The world was dyed a deep red-

Nay, crimson.

No sky, no remnant—just a crimson abyss that pulsed like a beating heart. A grotesque misshapen caricature of one, assembled by some abomination with a twisted sense of perspective. Jaune stood in the center of it, his boots sinking into the endless expanse of liquid beneath him. He could hear it—no, feel it—the rhythmic pounding of a massive heartbeat, each thud reverberating in his bones, sending chills down his spine.

Not chills of fear, no. Chills of excitement.

Figures emerged from the haze, their forms indistinct, their faces smeared with blood and shadow. They reached for him, their fingers twisted and wrong, clawing at the edges of his vision.

"-une…"

The voice was everywhere and nowhere, a whisper carried on the tide.

"Jaune…"

A shadow moved in the distance, growing larger with each step. It towered over the figures, its form monstrous and jagged, its eyes burning like twin suns.

With voice akin to rasping metal against stone, *It* spoke-

"Yo- -not run fr-."

The air grew heavy. Crimson rain torrented upon him from no discernable direction. The crimson tide surged, rising to engulf him. He tried to move, but his body wouldn't obey. The liquid wrapped around his legs, pulling him down, down into the depths. Through the filthen muck, he saw bizarre shapes; the stuff nightmares are made of. Long claws not of this realm, giant floating eyes, twisted coils of flesh and bone, skyscraper sized tentacles.

And then he saw them—faces staring up at him from beneath the surface, their eyes wide and lifeless. They screamed silently, their mouths open in eternal agony as he sunk into the abyss..

"Hey. Hey!"

A hand gripped his shoulder, shaking him roughly.

Jaune's eyes snapped open, his breath hitching as he was ripped from the dream. His heart was pounding, his skin damp with sweat. For a moment, he didn't know where he was.

Then reality came rushing back. The hum of the engines, the faint chatter of voices, the cool metal of the seat beneath him.

He turned his head and found himself staring into a pair of wide, silver eyes.

"You okay?" the girl asked, her voice soft but filled with concern.

Jaune blinked, the remnants of the dream still clinging to the edges of his mind. "I… yeah, I'm fine."

The girl didn't look convinced. She tilted her head, her hood slipping back to reveal a shock of black hair with vivid red tips. "You sure? You looked kinda… I dunno, like you were having a nightmare or something."

Jaune forced a smile, though it felt brittle. "Just tired, I guess. Long night."

"Uhh... yeah, I get that. Look, here's some water, don't be falling sick before initiation, ok?" and with that she passed him her canteen of water as she straightened up, her gaze lingering on him for a moment before she turned back to her seat.

Jaune exhaled slowly, leaning back against the headrest. His hands were trembling, and he clenched them into fists to steady himself. Unscrewing the top, he downed a gulp, the cold water tasting like nectar, a welcome relief from the phantom coppery taste still stuck in his throat.

The dream was already fading, but the feeling it left behind was sharp and sinister.

The bullhead swayed gently as it cut through the sky, the endless forests of Vale sprawling out below like a sea of green. Jaune kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, his reflection staring back at him from the glass. He looked normal, just another kid heading to Beacon Academy.

But he wasn't normal.

His fingers brushed against the edge of his hoodie, pulling it down slightly to hide the faint glow in his eyes. It was happening more often now—little bursts at first, flashes of red creeping into his vision like cracks in a mirror. They were short-lived, almost dreamlike, but recently…

Recently, they lingered. The red didn't just fade when he blinked. It pulsed. It throbbed behind his eyes, sending ripples of heat down his spine and through his veins. His skin itched, like something was crawling beneath it, pressing upward, demanding release. And then there were the whispers. Faint and sinister, their voices tangled in his thoughts like threads of smoke.

Do it.

Rip.

Tear.

At first, they were easy to ignore—an annoying buzz at the edge of his consciousness. But now, they spoke louder. Clearer.

He tried to remember where it started.

The flashes always came in pieces. Blood on his hands. Corpses—dozens, maybe hundreds—strewn across a battlefield bathed in crimson light. The cold bite of a sword in his grip, the heat of battle searing his skin. He remembered loving it. He remembered the joy, the rush of carnage that burned through his body like a wildfire. The thrill of something dark and primal that whispered to him: More.

He just didn't remember how many he'd apparently killed.

He never did.

Whenever he tried to focus on the details—on the faces, the places, the moments—his skull split open with a sharp, blinding pain that left him gasping for air. His thoughts scattered like broken glass, and all he could do was clutch his head until it stopped. It was as if his own mind refused to show him the truth.

Self-preservation? he wondered. Or something far worse?

It always ended the same way—him on his knees, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, a sickly warmth spreading through his body like poison. The whispers would coo in his ear, soft and soothing, urging him to give up, to stop fighting.

You don't need to remember, they said. You just need to feel.

And oh, he felt it.

The phantom sensations haunted him every night. The weight of a sword slicing through flesh. The warmth of blood spattering his skin. The way it soaked into his clothes, thick and heavy. His heart racing with every strike, every cry, every life snuffed out beneath his hands. These delusions of his were growing stronger and stronger with each passing day.

It wasn't enough, the voice whispered. It will never be enough.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms until they left crescent-shaped marks. His breathing came in ragged gasps, each one tighter than the last. He wanted to know. He needed to know. But the moment he pushed too hard, his head would split open with that same brutal ache—a cruel guardian keeping him from whatever lay hidden in the dark corners of his mind. Were they even delusions in the first place?

Jaune exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a fleeting moment, he swore he could feel the weight of a weapon in his grip—not Crocea Mors, but something else. Something far older, its hilt worn smooth by countless battles, its jagged edge stained with blood he couldn't remember spilling.

His mind flickered with surges of power that crawled beneath his skin like fire—magic so dark it seemed to hum in his veins, begging to be unleashed. He could almost feel it crackling at his fingertips, a storm of destruction waiting for his command. The phantom sensations wrapped around him: the whisper of the dagger cutting through flesh, the satisfying burst of raw energy crackling from his hands, leaving trails of ruin in its wake. It was like playing a sick and twisted VRPG on his holocube- one of those 'hack-n-slash' games that others his age loved- except this one felt nauseatingly real. All 5 senses of his could recreate, with unsettling reality, the sensations of his horrific nightmares.

The rush. The power. The way his enemies fell before him, helpless, screaming. He could almost taste the heat of it on his tongue.

But when he tried to remember the faces of those he had slain, they dissolved into smoke, leaving only blood-soaked echoes and the faint, terrible laughter that always followed him.

He thought about asking his parents once, pressing them for answers. But the haunted look in his mother's eyes whenever he as much as mentioned the word "dreams" had silenced him before the words ever left his mouth.

Now, it was too late.

You'll never know, the voice whispered. But you'll feel it again soon.

You cannot run from what you are.

The words echoed in his head, a lingering remnant of the dream. Jaune squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the thoughts away. This was supposed to be a new start. A chance to be something more than the dark shadow of himself that so viciously tormented every moment of his- conscious and unconscious. His parents hadn't wanted him to go. Initially they'd been fine. They'd dismissed his complains of nightmares as an edgy phase every teenage boy seemed to go through. That state of blissful awareness died a swift death sometime last year. He didn't quite remember what had happened but everything changed-seemingly overnight. The dreams got way more intense. He'd wake up in random places he hadn't the faintest idea of going; the hallway, the gardens, the middle of the woods even. That had been scary. While his nook of the world was safe, one could never discount the Grimm. He remembered climbing a tree and huddling in the canopy, keeping so still that he was unable to move out of muscle stiffness when his father found him the next morning. His parents changed too. They'd begged him to stay, to forget about being a Huntsman and live a quiet life in the village.

But he couldn't.

He had to prove to himself that he could be more than the thing he feared. Than the thing they feared. So he forged his transcripts and snuck out during the wee hours of dawn with all the savings he had to his name, accumulated across years of part time jobs, pocket money and festival season gifts. Oh and Crocea Mors. What is a huntsman without a weapon, right? And surely they'd teach him to use it in the academy. He *was* going there to learn, after all.

"First time on a bullhead?"

In the midst of his musings, a relatively known face had approached him yet again.

Jaune glanced up, startled out of his thoughts. The silver-eyed girl was looking at him, her expression curious.

"Yeah," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm, uh, not really used to flying."

She grinned. "It's not so bad once you get used to it. Just don't look down if you're scared of heights."

"Right. Thanks."

She stuck out her hand, her grin widening. "I'm Ruby, by the way."

He hesitated for a moment before taking her hand. "Jaune."

"Nice to meetcha, Jaune!" Ruby said, shaking his hand enthusiastically.

Her energy was almost contagious, and for a moment, he found himself smiling back at her. Apparently this was a mistake, as the girl took his smile for approval and a one-sided barrage of questioning ensued.

"You a first year? Why Beacon? Do you have any friends? What about siblings? Do you have a weapon? Where did you study?" she asked, settling into a seat next to him without missing a beat, mouth going several miles over the speed limit as she chattered on excitedly.

.Now Jaune was not experienced with women at all, let alone one as cute as her. He had never been in a relationship, and he was fairly certain he never would either- but he *was* experienced in the ways of the Brother-Sister dynamic. He had 7 of them after all. And he recognized the tell-tale signs of the awkward yet kindhearted younger sister all too quickly. Resigning himself with a wry smile, he turned to face her head on.

"Well…" Jaune began slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, I'm a first-year. Beacon seemed like a good fit." He paused. "I've got siblings. No friends yet, though."

Ruby tilted her head. "Siblings? Big family or…?"

"Pretty big," Jaune said, keeping it vague. "It's… lively."

He didn't elaborate. Too many memories hung there—warm ones wrapped in laughter and chaos, and darker ones shrouded in whispers behind closed doors. He loved his family. Dearly. And they loved him too. But sometimes-so rarely that it could count as a whole moon occurrence- but sometimes all the same; he could see it in their eyes. Unease. Anxiety. Stress. Caution. Fear.

Ruby, oblivious to his tension, pressed on. "And what about your weapon? Close combat? Long-range? Do you have a sword? Ooh, maybe a giant scythe?!"

Jaune blinked at her enthusiasm. It was endearing, honestly. She reminded him of his immediate younger sister, Neela. His light in the darkness. A person he knew would happily give her life for his- and he immediately pushed away how much he'd enjoy that.

Curses! Can't he even have a moment of longing recollection and reminiscence? Why? Why can't he find happiness in love and kindness?

Shaking away such thoughts, he looked at the person who prompted such musings in the first place before replying.

"I have a sword—Crocea Mors," he said, gesturing to the sheath at his side. "It's a family heirloom. Sword and shield."

Ruby's eyes widened. "No way! A family weapon? That's so cool! I bet it has some amazing history!"

Jaune managed a small smile. "Yeah… something like that."

It did have history—just not the kind he could explain. Crocea Mors had been in his family for generations, or so he'd been told. His father spoke of it with pride, as a symbol of the Arc legacy. But sometimes, in his dreams, the sword didn't feel like his family's weapon.

It felt like his.

Not passed down, not inherited. Claimed. Earned in ways he couldn't quite remember, with a price paid in blood.

His fingers twitched at his sides, a phantom sensation creeping back—the sword slicing through flesh with brutal precision, the shield crashing into enemies with bone-shattering force. The movements felt so real, like instinct burned into his body, natural and savage. But when he tried to focus on the memories, his skull throbbed, the pain blooming like a splitting wound inside his head. His vision blurred, and the whispers began again.

No. I can't.. Not now.

Ruby's voice cut through the haze. "Jaune?" She frowned, her innocent eyes full of concern. "You okay?"

Jaune exhaled slowly, forcing himself back into the moment. "Yeah… just thinking." He forced a smile, shaking off the tension.

Ruby relaxed, her grin returning. "First-day nerves, huh? Don't worry—you'll love it here. The professors are amazing! Glynda Goodwitch,… Headmaster Ozpin? Total legend!" Did I mention that I met him? Yeah, he's the-

Jaune nodded absently, her words floating past him. Ozpin. The name felt important somehow, but he didn't know why. He'd never met the man before. Not that he could remember, anyway. He pushed the thought away. It was probably nothing.

Pausing halfway through a vivid recollection of some adventure involving her fighting someone who apparently was some sort of gigolo(?) and a pyromaniac, Ruby gave him a playful nudge. "Seriously, lighten up! We're gonna be great Huntsmen, right?"

Her optimism was warm and disarming, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. It reminded him of simpler times, when things were easier. Before the whispers grew stronger. Before the headaches. Before the BLOOD.

For the first time since boarding the bullhead, Jaune felt just a little lighter. But he knew better than to trust himself. Not yet.

Ruby, unsurprisingly, didn't seem to notice.

"Neela indeed, this one.." thought Jaune as he gave her a smile that didn't entirely reach his eyes, recollecting his sister's fascination with heroes of yore and lore.

"Yeah, I've always wanted to be a hero. The one who makes a difference, helps people in need." sighs Jaune wistfully, his desires very much a reflection of his sister's flights of fancy.

She nodded, her silver eyes shining. "That's a great reason! I want to be a hero too, just like my mom was."

He didn't miss the past tense, and he didn't ask. Honestly, Jaune didn't know what to say to that. Here was a pure and beautiful soul—filled with light, laughter, and dreams of heroism. The kind of person who saw the best in the world, who believed in saving it without compromise. She wasn't weighed down by shadows or whispered doubts. She hadn't seen what he had. She wasn't plagued by those awful visions.

It made no sense, he found himself rationalizing on countless occasions. How was it possible that he, Jaune Arc, a scraggly lad with no training or experience could have done even a fraction of what those visions suggest? He'd run at the sight of his neighbors dog for Oum's sake. He wasn't a killer. Surely-

And the laughter began anew;

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHH! Hilarious as always! Remember! Be true-

No. Willing himself back to reality, he attempted to regain control of the flow of his thoughts. Where was he? Ah yes, Ruby the pure. Ruby the innocent. Sickening. No, there it was again. Reigning in his inner voice, he marveled at the simplicity and good nature of her world view.

He envied her for that.

Ruby grinned, completely oblivious to the war inside him. She leaned back in her seat, staring out the window at the passing clouds. "Beacon's gonna be amazing," she said, her voice soft with excitement. "A fresh start for both of us, right?"

Fresh start.

The words clung to him like smoke. He'd told himself the same thing when he left home—left behind the strange, worried glances from his family, the creeping dread that had filled their house like a sickness. He'd boarded this bullhead hoping to leave that life behind, but deep down, he knew the truth.

The darkness inside him wasn't something he could outrun.

It would follow him wherever he went.

Jaune swallowed hard, his fingers curling into the fabric of his pants. He didn't want to think about it, about the visions that lurked at the edge of his mind—the flashes of fire and blood, the sounds of screaming, the laughter.

"Yeah," he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "A fresh start."

Ruby beamed at him, the kind of smile that could chase away storm clouds. "We've got this!" she said, giving him a thumbs-up.

Jaune managed a small smile in wanted to believe her. He really did. But deep down, beneath the mask he'd worn for years, the whispers stirred once more, faint and familiar.

There is no fresh start for you, they said. Only blood. Only death. Only what you were always meant to be.

Jaune looked away from Ruby, unable to continue gazing at her brightness lest he begin contemplating how good that smile would look permanently carved into her cute little face, his eyes darkening as he saw the spires of Beacon's famous clock tower loom up ahead. Yes, he could pretend. Today, he could be Jaune Arc, first-year student at Beacon Academy. Today, He could run away from his delusions of terror and his primal urges. Today, he could live in the moment, be free and maybe, enjoy the best years of his life.

Tomorrow… well, that could wait.

Author's Note:
Hello, and welcome to my first RWBY fanfic! I've been toying with this idea for a while, and after getting inspired by Baldur's Gate 3's Dark Urge storyline, I thought—why not merge that with Jaune Arc? Thus, Dream in Red was born!

This story will follow Jaune as he tries to balance his desire to be a hero with the dark, violent instincts lurking beneath the surface. Expect plenty of mystery, magic, and angst, with some canon divergence thrown in for good measure. It'll get dark at times, so consider this your warning!

I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please drop a review! Constructive criticism is welcome, and if you enjoy the story, feel free to favorite and follow. I'll try to update regularly, so stay tuned.