The following is a non-profit, fan-made work of fiction. RWBY and Iron Man are the respective trademarked properties of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC and Marvel Entertainment, LLC. Please support their respective franchises and releases. This means I own jack, so don't sue me, it's all for fun. (And practice, I just wanna be a better writer.)
Also, for the sake of timeline consistency, here are the Schnee children's birthdays:
Edit 10/6/20: Had to change Weiss' b-day to match her canonical one.
Edit 5/1/21: Changed Whitley's birthday to fit this universe's timeline.
Winter (December 24th, 1985 KC: Current age 22)
Weiss (May 15th, 1991 KC: Current age 17)
Whitley (September 3rd, 1992 KC: Current age 15)
The Invincible Whitley Schnee
Chapter 2: The Pain in One's Heart
Atlas, April 23rd, 2008 KC
11:00 PM
Pacing back and forth in his room, still dressed in his highly expensive tuxedo, Whitley Schnee couldn't help but think about the last several hours. He's glad that he had sound-proofed the room, because he doubt anyone would appreciate him stomping on the floor. After all, wooden tiles and fine leather shoes did not produce a pleasant sound, especially with the force of his stomps.
He was upset- no, scratch that, he is absolutely furious!
After everything he has done for his father, Weiss came out on top again. He put in four years of his life into his studies, sacrificed his social life, built inventions the company profited from, and what does he get as thanks? He got a free trip to Anima! To Anima of all places?! It was like winning a prize on those insufferable game shows Rhodey enjoys, the kind that everyone knows is rigged.
Am I a joke? Is that what I am to Father?! Is my existence some kind of sick joke to him, with my misery being the goddamn punchline?! These were the thoughts in his head. The self-loathing speculations of a boy denied the respect he has longed for so long.
He just couldn't understand the logic behind his father's decision. He has put more time and effort into being the perfect heir than Weiss ever has. He knew that the Dust market was more complicated than the simple laws of supply-and-demand. He doubts his sister even knows what supply and demand means, since all she does is wave that dumb sword of hers, thinking she can get her way by slaying a bunch of monsters. When is she going to learn that life is not a damn fairy tale!
Using his right foot, he kicks his bed. An explosion of pain erupts in his big toe. Whitley was not unfamiliar with pain and he thinks stubbing a toe counts among the worst ways to hurt oneself. He sits at his desk and takes off his shoe and examines his toe. It looks a bit red, but it'll heal in time. He hobbles to his bed and jumps onto the mattress, landing on his back.
He's glad nobody saw his little tantrum.
"Are you done with your little hissy-fit? If you're not, please don't kick the computer server." VIC asks, looking down on the boy with his sensor. "Unlike your bed, I actually do have feelings."
Okay, he's glad someone with a physical body didn't see his little tantrum. He groans then asks. "How long were you watching?"
"The minute you walked in, slammed the door, and practically shouted 'Daddy, why won't you love me!" VIC replies, unsure how to handle a temperamental teenager. "I take it something happened at the party?"
"Well, if you must know, Father actually congratulated me on my graduation, and he apologized for not coming to the ceremony." Whitley replies.
"Well, that's nice, I guess Jacques isn't-"
Whitley Cuts him off. "And his way of apologizing is to send me off to Anima for something he could have done himself."
"…I take back what I was about to say"
A silence settles between the boy and the AI, a very uncomfortable one. Neither knows what they could say that could relieve the tension. Whitley, being the teenager he is, opts to go for the long, sullen silence. VIC, being an AI, calculates his options, running through multiple scenarios and analyzing their outcomes. After a few seconds, he decides upon the only course of action that had no negative repercussions.
He pulls up a cat video. A hologram appears, showing a small kitten jumping up and down, while an exercise video plays in the background. Simulated laughter fills the room, shattering the silence like a hammer on glass. Whitley doesn't find the act relieving, bringing his hands to his face, muffling a groan. VIC never could read the room.
Eventually, he couldn't take the laughter anymore and threatens his obnoxious roommate. "If you don't stop, I will upload you into a scroll and never use it."
The hologram deactivates, showing that VIC is taking the threat seriously. "I was just trying to make the situation feel less awkward."
"Well, mission accomplished. I feel annoyed now, thank you so much for making me feel this way." Whitley testily remarks. He immediately regrets giving the AI his cat video privileges back.
"Alright, fine, sheesh. If it'll make you feel you any better, I've got some news on that lawyer-guy."
That makes Whitley feel better, but only slightly. Until he hears what VIC has to tell him, he'll reserve judgment on whether it counts as good news or not. After today, he's learned that it's better not to build up his expectations. Build them high enough and they'll just be toppled down by the wrecking ball known as life. "Alright, tell me what you've found out." He asks.
VIC lists what he found out. "Well, turns out "he" is a "she", sorry, but she sounded really mannish on the scroll. Her name's Connie Ferrari. She's a lawyer working at Ferrari & Hindle associates, which is run by her father. She's 27, likes long walks on the beach, and prefers to drink her coffee without crème. She also has a huge crush on Simon Williams, calling him, quote, yummy enough to eat."
Whitley just stares at the mobile camera that serves as VIC's eyes, staring at it unamused. "Okay, I asked if she's legitimate… not for you to read her entire Facespace page, Also, TMI on that last bit!"
"Oh, she's totes legit, no question. Top of her class at Vale City U, passed the Atlas bar exam with flying colors, and her father was actually one of your grandfather's lawyers, so there's a connection."
Okay, I guess that means she's on the level. Whitley thinks, surprised at the information presented.
He knows his grandfather hired many lawyers for the company, but he never thought that one of them would become the executor of his grandmother's estate. A role which seems to have passed from father to daughter, if what VIC says is true. "I'll call tomorrow and schedule a meeting, first thing in the morning."
He moves to the closet and takes out his fine-linen pajamas. "But, first, I need to get some sleep."
He walks to over to the bathroom door and opens it. A few minutes pass before he walks out, dressed in his pajamas. "Alright, V, power down for the night. I'm hitting the hay."
VIC complies with the command and goes into sleep mode. Whitley, feeling much happier than he has all day, lies down on his bed and pulls the sheets over his body. After the long day he's had, he could use a good night's sleep.
Bounding down the vast hallway, seven-year old Whitley Schnee was feeling excited. Today was his big sister's birthday, and he couldn't wait to see how she reacts to his present. He had been working on it for days, reworking some mechanisms and making sure the thing worked on the first try. He hasn't told anyone what it was, except for his grandma, who had helped him with this project.
She promised to keep it a secret. A secret he hopes Weiss will love.
The little boy beams at the thought, his grin being so blindingly bright it could be seen from space. It's a shame that Atlas didn't have cameras in space to prove it. He looks down at the small gift in his tiny hands, which was neatly wrapped in white wrapping paper and topped with a bright red bow. The boy was proud of the wrapping, since he didn't ask any grown-ups to help him. He is a big boy now, after all.
Seconds pass and he soon finds himself standing at the door to the main dining room, where the party was being held. Shaking in excitement, he jumps and reaches out for the doorknob. Holding on to the metallic knob, hanging just a few inches off the ground, the boys shifts his weight about. He moves like a pendulum, using the momentum to turn the knob. It works as he is rewarded with the click of the lock moving back. The door creaks open. He releases his hold and lands on his feet on the floor.
"Where were you?!" He hears someone shout. It sounds like his mommy, but he has never heard her sound so angry before. He didn't even know she could get mad.
"What does it matter? I'm here now, so, what's the big deal?" He hears another voice calmly say. It sounded calm, but it felt as though the voice was trying to restrain itself. It also sounded like his daddy.
He peeks inside, hiding behind the open door. He sees his mommy, slightly red-faced and holding a strange bottle in one hand, poking his daddy in the chest with the other. He also sees Weiss standing close by, watching the argument with tearful eyes, with their sister, Winter, trying to wipe her eyes with a tissue. Surprisingly, he doesn't see Grandma in the room, since she promised she would be here. Klein, or any of the other servants, was also nowhere to be seen.
"What's the big deal?! The deal is that you promised Weiss, your daughter, that you'd be here on time. The party started over three hours ago, and you just arrived! All the guests have left!" Mommy shouts, causing him to cower a bit at the tone she was using.
"Well, I'm sorry, that I let such a trivial detail escape my mind!" His Daddy shoots back, swatting Mommy's prodding away.
"TRIVIAL, it's your daughter's birthday, the day we celebrate her coming into this world and you call it "trivial"!" Mommy shouts, outraged at the insinuation.
Daddy crosses his arms, refusing to look her in the eye. "What does it matter? She'll just have another one next year."
"That's not the point, Jacques, and you know it! The point is that this isn't the first time you've done this; you weren't there at Winter's parties or Weiss', not even for Whitley's! So explain to me what is so important that would make you miss out on your children's lives!" She demands, face red with anger.
"The family's reputation is the point! I don't have time for childish parties when I have a Multi-billion Lien company to run! The Schnee name is far too important…" Jacques tries to explain, face starting to turn red.
"And that's another thing; it's always about the name! Schnee this, Schnee that! It's like all you care about is the power that name gives you! Well, I have some news for you. YOU ARE NOT EVEN A REAL SCHNEE!" Mommy shouts angrily, spit flying into her husband's face. "In fact, here's what I think you are…"
She erupts into a tirade, bombarding the man's face with obscenity after obscenity. Whitley knew what those words mean, having heard them from his father, grandmother, and sometimes, Aunt Pepper. They were "no-no" words, the kind that children should never say in the presence of an adult. However, he is learning new words from his mother. Judging from his older sister's increasingly panicking face, these new words were a step above whatever ones they had heard in the past. But what was so bad about "Fudge", "Cut", and "Coke"? Did he hear those words right? He'll have to ask his grandma what they mean.
As Willow continues her verbal assault, her husband's face begins to burn red, and it seems his eyes do as well. With each slur that is directed his way, his body began to shake violently with rage. That rage crosses the threshold as he pushes his wife back, nearly knocking her down to the floor. His sisters stare at him with frightened faces, as though fearing they would be next.
"WHY DO YOU THINK I MARRIED YOU?!" He roars, teeth snarling and mustache bristling. "Do you think I actually loved you? A contemptuous and spoiled, little bitch like you! I loved your name and all the benefits that came with it! You want to know what I feel when I look at you, Willow? I feel absolutely nothing. You mean nothing to me. You are nothing to me. YOU ARE NOTHING!"
Jacques slaps Willow across the face. She reels back, almost falling to her knees. Touching her reddened cheek, tears start to form in her eyes. Jacques just stands there, glaring down at her. "Just be grateful I let you stay in MY house… And don't you ever speak to me in front of my children like that again!"
Nursing his hand, he looks to the door and sees Whitley standing there. The two make eye contact. The little boy wants to look away, but the look his father's giving him tells him he shouldn't. It tells him that if he looks away, something bad would happen to him.
"Come here, boy." He demands, beckoning the boy over with a wagging finger.
Whitley complies, knowing the consequences should he refuse. He walks to his daddy, the gift still in his hands, all while looking down at the floor. "Look up at me when I'm talking to you, boy." The man coolly commands.
Whitley does as he's told. He sees his father's cold eyes bearing down on him, freezing him in place. The boy had never felt such coldness before, which says something, considering they live on the coldest continent in the world. "Do you know why I hit mommy?" His father asks.
Lost for words, Whitley dumbly shakes his head.
Jacques bends down, looking his son in the eyes. "Do you think I shouldn't have hit mommy?"
Whitley gulps, not sure how to answer such a question. He voices his confusion. "I don't know."
Jacques smirks and rises up, saying. "Good answer. Never question me."
He walks away from his son, making his way to the door. He closes the door behind him with a thunderous thud, which echoes through the room. Whitley looks at his mother, whom also looks back at him. Something in her eyes confuses the boy, being that it was something he's never seen before. It looked as though she wasn't looking at him, but through him. She too walks away, all while taking a drink from the bottle in her hand. She leaves the room as well, leaving Whitley alone with his sisters.
He looks to them. Winter was hugging Weiss closely to her, the girl having buried her crying face into her stomach. Whitley looks at his gift and smiles softly, knowing just what would cheer Weiss. He walks up to them and tugs on Weiss' dress.
"Leave me alone, Whitley…" Weiss warns, not even turning to look at him.
Whitley holds the gift out to her. "I have a present for you."
"I said. Leave." Weiss says, her grip tightening on their sister's waist.
"Please, open it. You'll like what you'll see…" Whitley presses on.
"Go away…" She grounds out, anger building up in her voice.
"But, if you just-"He tries to say.
"JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!" She snaps, flinging an arm at him, before running past him.
However, her hand connects with the gift, which flies out of his hands. The little box sails through the air, the boy watching with bated breath and widened eyes. For what seems like an eternity, he watches the gift he had worked so hard on fly through the air in a descending arc. He doesn't even notice the crying Weiss leaving the room, with their sister following after her. He doesn't even hear the door open and close.
The gift crashes onto a wall. A shattering sound is heard as it rebounds off the wall, dropping unceremoniously onto the polished, tiled floor. Whitley runs to it and rips off the wrapping paper and bow, revealing the small cardboard box beneath. Hoping against hope that his present isn't broken too badly, he opens it.
He sees shattered glass, broken ceramic and bent gears. The inside of the box was wet, soaked by water and covered with miniature white flakes. Staring up at him from inside the box was a picture of his smiling family, whom he saw sneering and frowning only moments before. It was a Snow Globe, one that contained a photo of his family.
He had spent the last week building it. He even put a music box inside it, one that would play the lullaby their mother sang to them as babies. The music box now lies soaked and bent beyond all recognition.
Whitley cries, alone and miserable. He would remember this day. It was the day the illusion he held about his family finally shattered, when he finally saw the anger and resentment that simmered beneath those mockingly happy faces.
He also learned an important lesson that day. Never question or else punishment awaits.
Whitley wakes up, forcing his eyes open. It was dark, nearly pitch-black, which means it is either still late at night or extremely early in the morning. Rubbing his eyes, he feels that they are wet, with dried streaks running down his face. He sighs. Damn it, I thought I was over this.
He had cried in his sleep. He has tried so hard not to show weakness and his own body betrays him in his sleep. He hasn't cried in years, even with so many close calls and the temptation to do so. He had thought his sleep would give sweet dreams, but instead his mind chose to play back one of the worst experiences of his life, one that belonged to a list that is much too long in his opinion.
Having enough of the dark, he speaks up, "Wakey, Wakey, V."
The lights turn on as simulated yawning sounds off. Whitley knows VIC has no body, so he thinks the yawning was a bit much. He asks the AI. "What time is it?"
"If I had the capacity to feel tiredness, I would've told you to just check your phone. Seeing as I don't, I can tell you that the time is 5:18 AM." VIC reports, making sure to have his displeasure heard. Apparently he can't feel exhaustion, but he can still feel an emotion as complex as annoyance, much to Whitley's amusement.
But then he remembers the time. 4:30? I usually get up around 5:30 for morning coffee. I guess some habits can't be quit cold-turkey.
He honestly did think that he could wake up later than he usually does now. It seems that four years of regulated sleeping has made him incapable of sleeping no more than five hours. He hopes he can remedy that problem soon, probably around a month or so. He has no reason to wake up early now that he's out of college, so he could sleep till eleven for all he cares, especially when he doesn't have any plans for the day. However, he did have plans today, ones that were forced upon him very suddenly.
"Alright, let's go over my schedule for the day." He asks.
VIC hesitates before saying. "…Yeah, I didn't make one."
Whitley nearly shouts his frustration, but his throat feels too dry to strain them. He simply asks calmly. "Why didn't you?"
"Well, because you didn't ask me to… and no, that wasn't sarcasm." The AI responds truthfully.
While he may be a highly-functional, semi-self-aware artificial intelligence, he still needed instructions on what task he should perform. It was a sub-routine Whitley had written into his programming, and it has kept him from going full Arnie Schwartz on the world. Not that he wouldn't do it anyway, since no more world meant no more cats and no more cats meant no more cat videos. Plus, he just loves humanity too much to go through with it.
"Alright, I want you to compile a schedule for today. I want it precise, well-organized, and with no periods of inactivity in-between hours. I'm out of school, so I need something to do." Whitley commands, rising up from his bed.
He is going to the staff kitchen. Hopefully there was someone there that could make him a nice breakfast. He can't cook, but he sure wasn't going to use a microwave anytime soon, considering he has used one nearly every night when studying. In fact, if nobody is in the kitchen, he'll just brew a nice cup of coffee for himself. He's had a lot of practice over the years, with Rhodey teaching him along the way. The man once told him that the ladies appreciate a man who knows his coffee.
Whitley isn't interested in finding the right girl now. After today, his focus will solely be on securing his right as the one and only heir to the Schnee fortune. He can worry about securing his lineage later, after he has fully consolidated his position. Plus, his parent's relationship has really turned put off the idea of romance. Much like his sister's dream, romance is just another childish thing that can only be found in fairy tales.
He puts on his slippers, takes out his scroll from his drawer, activates it flashlight function, and makes his way toward the door. He stops mid-step and tells VIC, "Oh and I want that schedule ready before I come back."
"No problem, Boss. By the time you get back, your schedule will be so packed you won't have time to take a piss. So would like me to schedule your potty breaks too?" VIC replies, adding. "And that last bit was sarcasm, by the way."
Whitley groans, not in the mood for the virtual consciousness' lip. He opens the door and enters the hallway. He closes the door quietly, knowing that his family was sleeping. He didn't do it out of thoughtfulness; he just didn't want to deal with his family so early in the morning. He looks both sides of the vast hallway and sees neither family nor any of the servants in sight. Once he is sure he is alone, he activates the small but bright flashlight on his scroll and begins walking towards the kitchen.
His steps are soft and quiet, cushioned by his slippers and muffled by the floor's fine carpeting. Along the way, he comes across certain doors belonging to members of his family. The boy is glad it is still night time, as he can finally show his feelings toward his co-called family. At Winter' bedroom, he sneers and blows a silent raspberry. At Weiss', he glares and makes a particularly rude gesture with his fingers. He ignores his parent's room, not wanting to even acknowledge the woman he calls mother.
His father sleeps in a separate room, one very close to his study. He would never sleep in the same bed as that woman, not after admitting the truth of their marriage. Whitley is actually glad about that, since it means he doesn't have to draw his father's ire, considering the man's unnatural ability to know everything that happens inside the house.
Eventually, he finds his way out of the hallway, cutting across the grand staircase overlooking the grand entrance hall. He looks down to see that no servants were on the bottom floor, allowing him to continue with his impromptu check. He stops near the window and observes the broken moon. As a child, he and his grandmother would often use a telescope to count the number of fragments in the satellite's debris field.
He often wondered what happened to have had such a large chunk of the moon to shatter. His grandmother told him the theory of how an asteroid had crashed into the moon, causing its fractured appearance. She'd even tell him that it was caused by the gods, as recounted in a fairy tale that she once told him and his sisters. Whatever the reason, all he knows is that his broken world has a moon that matches it. It is darkly poetic, in a way. He resumes his journey to the kitchen.
Entering another hallway, located in the east wing of the castle, he picks up the pace, knowing that the rooms were empty guest rooms. The Schnee never have visitors and for many reasons, as well. Soon, he finds himself before the kitchen entrance. He pushes back the door and enters the room, with motion-sensors triggering the ceiling lights. Looking around, he notices the many new additions that have been added. When he was in college, he spent most of his time there living in a single dorm room, only coming back home over the weekends, so he hardly spent time anywhere else in the castle.
The kitchen was as polished and organized as he remembers, having the same white wall-paint and the pristinely buffed blue tiled floor. The various cooking stations were clean and free of clutter, no doubt the work of the efficient cooking staff, Atlesian discipline at its best. It is also empty, not a single soul in sight.
Coffee it is, then.
Whitley begins searching the pantry for Coffee grounds. After a few seconds, he finds his favorite brand, Indulgers, which uses ground coffee beans grown only in southern Vale. He goes to the refrigerator, taking out a jug of milk. He then finds some cinnamon on the spices rack of one of the cooking stations. He is going to make some Cappuccino.
But first, he needs to find the espresso machine.
"Looking for this, young master?" A calm and refined voice asks behind him.
Turning around, he is surprised to see Klein Sieben, the head butler and longtime servant of his family. To his befuddlement, the balding man was already dressed in his uniform. Whitley wonders if the man slept in it. "Uhm, yes, Thank you, Klein."
"I presume you are preparing for your journey to Mistral?" The man asks, placing the espresso machine on the counter next to him. "If you like, I could prepare a brew for you."
"No, thank you, but no." He politely refuses.
"It is no trouble, sir. My duties do not begin until six, so I am free to do whatever." He insists, before drawing a cup. "Besides, I too had the same idea."
Whitley relents, letting the man take over. At least he didn't have to make it himself.
After their beverages were brewed, Employer and employee took a seat at one of the many tables in the kitchen. Sitting across from each other, neither of them feel the need to make a toast or engage in conversation. Klein takes a sip of his cup, savoring the taste of the brew he had prepared.
After stirring his cup, Whitley takes a sip of his Cappuccino. The taste of flavored, heated water bombards his tongue. His taste buds erupt in joy, savoring the added cinnamon mixed with just a dash of sugar.
The boy shrugs, "Eh, not bad."
"Your words do me honor, sir." Klein replies before drinking his own.
Silence settles between the two, as they drink their coffee. They had never done this before, sitting together like equals. It was really awkward in Whitley's opinion, since for as long as he could remember, Klein had always been the one serving his family at the dining table, and never sitting there with them. It was supposed to be like that. Him, a servant, eating at the same table as those he's paid to serve? It was improper.
But his duties don't start until the stroke of six. Whitley brings up his scroll and sees that it is ten minutes to six. He could kill the time with some small talk, but he didn't know what to say. He looks over at Klein, who was idly tapping the sides of his cup with his fingers, patiently waiting for the clock to strike six. He notices the boy staring at him and asks. "Is there something you wish to ask of me, sir?"
Whitley couldn't help but feel like a deer caught in headlights. He gives out a very rushed "No," which he unfortunately made to sound both equally rude and panicked.
Klein simply laughs. "My, my, the great Whitley Schnee, master of wit, rendered silent by the common help."
Whitley flushes from embarrassment, unable to come up with any kind of witty retort. The butler smiles and speaks. "I did not mean to offend, sir. It was simply a joke, a sort of a way for us to start breaking bread, as it were."
The boy sighs, rubbing his forehead. "I just thought I have some time to myself, is all."
Klein raises a thick eyebrow and places his cup upon the table. He folds his hands together and asks. "What troubles you, master Whitley?"
Taking a final sip of his cappuccino, Whitley too lays his cup down. He takes a deep breath and exhales. He looks his butler in the eye, and asks very seriously. "Klein, does father ever talk about me?"
Klein looks at the young man, noting his posture and face. His thin, white eyebrows were furrowed, his light blue eyes questioning but hurt, and he had the faint beginnings of a frown. He wanted to say something encouraging to the boy, but he didn't want to lie, knowing the boy didn't the ego boost. What he did deserve was the truth, and Klein is going to give it.
"Well…" He begins, pausing to find the right words to say. He resumes when he finds them. "…It's complicated, sir. I can honestly say that your father does speak of you, but never about you. When people mention your accomplishments, he makes his pride known like any respectful father should, but it seems that he only does so for appearance's sake."
Yeah, that sounds about right. The boy thinks, feeling a well of disappointment starting to build in his gut.
Klein notices the boy was on the verge of a frown. Very quickly, he closes his eyes. When they open, his light brown eyes are now a very rich shade of pink. He also feels a lot more bashful as well. He tells the boy, "But then again, I'm but a humble butler. How would the hired help know anything about their employers. I'm paid to serve dishes and clean rooms, not to speak ill of my betters."
Whitley's frown begins to waver.
Klein's eyes close and open again, this time his eyes becoming a burning red. His bashfulness melted away, a feeling of grouchiness overcoming him. "But then again, if he heard half the things I've said about him over the years, I'd be lucky to even find work if he fires me. For a man with thick pockets, he's remarkably thin-skinned." He chuckles menacingly.
Whitley begins to feel something build up inside him, trying desperately to keep it contained. But he knew what's going to happen next and he doesn't know if he can hold it in after that.
Grumpy-Klein continues, "Or maybe it's something else? I notice he tends to have a stiff back. Maybe I should call a gastroenterologist? It might improve the man's attitude if a doctor pulled out whatever's crammed up his a-"
"Okay, stop, stop!" Whitley cries, barely holding in his laughter. "I think that's enough, Klein."
The butler closes his eyes, opening them again to reveal his normal brown irises. He looks at the laughing Schnee, whose arms were wrapped around his own stomach, a vain attempt at trying to smother the laughter. The laugh itself was both controlled and raucous, compounded by loud snorts and long gasps.
"I think this is the first time I've heard you laugh in years. It sounds like you've holding in a lot of humor." Klein observes, smiling at the display.
Whitley's laugh soon cracks, going into a coughing fit. Klein was right, he hasn't laughed like that in years. Sure there was the polite giggle or the pity laugh he gave whenever Zeke told a bad joke, but he hasn't genuinely laughed in a long time. Now that he thought about it, he hasn't had a single good laugh since…
Since Grandma died, He realizes pensively.
Whatever joy he was feeling left, with a deep sadness settling in its place. After his sister's disastrous birthday party, it was hard to feel any joy in the castle. He kept to himself, as did his sisters. His mother began drinking her problems away. His father devoted more time to work than his family, becoming a non-entity in his children's lives.
But what did Grandma Toni do? She visited more often, taking the time to spend more time with her grandchildren than she did her daughter. She would tell them stories about their grandfather and how they met, and how they would drive her mother up the wall with their antics. She would braid Winter's hair and give her relationship advice. She'd humor Weiss with a few tea parties and hold mini-concerts.
And what did she do for Whitley? She nurtured his interest in machines, helped him with homework, and would sometimes read to him the books she had read when she was a child. Sometimes, she would sneak a vintage issue of Captain Vale into Storytime, entertaining the boy with tales of a Valean superhero who could make his enemies yield with his mighty, unbreakable shield. In short, she was the parent that the Schnee children needed during a very scary time.
And then she died, with her death being the final nail in the coffin for the Schnee progeny's bond. Her grandchildren reacted to her passing as many would expect. Winter became more strict and disciplined, picking up the responsibility of raising her siblings. She and Weiss fully bonded, supporting and caring for each other as only sisters could. Then Winter joined the military, Weiss chose to become a huntress, and soon both will be away from this cold tomb they once called home.
And Whitley, what happened to him? His sisters tried for a while, but they couldn't find anything to bond over and eventually casted him aside. It was around that time that Pepper stepped in and tried to raise him as his mother should. Now, he was fifteen, fresh out of college, and wondering what he should do now.
"What should I do?" He thinks aloud.
"I'm sorry, what was that, sir?" Klein asks, having been worried by the boy's sudden silence.
Whitley catches himself and reassures the man that nothing is wrong. He looks to the clock and sees that it is now 6'oclock. Turning to Klein, he tells him. "It's time for you to start working, Klein."
"Indeed it is. Enjoy your trip to Anima, master Whitley" Klein says, rising from his seat, taking both his and Whitley's empty cups with him. He stops and looks at the boy with an encouraging smile. "And congratulations on your graduation."
Whitley nods in appreciation, giving the man a small, thankful grin. He feels slightly better now. He rises from his chair and begins making his way back to his room. He has some preparing to do. He needs to take a shower, brush his teeth, find the appropriate clothes for his trip, and make a call to one Connie Ferrari.
After that, he's got an airship to catch.
Ferrari & Hindle Associates, Atlas Offices
10:00 AM
Sitting behind her desk, 25 year-old attorney-at-law Connie Ferrari reviews the latest appeals brought to her attention. It is all she can do for now, for she is expecting a call today. The call being Whitley Schnee, the youngest grandchild of her father's deceased client, Antoinette "Toni" Schnee. She had tried to reach the young man yesterday, but her call was received by an automatic answering machine, one that she swore asked if she was single. She didn't answer the question. She's an attractive woman, and definitely single, but she's not going to advertise those facts freely. (She's saving herself for that stud-muffin of an actor, Simon Williams)
Her scroll rings. She picks up and answers. "Hello, Ferrari & Hindle Associates, Connie Ferrari speaking."
"Hello, this is Whitley Schnee. I was told your office tried to contact me yesterday. From what I gather, there is an inheritance for me?" A boy's voice asks over the line.
"Before we begin, I have to verify you're indeed the person in question. Mrs. Schnee prepared a test for you to prove your identity." She tells the boy, who accepts the terms.
Putting the call on hold, she walks over to the wall adjacent to her desk. Hanging on the wall is a framed painting of a Vacoan sunset, which she removes, revealing a safe. She presses her right thumb on a tiny screen, which scans her finger print. Verifying her print, it asks for a code, which she enters on the keypad below the scanner. Upon verifying the code, the safe opens, revealing rows of various, neatly-organized folders within. She rifles through the folders, before finding the Schnee files. She pulls out a folder labeled "Schnee, Whitley."
She closes the safe and locks it, placing the painting back in its spot on the wall. She returns to her desk and puts her scroll on speaker, continuing the call. As she opens the folder's contents, she explains to the boy. "Alright, if you are indeed who you claim to be, then you should be able to answer these questions correctly. Mrs. Schnee was very adamant that only her grandson would answer them. Before we proceed, I must warn you that this call is being recorded, so that it may be used as evidence against you, should you prove to be a fraud. Do you understand and accept these terms?"
"If I didn't accept them, I would've just hanged up." The boy replies rather smartly.
If we didn't have these questions, that snarky response would have been enough to identify him, Connie observes. Whoever was on the other line, they certainly had that Stark-Snark her father told her of. She speaks again. "Let us begin with the first question."
She reads off the first one. "One day, when you were only five, you and Weiss started arguing about the television while visiting your grandmother. What exactly were the two of you arguing about?"
"We were arguing over what to watch. Weiss wanted to watch Sheena, Queen of the Jungle marathon and I wanted to watch SquareBob Spongejeans. Grandma wanted to watch Zaplock."
Connie looks over the paper. The caller gave almost every detail to the letter. She reads off question two. "When you turned six, your grandma brought you a present. What was it and what did you do with it?"
"She bought me a Hammertech Computer. I spent all my time after the party taking it apart, trying to learn how it works… and how to make it work better." The voice answers, though she swears she could hear a chuckle. Then again, most of what Hammer Industries made was a joke, so it was understandable.
"Finally, for Weiss' tenth birthday party, I helped you build a gift for her. What was it?" Connie asks, reading the final question.
For a few seconds, all she hears is silence. She wonders if the person hanged the scroll up or if the line had been lost. Before she turns her own scroll off, she is given an answer.
"…It was a snow globe. One I designed and she helped build. It had a photo of the family in it, and a musical box that played a lullaby." The boy she now positively identifies as Whitley Schnee answers. His answer sounded far too somber in her opinion, but it wasn't her place to ask why. She is simply fulfilling the last requests of the boy's grandmother.
"Thank you for calling, Mr. Schnee. As you are probably aware, my father was the executor of your grandparent's estate. He retired last month and passed his role onto me. Now, the purpose of my call was to schedule a proper meeting to sort out the paperwork. When is a good time for you?"
She hears Whitley mumbling. After a few seconds, he replies. "I'm afraid that I'm booked for the next few days. My schedule is free after the beginning of May, so perhaps we can schedule a meeting for the first weekend of the month?"
Connie again places the call on hold, scrolling her scroll for her daily planner app. She looks over her schedule for May and sees that she is definitely free for the requested time period. She speaks into the scroll. "Yes, I can schedule a meeting for May 2nd. Is that agreeable with you?"
"Yes, the time is perfect. Thank you…" She hears the boy's voice trail off. "Before I hang up, can you tell me anything about my Grandmother's will?"
"I'm afraid the full details of the will can only be divulged during our meeting. You should receive it after signing all the appropriate paperwork. Thank you, Mr. Schnee, and I look forward to our meeting." She tells the young Schnee.
"As do I. Thank you for your time, Ms. Ferrari. Have a nice day." She hears him close his end of the line. She presses the end button on her scroll, ending the call.
Depositing her cell phone away in her pocket, the woman picks up the folder, placing it inside her purse. While most people would think putting such confidential materials in such an unsecure place was irresponsible, she however was not. What those people didn't know was the purse was also a gun, a gift from a huntsman she had represented some time ago. She could defend herself.
She looks over the stacks of paperwork on her desk. She sighs, knowing she'll be stuck in her office well beyond her hours. She resumes her work.
"Alright, it's done. In exactly one week from now, I'll be receiving grandma's inheritance." Whitley declares, an almost-excited grin stretching across his face.
"And now it's time for you to leave for Mistral. I'm so jealous of you." VIC tells the boy.
"You say that whenever I leave the castle." The boy reminds the AI.
"Oh, rub it in, why don't you?" The AI retorts. To which the boy just shakes his head.
Whitley looks around his room, observing for anything out of place. The bed was made, thanks to the servants. His clothes, all chosen by him, were packed, thanks to the servants. VIC's server was clean and free of dust, thanks to him. (It was one of the few things he didn't entrust to other people). He's taken a shower, brushed his teeth, and is now dressed in the most expensive-looking black business suit he owns. (He would've gone for white, but he felt a black suit would really draw attention to his eyes.)
All in All, he looks the part of a respectable businessman. It's the closest he'll get to being one for a while.
"Alright, V, I'm leaving now. Here are some things I need to ask of you. Firstly, do not crank-call Father. Second, do not crank-call Justin Hammer. Thirdly, and most importantly, crank-call Weiss as many times as you want." He says, treating the AI like an unruly child who needs… rules.
"Yes, MOM, whatever you say." Vic childishly retorts, acting very much his actual age.
With that out of the way, Whitley takes his suitcase and exits the room, leaving VIC alone once again. Knowing that his creator and unofficial warden will be gone for a week, the AI immediately does the one thing he always does whenever his creator leaves; crank-calling his father.
"Silly rich kid, rules are for meat bags." VIC chuckles before calling Jacques' personal scroll number.
This is going to be a great week.
After calling that lawyer, Whitley's day got exceedingly better with each passing hour. He didn't run into his sister on his way out, since she left the night before. He called Pepper and Happy, and much to his pleasure, found that his father had indeed given them the vacation time he had asked for. He didn't call Rhodey, being considerate of the man's desire to celebrate his niece's graduation with his family. The drive to his family's private airship was surprisingly quick, with traffic being very light. Today was starting off great, in his opinion.
The airship took off without problem and now he is on a five-hour flight to Argus. The Ship is to land at the Atlesian base near the City. He checks his scroll, which he put on Airship-mode, and sees that it has been close to three and a half hours since take-off. He should be nearing the base soon.
The ship runs into some turbulent winds, shaking the cabin. Whitley grips the arms of his chair. He's always hated flying. Experts say that flying is the safest way to travel, statistically speaking, but he wonders just how many of those "experts" have actually been on an airship.
{Apologies, Mr. Schnee, we have been running into strong winds, shouldn't last long.} The pilot relays over the intercom.
The shaking continues, much to the boy's irritation. Looking around, he watches as the small compressed cabin vibrates from the strong winds. It's making nervous, and the last thing he needs is to lose his nerves before the big presentation. He wasn't told when exactly the demonstration will be. Apparently, he will be given more details by the base commander.
What was her name again? Caroline Cordovin? He muses, trying to recall where he had heard that name before.
The cabin shakes, shaking him from his thoughts. He growls, having half a mind to march into the cockpit and chew the pilot out. But, then again, the last thing a pilot operating a flying airship needs is for the passenger to distract him with a complaint. That was a surefire way to cause the ship to crash. The pilot gets a pass. For now, that is.
He looks out the window, hoping to find something that could take his mind off his anger. The second he does, he is bombarded by the rays of the afternoon sun. Anima and Solitas are in different time zones, so 8:30 in Atlas would be 12:30 in Argus. Whitley didn't mind the time change, as it gave him what many would call "one hell of a view".
And what a view it is, with the rich azure sea going off for miles, with the horizon coming to meet with the equally blue sky. He didn't know where the sea ends and where the sky begins. Above the sea, the afternoon sun blazes brightly, reflected in the water. He wonders what the sunset would look like. He had heard that an Animan sunrise and sunset was a sight to behold. If he recalled, the ancient kingdom of Hoshi once revered the sun as a symbol, displaying it proudly on their banners.
He wonders what it would be like to sail through the air, with the use of an airship. He tries to imagine the feeling of gliding through the air, to feel the rush of the wind upon his face as his body sails through the air at breakneck speeds. It was a nice image, but still just a fantasy. Man can't soar thought the air, he can only fall. The rush of powerful winds tear faces apart, not caress gently like a lover. At breakneck speeds, a man's neck would break. Life isn't a fairy tale, after all.
The cabin shakes again, rattling him from his daydream. He frowns, unable to relax amidst the rattling in the airship. Falling through the air is beginning to sound more desirable than this torture, in his opinion.
{Mr. Schnee, we are about twenty minutes away from Argus Base.} The pilot announces over the intercom.
Whitley rejoices, a wave of relief washing over him. Twenty minutes. Thank the Gods… I only have to spend twenty more minutes in this flying metal coffin!
The rest of his trip is spent gripping his chair with a vice-grip, trying to control his chittering teeth and cursing the bastard who ever discovered powered flight. He hopes they died a very humiliating death.
Argus Base, Argus, Anima
1:52 PM AWT (Anima Western-Coastal Time)
After being given clearance to land, Whitley's airship flew toward airfield 3 to land. Whitley notices a large procession on the airfield, with Argus personnel standing at attention in their uniforms, as a brass band plays in the background. Further back, he notices that a massive crowd has gathered, with some soldiers standing guard over them. They look to be cheering and holding signs, many of which he could not read.
Of the signs he could read, he could make out a few with messages such as "Welcome to Argus!", "SDC = FTW!", and, of course, the ever-present "Fuck U, Schnee". He isn't the least bit surprised by that last one, knowing that half of these people weren't cheering for him. In fact, he could spot a few who were jeering and hurling insults at him. He sees that the hecklers are mostly Faunus, but that didn't bother him at all. He didn't care much for their opinion.
He then notices the base has a red carpet rolled out for him, a sort of gaudy welcome mat to really make him feel at home. Upon this extending carpet, there stood three people stood upon. Two were very tall and broad-shouldered Men, whom were dressed in the same uniform as the other soldiers and looked scarily similar to the other, with no distinguishable traits differentiating them. Were they twins, perhaps?
The third person was much harder to identify. They were short, about the height of a child, and he actually did think them a child until he noticed the uniform. He also notices the shortly cut and immaculately combed silver hair, which suggested the child-sized individual was much older than he thought. Whether they were male or female was something he'll have to see for himself.
The ship lands, with the jet engines deactivating just as it touches the ground. Whitley unbuckles his seatbelt and rises from his chair, folding out the creases in his black suit as he approaches the ship's airlock. He stops at the exit, waiting for the crew to open it.
He cracks his neck and whispers, "Showtime..."
The airlock door opens and he steps forward, descending down the stairs prepared for the airship. He gives a smile and waves, relishing the attention of the masses. However, he notes that the applause is less enthusiastic than he likes. Walking down the red carpet, he approaches the short person. Up close, he could finally make out that they were indeed a she. He also observes that she has more medals than her comrades, indicating that she is the highest-ranking officer in charge.
He addresses the small woman. "Commander Cordovin, I presume?"
Cordovin beams at the recognition, puffing her chest out in pride. She gives a crisp salute and greets the young man. "Welcome, Mr. Schnee, to Argus. It is an honor to have an individual of your caliber in our base. If you would follow me to my quarters, I shall brief you on the details of the coming demonstration."
She turns on her heels and directs the men standing with her to collect Whitley's luggage from the airship. The two salute in unison, marching off together as well, in fully synchronized fashion.
It may have been his mind playing tricks on him, but the boy could've sworn he heard the soldiers chant "Atlas, Atlas, and Hup-Hup-Hup".
He follows Cordovin, who keeps a steady pace as she passes her soldiers, who salute both her and Whitley as they pass. It feels somewhat suffocating to the boy, being looked upon like that.
He can only imagine what it would feel like if he was near the civilians gathering outside. He follows Cordovin, wondering what exactly the woman wishes to tell him other than the details of his visit
At the highest level of the tallest tower on base, Caroline Cordovin and Whitley Schnee sat opposite one another in the woman's office. Her office was somewhat of an eyesore for the boy, being a dull white and very utilitarian in design, absent of anything that would suggest the woman's personal life. The only thing that would count as a personal item was a framed photo of General Ironwood sitting on the woman's desk. It was even signed, with a personalized message as well.
"Enjoy Argus, Caroline, sincerely yours, General James Ironwood."
Somehow, he felt that the general's message was not that sincere. He looks over to the woman sitting behind the desk, who is staring at him. No, it feels like she's analyzing him, as though he was some kind of unwanted and unknown presence that she needed to understand.
"Forgive me, Mr. Schnee, but, I must ask… Why are you here?" She asks, placing emphasis on the "you".
The commander's question didn't bother Whitley in the slightest. His arrival was a bit of a late development, and it was obvious that they had been expecting his father. While his father did say that it was only fair for one of the M3 developers to be present for the demonstration, he didn't exactly give a reason why he wouldn't be there. All he said was that his schedule was packed, which in of itself, was a rather vague explanation. It seems that he didn't inform the Military either, considering the question Cordovin poses.
"I am here to observe the demonstration in my father's place, commander. It was rather sudden and I felt obligated to honor my father's wishes. As for why he couldn't be here himself, I'm afraid I'm as in the dark as you are." He explains.
The old soldier accepts the answer. Leaping from her chair, she lands on the floor and walks around her desk. She stands next to the boy, her piercing, scrutinizing brown eyes looking up at him. She may have accepted the answer, but she is still apprehensive about having a child present at the base, even if said child was the son of one of her military's biggest suppliers. Whitley, for his part, simply looks down nervously at the old woman. The woman suddenly directs her attention to the large window behind her desk, which she walks over to. Being tall enough to look through the glass, she gazes down upon the city of Argus.
"Mr. Schnee, what do you see when you look through this window?" She asks out of the blue.
Curious, the boy approaches the window as well, joining the commander in observing the view below. He sees the airfield abuzz with activity, with personnel scurrying about in practiced routes, rushing to fulfill their duties. He directs his gaze upward, focusing on the bridge connecting the base to the city. There were scores of people on the bridge, walking back towards their homes after the ceremony had. There was a sizeable mob of people still standing at the gate, waving signs and throwing trash into the base. Protestors, he concludes.
He moves his focus onto the city, unable to handle the sight of the mob. Remarkably, he could see cars moving about in the distance, driving through doubtlessly busy streets. The buildings glisten in the light of the sun, reflecting on glass and illuminating bricks that were a rich shade of brown, red, and any other color imaginable. This city would not have survived without Atlesian technology, as his history tutor taught him.
"I see the fruits of Atlesian labor and progress." He says smiling, satisfied with the answer he gives.
Cordovin, however, only scoffs. "A beautiful sentiment, but not one I share. Do you know what I see when I look through this window?"
Her eyes furrow. "I see complacency. While our technology has indeed sustained Argus, it has also engendered a sense of false security in the citizens. They are sheep in need of purpose, direction; Direction that can only be given by a shepherd like Atlas, and we reward them for their compliance. We provide for them, and they supply our wool. We protect them, and we have their undying devotion. For the most part, we have obedient sheep…"
She glares down at the mob gathered at the gate. "But sometimes, a few entitled wolves sneak in, trying to disrupt the harmony of the herd. They're hungry wolves, always wanting more scraps and never being satisfied with what we give them. When we try to show them a little kindness, they bite the hand that simply wants to feed them, like the wild beasts they…" She stops when she notices the confused glance the boy is giving her.
"Why are you telling me this?" He asks, getting a little impatient.
The woman looks him in the eyes, unflinching and stern. "Because your family provides the scraps that we, the shepherds, feed the sheep and wolves with. I know you, Whitley Schnee, and of all your accomplishments. The Baxter Foundation, ATI, and your part in the M3 guidance systems research project…"
He knows where this is going. "While you may have accomplished much in your short life, I have to remind you that everything you've done up to this point has been in service to Atlas. Everything you see, your family's wealth has helped build."
"What about the Hammers?" He asks.
"What about the Hammers?" She repeats, sneering at the mention of the family.
Must not be a Hammertech fan. Not that I blame her, a four year old could build a better circuit than them… oh, wait, I did. Whitley thinks rather smugly.
He speaks up, "Alright, fair point. Now, I suppose I asked the wrong question, so let me ask… What do you want from me?"
Cordovin smiles, or at least she gives what she thought is a smile. "I want those missiles that you're demonstrating. Some wolves have been gotten rather… rabid, as of late, and they have made off with some of our guns. Your M3 missiles can help in rectifying that problem, minimizing collateral damage… as well as providing a satisfying field test."
There it is. Whitley realizes, understanding the ulterior purpose of their meeting.
He wonders if she would have tried the same thing on his father. He doubts that her little speech would have worked on him, considering Jacques Schnee never gave anyone anything with a price tag attached. The same can't be said of Whitley. He couldn't exactly say no and he didn't have the power to grant her request. He did know someone who could…
"I can't give you the missiles, but I'm sure I can have father pull some strings to have the first shipment sent here." He tells her, to which she smirks triumphantly.
Satisfied, she gives him the details of the demonstration. "It will be held at 5:45 PM, at one of our outposts in the Atreides desert. Grimm activity is low, practically nonexistent. You'll be taking a predetermined route, free of obstructions and no chance of running into insurgents or bandits. Your escort leaves in fifteen minutes, and it is in Airfield 2."
Whitley thanks the commander with a firm handshake. He approaches the elevator and presses the button. As he waits for the elevator, he hears Cordovin say. "Your family must be very proud of you, Mr. Schnee."
She didn't mean to make it sound hurtful, but it hurt the boy just the same. He politely replies. "Thank you, Commander, for your kind words."
The sound of a ringing alarm tells him the elevator has arrived. The sleek white doors slide into the opening, revealing a pristine, polished elevator car. He steps inside and presses the "Ground" button. The last thing he sees, before the doors close again, is Cordovin standing proudly at the window, her back erect and hands clasped behind it. If only he had that kind of confidence.
The elevator doors close with a clink. He feels the vibrations of the elevator against the rails, bringing him down to his destination. As he waits patiently, a thought occurs.
"Wait, did she say Airfield?"
⁓Back in black, I hit the sack⁓
As Whitley suspected, his escort was indeed an aircraft. And not just any kind of aircraft, it was a Bullhead VTOL craft. A very old model by his observation, as it didn't look as sleek as the recent models that his family's company has been peddling out. Just his luck, he had to endure five hours of aerial torture traveling to Argus, and now he's suffering more leaving the city. But whereas the other airship had all the finest accommodations money could buy, his newest ride had none of them. In fact, it would be fair to say that he was traveling in a floating piece of junk, junk that belonged in a museum. He has been flying around in an antique for close to four hours. He looks out his viewport window, and observes the escorts for his escort.
⁓I keep looking at the sky, 'Cause it's getting' me high⁓
Flying in a box formation around his craft are three other Bullheads, the same make and model as his. They were hovering slightly in the air, shaking with the winds and moving with all the grace of a buzzing and cackling vulture. Why a buzzing vulture, one might ask? It is because the roar of the Bullhead's engine sounds like a dying vulture, one whose last meal had been a live hornet's nest.
He is glad that he didn't have to hear it inside his own bullhead. Why can't he hear the engines, one were to wonder? It is because the sound of the engines was being drowned out by rock music being played at full volume. And it was all supplied by a radio strapped to the floor. He didn't know the name of the band, since he hardly listens to other music genres outside of classical artists like Mosart and Beetoven. He knows how to play instruments, but he doesn't actively practice. It didn't help that his sister's songs were so heart-wrenchingly depressing that it makes him want to tear his own ears off.
⁓I've got nine lives, Cat's eyes⁓
He won't admit it, but he's enjoying the song. It was annoying at first, but as the trip dragged on, he found himself slightly bopping his head to the beat. It was catchy, what more could he say? Plus, it helped him from addressing his company for the ride. The Atlesian soldiers serving as his protection were all staring at him, silent and wondering whether they should say anything. They bit their tongues long enough, out of fear of saying something that would offend the Schnee. An offended Schnee was a surefire way to get dishonorably discharged. Eventually, one of the soldiers sitting next to the radio turns the volume down.
⁓Cause I'm Back! Yes, I'm back⁓
"What was that for? It was just getting to the good part!" Whitley complains, glaring at the offending soldier.
"We're sorry; Sir, but we need an update on our flight. We can't do that with so much noise." The soldier explains, feeling ashamed for cowering under a teenager's glare.
"You have watches, don't you?" Whitley rhetorically asks.
The sarcasm is lost on the Buzzkill (As Whitley will refer to him now), who replies. "Not that kind of update, sir. We're cutting into the flight path of a supply convoy…"
"And then, what?" Whitley cuts in rudely.
"Well, the pilots need to authenticate over the radio, sir. The music was too loud and they need to hear and be heard." Buzzkill explains.
Whitley accepts the explanation. Still he wishes he had brought some earphones with him. He could've listened to his classical mix on his Scroll. He's also considering updating his playlist with a few songs by the band he was just listening. If only he could know what their name is. He turns to Buzzkill.
"Hey," He says, "Can you tell me who wrote that song?"
Buzzkill turns to the boy, nose scrunched and looking insulted. If it weren't for the helmet hiding his upper face, Whitley swears he could have seen some widened and scandalized eyes. He also notices that Buzzkill's squad mates had similar reactions, save for their commander, who he identifies with the golden arch on his helmet. The man is like a statue, sitting in his seat all stone-faced and cross-armed, not even budging whenever the craft hit turbulent winds. If he is offended by Whitley's question, he didn't show it.
"Who wrote that song? Did you just ask "who wrote that song?" Have you been living under a highly-polished rock, rich boy?" Buzzkill incredulously asks, palming his helmet.
Another soldier, one with a distinct accent, chimes in. "This song was written by legends, boy-o, FREAKIN' LEGENDS!"
Whitley stares blandly at the oddly-sounding grunt. "If they're such legends, then why is this the first time I'm hearing of them?"
The accented soldier growls and whispers, "Freakin' smartass…"
"What was that?" Whitley asks, wondering if he heard that right.
The soldier and heir exchange heated glares, preparing for a vicious verbal spat. Just as they were about to commence their argument, another soldier interjects. Whitley looks to the interloper and notices that the soldier is female. The soldier scolds the two. "Enough, the kid asked a question and someone needs to answer it. And Doyle, need I remind you that our mission is to protect the boy, not to antagonize him, even if he irritates you?"
The now-named Doyle slumps his shoulders, looking down at the ground in shame.
"He started it…" he whimpers pathetically, acting like a petulant child.
Ignoring her immature comrade, she looks at the boy and calmly explains. "The name of the band is HC/LC. Before you ask why that name, I don't know, I'm not as big a fan as my friends, I'm more of a Qween-gal."
"Edna has great taste! Long live Fred Mercury!" chants Buzzkill, clasping his hands together in prayer.
Okay, I need to listen to some Qween, should I ever have the chance. Whitley decides. If Buzzkill's reaction were any indicator, they were quite the band.
The now-named Edna continues with her lesson. "Anyway, that song you were listening to is titled "Back in Black", it was written by the band as a tribute for their original lead singer, whose death made many people fear that the band would break up. This song symbolizes that they would continue on, in spite of tragedy. They came back bigger than before."
Or they just loved the money too much to quit. Whitley's cynical side deduces, but the boy keeps it to himself. If he has learned anything about show business, it's that money is usually the muse that inspires successful artist. His sister, Weiss, was among the foolish few who don't capitalize on their natural gifts, never taking a cut of the performance revenue from each of her shows. He's seen the average returns at the box office, she would have made quite the small fortune if she had decided to profit from them. It was her loss.
He notices that Edna is waiting for his response, wanting to know his opinion on the story.
"A nice story, but I think I may have to learn more about the band before I can make an honest opinion…" He starts, before catching himself. "But, I can admire their tenacity. Their music isn't that bad either, I must admit."
Edna smiles somewhat, partially satisfied with the boys answer. Suddenly, the pilot's voice is heard over the intercom. {Captain Stone, I need you in the cockpit, I've picked up some blips on our radar. Could be the Supply Convoy, need you to exchange clearance codes with their flight lead.}
The now-identified stone-faced captain (who had an appropriate name, in Whitley's opinion) unfastened his belt and rises, approaching the cockpit. He opens the air locked door leading into it, entering and locking the door behind him.
"The supply convoy is… earlier than expected." Buzzkill notes, looking at his watch. "It was estimated that we would enter their route at about 16:30 hours."
"How is that odd?" Whitley asks, confused by the man's worry.
"16:30 is 4:30. It's only 3:25."
"Something's not right about this. We're supposed to be an hour away from making contact." Captain Stone remarks, stroking his chin in deep thought.
"Well, I don't know what to tell you, sir. There are blips on the radar, and they're reading blue." The pilot explains, feeling nervous about the sudden encounter.
Stone focuses his eyes on the horizon and makes out five objects approaching the escort. Being too far out,
The officer reaches down toward the console, and grabs a small microphone. Holding it to his mouth and pressing down on the button, he addresses the unknowns with a calm and steady voice. "Attention unidentified allied aircraft, this is Snowbird-01, and you are approaching a military escort. Identify yourselves and state intent, and then proceed out of the area."
There is no answer, only static white noise. He speaks again, "Attention aircraft, this is a military escort. Identify and state intent."
The radio is static once again, meaning no response. Gripping the microphone tighter, Stone declares. "Unidentified Aircraft, you have been hailed twice and not responded. If you are experiencing communication failure, then acknowledge with signal lamp."
He waits patiently for a sequence of flashing lights. He didn't care what color the light would be. Red, blue, or yellow, it didn't matter so long as he gets some kind of response. Seconds pass and no such sequence appears. Now he's getting nervous. He turns to the pilot. "Ensign Read, relay this message to the other bullheads. Unknown aircraft, hostile intentions possible, ready weapons for potential combat."
The pilot nods and repeats the message into his helmet's microphone. Stone hears the pilots in the escort announcing their compliance with the order. Whatever intentions these newcomers had, at least they were prepared for them.
He speaks into his microphone with a stern and commanding tone. "Unidentified Aircrafts, you have failed to identify yourselves. If you do not alter course, you will be treated as hostiles and dealt with accordingly."
He waits for a response. Three times he had demanded for one, only to be denied. This is the unknown flight's last chance. He doesn't see any noticeable change. Just as he was about to give the other Bullheads clearance to engage, he hears Read shout. "Sir, the unknowns have altered their flight path! They're breaking off."
Stone takes a deep breath, thanking the gods that his squad was spared. He looks down at Read and smiles, "Maintain Course, but keep all Bullheads on high alert, we don't know if-"
{What the hell! They've got radar lock on me!} A man's voice cries out over the radio. Stone recognizes the voice as belonging to the pilot of Snowbird-02.
{That's impossible; our IFF says they're friendlies!} That was Snowbird-03.
{Then why are our friends moving into attack position!} Shouts Snowbird-04 incredulously.
"Read, have they locked on to us?!" Stone demands, praying that this is just a case of technical error.
The pilot replies swiftly, "No, sir, no lock on us!"
Stone hails the other Bullheads, shouting for evasive maneuvers. The aircraft rocks, as though something big hit it.
{Snowbird-02's been hit… She's going down… Oh, Gods, it's burning!}
{Where the hell did that missile come from?! We didn't pick it up on radar!}
He looks out through the side of the cockpit's canopy, and sees Snowbird-02 rapidly losing altitude, a trail of smoke coming from a burning wreck that was once its thrusters. As he watches the craft descend, something flies past his vision, moving faster than the naked eye could perceive.
"Sir, Snowbird-03 is being tailed, 04 has positive ID on attacker. It's a Bullhead, sir, military class at that, and a recent model too, far too fast for our antiques!" Read screeches, adding fearfully, "There's a good chance those other craft are the same type!"
"Call Argus for Reinforcements!" The captain orders while fastening himself into the passenger seat.
"I've tried, sir, but I can't reach them. All frequencies are blocked, jammed!" Read reports, fiddling with the radio as he tries to find a signal to use.
Stone sits in stunned silence, wondering just what is happening, False IFF sigs, phantom missiles, and terrorists using Military-grade jamming software, just who the hell are these guys?
Whitley Schnee is terrified. He is so scared that he is nearly on the verge of tears, begging for the kindness of the gods to shine on him, to spare his life. He looks around the cabin, watching the soldiers as they react in their own way. Buzzkill has clasped his hands together in prayer, no doubt wishing for the gods to do what the boy just begged for. Doyle is tossing out every swear word in existence, cursing the same gods he and Buzzkill were pleading to for mercy. Edna is gritting her teeth and holding on for dear life, as though expecting a crash-landing. Supplies fly through the air as the Bullhead lifts up and down, banking between left and right.
"Kid, you wearing your Bulletproof vest?" He hears Edna ask in concern.
He hesitantly answers back, "Yeah…"
"Then start hoping that that's all you'll need!"
He feels himself becoming weightless, but restrained within his seat by the safety belt. He knows what is happening, he's read enough science books to know. They are falling. He closes his eyes and waits for the impact.
Then everything went black.
"Get down, Incoming!"
"I don't see anything!"
Whitley feels numb. His eyes open, and his vision is blurry. Everything looks so bright, yet so fuzzy. He can see fuzzy, dark images running about, but they have no distinct features. He can still hear, but it feels like pillows are pressing against his ears. His back feels stiff, like he has been resting on a rock. He also feels warm, no, he feels hot. He also feels a pressure on his forehead. Reaching up with his right hand, he tries to feel for the strange sensation. He stops when he feels something cold, wet, and sticky.
Bringing his hand down, he notices something very unusual about his fingers. They were red, a really dark shade of red. A Red so richly dark, that for a moment, he thought that his skin had been peeled off. If it wasn't musculature, than what could it be?
A sobering and altogether frightening realization came.
This is blood… this is MY blood!
With that sobering epiphany, the world came back into focus for him. What he sees shocks and frightens him. In the distance, lying flat on its stomach and missing a wing is the Bullhead he had been traveling on. Fire and smoke billow from the cracked canopy of the cockpit, ascending so far into the sky that it seemed to disappear into the blue mists. He sees three dots up above, circling one another as though playing a high altitude game of tag. He watches one of the dots disappear, replaced by a trail of black barreling into the distance. The other two break off, disappearing into the sky as well.
I have to get out of here! I need to get to safety!
The panicking boy rises and runs. He passes the Atlesian soldiers desperately fighting off their attackers, paying mind to the bullets and missiles flying near and over his head. Explosions erupt around him, kicking sand and metal particulates into his face, yet he charges onward, desperate to find safety. He finds a large rock to take cover, jumping right behind it. His breathing is sharp and sporadic, and he feels sweat rolling down his face. An explosion erupts behind his hiding place, pelting his head with clumps of petrified sand.
He hears something fall beside him. Looking over to his right, he sees, lying a good few feet away from him, a body. Only, he doesn't know what part of the body he's looking at. Had it been the front or the back of a person? Was he staring at its face or the base of its head? He couldn't tell, the corpse being so mangled that he can't even begin to describe it. He feels as though he is going to vomit, but nothing comes up.
He then notices something else. Lying next to the body was an Atlesian assault rifle, undamaged and probably still loaded. Should he pick it up? Can he defend himself with it? He's spent enough time designing weapons over the years to know how they work. He slowly moves to take it.
Then something plants itself between the gun and the boy. Whitley looks at the strange object, and notes that it looks familiar. It has a polished metallic finish, was about the size of a small thermos, and had small fins circling a gaping hole. It was some kind of projectile.
Emblazoned upon the miniature missile, in finely etched lettering layered over with blue paint, was an inscription.
SDC MUNITIONS, M3 ROCKET
Whitley jumps back and screams. "HOLY SHI-"
The M3 explodes. The force of the explosion pushes him onto his back. Lying in the warm desert sand, he tries to regain his bearings. His ears are ringing, and his vision a little hazy. Then he feels something. It feels like a thousand burning needles were being pressed into his chest by a sledgehammer. He lifts his head slightly and looks at his chest. His once-pristine black suit jacket has been singed, exposing his equally damaged white dress shirt to the world, which had steadily expanding red splotch seeping through, centered directly where his heart is.
He pulls on the shirt, ripping it apart. His eyes widen as he sees an equally red mark upon the ruined bullet-proof vest he was wearing.
He's going to die. He's going to die alone in the desert and nobody will ever know.
His life flashes before his eyes. Every moment of his life jots across his eyes like a rapidly moving slide-show. He sees his sisters, Pepper, Happy, Father, and Rhodey. Every good day, every bad day, all the birthdays and holidays play out.
The very last thing he sees, before the darkness takes him, is the warm and gentle smile of his mother.
The last thing he hears is a very rough-sounding voice.
"Take him... this was not part of the plan."
Hoo boy, that was a chore to write. I'm so exhausted, that I can't leave a proper Author's note. All I can say is whatever musical acts you see in this chapter, I had changed the names of to fit within the Rwbyverse.
Also I'm looking for Beta-reader. I need people that can help me improve the overall quality of this story. (Basically I'm looking for people who can help me with Dialogue, Proper use of Past and Present tense, grammar, plot holes, and to bounce ideas off of.)
Also, I am writing five other stories for this site.
They are:
A Naruto x Fairy Tail crossover
A Naruto x Rwby crossover
A Spider-Man x My Hero Academia crossover (Description on my profile)
My own unique Transformers universe
Code Geass x Batman Story (Description on my profile)
Also, to address a question I'm sure all of you are asking... I will try to release as many chapters as I can within a short time period. There'll be times where I might post two chapters in four weeks, and perhaps in two months. I do have a life outside of Fanfiction.
Anyway, thank you for reading and I hoped you enjoyed this installment of THE INVINCIBLE WHITLEY SCHNEE. Excelsior, True Believers!