by giving his signature smile, "But don't worry. She's in a better place now, confined to a mental hospital, getting the help she so desperately needs."

After letting that information sink in for a moment, Jaune finally managed to ask, "Mr. . .. Whitley, why... why are you telling me all this?"

Whitley turned to face him, his smile melancholic yet genuine, "You see, Jaune, our world is a reflection of its broken moon. It's not just shattered geographically or cosmically, its people are fractured too. The cracks run deep, affecting us all in different ways."

Motioning with a nod, Whitley directed Jaune's gaze towards the field where he saw May Marigold, under the soft moonlight, was diligently training. The rhythmic sounds of her strikes resonated in the stillness.

"May Marigold," Whitley began, his voice tinged with a solemn gravitas, "is an Atlas Academy top graduate. She was so fiercely committed to aiding Mantle that she took the law into her own hands, becoming a vigilante of sorts. Her own family disowned her, yet she found solace with her friends—her team, the Happy Huntresses."

He paused, a dry chuckle escaping him.

"Yes, that's actually what they called themselves." His expression darkened as he continued, "However, every tale has its share of shadows, and for May, it was James Ironwood." Jaune's discomfort was evident. "Ironwood slaughtered those she vowed to protect," Whitley's voice seethed with rage. "He annihilated the family that once disowned her," his voice dripped with contempt. Gripping Jaune's shoulder, he nodded towards Marigold's silhouette in the field. "And he extinguished the new family that embraced her." The weight of the revelation left Jaune speechless.

Whitley's gaze turned distant, "That fateful day is etched in my memory. She was a shattered soul, devoid of any will to go on. I extended an offer, inviting her to Vale. The city had once been my refuge, and I believed it might heal her as well." His eyes warmed momentarily, "And now, here she is in Vale, carrying the burdens of her past. During the day, she dedicates herself to mentoring the new generation, equipping them for the challenges of battle. And when night falls, she relentlessly hones her own skills, perhaps fueled by a thirst for vengeance, or perhaps by the sheer desire to make things right."

Whitley looked deeply into Jaune's eyes, his gaze penetrating. "You, me, her are not the only ones, look around, Jaune. Everywhere you turn, you'll find stories like hers. Your friend Oscar probably has one just as heart-wrenching. Our world is brimming with people scarred by their pasts, each one trying to mend their broken souls."

As the realization washed over Jaune, Whitley's voice became firmer, "And Jaune, broken people don't need soldiers or warriors to fix their issues. What they truly need is .. hope."

He smiled, a touch of warmth in his eyes, "And that hope? We see that in you. I'm not sure how much Merlot has shared with you, but the serum? It enhances what's already there. A good man becomes great."

Jaune queried, "And a bad man?"

"Turn worse."

Jaune nodded, "Thank you for sharing all this."

Whitley began to leave but snagged the bottle of wine Jaune had, prompting a quizzical look from Jaune.

Grinning, Whitley shrugged, "I have no procedure tomorrow."


A chilling wind breezed through the vast stretch of the military base as a heavily modified car glided to a halt, its imposing hood ornament, a hydra skull, gleaming under the light of the broken moon. Its presence was further accentuated by the rhythmic sounds of jackboots clicking against cobblestone streets.

Rows of soldiers, rigid and attentive, stood with their hands behind their backs, their faces set in grim determination. Their lined-up forms created a ceremonial pathway, indicating the importance of the vehicle's occupant.

The car door swung open slowly, revealing a man dressed in a dark, crisp military uniform. His eyes, sunken and hollow, looked over the scene, giving away nothing. His skin was an unsettling shade of pale, almost waxy, as if not naturally belonging to his skeletal frame.

A collective salutation echoed in the open field as the soldiers simultaneously saluted their superior. The palpable tension in the atmosphere was a testament to the man's feared reputation; one could tell that the smallest infraction might cost them dearly.

Emerging from the crowd, an elderly woman with striking short silver hair and sharp brown eyes approached the man. Her Atlesian uniform denoted her high rank. Close behind her, an elderly man with round glasses clutched a tablet scroll with evident concern.

Both offered their salute, even more formally than the rest, clearly indicating that the man they greeted held a position much superior to theirs.

"At ease, Cordovin, Zola," the man commanded in a deep, resonant voice. The sternness in his tone commanded immediate compliance, and both officers relaxed their stance.

As he started walking towards the heart of the military base, activity buzzed around him. Soldiers hurriedly moved, equipment was rolled out, and everywhere he looked, there was a sense of intense preparation.

"Is everything in place for the operation?" the man inquired; his gaze sharp.

Cordovin straightened, her voice confident, "Argus is primed and ready to deploy at full strength, Commander Schmidt." She then hesitated, her professionalism faltering briefly, "However, we've yet to apprehend Raven Branwen. Her brother, Qrow Branwen, is in custody, and we're using him to get to her."

Schmidt abruptly stopped, turning his cold gaze onto Cordovin. "I was hoping for a more affirmative response. Need I remind you how critical this mission is?"

"I understand, Commander," Cordovin quickly responded, her voice edged with anxiety. "But Raven is elusive, especially in Anima."

Schmidt's voice dropped lower, dripping with menace. "You have Qrow Branwen, make him suffer, break every bone in his body until he screams for death. If Raven Branwen doesn't surface within a week, move on to the others in her circle."

Cordovin's voice was almost a whisper, "Understood."

Zola's voice broke in, tinged with nervousness, "Commander Schmidt, there's another pressing matter. Our spies report that Dr. Merlot has perfected the serum. If it's as potent as we fear, he could be a formidable adversary."

Schmidt's lips twisted into a sardonic smile, eyes narrowing. "Don't fret, Zola. I've taken precautions to ensure he won't be a problem for much longer."