RWBY: LUCID

The gym was a lot bigger inside than Jaune expected.

Vaulted ceilings loomed overhead, polished hardwood stretched beneath his sneakers like a basketball court out of a dream, and metal bleachers lined the walls in stacked rows like silent spectators. The air had that familiar cocktail of floor polish, gym mats, and the ever-present ghost of teenage sweat and desperation.

"All first-years, huh?" Jaune muttered, hitching his bag up higher.

"Apparently it's easier to manage us all at once," Ren said, eyeing the incoming crowd of students. "Though it does get pretty chaotic."

Jaune grunted. "Sounds like a great place to get clocked in the face with a ball."

The two of them peeled off toward the locker rooms.

Inside, the echo of bare feet on tile mixed with the clatter of locker doors. Jaune found an empty cubby and changed quickly into the school's gym gear—white tee, Beacon's logo at the collar, and black shorts. Basic. Functional. A little too breathable for his comfort.

He turned—and promptly did a double take.

Ren was already dressed, pulling the drawstring on his shorts.

And damn.

Ren wasn't huge or bulky—he didn't look like he bench-pressed cars for fun—but his build was compact, refined. Shoulders squared, chest lean and firm, his whole body looked like it had been cut out of stone by someone with taste. Like a martial artist from one of those foreign films—deceptively normal in clothes, but carved underneath.

"Dude," Jaune said before his filter could catch up, "you're freaking jacked."

Ren raised an eyebrow, amused. "I practice martial arts. It helps me focus."

"No kidding. What style?"

"Kung Fu, mostly. Some Karate. My family has a tradition."

Jaune blinked. "Traditional? Like, forms and belts and wax-on-wax-off stuff?"

Ren chuckled. "It's less about belts, more about rhythm. Structure. Discipline."

"Huh." Jaune pulled on his shirt and nodded thoughtfully. "I was thinking boxing, but now I'm wondering if Kung Fu is how you get those abs. Not that I'd know—I trip over my own foot if I try anything fancy."

"You'd do fine. Boxing's good for movement. It teaches control."

"Yeah?" Jaune raised an eyebrow. "You sure? My coordination's about one step up from a confused squirrel."

Ren smirked. "You've got a decent center of gravity." He tapped Jaune's lower back before heading toward the exit. "That helps more than you think."

They stepped out, dressed and ready, and made their way to the main court.

The gym was alive now—filled with students stretching, chatting and flinging balls at one another, or just trying not to fall asleep standing. The air buzzed with nervous energy and mild chaos but then the teachers began organizing groups.

A second later, the girls arrived and Jaune's brain momentarily shut down.

First came Nora, bounding into the gym like a pink-haired missile. Her gym shirt clung to her upper body just enough to show definition, and her shorts framed thighs that looked like they could supplex a lion. There was no fat on her legs—just lean, tightly-packed power. She had that cartoonish energy about her, like a sugar-powered hurricane—but her body? Pure athlete. If dynamite had a form, it would look like Nora Valkyrie.

Then Ruby stepped out beside her, hair tied back in a bouncing ponytail. She wasn't quite as explosive as Nora, but there was a grace to her movement—a bounce in her step that said 'sprinter' more than 'slugger.' Her frame was lithe, but her legs were corded with lean muscle. Smooth, strong, and undeniably attractive in that "accidentally dangerous" kind of way.

She caught his eye and gave a cheerful wave. "Hey, Jaune!"

"H-hey," he coughed, pretending to fix his sleeve and not die inside.

And then came Yang.

Oh. Oh no.

Jaune wasn't sure what he expected, but this wasn't it.

Yang walked in like she owned the gym—and maybe she did. Her top hugged her frame in a way that made it clear she didn't just work out, she probably enjoyed it. Her figure was a perfect blend of muscle and curve—arms sculpted, waist cinched, hips flaring just enough to be unfair. Her legs were carved and confident, shorts riding up just the right amount to leave his brain short-circuiting.

It was like someone genetically engineered sex on legs and gave her golden hair and a cocky smile.

Jaune looked away so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

Not because he wasn't interested—but because if he looked any longer, someone might notice the massive blush on his face.

He busied himself tying his shoe. "Okay. Focus. No distractions. Just exercise and not dying. Preferably in that order."

"You're already sweating," Ren said dryly beside him, clearly enjoying the show.

Jaune gave him a flat look. "Shut up."

The noise in the gym spiked as instructors began barking out names. Balls were tossed, students shuffled around, and teams were randomly split up like some cruel lottery.

Jaune stuck with his little group for a while—Ren, Ruby, Yang, and Nora—but chaos did its thing, and eventually they were scattered.

He ended up near the far sideline, awkwardly rolling a dodgeball in his hands, watching as Ren got paired with Sky again—who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else—and Nora grinned like she was already planning his immediate and painful destruction.

Jaune scanned the room again.

And there she was.

Pyrrha Nikos.

Standing beside Weiss like a painting come to life. Her posture was perfect—back straight, arms relaxed behind her—but what really got him was how effortlessly gorgeous she looked. Her shirt hugged her frame just enough to hint at her body, revealing a waist that narrowed with precision and a pair of powerful, graceful legs beneath her shorts. Her body wasn't just fit—it was art. Not bulky, not thin. She was strong, defined and undeniably beautiful.

She didn't move like someone who simply exercised. She moved like someone who trained—with intent, every day, for years.

And yet… there was something distant in her face. Even from here, Jaune noticed it—the way her smile didn't quite reach her eyes as she talked to Weiss. It was polite and practiced. Pretty, but plastic. Something about it felt…off.

He wondered what their deal was.

Weiss, on the other hand, looked like she'd walked out of an ad for upscale athletic wear. Her limbs were long and graceful, and when she stretched her arms overhead, the hem of her shirt lifted just enough to expose her stomach—smooth, pale, and toned with the kind of careful effort only someone extremely Type-A could maintain. She wasn't bulky, but she didn't need to be. Everything about her was refined, focused and certainly calculated. Like a ballet dancer that could also give you a mean right-hook.

And then… there was Blake.

She stood off to the side, arms crossed beneath her chest, half-turned from the group of students like she didn't want attention—despite the fact that she definitely had it.

Her gym shirt fit her perfectly. Not tight or loose, but just enough to show the gentle taper of her waist and the swell of her bust without trying. Her hips were curved and confident, legs slightly parted in a stance that screamed quiet readiness. She looked dangerous in a way that made his brain stutter.

And her rear... it was quite curvy—

Jaune caught himself staring and quickly snapped his head forward again.

'Nope. Not today, hormones.'

She noticed him too, of course and gave him a little nod. Not a smirk or a smile. Just quiet acknowledgment.

Jaune cleared his throat and refocused.

Pyrrha waved at him then, briefly, before turning back to Weiss. That strange, strained smile vanished for just a heartbeat but then it was back.

Weiss didn't even look his way.

But Blake? Blake met his gaze for a half-second longer.

That was something.

He sighed, looked down at the dodgeball in his hands, and braced himself.

"Alright," he muttered. "Let's try not to get smacked in the face this time."

And just like that, the whistle blew.

The game began.