"Speaking"

'Thoughts'

Something else

Jaune

He's 13 years old, finally old enough to get a weapon his very own weapon to train with. And it's so exciting he doesn't eat breakfast, just sits at the table willing his father to 'hurry up' while his sisters eat and chat lightly around him. His hands tightly clenched along the edges to keep from vibrating in his seat from pure unadulterated joy, because he wants to help people, wants to be a hunter, a hero, and this is the first step.

Minutes later through the haze of joy and morning chatter Jaune hears the creak of his father's bedroom door, and the muted shuffling of old worn slippers against carpet as he somehow safely stumbles his way downstairs and into the kitchen. Blindly plodding around in little circles until he slumps against the countertop with a smack! and a groan of "Gnd mornng."

"Good morning dad!" They all say, before the girls quickly settle back into their conversation. "Dude I'm telling you you're wrong. Besides you drink coffee with cream, your opinions are invalid." While Jaune gently leads him by arm into his chair, letting him slump in his seat until he's awake enough to not be a danger to himself. Before quickly grabbing a plate of waffles off the counter and sliding it in front of his dad's seat. Then pulling it back a few inches to make sure that he won't face-plant into them. (Once was enough thank you.)

A minute later their father straightens in his seat, absently wiping at a trail of drool on his cheek with his right hand. And Jaune has to cough into his hand as his father flares his other hand in a vague resemblance of the middle finger in the general direction of his daughters' giggles.

Clearing his throat he turns towards Jaune; saying in a voice that is probably? supposed to warm and fatherly, but comes out sounding more like a disturbing combination of a whine and the rasp of a slowly dying animal, "Jne C'fee."

With a roll of his eyes that's too fond to actually mean anything Jaune makes his way to the rather small pantry tucked in the corner of the kitchen. (Pausing only to tease the hair of his twin sister Jane and "aww" annoyingly at her answering scowl, because who cares if she's older by a minute, doesn't mean he can't be the annoying brother.) Sliding the door open and groping around endlessly in the vain hope of actually finding the "C'fee." Shouting back over his shoulder at the table, "You just have such a way with words dad, shoulda been a poet not a huntsman." Adding a, "Love you too dad!" At his answering middle finger.

After a few more failed attempts (and many muttered curses in frustration that have him ducking his head further in to avoid his older sister's scolding glares). His wrist brushes against something plastic with a dull thunk 'ow' and with a hum of satisfaction Jaune pulls the coffee tin from its confines. Sliding the pantry door shut Jaune turns around ready to make his dad coffee. It's been his job since he was eight and he does it (mostly) without complaint, because he loves him and all that other "snuggly shit" as Jean once put it.

He pauses when he looks back at the table, his dad is sat back in his chair mumbling vague somewhat answers to his daughter's questions, "Can Emma stay over tonight? Can I go shopping today? How did you sleep daddy?" All eyes are on his dad and Jaune is suddenly part of the background, like when he was a kid and his sisters would play games together like "tag" while he would just sit and watch. Which is fine. He's the youngest of 7-8 kids, being ignored kinda comes with the territory, besides they never phase him out for too long anyways.

So he makes his way over to the coffee machine on the counter, absently listening in as he goes through the usual steps, "Bri can you think of anyways I can actually use my semblance?" Janet asks.

Jaune flinches in sympathy when he hears the telltale 'thump' of her head against the table 'That's gonna leave a mark.' "I mean "kinetic manipulation" is great and everything." If it were possible to choke on sarcasm Janet would be so dead right now.

"But I don't have any ideas! So what good does that do me?" Brianna at least has the courtesy to mock-pat her twin on the back, "There there, I'm sure you'll think of something."

Suddenly an idea pops into his head, and before he even thinks it through he says it. "Rotation."

All eyes are on him now, and even if two of his sisters have moved out, it doesn't make it less unnerving to have only five people staring at him instead of seven. Janet clears her throat and Jaune remembers that oh yeah, he kinda said something.

"What was that Jaune?" She asks, there's a little quirk hidden in her smile and he honestly isn't sure if that's a good or bad thing.

Jaune clears his throat suddenly very happy for the countertop wedged against his back, "Assuming that your semblance is just manipulation." At her confused look he clarifies, "Like if something is falling straight down you can't make it suddenly shoot off to the left. You can only make it fall faster or slower right?"

At her nod he continues "Rotation then. Bullets rotate as they move right? Couldn't you speed up the rotation to the right and make it move faster, or eliminate drop-off?" He shrugs, "Hell you could probably slow down the rotation to go for non-lethal shots, or like suddenly drop the bullet if the target ducks or goes behind cover."

Janet perks up, "That's a great idea Jaune!" Then slumps back against the table.

"Oh wait one problem. I don't use guns." She waves her sword in the air as emphasis before dropping it back down to her belt loop.

Jaune feels his face flush, "I wasn't done yet!" He says.

Pointing at Brianna he asks, "You use guns right?" She rolls her eyes and holds up a pistol as her answer,

"Your semblance is kinetic reflection isn't it?" At her nod he continues, "You see what I'm getting at here?"

They look at each other, blink, then turn to him, "Kinda." They say in unison and the wall suddenly looks like a very nice place to bash his head against. Brianna pipes up again, "It's good in theory but I'm just not sure how it'll work out in practice." She fingers the pistol's hammer as she speaks. "Ya know when we're in the heat of the moment, will we be able to react fast enough to work together?"

Jaune sighs. Walks over to his seat and grabs his knife before doing an about-face and walking back to his spot by the coffee maker, "But do you think it could work?" He asks. They look at each other then at him, "Yeah." they say in unison

He faces the table. Spins the knife between his fingers and catches the blade between his thumb and middle finger. "One" catch, "two" catch, "three" catch, "four" catch, "five" catch. "Got it."

He spins it a sixth time, catches it hard between his fingers, and throws it at Janet's head as hard as he can. It whistles through the air for only a moment before Brianna's hand glows white against the oaken tabletop, and suddenly there's a hole in the wall next to his head.

Amidst the sudden silence he makes his way back to the table plopping down in his seat while the rest of them are still gaping and drops the knife blade (now sans handle) back onto his napkin. He laughs at the twins stunned faces, "What you thought I actually threw a knife at you? I'm hurt." He says with a mock pout. "Although." He says sheepishly unclenching his right hand and revealing the blood running between his fingers, "Could you just trust me next time?"

Their father clears his throat and Jaune can only turn and stare because "Oh shit" " Yeah I'm really in trouble aren't I?" He rubs the back of his head sheepishly, "Sorry?"

Even though Jaune didn't really do anything wrong per se, he doesn't get off scot free. His dad is rather...gleeful in his informing that for the next year (as part of his newly started training) he'll be his sister's "target dummy" for their training. And Jaune can only stare horrified at the smile on his dad's face because he is so so doomed.

His dad just laughs deep and loud, stands from his seat at the table, and pats him on the shoulder in a way that is probably supposed to comforting. "I know. Now let's go get you your weapon, I can't leave you to get completely slaughtered. That would be too boring."

"Ya know, whenever I thought about where our family stored our weapons I always imagined an armory of some sort, with walls piled high to the roof with spoils of war, or like...a safe maybe." He twirls his wrist for effect, "Ya know what I never imagined dad? Our goddamned attic."

Jaune can't help but comment on his father's reaction, "I've really outdone myself dad, that's a whole new shade of blue for you." His father's response of more choking noises kind of makes Jaune want to take a picture and capture the historic moment when sarcasm actually killed someone.

Ignoring his dad's funny choking noises he grabs an axe, feels the weight of the dark metal against his palm and gives it a few test swings to test the balance. At least until it slips out of his hand on the third swing, just narrowly avoiding embedding in his foot as it hits the floor. Jaune just sighs, 'today is going to be one of those days isn't it?'

Thirty minutes later and they haven't made any significant progress towards finding a weapon that fits. Just two large piles on the floor that Jaune honestly wants to burn, "Just a little dad I promise, just a little burning, please." And a migraine that's been developing behind his eyes since they'd started.

The worst part is that every single time he has to turn to his dad, and see his hopeful pride turn into thinly-veiled disappointment every time he says, "No."

Jaune can feel the steady pounding against his temple getting even worse and hear the sigh of his dad as he tries to comfort him, "It's okay son, just try another one. You'll find one that works."

Something snaps inside him then, because he needs to help people. Has been raised on tales of his ancestors heroics for bedtime stories and in history lessons, and this is all he wants to do. The only thing he might actually be good at, and he isn't going to fail before they've even started.

Grabbing an axe Jaune hurls it at the pile of weaponry, "Dammit!" The sound it makes as it sends weapons clanging to the floor is more satisfying than it has any right to be.

The silence that follows is deafening, with him not daring to move, to breathe. There's blood roaring loudly in his ears, slowly fading back into a dull aching throb, and all he wants is to take it back, do anything to stop the questions that he's sure are coming.

Elias doesn't say anything, just quietly stares at his son's back.

Somehow that makes Jaune feel even worse. His head tilts down in shame, and it's then that he spies the sword at the bottom of the pile, set in a polished white sheath with a hilt wrapped in dark blue cloth. There's a gold crescent moon on the sheath that looks oddly familiar and he picks it up to get a closer look. It's not like he can do anything worse.

The moment he touches it a chill runs down his spine, and there's something suddenly nudging in the back of his head that whispers, You should remember this, why don't you remember? Draw the blade Draw the blade Drawtheblade. It's faint, just barely on the edge of his consciousness but oh so tempting. So he does, sliding it from the sheath carefully and when it's free he examines the blade, contrary to his expectations it's pristine with no visible marks on it anywhere.

There's a faint numbing buzz against his fingertips and Jaune has the strangest feeling that the sword itself is...excited. Then something nudges again and he remembers, "Crocea Mors."

His dad has been worryingly silent the entire time and Jaune turns back to find him just staring, he shuffles guiltily at the intensity of his gaze. Holding up the sword Jaune breaks the silence, "This one."

His dad's stare goes up several notches in intensity from those two words alone, clearing his throat he speaks, "Are you sure?" His expression is oddly mysterious under the dim light of the attic.

Something nudges at the back of his head again and without even thinking he answers, "Yeah." There's another nudge, at his neck this time, and a rush of warmth that soothes his pounding temple tells him that was the right thing to say.

His dad only looks at him and Jaune can't help that feel he's done something even worse. His expression hasn't changed in the slightest, but there's something in his stance, a sudden downward slump of his shoulders and the way one leg is leaned slightly over the other that makes him uneasy. Jaune opens his mouth to ask if his dad is okay, but Elias speaks first, "Ok." and that's all he says before trudging back down the ladder.

Jaune moves to follow, but something makes him stop and turn back to the room.

Something's weird, because attics are supposed to hold antiques or photo albums and stuff like that right? And they are here, set in little nooks and crannies throughout the room; but why are there so many weapons? Where did they come from? And who the hell did they belong to before being stored here? There are more weapons in this attic than people in his immediate family tree so clearly his family got them from somewhere.

Realization sets in and he shudders. "Oh."

Death isn't exactly a foreign concept to him. When your entire family from your dad to your sisters are hunters it's hard not to have at least an idea.

When Jean had first started out as a huntress at 15 one of her missions had gone bad, according to her the client they were supposed to meet up with had been part of the bandits they were being "hired" to arrest. Jaune doesn't really know the rest of the details, and he sure as shit isn't going to ask for them. But what he does know is that when Jean had come home she was...different. More solemn and less talkative, hell for a couple months she hadn't taken any jobs, just stayed home and played with Jane.

Until a few months later she'd just suddenly started taking jobs again, although she doesn't take jobs where you have to meet up with the client anymore. "Too messy." She had explained with a sneer on her face and a strangely emotionless look in her eye, "Besides I don't want to accidentally piss em' off, I'd get paid less, so it's a win-win for me."

There's a part of him he doesn't like to acknowledge that knows what happened, that remembers the night when he had gone to get a glass of water and found Jean crying in the kitchen, her head bent over something and her shoulders trembling from the effort of muffling her sobs. And a bathroom smelling of bleach, with light crimson stains running down the sinks.

He knows that at some point he'll have to kill too, and that's the worst part. It isn't a "maybe" or a "possibly"; it's sheer inevitable fact. That if a hunter lives long enough they will kill someone.

How many people have died under the blade clasped in his hand? Was it even worth counting in the first place? Or was it better for hunters to just not think about that, to bury it deep under layers of vice and violence until they honestly don't care anymore?

In the low light of the attic he whispers, "How many people have died under this sword?"

For a moment he feels vaguely ridiculous talking to a sword of all things, it isn't exactly like it can talk back. Even if what happened before wasn't just his imagination, a vague nudge in the back of his head isn't exactly a good way to convey numbers.

I don't know. Comes the answer and he nearly drops it in surprise. It's barely above a whisper in his mind, feather-light and muffled like when somebody shouts from another room, but it's there. Another nudge this time, just slightly firmer and a feeling like fingers on his cheek, I'm sorry.

It isn't lying. There's remorse in the metal vibrating against his fingertips and a sharp tang of what feels like regret gathering at the back of his throat. Being able to understand that is probably the most disturbing part.

The sword tumbles through his hands with a clang, and he clambers back down the ladder, at least until he face-plants on the landing. He kicks the ladder up with his foot and the attic door swings closed with a 'bang!'

He practically sprints back to the kitchen. Only stopping when his older sister Jean has him by the arm with the other one roughly held behind his back.

"Nope!" She says, brushing freshly wet hair out of her eyes. "You're not getting out of this that easily Jauney! You're training with me today, doesn't that sound great!"

Through gritted teeth "Fuck this hurts" he manages to say, "But I don't even have a weapon." And he has to smile because she can't really argue with that.

At least until she pulls him arm further behind his back, "Did you concuss yourself again Jauney?" He can hear the smirk in her voice, "If you don't have a weapon, then what's this sword doing on the floor?" He hears the dull scraping of metal against wood as she slides it into his line of vision, all he can do is stare. "I left it upstairs, I know I did." It just doesn't make sense.

His thoughts are broken by his sister dragging him towards the back door. Shoulder-checking it open and shoving him down the stairs onto the still wet grass.

Jaune scrambles to his feet facing Jean his mouth open to say something...Until Jean clamps a hand over his mouth, "Nope!" She repeats, "You're training with me and that's that." She reaches into her jeans pocket and pulls out...something?

Jaune can feel the blood drain from his face as Jean wraps her knuckles in boxing tape.

'I am so screwed'

Biting off the end she pulls it tight and gives Jaune a grin that in no way eases his fear. Placing a hand on his head she twists, and Jaune is suddenly staring at the tree line behind their house.

"I'll give you a minute head start, but after that I'm coming after you." Jaune can just hear the vicious grin on her face. "At least put up a fight will ya, don't make this too easy."

With that she shoves hard on his back and Jaune is sent sprawling. Crocea Mors lands hard against his leg a moment after, "Oops almost forgot about that!" Jean says and she sounds just so happy about it, like she's won a prize or something, and he is so so screwed.

"59, 58, 57, You should be running!" She sing-songs at him.

He stumbles to his feet, narrowly avoids falling again "Damn rocks!" and starts sprinting off towards the treeline.

Jean mock-wipes tears off her cheek. "Aww, they grow up so fast."

Re-edited: November 28th 2015