A/N: Nothing is owned by me

Summary: Jaune Arc did not forge his transcripts; they were genuine and rightfully his. However, he concealed a significant truth about his identity. He wasn't actually Jaune Arc; that name belonged to his older brother. His true name was Steve Rogers, an orphan taken in and raised as a servant by the Arc family. His goal: to elevate the name of Jaune Arc to heroic and serve his nation.

Edit1: Changing the robot to ultron

Time Period: 5 years After the fall of Beacon and 4 years after the start of second great war

Casting

Jaune Arc: Steve Rogers: Captain America

Cardin Winchester: Bucky Barnes

Whitley Schnee: Howard Stark

Chapter 1

The sun cast a melancholic hue upon the city of Vale, painting long shadows against the city's structural backdrop. Where the Beacon Tower had once stood proud, only remnants and ruins remained, a somber symbol of shattered dreams.

Despite the tower's demise, Vale's streets hummed with life. But the hurried steps and tense expressions betrayed a city under strain. War loomed large and Grimm attacks were no longer rare occurrences but dreaded expectations.

In the city square, a large crowd gathered around a makeshift projector screen, broadcasting news from across Remnant. Faces were drawn, with worry evident as the screen displayed the latest devastations.

"... Another town in Vacuo falls to Atlas," a newsreader's voice announced, underscoring the growing tension. The screen switched, showing the aftermath of a Grimm attack on a village. "With fear reaching new heights, Grimm incidents surge."

The impacts of the war weren't limited to loss of life. An infographic depicted the skyrocketing Dust prices, highlighting the economic ramifications of the conflict.

Nearby, young hopefuls crowded the entrance to the Vale Enlistment Office. Among them was a young man a bit different from the rest. His clothes draped over his thin frame, he had no muscles and looked more like a skeleton that could fall with a thin push of wind, but his eyes gleamed with determination. As he stepped inside, the familiar scent of old wood and ink enveloped him.

A silver-badged officer beckoned him over. "Name?" he inquired, not bothering to look up.

"Jaune Steve Arc."

The officer paused, raising an eyebrow as he skimmed a file before him. "Applied to Beacon... expelled due to health reasons?" His tone carried a hint of skepticism.

Jaune cleared his throat, "I had some...health complications, but I'm better now."

The officer raised an eyebrow, his gaze skimming over the file. "It's more than 'some' complications, Arc. Asthma, heart issues, and there's mention of a genetic condition. I wonder how you were even accepted?"

Jaune did not reply.

The officer looked directly at Jaune. "Your father? The 107th squad?"

"He died protecting a town from bandits," Jaune replied, his voice firm.

"And your mother?"

"Fought terminal cancer. She battled every single day."

There was a moment of silence as the officer continued to scrutinize Jaune. "Your spirit is commendable, but this war demands more than just spirit."

"I've had my aura unlocked," Jaune interjected.

A sharp look from the officer silenced him. "Aura or not, with your conditions..."

Jaune pleaded, "I only want a chance to prove myself."

The officer, with evident sympathy, replied, "I'm trying to save you from something you might not come back from." With a heavy heart, he stamped the paper "4F".

Jaune sat at the bar, nursing his drink and staring forlornly at the report card before him — the glaring "4F" symbolizing his dashed aspirations. He took a deep breath, the weight of rejection bearing down, and signaled for another drink.

The dim lights of the bar reflected the subdued mood of its patrons. Each corner, from the chipped wooden counter to the worn-out stools, whispered tales of a brighter past and the looming war's toll.

The faunus bartender, a middle-aged man with ram horns curling from his head, glanced at Jaune's report and sighed, "Drowning your sorrows won't alter that paper, young man."

Jaune smirked bitterly, swirling the amber liquid. "Feels like I'm already buried. Just waiting for the dirt to cover me."

The bartender nodded, his gaze distant. "Ever since Beacon fell, followed by this damnable war, everyone's been fighting some shadow."

Jaune's attention shifted to a TV broadcasting familiar faces: Ruby Rose and Weiss Schnee, valiantly battling Grimm to defend a beleaguered town in Vacuo.

"Some still shine a light in the dark," Jaune murmured, respect clear in his voice.

The bartender grunted, "Aye, the huntsmen and huntresses. They're our bulwark against the Grimm. Thankfully, politics hasn't tainted them."

A derisive snort came from a corner table. "Huntsmen? They are Overrated! Especially that Schnee."

Jaune's eyes narrowed, "They're out there risking it all for us. Mind your words."

A burly man from the group sneered, "The Schnees are the root of our problems! Leeching off our pain!"

One of the men, larger with a sneer plastered on his face, snorted. "Why? Because she's a Schnee? They're the reason we're in this mess! Living off of our misery!"

The bartender interjected, "I've my reservations about the Schnee family, particularly Johann and his wife Winter Schnee. But lumping them all together isn't fair. That young lady on the screen? She's out there fighting for us. And some Schnees have truly been on Vale's side in this conflict."

The antagonistic patron stood, his posture threatening. "Are you defending her? Just because you've got those horns doesn't mean you can speak up against us!"

"Back off!" Jaune interposed himself between the two.

"Back off or what, Schnee sympathizer?" the man taunted.

Jaune's restraint evaporated. He lunged, landing a firm punch. The bar erupted in turmoil.

Jaune's vision blurred momentarily from the force of the punch. The cold, rough texture of the brick walls of the alleyway pressed against his back, and he felt the sharp sting of pebbles cutting into his palms. He tried to shake off the dizziness, tasting the metallic tang of blood on his lips. His ribs ached, and a dull pain radiated from his swelling jaw. Yet, he pushed through the pain, pulling himself upright.

He adopted a defensive stance, squaring his shoulders, his blue eyes defiantly locking onto the brute who'd tossed him aside. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but there was a fire, an unyielding spirit within Jaune that held him grounded.

Swiftly, he snagged a discarded trash can lid, wielding it as an impromptu shield. It briefly defended him against a wild swing, but the jerk was overpoweringly strong, yanking it away and casting it aside as if it were mere paper. Sneering, the bully landed another punch, one that sent Jaune sprawling amidst the littered refuse of the alley.

Yet, Jaune's spirit remained unbroken. He pulled himself upright once more, resolve burning in his eyes. "Still on your feet? Surprising," the brute smirked, clearly relishing the prolonged confrontation. "You just don't know when to give up, do you?"

Jaune wiped away the blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth, locking eyes with his attacker. "I can do this all day."

The brute, growing visibly frustrated at Jaune's resilience, prepared to deliver another blow when an iron grip caught his arm. He spun around, only to come face-to-face with a soldier. He was dressed in a well-worn uniform with sharp eyes that radiated authority.

Cardin "Bucky" Winchester.

Cardin's gaze shifted between the two, then settled back on the jerk. "What's with all the fighting?" His voice carried a note of warning, and despite the simplicity of the question, there was an undercurrent of threat that couldn't be ignored.

The jerk hesitated, clearly caught off guard by the new arrival. He took a step back, glancing from Jaune to Cardin.

Cardin reeled back and delivered a punishing blow to the jerk's face. The force of the punch knocked him off his feet, sprawling him onto the cobblestones.

Cardin's eyes never left the man as he lay on the ground, clutching his now bleeding nose. "Thought so," Cardin said coolly, his voice dripping with disdain.

The jerk groaned, attempting to pull himself up but faltering as the pain overtook him. With a final, resentful glare, he scurried out of the alley, eager to escape the wrath of the soldier.

Jaune, now catching his breath, gave Cardin a grateful nod. Cardin chuckled, shaking his head, "You really need to pick your battles, 'Arc'."

Jaune managed a weak grin. "Guess I've always had a knack for picking the tough ones."

Cardin chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as he picked up the crumpled enlistment form. "Sometimes I think you like getting punched."

"How many times is this now, Jaune?" Cardin asked, the hint of a tease in his voice but the underlying concern evident.

Jaune, dusting off his pants and avoiding Cardin's gaze, replied, "Just a few... okay, more than a few."

Cardin raised an eyebrow, unfolding the paper. "And, seriously... Jaune Steve Arc? Decided to mix it up with your real name, Rogers? You do know it's illegal to lie on an enlistment form. And making Steve your middle name now? You're getting creative."

Jaune sighed, looking away. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

Cardin smirked but there was warmth in his eyes. "Always the persistent one, aren't you?"

A brief silence hung between them. Jaune's eyes caught sight of Cardin's uniform, noting its new insignia. "Looks like you got your orders."

Cardin nodded somberly. "107th. We're heading to Mistral tomorrow." He paused, looking around the dimly lit streets of Vale. "It's my last night here."

Jaune sighed. "So... first stop, church? To pray for safe travels?"

With a mischievous grin, Cardin replied, "Maybe second stop. I've got something else in mind."

Jaune raised an eyebrow, curious. "Where are we going?"

In response, Cardin produced a folded newspaper from his pocket, handing it over to Jaune. The headline read: "Special Exhibition: The Future of Warfare." Beneath it, images of new weapons, armored vehicles, and experimental gear gleamed promisingly.

Cardin's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Thought we might get a sneak peek at what's waiting for us across the pond."

Jaune smirked, a spark of excitement lighting up his eyes. "Lead the way."

In the heart of Vale, amidst the hustle and bustle of the city, stood the 'Future of Warfare Exhibit'. With grand arches and shimmering lights, the exhibit offered a glimpse into the advances of military technology, a somber yet fascinating testament to the changing times. The entrance was thronged with people — young and old, hopeful and fearful, all seeking understanding or perhaps just distraction.

The vast halls, filled with gleaming weaponry and technological marvels, stood in stark contrast to the ruins of Beacon Academy, which once stood proud and inviolable before its tragic fall five years ago. Every Vale citizen bore the scar of that day, a constant, painful reminder of their vulnerability. The city had been rebuilt, but the collective memory of that devastation lingered.

Jaune and Cardin navigated through the exhibit, passing by displays of state-of-the-art weaponry and armored vehicles. Every now and then, Cardin would pause to explain a piece of tech to Jaune, trying to lighten the mood with occasional playful banter.

"As much as I appreciate the trip down Armageddon lane," Jaune began with a hint of sarcasm, "I'm still not sure why I agreed to this double date you've planned."

Cardin rolled his eyes, chuckling, "Come on, Jaune. When was the last time you had a fun evening out? It'll be good for you."

Jaune hesitated, looking away, "You know the problem, Cardin."

Cardin sighed, stopping in front of an aerial drone display. "I do, but Jaune, you have to move on. It's been five years. Pyrrha... She's not coming back."

A heavy silence fell between them. The weight of their shared loss hung in the air, a painful reminder of the scars that the fall of Beacon have left behind.

Taking a deep breath, Jaune said, "I know Pyrrha's gone, I have accepted the fact long ago. But I can't just... settle down, not with everything going on, not with what people are facing out there. I need to do something."

Cardin turned to him, earnestness in his gaze. "There are people doing something, Jaune. Not everyone needs to be on the front lines. You don't need to lay down your life."

Jaune's blue eyes searched Cardin's face. "Then tell me, Cardin. Why did you join the Vale military? You had the grades, the skills. Unlike me, you had the chance to join any other academy, to become a fully-fledged Huntsman. Why didn't you? Why did you and the rest of Team CRDL enlist?"

Cardin looked thoughtful for a moment. The noises of the exhibit faded into the background as memories washed over him.

"It's not just about being a hero, Jaune. It's about finding a place where you belong, where you can make a difference. I found that with Team CRDL in the military. Sometimes, it's about fighting for those beside you, not just the ideals you hold."

Jaune sighed "You are correct Cardin, but it is not the answer i am looking for"

Cardin, noticing Jaune's introspection, tried to lighten the mood. "Relax, i will sure you will find the answer once we meet our dates"

Following his gaze, Jaune's eyes landed on two young women standing a short distance away, waving energetically in their direction. One was dressed in red with her hair tied back in a high ponytail, while the other, her identical twin, was adorned in white with her hair down.

"What'd you tell her about me?" Jaune asked with a hint of apprehension, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Cardin grinned mischievously; his hand raised in a continuing wave. "Only the good stuff, I promise."

As they approached, the twins introduced themselves. "I'm Miltia," said the one in red, extending a hand.

"And I'm Melanie," added the other with a graceful nod.

With introductions complete, the group began walking, with Cardin and the twins taking the lead. Jaune trailed a bit behind, feeling slightly out of place.

Finding themselves at a quaint peanut shop, the group decided to take a seat. The seating arrangement, however, left Jaune feeling even more like the odd man out. Miltia scooted closer to Cardin, chatting animatedly about his exploits and how he managed to survive the fall of Beacon. Melanie, meanwhile, sat with a bit of distance from Jaune.

Trying to break the ice, Jaune offered Melanie a handful of peanuts. She looked him up and down with a mixture of indifference and mild disdain. "No thanks," she replied curtly, "I've never been a fan of blondes."

Jaune blinked in surprise. "Any particular reason?"

Miltia laughed, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Let's just say, back when we were bodyguards at our uncle's bar, a certain blonde caused quite a scene. Destroyed half the place. Melanie's pride has never really recovered."

Piecing together the story with a memory of his own, Jaune chuckled. "Sounds like Yang."

Miltia raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "You know her? She is a famous huntress."

Before Jaune could respond, Cardin, ever the protective friend, chimed in. "Of course he knows her. She studied at Beacon. Jaune and I were best buddies with her back at Beacon."

Jaune rolled his eyes at the exaggeration, but before he could correct Cardin, Miltia gave him a scrutinizing look. "You went to Beacon? With that physique, how did you survive the fall?"

Jaune hesitated for a moment, then admitted, "I was expelled just before everything happened."

Melanie, without missing a beat, responded with a dry, "Lucky."

Jaune, chuckling at the irony of it all, agreed. "Yes, very lucky."

The crowd's buzzing excitement was almost palpable as Jaune, Cardin, Miltia, and Melanie made their way toward the throng of people surrounding the stage in the center.

From where they stood, the stage was a beacon of vibrant hues against the waning light of the evening. The stage's backdrop shimmered with a vast neon sign that read "Marvels of Tomorrow," its vibrant colors casting a surreal glow that danced off the faces of the onlookers. Every few moments, a new shade would dominate, painting the scene with a palette that seemed to promise an unforgettable spectacle.

Jaune, trying to acclimate to the sights and sounds around him, took a moment to look around. To his side, Melanie was jumping up and down, her earlier impassive demeanor having given way to genuine excitement. On the stage, performers in brightly coloured outfits danced, their choreography mesmerizing.

Suddenly, the music took on a grander tone as the voice of an announcer boomed, "Ladies and Gentlemen! Allow me to present the organizer of today's function, a man whose weapons are keeping our families safe, a man who has promised to keep vale safe —the Doom of Atlas, WHITLEY SCHNEE!"

Emerging through a haze of light and smoke, Whitley Schnee appeared. His silver hair seemed to reflect the neon lights, making him glow. Whitley struck a confident pose, girls flanking him on either side. The music picked up, and they danced, the movements syncopated with precision.

Melanie and Miltia's excitement became even more palpable, their elated squeals piercing the air. Jaune winced, his ears ringing.

Whitley Schnee confidently strode to the stage, capturing the audience's attention instantly.

"Good evening to all, and thank you for being here," he began, his voice resonating with authority. "For those who might not know because they were living under a rock, I am Whitley Schnee, the youngest son of the renowned Schnee Family. Before we begin today's show,I feel it's necessary to address a particular matter."

A large screen behind him illuminated with images of the Schnee family crest, their mines, and their influence over Atlas. "Three years ago, when I set my sights on Vale, many of you voiced your reservations. Given the current state of our world, the ongoing Second Great War, and my family's involvement in it, your skepticism was warranted."

Whitley paused, taking a moment to let his words sink in. "But, let me make this perfectly clear. Though my bloodline is Schnee, my allegiance and my actions are not defined by the mistakes of the Atlas branch of our family. I neither hold stakes in the Schnee Dust Company nor endorse their decisions."

The screen changed, showing images of the bustling city of Vale, its people, its landscapes. "I am a Schnee of Vale. My heart and my endeavors have been, and always will be, for the people of this city and so is my company Schnee Industries"

Images transitioned again, this time showcasing weaponry, soldiers, and advanced tech. "Schnee Industries, independent of SDC, has stood by Vale in its darkest hours. We've equipped our brave soldiers with state-of-the-art weapons to counteract Atlas drones and military assaults." Pictures flashed across the screen, displaying Vale's military forces successfully utilizing Schnee Industries' equipment against Atlas aggressors. The visual narrative painted a tale of resilience and triumph.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you today with a promise—a promise of safety, security, and progress. I am proud to showcase a leap in our technological advancements" Whitley said, his excitement evident. The curtains rustled as they parted, revealing the sleek, imposing form of a state-of-the-art robot. The robot stood tall as a symbol of protection and strength.

"This," Whitley announced, beaming, "is Ultron. A testament to our commitment, innovation, and the bright future we envision for Vale. A future where we stand strong, independent, and undeterred."

The audience erupted into applause, some standing to get a better look at the technological marvel before them.

"When I saw the strength of Atlas," Whitley continued, "I knew Vale deserved no less. This guardian," he patted the robot's cold exterior, "is designed to defend our beloved Vale with an efficiency that rivals even the strongest of Atlas Paladin."

The crowd's reactions varied: some looked on with awe, others exchanged excited whispers, while a few seemed to be in disbelief at the sight of the mechanical marvel before them.

In the midst of the presentation, a reporter stood up, pushing her glasses up her nose, "Mr. Schnee, with all due respect, how does it differ from the others? And how can we believe that your Ultron can truly challenge the Atlas Paladin?"

Whitley met her gaze with a calm, confident smile. "Believe me" he began, his tone light, "Well, perhaps you don't have to believe me at all." His eyes twinkled with mischief. "Perhaps, instead, you can place your trust in Ultron."

With a dramatic gesture, he beckoned to the towering robot. "Ultron, would you kindly introduce yourself?"

For a moment, there was silence. Then, Ultron's eyes lit up with a radiant glow, and in a voice both mechanical and eerily human, he declared, "I am Ultron, the guardian and protector of Vale and its citizens."

A murmur of shock swept through the crowd, their expressions a mix of awe and disbelief.

Whitley, seizing the moment, continued, "Ladies and gentlemen, what you see before you is not merely another drone or machine. Ultron is a groundbreaking, fully autonomous AI, tailored for the defense of Vale. He doesn't await commands; he's programmed to act, think, and protect on his own volition."

The reporter, pushing up her glasses, jotted down a quick note before continuing, "Mr. Schnee," she began, her voice steady and clear despite the crowd's chatter, "but given the advanced capabilities of Atlas Paladins, how can you confidently state that Ultron stands as a stronger protector?"

Whitley's response came with an almost playful smirk. "My dear, Ultron was never designed to merely match the power of a Paladin." A dramatic pause allowed for the eager eyes of the audience to fixate on him. "But if we're talking about strength in numbers," he declared, "Who said Ultron operates solo?"

Suddenly, the stage lighting intensified, and shadows cast by multiple robotic figures began to stretch towards the audience. One by one, Ultron replicas made their entrance, standing uniformly in formation. In an eerily harmonized voice, each robot echoed the same line: "We are the protectors of Vale and its people."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, while Whitley, clearly enjoying the moment, gestured grandly at the mechanical army. "Ultron isn't merely a robot," he asserted, "He represents the pinnacle of AI technology. Yes, in direct confrontation, a single Ultron might be outperformed by a Paladin. But, should one fall, the essence of Ultron survives."

Whitley's tone then shifted to one of deeper conviction, "He isn't restricted by a singular physical form. He is interconnected, integrated directly with our city's CCT. His reach and comprehension are unparalleled. While a Paladin might destroy one unit, the consciousness, the very essence of Ultron, lives on, always learning, always adapting."

The reporter, taken aback by the display, jotted down quick notes. Whitley, however, wasn't done.

"But combat," he said, with a gentler cadence, "is just one facet of Ultron. Imagine a world where the same entity that safeguards your streets can also aid in medical emergencies, whip up your favorite dish, or assist in city planning. Ultron is not just about protection; he is about enhancement. He can transition from a protector to a caregiver, a chef, or even a teacher. The possibilities are endless."

He paused, letting his words settle in, and then concluded, "Ultron isn't merely a creation. He's a vision. A vision of a seamless, secure, and sophisticated future for Vale. A testament to what we can achieve when we merge innovation with intention."

The revelation left the audience in stunned silence, the weight of Whitley's innovation apparent in their wide-eyed stares.

Cardin nudged Jaune, his eyes dancing with excitement. "Impressive, right? Atlas might have some competition."

Jaune only hummed, his eyes scanning the robot. The mention of Atlas always hit a nerve, given their history.

Melanie, her eyes shining, whispered to Miltia, "Can you imagine having one of these patrolling our streets?"

Whitley seemed to feed off the crowd's energy, his smile growing wider. "This is not just a mere machine. The Ultron embodies resilience, power, and our dedication to a safer future."

Another reporter from the front row shot up, notepad in hand. "Mr. Schnee! Does this mean Vale will become an autonomous region with its own defense mechanisms?"

Whitley chuckled softly, a practiced gesture. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. For now, let's focus on what this guardian can offer Vale. This isn't about politics; it's about the future. And the future is about innovation, collaboration, and, most importantly, protection. Currently many models Ultron is actively deployed in the Vale military, but sure as the time goes you will be able to see them more on streets defending and working with common folks".

Suddenly, from the back, an elderly woman called out, "Young man, this is all well and good, but can it dance?"

Whitley chuckled, his poised demeanor giving way to a more relaxed and playful one. "Well, I am not sure, let's ask Ultron ..." He turned towards the robot, "Ultron, can you dance?"

In response, All the Ultron adjusted their posture and began executing a series of robotic dance moves, eliciting a burst of laughter and applause from the audience.

Melanie sighed dreamily, "He certainly knows how to work a crowd."

Cardin's voice, pierced through the ambient noise of the fair. "Jaune, Miltia said she needs some soda let's go -'' He turned around, only to find Melanie munching on peanuts, an empty space beside her. "Where'd he go now?"

Melanie, looking slightly disinterested, gestured with her thumb toward a large signboard in the distance: 'Marvel Recruitment Center: Vale Needs You'. Cardin squinted to make a familiar figure out, Jaune, lost in thought, staring intently at the sign. Cardin exhaled sharply, moving briskly towards him. "Really, Jaune? In the middle of a double date? You're going to bail on us for this?"

Jaune didn't budge, his gaze unwavering. The weight of memories and decisions reflected in his eyes. A commotion from the building drew Jaune's attention. He could discern a doctor in heated discussion with another individual. Without thinking, he began to move towards the entrance.

Cardin, seeing his friend's determination, grabbed Jaune by the arm, pulling him back. "Are you sure about this? Really sure?"

Jaune pulled his arm away, his voice calm yet resolute. "I'm going to try my luck."

Raising an eyebrow, Cardin quipped, "So, what name are you going to use this time? Steve Rogers?"

Jaune glared back, irritation evident. "The name the world knows me by. Jaune Arc."

Cardin let out a long sigh. "Jaune, they'll either catch you or, worse, they'll recruit you."

The atmosphere grew tense, two friends, standing at a crossroads and neither ready to budge.

Cardin finally gave in, seeing the determination in his friend's eyes.

"Is that name so vital to you?" he questioned, his voice softening.

Jaune looked away, his voice laced with pain. "I failed my brother once; I won't do it again."

"I get it," Cardin said, his voice thick with emotion. "I know, the name "Jaune Arc" carried weight and history. But think about this: would he want you to do this? The Arcs have turned their backs on you. They never accepted you. Why are you so fixated on that name? Why are you so fixated on giving away your life?"

"Steve Rogers has nothing left to prove," Jaune whispered, his voice barely audible. "But Jaune Arc does."

Cardin's eyes narrowed. "Maybe because Steve Rogers never tried."

The bickering was interrupted by Miltia's voice, impatience evident. "Are you guys done? When can we get sodas?"

Cardin rolled his eyes, exasperated. "We're coming." He shot Jaune a warning look, his voice filled with concern. "Don't do anything stupid, alright?"

Jaune smirked, retorting, "I can't. You're taking all the stupid with you."

Cardin smirked back, shaking his head. "Punk."

Jaune grinned, "Jerk."

"Don't win the war till I get there."