RWBY: LUCID

Jaune stepped away from the freshly "repaired" car, the one that had once crumpled like paper under a nightmare beast's might.

It hadn't even been an hour. Fifteen to twenty minutes, tops.

His bare feet padded softly against the cracked pavement as he turned back toward the house. Slowly, methodically, he approached the porch again. The steps creaked beneath him and the door, once obliterated, hung perfectly in place. Not even a scratch on the brass knob. The siding had been rebuilt seamlessly, like the damage had never existed.

Well, as undamaged as a half rotting, dusty front would have looked at least.

A quiet frown formed on Jaune's face.

He reached out and pushed the door open.

While there was resistance, the door opened fine albeit creaking dangerously. The hinges were rusty.

Inside, was also no different.

The kitchen that had been smashed to pieces was fully restored. The island stood tall again and the countertops were whole. There were cracks born of age, but no wreckage. No signs of a fight. The drawers were closed. The fridge was upright. The drywall, relatively unbroken.

Even the stupid frayed kitchen towel that had once flown onto the boarbatusk's tusk… was now folded neatly on the counter.

Jaune stepped inside and glanced around.

"So it does reset," he murmured. "But… not me for some reason. Or the dream creatures..."

He ran a hand through his hair, stepping lightly across the floor. The living room was untouched too. The couch was back in place and the cushions looked the same as before. Even the dust on the floor looked untouched.

He lingered only a moment before shaking his head and turning back toward the door.

"No… not staying here. If another boarbatusk comes, I don't want to be boxed in. I need space to maneuvre."

He slipped back outside, pulling the door shut behind him out of habit—though part of him questioned if it would even matter. He took a few more steps into the street and looked down the length of the neighborhood, down where the beowolf had once stalked.

Nothing.

The street stretched on in both directions, still and red beneath the broken, bleeding moon.

As he began to walk, quietly, he kept his bat ready at his side, letting his thoughts swirl in the silence.

'If this was a time loop, he thought, then the creatures should've reset too.'

The beowolf, for instance. It should've been there—stalking the house, bursting through his door, pinning him to the floor again. Just like before.

But it hadn't come back nor had the boarbatusk.

So what did that mean?

'Maybe it's not a time loop,' he reasoned, 'but a space that resets its "environment." Like the stage cleans up between acts, but the actors don't come back.'

It was a chilling metaphor.

He passed another car. It looked the same—rusted, undisturbed. All the signs of age were still there. The unnatural silence, the absence of wind and even the oppressiveness of the billowing air.

But the scars of violence?

Gone.

He walked farther down the block, scanning each corner, each alley. Some houses looked familiar. Others he couldn't remember at all. Were they always here?

Probably. In the waking world, Jaune hadn't really had time to explore.

"Is that what I'm calling it now? Dream realm and waking world?" He paused, then smirked slightly. "Sounds... kind of cool, actually."

His feet scuffed the edge of a dried, cracked lawn.

Even the grass didn't grow.

That detail stood out again—nature was dead here. No weeds, insects or even chirping birds. Even wilted flowers didn't seem to exist. Just concrete, metal, brick, and ash.

"This whole place is like a corpse," he muttered under his breath. "No life. Just a memory of one. Of sorts"

He paused at an intersection and looked down a side street.

Still empty.

'So far, no monsters.'

He exhaled slowly and moved on, watching every shadow. Listening for any more hoofbeats or growls. Anything.

Nothing came.

'If they're dead and they truly stay dead… then maybe it's not a time loop at all. Maybe it's a dream that keeps the setting constant but changes everything else.'

His footsteps carried him farther from home, past another row of houses.

The further he went, the more uneasy he felt. Not just because of the chance of another nightmare encounter—but because of what this reset implied.

If the environment repaired itself between battles, then maybe… maybe he had more freedom than he thought.

But also fewer second chances.

One mistake. One misstep. No sign would remain to warn him of it the next time.

The world would wipe the blood clean, as if he'd never been there at all.

And that made him feel small.

Very small.

He came to a stop near an old streetlamp. It flickered faintly—red light pulsing like a heartbeat—and cast long, stretched shadows across the cracked road.

Jaune turned in a slow circle, surveying the homes, the cars, the dead trees.

Every house he passed was closed tight. Windows grimy and dark. Yards untended. Mailboxes rusted shut. Everything… eerily perfect in its decay.

And still, he hadn't seen any sign of the beasts returning.

He gripped his bat tighter.

"Whatever. Philosophical stuff doesn't really suit me anyway. No point thinking about things I don't understand. All I've gotta do is keep moving forwards."

Jaune walked with a practiced silence now, weaving between broken cars and crouching behind long-dead hedges. Every step was cautious and measured.

He wasn't delusional—he still believed these dream creatures could sense him somehow. Whether it was smell, sound, or something more arcane, he wasn't sure. But the act of hiding? Of staying low and moving slow? It helped him, psychologically, if nothing else.

He'd made it quite far from his house now. The familiar streets of his neighborhood—half-memories of a life that once felt real—had gradually given way to newer, roads. 

The signs around were rusted but still readable.

Vale Bullet Transit Station

Jaune paused.

His heart pounded softly as he scanned the surroundings. The station wasn't far—just across an old intersection filled with overgrown cracks and half-eaten sidewalks. The station… perhaps there would be something useful inside. A locked security room that had some type of defense clothing?

Or maybe more monsters.

He hesitated on the edge of the sidewalk, looking down at the crumbled curb. His thoughts drifted again.

The Exit Button.

.

.

.

[Exit Nightmare]

[Cost: 1 Rune]

[Y/N]

.

.

.

It shimmered faintly in the back of his vision, a constant presence now that the System had given him the option. One rune. That's all it cost.

Jaune licked his dry lips.

"Shoes," he whispered to himself. "That's the first thing I'm bringing next time. Shoes, gloves… hell, even elbow pads if I can find some."

He flexed his scraped hand. The scabs on his arms still stung, and his ribs were sore from all the diving earlier.

"I need prep. If I'm coming back to this place, I'm doing it smart next time."

But curiosity was already winning the war in his brain.

He hated it. But it was part of him.

The part that needed to know how far this dream went. How deep the Nightmare ran.

So he kept going.

The station loomed ahead—two wide stories of crumbling stone, shattered glass, and warped metal doors. A pair of long-dead digital billboards hung lifeless above the roof, their frames caked in rust.

He moved closer, ducking behind a rusted-out pickup truck that had long since merged with the concrete beneath it.

That's when he saw them.

Shapes.

Dark, lean, and moving just ahead of the ticket platform.

Jaune stilled.

His eyes locked forward as something stepped into the flickering light cast by a half-broken streetlamp.

A were—no—Beowolf.

But not just one.

Five.

No, six.

Maybe more behind them, cloaked in shadow.

Each one resembled the creature that had broken into his home the first night—lanky, muscle-bound shadowy fur with white bone masks and claws like knives. Their fur seemingly shimmered like smoke, and their red eyes gleamed with predatory awareness.

Jaune froze.

His heart stopped, or at least it felt like it did.

'A pack,' he realized.

The one from before had been alone. Maybe an outlier or some type of scout.

He had been lucky. Stupidly lucky.

Had he encountered them like this before, he would've been torn to pieces.

They paced along the station steps, sniffing the air, their claws scraping lightly on the stone. One let out a low growl—deep and guttural, like a beast trying to taste the wind.

Jaune instinctively began to inch backward, each step deliberate and painfully slow.

'One foot at a time. Don't trip. Don't draw attention. Don't even breathe too loud—'

A snarl broke the quiet.

Then another.

And another.

Suddenly, all of them stopped moving.

Their heads turned in unison.

Toward him.

"…shit."

One of them let out a howl.

The sound curdled the air—shrill and piercing, like a war-horn made of animal rage and broken glass.

They had sensed him.

Jaune didn't wait to see which direction they'd lunge.

He turned and ran.