This story arose from some strange ideas I had. Not all of those work in hindsight. Oh well. Maybe I'm too hard on myself.

Chapter 1: Woes

Ebon sat alone in the gloomy office. A ring of sweat dotted his brow, and his sweaty fingers gripped the mouse tightly. He refreshed the page one last time, but the glaring red numbers on the screen didn't budge. A small beep sounded: midnight. The digital calendars rolled over to a new month, and the ledgers became blank.

And that was the end of it. The servers had already recorded the month's sales, or lack thereof. The month of poor business couldn't have come at a worse time, either, with that ginger bastard bugging him about getting his money back. There was a reason most respectable businesses didn't deal with loan sharks like him, but the company had no choice. He had charged them twice the rate that the most avaricious bank would, and expected it back in a month, too. He even had the nerve to drop some none-too-subtle threats about what would happen if it wasn't paid off.

Ebon pulled up his most recent email. Although addressed to him, the bastard thought it would be real funny to forward it to the entire company, to show how little control Ebon had over their situation. He still had no idea where the man had gotten their mailing list.

From: #33461ValeMail

To: #EbonVFDMail

CC: noreply-mailinglistVFDMail

Subject: The Last Day

Ebon,

I have been so generous to you. More than generous. Exceedingly generous. Well, apparently it wasn't good enough. I'm sorry that my benevolence couldn't dig your company out of the shitter. It's not your fault, really, that the wheels of industry no longer turn in Vale. What a travesty. Oh, the papers will scream and shout about another local industry failing. Your employees will return home with their heads slumped and their wallets empty, cursing Atlas, the Vale council, and maybe even you. But at the end of the day, you'll be fine. All of you can seek new employment wherever and whenever you want, and VFD will be nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

I, on the other hand, will not be stumbling away with unpleasant memories. Rather, I'll be addressing the giant hole your idiocy has burnt in my pocket. You may not have the money to pay me, but you'd be a fool to think you can walk away having done nothing but take my money and beg for extensions. You've known this was coming. If you have some money of your own, squirreled away in Vacuo, perhaps, then maybe you can redeem yourself. Pay me. Today. If you don't…

I've got some friends of mine willing to fill the blank.

Your friend and business partner,

Roman Torchwick

Ebon bit his lip. There was no way the creep would follow through on his threat. Mr. Torchwick fancied himself a mob boss, but he sure wasn't one. He was just a rich and egotistical joke. Lenders take losses, went the saying. A courtroom would be his first destination the next day, to trounce the little shit over his unfair and coercive loan. But the red lines on their balance sheet reminded him of the harsh reality. The man was right. The loan wasn't even their real problem, it was mounting debts and sales in a never-ending slump.

The correct thing to do would have been to file bankruptcy, not borrow money, but he was under so much pressure from the government and the Council not to. Vale was on the verge of ceding the industry to Atlas, like they already had for weaponry, cars, and most recently processed food. If the Vale Fine Dust Corporation collapsed, it would be the fourth of its kind to do so this year. Once the domestic wholesalers closed, shops would have no choice but to purchase imported dust from Atlas, at great expense. They would need to raise prices, which many citizens couldn't afford. Worse, it would leave the Kingdom helpless if Atlas ever turned against them.

And with times being what they were, that seemed more and more likely. Hostility between the Kingdoms was growing, and it was becoming increasingly unclear what their future relationship would be. Previously, the threat of Grimm was too severe for the Kingdoms to waste precious lives and materials squabbling with each other. Now, that all seemed to be changing. Atlas' new military technology should have been a resource that all benefited from, but it instead became a wedge that drove them apart. While the other Kingdoms each had their own technologies, as well as exclusive materials the others relied on, the technical disparity between them and Atlas was growing. A social divide was being created as well. Only their shared communication across the CCT system kept them connected.

Some people in Vale pointed at Atlas as the source of their problems and demanded an explanation. Dust-related sabotage and robbery had been at an all time high lately but were mysteriously absent in Atlas. In several stores, the robbers had spray-painted the Atlas insignia on the walls. Atlas claimed the lack of robberies was due to their better security, and the insignias were just crude attempts to frame them.

Supporters of Atlas's explanation were frequently demonized, but Ebon had to admit they were probably right. The scale was simply too small, and the evidence too muddy. Still, their answer didn't explain the uptick in crime, nor did it pacify civilians frustrated with Atlas's withholding of crucial defensive and industrial machines. Ebon turned off his computer, letting his worries fade away with the monitor's light. He started to nod off in his chair, the few minutes walk to his car seeming so far away. So much for Torchwick's 'surprise'. Then he heard the slight click of his office doorknob being turned, followed by the creak of the door.

Then he heard the slight click of his office doorknob being turned, followed by the creak of the door.

"What the hell?" Ebon yelled, flicking on a desk lamp. He yanked his chair out from under his desk and shoved his feet into his shoes. Then something pressed against his throat.

His eyes flicked down and froze. A razor-thin stiletto was being held against his neck. It was so close he was scared that a mere exhale would cause it to slice into his skin. His heart began to palpitate as the pressure on his trachea increased.

"Easy there," said a dry, heartless voice. "Em, make sure that she doesn't spill the poor man's guts everywhere. This is a nice carpet."

Ebon's scream was reduced to a gurgle as the stiletto severed his throat, silencing him. In desperation, he grabbed at the bloody hash that was his throat with his hands. It was no use. His vision swam and sunk to the floor. The last thing he saw was the cruel smile of a narrow, feminine face as it winked and turned away.

A few minutes later, three people were recorded exiting the Vale Fine Dust company headquarters. Their hands were tucked in their pockets. Dressed in grey and black sweatshirts and pants, they walked side by side in a straight line across the road. With their bodies turned away from the camera and their heads covered by hoods, they had no distinguishing features to speak of except for their builds, and even those were partially obscured by their bulky clothes.

In the middle of the road, one of them paused. They twisted around, their face still concealed by shadow, and gave the camera a slow, mocking wave. The two others pulled them away. Across the street was an unmarked black sedan. It was relatively new and nice-looking, but not enough that it attracted attention. The three assassins got into it, making no hurry to start it. The car drove away slowly, as if to mock the lack of pursuit, and vanished into the winding streets of Vale.

It was always raining by the docks. Sheets of water poured from the low-hanging clouds, sweeping puddles of filthy oil from the machine shops into the street. The ancient streetlamps were cracked and bent, and they emitted a sputtering glare as the water seeped around them.

The Sailor's Respite on West Hayes street wasn't a place you visited by choice. The grimy pub survived on location only, providing a place for exhausted dock workers to down a few cheap drinks and gossip before turning in for the night. At 1 o'clock in the morning, it was still bustling with activity. The street wasn't known for its nightlife, and its atmosphere was eerie, silent but for the rain beating on tin roofs. These traits gave the street a reputation as a meeting place for thieves, lowlifes, and worse. A reputation that, while exaggerated, was not completely unfounded. A black car turned onto it, and from there into a side alley.

A girl got out of the car and pulled up the hood of her jacket to cover her short, green hair. Her face was tight, her jaw clenched, her cheeks sucked in, and her eyes downcast. She was a thief, not a murderer. Not even an accessory to one. If she ever had to do a job like that again, she'd stay in the car—or better yet, not go at all. Even calling it a murder was a euphemism. It was a butchery.

"Something up, Em?" said Mercury. "I'm not used to seeing you so damn quiet."

"Can it, Merc," she said. "Let's just get this over with."

"Whatever," Mercury scoffed. His silver-grey hair was soaked and matted on his head. "Neo," he asked, "If you're not going to use your umbrella, mind if I borrow it? I'll even wash some of the blood off."

Neo, standing in the shadows of the building, smirked and tucked it away.

"It's a parasol, stupid," Emerald explained, tired of their bickering. "It's for sun, not rain."

He shrugged. "Why the hell does she carry it then? Vale gets plenty of rain this time of year."

Emerald didn't have an answer, and that meant it was the end of the matter. "Ask her yourself."

"Hah."

After the dark and drizzly street, the interior of The Sailor's Respite was warm and inviting, if a bit dilapidated. The three criminals welcomed the escape from the cold. The pub was divided into three sections, with a bar, a line of tables set against the wall, and a circle of booths up against the back. The songs, rousing cheers, and jokes of the pub's patrons had died down long ago. They sat hunched over their drinks, occasionally muttering to each other.

A tall, swarthy faunus stood behind the bar. His tail swished nervously from side to side. "You're the party of three?" he said. "There's a round of drinks ready for you, courtesy of the red-haired fella in the back. But you look a little on the young side. A lot, actually." He gestured to Neo.

"Hey!" Emerald said. "Not all of us grew up to be regular giants, you know. She's just a little...vertically challenged, that's all."

A common opinion for people to have of Neo, who had long since stopped growing. In such a public place, she had to rely on Emerald's charm.

The bartender considered. It wasn't like he gave a shit about the law. But if the girl really was underage, the blame would be on him.

"Fine," he said at last, "I'll believe you. But one round only. Don't make me regret this." He slid their drinks across the counter.

Emerald normally avoided alcohol, but she accepted the glass anyway. It had been a hell of a night, and refusing it after lobbying on her friend's behalf would have looked strange. At least the beer was small and didn't have anything swimming in it. She had half-expected that in a place this dirty.

Torchwick was waiting for them in the back. The normally flamboyant man had taken some steps to be unobtrusive, swapping his usual white coat for a black one and tucking his fiery hair into his bowler.

"Mercury. Em. Dearest Neo," Torchwick said. "Please sit. Let's have a chat, shall we?"

Only Emerald sat down. "You're not paying me to take your bullshit, Roman," she said. "I'm here to collect."

"I second that," said Mercury.

Neo held up three fingers.

"Cute." Torchwick leaned on one elbow. "Not in the mood to talk?" he said, then lowered his voice. "Did you kill him or not?"

"We did," said Mercury, "And with the mess that little psychopath—" he pointed at Neo "—left behind, expect plenty of talk tomorrow."

Neo smiled innocently.

"Good," Roman said. "The more publicity surrounding this, the more shock, the better. Did you complete the carving?"

Emerald looked at her feet. That was the part she was least comfortable with. "Yeah. But what was the point of that anyway? Couldn't we have just written it on the wall or something?"

Roman grinned. "What would be the fun in that? But, if you must know, it was a condition of my employer. They're the reason you—and I—get paid."

He picked up his briefcase and placed it on the table, turning it so it would face away from the rest of the pub while opened. Emerald and her companions stared at it. Cracking his knuckles dramatically, Torchwick clicked open the silver clasps and raised the lid. He smirked as his henchmen saw the rows of bills stacked inside.

"Two hundred grand," Roman chuckled. He was grinning from ear to ear. "Not bad for just one target, especially an unarmed, isolated one. You're getting forty each."

Emerald stared at the money. Too much money for something so simple and so unjust, and yet somehow not enough. Forty thousand lien was enough to pay for a real apartment for twelve months. Or she could save it, apply it toward her impossible dream of one day attending a combat school.

Roman snapped the briefcase closed. "I'd lay low tomorrow," he cautioned. "Just in case. Back to regular jobs once this blows over."

Emerald was relieved at the return to the familiar. Pickpocketing, burglary, vandalism, and maybe a dash of sabotage. Anything but this.

James Ironwood strode down the tapestried hallway, pausing before an unassuming door. He walked with the confidence of routine, although this meeting was anything but. Trailing at his heels was a short, grey-haired scientist, Doctor Bran, who he was accompanying for the meeting. James disliked his own stays in Atlas greatly, as they seemed to consistent of being shuttled between various offices and individuals he couldn't care less about.

This time, however, James cared. Not so much about Mr. Bran himself but rather the project he was in charge of. A project—although for a long time he had forgotten about it—that he had a personal stake in. He hesitated a moment, then rapped on the wooden frame. "It's James," he said in a loud voice.

"Can this wait?" a voice answered. It sounded tired and distant.

"Apparently not, sir," he said. "Doctor Bran here assured me you would want to hear about his breakthrough."

"Doctor Bran? Which department is that?"

The general stooped down as the scientist whispered in his ear. "Military Research, sir," Ironwood said, straightening up. "Something about Aura."

The door opened, revealing a spacious antique office. Jacques Schnee, the head of the most powerful family in Atlas, stood inside it. "You'd better come in."

The buzz of her scroll jolted Weiss from her sleep. For a moment she lay still, barely registering the noise. Eventually, she groggily rolled over and accepted the message.

"Attention, Miss Schnee," said a pleasant robotic voice. "A new event has been added to your schedule: Meeting with Mr. Schnee at 9:30 AM. Location: Southeast Office. Status: Mandatory. This item was added by user: Jacques Schnee. Thank you." The details of the meeting flashed onto her scroll as the message ended.

So this is what it had come to. Her own dad, needing to use the scroll to say he wanted to talk to her. She did want to talk to him, but not in such a formal way. And why a meeting? Why not a, say, friendly chat? Like a normal parent, which he claimed he wanted to be.

Weiss stood up and shivered. One of the downsides of living in a drafty castle was that central heating could only do so much. The family home seemed as different from the buildings in Atlas as possible. Instead of steel, glass, and concrete, the Schnee family home was comprised of rough-hewn blocks of basalt and granite. Wood paneling, imported from Vacuo, completed the medieval look.

Idly, she questioned the choice in design. Her father would probably explain it as a statement of power, wealth, and tradition. It certainly accomplished that, but she wondered if there was a deeper reason. Did her dad ever grow tired of Atlas's technology, industry, and militaristic conformity? Was the castle—which had been constructed only twenty years earlier—his way of escaping all of that? It sure seemed that way. Other than necessities like ventilation, not a square inch of metal was visible. Even the industrial kitchen and laundry facilities were tucked away behind solid wood doors, where her dad never had to see them.

Weiss put on her slippers and walked to the massive extruding window. She drew the curtain and sat down on the sill. Through the light flurries of snow, Atlas could be seen. It was just close enough that you couldn't forget it was there. She wondered if that was intentional, too.

But it made no sense. If her father wanted out of it sometimes, why did he judge her for wanting the same?

Putting her emotions and unanswered questions aside, she walked over to her closet. Her first instinct was to wear something contrary, rebellious even. But she always did that. It no longer made any impression on her father or anyone else.

Perhaps she should switch it up then, and wear what was proper for a formal meeting. Today she was going to appeal to her dad, and that meant she had to give a little. In more ways than one. Closing her eyes in defeat, she pulled out the intricate blue dress she had dreaded wearing since she got it. Or more accurately, since her father got it for her.

O.K., maybe she was giving a lot. She quickly finished dressing, then spent a few minutes tweaking her hair again. One final, longing glance out the window, and she was ready to leave. Weiss opened her door and was pleasantly surprised to find Klein waiting outside. The portly butler was the one person she was glad to see.

"Miss Schnee," he said, sounding a little unsettled, "you've made yourself quite presentable today."

She gave him a genuine smile, her first in weeks. "Thank you, Klein."

He cleared his throat. "It's not my business to ask, but is there a reason for this change?"

"Really Klein, it's fine," Weiss said, blushing. She liked it when Klein spoke to her normally. "I wore this because...I felt it would be more effective, that's all."

The jovial man nodded. "Well, Little Snowflake, Whitley is eating in the main hall. You may join him if you like."

"I'll consider it," she replied, even though she knew she wouldn't. At least she had an excuse for avoiding her pretentious brother today. Her father awaited her.

Penny's ears awakened first, catching threads of conversation that flowed around her as she lay dormant. The voices were distant and slightly distorted, not distinguishable from each other, but at least two people were talking.

"—cardiovascular emulation is stable, despite—"

"—functionality should be left—"

"—but the safety of the mainframe—"

"—can't. It's already been set in motion. Now that—"

"—wants results and we have them—"

A river of words drifted above her. They were louder now, and they hurt her head. Where was her head? Did she have a head?

"—rather we didn't lie to him outright. Tell him we need more time. He understands the scope—"

"—this is all in the future—"

"—need the future now."

"—brain simulations have started. If she's ready to wake up, she will."

"—hope so. You understand the risks? If it fails, then—"

"Yes."

There was silence, then blinding light, then shadow with light around the edges. A person was standing over her. He was smiling.

Smiling, she thought. This man is my friend.

"Penny?" her friend said. His voice sounded deep and far away. "If you can hear me, say something."

Say something.

Her mouth clicked open, tinny voice coming from within. "Sal-u-tations! My name is Penny Polendina. It's a pleasure to meet you."

I'm sorry the perspective changed so many times this chapter. It's partially a side effect of the large narrative cast (of which you only met a few of this chapter), but I will tone it down in the future. Thank you for reading. I appreciate feedback, so drop a review or PM me if you feel more comfortable. Chapter uploads will be every other Thursday night, with occasional exceptions.

Note:

I often use the term "huntsmen" to refer to both men, women, and anyone else because it sounds better than saying "huntsmen and huntresses" every time. Saying "hunters" just doesn't sound right.