Smoke from the dwindling fire curled into the cold night air as Jaune faced Qrow Branwen, the man's silhouette sharp and motionless against the trembling light. Jaune didn't move—not yet. He felt the heat of the flame against his palms and the cool weight of the forged documents hidden in his pack. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, loud enough that he almost didn't hear Qrow's next words.
"You were seen. Raechon Village." Qrow's voice was low, almost tired. The scent of alcohol clung to him, but his eyes remained sharp, calculating. "A licensed huntsman turned up dead. Witnesses say it was a blonde kid. Old sword. Black hoodie. Light armor." He tilted his head slightly. "Sound familiar?"
Jaune's mouth went dry. "It wasn't— I didn't—" He faltered, the words choking out before meaning could follow. The images returned unbidden: the huntsman bleeding out, the villagers running, his hands trembling as crimson aura bled from his skin.
Those aren't your memories. Not entirely. Pyrrha's voice was a whisper now, hesitant. You're blending our experiences again.
"Shut up," Jaune hissed under his breath.
Qrow's eyebrow raised. "Didn't catch that."
"You ran," Qrow added, stepping closer. "Slipped into the woods like a damn Grimm."
Jaune took a step back. "I didn't kill him." The lie felt thick on his tongue—not because he was lying, but because he wasn't sure if it was a lie. Had he killed the man, or had she? Was there even a difference anymore?
He's preparing to strike. Weapon, three o'clock. Half-concealed. Three-step approach pattern—classic Branwen technique.
Pyrrha's voice resonated through his mind, clear and commanding. Jaune's body stiffened, tension drawing his limbs tight. His fingers flexed, not with his own intent, but with an elegance and poise he didn't recognize.
How do you know him? Jaune thought desperately, but received no answer.
Qrow noticed. The shift was subtle, but unmistakable: Jaune's spine straightened, his stance dropped fractionally into something more balanced, more measured. The awkward boy disappeared beneath a posture ready for quick movement.
"That's not how a civilian stands," Qrow said slowly, his hand drifting closer to his weapon. "I've fought killers. Real ones. You're not one of them." A beat of silence, his eyes narrowing as he studied Jaune's face. "Don't make me do this, kid."
"Stay back. We're dangerous," Jaune warned. But it wasn't just his voice anymore. The words had an edge—firm, detached. A faint crimson glow began to intermingle with the gold of his aura, barely visible in the firelight. He felt the third presence stirring again, ancient and watchful, drawn by the impending conflict.
Qrow's eyes narrowed. "Who's 'we,' kid?"
Let me handle this. He's no ordinary huntsman. I've seen what he can do to students who think themselves ready.
"No, wait—" Jaune whispered, but his protest faded as control slipped away. The sensation was familiar now—a cold wave washing from the base of his skull down his spine, numbing his limbs before they ignited with a precision that wasn't his own.
The first blow came fast—too fast for Jaune's mind to fully register. Pyrrha surged forward, instincts honed through years of warfare. His body twisted low as Qrow lunged, his blade whistling through the air. Sparks flared as metal met metal, Jaune's sword intercepting Qrow's with a precision that didn't belong to him.
To Jaune, the world blurred. Movements felt distant, like watching a fight from underwater. His body moved with unnatural grace—steps flowing like practiced choreography. The firelight stretched and distorted, turning the forest into a nightmarish landscape of leaping shadows.
I won't let him take us. You don't understand what they'll do to you—to us.
Stop! Let me speak! Please, stop!
His thoughts became noise, smothered beneath the roar of Pyrrha's focus. His aura flickered between gold and crimson, never fully settling on either. For a moment, he thought he saw a third color threading through both—something darker, older.
Qrow held his ground, fending off attacks that grew sharper, more fluid with each passing second. His strikes shifted—from offense to testing, probing. And then, in a flicker of broken rhythm, Jaune's body stuttered.
A misstep. A flicker of confusion in the eyes.
Jaune, focus! Don't fight me—we can't afford division now!
Get out of my head! Jaune screamed internally, grabbing at the threads of control. For a moment, he felt them—slippery, elusive, but there.
Qrow seized the moment. His sword knocked Jaune's from his hand, and the hilt of Harbinger drove into Jaune's shoulder with a thud that dropped him to one knee. Another blow came to the side of his neck, and Jaune slumped to the dirt, gasping.
For a moment, all was silent save the crackle of fire and the rasp of Jaune's breath.
Qrow crouched beside him, not smug—just sad.
"You're not a fighter," he muttered.
Jaune blinked up at him, eyes unfocused. The world swam in and out, edges bleeding into one another. "She... didn't mean to. She just... took over. I wasn't... myself." He tried to focus on Qrow's face, but saw three overlapping images instead—Qrow now, Qrow from a memory that wasn't his, and something else—a shadow of a figure that shouldn't be there.
Qrow's jaw tightened. "Yeah. That's what I'm afraid of." His eyes flickered to Jaune's aura, which still pulsed with mixed colors, settling into neither. "Who is she, kid?"
Don't tell him! Her voice was desperate now. Jaune, he won't understand—
"She says she died for me," Jaune continued, voice cracking. "I can't... the memories aren't clear."
With a quick motion, Qrow brought the pommel of Harbinger against the back of Jaune's skull. The boy's eyes rolled back as consciousness fled.
"Sorry, kid. Can't take chances." Qrow sighed, reaching for his scroll. "You're going somewhere that can help you."
As darkness closed in, Jaune felt her panic surge through him—a desperate clawing at the edges of his mind.
[/]
The steady hum of engines penetrated the fog in Jaune's mind as consciousness slowly returned. Pain throbbed at the base of his skull, and his limbs felt leaden. A groan escaped his lips as his eyelids fluttered open, revealing the metal interior of a Bullhead transport.
Jaune, we've been captured. Military-grade restraints. Two armed personnel at your three and nine. Minimal equipment. Limited extraction options.
The tactical assessment came immediately in Pyrrha's voice—no, not Pyrrha's voice, just his imagination she wasn't real. Jaune tried to move, only to find his wrists bound by aura-neutralizing cuffs. Across from him sat a guard with a standard-issue Atlas rifle, watching him with wary eyes.
"Where—" Jaune's voice came out as a rasp. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus as phantom whispers tickled the edges of his hearing. "Where are you taking me?"
The guard didn't answer, just shifted his weight and tightened his grip on the weapon.
Vale. They're transporting us to Vale. Likely to a facility for containment. We need to—
"You have to let me go," Jaune whispered, his voice trembling as he tried to distinguish between his own panic and the foreign urgency bleeding into his thoughts. "Please."
"What was that?" The guard frowned, leaning forward slightly.
"I can't—I can't stay here." Jaune's breath quickened, his eyes darting to shadows that seemed to move in the corners of the Bullhead. "Something's wrong with me. I need to go home, Ozma get Ozma!" His voice cracked with genuine fear.
The guard approached cautiously, studying Jaune's tear-streaked face. Something like sympathy flickered in his eyes as he reached out, placing a hand on Jaune's shoulder.
"Kid, what are you talking ab—"
Jaune's head snapped up, his eyes suddenly blazing with crimson light. The guard's hand was violently repelled by a surge of crackling red aura that shouldn't have been possible with the restraints active.
"Do not touch him." The voice that emerged from Jaune's throat was his own, yet infused with a cold precision that didn't belong to him. "Your nose was broken at some point. Your left leg healed improperly—you favor your right. One strike would shatter your femur. I could snap your cervical vertebrae before you hit the floor."
The Bullhead lurched suddenly, metal groaning as Jaune's aura intensified, overwhelming the neutralizing cuffs. Warning lights flashed across the cabin.
"Stand down!" The guard stumbled back, raising his gun with shaking hands. "I said STAND DOWN!"
"You think that weapon is adequate?" A smile that didn't belong on Jaune's face spread across his lips. "I've faced armies with less than what I have now. I will bring this aircraft down if necessary!"
No! Stop this! What are you doing?!Jaune fought internally, feeling himself pushed further into the recesses of his own mind.
The second guard rushed forward, adjusting the settings on Jaune's restraints. The cuffs whirred loudly as they cycled to a higher drain setting, and gradually, the Bullhead stabilized.
The cockpit door slammed open as Qrow emerged, taking in the scene: Jaune weeping in the chair, one guard holding his restraints while the other kept a rifle trained on the boy's head.
"What the hell happened back here?" Qrow demanded, his hand instinctively moving toward his weapon.
The guard with the rifle remained focused on Jaune. "His aura spiked beyond containment levels. Eyes turned red. The whole damn ship almost came apart. Simmons had to max out the cuffs."
The other guard—Simmons—stepped back from Jaune. "He's been muttering to himself the whole time. Crying one minute, making threats the next. It's like he's two different people."
"I didn't ask for this!" Jaune suddenly cried out, slamming his head back against the wall of the Bullhead. Tears streamed down his face as he fought for control of his own body. "Get out! Please, just get out of my head!" The scream was raw, desperate—purely Jaune.
Qrow moved quickly, grabbing Jaune's head to prevent him from hurting himself further. "Easy, kid! You'll crack your skull open— Get the sedative. Now!"
Simmons rushed to a compartment on the wall, retrieving a small medical kit. He extracted a syringe and jabbed it into Jaune's neck with practiced efficiency.
As the sedative began to take effect, Jaune's struggles weakened. His eyes still gleamed with that unnerving red light, but his voice softened to a whisper.
"I will protect you, Jaune," he murmured in that measured cadence that wasn't his own. "There are forces at work beyond what any of them understand. The fall is coming."
The crimson light in his eyes began to dim as consciousness slipped away.
"We'll see them again," came the final whisper. "All of them. This time, we'll save everyone."
Qrow watched as Jaune slumped forward, unconscious. He shared a troubled look with the guards before pulling out his scroll, his expression grim.
"Set course for Vale," he ordered. "And contact Headmaster Ozpin directly. Tell him..." he paused, looking down at the boy with a mixture of concern and wariness. "Tell him I found something he needs to see."
"Can you describe the events leading up to your detention in your own words?" The doctor's voice came through a speaker mounted near the one-way glass wall.
Jaune blinked against the harsh fluorescent lighting, finding himself strapped to a metal chair. The restraint jacket wrapped tightly around his torso, binding his arms across his chest. The last of the drugs had finally cleared his system after they'd administered a compound to neutralize the sedatives.
"What?" Jaune asked, struggling to sit upright against the restraints.
Don't tell them anything. They'll use it against us.
He shook his head slightly, trying to clear the fog. "Where am I?"
"Where do you think you are?" the doctor asked, his tone carefully neutral.
Jaune blinked repeatedly, fighting through the mental haze. The clinical white walls, the sterile smell, the restraints—none of it felt like a normal hospital.
"Vale?" he ventured, uncertainty in his voice.
"Very good." The doctor's voice carried a hint of approval. "Now, can you describe the events that led you here, son?"
Jaune stared blankly at the table, eyes struggling to focus on a single point. His mind felt fragmented, pieces of memory scattered and disjointed.
"I—" he paused, trying to collect his thoughts. "I was in the woods. I woke up there."
Be careful. Selective truth only.
"When was this?" the doctor prompted.
"I don't know. I think more than a week ago." Jaune's glassy eyes tried to focus on the mirror, imagining the faces watching him from behind it. "Maybe longer."
"You woke up in the forest. Can you remember anything before that?"
Jaune struggled, the effort visible on his face. "I remember I was at home. I was going to travel to Beacon. I was going to try out."
The doctor didn't speak for a moment. In the silence, Jaune's gaze found the one-way mirror again, more focused this time.
"Am I under arrest?" he asked.
A small computer to the doctor's right pinged softly as the collar on Jaune's jacket began registering aura readings. Two distinct energy signatures appeared on the screen—one gold, one crimson—fluctuating in strength as Jaune spoke.
"I'm going to ask you questions," the doctor finally responded. "I want you to answer them honestly, and after that, we'll see."
Jaune nodded slowly. "I was traveling through the woods. I can't remember most of it. I went through Forever Fall, but—" he hesitated, brow furrowing, "—I blacked out during that too."
He's watching your aura signature. Control your emotions.
The doctor's eyes darted to the monitor before returning to Jaune. The brain activity readout had begun to stabilize into an unusual pattern—the waves smoothing out too quickly for someone just coming off heavy sedation.
"I traveled to a village," Jaune continued, his voice suddenly more confident, measured. "I was going to buy food, and then a Beowolf attacked. I intervened and saved some of the villagers."
His blue eyes seemed to peer directly through the one-way glass, finding the doctor with unnerving precision. A subtle red tint began to creep into their edges.
"Then the huntsman there attempted to stab me. I protected myself and killed him by accident. A villager had shot him with an arrow. I expected him to have aura, and what was meant to create distance between us ended up killing him."
The EKG showed Jaune's brainwaves had stabilized into an unnaturally steady pattern. Not impossible, but unusual for someone his age who'd just been through trauma and sedation.
"I ran and spent several days in the woods traveling to Vale, trying to get to a hospital. Then I ran into Qrow Branwen on the outskirts."
The EKG spiked suddenly, a jagged line cutting through the even pattern. Jaune's eyes widened slightly, and he shook his head as if clearing it.
"No, wait—" His voice changed, becoming less certain, more like the frightened boy from before. "After I blacked out in Forever Fall, I was starving. I didn't have any food, and I needed something to eat."
Stop it. You're confusing the narrative.
"I found this tiny village—didn't have any walls or anything—and I—" Jaune hesitated, looking ashamed. "I stole some apples."
The doctor's brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes tracking between Jaune and the readings. Behind the mirrored glass, two other medical staff exchanged concerned glances.
"There was a Grimm attack," Jaune continued. "I heard a loud boom, and I was scared for the villagers. I jumped in and there was—" He froze, his body beginning to tremble. The heart rate monitor spiked dramatically, pulsing with rapid beeps.
"Then what, Jaune?" the doctor prompted.
Jaune mumbled something inaudible, his head tilting to the left as if listening to someone.
"I had difficulty hearing that," the doctor said.
Jaune's head suddenly snapped to the side. "You're the reason I'm in this mess!" he yelled at empty air.
"Excuse me?" the doctor asked, leaning forward.
"Nothing," Jaune replied loudly, his focus returning to the mirror. "I saved the huntsman's life from a Grimm, and he tried to stab me afterward. She killed him."
"She?" The doctor's voice sharpened with interest.
Don't—
"There's someone in my head," Jaune admitted, voice breaking. "She keeps talking to me. She made me hurt the huntsman. She didn't need to kill him. I couldn't control myself."
The EKG readings became erratic, lines jumping chaotically across the screen. Jaune began to shake, golden aura crackling visibly around his restraints. His eyes slowly took on a reddish glow.
"He's trying to detain us!" The voice was Jaune's, but the cadence, the inflection was entirely different—sharper, more commanding. "Don't tell him anything!"
His head wrenched backward violently, straining against the restraints. "Maybe they can fix this!" Jaune screamed to the ceiling, his own voice returning.
"Jaune? Jaune, are you with us?" the doctor called, alarm evident in his tone.
Jaune's head snapped toward the one-way glass, eyes now blazing crimson. The gold in his aura had almost completely vanished, replaced by a deep red glow that pulsed with frightening intensity. The doctor felt a sudden constriction around his neck as the steel chain holding his wedding band began to twist, pulled by an invisible force. It tightened like a noose, wrenching his head backward.
We can make him tell us where Beacon is. We need to get to Ozpin.
"Stop it! Stop it, you're hurting him!" Jaune yelled, fighting against himself.
Golden and crimson aura wrestled for dominance around his body, the restraint jacket beginning to smoke where the energies conflicted. Through the glass, the observing staff could see the visual manifestation of his internal struggle—red and gold auras fighting for control like oil and water refusing to mix.
"He's going to have us locked here!" Jaune's voice shifted again to that harder tone. "We have to save Beacon!"
"I don't care about Beacon!" Jaune cried out in his natural voice. "Just stop it—you're hurting him. You're hurting me!"
The chair suddenly collapsed backward with a metallic crash, Jaune falling hard against the floor. The impact seemed to break something in the struggle.
"I hate you!" he screamed, though whether to the doctor or the presence inside him wasn't clear.
The doctor felt the pressure on his necklace abruptly release as Jaune's aura readings flatlined on the monitor. He slammed the emergency button, gasping for breath.
Three security personnel charged into the room, lifting the still-conscious but dazed Jaune to his feet. As they dragged him out, Jaune's eyes had returned to their natural blue, tears streaming down his face.
The doctor remained seated, breathing heavily as he rubbed at the angry red mark circling his neck. On the monitor, the dual aura signatures had disappeared, leaving only a single, weak golden line.
He reached for his scroll with shaking hands. "Get me Qrow Branwen," he rasped. "Immediately."
[/]
"Trauma-induced dissociation, fragmented consciousness with delusional elements, possibly exacerbated by aura manifestation," Dr. Werner listed off, flipping through his notes as he briefed Qrow Branwen. The huntsman leaned against the wall of the observation room, seemingly casual but with eyes that missed nothing. "From a purely clinical perspective, we'd typically diagnose a form of psychosis."
"So the kid's having a breakdown and his aura's gone haywire," Qrow remarked, taking a measured sip from his flask, his eyes never leaving the figure on the other side of the glass.
Dr. Werner shook his head, fingers tapping uneasily against his clipboard. "It's... unprecedented. In documented cases of huntsmen with dissociative conditions, aura signature remains constant. We've tracked over a hundred similar cases since the establishment of the academies, and not once—" he pointed toward Jaune, "—not once has an individual's aura shifted color or manifested dual signatures like this."
Qrow frowned, mind working through possibilities beyond the obvious. "Could be an illusion semblance. Making us see what isn't there."
"We considered that," Dr. Werner said, absently rubbing at his neck. "If Mr. Arc had pre-existing mental instability before his aura awakened, his semblance might have manifested in a way that... reinforces his condition."
"A feedback loop," Qrow mused, straightening slightly. "Hallucinate something, then unconsciously use semblance to project it. If others can see it..." He left the implication hanging.
"A sound theory." The doctor pulled down his collar, revealing the angry red mark encircling his throat. "Except his semblance manipulated the metal in my wedding band. You reported disturbances with the Bullhead's hull integrity?"
Qrow nodded, the memory uncomfortably fresh. "The entire aircraft nearly shook apart. Had to sedate him before we lost control completely."
"Ferrokinesis," Dr. Werner concluded.
"Metal manipulation," Qrow translated, eyebrow raised. "Doesn't match what we know about the kid."
"We found him with forged transcripts," Qrow added, stepping closer to the glass. "No mention of any semblance at all."
The doctor shrugged. "Some individuals train for years and only unlock their semblance in life-threatening situations. Others manifest theirs during childhood. The timing is unpredictable."
Through the reinforced glass, they observed Jaune sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed in what appeared to be meditation. The restraint jacket had been replaced with specialized aura-dampening cuffs. The room itself contained minimal metal components—a necessary precaution after what happened to the doctor.
They're watching us. Qrow's there.
Jaune's eyelids fluttered, blue irises gradually bleeding into crimson. He turned toward the observation window with unsettling precision, as if the one-way glass were transparent.
"Qrow Branwen," he said, voice steady and confident—nothing like the stammering student from earlier interrogations.
"Well, isn't this just like those detective shows," Qrow muttered with sardonic humor. He pressed the communication button. "What's on your mind, kid?"
"Get Ozpin," the voice that used Jaune's mouth demanded. Not a request—a directive.
Qrow's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Headmaster's a busy man. Mind telling me who's asking for him?"
A slight, knowing smile played across Jaune's face. "I'm her."
"That narrows it down to about half of Remnant," Qrow replied, casual tone belying his heightened alertness. "Care to be more specific?"
"Do you have a chair?" Jaune asked abruptly, the non-sequitur hanging awkwardly between them.
Qrow glanced at Dr. Werner, who nodded and quietly exited, presumably to fetch one. Once alone, Qrow turned back to the window.
"You did a number on the doc," he remarked, testing the waters.
Jaune's expression flickered with something that resembled genuine regret. "That wasn't... I didn't mean to hurt him."
"What about the huntsman?" Qrow countered. "Was that an accident too?"
"He drew his weapon after I saved his life," Jaune replied without hesitation, a hint of indignation in his tone. "I defended myself."
Qrow nodded slowly, analyzing every micro-expression. "That would check out, except for one thing—you showed your hand too early. You can control metal." He leaned closer to the glass. "So why couldn't you have just stopped the blade?"
Jaune's crimson eyes narrowed, a scowl forming as his posture tensed. "There wasn't time."
"The sword you had its got a Long blade," Qrow continued, voice deceptively conversational. "You had enough distance to pull back and thrust. Even if it happened quickly, you could've simply stepped out of range." He paused. "Or used your shield. That's what it's for, isn't it?"
Inside Jaune's mind,Pyrrha's presence coiled with frustration.
"I guess you could call it a run of bad luck," Jaune responded, the words carrying a weight of implication.
Qrow's hand twitched toward Harbinger on his back, muscles tensing. The reference to his semblance—something few people knew about—hadn't gone unnoticed.
"Why the obsession with seeing Ozpin?" Qrow deflected, falling back on sarcasm. "Grades that bad?"
"Ozpin can verify who I am," Jaune replied simply. "And get me out of here."
"He'd need a compelling reason. And I don't think killing a huntsman in 'self-defense' qualifies as one."
Jaune tilted his head slightly, as if listening to someone only he could hear. When his gaze refocused on Qrow, there was an unnerving intensity that made the experienced huntsman shift his stance.
"Is he too busy caring for Amber?" Jaune asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Qrow froze, the casual facade cracking momentarily. "Never heard of her," he lied, fingers tightening around his flask. "What, the tabloids saying Oz has a secret daughter now?"
"She's Fall," Jaune said softly.
A muscle in Qrow's jaw twitched. He turned away, struggling to maintain composure. "I don't know what you're talking about," he managed, unable to mask the edge in his voice.
He knows. Push harder.
"After students arrive for the Vytal Festival, the Queen will place three agents in Beacon," Jaune continued, urgency building in his voice. "They'll infiltrate as Haven students."
Qrow spun back toward the window, all pretense gone as he scrutinized the boy. "How could you possibly know that?"
Jaune shook his head, crimson eyes flaring brighter. "Get Ozpin. We're running out of time."
"For all I know, this is a setup."
A heavy silence fell between them. Then, with chilling gravity, Jaune spoke:
"I swear on Ruby's life."
Qrow slammed his fist against the control panel. "How do you know that name?" he demanded, voice rising with protective fury.
"Get. Ozpin. Here. NOW!" Jaune shouted, stepping toward the observation window.
The crimson in his eyes intensified to an unnatural glow. Golden aura began to crackle across his skin, swirling and shifting into deep red. The reinforced glass between them creaked, then splintered with a sharp crack. Within seconds, it shattered completely, raining fragments as Qrow's aura flared protectively.
Jaune stood amid the destruction, eyes blazing through the opening. The aura-dampening cuffs on his wrists blared warning signals, the metal housing starting to warp and bend. For one tense moment, their eyes locked—Qrow's widened with shock, Jaune's burning with unfamiliar determination.
Then, like a candle being snuffed out, the crimson light faded. Confusion washed over Jaune's features as his eyes returned to their natural blue. He blinked rapidly, looking around at the destruction with growing horror.
"Wh-what happened? Did I—" His knees buckled, and he collapsed amidst the glass debris, consciousness fleeing.
Qrow lowered his defensive stance, brushing shards from his clothes. He stared at the fallen boy for a long moment, mind racing through impossible possibilities.
With deliberate movements, he pulled out his scroll.
"Oz," he said when the call connected. "Move up your visit. Now." He paused, listening. "No, this can't wait. It's about the Fall Maiden... and potentially something much worse."
As security personnel rushed into the observation room, Qrow's gaze remained fixed on Jaune's unconscious form, a troubling question taking root: whose eyes had been looking at him through the boy's face?
[/]
"After students arrive for the Vytal Festival, the Queen will place three agents in Beacon."
General James Ironwood replayed the footage for the third time, studying the boy's face with military precision. The words, spoken with unsettling conviction, sent a chill through him that decades of battlefield experience couldn't suppress. Something in those crimson eyes—eyes that shouldn't belong to the blonde-haired student—seemed to pierce through the camera directly into his own.
"Who exactly is he?" Ironwood asked, his voice maintaining its measured cadence despite the unease crawling up his spine.
In the Bullhead soaring toward Vale, Glynda Goodwitch's fingers moved with practiced efficiency across her tablet screen, pulling up the relevant file for Ozpin's review.
"Jaune Aurelius Arc. Age 17, height 6'1". Father is Joseph Arc, huntsman trained at Beacon, retired to civilian life twelve years ago," she reported, her tone clipped and professional. "The boy himself has never received formal training at any combat academy and holds no apprentice license. He was reported missing from his hometown of Ansel approximately four weeks ago."
Ozpin hummed thoughtfully, fingers steepled before him as he studied the information. "Any prior history of mental instability or notable medical conditions?"
"None documented," Glynda replied, adjusting her glasses. "The family makes seasonal trips to Vale for supplies and festivals. His scroll records show typical teenage communication patterns—nothing suspicious. Academic performance is average, with slightly above-average marks in history and literature." Her brow furrowed slightly. "For all intents and purposes, Ozpin, he's a perfectly ordinary civilian."
"And yet," Ironwood's voice crackled through the scroll call, "he possesses highly classified information about Salem and the current status of the Fall Maiden." A weighted pause followed. "He could be an infiltrator merely feigning psychological disturbance to gain proximity to either you or your students."
"Perhaps," Ozpin conceded, his measured voice betraying nothing of his innermost thoughts. "Yet it doesn't align with standard infiltration tactics to provide us with advance intelligence."
"Intelligence that cannot be verified," Ironwood corrected, the metallic undertone of his voice reflecting his skepticism. "For all we know, this could be an elaborate diversion."
"All I'm requesting is an hour to question him personally," Ozpin suggested, calmly tapping his cane against the floor of the Bullhead. "We should at least entertain the possibility that he possesses a precognitive semblance, perhaps one he cannot fully control."
Ironwood's image on the scroll shifted as he leaned forward, the light catching the metal above his right brow. "I believe the prudent course would be to keep him in secure custody for extended observation. If he genuinely has intelligence regarding Salem's movements, we need to extract and verify that information while minimizing potential risks."
Glynda's reflection caught in the tablet screen as she frowned. "I believe we should maintain his internment at the psychiatric facility. If he does possess precognitive abilities, they might be dependent on specific circumstances or individuals present. Allowing him access to any of us could potentially create a feedback loop—he glimpses our future plans, then feeds that information back to Salem, if he is indeed her agent." Her voice carried subtle emphasis on the final words.
"Are we all going to ignore the fact that he shattered reinforced glass with his mind?" Qrow's voice cut through the call, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of liquid sloshing in a flask. "The kid blew out security glass rated to withstand high-caliber Dust rounds!"
"Yes, I reviewed the footage, Mr. Branwen," Glynda replied, lips thinning with disapproval.
"So doesn't that completely undermine your precognition theory?" Qrow pressed, voice rough with frustration. "No one has two semblances. That's not how aura works."
"Calm yourself, Qrow," Ozpin said quietly but firmly. "Elevated emotions will only cloud our judgment in an already complex situation."
"He knows about Ruby!" Qrow's voice dropped to a dangerous growl, all traces of his usual careless demeanor evaporating. "That means if he's Salem's pawn, she knows about Ruby's silver eyes!"
A heavy silence fell before Ironwood spoke again. "I believe we should neutralize the potential threat. The boy should be placed in maximum security confinement. If he genuinely possesses intelligence about Salem's plans, we need to ensure his safety and prevent any information leakage. If word circulates that such an unpredictable variable has entered the equation, it would be advantageous to both sides to remove him from play entirely."
"Couldn't agree more," Qrow muttered, uncharacteristically aligned with Ironwood's assessment.
Ozpin tapped his cane thoughtfully. "And what if his intentions are benign? What if he genuinely sought admission to Beacon to develop his abilities? If he somehow possesses dual semblances, then perhaps this extraordinary potential could be cultivated in the right environment."
"He represents a clear and present danger to everyone in proximity," Ironwood countered, his military training evident in his assessment. "He experienced some form of episode and nearly asphyxiated a medical professional using a wedding band—a piece of metal as thin as a fingernail."
"All semblances harbor inherent dangers," Ozpin replied evenly. "Every semblance possesses the capacity to harm others when misused. Glynda's telekinesis could crush a civilian as easily as it might save someone from a collapsing structure. James, your mettle grants you exceptional mental clarity under pressure, yet thinking dispassionately means weighing lives in the balance, allowing some to perish so others might survive. A necessary calculation in wartime, yet for those deemed expendable, you may embody the greatest of evils."
"Is there a point to this philosophical digression?" James asked, impatience edging his voice.
"I wish to study him," Ozpin said simply. "If he truly manifests dual semblances, then the boy potentially houses two souls. And if that is the case—"
"It's remarkably convenient timing," Ironwood interrupted, the implication clear.
"Exceedingly so," Ozpin agreed, a subtle understanding passing between them.
James sighed deeply, his flesh hand rubbing at the junction where metal met skin along his temple. "Do not allow sentimentality to compromise our strategic position."
"I will bear that in mind," Ozpin replied, ending the call as the Bullhead descended toward the institution's rooftop.
As the aircraft touched down, Ozpin gazed out the window at the sprawling facility below, his reflection superimposed over the scene. For the briefest moment, something almost like recognition flickered in his eyes—not for the building, but for the situation. As if he'd witnessed this particular pattern play out before, in another time, another place.
"Ozpin?" Glynda's voice drew him back to the present. "We've arrived."
"Indeed we have," he murmured, rising with deliberate grace. "Let's meet this young man with two souls."
Ozpin stepped from the Bullhead, followed by Glynda, their footsteps echoing as they made their way from the rooftop landing pad into the facility. The sterile white walls and persistent antiseptic smell struck Ozpin with uncomfortable familiarity—places like this existed in every kingdom, filled with those society deemed better kept apart from the rest.
"He's in isolation room 5-1," Glynda informed him, consulting her scroll with a frown. "They've had to move him twice since the incident."
Ozpin nodded, his cane tapping a measured rhythm against the polished floor as they reached an elevator and descended. The sounds of agitated voices and occasional wails grew more distant with each floor they passed. Ozpin tried not to let the familiar guilt gnaw at him—how many souls had he consigned to places like this over his countless lifetimes?
"Here," Glynda indicated, gesturing toward a reinforced door marked '5-1'. Fresh scratch marks marred the metal frame, and a small observation window had been covered from the inside.
"Please wait outside," Ozpin requested, his tone gentle but firm.
"Sir, I strongly advise being present in case—"
"I may appear old," Ozpin interrupted with a rare, genuine smile for his assistant, "but I assure you I'm more than capable of handling one disoriented teenager."
Glynda's lips tightened, disapproval evident in her posture, but she nodded curtly. "I'll remain at the door." Her hand rested on her riding crop—a subtle signal of her readiness to intervene.
Inside, Ozpin found a scene of calculated chaos. The room's table lay overturned, a chair splintered against the far wall. In the corner sat a blonde boy in institutional white, knees drawn to his chest, fingers tracing and retracing the scratch marks on his forearms—deliberate tallies carved into his own skin.
Blue eyes, wide with fear and confusion, darted up to meet Ozpin's gaze—then shifted.
The headmaster watched with careful neutrality as crimson briefly overtook those blue irises. His gaze traveled methodically over Jaune's body, noting the tally marks, the raw skin around the specialized cuffs, the slight tremor in his hands. Ozpin's eyes narrowed imperceptibly as Jaune blinked, red aura flickering across his eyes before transmuting them to a deep, unnatural green.
"You're still alive in this world," Jaune spoke, his voice suddenly lower, more measured—a voice that didn't belong to him.
"I am," Ozpin replied, betraying nothing. "Is that surprising to you?"
The boy reached down to right the fallen chair with a fluid grace entirely at odds with his institutional garb and the reports of his clumsiness. He sat with perfect posture, hands folded precisely in his lap.
"No, I'm simply unaccustomed to seeing you in this particular vessel," the voice continued through Jaune's mouth. "You were younger when I last saw you. And older, for that matter."
Ozpin's eyes widened a fraction—the barest hint of surprise from the otherwise composed headmaster.
"It's been a long time, Ozma," Jaune spoke, lips curving into a smile that sat unnaturally on his features.
"It seems we've met before. Though not in this reality?" Ozpin asked, leaning forward slightly, cane positioned carefully between his knees. "Are you...?" He left the question hanging, centuries of caution preventing him from saying more.
Jaune shook his head, the movement precise and deliberate. "No, I'm not you, but we share similar circumstances." He adjusted his chair to face Ozpin directly, maintaining that eerily perfect posture, hands folded with a poise that made the scratches along his arms seem all the more incongruous.
"So," Ozpin's voice remained measured, "you requested this audience? Miss—or is it Mr.—?"
"Nikos. My name is Pyrrha Nikos."
Ozpin nodded, betraying no reaction despite the impossibility before him. "Miss Nikos. I don't recall you looking quite like this during your last tournament appearance in Mistral," he remarked with calculated casualness, testing.
"The Sanctum finals. Yes, I remember graduating after that victory." Jaune's posture straightened subtly, shoulders squaring in a distinctly martial stance. "But to address more pressing matters—"
Let me go! Jaune's voice surfaced briefly in a panicked whisper, his right hand twitching violently against his will, blue briefly overtaking the unnatural green of his eyes. You can't just—
"I've manifested here," Pyrrha continued through Jaune's mouth, speaking with deliberate clarity despite the momentary interruption, "with knowledge of future events I intend to prevent."
Ozpin didn't react, his face a careful mask of neutrality crafted over countless lifetimes. "I see. And how exactly do you propose to accomplish this?"
"In less than four months, a coalition of White Fang operatives and Salem's inner circle will launch a coordinated attack during the Vytal Festival." Jaune's blue eyes flashed emerald green, then crimson. "A virus engineered by Arthur Watts will infiltrate the CCT network. In the ensuing chaos, both you and Amber perish, transferring the powers of the Fall Maiden to a woman named Cinder Fall."
Pyrrha paused, Jaune's head tilting slightly as if listening to something only she could perceive. A flickering patch of golden aura materialized over his eyes, mingling with red before dissipating in sparks of conflicting energy.
"Forgive the interruption," she continued, a slight strain evident in Jaune's voice. "This connection remains unstable. Jaune resists constantly."
Ozpin appeared deep in contemplation, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "If what you're claiming is true," he finally said, "what evidence can you provide? How am I to trust you aren't simply another of Salem's agents?"
A scoff escaped Jaune's lips—a sound utterly foreign to his normal character. "If I were Salem's agent and already knew Amber's location, wouldn't she be dead by now? If I worked for Salem and knew about Ruby Rose's silver eyes, the girl would already be eliminated."
Ozpin rubbed his chin thoughtfully, studying the conflicted expressions flickering across Jaune's face like shadows. "All this could be elaborately staged. The defenses surrounding Amber are such that only during a full-scale assault would she be vulnerable."
"Then why would I reveal the details of that assault months in advance?" Pyrrha's voice grew sharper, more insistent through Jaune's throat. "What tactical advantage comes from surrendering the element of surprise?" She leaned forward, Jaune's blue eyes bleeding crimson. "If you require external verification, seek out Robyn Hill in Mantle. General Ironwood will understand the implications."
Ozpin sighed—a rare display of visible weariness. "I've been advised to leave you here, or have you transferred to an Atlas research facility for further study."
"You won't do that." The certainty in Jaune's voice—Pyrrha's voice—was absolute, his posture remained unnervingly composed despite the institutional surroundings.
"And why do you believe that?" Ozpin asked, the question gentle yet probing.
A flicker of red and gold danced across Jaune's eyes, the colors briefly merging before separating again. "Because I can tell you how to permanently defeat Salem."
Ozpin twitched—a minute reaction, but for a man of his self-control, equivalent to another's gasp of shock. "I don't believe you," he said after a measured pause.
"How do you think I came to be here?" When Ozpin remained silent, Pyrrha continued, leaning forward in Jaune's body, voice dropping to a near whisper. "When Salem was finally cornered, we developed a weapon. But this weapon, powered by the Relic of Destruction, demanded a terrible price."
"Which was?" Ozpin asked, his knuckles whitening around his cane despite his outwardly composed expression.
"To kill an immortal, the Relic required something of equal value," Pyrrha explained, her voice falling even lower as the sterile walls seemed to press closer. "To kill an immortal, it needed the life of another immortal."
"Mine?" The question hung in the antiseptic air between them.
"Yes." A complex emotion crossed Jaune's face—profound grief, perhaps, or resigned acceptance. "The Relic absorbed the magic of the Brothers, and when the final strike to end Salem was at hand..." She paused, Jaune's throat working visibly.
Ozpin leaned forward imperceptibly, the weight of centuries bearing down on him. "Yes?"
"I drove the blade through my own heart." The words emerged flat, devastating in their simplicity.
Ozpin's eyes widened fractionally, genuine surprise breaching his careful composure.
"Blake Belladonna, Ruby Rose, Winter Schnee, Raven Branwen," Pyrrha continued, her voice hollow as the names fell from Jaune's lips. "They were all who remained. That world was beyond salvation."
A flicker of pure gold—Jaune's essence—briefly surfaced before being subsumed by crimson.
"And so your semblance—that which contained your magic—transferred into me as the Relic of Choice activated," Pyrrha continued, seemingly unaware of Jaune's momentary resurgence. "I inherited your curse. Through your semblance, I traversed time itself."
Jaune's hands trembled visibly, fingernails digging into his palms—the physical manifestation of the battle raging within.
"I intended to transfer my consciousness into my younger self, but the Relic of Creation shattered before a suitable vessel could be formed," she explained clinically, like a soldier reporting casualties. "My original body proved incompatible, as my semblance had already awakened. I required a blank slate." She exhaled shakily through Jaune's lips. "And there he was."
Understanding dawned in Ozpin's eyes. "You imprinted my semblance and the Brothers' magic onto both yourself and Jaune."
Pyrrha shrugged Jaune's shoulders with a grace that belonged to a champion, not a frightened boy. "It was the only viable solution."
"And how can I trust you won't betray me, as you seemingly did Ruby and the others?" Ozpin questioned, his voice taking on an edge rarely heard.
Pain—raw and genuine—flashed across Jaune's features. "I want to save them all," Pyrrha said, voice cracking. "I care nothing for immortality or ancient grudges. Gods, witches, monsters—none of it matters." Her borrowed voice dropped to a whisper. "I just want everyone to survive."
The raw confession hung between them, heavy with unspoken grief.
Around Jaune's hands, the faintest shimmer of red and gold aura mingled—two souls momentarily aligned in shared pain.
"Will you help me, Ozpin... sir?" The formal address seemed strangely incongruous coming from one claiming godlike power.
Ozpin paused, weighing countless battles, betrayals, and broken promises across millennia. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant mechanical hum of the facility. Finally, he spoke. "What exactly do you propose?"
Pyrrha tilted Jaune's head—the gesture unmistakably hers despite his form. "As long as Jaune survives, I survive. Place him in Beacon, and I'll provide whatever intelligence you require." Her voice took on tactical precision. "I understand you'll want to monitor and interrogate me. I'll accept any stipulations you deem necessary, provided his safety is guaranteed."
"You seem remarkably concerned for this young man," Ozpin observed, eyes calculating behind his spectacles. "If you intended to traverse time with unlimited options, why not choose someone like Ruby Rose or Blake Belladonna before they awakened their semblances? They would have provided equally suitable vessels."
Something shifted in Jaune's expression—a vulnerability that belonged to neither the confused boy nor the hardened warrior who inhabited him. When Pyrrha spoke through his lips, her voice was barely audible.
"He's special."
Those simple words carried the weight of lifetimes of longing and regret.
"Whatever your decision," Pyrrha continued, Jaune's voice hardening with resolve, "I will leave this place." The statement wasn't a threat—merely a certainty delivered with military precision. "I'm going to protect them all. Nothing will stand in my way." Jaune's eyes flashed crimson. "Not even you, Ozma."
Silence descended, broken only by the soft hum of ventilation and distant, muffled sounds of the institution.
Ozpin sighed, ancient weariness etching deeper into his features. "It's difficult to reconcile you with the nervous young girl who could barely meet my eyes at the twelve-and-under regional tournament."
Something shifted in Jaune's expression—a flicker of the person she had once been, before war and unimaginable loss had transformed her. His eyes—her eyes—grew distant with memory.
"Things change. Lifetimes change." The words fell heavily from Jaune's lips. "In my timeline, I was seventeen when Beacon fell. Forty-three when we made our final stand against Salem over the ruins of Atlas."
A violent tremor ran through Jaune's body—a brief, desperate struggle for control that Pyrrha quickly suppressed, crimson aura rippling across his skin like blood in water.
"Our final contingency, if the Relics failed, was to use the Staff of Creation to launch her into the void of space," her voice became hollow, disconnected. "A one-way journey. For both her and us."
The red aura around Jaune's hands intensified, pulsing with agitation.
"Mistral, Vacuo, Vale, Atlas, Mantle," Pyrrha recited, each name weighted with the devastation of a fallen kingdom. "Menagerie endured weeks of bombing before we lost contact entirely."
Beads of sweat formed along Jaune's hairline as Pyrrha fought to maintain control, the memories clearly exacting their toll on both consciousnesses. "Qrow was tasked with tracking Cinder to the island. Nora, Ren, Sun, the Faunus loyal to the Belladonnas—" her voice fractured on the names, "—all of them fell before Yang finally ended Cinder."
Jaune's fingers clutched his institutional pants with such force that his knuckles blanched white, the fabric bunching beneath his desperate grip. "I won't allow that future to materialize," Pyrrha whispered, terrible determination burning in borrowed eyes. "Not again. Not ever."
Ozpin rose from his chair with fluid grace that belied his apparent age. "I'll arrange for your—" he paused, correcting himself, "—Jaune's belongings to be collected."
With practiced sleight of hand, Ozpin produced a small syringe filled with clear liquid from within his sleeve. "Administer this to yourself. You'll be transported from this facility and awaken aboard a transport to Beacon." He placed it carefully on the table between them. "We'll discuss the conditions of your enrollment during the journey."
Ozpin hesitated at the door, studying the strange duality before him—a boy's form housing a warrior's spirit. "Will Jaune retain any memory of this exchange? Of this future you've described?"
Pyrrha shook Jaune's head, the movement more fluid than his typical awkward gestures. "He's aware Beacon will fall. He knows fragments, but those details wouldn't persist in this timeline if we succeed." Her voice dropped lower. "He can't hear us now. He won't remember this conversation."
The headmaster nodded, expression unreadable as he departed, the door closing with a soft click that seemed to echo in the sterile silence.
Alone in the room, Pyrrha gazed down at the sedative, Jaune's distorted reflection wavering in the metal tabletop—green eyes now rimmed with crimson. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered their shared aura.
"I'm sorry," she whispered—to no one, or perhaps to the boy whose body she had claimed. A single tear tracked down Jaune's cheek as she lifted the syringe with steady hands.
Why are you crying? Jaune's thoughts surfaced through the haze of suppression. What did you do to me?
The crimson glow in his eyes intensified. "What was necessary," she answered aloud to the empty room. "And I would do it again."
With movements too precise to belong to him, she pressed the needle to Jaune's arm and depressed the plunger, sending them both into artificial darkness.
Jaune awoke on the transport ship two hours later, consciousness returning in jagged fragments. The sedative's fog lifted slowly, leaving him disoriented in unfamiliar surroundings. Something felt... missing. A presence in his mind had retreated, leaving an unsettling emptiness he couldn't explain. The bullhead's subtle vibrations sent waves of nausea through him as he found himself secured to a stretcher bed, his hospital clothes replaced with garments he didn't recognize.
He attempted to swallow, wincing at his parched throat. The sound of his coughing echoed unnaturally in the humming confines of the aircraft.
"Mr. Arc?" a measured voice questioned from his right.
Jaune turned his head, grimacing as the motion sent a spike of pain through his temple. A white-haired man with amber eyes gradually came into focus, regarding him with calculated interest.
"Am I addressing Jaune Arc?" the man asked again, his tone patient but authoritative.
"Yeah... that's me," Jaune managed, voice raw and unfamiliar in his own ears. His gaze drifted downward, panic flaring as he registered the thick restraint belts binding his limbs to the metal frame. His breathing quickened. "What is this? Why am I—"
Calm down. You're safe now.
The whisper was so faint, so distant in the recesses of his mind that Jaune wasn't sure if he'd actually heard it or imagined it. He blinked hard, trying to focus.
The white-haired man placed a steady hand on Jaune's forearm. "There's no need for alarm. I'm not affiliated with the institution." His voice carried a weight of authority tempered with something almost like compassion. "My name is Alexander Ozpin. I'll be overseeing your... situation... for the foreseeable future."
"So what, you're another doctor? Another shrink?" Jaune challenged, attempting bravado despite the fear crawling up his spine. "Because I've had enough of those telling me what's wrong with me."
Ozpin's lips curved in what might have been amusement. "I'm the headmaster of Beacon Academy."
Jaune's eyes widened. Knowledge he shouldn't possess flickered through his mind—Beacon, a school for Huntsmen and Huntresses, an institution that would someday fall to ruin...
Wait. How do I know that?
"Due to your unique circumstances and your evident affinity for aura manipulation," Ozpin continued, "I've persuaded the Vale authorities and your medical team that you would be better placed under Beacon's supervision. We have specialized facilities for individuals with... exceptional abilities."
He studied Jaune with penetrating intensity. "You wanted to attend Beacon, did you not?"
"I—yes," Jaune responded automatically, then frowned. "How did you know that?" A chill ran down his spine.
Ozpin exchanged a glance with a blonde woman standing nearby, her stern expression offering no reassurance as she typed rapidly on her tablet.
"Your forged transcripts," Ozpin stated simply, causing Jaune's stomach to drop. "A commendable effort, if somewhat flawed upon closer inspection."
Heat rushed to Jaune's face, shame burning through his anxiety. "I can explain—"
Ozpin raised a hand, silencing him. "That's no longer relevant." He reached into a bag and produced a metallic arm brace that gleamed under the bullhead's harsh lighting. "This device will monitor and regulate your aura output. It connects directly to my scroll, allowing us to intervene should you experience another... episode."
As Ozpin spoke, something shimmered in Jaune's peripheral vision. He turned his head sharply, blinking rapidly, but the shimmer persisted, gradually coalescing into a translucent figure beside the bed.
"I negotiated for our protection," came a familiar voice—one he'd been hearing in his nightmares and waking moments alike. The smoke-like form solidified enough to reveal scarlet hair tied in a long braid, tired emerald eyes, and bronze-colored armor covering most of her body. A distinctive gauntlet with silver and gold accents adorned her left hand.
"P-Pyrrha?" Jaune whispered, forgetting Ozpin's presence entirely.
The headmaster went perfectly still, his grip on the brace tightening imperceptibly.
The spectral Pyrrha's eyes softened with a sadness that seemed ancient. "You can trust him, Jaune. He won't harm you. He's our path to Beacon."
Fear clawed at Jaune's insides as fractured memories surfaced—fire, screams, falling towers. "But Beacon... it falls. There's an attack—"
"Not yet," Pyrrha assured him, her form wavering slightly like heat shimmer. "And we're going to prevent that. But you need to trust me." She raised a hand to her temple, wincing visibly. "Something's interfering. Has been since Vale. I can't maintain—"
Her form flickered, edges blurring. "Don't tell Ozpin about this, but it's becoming harder to remain distinct."
"What do you mean?" Jaune asked, unaware of Ozpin's increasingly concerned scrutiny.
"The more I manifest, the more our consciousness bleeds together," Pyrrha explained, her voice strained. "Like watercolors mixing. I'm trying to protect you, but..." She struggled for words. "My memories are degrading. I remember the crucial events, but details are fading. Like copies of copies."
She moved closer, her ghostly hand reaching for his. "This has to remain between us. If Ozpin suspects we're concealing anything, your safety is compromised. We're unstable—I'm unstable. You need to function without me until we understand what's happening."
"You're real," Jaune breathed, wonder and terror mingling in his voice. "You're not just in my head."
Pyrrha's smile held unbearable sorrow. "My only priority is keeping you safe."
"But why me? Why am I so important?"
"Because in every timeline, you sacrifice everything for me." Her hand passed through his when she tried to touch him, leaving only a cold sensation in its wake. "I'll need to retreat deeper for a while. I'll still be here, but... distant. Until I can create some kind of barrier between us."
"Okay," Jaune whispered, resignation settling over him like a heavy cloak. "I'll try." He closed his eyes, momentarily forgetting they weren't alone.
"Mr. Arc?" Ozpin's voice cut through his trance.
Jaune startled, eyes snapping open to find the headmaster studying him with clinical interest. "Sorry, I was... somewhere else for a second." He forced a weak smile, heart hammering against his ribs.
Ozpin exchanged a meaningful look with the blonde woman. Jaune followed their silent communication, paranoia crawling up his spine. What were they planning? What did they know?
"It's strange," Jaune said, desperate to deflect attention. "I usually get terrible motion sickness on flights. But right now, I don't feel it at all."
Not your body anymore whispered a thought that didn't feel entirely like his own.
Ozpin merely raised an eyebrow, offering no response to the observation.
The bullhead landed shortly after on a private pad in Beacon's courtyard. As the engines wound down, Jaune finally had a moment to examine his clothing.
"What exactly am I wearing?" he asked, bewildered by the unfamiliar attire.
"We had limited options on short notice," Ozpin explained. "These were repurposed from another student's effects. You'll receive a proper uniform at Beacon. Consider these your training clothes for now."
Jaune looked down at the leather brown chaps covering his legs, jeans underneath that weren't his own. A matching brown vest overlaid a short-sleeved grey hoodie, with fingerless leather gloves completing the ensemble.
"I look like a cowboy," Jaune remarked, a fragile attempt at humor breaking through his fear.
Ozpin's expression softened marginally. "You're tall. Options were limited."
The moment of levity emboldened Jaune. "Don't suppose it came with a hat?"
To his surprise, Ozpin reached into his bag and produced a worn leather hat, placing it on Jaune's lap while securing the monitoring bracer around his wrist. "Contact me directly in case of emergency, or Professor Goodwitch if I'm unavailable. She'll oversee your training during your stay."
"Got it," Jaune nodded, feeling the weight of the device on his arm—a constant reminder of his precarious reality.
Ozpin stood as the bullhead door opened with a pneumatic hiss. The restraint belts glowed purple and retracted, allowing Jaune to sit up. The blonde woman—Professor Goodwitch, presumably—took position behind him as he rose unsteadily to his feet and followed Ozpin into the sunlight.
A familiar figure stood waiting—the man from the institution. "Qrow," Jaune identified him, muscles tensing as the huntsman fixed him with a hard stare.
"Uh... hey," Jaune managed, voice betraying his apprehension.
Qrow's expression remained guarded, but something in his eyes softened fractionally. "That you in there, kid?" he asked, the question loaded with warning.
"Last time I checked," Jaune replied, attempting levity despite the unsettling implication that he might be someone—something—else.
"Keep it that way," Qrow advised, the threat implicit as Ozpin gestured for the group to follow him toward the academy buildings.
As they walked, Jaune noticed a fox faunus with distinctive ears and tail who captured his attention. When she turned to look at him, he quickly averted his gaze, unnerved by his own inexplicable interest.
In the distance, a large airship had landed, disgorging new arrivals for the academic year. Jaune squinted against the sunlight, spotting a young woman with golden hair separating from a smaller girl with black and red hair.
Ruby...
The name floated up from nowhere, accompanied by a rush of affection and protectiveness that made no sense. How could he know her? How could he feel attachment to someone he'd never met?
Jaune's steps faltered as something pulled at his awareness—a magnetic force he couldn't resist. His gaze locked onto a figure emerging from the shadows beneath a tree. Bronze armor caught the midday sun, emerald eyes widening with curiosity as she stepped into the light.
This wasn't the spectral vision from the bullhead. This figure was solid, real, alive.
"Pyrrha?" The name escaped his lips as a strangled whisper.
His body began to shake violently, muscles seizing beyond his control. A dark, overwhelming presence surged through his mind, vision swimming as his bracer emitted a high-pitched warning.
His aura flared chaotically, red and gold warring for dominance beneath his skin. "I can't—" he gasped, struggling for breath. "Something's happening—I can't stop it!"
"Miss Nikos!" Ozpin shouted, his composure finally cracking.
"It's not her fault!" Jaune managed through gritted teeth, his consciousness fragmenting as memories—his? hers? someone else's?—collided in a chaotic maelstrom.
Metal bars suddenly obscured his vision—was he back in the institution?—as spectral Pyrrha's tear-filled eyes appeared before him, her finger pressing a button on a device he couldn't identify.
Reality twisted, sending Jaune spiraling into a kaleidoscope of disjointed images: himself fighting, blade cutting through enemies in strange uniforms as he battled up a tower, only to witness Pyrrha—his Pyrrha—disintegrating into golden ash before a woman with burning eyes—the same woman who had incinerated him in another life.
"What—" Jaune gasped, horror overwhelming him as understanding dawned. "What is this?" he screamed, his aura exploding outward as Professor Goodwitch's semblance attempted to contain him. The telekinetic hold shattered as conflicting energies battled for control of his body.
Through the chaos, he saw Qrow withdraw a massive weapon from his back. "Sorry, kid," the huntsman said, genuine regret in his roughened voice as he brought the pommel of the sword down on Jaune's head.
Darkness claimed him, but not before he caught one last glimpse of emerald eyes—filled not with the ancient sadness of his spectral companion, but with fresh shock and confusion that mirrored his own.
Authors Note
Hey everyone sorry if it took a while to put this out its a mess and its 29 pages long but i tried my best and wrote most of this in a haze while balancing a lot of other projects. see ya'll next chapter its almost done