Volume 2: We Should Neva Gave Faunus Money

Chapter 1: Windows + R

"My Daddy said, 'Treat young girls like your mother.'

"My Momma said, "Trust no hoes, use a rubber.'"

— 1 —

In a way, I should be glad. I'd always been terrified of becoming my father. Instead, I'd become my mother.

More specifically, her vagina.

That is, a font of endless disappointments.

Times like this, I turned my brain off and ran off my default programming.

I didn't exactly know the time I got back to my room. And I couldn't say how long I'd managed to sleep before I woke up and went on autopilot, trying to shake off the vague opioid hangover.

Piss. Shave. Make my bed. Ensure my boot display was nice. Check the shitty little closest I had to make sure I had a uniform setup for today.

Uniform was wrong. It's some almost burgundy school attire.

I stood there in the dark for a confused moment before I remembered.

The thing about good brainwashing is, when it''s all over, you don't even notice its effects. And even if you do, you find yourself thankful for it. You wouldn't have it any other way.

When sober in any case.

This was Beacon Academy, not a military fort. I was this make-believe Huntsman instead of some toy soldier in the Army.

Another confused moment. I tried to remember who I was again. My mind was so jumbled and fucked it was hard to really tell. So many people inside my head.

Holding my temples, I swore under my breath.

I missed back home. Weird because I couldn't even place what home was. Knoxville? Tampa? Fort Huachuca? Washington, DC?

I think I felt a nosebleed coming. I didn't even realize I must have been picking my nose in thought or something. Gross.

I needed to occupy myself. I took out some messier looking clothes from the locker, unrolled them, and redid them. Ranger rolling, they call it. It's a way to make shirts and underwear super compact and easy to pack. Pants too, but I'm not as good with those. Rolling it all on my freshly made bed felt good. Just basic, rote movement.

And when that was done, what? It was still too dark. A weekend too, so it wasn't like the girls in the rest of the room were going to wake up early. I had a compulsion to do something. I'd fall apart with the stress of knowing shit was about to get way worse if I didn't have work to distract myself with.

I dressed myself and left the dorm, earbuds in. Holding back a strong need for nicotine and booze.

Only to find myself staring at a vending machine in the barracks. Er, dorms? Whatever we're calling it. Just a buzzing, vaguely glowing machine in a dark building long before the sun rose.

I stared at my reflection. Reached out and touched it. I'd broken a vending machine once in a fit of drunken rage. SuperBowl night with the boys. Drank so much I blacked out. Wound up stealing someone's laundry, pissing on a man's door, getting my sergeants called on me, becoming convinced my NCOs were trying to rape me, before running away into a vending machine so hard my linebacker build smashed it. I woke up in Walter Reed Hospital with a diagnosis of acute alcohol poisoning. They measured me several hours after I stopped drinking, and had come back with a blood alcohol content of .32. For the record, at .35 blood alcohol content, you're supposed to go comatose. And there I was at nearly those levels, so tolerant that I was still mostly functioning on my feet.

By all accounts, I should have died. Maybe I did. Any of the details of how I got here were so fucking hazy.

One diagnosis of Alcohol Use Disorder and some mandatory Army therapy later, and, well…

I reached into my wallet and found nothing. Right, no money. That'd been the entire point of my idea to go after the White Fang. Reward money. Then that had gone wrong.

The Diet Amphetamine Cola stared back at me mockingly.

I didn't know what to do with a job. Without work and direction. On Earth, the United States Army had been my complete life and obsession. I lived for work. Threw myself into running and working until it was nearly everything.

But here at Beacon?

I sighed and just sort of wandered campus.

— 2 —

My wounds hurt like fuck the more my body really woke up. Fucked ribs, a fractured wrist. Cuts and burns. Dust inhalation in the lungs. Just walking to the gym, amazingly open at this hour, had me breathing heavy. I walked in, signed in with the sleepy student employee at the counter with my ID, and made my way down into the basement training room.

It reminded me of a mix of a dojo and bowling alley. Machines to bring out combat dummies, some capable of moving and even fighting back. A place to requisition ammo. Several mats and lanes to operate in, good for melee or ranged combat. I wasn't sure if Remnant had the same basic concept of range safety as Earth, but given this place, I had to think no?

I turned on one of the lanes and got to the terminal's little desktop. Then, on a whim, touched the equivalent of this OS's window key + R, and was surprised it worked. The keystroke had overridden the alley's GUI, pulling up the Run Program window. Lacking a mouse, the system was mostly touchscreen.

Control I typed into the window. It worked, bringing up the control panel. It wouldn't let me go much further without admin access. But when I tried managing accounts and logging into the admin, it turned out the password was just, no joke, "default." And no, I wasn't some hacker type. I just used my scroll to google default admin passwords for this operating system. Beacon had a shitty IT team.

With these powers, I could actually remote log into the other terminals in the training room network. After maybe an hour of fucking around, I managed to request two high level combat dummies you usually needed a teacher's permission to use, one per computer, and made them target each other. Most of that was through a user-friendly GUI, though.

I sat back, watching as two Valean combat training mechs duked it out like an old episode of Battlebots. There was no reason for this. I just wanted to see what I could do with a little IT elbow grease. And because big fighting robots with claws and flamethrowers were badass.

"How did you do that?" a girl asked, starling me enough that I jumped. Which made my wounds hurt like fuck!

Red hair and legs as long as Professor Port's class, of course I knew her. "Nikki, right?" I asked, pretending not to know her. A total lie, but I knew it was part of why she'd liked the original Jaune, and Lord knew anything to smooth things over between me and other students couldn't hurt.

"Pyrrha Nikos, actually," she said, stepping up to the edge of the training mats. She looked over the machines. "We met before."

"Sorry. See as many pretty redheads on the daily as I do and y'all start to run together."

She cocked a yeah, no, not gonna work brow at me. I held my hands up in mock defense. Okay, noted, Pyrrha might not be the most emotionally mature girl out there, but she's not an idiot.

"You'd think you'd remember a girl you asked out," she said dryly.

I paused. Shit, had I done that? I reckoned it was one interpretation of offering to buy her food. "Oh yeah, that. How's that gonna work out?"

Pyrrha flashed a ghost of a smile. "You ran off before I could say no."

I winced. "Yeah, reckon I had that coming." I shook my head. "What are you doing up this early?"

"I had wanted to do some morning training, but…" She looked at the two mostly dead fighting robots.

"Yeah, turns out Beacon can't handle my unique fighting style. Everyone-or-thing around me either catches fire or dislocates an ankle."

Half of her face pulled into an amused grimace. She'd been there in Goodwitch's sparring class with me. Not against me, but she'd seen my debut in the ring. "Strange. I didn't think poor sportsmanship qualified as a style."

"Course it do, Pyrrha," I said. "I call it 'Better You Than Me.' It's an ancient fighting style hailing from the mythical lands of Milwaukee."

"Hm," she said, tapping her chin in thought. "That distinctly does not sound like a place."

"Bet," I said, making a circular motion with my left hand. "It ain't real. Just like Atlantis or Numenor. That's why it's called a mythical land, not that land just past the corner gas station on your left, follow signs for I-43, Pyrrha. Get with the program."

That at least got a confused chuckle from her. I considered that progress.

"You still didn't explain how you did this," she said, gesturing her shield at the dying robots. "I've played with the settings and I've never gotten those ones."

I considered telling her the nerdy truth, but figured that would be stupid. Besides, I'd just be repeating myself to you. "I'm a boy of many talents, most of them inappropriate in public." Then, after a pause: "I could get one of them for you. Train your best against the best bots they got?"

Pyrrha looked skeptical, folding her arms. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable breaking expensive pieces of school hardware without prior approval."

Money? Was that something she really cared about?

Then again, reward money was half the reason I had convinced myself to try to fuck with the White Fang. The other half was, uuuuuuh.

Funny thing was, now that I was distressingly sober, I remembered the little profit I was making in the school foundry. Making thermite & explosives and selling them back to the school, that weird sort of student employment working with my hands. I probably could just keep doing that, a little money here, a little here, and could have happily supported my grander projects and addictions.

I waved a hand, as much to dispel my own thoughts as her own worries. Leaning on the computer terminal, I said, "Hey, what good's bread if my brothas broke and can't make no use from it? Who cares if the higher-ups get pissy, Nikki."

"I have a feeling breaking protocols won't exactly be conducive to being able to stay here at Beacon," she said pointedly, looking back at me

I shrugged. "I been kicked outta better homes than this."

"Like?"

I frowned. "Well, childhood home. Mom punched me in the face. I ran away into a swamp, drunk. Bit an alligator. You think I'm fucking with you, but I'm not. That was a better home."

Instead of amused or, like Weiss might have, looking annoyed, Pyrrha just looked concerned. She had that kind of resting Mom face. "Is that why you're here? You ran out of options back home and saw your only future in Beacon?"

Holding back a mocking sneer, I looked away and shrugged. "Y'know, you and I are in the same psychology class. I know what you're doing."

She just regarded me, almost pitying me. "I don't think mine was so chaotic, but I sort of understand. I chose to come to Beacon instead of Haven because I didn't want to be in Mistral anymore."

I drew a blank on those names. The Huntsmen schools of that dragon-looking continent, I had to conclude. Funny how much easier it was to remember things when sober. Ya hate to see it.

Then again, I joined the United States Army to leave me a dead-end life behind. Before collapsing back into old habits. Same as I'd done here.

"People who wake up as early as us ain't people happy with they lot in life."

Pyrrha shrugged. "No, I like what I do. Even if my partner keeps trying to preemptively snooze my morning alarm.

"Ruby?"

"She has help from Nora."

Huh. Team VYPR. Valkyrie, Yang, Pyrrha, Ruby, I had to presume. I wondered how miserable Nora was without her Mulan. Then again, the only reason they weren't a team was I think my shitty gun-powered parachute had rammed more than a few students out of the sky doing my trip into the Emerald Forest. It'd been the cost for not breaking my legs when I hit the ground and sending my own shattered femurs up through my asshole.

"Do Valkyrie blame me for knocking her off course?" I asked, more to myself.

A ghost of a smile. "I don't think she likes you for that."

"Who do be liking me?" I asked, shaking my head.

She grimaced just a touch, looking to the ceiling. "We can control a lot of things. Some people will always like you, some never will. But taking charge of that requires looking at ourselves. We're Hunters, and we need to help each other out. That starts with ourselves. That's the only reason people don't like you."

"You ever consider being a psychosurgeon and not a Huntress?" I asked, halfway joking.

Running a hand through her red hair, she sighed. "No. I like what I do. I told you that. Besides, too much riding on me to do anything else." She shrugged.

"Okay, Amy Dallon," I said.

The woman simply eyed me.

I feigned a cough. "Anyhow, yeah. Thanks for the pep-talk, Pyrrha. I think. I don't know. I…" Hesitation. But, fuck it. "I think you and me can level, girl. Think I could ask you a major favor?"

"I'm not buying you alcohol," she said sternly, her posture hardening with disapproval.

I snorted. The sudden laugh made my wounded lungs ache. "Way to win the gold medal at the 50m jumping to conclusions, girl. No, this is Hunter stuff. Can you help me figure out my Aura?"

There. My heart fluttered. I knew for a fact she could do it with Jaune, and I was Jaune, so there. Weiss couldn't help. Blake neither, I figured. This was my Hail Mary.

Pyrrha blinked, taking a step back. "Excuse me?"

"Make me glow in the dark, please?" I said with my best smile.

"How did you even get into Beacon without one?" she asked, more confused than anything.

I pointed to the destroying fighting robots. "I'm really good at fighting stupid, not fair. Bottom of my class several years running, but not low enough to get kicked out of the combat school." Lie with every word? Yep.

My entire soul dropped as she slowly shook her head. "That's not something I can do," she said slowly, looking oddly self conscious. You mighta thought I asked her to nude pose for my painting class, way she was acting.

"You're lying," I said, the words just tumbling out.

For the first time, she looked annoyed. That felt oddly withering, coming from her. "You should have had that happen long ago. Your parents, some trauma, or even your early years in a combat school with your partner. I can't do that for you."

"But!" I grit my teeth.

She silenced me with a look, holding up a finger. "This is something for your team. Blake, Weiss, or Shamrock. The people closest to you. Why should I help you sidestep them?"

So, this was an object lesson? Pyrrha, you peerless bitch! But, all I could do was glower at her. Before that goddamn looking of hers withered it away.

"You're right," I said, staring at my shoes. Even though I didn't really agree with her. She wasn't buying it.

"Only they can help you with this, Jaune. If you got this far without an active Aura like that, you're a lot more skilled and dedicated than you've let any of us believe. Go and use them. Actually be a team player. Getting in-between that would be wrong of me."

I sighed heavily. Glowy super powers, I wait for you another day. And another day before I was healed enough to be able to work out in the gym or go for a run or anything physical to de-stress.

"It's breakfast soon," she said. "You might find the people who are supposed to be your friends there. Please, make an effort, Jaune."

Staring at my feet, I nodded. "Yeah. You're right. Fuck, I hate it when girls is right and I idn't."

"That right there, for example," she said, rolling her eyes. "Stopping that's a good first step."

Still nodding, I took the advice. Cafeteria. Team BASS. Right. Find them. Talk. After the shit with the White Fang, maybe we actually would be closer. Maybe I could fucking do this. Just had to find them and capitalize on it.

"Wait, hold on!" she called after me. "Who's going to clean up this damage?"

Not me, Pyrrha. Not me.

a/n Originaslly on this fic's home of SpaceBattles, there was a two year gap between the last chapter and this one. Knoww hy? A couple people were leaving the likes on this story and reminded me it existed.

Besides, it's good therapy. Lets me work on honing in my accurate as possible season 1 character interpretations, too. They help balance out the innate crackness of Jaune d'Orléans.