A Pack of Wolves
Whitley entered Father's office with his head held high, even though he'd hardly slept last night and his eyes felt like they were about to fall out of his head. There had been more to do since he'd earned his inheritance—his tutors had stepped up the difficulty of their material, and he had other duties as well. He oversaw all executive decisions for a small mine in Mantle, managed some less important stocks, looked through financial reports for missing details, things of that nature. He'd been waking up at five in the morning and often going to bed past midnight. It was worth it, he knew it was, but when he opened the door and saw Father's expression he knew he'd been slipping.
"Sit." Whitley sat, folding his hands in his lap and doing his best to keep his back straight. Father looked him over. He tried not to fidget.
"You've been turning reports in late."
Whitley bowed his head. "I apologize, sir. It won't happen again."
"It's happened more than once already."
He couldn't help curling in on himself. "Yes, Father. I'm sorry."
Father stared at him, his eyes narrowed. "And you're perfectly capable of handling this workload?"
"Yes, sir. I'll make it happen."
Whitley wasn't sure what he'd said wrong, but Father's stare hardened. He swallowed nervously. This wasn't... what did he do?
"You're going to be the CEO. That means you need to step up."
"I know." Whitley glared at his shoes. He'd been stepping up since he was old enough to walk. He'd always been loyal.
"I don't think you do. You need to start thinking about what the leader of this company needs to be."
"I am!" He'd been thinking about that his whole life, since Winter was still the heiress. Even then there had been hints. Father would give him a sly wink, here or there. He would praise Whitley's scores in certain subjects, ones that were higher than either of his sisters' had been at that age. He would give him looks, like they were sharing a secret. He was the youngest, maybe, but he'd always been more fit to inherit the company. Father knew that.
"What is it, then? What will you need to be, when you take my place?" The words sent a little thrill up Whitley's spine. He was the loyal one, the trusted one, and he'd be the one sitting in that chair someday.
"I'll have to be intelligent and discerning," he recited. "I will need business acumen, obviously, and a good head for numbers. I think that is well in hand." He smirked, waiting for the slight twinkle in Father's eyes. It didn't come. He swallowed nervously and went on, "I will be aggressive with my competitors. You don't succeed in business by being a sycophant."
Father eyed him coolly. "Indeed."
Whitley shifted in his seat. "I... I won't be afraid to take calculated risks, but I will never skip the calculation part." It was a joke one of his tutors had made, and he'd always thought it would have amused Father. It didn't.
"If you were to sum it up briefly?"
"Of course. I will need to be intelligent enough to make excellent decisions for myself and the company, and assertive enough to push them through."
"And is that what you are now?"
Whitley blinked. "Well... yes, I—"
"Think."
Whitley thought. He'd been tutored in economics and mathematics, so he didn't think that his intelligence was at all lacking. He'd never been shy about ordering people around when he needed something done, and he wasn't afraid of hurting his competitors feelings or any such nonsense. "I believe so, sir."
Father didn't look pleased. "In that case," he said, "I am afraid that I cannot relax your current workload. This is what is needed, to force you to rise to the challenges that leading the company will present."
Whitley recoiled like he'd just been slapped. Father hadn't said it, but the meaning was clear. He wasn't good enough. He needed to be pushed like this to... to...
To catch up with Weiss.
"May I go now?" he asked, not meeting Father's eyes.
"Do."
He kept his pace even until he reached the door. The moment he was out in the hallway he broke into a sprint. It wasn't until he was back in his room that he slowed down, slamming the door behind him and turning in a fury on a small glass table next to him. He kicked it over. It didn't shatter—it was stronger than that—so he kicked it again and again and again until his foot was throbbing.
It was always, always Weiss.
Whitley grabbed a book off his bookcase and hurled it across the room. It fell open on the floor, its pages spread out like the broken wings of a bird.
He knew Father had preferred him, he knew it! He'd seen the little looks. Even if he spent more time with Weiss, that was only because she was supposed to be the heiress. She was just older!
There was a pistol on the wall, all bright white steel and fine, sharp angles. It had belonged to his mother at one point. He ripped it free of the nails holding it up and hurled it to the floor. His chest was heaving.
How could Father still think she'd make the better CEO? Was he stupid?
Whitley kicked the wall, then fell onto his backside and howled, clutching at his foot.
All she had was muscle! She spent more time training with her glyphs than she did learning about how the market worked! And that wasn't even mentioning her temper!
He snarled and jerked back to his feet, grabbing another book and smashing it down on top of the first.
She nearly killed someone in the middle of a gala! She was unstable!
Whitley threw himself onto his bed, muffling another shout into the blankets. Hot tears soaked into the cloth, and he curled both arms around his head.
Didn't Father remember that she'd run off? She didn't even want the company. She didn't care if it succeeded or not! All she cared about was her stupid sword and her stupid powers and that stupid school for barbaric freaks! He was loyal! He'd always done whatever he could to help Father, while she just wanted to up and leave!
He sat up, wiped furiously at his eyes, and lunged for the button on the wall. It chimed once.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair! Father knew almost everything, but he could be so blind when it came to Weiss. She wasn't going to lead the company, not ever. She didn't need it, she didn't want it, and she didn't deserve it! This was his birthright—the other two had their glyphs, and they seemed just fine wasting their lives following orders and killing Grimm like common soldiers.
There was a knock at the door.
"Enter," Whitley snapped. Klein walked in, then did a double-take when he saw the state of the room. "Clean that up."
"Of course." The little man picked up the glass table, righted it, and set it down in its proper place. He retrieved the gun, cradled it with both hands, and placed it back on the wall. Then he gathered up the books, smoothing ruffled pages and setting each into its proper spot on the shelf.
Whitley watched for mistakes, and when Klein didn't make any he said, "You put that one in wrong. It's supposed to go on the top shelf." The butler nodded and moved the book to the top shelf. It was out of alphabetical order, now, but he slotted it in furthest to the right. "Not there. Three books down." The book was moved. "No, no. Three books from the left."
"Will that be all, sir?"
"No." Whitley glanced around the room. "That painting is crooked." Klein moved to fix it. It was a game he used to play, back before Weiss had gotten it in her head to go die fighting a Grimm. She always wanted to have Klein around for some reason, so he kept him busy with other orders. He could come up with a lot for him to do, even when his room was already clean. But he was already feeling bored.
"Tell me she's never coming back."
Klein frowned, his brow furrowing. "I'm afraid I don't understand—"
"Tell me Weiss left and she's never coming back."
The butler flinched. "It's unlikely that she'll return. I believe she's looking for her friends from Bea—"
"I'm the better heir."
Klein shifted uncomfortably.
"Say it!"
"Master Schnee." Klein walked a bit closer, and even with Whitley sitting and him standing they were at eye level with each other. His expression was soft and strange. "I'm sure you'll make a fine leader of the company."
"Say I'll be better!"
Klein stared at him with golden eyes, still with that awful softness on his face. "You'll be the greatest leader this company has ever had," he promised. He still hadn't said Whitley would be better than Weiss. He probably wouldn't. He picked favorites, too.
"Go away." Klein hesitated, and Whitley realized the look on his face was pity. "Go away!" he screamed. The butler left.
Whitley curled up under the blankets, shivering. He could feel the room expanding, stretching out until he couldn't touch the walls, couldn't even run to them. He whimpered, burrowing under his pillows. It was almost eleven o'clock, now. He hadn't finished any of the reports, and he should have given his mine directions. Doing all of it would take hours, and he still had to wake up at five, and he started to cry again because Father was right, he couldn't do it, but that didn't mean Weiss could.
He pulled his scroll out of its drawer and opened Weiss' contact. It was the only photo he had of her, because he didn't like collecting useless sentimental nonsense and anyway he hated looking at her. The picture was old, from before she ran off the first time. She wasn't smiling. None of them ever smiled in photographs—it wasn't professional. Her scar was missing. Her eyes were darker than his, a shade grayer. More like Father's.
Whitley curled up around the scroll, the blanket still thrown over his head. He felt like the walls of his room must be miles away by now, with the light of the screen making a minuscule island in a sea of darkness.
Father was right. He couldn't do it. He cracked one fist against his temple, hard. Then again. Stupid, stupid, stupid! There had to have been a mistake, somewhere. He'd made a mistake talking to Father, and if he found it and showed him that he knew then it would all be okay. But he couldn't think what it was, and he'd called Father stupid, even if it was just in his head, and maybe he was an ungrateful traitor after all, maybe he was just like his sisters, but not the same because he wasn't a real Schnee he didn't have glyphs he was too dumb and he couldn't just do the work and―
He curled up tighter, his knuckles going even whiter against the scroll. She'd left her room a shattered wreck. Even when he'd unleashed all his rage on his own, it had taken less than a minute to clean up. She'd left, she'd run away, that made her a coward. He wasn't a coward.
His own sobs were harsh in his ears. He'd heard her crying through the door, after she'd been disowned. It wasn't right—they never cried in front of each other, never where someone else could see or hear. She'd gone soft at that school, turned spoiled and rotten and stupid.
He stared at the picture. Maybe he could call Klein again, tell him to clean up something else. But then he'd leave, and the room was so empty, he couldn't risk poking his head up over the covers because he was sure he wouldn't be able to find the door, no one would be able to get to him, there would just be a vast empty plain of pale blue carpeting and space, too much space.
Whitley curled himself up even tighter. He typed out four letters, 'help,' and hit send. It wasn't the first time―there were several texts languishing undelivered in a one-way conversation, texts that vanished entirely the moment he deleted them. Whitley only did it because he knew full well his message wouldn't go through, since Weiss was off in Vale somewhere with her stupid Huntress friends and didn't have access to the network.
It went through.
Whitley stared at the scroll for several horrified seconds, then stuffed it under his pillow and clamped his hands over his ears. It was a mistake, that was all. He hadn't meant it—it was just a joke. She wouldn't see it.
A moment later there was a buzz. He curled in on himself, shaking his head. Make it go away. Unsend it.
It took a long time for him to muster the courage to drag the scroll back out from under the pillow and look at the message.
― I'm on my way.
He stared, uncomprehending. That wasn't... she couldn't come back! His stomach twisted. Would Father make her the heiress again?
No. He always said going back on decisions made you seem weak, and you should only do it if the benefits outweigh that cost. Except maybe he thought Whitley was so useless it would be worth making himself look bad, if he could have Weiss back.
He threw the scroll out from under the blankets and curled up again, sniffling. Then he realized he should tell her not to come, that he didn't want her here. But it was too late, the scroll was on the floor, and he couldn't bring himself to poke his head out from under the blanket. He could still feel the room expanding. He wouldn't be able to run fast enough to catch up to the scroll, and even if he did then he would be stuck. His bed would drift away from him and there would be nothing, just space.
Slowly, he forced himself to breathe deeper. Then he squirmed out from under the blanket, eyes squeezed shut so that he wouldn't see the emptiness. His hand reached out, touched the soft rug. Then he groped, back and forth, back and fourth. Found the scroll. Snatched it up and burrowed back under the covers.
It took a long time to open his eyes, even though he was safe again. He blinked a few times, and he didn't remember falling asleep but his mouth had that sour taste to it, so he thought he might have. Finally, he made himself look at the scroll. He typed out a message.
― Ignore that. Bad joke.
Moments later, the screen lit up with her face and the scroll started to buzz. He rejected the call. She sent him another message.
― Too late. I'll see you tomorrow morning.
Furious, Whitley jabbed at the scroll's keyboard.
― I said I don't want you here.
There was no response.
He shoved the scroll under his pillow and hugged his knees to his chest, still under the covers, breathing hard because the air was hot and stale. He told himself Weiss wouldn't come, that she'd take his last text as an excuse to avoid being in the manor. He told himself she probably wouldn't have shown up even if he'd begged her.
And then he drifted off to sleep again, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in his chest.
He was with his mathematics tutor when the knocking started.
Calling it knocking was a bit of an understatement. It sounded like someone was taking a battering ram to the door—one big, hollow boom after another. It was also to the tune of a pop song Whitley had heard a few times on his scroll radio.
"May I go and see who that is?" His tutor, a middle-aged woman with a coppery red braid going grey, nodded.
Whitley broke into a run the moment he was out of sight, feeling like he'd just swallowed a stone. Stupid, stupid, stupid! It was his fault she'd shown up like this, and what if Father saw her?
He would just open the door and send her away. That was it. He sprinted towards the foyer, nearly tripping over himself to get there first, but just as he reached it he heard the sound of the front door being unlatched. Whitley opened his mouth to tell her to leave, but the words died in his throat with a tiny, hoarse croaking sound.
It wasn't Weiss.
She was just the sort of person he would have imagined, if he'd tried to picture a Huntress. Tall, broad-shouldered, with muscles standing out on her left arm as she grabbed the edge of the door. The butler tried to close it, but it was like he was pushing against a solid wall. Her eyes were a light shade of purple, narrowed dangerously. Then she stepped forward, and her right arm slipped through the doorway. Metal fingers curled into a fist.
There wasn't a hint of refinement in her posture—she was wild, barbaric, but she carried with her an easy arrogance that came from strength and vitality, from the subtle threat of violence in even the smallest movements. She could have blown the door right off its hinges. The fact that she didn't was the only courtesy she seemed likely to extend to them. The butler didn't invite her in—he just backed away, and she walked over the threshold like she belonged there.
Whitley retreated until he was back in the hallway, peering wide-eyed into the foyer. He would have kept staring at her, but then another woman followed her inside and he couldn't look at anything else. She wasn't physically imposing in the same way, but there was the same sense of danger about her, the same eerie relaxed posture that came from believing right to her bones that there was nothing here that could possibly harm her.
That wasn't what caught his attention, though. He felt his eyes drawn almost magnetically to the cape that swirled around her heels. It was torn in places, but the bold red color and the way she wore it made it dignified, noble in a way that an unblemished one wouldn't have been. He followed the sweep of it from her boots to her shoulders, then to the line of her jaw and a pair of pale silver eyes. Her hair fell into them when she moved her head—it was jagged and uneven, as if it had been cut with a knife rather than a pair of scissors.
Whitley might have kept staring at her for hours, or at least until someone noticed him, but that was when the panther walked in. His stomach flipped, and he ducked back around the doorframe, panting. Then, before he could stop himself, he took another peek.
He hadn't been seeing things. She was a faunus—from the triangular ears on top of her head, to the piercing amber eyes, to the fluid, catlike grace with which she moved. Then she turned, her gaze locking onto him, and he pressed himself back against the wall with his heart in his throat.
"Whitley." The voice was unfamiliar, and he flinched away. He heard the clicking of heels, and Weiss rounded the corner. She was dressed differently—instead of her usual pale blues and whites, she was wearing practical brown trousers and a hooded overcoat. He stepped back, jarred by the sight of the sword at her hip and the fact that she, too, had that same way of moving—steady, self-assured. Unafraid.
The other three fell in behind her, and Whitley suddenly didn't know where to look. He kept staring at the ears, struck dumb by the fact that his sister just let one of them into the house. Then his gaze would track a little to the left, to where the woman in red was standing, following the locks of hair that brushed across her forehead. And finally, between them, a little in front of the one in yellow, stood his sister.
"So." Weiss crossed her arms over her chest. "What's wrong?"
Whitley gaped at her. She'd come. She'd brought her teammates! He tried to imagine what Father might do, then swayed on his feet.
"I'm fine," he said, too quickly. "You shouldn't be here."
"No." Weiss glanced around, her lip curling a little. "I shouldn't. But if you need help—"
"I don't."
It didn't seem to be working. She was giving him a strange look, now, something close to Klein's. He didn't like it.
"You're thinner than when I left." She reached out to take his chin in her hand. He stepped back and out of the way. "Have you... you don't look like you've been sleeping well, either."
"I'm perfectly fine," he repeated. "It was only a bad joke, I didn't think you were in range."
"Whitley." She was shorter than him, but he got the impression that if she wasn't, she would have crouched down so that they were at eye-level. "If something happened—"
"Weiss." Both of them whirled around, finding Father at the bottom of the steps. He looked over her teammates one by one, then glared at her. "What are you doing here?"
"We were in the area." Weiss rested a hand on the hilt of her sword. "I thought I'd stop by."
"Naturally." He very obviously didn't believe her. She didn't seem to care.
"Is mother up for visitors?"
"No." He cast another glance at the three unfamiliar faces, lingering a heartbeat longer on the faunus. "I see you've invited strangers into the manor."
"We have room."
"I'm sure they'll have beds, but if you aren't going to tell me what you're doing here—"
"I'm not getting into this with you," Weiss snapped. "I'm staying. I want to check on mother and make sure she's alright. You can either act like a real host, or try and force us out. I wouldn't recommend doing that."
Father's nostrils flared. "Are you threatening me?"
"No." She folded her arms. "I am going to stay in the house I grew up in, and I am going to visit my mother. If you decide to throw away a small army of droids in trying to remove me, I don't believe anything of value will be lost."
He gritted his teeth. Then, slowly, he stepped back. "Very well, then." He gestured at the stairs. "I'm sure you can find spare rooms. Your own isn't very presentable at the moment."
Weiss dipped into a bow so shallow it was more insult than courtesy, and shot Whitley a small, conspiratorial smile. He realized his mouth was gaping open and shut it. Then he watched them go. He felt like a shepherd that had just let a pack of wolves into the pasture.
