Chapter Text
Beacon Academy cafeteria, Vale | 3:19 PM
The cafeteria had become a briefing room masquerading as a lunch hall.
Half the tables were still Beacon students in uniform—some nervous, some exhausted, some angry—but now they shared space with Menagerie guardsmen, White Fang veterans, Huntsmen, and enough foreign military to make the place feel like an occupied embassy.
USNA flags sat beside Beacon emblems.
ROKMC patches beside Vale school pins.
A Russian soldier quietly traded sugar packets with a Vacuo student like it was normal.
And right at the center of it all—standing like he owned the air itself—was President Raymond “Bulldozer” Roosevelt.
He wasn’t loud.
He didn’t need to be.
The way he carried himself made even teachers instinctively straighten up.
On the table in front of him sat an old hardcover history book—worn edges, thick pages, the kind of book that didn’t care about your feelings.
Raymond’s fingers flipped it open with surgeon calm.
The page he’d opened to showed a flag that wasn’t Vale, wasn’t Atlas, wasn’t Mistral.
The Union Jack.
A few Beacon kids squinted like they were trying to remember a symbol they’d seen in some dusty textbook. Others looked at it like it was a foreign spell.
Raymond tapped the image once.
“This,” he said, “was the flag of the British Empire.”
Somewhere near Team RWBY’s table, Nora leaned in and whispered to Ren:
“That’s like… a fancy X.”
Ren hissed, “Please don’t say that out loud.”
Raymond continued anyway.
“Before the United States existed, before the USNA existed—this was one of the flags that flew over parts of North America.” He paused, eyes scanning the room. “And back then, a lot of people didn’t get to choose who ruled them.”
He turned the page.
A different flag. Different arrangement. Still red, white, and blue—but the pattern shifted again, stars repositioned, stripes altered.
Raymond held it up for everyone to see.
“This is an early flag of the United States.” He tapped it twice. “American Revolution. War for independence. We fought the empire that controlled us… and we won.”
A few students exchanged looks.
Weiss’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, the gears turning behind her expression.
Blake’s ears tilted slightly—listening harder than she wanted to admit.
Ghira Belladonna watched without speaking, gaze steady and cautious, but not hostile. Not yet.
Raymond flipped again.
The image on the next page showed the United States flag again… but different.
More stars.
A darker shadow in the text.
And right beside it—a flag that looked like it wanted to be the same, but wasn’t.
Ruby stared at the page like it might bite her.
“What’s that one?” she asked quietly.
Raymond didn’t look away from the book.
“American Civil War,” he said. “A war where we tried to rip ourselves apart.”
The silence deepened.
Even the domino table stopped clacking.
Raymond pointed at the rival flag.
“That was the Confederate States’ flag. They fought to preserve slavery and a social order built on human property.” He shut the book for a moment—just long enough to let the weight land. “We killed each other by the hundreds of thousands.”
A few Beacon kids looked sick.
Some of the White Fang shifted uneasily.
Because the word slavery had a way of dragging old ghosts into the room.
Raymond opened the book again, turning to a page with a portrait and a short biography.
Ulysses S. Grant.
Henry—still standing near the front with that “I’ll kill a man politely” posture—tilted his head slightly.
Aaron, arms crossed, watched the room like he was tracking threats.
George sat at a table nearby, cane leaning against his chair, expression unreadable.
Raymond’s voice stayed steady.
“This man,” he said, “was a Union general. He helped win the Civil War for the United States. Later, he became our eighteenth president.”
That alone was enough to spark murmurs.
Then Raymond looked over—directly at George—and continued like he was stepping on a landmine on purpose.
“And yes. Before anyone asks: the Grant line you know in your… current situation—Anthony’s ancestors, the Grants—trace back to that branch.”
A ripple of confusion went through the Beacon students. Weiss squinted, looking from the portrait of the white general to George Baptiste Grant—a dark-skinned Trinidadian man with cornrows.
"Uh..." Sun scratched his head. "Not to be rude, but... the math isn't mathing on the genetics there."
A Beacon student blurted what everyone else was thinking.
“But… how—?”
George answered before Raymond could, voice gravelly and tired like an old engine.
“History messy,” George said flatly. “People travel. People fuck.”
The room choked.
Some laughed awkwardly.
Aaron smirked. "And a man who liked his drink."
Taiyang looked like he wanted to stand up and leave out of pure secondhand embarrassment.
George kept going without blinking.
“Ulysses got drunk in Trinidad. One night. Woman got pregnant. Line continued.” He glanced at the stunned faces. “Y’all done?”
Anthony nodded slowly. "Hence the name. Hence the stubbornness."
"And the affinity for war," Yuki added dryly.
The awkward silence came back with a vengeance.
Raymond—without missing a beat—flipped to the next section like he’d just watched someone spill water.
“Moving on.”
He turned several pages.
The text shifted into darker chapters.
“After the Civil War,” Raymond said, “we didn’t magically become better people. Supremacist groups rose up. The Ku Klux Klan. White League. Others.” He didn’t linger on the names like trophies. He said them like stains. “They terrorized Black Americans. Catholics. Jews. Immigrants. Anyone they didn’t approve of.”
Blake’s ears flattened.
Ghira’s jaw tightened.
Sienna’s ears flicked once, sharp.
"They lasted too long," Raymond said, his voice dropping an octave. "But in the late 2020s, a President with a spine finally got Congress to sign off on the 28th Amendment."
He looked up, eyes glowing faintly yellow.
"We labeled all supremacist groups as domestic terrorists. And the order was simple: Shoot on sight."
A few students gasped.
"We wiped them out," Raymond said flatly. "It was brutal. It was necessary. Paradox of tolerance—if you tolerate the intolerant, they will destroy you. So we removed them."
Raymond looked up.
“I’m not telling you this to brag,” he said. “I’m telling you because if you’re going to judge us, you’re going to judge the whole picture. Not cherry-picked bullshit.”
Some Atlas students—those who still looked like they were holding onto their pride like a flotation device—shifted in their seats.
One of them opened their mouth.
Weiss didn’t even look at them—she just spoke, calm and lethal.
“Sit down,” she said.
The Atlas student hesitated.
Ciel, perfectly composed, checked her wristwatch.
Then said in her monotone: “This is not an optimal moment to embarrass yourself.”
Team FNKI snickered.
Even Penny—rebuilt and sitting with Ciel like a cheerful, armored android with opinions—tilted her head.
“Please do not antagonize the war hero,” Penny added politely. “It appears unwise.”
The Atlas student shut up.
Raymond nodded once at Weiss and Ciel like: good.
Then he flipped again.
The next pages showed black-and-white photos. Trenches. Gas masks. Old rifles.
“World War One,” Raymond said. “Yes. Our planet had global wars. Twice.”
Most of the Remnant natives looked horrified. They had the Great War—one war. Earth had done it twice in twenty years.
Beacon students stared like they couldn’t comprehend the scale.
Nora’s eyes widened with inappropriate excitement.
“TWICE?! Like—like a sequel?!”
Ren pinched the bridge of his nose.
Raymond continued.
“World War Two,” he said, and the tone shifted again—harder. “The deadliest conflict in human history.”
Even soldiers in the room went still. Even the Marines who joked about everything didn’t joke about that.
Raymond’s finger tapped a photo of camps, emaciated bodies, smoke stacks.
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. "Twice, the entire planet decided to burn itself down. We fought in Europe, in the Pacific, in Africa. Millions dead. The Holocaust. The Atomic Bomb."
David’s mother spoke instead, voice low.
“They show it in schools,” she said. “Everywhere. So kids don’t grow up thinking they’re immune to becoming monsters.”
Ruby—still new to the chemical voices in her blood—felt something ugly crawl up her spine anyway.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Something colder.
A warning.
Raymond turned the page again.
“Korean War. 1950 to 1953. Cold War. The United States versus the Soviet Union.” He paused and glanced at the Russian troops in the room.
A Russian officer shrugged with the most Russian expression possible.
“History,” he said simply. “We survived.”
Raymond’s mouth twitched. "A staring contest between the US and the Soviet Union that lasted decades. Proxy wars. Espionage."
“Then Vietnam,” he said, and he didn’t soften it. “We fought a war we shouldn’t have fought the way we fought it.”
Raymond described the guerilla warfare, the traps, the blend of civilian and soldier.
Sienna leaned forward, eyes sharp. The White Fang members exchanged looks. It sounded familiar. It sounded like the strategy they had tried to use against Atlas.
The Faunus in the room shifted again—uncomfortable, because it sounded familiar.
Raymond noticed.
He didn’t dismiss it.
“I don’t blame anyone in this room for hearing that and feeling uneasy,” he said. “If you’ve got your own scars, you’re going to recognize other people’s scars.”
Ghira’s gaze sharpened.
It wasn’t approval.
But it was respect for not trying to sanitize it.
Raymond flipped again.
“1991. The Soviet Union collapsed. New nations formed. Russia reformed.” He looked at the Russian troops again. “Then history did what history does.”
A Russian soldier muttered something under his breath in Russian that sounded like a curse at the concept of geopolitics itself.
Raymond’s finger slid down the next page.
“And then,” he said, “terrorism became a defining threat.”
He turned the book so the room could see the date printed clearly.
September 11, 2001.
The cafeteria’s air changed.
Even the Beacon kids—who didn’t fully understand it—felt that it mattered because every soldier in the room suddenly looked like a different version of themselves.
David spoke quietly, eyes distant.
“My grandfather was in New York City that day.”
No one laughed.
No one moved.
Sienna's hand found David's and squeezed.
Raymond nodded once.
“Over three thousand civilians killed,” Raymond said. “We responded. We invaded places. We fought. Some of what we did saved lives. Some of what we did created new enemies.”
"We launched the 'War on Terror'," Raymond said. "Iraq. Afghanistan. We spent twenty years trying to kill an idea with bullets. We got mixed results." He didn’t sugarcoat it. “That’s part of our history too.”
He closed the book for a moment, resting his hand on the cover.
"But the real rot," he said, "started inside."
He looked at the students—really looked at them.
Now the book started moving faster.
Pages turned.
Years blurred.
Flags changed.
The names of leaders came and went like weather.
"The 2010s were prosperous on paper. Barack Obama, first non-Caucasian president, two terms. But underneath, the cracks were spreading. By the late 2010s, radicalism and populism surged. The 'Woke' movement. Cancel Culture. Division. A businessman named Donald Trump took the presidency, and the country split down the middle."
He took a breath.
"Then came the 2020s. The 'Twilight of Hate'."
The tone shifted into the “Twilight of Hate” chapter—the part that made some of the Remnantians stare like they were hearing a horror story and a political lecture at the same time.
He listed the disasters like a grocery list of the apocalypse.
"COVID-19 pandemic swept the world. Ended in 2021, but it left scars. Then Russia invaded Ukraine."
The FSB agent sitting next to Neo nodded once, face grim.
"That triggered the Second Russian Civil War," Raymond said. "The Anti-War and Anti-Putin parties rose up. They won. It reshaped the East."
"Then China tried to take Taiwan," he continued. "Second Chinese Civil War. A coup. Pro-Democracy victory."
Raymond didn’t dwell on the details that would become a shouting match. He didn’t let it become a partisan argument.
He framed it like a battlefield timeline.
“This is the part where people forget they’re neighbors,” Raymond said. “And start acting like the person across the street is the enemy because a screen told them so.”
Some Beacon students looked confused.
Others looked… uncomfortably familiar with the concept.
Because Vale had its own propaganda.
Atlas had its own too.
Raymond’s finger tapped the bottom of the page.
“And then the 2030s,” he said. “Second Korean War.”
The Marines in the room stiffened like a string pulled tight.
Karma’s expression hardened.
Henry’s jaw clenched.
David’s eyes sharpened.
Anthony's eyes went distant. Aaron's jaw clenched.
Even Ruby felt her heart tighten—because she’d heard that war spoken like a ghost story in the older troops’ voices.
Raymond didn’t dramatize it.
He didn’t need to.
“North Korea invaded South Korea,” he said. “We fought. We bled. We won… and we paid.”
His steel-gray eyes swept across the room, lingering on the families of those who didn’t come back.
Then his voice dropped.
“And some of you in this room—children at the time—lost your fathers in nuclear fire.”
Yuki’s smile vanished.
David’s mother didn’t blink, but the grief behind her eyes moved like something alive.
Henry stared at the book like he wanted to punch it.
Raymond closed the book with a final, heavy thump.
"But before the external wars," Raymond said, his voice hardening, "America had to bleed to save itself."
He projected an image from his tablet now—a building with a white dome, surrounded by smoke and National Guard troops.
"Political upheaval. Riots over the death of George Floyd. BLM protests. The 2020 election."
He paused.
"And January 6th."
The room was dead silent.
"An insurrection," Raymond said. "A mob stormed the Capitol Building. They wanted to overturn the election. They wanted to lynch lawmakers."
He leaned forward.
"They failed. Not because of police. But because the United States Marine Corps from Virginia and the Maryland National Guard were deployed."
"By who?" Weiss asked, captivated. "The President?"
"No," Raymond said darkly. "By high-ranking officers who realized the Commander-in-Chief had betrayed his oath. They ignored the chain of command to save the Constitution. It cost them their careers. It saved the Republic."
"Donald Trump was charged with treason," Raymond stated, the finality of it hanging in the air. "He was arrested. He was tried. And he was executed via electric chair."
A collective gasp ran through the room.
"It was harsh," Raymond admitted. "But it broke the fever. The radicalism died. The populism died. The 'Culture Wars' ended because people realized how close we came to losing everything. Patriotism returned—not the loud kind, but the quiet kind that wants to build, not destroy."
He sat back.
“And that,” he said, “is why the USNA exists.”
He lifted his head, looking at the Beacon kids, the Huntsmen, the Faunus, the Atlas students, the families, the troops.
“All of that history,” he said, “built into one answer: we got tired of pretending our problems were someone else’s responsibility.”
He pointed at the cafeteria windows—beyond them was Vale. Beyond Vale was a world that had literally been ripped from its original planet and slapped onto Earth like a scar.
“You’re not on Remnant anymore,” Raymond said, slow and clear. “You are on Earth.”
He let that settle.
Then he leaned forward slightly—tone still controlled, but the pressure behind it undeniable.
“And if any Atlas student,” Raymond said gently—dangerously gently—“wants to open their mouth and call us terrorists while Grimm are chewing on your civilians and your own military tried to gun down its allies—”
Weiss’ eyes narrowed with agreement.
Ciel’s gaze remained clinical.
Team FNKI looked like they were ready to heckle someone into next year.
Raymond finished the sentence anyway.
“—then you are either ignorant,” he said, “or you are suicidal.”
Silence.
Absolute.
The kind of silence that made forks sound like gunfire.
One Atlas student shifted like they wanted to protest.
Weiss didn’t even turn.
Her voice was ice.
“Don’t,” she said.
Raymond’s eyes slid toward Ghira, then Kali, then Sienna.
“And to Menagerie,” he said, “to the Faunus here—hear me clearly: we are not here to let Atlas ‘discipline’ you. We are not here to let Vale ‘blame’ you. We are not here to let anyone repeat the sins we’ve already lived through.”
Ghira’s body twitched slightly.
He didn’t relax, but he did… listen.
Raymond straightened and looked at the room again.
Then—like he was speaking to children who needed the truth more than comfort—he said:
“When will you learn that the past does not define you?” His gaze swept over humans and Faunus alike. “Our nature is inherently sinful. Every civilization has blood under its nails. The question is whether you admit it… and whether you do better next time.”
A few Beacon kids looked shaken.
Some looked angry.
Some looked relieved, like someone had finally said the ugly part out loud.
Raymond’s voice stayed calm.
“Would you rather the UN or the USNA let Atlas fuck Menagerie and Vale over because of your stupidity?” he asked.
Jaws dropped.
Even some of the Marines flinched—not because it was offensive, but because it was blunt truth being dropped like a brick.
Glynda’s lips tightened.
Her teacher instincts screamed at the profanity.
She took a breath, ready to scold—
—and then Aaron’s voice cut through, casual but lethal.
“Professor,” Aaron said, not even looking at her, “if you try to correct his language right now, you are going to create a diplomatic incident and possibly get tackled by Secret Service. And I promise you, Professor... you do not want to see what happens when the Secret Service decides the President is being disrespected in a foreign war zone.”
Glynda’s eyes flashed.
“You’re implying I would be—”
Aaron finally looked at her.
His expression was flat, blunt, and honest in the worst way.
“Yes,” he said. “You would be.”
One of the Secret Service agents nearby didn’t move—but his eyes shifted just slightly, confirming Aaron’s point.
"That man," Aaron said, nodding toward Raymond, "is the Commander-in-Chief of the United States of North America."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"His security detail is currently very relaxed. They are letting him talk. They are letting people breathe."
Aaron's eyes locked onto hers.
Glynda looked at Aaron.
She looked at the agents.
She looked at Raymond, who was watching her with an eyebrow raised, waiting.
She swallowed.
And for the first time in her career... Glynda Goodwitch backed down.
"Understood," she said tightly.
Qrow, for once, chose wisdom.
He leaned in toward Glynda and muttered:
“Not the hill to die on, sweetheart.”
Glynda’s jaw clenched.
She stayed seated.
Raymond nodded like he’d noticed the entire exchange and approved of the outcome.
Then he tapped the book one more time.
“Now,” he said, voice leveling into command again, “you know about us.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Time to learn about you.”
And the cafeteria—already tense—somehow got even quieter.
For a few seconds after that last line—Time to learn about you—the cafeteria felt like it had forgotten how to breathe.
Forks hovered over plates.
Chairs stopped creaking.
Even Nora’s foot, mid-bounce, froze like someone hit pause.
President Raymond “Bulldozer” Roosevelt stood there with the history book still on the table, eyes sweeping over the room like a commander counting heads before a drop.
He saw it immediately.
Not just tension—compression.
The kind of tight silence that didn’t mean respect… it meant people were one sentence away from snapping, crying, or doing something stupid because their brains were still stuck in that night.
Raymond exhaled slowly through his nose.
Then—unexpectedly—he rubbed the bridge of his nose like a tired dad who just found out his kids broke a window.
“…Nah.”
A few people blinked.
Raymond waved a hand like he was physically pushing the topic away.
“Not right now.” His voice stayed calm. “I can feel half of you wanting to argue, a quarter of you wanting to run, and the rest of you wanting to punch me for bringing up uncomfortable truths.”
He pointed at the book.
“This can wait.”
He pushed the book aside and leaned on the table, posture changing—not weaker, just… less ceremonial.
“Everyone in this room is running on trauma, caffeine, pride, grief, or pure spite.” His eyes flicked to a few Marines. “Sometimes all five.”
A couple of soldiers chuckled under their breath.
His gaze drifted, scanning the room with that unnerving precision that made people feel like they were being read by a satellite. It landed on Team RWBY's table.
Raymond’s gaze landed on Yang.
Her missing arm wasn’t hidden, wasn’t dramatized. It was simply there, a brutal receipt from a night that Vale would never forget. She was sitting straight, trying to look defiant, but her posture was slightly askew. Her right sleeve was pinned up, hanging empty. The phantom pain was evident in the way she occasionally twitched her shoulder, a reflex trying to move a limb that wasn't there.
Raymond’s eyes narrowed slightly. He thought about the briefing dossiers he’d read on the flight over. Yang Xiao Long. Brawler. Semblance: Burn. Status: Amputee via catastrophic weapon malfunction.
Raymond’s jaw tightened—not in anger at her, but at the idea of loss being a teenager’s normal.
He thought about the R&D reports from back home. Lockheed Martin and Raytheon weren't just building missiles and jets anymore. The bio-cybernetics division had been making leaps and bounds since the Second Korean War, driven by the need to put broken soldiers back in the fight.
Neuro-linked tactile feedback. High-tensile alloy endoskeletons. Integrated weapon systems.
He made a mental note: Get the specs on the Mark IV prosthesis. Have it expedited. If Anthony cared about this girl—and judging by the way the Grant family had evaluated her, he clearly did—then the USNA had a vested interest in making her whole again. Better than whole.
Then his eyes moved to Ruby.
She sat straighter than she should have for someone who’d been dead on her feet months ago.
Even now, the way she held her shoulders looked like she was subconsciously bracing for another arrow.
Raymond watched her for a second longer than polite.
Not creepy.
Clinical.
Like a man evaluating a soldier with a fresh injury—except this “soldier” was a Beacon kid with silver eyes and three Earth chemicals in her blood.
He made a quiet sound in his throat.
She looked small next to her sister, huddled over her tray. But there was a strange energy coming off her—a hum that Raymond could almost feel. He saw the way her fingers tapped a rapid, uneven rhythm on the table, faster than a normal resting heart rate. He saw the way her pupils dilated and contracted too quickly when a tray clattered in the distance.
The Hybrid.
Anthony’s "improvised chemistry."
Raymond knew what Chem-X, Y, and Z did to a trained Marine. He knew the adjustment period was hell—the sensory overload, the metabolic burn, the aggression spikes.
And this girl was a civilian. A sixteen-year-old—no, seventeen now—civilian who had just woken up with a predator's biology grafted onto her soul.
She needed guidance. Not a manual, not a lecture. She needed to know how to ride the storm in her blood before it drowned her.
He looked toward the Grant table. Anthony, Aaron, Angelica, Antoinette. Then to David at the Fernandes table. Then to Henry Sherman, standing near the perimeter.
They know the cost. They know the feeling.
Then he looked away and finally spoke—and the room obeyed.
“Listen up.”
Every head turned.
Even Glynda’s teacher aura dimmed instinctively.
Even Qrow stopped pretending he wasn’t paying attention.
Even Yuki—still with one hand around Anthony’s throat like she was holding a misbehaving cat by the scruff—paused mid-rage.
Raymond’s voice wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
When he spoke this time, the "Bulldozer" was back. The tone wasn't angry, but it brooked no argument. It was the voice that moved armies.
“When I walked in here, I saw two things,” he said. “One: you’re alive. Two: you shouldn’t be.”
He let that land.
“Vale was hit with a coordinated attack, internal betrayal, Grimm pressure, and panic at scale. You experienced combat, death, and terror… while learning your entire world is in the wrong sky.”
He lifted one finger.
“So here’s what we’re going to do.”
Another finger.
“And here’s what we’re not going to do.”
He looked slowly across the room.
“No more ideological shouting matches in a cafeteria. Not today. Not with kids still flinching at loud noises.” His eyes slid to a few Atlas students. “That includes you.”
Some of them stiffened.
Weiss didn’t even smirk—she just looked vindicated.
Raymond continued.
“Second: no vigilantism.” He said it like a law of physics. “I do not care what your culture calls ‘honor.’ If you go hunting enemies on your own, you will die, and I will have to explain to your parents why your body came back in a bag.”
That one made the parents in the room go rigid.
Juniper’s hand tightened on her coffee mug.
Athena’s glasses caught the light as she stared forward, suddenly looking less like a warm scholar and more like someone who understood war.
Raymond nodded like he expected the reaction.
“Third: chain of command.” He pointed at himself, then at Henry, then at Dustin, then at a few other officers seated around the room. “The USNA and allied forces are responsible for Vale’s security right now. That means curfews, checkpoints, escorts, and patrols.”
He raised a palm.
“Before you start foaming at the mouth, hear this part: we are not here to take your identity. We are here to stop Grimm from turning your streets into a feeding trough.”
Ghira’s body angled forward.
Raymond’s eyes met his.
“And we are not here to give Atlas permission to ‘police’ Menagerie,” Raymond added flatly.
A few Faunus shoulders loosened just a fraction.
Sienna’s ears flicked once—approval sharpened by a predator’s caution.
Raymond looked back at the students.
“Fourth: integration.” He said it like it was a mission, not a speech. “Your Huntsmen system is built on individual heroism. That has strengths. It also has… weaknesses.”
Nora’s hand shot up immediately.
“Yes?” Raymond said, already sounding like he regretted it.
Nora grinned. “Does this mean we get military capes?”
Ren buried his face in his hands.
Raymond stared at her for one beat, then deadpanned:
“…No.”
Nora looked personally offended.
Raymond went on.
“You will keep your Huntsmen structure. Ozpin’s system—Beacon’s training—still matters.” A shadow passed over his expression at the mention of Ozpin, but he didn’t say the word dead. Not yet. Not in front of kids who still hadn’t processed the night.
“But,” Raymond continued, “we will add what your system lacks: discipline in mass-casualty scenarios, coordinated response, intel-driven operations, and logistics.”
He pointed at Penny.
“And yes, that includes cyber defense.”
Penny perked up, cheerful as ever. “I like cyber defense! I have been upgraded with several—”
Ciel gently placed a hand on Penny’s shoulder like please do not reveal classified specs to a cafeteria.
Raymond’s mouth twitched.
“Fifth: medical and recovery.” He looked at Ruby again, then at Yang. “People here are hurt, missing pieces, missing time, missing friends.”
His eyes slid to Yang’s empty sleeve again.
“Miss Xiao Long.”
Yang blinked. “Uh… yes, sir?”
Raymond’s tone softened just slightly.
“You’re going to be offered prosthetic options. Not the cheap kind. Not the ‘look pretty’ kind.” He glanced at Henry like it was already decided. “Lockheed and Raytheon have prototypes that don’t exist for civilians.”
A few Beacon kids didn’t understand the names.
But every trooper in the room did.
Yang’s remaining hand slowly clenched.
“…Like… a real arm?” she asked, voice quieter than she wanted.
Raymond nodded once. “A real arm.”
Then he added, like a warning:
“And you’ll learn to use it responsibly, because the kind of arm I’m talking about can break a man’s spine if you forget your own strength.”
Yang swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
Ruby stared at Yang, eyes wide, like she wanted to cry and smile at the same time.
Raymond’s gaze moved to Ruby.
“Miss Rose.”
Ruby nearly jolted. “Y-Yes, sir!”
Raymond’s eyes were steady.
“You’ve got three major compounds and O-negative blood in your system. That means you are now medically and strategically… interesting.”
Ruby’s face went pale. “I-I don’t want to be—”
Raymond cut in immediately, firm.
“Listen to me. You’re not a lab rat.” His voice sharpened just enough to make the room feel colder. “Anybody tries to treat you like one, I’ll put them in the ground.”
Ruby froze, startled by the sheer certainty in his tone.
Raymond continued, calmer.
“But you are going to be monitored for safety. You’re going to be trained so you don’t hurt yourself. And you’re going to have people who understand those compounds teaching you how to live with them.”
His gaze flicked briefly toward Anthony, Aaron, Angelica, Antoinette, Henry, and David.
Ruby followed his eyes and swallowed hard.
Raymond’s tone shifted into something almost… practical.
“Side effects include heightened aggression, reflex spikes, sensory amplification, adrenaline response changes.” He looked right at Ruby again. “So if you wake up one day and you can hear someone whispering across the room—don’t panic. If your temper feels like it has teeth—don’t panic. If you feel… detached, like fear doesn’t show up on time—don’t panic.”
Ruby’s throat tightened.
Yang reached over with her left hand and squeezed Ruby’s wrist.
Raymond nodded, approving the simple support.
“Sixth,” Raymond said, “truth management.”
The room stiffened again.
Raymond raised his hands.
“Not lies. Not propaganda. Containment.”
He pointed at the students.
“You’re going to learn quickly that Earth has… a lot more people than Remnant.” He looked at Ozpin’s staff and professors. “And they have governments. Militaries. Intelligence agencies. All of whom are now very aware that magic-adjacent combatants and Grimm entities exist.”
He paused.
“That means there are things you can say publicly, and things you cannot. Because if you say the wrong thing to the wrong person—someone will try to weaponize you.”
A beat.
“Or dissect you.”
That line made the entire room go still.
Even Yuki’s hand loosened slightly around Anthony’s throat.
Even Neo—handcuffed between agents, eyes narrowed like a cat watching a bird—went quiet.
Raymond looked toward the CIA and FSB agents holding Neo.
“You two,” he said without raising his voice. “Keep her from doing anything stupid.”
Neo’s eyes widened indignantly like how dare you call my plans stupid.
The agents didn’t even blink.
Raymond looked back at the room.
“Now,” he said, voice easing, “that’s the structure.”
He straightened a little.
“And now… I’m going to say something that will piss off half the room and relieve the other half.”
He paused.
Then said it plainly:
“You are not prisoners.”
The cafeteria exhaled like it hadn’t realized it was holding its breath.
Raymond held up a finger.
“But you are under protection.”
Another finger.
“And protection comes with rules.”
He glanced toward the Atlas students.
“Atlas is being investigated. Not attacked. Not invaded. Investigated.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Your android incident almost started an international shooting war. That does not get swept under the rug because someone in a nice uniform says ‘oops.’”
A couple Atlas kids looked like they wanted to argue.
Ciel’s stare shut them down before they even breathed.
Raymond looked toward Weiss.
“Miss Schnee.”
Weiss stiffened. “Yes, sir.”
Raymond’s expression was unreadable, but not hostile.
“You have influence among your people. Use it to prevent stupidity.” He said the next part slowly. “If Atlas chooses arrogance over accountability, they will isolate themselves… and they will lose.”
Weiss’s jaw tightened.
Then she nodded once. “Understood.”
Raymond’s gaze swept back to the White Fang and Menagerie guards.
“And to Menagerie,” he said. “You fought beside our troops. You protected civilians. That is recognized.” He held up a hand as some White Fang bristled. “But I’m going to be clear: anyone still committed to indiscriminate violence, slavery, or terror… will be treated like what they are.”
Sienna’s ears angled back slightly in irritation.
Adam’s posture stiffened—but the therapy in his eye was visible now. He didn’t look like he wanted to argue.
Ghira nodded once, controlled.
Kali’s eyes softened—relieved, but still wary.
Raymond shifted again, and now his gaze landed on Anthony.
The room did too.
Because the room had been trying not to stare at the Marine who had been court-martialed, freed, strangled by his mother, and somehow still looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Raymond spoke his name like a formal report:
“Sergeant Anthony Ulysses Grant.”
Anthony’s spine straightened automatically.
Even with his mom still behind him like a demon in heels, he snapped into attention.
“Yes, sir.”
Raymond didn’t smile.
But his eyes carried something like approval tempered by exhaustion.
“You are alive because you did your job,” Raymond said. “You are free because you delivered me something I wanted for ten years.” His voice hardened slightly. “Do not make me regret that.”
Anthony swallowed. “No, sir.”
Raymond nodded once.
Then added, in a tone that made the whole room realize this wasn’t just a family reunion story anymore:
“You will remain under observation. You will remain accountable. And you will remain in uniform when requested.”
Anthony didn’t argue.
“Yes, sir.”
Aaron muttered under his breath, “Damn.”
Angelica’s smile sharpened like she found the idea of “accountability” funny.
Antoinette looked like she was doing math on how to get around it.
Yuki finally released Anthony fully, letting him drop back to the floor like a caught fish.
She pointed a finger at him, eyes wet and furious. “You ever scare me like that again, Ton-Ton, I will bury you myself.”
Anthony wheezed, half coughing, half laughing. “Love you too, ma.”
The room—tense for hours—finally let out a handful of strained chuckles.
Raymond let it happen.
Then he spoke again, voice firm enough to pull the room back into line.
“Now,” he said, “food. Eat.”
People blinked.
He repeated it, like an order.
“Eat. Drink water. Sit with your families. Breathe.”
He glanced toward the kitchen staff and the troops assisting.
“Meals will be distributed. Anyone refusing food due to stress will be monitored. Anyone refusing food due to pride will be mocked.”
Nora immediately sat up straighter. “I support this policy.”
Ren sighed. “Of course you do.”
Raymond pointed at Nora. “You. Eat two plates.”
Nora gasped like she’d been blessed by a god.
Raymond pointed at Sun. “You too. You look like you live off impulse decisions and fruit.”
Sun blinked. “That’s… weirdly accurate.”
Raymond pointed at Ruby.
“And you,” he said, voice softer. “No hero stunts. No refusing help. You get tired, you sit. You get angry, you tell someone. You feel weird, you report it.”
Ruby nodded quickly, swallowing down emotion. “Yes, sir.”
Raymond nodded.
Then he finished with the line that made the cafeteria fully understand who he was:
“I’m not here to win your love,” Raymond said. “I’m here to keep you alive long enough to decide who you want to be on this planet.”
He looked at the room one last time.
“Questions can wait until after you eat.”
He paused.
Then added, because he was Raymond Roosevelt and he could not resist being blunt:
“Anyone who starts a political debate before finishing their meal is getting assigned latrine duty with Marines.”
A terrified Beacon student whispered, “What’s latrine duty?”
A Marine at the back smiled like a shark. “You don’t wanna know, kid.”
And just like that—slowly, reluctantly—the cafeteria began to move again.
Plates clinked.
Chairs scraped.
Families leaned into hugs that had been waiting four months.
Yang kept her left hand on Ruby’s wrist like she didn’t trust the universe not to steal her again.
Ruby stared at her food like it was the most normal thing in the world and the most impossible thing at the same time.
And in the middle of it all—Anthony stood quietly, eyes forward, jaw tight, taking in the sound of life continuing.
For the first time since the Vytal Festival… it felt like the war wasn’t swallowing everyone whole.
Not yet.
But Raymond’s words hung in the air like a promise:
Stay alive long enough to choose.