Hello. My name is Jaune Arc. I guess you could say I'm a normal Joe on the world of Remnant, a world of Grim and Huntresses. I'm just an everyday guy, someone who probably looks familiar to you. Right now, I'm walking down the street to the store with my usual groceries on my back. Why don't I use plastic bags? Because they're wasteful, and I have perfectly good bags on my back and in my left hand. I just bought my normal groceries, enough food to feed me for a month: meat, grains, lots of it, water, and the other stuff I use in my diet. I like to keep myself healthy. Can't be too careful in a world like Remnant.
The walk back to my apartment is uneventful, the afternoon sun casting long shadows as I make my way through the familiar streets. I pass by Mrs. Gable's bakery, the sweet scent of pastries wafting out, and give a nod to Mr. Henderson, the old clockmaker, who's sweeping the sidewalk in front of his shop. Everything is ordinary, peaceful.
Then, everything changes.
I'm just a few blocks from my place when it happens. One moment, I'm putting one foot in front of the other, my bags slightly heavy but manageable, and the next, the ground in front of me shimmers, a ripple in reality. A portal, I realize, or at least, that's the only word I can think of to describe the swirling vortex of light and energy that suddenly appears.
Before I can even react, two figures appear on the other side. One is a man, tall and lean, with striking blue hair that seems to glow, and the other is a kid, maybe ten or eleven, with a mop of brown hair and wide, startled eyes. They're holding some kind of... weapons? They look like guns, but sleeker, more advanced. Then, a blast of energy, a stray shot, I think, and the portal seems to... widen, to suck at me.
I yell, drop my bags, and try to backpedal, but it's no use. The pull is too strong. It's like being caught in a riptide, only instead of water, it's space and time itself. I flail, my arms windmilling, but I'm dragged inexorably towards the swirling light. The last thing I see before I'm completely engulfed is the shocked expressions on the faces of the blue-haired man and the kid.
Then, darkness.
When I open my eyes again, I'm... somewhere else. The familiar red-tiled roofs and cobblestone streets of Vale are gone. Instead, I'm standing on a metal walkway, surrounded by towering structures of glass and steel that seem to pierce the sky. Flying vehicles zip past, leaving trails of light in their wake. The air hums with an otherworldly energy. The city sprawls before me, a dazzling, dizzying display of neon signs, holographic advertisements, and architectural marvels that defy gravity. It's like something out of a dream, or maybe, a nightmare. My breath hitches in my throat. Where the hell am I?
I stand there, blinking in stunned silence. I slowly take a tentative step, then another, my boots clanging softly on the metal grating of the walkway. I start to walk around the place, my head swiveling, taking in the sights. The city is alive, that's undeniable. People move with purpose, talking into devices embedded in their ears, their clothing a strange mix of practical and... well, impractical, with lots of exposed skin and glowing accents. I can feel the press of bodies, hear the chatter of a thousand conversations, smell the exhaust of the flying vehicles mixed with the tantalizing aroma of food stalls.
But beneath the vibrant surface, I sense an underlying wrongness. The people's eyes seem... vacant, their smiles strained. They move with a kind of desperate energy, as if they're running from something, or towards nothing at all. It's like... they're alive, yes, but they also feel... dead. A shiver runs down my spine. "I see a world that just looks dead," I mutter to myself, my voice barely audible above the city's cacophony. "A world that doesn't know it's already dead, yet maybe..."
I continue to walk, my grip tightening on the straps of my backpack, the weight of my untouched groceries a stark reminder of the life I've left behind. As I move through the crowded streets, I can't help but notice a peculiar detail. Most of the people around me are... women. Beautiful, striking women, with an almost aggressive edge to their beauty. I see very few men, here and there, but they're vastly outnumbered, an anomaly that makes me increasingly uneasy. Where are they all?
I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched. I can feel eyes on me, not hostile, but... predatory? Curious? I keep my head down, trying to blend in, but my bright blonde hair and bulky backpack make me stand out like a sore thumb. I overhear snippets of conversations, strange words and phrases I don't understand, but the tone is universal: hurried, anxious, hungry.
A holographic advertisement flickers to life above me, a stunningly beautiful woman with glowing cybernetic eyes promoting some product I can't identify. Her voice, amplified by the city's speakers, is smooth and seductive, but it sends another shiver down my spine. It feels... artificial, like a snake charming its prey.
I walk for what feels like hours, the city stretching out before me like an endless labyrinth of metal and light. My feet ache, my head throbs, and the weight of my backpack is starting to feel unbearable. I need to find somewhere to rest, to get my bearings, but I don't even know where to start. Every street looks the same, a dizzying array of towering skyscrapers, neon signs, and bustling crowds.
"This place is insane," I mutter, half to myself, half to whatever gods might be listening. "Where the hell am I?"
Eventually, I stumble upon a park, a small patch of green amidst the metal and concrete. It's not exactly peaceful, with the city's noise still echoing around me, but it's better than the crowded streets. I find an empty bench and gratefully sink down, the heavy backpack sliding off my shoulders with a thud. I sit there for a while, just watching the people mill about. They're still talking, still moving, still...existing, but there's an emptiness in their eyes that chills me to the bone. And yeah, it's mostly women. Beautiful, sure, but there's a hardness to their beauty, a predatory glint that makes me distinctly uncomfortable.
The whole scene is starting to get to me. The alien city, the strange people, the oppressive feeling in the air... it's all too much. I feel a familiar anxiety bubbling up inside me, the kind I usually manage to keep under control. Back home, when things get overwhelming, I do the only thing that helps.
I reach into my backpack and pull out my guitar. It's a battered old thing, but it's mine, and the familiar weight of it in my hands is a small comfort. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and start to play. The chords are simple, a melancholic melody that I've played a thousand times before. Then, I start to sing.
"I was thinking 'bout her, thinking 'bout me
Thinking 'bout us, what we gon' be
Open my eyes, yeah, it was only just a dream
So I traveled back down that road
Will she come back? No one knows
I realize, yeah, it was only just a dream
I was at the top and now it's like I'm in the basement
Number one spot and now she find her a replacement
I swear now I can't take it, knowing somebody's got my baby
And now you ain't around, baby, I can't think
I should've put it down, should've got the ring
'Cause I can still feel it in the air
See her pretty face, run my fingers through her hair
My lover, my life, my shawty, my wife
She left me, I'm tight
'Cause I knew that it just ain't right..."
It's a song about loss, about a bad dream. A stupid dream. I sing it with as much emotion as I can muster, pouring all my fear and confusion into the words. It's a raw, untrained voice, but it's honest, and it's mine.
As I sing, I notice that some of the people passing by are starting to stop and listen. They're not clapping or cheering, but they're... watching. Their expressions are unreadable, but they're definitely paying attention. I keep singing, the music filling the small park, pushing back against the oppressive silence of the city. I sing because, in some stupid, desperate part of my mind, I think that if I sing it loud enough, long enough, I can drown out this nightmare. That I'll open my eyes and find myself back in Vale, walking home with my groceries, and this will all just be a bad, bad dream.
When the song ends, I open my eyes. The crowd has grown. There are maybe twenty or thirty people now, standing at the edge of the park, their faces turned towards me. The setting sun casts long shadows, giving the scene an even more surreal quality. I take a deep breath and try to sound more confident than I feel. "It's... it's all just a bad dream," I say, the words directed at no one in particular, but loud enough for everyone to hear. "Yeah," I repeat, a little louder. "A bad dream. So please, just... wait for it to go away. Because it's always bright on the other side."
And then, because I don't know what else to do, I start to sing again. This time, the crowd is even larger, a mix of women and a few men, all watching me with rapt attention. I can feel their eyes on me, but it's not as unsettling as before. There's a… a hunger in their gaze, yes, but also something else. A kind of… longing? Connection?
I decide to go with a different song, something with a bit more energy, a bit more... life. I start to strum the opening chords, and as I do, I can't help but move with the music. A little sway of my hips, a tap of my foot, nothing too fancy, but enough to give the performance a bit more... flair.
"Dear future wife
Here's a few things
You need to know if you wanna be
My one and only all my life
Take me on a date
I deserve it, babe
And don't forget the flowers every anniversary
'Cause if you treat me right
I'll be the perfect wife
Buying groceries
Buy-buying what you need
You got that "9 to 5"
But, baby, so do I
So don't be thinking I'll be home and baking apple pies
I never learned to cook
But I can write a hook
Sing along with me
Sing-sing along with me
You gotta know how to treat me like a lady
Even when I'm acting crazy
Tell me everything's alright
Dear future wife,
Here's a few things
You'll need to know if you wanna be
My one and only all my life
Dear future wife,
If you wanna get that special lovin'
Tell me I'm beautiful each and every night
After every fight
Just apologize
And maybe then I'll let you try and rock my body right
Even if I was wrong
You know I'm never wrong
Why disagree?
Why, why disagree?"
As I sing, I put a bit more into it, my voice stronger, more confident. I even throw in a little spin, a small flourish with the guitar. The crowd seems to like it. A few of them are tapping their feet, and some of the women are actually smiling. It's… it's a good feeling. A feeling I haven't felt since… well, since before I got here.
Unbeknownst to me, nearly everyone in the park is recording my performance with their scroll-like devices. The crystal-clear quality of the recordings captures not just the sound of my voice and the melody of my guitar, but also the way I move, the expression on my face, the subtle shifts in my body language as I pour my heart into the song.
Later, those recordings would spread like wildfire across the city, and then across the world. In a world where affection had become a rare and precious commodity, the women who saw the videos found themselves drawn to Jaune in a way they couldn't quite explain. It wasn't just his voice, though the rich, warm timbre resonated deep within their souls, stirring feelings they had long since buried. It wasn't just his face, though his handsome features, with those striking blue eyes and sun-kissed blonde hair, were the kind they'd only seen in ancient holovids. And it wasn't just his movements, though the way he swayed and moved with the music spoke of a confidence and passion that was both alluring and deeply comforting.
It was everything combined. It was the way he seemed so utterly present in his performance, the way he poured his heart out as if each and every one of them was the sole focus of his song. He was handsome, yes, but there was a vulnerability to him, a sincerity that cut through the layers of artifice and left them feeling... seen. He was like a dream, a fantasy of a man who was both strong and gentle, a man who could sing to them like that and look at them with such warmth in his eyes. They found themselves rewatching the videos, not as commentators or critics, but as women aching for something they hadn't realized they were missing. With each view, the image of this man, this Jaune Arc, became more deeply imprinted in their minds, a symbol of a longing they barely dared to acknowledge.
The videos sparked a quiet revolution. Women who had grown accustomed to a world of transactional encounters and fleeting connections found themselves yearning for something more. They watched the videos in private, in quiet moments stolen from their busy lives, and allowed themselves to imagine what it would be like to be the object of such a performance.