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There and there. One-and-two.
Weiss Schnee stepped into her next thrust, putting more weight and Aura behind it. Russel Thrush went for a parry with his lead sword. Weiss saw it almost before it happened. The moment his arm twitched, the moment his sword was moving towards her rapier, she was twisting her wrist. Myrtenaster danced around the parry; Russel blocked nothing but air, and the point of her rapier stuck into his Aura for his trouble.
He retreated hastily, stung by the blow. Weiss played on his fear with an appell off her lead foot. That sent him scrambling backwards, waving his swords wildly. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and simply followed, staying at the edge of range.
The moment he stopped his retreat and went to stabilize—the instant his momentum shifted from backwards to forwards—she pounced with a ballestra, bringing him into range before he could react. A down-diagonal slash struck between his swords with neither able to get the right angle to parry.
Her move was too strong, she noted; she'd overestimated him and expected to have to push through a partial block. Myrtenaster swung far out of position to her down and left.
There was no formal fencing term for what she did next. Rather than try to reverse her arm's momentum, Weiss carried it even further, bringing her left arm around her back and meeting it with her right. Before Russel had gathered his wits to counterattack, Weiss lunged with her right foot, opposite of her norm, and thrust with her right hand.
Russel never saw it coming. He had no defense. The thrust struck home with enough force to push him back again. He retreated even further, and Weiss let him go.
It had been a sloppy move, Weiss would admit. She could faintly hear an echo of Winter's chastisement reaching for her through the years. It had left her vulnerable for an extended period; Myrtenaster couldn't protect her from behind her back.
Yet it had also worked.
Weiss cracked the barest bit of a smile. A younger Winter, still carrying the burden of their father's expectations, would have upbraided Weiss about it for minutes. Who cared if it worked, she would say. Process over results. Luck is not a strategy.
A slightly older Winter, further removed from those artificial (and, ultimately, false) views of perfection, might be more willing to see it as Weiss growing into her sloppiness and making something of it.
Neither Winter was here. In the end, it was up to Weiss to determine: had the attack worked because it was a good idea? Was it repeatable? Or was this a case where she so overwhelmed her opponent that anything would work?
Because Russel, frankly, was in no position to offer Weiss much resistance. His defense was full of holes. He was too used to being the faster fighter when he sparred, too used to fighting heavier opponents with more and broader tells. He simply couldn't process the battle fast enough to keep up with Weiss.
Then again, few in the class could.
It was one of the main things that Team RWBY had picked up through all of their battle and training experience, and one of the things they retained best now. It wasn't muscle memory; that hadn't come back, and from time to time caused the members of RWBY to stumble or misstep. Ruby in particular had grown in size, weight, and musculature during the two years after the Fall of Beacon. Being back in her fifteen-year-old body caused problems sometimes, as she tried to execute a move she remembered doing but that her younger body couldn't quite achieve.
Even she'd laughed when she'd face-planted at the end of an otherwise lethal gravity spin.
In a way, Weiss was thankful for it. Those occasional moments of clumsiness were obvious errors, things that could be seen and critiqued. They drew the attention of RWBY's teachers and peers. They gave people something to say.
They helped to conceal how positively deadly Team RWBY had become.
Weiss' body might be slower than she remembered, but her mind had retained its fearsome agility. Combat was less about making the best decisions and more often about making the most decisions, the quickest decisions, about seeing the situation properly and reacting to it before the enemy did the same.
When you got to the point where you could change the battle faster than the enemy could read those changes, victory was inevitable. Combat experience had made Team RWBY very, very fast. Fast enough that she could follow that entire train of thought to its logical conclusion in the time it took for Russel to realize she wasn't chasing him.
Poor Russel.
He was whipped. From the expression on his face, he knew it.
Weiss relented. She stepped backwards and extended Myrtenaster tip-down, adopting a more defensive stance. She was inviting Russel to attack.
This wasn't mercy. She simply had other things she needed to practice.
He clearly saw this as a trap. He did not relish coming forward. He did anyway. She almost respected him for that. She held position, letting him come.
He swayed his body and took a stutter-step, like a less-precise version of her appell. She ignored it. He tried again. She ignored that, too.
On his third step, he began his genuine attack, a sweep with his offhand. It wasn't intended to land, Weiss saw immediately; it was just supposed to draw Myrtenaster away so that a lunge with his mainhand could have a free shot.
It was good that he was trying, that he was at least attempting to operate on second intention. But Weiss had crossed blades on equal terms with the Ace Ops, her sister, and Cinder gods-damned Fall. She was not about to be caught out by Russel Thrush.
Instead of merely parrying the first blow, Weiss intercepted it. She caught Russel's sword between the blade and hilt of her own, bound it, and (with a quick twisting motion) tore it from his grasp.
Russel was too surprised to follow his initial plan; his eyes followed his offhand sword as it flew away from him. Weiss pounced, killer instincts honed from years of combat missions kicking in. Myrtenaster raced at Russel's main hand and smacked his wrist sternly. Even through Russel's Aura, it was a jarring, surprising blow that made his hand spasm. He dropped that sword, too.
Weiss, putting on an expression of supreme derision, leveled Mytenaster at Russel's heart. "It's over," she said.
"Oh, you think?" said Russel snarkily.
Weiss narrowed her eyes… and reached for a past persona. "You seriously need to work on your grip strength. You have plenty of other things to learn, but if you at least get that through your thick head, we'll have made some kind of progress."
Russel, somehow, had the gall to roll his eyes. "Whatever you say, Queen Schnee," he said as he went to retrieve his swords.
Now genuinely annoyed and not just putting on an act, Weiss stepped on the blade of the nearer sword as Russel reached for it. "I'm serious. If you don't bring up your skills, if you don't learn something as basic as that, you're going to get yourself and others killed."
"As if," said Russel, infuriatingly. "Now gimme my sword."
"I'm trying to help you," Weiss insisted.
"I don't need your help," Russel said, and he smiled, of all things.
"Obviously you need someone's help, and it might as well be me."
"Oh? When did you make it onto Beacon's faculty?" he jeered.
"Not to put too fine a point on it, but I just beat you without breaking a sweat. I think I'm qualified to tell you how I'm better than you."
"News flash, princess: I don't care that you're better than me." Russel was enjoying this, Weiss could tell, and it was maddening. "Hey, you know what they call the Beacon student who graduates last in his class?"
Weiss narrowed her eyes. "Grimm bait?"
"Huntsman," Russel said triumphantly. "We all get the same licenses at the end. I get that you're Little Miss Perfectionist, but why should I bust my ass trying to be tops? Doesn't do me any good."
"These are the skills and tools we'll need to do our job," said Weiss, not understanding him at all. "Slacking gets you killed."
Russel laughed. "What's your socially adjusted GPA?"
"My what?"
"It's a correction made to your grades based on how much of a social life you have," Russel said. "And lemme tell ya, your team's socially adjusted GPA is in the toilet. What a bunch of shut-ins and show-offs."
Weiss had no idea how to respond. Russel might as well have been talking in a dead language for how little sense his words made to her.
Not trying your best, as a concept, had been anathema to Weiss her whole life. Even when she'd outgrown the idea of perfection—after she'd realized that those impossible standards had just been a tool her father used to torment and control her—she still understood the importance of effort. She, and the rest of Team RWBY, trained relentlessly because they knew it mattered. They knew it would make a difference.
Russel just didn't.
Weiss knew RWBY looked like a bunch of shut-ins to the rest of Beacon. They all knew that. They didn't mind it because they had different priorities. They knew what was coming. They knew about things like Tyrian and the Hound and Cinder Fall and Salem. They knew they had to prepare, and they meant to be ready. None of that applied to Russel.
But it would, whether he realized it or not, whether he liked it or not. In only a few months, if everything kept to schedule.
You didn't survive, she wanted to scream at him. Beacon fell and you died, you incompetent twerp. I don't know if you were killed in your dorm without ever getting to swing your swords, or if you actually made it to the courtyard and got killed trying to hold the line. You died either way, and now I know it was at least partly because you didn't care to get good enough to live.
I want to save you whether you deserve it or not, but could you please stop making that so hard?
"Well," she said, and her disdain was not wholly an act, "I can't tell you how comforting it is to know that my fellow Huntsmen can't be bothered to improve."
"It's just a job," said Russel, shrugging nonchalantly. "I don't pretend like it's some big save-the-world thing. I'm gonna graduate, find a cushy long-term escort contract, put in my time, retire after twenty or so, and call it a career."
Weiss had seen this, she realized. This was the exact attitude and career plan of Dee and Dudley on the Argus Limited. Those two had grown so fat and contented that their skills had atrophied terminally—to the point that they couldn't recognize a whole cadre of real Huntsmen standing right in front of them, to the point that they over-depended on automated turrets when no true Huntsmen would ever.
"I've seen people with that attitude," she said. "It ends very poorly. Meaning, fatally."
"Whatever, ice wench," said Russel, growing impatient. "Now get off my sword."
"Why don't you take it from her?"
Weiss started; she could see Russel jerking back in greater surprise. Myrtenaster was on its way to a guard position before she reined it in. Professor Goodwitch had appeared, unannounced, to the side of their conversation.
Even with the growth in her own skills, Weiss still recognized Professor Goodwitch as someone beyond her. She was a true artisan of combat. That she'd been able to approach Weiss unnoticed was just another example of it.
Professor Goodwitch's expression was characteristically stern. "If you're not even going to try to compete with Miss Schnee, it's a wasted learning experience for both of you. Let's add some incentive, shall we? I think I know what your final exam will be."
Weiss concealed a grin. Professor Goodwitch was notorious for concocting personalized final exams. She showed little mercy in their design. Russel was clearly aware of this practice; blood was draining from his face. "N-no worries, Professor, we're good."
"No, you are not 'good', Mr. Thrush. That's the whole problem." Professor Goodwitch produced her jumbo-sized scroll. "Perhaps for your final exam I'll give one of your swords to Miss Schnee and require you to retrieve it from her. If you haven't succeeded after ten minutes, you fail the exam."
"That's hardly fair, ma'am," said Weiss. "I've been practicing my dual-wielding. You're taking a weapon from him and giving one to me."
"Are you suggesting that sort of thing doesn't happen in real life?" Professor Goodwitch said, raising an eyebrow.
And Weiss was back in the Central Location, tears streaming down her face as loss consumed her, Gambol held tight in her hands as she fired round after round at that bitch Cinder—Cinder, who'd taken everything from her—who'd taken Blake, and left nothing but this shard of soul-imbued metal behind-
Weiss blinked. "I would never, ma'am."
The other eyebrow went up. Professor Goodwitch gave Weiss a long, appraising look. Weiss had to wonder how much of her flashback she'd betrayed. The only thing worse than revisiting that disaster was revisiting it in public, where people might ask too many of the wrong questions.
But if there was one thing the Schnee children were good at, it was maintaining composure under a critical gaze. Weiss rallied herself and held firm.
At last Professor Goodwitch turned her attention back to Russel. "I'll keep it open as an option. For now, Mr. Thrush, perhaps a less lackadaisical approach to your training is in order."
"Yes, ma'am," mumbled Russel.
"Good." Professor Goodwitch's eyes flicked to the time displayed on her scroll. She packed it away, retrieved her riding crop, and extended it in the direction of the bell at the top of the room. The bell began to ring.
It took Weiss a moment to appreciate what she was seeing. Professor Goodwitch hadn't hit a button to make the bell ring; she was using her semblance to rattle the bell's tongue manually, despite not being able to see it. It was a minor feat of precision and control. This, Weiss realized, was one of Professor Goodwitch's secrets to maintaining proficiency while on teaching duty: she used every opportunity to sneak in training time.
As if she needed another reason to admire Professor Goodwitch.
The various training couples around the room lowered their weapons and turned their attention to their instructor. "That will be all for today," Professor Goodwitch said. "As a reminder, we'll continue pairs training for the remainder of this week, and we'll resume formal duels next week. You are dismissed. Mr. Arc, Miss Rose, please stay behind."
Weiss felt as if every member of their little time-traveling squad had the same terrified thought at once. They caught each other's eyes and seemed to all share the same dread expression.
It was probably nothing, Weiss thought to herself. They'd been careful. They'd maintained their cover and their security. And even in the worst-case scenario, Professor Goodwitch was on their side. Besides, Ruby and Jaune were getting much better at hiding…
She couldn't finish the thought. Right. If Team RWBY had to pick one member to bluff their way through a situation, Ruby would be the unanimous last pick.
There was nothing to do about it now. Instead, she reviewed her task list. Practice swordsmanship without the use of glyphs so she could retain combat power with low or broken Aura? Check. Practice ambidexterity to prepare for possible dual-wielding? Check. Guide a Fall of Beacon casualty into better habits?
Uh-oh. No check there.
There were ways to reach Russel even if he blew her off face-to-face. Scanning around, she saw Team CRDL congregating. Cardin Winchester may have had a head full of sawdust and a soul full of tar, but he was tall enough to serve as a good landmark, so he wasn't a complete waste of life.
Weiss reached back into her past. It was time to put on that mask again: the mask of her younger self. Cold, unsympathetic, perfectionist, superior. Everything her father had wanted of her, everything he'd tried to mold her into.
The thought made her feel slimy. It was all wrong. She'd distanced herself from all of that deliberately. Arresting her father had just been proof of a transformation long in coming.
Still… that was what people expected of her. She had to play that part for RWBY-J to blend in, just as she'd had to play it to survive Schnee Manor. So she would… for now, at least.
Her posture firmed up. She felt her head toss back, almost without her direct control. She replaced Myrtenaster to free her hand to stay properly at her side. She would never be taller than people no matter how high her heels, but she could be imposing all the same. Jacques had taught her that, at least.
She set her sights on Cardin and set a direct course. The scowl came to her face naturally, easily, as the role took over.
"Cardin," she called as she got close.
"Hey, Ice Queen," he said, a cocky grin on his face. Weiss put it at even odds if he'd try making fun of her or try to flirt with her. She didn't know which would be worse.
"Got done with Dyke City and wanted to see what a real man looks like, huh?" he said, and kissed his own bicep.
Never mind, the flirting was infinitely worse. It was no act when she closed her eyes in utter disgust. "You are literally zero percent my type."
"Not my fault your type sucks," he said, and the rest of CRDL chortled.
Weiss swallowed her revulsion. She had a job to do. She reached back to those pre-Beacon days. Disdain. Arrogance. They were worse than her, so they didn't matter, they were nothing—there it was.
She fixed a withering look on Cardin and crossed her arms. "Your teammates have wasted my time in irretrievable thirty-minute increments. They haven't pressed me even one little bit. I've learned nothing from wiping them out. I hold you, as their team leader, responsible for their poor performance."
Cardin opened his mouth, but then closed it with a grimace. He couldn't bad-mouth his teammates, not right in front of them. Whether he liked them or not—whether he agreed with Weiss' assessment or not—he needed them. Pack leaders needed a pack, after all.
"So what're you gonna do, sue me?" he scoffed.
"Oh, no," Weiss said, dropping her voice an octave. "You will take your team and you will practice with them more. You will train them until it takes the merest modicum of my effort to defeat them. If you don't, and they continue to waste my sparring time…"
"Then what?" he said, and though he was trying for the same dismissive tone he didn't quite make it.
"…then I will take it upon myself to humiliate you when it's our turn to spar," she said, narrowing her eyes. "I won't tear through your Aura with embarrassing speed, though I could. No, I will make it as slow and as painful as possible. I will draw out your suffering for all to see. I will take you apart piece by piece. I will demonstrate every one of your weaknesses to everyone in the audience. You will be on full display as I reduce you to rubble. I will force Professor Goodwitch to call the match out of pity before I let you escape."
There could be no bravado-laced response from Cardin this time. He'd seen Weiss spar at close to full strength against other members of RWBY or JNPR. He would never say so, but he knew full well she could make good on her threat.
She waved one hand dismissively at CRDL. "Practice," she hissed, and turned to leave.
Blake and Yang were waiting for her outside the training hall. She wanted to sing their praises for that. Their solidarity was everything. The moment the door had shut behind them, Weiss sagged forward on her feet. The act dissolved away from her, leaving nausea in its wake. "Younger me was a brat," she said.
The other two said nothing. When she looked up, they were nodding in agreement.
"This is the part where you say, 'You weren't that bad,'" Weiss grumbled, "or, 'But you made up for it'."
"…nope," said Yang.
"You were that bad," said Blake.
"Thanks for the moral support," said Weiss.
"We didn't say you didn't get better," Yang said, bumping Weiss with her elbow; Weiss barely kept her balance. "You did, and we love you for it. We just figured that'd be…"
"Don't say it."
"…cold comfort."
Weiss felt physically ill.
"Did you at least get through to them?" said Blake mercifully.
"I think so," said Weiss. "Someone like Cardin can fool himself about not being weak as long as he can convince other people he's not weak. What he can't stand is being seen as weak. I pushed that pressure point as hard I could." She shrugged. "They'll practice more, at least so they can say they did. I think Professor Goodwitch is on the same track."
"That's something, at least," said Yang. "We're sorry we have to rely on bad-old-Weiss like this, by the way."
"It's okay," Weiss said, somewhat insincerely—she didn't like it one bit, but the reassurances and apologies made up for a lot. "It'll be worth it if we can get them all through the Fall."
Yang snorted. "Are you kidding? Aim lower."
Weiss winced. "If we can get any of them through the Fall."
"Lower."
"If we help them last ten minutes during the Fall?"
"Now we're talking."
"I thought the plan was 'no Fall'," said Blake.
"I mean, yeah," said Yang, recovering badly, "but you know what I mean."
Weiss nodded. "I think I do."
Ruby's palms were sweatier than they ever were handling Crescent Rose, including when she was using Fire Dust rounds. A glance at Jaune suggested he was in the same boat.
Professor Goodwitch must have noticed too. "You aren't in any trouble. The reverse, actually."
Ruby had relaxed at the first sentence; she tensed all over again at the second.
"It should hardly need saying," Professor Goodwitch began with the air of someone trying to ease into something heavy, "but both your teams have put forth exemplary performances in my class. You are leagues ahead of your classmates. Your only true competition is with each other."
"Oh, professor, you're just saying that," said Jaune, trying to be modest, trying to wave it off. Even Ruby knew that approach was doomed.
Professor Goodwitch fixed him with a stern look. "Am I much in the habit of blowing smoke, Mr. Arc? Do I give frivolous compliments? Do I say things I don't mean?"
Jaune swallowed audibly. "N-no, ma'am."
"Huntsmen have enough ego problems as it is," she said with frustration. "Certain Huntsmen, anyway… regardless, my assessment stands. Your teams exhibit a proficiency in combat and, especially, an approach to combat that is well beyond your years and experience."
Ruby flinched and tried to play it off as a cough.
"Visit the infirmary when we're done, Miss Rose. Now, I don't bring this up to flatter you. Firstly, whatever you're doing to train your teams, obviously you should continue."
"Yes, ma'am." As if they'd stop!
"Secondly, it leaves me curious, and I must say… disappointed in another way."
That was alarming. Ruby had never seen Professor Goodwitch disappointed. Upset, yes. Stern, yes. Furious but burying it beneath professionalism, absolutely. Exasperated beyond words, every time she was around Ozpin (which, fair).
Disappointed? Never.
"Why have you not signed up your teams for the Vytal Tournament?" she asked, looking very nearly vulnerable.
Jaune and Ruby couldn't help the alarmed glances they shared with each other. This was a question they'd known to expect, and so they'd talked about, workshopped, and rehearsed their answers.
They just hadn't expected to have to deliver them to Professor Goodwitch, and especially not a Professor Goodwitch who looked so forlorn.
"Well, I kind of have a thing about crowds," Ruby said, putting a hand behind her head and trying for bashfulness. Huntress Ruby had been forced to grow out of that old apprehension, but Student Ruby hadn't yet.
"Your teammates don't," Professor Goodwitch said, smart as a whip. "Miss Schnee has been performing in front of crowds for years to great effect, and you cannot tell me Miss Xiao Long is shy about drawing attention. Letting your petty fears stand in the way of their excellence is unbecoming of a team leader."
Ouch.
"That doesn't mean they still want to," said Jaune, valiantly riding to the rescue. "Like with Pyrrha. We've talked about it, and she feels like she's done enough tournament fighting for this part of her life. She's focused more on being a Huntress."
Which was true…ish. It was Jaune who'd talked Pyrrha into taking that position. Ruby had a sneaking suspicion that Pyrrha viewed it as a big sacrifice she was making for Jaune's sake.
Professor Goodwitch looked thunderstruck. "Miss Nikos… doesn't want to compete?"
"R-ren and Nora are fine with it, too," said Jaune, not exactly providing the confirmation Professor Goodwitch was looking for. "We want to get stronger because it's the right thing to do, not because we need validation from a tournament. I mean, plenty of upperclassmen teams skip the tournament, right? They either don't feel like they need to, or they're busy doing field work. Isn't that why there are openings for underclassmen at all?"
"Partially," Professor Goodwitch said, "but your teams could compete on their own merits. I would give you at least even odds against any team at Beacon, even the fourth years. That's why…"
She couldn't finish the sentence, which just made Ruby and Jaune that much more uncomfortable. The idea of Professor Goodwitch losing her composure…
She gathered herself. "I would be lying if I said the Academies do not place… maybe too much emphasis on success at Vytal. Vytal serves many functions. It is the multi-cultural festival of unity, as the Last King of Vale intended, of course. But for us, it's the most visible demonstration the Academies put on. It functions as advertising for both Huntsmen in general and the Academies in particular.
"Because of this, there is rivalry amongst the schools. Just as your teams compete against each other, the schools compete against each other. I'm not asking anyone to compete on behalf of Vale, exactly. That especially wouldn't work for your teams, since so few of you are Valan. But representing Beacon is a worthy goal, isn't it?"
"Well, yeah," said Ruby, squirming in place.
Professor Goodwitch visibly steeled herself. "There is a… personal dimension, as well. We teachers sometimes feel like our schools' performance at Vytal is a referendum on our work. It's not very logical," she added quickly, "since Vytal only shows a few teams… small sample size and all that, a proper measure is the average success of the general student population, not a few bouts amongst outliers…"
She pursed her lips. "Even so, more than one argument on curriculum reform has been settled, rightly or wrongly, by a professor pointing at the most recent Vytal results and saying, 'Scoreboard'."
Ruby barely resisted laughing. She could imagine Ironwood's face if Goodwitch pulled that on him. Ha! Like he deserved!
"So it's not only the pride of Beacon that is on the line at Vytal, but my pride as well," Professor Goodwitch said, a grimace flitting across her stern face. "Maybe now my consternation makes more sense?"
"I think it does," Jaune said quietly.
"Please reconsider," she said. "I won't beg and I won't pester. If this truly is your decision, then I… accept it. I just thought you maybe didn't have all the information. Now you know more. Hopefully I've sparked your competitive spirit."
Ruby knew all about that.
When Team RWBY had discussed this in their first first year, Weiss had been keen on competing, and competing visibly, for the sake of Beacon. Ruby knew now it was to prove to a certain white-haired jerk that Beacon was a worthy school.
Yang had wanted to compete for the thrill of it. Blake had claimed to not care about competing—in hindsight, she'd probably wanted to keep herself out of the public eye, since appearing so brazenly just made her that much more a target for the Fang. That left Ruby as the deciding vote.
Few students could get into a Huntsman Academy without being more competitive than average. It was a lot of work, after all, to get through the training pipeline, make your weapon, and pass the entrance exams. Even faking your way in, like Jaune had done, required levels of enterprise and daring that were rare in the general population. (Which was probably why Ozpin had let Jaune get away with it, come to think of it…)
Then, once you were in, you were being constantly, directly, and publicly measured against each other in duels. You had to get good, find some way to justify to yourself not being good, or fold and go home… and Huntress education implicitly equated that last option with death.
So only the naturally competitive got into the Academies, and the Academies hijacked those competitive instincts to drive them to improve. Good for motivating them to get stronger; not as good for their mental health.
In her youth, Ruby hadn't understood how strange it all was. She'd been born into Huntress culture and never left. It was her norm. The walk across Anima had opened her eyes. Most people just wanted to live their lives. They didn't have the same drive to be the best. Their egos weren't at stake; their self-image wouldn't shatter if they couldn't keep up with their peers.
15-year-old Ruby? She hadn't thought twice about competing. She might not have thought once. Going to Vytal was what any Huntress with a strong team would want to do.
Which was why Professor Goodwitch was so confused.
RWBY and JNPR were a glitch. They were getting stronger—fantastically so—without the Academies' normal mechanisms doing the job. It was as if Crescent Rose was gunning down grimm without Ruby ever pulling the trigger: you couldn't argue with the results, but the process made no sense.
Ruby blinked under Professor Goodwitch's anxious gaze.
"We'll think about it," she promised.
"Likewise," said Jaune, following her lead instantly. Nice.
"That's all I can ask for," said Professor Goodwitch. "Just don't overthink it, or waste too much time. As the hosting school, we don't need to submit our team rosters until later in the process, but the cutoff is approaching quickly."
"Yes, ma'am."
Professor Goodwitch took a breath—and the vulnerability vanished. "Don't think that my compliments mean you've won a free pass from me. Mr. Arc, your ongoing helplessness at long range remains an issue. You are getting better at closing on distant foes, but part of that is our auditorium only having so much space. An enemy with more room to work with can kite you indefinitely. Miss Rose, your answers on your last exam were proper but your writing is atrocious."
"Words are hard," Ruby said with a wince. That was something she hadn't worked on in Anima or Solitas.
"Then you know where to focus your efforts." She gave them a curt nod. "You are dismissed."
"Ma'am," they said as one, and left. As they exited the room, Ruby snuck a look at Professor Goodwitch. She was gazing after them with longing and shaky hopes.
Ruby skittered away before that expression could move her.
The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Jaune turned on her. "'We'll think about it'?"
"It was the look!" Ruby protested. "I couldn't stand up to that look!"
"Now you know how it feels for us when you do the puppy-eyes thing," Jaune said, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Ruby lied.
"Seriously, though. Are we really going to reconsider this? Or was that just a white lie to spare her feelings?"
"Ugh, I want to go to Vytal. I'm sure you do, too. And we'd kick butt at it, you know we would."
"You heard her," Jaune agreed. "We're only really competing against each other, these days."
"And given what I was saying the last time I er, spoke publicly... Something with no stakes would be nice."
"It would."
She grimaced. "So why does it feel selfish to want that?"
"Maybe not selfish," Jaune said. "At least, not for me. Just… small. After what we've been up lately, something like Vytal is so…" he wiggled his hand weakly.
"But that's weird!" Ruby said, her feelings spilling out of her. "I remember caring so much about it before, it's strange for it to not be priority one. We spent a whole semester with Vytal at the top of our minds. Plus, it matters so much to Professor Goodwitch, and she's… you know."
Also part of the save-the-world mission, she refused to say. It was hard work trying to talk around their secrets. It was hard trying to keep secrets in the first place.
But they had to keep secrets, she realized, for the same reason they couldn't go to Vytal.
"The thing is… We might not even be here when Vytal happens," she said.
He nodded grimly. He understood as well as she did. Whatever this was—illusion, time travel, alternate reality, whatever—there was no guarantee it would still exist by the time Vytal rolled around. There was no guarantee the travelers would still be there, either. Even in the ideal scenario, where this was a genuine second chance, they might be too preoccupied trying to avert the Fall to have time for Vytal.
Ruby was too responsible to take that risk. It wouldn't be fair to Professor Goodwitch or Beacon or the other teams if RWBY and JNPR committed to the tournament and then bailed.
All good arguments, all talking points that the team had worked through in advance… and it was still no easier to go through with it when the time came.
Which was why Ruby had to default to her oldest and strongest coping mechanism: bury the current bad thing by focusing on the next thing. "How about this. We don't sign up, but we tell Professor Goodwitch we'll be available as alternates. Then, if we do get all our… stuff… sorted out in time for the tournament, maybe it just so happens that one of the Beacon teams has some really awful luck that means they can't compete!"
Jaune gave her a raised eyebrow. "Is this the type of 'awful luck' that involves Nora, Nora's hammer, and people's kneecaps?"
Ruby shook her head frantically. "No, no, not like that! Like… I don't know, they get really bad food poisoning before the tournament begins? Or their radio breaks when they go on their pre-Vytal mission so they can't call for evac and have to hoof it?"
"You'd make other people walk cross-continent like we did?"
"Well, it built us up as a team!"
"That's one way to put it," said Jaune generously. He shrugged. "We'll think about it when we get a minute. I mean, we're already neck-deep in conspiracies, what's one more?"
"That's the spirit!" Yes, problem addressed! Ruby's elation held—for about three seconds. "Oh, no," she groaned.
"What?"
"I haven't told my dad or uncle we're not competing," she moaned.
"How big a deal is that?"
"Uncle Qrow said that if my team doesn't win as many matches as Team STRQ did, he's disowning me."
"Would he do that?" said Jaune, startled.
"I don't know! Probably not? Maybe? Augh, no, he wouldn't, but he will tease me relentlessly for the rest of my life."
Jaune smiled mercilessly. "Sounds like the sort of problem you'll just have to tackle on your own."
"You are the worst, Jaune Arc."