Wake up, Brother. The world's not gonna clean itself up.
Jaune groaned. "Ugh... why do I feel like my tie is turning into a noose"
"Because it is. You've been slouching in the filth of your own making for too long. Time to rise and scrub away the stench."
"But I didn't even drink more than one bottle. Can't I just wallow in my loneliness a little longer?"
"One? Ignorant! Bah, wallowing won't solve a damn thing. Get up, straighten us up, and face the day like the sorry excuse for a Huntsman you are."
"Fine, but if this tie gets any tighter, I might just start seeing stars," Jaune fixed his tie.
"Stars? Ha! More like the reflection of the lights mocking your sorry existence. Now, get moving. The problem won't solve themselves, no matter how hard you try to drown them."
Shivering, he glances around his quarters aboard the airship, his eyes settling on the mirror. He staggers toward it, a sinking feeling washing over him as he sees his reflection — a visage of regret and exhaustion stares back at him, accentuated by the remnants of last night's indulgence. His suit, once pristine, now bears the scars of his woes — singed and sooted.
His hand instinctively reaches for his throbbing head, a reminder of the bomb that nearly ended him — a cruel wake-up call from the dangers of the task he was assigned to.
"Mistral awaits, Knight. Time is of the essence."
But as he attempts to gather his resolve, the tie around his neck tightens, a silent command cutting through the haze of his thoughts.
"Straighten up, Brother. Mistral won't wait for a sorry excuse of a knight like you. Fix yourself, fix me, and face the day like the hero you pretend to be."
With a resigned sigh, Jaune succumbs to the relentless pull of duty, fingers trembling as he reaches for the tie, straightening it with a begrudging obedience.
Jaune's expression hardens into the stoic facade of the Afteran, a mask of professionalism and determination. Yet, even as he tries to steel himself against the mocking laughter of the yellow tie and the taunting voice that calls him a knight, the temptation lurking in the shadows proves to be an ever-present adversary.
Lick it. Take it. More. LIQUID ELECTRIC DUST RIGHT THERE MY FRIEND.
The bottles scattered around his quarters seem to whisper seductively, their leftover liquid a tantalizing promise of temporary relief from the weight of burdens. Each bottle becomes a siren's call, tempting Jaune to abandon his resolve, to drown his sorrows in the numbing embrace of alcohol.
No. No time. Need to fix stuff. Don't let the SWEET LIQUID electrons call you again.
Jaune pushes back against the allure of the liquid dust on the floor. His hand clenched into a fist.
With a final, determined glance at the mirror, Jaune straightens his tie once more.
As Jaune makes a move towards the door, he felt the yellow tie tighten its grip around his neck, restraining him with an unseen force. The voice, laced with sarcasm and disdain, echoes in his mind once more.
"Hold your horses, Brother. Do you really think you're ready to face Winter... fucking... Schnee looking like a sorry excuse for a huntsman?"
Jaune's hand hesitates on the latch, the weight of the tie's words sinking in. His mind races, imagining Winter's icy gaze scrutinizing his disheveled appearance — a stark reminder of his inadequacies in the face of a professional.
"Think about it, Brother. Maybe she'll mistake your sorry state for some sort of rugged charm. After all, there's nothing more manly than stumbling around like a drunken fool, right?"
With a frustrated sigh, Jaune brings a hand to his face, wiping away the remnants of last night's indulgence.
"I must be going insane... At this rate, I'll end up watching over paper people in some godforsaken corner of some fairy tale..."
With a mix of resignation and determination, Jaune squares his shoulders, his resolve hardening in the face of his inner turmoil. Confronting Winter Schnee in his current state would be idiocy, but retreating into the safety of his quarters is not an option. His gaze shifts to the right. He notices a brand new suit and tie hanging in the corner of his quarters — a stark contrast to the worn and singed attire he was wearing.
"Well, look at that, knight. Seems the ice queen has left you a little present," the voice said.
Confusion clouds his thoughts as he wonders why Winter would have a spare suit for him. Jaune furrows his brow, his curiosity piqued by the unexpected gesture. Before he can voice his confusion, the yellow tie interjects with a derisive snort, its disdain dripping with sarcasm.
"Don't you get it, you fool? She's a Schnee. It's practically impossible to buy anything without their damn snowflake stamped on it. SHE IS FUCKING RICH."
Jaune groaned and stared at the suit and tie. His eyes were on the red tie.
"And don't you dare think about swapping your Brother for some absurdly fine red nonsense! Yes, Schnees would approve of anything less than perfection, but you are not fucking one. Don't you fucking dare…"
Jaune shakes his head and begins to unbutton his worn and singed clothes, the weight of his exhaustion clear in every movement. Just as he starts to undress, another voice pierces the silence — a voice unlike the others, stoic yet tinged with sorrow and loneliness.
"You still haven't earned enough scars."
His hands falter, frozen in mid-air as he listens to the haunting words. It's a voice that speaks of battles fought and losses endured. An old raspy and tired voice.
"Ignore that rusty voice, knight. It speaks of things it knows nothing about," the yellow tie said.
The voice calling him a knight joins in, its tone laced with disdain for the newcomer. "Indeed. What does it know of the struggles we face, the battles we've fought? It's nothing but a whisper of the past, a ghost clinging to memories long forgotten."
The yellow tie, brimming with anger, adds its own condemnation, its words cutting like a knife.
"And if we had all the memories, perhaps you wouldn't have been singed by fire, Bro. Perhaps you would have been a true knight, not a sorry excuse for one, and it's that rusted fucker's fault!"
Jaune's jaw tightens as he peels away the last fabric from his body. Then, rising from the depths of Jaune's subconscious, the rusty voice echoes with a bitterness born of years of neglect and regret.
"Look at us. Twenty years of muscle mass loss. Twenty years of pure steely muscles gone," It launches into a tirade, its words dripping with disdain for Jaune's perceived shortcomings. "Look at yourself, you sorry excuse for a huntsman! Lanky, weak, barely a shadow of what you could be. You think you have enough muscles? Ha! A marble body may be nice, but you need the muscles of a fucking god for the days ahead!"
Jaune's frustration boils over, his patience wearing thin as he attempts to reason with the relentless voice.
"I have plenty of muscle! I've trained for years—"
The rusty Voice cuts him off with a scoff, its tone derisive and mocking. "Trained? Trained for what? To be a joke? To be the laughingstock of every real huntsman out there? You need to do better!. You need to be better. Only then will you earn the respect you so desperately crave."
With a heavy sigh, Jaune hangs his head, the weight of the rusty voice's words pressing down upon him like a crushing weight. He knows that no matter how hard he tries, he can never escape the relentless demands of his own insecurities — a never-ending battle that threatens to consume him from within.
No. Don't listen. Your head's full and the dust bomb rocked your head. Tie that yellow tie and drown them out. It's the liquid dust, the electrons spinning your head. Focused.
"No, flex, show him what you're made of," the yellow tie suggested.
In a defiant display of strength, Jaune flexes his muscles, the sinewy cords of his arms tensing beneath his skin. For a brief moment, he feels a surge of pride, a fleeting sense of validation in the face of the rusty voice's relentless criticism.
But instead of approval, the rusty voice responds with disdain, its tone dripping with scorn. "Flexing won't change a damn thing. You think a few measly muscles make you a warrior? You're fooling yourself."
Jaune's confidence wavers, the sting of the rusty voice's words cutting deep. "But I'm strong! I've worked hard—"
Rusty Voice interrupts him with a derisive laugh, its mockery echoing in the confines of his mind. "Hard work? Please. Real warriors don't waste their time preening and flexing. They let their actions speak for themselves. And yours? They speak of weakness, of inadequacy. You cheated your way to Beacon, and now you cheated yourself to strength you did not rightfully earned! The twenty years in your head ain't yours till you make it truly yours!"
With a frustrated growl, Jaune releases his flexed muscles, the momentary sense of strength giving way to a familiar sense of defeat. He knows no matter how hard he tries, the rusty voice will always find fault, always demand more — a relentless reminder of his own insecurities, his own failures.
Jaune kicked away his worn attire and dons the sleek black suit, accompanied by a wine-red overcoat, which was a stark contrast to his previously disheveled appearance. He tucks the yellow tie beneath the suit jacket, a subtle gesture of defiance against its relentless demands.
"Finally, some sense. This is how a real Huntsman dresses." It sneers disdainfully at the red tie left discarded on the side, reveling in its victory. "Take that, you fucking pricey garbage. You'll never measure up to the likes of me. I DEFY GUNFIRE AND EXPLOSIONS"
No. It's aura and Semblance did.
Meanwhile, the voice calling him knight interjects with a hint of urgency. "This won't do. We need armor, Jaune. White and gold, the colors of valor and honor."
But Jaune hesitates, his brow furrowing in contemplation.
"We're not here to fight," Jaune reminded himself. Our role is a mediator, negotiator. We don't need armor, we need understanding."
The rusty voice, ever critical, mocks Jaune's sentiment with a bitter edge. "You're right. You ain't worth the Huntsman name yet. Maybe one day, if you ever stop playing dress-up and start acting like a real huntsman."
Jaune gives his tie another firm tug. A sense of quiet descends upon his cluttered mind. The voices, once clamoring for attention, fade into the background, their relentless chatter silenced for the moment.
Then he amplified his body with his Semblance, the electrons fading away in a whimper.
Voices are gone for now.
Jaune realized that as he takes in the memories of the Afteran, the knight trapped in the surreal and chaotic world of the Everafter. He finds himself confronted with a flood of sensations and experiences that threaten to overwhelm his psyche. At first, he was happy because it awakened his Semblance and gave him insights and experiences on how to fight like the rusted knight.
However, what he got were fragmented memories and distorted perceptions.
The memories of the Afteran were like shards of broken glass, cutting through Jaune's mind with their jagged edges. They whisper of a world gone mad, where reality bends and twists in incomprehensible ways. Jaune struggled to make sense of these disjointed fragments, his own identity blurring with that of the Afteran.
As the madness takes hold, Jaune finds himself questioning his own sanity, doubting the very fabric of reality itself. He was haunted by visions of strange creatures and surreal landscapes, each more unsettling than the last. The boundaries between dream and reality begin to blur, leaving Jaune adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
Despite his best efforts to resist, Jaune feels himself being drawn deeper into the madness, unable to escape the inexorable pull of the Afteran's memories.
No. a voice said firmly, full of unbending will. These memories — they are not you. They do not define you. You must never let them replace who you are.
Jaune pauses, letting his Semblance going through him.
Use the memories.. Learn from them, draw strength from their knowledge. But do not rely on them.
Jaune takes a deep breath.
These memories are a tool, not a crutch. You are stronger than the madness, stronger than the chaos. Stand firm and let your own will guide you.
With a firm grip on his tie, Jaune straightens it once more, like a physical manifestation of his volition.
"You got rocked by the bomb," Jaune said. "You'll be fine."
Jaune exited his cabin in the airship and saw Winter Schnee in her usual formal atlas outfit. She scrutinized him, her eyes stopping at the singed yellow necktie. "You must not have liked the red tie," she commented.
Jaune smiled faintly. "It was a gift from my sister… Saphron. I think of it as my lucky charm."
A shiver ran through him as he recalled a memory.
"One day," the voice began, "a sad boy expelled from Beacon's Huntsman Academy knocked on his sister's home in Argus. He was depressed, heartbroken, and crying, his world turned upside down."
The boy, standing on the doorstep, his eyes red and puffy, managed a weak smile as his sister opened the door. "Jaune!" she exclaimed, pulling him into a tight hug. "What happened?"
"It's... it's a long story," Jaune muttered, his voice breaking. "I just... I need a place to stay… would that be alright Saph?"
His sister exchanged a worried glance with her wife, who approached with a comforting smile. "You're always welcome here, Jaune," the sister's wife said, gently guiding him inside. "Come on, let's get you settled."
"It took weeks for the young man to regain his spirits," the voice continued, "cheered up by his sister, her wife, and their child."
The boy sat at the kitchen table, playing peek-a-boo with his young nephew. The boy's laughter was infectious, bringing a genuine smile to the boy's face for the first time in days. His sister watched from the doorway, her heart swelling with pride.
"See Terra?" she whispered to her wife. "He's getting better."
"Seeing his potential," the voice said, "his sister's wife offered him a role he might excel in."
One evening, as they sat together after dinner, Terra looked at Jaune thoughtfully. "You know, Jaune, you have a lot of skills. Have you ever thought about being a Mediator?"
The boy looked up, surprised. "Me? A Mediator?"
"Why not?" the sister's wife replied, her eyes warm with encouragement. "You have so much to offer, and you care about people. That's what matters most. And most of the people I know would welcome a person who has an aura. It makes them feel safe."
The boy thought about it a lot and, after a serious reflection, agreed, seeing that he couldn't shamelessly stay in their home.
"As a symbol of his new start," the voice concluded, "she gifted him a yellow tie with two crescent moons on it."
On his last day before leaving for his next journey, his sister handed the boy a small box. "Open it," she urged with a smile.
The boy opened the box and found a yellow tie adorned with two crescent moons. He looked up, his eyes moist. "Saph... this is beautiful. Thank you."
"It's a symbol of our family to remind you," the sister explained, her voice gentle. "That whenever you wear it, remember that you're never alone. We're always with you."
The boy hugged her tightly, the tie clutched in his hand. "I won't forget. Thank you, Saph. Thank you for everything."
The memory faded as Jaune shook his thoughts away. Fingers brushing the yellow tie, he smiled, the warmth of those memories giving him strength.
"I see," Winter formally apologizes. "I apologize for trying to get rid of something sentimental."
Jaune, maintaining a professional tone, replied, "It's understandable. I should also apologize for procuring more than one alcohol… I have shown you something disgraceful"
Winter raises her hand to reassure him, "It's fine. I think you deserved it after the incident yesterday. I'm just surprised you're not feeling a hangover."
Jaune explained with a hint of modesty, "It's mostly my Semblance doing the work."
He then adjusted his tie, shifting to a more professional-like demeanor. "Let's talk about the armored train from Mistral. How many were injured?"
Winter responded with a somber expression, "Among the 1100 passengers on the train, 750 sustained injuries or are unharmed, while 350 are in critical condition or were potentially killed in the White Fang attack."
Jaune clenched his fists hard, his knuckles turning white. "That's a lot..."
Winter continued, her voice steady but tinged with sorrow, "Although most of the passengers in the economy class were relatively safe, the situation was far worse at the front of the train. Those in the leading cars bore the brunt of the attack. The White Fang targeted the front, causing massive damage and chaos. Many of the injuries weren't from the initial assault by the White Fang, but from the skirmish that ensued and the Grimm that followed after, drawn by the violence and fear."
Jaune then asked, "What's Mistral's and the White Fang's response?"
Winter paused, her expression reflecting the gravity of the situation. "Mistral is in a state of shock and mourning. The attack on the armored train has left the city distraught. There's a palpable sense of fear and uncertainty among the populace."
When it comes to Menagerie and the White Fang, Winter's voice takes on a note of concern. "As for Menagerie and the White Fang, they've remained eerily silent about the incident. Their lack of response is unsettling, to say the least. It's as if they're biding their time or preparing for something more sinister."
Jaune furrowed his brow, a mix of concern and curiosity clear in his expression. "Do you think they'll even show up in Mistral after what they've done?"
Winter hesitates for a moment, contemplating the possibilities. "It's difficult to say for certain. However, after the severity of this incident, Mistral has allowed Atlas to deploy airships around the city as a precautionary measure."
Jaune's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "They've allowed Atlas to deploy airships? That's unexpected."
Winter nods, her tone serious. "Indeed. It seems even Mistral's Council couldn't ignore the gravity of what happened. They're utilizing Atlas assets to bolster security measures throughout the city."
Jaune processes this information, a sense of unease settling in the pit of his stomach. "What about the diplomats from Menagerie? How are they reacting to all of this?"
Winter's expression softens slightly with empathy. "The diplomats from Menagerie were understandably concerned initially. However, after witnessing the devastating death toll from the attack, they had no choice but to accept the increased security measures. The safety of everyone in Mistral is paramount."
With a tug on his yellow tie, Jaune shifts into his professional demeanor. "Then let's meet them, Ma'am."
Winter nods in agreement, her expression reflecting a blend of determination and readiness. She swiftly relays orders through her earpiece as her personal airship descends gracefully onto the landing pad.
As the ramp lowers, Jaune followed Winter's lead, stepping out the airship with purpose as the city of Mistral greets them finally.