AN: Plot bunny + writer's block on Metrolink = new story. Enjoy (I hope).

Prologue: Unpleasant Discoveries

Chapter Rating: T (13+)

Rating Reason: Excessive Profanity.

Ozpin groaned. He'd had a headache literally all day, and it seemed to be building with every passing minute, the pain increasing on what he now recognised to be an exponential curve. Coffee took the edge off, of course, but it seemed the pain was now enough that even that wasn't helping as it once did. He hissed. This wasn't a normal pain, of that he was sure. Huntsmen didn't get aneurysms or anything similar, a side effect of Aura, so this sort of pain made precisely zero sense. He took another sip, unwilling to be beaten so easily, and just like that all the pain... vanished. HA! Take that, random headache! he thought, feeling victorious. Then a moment later that feeling was replaced with dread.

Ah. Well this is... inconvenient.

It was something he'd not been expecting. It wasn't his thought. It wasn't his voice. It was a fairly youthful male voice, from someone no older than twenty five or so. It lacked the gravelly distinction of someone older, or the quavering quality of someone older still.

Hm. he thought back. Who are you, and what are you doing in my head? Semblance?

The voice came again, from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

My name is Sir Thomas Reed, otherwise known as Commander Cyrus Quillon, independent pilot of the Pilot's Federation. My last memory before... this... was attempting a controlled crash landing of my armed exploration spaceship - a specially modified Corvette-class battlecruiser, if you're interested - after it took an EMP blast while in a stable descent that knocked out systems shipwide. I was investigating this world, as it would be the first inhabited planet my civilisation has ever discovered. We thought we were alone in this universe. And yes, I would indeed appear to be in your head.

Ozpin sighed, and massaged his temples. Then, as the information filtered through his fatigued mind, he latched onto one piece in particular.

'Spaceship?' he asked sharply, and out loud. 'You're a spacefaring civilisation, then?'

A dry chuckle reverberated in his skull. We have been for a millenia, truth be told. The milestone of first orbital satellite was achieved on the 4th of October 1957, a little Soviet craft named Sputnik. By our reckoning - 24 hours in a day, 365 days in a year except when there are 366 - don't ask - the year is now 3309. The 12th of December 3309 to be precise, assuming that my transfer to you during the crash was instantaneous. This world - presuming it is even the same world I crashed on - is 26,715.37 light years from Sol, our home. Yes, faster than light travel is a thing.

'You seem rather calm about all this. Also, how come you speak Valean?'

When a pilot goes from being employed by others or saving to earning their Wings - becoming a Pilot's Federation pilot - they go through basic emotional control training. Commanders are the only pilots authorised to operate ships of any size solo, and we can't have any losing their heads and going mad while having access to gimballed laser weapons, for example. As for the language, what you call Valean we call the Intergalactic Standard Language, or ISL. It was once named English. It's a requirement for all Commanders to be fluent in it before they earn their Wings. And their loaner Sidewinder, of course.

'Hmmm. How very interesting. Other languages exist, I presume?'

Yes, of course. They're still very pertinent on Earth - our home planet, in the Sol system.

Ozpin held up a hand. 'I have an awful headache, and I should probably get some rest. I think that's enough technical jargon thrown at me for one day. Let us get some rest, and we will talk more on this tomorrow. I'm sure Glynda will forgive me putting off my paperwork when she hears about this.'

Oh, joy of joys. Of course you're a fucking bureaucrat. I hate paperwork. Sounds like a plan, boss.

Ozpin's eye twitched. 'You do paperwork too?'

Yeah, mate. Have to do absolute fuck tonnes whenever you're in civilised space. Flight plans, cargo reports, preflight checks and inspections - nevermind the ships mostly take care of themselves if you give them enough materials and fit the right modules - passenger manifests when you're carrying them, cargo manifests when you're hauling cargo, data manifests for data, weapons registrations and inspections for both us and our ships... yeah, you get it. It's a primary reason I do exploration. Hell of a lot less of that, if you don't mind spending a full day when you get back to the Bubble - inhabited, civilised space, so named because it's a rough sphere around Sol - filling out even more fucking forms for Universal Cartographics and Vista Genomics. It's hell.

'Hm. And here I thought a spacefaring civilisation would have automated that.'

You'd have thought so, responded Thomas, sounding genuinely bitter, but apparently fucking not. And half of it is fucking triplicate.

Ozpin winced in sympathy. 'My condolences.'

Appreciated, boss. Speaking of, I'd like to find what's left of my ship at some point, if that's possible.

Ozpin's eye twitched again, but more. 'Don't call me boss, please. My name is Ozpin.'

Sure thing, boss-man. Thanks for giving me your name, by the way. Was wondering when I'd be given that privilege.

'So you can't read my mind, then? I can read yours if I want, I just haven't been. Also. Ozpin. Oz-pin. Not boss-man'.

You're a fucking terrible liar, or maybe being in someone's head just lets you see that. Also, yeah, I can, I just haven't been looking. Principle, you know, Ozzzz-piiin?

Ozpin could somehow tell he wasn't lying. 'Okay. Maybe I peeked a bit. I needed to know your intentions. And yes, we can go ship hunting soon I am sure.'

Good good. One question, Oz.

'Hmm?'

What's a Semblance?

'Well, a Semblance is like a superpower of sorts. It relies on your Aura to -'

What's Aura?

The sound of Ozpin's head smacking against the desk filled his office, drowning the quiet clockwork out for a moment.

'Clonk.'

Clonk!

A little plot bunny of mine. A weak prologue, perhaps, but it's 20 to 9 and my brain has been barely working all day.

Hope you enjoyed. Update to Metrolink coming... soon(tm).