The visions come and go as if they were dreams, not memories his mind keeps pulling out of his brain palace in those fleeting moments, when there isn't much else to do but reflect.
Reflect and remember, because there's enough discomfort about the future as it is.
Sometimes it's the random days he wouldn't even bother with reacknowledging. In a way, it is fascinating how people go through their lives not remembering most of it. Another week passed, and you managed to complete your duties, probably doing something in between, later going through the motions of downtime. Then your eyes are closed, letting the darkness turn your mind off and the dream walk begins again when you open them.
How much do you remember?
How much do you want to remember?
Ironically, he feels like he should have cherished that cold life back then, even though it was somewhat empty and hardly as full of joy as one would want.
There was a day he can't forget. It was when Weiss ran away again, this time for real, once again trying to prove the things to her father that nobody asked of her in the first place.
That day he said his goodbyes to Klein, and notified his mother of the circumstances, thinking about lingering in the garden with her because there wasn't much else to do.
He wondered about his sister back then, and how the estate would become even more empty, his reflection staring at him from the pristine polished floor that had an uncanny ability to reflect people's images in some parts of Schnee's home nest.
The the thoughts of dinner would replace his worries that were already growing bitter even back then.
There wasn't much more to life back then, asides from personal interests between the mind-numbing homeschooling. The life in a home that might as well have been a fortress at that point in time, instead of his current abode that was slowly becoming an actual one.
He should've taken more from that time.
There is this nagging, scratching feeling he gets every time he sees it. It feels like a particularly sadistic Grimm is clenching his heart in its claws and yanking it around, pulling his nerves and feelings like guitar strings that produce sounds according to the note sheets that have the word 'Pain' scribbled all over them.
There is a dose of humiliation in this for all of them, for every person who is with him today. Countless more everywhere else, because people tend to interpret the 'Misery loves company' idiom in the wrong way.
And a third interpretation implies that just feeling like a failure isn't good enough.
You have to feel more about being less than that.
The fast, cold wind brings snow with it, splashing it against Manta's armored windows. Beyond them lies what was reclaimed by nature, or natural order, or whatever you call the greatest tragedy to hit the world after the Great War.
There is not even any certainty about the Great War being so great now, no certainty in natural order or other things that people grew up believing in, along with other people they misplaced their faith in.
All that is left for them is to keep moving forward, because, it is the only choice. The only choice that is made for them is available by default and which most people will take anyway.
Whitley Schnee hears his breath fasten.
Something about flight will always unnerve him, even after spending a good amount of time on Atlesian Airships, which rarely touched down even before the fall.
Even less nowadays.
The operative, her mask discerning her from the protected suits and helmets that other people wear around him slightly turns her head to him.
It's an uncanny visage, but hardly stood out among the huntsmen or people that fought with aura unlocked in general.
"You alright?" She asks him, voice exiting low from the speakers. Nobody else turns their heads, save for a few hidden glances he catches, but they know better.
He knows better.
"Never better." Whitley replies with a grim smile, shaking his head while the hands clasp the commander variant of his helmet.
There's radio chatter coming out of it. His bodyguard twirls her face, also hearing the notice from the pilot underneath the soundproof system, before rising from her seat and grasping the handle, looking through the window.
The unfrozen ruins of Atlas and Mantle were something to behold, even though hardly anyone would want to look at them.
They drop them straight at the command center, where people pinged the ships the moment the air convoy entered the protected airspace. Nobody expected Whitley himself to arrive here – not just unofficially, but a whole two weeks before the scavenging operations were given a green light from the company, which should follow the press release after the damn fourth anniversary.
Something tells him that the looting has begun on the second day the original crew landed in the city his sister has spent months training her powers in.
He will keep his eyes closed for now, but nothing will be leaving this place unmarked and all personnel will be checked as much as possible. Security services have been grinding his gears, wasting time and money on paranoid ideas about safety for the company and the employees. Ridiculous proposals fueled by fear of the dead man who took part in designing most of the system itself and seemed to laugh in their faces from the grave, or so Whitely hoped.
Maybe he will find out for sure if Artur Watts is dead, but, most likely, there won't be any confirmation of that.
Whitely put on the command helmet, sealing it to his protective suit, and took a look at the ice dam his sister created to block out the water current that was unleashed almost four years ago, which made the most advanced kingdom on Remnant a frozen monument to Salem's victory.
The word 'anniversary' sounded more and more like an insult…
How he wished he could find something more appropriate, something that would ease the pain of pronouncing it just the slightest bit and could be said in a civil manner on camera.
Calling the date of the destruction of not one, but two cities with the loss of life and instability it unleashed upon the world an 'anniversary' was a disrespect to anyone who survived it and a spit in the face.
Tragedy. Waste.
Failure.
"Linking you up, sir. Just a moment." One of the technicians tells him as his fingers run through the holographic screen. Whitely sees alerts pop up on his HUD before the map of the entire defense grid – drones, turrets, and a detachment of androids for heavy lifting and protection runs through his eyes.
He sighs, adjusting the brightness as his eyes return to the picture of the desolate city his team landed to join the crew.
It was…uncanny how much of Atlas was preserved in place before it was frozen. And afterward, Winter wasn't just melting ice, no. Later in, it was more like she was manipulating it, folding and twisting in whatever was required, or just getting rid of it entirely. Winter being Winter, of course, it took more to figure out there was more to magic than combat.
Father would say her persistence in the wrong direction once again took the better of her.
Then again, his father once said that there was a lot that his daughters inherited from him. His mother would say the same thing. Honestly, even Whitely took his time wondering about things he told him after Weiss escaped.
Hours were used to ponder about inheriting not just things that the Man, strong, wise and resourceful (his ass) built, but what he was made of. How many mistakes and decisions have people inherited from their forefathers, refusing to budge?
"Sir, a moment?" He looks up further into the ruins, from the direction of which one of his people runs up to him, scrolls in his hands and protective suit on his body.
"What is it?" Whitley asks, eyes looking past the grunt. Further, in the distance, he could see the better-preserved Atlas, while all around them the ruins of Mantle served like a labyrinth of rubble and lost dignity.
"We wanted your opinion regarding defense placement when we get further into the city. We have already dropped in autonomous turrets through the perimeter of this zone here…" The man started rambling against Whitley's stare, which was becoming more hollow by the second. "…and we have AGLs to place, but we've been wondering if…"
"Are you out of your mind, asking me these things?" The white-haired teen interrupts him, frowning beneath his helmet, reinforced face plate of which had an option to completely hide his face instead of showing it in full. "How should I know where to place all this?"
The grunt, something tells him that he once was in part of the army, takes a step back, retreating his scroll and apologizing.
Whitley sighs and shakes his head. He will be cleaning up after Ironwood, his father, Winter…just about everyone who caused this his entire life and so will all the survivors that banded together with him and the company.
Nearly four years of this shit, and at least a decade more to go if he was optimistic.
"I've sent a group of huntsmen to scout ahead while we were reorganizing." The masked woman told him as they along with extra cargo and assistance took off once again. "Grimm aren't even remotely interested in visiting."
"Yes. Wonder how it ties to the decade-old question of why are they attacking us in the first place." Whitley said after the door closed behind them. Feeling the lift-off, he tried his best to get comfortable in his seat, once again surveying the desolation.
The more revelations he received in the last years, the less they made sense.
"They've also looked around the rubble."
"Any thoughts on how long it will take us?" The head of the company asked, suddenly feeling like he wanted to do anything but stay here, despite the venture being the task he set for himself.
"Depends on what you're looking for and how bad things are." She replied, running the gloved fingers against her mask. "If we're unlucky – we'll be spending the night. Maybe less, if we count androids doing the heavy lifting."
Whitley's face cringed at the thought of sleeping in what was essentially a ghost city. Even with his protective suit and aura, he wasn't good with the cold that persisted in Atlas.
Nobody was.
He cut off those thoughts. Wasn't the first time Whitely returned to the bitter reflections of events that happened years ago and it won't be the last. First two years after the tragedy were insane, for lack of a better word. It is through sheer determination, insane luck and generous help offered he was even standing here.
He could still remember the waves of Grimm clashing against the refugees, his sister, and a few huntsmen that were with them doing their best to protect them.
His mother…
He felt a shiver run through his hands as his breath stiffened.
Business comes before personal interests this time, so they land on Academy's pad. He sends in the drones to scout the area as the two teams split, mix with androids and move further inside the complex to scavenge any data that survived, seeing that lots of parts were sealed off.
Hours pass after they descend like packs of hungry bears, lasering through the sealed gates. They had explosives, but seeing how the miraculously preserved city fell from such height right before being frozen meant they wouldn't be using them if they couldn't help it.
Dead people, leftover weapons. They manage to boot several servers and the tech lead just shrugs at him, saying that not much of use remains. They mark the academy vaults, warehouses, and anything salvageable for actual work teams before they leave, sparing a few passing glances at corpses.
He spots one of his people collecting dog tags, urging him to leave it to the professional teams.
Nobody mentions the command center that was the first to crash into Mantle, buried between the cities. Some outright don't want to mention it to his face and Whitley tries his best not to think of it because it leads to the same pattern of bitter thoughts that turn into powerless anger.
Afterward, it's a silent flight to the estate.
Several ships gracefully land in the dead, frozen area that was once their family's lawn. He stands there staring at the building, while the others assemble behind him, androids and several mechs in tow.
A minute passes and he feels a light tap on his arm.
"Do you need a moment?" The masked woman asks, and in her words, he hears neither contempt nor mockery. He looks at the faces of people behind him and sees nothing but the same grief he has. Not for him, no.
Everyone lost their homes that day, not just him.
They understand.
And at this point, the head of the Schnee Dust Concern – the grafted, reanimated giant under new management, had quite a reputation himself.
These four years have cost him so much, but it wasn't just for him. Panic and anarchy in regions, Grimm incursions, Atlas defectors flying around and pillaging, or, worse – occupying towns.
And among all of this, Salem wasn't exactly missing out on the happenings.
"Sir?" She asks him again.
"Not yet." Whitely replies, gazing at the particular window of the estate. "Not quite yet."
The estate is so much easier to cover. Not only because of the size difference and being in much better shape but because he knows it like the back of his hands. Somehow the old generator survived the flood, located in the water-proof compartment. It doesn't light up the building completely, but they make do with the large flashlights and lamps, along with androids manning excavation equipment.
Whitley finds himself guarded by the four SDC-300 series androids, renamed and improved upon the design the company worked on for the military once. His legs take him to his old room on their own, his thoughts along with his body wandering and reflecting on his childhood memories.
Then it's one of the rehearsal rooms where she performed. He finds his old piano standing there, moved by a dozen or so feet in another direction, but still standing.
There were days when they were good together. Sometimes he would play out of the sheer joy of it and she would sing with him. His mother would visit on occasion, her face not yet darkened by sorrow and even Jacques would commend their performance.
Compared to her, there weren't as many expectations from him, were there?
Oh, the irony of life.
Whitley takes the axe from one of the androids.
The conscious feeling of the aura he kept up the whole time rushes through him. He takes off his helmet, exhaling the white from his mouth, and approaches the musical instrument, a glint passing over his father's shade of cyan eyes he inherited.
It's a primitive weapon in high-tech wrapping. Years ago, he would call what he was about to do barbaric, but a has happened in these four years.
He held reservations back then. Some of them remain, and some of them changed. Something inside him was replaced with anger and bitterness, paving way to sadness that he couldn't fix.
You don't fix these kinds of scars. People don't just miraculously recover from them. All these thousands of people lost their homes and their loved ones. Everything that they had, forced to seek refuge in another city after being almost killed or left to die...
It's like another generation was defined in just a few days.
How little it took to bring all this 'might' of Atlas down, even before Grimm even attacked it directly.
He couldn't say for sure if people truly changed instead of evolving into something else, but the world around them sure could become worse.
The edge of the axe slams against the damaged instrument, earning a melodic shrill of pain in the form of jumbled notes he could recognize.
Whitley wants to scream and shout, to yell and curse but the only thing that leaves his mind is the low, pained rasp that makes his face twist in a deeper expression of pain, eyes shutting close and showing him the face of his sister the way she once looked at him.
He slams the axe again, earning another sound after another until there is nothing more to destroy. Perhaps the instrument could be fixed up before, but now it is completely unsalvageable.
Just like the life they once had.
Whitley gives the weapon back to the silent android, whose feed he blocked out, once again, staring at the weirdly reflective floor that certain rooms in his home have. Minutes pass, then more.
He sits there, back against the wall.
More time passes while others watch the perimeter and look around the mansion. These were his people, but if he had a better choice available, he wouldn't let anyone inside.
He wanted to tell them to wait outside, to do this on his own with androids, but drama and theatrics never felt right, just as his father liked to show off with paintings and musical education for his children.
Hopefully, he at least didn't inherit his bad taste in that aspect.
"Whitley?" He hears from behind the door. "You doing alright?"
"Time of my life." He replies, folding his palms over his face. "How long have you been there?"
"You do remember that I shadow you, right?" The woman asks but doesn't hurry to open the door. "We found something you should take a look outside. If you…want, that is." She pauses, choosing the proper word.
"Is it urgent? Did something happen?"
"No. I think your sister did something."
Winter. He didn't want to see Winter at least for the next decade if he could help it, but destiny hardly accommodates wishful thinking.
"I need some more time in the mansion. There is more to get here."
"Certainly." He hears the neutral reply. "We've checked for Grimm – the place is as empty as it gets. But I've recalled my guys here, so we'll have more huntsman assistance on short notice just in case."
Whitley grunts in response, raising himself.
There was one more place he needed to visit. Then it was either taking a longer trip down memory lane or cutting it short.
He makes his way to his father's study.
Relatively small and cramped, there are books all over the place with some of the bookcases falling over.
It doesn't take him much effort to return them to their original position. Once, he thought that there was a pathway to some secret room here, taking some of his time to visit on days when the study wasn't locked.
In the end, there was no such thing. His father's old portrait lies on the floor, its frame broken, revealing a large safe that was inside the wall behind it.
Whitley shakes his head with his lips edging a smile.
"Seriously, father?"
Then the melancholy returns tenfold as he returns to the armchair and sits in it, imagining what it must've been like for Jacques.
How much time did he spend here? Was he, perhaps, also avoiding the rest of the family?
He notices another frame, this time a small one for the photo, lying on the ground.
Picking it up, he doesn't know what to feel, seeing his own younger face in the picture.
Whitely only sighs deeply, taking the picture out of its frame and seeing his father's neat handwriting depicting a date, his son's name, and age on the back of the photo.
"I…" He starts talking to himself, unsure of what to say. "I wish there was more to it, father. I wish it didn't end like this for anyone." He looks around the study, feeling an ugly bile rise in his throat as he sighs deeply.
"I wish that you were better. More knowing, more patient and certainly wiser…kinder."
His voice cracks.
"I wish you were better. Like in the early days when my mother loved you. That even after making mistakes, you could've at least tried to work on them and teach me something. Without playing the games of choice or spiting your own family."
Or at least consider the consequences of ones actions?
He feels that the tears will appear any second, slowly running out of his eyes.
"I miss Weiss, even with how she turned after growing up. In a way I miss you, thinking of what you could've been to us if you tried or…wanted. For all that was, we didn't wish for anything in the material sense. We were safe. And Winter…" He pauses, voice cracking further, but not breaking yet. There is enough anger and disappointment in Weiss too, – some leftovers from when she left. It morphed into something that had a sadistic, demonic sneer in it but…Whitely also put his faith in different things back then. Weiss was wrong in a lot of things, but Winter…
"I don't know…I want to hate Winter for what happened in Atlas and I think I do, but family is family. And it hurts…hurts so much." The tears start to flow from his eyes as he clutches the picture to his suit. "I have to do so much. There are so many people and so much responsibility. If only you knew the half of it…" He wipes the tears with his armored hand, noticing how ineffective it is. "I…wished I had more help." He breathes out, controlling his voice. "That I knew what to do from the first days. That what was in you would help me…or, I don't know, give something to look up to beyond all the – fuck." He swears, feeling the anger rise again. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" He slams his aura-enhanced fist into the wall, making a small dent in it.
"Fuck it all." He swears again, leaning more on Jacques' armchair. "It's all just old garbage at this point."
There was so much of him in all of them. Hopefully, not just the bad, as Willow tells him.
He places the picture back in the frame and collects the one with his mother in it, which also falls from the bookcase.
The safe…
It earns a wide breadth and a shocked impression from him when the combination he received actually works. Inside there is paperwork, data sticks, and drives. A protected, hard-cased laptop and…photographs. Some albums are full of photos he couldn't remember, some of them even depicting his grandfather or family from Jacques' side.
Some of them are very old. Willow might help with the insight, but there is a storage of memories in it which will take many hours to dig through.
There is money too. A couple of gold ingots. With each moment Whitley finds more and more treasures. Most likely they were there just in case, as a lot was and is stored in the safe vaults – a fact that he learned when after the tragedy quite a lot of factions decided that it was a great moment to bite a piece of a crumbling giant that was SDC after Atlas fell.
Insane time. Dangerous time. He heard that some executives were kidnapped or suffered attacks on his life back when the old White Fang was around, but never quite wanted this to happen to himself.
There is more information inside. Some jewelry and more money. Sealed envelopes and files ranging from…
Not now.
A gun. Way too stylish and expensive, but still functional. Some weird written commendations and a medal from the council for the effort put into building a kingdom or something.
There's so much more inside that Whitely wonders if his father started using the safe as a bin at some point, but each piece of the hoard carries its own history.
It will earn him and his mother hours of stories and recollections of their lives together. This alone was worth the entire trip, even if every other part of it looked as if was just for show in comparison.
It takes time to stash everything neatly into the secure, armored crate. He wonders if it was better if he had androids rip the entire safe out of the wall, but decides not to risk it, right before checking it for having a double inside.
There had to be more to the mansion, but the rest will be done by the salvage crews under oversight.
Only one last destination remained.
He leaves the giant portrait behind, sparing it one last look that was full of contemplation.
There is a small crowd of armed people at the other side of the estate, where another part of the courtyard stretches, with a crumbled winged statue on its edge.
He remembers first Winter, then Weiss training there with their weapons and semblances, but the only unusual thing about it that deserves such gawking is the presence of dozens of statues.
People silently make their way as he passes. Whitely turns around in front of them, his helmet in his hands and a frowning expression protected by his aura from the cold.
He looks at the row, then back at them, then again and asks:
"Is that so exciting?"
"Uh, sir, maybe you should look at them closer?" The leader of the group asks, pointing at the closest one which bore a resemblance to a familiar silhouette from the distance.
"Let me guess, they all look like my family?" He asks, quirking an eyebrow while a small crooked smile edges on his lips. "That must be very interesting. My sister uses magical powers for mediocre ice sculptures. Truly, something that will guide us into the new golden age of Remnant." He quickly shakes his head, anger, and disappointment on his face. "Load up, we have one last destination."
"You heard him, people." The leader barks, suddenly regaining his composure.
For a moment, Whitley ponders about walking around this…garden of shame but decides against this.
He is not going to give her the satisfaction by counting how many more sculptures of their sister are there.
They touchdown on what used to be the edge of the city, and Whitley immediately jumps off with his bodyguard, ordering not to turn off the engines.
"This is where the Grimm Whale landed." She says, slowing her pace to look around. "I wonder if it would manage to bring the city down if Atlas was staying on air just with gravity dust."
"Who cares?" Replies Whitley, stopping several dozen steps away from the ships.
"Just a small talk. I guess this is not a place or time for it." Grumbles the woman. "What are we doing here, anyway?"
"A request…" He answers her, taking a flask from his back. "…from a dusty old crow."
He takes off his helmet once again, hanging it on his belt. Taking the flask he brought along and opening the lid, he sniffs it and, shrugging, takes a sip out of it, his expression twisting from the taste.
"Vile." He mutters in a voice lower by several pitches and his hand pours the contents of the flask on the ground, patiently waiting for all the liquid to fall onto the earth.
Then the pair returns to the ship, wasting no words that would only feel empty.
AN:
AU idea I had for a while.
I know I'm stretching the structural resilience of Atlas and probably the extent of Maiden's power.
Not to mention ignoring a lot of details a flood would bring.
Also, Jaune made it through the gates.
And Qrow decided it was a bad time to stop drinking