Valentin the Pretender: Glad it touched you. That part was written partially from personal experience watching my grandma deteriorate rapidly after my grandpa died. Fucking terrible way to die...

RaidouXXV: Hear, hear!

Spenny: Well, I ain't got any better title to go with at the moment. Feel free to let me know if you have any better ideas!

AN: Once Again, the Rothschilds and Clintons bribed my professors! This time to invent this evil little thing called Midterms, hence, the late release again. Curses!

Anyway! Now begins the Initiation Arc, where we cover the very beginnings of Ashley's adventures at Beacon Academy… I think it's pretty obvious from the title of this fic who he's gonna be stuck with.

Music: Любэ - Атас

"Ἑλληνιστὶ πρὸς τοὺς παρόντας ἐκβοήσας, «Ἀνερρίφθω κύβος», διεβίβαζε τὸν στρατόν." – "He [Caesar] declared in Greek with loud voice to those who were present 'Let a die be cast' and led the army across."

–Plutarch

VI. ZEROING

Then…

Three weeks ago… That was when he sent his last letter. Months on months on months of tense waiting and agonizing, and yet… no response.

It gave Ashley little comfort as he slumped in the cramped passenger seat of an old Humvee with a bouncy castle for a suspension.

There was no photo or locket around his neck, no memento to remember his loved ones by… hell not even the familial equivalent to a dear john letter on a crinkled-up piece of paper. It was all radio silence out there – nothing was sent, nothing was heard. It was the paper equivalent to "straight to voicemail"

Thus, for Ashley, there was no comfort in this world deafened by tragedy, only the reassurance of rough kevlar and ceramic plates, and the cold steel of his government-issued instrument of death.

The humvee jerked as Jamal drove over a pothole; Ashley felt his spine crack pop in a few places. Meanwhile, in the back, Jordie and Zeke were peacefully passed out over each other… lucky bastards. Sleep never came easy for Ashley.

Out there, there were the pitch-black woods of the West Virginia border, inscrutable even with night vision goggles. If it weren't for the convoy ahead and the Abrams train behind them, it would have been almost like the beginning of a horror movie. He half expected some inbred Texas Chainsaw Massacre-type motherfuckers to suddenly pop out of the trees at any moment; it would have certainly fit the scenery.

Alas, his fears and expectations were unfounded, at least for now. But who knew what lurked in the deep dark out there?… Or worse, what sort of people did he have to fight come daylight, when they reached the front?

Ashley was not afraid of some terror of the night, but the things his fellow man could do, the hate they were capable of? It scared him to hell and back.

What the fuck did he sign himself up for?

Dear Mom & Mackenzie,

I'm sorry that I haven't been able to call, the brass still insists on that damn no-phone policy, come hell or high water. Letters are still fine though, for now, I think. I wouldn't count on it, tho, since I haven't gotten anything from y'all in weeks. I just wanted to let you know that I survived boot camp, and they're shipping me to █████████████████. I've been doing fine enough, and don't worry, Jamal's been keeping me sane through all the bullshit. ████ and ███████████████████████

█████████████████████████████████████████████████ Please, don't hesitate to send me letters, no matter how garbage the guard's postal system is.

Love you both with all my heart,

Ash

Now…

Passenger Railway Station, Commercial District, City of Vale, Vale…

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Ashley suppressed a wince as the awful screech of the train's brake sounded as it closed on the station. Peering out the window, he absorbed the cityscape all around – the buildings were all uniform, yet they didn't have that soulless corporate modernist feel that infected American architecture. No, the City of Vale reminded him more of the older neighborhoods of Paris… or rather, pictures of Paris, as he never left the former continental United States his entire life.

Longer than he wished, but sooner than he expected, the train soon arrived at its destination, the final acceleration pushing him slightly against the cushioned seat. The doors hissed open, and the passengers gathered their things and rushed out.

Ashley followed, picking up his effects. Getting up, and ducking just enough so that his ears didn't graze uncomfortably against the metal ceiling, he squeezed through the crowd and hustled his way out the exit.

Outside, in the thick of it, Ashley stuck out like a sore thumb.

In the time between his acceptance in Beacon Academy, and actually moving to the city it resided, he had hit yet another (and hopefully his final) growth spurt: his form was stretched up to a towering 6 ft. 10 in., ensuring that he would have to look down on 99% of the people he met. Even now, in such a large and busy crowd, he could hardly find anyone that came close to his height; it was a sea of hair and scalps.

Then, there was the obvious. He was a faunus, which automatically put him in the minority wherever he went. Out of the hundreds here, only around about a dozen had any noticeable traits like tails or ears, or whatever else.

Thankfully, though, there was anonymity in numbers, or at the very least, apathy; the city folk elected to ignore his existence by sheer virtue of having their own shit to worry about. Unlike smaller towns and Ashley's usual rural haunting spots, where nothing happened and the busybodies professed their own nebby flavor of NIMBY-ism.

After all, what paragon of the Kool Kids Klub would ever accept the existence of a filthy animal in their neighborhood? Hell no!

And that was how Ashley became immune to the stink-eye through toxic exposure.

Getting back on track – nobody gave a shit about him. Not even the fact that he had a big-ass gun strapped to his back garnered any attention, positive or negative. This, probably, was due to huntsmen and huntresses pervading the global culture all around. Vale was a trillion times more Second Amendment friendly than any state of the former US of A. Owning a weapon wasn't just allowed, it was practically expected with all the grimm waltzing around – something which never failed to make the little sickly bald eagle inside Ashley's heart shed a patriotic tear.

Oh, big ass gun, you say? Since when? Well, meet the new and improved Mr. Luty!

Over the past year, with a tad bit of mad inspiration, Ashley had done a bit of tinkering – and by tinkering, he meant that his trusty weapon had been replaced part by part, Ship of Theseus style, into something that was barely recognizable to its original form. No longer was it a mere submachine gun; now, it was more akin to a semiautomatic roid-raging elephant gun with more testosterone in its bumpstock than a bodybuilder driving a hybrid clown car.

He even surrendered to the mechanical craze that was so trendy with the newer generation and added an extendable barrel for a sort of sniper mode… as much as you could reasonably snipe with a .750 caliber Let's-Go-Poach-A-Fucking-Paladin-290 rifle.

There was a saying: "Go big or go home," – and with aura, going big no longer meant that he had to worry about petty bullshit like weapon weight or a pulverized collar bone.

God bless Samuel Colt and the rest…

Amen.

Believe it or not, this was literally the second time that Ashley had ever been to Vale, the city. He'd lived in Vale, the kingdom for practically his entire life, other than a few brief trips to the other kingdoms for contracts, but rarely had he or the old man the reason to visit the metropolis that was the center of the world, the center of culture, and all that.

Seriously, the only other time he'd been here, it was an unpleasant overnight stay due to some bureaucratic bullshit one of the banks tried to pull after one of the old man's checks bounced for no good reason. They knew damn well who they were, but the bank still insisted on the old man "confirming his identity" in person. Slimy fucks.

There was just too much world out there, and the grimm-huntin' money sure as hell wasn't with the city-slickers and their white-picket fences…

…Shit, he really had embraced his inner hick in this new life. And Ashley had thought he was a ghetto boy through and through.

It was almost alien to him, walking through the clean streets and tall buildings, instead of bombed-out shitholes and trailer parks of Pennsyltucky, or the small towns and woodlands of Vale.

And clothing-wise, unlike his relatively plain-dressed cheapo ass (He was wearing a lumberman's coat with jeans), everyone else was all wearing more colors than a Tudor-era nobleman, yet still, somehow, they looked even more bougie than that.

That was yet another difference between lives that took a while to get used to. The height of fashion before was either tailored black suits or a little military chic from the surplus store; now, if you didn't look like you just walked out of an anime cosplay convention, your attire was considered quite dull.

Ashley figured it was a lasting cultural remnant of the Color Revolution back during God-knows-when, where everyone (except the faunus of course) got "muh freedoms!" and embraced their new creatively colorful names.

Weird, but not quite as weird as some of the shit that went down in some of the American successor states. Look at the Free City of Portland! …or don't! Really, nobody wanted to touch those Nazbol fursuit-wearing wackos with a hundred-mile pole.

But, if there was one thing he could rely on, it was that the faunus quarter would always be an Augean stable. The same-old, same-old – a crime-ridden piss puddle where half the population cowered in fear over every little thing and the other half either picketed every other week or religiously deepthroated Adam Taurus and his fuzzy-eared Al-Qaeda.

Motel prices were cheap, though, so that was where he was staying the next while. Yippee!

He might as well use the time he had to explore around – get himself used to the scenery...

Murphy Law's Convenience & Huntsman Supplies, Commercial District, City of Vale, Vale…

Food? Check.

Emergency Rations? Check.

Toiletries and camping equipment? Check.

Glycerol, Sulfuric Acid, and Nitric Acid? Check.

Cleaner and Lube? Hmm…

Now that was something that Ashley was running low on…

…No, get your mind out of the gutter. He just needed some CLP for Mr. Luty. The gargantuan bullets that the big-ass artillery system he called a hand cannon used meant that there was a lot of powder being blown, meaning a lot of residue too.

For a pistol, this squalid state of affairs meant that your gun could get fucked up and break, or at worst, you catch some shrapnel. But when you were lugging around a monster like Mr. Luty, you were basically holding a pipe bomb that could blow you to smithereens at any moment. Being diligent in your cleaning was the difference between life and death in the field, doubly so for DIY weapons.

Scanning the shelves of this humble establishment, it wasn't hard to find what he was looking for – a translucent green bottle labeled in stencil: "Vale Militia Surplus – Cleaner, Lubricant, and Preservative – Type II". The generic brand CLP; he chose it since it was cheaper, and the name brands basically used the same exact formulation.

As he reached down and grabbed one of the newer-looking bottles, his right ear twitched, picking up the soft pitter-patter of boots on laminate.

"Oh, erm… Excuse me, uh…" A high-pitched voice quietly stammered.

Ashley dropped the bottle into the plastic basket he was carrying and craned his neck almost ninety degrees down to see the source of the voice; a frail little thing of a teenage girl who barely came up to his solar plexus in height.

Immediately, it was apparent that her fashion sense was gothic lolita-adjacent – a red scarf, a red cape, and a black dress with oodles of noodles of drawstring. Appearance-wise, she was almost as pale as he was, her black hair with red highlights was cut in a tomboyish style, and most importantly of all, she had a big-ass fucking scythe strapped to her back that was almost as tall as her.

In essence, she was very much friend-shaped. One of his kind, as some folk say.

"Yes?"

She awkwardly pointed toward the bottle in the basket, "T-The Type II CLP is better for smaller guns which don't use HFD or FCD ammo, and uh…" She then vaguely gestured to Mr. Luty, while also regarding it with a slightly reverent gaze, "–Type III would be better!"

Type III's used for larger rifles, machine guns, and everything all the way up to small artillery… This girl really knows what she's talking about!

Ashley was impressed. Most other huntsman hopefuls could barely tell you what caliber their weapon was, let alone whether it used a High-Fire-Dust or a Fire-Combustion-Dust mixture in their ammo. There was a slight, but important difference in formula even though they were nearly the same in explosive power, if you used the wrong one with the wrong lubricant, it could wear your weapon down faster than a nagging ex-wife at custody court.

But, there was just one thing she missed that made Mr. Luty truly one of a kind, "Oh, thanks, but my weapon here doesn't use HFD or FCD. In fact, it doesn't use dust at all!"

"Hold up, What!?" Gone was the nervousness and social awkwardness, now only remained the maddened gaze of a dyed-in-the-wool, true-blue gun nut. Her silver eyes shined like that of a bloodhound, sniffing around for answers – a trillion questions brewing behind. "HOW!?"

Ashley, the pyromaniac that he was, was more than happy to indulge the insane brat. After all, there weren't many weapons enthusiasts who were willing to his faunus ass IRL instead of the deep dark pit of the internet. From his backpack, he pulled out a beefy-looking bullet, "I make my own ammo which uses nitroglycerin with–" He caught himself before he leaked any further expensive secrets, "It's basically a non-dust smokeless powder. But, like any other big-boom-causing stuff, it leaves crap behind. Type II CLP's the best at getting it out."

"Nitro-what now?" The girl tilted her head like a lost puppy, yet her eyes honed onto the bullet with a laser focus.

"Chemistry stuff – don't worry about it." He waved away his slip-up, "I call it Triple-Base Powder – made it 'cause dust was getting 'spenive around my neck of the boonies." A partial lie, but expressing the real reason wasn't something done in polite company, "Also, before you get any ideas, I filed a patent on it years ago."

And he got exactly zero lien annually in royalties, because nobody, not even the huntsman industrial complex, did business with a hobo brat from the woods.

"Whoa…" He started handing the bullet over to her, but she practically snatched it from his hands, "Wait, is this bullet custom-made!? I don't see any headstamp!"

"Yep, make it all myself! down to the steel and C260 brass – even got a little machine to form and fill the casings." From one of the many pockets in his pack, he pulled out a dime bag of smokeless powder he kept for emergencies. "Also… check this out!"

As hard as he could he threw the little baggie down – the girl went pale in a flash, eyes widened in panic, "Wai–!"

The baggie struck the ground… nothing happened.

"–t… Huh?" She looked around, waiting for the inevitable boom… which never came.

"It's also a thousand times more stable than dust. Pretty neat, huh?" Ashley informed with the charm of a sleazy used car salesman. He smoothly squatted down and stuffed the baggie back into his backpack.

"You didn't have to give me a heart attack!" She squealed, balling her hands into fists, "What if it– Ugh… nevermind…" Taking a deep breath, she settled for giving a glare and a mean pout.

Ashley chuckled, resisting the strong urge to pat her on the head – the girl was too much like Mackenzie for his own good. He made a peace offering, "If it would make you feel better, I'll let you hold Mr. Luty,"

She instantly changed her tune, "Really?"

"Sure, fire away–" Poor choice of words, there, Ashley "Or… don't actually. Here!"

He pulled the giant monstrosity off him one-handed and dropped it into her arms. She almost tipped over, unprepared for the weight. Invisible laser beams came out of her eyes from how hard she stared at it – with surprisingly good trigger discipline, she tried holding it properly, but found that her arms and hands were too small for it to be carried comfortably. Still, though, it didn't change the fact that she treated it as if it were the Holy Grail.

She looked at him, practically vibrating in place from excitement… and then, the dam burst.

"OHMYGODHOWDIDYOUMAKEALLTHE–!" She blew up into an ear-piercing incoherent ramble, stars shining in her eyes, "–WHATMATERIALSISITMADEOF–!"

And it went on… and on… and on…

She didn't even pause to take a breath in her barrage of questions.

"–ANDWHEREDOESTHE–!"

"Ah-hem…" A scary-looking fellow appeared out of the woodwork.

The girl instantly snapped her mouth shut and clammed up, "S-sorry…" She slinked away, sufficiently chastised.

Ashley took a step back, letting the man get a bottle from the shelf. The man regarded Ashley with a low grunt and went about his business.

"So…" Ashley held his hands out, asking for his weapon back.

"Right!" The girl threw it onto his palms with an appreciative nod, "Mr. Luty is a fantastic weapon – and if we see each other again, you gotta show me it in action!"

"Will do, Miss…"

"Ruby,"

She glanced at her scroll, checking the time.

Ashley extended a hand, "Well, nice to meetcha Ruby, I'm A–"

"Oh, dang it!" She exclaimed, before scrambling to apologize, "Sorry–uh– the dust shop is about to close – uh… Sorry! Gotta go!"

Rushing red-faced toward the front counter, and slapped a stack of money onto it, before bursting into a tornado of petals and flying off into the night, leaving a shocked store clerk. Ashley stood back, blinking owlishly…

Well, that was fun while it lasted… Oh well.

With a shrug, he carried his basket full of supplies up to the front.

"I'll have those Blackports over there too," He pulled out his ID on the scroll, "Age: 18" front and center. The clerk silently looked it over and added the pack of cigarettes to his purchase. Thank God there wasn't a prohibition era here in Remnant – now that Ashley was considered a grown adult, he could drink and smoke whatever he damn well pleased.

Taking his receipt, he went straight home. It wasn't until later, while lounging on a cheap mattress and watching the 9 O'Clock News, that an attempted dust robbery had caught his eyes. A strange sense of déjà vu washed over him like a cold shower. His scars itched something fierce…

Hmm…

But, more importantly, Glynda Goodwitch was giving an interview on scene.

And even more importantly…

…she was still smoking hot, his teenage hormones pointed out.

…

…

…

"Oh, for fuck's sake, again?" He growled at that certain body part of his being a nuisance, "Goddamnit…"

Ziiippp…

Youth was overrated.

Two Weeks Later – Beacon Academy, Vale…

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

There was that awful screech again, this time on the metro rail.

He glanced out the window. O'er the cliffside, the skyport buzzed with activity, a fleet of airships coming and going like worker bees. He wasn't able to see too well through the smudged glass, but for a moment, Ashley could've sworn that he'd caught sight of some poor bastard running out and puking in the bushes. The thought of it elicited a quiet, sympathetic chuckle – Lord knew Ashley was little better rocking on the open sea; he didn't know how those navy seamen had done, in between partaking in pride-themed hardcore orgies and smashing Thai boipussy of course.

The train slowed down as it had drawn ever closer to its destination, pressing Ashley's body against a group of students his age. Packed in here like a sardine in a can, Ashley beheld a sea of uniforms and adolescent angst, just waiting to burst out to the world, into the loving arms of post-secondary education.

A minute later, the metro had arrived, only a minute late this time. Ashley squeezed his way through the bustling crowd and out the door, making his way toward the campus. He paid no mind to the hubbub and socializing going on around him.

"Oh, Brothers… This is really it…"

"…Shit, did I forget my…?"

"…Hey dude, you see that green-haired chick? The one with the nice ass–"

"…I hope I don't get teamed up with damned faunus – those…"

There wasn't nothing that Ashley hadn't heard before; despite his biological age, he had little to relate to with these damn kids on the taxpayer's lawn. Plus, he wasn't really in much of a conversing mood regardless, so it all worked out.

But, if there was one thing that Beacon Academy had that no podunk community college could replicate, it was absolutely beautiful scenery all around him.

Got-damn… My compliments to the architect – dude has some taste!

Now, Ashley was far from one of those artsy-fartsy types, but after two lives of living near either bombed-out shitholes, not-so-bombed-out shitholes, hoods, and bumfuck small towns, this was a welcome change of pace.

There was a mystical feeling in the air, walking through the arches and around the courtyard. All around, pristine marble chiseled to perfection, giving a whimsical feeling that could only be replicated in fantasy. With the almost medieval architecture juxtaposed seamlessly with modern conveniences, it brought back distant memories of little Ashley walking around Kennywood for the first time.

But – he checked the time on his scroll – that was enough dilly-dallying! The entrance ceremony was starting soon.

Double-checking a holographic map near one of the benches, he made a beeline towards the meeting hall.

Boom!

A rumble in the ground – it flared up an age-old instinct in Ashley. Fearing artillery, he dived for the nearest cover, which happened to be behind a bush near a pillar.

The fuck was that!?

Shaking his head, after a few seconds, he regained his bearings. He peeked out, finding that those around him were giving him strange looks.

He paid them no mind.

Through the thick crowd of staff and students, he couldn't make heads and tails of where the explosion originated, but his ears picked up a shrill, indistinct whining over the mutters. Whatever it was, somebody was getting ass-chewed over it by a mosquito huffing helium.

With his heart palpitations sufficiently calmed, he crawled out of his cover and brushed the dirt off his shoulders, walking like nothing happened.

Heh… Some retard prolly dropped their ammo…

Yet another reason he didn't fuck with dust, other than the obvious. It was unstable as shit in handling, especially if you got the cheap knock-off shit off the bargain bin. That schizophrenic alchemist's brew would fizzle away if you looked at it funny. Not ideal in the middle of the battlefield, jostling around in the mud and shit.

Crossing the threshold of the modern, yet strangely baroque building, he was handed a ticket. Then, a doorway later, he found himself in a cavernous expanse, where in the center, rows upon rows of foldable chairs sat.

He checked the ticket: Column A, Row 5 – the seat at the far right, a little over mid-way to the stage. Ashley took his rightful place on his uncomfortable aluminum throne.

Ten or so minutes passed without much fuss. Ashley dicked around on his scroll, shitposting and shitting on fudds on a weapons subforum on the CCT-Net's equivalent to a Chan-style imageboard. The memes were positively ancient in form – mostly discount impact font over Mistrali anime, the kind of shit older than Ashley's Zoomer parents – but he still felt right at home in this digital realm.

"All rise." A woman's voice echoed across the hall. He slammed the scroll shut and jumped straight to parade rest like a dumb boot.

Walking up onto the stage was a grey-haired middle-aged man, whom Ashley immediately pegged as the (in)famous Ozpin, the not-so-mysterious Professor and Headmaster of Beacon Academy. Sure, nobody knew his last name, but good lord, did the man love being in front of the camera for those press conferences.

It was as open as a secret could get; the sniveling shit politicians of the council never admitted it, but anyone who had interacted with a government employee or hell, took a five-second glance at Vale's knockoff C-SPAN knew who really was in charge.

Eh…No pressure…

Not like the great-grandpappy of COs was personally making sure you were on your best behavior while being assfucked in basic– oh sorry, attending a prestigious huntsman academy.

"I will keep this short." The man half-whispered into the microphone, voice carrying across the dead silent crowd, "You traveled here in search of training and knowledge – to whet your blades, to hone your skills, and to gain new ones along the way. With this, after you have completed your time here, you wish to commit to a life of service toward the protection of the people… But!"

He furrowed his brows, glaring out into the crowd through his tinted glasses, pointing menacingly with his cane, "You know what I see? I see disorder and confusion. I see wasted energy in desperate need of purpose – direction! You assume what you have learned so far will free you of this, but I assure you, your time at Beacon Academy will prove that knowledge is nothing without hard-earned experience…"

"Here, you are taking the first steps in your journey toward becoming a huntsman, and I ask you this…" He raised his palm in offering, "Will you walk with me here, or will you crawl back into the hole you came from?…"

Dead silence.

Very poetic there, Drill Sergeant Dumbledore…

"Thank you."

And like a P.I.M.P. who just slapped every bitch in the cathouse for giving lip, he strutted off stage with swag, leaving Glynda Goodwitch to awkwardly take up the microphone, "Tomorrow, your initiation will begin. Be ready. You're Dismissed."

The lights turned on, and the confused mass of students made their way to the exit.

Allat for something that coulda been an email?

Some things never change.

Later…

After the speech, everyone was let loose to explore the campus and enjoy themselves. A half-day of sightseeing and people-watching went by surprisingly quickly, and before Ashley knew it, everyone was made to partake in a commencement dinner – which served surprisingly good food by school cafeteria standards.

Now, it was dark out, and they were all made to take a sleeping bag and catch their z's in one of the many, many empty rooms across the school.

Ashley chose a nice and quiet spot near one of the walls, close to the soft, flickering candlelight, which sat upon a tiny Victorian-style wooden table. The sleeping bag may not have been top quality, but it sure beat out a lot of inns Ashley stayed at in his travels.

On the opposite end of where he rested, there were a couple of shirtless boys putting on a flexing show…

"The ladies are gonna love this…"

…to a nonexistent, and very much unconscious audience. Ashley had long known the truth – only other dudes gave a shit about your muscles, it was only your face, your dick, and not being a dick that mattered to the "ladies".

It wasn't hard to pick out the future Darwin Award winners from the bunch either – two stuck out to him:

One of them was a preppy-looking motherfucker, who acted like king shit to everyone around and overall acted like a nuisance to everyone there. He wore an orange 50's greaser pompadour, which was held together by a bukkake of expensive hair gel. Ashley would bet his left nut that he had some… politically incorrect opinions brewing under the Archie Andrews veneer.

The other was notable, only because he had the worst, most butt-fugliest hairstyle known to mankind – being a half-assed lime-green toothpaste squirt of a mohawk. Like seriously, ain't no stereotypical punk band signing your ass up with that yee-yee ass haircut – get the fuck outta here! He also gave that stereotypical two-bit lackey vibe – that he was already joined mouth-to-ass to Mr. Fantastic.

But alas, as fun as it was observing the zoo around him, he was starting to itch for some shut-eye. He laid down, reaching for his sleeping mask. But, right as he was about to pull it over his eyes…

Rustle…

…the sharp crinkling sound of a page being turned pricked at his eardrums.

He turned his head to the right – looked like someone else decided this spot was nice and cozy too. There, a girl with black hair sat against the wall, grazing over a trashy romance novel under the candlelight.

Immediately, Ashley pegged her as a fellow member of faunuskind – that big ass bow of hers was god-awful as hiding the unconscious movement of her ears, and looked very uncomfortable. Ashley knew from experience.

Also, there were the vibes she was giving out. The girl was almost too comfortable in his presence, in a way that no human, other than probably the old man, was. That tingle of subtle xenophobia present in all sapient beings that remained, no matter how hard one stamped it out.

But, luckily for her, Ashley ain't no snitch. Both his old upbringing in the hood and the military damn well made sure of it. Ain't no way he was gonna go yammering unless she brought it up first… or somehow found herself on his shitlist.

Ashley snorted at the thought, What, did she join a terrorist organization or something?...

Getting a strong feeling that she wasn't keen on conversation, he left her be. He brought the sleeping mask down and prepared to go night-night.

Yet, not everyone was on the same page…

"–haven't met them yet."

He ripped the mask off; a blonde girl with… large tracts of land – What the hell is it with me and blondes? – spoke excessively loudly, given the late hour, to…

"Well… Wait, that guy… and that girl…"

The girl from the huntsman shop? The hell!? Ashley pulled himself upright, The hell's she doing here? Shouldn't she still be in whatever prep school they usually shove kids at before coming to Beacon?

"Welp, now's your chance!"

"Wait!" Huntsman Shop Girl was pulled along as the blonde made a beeline toward him and the faunus girl, "What are you doing!?"

"Hello!~" Blondie preened proudly like a peacock – while Huntsman Shop Girl sulked. Faunus Girl looked positively thrilled to be there, glaring at the two disturbances between the pages of erotic literature, "I believe you two have met my sister?"

Ashley scratched the five O'Clock shadow growing on his chin, "Uh, yeah? I think…"

"Hold on," Faunus Girl put her book down, "Aren't you that girl who exploded this morning?"

Huh… Guess that explains the Aloha-Snackbar earlier…

Huntsman Shop Girl extended her hand, "Hi, I'm Ruby," The faunus girl didn't budge, leaving the poor girl hanging. Ruby pulled her hand back, scratching the back of her head in embarrassment, "But you can call me… uh, Ruby!"

"That's… quite a nickname."

Ruby gave a pleading look to the blonde which was duly ignored, "So… What's your name?"

"Blake,"

"Right…" Ruby turned her attention to Ashley, perking up, "Oh, wait – I remember now! You're that tall guy with the fancy bullets I met at that shop!"

"That's me! Ashley Morgenroth at your service," Ashley gave a mock salute,

"Wait, isn't that a girl's name?"

"It was a guy's name too before y'all stole it from us men. How'd you end up a Beacon of all places? I coulda sworn you were still in one of them baby huntsman daycares."

"It's a long story…"

Ashley turned toward the blonde, "And I don't believe we have been introduced, Miss?"

"Oh, I'm Yang! Nice to meetcha!" She offered her hand, which Ashley happily accepted – the girl had one hell of a grip on her, "I'm Ruby's older sister."

That's one wumao-ass name for a white girl…

"Really?" They looked nothing alike.

"Half-sister, technically," Ruby muttered under her breath.

Ah, that about explains it…

"Yep!" Yang replied chipperly, "So, I've heard you've been talking to my sister…"

"Yang…" Ruby gently threatened, face tinged red like her hair.

"…I'm just letting you know right now. If you ever hurt her–"

"Yang!"

Yang flared out her aura slightly, her eyes blinked red and she made a fist, "I'll shove this where the sun don't shine. Capisce?"

Kinky~

The threat did little to put fear in Ashley's bones, but the girl's message was heard loud and clear, "Yes, ma'am!"

"Yang!" Ruby squeaked.

Yang relaxed smugly, turning back to her sister, "What? He's not your boyfriend? I could've sworn a week ago that a nice tall man had shot his way into my precious baby sister's heart with his big guns~ and magic bullets.~ You didn't stop talking about him and his 'Mr. Luty' for a week!"

"B-But," The poor girl was practically steaming, "I-It's not like that…"

"Mm-hmm… Sure,~" Yang hummed, examining Ashley with a twinkle in her eye, "Though, I don't really see much guns on him. Didn't know you fancied the tall, dark, and twiggy type, Rubes. Maybe I should–"

"YANG!"

As their back and forth continued, Blake regarded the whole thing with a casual disinterest, going back to her reading.

Then, crashing into Ashley's jolly mood like Randy Orton RKO-ing a grandma into a quadriplegic, a certain white-haired dust-and-blood-money heiress rushed onto the scene with maximum bitchiness set, and declared fun to be illegal.

"Excuse me! Some of us are trying to sleep here!"

Schnee detected. Activating "FUCK THAT" protocol…

"Oh, won't you look at the time," He tapped on his bare wrist, "Time to go to bed. Good night y'all!" He flopped down, pulled the sleeping mask back on for the thousandth time, and zipped the sleeping bag as far as it would go.

"And you, faun–"

He was a turtle, a fortress unto himself.

"Good. Night. Y'all,"

Fear him! Fear his impenetrable defenses!

A brief incoherent growl came from the snow demon, but she directed her prissy ire toward the other targets "Still, you two are…" And on she went with her long-winded nagging rant, which was responded to in kind by an angry Yang, and the attempted, but ultimately futile, peacemaking on the part of Ruby.

Eventually, a random boy on the other end of the room deigned to share his thoughts, "Shut the fuck up! We're trying to sleep!"

In an instant, they were as quiet as a mouse. All Ashley heard was some shuffling and three different sleeping bags zipping up at the same time.

Peeking out, "Psst." He got Blake's attention, "Is the bitch gone yet?"

Blake tried to hold back a guffaw, the noise coming out like a sneeze. Quickly regaining her composure, she nodded.

"Thanks, g'night,"

"Night," With the faintest of grins, she put her book down and blew out the candles.

Ashley flipped over, and closed his eyes in a vain attempt at getting rest…

But as always, he failed, for the nightmares always chased away the cowardly Sgt. Sandman.