A short piece. A prologue. A desperate attempt to overcome the writer's block that preventing me from writing my main stories.

Dedicated to Azu, who has been "insisting" I make a RWBY fic for the past 4 months.

==[Symphony of Gears]==

He sharpened his senses and listened to the movement of the gears, as he was his wont.

Gears of different shapes and sizes, made from different materials, placed in different positions. From the ones rotating on the wall, to the ones revolving on the ceiling, all the way the ones under the green tint of his glass table.

To those that visited his office, the sound they made as they were meshed with each other and spun were nearly identical, but to him, one who had spent listening to them in a range of time that most human beings couldn't comprehend, he could tell the ever so slight difference in tune.

It was a near silent symphony; a piece that had a clear start and an end, yet repeated endlessly.

It was a calming piece.

One that told him that there was peace in all the insanity of the world, during those fleeting moments where he could, just for a bit, appreciate what was, what is, and what could be. Those moments he longed for; moments he craved.

It was a foreboding piece.

One that he would always hear when the calm comes before the storm. When the world seemed to be silent right before it spun erratically down into the madness that it was destined to encounter. Those moments he feared; moments he dreaded.

It was a haunting piece.

One that accompanied moments of weakness and self-hate for all the sins and mistakes he had committed. When he would look at his face and be reminded once again, that monsters were real, and he was looking right at one. Those moments he despised; moments he avoided.

It was a hidden piece, a performance that only he could hear and appreciate. One he reveled in, always smiling just slightly in self-indulgence; knowing that those that stepped inside would likely never come close to knowing what it symbolized.

Because beyond everything it represented in his life, it was perhaps something he associated with the concept of 'another beginning'. A symbol of a possibility for a future that wasn't covered in shades of black.

Symbolism. Yet another self-indulgence that he staunchly clung to.

Because humans were creatures of habit and he so badly needed to remind himself that he was human. Still human despite everything. That he wants to remain a human.

Or else, he'd slide down that slope to the point of no return, when he was already so close. Slide down the path that she had no doubt already fallen to.

Ozpin. Ozpin. Ozpin. Almost in tune with the rhythm of the gears, he repeated his name inside his head, mouthing the words at first, with increasing emphasis, until it became a whisper.

It was a ritual. A necessity, because that name told him of the goals and objectives he needed to pursue. He wasn't Ozma anymore. He wasn't Oscar. He wasn't anything else. He wasn't allowed to dwell on every other name he's borne in his endless –repeating– life no matter how many times it haunted his dreams.

And perhaps, more importantly, it told of the lines, the boundaries he would never cross. Should never cross. Will never cross.

Because he was humane.

He was still humane.

He will remain humane.

Yet again, he whispered to himself. And even he could hear the increasing desperation in his own voice. He had forgotten how many times he had done the self-same ritual; stopped bothering when to keep count after he was three digits in.

He repeated those three lines.

Once to affirm who he was and what he needed to do; the one true goal he needed to accomplish and how far he was willing to go to accomplish them.

Twice to remind himself of the sins he has committed and will commit once more. To the lives he had damned and will damn once more.

Thrice in the slowly dying hope that he would never have to again.

==[Symphony of Gears]==

He walked through the lush forest he had grown to become familiar with. An area several tens of kilometers from Vale, near a small and unassuming town.

He had never bothered to change out the suit he always wore, no matter how inappropriate it was for the terrain he was traversing, and brought nothing else aside from his cane and a small wooden box.

He knew where to step without having his clothes caught in the dense shrubbery. He knew where every branch and overgrown root could be found, where every pebble and twig lay on the ground. He knew exactly where to place his cane to gently move away any small obstacles that he wold encounter.

He could be blindfolded and robbed of all his other senses, and he knew he could still walk this path without much trouble, through memory alone.

He moved, until he reached a clearing with a large stump from what was once a century old tree, cut down after having been struck by lightning in the past.

"… 12 minutes."

He didn't need a watch. He knew just by looking at the color of the sky nearing sunset.

He was early by 2 minutes this time around.

Taking a seat, he placed the wooden box on the stump, winding the handle on its side several times, and opened the cover. Inside, a metallic cylinder with countless pins, started to spin, hitting the fine prongs of a steel comb near it, producing a sound.

A tune began to play; soft, gentle, somber and regretful.

He waited, as the seconds turned into minutes and the sky gradually faded.

He counted down until he could hear it. The rustling leaves, the sound of breaking twigs followed by the sight of bright blonde hair that seemed to light up the entire forest.

He was already prepared. He knew what to say, knew what tone of voice to use, knew what expression to wear on his face, knew exactly everything he needed to bring about the conclusion he wanted.

"Well hello there."

A casual greeting. Read right out of the same script. The scene would always change, ever so slightly and they were never always the exact same. However, little time since the 'start' of this 'instance' had passed, so the changes were never large.

Hence, from here, the boy, who bore an innocent heart and pure view of the world, would greet him with a smile; one filled with trust and faith, devoid of any cynicism and suspicion that would inevitably colour it as the boy grows older.

The boy would ask him with he was doing here and he would impress within the boy, the path of heroism.

"Mister, why are you sad?"

However, for the first time, in a very long while, the script didn't ring true.

He briefly wondered if he had made a slight mistake in his appearance. The boy had always been perceptive even at early age.

However, it meant nothing. He would simply adjust accordingly.

"Sad? What do you mean young one?"

Schooling his features, he put on a kind smile asked.

"You're crying. I always cry when I'm sad. Don't worry! I gots this potato! Wanna try some? Mom says eating good stuff makes people happy!"

"Ah…."

He instinctively reached for his face. Letting out a long sigh and wiping the tears that had formed without him noticing.

He allowed himself a smile. A genuine smile followed by a grimace that he quickly hid with a rueful shake of his head.

The boy had already drawn near during his lapse of focus, handing the large potato with both hands toward him.

The boy had always been that. A kind and gentle person. Someone that will always face difficulty but always managed through sheer force of will.

Someone that could have lead a perfectly peaceful and happy life.

Someone he would damn to a life of danger. To a life pain, loss, and grief.

"Y-you can take all of it! 'S okay! We have a lot of potatoes at home!"

"I'm sorry."

He spoke the words before he could think, only receiving a confused look from the boy as a response.

Another shake of the head. He massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to regain his bearings.

Apologies were meaningless. His words were meaningless.

He lost the right to apologize a long time ago.

"Hngh? …Why? Did ya do something bad?"

He did. He had committed countless atrocities.

"It's nothing… just remembering something."

He reached out to the boy and took the potato being offered.

A sign of friendship and goodwill.

He wanted to start but found himself reluctant.

He acknowledged the emotion. He cherished it. In some twisted way, it made him happy that he was still human enough to hesitate.

Then he promptly buried it. As deep as he could because such emotions would never change anything.

So this time he smiled, properly, like he always planned.

"Say little one, tell me. Do you like heroes?"

==[Symphony of Gears]==

==[Chapter End]==

Azu. Here you are. Time travel story with Jaune in it. Sorry for length. Writer's block has been pretty bad.

Also, I've already told you that RWBY has enough decent to good fics in it and I'm bound to make something redundant.

Thankfully you never specified who was time travelling so there. You get your fluff later.

Ah right. Music box song is Red like Roses. Naturally.