Atlas is the City of Dreams. Or at least, that's what all the Public Relations people liked to say. The floating city, the place where darkness never reigned, where safety was a matter of fact, and not a convenience. The kind of city where the roads were perfect, all streets were well lit, its people were well-fed, its workers well-paid, and most of all, was prospering.

And Whitley Schnee lived at the top of the City of Dreams. For all intents and purposes, he lived in the city of the future.

Below Atlas was Mantle, a city that was stuck so far in the past that it barely crawled out of the Great War. The kind of city that, if he sniffed hard enough, he could smell the stench wafting up along the air. Garbage, alcohol, along with the many other vices of the average ne'er do well, they all caught the wind and polluted an otherwise nice city.

But he'd never have to worry about that. Because he lived at the tip of Atlas itself. The place where the wind rose above and drifted away forevermore. A place that was always spotless, as pristine as the day its doors first opened to his Grandfather, Nicholas Schnee. The Schnee manor, its every wall and marble floor colored the same as his hair, a stark white, and every carpet mimicked his eyes, an icy blue.

And at the top of the world, where no other could dare reach him, Whitley found something interesting.

It was quiet at the top.

Never lonely, no. There was always the staff of the house, maids and butlers alike working around the clock, along with the chefs making sure their wages were justified - which in his opinion, they always were - and at the peak of Atlas, was his Father.

A tall man. A strict man. A cold man.

Much like his last name, Father was a man born from snow.

Whitley clasped his hands behind his back as he stood next to the dark oak - or was it walnut? Regardless, he stood next to the ornate door, spirals and curving lines etched into its surface as faded voices came through the door. He could clearly make out Father's, even-toned with a hint of regality, but only a hint. Then another, one booming with authority, as though it were used to giving orders.

Honestly, Whitley thought, shoulders stiffening as he pushed down the urge to huff. It feels like the General is coming over every day after that whole… ordeal with Beacon.

News came up the grapevine that Beacon, and by extension Vale, had fallen to the Grimm. But that couldn't have been true. After all, his… sister was safe and sound, back home, locked in her room by her self-imposed isolation. Well, what else could expect from her? Even when she was home, she wouldn't want anything to do with him.

He thoughtlessly leaned back against the wall, his ear drifting close to the door frame.

"Jacques," a voice drifted into Whitley's ear, the General's. "I understand your hesitance, but-"

"No 'buts,' James. I've seen full well what that project of yours is like." Whitley winced at Father's voice, snapping like a whip. "This Penny project of yours was torn apart by a girl with an attitude problem and an affinity for magnets."

"That girl was Pyrrha Nikos," the General reminded him. "And you shouldn't speak ill of the dead, Councillor."

Whitley held his breath as he leaned closer to the door, his hands unfurling behind him. It was wrong of him, he knew, but… Penny project? Just what was that? And they said Pyrrha Nikos, the Champion girl? Had she passed away?

A cough came through the door. "...Yes, you're right, James. Forgive me, that was out of place." In spite of his words, Father's voice held a level of detachment that Whitley could never mimic. "Even so, just how am I supposed to justify funding this project of yours when, frankly, our shareholders will never see a shred of that money back?"

"Damn the money, Jacques! Think of the future!" Whitley let out a breath, eyes widening as General Ironwood raised his voice. He'd… never heard that before, intentionally or otherwise. "If this project works-"

"If."

"If it works," Ironwood continued, his voice sounding like churned gravel. "Then the SDC will never have to worry about security problems ever again. The perfect weapon to end an endless war. A weapon to inspire safety, not fear."

Another stretch of silence.

Father sighed, then something thudded against wood. "Your optimism is inspiring, James, truly. But I live in the present, not the future. If you want your funding for this project, I'll need some sort of guarantee on returns." Whitley could hear the smile on Father's face. He could almost imagine that bushy white mustache pulling up on his face. "Perhaps… an exchange?"

"...What do you want?"

"Shake the embargo-"

"Never."

"Then lessen it." Father stressed, as if his teeth were grinding. "At the very least allow us the ability to trade in Mistral! Our long-time allies are suffering, and it would warm their hearts to know that Atlas is looking out for their interests."

"And the SDC lines its pockets to do it."

Father laughed, the sound of glass shifting coming through the door. "But of course," Whitley failed to find a counterargument to that. The SDC was a company, not a charity. "And in lining our pockets, we may just find the funding for your little doll project, hm?"

Silence reigned past the door again.

The General sighed. "...Bring it up in the next Council meeting, and I'll support the movement."

"Then you shall have your funding."

A loud creak came from beyond the door, then a pair of thuds. The doorknob jiggled.

Whitley jumped back from the door, clasping his hands behind his back as he tried to lack as uninterested as possible. But from the corner of his eye, he watched as General Ironwood stepped out past the door, shutting it behind him.

The General was a tall man, easily a head and a half taller than him. He had dark, though graying, hair, sheening metal embedded in his forehead, and a shadow that covered his face. Now, Whitley wasn't a military man by any stretch, but he knew that soldiers weren't supposed to have facial hair. At least, no like that. But who would tell the Supreme Commander of Atlas' forces otherwise?

General Ironwood's brows shot up. "Whitley? Is there something I can help you with?"

Whitley plastered on his best smile, forcing out a laugh. "Ah, no sir. I simply came by to inform Father that I finished my studies for the day. Was… everything alright in there? It sounded rather heated."

"Did you hear anything?"

"No, sir." Whitley lied, as easily as breathing. "The door is rather thick, after all." But the frame was anything but.

The General's face relaxed, smiling as he brought a hand to his shoulder. "No, Whitley, nothing like that. Your Father and I simply… got caught up in politics. But we managed to find a compromise." Ah yes, government corruption, the ultimate compromise. Compromise of morals, that was.

"Well, that's grand, sir." Whitley smiled wider, squinting his eyes to perfect the look. His PR Rep told him that if he was going to smile, he needed to squint his eyes for it to be convincing. Something to do with human nature. "I'm always happy to hear that cooperation is going well."

Ironwood paused, staring down at him as he hummed. "And your sister? How is she?"

That wiped the smile from Whitley's face. "Locked in her room, like always." He knew he should have, at the very least, tried to sound worried. But for Weiss? Hardly. "Honestly, she acts like the world is ending."

"Her world very well may have." Whitley's eyes snapped up to the General's, a hard look in his previously soft and diplomatic eyes. But just as soon as it showed up, it faded. "Ah, forgive me. It's just that… It's hard, surviving an event the way your sister did."

Whitley failed to see how. From what he knew, Beacon was still standing, and Vale had yet to teeter over. What was so hard to survive beyond that?

Clearing his throat, Whitley nodded to the General. "Well, General, if you'll excuse me. I simply must tell Father that I've-"

"Oh, yes, of course." General Ironwood stepped out of his way, his white greatcoat swaying behind him. "And Whitley? If you ever need to talk, you can get ahold of me. I've had Winter send you my information if you need." Just what did Whitley have to say to the General? Nothing, honestly. Perhaps it was just a… just an empty offer.

Even so, Whitley smiled. "Thank you, General. For everything."

What that 'everything' was, Whitley didn't know.

Pulling open the door to Father's office, Whitley quietly stepped through, the door clicking shut behind him. Turning around, Whitley took in the typical sight. Father was a man of a certain taste - icy blue carpet lined the floor, well-polished and finished bookcases covered the walls, along with dozens and dozens of books that he was sure Father had never actually read through. Not because Father wasn't a reading man, but because there were simply too many.

Father sat behind a dark wooden desk, colored like seventy-proof dark chocolate, all the while sitting upright in a tall leather chair.

"Whitley," he started, his brows curling upwards, but mouth remained neutral. "Is there something you've come to inform me about?"

Whitley nodded deeply, his eyes falling to the floor. "Yes, Father. I've finished my studies for the day."

Father hummed, like always, picking up a glass with amber liquid before swirling it. "Wonderful," in one quick, fluid motion, Father drank from his glass, the amber liquid disappearing as he set the glass gently aside. "Tomorrow, you shall be meeting with a Mr. Levi Bron in preparation for your next exam."

"More economics, Father?"

Father huffed, sitting up taller in his seat. Father may not have been as widely built as the General, but he casted just as long of a shadow. "Yes, boy, more economics. But do not believe that that is all that your future work entails." Whitley would never dream of that. It felt like every subject he understood and passed only opened up to more subjects to study. "And do be sure to present yourself well. Mr. Bron is an established professor at the University of Atlas. One good word from him could secure you a scholarship."

What Whitley needed scholarships for, he'd never know. It wasn't as if he was a part of the world's richest families.

"Of course, Father." Not that he was going to tell Father that. He'd seen just what it had done to his sisters, and neither road was one he was brave, nor foolish enough to follow.

"Then go and enjoy your few hours of free time to yourself." Father said, shooing him away with a single hand. But Whitley didn't move, his shoulders tensing. He couldn't just leave now, right? He still had a question. "Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Hoping for more studies?"

Whitley quickly shook his head, "No, Father." Whitley snapped his eyes up to catch Father's, but one cold look was enough for them to fall back down. "What I meant was that…" Just how was he supposed to phrase this? It was something he wasn't meant to hear in the first place, given the General's reaction.

"Well, speak up, boy. You're wasting both of our valuable time." Father snapped, and Whitley couldn't help but wince again.

"Yes, you're right." Whitley quickly agreed - better to simply agree with Father than to fight. "I was simply… curious in regards to some information I stumbled upon, and I thought you might have some answers. Regarding company business, that is."

There was a long stint of silence. Whitley tilted his head up, watching as Father's brows shot high. Then his mustache followed, breaking out into a wide, pleased grin. "Well, do tell, my son! It makes me more proud than you know to hear that you're taking a proper interest in the company."

Whitley couldn't help but feel a warmth spread around his chest. What a rarity, Father being proud of him. "Well, yes, given that I'm… well, that I'm your heir, I thought it would only be right of me to take my duties more seriously."

Father laughed - laughed. As in, his shoulders shook and everything - leaning forward in his seat as he clasped his hands. "Don't keep me in suspense, my boy! Tell your Father what you've learned, and I'll be more than happy to oblige you." He sounded so pleased, more so than he'd ever heard before. "After all, it is only right that my sole heir learns more of our great company."

Whitley felt a sickening heat stick to the inside of his chest, squaring his shoulders back as he held his chin high. He hated how much he loved the feeling.

"Well, Father, this… Project Penny-"

Father's smile dropped, his bushy yet well-trimmed brows furrowing deep enough for thick creases to pop out between them. "Is a state secret, boy! How did you manage to come upon such a thing? How much do you know?!"

Whitley felt his knees buckle, his face going cold as the blizzard emanating from Father's form picked up. "Y-your door frame! There's a piece of it that wasn't applied correctly!" Father's expression froze for a moment, his icy blue eyes constricted. "A-as for this project, I only know the name, that's all!"

"You've eavesdropped on me..?" Incredulity flowed from Father's voice, and Whitley couldn't help but feel another chill.

Whitley shook his head, frowning deeply. "Not intentionally, no! I was simply waiting for you and the General to finish speaking so that I could…" Oh, what did it matter? Father would probably have him lashed for this if he could. Might as well grit his teeth for the beating now. "Forgive me, Father. It will never happen again."

There was another long silence in the office, only for Father to laugh. It was quiet and subtle, little more than a series of vibrations in his chest.

"My dear son," Father started, and Whitley winced at how… pleased he sounded. "You need not apologize. Better it be you than, say, one of the staff? It can remain a… a little secret between you and I, hm?" Father pulled a scroll from his white suit, an icy blue snowflake on the back of its case. "Though I must say, I'm rather conflicted on your eavesdropping."

Whitley hummed. Just what was he supposed to say to that? He didn't do it… entirely on purpose. It was simply him being in the right place at the right time.

Even so, Father continued. "On one hand, you've violated the sanctity and security of my office. On the other, it seems you've gained a valuable skill."

Slowly, Whitley tilted his head up, brows furrowed in confusion. "Valuable skill?"

"Oh yes, dear boy." Father said, nodding as he continued to stare down at his scroll, typing a message. "Not all of the best deals are made with handshakes and smiles, boy. You can only get the best terms when the alternative is far worse for the other party." His mustache pulled up into a smile, but unlike the others, it felt more… malicious. Then Father cleared his throat, tapping his thumb against his scroll. "And that should be the last of my little security problems. For now."

"Then…" Whitley started, swallowing the lump in his throat. "What is this project?"

Father closed his eyes, sighing as he pulled out his bourbon glass again before filling it with an amber liquid. "I am not at the legal liberty to say. And frankly, boy, you are not in the position to be asking such things."

He knew that. Of course he knew that. For all the power and wealth that he was bound for, he was never in the position to make anything of it. The only thing he had was… information, and a need to know more. There was a secret project that the SDC was funding in tandem with the Atlesian Government- no, with General Ironwood. Such information was valuable.

"Of course, Father." Whitley slowly started, slowly picking up his head as he leveled his gaze to his desk. He watched as Father took another drink from his glass. "I am simply curious, that's all. After all, assuming this project is long and, frankly, tedious, would it not be convenient to have me in the know?"

Father paused his drinking, setting his glass down. "I beg your pardon, boy?"

Whitley continued, even as the chill shot up his spine. "I am your sole heir, as you said before. We both know my sisters are useless, and I'm the best to succeed you. What better way to prepare me for the future than to allow me to explore such an avenue?"

"And you believe yourself so secure in that?"

It took everything in his power to not scoff at the thought. "Winter is a brainwashed soldier working directly under the General, and Weiss is a vagabond at heart. Meanwhile, I'm here, studying, training, and most importantly, applying myself to the business. There will come a day when this will be mine." Whitley paused, surprised at the… growl in his voice. Clearing his voice, he straightened out his vest. "I simply… I want to make sure that you've left the company in good hands. My hands."

Father blinked, staring down at him before looking down at his glass. Father pushed the drink aside with a quiet breath, standing from his seat. "...There is a dust shipment heading down to Mantle within the hour. If you're so insistent on pursuing this, then go and get your hands dirty." Father said, staring down at him with a stern expression, casting a long shadow. "I will not give this to you for free. This, you will earn. Much like the company."

Whitley nodded, pushing down the acidic bile that formed at the back of his throat. "Is… that all, Father?"

"Off," Father quietly waved him off, as though it took no effort at all.

With a quick bow, Whitley took to the door, pulling it open and stepping out into the hall. The door clicked quietly behind him. He'd… he'd stood up to Father. Insisted himself.

Oh, just what was he thinking? Father would have his hide later when he broke out of his stupor! Whitley ran his hands through his hair, groaning as his loafers clacked against the marble floor.

At the very least, I've got a starting point. Now to follow it.

It was official, Whitley hated work.

Or more specifically, he hated the work he had to do now. Put him in front of spreadsheets and budgets, and Whitley could have everything organized by date, value, and necessity within the afternoon. He could even find ways to make things cheaper too, if at the expense of something else.

But lifting crates and moving them? It was hardly something he was interested in. But he was a Schnee, for goodness sake. They weren't known for complaining or quitting, they were known for success. So he grit his teeth, and picked up the next box of well-secured dust, metallic latches on either side of the thirty pound crate.

This process went on again and again, and Whitley felt a wetness pool around his collarbone, looking down to find his previously pristine vest and dress shirt ruined. Dirt, sweat, and dust. Not the fuel, but the residue.

His arms felt stiff, yet at the same time, shaky and weak. His legs were much the same, wobbling as he struggled to keep up with the men in the loading bay. He was in a warehouse at the center of Mantle, the safest place for it to be. After all, it was right beneath Atlas, and it was little more than a five minute flight. What else could it be but safe?

Eventually, the loading stopped, and all Whitley had to do now was join a fellow in his truck and follow him through the route. Father mentioned something to him in a message about how the last stop would be the one he wanted, so he'd have to work the whole day for it to happen.

Regardless of what people said of Father, Whitley had to admit that they severely underestimated just how petty he could be. But at the same time, it… wasn't the worst thing he'd ever done. It let him get out of the manor, and it was a little more exercise than his daily stretches and calisthenics.

Perhaps if he did enough, he'd end up like Grandfather.

Whitley felt his mouth curl downwards, a sour taste taking to his mouth. There you go, thinking about a man you've never met. It was a horrible habit, one that he'd yet to break himself from. Nicholas Schnee is dead. He has been dead since before you were born. Reject these thoughts and think of the present.

The past was dead. The future was yet to be here. All that mattered was the here and now. No dreams, no longing, just the present.

A creak filled the air. Whitley's head snapped up for a moment to catch his surroundings. The streets were dark, littered with garbage and broken glass, and the sky was dotted by specks of bright white in a sea of endless black, the broken moon hidden by thick clouds. But beyond it all, what caught Whitley's eye was a bright green cross hanging over a glass door, metallic bars embedded both in front and behind the glass.

The building itself was made from a mix of concrete and brick, the concrete making the foundation, and the brick building up the walls, a dilapidated and old thing. Much like Mantle, it seemed intent on clinging to the past, its very structure faded and cracked. And yet, it still stood.

"This is your stop, Mr. Schnee." The driver spoke, a man dressed in a loose fitting gray shirt and jeans. Peasant clothes, he decided. Even so, he worked hard, harder than Whitley at the very least, given the dark wet splotch around his neck and beneath his arms. "I was told that you'd be getting a cab for your return trip?"

Whitley only nodded, pulling the lever on the door next to him popping open the door. "Father mentioned something like that to me, yes."

"...You sure you don't need a ride back?"

Whitley curled a brow as he stepped out of the truck, but that was it, closing the door behind him. The truck itself was hardly anything impressive, only big enough to house a few shipments and cases of Dust at a time. Reaching into the rear bay, Whitley pulled a heavy suitcase, hoisting it over the wall before bringing it to his side.

He heard the truck's engine rev as he stepped back, watching as the dingy machine slowly pulled away, disappearing down the street. All for the best, frankly. He didn't need some stranger, regardless of his employment status, fretting about him. Frankly, he was probably thinking showing that concern would get him a good word.

Well, Whitley wasn't interested in giving out any favors.

Stepping towards the pharmacy, Whitley stared through the glass that lined the exterior, staring at the half-dozen empty seats that lined what seemed to be a waiting room. He'd seen more than a few, 'attending' Father's business meetings. End tables stacked with magazines, a front desk with a computer and keyboard, though strangely enough with no one to man it.

Whitley snorted. It wasn't his problem.

Whitley heard a bell chime as he walked through the front door, shifting the weight of the case of dust in his hand. "...Hello? Is anyone in tonight?" This was the place that Father had sent him to? Typical. Perhaps he'd meant to exhaust him so as to forget his interest. He could see that so vividly.

A long stretch of silence, then a loud, metallic clang from his lift, hidden by a cheaply-made wooden door. At the very least, it looked cheap. No designs, no plaque, nothing to distinguish it from any other door.

Even so, the noise was enough to get Whitley curious. Whitley crept over towards the door, making sure that his steps were soft and smooth, never so much as causing a floorboard to-

A loud creak came from beneath his foot.

Whitley sighed, taking two loud steps up to the door, rapping his knuckles against its surface. "Hello? Is someone in there? I've… come with a delivery?" What was he supposed to say at a time like this? He'd never delivered dust before. This was peasant work, far beneath him. "Is everything alright?"

The door knob jiggled in front of him. Whitley quickly cleared the door, taking a step back. Last he needed was to be accused of eavesdropping again. Or at the very least, being accused without having done so.

As the door creaked open, Whitley watched as an elderly man peaked out from behind it. He had wrinkly, dark skin, hair as white as snow, and dark brown eyes. Most of his face was covered in a thick beard, colored much the same as his hair. And he dressed in a way not too dissimilarly to Whitley, albeit was some… odd color choice. A dark maroon vest, a cream-colored shirt, and a dark-khaki pair of slacks? He wouldn't be caught dead wearing such colors.

Then Whitley's eyes trailed down towards the cane in his hand.

"Oh?" The old man started, a single brow rising on his face. "I'm sorry, my boy, but the pharmacy's closed." Whitley felt his shoulders tense for a moment, wincing for the briefest moment. Then he remembered where he was. The old man gave him an… odd look, head tilted to the side and brows furrowed deeply. "Is there something I can do for you, dear boy-"

"Whitley," he cut him off, letting out a sharp breath as he closed his eyes. He took a moment to take a breath, composing himself. "My name is Whitley. I'd appreciate it if you called me such." There was only one man in the world that would call him boy, and he hated that enough. "And I came to deliver your Dust."

The old man paused, his brows shooting up before a laugh left his lips. It was low and deep, but it came out slowly. Almost soothing, really. "I see, you'll have to forgive me. I was expecting someone a little older and, if I'm to be honest, a little less sharply dressed." He laughed again, holding the door open before pulling the flat cap from his head. "Come in, come in! I'll show you where you can leave the Dust."

Whitley followed the older fellow into the room, floorboards creaking beneath his feet. There were half a dozen different curtains of various colors drawn from the ceiling, all bright and vibrant, and most of all, never red, draping down to cover and separate the room into six equal pieces. Whitley imagined there were beds and such set aside, but that didn't sound quite right. This was a pharmacy, not a clinic.

Whitley continued to follow the old man, being led into a room beyond the curtain room.

This room was… different. It still had the dark wooden floorboards, but at the center of it all was a single seat, big enough for one adult to lie in. There were a series of trays and tools on either side of the seat, but they didn't seem medical in nature. No, they looked mechanical, as though whoever was operating intended to work not on a man or woman, but on a machine.

There were bookshelves and even a television hanging on the wall in front of the seat, but beyond that? It was just another room. Even still, Whitley couldn't help but feel like something about the room was odd.

"Would you be so kind as to set the case somewhere in that corner?" Whitley was snapped from his thoughts by the old man's voice, watching as his bony finger jabbed towards an empty corner of the room. "I'll have to get- ah, no, that's right. She quit a few nights ago. I suppose I'll have to do it."

Following instructions, Whitley made his way over to the corner of the room, setting the heavy case down with a thud, feeling his muscles sigh in relief. "Do what, sir?"

The old man only laughed. "There's no sirs here, Whitley." Whitley turned around to see him slowly hobbling over, his cane tapping against the floor. "You can call me Pietro or Mr. Polendina, if it'll please you." His lips pulled up into a wide grin. Not like Father's though, it was… different. Strange. Unnatural.

Warm.

"...Mr. Polendina, then." Whitley settled, nodding as he clasped his hands behind his back. "Just what is it you'll have to do?" Maybe he'll get a clue on what Father was implying before? Though he doubted it, it was worth the attempt.

Mr. Polendina let out a breath, his eyes once full with life dulling as his shoulders slumped. "Well, dear boy- Whitley. Forgive me, it's an adjustment." He offered an apologetic grin, and Whitley had to once again force his shoulder back at ease. "My assistant left for University recently, so I'll have to stack and organize the Dust myself. Not that it's a bother, but it'll be… difficult, as I'm sure you can tell."

Whitley's eyes fell down towards his cane. "Indeed." It probably wasn't the most diplomatic or even tactful approach, but there was no better way to phrase it in the moment. "...Is there anywhere I could put it? To organize it, I mean."

He was only doing this to fish for more information. Helping the old man, this Mr. Polendina, would endear him. Given enough time, something might slip. He could wait for that.

Mr. Polendina's eyes went wide for a moment, only for him to smile. "I won't say no to the help, young man, but I can hardly ask that of-"

"Wonderful." Whitley cut him off, clasping his hands in front of him as he plastered on a smile. "Direct me as to where I should place the vials, and I'll see to it that they're organized neatly. I've been told I've quite the knack for organization, actually."

It was surprisingly simple, setting all the different vials and the right drawers and closing them up tightly. Everything was so neatly organized that, frankly, Whitley felt a little envious. Just what method was Mr. Polendina using to organize this all? It felt so fluid and intuitive. Yet another piece of information he had to fish for. But that was more for him personally, so he could set it aside.

Even so, it took no more than what felt like half an hour.

He heard the old fellow let out a breath, pushing himself back up from his kneeling position to his feet with his cane. "Well, thank you, young man. This would have taken me hours had I done it on my own."

Whitley felt a pang of pride swell in his chest, but he crushed it down beneath the cold. "I'm glad I could be of help, sir- ah, Mr. Polendina. Forgive me, there's an adjustment period." A little callback to establish some familiarity. Father said that it was supposed to strike at the part of the mind that released dopamine. "You mentioned something about an assistant?"

Mr. Polendina hummed, pulling his flat cap from his head before holding it to his chest. "Oh yes. My previous assistant left for university, and I'm most certainly proud of her. But unfortunately, she was only here for work experience, and… well, frankly, I can't pay very well for another assistant." Mr. Polendina laughed, as though it was something to be embarrassed about. Business was never embarrassing, it was simply a matter of fact. "I can only hope that someone else stumbles upon an application."

"I-" Whitley raised a hand, only to shut his mouth. He'd nearly volunteered without thinking. That would have been foolish. "What… does this kind of work entail?"

Mr. Polendina raised a brow. "Honestly? There's very little to it. I only need someone that can man the desk and help me with the more laborious duties. Moving and receiving shipments, both of Dust and medicine. Why do you ask?"

Okay, now was the time to think practically. If this was the establishment that the Penny Project was being conducted, then it was obviously very well hidden. Either it was supposed to be deceptive, or this wasn't the location at all, and Father had simply led him on a wild goose chase. If he decided to work here, he could take some time to gather information, and if by chance his investigation bore fruit, he could continue learning. If not, he could quit and go home. It truly made no difference to him.

All this was, at the end of the day, a long-winded distraction. The chance to get away for a few hours. And frankly? It was… not tedious.

Whitley took a deep breath.

"I'd like to apply for the position."

Weeks had passed since Whitley had made such a foolish statement. All he'd done in the past few weeks was stack boxes, sort medicine, label bottles, take orders, and most mind-numbing of all, have to deal with customers. It felt like every soul that wandered through the door - if they could even be called souls - wanted to moan or whine about whatever price they found their latest prescription to be.

But every once in a while, Whitley found a customer that was almost charming. The kind of customer whose voice wasn't shot from screaming or smoking, and whose conversation held a level of intrigue that he couldn't help but find fascinating. Just the other day, a lovely elderly woman came by to pick up her prescription, and she made a comment about just how lovely it was that a young man such as himself was working so tirelessly at a pharmacy, helping people.

He didn't have it in him to look her in the eyes when she said it, but it made him smile all the same.

Even so, all that Whitley had come to discover about the pharmacy was that… Well, Father had lied to him. He should have expected it really, and to a degree, he did. But he dared to hope. Hope that maybe, somehow, he'd managed to stumble his way into something interesting. Something that would change his life.

Instead, he wound up working at a pharmacy for little more than the bare minimum pay. Not that it mattered - he was rich, money didn't mean anything. He could blow his nose with a 500 Lien card and toss it in the garbage for all he cared.

Whitley sat up in his seat behind the front desk, stretching his arms about his head before feeling a loud pop in his back. "Oh goodness," he let out a groan, slumping forward in his seat, resting his head on the desk. "I think I'll have to speak with Mr. Polendina tonight."

After four weeks of working at the clinic, Whitley had reached a conclusion.

If Project Penny was real, it certainly wasn't being worked on here. The pharmacy that he hypothesized to be a front for an actual government-sanctioned project was just… just a struggling pharmacy in a poor neighborhood in Mantle. And to think he wasted so much time here.

At the very, Father didn't seem to mind. If anything, Father almost seemed ecstatic, all but pushing him out the door. Perhaps it was just one of his many ways of saying that he needed to work harder. I suppose I just had to 'pull myself up from my bootstraps,' hm?

Whitley pulled his head up to stare at his blank monitor, catching the time. "Seven thirty, hm? Just another hour and I'll be able to…" To what? Go home? As if he'd ever want to do that. "To go to bed." Yes, that felt right. Sleep.

What a lovely thing it was, sleep. Not quite like death, but not quite living either. Sleep was somewhere caught in between the two extremes. The perfect place to linger for those without a hope for life, nor the want of death. Perfect for a dreamer, and nothing else.

Whitley pushed himself up from his seat, dusting off his lab coat - supposedly, it was a part of the uniform policy of the pharmacy - as he yawned. Mr. Polendina was probably just working in the back again.

He still wasn't quite sure what Mr. Polendina did. Every time he asked, he'd only say how he was making a change, or how he was working on designs, but never to what. From what he did know, the old man worked in biomechanical prosthesis. That was to say, the field of artificial limbs.

Men and women would hobble into the pharmacy missing an arm or a leg, or in a rare case, Whitley had seen a faunus appendage - an ear - missing. Yet somehow, every time they would step out of the back room, they were leaving with a new… piece of themselves, he supposed. A replacement, certainly, but it made them whole.

So just what was Mr. Polendina working on now?

It doesn't matter, Whitley thought, shaking his head as he stepped around his desk, making his way to the patient room - the room with the curtains. Today is my last shift, regardless of my interest. I'm here for Project Penny, and if Project Penny isn't here, then neither am I.

It was all for the sake of his fledgling interest anyway, and if the pharmacy alone couldn't keep it, then he would leave.

Whitley made his way through the patient room, each of the curtains drawn back to reveal an empty and clean bed. He should know, given that he was the one to change and clean the sheets. But as he stepped up to the last door, the one that led to the back room - Mr. Polendina's operating room - he heard… humming?

It wasn't Mr. Polendina's voice, it was too high and, frankly, cheery to be his. He was a kind and well-meaning man, if not a tad eccentric, but this was not the voice of someone simply being kind, nor that of a man. It sounded like a young woman.

But, Whitley's brows furrowed. We haven't had any young women scheduled for a procedure today. Nor any young boys, if only to cast as wide a net as possible. Perhaps Mr. Polendina's previous assistant had come back?

Whitley brought a hand to the door, sighing. "That's probably it." A good thing, too. Even if he wasn't particularly attached to the pharmacy, Mr. Polendina was a good man. It would be remiss of him to leave without so much as preparing the man to take on a replacement, after all.

Turning the doorknob, Whitley gave the door a light pushing, stepping in letting the door quietly click shut behind him. "Mr. Polendina? Are you here? I was hoping to speak to you about my employment-"

His mouth went dry. Mr. Polendina was nowhere to be seen, but his tools and trays, along with an assortment of boxes had been laid out. But more than that, Whitley stared up at the wall opposite of the door, a… head hanging from a series of wires, loosely connected to a rectangular mass of sharp and jagged metal. The head had bright orange hair, shortly cut just after her shoulders, pale, fair skin, and green eyes that almost felt real.

Whitley shuffled across the room, his hands gripping at the inside lines of his lab coat. "Fascinating…" There was no other word for it, stepping closer until he was directly beneath the head. It almost felt real. He was sure that if he squinted he could pores. "I had no idea Mr. Polendina was a man of the arts as well. It's so lifelike."

"Thank you." The head spoke back.

It spoke back?

Leaping backwards, Whitley's eyes went wide, holding his hands up to his face. "Wh-what?! It can speak?!"

Whitley watched as its face contorted, watching as fibers pulled in its face as though they were muscles. They pulled down into a frown, thin, ginger-colored eyes pulling upwards.

"Of course I can speak. What kind of person can't talk?" The head asked, then paused, a humming sound coming from its mouth. If it could even be called a mouth. "Then again, that's rather insensitive of me. I'm certain there are people with disabilities that prevent them from speaking traditionally. Regardless, I can speak. And I am not an it, I'm a she."

Whitley took a moment to catch his breath, staring up at the head's green eyes - optical sensors, more like. That explained it better. "I… will be sure to keep note of that." It was a machine. A machine that could talk with a mouth and- did it have a tongue? It looked like it did. "What are you?"

The machine smiled, a sound akin to laughter leaving its mouth as its eyes squinted. As if it were smiling with genuine warmth.

"My name is Penny. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Penny… like the project.

"Project Penny?" The words left Whitley's mouth before he could pause to think.

The machine's eyes - optical sensors - opened, the wires around its head pulling and twisting in such a way to tilt its head to the side. "Oh, you know about the project? Sensational! I was hoping Father would get an assistant. He's been getting older, and I don't want him to hurt himself." Project Penny said, its eyes dimming as they trailed down to the floor. But that didn't last, flicking back up to catch his eyes. "Thank you so much for helping Father. I really do appreciate it."

Whitley heard a servo whir loudly, flicking his eyes down to the machine's torso to see its shoulder stretched outwards. In the place of where muscles would have been, there were only masses of machine and circuitry.

Project Penny made another sound like laughter. "Excuse me, I forgot that my extremities haven't been reattached. But if they were, I'd have hugged you!"

Whitley felt his face contort, discomfort sitting in his chest. "Thank you, for that, but I'll pass. Can't have you… hurting yourself?" Could a machine even hurt itself? It could be damaged, certainly, but could it damage itself? Intentionally or otherwise. "You're supposed to be the next step in Atlas' defense industries? That doesn't seem very wise." A broken machine with the ability to speak? And here he thought machines couldn't get any worse.

The machine only 'smiled' wider, showing off a series of teeth in its mouth. What would a machine need teeth for? "Not to worry, Mr. Assistant! Once I'm combat-ready, there won't be anything to worry about anymore!"

Whitley felt confusion buzz behind his skull. It wasn't a feeling he was unaccustomed to, but it had never been so loud before. A machine that could speak, smile, and had teeth? What was it meant to do? Eat the Grimm?

No, that's ridiculous. Whitley thought, bringing a hand to his chin as he stared up at the hanging mass of metal. Its teeth are dulled, save for the canines. And if its molars are proportional to the rest of its teeth and… 'jaw,' then they should be just like a-

"Just like a human being's." Whitley's brows furrowed deeper. "You're made to look human, aren't you? To act human, hiding in plain sight, and… what? Protect Atlas' interests? Are you to be mass-produced?"

Project Penny stared down at him, a single brow rising on its 'face' as it hummed. "That's not what Father told me." The wires pulled the head from one side to the other, as though it were shaking negatively. "I'm being built to-"

Whitley heard a loud creak come from behind him.

"Penny, I'm back! And I've even managed to find those-" Mr. Polendina's voice filled the room, and Whitley only managed to turn around fast enough to see him drop a bundle of roses. "Whitley? What are you doing here? I thought you were manning the front desk?"

Whitley felt his shoulders tense, looking down at the ground. He'd seen something he wasn't meant to again, and this time, he really did stumble upon a top-secret military project. A machine in the guise of a young woman. He'd certainly be punished for this.

"Forgive me, Mr. Polendina, I was simply looking for you, and-"

"Mr. Assistant was keeping me company while you were away. He even expressed interest in the program, asking all sorts of interesting questions." Project Penny cut him off. Whitley felt his face go cold, his heart hammering in his chest. "He even came to speak to you about his employment! You've chosen a marvelous assistant, Father!" Was that supposed to be sarcasm? It certainly didn't sound like it.

There was a long stint of silence, only for the sound of wood tapping against wood to ring out. Whitley watched as a shadow slowly loomed closer to him, gritting his teeth as he forced his eyes shut. Mr. Polendina was a stout fellow, but that only made his shadow cast that much wider.

Eventually, that tapping stopped.

"Look at me, Whitley." Mr. Polendina's voice was quiet, heavy, as though it was burdened by some unimaginable weight.

Whitley carefully peeled opened his eyes, trailing up the old man's wide figure to see his face. His many, many wrinkles seemed only to multiply, an exhausted expression on his face. Behind those brown eyes where there was once a bright sparkle, now there was only the dim and dark.

Whitley stared down at the old fellow's cane, seeing him lean against it. Relying on it to keep him upright. If things got so bad that he needed to-

No, Whitley cut that train of thought off. Mr. Polendina is a good man. I'll not kick his cane beneath him because of my mistakes.

"Forgive me, Mr. Polendina." He started, his words cracking as he struggled to keep a stoic expression on his face. Schnee's weren't known to crack, and neither would he. "I came looking for you in the hopes of speaking of my employment, and I… I found Project Penny."

Mr. Polendina's brows furrowed. Whitley had never seen that happen before. "And just how did you manage to find out about her yourself? Any footage of her should have been scrubbed, even before the CCT went down. Rumors? Speculation? Or perhaps… espionage?"

Whitley quickly shook his head. "No, sir." A ball started to form in his throat, but he pushed it down. "I-I heard of it in passing. I didn't think it was real and I… I was curious. Wanted to know more." He wanted a change.

"And this information, where did you stumble upon it?"

Whitley felt his heart hammering against his chest. Taking a deep breath, he squared back his shoulders. "My Father, sir. I heard him briefly speak to the General, and I caught it in passing." An incidental eavesdrop, one that would never happen again, even if he wanted it to. "That day, when I was delivering dust to you? I would have never found you, had I not worked through the delivery route."

Mr. Polendina's brows eased, but there was still a crease between them. "Who are you really, my boy? Who is this father of yours?"

Whitley took a deep breath, bringing his hands behind his back before slightly bowing his head. "My name is Whitley Schnee, son of Jacques and Willow Schnee, and sole heir to the Schnee Dust Company." Mr. Polendina took a sharp breath, but Whitley continued regardless. "And I've come to offer my services."

Looking up, Whitley watched as all of the tension left Mr. Polendina's face. In fact, a smile threatened to part the man's face in half. "So that's what this is." Mr. Polendina brought a bony hand to his face, stroking his beard. "I was wondering what the Non-disclosure Agreement was for. Now I see that it's for you, young man."

Whitley's brows furrowed as he stood up straight, his hands coming to his sides. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Nonsense, young man." Mr. Polendina laughed, fishing through his vest pocket before unfurling a single document of paper. "There are no sirs here, Whitley. No status, no class, simply science to be done! I must say, you had me quite worried for a time. I wasn't sure if you were a saboteur or what have you."

"And…" The word fumbled from Whitley's mouth, but he couldn't just stop now. "What makes you think I'm not now? I could just be lying to you. This is, after all, a top-secret government program."

Mr. Polendina's eyes squinted as his smile widened. "You have an honest face, my boy."

Strange, his shoulders hadn't tensed that time.

Whitley felt a warmth in his chest, his mouth opening, though no words would come out. Strange, his eyes felt irritated too. Perhaps he was simply coming down with a cold. Or a flu, most likely. That would explain the shortness of breath.

Whitley wiped his eyes as he stood his full height. "I… appreciate the kind words, Mr. Polendina." It took him a moment to recompose himself - he could be sick another time. But for now, he was working.

"Of course, Whitley." He felt Mr. Polendina rest a hand against his shoulder. It felt… warm. "Now then, what's this Penny was saying about your employment?"

Whitley stared up at the old man for a moment, only to turn his head, staring up at the machine on the wall. It smiled at him. A machine. Smiling. Machines didn't tend to have faces - they had visors, ocular sensors, that sort of thing. But this one had a face, with eyes, a nose, mouth, lips - it almost looked human.

He simply had to know more.

"I'd like to work on the Penny Project. Properly, I mean."

Mr. Polendina's brows shot up, but he didn't seem all that surprised. If anything, his smile seemed to widen, his brown eyes gaining light. "Of course, Whitley." He said, holding out the single document in front of him. "Just sign on the dotted line at the bottom."

It was at this moment that Whitley knew he should be using his training. After all, the first lesson Father drilled into him was to never sign a contract before reading it. It was basic business decision making, after all.

Whitley fished a pen from his pocket, giving it a click, and signed on the dotted line. He could have very well just sold his soul to some kind of demon, and he would never know. Because at the end of the day, it didn't matter. If it would throw a snare in his day to day, he would tear the very shirt from his back to make a change occur.

Because he needed to know just what it was that made this machine seem so human.

Alright, it's done.

I know what you might be thinking. "Rum," you're saying. "What the hell are you doing, writing another story that you're not likely to finish any time soon? Aren't you already working on too many that you've burnt yourself out on?" And honestly? You may be right. But I've been in a bit of a bad slump lately, what with so many little things piling up. And with my skills constantly improving, I ended up feeling like everything I used to write, and even things I currently write, are just bad.

So my friend Luz gave me a challenge. I had until today, Friday, to write the first chapter of an idea that neither of us had ever seen. A Whitley story, a Penny story - a Whitley-Penny story, if you will.

Basically, he wanted me to write something different, and I wanted to write something different too. So I made this. The story of a little rich kid being a sociopath, and the metallic doll that will inevitably teach him to be... well, I'll let the story speak for itself. Regardless, this one shouldn't be long, and I know, I say that about every story. But the challenge for this one is to make it as straightforward and easy as possible. I'll try and get the next one out quickly enough.

Anyway, Ciao, y buenas noches.

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