There were next to no details available on Hazel and Gretchen Rainart in Jaune's subtle investigation. It wasn't like he could do a lot to look when they were doing last-minute spars for Vytal Festival, so it was reduced to internet searches and looking up the archives of past students. The publicly available ones, that was. Little more than names, pictures and graduation details.

Neither were on those.

He could have gone to Ozpin but didn't feel he'd get a real answer. Maybe the dream had exaggerated Ozpin's cruelty – it would be easy for the recipient of such terrible news to see the man delivering it as evil – but the man would still be subtly biased. Whether it be guilt or sorrow over a lost student, Ozpin would give half answers. Of course, Hazel was biased too, which was why he had to take what he'd seen with a grain of salt.

Why his dream, though? Did I reach out to Vale again or was he close by? He's not a student or transfer but he could have graduated at another academy and come to the Emerald Forest. He hates Ozpin, after all. Not the career itself.

Though he might blame that and Beacon as well, but if he was in the forest then he had to be strong enough to defend himself. He hadn't been a faunus in the dream, so he couldn't be a part of the White Fang. That didn't necessarily mean he wasn't a threat, though.

But a threat to whom? Would this man blame Beacon and its innocent students for what happened? Jaune wanted to say no, because someone who experienced the loss of a sister wouldn't want to cause that loss for others. Plus, he'd only been trying to expose Ozpin in his memories, not to harm anyone. Qrow had been mentioned in the dream as well, but he didn't dare ask the man either, not when it might mean distracting him from finding Cinder.

In the end, he let it be. Beacon had its security in hand and Vale was on high alert. If Hazel was here, it might honestly just be because he'd heard Ozpin had "retired" and wanted to confirm it with his own eyes. With no "Ozpin" at Beacon now – officially, at least – there shouldn't be any threat. And if there was then he'd go straight to Glynda and Ozpin and tell them.

"Two days until the fights begin," said Ren. "I hope you're not planning to go on any stupid dream adventures and leave yourself too weak to compete."

"Don't jinx me like that. And you don't get to talk of stupid dreams, Mr Hunted-by-Sloths."

Ren sighed. "I blame Nora for that dream. I've never even seen a sloth."

Nora giggled.

"At least it wasn't an emotionally damaging one," said Pyrrha. "Or another one where terrible secrets get spilled."

"This is what a lot of them are like," Jaune said. "Not every dream is an emotional journey. It's just that the ones that are end up being the most memorable." He pulled the sheets up and climbed under. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," his team echoed.

/-/

Jaune was falling.

It was strange that it was one of the first "falling dreams" he'd ever been in. They were allegedly quite common, though the books saying that might just have been taking guesses. He'd seen very few of the "most common" dream types according to those old texts. Maybe they were just the dreams people felt most comfortable sharing with the researchers, because the average person wasn't going to admit they'd dreamed of something embarrassing or mentally scarring.

"Oh yeah, I... uh... I fell. I totally fell. Please ignore the wet patch on my crotch."

Amused at his own thoughts, Jaune wheeled around so he could face down. Though he couldn't feel the wind whistling against his face (and it was probably a good thing because it'd be bitingly cold and low in oxygen at such an altitude) his hair and clothing whipped and whistled. Far, far below he could make out criss-crossing patterns of hedgerows between fields, and while he was getting closer, they never quite transitioned to being close. He was falling forever.

But he put his aura up just in case.

There were old stories about people dying in dreams like these – more from heart attacks than the impact – but with his ability to make the results real, he might very well explode into gore in the middle of Team JNPR's dorm.

It took an embarrassing amount of time to remember he wasn't alone in the dream and look around – and with nothing but open air around him, it didn't take long to find the dreamer. A small boy with a long tail and long hair, his hair whipping upward as he gazed maniacally at the ground. His tail was unlike Sun's, thicker in places with a shiny carapace and a wicked point.

The boy looked over at him. "We're falling together!" he cried, his voice barely audible over the wind. "Falling, falling, falling. It never ends. And it never will end. We'll keep falling until the end of time!"

"We'll land eventually!"

The boy laughed. It was a hoarse sound. "We won't! Landing means an end, and this will never end. It never goes away, no matter how much anyone tries to make it! Best to just enjoy the ride. There's no getting off it!"

There was a sound like a stone hitting a glass pane in his mind, shattering the world. Suddenly, he was seated on a bench in what looked to be a hospital reception or waiting area. There was a man on his left and a woman on his right. The man was hunched forward, hands clasped between his knees, while the women nervously bit on the backs of her knuckles. Neither of them had faces. They were blank.

"Mr and Mrs Callows?" A blank-faced man in a doctor's coat approached with the boy from before. The boy was looking around aimlessly, smiling at nothing. "We've concluded the tests on your son. Physically, there is nothing wrong with him—"

"Are you joking?" the father demanded. "Look at him!"

"I said physically, Mr. Callows. And please sit down. Such outbursts are not helpful, neither to you nor to your son." The doctor laid a gentle hand on the boy's back. The boy blinked and looked at the faceless man, tilting his head to the side as he if wasn't sure what to make of him. "Your son's mental condition isn't one that can be so easily identified, but they're not as uncommon as people think in children so young. He might well grow out of it. I'm going to prescribe a number of medicines for the most likely conditions."

"What do we need to do?" asked the mother.

"The best thing you can do is be good parents to him and try to answer his questions, no matter how strange they may seem. He's asking them with the best of intentions. Denying him answers doesn't help anyone."

"Can he be fixed?" asked the father.

"Mr. Callows, that word implies he is broken—"

"Can. He. Be. Fixed."

The doctor paused and would have probably been frowning quite heavily if he had a mouth with which to do so. "Only time will tell," he eventually said. "I am going to give you the number of a specialist in children's psychology."

"A shrink."

"A specialist."

"Might as well send him to a mental institution."

"Sir, therapy is a very common and accepted practice. Perhaps you grew up outside the cities, but it is not frowned upon here, and people are not sent to institutions without good reason. Children especially. Please call this number and book your son in for appointments. He will benefit from it."

The parents took the card and then the mother took the boy's hand and they left, with Jaune following close behind. The boy might have been seven or eight, but he needed his hand holding, because he kept looking around at things. The mother had to yank on his arm at times to pull him into movement when he would stop without warning or start walking in another direction.

The world shattered once more.

Jaune was kneeling in a small bedroom. It was cramped, with a single bed, some colouring books on the floor and numerous marks on the walls where someone had taken crayon to the wallpaper and tried to draw things. Strange shapes, vaguely humanoid creatures. Jaune told himself they were just bad drawings from a child rather than the nightmarish caricatures they looked like.

"You're back," said the boy in the room, gripping a crayon like a knife and dragging it boldly over a page. "You were at the hospital, too. The others stayed there but you came home with us. And you don't go away when I have the pills."

The boy looked older now, maybe by a year or two, but so very, very unhealthy. His skin was sunken, and his arms were thin, and bags clung to the undersides of his eyes. Those were misted over with a combination of fatigue and hopelessness.

"You look awful," Jaune said, without thinking.

"The tablets make me feel bad," the boy replied. "But mom and dad get angry when I don't take them. Do you see them as well?"

"Your parents?"

"Yes. Their faces." The boy frowned. "Do they have faces for you? Or are they blank like they are for me?"

Jaune was surprised, and wondered whether this was a case of lucid dreaming or actual memory. "Have they always been blank for you?" he asked.

"Hmhm." The boy nodded. "Everyone looks the same apart from hair. But they sound different. Mom says it's a problem with my eyes. Dad says I'm mental, that I'm an idiot. I told them I can see faces when I take the pills," he added, with a sad smile. "But I can't. I just said it because it makes them happy."

"What does your therapist say?"

"My what...?"

"Did they never take you?" Jaune felt a pit in his stomach.

"They don't take me to see anyone. Say I embarrass them. Mom teaches me from books."

"Homeschooling?"

"I guess. Is there another kind of schooling...?"

In a way, it might have been a mercy. Children were cruel to those who were different and Jaune couldn't help but feel this boy would have been bullied relentlessly for something he couldn't control. On the other hand, he should have been taken to the therapist as the doctor suggested. The drugs were meant to be a holdover until a therapist could figure out what was wrong and prescribe more specific ones.

"What's your name?" asked the boy. "Mine is Tyrian."

"Jaune. Jaune Arc. Nice to meet you, Tyrian."

The boy smiled brightly. "No one has ever said that before."

"Well I mean it." Jaune settled down. "Can you see my face by the way?"

"No. Sorry."

"It's fine. I take it you can see what you're drawing."

"Colouring," the boy corrected, like someone much younger than his real age. "I'm colouring in the lines. It makes mom happy. She says I'm creative, that I'll be an artist, that this means I'm a normal boy."

"Do you enjoy it?"

Tyrian shrugged. "It's okay. I like filling the spaces in so everything has a colour and nothing is white. I don't like white. White is boring, and there's no colour or life to it. That's why I hate white clothes."

He was wearing a bright red shirt over blue shorts.

The door to the bedroom slammed open suddenly. A faceless man was there, probably the same from the hospital. Tyrian tensed.

"Who am I?" the man demanded.

"Daddy," said Tyrian.

"Good. Good." The man's voice lost some hostility. "Have you taken your medicine?"

"Yes daddy."

"Show me the packet."

It was not a request. Tyrian scrambled for the blister and showed it to the man, who counted them slowly before nodding. "Good boy. Are there any voices?" Tyrian shook his head. "Do you see any people?"

"No dad," Tyrian lied.

But his eyes met Jaune's briefly.

"Look at me!" the man snapped, grabbing Tyrian's shoulders and shaking him. "What are you looking at!? There's no one else here!"

"I—I was looking at my drawing—"

"LIAR!" The man roared and gripped Tyrian harder, fingers digging into his skin. "DON'T LIE TO ME, BOY! WHO DID YOU SEE? WHAT DO YOU SEE?"

"P—Please," whispered Tyrian. "You're hurting me."

"I'm hurting you?" The man hissed but didn't stop. "You're the one hurting me! Hurting me and your mother! Do you think we want to be afraid to take you out? Do you think we like having people whisper behind our backs? I wanted a son!" he shouted. "I wanted a normal son! Instead, I got you!" The faceless man seethed. "You've done nothing but hurt us, boy!"

"I'm sorry! I'll do better!"

He was being pulled away, then, by another faceless person. The man was dragged out and raised voices sounded in the corridor, shrill and angry. Tyrian immediately scurried to the closet, opened the door and squashed himself inside among changes of clothing and some sneakers. He brought his knees up to his chest and hid in the dark.

"Are you okay?" asked Jaune.

"It's quieter here," the boy whispered. "And dark. It's comfortable."

That comfort was taken away as the door opened and the mother, still lacking a face, drew Tyrian back out. She whispered sweet nothings to him, showing a maternal side that made Jaune feel no small amount of relief. At least someone cared about the boy.

"Dad yelled at you because of me..."

"Your daddy shouts because he cares," she said, taking away some of Jaune's relief. "He gets angry because he loves you. Us." She didn't sound convinced, and there was no way Tyrian believed it. "If he didn't care, he wouldn't get so upset. He's emotional because he loves you, Tyrian. Don't forget that."

"And when he says mean things to you...?"

The woman hesitated. "He's trying to help me improve. Telling me what I'm doing wrong and how I can get better."

Jaune winced. That sounded entirely too dangerous a statement, and wrong on so many levels. Even Tyrian could tell that was off, his face creasing with dislike. It was hard to tell if the mother even believed it, what with most of her emotions being hidden behind a flat expanse of skin that made up her face.

"You just need to give your daddy some time. You're getting better, the pills are fixing you. Once you're fixed, you'll go out and do father-son things together."

"I don't want to..."

"You will," she said, then said, "I like your pictures on the walls. What are they?"

Tyrian sniffed. "Dreams I had."

"Good dreams?"

"Some of them are. I don't remember them well. Maybe they're angels."

"Maybe they are. It's time for your next pill, Tyrian. Your father wants me to make sure you take it." The boy's face twisted miserably but he nodded and opened his mouth. He swallowed no less than six pills, each going down worse than the last, chased by a big glass of water. "That's my little champ," she said once he was done. "Doesn't that feel better?"

Tyrian looked anything but better.

He looked sick.

"Y—Yes mom. I... I feel better... I'm sleepy, though. Can I go to bed...?"

"Of course you can, sweetie."

Tyrian stumbled to the bed and collapsed halfway, almost knocked out by the pills. His faceless mother helped him into the bed and tucked him in, then turned out the lights and left. By the sunlight outside, it definitely wasn't nighttime.

"Jaune," whispered Tyrian. "Are you there...?"

"I'm here."

"I don't feel good, Jaune. I feel like I'm dying."

"You're not, and you won't."

"Mmm. Will you stay with me in case I do?"

Jaune settled down on the bed next to the sleeping boy. "Of course."

"..." Tyrian let out a long breath. "Thank you..."

Glass shattered.

They were in another room. The walls were white – Tyrian's least favourite colour – and the floor and ceiling were white as well. Not padded, but stark white with little to no deviation. There was a single bed, white sheets and mattress on a steel frame, and a boy – now two years older than before – strapped down by a white jacket which was in turn connected by straps of brown leather to the steel bedframe.

Tyrian's eyes were clenched shut and he was whispering something to himself.

"Tyrian...?"

"Jaune?" The boy's eyes snapped open, sunken and hollower than before. The bags under his eyes were even bigger. "You went— No. No, I can't talk to you. They'll know. They'll say I'm seeing things. They'll put the chemicals in me again."

"Calm down. They won't know."

A bolt was shifted, and the door opened. Three people came in, all in white suits, all faceless, all somehow terrifying in the boy's mind. "Mr Callows," said one. "Security says you've begun talking to yourself. Can you by any chance see someone?"

"No!" Tyrian gasped.

"Heart rate elevation and nervous responses," said a woman's voice. "He's experiencing a panic attack."

"Mr Callows, you know you have to tell us when you see things," repeated the first man, with a disappointed sigh. "How can we help you if you do not let us help? Nurse, prepare him for injections. Cancel his planned visits."

"No!" cried Tyrian. "No, no! I've been good! I've been good!"

"This isn't about good or bad, Mr Callows. This is about us helping you." The doctor came over, but Tyrian kicked out and caught him in the stomach, sending the man to the ground. He was still bound to the bed, but Tyrian managed to whip his tail out – for all that the end had a large, white pillow-like attachment on it to stop him harming anyone. "Hold him down!" barked the doctor. "Call security in! Code yellow!"

Four large, faceless men rushed in and wrestled Tyrian back onto the bed, holding him down with a man to each limb. The boy's screams were raw and high-pitched, scratching his throat open as five needles were inserted into him in turn, pumping unknown chemicals into his bloodstream.

The veins in his arms around the incision point seemed to swell.

"Give him an anaesthetic as well," said the doctor, now far less kind. He was rubbing his stomach. "He's easier to deal with when sedated. What are the results looking like?"

"No progress, sir. His condition hasn't improved."

"His father won't like that. Almost as dangerous as the son, I've taken to having security inside when I meet with him. He says he wants the boy back – that he'll find another way to treat him." The doctor shook his head. "I'm tempted to allow it at this point. Nothing we're doing is helping."

"Nothing that man does will help either, sir," the woman pointed out.

"No. But at least then it'll be out of our hands."

Glass shattered.

Jaune was in a car. Tyrian was in the backseat, gripping Jaune's hand tightly. He was shaking. In the front, a man was driving, parking them into an odd-looking carpark in a dark part of what Jaune felt might have been Mistral. Or maybe even Vacuo. It didn't look hi-tech enough for Atlas and the buildings were all wrong for Vale.

"Where are we...?" asked Tyrian.

"The doctor's," his father grunted.

"This isn't our doctor's office..."

"A different doctor. One that is willing to do what needs to be done to help you." The door opened and the man got out, then opened the back door and tugged on Tyrian's shoulder. The boy was yanked out the car. Jaune followed. "Come. This shouldn't take long. You'll feel better after, trust me. Everything will be better."

"Does mom know about this?"

"Don't ask stupid questions." The man dragged him into a shady-looking building. Jaune didn't like it, and he could tell Tyrian didn't. "I know what's best for you, son. This is best. This doctor has helped so many people like you. People who don't see the world right or who can't think straight. He'll fix you."

"But my doctor says I'm not broken. He says there's nothing to be fixed, only that I'm different."

The father grunted. "Well he's wrong about that."

Inside, another man with a frayed white suit stood waiting for them. "Is this my patient?" he asked, in a lisping voice. "Good. Hello, child. I am Doctor Agate. I specialise in the human mind, the brain, and your father has asked me to help you."

Tyrian looked frightened. "Are you a real doctor...?"

The man laughed. "Of course I am! Would you like to see my diploma?"

"This doesn't look like a doctor's office."

"Ah, that's because my work is a little less... let's just say I'm not as funded as other doctors. I deal with very specific problems and very specific treatments, so I don't get as many customers. That's all. But what I do is very important all the same."

"Enough of this," said the father. "Can you help him or not?"

"Of course I can. I just need to do a little trim and a snip-snip." The man made scissor motions around his hair, and yet Jaune didn't believe he was a barber. His blood was ice cold. "Relieve a little pressure, create some space. It's just like pruning a bush, really. And once he's all sewn back up again he'll be as good as new."

Tyrian tried to pull away.

His father didn't let him.

"Daddy," he pleaded. "I want mommy. Please. Let me talk to her."

The father grunted, yanked on Tyrian's arm. "Let's get this over with. Where do you want him? He doesn't like injections, so I'll hold him down while you sedate him."

"Dad no!" cried Tyrian. "Mom, help! Jaune, help me!"

Jaune tried to move but his limbs felt like lead. He'd experienced it in his own dreams, but this was the first time he'd ever felt helpless in someone else's. He couldn't do anything. When he flexed his aura, it barely even responded. It coalesced around him but refused to move outward. It couldn't cling to anything, couldn't change anything.

The brain he was in was non-standard.

Or, more specifically, it had been damaged. Damaged so very badly.

"Stop!" Jaune shouted. "Let him go!"

No one heard him.

"It won't be a long procedure," said the doctor, as Tyrian was strapped to a bed. He picked up an electric razor and began to shave off the boy's long hair. "The skullcap can be removed safely and then I can get at the matter and see what's wrong. You'll be fine, child. Just think of it as going to sleep and – when you wake up – you'll finally be free from this dream you've been trapped in for so long."

Jaune roared as the dream shattered like glass.

But he did not awake.

They were falling again, falling and falling through the air but never reaching the ground. Tyrian was falling beside him, his tears being stricken up by the wind. Jaune knew now what he meant when he'd said he would be falling forever.

The doctor had been wrong; Tyrian had never awakened from his dream.

"Falling forever," the boy cried. "But I want to hit the ground. I want to pop. I want to die. Help me. Mommy, daddy, Jaune. Help me land – even if it kills me. I want to stop falling into madness. I want to stop—"

Cold, ice water struck Jaune across his body.

/-/

"Arghhh!"

Jaune lurched up in the bed, soaked through with his pyjamas clinging to his skin. Ren held the bucket, while Nora had a second and Pyrrha looked terrified beside him. He shivered, but had the presence of mind to notice their horror and say, "What's wrong? What's happened?"

"Is that you?" Pyrrha whispered. "Jaune?"

"It's me. I'm awake. Did... Did something happen while I was using my Semblance?"

"You were thrashing," said Ren. "Crying, weeping, whispering, begging us to kill you – to free you. But the voice wasn't yours. It was like you were possessed." He set the bucket down. Jaune noticed his hands were bone white and shaking. "We couldn't wake you up no matter how hard we tried. This was our last resort."

Jaune swallowed. His head was pounding and he felt sick. Clammy, too.

"Should we call Tsune?"

"No. No, it's fine. What time is it? Can I skip sleep?"

"It's only two hours until morning. We should be able to." Pyrrha made it clear he wouldn't be doing anything alone. "What happened?"

"It was someone's dream. Not someone in Beacon, not with what happened to them. I... I think they were lobotomised. Against their will." Pyrrha and Nora looked horrified, while Ren grimaced and looked sick.

"Could it have just been a nightmare?" Ren asked.

"No. It was a memory. It definitely was. They broke him. He's trapped in his own mind, almost like what you hear of people in a coma." Like Amber. "But aware of it the whole time. I think... I think that must have been him you heard speaking through me." Jaune brought his hands to his face. "It was horrible, and my Semblance felt weaker than ever. I couldn't change anything, couldn't influence anything."

"Your Semblance obviously works on people's brains," said Pyrrha. "If his brain was tampered with or has parts missing..."

"Yeah. That's what I was thinking."

"Do you want to do something about it...?" asked Nora. "We... We could look him up. See if he's a patient somewhere in Vale..."

And do what? Kill him? Free him? It wasn't like they could make that decision for someone else, and no one would accept his reasons for it. Even so, he wanted to know if the boy was alive and well today.

"I... I think I'd like that. If it's okay with you..."

"It's more than fine," said Pyrrha. "We're a team. We'll do this together."

"Thanks guys. Maybe there's nothing we can do for him but... well... closure. You know?"

Ren nodded. "We know. And I don't think we're going to be able to sleep without knowing what happened to him either. What was his name?"

"Tyrian. Tyrian..." He strained for the family name. "Callows, I think. Tyrian Callows."