Chapter Text
It began with a two-millimetre hole in the world—the hairline fracture that preceded a shattering. It swallowed continents, drowning the earth in a dissolution of meaning, an ocean of Pale. It was an odourless, invisible mass of nothing. The purest form of Nihilism made manifest. And from apathy came malice, as the Pale seeped out horrors wrought by divine ichor, terrorising the few islands of reality that remain unaffected. It was called The Gloaming, the end of the world. And the world did end, for it became but a Pale, seething mass of unreality pockmarked by pockets of land. And Remnant was its crown.
Jeanne D'ark surveyed the all-encompassing mist of dissolving matter before her. Its distance waxed and waned, inching closer and further from her. Laws of reality were lax in the shallow Pale, where she stood, but were nonexistent past the mist. It didn't stop anyone from trying to cross it anyway, even with the everpresent threat of Grimm hanging over them and millennia of failed voyages. Then she felt it, a pressure that was marrow-deep, a grip on her soul. The Pale was trying to unmake her piece by piece until her constituent parts were bare, to be swallowed whole. Jeanne kept herself sane and stable through sheer will alone, and so did the others.
She was one of six huntresses assigned to this research expedition to go beyond reality, leaving behind her teammates in Beacon. Her bored blue eyes gazed upon her colleagues assisting whatever they could in setting up the equipment needed to "tame" the Pale. Jeanne was only required to watch. She was the guard dog of the group and a fearsome one at that. Everyone, even her peers, feared her one way or the other, a reputation earned by murdering and maiming her way during the twilight of the Faunus Revolution. Now, with peace having been settled again, the same people she once massacred now ask for her assistance to explore now that the killing was done. Or so they would like to believe.
She gave a false smile to a passing researcher, who smiled back with a rekindled confidence. Jeanne's very presence was a massive dose of reassurance, for how could anyone die with the Liberator of Pharos on their side? Her smile turned to a scowl once the researcher was out of sight. It will be a bloody day indeed.
Halfway across the world, past a flying city and an ocean, deep in the corner of a seedy bar sat Cermia Radcliffe. Crimson hair splayed out on the table, her half-lidded eyes pressing onto the wood. Her fingers rubbed an empty glass as she muttered, "why, why, why?" Last night was rough. Cermia had waged war on her body by way of poison and exhaustion, and now came the reparations: An hour of skull-splitting migraines and bubble guts with a dose of nausea. Her hand reached into her pockets, which felt emptier than usual. She must've gambled all her lien away. Worth it.
"If it ain't Beacon's best and brightest," an intrusive voice shot through her ear unbidden and most definitely unwanted. She groaned rather pathetically, nursing the worsening headache thanks to this new noise. "Rise and grind, sunshine."
There was something about that voice, that scratchy quality of it that propped up a false suaveness. It tickled the deep recesses of Cermia's brain, its neural folds made smooth with neglect. Then came a name.
Qrow.
Stupid name.
"Mlemm," Cermia tried to shoo him out with a hand but was slapped away. "Beauty sleep," she muttered.
"Well, you better hurry it up. The bartender's giving you some side-eye. You're stinking up the place. Besides-" Cermia hears a soft thunk on plywood. A Scroll? "Ozpin's got a new job for you."
"Can you please read it out for me?" Cermia pleaded.
"Do it yourself knee-high; I ain't one of your maids." Flashes of opulence and excess streamed into the huntress's mind, a life of comfort—a golden cage.
"ughhhh, fine." Light, bright and blinding, spilt into her eyes as she opened them. She wanted to jerk away but pushed through. She needed money, and Ozpin usually paid a premium. It helped that Cermia was premium, being a rather prodigious huntress despite her failure as a human. Cermia's eyes took some time to adjust, but the Scroll made itself clear eventually. "No..." cold dread coursed through her veins.
"Ohhh yeah." And Qrow was enjoying every bit of Cermia's dawning horror.
"I can't. You all know I can't. This has to be forged somehow--"
"It's the reeaal deal, Cerms," Qrow replied. Now that Cermia's eyes were open, she could see his smug smile plain on his face. She wanted to close her eyes again. "Ozpin thinks you're up to the challenge and that you're a fit for Beacon. That's the official reason. Don't tell him I told you this, but he thinks you needed a break from all the high-intensity ops. I mean, look at you." Something about that didn't ring true to Cermia, but she decided not to push the issue. She didn't know she had enough goodwill from Ozpin to get a cushy job in Beacon. Something was up. But whichever the case, it was a cushy job that paid well.
"But as a teacher?" She asked in disbelief?
"Mentor," Qrow corrected, "it's like being the group mom. Once the next cohort arrives, you'll be assigned to a team of freshies to teach. Oz can brief you on the finer details." He chuckled as Cermia raised her eyebrows. "Tell me about it. I told em that having you as a mom would be a one-way express ticket to an orphanage, but what do I know?" he shrugged.
"And he still.... wait a minute, doesn't that sound like your sister--"
"Girl's got jokes, huh?" His eyes gave a sharp and dangerous look.
"--which reminds me. You need to get a handle on that blonde niece of yours. She's been scaring off my contacts. Talk her out of it 'fore I get involved." Cermia demanded, her voice imbued with an unusual amount of authority.
"Sure, I'll try. But Yang's just as stubborn as her mom." Qrow scratched his head, "Now, with the Beacon gig, freshies will be arriving in a week, so be there in four days max."
"And what makes you think I'll accept?"
"The pay and most of your expenses paid." Qrow answered.
"Yeah, you got me," Cermia groaned, all the authority she had before bled away, "One more thing, couldn't all this be done through a simple message? Why'd he send you for this?"
"Cause I wanted to see you squirm," Qrow smiled, "Oh, and we couldn't contact your Scroll. Good thing I'm in town."
Cermia reached into a pack next to her, only to grab onto broken shards. "Oh...." What the hell happened? Did someone sit on her bag?
At the table far across the two, a White Fang operative perked her bunny ears up as she listened in. It was difficult to imagine that the redhead was responsible for taking out four cells in a week, but here she was. Her slim fingers tapped her Scroll and typed a message for the cell in Beacon.
U: RED-LION TO NEST
A reply came soon after.
J: HOW LONG?
U: YEAR MINIMUM
T: FUCK
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There was a cosmic irony to it all: the moment everything finally sunk in was when she was flying in the air. Ruby Rose felt her face distort at the assaulting winds and the overwhelming warmth brought by the clear sunny sky. It turned out that, amidst all this flying, well, falling. Actually, no, flight is just falling with extra steps, so they're all the same...What was she thinking again? Oh, it was here Ruby realised that human faces were not aerodynamic. Her cheeks warping and flarpping/flapping? against the roaring wind was a dead giveaway. Why couldn't she be built more like Crescent Rose? Now that was aerodynamic.
But despite all of these distractions, nothing could divert from the singular fact that today was initiation day and that she'd finally be a proper huntress soon. The moment her feet touch the Emerald Forest, her first of many tests will begin. And from there, she'll be a hero, just like in the stories.
Her heart raced with anticipation, threatening to break out of her chest with each beat.
badump. badump. badump.
A million thoughts propped up in her mind, and a million more questions followed. Who's she gonna partner up with? Will Yang be part of her team? Who's gonna mentor them?
By the time Ruby reached landfall, her silver eyes caught a glimpse of a white figure.
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It was a scene of carnage painted with blood and charred flesh. Jeanne D'ark, whose eyes had turned a sickly yellow, surveyed the mound of bodies of her "comrades." In the event of an attack, the group's survival hinged on Jeanne. When she struck with the help of some Grimm, they didn't stand a chance. The Grimm that assisted her were feasting on the fallen; it was Salem's way of cleaning up a scene. She was able to walk among them unharmed; Jeanne was kin, after all.
She walked up to a feasting Beowolf and called out to it, "I know you can hear through it." The bestial Grimm soon stopped feasting. It moved slowly and elegantly as if suddenly possessed. "I need you to hit me, make it believable. And do it fast. I think back-up's about to arrive soon." The Beowolf nodded in agreement, and soon, Jeanne was surrounded by a menagerie of Grimm, dead eyes staring straight into her soul. Then she heard a ping; it was from her Scroll. She fished it out of her pocket to find someone contacting her personal line. It was Cermia. Before she could answer, the Grimm had struck.