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.)

Author Warning: Expect some angst from Whitley this chapter. Not to mention some psychological shit that'll take him years to get over. Thankfully, he'll find a rather unorthodox coping mechanism in the next chapter.

The Invincible Whitley Schnee

Chapter Seven: Some Things You Can't Escape (Part 2)

It was early morning in Mantle. All across the city, the citizens were either waking up or trying to sleep in as the sun rose. Those who woke greeted the morning sun like an old friend, while those who tried to sleep regarded the bright ball of light as a pest. Among those who regarded the sun with complete and utter contempt was James Rhodes.

As he lay in his bed, the man stared at the light peeking through his window blinds. After spending the entire night going over yesterday's sales records, the man wanted nothing more than to sleep the morning off. He had people who can open the shop for him, people that he can trust to run things before his arrival. He also had another reason to hate the morning, specifically this one.

"Uncle Jim, wake up, we're going to be late."

Today just happened to be the day his niece, Ciel Soleil, was moving into the dorms at Atlas Academy. The man loved his niece and he was incredibly proud that she wanted to be a huntress, but there was a small part of him that dreaded this day more than anything. Because after Ciel moved out, for the first time in many years, he'll be all alone. His friends told him that he might start suffering Empty Nest Syndrome after she moved out. He didn't imagine that it'd kick in before she even left the apartment.

With a resigned sigh, he pulled the covers off and rose from bed. He had taken a shower the night before, giving him more time to change clothes. After changing into a nicely-pressed buttoned shirt and some khaki's, Rhodes opened the door. He was greeted with the sight of his niece, who was already dressed in her academy and lugging two duffel bags. The only present item of clothing that was her own was her blue beret, which she always wore proudly atop her head. It had once belonged to her mother and Rhodey's sister, Jeannette.

She checked her watch and told her uncle. "It's already 6: 08 AM. The first shuttle to Atlas takes off at 6: 45, and it'll take more than thirty minutes to get to the airport. Depending on traffic, which is expected to be high today, our trip could be extended by five minutes. If we are to arrive in time, we must leave now."

"Ciel, be patient." He began before adding, "Like you said, it's only the first shuttle. There'll be plenty of others."

Ciel frowned, "But I'm ready to move. I had been planning this move for days. I even slept in my uniform to save time."

"Yes, I understand how you- wait, you slept in your uniform?" Rhodes asked in disbelief.

"Of course... Why are you confused? You did the same thing when you were in the Air Force."

He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned, "Ciel, I only did that because I was on active duty. In those days, the time it took to change clothes was literally a matter of life and death."

He wasn't lying, considering all of the action he saw during the Faunus war. Considering the frequency of enemy attacks, Rhodey had often been forced into action nearly every day. There were days when each attack occurred within several hours of each other. He had to wear his flight suit for days on end, only to take it off to take a shower or to wash it when he didn't have a spare. He hoped that his Niece never had to go through something like that.

"Look, Ciel, can you just humor your uncle and spend one last morning at home, before I take you to the airport?" He pleaded before adding, "I'll even make your favorite breakfast."

Ciel tapped her chin as she thought about it. Running a few calculations in her mind, she envisioned various scenarios that ultimately ended with an immensely elated Uncle and her own satisfaction. The deciding factor was ultimately the double-stacked pancakes dressed in maple syrup topped off by chocolate syrup. That and she felt she owed her uncle for looking after for all these years.

"I can catch one of the afternoon shuttles." She spoke, "For now, I'll just spend my time with my favorite uncle."

Rhodes chuckled and ruffled her hair, slightly shaking her beret.

"I'm your only uncle!" He said.

"That's why you're my favorite." She replied, fixing her hair and beret with a small smile.

"Alright, just put the bags back in your room, I'll be down in a few minutes to start on breakfast." He ordered, finishing his sentence with a salute.

Ciel saluted her uncle and walked back into her room, eagerly anticipating the smell and taste chocolate-maple syrup coated pancakes. Rhodes watched her door close with a resigned yet contented sigh.

"Hard to believe she's that same little girl who tried to march around in my boots." He said to himself.

He honestly can't believe how quickly the time flew by. It only seemed like yesterday that he was teaching her how to walk up the stairs. Seventeen years later, she's now fully capable of jumping a whole flight of stairs in a single bound.

Save the trip down memory lane for after she leaves, Rhodey. He promised himself.

He then retreated back into his room to retrieve his scroll. As loathe as he was to admit it, he cannot function properly without his scroll. Since his scroll contained his schedule, contacts, and personal memos, it was essentially his own personal assistant, one that can fit within his pocket.

He found it on the nightstand, right where he had left it. He quickly unlocked the screen with a swipe of his finger, granting him access to the various scroll apps. He clicked on his news alerts and immediately scrolled through the list of notifications.

Top 10 best vacation spots; he swiped away.

Another Spider-Man sighting in Vale; he saved that to his reading list.

Half of Mantle's police force has gone on strike; saved to reading list.

Jacques Schnee announces buyout of Rand's Solitas holdings; swiped away with extreme prejudice.

There hasn't been any more news on Whitley's disappearance? He thought disappointedly.

Like Pepper and Happy, he has been worried sick about his godson. When the boy's father had released that bogus cover-up story, he wanted nothing more than to fly all the way to Atlas and punch that insufferable bastard in his smug, mustachioed face. Ironwood's investigation team had no success in finding the boy, neither had the MSIS team after they took over. It has been close to three months, and Whitley was still missing, possibly even dead.

And even if he were alive right now, he can't even begin to imagine what the poor kid must be going through.

As he sat in the desert under the bright Animan afternoon sun, Whitley Schnee pondered his current predicament.

"I can't believe I'm actually going through with this!" He growled as he stitched his wound.

Minutes ago, after waking from a short nap, he began removing the plating of his armor, until he felt a sharp stabbing pain on the underside of his upper left arm. When he looked to his clothed arm, he was shocked to find a small cut in the flame-proof fabric, one that happened to be dyed a very dark red. Unzipping the coveralls, he freed his arm from the damaged sleeve and found that his arm had been nicked, doubtlessly by a bullet. While not certainly life-threatening, it would have been unwise to leave it untreated.

Thankfully, his time with Yinsen had taught him a few things.

Yinsen... The boy thought in grief over his dead friend.

He will always be grateful to the Faunus doctor who saved his life. His death weighed heavily on the young man's mind, and he can't help but wonder that if he had done things differently he could have saved his life. But given the man's last words, he wondered if saving the man's would have been a cruel kindness. The only reassuring thought was that his friend was now reunited with his family in a much better place.

Whitley snorted in humor. Listen to yourself, Whit, one near brush with death and you're already convinced there's an afterlife.

But then he smiled and thought. But I really do hope you've found peace, my friend. You deserve it more than I.

A sudden gust of warm desert wind assaulted his still open wound, causing the boy to wince and return his attention to his wound. He resumed stitching up the wound, using a pattern that the late doctor had taught him. It stung whenever he pulled the needle through his skin, but he had to work through the pain if he wanted that wound closed. Within seconds that honestly felt like an excruciating eternity, the young Schnee had finally closed the wound.

For a brief moment, he relished his small victory, another in a long string of successes in an otherwise FUBAR plan.

Then he remembered the second part of his impromptu treatment.

Cauterizing the wound before it can get infected.

He stared down at the disassembled armor lying in the desert sand, which he had propped the flamethrower upon as it spent the last of its fire Dust heating a long, jagged shard of metal. He had been able to pry a piece of the armor off with the endoskeleton, which he then fired the flame thrower upon. It had been minutes since he started the process and he can see that metal shard was searing red hot.

He switched the flame thrower off, which sputtered out the last bits of flame with choking gasp. Carefully, he picked up the unheated side of the metal shard. For a good few seconds he stared at the red-hot metal with an apprehension he hadn't felt since his capture. It will be painful, pressing heated metal against wounded flesh, but that kind of pain was minor and brief compared to grievous and drawn-out torture that was an infection.

He took a deep breath and brought the shard next to his wound. As the metal inched closer to his wound, thoughts of the coming pain flooded his mind, drowning his once steadfast resolve with a sudden cowardice. He jerked the shard away from his arm and growled.

"Gods damn it all, why didn't I pack any anesthetic?" Whitley asked himself, "Oh, wait, I remember, because I thought I wouldn't get hurt escaping."

Aside from the anesthetic, he had neglected to pack any rubbing alcohol. He had feared that somehow the metal compartment holding the first aid kit wasn't secure enough, which would have caused the alcohol glass to shatter. Add the fact the compartment was located on the same arm where the flame thrower was placed and it would have been a complete disaster.

The armor had been a good design, but it was still flawed.

Congrats, Whit, you've graduated from reckless genius to a reckless idiot. The boy bitterly thought as he admonished himself for his short-sightedness.

He looked at his stitched-up wound and thought. But even an idiot has to take care of himself.

He then tapped the fingers of his left hand on his knee was went into deep thought.

Alright, think. You haven't packed any anesthetics, so you'll feel the pain. You haven't activated the Grimm-Deterrent yet, which means your screams of pure agony will attract any nearby Grimm to you. Wait, aren't the Grimm attracted to negative emotions? I've been feeling nothing but outrage and pain, so- No, focus, Schnee, FOCUS, treatment now, worry later!

He honestly had no idea what he can do to lessen the pain. As he thought about his predicament, he looked down at his left hand, which was still tapping the heavy fabric of his flame-retardant working fatigues. That's when the proverbial light bulb lit up in the boy's mind.

That's it! I can't get rid of the pain, but I can focus on something else as I treat the wound.

With his left arm, he pulled up his left sleeve and balled up the end of it. He then shoved the balled-up wad to his face and bit down hard, his teeth gnashing and grinding on rough fabric.

"Armrrgh rff foo fis," He spoke fearlessly in his muffled voice.

Again, he brought the searing hot metal shard to his closed wound. He breathed in and out, trying to calm his already frayed nerves. He started counting.

1...

He tightened his grip on the shard.

2...

He bit harder into the ball of fabric.

3...

He steeled his resolve.

GO!

He pressed the searing metal shard onto his wound. Whitley shut his eyes and let out an anguished and muffled skin as he felt hot metal sear his skin. His teeth sank deeper into the fabric, his mind trying to focus on that act rather than the pain exploding in his arm. After a few agonizingly painful seconds, he retracted the metal fragment from his wound and tossed it aside. Whitley fell onto his side and writhed in pain, his feet kicking up sand.

His mouth still stuffed with fabric, he cried out in a muffled voice, "MRRMF, MFFRFGGN COGSOGGN PEEFAFIT FAD HGRT RYK A MFFRFGGR!"

If there had been any people there with him, they no doubt would have blushed like tomatoes after hearing what the teenager just screamed.

Thankfully, Whitley was all alone.

After a few second, Whitley spat the ball of fabric out of his mouth and inhaled all the air he can into his lungs. He then sat back up and rubbed his now cauterized wound.

He then spoke aloud, "Okay, not gonna lie, that was honestly more painful than the shrapnel in my chest."

All right, If Winter ever had to deal with this kind of shit; I definitely don't envy her now. He thought.

He rose to his feet, albeit very clumsily. Sand, as it turned out, was not very sturdy. He looked out over the distance and saw smoke cloud that was still rising from what had been his prison for months. It finally sank in that he was free. After three months of forced labor, psychological and emotional torture, he was finally free.

For some reason he couldn't quite understand, he started to laugh. The laughter just welled up inside of him, and he let it all out. He was just so happy! No more will he have to build bombs with a gun pressed to his head! No more will he have to work tirelessly under threat of having someone executed! No longer will he be forced to watch as people dies in his stead!

This was a euphoria he had never felt before! He felt like he can do anything!

If he can escape from a mine filled with armed terrorists, then he can do absolutely anything.

But do you deserve to feel this happy?

Surprised by this sudden thought, he stopped his laughter.

Where had that come from?

Do you honestly believe you deserve this?

He can't understand why he was feeling so depressed all of a sudden. He had just escaped from capture, so he should have been feeling over the moon right now. He was alive, so why was he feeling so disgusted with himself. He survived what so few people ever could.

I survived...

Whitley's smile fell as a wave of memories crashing into his mind.

... Eyes glazed and unblinking, mouth open in a silent scream, as a small pool of blood formed around his head...

...Scattered all over the burning holding area, trapped in glowing cells or shackled to stone walls were burnt, blackened corpses...

...Yinsen drew his last breath. His head fell backward, lying down upon the pile of bloodied rice bags that had served as his death bed...

As memories of his time spent in captivity came rushing to the forefront of his mind, Whitley felt an unbearable guilt build within him. Why had only he survived and no one else? Why did his friend have to die while he lived? Why did he have to live?

As his mind became flooded with the memories of Doyle, Yinsen, and all those people who had died, another set of memories came crashing in like a tidal wave. Memories of his captors as the delighted in torturing their prisoners, all the times he had been forced to help with body disposal and, most of all, what he had done in his escape.

He recalled how he punched and kicked all those people with his ridiculously overpowered armor, breaking bodies as he marched his way to freedom. He remembered when he practically paralyzed a man, leaving him to bleed out. His plan was to escape, yet he had all this rage and anger in him. As he advanced further into his escape, these emotions gradually concentrated to form a bloodlust he never thought he was capable of feeling.

He came to a frightening realization, Oh, gods above; did I really kill all those people?!

Images of the life-threatening injuries he had inflicted on his captors rushed through his mind. Unable to bear the weight of all the death he had wrought, the boy dropped to his knees. He started hyperventilating, before he felt something stir from within him. He gripped his stomach as an overwhelming feeling of nausea overpowered him.

Whitley lurched forward as a stream of vomit escaped his mouth and fell onto the desert sands.

Despite the horrid taste in his mouth, the boy tried to control his breathing. As he strove to control his turbulent emotions, he looked once more at the smoke cloud in the distance. As he stared at the steadily rising pillar of ash and smoke, Vryolak's words came back to haunt him.

I gave the order to burn them, but you're the one who murdered them.

"No... No... NO!" Whitley roared as he pounded his fists into the sand.

He quickly crawled over to the armor. Picking up the right gauntlet, he opened a small compartment. He reached in and pulled out the Grimm-Deterrent device he had built with Yinsen. Seeing that it was fully powered, he switched it on. A small humming sound was heard as the device came to life. Whitley set the device down.

As the device sent out a wave pulse that ward off Grimm, the boy sat on his butt and pulled his knees to his legs. Burying his face into his knees, he fought to keep more tears from falling as he tried to get his racing mind back under control. As he did so, he tried to remind himself of a very important fact.

He was not a cold-blooded and bloodthirsty murderer.

He was not a murderer.

"Damn it all to hell, how hard is it to find one teenager?!"

In the two months since he took over the operation to search for and rescue Whitley Schnee, Jasper Sitwell was close to calling it quits. No matter how many patrols they sent out, no matter how many times they swept the desert, they just can't seem to find the boy or his corpse. Sitwell had long convinced himself that the boy was dead. There was just no way that a boy, no matter how intelligent he was, can survive the harsh and unforgiving Atreides desert.

He honestly wondered just why the Director gave him this mission. Right now, he could be with Coulson tracking that vigilante in Vale, or investigating that Aura User trafficking ring with Woo in Vacuo. Hell, he'd even tolerate spending time with that blowhard specialist Blonsky while hunting Banner.

He could be out there doing some good, but instead he's stuck looking for a dead body. The agent slumped in his chair and took off his glasses. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Am I even making a difference anymore?" He asked aloud to nobody.

It hadn't been the first time he's asked himself that question. While the official record may state he's a member of the Mistral Special Intelligence Service, his true allegiance is to another organization, one that the whole of Remnant was not ready to know existed. For years, they have subsisted on private donations from innumerable sources, under the stipulation that they never swear allegiance to a single kingdom.

"But Gods know we can do so much more if we stopped hiding." He said.

If the agency had gotten involved, they would probably have found Whitley Schnee in two weeks rather than months. They have all the resources to make it possible, but they hold themselves back, all for the sake of maintain anonymity.

They have enough money to build four secret super-prisons, but can't spare a single lien to find one teenager?

No, we'd rather use MSIS as a proxy. Sitwell admitted to himself.

A sudden rapping on the door broke him from his thoughts.

After composing himself, he spoke, "Enter."

The door opened, with a young MSIS agent revealed to be on the other side of it. She then entered her superior's office and approached his desk. She stopped a good few inches and stood at attention before giving him a crisp salute.

Sitwell reciprocated the salute and asked, "Agent, do you have something for me?"

The agent nodded and replied, "Yes, sir. We just received some transmissions from villages in the Atreides Desert. They reported that they heard what sounded like a vast explosion coming from the vicinity of Caladan Canyon. This was followed by what they described as a Miles-wide smoke cloud."

"Caladan Canyon," Sitwell said before he scoffed, "Impossible, we've sent search parties out there and they never found anything that can cause an explosion."

"I'm only telling you what's been reported, sir." The agent said.

Sitwell sighed and spoke, "But there's no doubt that the villagers are panicking. It also won't be a stretch to say that an illegal mining operation might've been started there. As I recall, there are a series of abandoned mines up there, ones said to have been inhabited by Grimm."

He pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote on it. Once he was finished writing, he handed it to the agent.

"That is a request for the Mistral Council to deploy troops to the Atreides Desert. Tell them what villages need help."

The agent nodded and moved to fill out the request. Before she left the room, she asked Sitwell, "And what do you intend to do, sir."

Sitwell rose up and straightened his tie. He then told her, "To get another search party in the air. I want to make sure that I didn't miss anything."

"All right, I think that's everything." Whitley said as he packed the last of his survival kit into the knapsack.

After spending several minutes to calm himself after his emotional episode, the boy set about gathering all the supplies that would ensure his survival. The supplies in his knapsack were collected over a period of two months, with his supplier being Yinsen, who had gathered by calling in certain favors from Fangs that he had patched up.

Fangs that are most likely dead- No, stop right there! Focus, just focus on the now! Whitley reminded himself, now wasn't the time to have another panic attack.

If he started to panic now, then he'll die.

Maybe I should check my supplies again; anything to take my mind off of... that.

Whitley took off the knapsack and held it before himself. He inspected the sleeping bag strapped to the top of the knapsack, and found that it was still in good condition. Opening the pack up, he looked inside to see that everything was still as organized as he left it. He had three water bottles, which were to be rationed. He had a roll of gauze, which he had recently used to wrap up his cauterized wound. There was a prescription bottle of painkillers, of which he had already taken one. Next to the painkillers was the Grimm Deterrent Box, which was running at full power. He also had some kindling and some sticks for firewood, which he would also ration. Finally, there were two very thick journals, one of which he had not known was even included.

One belonged to him.

The other had belonged to Yinsen. He figured that the doctor wanted his story told.

I'll make sure you're never forgotten, my friend.

He reached into his pants pocket and fished out the man's wedding ring, the one that he had promised to bury with his wife. Whitley had never thought he would come to regard a small golden ring as having value outside of its material. To Yinsen, this ring represented the better part of his life; that of a loving husband and father.

To Whitley, it was the representation of a good man's last will, one that he had asked him to fulfill. He swore that before he ever left Anima, he will reunite Yinsen's ring with his family. It was the closest thing the doctor will get to a proper burial.

He took a deep breath and returned the ring to his pocket.

He looked ahead, beholding the majesty of the vast Atreides Desert. Under a clear, blue Animan sky, vast plains of golden sand stretched far into the horizon, where the sky and land met. Nothing but sand dunes for as far as the eye can see, with a range of mountains off in the far distance. From what he remembered from his past lessons on geography, the Atreides supposedly spanned nearly the entirety of Eastern Anima.

And he was going to walk across it. Hopefully, he'd only have to walk until he either found civilization or until civilization found him... or until he died.

Whitley took one final glance at the smoke cloud behind him, which continued to billow out into the sky above. One last time, he savored the feeling of freedom.

He then looked out to the horizon and took the first step in his journey.

It was late evening when Whitley decided to stop for the night. He had been walking for hours and his feet stung, like they had been stepping on hot coals all day. He had drunk half of the water in his first water bottle, and despite every desire to do so, refrained from drinking more. He still needed it for later. His muscles were tired and he felt that if he didn't stop, he would pass out from exhaustion. If he passed out, he'll die.

He had since found refuge beside a large rock, one that had a very peculiar shape. It was round, as most rocks were, but the top sort of warped outward, providing some much needed shade. It was also surrounded by smaller yet still huge rocks, ones that can offer protection from the wind and nosy Grimm. Not that any would try anything with him, considering the GD box was still running at full power.

He was quite pleased with himself to have designed it with a solar battery, which had been charging all the long day.

Not to mention the back-up lunar battery, which will be charging through the night; He proudly thought.

He unstrapped and unfurled the sleeping bag, making sure to place in a spot that offered the most comfort. Before he slept, he made sure that the GD box was close by, in the likelihood that he needed to pack up quickly. Setting his knapsack beside him, Whitley let out a relieved smile, glad that he had been able to survive his first day out in the desert.

If only he had food. Oh, gods, did he wish he had a delicious dinner to finish the day out.

But he doesn't and does not have the skill to even hunt his meals. Not to mention any weapons to hunt said meal with.

Then again, the human body can survive a month without food. Whitley reasoned with himself.

He unzipped the sleeping bag and slipped under the covers. He nestled himself into his nylon-cotton shelter. By the time the first stars appeared, the boy had fallen asleep. But as he slept, something began to happen.

Whitley didn't understand what was happening to him. Just a few minutes ago, he had been safe and sound on a Bullhead in the air. Now, here he was, lying flat on his back in the desert, his Bullhead now a flaming wreck, and a missile had just torn his chest apart. He can't move, his body numbed by pain and fear. He can't hear anything except for the ringing in his ears. All he can see is the sky, the clear, blue Animan sky that was now filled with flying bullets and missiles.

Through bloodstained teeth, he croaked out, "Help me..."

Suddenly, he found movement in his neck, as he moved his head to his right. He watched in hope as Atlesian soldiers, his protection detail, fought ferociously from behind their rocky barricades. If anyone can save him it was the brave and dedicated soldiers of the Atlas Army. One of the soldiers noticed the boy and moved away from his comrades to tend to his wounds.

The helmeted soldier slid next to the boy, bullets flying over his head. The soldier laid their rifle on the ground. The soldier then looked down at the boy's chest, which was bleeding and shredded, and his face fell. Whitley didn't like the look of that frown.

The soldier removed his helmet, revealing hair white as snow and artic blue eyes colder than ice. Staring down at Whitley was himself.

Whitley's eyes widened in fear and he cried out in terror, "No-No-NO!"

Soldier-Whitley looked the original in the eyes with a pitying look.

"You can't escape." He told the original.

Suddenly, there was a sound of distant thunder. Whitley looked upward and saw to his horror that thousands of missiles flying through the vast blue. Contrails filled the skies as the missiles flew. Suddenly, the missiles began to coalesce, coming together to form one vast projectile. Within seconds, a single missile, one big enough to blot out the sun, began to fall from the sky.

As it fell, Whitley realized that the missile was aimed right at him. Again, he tried to move, but found that he was unable to. Even if he had been able, he would have been held down to the ground by literally himself, as Soldier-Whitley held his wrists down to the ground. He screamed and cried out for someone to help him, but no one came to help him. No one was going to help him.

Soldier-Whitley spoke in a reassuring tone, "Don't worry. It'll all be over soon."

The missile was now seconds from impact. Knowing he had no chance of escaping, Whitley shut his eyes and waited for the coming explosion. Moments passed before he heard a detonation. But to his surprise, he didn't feel sharp pain or the sudden waves of flame. But he certainly felt the rushing wind pass over his body.

He opened his eyes and suddenly realized why he only felt the wind.

He was falling. Above, he saw the large hole he had fallen through. He watched the hole shrank as he fell further into the abyss, the only source of being the light which poured through the opening. Eventually, he landed roughly on the ground. To his surprise, the boy found that he was unharmed.

Save for the bloody and shredded hole in his chest.

"What have you done?!" He heard a familiar and outraged voice demand.

The voice echoed in the dark void, reverberating off nonexistent walls as Whitley tried to find its place of origin.

"If this boy is gonna live, we need to do something about his wound!" The voice shouted in urgency.

It was then that Whitley realized that the voice was emanating from the opening above him. He looked up and saw that some kind of strange instrument was poking through it. It reminded him of a scalpel. When he trained his eyes to focus upon the object, it dawned on him that he was indeed staring at the razor of a large scalpel.

The scalpel then moved forward, slicing through the edge of the edge, creating a small thin crack through which light escaped. The razor then slid back to cut the adjacent side, creating another thin line of light. As the scalpel cut through hole, Whitley felt an unbearable pain his chest.

He looked down to see the hole in his chest had grown wider, like a knife had sliced through it.

No, like a scalpel;

"Make it stop..." He pleaded through the pain.

Suddenly, the light shining through the hole began to fade, as something slid over it. To the panicking boy, it was like watching a solar eclipse. Little by little, a strange object obstructed the light, until finally it enveloped the hole entirely, creating nothing but pure darkness.

Whitley shivered as he tried to pace himself. He can't see anything, and all he can hear is his own labored breath and a soft electronic humming emanating from his chest. He reached for his chest with his right hand. Just as it made contact, he felt a warm feeling inside that he can't explain. He peeled his hand back and the void was suddenly illuminated by a bright blue glow.

Whitley stared down at the strange circular light in his chest with a fascinated gleam in his eyes. It was beautiful, it was mesmerizing and it made him feel safe. For the first time in a long time, he felt truly and utterly proud of himself. He felt like he can conquer anything. Nothing can possibly stand in his way!

"Pride cometh before the fall, eh, Schnee?" He heard another familiar voice ask.

This voice, unlike the last, was cold, vindictive, and full of hate.

And it was coming from behind him.

He turned around and jumped in fright at the face before. Standing before him was Private Doyle, staring at him with lifeless eyes. The man was dressed in his uniform, though his skin had lost its complexion, and there was a small hole in his forehead, which was surrounded by coagulated blood.

It took all of Whitley's willpower not to vomit.

"You can't escape, Schnee." Doyle told the boy in a dry and hoarse voice.

Suddenly, the standing corpse's hands shot out to take hold of the boy's wrists. Despite putting his all into breaking free from the cadaver's grasp, the boy found that he was unable to. Slowly, Doyle raised the boy's arms. He stopped once the boy's hands were right in front of his face. Applying a little more pressure, Doyle forced the Schnee to turn his hands until the palms were in his face. Through the entire ordeal, he had been able to keep his hands tightly clasped into fists.

"You can't escape what you've done, boy!" Doyle shouted aggressively, but not in his own voice.

This voice belonged to Vryolak.

He watched as Doyle's face contorted, his youthful features becoming more rugged and vicious. Suddenly, the man's orange hair began to darken, before becoming a bloody red. Two horns sprouted out from beneath the bangs, growing outward until they were piercing the air. Doyle's clouded and glazed over blue eyes warped into a fiery hazel, as new life was breathed into them.

Finally, the bullet hole began to stretch, before cutting the entire left half of Vryolak's face. Whitley watched in disgust as flesh was ripped away from the man's wounds. The exposed muscles beneath darkened and bled, before finally the eye exploded in a cloud of tissue and blood. So deep was the wound that the boy can actually see the man's skull.

"You can't escape from all the blood you've shed!" Vryolak roared as he released his hold on the boy's hands.

"Now drown in it!" He told the boy before he sunk into the ground, laughing all the way as flames engulfed him.

It was then that Whitley felt something wet and sticky in his palms. He opened his fists and saw that his palms had cuts in them. These were deep cuts, so deep that blood was pushing out through them.

But then things took a turn for the worse as the blood began to seep in full force, rapidly pushing through his cut palms. In moments, more blood spurted out, as it soon leaked in droves from his now-bloodied hands. Whitley then realized that his feet were starting to feel damp, and he looked down to see that the blood spilling from his palms had begun to flood the area around.

In a panic, he tried to run. But as the blood level rose, his movements became more slowed and sluggish as his legs trudged through the blood. Eventually, he slipped, falling to his knees in the blood. He was able to keep himself from fully falling into the red flood by supporting himself with his arms, which had sunk elbow-deep into the blood.

He picked himself up, but not before his right hand clasped onto something. With all of his might, he tugged on the submerged object with all of his might, his right hand holding on tightly in a vice grip. Finally, he pulled it out.

It was an arm.

An arm that happened to be attached to a body that floated upward. To his shock, it was the Tiger-Tailed Fang who had been the first to fall in his escape. The Fang's black mask crumbled away, allowing the Faunus to look the boy in the eyes.

He then told the boy in an accusing voice, "Murderer."

Suddenly, dozens of hands pushed out through the blood. They soon grabbed the boy and dragged him under. As he sank into the ocean of blood, Whitley gasped for air as the viscous red liquid began to fill his lungs.

Then he saw the figure of Yinsen standing above the blood.

He reached out for the doctor, begging him to lend a hand, to save his life.

But the man regarded his sinking form with a sneer of disgust.

Despite being submerged in blood, he heard the doctor's words.

"I don't help murderers!"

Whitley awoke with a scream. When he felt the chill desert air, he realized that he was not drowning. His heart was racing and his were wide and unfocused. He quickly unzipped the sleeping bag and shoved the nylon-cotton flap off of his person. The boy sat up in his unzipped bed, sweaty and breathing erratically.

He looked to his right and found that the GD box had not been disturbed. He looked to his left and saw that the knapsack was equally undisturbed. He looked around and noticed that it was quite dark, meaning that it was late at night. The stars twinkled in the night sky above, and the fracture moon hung high, providing some faint light in the sandy wasteland.

Whitley wiped the sweat from his face with his hands.

He then growled irritably before shouting furiously, "DAMN IT, ONE NIGHT! ONE NIGHT IS ALL I ASK FOR!"

He took a deep breath and composed himself. In minutes, he was calmer than he had been before. But the anger was still there. The anger, along with the anxiety and fear he had thought he long conquered.

Honestly, he didn't know who to feel angry at. He was angry at Vryolak and Savin. He was angry at his Father. He was angry at his sisters. He was angry at himself. Hell, he was angry at everybody.

But most of all, he also felt disgusted with himself. Disgusted at what he had witnessed and endured during his time in captivity. Disgusted that he hadn't able to save anybody, not even his own friend from death. But he also felt disgusted at the lives he had taken.

He felt nothing but anger, disgust, guilt, and shame.

With a resigned sigh, the boy laid back in his sleeping bag, not even bothering to zip back up. He didn't know what he'll see the next time he fell asleep, but he was sure that it wasn't going to be pleasant. He stared up at the star-filled sky.

Staring up into the vast expanse of space only reinforced how utterly insignificant he felt at this moment.

He may have escaped from the cave.

But he brought some things with him.

And he doubted that he would ever escape what had followed him from that cave.

All right, that there is the last chapter of 2019;

I had wanted to write more, but I didn't have enough time, considering I'm leaving for Florida literally the day after Christmas.

But don't worry, true believers, for another chapter will be published in January, with more content. In this chapter, Whitley will be found, bury the ring in Gulmira as well as discover a shocking bit of news in the village, too. All the while, he'll contemplate whether to build another armor, which he'll only do so once he hears of a certain web-swinging wonder from Vale.

This is Nacoma23, wishing you all a happy and safe holiday season and a productive new year.

Until then, stay classy. I'll be back in January.

PEACE!