Wake Up As Ozpin

Morning came too fast.

Ozpin groggily opened his eyes, vaguely aware that something was wrong.

For one, his bed felt... too firm.

For another, he was freezing.

His brain, still catching up, sent out a single, urgent alert:

This is not your bed.

His cheek was pressed against polished wood. His limbs were stiff. A slight draft brushed over him.

Slowly—very slowly—he lifted his head.

He was at his desk.

Still in his suit.

Still in his office.

Still not in a proper bed.

The realization hit him like a freight train.

"I fell asleep at my desk."

Alone, in the quiet of his office, the words sounded almost judgmental.

As if the room itself was disappointed.

His gaze drifted toward the couch against the wall. A perfectly good couch. Soft. Comfortable. Meant for reclining.

And yet, somehow, he—a supposedly intelligent man—had chosen to sleep hunched over like a man waiting for death.

Pathetic.

I'm going to have back problems.

With a groan, he sat up, rolling his shoulders. A slight crack echoed through the room.

His body, apparently, had several complaints.

"Noted," he muttered. "Better sleep arrangements required."

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he turned toward the window. The sun was already rising. Students would be waking soon. The day would begin.

And he—Beacon's all-knowing, ever-mysterious headmaster—had no idea what he was supposed to be doing.

—

Step Seventeen: Fake It Until You Make It

Ozpin strode through the halls of Beacon Academy, radiating an aura of calm confidence.

On the outside? He was the picture of composed authority.

On the inside?

What am I doing what am I doing what am I doing—

He had woken up late (because sleeping at his desk was a horrible idea), barely had time for coffee (a crime), and now found himself wandering the halls pretending he had some grand purpose.

He did not.

Which led to a crucial realization:

He needed a schedule.

Preferably one that told him where to be, when to be there, and how not to look like a lost child in his own school.

Luckily, Beacon was big.

And big meant staff.

And staff meant—

"Ozpin."

—Glynda.

Fantastic.

He turned smoothly, meeting her expectant stare with his most practiced, unreadable expression. "Professor Goodwitch."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you heading to the combat trials?"

Pause.

Combat trials.

Combat.

Trials.

What.

"Ah," he said, stalling.

Her expression remained neutral, but he could feel the judgment.

"…Yes."

Please let that be the right answer.

She nodded. "Good. The first-year applicants have been waiting."

Another pause.

Another realization.

Oh right. The initiation.

The one where students literally got launched into the sky.

Where they were expected to land in a deadly forest and immediately start fighting for survival.

Where Ozpin—the supposedly wise and enigmatic headmaster—would be monitoring their every move.

Live.

In real-time.

With commentary.

Oh no.

—

Step Eighteen: Learn to Love Bullshitting

Ten minutes later, he was standing in Beacon's monitoring room, watching as teenagers were catapulted into the wilderness.

He took a sip of coffee, contemplating his life choices.

"Are you sure this is ethical?" he murmured.

Glynda didn't even blink. "It's tradition."

"Ah."

That was not an answer.

But also?

Not his problem.

His job—apparently—was to stand here, watch the screens, and make insightful observations like an all-knowing cryptid.

Easy.

He cleared his throat.

"Miss Rose has excellent mid-air control," he said, nodding as Ruby adjusted her trajectory.

Glynda glanced at him.

"…You've been saying that for the past five students."

He froze.

Had he?

Crap.

Time for another generic headmaster line.

"Yes, well," he said smoothly, "it is important to recognize the potential in all students."

A pause.

Glynda sighed.

He took another sip of coffee.

Bullshitting success: 10/10.

—

Step Nineteen: Avoid Looking Like an Idiot for the Rest of the Day

The initiation continued. Students paired up. Fights broke out. The usual chaos.

Ozpin nodded along, offering the occasional vague remark.

By the time the last team was formed, he had two thoughts:

He had definitely gotten away with faking it.He was so glad he hadn't been expected to fight today.

Because, fun fact:

Despite being Ozpin—THE Ozpin—he had no idea how to actually use his combat skills.

None.

Zero.

Zilch.

And eventually, someone was going to find out.

…That was a problem for future him.

For now, he just kept drinking his coffee, nodding like a wise old headmaster.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.