RWBY: LUCID

Jaune stared at the front door.

It stared back at him.

Or maybe it just felt like it did. Like something beyond it had eyes, watching him and waiting for him to move.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

"Okay," he muttered, tapping the bat lightly against the ground. "Okay. Staying in here isn't helping. The trap's ready, the monster isn't coming… so what, just sit here forever?"

Silence answered him.

Red moonlight filtered through the filmy windows, painting long shadows across the warped floorboards. Outside, the air looked almost sickeningly thick and old, like breath in a cold room, unmoving.

"I'll have to somehow find it and... lure it into the house."

Jaune stepped closer to the door, heart thudding.

Then he stopped.

"No. That's a stupid idea. If I go out there like this…"

He looked down at himself. Barefoot and still in his sleepwear. It was a shame that the shoes near the entrance of the house, although there were some, looked old and worn, ripped open and destroyed. Practically unwearable.

His weapon seemed to hang heavier in his grip. It might have been old and rusted, but it was still the best weapon he had.

"If I get caught outside—if something rushes me—I'm dead."

He ran a hand through his hair and turned away, pacing slowly as he thought.

"I can't rely on brute force. That last kill was a miracle, and I'm not dumb enough to think I can repeat that performance and win. That thing was faster than me, stronger and probably has better senses, too."

Jaune didn't forget how it seemed to see him from his bedroom window. The one that was too grimy and dirty with some type of dusty substance that made seeing outside into the street, practically impossible.

He tapped the bat against his foot, then against the wall.

"No… if I'm going to be outside, I need a fallback plan. Something I can retreat to."

He looked back toward the couch barricade.

The trap he'd set was still there was positioned perfectly to trip the Beowolf if it lunged through the front door.

Almost perfectly...

Probably.

At least it was… something. Something that gave him hope.

"I can't move that," Jaune muttered. "If I end up getting chased, I'll need both the door and the couch in position. It's the only real ambush spot I've got."

Which meant…

His eyes flicked to the side.

The front window, half-broken and outlined by jagged glass that clung to its edges, like teeth waiting to bite.

It wasn't ideal.

But it was passable.

Jaune approached it slowly. The outside beyond was hazy and quiet, the streets beyond a mess of cracked pavement and flickering shadows.

He raised the bat and gave the edge of the frame a test tap. The glass rattled—some cracked further. One chunk even fell free and clattered to the floor.

"Just don't slice yourself open," he muttered to himself, wincing as he angled the bat and swept it across the top edge to clear away the shards..

One, two, three scrapes—until only bare, rotted frame remained. Jagged in places, but nothing too deadly.

Jaune reached out and pressed a hand to the sill. It groaned under his weight but held.

"This is dumb," he said aloud. "But everything here is dumb. So I guess I'm just playing by the rules now."

With a careful step, he hoisted himself up and through the broken frame, legs stretching out over the ruined exterior.

A sharp breeze cut through him immediately—cold, dry, and utterly still.

His feet hit cracked concrete with a soft crunch.

Jaune crouched for a second, every nerve on high alert, eyes darting to every alley and shadow. His breath fogged in the cold air, visible despite the unnatural heat that seemed to radiate from the sky.

The silence was oppressive.

Not a bird. Not a breeze. Not a whisper of life.

He took one step forward.

Then another.

The red moon loomed above him, broken and bleeding, casting sickly light across his neighborhood—a place he barely recognized anymore.

The streets were warped. Pavement curled in odd places like something had clawed it from below. Street signs were rusted and bent sideways. Cars sat motionless, their tires flattened and glass spiderwebbed, like corpses long forgotten.

Jaune turned slowly in a circle, eyes scanning for any movement.

Nothing.

No Beowolf, snarls, or red eyes in the dark.

"…Where are you?" he whispered.

He gripped the bat tighter.

If he was going to be outside, then it meant hunting the hunter.

But if he found it… he'd better be ready to run back to the trap.

He started creeping slowly through the ruined neighborhood, bat held loose at his side crouching behind obstacles and peeking around cautiously to make sure nothing was around. His senses sharpened with each step. The air felt heavy here—pressurized, like it was weighing on his chest with every breath.

He passed rusted husks of cars, their exteriors eaten away by time and rot. Windshields were cracked like spiderwebs frozen in glass, and doors hung half-open, revealing gutted interiors coated in filth and grime. Some were tilted on deflated tires; others looked like they'd been left mid-exit, as if their owners had vanished mid-drive.

There were no birds, insects or even a distant city hum.

There was only silence.

A kind of silence that screamed.

Jaune crossed the sidewalk. It had buckled inward, forcing him to step over a jagged fracture in the pavement. His eyes scanned the rows of homes—each one dark, quiet, and frozen in some slow-motion decay. Mailboxes leaned like drunks. Windows were clouded or shattered. The roofs sagged.

And yet… something gnawed at his thoughts.

Something was...off.

It hit him after a few more minutes of walking, his boots crunching softly on grit and loose debris.

There weren't any plants.

He stopped in the middle of the street and looked around, frowning.

There should have been weeds pushing through the cracks in the pavement. Moss on the stone. Vines curling up the side of houses like greedy hands.

But there was nothing.

Even the small trees and bushed planted along the sidewalk—probably by some community board long ago—were bare skeletons now. No bark. No leaves. No green.

Just brittle limbs, splintered and ash-colored, clawing at the red-tinted sky.

"This… this isn't just abandonment," Jaune muttered.

He took a few steps closer to one of the dead trees. He reached out and poked it with the tip of his bat.

It cracked at the contact and crumbled, falling away like sand beneath pressure.

"Nature's supposed to take over," he said quietly, eyes narrowing. "That's what always happens, right? When people leave... nature reclaims."

It was a comforting truth. One he'd seen in documentaries, in old survival movies, in textbooks. Weeds growing through asphalt. Trees splitting apart buildings.

Life always pushed forward, no matter what.

But here, there was no green.

Only gray.

A thought crept into his mind—unwelcome and cold.

'It's not just decay. It's like a form of sterilization.'

This place, this nightmare realm, wasn't simply abandoned. It was hollowed out. Life hadn't fled—it had been erased, possibly even uprooted at the core.

The world around him didn't feel like it was waiting to be reclaimed.

It felt like it was done.

"…This whole place is broken," Jaune whispered. "Like a mirror with no reflection."

It mirrored his world—his home—but twisted. Empty. Mocking.

There was no warmth. No birds. No green.

And suddenly, even the silence around him didn't just feel empty, anymore, it felt oppressive. The way a body feels wrong when it's missing a soul.

Hollow.

Jaune gripped the bat tighter.

Something told him this realm didn't just lack life.

It hated it.

He pushed those thoughts out of his mind and kept moving forwards, making sure he didn't stray too far.

Every few feet, he glanced back to ensure his house was still close by. The idea of losing his fallback point—the only "safe" zone he had—made his skin itch. He moved carefully, keeping low and quiet, eyes darting from building to building, watching for motion.

A gust of wind passed through the dead street, carrying with it a faint, rhythmic noise.

Clop. Clop. Clop.

He froze.

"What the hell—" he whispered, head snapping to the side.

It was faint, but unmistakable. The slow, deliberate strike of hooves on asphalt. Not fast or hurried but it was a heavy solid sound. As if something large was calmly striding across the pavement, entirely unbothered by the silence of the dead world.

Jaune ducked behind the nearest rusted-out car, crouching low. His bat pressed tightly to his chest, heartbeat surging in his ears.

'Is it the beowolf? Has it finally shown up?'

At the far end of the street, past broken light poles and shattered signs, something stepped into view.

It wasn't the beowolf.

Not even close.

The creature was low to the ground, squat and wide, but massive—easily the size of a small car. Its form resembled a wild boar, but twisted into a thing of nightmares. Its hide looked like it had been poured from shadow—deep, undulating black and broken only by streaks of dark crimson running down its spine. Sharp bone-like spurs jutted out of its shoulders and back, each one curved like crude scythe blades.

Its head was covered in a jagged, cracked bone mask, with tusks that curled outward like twin meat hooks. From within the hollow mask, two burning, ember-red eyes glowed dimly. Like coals plucked from a dying fire and shoved into a skull.

The thing snorted, a puff of black mist curling from its nostrils, and kept walking.

Jaune stared, breath locked in his chest.

'What in the ever-loving hell… is that?!'

He'd barely had time to come to terms with the Beowolf from last night. And now this?

The boar-beast's back was to him, its heavy hooves thudding gently against the broken pavement as it wandered toward the intersection. Slowly. Purposefully. Jaune remained crouched, unmoving.

'Okay... maybe if I just... stay quiet, it'll—'

SKRAAAAHHHHHHRRRKKK!

The sound it made was not a pig's squeal.

It was a deep, rattling, almost insectoid-like screech—like rusted iron being torn open under pressure. Like a war-horn blown from the throat of a corpse.

Its head snapped in his direction. Those burning coals of eyes met his across the distance.

"Ah... crap," Jaune breathed.

The beast charged.

Its hooves pounded against the street like a war drum. Bone spurs scraped against nearby wreckage as it moved like a battering ram, zeroing in on his position.

Jaune didn't think. He bolted.

No hesitation or pause.

He shot up from behind the car like it had been electrified, feet hammering the pavement.

Behind him, the monster's screech echoed again, closer, louder.

Crash!

The creature battered aside the car he had hidden behind with its tusks and kept chasing after him with hell in its eyes.

"WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME?!" Jaune shouted mid-sprint, adrenaline pouring through his veins. "WHY IS THE DAMNED PIG MAD AT ME?!"

He ran like he owed that thing money. 

Perhaps this was his punishment for enjoying bacon in the morning.

The porch came into view, then the door. He didn't check to see if it was following—he didn't need to.

He heard the damned thing.

The world became wind and motion and terror.

And Jaune dived through the window like an Olympic swimmer into a pool.