"Always good to see you, Doctor," Whitley said in a noticeably unenthusiastic voice, his brief exchange with Qrow echoing in his mind after hours of grueling discussions and reports. "Thank you for coming to Vale."

"Yes…yes." The man drawls, looking around the clear space, his usual facial expression frozen in a well-concealed frown that has become the new normal for many people nowadays.

Still, for the person who wore his heart on the sleeve, Whitley found it more difficult to read the man's face language.

Maybe it had something to do with age or the way their relationships were still not clearly defined beyond formal employment and informal ties of survival.

Most of the people were gone from this floor now, the official part of the meeting was long over, but the headaches would remain. The sun was starting to slowly set, turning the bright skies of Vale into a dimmer shade of orange, the beautiful sight of the sunset shining its rays through the boardroom's glass panels that no longer had to hide it.

"I appreciate you finding the time, Mr. Schnee. Thank you for-"

Whitley mentally rolled his eyes.

Here comes the asking.

"Just Whitley is enough, you know that, doctor." He sighs, quickly drifting back towards the man's presentation regarding androids for use in construction and heavy lifting. "It's fine. I've been meaning to speak with you anyway."

After four years, he still struggled to clearly define where Pietro and him stood.

He wouldn't call it friendship; allies, perhaps? Pietro was a scientist first and foremost, the kind of man who loved what he did and was good at it. Or, the best Whitley could get at short notice. Qrow had a few thoughts of his own about him, but at a time like this, a person with the professor's skills was almost irreplaceable.

Atlas, before the fall, was the most technologically advanced kingdom on Remnant. Not only that, it had the industrial capacity of Mantle, which in tandem made them an economic heavyweight in Dust and advanced technology, which in turn made a sizable military presence in other kingdoms possible.

The only military. He still doubted that something like this was even possible for each kingdom.

After the fall, all of it was gone. Not only did other kingdoms that depended on imports struggle to fulfill the demand with what they had available locally, but it felt like entire spheres of industry would stagnate for a good while – primarily those that made Atlas what it was. The sheer loss of life during that time and the thousands of people who lost their livelihoods would send ripples across Remnant. A good chunk of the survivors still had to nestle in Vacuo, which made quite a lot of people unhappy, chiefly the same refugees, but the message was clear now.

Atlas, the shining beacon of progress and military might which everyone if not relied on, was at least sure of, was gone.

Good luck.

And with CCTS down for a long time, things were only getting worse. Somewhere during that time, it was Qrow out of all people, who took Whitely aside, among a few others to explain what exactly was happening and what they knew of the real enemy.

Not just the Grimm, but who stood behind them. Something that Ruby Rose's frantic transmission told people from across the world, but not quite shared more details.

Judgment of the entirety of Remnant, mass genocide by gods, an immortal witch who could control the Grimm…

It didn't hit hard the second time either. More like, it was a gradual realization of the sheer scale of the disaster on wheels that was speeding towards him.

No, not only him.

Everyone.

At that moment, when he would walk out of the refugee tent in the middle of the night and look at the stars, the familiar broken moon reflecting the light upon all of them like a reminder, it would hit him just how ridiculous all it was.

If gods were petty enough to wipe their people in the blink of an eye over this…

One selfish cruelty after another with bullshit excuses.

So very human.

And a while later, as he learned the ropes of leading the company during these unstable times, swallowing half-ruined assets of other businesses in a gamble to branch out along with people who were in desperate need of normalcy again, only then Whitley was starting to understand just how far back all this went.

Take the Communication Towers themselves, for example. Their limitation of the entire network going down if just one of the major towers suffered a malfunction felt more and more like an in-built limitation, and not just to him. He consulted with Pietro and his cadre of engineers – some of whom flocked to them because the man was a recruitment ad on four legs and probably the only one who could secure a budget for robotics research.

The consensus was that after two major catastrophes that crippled the communication between the kingdoms – this drawback had to go. They were past the point of introducing uncomfortable ideas now that the worst had already happened.

There was a nagging, growing feeling of paranoia that only increased with each theory of potential interference from Ozpin and Salem. Perhaps the network was designed like this on purpose to prevent another Great War, but how exactly would that work? Worse, if he considered Salem herself to be active even before the bloodshed happened, then how much of it was the fault of people like Ironwood and his father, and how much was it her manipulations?

These thoughts kept him up at night. How Salem played everyone with just a few pawns from the shadows and seemingly an infinite army of monsters beyond the kingdom's borders. How she managed to put everyone against each other, exploiting the nature of human relationships.

And all this began because of what?

"Uhm, Whitley…"

He finds himself back in the real world, fished out and rescued from the ocean of his ruminations he was drowning in by a man trying very hard to hide his desperation.

"…as I was saying…" Pietro continues, picking back his pace.

Whitley's eyes rose from the table to meet the large holographic projection the doctor was so busy explaining.

Not busy. He pretended like it was business, but the old man never could quite control his excitement about whatever projects came to his mind.

Or his mind came up with. Whitley didn't even have to pay attention to it – he knew what was this about the moment their eyes met.

"Professor." Whitley clasped his fingers together before his face – a gesture he saw his father do, something that he realized moments after, before speaking in a cold, toneless voice, instead of all the patronizing he heard from Jacques' mouth.

"Give me one good reason why we should build Penny again."

Pietro paused midsentence, his face shifting into one of loss.

Whitley's eyebrows rose.

"Please, tell me why we need to devote all this money and your literal life to this."

"Mr. Schnee." He switched back to titles. "I understand your concerns, but please. I kept all the schematics back from Atlas. If we could just make her again, she would be invaluable against Grimm. You've seen her yourself!"

Oh, he sure did. The entire world saw.

Begrudgingly, Whitley admitted to himself there was a point there.

However.

"Third time's a charm?" He deadpanned, wondering if his father followed the same logic siring children. "Pietro, you've been close enough to Ironwood. Don't tell me you, out of all people, bought into this whole 'artificial huntsman' pipe dream."

Schnee's face turned sarcastically sour as he leaned back.

"Indeed. What they tried to do with her and what they tried to achieve…what you tried." Whitley corrected himself, feeling his finger turning into a grip. "Transferring aura between people. All this turned out to be just one giant attempt to create an artificial host for the Maidens!" He laughed jovially, cocking a grin which made the older man feel uneasy.

"There were other approaches. Other uses and-"

"Yes. Giving a machine a soul. Remind me, how many of those were in total that worked, hm?" He sighed. "Professor, I'll be clear. I'm no scientist, but this whole project has Ozpin and his maiden crap all other it from the beginning and we both know how it ended."

"I…had my theories." The old man answered. "Even before Ironwood recruited me into his circle and told me the full picture. But you have to understand it. It was a breakthrough, a miracle! By that time, Penny already proved herself."

Gone was the first name basis along with the titles. It was just Ironwood now. 'Jimmy' in the mocking context.

Good old Jimmy Ironwood, the man who paraded his army and specialists but couldn't measure to his own image.

The man who did more damage to Atlas and Mantle than Grimm. The man who tried to bomb the same people he tried to protect in the middle of the invasion.

The list ran on, just like Ace Ops in the wild.

This was another problem he had to be careful about.

"Proved what? That Pyrrha Nikos would still kick her ass?" Whitley bitterly scoffed. "A miracle that only works after a part of your life away each time. You can't honestly expect me to believe this had any mass application. Not with healthy huntsmen graduating each year." Whitley cut off. "Even decades away, if we manage to improve artificial intelligence capabilities, I still won't believe in whatever crap Ironwood used as initial cover. Sure, it was a fascinating experiment. You proved something thought impossible." He hummed to himself in acknowledgment. "But, doctor…" Whitley lowered himself and leaned in. "I heard things that Relic told the others." For a second, Whitley's gaze looked right through Pietro. "…Penny doesn't even come close to that."

"And what of the huntsmen?" Professor suddenly responded, coming up with more arguments. "You've seen the statistics, Whitley. You know how many die in the field."

"Yes. I hate saying it Pietro, I really do, but we know that there is no magical Grimm solution. Don't feed me fairytales about an artificial army that will kill them all. Numbers aren't on our side." Whitley said, taking a drink from the bottle of water. "Not even time, for that matter."

He shook his head and walked towards a window to survey the Vale from the high rise, hearing Pietro's seat shift.

"Being a huntsman is a bloody price and a duty hyped up to every generation." He continued as the image of Weiss and Winter appeared in front of their eyes. "We lie to them, we even pretend that they can make a difference and say just about anything to make sure they will stand behind us and the Grimm."

Whitley turned back around and looked at the man.

"What your daughter is going to do about it? Is she going to do more good than you with the time you have? And if you die, what happens to her?!" He asked almost accusingly, knowing well enough that at this point he was just venting a small part of his own rage at him, knowing precisely where to hit.

Weiss...Winter One might as well be another robot on cut strings while the other tried to copy her with stars in her eyes by signing herself up for the chopping block.

He sucked in the air, covertly clenching his fists.

Despite everything he felt towards his family, this cocktail of emotions and attachments, regrets and wasted chances, the clearest feeling was not the all-consuming rage, but pain.

Something that he struggled to put into words. Just knowing that it was just him and Willow now filled him with sorrow.

He will never forgive Winter. No matter what his mother says or feels, no matter how she pleads for him to reconcile with her.

He may miss her, but he will hate and despise her and what she turned into. Let her run around with this new Ozpin, trying to recreate the image of blind obedience, the idea of being owned and never thinking for herself, trading one fool for another.

She spent most of her life doing her best not to be a part of his family anyway.

Pietro looked at him, and Whitley finally saw fear. It wasn't plastered on his face, instead, it was the barely noticeable frown, the way his eyes looked at him, on occasion breaking the eye contact.

He wondered if that's how his father felt. This power of control he had over others, real or imagined, including his own family.

Angrily, he mentally smirked as pure hate for the man filled him.

That's right. I can dangle your daughter in front of you, and you will dance and sing to my tune.

Pietro couldn't even talk back to him. Whitley himself could imagine many ways to chastise himself for what he just said, yet the man remained silent.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Control your facial expressions.

Whitley slowly threw up his hands, as if the silence was the answer he expected.

"Why do we need Penny?"

There was no answer spoken out loud, but the youngest Schnee knew perfectly well what the old professor tried not to say out loud.

He sighed to himself.

"I know she is your daughter."

"She is." The tone of those words told him enough.

Whitley felt his anger morph into lethargy.

"…Pietro, you know that I asked you to focus on the real things for now. I'm not going to sugarcoat this, I need you more than I need her."

Improving the automation and android's intelligence. He swore to do better than his father, to improve the worker's conditions…

And to his credit he did, but the times weren't the same. Jacques ripped an insane margin on cheap labor, be that Faunus or Humans. Back then SDC, while technically didn't have the monopoly, certainly had advantages and lucrative contracts.

Post-fall, things were looking different. Competitors sensed the company faltering and started spring up here and there, Mistral was breathing down their necks and suddenly, after Whitley spent a considerable amount of time adjusting salary and working conditions, including following the safety and hazard regulations, as well as adding benefits and insurance, he found out that mining can be an expensive venture.

Complete automation was decades away and sounded ludicrously expensive with what they had at the moment, but at least they could try to teleoperate androids and optimize the labor, while cutting away unnecessary risks, pushing the standards forward little by little.

No more needless waste of life on his watch. He had enough catastrophes for a lifetime.

SDC still had a fast start at resuming their operations, but the last thing he needed at the moment was to be in the spotlight again, with another target on his back. His father was very nice to paint it on them, including taking the blame for many deeds he may or may not have committed, depending on who you listened to.

At least Whitley could have some kind of privacy in his life, the 'backup' child role finally giving a few benefits.

Weiss could probably be recognized here and there, while Whitley barely, if even appeared in the public view, which made the journalists only more relentless.

He heard stories from his mother about them, back when he was too young to understand.

The young man sighed, looking at the scientist in front of him.

You have to give them something.

"Listen, I won't throw the idea off the table." He started, noticing the shift in Pietro's body. "Just…give me something that would make sense to me. Do you still have any-" The interruption came when his bodyguard opened the door, wide enough for her to peek into.

"Sir, Robyn Hill wants to speak with you."

"On the company line?" Whitley frowned. "Can she hold for five minutes?"

"No, sir." Marsh looked at him uncomfortable. "She is in the hallway."

"What?" The youngest Schnee stared his expression freezing, then relaxing in silent resignation.

He blurted half-intelligible words of affirmation to the doctor, just hoping that he would retreat to his lab for now, the uncomfortable conversations about his quasi-familial relationships off his back for the next month at least.

"Do what asked you and I'll consider helping to bring Penny back." He flat out said it to him quietly, as he left, leaving the old man alone in the room.

There would be time for ruminating over his decisions later. There was always time for that.

Meanwhile, Robyn Hill was standing in the hallways, arms crossed and a well-entrenched scowl on her face. The current leader of Atlas Relief Foundation changed little in appearance over the past four years, her Huntress attire now made to be more suitable for the climate of Vacuo, where she spent most of her time at now.

"Hey." She waved at him, quickly cutting the distance.

"Hey yourself." Whitely replied, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"I needed to talk with you." Robyn cut to the chase. "Things are happening in Vacuo. I need help."

"Couldn't you just call?" He frowned, checking the time. "I'm in the middle of…everything." Whitley said with a helpless shrug.

"I was going to Vale either way later. Might as well waste no time."

"Alright. Alright." Whitley nodded to himself, his palm meeting his frustrated eyes. "Listen, I have several meetings later today, so might as well go now. Let's get dinner. Can you brief me on the way?"

"Where do I even begin?" Sighed Robin.

Their road to the restaurant passed in a blur. By the time they climbed into the company car, Whitley was already hearing numbers. Robin pretty much ran the Atlas Relief foundation – a rag-tag bunch of charities slash immigration NGOs that dealt with helping the impoverished survivors of the disaster, and yes, they fought over the name before officially taking it.

SDC was the chief contributor and the major presence, helping to both provide funds and security in Vacuo while smoothing the immigration procedures and lobbying with the council of Vale. The process was slow and cynically selective, buried in red tape that suddenly appeared after the council decided to take one long hard look at the situation, but it was better than nothing.

If the company's presence and influence in the former was a double-edged sword, owing to the general state of affairs even before the crisis happened, then the latter weren't so keen on flooding their kingdom right away.

At this point Whitley stopped bothering that the public was calling it an in-house project, he just was thankful that they had a money pillow Jacques was wise enough to have and a good amount of property a family of two could go on without missing.

SDC owed it to those people. The sins of his father were passed down on him the moment he decided to step into his shoes. Perhaps, he could walk away and watch all that remained slowly crumble, but that would mean he would no longer have any say in this slow end of the world he was finding himself in.

And for that, he needed to keep turning in a profit.

AN:

I wanted to put the entire day in one chapter, but that would mean overflowing it with events and dialogue between characters. Suffice to say, the original idea of making it a seven-chapter story is out of the window.