Baker's Dozen

Chapter 1

"Come on, Jaune-Jaune! Get after him!"

A gentle hand rests on Nora's shoulder, desperate to calm the orange-haired hyperactive as she almost jumps out of her seat. Even with fingers applying more than enough pressure to make it obvious what needs to happen, she's still standing tall and blocking half the audience's view.

"Nora, please. Let him focus."

"Well... a-...."

Every muscle is screaming at her to ignore his words, to burst out into the heavens with a flow of gushing support never-ending, but Ren's firm, commanding tone is just enough to keep her merely bubbling with energy instead of constantly releasing it.

She reluctantly sits down with the rest of NPR, them along with Team RWBY, CFVY, and SSSN watching the blonde of the hour duel with yet another student in the sparring arenas. This field is no stranger for either of them, but especially not to Jaune Arc, who has been here, fought here, and crashed here no less than six dozen times.

At first, losing barely hurt him a bit. After all, not everyone can start off swinging, can they? He knew that as much as anyone. Granted, it was still... not a fun time to get outmatched by every single person he faced, but it was all growing pains. Ones that he would surely come out of better off.

Ten losses in a row? Not too much skin off his back. Pyrrha was there to intervene, trying her absolute hardest, moving heaven and earth to impart upon him all of the knowledge and ability that she had within herself, and for a brief flash, everything seemed to look up.

The failures became less and less overwhelming, the time that he lasted in the ring was stretching longer and longer, and then finally, the dam broke.

Against Cardin, of all people, he got a win. The amount of tension that was relieved in that room on that beautiful Tuesday was enough to shatter every window in the Academy. He could barely even stand, not because of the tiredness that crashed over him after his victory, but because of how much time he spent off the ground as huntsmen and huntresses of all different colors lifted him into a crushing hug.

It was perfect.

Until it wasn't.

He expected to lose again immediately after to someone still far out of his league, what he did not expect to happen was to have the well dry up before he could take another drink out of it.

The losses began to increase once again, that exceptional struggle against what was at the time his greatest nemesis becoming smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror. Another ten were piled up like candy before he even knew it. Then twenty. Thirty.

More and more people were crowding themselves in his corner. The kitchen sink was already being dragged out of the wall as the red auras continued to pop up without mercy.

The year was becoming longer and longer by the day. Jaune would always say it was perfectly fine, and that one day it would all click into place and he would rise faster than a phoenix, but his eyes could never betray his true feelings like his words could. Day after day they were slightly less vibrant. A blue that could once pierce souls was now merely a normal hue.

But at this moment, the end of the year and a long, long break on the horizon, his eyes are grey. They have been almost lifeless for at least the past month, but something inside him was still carrying the torch. Keeping him upright.

—The large swing of Feather's Edge is scraping against his hoodie, mere millimeters away from unwinding the strings and taking the bunny rabbit with it out of his reach. Jaune pops back out with a swipe of his own, the shiny blade of Crocea Mors only just scraping his right arm. He's been out-competed almost from the opening launch. Shield comes up to the top of his chest in waiting for another swipe, and it comes! But not in the way he was expecting. The wide end plate of the halberd, despite his shield successfully keeping back most of the blow from his upper body, still lands a deep hit against his chin, nearly sending him flying up several feet in the air.