The cold, hard reality of not being in Kansas anymore hit Jaune Arc like a face full of week-old noodles. This wasn't some wacky dream he'd wake up from with a start and a sheepish grin. Nope. This was his life now. His actual life. And it was about as glamorous as a dumpster diving convention.
Jaune, formerly a moderately competent Huntsman-in-training (emphasis on "moderately"), was now officially homeless. He'd spent the better part of the last... he wasn't even sure how long, it all blurred together... doing his best impression of a hobo ninja. He'd lurk in shadows, scavenge for scraps (apparently, interdimensional food was... edible?), and generally avoid eye contact with anyone who looked like they had their life together. Which, in this city of gleaming towers and impossibly stylish women, was pretty much everyone.
His brief foray into park busking hadn't exactly made him a galactic superstar. Sure, people had watched. They'd even listened. But credits? The local currency? About as useful to him as a chocolate teapot. He might as well have been serenading them with his grocery list.
Now, he found himself on a rooftop. Not a nice, scenic rooftop with a view. Oh, no. This was a grimy, pigeon-infested, "how-did-I-not-fall-to-my-death-yet" kind of rooftop. He was huddled in a corner, knees to his chest, the picture of dejected blonde despair.
"Why am I not waking up yet?!" he wailed to the uncaring cityscape. "Why is this not just a bad dream? A really long, really weird, and frankly, insulting bad dream?!" He dramatically threw his hands up in the air, nearly losing his balance on the precarious ledge. "Singing my heart out like some lovesick idiot in the park doesn't pay the bills! And these... these dollar-adjacent-things are about as useful as a screen door on a submarine! I had, like, twenty Lien to my name! Twenty! And even that feels like a fortune now!"
His internal monologue was interrupted by a series of... offers. Kind offers, to be sure. Many, many offers. It turned out, a surprising number of the local women were... interested in providing him with shelter. Warm shelter. With beds. And possibly other amenities.
Jaune, bless his naive, chivalrous heart, was horrified. He'd stammered, blushed, bowed so low he nearly face-planted, and then bolted like a startled Beowolf, leaving a trail of bewildered and slightly amused women in his wake.
And that's how he ended up on this godforsaken rooftop, questioning the very fabric of his existence.
"What," he muttered, staring at a particularly aggressive pigeon, "in the name of Oum, is wrong with my life?"
Hours later, the sky had shifted from a bruised purple to a deep, star-dusted black. Exhausted and resigned, Jaune finally succumbed to sleep, curling up in the least-grimy corner he could find, his battered guitar clutched like a lifeline.
He was drifting in that liminal space between wakefulness and dreams when a voice, smooth and seductive as melted chocolate, slithered into his consciousness.
"Well, well, well..." the voice purred. "What have we here?"
Jaune's eyes fluttered open, his senses instantly on high alert. He was no longer alone.
Standing before him was a woman. Not just a woman, but a woman. She was tall, with an aura of quiet power that crackled in the air around her. Her features were striking, sharp, and framed by a cascade of dark, almost impossibly glossy hair. She wore clothing that shimmered and flowed, catching the dim light in a way that made it seem to shift and change with her movements. But what caught Jaune's attention most was her left hand. It wasn't flesh and blood. It was a marvel of polished metal and intricate circuitry, a cybernetic limb that moved with a fluid grace that was both fascinating and slightly unsettling. In her right hand, she held a sleek, advanced-looking device, its screen displaying a… video? Of him.
More specifically, a video of him singing in the park.
"...So you're that cutie who was playing in the park," she said, her voice a low hum that vibrated through the cold night air. The advanced scroll-like device in her hand projected a holographic image of Jaune's performance, the image shimmering in the dim light. She tilted her head, her eyes, which seemed to glow with an inner light, studying him with an intensity that made him feel both exposed and strangely... seen.
Jaune, still groggy and utterly bewildered, managed a weak, "Uh… yeah?"
He pushed himself up, trying to regain some semblance of composure, and brushed off the grime clinging to his clothes. Despite his exhaustion, he couldn't help but notice the woman's captivating beauty. Taking a deep breath, he offered a small, slightly lopsided smile. "My name is Jaune Arc," he said, the words rolling off his tongue with a natural charm. "Sweet, short, rolls off the tongue, ladies love it." He chuckled, the sound a bit self-deprecating but undeniably endearing. "Well, I hope so," Jaune added, laughing softly.
The woman's expression shifted slightly. Her eyes, which had been assessing, softened, and a hint of a smile played on her lips. It was subtle, but it was there. And Jaune's little display of nervous charm, that disarming combination of confidence and vulnerability, had an effect on her. A rather potent effect. She found herself...breathless.
She lowered the device slightly, her gaze lingering on Jaune. "Jaune Arc," she repeated, the name sounding different, somehow, when she said it. More... resonant. "It's a pleasure. My name is... Anya." She paused for a moment, as if deciding how much to reveal. "So, Jaune Arc," Anya continued, her voice regaining its earlier composure, though with a newfound warmth, "you have quite a voice. Where did you learn to sing like that?"
Jaune shrugged, a touch of his inherent insecurity surfacing despite his efforts to appear confident. "Just... around, I guess. My mom used to sing to me when I was a kid. And, well, in my... former life, I did a bit of performing. Nothing professional, mind you. Mostly just for friends, or at... gatherings." He trailed off, a shadow of sadness flickering across his face as he thought of his friends back on Remnant.
Anya's gaze softened further. She sensed the sadness in his voice, the hint of a life left behind. "Gatherings?" she prompted gently, her voice encouraging. "What kind of gatherings?"
Jaune hesitated for a moment, then decided to be honest. This woman, with her strength and quiet understanding, felt... different. Safe, somehow. "Well," he began, "I come from a world with... Grimm. Monsters, creatures of darkness. I was training to be a Huntsman, someone who fights them. We... we didn't have a lot of downtime, but when we did, we tried to make the most of it. Singing, telling stories, just... being together." A genuine smile touched his lips as he recalled those precious moments. "It was a way to forget, for a little while, the darkness all around us."
Anya listened intently, her eyes fixed on Jaune. She was intrigued by this glimpse into his past, this world of monsters and warriors. It was so different from her own, yet... there was a raw humanity in his words that resonated with her. "A Huntsman," she mused, the word foreign on her tongue. "That sounds... dangerous. And brave."
"Not always," Jaune admitted with a self-deprecating chuckle. "I had... some issues, at first. I wasn't exactly the most... gifted student." He grimaced, remembering his early struggles. "But I got better. Eventually."
"I doubt that," Anya said, a playful smile gracing her lips. "Anyone who can sing with that much passion... there has to be strength in them. A different kind of strength, perhaps, but strength nonetheless." She paused, then her expression turned thoughtful. "What about you, Anya?" Jaune asked, his earlier insecurities overshadowed by a genuine interest in this intriguing woman. "What's your world like? What do you do?"
Anya's gaze shifted, becoming more intense. She seemed to consider his question for a long moment, as if deciding how much of herself she was willing to reveal. Finally, she met his eyes, her own glowing with an inner light. "My world is... complicated," she began, her voice low and steady. "And what I do... is perhaps even more so."
She gestured with her right hand, then deliberately, almost theatrically, extended her left, the gleaming cybernetic limb catching the dim light. "I'm a professional," she stated, her tone firm, leaving no room for argument. "A mercenary, you might say. I have... assets. Resources. At least twenty individuals under my command, ready to follow my orders." There was a hint of pride in her voice, but also a weariness, as if the weight of her responsibilities was a heavy burden.
Jaune's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He'd met mercenaries before, back on Remnant, but they'd never been quite like this. He'd expected brutish thugs, not elegant, captivating women with cybernetic enhancements. Before he could formulate a question, Anya continued, her voice softening slightly, "It's a... demanding profession. But it has its rewards." A sly smile played on her lips as she added, "And it requires a certain... appreciation for beauty." Her gaze lingered on Jaune, the unspoken implication hanging heavy in the air.
Jaune, despite his initial surprise, found himself strangely... flattered. There was a directness to Anya's gaze, a confidence that was both alluring and a little intimidating. He chuckled nervously, running a hand through his blonde hair. "Well, I, uh... I try my best," he stammered, his cheeks flushing slightly.
Anya's smile widened, the playful glint in her eyes intensifying. "You do more than try, Jaune Arc," she said, her voice a low purr. "You have a... unique charm. A rare quality in this city." She took a step closer, the subtle scent of exotic spices and something else, something uniquely Anya, filling his senses. "Tell me, Jaune," she continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "a man with your talents... what brings him to a place like this? To a rooftop?"
Jaune laughed, the sound a little strained but genuine. "Well, you might think what I told you before about the Grimm and being a Huntsman was a joke, but the real joke's on me right now. Because the real problem is, I'm broke. Like, seriously broke." He gestured around the grimy rooftop, the irony of his situation hitting him full force. "Turns out, singing like a maniac in a park doesn't exactly make you money. Or, uh, credits. Whatever these things are called." He shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "I'm starting to think I should've taken those... offers."
Anya raised an eyebrow, her expression softening with a hint of concern. "Offers?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity. "What kind of offers?"
Jaune shifted uncomfortably, the memory of the overly enthusiastic women flashing through his mind. "It's not important," he mumbled, avoiding eye contact. "Just... some people were being... hospitable. But I couldn't... I didn't want to impose."
Anya studied him for a moment, her gaze sharp yet gentle. She could sense his discomfort, his ingrained sense of chivalry. A small, knowing smile touched her lips. "Jaune," she said, her voice warm and persuasive, "it's hardly an imposition when someone offers you shelter. Especially when you're clearly... without a place to stay." She paused, then added, "Besides, I have a rather large apartment. And a very comfortable sofa. It's much better than this rooftop."
Jaune's head snapped up, his eyes widening in surprise. "You... you'd let me?" he stammered, his voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and gratitude. "I couldn't possibly ask that of you. I'd be intruding."
Anya stepped closer, her hand, the flesh one, reaching out to gently touch his arm. The contact sent a surprising jolt through Jaune, a warmth that had nothing to do with the cold night air. "Nonsense," she said, her voice a soothing balm. "Think of it as... a temporary arrangement. Until you get your bearings. Consider it an investment. Besides," she added, her smile turning playful, "I'd like to hear more of your singing. And perhaps learn more about this... Grimm."
Jaune hesitated, his mind battling between his ingrained sense of self-reliance and the undeniable allure of a warm bed and a safe place to sleep. He was a grown man, for Oum's sake! He shouldn't need anyone's help. But the exhaustion gnawing at him, the sheer desperation of his situation, was starting to wear down his resolve. And... there was something about Anya. Her strength, her confidence, her unexpected kindness... it was disarming. And incredibly appealing.
Finally, he relented, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Well... if you're sure," he said, his voice laced with gratitude. "I... I don't know how to thank you."
Anya's smile widened, radiating genuine pleasure. "Then let me be clear, Jaune Arc," she said, her voice husky and filled with undisguised happiness. "Thank me by letting me help you."