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I am now, thanks to Supporters as listed above, stable and safe and working regularly on Fanfictions and an original, private project called Re:Programmed. Details will be starting to come out within the next couple of months once I find an adequate animator.

I couldn't do any of this without you wonderful people's support, of every variety. Thanks to all you guys~!

And with that budget I will no longer be working like a slave, yas.

*hears whip cracking*

*whimpers*

And onto tonight's wonderful tale…~Voltegeist

Ignore him, I haven't given him a sock yet ~ Twisted

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No one tell him, but Alvelvnor has a fic out now, and it's his first one. So everyone head over there to his profile, of the same name, and give him so tips and tricks, eh? He needs some work, but we all do when we start, and I know we can get him running nice and proper in no time.

Side note, I suck at maths, so don't expect much actual math work in any chapters. It will be alluded to, rather than worked out properly. Apologies.

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To be a Huntsman or a Huntress, one needed a great many things to align for them. Almost enough that each Huntsman and Huntress was in and of themselves nearly miraculous. Perfect health, that met a Semblance that could be somehow used to do the duties of a Hunter, with enough Aura that a person could withstand long bouts of combat, and enough money to afford to train and equip themselves well enough for the task.

The last option was less important than the first, because a strong enough or well-trained enough Hunter could theoretically make enough Lien to equip themselves as they went. Odd jobs, competitive events, even licensing their likeness to something as inane as cereal boxes to see themselves outfitted better or to their liking. For some, that could mean a mecha-shifting weapon with three forms, while for others it could be a compacting gatling cannon, or on the simpler side, a halberd or a pair of daggers.

For Jaune, he had lacked every single one of the qualifiers save for the last, his familial wealth. Wealth that had been utterly helpless for years of his life in every way but one singular and vital way.

Keeping him alive.

The Arc family wealth meant that it was diagnosed early and accurately, and then treated by renowned physicians using advanced research.

The Arc family wealth meant that until he was four, the machines and treatments that kept him breathing were able to stall his death. Until, of course, a more permanent solution was found that could permanently treat his condition.

The Arc family wealth meant that as he grew, finally able to live as normal a childhood as he could hope, physicians, therapists and even bodyguards could be hired to protect him, watch him, and gently coax his body into moving and quite simply being of its own accord. Something that was terribly dangerous for him with his condition.

The condition itself was as simple as it was complex, his father explained to him when he turned ten and asked, and yes they were both aware of how absolutely asinine that sounded when the older Arc had said it.

The problem was his heart, ever-so-slightly smaller than normal and weaker as a direct result. It took incredible physical therapy to make him able to even be able to walk properly for the longest time. If he pushed himself even to walk too much, or too fast, when he was little then his heart would overwork and seize up, almost like a miniature heart attack, and he would collapse in a sweating, gasping mess.

"That," his father had continued, Jaune sitting on his lap and staring at his small hands in one of his father's own massive, calloused paws, "is why you can't train with the girls. Being a Huntsman is just… Too physically taxing, Jaune. Any and every fight would have your heart seizing."

"But I want to help people…" Jaune whined, leaning against his barrel of a father's chest, vision obscured by a beard as long as Jaune was tall, half his vision obscured while he watched from their spot in a swing on the thin stone porch, his sisters drilling with swords and spears excitedly while their brother and father watched on from the swing that his father had set up. "I want to protect them, Daddy."

"I know, Son, I know…" His father sounded sad, sighing a long deep breath while his massive thumb massaged small circles into Jaune's palm. After a second, Jaune's father suddenly chuckled, as though he'd heard a joke, and Jaune sat up to look at his smile, and his twinkling blue eyes under his bushy mane and brows. "Jaune, you want to protect people. Right? And how you do it, that doesn't matter?"

"Yes, I want to." He nodded eagerly, smiling as brightly as the stocky, smiling man did.

"Good… Good!" He stood, lifting Jaune up and then setting him aside, stepping off the porch and heading around the manor as he did. Ansel spread out from their home on the hill, and Jaune saw the walls far down the streets, distracted for a moment until his father called out from a few yards away, "Come on, boy. I have an idea, and want to show it to you. See if you like it."

Jaune followed his father, the large man slowing his steps so the young blonde could keep up without hurting himself. His father lead him inside, through halls and then into the Arc Family armory, and Jaune couldn't help the excitement he felt. Rows of shining armors and weapons of every variety and advancement stretched out in front of wide, blue eyes, and his father finally spoke.

"Jaune," his father said quietly, almost reverent as he looked at the weapons and armor, "the best way someone who can't fight has to protect others isn't a question with a right answer. You could try and be a doctor, but… I think you'll want your hands more directly involved than stitching people up after the fact."

"You," he continued, turning halfway and resting a hand on his hip, smiling brightly once again, "You, Jaune, are going to learn how to make everything a Hunter could need. Weapons, armor, ammunition… Everything."

"And that will protect people?" He asked, voice quiet to match his father's own reverence.

"What you create, if you commit, will save lives and kill Grimm across Remnant, from Vacuo to Mistral." His father promised, raising a hand and wagging a finger at him, "But you had better understand how hard this will be, Jaune."

"I do!" Jaune promised, "I'll do whatever I need to, Daddy. I promise you."

"An Arc never breaks his word." His father nodded, Jaune returning the gesture understandingly. That was the Arc family's belief, than an Arc always kept his word if he could, and Jaune respected it. Nodding, his father reached out for a sword in its sheath on the wall, holding it out for his son, "This, Jaune, is Crocea Mors. It is now yours, but you are not to train to fight with it."

"I want you to learn how it works, and make one just like it."

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Crocea Mors, he found out over the next three years, was a complicated beast, yet simple in design and effect.

Poetic, really, given how his father had describe his crippling illness as just that. It may even have been on purpose, Jaune knew. A message from his father, that Jaune could overcome something like this. Something simple in design and function both, and even in form, but something that was complicated in how it worked. The mechanisms, like his illness inside what looked like nothing more than a slightly thin child, hidden below the surface of what people could see and causing all sorts of problems for him.

His father never once stepped forward to offer him anything, which had frustrated Jaune for the first few weeks. Until he saw his sisters come to the man to ask for things to help them train, and he'd done the same.

The tutors had come a week after that, and so his education in all things technological and mechanical began. And so, too, did he find his greatest nemesis in all the world. The one thing that hindered him to an extreme as to be, to him, as evil as any Grimm could ever strive to be.

Math.

He sucked at it, but luckily for him, his tutors realized that fairly quickly and started teaching him ways around that. Unluckily for him, though, that didn't mean escaping the math, just finding tricks to it. He mastered the maths he needed fairly quickly, though, and moved on to something he could understand more.

Applied maths. Putting the numbers to items and working from there. Mecha-shift technology was, as it turned out when he got to it, surprisingly simple. Cogs, gears, pistons, wires and everything connected to them sliding in a machine-puzzle from shape to shape. He could see the shapes they would make, and from there he could visualize the pieces themselves moving before he even had the thing planned out. His hands, he felt, moved on their own to draft measurements, numbers, and designs until at sixteen he finally did it.

Crocea Mors' twin, crafted by his own hands, and looking like a twin in and of itself.

"Impressive." His father said, holding the shield in his hand, collapsing and expanding it. He looked to his tutor, a young woman smiling proudly at the accomplishment, and she confirmed that it worked as it should. "Good work, Jaune. I'm proud of you, very proud of you, in fact."

"Thank you, Father." He smiled, this one thin and tame, and marred by the soot and grease that stained his face, arms and clothes. He accepted the twin when it was offered to him, collapsed and with the sheathed blade inside, and hung it off his waist. This Crocea Mors was his, now, and no one would take it from him even if he couldn't use it. "What next?"

"That's your decision, Jaune." The man responded, leaning against the door and looking outside at the stormy skies through a window next to it. "What do you want to do next, son? You have the skills, now, and you have time to gain experience with them. How do you want to do that?"

"I want to go to Vale." He answered after a second, smiling wider with pearly teeth that contrasted the dark stains. "I want to open a workshop there, and make weapons and armor for the students going to Beacon. I think… I think I can really make a difference there, you know?"

"Tell me what you need, and when you're old enough, everything will be ready." His father nodded, and Jaune believed him wholly.

The older man meant it, from the bottom of his heart. His sisters got weapons, armor, training and anything else they asked for that they needed, because he had promised them each that when they set to their goals. Because the man respected his children enough for that, to teach them how to be and let them forge their own path in life, with his guidance and help as always.

An Arc always kept his word, after all.

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A year later, Jaune would like to have said that he stepped off the passenger craft that landed him in one of a dozen of Vale's commercial landing ports. That he strode down the stairs once they clicked into place with his bag held over one shoulder, Twin Mors hanging off his hip, and a confident smile with a swagger in his step to match. Every bit the picture of a strong, confident young man, moving here to open up his own enterprise and his own path in life here in the Kingdom proper.

But Mama Arc didn't raise any liars.

So later in life when anyone asked him, he'd tell them honestly that he had half-run and half-fallen down the stairs, and emptied his stomach into the first garbage can he found while a stewardess called out after him.

"Are you okay, Sir?" She asked when he pulled his head out of the slot on the front, collapsing on the ground in front of it and wheezing for air while he clutched his chest, willing his heart to slow. It had been stupid to run like that, better to have blown chunks all over the stairs. Eventually, he recovered enough to meet her eyes, and the kind young blonde woman looked down at him, hands on her knees so as not to ruffle her uniform's skirt, "Do you need me to get medical assistance, Sir? You were clutch our chest."

"M-Medicine in my bags." He coughed into his fist and she turned, another stewardess coming to them with his two large duffles under her arms. The first woman took them, rifling through until she found his little orange pill bottle, and he grunted, "T-That one, yeah. Should be water too."

She handed them over and he fished out a couple, snatching the bottle of water she offered and downing the medicine and water in one, grimacing at the uncomfortable feeling of the little white tablets. While he caught his breath, and his medicine kicked in to force his heartbeat to slow, a couple of uniformed medics came rushing up with a gurney and bags of supplies, masks and caps on their heads, and he sighed tiredly.

Of course. It was probably policy or law or something that they call for medics when someone is clutching their heart like that.

"What's wrong, Sir?" The older man asked, kneeling down while a small circle formed around them, a barrier made by the two kind stewardesses keeping them back well enough. The man flicked on a, light and shined it in his eyes to check their response and added, "I saw you take pills, Sir. May I know what they are?"

"Heart medicine." Jaune sighed, waving a hand at the pack, "I, uh, I have a special permit thing in my pack, there. They made me get it so i could keep my medicine on me, you know? So you can look at that, I guess."

The doctor waved a hand at it while he checked Jaune for a few more things and his friend fished it out and handed it to him. The doctor read it over and nodded, looking at Jaune, "We'll confirm this, and do some checks on you personally, Sir, and you'll be free to go. We can't afford a risk that you may be hurt or anything after this experience, you understand. Especially since you just arrived from a transport out of a settlement."

Jaune sighed but, of course, nodded his head and made to stand before the men stopped him and the youngest said, "Sir, you have to get on the gurney. Policy, in case of a secondary attack, is to put patients on the-"

"Fine, fine. I get it, you have a job to do, just… Let's get it over with, I guess." He sighed, letting them lower the thing and manhandle him onto the small bed.

He felt like an invalid when they wheeled him out, but waved gratefully at one of the stewardesses. She returned the gesture, and then he was gone around a corner, through crowds that parted and watched him be wheeled by, a hand covering his face as best he could manage with just his fingers. The younger man saw that and reached under the gurney, pressing a button Jaune couldn't see, and causing a dozen thick metal rods to rise up around him, each as thick as his arm. After a second, frosted glass panels rolled out of each and connected at the rods, hiding him from view.

"Huh." He grunted, surprised that even the gurneys in Vale apparently had mecha-shifting abilities, even if they were somewhat simpler than others might be for more complicated things. He ran a thumb along one of the smooth poles, a small half-smile of thought coming as ideas sprang forth, "I'll need to order some of these, see what else they can do, maybe they'll be useful."

But first he'd have to get out of this mess.

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The day after that - they insisted, for legal and medical reasons both, he stay for observation at the hospital - he finally walked out of the hospital, Twin Mors on his waist and a bag under each arm, and climbed into a taxi to make his way to his new home. And hopefully, one he wouldn't be replacing anytime soon.

Vale's docks were famous around the world, with thousands of ships coming and going from them every week, and they stretched for miles around the natural bay, ending with a couple miles of warehouses on either end for their goods to be stored. Nestled safely between the docks and the walls, for a litany of reasons not the least of which was that if the Dust went up, better there where the wall can take it and few lives would be lost in the blast. Around that, business districts, apartments and more lower-end architecture sprawled until it hit a belt of green parks, boulevards, and in the exact center the world famous Beacon Boulevard, that stretched from the docks themselves all the way into the heart of the city, where housing became bright, shining skyscrapers glittering like stars in the sky at night.

Jaune's new home was not there, though. Even as wealthy as the Arcs were, and they were rather wealthy, he couldn't afford a building out there that could serve his needs. Especially not with all the equipment he'd also had to have purchased, not that his father complained or argued with him at all beyond asking the simple 'do you need this' he always asked.

The building he stood in front of, his now, was a three story warehouse and office combination, an old design for poorer companies. The top story itself was a simple enough apartment, with a wide, open living room, a small and moderately large kitchen, and a small bedroom, the bathroom between them. The rooms were sparsely decorated, with little aside from his bed, dresser, and a couch and table for the living room, and a sparse carpeting that didn't match anything he had at home.

Nothing was in the house that he wouldn't need, including furniture that serve more decorative purposes.

And that was why so much money and work had gone into the first and second floors. The second floor was a workshop level, the same role it had originally filled funnily enough. The stairs up and down were spiral and caged for protection, with an elevator next to them that was little more than a platform that went down to the bottom floor and had a waist high, thin rail for safety. A way to move supplies and product up and down faster, he knew, even if it looked dangerous when he saw it. And it had been an ugly orange color too, though his father had ordered it repainted into a cool blue like the walls throughout the building at his request.

Inside the workshop, everything Jaune needed to do his job was arrayed neatly. Several ammunition presses with licenses on display above, armor-cutters, welding rigs and soldering machines, extinguishers - he made mistakes like everyone else - and racks at the far end from the stairs of metal, Dust canisters and the safeties those needed, and everything else he needed, under the light of the wide open bay windows.

To his right from the stairs, the wall was lined by several rows of armor holster stations, like three U shapes connected by thick metal supports. A belt ran along the ten of them against the wall, with two large arms on them to help hold heavier metals and pieces and let him pose them, one arm on each end of the room. They looked like large hands themselves, and he knew they were tuned to grip without damaging most metals. Smaller ones with claps were on their sides, collapsed for storage until he needed them.

The first floor was barren, mostly. A storefront for him, with nothing on display, and a long counter that cut out a third of the room, shelves along the walls for smaller pieces like weapons and ammunition, and then a set of ten armor racks in the middle of the room with their backs against each other. Above the register he proudly hung Twin Mors as soon as he came in, before hauling his bags up to unload his clothes.

"Hello?" He sighed, halfway done, at the voice and stood at the quiet sound, "I-I'm sorry if I'm not supposed to be in here, I'm just kinda lost, a-and is anyone here? I just need directions."

When he finally got downstairs, a nervous looking brunette in black and red seemed to sag in relief, and he smiled and leaned against the cage that encircled the staircase, crossing his arms and playing confident, "Hey, uh, you there?" She gave a confused, nervous look, and he sighed, "That sounded dumb, sorry… Look, uh, what did you need?"

"J-Just directions, I was trying to head downtown to get stocked up on ammunition, but I don't know Vale and I got lost." She rubbed the back of her head anxiously, avoiding his eyes, "I-I got let into Beacon early, b-but I used a lot of ammo to do it, and… Yeah, I'm rambling, I'm sorry."

"My name's Jaune." He said with a smile, walking up to the counter from where he stood and leaning on it, "Jaune Arc, the engineer. This is my shop." She looked at the empty stands and he smiled awkwardly, "Yeah, we open tomorrow."

"O-Oh! I can, uh, leave if you want me to? The door was unlocked, and no one answered when I knocked, so…" She shrugged weakly, turning slightly towards the door, "If you want me to, I mean. Can you just tell me how to get downtown?"

"Sure, you just head…" He paused, a hand held with finger pointed like he knew the way either, and smirked, "Know what? I don't actually know. But," he added when her face fell into the single saddest face he'd ever seen, which was a miracle given he had seven sister, "I can make ammunition."

"But you're closed."

"Yeah, but you're here, and you have to get what you need." He nodded his head at the door with a good natured smile, the girl smiling hesitantly in return and relaxing slightly. "Just turn the bolt and come up to the workshop while I get things fired up, okay? I can make whatever you need, and you'll be my first ever customer. Oh, uh, what's your name by the way?"

"Ruby Rose." She answered, bouncing to the door and locking it, turning back and beaming at him, "Huntress-in-training."

"Coe on, then, 'Ruby Rose, Huntress in training', let's get you sorted out yeah?" He turned, heading for the stairs, and shouted over his shoulder, "Doors at the end on the right, or mount the counter, up to you."

Upstairs, he was already warming up one of his drill presses when he came up, a nervous hand reaching behind her until she saw him and relaxed. He waved a hand at her uncaringly and turned, heading for the Dust at the back, "What kind of ammunition did you need?"

"Concussive rounds like this." She said, fishing out a round from her belt and moving to his press, laying it down, "And armor piercing, maybe, same measurements for the round though. They're for my baby."

"Yellow, red… Need some… Blue, here we go." He turned, ho;ding three headsized jars against his chest and walking towards her, "Can I see the weapon, too? Helps me visualize what I'm," she gave a twirl of it, holding the massive scythe out for him like it weighed nothing, and he chuckled lightly, "Y-Yeah, can you hold it up by the press?"

She nodded, leaning its heavy end on the floor and propping it against the wall where the curve of the terrifyingly large blade would serve as a sort of kickstand, and he looked it over. It was impressive, to say the least, but he wasn't here to fawn over weapons just yet.

That could come later.

Instead, he pulled up a stool and plucked the round off the smooth surface, looking it over in his hand and then grabbing a small vice to measure it out, jotting out its dimensions and murmuring math to himself. Ruby, excitable as she seemed, was quiet while he did this until he stood and moved to his caster, setting brass to melt and humming before turning to measure out Dust and looking to her.

"A hundred, please. Fifty of each." He nodded, and sh fished in her belt for a wallet, pulling out a small purple card, "I, uh, I have this to pay for it. Miss Goodwitch gave it to me, said it was a 'student card'."

"Credit card." He corrected for her, nodding to the table for her to put it down, "Beacon and the bigger places hand them out for students to use. So that money from loans and mission-pay can be tracked, so that students don't blow it all on drinks or…" she gave him a look with a raised brow, and he sighed, "It doesn't matter."

"It doesn't matter." She agreed, grabbing a stool to sit on while he worked, smiling politely at him, "So, you're new here too?"

"You, uh, you can tell?" He chuckled, grabbing the casts to when they were ready and very carefully setting them on the desk, setting up the next batch to mold while the first cooled.

"Kinda?" She tried, shrugging nervously, "Your store opens tomorrow, but you didn't have anything out. And you didn't know the way in Vale, and your machines are way too clean for you to have been working with them either."

"Fair enough." He nodded, turning back to the Dust and sighing, "Sorry, but I can't talk while I do this part, or-"

"Things start exploding?" She tried, nodding knowingly and then bobbing her head towards the massive red scythe, "I made that, she's my baby. I know how all this works. I'll even help you make the rounds, if you want, it is kinda late."

"If, uh, if you're licensed to, go ahead." He shrugged, "I don't want you to if you aren't licensed, though. Because, you know… Laws and stuff."

"I am. Got a Dust ammunition manufacturing license back at Signal, and my Beacon I.D. will show that if anyone asks, too." She nodded, standing and walking to the cooled casings, cracking them open expertly so that the rounds didn't roll away, plucking up three at random to inspect for imperfections. "A lot of Hunters do, it makes it easier for them to make rounds as needed, and the information can save lives out in the field."

"I'll measure, you mold, and then we'll split the loading?" He offered, the young woman nodding and turning to get to work on the casting machine beside him. He watched her for a few seconds, until he was satisfied she knew what she was doing, and then he turned back to his own table.

Time passed in silence while they worked, Ruby casting the rounds and Jaune measuring out the Dust needed for each carefully in small cylindrical holders shaped like small rounds. As time passed, he stopped watching Ruby too terribly closely and settled into working, comfortable in the quiet with the hum of his machines around him. When they set to work carefully pouring the Dust into the cases and then capping them with the loaded heads Ruby wanted, watched her do a couple before he was comfortable with her doing it again.

When they were finished, he took time methodically inspecting each round while Ruby watched patiently, and said, "These are good work."

"Thanks!" She sounded proud to get a compliment on the work, and Jaune understood why at least partially. "I love this stuff. Making ammunition, machining the metal into shape for weapons, measuring Dust… It's relaxing, you know?"

"Oh, definitely." He agreed, closing the five cases of rounds and stacking them to carry downstairs. Ruby got the hint in that, turning and leading the way down, watching them over her shoulder in case one should tip, and Jaune knew there was no insult in that. Dust, even in rounds, could be volatile. "I do this for a living, Ruby. I know what you mean."

"So, uh, I was wondering…" She trailed off nervously when they reached the counter, hesitating on the worker's side of it, before looking up at him and forcing herself to calm down. "Beacon, uh, likes its students to have extracurricular studies, and I wasn't sure what i would do for them, so… I was wondering if I could, maybe…"

"Intern here?" He asked, raising an eyebrow at her. She nodded, walking down to the door at the end of his counter, and he thought about it. It would be helpful, definitely, to have extra hands that knew what they were doing, but… "I can't pay you, Ruby. Not right now, at least. But if you want to come by and help out on occasion, then that's fine. Bu bring copies of your licensing so I can get it on file."

"Yes!" She bounced, smiling brightly and infectiously, reaching out to help him put the round-cases down. "I will, I promise. I'll bring them next time I come, Jaune. Thank you so much, it will be so nice to have a workshop I can relax in… You have no idea."

He just nodded, ringing out the order for her and letting her swipe the little card to charge her, "Just remember the licenses, Ruby. And I hope you have a good run at Beacon. But don't let this place get in the way of your studies."

Not even day one, and things were already interesting.

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Okay, so chapter one. And now for an AN where Review Responses would normally be, because I have space.

Now, I am a trained welder and I know some other metal-working items. However, these will rarely come into play, and certain things will never be stated. Like intricate measurements, or detailed explanations of the intricacies of things, or math equations. Mainly because all of this technology is fake, and I don't personally think anyone out there wants the delays needed for me to invent sciences and maths for this purpose.

So please work with me on that note, thank you.

As for the actual workshop, I stayed looser with descriptions than normal, to avoid an extra thousand instances of the words 'shiny' or 'metal'. The room's design is, I will say now, mostly fluid in my mind. Outside certain items like 'workbenches on one side' and the window. I tried multiple designs but, frankly, I had too much to fit in unless I asserted he own an entire three story factory.

Which… Nah. that's a lot of descriptions to not only bloat down chapters, but also to keeptrack of on my end.

Anyways, hope you enjoyed this opener. I look forward to input on this, as I have never actually written a fic of this type with any hopes of continuation. I sincerely hope you enjoy it going forward, and enjoyed it here.

Thanks for reading, Twisted Ones.