Wake Up As Ozpin

Ozpin—no, him, a random guy desperately winging it—was, at this very moment, engaged in a battle of wits with the most dangerous entity in Beacon Academy.

The CCT's automated security system.

He slouched at his desk, staring at the login screen. Ozpin's login screen.

Apparently, headmaster accounts had high-security multi-factor authentication. Which was a problem, because he had exactly zero of the necessary credentials.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

"Okay. Think. If I was an immortal wizard with centuries of paranoia, what would I make my password?"

First attempt: "password123"

Access denied.

"Worth a shot."

Second attempt: "BeaconRules!"

Access denied.

"Okay, maybe he had standards."

Third attempt: "SalemSucks"

Access denied.

"Dammit."

He leaned back, rubbing his temples. He could ask Glynda for help, but that would immediately out him as not Ozpin, which seemed bad.

There had to be a way around this.

He drummed his fingers against the desk, then froze.

The scroll.

He still had Ozpin's scroll—the one he woke up with. And if Ozpin was anything like a normal person (which, questionable), maybe—

He tapped it against the screen.

BEEP.

A loading icon spun.

Then—

"Welcome, Headmaster Ozpin."

He blinked.

"...That worked?"

He let out a slow exhale, resisting the urge to throw his arms up in victory.

Step Seven: Trick the System. Done.

Now, he could finally—

"Wait. What exactly does Ozpin have access to?"

His eyes flicked to the dashboard.

[Welcome, Headmaster Ozpin]System Permissions:

— Mission Assignments (GRANTED)

— Student Records (GRANTED)

— Faculty Oversight (GRANTED)

— Global Communication Lines (GRANTED)

— Classified Ozpin-Only Files (RESTRICTED)

…Oh.

That last one caught his attention.

He clicked on it.

Immediately, a second authentication screen popped up.

Ah. Of course. Immortal paranoia.

The login field was labeled: "Personal Verification - Voice Required"

Below it, a prompt:

"Speak the Authorization Phrase."

His stomach dropped.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me."

He had to guess what Ozpin's magic phrase was?

His mind raced.

He leaned forward, cleared his throat, and—

"Would you like a cookie?"

ACCESS DENIED.

"…Worth a shot."

—

Step Eight: Ignore the Problem Until It's a Problem.

With classified files off the table, he moved on to something useful.

Student Records.

He pulled up the list of incoming first-years, scanning for a familiar name—

And there she was.

Ruby Rose.

Age: 15.

Hometown: Patch.

Combat School: Signal Academy.

Accepted into Beacon via personal recommendation from Professor Ozpin.

He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Right. I did that. Well, Ozpin did that. But I'm Ozpin now, so—"

Wait.

He scrolled down.

"Scheduled Meeting: Ruby Rose – Today, 4:00 PM."

He checked the time.

3:59 PM.

His entire soul left his body.

There was a knock at the door.

A very hesitant, uncertain knock.

Oh god.

She was here.

His first, real interaction with the main cast.

Ozpi paused, feeling a headache. Was this the first? 

He snapped out of that feeling pretty quick, chalking it up to anxiety.

He needed to focus. 

He had exactly zero seconds to prepare.

He straightened his posture, smoothed his suit, and did his best to channel Mysterious Wise Old Man Energy™.

"Come in," he called, voice perfectly calm.

The door creaked open.

And there she was.

Ruby Rose.

Smaller than he expected, awkwardly shuffling into the office with wide silver eyes.

"Uh. Hi?" she tried.

He nodded sagely. "Miss Rose. Please, have a seat."

She did, looking around like she wasn't entirely sure if she was in trouble or not.

Which, to be fair, same.

"Um," Ruby started, fidgeting. "Am I in trouble?"

His lips twitched. "That depends. Do you believe you should be?"

Her eyes widened. "No?!"

"Then no," he said simply.

Ruby stared.

He could have made this easy. He could have just explained why he called her here.

But no.

He was Ozpin.

And Ozpin, if nothing else, was cryptic as hell.

He folded his hands. "Miss Rose, tell me—why do you wish to become a Huntress?"

She perked up, as if she'd been expecting this one. "Oh! Well, I want to be like my mom. And help people! And, y'know, fight monsters and stuff—"

She paused.

Her brows furrowed.

"Wait… Didn't you already ask me this?"

…Crap.

She was right. He'd technically already given her the You're Special™ speech shortly after the Dust shop incident.

He recovered instantly. "Ah, but Miss Rose, such questions are not answered once, but many times throughout our lives."

Ruby blinked. "Oh. That… makes sense?"

He resisted the urge to fist-pump.

Ozpin kept up his indifferent facade, wondering what this meeting was even for.

Step Nine: Just Keep Talking Until They Think You're Smart.

—

Step Ten: End the Meeting Before You Run Out of Bullsh*t.

He steepled his fingers. "Miss Rose, your acceptance into Beacon is, as you know, rather… unconventional."

She fidgeted. "Yeah."

"I do not doubt your skill," he continued, tone thoughtful. "But skill alone is not what defines a Huntress."

Ruby frowned. "Then what does?"

His brain scrambled for an answer.

Then, out of nowhere, a genuine thought struck him.

"Oh. That's actually a good question."

Huntresses weren't just fighters. They were symbols. Hope for the people of Remnant. Shields between civilization and the Grimm.

And Ruby?

She was going to be that hope.

But right now, she was just a nervous kid in front of a scary headmaster.

His expression softened, just slightly. "That is something you must answer for yourself, in time."

Ruby bit her lip. "…I'll figure it out."

He nodded. "I believe you will."

The tension in her shoulders eased.

And just like that, the meeting was over.

He rose from his chair, offering a small smile. "Welcome to Beacon, Miss Rose." Saying those words Ozpin felt deja vu, swearing to himself he'd already had this conversation before.

Ruby, oblivious, brightened instantly. "Thanks, Headmaster!"

With that, she scurried out the door, practically bouncing.

He waited until she was gone.

Then slumped into his chair, utterly drained.

"That went well? I think? Maybe?"

He sighed, running a hand down his face.

Step Eleven: Hope She Doesn't Question Any of That Later.