On the world of Remnant, as the sun began to manifest its bright rays of shining light above the horizon, the not-so-subtle thunder of chaotic footsteps could be heard in the distance, overshadowing the soft orchestration of labored breathing. The men and women of the tiring militia tramped on to reach their goal distance, even as their calves burned, practically begging them to stop, and as those calves continued to burn, so too did their other muscle groups, having done other strenuous upper-body exercises before this marathon of a morning run.

"Why...did I ever...sign up for this?" Jaune Arc muttered to himself between desperate gasps. Sweat ran down his body and saturated his clothes, flecks of dirt and sand clung to him, coloring his skin an earthy brown, and his muscles felt as if molten lead had been poured into them. Right now he wanted to do nothing more than crawl into the sweet recesses of his bed's sheets, a heavenly place he'd been oh-so-rudely torn from earlier this morning. Very early this morning—an eye-widening six o'clock this morning in fact. He wanted to do nothing more than go back to sleep, to relieve himself of this torture, but, as he'd done every day this week so far, the blonde recalled his ambition and ignored the pain.

Right, this is my chance to become a huntsman!

Ever since Jaune had heard the stories and legends about his family line, how his father, grandfather, and great grandfather were all warriors—huntsmen—he wanted to become one, too. Unfortunately, he had no training, and unless he acquired the necessary skills to survive the dance called combat, he would never become a huntsman. His dad didn't really have time to train him—the Arcs were a family of ten and it took a lot of work to support that—and sadly, nobody else in Ansel really had any sort of training at all, militia included.

Since Nicholas had always been there to protect the town, the militiamen and women had gotten lazy and complacent. That is, up until recently, when two mysterious men had showed up in town with a huntsman! The huntsman left quickly, but the two other men had stayed, and, for whatever reason, took it upon themselves to whip the militia back into shape.

Rumors had spread fairly quickly, something about the men being devils or something like that. Jaune didn't really care though—what he saw before him was an opportunity to get some training, and therefore, to become a huntsman!

Did his family know about this business? Well, probably not. And, honestly? He kind of preferred it that way. Ever since he'd professed his dream to become a huntsman, his family had always shrugged it off as nothing more than a silly phase. They didn't believe in him—nobody ever believed in him.

This was not only a chance for him to follow his dream and become a huntsman, it was also his chance to prove himself to those that doubted him.

Alas, his decision to join the militia two weeks ago was probably the most painful one he ever made.

"Hey! When did I say you tossers could have a kip? Get a fucking move on you daft bastards! If I have to say it again, it's another lap around the perimeter! AM I UNDERSTOOD!?"

"YES SIR!" Jaune roared alongside the militia, as he was wont to do in such a situation lest his new commanding officers tear him a new one.

The blonde glanced to his left, eyeing the man in the skull mask. Ghost was his name, apparently. In all honesty, the LT—that's what everybody called him—freaked Jaune out. As if all of the yelling and criticisms the LT had was not enough, he was also suspicious as could be, and the only times he was ever seen around town was when he was either training the militia, or buying milk. Now, you might think that the image of a grown man with a milk addiction would make them less threatening, but in this case, it only made him more suspicious! Side note: He also has a weird accent and bunch of strange sayings. Tosser, wanker, bloke, cheesed off, dodgy, chuffed, cock-up—the list goes on and on.

Jaune had to admit though, the LT had a pretty killer pair of sunglasses, as well as some sort of gaming headset(?). Now that he thought about it, why does the LT wear that headset all the time? Maybe he's just trying to be edgy.

The boy's focus shifted over to the other officer. They called him Roach. The guy was a cockroach faunus, and a mysterious one to boot. He never, ever talked, only clicked his mandibles occasionally or twitched his antennae. The guy was pretty cool, but for some reason, everyone is afraid to approach him.

Jaune isn't stupid, he's aware of racism and all that, but come on! Ansel prides itself on respect and equality, but even other faunus were wary of Roach—and why? Because he didn't look like them? Because he's different? Regardless of what it is, Jaune felt bad for the guy. There wasn't really anything he could do about it though. Hopefully the other guys and gals will come around sooner or later.

The blonde sucked in a deep breath, staring straight-forward. Now that there was nothing to distract him, his legs were dying again. Had he known the training would be like this, he might not have joined.

After another fifteen minutes of ungodly torture, the militia had finally finished their run. Jaune nearly fell to his knees heaving but thought better of it, placing his hands behind his head and breathing as steadily as his lungs would allow him.

Jaune despaired as his eyes swept over his commanding officers. They didn't even look winded.

The LT nodded in the militia's general direction. "Good work. You lot have ten minutes to sort yourselves out. Go get your equipment from the armory and rendezvous at the field. We'll see what you're made of, yeah?"

That's right! Today was different than usual. Instead of just the normal morning PT—that's what his commanding officers called physical training—they were going to be doing REAL combat training from here on out, starting with an evaluation to see where every man is at in terms of skill. It seemed that his dream really was starting to come true!

Now, to get Crocea Mors...just as soon as he catches his breath.

VVVVV

Faunus, Grimm, Dust, Aura, Huntsmen—it was all a right royal load of codswallop, like something out of a bloody fairy tale. As much as he wanted to, Ghost wouldn't question the fantastical aspect of this world—Remnant, it was called. He wouldn't lie though, this whole reincarnation thing was starting to get to him. Everything was so complicated, as if someone had taken a box full of metal puzzles and melded them together.

The lieutenant idly stared out into space, a serrated combat knife twirling between his skeletal fingers as he thought heavily about the events that had transpired since he and Roach had arrived in this world.

"Where the bloody hell are you off to?"

"I told you, I have someone to babysit back in Vale, Skully."

"...Right then, break a wing, cock-head."

"Up your...pelvis, numbskull."

Qrow had left town the morning after they'd arrived, as he said he would. As far as goodbyes went, Ghost could say that it had been one of the shortest he'd ever experienced. The operators didn't see the huntsman off, nor did they offer one another words of advice as they parted. They simply went their separate ways, the avian-titled huntsman walking off to God-knows-where while the operators stayed in the town—Ansel, it was called.

The reason they stayed behind? Well...it's complicated.

It's been what, two weeks since then? It's been two weeks since Qrow had left, and life in Ansel—life on Remnant was...well, they were getting by.

The operators had been thrown into a veritable pool of piranhas without a lifeline. They didn't have a sense of direction, didn't have a purpose. They were quite literally out of their element. Their lives had been stripped away from them—everything they had, everything they knew, was gone.

Shepherd's latest stunt had shaken both of them to the core. Roach, loyal sergeant that he was, felt like reality had shattered around him. In some ways, it really had. It was mind-numbing, how quickly the world around you can fall apart. He could still vividly remember the moment it had happened, the rage and despair he felt when he realized what was happening, the agony of the lead searing in his gut as he clawed haplessly at the betrayer.

And the look that Shepherd had given him. That glare, that one challenging stare of contempt that showed just how much Shepherd cared for the 141, just how long he'd been planning that moment. He had never cared. All of those congratulations for their work, all of the support he'd given so that the 141 could carry out their duty—none of it was real. It had all been fabricated from the start, nothing more than a lying guise made to carry out a more sinister plan. Just thinking about sent chills down the sergeant's spine.

For Ghost, it had been like reliving a nightmare. Every last bit of his hate and rage coursed through him as he turned, every last iota of the sorrow and pain he felt spilled out in a cry of anguish as the knife of betrayal pierced through him once more. The hellscape that was buried within the far reaches of his mutilated mind had resurfaced, and with it, the twisted apathy that he had developed for the lives of those around him. Every time his mind wandered to it, his fists clenched to the point that they'd have bled had he any flesh and blood in the first place. His sockets would burn brighter as emotion ran rampant within him, as scarred memories attempted to tear him apart from within.

Both operators knew that dwelling on the topic would only be detrimental to their survival, but simply letting go would be impossible. It wasn't healthy, and the long term affects of it weren't ideal; with all things said and done, the operators were paranoid.

In their eyes, they were surrounded by unknowns and possible threats in this new environment. They were always waiting for something to happen, anxious about that ticking time bomb that may or may not go off. Their nerves were ready to fire at the drop of a hat, many different scenarios running through their heads, more often than not ending with casualties.

Ironically, what made it worse was their experience in battle.

Back with the boys in the task force, the lieutenant and the sergeant had been constantly surrounded by hostility, if not at least the perpetual thunder of gunfire. Day by day they worked out in the field, risking their lives in battle with a hundred men at a time, finishing an op before starting the next, sometimes jumping around the globe in the span of few hours, restlessly carrying out their duties as operators.

They were always in an environment in which violence was to be expected, where loud gunfire always thrummed against their ears, where letting the enemy strike first meant death. Ansel was unbearably quiet, and in their experiences, this meant the enemy was still there, hiding nearby.

It was ridiculous really. Obviously there aren't going to be terrorists lurking around town—at least, there shouldn't be any—and that's what the operators tried to get through their heads. Remaining vigilant, cautious, and alert at all times is a good thing, a must—it's what they're trained to do, what they needed to do in order to survive as operators. But, if it's to the point of becoming detrimental to their health, to their abilities to work efficiently as individuals and as a team, or to the point where the innocents around them may get hurt, then it's safe to say that they are taking things too far.

It was odd though. Despite their paranoia, despite having everything stripped away from them, despite being confined to this new world...they were now more free than they'd ever been.

The chains that had bound them, the self-sacrificing lives as operators that they had led, the obligations they had as guardians of the innocent—all of it was gone. As far as Remnant knew, their slates were clean and records were erased. When the time comes, they will leave Ansel, and the world will be their playground. They could do whatever they wanted, and nobody would be able to tell them otherwise. So what will they do once they leave Ansel? In this new world, what will their purpose be?

The answer was obvious wasn't it?

At their cores, Ghost and Roach were operators, not of a single nation or government, but of mankind. The 141 had been a multinational global anti-terrorist unit outside the jurisdiction of every known national and international organization, created for the sole purpose of snuffing out the evils around the world. It was their job, their duty to keep the world clean, even if they get dirty in the process. Regardless of what ball of rock they stand on, protecting the innocent is what they do. There was no rest for the wicked...

This was their purpose of course, but how would they go about fulfilling it? They weren't sure yet, but they both agreed that joining the military was a no go. Having the chains that had just been broken put back on was something neither of them desired. The upper echelons could no longer be trusted.

None of that would matter though if they never actually leave Ansel, and as it stood, they couldn't. The operators had no foothold in this world, no solid ground to stand on, no idea what the bloody hell was going on around the globe, and until they had a lick of sense on what was out there, they were stuck in the Ansel. They needed information, needed to know the players on the field, what the big picture looked like.

That led them to information gathering. A computer or cell device would've been the most desirable, but as far as technology goes, Ansel, while not limited, was lacking in that area.

That's okay though; Ansel's library was, as Ghost liked to put it, 'a bloody gold mine'. Even for a library as small as this one, the size of the building didn't matter since the history books were fucking massive. And Goddamn did Remnant have a ton of history.

First and foremost were geography, maps, and locations. The planet was called Remnant and there were five continents—one of which was unnamed—with four main Kingdoms harbored on three of the five continents. All had different histories, hardships, cultures, technology, and people. Interestingly enough, the Kingdoms all fought a Great War to end all wars, something very similar to WWI and WWII, about eighty years ago. At the end of it, these four Kingdoms came together on the island of Vytal to make peace.

Interestingly enough, Ansel is located a couple hundred miles east of the Kingdom Vale, on the other side of the mountain range. For a town in the middle of nowhere, Ansel is quite a decent size, with normal-sized housing, a pharmacy/clinic, and even a bloody arcade! Just a few things to note.

The next thing the operators managed to dust off were books on the faunus, whom were basically the animal-human hybrids that everyone hated. Yes apparently, most of the human population was racist towards the faunus for no real rhyme or reason. It was so bad, that a war was fought over it—the Faunus Rights Revolution. Ghost couldn't help but note that it was very similar to Earth's history, from the Haitian Revolution to the American Civil War, where slavery of the African Americans was eventually abolished, but heavy racism towards them still persisted. With Roach having become a faunus, this racism may become an issue in the future. Just another thing to think about.

Becoming a faunus wasn't without it's merits though. Nowadays, Roach boasted hyper-senses and hyper-reflexes, as well as extreme regeneration, presumably all abilities from his nature as a cockroach faunus specifically. The advantages these abilities had were, in as few words as possible, astonishing. Cockroaches are known for their ability to react, having the fastest reaction time out of most animal species on Earth, clocking in at 0.008 seconds. For reference, a fighter pilot's reaction time is about 0.250 seconds. If Roach's reaction time is that of an actual cockroach's, then...well shit, he'd be able to react to bullets at mid range. Keep in mind, reacting does not mean dodging.

Unless Roach could somehow move the distance of one foot in order to dodge a bullet traveling at 762 m/s from a distance of approximately ten meters in less than 0.004 seconds, meaning he'd need to have an initial velocity of at least 76 m/s or 274 kph (170 mph), dodging bullets isn't going to be one of his fortes.

After sifting through the more useless stuff, Ghost came upon a book simply titled, 'GRIMM'. What he found was intriguing to say the least. Apparently, the reason why the Kingdoms didn't officially expand beyond their territories, was because the Grimm stopped them from doing so. These dark creatures plagued the Earth, and each one was hell-bent on killing only humans and faunus. Perhaps that was why the Grimm were never actively hostile to Ghost. It seemed his status as a skeleton seemed to have more than a few merits to it.

There were dozens of different types of Grimm, all with different strengths and weaknesses. The very first Grimm he and Roach had faced, was an Alpha Beowolf. The reason why it took two dozen rounds to take the thing out, even with precise shots directly at its head and center-mass, was because it was an Elder Grimm of sorts, one that had survived for decades, possibly even centuries, eventually evolving from a lesser form, the common Beowolf.

Now, the regular Beowolves were the wolf-like creatures that were relatively weak compared to the Alphas, taking only two to three shots to center-mass, or a single shot to the head to take them out. There were also Ursai, the bear-like Grimm (Ursa means bear in Latin but for some fucking reason, the plural form on Remnant is Ursai when it should be Ursae, but then again, who fucking cares about written linguistic accuracy), then there were Boarbatusks, the boar-like Grimm, and so on. To defend against the Grimm threat, the Kingdoms created the huntsman academies, which employ huntsmen and huntresses, elite warriors who use their skills, aura, and Dust to combat the Grimm.

Aura is the manifestation of one's soul, and acts like a forcefield for those who unlock it. With this, people are able to train their bodies to superhuman capabilities, so much so that they can leap over buildings or rip industrial steel apart with their bare hands. Ghost would've liked to acquire this intrinsic ability as soon as possible, but unfortunately, by the time he read up on it, the only huntsman that lived in Ansel, some bloke by the name of Nicholas Arc, had gone on a job. Furthermore, Qrow had been a huntsman which meant he must have had aura, but the tosser had up and ditched them by daylight, so that was a lost cause.

Finally, the operators uncovered Dust, a mineral that was essential for mankind's survival, holding supernatural capabilities that could combat the Grimm and keep people safe. There was one weakness that mankind presented with this though: every civilization was wholly dependent on Dust for everything from energy supply to technological advances. Remnant had absolutely no knowledge of alternative resources like coal and oil, so when Dust eventually runs out, they'll be in a crisis.

As far as information goes, all of that shit only scratched the surface on what could be acquired. They could leave town now with what little information they have, but the thing is, they were in a bit of a...sticky situation.

At first, the operators had been hesitant to take up this job, especially with the lingering paranoia, but with the unusual circumstances of their arrival in Ansel, finding any solid ground to stand on was a bit troubling. Upon arrival, the duo's first order of business had been to acquire basic necessities like food, water, shelter, and security. That alone put them in a bit of a bind.

See, since neither Ghost nor Roach had any form of currency nor a way to acquire it, they were both effectively broke and incapable of leaving town, lest they want a repeat of the four day Grimm-infested survival extravaganza they had just recently. Not only that, they needed a place to stay for an undetermined amount of time, they were indebted to both a doctor and a pub, and—as minor of an offense it had been—they had scared the living shit out of everyone in town.

Nobody was willing to hire them for one reason or another—probably due to their less-than-conspicuous outfits—but the townspeople, benevolent as they are, weren't willing to just kick them out either. They were lucky that one of the local inns was willing to strike a deal with them. The innkeeper there would allow the operators to stay at their inn in exchange for two things: their service to the local militia until they leave town, and their assistance to anyone who requests it within reason.

It wasn't the best arrangement, and much was left to be desired, but they didn't really have a choice. While Ghost didn't seem to require sustenance any longer—he was still trying to figure out how that worked—Roach most certainly did, and though they could hunt for their meals and sleep outside (theft was an option as well), the luxury of safety that the indoors provided had become increasingly desirable.

So, they accepted the compromise.

The odd jobs that the townspeople requested weren't too bad—they were in and out type deals with little to no interaction—but the militia? Ho-ly-fuck it was just...arse.

At first, the duo had plans to work separately from everyone else to avoid as much unnecessary contact as possible. However...upon their arrival at the militia, the duo were confronted by the 'veterans' of the operation, a measly dozen men and women who attempted to 'assert their dominance' on the newcomers. Not only were the operators forced to endure utter cringe for the first few minutes, they were also introduced to the militia's absolute incompetence.

For a town in the middle of nowhere, Ansel is quite a decent size, with suburban-sized wood and stone housing, a pharmacy/clinic, and even a bloody arcade! If Ansel is capable of supporting such infrastructure, then the militia should be decent enough to at least defend a sector of the town, but apparently, not only were their numbers minuscule, but the men and women, the so called veterans of such an organization, were nothing more than civilians with guns. How has the town even been able to stand for so long without falling?

Ghost wouldn't have it. No unit of his, no matter how small nor temporary, would be so shit as to be unable to tell their head from their arse. These men and women were a danger to the innocent. They created a false sense of security for the townspeople. When bandits or Grimm actually attack, they won't be able to do shit.

So, after a load of bullocks from the 'militia', the lieutenant went Drill Sergeant Mode, taking over and whipping the clowns into shape. Never before had the lieutenant heard a fully grown man scream so much like a little girl. It was slightly amusing, but nowhere near as much as it was unacceptable.

Within two days, people had branded Ghost a devil for his 'unscrupulous' methods, and Roach...well, people had mixed feelings for him. Thing is, Roach is, evidently, a faunus, and while none of the militia members are especially racist towards faunus—some of them being faunus themselves—Roach is a special case.

The sergeant is a cross between human and cockroach, and there exists two issues with that. For one, there are no insect or bug-like faunus to date, making Roach unique, but not in a good way. Second and foremost, cockroaches are a universally abhorrent pest to both humans and faunus that have plagued mankind for eons. The people tried not to show their disgust, however slight it may be, but even the other faunus were wary of Roach.

The sergeant didn't seem to mind though, and while such behavior definitely irked Ghost, he would let this one slide since it didn't really affect the militia much. With enough time, hopefully everybody'd get used to it. If they didn't, then he'd straighten things out.

A full two weeks after training had started, the militia was showing vast improvement. Things were going well, and Ghost's methods of tortur—er, training actually inspired eight more members to join, bringing the militia up from a measly twelve to a total of twenty, plus Ghost and Roach.

Currently it's Thursday, which means PT at 6:30 in the morning, starting with upper-body circuit training, then several timed laps around the perimeter of Ansel totaling five kilometers. Should anyone fail to complete a lap, then the entire squadron would run another lap, Ghost and Roach overseeing their run. All things considered, this was beginner levels of training, nothing like the stuff done back home.

Today was different from the others though. It was on this day that Ghost and Roach agreed to give each member of the militia a combat evaluation test to see where they stand—a two-birds-with-one-stone opportunity. Not only will they determine the strengths and weaknesses of each member, they will also be given a chance to observe this world's weapons in action.

In a field to the northwestern quadrant of Ansel, the late 141 operators stood, arms crossed with an observant gleam in their eyes—literally in Ghost's case. The entirety of the field was made of dirt, the northern edge consisting of several steel targets a hundred meters behind a long chalk line, indicating a shooting range. The southern edge of the field had a row of wooden posts on which large hay bales were strapped, indicating targets for hand-weapons. From the western edge of the field to the center, large chalk squares had been drawn into the ground, each one roughly the size of a boxing ring.

The operators stood at the eastern edge of the field, facing the militia. Twenty men and women stood before them, some of them nervous, others anxious or excited. Quite a few of the men were comparing their weapons. Some held rifles, others had axes and spears. Each weapon looked vastly different from the last, some of ornate design, others more simplistic.

"Right then, mates," Ghost started, sheathing his combat knife. In an instant, the men and women before him straightened their backs, giving him their full attention. Good. He won't have to explain this business twice. "I've seen a few of you blokes measuring dick lengths, but size doesn't mean a dog's arse if you cant aim worth shit."

A few of the women openly giggled at the men, some of whom turned red in embarrassment. Ghost ignored it.

"For those of you who brought firearms of any kind..." the lieutenant paused, staring perplexed at a girl who held a bow. "...Or any kind of ranged weaponry for that matter, Roach here," he clapped a hand on the sergeant's shoulder, "will be giving you the exam of your career. Now, as long as you don't fail, things will be alright."

The lieutenant turned to the rest of the militia—the guys who brought in melee weapons "For those of you with hand weapons," he pointed a finger at them, "I'll be your judge, so show me what you've got."

Ghost took a step forwards, gesturing to the militia as a whole. "After we get that over with, we'll run a few combat scenarios to test your skills in the field, individually, and as a team. Keep in mind, starting from today, you're training is gonna get real. Once you're done with morning PT, this is where you'll be for the next four hours each day."

"Eh?"

The vocal utterance was loud amongst the silent platoon, so prominent that Ghost raised a mental eyebrow, regarding the speaker with the interest that a hawk would have for a fleeing mouse.

"What was that, Arc?" Ghost turned to the boy, Jaune Arc.

The blonde teen merely stared, horrified that he had been the one to make such a sound. He licked his lips, struggling to find an answer to the LT's impromptu question. All he needed was a bit of confidence...that's right, confidence!

"Well, sir, I just, uh..." Welp, he fucked it up already...damn, those sunglasses were just so cool! "I couldn't help but notice that you said we're gonna be out here for four hours every single day? Not that I'm questioning you or anything, uh, sir, but I mean, what exactly would we be doing that takes so long? I mean, don't get me wrong, it's just—"

"Easy, lad," the lieutenant stopped him, holding a hand up, "I was just getting to that." He motioned to the field behind him. "For four hours, you'll be doing nothing but honing your skills in combat. If you've got a rifle, you'll be training your firing techniques, stances and stability, accuracy, dexterity, agility, and reflexes. Those who know the ropes will be helping others with their techniques. Remember, teamwork.

"If you've got a blade, I'll be able to teach you the basics. I'm not gonna lie gents, I haven't worked much with spears nor axes, but I can teach balance, proper striking, and stances. From there, I can teach you what not to do. You'll have to figure out the rest on your own."

He pointed to the ring-sized chalk squares. "When you ain't practicing your techniques, you'll be sparring with one another with wooden practice weapons, or running combat scenarios." He turned to the men and women with bows and rifles. "Sorry for you mates, but that means you'll be learning basic CQC in the form of hand-to-hand and knife arts, whether you like it or not. I don't want any of you loosing your wits when your rifle fails you. Understood?"

"Yes sir!" resounded throughout the field as the militia collectively agreed.

"Right then, that's all there is to it. Melee weapons on me, move!"

It was no more than fifteen minutes later that Jaune suddenly found himself standing before the intimidating figure of the LT himself. He had a feeling that he wasn't going to have a good time.

"You ready?" Ghost asked.

"Not really," is what Jaune wanted to say, but what came out was, "Bring it on!"

The lieutenant nodded at his 'fortitude'. "Let's put those skills to the test, then. Have at me, Arc!"

Steeling himself, Jaune let out a war cry as the blade of Crocea Mors descended on the LT with as much force as his one arm could give. His blade only met air as Ghost took a step back. Then, the world spun.

The lieutenant took advantage of the teen's imbalance in an instant, sending a kick to the boy's chest. The wind knocked from his lungs, Jaune heaved as he keeled over, his arms extended away from him, but before he could fall, Ghost caught the blonde's extended arms and used the weight of his armaments against him, pulling him into a hard knee to the chin.

Jaune saw stars as he fell to the ground, Crocea Mors releasing itself from his grasp.

Pain. I'm in pain.

Shit, did some of his teeth just get knocked out? He hoped not, but he couldn't really feel the area where his jaw had been hit—there was only numb pain. He tried to sit up, but did so too quickly, black spots appearing in his vision. There was a thump as he fell back down.

"S-So much...for c-confidence."

The lieutenant only let out an exasperated heft. "Bloody hell, lad. Isn't your pops supposed to be a huntsman?"

Jaune groaned as Ghost pulled him to his feet. "Well, yeah. It's the reason why I want to be a huntsman in the first place. I mean, all of my ancestors were warriors, so I wanted to be one too—a hero, I mean...Wait, how do you know my dad?"

Ghost ignored his question. "...And your pops didn't train you?"

Jaune rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "Weeeeellll, my dad's super busy all the time, so I don't really have any type of training. At all. Whatsoever." At Ghost's inquisitive stare, he continued. "But! But, I was hoping that joining the militia could be my chance to get some training, y'know?"

"Christ on a bicycle..." Ghost muttered. Jaune squirmed hearing his exasperated tone. "You're gonna need a lot of training where you're going, lad."

The blonde slumped over, sighing. "Yeah. I figured."

There was a moment of awkward silence as the blonde and the operator stared at each other, unsure of what to say. Ghost shook his head in annoyance a moment later.

"We'll get this sorted out at a later date." The lieutenant took up another martial stance. "Evaluation ain't over yet though. Not by a long shot. Show me your worst, Arc."

On the inside, the lieutenant sighed. If this is the level of skill he's gonna be dealing with, then it's gonna be a long time before any of these guys will be able to call themselves ready. He just hoped that it wouldn't take too long.

Ghost idly wondered if Roach was doing any better. The massive, ear-rending explosion that came a few moments later told him no.

VVVVV

Roach watched with a keen eye and crossed arms as one of the guys, Rusty, aimed a bolt-action rifle at a twenty meter target. Of what make the weapon was he had no idea, but the unstable way in which Rusty aimed it irritated the sergeant greatly. That rifle is gonna make his shoulder sore if he fires it like that. Regardless, Roach didn't say anything, for it was his job to evaluate and evaluate only. As such, the sergeant would do his best to evaluate each member of the militia.

He had set up a test where each man gets forty shots at a target from different stances and variable distances. Fifteen shots standing straight up, fifteen shots in a kneeling position, and ten in prone. Distances vary from twenty meters to a hundred meters.

It surely wasn't the greatest test, but with the limited resources they had, this would have to do. In order to pass the test with a marksman rating, twenty-five shots must hit. For a sharpshooter, thirty shots. For an expert, thirty-five. For an operator? Forty out of forty. Now, that might seem insane, but keep in mind that these are static targets with variable distances from only twenty to a hundred meters. Back in the task force, to get an expert rating, one must hit at least thirty-seven targets, one from a distance of three-hundred meters plus. Compared to that test, this one is a cakewalk.

There were a few problems with that, though. Some of the militia members had brought wooden and compound bows rather than firearms. Roach had to wing it, drawing up a separate test for those who brought such weapons—the archers. He reduced the total number of shots to fifteen, as well as restricted the stances to standing and kneeling only. He didn't know a lick about archery as pained as he was to admit it, so he hoped this would do.

The sergeant grunted in annoyance as he felt the sun's radiant light on his back. Ever since he'd become...like this, sunlight, rather, light in general had come to mildly irritate him. He tried to ignore it, but after awhile it got damn annoying. Lucky for him, the gear he wore covered every inch of his body, shielding him from those damn heat rays. His goggles were probably the greatest piece of equipment he could behold.

A sudden, quiet bang signified Rusty taking his shot. Wait...

Roach watched with wide eyes as a bullet spiraled from the barrel of the rifle all the way to the target. The bullet! He saw the bullet! Why the fuck was it moving so slowly!? It took a whole three fourths of a second to reach the target, even from a distance of only twenty meters! That was massively subsonic! For fucks sake, an air-soft gun was faster!

Worse still, the sound of the rifle firing had been near silent compared to the likes of an M4. Okay, mild exaggeration, but still! What kind of powders were they packing? For a bullet to travel at such a slow speed, how could any damage be done to the target?

Roach frowned as he scrutinized the target, then he froze. Disregarding the absolutely horrid aim that Rusty had exhibited, the bullet itself had managed to not only pierce through the paper target, it also made a sizable dent in the steel. Impossible.

Such a low speed projectile wouldn't have had enough kinetic energy to make a dent in 1/4" of solid steel.

"Damn!" Rusty shouted suddenly. "Looks like I'm a little rusty, eh sir?" the orange-haired farmer quipped. Roach didn't laugh.

No, the sergeant was having an internal dilemma. He needed to see it again.

Roach signaled for the farmer to keep going.

"Er, yessir!"

For the next fifteen minutes, Roach observed with great interest as five other militia members fired their weapons, some of which were rifles, others of which were pistols. All came out the same, firing subsonic rounds yet still dealing ridiculous amounts of damage to the steel targets. How was this happening? He just couldn't understand...Unless!

"Ahem." Roach was snapped out of his musings by the next militia member, Ivy Strauss, the girl with the bow, and sister of Beryl Strauss. She had natural green hair and eyes, distinct among all the other odd hair colors of the people in this world. "I believe it's my turn to go, sir."

The sergeant shook his head and nodded to the girl, who gave him a short smile before stepping up to the range. Maybe he should just drop the topic for now and focus on completing evaluation. There were only a few people left to test after all. Perhaps he could get his hands on one of their guns to see what the firing mechanism is like, or possibly the bullets themselves. He knew Ghost would probably get more into this than he already is. The lieutenant is a gun-nut after all.

Clicking his mandibles in slight irritation, Roach watched as Ivy notched an arrow to her bow. Hmm, now that he got a better look at the girl, her form looked pretty decent. Her movements were fluid, and her stance was stable. There was no hesitation, no anxiousness indicative of an amateur. If Roach had to guess, Ivy probably went hunting for sport often.

The green-haired girl pulled the bowstring back, the sound of the arrow dragging along the wood of the bow smooth against the ears of all the spectators. There was a smile on the girl's face.

It was at that moment that Roach noticed something odd about the arrow itself. Rather than a standard arrowhead made of steel, stone, or wood, there was red crystal ball of sorts. It looked disturbingly familiar...

Where had he seen something like this? He could've sworn that that crystal was in one of the books he'd read at the library.

The sergeant licked his lips. The word was on the tip is tongue. It started with a 'd'...

Dust? Yeah, that's right, dust! The stuff these blokes use as a naturally occurring energy resource as well as explosives and propellants for their weapons!

...

...

...

Roach shrieked and lunged for the girl's bow. The smile on Ivy's face suddenly seemed much more sinister, all the more reason to stop her. What was she thinking!? That ball of dust was larger than a grenade! And although the kill radius of a grenade is only five meters, the casualty radius goes up to fifteen! Not only that, dust could be much more powerful! Plus, the target was only twenty meters away!

The sergeant frantically grabbed at the girl's bow, but it was too late.

"Hey! Sir!? Wha—"

Thrown off course, the dust arrow went straight into the air like an FJM-148 Javelin, then came soaring back down. Panicked, Roach grabbed Ivy by the shoulders and dove away, the other militia members doing the same.

"Oh, SHIT—" Whomever had the time to utter such vulgar words was suddenly cut off as the arrow hit the ground, an explosion of flames much larger than an old M67 could create going off right on top of the spot Roach and Ivy had just been standing in. The concussive force sent powerful winds in all directions, and smoking hot chunks of earth were sent into the air before plummeting back down ungracefully. A large fire burned away at whatever it could touch at ground zero, before slowly, inevitably fizzling out as flammable materials turned to ash.

"FUCK FUCK FUCK!" someone shouted, their shirt set aflame.

"Tuck and roll, Barton! Tuck and roll!"

"Dammit! What in the heck are you—off!"

"My bad, Roux!"

Roach grunted silently as he helped himself up, then looked around at the chaos. The militia members who had been affected were either rolling around on the floor or running into each other in the confusion. There was great deal of dust and smoke, and a crater had been formed at the edge of the range, scorch marks burned into the ground, the chalk line ruined.

"Ugh," Ivy moaned as she sat up next to him. When she opened her eyes, her jaw dropped. "Oh shit," she said simply. The sound of repeated foot-tapping made her blood freeze. She slowly turned to the sergeant and gazed up into those soulless goggles of his. She could practically feel the glare burning a hole in her forehead. "H-Heh, whoops!"

SMACK!

The glove-shaped imprint on her cheek told her that the sergeant wasn't happy. "Ow," she pouted. "That's not fair! You didn't let me shoot the target! It would've been fine...probably."

The sergeant merely sighed. Well, at least he managed to find the explosive potential of dust. In fact, he might have a new theory on why those subsonic dust bullets did so much damage despite their slow speed...He'll have to discuss it with Ghost later.

For now, he'll need to get this mess sorted out. He sighed again, idly wondering if Ghost was doing any better.

VVVVV

Headmaster Ozpin took a long, slow sip from his freshly brewed mug of the finest coffee to have ever graced the world of Remnant. Specially grown in a small oasis at the eastern edge of the Mistralian Desert, these coffee beans have been aged for half a century, nurtured using a refined dust powder found only in the deepest Grimm caves of the cold, unforgiving Solitas mines. Once they've reached maturity, these beans are then shipped off to Vacuo, guarded by an electrical and gravitational field created by tested lightning and gravity dust crystals. Once the package is received, the beans are processed, ground into a powder, and mixed in with secret legendary catalysts that only a select few people in the world know. Finally, after weeks of preparation, the coffee is sent straight to Ozpin's doorstep, ready to be brewed every morning.

It was perfect. There was absolutely nothing that could possibly ruin this moment of peace and tranquility. Nothing.

THUMP!

...

The immortal wizard sighed and reached out to the small, invisible window on the side of the clock tower, then pulled it open. A small crow flew in, landing at the center of the room.

"You're quite the early bird this morning, Qrow."

The avian creature transformed in a burst of feathers, revealing the one and only, Qrow Branwen. He stumbled a bit to catch his bearings, then immediately reached for his hip flask, popping the quark.

"You sound like you don't want to see me." The avian huntsman took a sip of his own drink, the vile liquid burning down his throat.

"While I wouldn't quite put it like that, it would be preferable if you abstained from interrupting my coffee time." The headmaster turned away from Qrow and stared calmly at the rising sun. "Quite the view, wouldn't you say, Qrow? It's times like these that I truly wish to cherish."

Qrow frowned as his shoulders sagged. "Man, you need a hobby."

The short quip put a smile on Ozpin's face. "Perhaps..."

There was a comfortable silence that lasted about a minute, on account of Qrow downing the contents of his flask. It wasn't long before the huntsman found that said flask was empty. He shook it, miffed, before sticking back where it belonged, turning his full attention to the headmaster.

"Anyways, I'm here to pick up Sunshine. Any idea where she's at?"

The headmaster of Beacon Academy turned his slightly. "Amber has been practicing with the Maiden's powers in the Emerald Forest. She's done quite well thus far."

Qrow looked shocked. "You're letting her go in alone?" The Fall Maiden could be attacked at any time, anywhere, even as close as they are to Beacon Academy. It wouldn't surprise any of them if there was a spy among the students, which is why she is to be guarded at all times when on school grounds or in the city.

"Of course not," Ozpin replied. "Glynda is with her."

The avian huntsman groaned. "If the Grimm don't get to her first, then Glynda is going to work her to death."

Ozpin chuckled at that. "I'm sure Amber will be fine. She is the Fall Maiden after all...probably."

...

"Probably?"

"So," Ozpin started, that ever-present stoicism in his voice. "Have you anything to report, Qrow? How was your trip to Mistral?"

Qrow narrowed his eyes slightly at the headmaster's blatant deflection, but relented anyways.

"Whatever. Couldn't find much in Mistral, and the relic is doing fine. Lionheart is...well, Lionheart is Lionheart." He paused. "There was an incident on the way back though."

"Oh? Please, do tell."

"Yeah, there were these two guys. They had strange weapons and wore strange clothing, and they were skilled. Some Grimm were attacking them, and they managed to hold the horde off. One of em' got his arm torn off, and his buddy was protecting him. They called themselves Ghost and Roach. Obviously, they're code names. Said they were on a team called Bravo 6. Ever heard of them?"

Ozpin took another sip from his mug. "No, I don't think I have. They sound like they were in trouble. I do hope they are okay." He turned towards the avian huntsman, who was now resting his back against the wall, arms crossed. "Is that all?"

Qrow smirked. "Nope. The one that called himself Ghost, he wore a skull mask of some kind and a pair of sunglasses. It was kinda hard to see, but I know what I saw. He had the silver eyes."

"Really now?" Ozpin regarded the huntsman with renewed interest. "Interesting. Were you able to find out their goals? I imagine that, with the way you've described them, that they'd be quite difficult to talk to."

The avian huntsman shifted into a more comfortable position, such that he was facing the headmaster completely. "They were at first, but they opened up just a bit by the time we hit Ansel."

"You escorted them?"

"Yep," he replied, popping the 'p'. Then, he sighed. "They were betrayed, Oz. Ghost didn't tell me who he worked for, nor what his goals were, but I know that he and his buddy are lost and alone. They stayed behind in Ansel to catch their bearings. They're both just a big bundle of mysteries. I wasn't sure if I could trust them, and I'm still unsure, but I know they're good people...relatively at least."

Ozpin raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

Qrow licked his lips. "Ghost has a twisted philosophy about the world, but not in a bad way. He says that there are only three types of people. The neutral, the morally challenged, and the true evil. It's an unholy trinity. The neutral are like the civilians. The morally challenged are the greedy bastards, the power-mad, and, oddly enough, us huntsmen. And the true evil? He said that true evil is something that is felt and not quantified nor observed. It's only something you can know after experience."

Ozpin's interest grew by the minute. "So he's seen true evil. I am sad to say that I know how he feels." He paused and thought about what Qrow had said just a minute ago. "And what of the morally challenged? Why does he stick the do-gooders with the 'greedy bastards' as you said, Qrow?"

"Heh, here's the interesting part," Qrow said, taking a step to the center of the room. "He considers himself and his buddy along with all of us protectors morally challenged because in a perfect world, we don't exist. In a world where there is no crime, no evil, there aren't any peacekeepers around because there is no need for peacekeepers. In a perfect world, only the neutral exist. Happy, ignorant civilians at every block. Then he said that it was just a pipe dream, that a perfect world will never come to be." He looked straight into Ozpin's eyes. "He said that's why he and his buddy fight. I don't know about you, but I think they're okay."

The headmaster of Beacon Academy was impressed. The philosophy was, as Qrow had said, twisted, certainly, but not in a bad way. This Ghost sounded like the kind of person that would do whatever is necessary to win. He sounded like he does what he does for the greater good. And, as a plus, he had the silver eyes. Perfect.

"Ghost and Roach, was it? Did you see an insignia on their clothing? Perhaps a symbol of their army?"

Qrow pursed his lips. "Yeah, they had these patches with some kind of flag on them. They also had an emblem, like a skull above a sword that had wings on either side. Doesn't sound too friendly, does it?"

"Interesting," Ozpin mused, tapping his cane idly. "If they've been betrayed recently, they probably won't be too amicable or willing to join another organization so soon, but...they would be the perfect operators out in the field. Were they huntsmen?"

Qrow scoffed. "Nah, they were soldiers."

"I see...then they are probably more fit for tasks involving stealth and infiltration. With no ties to anyone, nobody would question their whereabouts when working in the field. Masked and nameless as they are, they would be unidentifiable...untraceable," the headmaster muttered. "Qrow, when you take Amber on her journey this week, be sure to stop by Ansel. Perhaps you can persuade them into joining our cause."

Qrow gaped. "Really? That fast? You haven't even met them yet, how can you be so sure?"

"Well, Qrow. We are fighting a war. And in war, you need soldiers at the front lines, do you not?"

"...Fine," Qrow conceded. "I'll see what I can do."

"Excellent."

VVVVV

A/N: Okay, yes, I've been gone for a month, but I've a totally reasonable explanation for that...! I don't actually, apologies. I was just lazy, and when Doom Eternal came out, I had a fangasm and played the game for, well, a month. Then, online school hit me like a truck so I was stuck doing work most of the time.

FYI, this chapter has been rewritten seven times before I settled on this version. Just another reason why it's so late. Also, I'm sorry if the quality is a little on the downside. I'm not the best when it comes to character interactions, but I can make do.

Anyhow, enjoy the chapter.

Sir Yeetus Deletus, signing off.