Reading daily news is like staring into the bottomless pit from which a monster is about to crawl out.
Some papers try their hardest to be like that, despite knowing that Grimm are attracted to negativity.
Whitley knows that some of them are all about appealing to different demographics to get their views. He could feel that his favorite, more or less neutral newspaper was beginning to sound like a voice of doom.
Remnant Fleet sightings in Southern Sanus. Authorities warn settlements of possible raids.
He drinks his coffee, expression becoming more stone-like after each sip. Five years ago, that kind of headline would get someone fired.
Glorious Atlas military. Power, excellence, discipline, and cutting-edge technology until they have to fight someone more dangerous than a farmer.
Surprisingly, the name for roaming units of deserters stuck, but Whitley guessed it was the most appropriate for the only military fleet that existed on the planet.
He swipes his finger over his tablet, suppressing the images of rural towns burned and raided.
Growing tensions with Mistral Council as Argus Autonomy movement gains more support. Haven Academy headmaster warns of fracture within the kingdom. SDC and Argus Militia refused to comment.
The edges of his mouth form a barely noticeable sneer as his eyes narrow.
Argus was becoming another headache, albeit with many opportunities he was thinking about. The city has long been standing as a middleman between Atlas, Mantle, and the rest of the Mistral it belonged to. Both trade and culture of the Northern kingdom influenced it a lot, but the strongest of all were the economic ties that made the city so special.
A serene, beneficial partnership between kingdoms allowed the city to prosper underneath the protection from both sides. The situation made it all more painful when Atlas fell on Mantle, practically cutting off the continent from the rest of the world and bringing down the Cross Continental Transit System, taking down worldwide communications just after the ancient long conspiracy was uncovered.
Excellent timing.
Vale restoration & expansion project updates. Investigation into embezzlement scandal and what awaits with recent strides in robotics.
Jacques once dropped a quote on Whitley, saying that politics are hard to separate from money. After spending years feuding with people, simultaneously wondering what chances they had to thwart the Grimm apocalypse, Whitley reluctantly agreed with his father.
If only Jacques acted wise when it mattered.
Whitley takes another swing from the cup, investigating the news website on his tablet. They had a stealthily-taken picture of one of his factories, with androids marching into the cargo ship.
Of course, the press loves to overblow everything out of proportion. These so-called strides in technology? Maybe he should ask the journalists where they found them since his R&D could certainly use help.
As for Vale - SDC brought in builders, protection, heavy machinery, and financial analysts that could see crimes just by looking at numbers within the accounting system. Subcontractors also flocked in, including area development think tanks and investment firms that worked on housing, enterprise, and leisure. Vale would grow to become greater at the cost of the territory around it turning into one giant construction complex at least for the next decade. It was one of the main lifelines for everyone, with businesses, people, and the press jumping on the expansion train.
It was important for refugees, many of whom still had nowhere to go since Vacuo was far from the most welcoming or stable kingdom.
The kingdom of Vale, who, while wary and in disapproval of sudden Military assets which flocked to SDC after the fall of Atlas, were also interested in safer expansion and development of its main city.
And for SDC, it was not just a major contract that would reinforce and cement the company's influence, but a reputation booster in the eyes of people. Something that he had to take care of after his father made the bed they would have to lie in, even if his association with Watts was suppressed and unheard of after the Fall of Atlas.
Whitley promised himself to do better than him.
The official version was that the arrest of Jacques Schnee was carried out because of Ironwood's paranoia and abuse of power, not because his disastrous machinations were uncovered, by his daughter and mother out of all people.
If anything remotely good could be said about the chaos that reigned during the last days of Atlas and Mantle, is that it was easy to shift all of the blame on the main scapegoats – Salem, Ironwood, and Ace Ops.
A bitter, petty idea was to include Robyn Hill and her band of troublemakers into Whitley's personal shit list, but he was working together with her now, and there wasn't much left of that group anyway. Qrow wouldn't mention her sabotage of Atlas military and she, in turn, won't be mentioning Jacques conspiring with a dead man, no matter the tough attitude she tried and failed to act on.
Surprisingly, the new head of SDC received some good press himself, with Willow Schnee also giving her account of the story to the press, with full, albeit grudging support from Robyn's group, who were at the ground zero, helping people to evacuate with the company ships he offered.
They even managed to get the detailed account of a councilman outright executed by the general, which cemented Ironwood's reputation as one of the main causes of downfall and forever shamed the Atlas Military, which lost its prestige and reputation almost overnight, making the Fall of Beacon and the Battle of Haven look tame in comparison.
Afterward, it was up to them to pick up the pieces.
He heard the low sound of an airship landing somewhere. Marsh, his bodyguard, sitting relaxed between him and the door, slowly followed the sound with her head, before returning to her tablet held in her cybernetic hand.
"Anything good on the news?" She asked him, as both heard footsteps from behind the door.
He only shrugged in response, making a noise akin to a resigned grunt, right before the doors opened and a group of people in suits worked into the boardroom.
Some of them looked surprised seeing him already present long before anyone arrived, but Whitley barely reacted, still preoccupied with the article.
Sending a message to the local secretary to get him something else to drink, he briefly looked around him.
The sound of metal legs walking signified the presence of his Research and Development head – Pietro Polendina, who briefly met Whitley's death glare, before averting his face. Then his eyes fell on the young, incredibly attractive, and impeccably-dressed woman, sitting not far from him, who styled her haircut in a more eastern fashion.
She was the Mistral Branch Head, specifically invited by him regarding the age-old situation in the eastern kingdom, which did its best to push SDC out after the Fall of Atlas.
The memory races in his eyes – wishing his mother goodbye, driving in a small convoy of armed cars zero dark thirty which carried him, Jaune, and Qrow alongside specialists and technicians to break into his own company's branch office and learn just what the hell has been going on there in the past years, racing before the local executives could dissolve, liquidate and appropriate all assets under the covers of chaos and uncertainty that followed the catastrophe.
Then in the following months, he would learn first-hand just how powerful was the local mafia, how vested the Council was in taking over the industry was, and how meddling White Fang splinter cells alongside plain bandits could be.
Less than one-third of their assets remained in Mistral after the fall. Everything else was lost, stolen, or plain taken or raided. After thirty days, Mistral had its own independent dust company, the majority of which was Kingdom-owned.
It was impossible to take snowflakes off every wall, though.
Courts were useless. Atlas, who could press on the issue internationally, was destroyed. With the Salem situation revealed to the world, Mistral was also passing laws left and right, giving the kingdom more emergency power – another reason why the Argus secession movement grew in popularity.
People were afraid of another war – the one for which people like Ironwood would use them.
Overall, coupled with everything that happened during the catastrophe – SDC shrunk more than twice overall. Much like the rest of Remnant, however – the company wasn't going down without a fight.
But as people gather, Whitley's face sinks into his hand, looking lazily at the large holographic presentation screen that comes to light in front of the meeting, feeling the sense of doom settling in.
This wasn't what he wanted.
None of this was. Once again, he wonders what his life would be like if it wasn't for Salem, Ozpin, or even his father.
Perhaps he could grow rich, not work a day in his life, spend listless days of his youth pursuing his interests, meeting girls, and being the easy-going rich kid that lived off his dad's money for at least a decade while his sister slaved and failed to follow Jacques' footsteps.
Would he be happy with that? Probably not. But why was he so stupid to vie for his father's approval in the first place? He would never be good enough anyway.
None of them could be, no matter what they did or did not.
What would his father say to him if he was here? Would he praise him or scold him for things Whitley couldn't control in the first place? Would he acknowledge his mistakes?
Their father sure as hell succeeded in pushing them all away, making Weiss and Winter pick up a profession in which you're supposed to die after a few years.
Maybe if Jacques at least bothered they wouldn't be thinking just about themselves all the time.
Too late for that, of course.
He grits his teeth, lips closing tight in a silent fury he doesn't show.
No, this is what he gets. It may not be what he wished for, but he will soldier on, walk on coals barefoot – but he will never surrender without a fight. He lived through the Fall of Atlas, survived Vacuo, and even pushed through the chaos and uncertainty afterward, barely knowing anything about business and being hunted for death.
He will keep pushing through just like his grandfather did.
He may not have had an actual childhood, and he may have lost most of his family, but Whitley had his whole life ahead of him yet and allies. If Salem thought she was the queen bitch of her shit mountain – then she had another thing coming.
What scared him the most about the revelation of her existence, however, was that the time of hidden games was other. Ozpin and Salem seemed to have the silent agreement of not showing themselves to people for hundreds of years, which no longer stood.
And Grimm on Remnant always had an upper hand on humans when faced off directly.
A careless knock on the door made everyone turn their heads to the entrance to the boardroom.
"Huh, you are starting already?" The raspy voice asks, as one of Whitely's closest friends and allies enters the room. "Sorry, traffic is hell."
"Sure it is." The white-haired boy can't help but smile and say it with a touch of friendly sarcasm.
Qrow Branwen, spotting a messy unbuttoned at the top shirt, black pants, and a suit that looked like it was made to highlight his stubble – marched in with little care in the world, plumping into the seat next to Whitely and immediately taking the flask out of his pocket.
"Mr. Branwen, if you could…" Someone at the table carefully started, at which Qrow was quick to scoff.
"Should, would, could…" He says, taking a quick swig from the flask, all the while the smile only grows on Whitley's face, half of which is currently in the process of meeting the palm of his hand. "…but I did not."
The Mistralain woman smiled coyly at him, a gesture he was quick to return.
"This meeting is now open." The current CEO of SDC said as the lights in the room darkened.
It was the budget discussion with the subsidiary in charge of the development. Whitley stared into the screen and attentively listened to the multiple-hour-long presentation of the development planning from his aide of accountants, lawyers, financiers working with local investors, marketing experts, and pretty much everyone who had a job and function in the project.
Questions were asked, and concerns were raised. By the end of the third hour and a fifth can of soda, he called for a break, thinking that if he didn't have time for himself then his brain will melt by the time the topic of trade unions comes up.
Even after almost four years, he was still getting used to Vale and how different it was both in terms of culture and local laws.
After stretching his back, the exhausted CEO found himself standing on the roof of the skyscraper, his tie loose and jacket lying on the bench, drinking ice-cold water as if he just crawled out of the desert.
In the distance, his gaze viewed the airships carrying cargo from all over Sanus, both for trade and to assist with construction.
"Hey, kiddo." He snaps his head, seeing Qrow sitting on the edge of the building, drinking and looking completely relaxed despite being inches from the long way down.
"Hello, Qrow." Whitley stammers a bit, standing up from his seat and approaching the drinking man, who stared into the sun that would be set in a couple of hours.
"You know, I keep wondering – why do you wear that?" The man asks when he stands up, motioning to his tie. "S'far as I'm concerned, you can walk around in a woman's nightgown and nobody will stop you."
"Because I don't own the company. My mother does." Whitely replies, smiling awkwardly.
Qrow returns it, shaking the boy's hand and drinking more.
"Either way, it's good to see you, kiddo." The handshake grows into a small hug, with the huntsman patting his back and Whitley feeling an odd warmth he never got used to, before both take a seat on the bench.
"Same. I was worried after not hearing from you for the last week."
"You know how it is in the boonies." Qrow shrugs. "Was way too far from the support tower. Even so, I'd expect you to get used to that already."
Whitley rubs his temples with his hand, remembering the current state of affairs with CCTS, but Qrow's face manages to put him out of the endless stream of bad thoughts.
"You'll be staying in Vale for a while, then?" He asks him, taking a swig from his bottle of water, alongside the drinking huntsman.
"I'm not sure. I'm definitely visiting Patch – need to check up on Tai." Qrow explained. "Asides from that…I, uh…I don't know."
"A challenge to your liver, I expect?" Whitely tried to carefully joke, to which Qrow laughed, albeit bitterly.
"Definitely. You know, I think you should come with me."
"Really?" Whitley's brows rose.
"Of course. Tai likes you and…" Qrow takes another swig. "When was the last time you've seen Ren and Nora in person? About time." There was a bit of judgment in the man's voice, but it was mostly full of understanding. Whitley knew that Qrow himself started to withdraw from the few people he knew in his life.
The excuses were always the same – his semblance, his work, or there not being that many people in the first place. One of the reasons he didn't visit Atlas with him was that he was afraid his semblance would ruin their search.
Whitley was polite enough not to press but not smart enough to know how to make it better for him.
"This work, Qrow." Whitely sighed. "I speak with them a lot, but one day I'm in Vale and on the next day I'm in Vacuo, surrounded by paramilitary. It's not as bad as it used to be, but I don't even know for sure where I'll be tomorrow."
"You make it sound like hopping for a day or two is not an issue." The man shrugged and didn't press it. "Right. Work." He changed the topic. "I'll send everything I found to your scroll, but there isn't much. Raven fell through the ground completely on her own. If she still was with her tribe – I'd be able to track her, but it's a wild goose chase."
"What are the chances of her joining Salem?"
"Again, you mean?" Qrow rolled his eyes. "Raven likes to think herself the strongest. And if we are talking about villages that can't fight back properly – then, yeah, she is. She would like this illusion to remain, but isn't fit to play the long game against Salem."
"You think she will serve her eventually."
Qrow's face twisted before he found himself pouring more liquid inside.
"Not serve. She is prideful, but…" He paused, thinking about what he was about to say. "I hate to say, but she and I aren't getting younger. This can get ugly."
Whitley went through at least a dozen possibilities, wondering how the Bandit Maiden could ruin the lives of people even further and how Salem could gain power over her.
"Dammit."
"Speaking of travel – how did it go?" Qrow asked, prompting his friend to take out the empty flask from his pocket. "I take it not well?"
Whitley raised his hand.
"It wasn't a complete waste of time." The young man shook his head, passing the flask into Qrow's hands. "Just. Heavy."
"Tell me about it. Every time I visit Vale it's similar. All those lives lost, and you can't do a goddamn thing."
"And for what?" Whitley mumbles under his breath, but Qrow is quick enough to pick on it. The head of SDC expects scolding, but Qrow, instead, only drinks more.
"Yang, Ruby…" The man says. "Everyone with them alongside Atlas and Mantle just got thrown into a grinder. If only Jimmy and your sister didn't share half a brain for two." He shakes his head in regret. "Sorry. Old and pointless conversations we've gone over a hundred times." He finishes with a last swig from his flask. Whitley gives him a worried look, but the man shrugs when he acknowledges it.
"You don't look well yourself."
"Bad dreams." Whitley explained, abstaining from elaborating on the subject.
"How bad?" Qrow presses on and Whitley looks in the distance again, not sure if he was fine with sharing.
"Had this nightmare. I was slowly becoming Ozpin in it."
The huntsman's eyes darted to him in worry, but his overall face remained the same, also not facing Whitley directly, who in turn shifted on his seat. A long sigh escaped the older man.
"I know what you're going to say about this."
"You do?" Qrow asked, bitterness oozing from every word. "Because I don't. I don't know what I'd do in such a case. So please, Whitley, spare me from it. And spare yourself too."
"You're right." Whitley said, thinking about just how many dead people he's been seeing in his dreams for the past few days.
His father was one of them, which made the question of how exactly a dream can tell you the correct code to the hidden safe only one person knew of much more concerning.
"Actually, I think I'm going to fly to Patch too."
"The anniversary thing?" He found himself being pointed at with a flask. "Whitely, don't make it sound like you need an excuse."
"I don't, I just…It aligns well. I don't feel it's the kind of thing I'm good with just sending a letter about. And it's not like I have a lot of people to invite to the informal gathering."
"I'll be there." The man replied. "But you know what that means. Others will also show up, most likely without invitation."
A pause ensued, which left both men wondering about what awaited them in the following days. They sat there in silence, both staring at the orange skies and ships in the distance, catching the rays of sunlight on their hulls.
Whitely felt the pat on his back coming from a strong hand, as the man stood up.
"I better be off. I've seen the way the doctor's been staring at you. I think we both have a long day ahead of us still."
"What are your thoughts? On Penny?"
Qrow didn't pause as he walked back to the edge, but Whitley saw a small smile appear on his lips.
"It's for you to decide" He gave him a two-finger salute, before extending his hands apart, stumbling on the edge of the building. "Stay safe, kiddo."
Qrow stepped back from the building, falling down. Time passed, but not long enough to make Whitely worry, as he saw a black crow flying from below, then gliding down towards the city.
Whitley sat there for a few more minutes, before putting the suit over his shoulder and walking back towards the boardroom.
A long day indeed.