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The Invincible Whitley Schnee
Chapter 3: Refusing the Call (And Accepting the Consequences), Pt. 1
Mistral, April 25th, 2008 KC (Kingdom Calendar)
Atlas-Mistral Joint Operations Base, Fort Conan, Specialist Schnee's Quarters
11:30 AM
Sitting at her office, Winter Schnee reads the latest intelligence regarding the mission she's been assigned. A week ago, she was transferred to the AMJOB on orders from the base commander, General Thaddeus Ross. The man needed an officer with experience in hunting fugitives and she was recommended. The fact that Ross even accepted the proposal confused her to no end. She's aware of the General's rivalry with her mentor, General Ironwood, and of his bias against Ironwood's policy of drafting hunters into the military, considering them empowered yet reckless loose cannons.
Ross had a rather conservative outlook on how the military should be run, believing that the military and hunter academy should stay separate. He believed that only soldiers who trained strenuously in boot camp should join, not a bunch of entitled, overpowered upstarts who learned to fight in some "safe, cushy classroom". Though, that didn't entitle him to act like an ass towards everyone, in her opinion.
I wonder if Ross reads the Daily Bugle, he seems like the type. Winter amusedly thinks, the general's disposition reminding her of the Valean newspaper's editor, James Jonah Jameson.
I can imagine he wouldn't like that Spider-Man Jameson's getting obsessed about. She wonders, recalling the vigilante that has been fighting crime in Vale for the past month.
She doesn't have any opinion about the so-called "web-slinging wonder", believing the vigilante to be nothing but a hoax concocted by a failing newspaper to sell papers.
"Superheroes in Vale…" She wonders aloud before frowning. "Give me a break."
In her opinion, the very idea that a man in Vale was going around fighting criminals in red spandex and doing so, without any expectation of reward, sounds completely ludicrous. Even if this Spider-Man really does exist, she doubts that he is fighting crime out of the kindness of his heart. She knew better than anyone that most acts of goodwill have some kind of ulterior motive behind it. It was one of the first lessons she learned in life, with her family serving as the example.
She can't help but think what else people will think up. Perhaps the bugle will start spinning tales about an indestructible man, or maybe a woman who can walk through walls without a semblance. She wouldn't be surprised if they start circling articles about the "Dinosaur-Land" all the conspiracy theorists have been arguing about for years.
"Like in the comic books…" Winter scoffs.
She didn't believe in amazing fantasies, she believed in cold-hard facts. Like the facts within the file she's holding in her hands. It was a mission dossier, with details regarding the suspect in question. From what she could gather, sans the redacted information, the man she has been tasked with apprehending had been a scientist working on a joint Atlas-Mistral research program, one who has eluded the law for the past four years. He apparently sabotaged the project, an act that also injured dozens of his colleagues, and ran off. Interestingly, among the scientists to be injured was none other than General Ross' daughter.
I certainly hope Ross won't let his personal interests get in the way of this mission. She couldn't help but hope.
She examines the photo attached with the file. The fugitive certainly didn't look the part of a vindictive criminal, being a somewhat meek-looking man, with tussled brown hair and very nervous-looking green eyes. He didn't cut quite the imposing figure, having a physique befitting a man in his field of work. She knows there's more to this assignment than she is being told, and that there are certain details being withheld, but such information was above her pay grade. She is a soldier and she has been given a mission, and she'll see it through.
"Bruce Banner…" She says, speaking the suspect's name with a steeled resolve.
A sudden knocking at the door rattles her. She folds the folder, places it on her desk, and walks to the door. She opens the door, and is surprised to find a private standing behind it, standing at attention and holding folder in his hand.
He salutes the woman and speaks. "Ma'am, you have an urgent message from Headquarters. You are being recalled to Atlas, Ma'am. Details are on these papers."
He hands the folder to her, not once dropping the salute.
"Well, who's hunting the fugitive now?" She asks incredulously.
"That fugitive's capture has been reassigned to Captain Blonsky, Ma'am. That's all I've been told, Ma'am." The private replies, while still holding the salute.
She keeps her face blank. But on the inside, she was fuming. Emil Blonsky? Ross must be losing it, sending that glory hound… still, better him than Talbot.
Knowing that will be all the information that she will receive, the specialist salutes the private, who promptly marches away. She closes the door, looking down at the folder in her hands. She opens it and examines the papers inside. She has only been in Mistral for a week, and now she is being brought back home?
"What could be urgent enough to-" She freezes upon reading the first sentence.
She stands frozen in shock, like a statue. She can only gaze at the words in front of her, trying desperately to make sure she had read it right. Again and again, she re-examines each and every sentence, trying to see if there was a single typo. If there were any, then this was just some kind of sick joke, and she can continue on with her mission. She found none and soon the reality of the message hit her hard.
Whitley Schnee has been reported missing.
Her brother has gone missing, and the top brass were worried that she'll go AWOL and search for him. They have no idea how right they were. Whitley Schnee may be one of the most insufferable people in her life, but he was still her baby brother. A brother she promised their grandmother that she would protect; a promise that these orders are going to make her break.
If she disobeyed her orders and searched for her brother, then she'll be caught, court-martialed, and sent to a military prison for desertion. She knew for a fact that her imprisonment won't help her brother either.
The paper crumbles under her grip.
I wonder how Weiss is going to take the news. She thinks, before moving to pack her belongings.
Vale, Osborn Grande Hotel, Third Floor Café
Sitting at a table, Weiss Schnee waits for a server to take her order. She had arrived in Vale only last night, taking residence at the hotel, where she had reserved a room. This is where she'll be staying until Beacon's summer semester begins. She could afford it. Besides, she couldn't spend another day in Atlas with her family.
Since her arrival, she has been on a complete Atlesian media blackout. For as long as she would be in Vale, she will not watch, listen, or read anything regarding her home kingdom. She didn't want to concern herself with her birthplace, wanting instead to become better acquainted with the kingdom where she'll be pursuing her education as a Huntress. She also wanted a chance to learn more about the kingdom where her grandmother grew up. She always wondered just what kind of place could churn out a firebrand like Antoinette Stark-Schnee. Studying here, at Beacon, is probably going to be her only chance at getting to know more about her grandmother.
"This is it… this is where I will make my mark on the world." She breathes, barely holding in her excitement. "Just like you, Grandma."
Yes, this is where she will prove herself. She will show that she is more than just her name, and that Beacon is merely a stepping stone to realizing her dream, and she fully intends to rise to the top. She will make her sister proud.
Where was Winter last night, anyway? She wonders, recounting the lavish ball her father held for her before she left for Vale.
The ball had been another of her father's attempts to dissuade her from going to Beacon, but she would not be deterred. Like her sister, she is going to prove that she doesn't need her father's influence to achieve her goals. She is the heiress to the Schnee Dust Company, meaning that only she is worthy of restoring the glory of the Schnee name.
Me, not Whitley, ME! She couldn't help but rage at the mention of her younger sibling.
She always hated how smugly her brother acts. She hates how he would lord his intelligence over everyone, as though he were the smartest person in the room. Oh, how she despises that superior attitude of his, how he always got the best grades, how he was always toadying up to father, and treating everyone around him like some kind of disposable pawn. How Aunt Pepper, Uncle Rhodey, Happy, and her grandmother have tolerated him for so long was well beyond her understanding, doubly so, for the Stane family.
She remembers seeing him at the ball last night, glancing at her with that same victorious smirk he has always carried, looking down on her as though he was the superior sibling. She has the strength and skill necessary to bring dignity back to the Schnee name. Once she succeeds her father, she can finally put an end to all of those slanderous allegations against her grandfather's company. Oh, how she can't wait to wipe the smirk off her brother's face when she becomes the next head of the family.
Suddenly, she hears her scroll rings. Reaching into her purse, she pulls it out and reads the name on presented on the screen.
[FATHER]
She ignores the call, depositing her scroll back into her purse. Her father has already tried everything to keep her in Atlas, now he's become desperate to call her after arriving in Vale? She can imagine that Whitley must be driving the man up the walls with all of his sycophantic posturing.
"Miss, may I have your order?" She hears a voice ask. Looking up she sees a waiter holding out a notepad, patiently waiting for her order.
She pulls up the menu. Hmmm, that éclair looks heavenly.
Making her mark on the world can wait, she has a sweet tooth to satisfy, and she fully intends on doing so.
Atlas Intercontinental Airport
Pepper Potts hates Air Travel. Why does she hate it, if one were to ask? Well, here are the reasons why doesn't hate it. She doesn't have Acrophobia, considering her office is located on the highest floor of the tallest tower in the world. She doesn't have a fear of flying; in fact she has been on more airships than she can possibly count, not to mention the fact that one of her closest friends was once a pilot. She doesn't suffer from motion sickness, on account of the fact that she prides herself on having an iron stomach.
So why does she hate air travel?
"Sir, would you please empty your pockets?"
She watches Happy jostle his pants pockets. "For the last time, that was literally everything in my pockets!"
It was the Atlas Transit Authority. They were the reason why she hates air travel. She understood the need for security, especially given the times they live in now, when people had more than just Grimm to worry about. In fact, she would've appreciated their dedication to preserving the safety of well-being of every traveler that comes through and from the kingdom. She really would, if it weren't for the fact that they were the most obstructive, rude, and incompetent people on the face of the planet.
Seriously, it's like the organization just hires anybody that sends in an application. She thinks rather dismissively, while watching her fiancée try to pass through the metal detector again.
"Your machine is busted! Did you think that was a possibility!?" He testily asks, crossing his arms.
"Sir, if you do not control yourself, I will call security." The ATA agent calmly replies.
Happy palms his face. He looks to be on the brink of a meltdown. Not that she blamed him, since they have been waiting in line for close to ten minutes. She can't begin to imagine how the people behind her are feeling. Especially those further down the line, who are no doubt cursing whatever jackass is holding up the line, forcing them to endure hours of torturous waiting, worried that they won't be able to make their flight in time.
Right now, the jackass they were cursing was none other than Happy.
Though the blame also falls on the guy who won't even accept that the detector is out-of-order! She couldn't help but think.
Suddenly, her Scroll rings. Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the small device. The screen showed the caller was none other than Rhodey. She answers the call.
"Hey, Rhodey, how's it going?" She asks over the Scroll.
She hears him answer back. "What about Whitley?"
She regrets asking that, as her eyes suddenly widen. The grip on her Scroll loosens and she drops it. The screen cracks upon impacting the cold, tiled floor, but she pays it no mind. Her mind was focused on other things, dark thoughts brought upon by worry. Her legs buckle under the increasing pressure brought upon by these thoughts. She drops to her knees, her breathing rapid and uncontrolled.
Happy notices this and ceases his tirade. He rushes to his beloved's side, asking her what's wrong. She is inconsolable, whatever words that try to form on her lips come out as pained whimpers. He notices her Scroll on the floor and picks it up. He sees that there was an open line, and Rhodey's name was on the screen.
He puts it to his ear and demands answers from the man. Seconds pass before Rhodey answers. The answer shakes the man to his core, much like Pepper. He didn't want to believe it, but he heard it clear as day. Whitley Schnee, the boy he had sworn to protect, and had come to see as family, has gone missing. The military escort acting as his escort never made it to the demonstration.
The Vacuo Safari can wait. They need to find out what's happened to their boy.
The SDC, with all of their power, tried desperately to suppress the story. Only those who were close to the boy, friends and family alike, were allowed to know. Indeed, the company could stop the official story from spreading. But the same couldn't be said for the rumors. After Whitley Schnee's escort failed to reach the site of the weapon demonstration, it didn't take long for those present to begin speculating. While the higher brass kept their mouths shut, out of respect for the boy's family, those lower on the chain began to speculate as to the boy's fate.
Many assumed the boy was dead, some said he was alive, and others would claim that it was all a stunt pulled by a rich teenager desperate for attention. Their words of hearsay and unconfirmed reports soon found their way into the public. Those sympathetic to the poor boy gave their condolences to his family, while the vocal few opposed to his father mocked the man over his son. But, despite their different takes on the story, and their own feelings toward the boy's family, the all asked themselves the same question.
Where in the world is Whitley Schnee?
Whitley jolts awake, sitting straight up. His breathing is hitched and erratic, as though he is gasping for air after drowning. His eyes are wide like saucers, stinging and wet, and his throat feels very dry, like he hasn't drank anything in days. How long has he been out? Was it all a dream? Is this a dream? These questions and so many more echo through his mind, trying to discern fact from fiction.
He takes a moment to consider the facts. Alright, my Bullhead escort was attacked by an unknown enemy, most probably the White Fang. They were using some advanced hardware, hardware that I designed, and they somehow stole. I survived the crash, meaning that I'm not dead… at least, I hope not.
A sharp pain suddenly courses through his head. I can still feel pain, so I guess I'm still alive. Oh, joy.
He reaches up and feels his forehead. To his astonishment, it has already been bandaged.
He relaxes somewhat, but is still apprehensive. While his good health is not in question, he still didn't know where he was.
He looks around and notices, much to his disappointment, that he's not in an extremely dimly-lit hospital room, but a very dark and damp cave. The walls were blasted-out out of stone, with the blast marks long faded from time. He also notes that there were some busted crates and a few turned over carts, with a small and rusty track in the ground. Had this been a mine at some point?
He pales, darkly thinking. Okay, I'm alive… but present circumstances make me wish I wasn't.
He takes another look and notices there is modern medical equipment lying about along with several unopened wooden crates and barrels. He even notices some metalworking equipment that seems to have been used recently. There's even a forge, much to his surprise. He tries to stand, curious to learn more about his current residence, but finds that he is unable to. He could feel something tugging at him.
He then tries again, this time feeling that he was pulling something heavy. It also sounded metallic, if the scrapes he had heard were an indicator. A thought occurs to the boy. No, it feels like I'm tugging on something… connected to my body!
He stares down at his chest. He sees that he is no longer in his black business suit, with his bare chest exposed to the world. He notices that it has been bandaged up, with a small bulge in the center. He could also make out two wires underneath the bandages, no doubt connecting to the bulge on his chest. His eyes widen further in fear.
Oh, no, Gods, please no…
With shaking hands, he starts ripping the bandages off, determined to uncover what has been done to him. Little by little, the thick cloth wrapping is unraveled, revealing a circular metallic object stitched into his chest, directly over where his heart should be, with two color-coded wires connected to a small joint in the center.
This isn't happening, this isn't happening, this is NOT happening! He worriedly denies, slapping his face in a vain attempt to wake himself up from this horrific dream. It doesn't work.
He follows the wires with his eyes. Tracing their path, his eyes wander to his right. He feels his heart drop at what he sees. Sitting upon a wooden table, with wires connected to ground, is a car battery. He starts to hyperventilate, with his mind racing.
OH, MY GODS! THIS IS HAPPENING! WHAT IS THIS THING?! IS IT A BOMB? THIS HAS TO BE A BOMB! I'VE BEEN KIDNAPPED AND THEY'VE RIGGED ME TO EXPLODE!
The boy hugs himself, going into a fetal position upon his cot. He is going to die. He is going to die alone and no one will ever know. The story of the great Whitley Schnee is going to end long before he even had a chance to write it. What stings most for the frightened boy is the fact that he'll never see the people he loves most in the world ever again. In fact, the last face he'll probably ever see won't in life be a smiling Pepper or a flustered Happy, but the smug, victorious smirk of a hateful Faunus.
"I see that you are awake." A calm voice calls out, immediately followed by a steady series of footsteps.
Whitley's body immediately tenses up, surprised by the unexpected and sudden voice. Had that been one of his captors? Have they come to finish the job? Or have they come to do worse? So many possible scenarios ran through the frightened boy's mind, each more painful and gruesome than the last. He's heard what has happened to people in hostage situations, from all of the times he read about these stories in the news. How the captives would be tortured, violated, and then executed after their captors had their fun. The implied "fun" being one painful, horrifying four lettered word that even Whitley can't say aloud.
Visions of the horrifyingly graphic and unimaginably painful torture awaiting him flash through his mind. It is too overwhelming for the boy, who begins to hyperventilate again. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for his imminent death. He feels he's about to cry, but holds the tears back. He will not give these bastards the privilege of watching him beg for life. He is still a Schnee, and he will not be broken.
The footsteps increase in volume, as well as their frequency. Then they stop.
"Are you alright, my boy?" The voice asks, sounding far too concerned to belong to a terrorist.
Slowly, the boy opens his eyes. He looks to his left and finds himself confused. Standing next to him, was a middle-aged, scholarly-looking, balding and bespectacled Middle-Mistralian gentleman dressed in dirty, wrinkled academic-looking clothes. He reminds Whitley of a few of his old professors from the university. To the Schnee's surprise, the man was also holding two ceramic cups in both of his hands. Taking a quick whiff, he is able to tell that is tea, though what kind he can't tell. He'd always been more of a coffee person.
"Yeah… I, uhm, am doing fine…" Whitley unsurely replies with a cracking voice. He'd forgotten how dry and scratchy his throat felt.
The man holds his right hand out to the boy, offering the cup in his grasp. "Drink this, it'll relax your throat, help you speak more clearly."
The boy looks nervously at the cup. He didn't know if it was poisoned or not. For all he knows, this man was a disguised Fang trying to lull him into a false sense of security. Though he couldn't tell if this man is a member of the White Fang, considering that he didn't see any Faunus features on his person. But he had heard that some Faunus had traits that could be easily hidden. If this man was trying to play him for a fool, he was not going to fall for it.
No matter how sweet and tempting that tea smelled.
He glares at the cup held by Professor, which is what the boy has decided to call him, and scoots back on his cot. The man is confused by the boy's action, wondering what exactly he had done to offend the boy. He then looks at his tea, which he notes as being the focus of the boy's rather hateful glare.
Then he remembered the situation that they were in. They were in a dark cave, both were total strangers, and one was offering a person they just met a drink. It was one of the standard scenarios of a poisoning.
The man pulls his right hand back, than raises the cup to his lips, taking a sip of the tea. Whitley just stares at the man, completely taken by surprise. If the man was willing to drink the tea, the tea that he had believed was poisoned, that means he was safe, for now at least.
Professor smacks his lips, savoring the tea's flavor. "So refreshing… "
He looks at the boy and calmly explains, "See, no poison. Besides, even If I were your captor, who I most assuredly am not, why would I poison my means of ransom? Especially, when it is someone as important as you, Mr. Schnee?"
Whitley finds no flaws in the man's logic. He may not have taken him hostage, but that still didn't clear him of having ulterior motives.
"You know who I am?" Whitley asks, still on the fence about taking that tea.
"Well, of course I do, I would have to be living under a rock if I didn't recognize the son of Jacques Schnee." Professor explains, now offering the cup in his left hand. "Now, drink the tea, it'll help, physically…. and mentally, I might add."
Whitley stares at the cup offered to him. He looks at Professor, who gives him a reassuring smile. Seeing as how he has no choice and that his throat is killing him, the boy takes the cup. He brings it to his lips and takes a slow, drawn-out sip.
He feels the warm, flavored water shower his taste buds, coating them with liquefied honey and lemon juice mixed with water. He could also taste a dash of sugar in it as well. He leans back on his cot and savors the tea.
He moans in delight, "Sooo gooood…"
The Professor chuckles at the Boy's reaction. Whatever tension that existed between the two has faded. Seconds pass before Whitley finishes his teas. He could feel that his throat was feeling much better, along with his mood, which was slightly better than before. He turns to the older male and says, "Thank you."
The professor smiles and chuckles, "My, my, a thank you, and from a Schnee, no less? That's gotta be the highest praise imaginable."
"Don't let it go to your head, I still don't trust you." Whitley tells him, setting his cup aside.
"Not even for saving your life?" At that, Whitley blinks, not expecting that. The boy asks, "How do you mean?"
Professor taps his own chest, right over where his heart should be. Whitley taps his chest as well, feeling the strange device that's been embedded into it. The realization hit him like a hammer on glass, shattering the slightly-better mood that he was just in. He didn't like it one bit.
He angrily demands, "What have you done to me!"
The older man keeps his composure and calmly explains. "I think you mean to ask "what did I do for you?" and what I did saved your life."
Despite his anger, Whitley's curiosity was piqued, as his savior continues. "When they brought you in, you had extensive damage to your chest, you were bleeding profusely and there was shrapnel slowly eating their way into your heart. And before your ask, no, I didn't remove all of the shrapnel. Don't believe what the movies or TV tells you, son. Removing shrapnel is not an easy task, and with a wound like yours, removing any more shards would do more harm than good."
Suddenly, Whitley's curiosity was overshadowed by horror. There was shrapnel in his body, burrowing away though his muscle tissue, intent on shredding his heart to pieces. Whatever this man did was able to keep him alive. Or at least prolonged the time before his inevitable death, he darkly thought.
He asks the man, "So what did you do?"
"I did what any self-respecting physician would do… I improvised." The old man beams, puffing his chest in pride.
"First, I considered unlocking your aura, but as far as modern medical science knows, no person's aura has ever been able to rapidly heal extremely damaged flesh and tissue. And even if that were the case, there was no telling that your aura would expel the shrapnel from your body. It would close the wound, but the metal shards would remain, and you would still die…" He pauses, letting the full weight of his words fall on the boy's mind.
When he sees the boy's eyes widen, he resumes speaking, "…So with that option tossed out the window, I decided to try this new method that I've been developing. I was inspired by artificial pacemakers, which is what this gizmo functions like, but it's also the farthest thing from one. The device in your chest is an electromagnet that is keeping the metallic shrapnel from entering your heart. It's what keeping you alive, so long as it keeps working."
Whitley looks down at the electromagnet, and then looks toward the battery to which it was wired. He then asks, "And I take it this magnet will only work so long as this car battery has juice in it?"
"As I said before, I had to improvise." Professor reiterates. He then frowns, lamenting, "Under better circumstances, I would have been proud of this achievement. But the fact that it had to be tested on a hostage, and one so young, is nothing but tragic."
Whitley freezes at the word "Hostage". He knew that he has been kidnapped, but that word fully drove the reality of his situation in. He is being held hostage, captive in an unknown mine, separated from the few people he holds dear by several thousand miles. But there was still the question of who exactly his captors were.
"Where am I?" He asks, though he knows he won't like the answer.
The man strokes his chin and speaks. "From what I've been able to learn, our current residence is an abandoned mine that once belonged to the Roxxon Energy Corporation, from back before they went out of business. It has long since been appropriated by our… hosts." He finishes, stating last word with subdued anger.
"Hosts", that's certainly the nicest thing one can call kidnappers. Still, the way he spoke about them implies he's a prisoner like me. I would say that's reassuring, if it weren't for the fact I still don't know his name. Whitley thinks, before deciding that this will be a good chance to learn more about their "hosts". He might even find out if he can trust this man.
"And just who would our gracious hosts be?" The boy asks, before adding rather facetiously, "I think it would be rather rude as to not thank them for being so considerate in their care, since they've done such a bang-up job so far."
Professor laughs at the boy's condescending tone. At least the boy has a sense of humor. He hopes it survives this place. He then answers, "Well, our hosts, that is actually rather complicated."
The boy leans in, wanting to know more.
"They call themselves the White Fang, but from what I've gathered during my time here, they're really more a splinter cell that has split off from the main organization. Their membership is also quite unique for a terrorist group, seeing as they carry themselves like professional military, and the ones calling the shots are mostly in their mid-forties, early fifties." The man explains, before elaborating further. "My educated guess is that their leaders are experienced veterans of the Faunus Rights Revolution, ones who've trained the next generation to fight like they have."
Whitley, despite himself, couldn't help but palm his face. Okay, not the answer I was expecting. Just great, I had to get myself captured by a terrorist group that was legitimate military once… And it happened to be the group that's probably more extreme than the so-called extremists I mean, why else would they cut themselves off from Sienna Khan?
Whatever hope the young Schnee had left quickly vanishes, replaced by dread. He didn't let his fear show, remembering the mantra his father once told him. Real Schnee are above animals.
His father preached that the Schnee were better than Faunus, considering how their family provided them with employment. He heard the rumors growing up, about the unequal pay, the inhuman working conditions, and employment practices that some of his father's critics have decried as tantamount to slavery. But those were merely slanderous accusations from people jealous of his family's position. As for Faunus Equality, Whitley Schnee was disinterested at best and apathetic at worst. There were far more important things to worry about in his life than the griping of disgruntled workers. One of these worries being how he can live long enough to be rescued by Atlesian Soldiers.
Speaking of soldiers, Whitley quickly asks. "The soldiers in my security escort, what happened to them?"
Professor frowns and tells him. "I'm afraid you are the only survivor. Whatever soldiers that survived the crash, they killed on the spot… I'm sorry."
The boy feels the pit his stomach swell with shame, unable to bear what he's heard.
He didn't want to believe it was true, but he knew it in his gut that his security detail didn't survive. He can't even begin to imagine what their families must be feeling right now. While he certainly didn't like Hunters, considering their misguided belief of "might makes right", he had nothing but the upmost respect for soldiers. He always thought that soldiers, police officers, and even rescue workers represented the very best in Humanity, being that they were ordinary people that trained and pushed themselves beyond their limits without the use of Aura. Aura may have its uses, he can concede to that, yet it is also was very flawed. Aura is only useful so long as it's spent sparingly, and it had to be recharged when completely drained. It was more a crutch than strength as far as he is concerned.
Yes, Aura is a crutch, one that he had almost been given. He isn't like his sisters, so he imagines that his Aura levels would have paled in comparison to theirs. He doubts his Aura would have helped him in the long run, considering the situation he now finds himself. After all, Aura was practically useless in the hands of a novice, taking years to master.
Whitley immediately fumes, Years that I've lost to those bastards…
Then a terrifying thought occurred. Wait, how much time do I have left?! How long will the power in this car battery last?! That's not to mention the average amount of joules generated by the human heart, which is greater than what a car battery generates in its own lifetime! I Might be dead in Week!
As the boy speculates his fate, the Professor calmly sets his tea aside. He pulls up a chair and places it next to the boy's cot, sitting down and taking out a stethoscope.
"I know this is a lot to take in," Professor says, trying to comfort the panicking boy. "But I need you to stay calm, the last thing we need is for you to have a panic attack. Just take a deep breath, okay, deep breaths."
Having heard the man's words, Whitley immediately does as he's told and takes a deep breath. He holds it in, trying to calm his racing heart and mind. Seconds pass before he finally exhales.
"Very good, now, I need to listen to your heartbeat. The Implant may have worked, but I still need to know if your heart is still pumping like a healthy one. This won't take a minute." The man tells him, before placing the stethoscope next to the device on his chest.
As he listens to Whitley's heartbeat, the boy asks. "You got a name? Cause I can't think of anything else to call you other than "Professor"."
"My name is Yinsen, Dr. Ho Yinsen." The now-named Yinsen answers calmly, listening intently to the beating heart.
Whitley raises an eyebrow, thinking, Ho Yinsen, huh? I swear I've heard that name somewhere before…
He could think about that later. Right now, he should focus on following his new doctor's instructions to the letter. But as he sat on the cot, undergoing an impromptu physical, he couldn't help but wonder about his kidnappers.
Just what kind of sick, twisted plans did they have for him?
He has a feeling he's not going to like them.
"YOU FUCKING IDIOTS! DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU'VE JUST DONE TO US!?"
Miklos Vryolak is not having a good day. First, he had a crick in his back yesterday, one that he still has today. Then he discovered that their rations were running low, meaning his group had to go on another "shopping" trip. Finally, he realized that the squad he sent out to capture Jacques Schnee had already carried out the operation. Now, normally he would be commending his soldiers for a job well done, but there had been a slight mix-up in their mission.
Suffice to say, the Bull Faunus is not happy. Actually, that is a gross oversimplification; the man is, in his own words, "ABSOLUTELY FUCKING PISSED!"
"But, sir, we were just following your order-" One of his troops tries to reason, only to receive a punch to his face from the general.
"Idiot, my orders were for you to capture Jacques Schnee! Oh, you brought me a Schnee alright," Vryolak said, only to shout, "EXCEPT YOU BROUGHT ME THE WRONG ONE!"
He punches the same soldier again, knocking him to the floor. As the poor man suffers under the vicious assault by their leader, his comrades simply stand aside, not wanting to draw the ire of their outraged General. It was in their best interests to simply let one of them take one for the team. To their immense relief, the one whom Vryolak chose to work out his rage upon had been the commander for the operation. Talk about lucky.
"I ASKED FOR THE PRESIDENT OF THE SDC COMPANY!" Cyrus shouts, before grasping the man's throat, pinning him to the floor.
"INSTEAD YOU BRING ME ONE OF HIS LITTLE BASTARDS!" He punches the man, shattering his mask.
"BUT IT WASN'T THE SPECIALIST!" He breaks the man's nose, which causes him to scream in pain.
"IT WASN'T THE HUNTRESS-IN-TRAINING!" He twists the man's wrist, eliciting another pained scream
"NO, YOU BROUGHT ME THE YOUNGEST ONE, WHO CAN'T EVEN HOLD A FUCKING RIFLE TO SAVE HIS OWN LIFE!" He stands and plants his foot upon the man's head, knocking him out.
Miklos stands, his anger placated, towering over the broken body of his subordinate. He is not going to kill the man for this failure, but he is not going to give him a slap on the wrist either. Hopefully, this beating will inspire him, as well as the others, not to FUBAR any future missions. He notices that the man's blood is on his still clenched fist. He snaps his fingers, and a wash cloth is handed to him by his second-in-command, who had remained silent throughout the entire "disciplining" session.
As he wipes the blood from his hands, he looks to this idle soldiers and calmly commands, "Take Captain Fuck-Up to Yinsen. If the boy is awake, bring him to me. You are dismissed."
The terrorists quickly salute their leader and comply with his command. Two of them scoop up Captain Fuck-up from the floor and carry him out to be treated by Yinsen. After they leave, he sighs in disappointment, "It's so hard to find competent help these days."
"Perhaps they'd be more competent if you don't bash their skulls in. It might save a few brain cells if you hold your punches," Remarked his lieutenant, who had been watching everything silently, recording everything that happened by writing on his clipboard.
Vryolak glares at his old friend, saying testily. "If you had been any other man, I'd have killed you out for that remark."
"And then you'd be down one assistant." The lieutenant calmly replies, not at all bothered by the comment. He's heard the man say similar thing in their time together.
Vryolak never understood how the mind of his longtime friend and comrade, Theodore Savin, worked. He and the lizard Faunus had known each other since their days as members of the Menagerie Liberation Army, twenty-five years ago, back during the Faunus Revolution. They have made quite the team since they met, with Savin being the cold-blooded, logical brain to his hot-blooded, emotional brawn. He may be the leader of this group, but Vryolak knew he would've led the organization to the ground without Savin at his side. He was the one who could calm the Bull Faunus down, and even Miklos understands the importance of staying level-headed, especially after this debacle. Especially now, as they were finally close to taking over the White Fang, a coup that they've been planning for years.
They were nearly ready; thanks to the new hardware they've received from their newest partners.
Speaking of whom, Vryolak remembers, telling Savin. "Inform our new friends at AIM that their missiles performed just as they calculated, and that we are now open to future dealings. Here's hoping those creepy eggheads give us something that can really turn the tide."
Savin nods, making a note of it on his clipboard. He then asks, "Do you really think Yinsen was able to keep the boy alive?"
Vryolak laughs and replies. "You know as well as I do that Yinsen is a miracle worker. I'd be surprised if he hadn't saved the brat's life."
"And what exactly is to be done about the boy?" Savin asks, before adding, "Our mission was to capture Jacques Schnee and keep him alive for Mr. X to deal the killing blow. But what are we to do about the man's son?"
Vryolak frowns, saying. "For now, we keep him alive and wait for further instructions from Mr. X."
The Bull Faunus may be acting calm now, but on the inside he was panicking like a fresh out-of-basic rookie. Their mysterious benefactor, a man whom simply referred to himself as "Mr. X", had been the reason why their little operation had suddenly taken off. He didn't know who the man was, or what he looked like, or even if he was human or Faunus, but his money was good, and he would keep delivering it so long as they performed a few jobs for him here and there for him.
He had contacted them a year ago, offering his patronage in exchange for a favor, which was to find a certain person. This person happened to be the former commander of the Fang's Vacuo Chapter, and one of Sienna's favorites. They obviously agreed to this request, considering their own hatred for the woman, and accomplished it with extreme efficiency. Since then, their partnership has led to many doors being opened for them, one of which was their recent alliance with Advanced Idea Mechanics.
But with this recent fiasco, there was a chance that Mr. X will slam those doors shut on them. It was only a matter of time before he called them, and Vryolak doubts he'll be anything but pleased.
Suddenly, a Scroll rang on his person, which he pulls out. But it wasn't just any Scroll; it was one that had a single number, one that served as a direct link to Mr. X.
Vryolak starts to shake in fear. Speak of the Grimm and they shall appear…
He answers the call, and greets their business partner. "Good day, Mr. X."
The line was silent for a few seconds, before that deep, scrambled, rumbling voice that he's come to fear answers back. "What happened, Mr. Vryolak?"
"There had been a, uhm…" The bull Faunus fumbles with his words, answering once finding the right one, "Complication with the operation, sir."
Mr. X replies back, "A complication? Yes, most certainly. I take full responsibility for this error. It would seem that Mr. Schnee had changed his plans at the last minute. I had only learned of that fact just now."
The Bull Faunus couldn't help but mentally sigh in relief. If Mr. X was willing to admit a mistake then it meant he wasn't in any trouble.
"I trust no harm has come to young Whitley Schnee?" Vryolak's heart immediately drops, falling into the deep chasm that was his stomach.
He's not going to lie to Mr. X. He knows full well what happens to those who wrong him. He remembers the pictures that the man sent of that White Fang Officer after he had dealt with him. Miklos Vryolak has fought in a war, and had seen many atrocities during that conflict, the very worst of humanity and faunuskind, and he himself is culpable in quite a few of them. But they all pale in comparison to what Mr. X did to that sorry bastard. The General didn't even want to think how his benefactor made that officer look like whatever it is he saw. He can still see the eyes at night.
"I'm afraid that the boy did indeed suffer some life-threatening injuries. But we were able to save his life." He truthfully answers.
The line is silent for a few seconds. Then the man speaks up again. "At least you didn't kill him. I would have been… immensely displeased if the boy had died, Mr. Vryolak. That boy has immense potential, more so than others his age."
Vryolak blinks, unsure if he heard that right. Did Mr. X just compliment a Schnee? Whatever the youngest Schnee-spawn did had to be quite amazing to have earned Mr. X's praise. He'll have to have Savin look into the boy's background once this call was over.
"So, what do you want us to do about the boy?" He asks.
"For now, keep the boy there. His disappearance is already being investigated. His immediate release will no doubt raise more questions, and they'll no doubt lead right to your doorstep. The last thing we need is to have unwanted eyes searching for us."
Vryolak acquiesces to the demands. He then asks, "What about the boy?"
He could practically feel Mr. X breathing down his neck with his next words. "Listen to me very carefully, Mr. Vryolak. NO HARM MUST COME TO THAT BOY! If I learn that you or any of your men laid a single hand on his little white-haired head, then I'LL be the one to clue those unwanted eyes onto you. I will have the entire Atlesian Army marching on your doorstep faster than you can say, I surrender. They will decimate your forces until all that remains is your writhing, pitiful, and broken body begging for the sweet release of death. No harm will come to that boy. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?"
"Yes, sir, I swear on my honor, no, my life that no further harm will come to the boy!" Vryolak declares, sounding far too fearful for his liking.
"I will hold you up to that. It will take a while, but I'm sure I can arrange for the boy's release. A prisoner exchange, perhaps. Stand-by for further instructions." Mr. X commands, before abruptly ending the call.
Vryolak takes a deep breath, calming his nerves. A call from Mr. X is always a test for his fortitude. He is glad his soldiers didn't see him like that, having tried to cultivate a fearsome image.
"So, what did our friend say?" Savin asks, none too rattled by the sudden call.
Vryolak turns to his right hand man and tells him, "Well, the good news is that he'll hold off the Atlesian Army for as long as he can, until an opportunity for a prisoner exchange comes up. Apparently, Mr. X has a soft spot for the little brat, thinks there some value in him or some shit."
"A prisoner exchange could take months, Vryolak, months." Savin points out, though he find's Mr. X's fondness for the boy quite curious.
He ponders whether X personally knows the boy. He'll file that tidbit for later, as it might prove fruitful in discerning Mr. X's true identity.
He listens as Vryolak continues, "I know, and during that time, the little shit has to stay in perfect health… if he's alive, that is, considering the fact that we already ripped his chest open."
"He'll live. Remember, it as you said, Yinsen can work miracles." Savin says, tapping next to his right eye.
Vryolak grins knowingly and says, "Yeah… anyway, I need you to dig up some dirt on our unwanted guest. I want to know everything. If Mr. X sees some worth in him, then we should know why."
"And see if we can somehow use that to our advantage?" Savin knowingly suggests, clearly understanding where his old friend was going.
And people say he's cold-blooded and heartless?
Not that they're wrong, he concedes, recalling all of the "questionable" orders he issued back in the war.
Vryolak smiles viciously and says, "Remember our time in basic, Savin? I may have been shit when it came to strategy, but I do remember the most important lesson that Sarge ever taught us: In battle, you must use every advantage available to you."
Savin simply smiles at the implication. With the makings of a plan coming together, he sets out to find whatever information he can gather on their subject. He should probably have everything in less than two minutes, should their compute network be cooperative today. He will make sure that they'll have leverage on their guest should he refuse their offer.
Yinsen smiles as he tells the boy. "Okay, finished. I'm happy to report that, aside from your heart and head, you have a clean bill of health."
Now sitting up on his cot, Whitley buttons up the brown shirt Yinsen had given him. He knows it's not a silken dress shirt, but it'll have to do for now. As it was connected to his person, he had placed the car battery on his lap. If he is to remain in the world of the living, then he's going to have to lug this battery with him at all times.
What a bother. He thinks, already hating the heavy device.
He looks to Yinsen, who is now reading a few papers. Whitley notices that the man's are furrowed, as though he were disappointed about something. He looks at the papers the Doctor is holding and notices that they have a series of equations on it. He couldn't make out all of the writings, but he can recognize a numerical calculation anywhere. He asks him, "So what's with the paper?"
Yinsen frowns at the boy and tells him, "I'm afraid I may have sugarcoating your condition. You are indeed in good health, but only for as long as that battery remains active. These papers are a series of calculations I made after your surgery."
"And what, pray tell, do these calculations, well, calculate?" The boy asks, though he dreads the answer.
"They were meant to measure how much power remains in that battery…" The boy was right, he doesn't like the answer. He then asks, "Let me guess, it's not going to last long?"
Yinsen adjusts his glasses then explains, "By my estimate, you have close to a week before the battery dies, which in turn will cause the magnet to die, and that will kill you."
He certainly doesn't mince words; I thought Doctors were supposed to have a good bedside manner. Whitley thinks, before asking, "So I guess it's going to be a good week? I mean it's going to be my last, so I've got to make it a good one."
The doctor looks at the young man in shock and remarks, "My, you have quite the morbid sense of humor, don't you?"
"Everyone has their own way of coping with their problems. Some people turn to the bottle and others just take drugs. People like me are above such temptations." The boy bluntly replies.
"And what kind of person are you?" Yinsen asks.
Whitley shrugs and replies, "The kind of person who doesn't want their mind and body ruined. I'd kill myself before ruining my beautiful brain with alcohol and drugs."
Then he taps the pacemaker protruding through his chest and says. "Besides, I've already got my body ruined, so all I have left is my mind. After all, my dear grandmother once said that 'a mind is a terrible thing to lose, especially when it's as brilliant as mine.'"
Yinsen can't help but wonder if the boy was either that vain or just trying to put up a brave front, so as to deal with recent trauma. He knows all about Whitley's lineage, considering that the boy's father likes to brag about it. He knew of Toni Stark, and of her unparalleled, once-in-a-lifetime genius mind and the name she made for herself before even marrying Nicholas Schnee. But whether her grandson has inherited her smarts is something that the doctor needs to see for himself.
But there is the chance that the boy is just overselling his own intelligence. Most teenagers tend to think they know everything. Yinsen knows that from experience, both as a former teenage and as a father to one.
A lone tear falls from his right eye, which he quickly wipes away. No tears until he was free, he had promised, not until he can see his family again.
Whitley notices this and confusedly asks, "What, you have something in your eye?"
"Yeah, probably some dust." Yinsen replies and then explains, "And no, not Dust, just dust."
An uncomfortable silence settles between the two. Suddenly, they hear the sounds of heavy boots marching on carved stone. The metal gate, which Whitley didn't even notice until now, pushes back, allowing a small group of armed Faunus in white masks to spill into the makeshift infirmary/living quarters. Whitley notices that two of them are carrying a bleeding and broken man, whom they lay upon another cot located on the other side of the room.
Yinsen immediately runs to the injured man's side and takes his pulse. He turns to the nearest Fang and immediately asks, "What happened?"
"Minotaur happened. The general found out about our unwanted guest and asked to see the mission commander, who is now lying before you knocked out, arm twisted, nose broken, and clothes moist with his own piss." The Fang explains.
Whitley surmises that whoever their Leader is, he didn't approve of them capturing him. The boy honestly didn't know if he should feel worried or relieved. On one hand, he's now in the hands of a brutal terrorist willing to brutally beat one of his own men, but on the other, said terrorist beat the man for capturing him.
"Schnee…" Whitley freezes, now fearing for his life.
He turns to see that one of the Fangs is facing him, with his rifle pointing at his chest. His fear increases when he hears the man growl, "The general wants to see you, now."
Suddenly, Two Faunus grab him by the shoulders, holding him down as another pushes a knapsack onto his face, obstructing his vision. The boy tightens his grip on the car battery, making sure not to let it escape his grasp lest he die.
He hears Yinsen shout, "What are you doing, hasn't the boy been through enough?!"
"The general wanted to speak with him when he woke up. He's awake, so we're taking him to meet the general." Another man replies. "You've done your job, now fix our friend there."
"With all due respect, as his physician, I cannot allow Mr. Schnee to be moved yet."
"With all due respect, Doctor, I don't give two fucks what you want."
Whitley suddenly feels his body being pushed forward, with two strong hands on his shoulders keeping him escaping. Not that he can actually escape, since he can't even see through the burlap sack that placed his head in. With much reluctance, he allows his captors to take him to their leader.
But he still wasn't entirely sure about this.
"And you're sure of this?" Vryolak asks his second-in-command.
Savin simply stares at the Bull Faunus, unmoving and unfazed, and coolly replies. "Do you doubt my intelligence-gathering, or just my intelligence?"
Vryolak tells him, "No, not in the slightest. It's just I wasn't expecting some young punk to be this… accomplished at such a young age."
To say that Miklos Vryolak is impressed would be an understatement. He is honestly shocked by what Savin had been able to gather on the boy, as well as astounded by the facts within. He can't comprehend how a fifteen year old boy could have a genius-level intellect, already graduate from college with two degrees, and had taken part in research projects for the Atlas Military. Forget Jacques Schnee, they should have been capturing the boy instead.
And just by pure luck, they have done exactly that. Perhaps the Gods were working in their favor this time.
Vryolak smiles victoriously, having thought of a new plan. He could work with this.
"I know that look on your face." Savin observes then asks, "What are you planning?"
"Mr. X said that it would take months before a prisoner exchange can be approved. In that time, we might as well have the boy do some work." Savin raises a brow, honestly surprised by his friend's suggestion.
Before Savin could even ask his comrade to elaborate, they watch as a few of their soldiers march into the room, with two of them dragging a short person in with them. The short one was carrying a car battery that was connected to his chest and he had a burlap sack over his head, no doubt to keep him seeing any possible escape routes. Their guest has finally arrived.
Whitley groans in annoyance as his guards roughly shove him into a chair and roughly remove the burlap sack from his head. For the first time since he came to this place, Whitley Schnee has finally come face-to-face with the leaders of his captors. The boy looks at the illuminated faces of his captors, observing and taking notes of their appearances.
The man sitting across from him, he has this look in his eyes that Whitley doesn't like. He has long red hair, which seems to have dulled with age, and intense-looking brown eyes that just ooze with condescension. He also looks like an experienced fighter, if his rippling, scarred muscles were any clue, each scar and burn on those arms telling the story of a man who lives for battle, and there were plenty. His fully-grown and sharpened bull horns jut out from beneath his hair, rising like knives stabbing the air.
This must be the "Minotaur" these people had been talking about. Whitley assumes, as the man certainly fits the description of a mythological beast.
He looks to the man's right and sees a lithe yet muscular man standing behind him, his arms behind his back and his face emotionless. His eyes, a cold and unnervingly steel blue, were gazing upon him, which made the boy's blood run cold. He can't explain it, but that gaze didn't feel like an animal watching its prey, but a detached scientist observing his latest test subject. The air around this man just breathed of intelligence, like he can think three steps ahead of him. Whitley decides this is someone he should really not cross, for he seems like a coldblooded killer.
He knows these men are going to try and break him. He won't let them.
"I hope your stay here has been to your liking thus far, Mr. Schnee." Minotaur amicably asks, but one can hear the faintest hint of condescension in his tone.
Whitley bites his tongue, not dignifying the man with a response.
Minotaur laughs, finding humor in the boy's lack of response and says, "So the silent treatment, eh? Heh, not that I blame you, I mean if someone shot me out of the sky I wouldn't talk to them either."
Whitley keeps his silence, keeping his cold gaze upon the stronger-looking man.
"Not one word, are you sure?" Minotaur smiles and mockingly asks, "Blink once for yes, twice for no."
Whitley doesn't blink, despite the dryness in his eyes.
"Hmmm, a straight shooter, aren't you? I can respect that, Gods know I have little patience for bullshit as well." Minotaur stands from his chair, looking down upon the boy, who only slightly cows under the gaze.
"Well, listen up well, boy, because I have a proposition for you." Minotaur snaps his fingers, with Coldblood, as Whitley has taken to calling him, handing him a pile of papers. The Bull Faunus continues, "I've had my friend here search everything there is to know about you, and what I saw impressed me. And it is what he found that has kept you from dying."
Whitley's eyes were starting to slightly waver, but he kept his gaze firm and impassive.
"To put it simply, we know everything about you. We know your birthday, blood type, the schools you went to, what restaurants you frequent, and probably even the times you take a piss. And speaking of schools, I gotta say, ATI graduate at fifteen, quite the accomplishment. So imagine my surprise when he found out you were part of some big Atlas R&D projects, other than the oh-so public M3 Missile. Does 'Project: Dead Whistle' ring any bells."
Now Whitley is starting to panic. How could they've known about his part in Dead Whistle? The only explanation is that Atlas has a leak, one that is spilling dangerous secrets to these criminals. Whatever composure he had immediately fell.
The boy asks, "What do you want?"
"Ah, so he can speak! It's funny, for a moment I though you lost your tongue too." Minotaur mockingly jokes, causing his soldiers to laugh. Whitley didn't find it funny in the slightest.
The man leans in and menacingly intones, "What we want are weapons, Mr. Schnee. Biological, Chemical, Dust, and Cybernetic and whatever else you can think of. Basically, you build it, we use it, and let you live. What is your answer?"
Whitley leans back in his chair thinking about it. He weighs the costs and benefits, analyzes the outreaching consequences of such a choice, and considers his own personal feelings on the matter. Seconds later, he decides upon his response.
He leans in, smiles at the man, and politely says, "Sorry, but I don't make deals with the bastard child of bestiality enthusiasts."
The boy smiles smugly, proud of what he had just said. His father would no doubt approve of such an answer. Even his sisters would be impressed if they had seen that.
Minotaur, on the other hand, is not impressed. In fact, he doesn't even look insulted. To Whitley's shock, the man is actually chuckling and didn't look the least upset.
"Boy, you must think rather highly of yourself if you thought I'd let a comment like that bother me. I've been called worse, especially at your age."
Angry at the man's tone, Whitley growls lowly, "Well, I'm still not going to do it. Atlas is obviously going to rescue me. It'll only be a few days before I'm back in Atlas."
Minotaur smirks viciously and strokes his chin, "You say that, but from the look of things you don't have that many days left. Yinsen is a smart one, no doubt about it, but he did have to work with very few resources… like car batteries, for instance."
The man reaches over the table and easily snatches the battery from the boy's hands. He then slowly tugs on the wires connecting the pacemaker to the battery. Whitley begins to panic, his breath hitching up and his eyes dilating in fear.
"Such a crude device, don't you think? Why all it takes is a single pull…" He pinches one of the wires and slowly begins to pull it.
A hand wraps around his tightly, locking it in place. Minotaur turns to see Coldblood staring down at him, his eyes slightly furrowed. For a brief moment, the two men stare each other down, as though they were having a mental debate. The winner is declared as Minotaur relinquishes his hold on the wire.
"I think you get the picture. Take Mr. Schnee back to his "room"." Minotaur commands. Two men grab the boy out of his chair, again cloaking his head, dragging him away.
After the boy is led away, Vryolak glares at Savin. "I wasn't going to hurt the punk."
"You were rising to his bait. The bestiality comment got to you, despite your comments. The boy thinks he's in control of the situation. We don't need to scare him to prove him wrong." Savin simply says and then adds, "Besides, It's foolish in trying to coerce the boy when we know nothing of his technical prowess."
"What is there to know? The reports you gave me say he's a genius, so therefore he's a genius."
"It is not the first time a Schnee's skills have been embellished. The files on the projects he's worked on have a lot of missing information, no doubt having been classified." The Snake-Faunus notes.
"Speaking of classified, just what is "Dead Whistle"?" Vryolak asks, genuinely curious to know the details.
"I don't know." Savin replies, having no knowledge on the project other than that it was classified and that Whitley Schnee had some role in it.
Filing that bit for later investigation, He continues with his explanation. "Now, as I was saying. Because of these factors, we cannot say for certain that the boy is a genius. But I believe I may have a way that might allow us to test his supposed genius. If he prevails, then we have all the proof we need. Should he still refuse our offer, well, I have a plan for that as well."
Interested, Vryolak asks what his friend intends to do. What Savin says brings smile to his face. It was a brilliant plan, one that could only have been thought up by a man who rightly deserves the moniker of "Coldblood" Savin.
And people thought he was cruel.
Whitley drops to his knees as the Guards shove him back into his spacious cell. Miraculously, he doesn't drop the battery when his body falls to the ground. He winces in pain, as the hard stone scrapes his knees, tearing the fabric of his pants. Scraping one's knees is painful; He knows this, having scraped his own many times as a child. But he doubts anything can compare to having one's heart being shredded apart by metal fragments. It is a pain that came quite close to experiencing only minutes ago.
But right now, nothing hurt more than his damaged pride. He had tried so hard not to show his fear before these animals, and he caves in like a coward. Would his sisters have done the same thing, if they were in his situation? Would his father? What about his grandmother, the bravest person he ever knew?
"Damn it…" The boy angrily growls.
"Are you alright, my boy?" He hears Yinsen ask.
In his moment of weakness, he had forgotten about his roommate and fellow prisoner. He can't help but feel humiliated having shown such a shameful display.
"I'm fine. It's just a scratch." He tells the doctor.
"Well, it's going to be a very infectious scratch if you don't clean that." Yinsen says, only for Whitley to stare incredulously at him. The Doctors sighs, wondering how a fifteen year old can still act like a five year old, and explains. "Look, this room, and I use that word lightly, has been serving as the groups infirmary since I arrived. I've patched many of their members, all of whom have had different sicknesses and last time I checked, a damp, musty cave is hardly a sterile environment to begin with."
The doctor points to the other side of the cave, over to a table where various medical tools are located. "There is some rubbing alcohol and gauze on that table. You'll have to treat your scratch; I'm going to be busy patching-up this poor soul." He tells the boy, pointing toward the unconscious fang lying on a cot close to him.
The doctor returns to treating his new patient, leaving Whitley to care for his own injury. Having no choice, the boy stands, slightly wincing as a light breeze collides against his scratched knees. He looks down and sees that his knees were indeed scratched, and they were bleeding. Hard rock meeting soft flesh is not a great combination.
Okay, I'm starting to understand the appeal of Aura. Whitley thinks glumly, wishing he had a special soul-energy barrier helping him now.
He walks over to the table and takes the alcohol, some cotton balls and disinfectant wipes, along with a roll of sterile gauze. They were easy to find, having been kept in labelled containers. Yinsen likes to keep his supplies organized. It is a trait that the boy can respect in a fellow intellectual. He sits down on a stool, setting the battery aside upon the table.
Remembering what he learned during ATI's first aid seminars, he goes about treating his scratches. First he takes the disinfectant wipes and cleans the blood off, feeling a slight stinging in his knees as he dabs them. Once all the blood is wiped away, he takes a few cotton balls and soaks them with the alcohol. He then dabs the fluffy, white orbs against the dry scratches, sterilizing them. Once finished, he tosses the cotton balls aside, and tightly wraps the gauze around his knees.
He smiles, looking at his handiwork. And I thought those seminars were a waste of time. Whoever said Whitley Schnee can't take care of himself should check their facts.
As Whitley celebrates his own little personal victory, he hears the doors slam open, and watches in as armed guards march in. To his shock, they were being led by the coldblooded-looking man he had seen during his meeting with group's leaders. The man walks over to Yinsen and asks in a rather detached and unemotional voice, "Where are they?"
"I'm sorry; you're going to have to be more specific." Yinsen asks, not even dignifying the man with a gaze, as he continues working on the injured Fang.
If Coldblood is annoyed, he didn't show it, this time asking with more specific detail, "The car batteries, Yinsen. The ones we loaned to you to keep our guest alive."
Yinsen stares challengingly at the man, "I'm with a patient right now. Come ask me later."
The Snake-Faunus sighs and pulls out a pistol and aims point-blank at the Doctors forehead. He coolly warns, "You might want to rethink those words, doctor. You swore an oath to help the sick and dying, to preserve life. One can't help and wonder how a doctor can honor said oath when he's dead."
He cocks the gun, finger upon the trigger, ready to end the doctor's life should he resist further.
Yinsen, despite the gun in his face, does not even blink. Whitley suspects that this has happened more than once. This can only mean that the Doctor is no way affiliated with the White Fang, and that he is just another human captured by the terrorist group, or at least a far more extreme splinter cell.
Then he wonders why additional batteries were needed, only to remember how long his current one will last. He suddenly feels worried, both for himself and for the doctor. He didn't want the doctor to die, but he didn't want to die as well. The doctor finally relents, pointing to a far off corner behind him. Coldblood gestures to his troops, who promptly march over to the area in question. Whitley watches as they uncover a pile of car batteries, ones meant to keep him alive, and carry them away.
The boy stays where he is. He didn't dare move from his spot, fearing what would happen should he challenge them. As the last of the batteries is finally carried away, the Snake Faunus holsters his pistol.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Yinsen. You can now finish healing this man unimpeded." He says, voice void of any emotion.
Yinsen can only glare at the man, his eyes so full of fury that it looks as though he were trying to incinerate the extremist with them. Coldblood disregards the glare and walks away to the open door. But just as he reached it, he stops and looks over to where Whitley is sitting. The boy freezes under his cold, unfeeling gaze. He was right on the nose about this one; he's far more dangerous than the so-called Minotaur.
"Mr. Schnee," He begins, crossing his arms. "If you are still considering not taking my colleague's deal, then know that I hope you don't."
Whitley, more surprised than scared, asks, "What do you mean?"
"Vryolak made that offer based on incomplete information gathered from dubious sources. He's always been reckless to the point of stupidity. I, however, believe in factual evidence, which is why I've decided to offer another deal, no, a challenge."
The boy is now shocked, wondering where exactly this nearly-robotic man is going with his little speech.
"I've taken the surplus of batteries meant to power that device in your chest. You only have just the one in your current possession, and it is running low on power, if what Yinsen told me after your operation was true. That is your situation, which is where my challenge comes in."
The youngest Schnee is now listening with rapt attention. Just what exactly is this man challenging him to do?
"If you are indeed the genius my sources say you are, then you will have no problem figuring out a way to save your own life. Necessity, as you know, is the mother of invention. We will provide you with any materials you need, and you may use them as you see fit. Oh, and you will have an armed guard watching over you, should you try to build something that would aid in an escape. Not that you'd be able to … I'm afraid your Doctor has failed to share an important detail with you."
Yinsen's glare goes from furious to hateful. Whitley can only stare at the doctor as the Snake Faunus continues. "The battery that is currently powering that pacemaker, as I was told, is meant to last a week. What Yinsen neglected to tell you is that you've been unconscious for close to four days. The date is April 27th."
Whitley feels his heart drop to the soles of his feet. "You have three days to live. I suggest you use that time to find a solution."
Coldblood walks through the door and says aloud, "Have a nice day."
Having a nice day is now the least of Whitley's worries. He has only three days to live. He has only three days of continued existence before the power in the magnet runs out; dooming him to suffer what he can only assume will be a slow and agonizingly painful death that will last just as long. It sounds like Hell in his opinion. He never put much stock in the idea of an afterlife, as he believes the only hell one can find in life is made by other people. Heaven, in his opinion, is what you make of your life.
And where has life led him now? It has led him to an underground cave, no doubt located in a scorching desert, suffering an unimaginable pain that was currently being staved off, the thought of which is causing him immense mental torment. This is as close to Hell that he's ever going to experience. He didn't like it one bit.
He looks to Yinsen, who averts his eyes in shame. The man turns his back and immediately returns to treating the injured Fang left in his care. Whitley has had enough excitement for today. Looking over at his cot, he decides that he needs a nap. Perhaps some relaxation can help him think of a way to remedy his current predicament.
He picks up the battery and walks over to the cot, his movements slightly impeded by the gauze on his knees. He reaches the worn mattress and sits down, setting the battery on the table where he had found it. He's glad that he doesn't toss and turn in his sleep. He fluffs the pillow and lays his head down on it.
Within minutes, he is asleep.
"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 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-"
He waits for the explosion, but the M3 doesn't explode. Whitley sighs in relief and picks up the rifle. He cocks it and aims, only to find nothing in his range. The battlefield has disappeared, along with the desert. In fact, all he sees is nothing, for there was nothing but a dark void. Whitley Schnee is standing in darkness.
"How does it feel?" The boy jumps at the sudden but familiar voice.
He lowers the rifle and searches for the owner of that voice. He looks left, right, up and down, but he doesn't find anyone. He's getting scared and he's not afraid to even admit the fact. How could anyone stay calm in his circumstance?
"How does it feel?"
He shouts, "What does what feel like?!"
The voice repeats. "How does it feel?"
"I don't know! I don't understand!" He fearfully screams, raising his rifle into the air.
He pulls the trigger, intent on silencing the mysterious voice. He pulls the trigger, and to his shock, the weapon doesn't fire any bullets. Then the rifle disintegrates, becoming ash in his hands as the dust flies into the air, disappearing into the darkness.
Whatever semblance of courage remained in the boy disappears. The boy is now terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought, for his thought are racing. What did the voice mean by "How does it feel?" What is trying to ask? How does it feel to be scared? How does it feel to have no control of a situation? Or how does it feel knowing that you are going to die?
He doesn't understand.
Then a girl's voice whispers into his ear, "How does it feel?"
He turns to face the speaker. He shocked by who he sees. It was Weiss, dressed in her usual attire, smiling creepily and knowingly at him. That gaze of hers would have frightened him, if it weren't for that fact that he saw something that really made his heart stop. His sister had a large and gaping, bloody hole in her chest, right where her heart should be.
"How does it feel?" A woman's voice asks from behind him.
He turns to find his oldest sister, Winter, dressed in her uniform, that same chilling expression on her own face. She too has a hole in her chest.
"How does it feel?" He turns to see his mother, sober and equally grim, staring at him. She too has a hole in her chest.
The question repeats itself and each time, he sees a new face. He sees Pepper and Happy. He sees the Stanes. He sees Klein. He sees the soldiers who had protecting him, along with so many other faces he had come to know in his short life.
Surrounded on all sides, Whitley cowers under this mob's judging gazes. He didn't understand what they were accusing him of. Then he wondered why he called their question an accusation. What can he be accused of if he hasn't done anything to them? What crime is he guilty of?
He closes his eyes, wishing for his torment to end. Then, from out of nowhere, he hears his own voice. "How does it feel?"
He didn't speak, so why had he heard his own voice?
He opens his eyes and sees that the mob has disappeared. Then he feels a new presence standing behind him, causing him to turn around. Standing before him was none other than himself, arms behind his back and with a smug grin on his face. His double was dressed in his usual clothing, finely pressed and immaculately pressed. He also had no bloodied hole in his chest.
Then he watches his Doppelganger hold his right arm out. In his hand, he holds an unexploded M3 missile, which he presses into the original's face. Whitley watches the weapon, fearing that it might explode.
Then his double pulls the missile back, bringing it to his side. Not-Whitley smiles warmly, as though he had just pulled a harmless prank. Whitley sighs in relief, glad that his wasn't in danger.
Then a sharp and burning pain erupts in his chest. He can't even begin to describe the pain he was in, having no words to fully articulate his pain. All he can say it was immensely painful, so painful that he can't even scream. He looks down and sees that his double has shoved the missile right in his heart, the metal cylinder slowly digging its way into his chest, blood gushing as it goes deeper.
He looks at Not-Whitley and is disturbed by the almost sadistic smirk on his face. He watches as the double pulls his arm back. Whitley feels the tug on his chest before even registering the moving arm. He looks down and almost vomits at the sight he sees.
Clutched in the double's bloodied hand is his heart, veins spurting blood and beating rapidly. If Whitley could scream, he probably would've let out the most bloodcurdling one imaginable. But he can't, for he is losing air.
"How does it feel?"
He looks up and is shocked to see his father standing in his doppelganger's place. The man was dressed in his white business suit, his right sleeve now a deep crimson as his hand grips his son's heart. The man looks at the boy with cold eyes and asks, "How does it feel to be nothing?"
He crushes the heart in his hand, body tissue, muscle, and blood exploding everywhere.
The man vanishes, leaving his son writhing in the cold, dark abyss, gasping for air and clutching his bleeding and open chest. Whitley can feel it in his bones. He is going to die. He is going to die and nobody will miss him. It's almost frightening how much he accepts that fact.
As he waits for the end, he hears a new voice, one he hasn't heard in years.
"Trust me, you will be missed."
The voice is soft and encouraging, but also blunt and mocking. It sounds old and caring, but also spirited and challenging. He knew only one person who could speak like that. He looks up and immediately calms. To his surprise, he is no longer in pain, nor running out of hair. He just feels safe.
How could he not, considering who was standing in front of him. She had the same worn but warm hazel eyes, watching him through thick-rimmed glasses. Her white hair, once a lustrous black, is scrunched up into a bun. She is dressed in the same casual clothing she always wore when he and his sisters had visited her.
He smiles and greets, "Hi, grandma."
Toni Schnee smiles back, "Sup, Short Round?"
Taking his hand, she helps him to his feet. Whitley immediately hugs her, her arms clasped tightly around her waist. Toni laughs and tells the boy, "Don't go crushing me now, Kid. I've got something to show you…"
Whitley lets go and looks at her in confusion. To his surprise, she is holding a rolled-up blueprint. The old woman smirks, saying, "You're gonna love what I have."
Whitley has a feeling that he is. His grandmother unfurls the blueprint, revealing the plans drawn upon it. Whitley recognizes the blueprint, having seen it many times on his grandmother's work desk. He spent hour memorizing them, soaking in all the detailed calculations that went into explaining its function, as well as what it would create. It was his grandmother's unfinished masterpiece, a creation that would have been her Magnum Opus had she actually built it. It was now the only chance he had at saving his own life.
The Repulsor-Tech Energy Node, Automated Regenerative Container.
His grandmother called it the Arc Reactor.
Oh boy, that was intense. Now, I have a few announcements to make, before I go on to answer some questions posted in the reviews. Firstly, Starting with the next chapter, you will all notice an improvement in the quality of this story's writing. I'm trying to write third-person, and I've been told that it's better to use past-tense when writing it.
Second, I've seen Captain Marvel. Here's my opinion, it was good, but it wasn't the greatest movie in the world. I just have no strong opinions about it. I enjoyed it as a popcorn flick, and I praise Jackson's, Larson's, Mendelsohn's, and Law's performances, but nothing can top Infinity War in terms of scope and ambition. Well, except maybe Endgame, but it hasn't come out yet.
Now, there will be a Captain Marvel in this Fic, and it won't be Mar-Vel or Carol Danvers (Both of whom will appear). In fact, This universe's Captain will be a RWBY character and they won't appear until like volume 6 of this story. Brotherhoof and I are still discussing how to introduce the character. Which RWBY character will become the Captain, I leave to your speculation.
Now, on to some questions that have been asked, at least the one's related to the plot.
No, Captain Vale is not related in any way, shape, or form to Jaune Arc. In fact, He'll make his debut during the six month time skip.
Rhodey will not be War Machine. Once you meet him, you'll understand why.
KC stands for Kingdom Calendar, a calendar system that was put in place after the establishment of the first successful kingdoms of remnant, which happened 2,008 years before canon. Anything that happened before that period is listed under BK (Before Kingdoms).
Yes, Whitley will have a love interest, and they are a girl. Who it is I already decided upon, so start running bets on who it is.
Well, that's about it. The next chapter will be uploaded next month, during which time I will be working on college finals, moving into an apartment, getting a job, and seeing Shazam and Avengers: Endgame.
Until next time, True Believers!