RWBY: LUCID

The hum of the bullet train lulled Jaune into a rare moment of quiet.

Outside the window, the world raced by in streaks of gold and blue, the late-evening sun bouncing off buildings and treetops alike. Beacon's campus had disappeared behind him nearly ten minutes ago, swallowed by the curve of the city rail line. Now, Jaune sat tucked into a corner seat, head leaning lightly against the glass, earbuds in with music playing.

Today had been productive.

Maybe even successful.

He'd trained and he'd improved. Grise had even complimented him—and not in that generic "good effort, buddy" kind of way, but with something that felt nice and earned. That alone was enough to keep a small ember of pride burning in his chest, however faint it was. Swordplay had always been one of those distant dreams he admired more than pursued. But today he felt like he was getting closer to that distant dream.

The other half of his day had been far less... grounded.

The Occult Research Society—Room 319—was quickly becoming something of a personal soap opera, complete with robed maniacs, and volunteer sacrifices. He still wasn't sure what kind of academic oversight allowed that club to exist, but apparently, at Beacon, eccentricity was part of the culture.

Or perhaps they were unaware?

Still, they were now looking into something important for him: runes. Magical ones, at that.

Even if the whole thing felt more like a LARP group who'd read too much Lovecraft, Mocha Fiore had seemed genuinely enthusiastic about researching the symbols Jaune had described. Enthusiastic enough to promise results by tomorrow. And if not... well, he suppose it didn't really matter. He'd already done his own digging and came up short, so he wasn't expecting much.

The train hissed to a gentle stop at his station. Jaune stepped off and made his way out onto the platform, the evening air cooler than it had been earlier in the day. The walk home was only about ten minutes, past a few rows of townhouses and a local bakery just closing up shop, near the station. A few cyclists passed him on the path, and one kid zoomed by on a skateboard while blaring loud music from a speaker clipped to their bag.

Jaune rubbed his eyes and trudged on to his house.

His dad wasn't home, which wasn't surprising. He'd mentioned heading into Vale proper to help get Jade moved into her dorm at the university.

'So, a quiet house to myself, today. Nice.'

Inside, the stillness was immediate and peaceful. Jaune set his bag down by the door and swapped his shoes for house slippers, then headed upstairs to change. He slipped into a loose white t-shirt and joggers, then padded back down to the living room, where the evening light filtered in through the curtains and cast soft shadows across the couch.

He grabbed the notebook Mocha had loaned him—the "grimoire," she'd called it, with no sense of irony—and sat down with it.

It was thicker than it looked, the black cover stiff and rough to the touch. There were odd little doodles on the back in silver pen—moons, triangles, a weird goat with wings—and Jaune did his best to ignore them.

He opened to the first page, flipping past the bizarrely friendly warning that read:

"For the record: if you awaken a spirit, please befriend it. Hostility will not be tolerated. XOXO – Mocha."

Jaune rolled his eyes and moved on.

The pages inside were dense. Runes of every shape and origin filled the book, most of them hand-drawn alongside little annotations in messy cursive. Some looked like Norse runes, with sharp edges and geometric symmetry. Others were far older and wilder—chaotic lines that twisted in impossible geometry or spiraled like living things.

Jaune leaned forward and started searching.

What he was looking for was specific. In the dream realm, he had seen five distinct runes so far. The first three belonged to Raymond—inlaid onto the man's wristband, glowing with ethereal energy when activated. One had healed Jaune's wounds, one had summoned a barrier, and the third had pulsed Raymond with strength, enhancing his body's ability, which had allowed him to launch Jaune a fair distance away.

The other two came from the masked man—his enemy. One was metallic, almost technological in appearance. That rune had transformed the masked man's spear into some kind of cannon, capable of launching devastating bullets that were the size of Jaune's entire torso.

And the last rune.

It was… different. Weird.

It had pulsed with a sickly red hue and had appeared floating in the air—just after Jaune had tried to exit the dream realm. That one had blocked him. Trapped him. It wasn't like the others. There was a wrongness to it, somehow that was simply hard to put into words.

Jaune shivered at the memory.

He flipped through the notebook slowly now, scanning every page, studying the symbols Mocha had drawn or pasted in. Occasionally, there were scribbled notes beside the runes:

"Possible summoning sigil? See correspondence from Marilyn in Vacuo."

"Likely nonsense—this one showed up in a mobile game."

"Luck-based symbol? Tied to fortune states? Investigate further."

He turned a page and saw another rune. This one was a pasted picture. It was a very artistic looking rune. Had many squiggly line and shapes. In fact, it couldn't even be called a rune. More like a magic circle that had many runes in it.

The note beside it explained, "Symbolic Dreams." There was nothing else added beside it.

That one made him pause.

Dream-based symbol?

Jaune quickly bookmarked the page with a receipt he pulled from his pocket.

He kept going.

One looked relatively similar to the barrier rune that he had seen, jagged but enclosed, like a distorted mountain range encased in a circle. Quite similar, actually. But just slightly different enough to not be.

In any case, there was no sign of the metallic rune yet, or even that final, corrupted rune. He supposed he should be grateful. It meant that this wasn't exactly common knowledge.

The last few pages were dense with diagrams and odd scribbles, as if someone had copied them down while half-asleep or possessed. He carefully skipped the final page—the page—and closed the book with a sigh.

'No real answers yet,' he thought. 'But maybe Mocha will find something tomorrow.'

Jaune leaned back on the couch, notebook in his lap, the weight of the day finally settling into his shoulders. He'd trained. He'd researched. He'd joined two clubs, technically. Or one and a half?

In any case, he was moving forward.

Step by step.

Eventually, he stood, stretched, and left the notebook on the coffee table in front of the couch. Jaune figured that he'd study it more thoroughly after dinner—maybe draw inferences from the internet and cross reference some of the runes from memory to compare tomorrow.

But for now?

He needed food.

The kitchen was quiet, save for the gentle clink of utensils and the low hum of the oven preheating. Jaune stood at the counter, hands deftly working through the steps of his latest dinner experiment.

His dad had once joked—loudly and repeatedly—that Jaune's cooking could double as self-defense and that it was the only known cause of spontaneous kitchen fires that even insurance wouldn't cover.

But he really wasn't bad. Not amazing, maybe, but he could hold his own. Especially when it came to baked food.

Tonight, his star dish was a baked salmon filet, marinated to perfection.

He'd started the prep as soon as he got home. First, he laid out two generous pieces of salmon onto a tray lined with parchment paper. He mixed his marinade in a glass bowl—freshly squeezed lemon juice, crushed garlic, a pinch of salt, a dash of soy sauce for depth, and a healthy swirl of chili paste to add that spicy kick. He tossed in a bit of olive oil and a sprinkle of cracked pepper before adding a spoonful of honey for balance.

Then came the secret weapon: thin slices of lemon and red chili pepper laid directly across the fish, forming a layer of tangy firepower.

He let it sit for twenty minutes to soak while he prepped the sides.

In the meantime, he heated a pan and threw in a mix of vegetables—bell peppers, broccoli, snow peas, and a bit of julienned carrot. Nothing fancy, just a stir-fry with a splash of sesame oil, soy sauce, and a touch of ginger powder. The kind of thing his dad called "adequate," which was basically praise coming from him.

Next, rice. A pot of jasmine rice was boiling gently on the stove, filling the kitchen with a clean, fragrant aroma that calmed Jaune more than he cared to admit. Something about cooking reminded him of his mom. Maybe that's why he didn't mind doing it.

Once the salmon had soaked up its spicy-lemony bath, he slid the tray into the oven and set the timer. Twenty minutes at 400°F.

By the time everything was ready—rice fluffed, stir-fry steaming, and the salmon glistening like it had just been brushed with molten gold—it was already a little past 7:00 p.m. The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the floor.

And right on cue, Jaune heard the jingle of keys and the front door swinging open.

"Oh wayward son of mine, I'm back!"

Jaune peeked out from the kitchen. "Hey, Dad! Jade's all settled in?"

"Yep," his dad nodded, stepping in and closing the door behind him. "She's officially moved in. Already acting like she's lived there for a year. Didn't even look back when I said goodbye."

"Sounds like Jade," Jaune chuckled, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

"What's that smell?" his dad asked, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. "Is that... food? Actual, edible food?"

"It's baked salmon," Jaune said proudly. "With chili, lemon, and garlic. Stir-fried vegetables. Rice on the side."

His dad looked genuinely impressed. "Wow. You've really stepped up your game. This smells great!"

"Haha, very funny."

His dad only smiled and shrugged in response.

Jaune shook his head in exasperation and turned back to the stove to start plating.

Meanwhile, his dad wandered into the living room, unbuttoning his jacket and tossing it on the coat rack. He moved to the couch to sit down, but paused when he spotted something sitting on the coffee table.

It was the notebook.

The black-covered, rune-filled, "possibly haunted but definitely cursed" notebook Mocha had given Jaune earlier that day.

Naturally curious, his dad picked it up and flipped it open.

Inside, he was greeted by pages and pages of scribbled symbols, amateur illustrations, and runes that looked like something out of a fantasy novel. Some were neat and geometric, others chaotic and creepy. He skimmed a few pages, arching a brow, muttering a low "huh."

Then, as fate would have it, he flipped to the last page.

Jaune, oblivious in the kitchen, was humming to himself as he plated the salmon, proud of the way the lemon slices had caramelized just slightly on the edges.

From the living room came his dad's suspiciously calm voice:

"Hey Jaune, what's this notebook about?"

Jaune called back casually, "Oh, it's something a friend gave me. Just helping me learn some stuff."

There was a pause.

A pause filled with suspicion.

Then came the next line—delivered with the perfect mix of confusion and dry amusement:

"Learning some stuff, huh? So… why is there a picture of a... naked anthropomorphic fox-thing on the last page?"

Jaune froze.