Legal Disclaimer: 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.)
The Invincible Whitley Schnee
Chapter 5: Go On and Save Yourself!
In one of the many hallways in Schnee Manor, Klein Sieben approached the quarters of his employer, Willow Schnee. He held a silver serving tray, which held the woman's typical breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a four-year-old bottle of wine. Of all the food items upon the platter, it was the alcohol that the butler had problems with serving to his mistress. He felt that he was just enabling the woman's addiction. No, scratch that, he was being paid to be an enabler. Sometimes, he just disgusted himself. If only something can be done for the Schnee matriarch to end her self-destructive habits.
Klein then entered the woman's bedroom. He found her lying in her bed, hair splayed over her pillow and an arm extended toward the nightstand. Upon the small end table was a bottle of Whiskey, as he expected. Setting the tray upon an old desk, the butler approached the window to pull back the curtains. The full blast of the sun bombarded the room, bringing light into an otherwise dark room. Willow Schnee did not appreciate it in the slightest.
Feeling the full effects of a hangover, the woman rubbed her eyes and tiredly complained, "Damn it, Klein, can't you just let me sleep my hangover off in peace?"
While picking up the tray, Klein patiently replied, "I'm afraid that's not in the schedule today, Mistress Willow."
He walked over to the bed and stood by the woman's side, placing the tray upon the bed. As was expected of him, he announced to the woman. "Your breakfast is served, Madame."
Having accepted that she'll have to work through the hangover, the woman reluctantly sat up to eat her breakfast. She noticed the wine bottle and snorted, "And here I thought you would surprise me. Couldn't find a 1988 vintage?"
"I'm afraid the cellar has run out of that particular year." Klein told her. It wasn't a lie because Mrs. Schnee had already drunk half of the wine cellar out.
Accepting the answer, Willow nodded and yawned. She winced slightly as the pain in her head flared. She really hated hangovers. She took a knife and a fork to cut into the egg, all while asking, "What's the news for today?"
Klein listed off what news he had heard. "Well, firstly, the Rand Corporation has agreed to sell most of their assets in Solitas to us rather than Oscorp. There's been a bank robbery in Mantle, reportedly robbed by a man who can shoot ice from his wrists. The labor strike at one of our Vacuoan mines has entered its third week, no negotiations have-"
"I meant has there been any word on Whitley?" She asked forcefully, not even looking up from her plate.
Klein blinked, wondering if he needed to have his hearing checked, because he swore that he had just heard Willow Schnee actually ask about her children. Specifically, she had asked about the child who had gone missing. Klein wasn't blind to how dysfunctional the Schnee family has become, in fact, he thought that Willow didn't care enough about her children to ask about their well-being. She hadn't done so since Weiss' tenth birthday party. She often only showed up to her children's events as merely a pretense to maintain the illusion of a united family. She had stopped altogether after her own mother had died, further driving the wedge between her and her children.
Could this be the moment when she cleans her act? Klein hoped, honestly thinking that this could be the moment the family started healing.
He nursed his features, "I'm afraid that no clues regarding Master Whitley's disappearance have been found yet."
"I see..."Willow softly said. Her face didn't change, maintaining a placid expression as she continued eating.
She then calmly told Klein to leave the room, to give her some peace and quiet as she ate. While disappointed in the woman, the servant did as he was ordered, leaving the bedroom without a word. As soon as the doors closed, the woman dropped her fork and knife onto her finished plate.
Her eyes drifted over to the wine. It may not be her preferred year, but she'll take what she'll get. She opened the bottle and poured some of its contents into a glass shot.
She stirred the drink, just as she preferred it. She watched the liquid for a moment, staring at it hungrily.
Just one sip, just one to make the pain go away...
She slowly brought the glass to her lips, but just as it made contact, she tossed it aside. One sip would take the pain away, but also the thoughts of her son. Was she really going drink herself into a stupor as her baby boy suffered?
No, she wasn't.
She took the wine bottle and hurled it against the wall. The bottle shattered upon impact, glass fragments flying out and leaving an alcoholic stain on the previously clean wall.
The poor woman brought her hands to her face, covering her falling tears. She slowly settled into a fetal position, cradling herself as she wept. She just wanted her baby boy back, safe and unharmed. She had already lost so much; her father, her mother, and both of her brothers. She did not want to lose her children like she had them.
She wasn't sure if she could take any more losses.
It took close to two weeks. After two agonizing weeks of pushing paperwork through every level of bureaucracy in the Atlas Armed Forces, after using every legislative loophole he can use and testing the absolute limits of his authority, General James Ironwood was now heading his own special investigation into the incident leading to Whitley Schnee's disappearance. After consulting with the Argus Commander, albeit much to his chagrin, the general now had a team to aid him with his search for the truth. After taking his team to the approximate location where the escort flight last transmitted, Ironwood began the proper investigation.
After two days of searching, the investigation finally located a considerably large debris field. Strewn across the small patch of desert, half-buried under sand, were the decomposing bodies of his soldiers and the burnt wreckage of an obsolete bullhead. Ironwood can do nothing but watch in restrained fury as the bodies of these brave men and women were retrieved, unceremoniously wrapped in body bags, and placed in a neatly-organized row. Their bodies will be sent back to Argus, where they will then be transported to Atlas for identification.
Not that their families will even know. Ironwood morosely thought, still angered by Jacque's decision to cover up the incident;
especially given the fact that the only survivor, as far as he hoped, was the man's own son.
Ironwood was not quite familiar with the youngest Schnee, only knowing him through stories told by the boy's oldest sister and his protégé, Winter. He was also aware of the boy's admittedly impressive intelligence, having read of his status as the head of his class at ATI in the Atlas Globe. Since such genius was rare to find these days, finding the young man was top priority for the general.
Unfortunately, despite finding this crash site, they couldn't find any other evidence that would lead them to any kidnappers. Whatever evidence they could find were with the other destroyed bullheads, which they have yet to discover. Ironwood doubted that there was any more wreckage to be recovered.
"General?" The voice of one of his soldiers shook him from his thoughts. "The forensics team has found something you might want to see."
He followed the soldier to the entrance of an insulated, sterile, and temperature-controlled tent. Knowing the proper protocol, Ironwood retrieved a hazmat suit so as to keep himself from contaminating the sterile environment, as well as to protect him from any possible biological or chemical agents still present in the portable lab. After donning the suit, the general is granted access to the mobile forensics lab. The first thing he saw was a team of similarly-clothed experts conducting an autopsy upon one of the bodies.
The general stared at the naked corpse upon the operating table with equal parts sadness and outrage. It had been a kid no older than his first year students, a fresh-out-of-basic private who probably had a promising career ahead of him, only for his life to be cut short by the cruel and indifferent hand of death. Ironwood has seen death more times than he cared to admit and he thought he had gotten used to it, but the truth was he hasn't. The younger they were, the harder their deaths hit him.
He was going to make the bastards responsible pay for this. Their capture of Whitley Schnee, he'll have them pay back with interest in the deepest, darkest cell of Atlas' most secure prison.
"General Ironwood, sir!" The lead forensic scientist said in alarm, saluting the man. His colleagues follow suit, ceasing their work to give their general a crisp, respectful salute.
Ironwood reciprocated their salutes, telling them, "As you were."
The team immediately heeded his word, returning to their work. The lead scientist approached the General. "Sir, we've discovered something about the corpse, peculiar wounds that've been found on the other bodies."
The man pointed to the corpse's face, which resembled burnt steak that had been shredded by a cheese grater. "In our initial examination, we found metal fragments lodged into the man's flesh, muscle, and even the skull. We had thought it was shrapnel from an enemy projectile, until we found this."
The man reached over to a nearby cart, upon which laid a tray filled with medical tools and petri dishes. He picked up a dish, which contained a miniscule piece of metal, barely bigger than his thumb. He held it up to the general's protected face.
The general squint his eyes, trying to get a better look at the small foreign object. To his surprise, it resembled a switch, one he had seen many times before on a certain tool often used by him and other soldiers.
He asked the lead scientist, "Is this a safety switch off of a rifle?"
"Yes, sir," The expert confirmed, only to give him alarming news. "And we found it lodged in his lower jaw. We've also found remnants of the firing mechanism, the trigger, and even some unexploded rounds throughout his upper body. It was like the man's weapon had exploded right in his hands."
The general furrowed his brows in deep thought. Could it have been a malfunction? No, our rifles rarely suffer any type of problems, and they're usually just magazine jams.
Actually, now that I think about it, the only time I've seen a gun explode was during the test...
The general froze, realizing where he had seen such an incident happen. He urgently asked the scientist, "Did you find any intact weapons out there?"
"Actually, no, we haven't. Nearly every corpse that we've found had similar wounds in different sections of their bodies. They were also missing their weapons; some of the corpses have lost their hands, as well. We are planning to examine each body, to see if we can determine the type of explosive used-"
"The M3 missile..." The general said, interrupting the man's report.
The scientist blinked and asked what the general had meant.
Ironwood then explained with a very strained voice. "The M3 missile is a recently developed weapon system, one built with a revolutionary IFF system that uses newly-created sonic identification software. The M3 is essentially a highly-advanced cluster projectile, one that carries miniature homing missiles that target firearms."
"Does our military even have this kind of tech available in the field?" The scientist asked, wondering what the general was implying.
The general ground out, "Not for another six months."
The Atlas Headmaster clenched his fists in restrained anger; nearly tearing through the sterilized, rubber gloves he wore. Killing his soldiers was one thing. But to kill his soldiers using stolen weapons, weapons his military had developed? That was another thing entirely. But to do all of that, while kidnapping the brother of a woman he considered like a daughter? All pretenses of civility are thrown out the window and into a wood chipper.
Whoever did this, he will look for them, he will find them, and he will kill them. But not before he makes sure that they suffer the slowest, most agonizingly painful death he can allow without breaking the Ginevra Accords. Before the bastards died, James Ironwood was personally going to give them a preview of what awaited them in hell.
Suddenly, a voice was heard over the tent's radio. [General, we have bullheads on approach. They've been identified as being from the Mistral Special Intelligence Service.]
Ironwood approached the radio, grabbed the mic and spoke into it. "Copy that, I'll be out to greet our guests."
As Ironwood ended the communication, he couldn't help but wonder why the MSIS would send a team. The Atlesian military only cooperated with another kingdom's military when an incident that affected them both occurred. As Mistral was a longtime ally of Atlas and considering that the incident had occurred in Anima, it made sense for Mistral to send a team to aid in the investigation. Though it was more likely the MSIS sent a team to conclude whether there were any leaks in their own military, the general cynically thought, considering that military flight paths and schedules were decided on joint decisions between their militaries. It was also customary to have the nature of these flights be shared between the militaries.
The general left the tent, to meet with the leader of this newly-arrived team. Discarding the hazmat suit, Ironwood returned to the scorching outdoors to await the incoming bullheads. Within minutes, he spotted them coming over the distance, steadily growing dots on a blue horizon. Within seconds, they reached the camp.
Ironwood covered his eyes as the first bullhead began its landing procedure, kicking up sand as it descended. Much like the others from its squadrons was indeed from the MSIS. The body of the aircraft was a light blue, darker than the sky but lighter than the sea, and emblazoned upon the sliding panel doors was the emblem of the Mistralian intelligence agency, a lantern emblazoned upon a round shield. The craft touched down without issue, the landing gears not even swallowed by the desert sand.
The General stood tall, back straightened and eyes unflinching, trying to look as respectful toward the visiting agents. The Bullhead's panel door slid back, revealing a small team of highly-trained agents ready for the investigation. They were dressed in tan clothing, camouflage for their current environment, and carried with them crates containing doubtlessly sensitive equipment. The agents poured out in pairs of two, each pair carrying a crate. As the last of the agents exited the craft, another figure made itself known, having sat in the very back of the small but spacious craft.
Ironwood scowled as he took in the new figures appearance. Unlike the agents, this person, who was undoubtedly male, was dressed in a crisp black suit. The man had a tanned complexion, with thick-rimmed black glasses over a stern face, and was very bald. Ironwood had met this man a few times in the past, but only during official gatherings. Never had he met the man during an actual operation. Especially since the man was not an MSIS agent.
"Sitwell." Ironwood greeted the man, albeit with a look that was equal parts suspicion and displeasure. Why that man had sent this toady was beyond him.
Jasper Sitwell regarded the man with an equally levelled gaze, "General Ironwood."
"What are you doing here?" The general asked, keeping his posture straight. He will dignify this man's presence with crossed arms, or any form of indignant movement.
He won't even give him a salute. He will never give people like Sitwell a salute.
"I am simply a consultant with MSIS." Sitwell calmly explained, flashing his MSIS badge.
Ironwood knew the badge was real, but that Sitwell's allegiance to the Mistralian Agency was bogus.
"If you're here because he sent you, tell him that nothing out of the ordinary happened here." Ironwood adamantly stated, wanting this man to leave as soon as possible.
"Oh, a classified Atlesian military flight being attacked is ordinary for you?" Sitwell asked with an inquisitive eyebrow. Ironwood felt his anger rise.
"You know what I meant. What happened here was the result of an intelligence leak and some crafty terrorists. Not the work of the bogeyman, aliens, werewolves, or whatever it is he's chasing these days." Ironwood forcefully explained, telling the man exactly what had happened here.
The last thing he needed was for that man, of all people, to get involved.
Ironwood knew more secrets than he cared to admit, most he learned from a certain headmaster and some he learned from experiencing life. He had even played a hand in most of those secrets, such as the recent attack upon one of the maidens. Doing so was necessary to maintain the fragile peace Remnant was enjoying. The last thing he needed was for a man who had more secrets than he did to get involved, especially one who didn't trust Ozpin as he does.
Ironwood then ordered the man with a brusque tone, "So, unless you have anything substantial to add to this investigation, I suggest you pack up, return to your boss, and tell him Atlas has everything under control."
"Actually, general, I do have something substantial to contribute to your investigation." Sitwell informed the general, before reaching his within his suit jacket. A moment later, the man pulled out a sealed envelope. He held the paper out to the general, who took with some hesitance.
The general immediately tore the envelope open, revealing the document inside. It was a joint message from the Mistral and Atlas High Councils. As he read the contents of the message, the general's indignant attitude quickly turned outrage. Gripping the paper so tightly that he nearly crumpled it, the now livid general asked with a shaky tone, "What is the meaning of this!"
"It is exactly as it says on the tin, general. Effective immediately, this investigation is now under the jurisdiction of the Mistral Special Intelligence Service. Any and all evidence discovered by your team is to be handed over to mine. Your cooperation is mandatory by order of the Atlas and Mistral Councils." Sitwell calmly explained, choosing to ignore the general's reddening face.
Taking a deep breath, Ironwood calmed himself. Once his anger had dissipated, he calmly folded the letter up and stowed it within his suit's breast pocket. He then gave Sitwell a crisp salute and said, "I hereby hand over this investigation to you, Agent Sitwell. I will have all reports, evidence, and other essential items of note delivered to your team. I will have my team return to Argus within the hour."
"Thank you, General. You can rest well knowing the investigation is now in our capable hands." Sitwell replied, hoping the general will take the hint. The Agent returned the salute, but only as a courtesy.
The general turned on his heel, not even sparing the agent a glance. He got the message the loud and clear. Sitwell watched the general leave with an unimpressed expression, the crisply-dressed man not at all fazed by the military man's disregard for his presence. He had a job to do and he intended to finish it. The general was right in that this ambush was indeed the work of extremists, undoubtedly the White Fang or some offshoot of the group, but he was wrong in one aspect. There was more to this attack than meets the eye.
A reliable source of his in the world of black market arms dealing had discovered that a certain organization had made a sale to an undisclosed group, the products sold being both the yet-to-be deployed M3 missile from the SDC and radar-resistant homing rockets developed by Hammer Industries. There had also been talk that jamming software had been included in the sale, as well as two unknown devices whose purposes had not been determined.
He'll let Ironwood have his little investigation, let him come to whatever conclusion's he'll come to. But his boss had made it clear that no information known by the agency must be shared with Ironwood, or anyone even associated with Headmaster Ozpin. The last thing that the boss wanted was to have Ozpin involved in this.
Sitwell straightened his suit, pushed his glasses up, and walked off to join the team he had been attached to. There were answers to be found.
In the two weeks since he came to this musky, damp cave, Whitley Schnee has learned a lot of things about himself.
He learned that he hates the smell of blood, especially when the odor is mixed with feces or vomit. He also hated the sight of it, especially if it had recently been inside a person. He hated the desert, for the days were hotter than hot and the nights colder than cold. He hated not having warm showers, clean clothes, and a bathroom.
All he had in this cave was an old metal washtub filled with lukewarm water, dirty second-hand clothes, and a bucket that served as his bathroom.
He especially hated that damn bucket.
He also learned that he had quite the potty mouth. He imagined that his grandmother would be proud of that fact.
His father, on the other hand, would have been outraged.
But, most of all, the most substantial thing he has learned about himself was that in the grand scheme of things, no matter what accomplishments or accolades he had won in his short sixteen years, his life was barely a blip. His family name has been set upon a pedestal for so long, that he just assumed the world would stop for him. Now here he was, sitting in a cave, far from home with a device in his chest keeping shrapnel from shredding his heart to pieces, and the world just kept turning on and on, paying him no mind.
And it took him close to sixteen years to learn this? Despite everything that has happened in his life, it took getting hit by his own bomb to make him realize that he wasn't the center of the universe. He hated himself for that.
Two thin eyebrows furrowed in frustration at that thought. Whitley thought now wasn't the time to wallow in self-pity, but for him to stay focused on his latest project. He had recently been ordered by his "hosts" to build mines, ones intended for use against Grimm, bandits, and soldiers from the Atlesian and Mistralian military. He hadn't been told by his captors where these mines were going to be placed, stating that giving him such information was a security risk. It wasn't like he was going to ask them anyway. If he had, they would've construed it as an act of resistance. He knew full well what would happen if they thought he was resisting again.
... Eyes glazed and unblinking, mouth open in a silent scream, as a small pool of blood formed around his head...
The memory of Doyle's death was still fresh in his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't forget the sight of the man's prone corpse, blood pooling from his forehead onto the cold cavern floor. He didn't get much sleep that night or the night after. It'd be fair to say that he's rarely had a peaceful night's rest since that day.
The fact that the man's blood had left a stain didn't help ease the boy's conscience. It was as if the universe just wanted him to relive that single horrific moment, the moment when his arrogance had cost a man's life.
… Eyes glazed and unblinking, mouth open in a silent scream, as a small pool of blood formed around his head...
Whitley lost all control of his breathing. His thoughts were racing, whispering into his mind dark images of pain, death, and suffering, all while telling him there was a solution to it all. He'd rather not think about what that solution entailed. His pulse was skyrocketing, as though his body wanted nothing more than to rebel against him. He'd rather be in control. Putting down his tools, he clasped his shaking hands together, as he had often did for the past two weeks. Within his mind, he repeated the same phrase that had become his mantra.
Breathe... Just breathe. Count to ten. Remember the words that Yinsen told you.
"Each day is a new day. Every day, I am getting better..." He whispered, trying to convince himself that was the case.
With each utterance of his new mantra, he felt his body calm itself. His dark thoughts slowly retreated into the deep recesses of his mind. He felt control of his own body returning to him. His breathing once again returned to a pace that was healthy for him. Whitley Schnee had composed himself in under a few minutes.
"I am getting better..." He sighed and then groused, "What a load of bullshit."
"You are getting better, Mr. Schnee, but it's a slow process." He heard the doctor say from behind him.
If this had been two weeks ago, Whitley would have disregarded the man's words with some type of witty retort. However, Yinsen had saved his life and he felt that the man deserved some respect. But, that also didn't mean he deserved all of it, especially after the stunt with the sedative. The boy was still very miffed about that. He can understand the necessity of the action, given his brief bout sleep-deprived anxiety, but he still should have been asked for his permission. But that was all in the past. What use was there in crying over spilt milk?
"Speaking of which, tell me, how are you feeling today?" Yinsen asked in concern.
"Well, about as well as one can expect from a guy who's being held against his will in a cave, surrounded by armed extremists and has metal shards in his chest. So, in short, not that well." Whitley looked to the mines, "And the fact I'm being forced to build weapons for said extremists isn't helping."
Whitley took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair. His hair felt longer, but to what length he had no idea. His captors had neglected to supply him with a mirror. All they had given him, in terms of preserving his own personal hygiene, was a toothbrush and toothpaste. He knew there was some kind of joke in there somewhere, one that the Faunus extremists thought hilarious. Still, one shouldn't complain if they can at least have nice teeth in such circumstances.
But he still had one problem that toothpaste can't solve. "How am I going to do this? They demanded fifty, but I can only build twelve. I'm just one boy, not an assembly line!"
"I don't think they care." Yinsen said. The man sighed and opined, "In fact, I'd say they're expecting that. You can't meet that quota, they'll just write it off as another act of defiance."
And then they'll kill another prisoner. Whitley darkly thought.
He knew that the White Fang- or whatever they called themselves- will look for any excuse to execute the other prisoners. He didn't know how many they had, but he did know that terrorists rarely kept prisoners alive long-term. Excepting, of course, prisoners who were high-value targets, people like him. It was a harsh assessment, some would call it callous, but the fact was that his captors valued his life more than those soldiers.
The boy frowned, hating himself for even having such a thought.
A couple of soldiers die and nobody bats an eye. Some rich kid disappears and everybody loses their minds.
He can't help but wonder. Why is this world so cruel?
"Hey, are you alright? You're kind of spacing out there." Yinsen asked in concern.
Whitley just waved the old man's question off, telling him that he was fine. At least, that was what he wanted to doctor to believe.
Suddenly, the doors open. Two guards, a man and a woman, enter and approach the Schnee. The boy recognized the man as being a Goat Faunus, if his spiraling horns were any indicator. The woman had spotted feline ears atop her head. Whitley surmised that she was a Cheetah Faunus.
"We need you outside. We're having issues with some ordinance. You're going to fix it." Goat told him. The man then leaned menacingly and asked, "Will that be a problem?"
Whitley just shook his head.
Satisfied, Goat straightened himself and motioned for Cheetah to pull a sack over his head. She complied and once she had done so, helped her comrade drag the boy through the tunnels. The Schnee could do nothing but hope that this won't take long. He still had a deadline to meet.
After handing him a satchel of tools, Whitley's guards relinquished their hold on him. They then told him of the task he was needed for, telling him where he was to go and what he needed to. He then exited the cave and was immediately blasted by a blinding light. It took him seconds to adjust his eyes, and one he could see clearly, he was shocked to see that he was once again out in the open world again.
It was a strange feeling, he noted, to be outside after so long. It felt nice to feel the warmth of the sun upon his skin again. It was warmer than he thought, considering it was a typical Animan summer afternoon, meaning high temperatures. If only he weren't stuck in the desert. Looking in the direction of his assigned destination, the captive made his way toward a small outcrop, which was connected to a larger, rockier mound. Atop this miniature mountain, he could make out a strange device, which somewhat resembled a metallic umbrella, planted at the top of the boulder pile. As he walked, he took in the surrounding area.
Yes, true to what Yinsen had told him, his prison was located in the Atreides Desert, which spanned nearly the entirety of the continents southeastern coast. Where specifically he was being held, he had no idea. From what he could see, the mine that his captors had appropriated as their base was located in a small enclosed rocky area, with cliffs that provided natural protection from attackers. He saw various tents set up within the area, many covered in desert camouflage, with various fangs moving in and out from each tent, carrying supplies, weapons, and food. To his shock, he saw that a few elevated platforms have been constructed throughout the camp, which had the latest model of Atlesian Bullheads parked upon them. Each vehicle was painted a dull brown.
But what really caught his eye was the strange device in the center of the camp. It was a metallic cube, somewhat resembling a futuristic, shining metal box with strange lights running up its sides. Atop the box was a glass dome, which appeared to be covering a strange mechanism. He swore that he could make out a projector inside the dome as well. Just what was he looking at?
"Hey, stop lollygagging and pick up the pace, you rich, little shit!" He heard one of his guards, the Goat-Man, shout angrily. The Faunus then threatened loudly, "Or do you want us to keep you out here to bake under the sun? Gods know you definitely need a tan!"
The Guard laughed raucously, with his female comrade joining in the mirth with a snorting giggle. As he quickened his pace, he thought about Goat's words. He can only imagine how pale he looked compared two weeks ago. As a Schnee, he had naturally pale skin, a tone that many people have referred to as being almost doll-like. He never once liked that comparison. It made him sound fragile. Without two weeks of natural sunlight, he probably resembled a porcelain doll now more than ever.
The Schnee hair forced that thought back into his mind, wanting to focus on the task his captors had assigned him. Fastening his belt around the toolbox's handle, he slung the container over his shoulder, giving him the ability to use both of his arms to traverse the ascending pile of rocks. It was exhausting, climbing those rocks to reach the top. His muscles felt tired and his lungs like they were working overtime. He wiped some sweat from his brow. A futile act, as his forehead was covered with a thin sheet of perspiration.
Never in his life did the young man ever think he'd envy his sister's athletic prowess. He looked down at his hands and saw that they had a few shallow cuts, but nothing too life-threatening.
His guards had deigned to give him any gloves for protection.
But he can still use his hands, considering they were his most vital tools for the task set before him.
Standing on the hill, Whitley saw a strange device. It had a long, slick and metallic pole that dug deeply into the rocky terrain. Atop this pole, resembling some sort of high-tech metal saucer, was what he can only surmise was some kind of transmitter. Underneath this saucer was a console, shaped like a black box with a blinking red light. One didn't need to be a genius to know that the red light represented.
He picked up a screwdriver and used it to unscrew the front panel of the console. Upon removing the panel, he found a sparking circuit board. Being as careful as he can, he cautiously pulled out the circuit board and immediately began inspecting it. As he looked it over, he failed to notice a small creature slowly approaching him from behind a rock. It looked like a scorpion, but had white markings upon it and glowing, menacing red eyes. It was a Sasori, a rare type of Grimm, closely related to the Death Stalker.
Like any Grimm that has found a human, it was following its instinct to attack what will be its meal. It slowly approached the boy, snapping its pincers in anticipation and its mandibles practically salivating.
"Hmm, looks like a diode's been knocked out of place." Whitley observed. This will be an easy fix.
He pressed his thumb upon the tiny component and promptly snapped back into place. The flashing red light immediately turned green, signifying that the problem had been corrected. Pleased with himself, the boy returned the circuit board to its slot. But just as the board slid back into the box, he heard a small but pained hiss close to him.
He looked down and saw the Sasori. He was initially frightened at first, as the Grimm had gotten very close to him. That fear turned into confusion as he watched the demonic scorpion thrash about, pincers snapping wildly about and tail twitching erratically. It looked as though the creature was in immense pain. The Sasori began to retreat, its eight little legs wobbling as it ran.
The Schnee regarded his failed attacker, watching every movement it made as it tried to run. Whatever confusion he felt watching the creature became primal rage as he grabbed the nearest rock. Without any hesitation, he slammed the rock down upon the Grimm. The weight of the rock combined with the boy's strength immediately crushed the Sasori, which let out a surprised and pained hiss once the rock landed. The boy then scrubbed the ground with the rock, wanting to be as thorough as possible in eliminating the small monster.
He then pulled his arm back, the rock still in his hand, eyes glued to the spot where the Grimm had been smashed. He smirked victoriously at the rewarding sight of the Sasori's squashed remains slowly evaporating into nothingness. He took a deep breath and exhaled, the exhilaration of the moment leaving his body with his breath. He had just killed a Grimm.
Whitley blinked when he realized what he had just done. He, Whitley Schnee, who had never swung a sword or shot a gun, had never punched or kicked anything, had just killed a Grimm. With a rock, of all things.
It was a small one, he reminded himself, but it was still a Grimm, nonetheless.
A Grimm that seemed to have been writhing in agony, he reminded himself. Just what had happened to have caused the Grimm so much pain?
He thought back to the encounter, mentally retracing his steps. When he got to the circuit board being fixed, the proverbial light bulb lit up in his mind. As soon as the light lit green, the Grimm made itself known. Putting two and two together, he realized that this device was what was harming the Grimm. Now that he thought about it, there had been no Grimm attacks in the two weeks since he arrived. With all the negative emotions that he, the other prisoners and their captors had been telegraphing, this entire camp should be an all-you-can-eat buffet for the Grimm by now.
But this device that he had just repaired, somehow, it was doing something that was able to cause extreme pain to Grimm. He wondered if it was just this device causing this strange phenomenon, or if the Fang had a series of these "Grimm-Deterrents" around the camp. He wondered how he didn't know of this device's existence, let alone that it wasn't even available to the public. This required further study.
"Hey, you finished up there, Schnee!?"
Further study will have to wait, the Schnee concluded. Picking up the panel, he set about screwing it back into place upon the console. As the screws were twisted back into place, he noticed something inscribed upon the panel. How he had missed it the first time, he did not know. It was his first clue about the origin of this strange machine.
Inscribed upon the panel were three letters. The letters seemed to be an acronym. Whether it was a government organization or company, he had no idea. But the letters represented a mystery to the young man; one that he had not known existed.
What the hell is A.I.M.? He can't help but wonder.
As he pondered the meaning behind the strange acronym, the sound of jet engines in the distance roused him. He looked to the sky, wondering where the noise was coming from. It sounded like a bullhead. Could it be the rescue team? For the first time in a while, the boy felt hope. The noise was getting louder, indicating that the aircraft was getting closer. He rose to his feet and flung his arms about, hoping that his erratic movements will catch the attention of the pilots.
Seconds later, the silver body of an Atlesian Bullhead was seen, hovering above the location in a search maneuver. Jumping up and down, shouting as loudly as he can, the boy did everything in his power to alert the rescue team to his presence. When he looked down, to make sure that he wasn't going to be caught by his captors, he saw something that completely shocked him. All the fangs within the camp were just going about their business, paying no mind to the enemy bullhead that had infiltrated their airspace. Some did see the aircraft and just laughed, as though they were pulling a fast one over them.
The boy looked up to the bullhead and watched, to his horror, as it flew off. The hope that he felt immediately became despair as he watched his rescuers leave without him. He couldn't understand it. Had they not seen him? Did they not see the large White Fang camp that was literally under their noses?
Or were they in on it? He thought in horror. It might explain why he hadn't seen a rescue team in two weeks.
Or, could it be something else? He realized.
That was when he remembered the strange domed device in the camp, the one that had some kind of projector inside of it. The boy turned his gaze toward the device, eyeing it with an analytical gaze. Could it be that the device was some kind of hologram projector; One powerful enough to hide an entire terrorist camp from the naked eye, even electronic equipment? Such technology was in the works, but only as a theory. He couldn't help but wonder how a group of extremists had been able to get their hands on such advanced technology, especially the kind that should only exist in science fiction.
These people have Grimm deterrent devices, a hologram projector, and are using weapons not deployed yet? Just who the hell is holding me captive?!
"Hey, are you finished up there!" he heard Goat shout.
Startled, he looked down to his guards and replied, "Uh, yeah, the problem's been fixed!"
"Then get your pale ass down here so we can take you back to your cave!" Goat demanded, aiming his rifle up at him. "If you're not down here in five minutes, I'm gonna fill you up with so many bullets that you'll be shitting lead in your grave!"
Not wanting to test whether the man's threat was just a bluff, the young genius obliged, gathering his tools. He once again fastened his toolbox around his waist and climbed down. As he descended down the rocky crevice, he heard the sounds of a struggle from the mine's entrance. He looked over his shoulder and saw a horrifying sight.
From the darkness of the mine, three figures appeared. Two he recognized as guards, given their masks and uniforms. But it was the third person he didn't recognize. It was a sickly-looking and malnourished man dressed in rags, revealing his status as another prisoner, whom was being dragged by his arms by the guards, struggling with all his might against them. But what really caught his eye was the fact that man had two floppy dog ears atop his head. He was a Faunus.
"NO! PLEASE DON'T TAKE ME BACK THERE! NOT THE BOX, ANYTHING BUT THE BOX!" He heard the hysterical man shout. The Guards continued on.
"PLEASE, I HAVE A FAMILY, CHILDREN, JUST LET ME SEE THEM!" The prisoner pleaded desperately, kicking his feet up in a vain attempt to throw his captors off-balance.
The guards did not budge in the slightest, continuing to drag the man to wherever this so-called "box" was. He imagined that it wasn't very pleasant.
Whitley didn't understand what he had just witnessed. Were the White Fang torturing the people they were supposed to protect? He just couldn't fathom such a thought, yet he had just seen it with his own eyes that was likely the case. Just what was going on here? He can't help but wonder how his own kidnapping had become so complicated.
"Hey, Shitley, I didn't say to stop, get down here now!" He heard Goat roar impatiently.
The boy immediately resumed climbing down. Once he returned to the cavern that served as his cell, he was going to learn more about what was happening. He had questions for Yinsen and he was going to get answers. He needed to know just what it was he was dealing with here.
"I'll tell you what it is!" Happy roared, shaking with absolute rage as he stood.
"Happy, please, calm down!" Pepper said in a vain attempt at calming her beloved. She was sitting on the living room couch.
Happy raised a finger and declared, "NO! No! It's been two weeks, we've heard nothing and Jacques-ass is telling us shit!"
In the two weeks since Whitley Schnee's disappearance, Pepper and Happy have not heard anything regarding the boy. No official statements, no claims of responsibility, not even a ransom notice. What little they have learned came from rumors, accusations, and just general hearsay. Yet there was one undeniable fact wading in the waves of opinions. The fact being that Whitley Schnee had disappeared off the face of the planet.
In the time since his disappearance, the two adults had long abandoned their vacation, opting to stay at their home in Atlas. The weeks that could've been spent in warm and vibrant Vacuo, exploring the vast, untamed wilderness in relative leisure had instead been spent in cold and lifeless Atlas, waiting for news regarding their young charge in extreme discomfort. Their apartment may be luxurious and clean, with all the finest fixings of such a home, but they both would gladly give it all away if it meant that the young Schnee would be returned safe and sound.
But the sad reality was that they could do nothing. Nothing they can do could change the situation, much less improve it. All that they can do is just stay at home, let the investigation take its course, wait for any developments, and hope that the youngest Schnee will return unharmed. It was preferable to the other option.
Though, she had to admit, it was becoming a chore trying to console VIC. She'd never thought a computer program could express sadness, as he often called her whenever he went into a panic worrying about Whitley. It had gotten so severe that not even watching cat videos can calm the A.I.
The boy's survival was what Pepper was hoping for.
She hung her head low, saying glumly. "Happy, it's out of our hands. What happens next, I don't know, but I hope it'll end with our boy returned home."
Looking at his downtrodden fiancé, Happy's gaze softened. He then knelt before her and took her hands in his, caressing them tenderly.
He then told her, "I'm sorry, Pep. This hasn't been easy for me, either. I'm the kid's bodyguard and the one time he's out of my sight, he just disappears."
"Happy, it's not your fault." Pepper reassured him. "What happened was out of our control. Even if you went with him, you'd be missing too."
It wasn't the answer Happy wanted, but it helped somewhat. The couple was regaining their spirits, when suddenly; they heard someone knocking on the door. Surprised, the lovers look to each in confusion, asking the other whether they had invited anyone. They both denied having done so, leaving them perplexed as to who would be visiting them now at this hour. It was evening and most people were either in their homes or going out on the town.
Happy approached the door. He turned the knob and opened the door. The person standing on the other side of the door was someone he never expected to visit.
Happy blinked in surprise and asked, "Winter?"
Indeed, standing at their doorstep, wearing pants and a white sweater, was none other than Winter Schnee. They had heard that the young woman had returned to Atlas, on orders from Ironwood. They have also heard that she had deigned to visit her parents, preferring to confine herself to the base. What she was doing at their doorstep, neither he nor Pepper could understand.
"Hello, Mr. Hogan," Winter politely greeted, "May I come in?"
"Uhm, sure, come right in...?" Happy quickly answered, though he didn't mean to make it sound like an uncertain suggestion.
The eldest Schnee sibling strode through the doorway, walking past the man and making her way to the living room. Pepper watched in shock as the young specialist walked in, only to stop a few inches short of the couch. With a guarded gaze, the older woman asked, "Winter? What are you doing here?"
"I needed someone to talk to," The Schnee admitted, "I have some things I need to get off my chest; staying cooped-up on a military base with nobody to talk to isn't the best way to work through grief."
Pepper's gaze softened in understanding. She scooted over to the side, motioning her goddaughter to take a seat beside her. The younger woman obliged and settled herself upon the cushioned furniture, clasping her hands together, her head barely rising above her shoulders as she gazed at the marble floor. Now in close proximity to the specialist, Pepper can make out a few features on her face. The white-haired woman's hair, though still well-cared, had many split-ends and loose strands. Her eyes were bloodshot and the tell-tale sign of dried tears ran down her cheeks.
Pepper knew in an instant what was wrong. "You're worried about your brother?"
Winter didn't deny it, stating pitifully, "Yes, of course I'm worried about Whitley. Why wouldn't I? We may not like each other that much, but he's still... still..."
She brought her hands to her face. She seemed to be on the verge of crying. The woman composed herself, not wanting to shed more than she already had.
She then confessed to her godmother. "He's still my baby brother. But I ignored him, did nothing but exacerbate the situation in our family. I abandoned him, leaving him to the wolves- no, wolves at least care about the pack, Whitley had nobody, nobody except for you, Happy, and Rhodey. I'm his flesh and blood, but I treated him like a stranger. I'm a failure of a sister."
As she continued to proverbially prostrate herself before them, the couple couldn't help but stare. Never in their wildest dreams would they imagine that Winter Schnee, a woman so prideful that she'd rather die before admit her own faults, was baring her soul for them to see. Pepper couldn't help but think back to when the specialist was a young girl, back when she had more insecurities and self-esteem issues than both of her siblings combined.
She patted the woman's back and told her, "Everything will be alright, Winnie. Yes, you did ignore Whitley for most of his life. Does that mean you failed as a sister? Yes, spectacularly so..."
Winter stared at her and whimpered, "That's a little harsh, but true..."
"But the fact that you're so worried about him shows you still care. You may have failed him, but that doesn't mean you should give up on him. When he comes home, he's gonna find his big sister here, ready to make amends and start over."
Winter smiled weakly at her words. She wondered why she hadn't visited her Godmother earlier. For the past two weeks, she had been stuck refining her skills, looking over reports, and waiting for news on her brother. Most of the friends she had made were either dead or living in another kingdom and she'd rather stay in the barracks than return to her family home. Especially now, given that Whitley's disappearance had probably caused her mother's already worrying drinking problem to worsen.
She can only frown in disappointment at what her mother had become. If her own son's disappearance can't shake her into sobriety, she doubted anything could. For now, she'll just spend some time with Pepper and Happy.
"Can I stay here tonight?" She asked with a pleading tone.
Pepper smiled and soothingly told her, "You can stay as long as you need to."
Winter smiled in gratitude for the woman's kindness. She then did something that she hadn't done since her childhood. She wrapped her arms around her godmother, embracing her in a warm embrace. Although shocked, Pepper immediately returned the gesture. Even if most of her friend's children were close to adulthood, they'll always be children to her. She may not be their mother, but she'll always do her best as any honorary aunt should.
She can only hope that, one day, Willow can become a proud mother again.
Sitting in his chair, Yinsen looked up at the boy like had had grown a second head. What Whitley had told him was just so out there, that he had to wonder whether he should check if the boy had been raiding his medical supplies for painkillers.
He then asked incredulously, "A hologram projector and a gizmo that's essentially Grimm repellent, is that what you're really suggesting?"
Whitley can't blame the doctor's skepticism. If he had not seen it with his own eyes and had heard it from someone else, he'd have been hard-pressed to believe it, too.
The boy then said in his own defense, "I know it sounds crazy. But nothing about this has been normal. So, is it really that much of a stretch to say that something like those things exists?"
Yinsen stroked his beard in deep thought. He told the boy, "I'm not saying it's not out of the realm of possibility. I'd just find it hard to believe that such a group would have access to something as advanced as this device. Especially the device you claimed could harm Grimm."
"Well, the fact is that these people have this kind of tech and they're getting it from somewhere. Speaking of, you wouldn't happen to know what A.I.M. is, would you." The boy asked, hoping the old man can answer that particular question.
"It sounds familiar. I don't know the exact details, but from what I've heard from the fangs I've stitched up, it sounds like they're the reason for the group's sudden upgrade. It'd be fair to say that it must be some kind of group that deals in tech, particularly of the advanced and dangerous variety." Yinsen replied, not entirely sure if that was the case.
Whitley considered the doctor's words, but he had already come to the same conclusion. He had long suspected that his captors were not the typical, run-of-the-mill fanatics.
They may have had military training, but that wasn't rare. They had stolen weaponry, but that was typical of any extremist group. No, what set these people apart from the main White Fang organization was that they had resources. He had taken a good, long look at their camp as he was fixing their little problem, and what he startled him. He had seen crates, of varying sizes, that belonged to many different companies. Upon these boxes, he saw the names and logos of companies like the SDC, Oscorp, Hammertech, and even Rand Enterprises.
But the one thing that truly separated them from the Fangs was more horrifying. They were willing to imprison and torture their own people. He had known the White Fang were ruthless, but they never stooped as low as to attack the people they claimed to represent. When he saw that Faunus being dragged away by his fellow Faunus, it finally sunk in the kind of people he was dealing with. They were the kind willing to achieve victory by any means necessary, even if it meant sacrificing those they claimed to fight for.
But there was still a question as to what they were doing to the Faunus prisoners.
"Hey," He asked as he turned to the doctor, "Can you tell me what the Box is?"
Yinsen froze at the question. He looked up at the boy and hurriedly asked, "Where did you hear about that?"
"There was a man, a prisoner, being dragged away by the guards. He was underfed, like he hadn't been fed in a while, the rags he wore were barely clinging to his body." Whitley explained, purposely leaving out the fact that the man was a Faunus.
He had to see if Yinsen knew about what was going on.
"Was the man a Faunus?" The old man asked with a resigned tone. Whitley had his confirmation. The boy answered back, "Yes, he was a faunus."
The doctor took a deep breath then sighed. He had hoped that his young patient would not see the true depths of his captor's cruelty. He can't help but feel how ironic it was that the son of the man they hated most was treated more fairly than their Faunus prisoners. He then heard the boy ask, "Why didn't you tell me?"
Yinsen looked the Schnee in the eyes and asked him, "Would you have cared if I told you?"
Whitley balked at the question and angrily grounded out, "I'm sorry, but what did you just say?"
Yinsen rose to his feet, towering over the boy, whom stood his ground. The doctor then asked him with a calm and steady tone, "Would you have cared if you knew what they were doing to Faunus? Can you, Whitley Schnee, honestly say that you would have shed a tear if you saw Faunus oppressing other Faunus?"
Whitley can't believe the audacity of this man. He may have saved his life, but where did this man get off critiquing his character? He also didn't appreciate the fact that Yinsen was dodging the topic
His face scrunched in anger, asking with an absolutely venomous tone, "Then enlighten me, doctor. Why wouldn't I cry over some Faunus?"
"Do I really have to spell it out for you? You're a Schnee, boy. The empire your father built was done so upon the blood, sweat, and tears of hard-working Faunus. Every single one of those men and women out there has, in some way, lost friends and family in the mines. Hell, there were people that treated Faunus like cattle long before Jacques Schnee was even born."
Whitley didn't know why, but for some reason, he clenched his fists and started to shake. He didn't like what the doctor was implying. Yinsen rose from his seat, towering over the boy as he gave him a disgusted sneer.
The man then told the boy, "When I look at you, you know what I see, boy? I see another reminder of the man who has destroyed the lives of many families just to fill his own coffers. You know it wouldn't surprise me if you're just another Jacques Schnee in the mak- OOF!"
Yinsen felt the wind knocked out of him as the boy planted a fist in his gut. In this dimly-lit cave, with the glow of the arc reactor serving as the brightest source of light, allowed the man to get a better look at the young man's face. What he saw surprised him. He had seen the boy express many emotions during his time here, be it frustration, relief, and shock. But what he was seeing was new. The boy's eyes were narrowed sharply, his nose scrunched up, and his teeth bared themselves like a snarling animal. The emotion he saw was outrage.
"I am going to say this once," Whitley began before he angrily snarled, "Don't you EVER compare me to my father! Yes, I have treated many people, Faunus and humans alike, as means to an end, I admit it. But to have your dignity stripped away, to be beaten like dogs and treated lower than even shit? Nobody and I mean, NOBODY, deserves such cruelty!"
Yinsen wheezed out, "Is that your honest opinion?"
Whitley retracted his fist from the man's gut, saying with a steeled resolve. "I'd rather die than treat anyone like that."
The doctor stared at the young man for what seemed like an eternity. He gauged the Schnee's response, searching for even the barest hint of deception. When he found none, he was honestly shocked to see that the boy was being genuine in his remarks. Then he did something that really surprised the boy. He smiled and let out a laugh. He then told the boy, "That was a good answer."
Whitley's response was a rather intelligent, "Huh?"
"I had my doubts about, Mr. Schnee. Never have I been so happy to have been wrong." Yinsen said as he sat back, slightly wincing from the punch. Who knew that such a scrawny kid could pack so much strength into a single punch? He certainly didn't.
"Wait... was that some kind of test?!" Whitley asked incredulously, pointing an accusatory finger at the doctor.
"Yeah, and you passed with flying colors! You may be his son, but you are definitely a better person than your father." Yinsen praised, giving the boy a congratulatory smile.
The doctor calmed himself before composing himself back into a serious demeanor. He then asked, "If you really do care about what's happening here, then I'll tell you about the Box... But you might not like what you hear. Are you sure that you want to know?"
"I don't want to know, I need to know." Whitley pressed.
He looked over to the area where Doyle had been executed, his eyes falling on the dried blood that marked his spot of execution. The Schnee clenched his fists. He had to know what was really going on here. He had to learn all of the ugly truths surrounding this den of lies. He owed it to Doyle, to the Dog Faunus, and to all the soldiers who had already died in his place.
He pulled up a nearby chair and sat in it. He looked the doctor dead in the eyes and asked, "Tell me everything."
"First, let me ask you a question. How would you describe the faunus prisoner?"
"Frail, malnourished, like he was close to death and the rags he wore looked old and unwashed." Whitley answered.
"So, he really was being sent to the Box..." Yinsen morosely realized.
"What is the Box?"
"I've only heard from the Fangs that I've patched- funny, what people will say when they're doped up- but the Box is a deep but very small hole located somewhere in the camp. They toss prisoners into it and leave them there for days without any water or food." Yinsen explained, his features darkening with each word.
"Who do they usually send?" Whitley asked, though he knew he was going to hate the answer,
"That's the worst part. The prisoners they put in that hole are people whom Vryolak and Savin have declared as race traitors."
Whitley's face scrunched up in confusion, "Race traitors? What do you mean?"
Yinsen sighed, wondering how he can phrase that question. He promised to tell the boy the truth of what was going on here, but he didn't know how he'll take it.
In the end, he decided to not mince words, "Vryolak and Savin hate humans. Why they've kept the surviving soldiers alive this long, I don't know why. For Vryolak, probably some sick form of entertainment. But there is one thing that they hate more than humans, and it's Faunus who live peacefully with humans. I'm talking about people who are either friends with humans, have human siblings, or have even married and started families with humans."
Whitley processed what he had just heard. The people holding him captive, who claimed to be the White Fang, they were actually far worse. He had thought they were simply just fanatics who've broken off from the main group over a disagreement, but it'd be more accurate to say that the White Fang had disavowed Vryolak and Savin's group.
"Then what is the point in torturing those people? Why prolong their suffering?"
"That's where it gets really disturbing. Vryolak and Savin are trying to break them mentally, wear them down until they're practically broken. Once they've done it, they'll build them back, but only as their loyal soldiers. They'd basically be brainwashed."
Whitley felt his stomach drop. He then hesitantly asked, "A-And the ones they don't break?"
Yinsen frowned and told the boy, "I think you already know the answer to that."
Whitley gulped, fear and anxiety gripping his heart. He knew full well what happened to those that wouldn't break under the pressure.
…Eyes glazed and unblinking, mouth open in a silent scream, as a small pool of blood formed around his head...
"I know it's a lot to take in."
"That is an understatement..." he ran a hand through his hair and sighed, "I knew things here were bad, but... I'm sorry, but this is just too fucked up... like, that expression is literally the only way I can describe this situation. I mean, I can understand their hate toward humans, but this, I just can't fathom how anyone would willingly be this cruel."
Yinsen looked at the boy with a pitying look.
He then asked him. "Do you know why they do those things?"
"No... Why?"
"It's as I said earlier. Hate. That's how these horrific things come about, Schnee. When you hate someone or something for so long, it becomes the one thing you live for. It eats you up on the inside, tearing away at your soul until, one day, you wake up and realize you're so empty that there's nothing left of who you once were. All that's left is the hate and nothing else."
"How do you know that?" Whitley asked, wondering what the man would say.
Yinsen sighed, "Because I've been where they're at right now. For the longest time, I hated humans, too."
Whitley froze at that statement. After a few seconds to process what he had just heard, he looked at Yinsen in shock. Looking back, he remembered all the signs. How Yinsen was able to move about freely in this cave at night and how the Fangs treated him with more respect than they did him. All this time, how could he have not seen it?
The boy then asked in disbelief, "You? You're a Faunus?"
Rather than give a verbal answer, the doctor chose to raise his hands. Flexing them, his nails grew longer, becoming claws. Whitley didn't know what to feel. The man who had saved him, who had cared for his wounds, and had offered guidance to him was a Faunus. A Faunus had saved him, a Schnee? It didn't make sense. It shouldn't make sense.
He gripped his knees and weakly asked, "Why?"
Yinsen lowed his hands, retracted his claws and blinked, "Why what?"
"Why save my life? Knowing who I am, what my family has done to your people, why did you do everything in your power to save my life? Don't you hate me?" The boy's tone became desperate. "Please, answer me! Why did you save me?!"
Nonplussed by the teenager's outburst, the doctor thought about how he should reply. Seconds passed before he found his answer. He chose to tell him the truth.
He replied, "Because I want to be a good person."
Whitley did not say a word. Was it really that simple? Was there really no ulterior motive behind what he did? Did this man, who had every reason to hate him, really save his life because he thought it was the right thing to do?
No, there had to be another reason... No one is that kind. The boy thought to himself. But then, maybe I should just have more trust in people... or should it just be more in myself?
Gods, my head hurts!
"Are you alright, Schnee?" Yinsen asked in concern.
"Yeah... No, at least I don't think so..." The boy took a deep breath and exhaled. "I think I need some rest."
Yinsen knew what his patient was going through. It seemed that Whitley Schnee was having a crisis of faith. He can understand why. It's not every day when someone suddenly find themselves questioning everything about their whole life, picking apart and analyzing every facet of their being, their views on others, and everything they've done in life up to that point. It wasn't easy, and it's especially rough when they were at a certain age. He knew that from personal experience.
"Go get some, son. You need it." The doctor kindly offered, telling the boy to return to his cot.
He watched the boy rise from his seat, walking slowly back to his cot. As soon as the boy laid his head upon the bed, Yinsen went back to checking his supplies. As the doctor looked over his inventory, the young heir spent his time thinking back on everything he has done or believed.
He then thought back to his time at ATI, shunning and looking down on people as he worked toward his degree, his only friend being Zeke Stane. He remembered when he would sometimes betray people to advance his own reputation. He recalled his childhood, especially after the incident after Weiss' birthday, when he began to treat other people as a means to an end. His trip through memory lane concluded with his trip to Anima, when the very weapons he helped developed were turned against him and the soldiers they were meant to protect. The thought that he had built something which had actually killed other people finally sank in.
He recalled every bad thing he had ever done, which outnumbered the good he did, and soon came to an epiphany that he thought would never occur to him. He knew he had to be a better person, but never did he consider his past.
Am I a bad person?
When he came to, the first thing Whitley felt was the old and worn fabric of his grandmother's sofa. He was back in his grandmother's house again. The boy palmed his face and groaned, "I'm really not in the mood for this."
"Tough toenails, Kid. Just get up, we need to talk." He heard a voice demand. He recognized the voice as being his own; and here he thought things couldn't get any worse.
"Oh, great, you again..." He moaned in displeasure. He thought he was done with this.
Reluctantly, Whitley rose to his feet. He looked around the room, but found no sign of his mental menace. Seconds passed as he waited for his doppelganger to appear. When seconds became minutes, his patience finally began to thin. He then irritably called out, "Alright, where are you?!"
He heard his doppelganger reply, "I'm right behind you, actually."
He turned to face his counterpart. The other Whitley, or Whit as he had taken to calling him, was lounging on the sofa, feet propped upon an armrest and reading a book. Rather than the attire he had become accustomed to seeing, which had been his usual clothing, his other self was instead dressed in a pristine, white business suit.
Whit looked up from his book and cordially greeted him, "How's it going?"
This attitude was definitely new for Whitley. Usually when Whit showed up in his dreams, it was either to torment and terrify him, often with a very intense and mocking attitude to match. Now, he seemed to be rather relaxed and laidback, acting as if he hadn't terrorized him for the past two weeks. Gone was the sadistic and psychotic aura, replaced by a pleasant and calming one. It only served to unnerve the heir further.
"What is this?" Whitley asked in disbelief, "No, really, what are you planning now?"
"Well, nothing actually, there's no point. My work is done." Whit replied, returning to his book and ignoring the confused teenager.
Angered by his doppelganger's nonchalance, Whitley incredulously asked, "Your work? What work? All that you've done was to make my every dream a damn nightmare!"
"Well, don't blame me; I'm just a figment of your effed up imagination. Haven't you stopped to consider that maybe everything that's happened was meant to teach you a lesson?" Whit calmly replied, closing his book. He then sat up and looked Whitley square in the eyes. "Can you honestly say you haven't learned anything from these little trips into your psyche?"
Whitley tried to refute his doppelganger's claims, but found that he was unable. No matter how much he tried to deny it, he can admit that they indeed had helped him. His dreams did lead him to create the Arc Reactor, which had saved his life. But what lesson was there to be learned from the others? He failed to see how having his heart removed can teach him anything, especially watching a disturbing funeral or being tormented by the faces of all the people he knew and had died in his place.
"Enlighten me, "He asked, "Please, explain to me what lessons were there to be learned in all those nightmares?"
"I don't need to explain them to you when you already know the answer- no, you found the question. Do you know what that all important question is?"
Whitley thought for a moment. Just what could the question be? He thought back to before he fell asleep, retracing his steps through the whole day. He then came back to his last coherent thought, from before the stress of the whole day had finally worn him down to sleep. He turned to his sitting counterpart, who looked at him expectantly.
He then asked with a weak voice, "Am I a bad person?"
Whit smiled and clapped, jumping to his feet as he cheered, "Ding-Ding-Ding, we have a winner! Tell the boy what he's won! What's that, alright, I should tell him?"
Whit snapped his fingers, causing an envelope to appear in his hand. He held it out to Whitley, whom simply stared at it with suspicion. He then asked, "Is there a human finger in there?"
Whit looked appalled. "My gods, what do you take me for, a serial killer?"
"You literally ripped my heart out!" Whitley angrily reminded him.
Whit shrugged, "It got better."
"You made me watch my own damn funeral!"
"Name one other person who can make that claim."
"You're really pushing me on this, aren't you?"
It was then that Whit's patience finally snapped. "Look, just take the damn envelope! There's nothing sinister going on, no sort of trick, it's just an envelope with the answer to your question inside it."
Whitley eyed the envelope, debating with himself whether to take it or not. On the one hand, it could be a trick, a sort of underhanded tactic to lull him into a false sense of security. He had to admit, his dream counterpart was putting on quite the convincing display, and he honestly seemed like a different person. His attitude, on the other hand, seemed to be genuine and it was really convincing him to accept the small slip of paper. Then again, this was all a dream and nothing that could happen within his mind can actually hurt him in the real world.
After considering all the possibilities, Whitley made his decision. "Fuck it. I'll take the envelope."
With that said, he took the offered parcel. He quickly ripped the top off, revealing a small greeting card nestled within it. He took the card out and opened it to see the message written inside. As soon as he saw the writing, he had to read it twice to see if his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.
He then looked to Whit and asked, "What is this? I don't understand what this means."
Holding the opened card out to its original holder, he presented the answer written within it. They were just two words, typed in black lettering in a very large font, as though it were written on a computer.
The answer to his life-changing question was, "It's complicated."
"No, really, what kind of an answer is that? I asked "am I a bad Person" and this is the answer I get?" Whitley complained. He had expected a yes or a no, not this cryptic and vague response.
"Hey, I'm just a figment of your imagination; don't blame me if you don't like what your brain's trying to tell you." Whit defensively said, holding his hands up in a placating manner.
"But I don't know what it's trying to tell me! I was expecting another nightmare, not this vague bullshit! It's complicated? What kind of weak response is that? What am I supposed to do with that?"
Whitley waited with bated breath to hear what Whit would say. His mental counterpart just shrugged his shoulders and told him. "Look, we may be inside your head, but you're not going to find all the answers to your problems in here. Some things you just have to work out, on your own. Besides, I think you have bigger problems than questioning your own morality."
Whitley exhaled, trying to calm his nerves. As loathe as he was to admit it, Whit had a point. In the two weeks since he'd been captured, there had not been a single rescue operation. The camp was so well-hidden, that not even a bullhead hovering overhead could see it, thanks to that damned hologram projector. Not to mention that he was being forced to build weapons that were being used to hurt innocent people. He also can't forget about the prisoners, soldiers and Faunus alike, who were being tortured to near death by their captors.
"I have to do something," Whitley declared, a new resolve building within him. "I've got to get out of here, but I can't do that without leaving all those people behind."
"So, what can you do?" Whit asked with a curious tone.
"I don't know! If I try anything, they'll just execute another soldier! Hell, for all I know, those soldiers are already dead and they'll just kill one of the Faunus prisoners, even then, what's to stop them from filling me up with bullets?!" Whitley dropped onto the couch, sinking into the cushions as he thought his options over.
Then he felt his head rest on something hard.
He lifted his head slightly, allowing room for his hand to come through. He felt something leathery and worn, but also very thick with paper. It was the book that Whit had been reading when he had appeared. He pulled the book out. He held it over his head to read the cover. What he saw made his eyes widen in surprise, as well as a feeling of nostalgia to well up within him.
It was an old book, published in 1914, about four years before the Great War began. The golden-colored cover was worn from age, but the imagery was as clear as the day it was printed. The picture was that of a knight standing resolute against a mighty dragon, which was breathing fire upon the warrior. The knight's shield was raised, protecting from the flames of the dragon's deadly breath. He remembered this book quite well, as did his sisters. Their Grandmother had read it to them all the time when they were younger. She had told them that it had been their mother's favorite when she had been a child, as well as her own.
The heir smiled as he read the title, "The Iron Knight..."
"Ah, so you remember this?" Whit asked in surprise.
"Yeah, the story of a brave hero who fought to protect the land from the vicious monsters that sought to destroy it. The Iron Knight was brave, noble, and selfless, everything I wanted to be when I was kid. I always loved how we would charge into battle with nothing but his sword, shield, and his armor-"Whitley froze as a thought occurred to him.
He rose to sit on the cushions, analyzing the book's cover.
"Armor...?" He mused, lost in deep thought.
As his eyes roamed over the image of the knight, his mind was formulating an idea. If was so worried about being shot, then why not build some kind of protective covering? A sort of armor that he can wear that not only protected him, but could also deal just as much damage to those that sought his end. He looked over to Whit, who was grinning like an absolute mad man, and found that he shared his opinion. He had found the solution to his most immediate problem.
"That's it!" He excitedly yelled, rising to his feet.
_
Whitley shot up in his bed. He rose so quickly that he nearly fell out of his cot. Even if that had happened, he wouldn't have cared. He was far too over the moon to care about his pride. He looked over to where Yinsen's cot was located and found that the doctor had turned in to sleep. It must have been late, if the old man was already asleep.
Good, just mean's I can work all night without anyone looking over my shoulder.
With his mind made up, the young genius got to his feet. After retrieving some paper and pencils, he set a small space for himself at a nearby table. Using a small, battery-powered light, he began to design the means for his eventual liberation. All through the night, he stayed up, tossing out rejected designs and coming up with new ones. The reasons behind each redesign varied; either they were too bulky, too vulnerable, or just seemed seemed to waste too much energy. Within hours, he found the design that he felt was well-rounded, easy to build, and didn't sacrifice mobility for protection.
It also looks pretty badass, too. He thought proudly.
He gazed upon his blueprints one last time before sleep finally took him.
"Wake up! Wake up, you damned idiot, wake up!"
Having rested his head on a table, Whitley's neck felt stiff. He cricked his neck, which let out a popping sound. He looked over to the one who had roused him from his sleep, Yinsen, and smiled weakly.
"What are you smiling about?" The doctor asked, "You have any idea what time it is?"
The boy shook his head. He had honestly lost track of time last night, for all he knew he had slept into the afternoon. When he asked what the time was, Yinsen told him that it was early in the morning, about 5:30, to be exact. What had felt like a long sleep had actually lasted a few short hours. He then asked the old man, "What are you so upset about? It's not like I woke up in the evening or something."
"It's not when you woke up that upset me, but how long you must have slept. Don't try and lie to me, I know you got up in the middle of the night. Not to mention you were resting at a table. Do you have any idea how bad that is for your back?" Yinsen lectured, carrying on as though he were a strict college professor. His attire did well in selling that image.
Whitley, though, was not intimidated and quipped, "And I take it you know this from personal experience, Doc? Spent too many nights at the office, I reckon?"
"I worked mostly from home, but that's not important! What's important is why you stayed up so late last night. As your physician, I can't have you engaging in unhealthy sleep patterns! It'll mess you up! Haven't you listened to what I've been telling you?!" The doctor pressed, wondering what had possessed the young man to ignore his warnings.
Instead of answering the man's questions, Whitley chose to tap the small stack of papers upon the table instead. He motioned the old man to look at the papers, whom promptly did so. As soon as his eyes landed on them, he couldn't help but wonder why the boy was making him look a sketch of strange designs.
The old man raised a confused eyebrow and asked, "What is it am I supposed to be looking at?"
"Oh, sorry, forgot I sketched parts of the design on different papers." Whitley apologized, placing both of his hands upon the papers. He then said, "Let me flatten them out."
Whitley flattened the papers, allowing Yinsen to see what the boy was.
Suffice to say, he was impressed. Hidden across several pieces of paper was an impressive suit of Armor, one that was designed to look both intimidating yet functional. He looked to his young charge and asked, "What is this?"
The boy smiled and explained, "Our ticket out of here."
Having heard the boy's words, the old doctor examined the hidden blueprint once again. It could work, he supposed. He asked, "And you're saying you can build this?"
"By my estimates, this can be built within two months. I'll be the one to wear it. Before you ask, no, I wasn't going to ask you to wear it. Not to be rude, but it might've been too hard for someone at your age."
Choosing to ignore that crack about his age, Yinsen stroke his chin, wondering how they'll be able to hide this project from the prying eyes of Vryolak and Savin. When he asked his young friend, the heir informed him that they'll just hide the larger components of the project beneath piles of junk that he was unable to repair. He already had a sizeable pile located in a corner of the cave, which couldn't be seen unless someone was looking for it specifically. The doctor thought that could work, but then another issue presented itself.
"With all the metal we're going to use and since you'll be the one inside it, you're gonna have to bulk a bit." He told the boy.
There was no way a scrawny teenager like Whitley can wear all that metal without getting weighed down.
Whitley agreed, "I thought about that. Despite the exoskeleton I'll build for this, I know that it'll still require a lot muscle." He rubbed his hands together. "Alright, so what's the plan? Am I going full body-builder on this?"
Yinsen chuckled, "No, nothing like that. If you put all your effort into developing muscles, you're gonna stay short forever. A light diet would do, but with plenty of exercise. Given where we are, this won't be a problem."
"So you're gonna help me on this? Is that what you're saying?"
The man smiled and spoke. "Yes, you have my full sup-"
Whitley cut him off, "Not so fast there, doc. If you're gonna help me, I need to know if I can trust you. You kept a lot of things from me, things I should have known about. If we're going to work together, I need to be 100% certain if I can trust you."
"Well, how do I earn your trust?"
"Well, let's start with a simple question: Where are you from?"
Yinsen blinked, "And that's it? Are you serious?
"Oh, I am very serious. You see this face?" Whitley circled his hand around his expressionless face, "This is my serious face. You know the face people use when they're being serious?"
The doctor can see where the boy was coming from. If this was how he was going to earn his trust, he'll tell him what he'll need. But only what he thinks the teenage to know.
The last thing he wants is pity. With a resigned sigh, the doctor made his choice.
"I come from a small village called Gulmira..."
This is where Whitley finally begins his journey as Iron Man! Next chapter will be a two month time skip, one in which you all finally get to see the moment we've all been waiting for. I hope everybody can figure out the significance of this chapter's title.
I am so sorry it took so long to upload another chapter. I've been busy with summer classes, registering for fall classes, and I had to go through a damn tornado in June. I've also been working on other fanfiction projects, either as a beta-reader or as a writer. Speaking of writing, I have another story titled "Two Knights at Arkham", an Arkhamverse/Rwby story written as part of a story challenge. Be sure to check out the other stories in the catalogue, especially "the Blonde and the Bat", written by all-around great writer, Sai Kunai Blade.
Now, here's a question for all of you. Should I write shorter chapters, about 5-7,000 words long, so that this story can be updated more frequently? Or do you all prefer the story as is, being 14-15,000 words longs. Let me know in the review section.
Anyway, this is Nacoma23. Stay classy, everybody. Expect another chapter to be ready within one to two months this time.