For What It's Worth

2.4

I.

"And here," Whitley Schnee declared, clicking the handheld remote in his fingers, "we see a projected schematic for the next generation of dustless vehicles, powered instead by concentrated solar energy utilizing a stabilized photovoltaic array."

The lights dimmed in the presentation room, and a holographic model appeared above the table. It showcased sleek, angular vehicles that resembled the usual Atlesian dropship. The difference was that where the dust cores would normally reside, a battery socket was present. Separate from the dropship was a set of solar panels directly connected to the socket.

Pietro Polendina leaned forward from his chair with the eagerness of a child. "Fascinating! Have you managed to convert and store solar output efficiently enough for heavy transport? How are you maintaining energy flow at high altitudes or under cloud cover?"

Whitley couldn't help the smirk tugging at his lips. "Multi-layered photovoltaic cells with quantum dot enhancements, linked to a high-capacity capacitor array. Self-correcting fluctuations occur in real-time."

Beside Pietro sat a uniformed woman in her forties with sharp features. Colonel Dana Soleil of the Atlesian Military's R division hadn't reacted much during the presentation. There wasn't any leaning in, no impressed nods—only a deepening crease between her brows as Whitley elaborated further.

"I'm sorry," Dana said, her voice flat. "You expect us to believe that we can phase out dust entirely from our mobile arsenal in just under five years? Do you know how long it took to get the contracts just for blue-grade Dust crystals from your father's own company? And now you want us to just drop it?"

"Of course not," Whitley replied, barely holding back a sigh. "But I'm not suggesting a five-year overhaul. I'm proposing a research commitment now, to develop the infrastructure necessary. The long-term logistics of dust use are unsustainable—especially with the geopolitical volatility around SDC's control of the market. Assuming that, I work with the military. Which I won't."

Penny Polendina—standing beside Pietro like a spring-loaded rocket, hands clasped behind her back—practically bounced on her heels. "That's so cool! Are you saying we could make vehicles that don't rely on any external fuel except sunlight? That would reduce heat signatures in stealth operations by, like, seventy percent! Oh! Could this be adapted for personal flight units? Ooh! Could I try one?!"

Whitley's jaw tightened.

"Yes," he said through clenched teeth. "Theoretically. But let me finish the presentation before we get to applications."

"Oh, right! Apologies, friend Whitley!" Penny beamed.

Whitley turned back to his holo-display, taking a breath before continuing. "As I was saying, the photovoltaic array design—"

"Still highly impractical," Dana cut in. "You're proposing a complete deviation from proven technology. Do you have any real-world trials? Or is this all still theoretical?"

Whitley resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Unfortunately no working prototypes exist right now. Although I do plan on making them within Academy premises in the coming days. Based on my current calculations both will function without significant degradation."

Pietro raised a hand between them. "Now, now. Let's not talk over each other." He offered a calming smile to Dana, then turned his chair slightly to Penny. "And Penny, dear, maybe let Whitley finish explaining before you ask questions?"

Penny nodded rapidly. "Of course! Zipping my lips now!" She made a motion of sealing her mouth shut and throwing away the key.

Whitley rubbed the bridge of his nose anyway.

"Look," he said, re-centering the schematic with another click, "the point isn't to discard dust entirely. It's to create an alternative—options that aren't dependent on a singular source or politically unstable trade. I mean seriously, have any of you considered we'd run out of Dust at some point? It's not just about military use either. Civilian transport, energy independence, infrastructure—this opens doors."

Dana folded her arms. "And what's the cost of those doors?"

Whitley lifted his chin. "Less than the cost of being free from a conglomerate monopoly."

Pietro clapped his hands gently. "I, for one, think this is a marvelous avenue to explore. Your solar energy solution is unlike anything I've seen in current R . It might take time, yes, but innovation always begins with bold ideas."

Penny gave a small hop. "Can we integrate it with my flight systems?"

'What?'

"Or maybe test it with my propulsion units? I bet we could optimize performance by at least twelve-point-seven percent!"

Whitley exhaled slowly. "Miss Polendina. Please. If I may continue?"

"Oh! Right, right! Sorry!" She saluted, though she hadn't stopped smiling.

He continued, detailing the modular solar cells, the redundancies in the capacitor systems, and the layered shielding—only to be interrupted again moments later.

"That shielding," Dana said, tapping the digital schematic, "how does it hold up under electromagnetic pulses? Our forces often operate near Grimm-ravaged zones with unpredictable fields. Have you stress-tested it?"

"Of course," Whitley answered. "EM countermeasures are built into the secondary circuitry. These same countermeasures already exist in my current inventions, and testing has already confirmed performance beyond standard parameters."

"I'd still like to see the numbers for myself," she said sharply.

"You'll get them," Whitley snapped.

Penny raised her hand. "Wouldn't it be neat if the vehicles could self-repair, too? Like I'm sure you can make nanobots into a reality! Or miniaturized drones that pop out and fix armor plating while in combat!"

Whitley's hand curled around the edge of the podium. "That's not—relevant to this presentation, Penny."

"But it could be! Right?" She grinned.

"Let him finish, sweetheart," Pietro said gently.

The remaining minutes of the presentation passed in a haze of forced patience. Whitley delivered the final slides with clipped efficiency, answering questions only when forced to, and offering only what data was absolutely necessary.

When the lights came back up and the hologram faded, Whitley closed the projector with a firm click.

"Well," Dana said, standing, "I suppose I'll be reviewing your data sets before I render my recommendation. You'll hear from me soon, Mr. Schnee."

Whitley gave a stiff nod. "Looking forward to it."

Penny was already halfway into a monologue about how she could help test one of the prototypes, while Pietro gently tried to steer her attention elsewhere.

Whitley gathered his materials in silence.

By the time he'd returned the projector to its case and slung his satchel over one shoulder, he'd had enough.

"Thank you for allowing me to present a topic outside of the Academy's research exploits, Doctor Polendina," he said curtly.

Pietro nodded warmly. "It was an excellent presentation, Whitley. Don't let a few interruptions dampen your spirit. You're onto something remarkable. I myself have explored alternative energy sources outside of Dust in my youth. Alas, that amounted to nothing, but maybe that wouldn't be the case this time around."

Whitley managed a small smile. "I know."

Then, shooting a brief glare at the overly enthusiastic girl still chattering beside her father and the skeptical officer reviewing her notes, Whitley exited the lab.

The door hissed closed behind him.

"Remind me," he muttered to himself, "why did I agree to this again?"

No answer came. Only the sound of Penny's voice through the walls, still asking if she could please, please fly one of the prototypes.

He groaned.

II.

The sound of booted footsteps on polished tile echoed faintly as Whitley was escorted down a narrow hallway that lacked the usual line of glass panels and sealed doors. The Altesian Infantry Command Center loomed with a utilitarian air that grated on his sense of aesthetics. This was far from the sterile environment of Dr. Polendina's laboratory, this was military through and through.

He was used to high-ranking scientists, arrogant bureaucrats, and cold diplomats. But infantry command? This was new, his only interaction with the military was General Ironwood and he was considered to be quite liberal compared to his contemporaries. Quite frankly, this was rather unnerving to him.

The soldier escorting him opened a steel-reinforced door at the end of the corridor and gestured inside.

"He's waiting for you."

Whitley stepped into the office. It was modest, clean, but impersonal. A wall-mounted map of Solitas, shelves filled with binders, and a large desk made of simple composite alloy. Sitting behind the desk was a gruff-looking man who was probably in his early fifties. Clean-shaven and completely bald, broad shoulders, eyes that Whitley couldn't quite pin down what was going on behind them.

"Whitley Schnee," the man said, rising. "I am Colonel Victor Greyfax. Commanding officer of the Atlesian Infantry Division."

Whitley gave a sharp nod. "Colonel. I wasn't informed of the purpose of this meeting."

"No, I imagine you weren't." The colonel gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

Whitley hesitated before settling stiffly into the chair. "Why am I here?"

Dorian didn't answer right away. Instead, he studied Whitley for a moment, then said, "I want to start with something that might surprise you. I want to apologize."

Whitley blinked. "...What?"

"For everything. Your arrest. The way you were thrown into Atlas Academy without proper notice. The bureaucracy treating you like some wildcard instead of a person. It wasn't right."

Whitley sat back, stunned into silence. "You… you're apologizing?"

Victor tilted his head. "Is that so rare?"

Something ugly twisted in Whitley's stomach. The image of his father's cold eyes flashed in his mind. His mother's silence. The scorn of his sisters.

He looked away. "...Yes."

There was a long pause. Whitley clenched his jaw and leaned forward again. "Why did you call me here, Colonel? Please. Spare me the pleasantries."

Victor didn't seem offended. If anything, his expression softened slightly. "Fair enough. I asked to see you because I want a favor. Simply put, I want you to demonstrate your power armor in combat."

Whitley blinked again. He hadn't expected that.

"Combat?" he repeated. "Colonel, I'm a kid. Sure, I'm also an engineer. But I don't fight."

"I know," Victor said simply.

Whitley narrowed his eyes. "Then why ask me?"

The colonel leaned forward now, resting his elbows on the desk, fingers steepled.

"Because I have officers breathing down my neck telling me that only Hunters matter. That only Aura can win battles. That innovation and technology for the infantry is a waste of time. A sentiment that gets our soldiers, MY soldiers, killed."

Whitley remained quiet.

"Your power armor," Victor continued, "is the most advanced thing our labs have seen since Dust itself. You built it with no formal training, no staff, no corporate funding. Just your mind. And I believe there is something special in that scenario alone that can help me."

"Okay…" Whitley said slowly. "That's what everyone else has been saying since I got sent here. But I still have no idea what you're trying to prove by forcing me into a fight."

"The point that I'm trying to prove is that the military should be funding R for the infantry and not just focusing on Aura recruitment," Victor said. "That we should give every soldier a fighting chance, especially those without Semblances. If a child like you, using better technology can survive and maybe even win in combat, then those above me will be forced to invest in broadening their R research for the benefit of the common soldier."

Whitley frowned. He understood where the man was coming from, but he was far from looking the part of an empathetic officer. Truth be told, all that was missing from the man was an elongated mustache to complete the villain look. "Why do you care? Surely you've benefited from the status quo."

Victor's face darkened.

"Because I've buried too many of my own soldiers. Good soldiers. Brave ones. Who died because they didn't have Aura. Or because their equipment was too weak to face the stronger kind Grimm. I admit, I know nothing of what goes on with the eggheads in the R . I do know that they're actively avoiding trying to do anything beneficial for the infantry. So if a boy like you can build something that levels the field, then I owe it to my soldiers to explore it. Even if it means looking foolish to my peers."

Whitley stared at him, heart ticking faster.

This man wasn't anything like the sneering bureaucrats he imagined. He wasn't mocking Whitley. He wasn't trying to manipulate him. Rough as he was, the man believed in what he was saying. The Colonel was willing to change.

For a long moment, Whitley said nothing. Then he looked down at his hands.

"The suit… was designed for extreme conditions, even extended engagements are nothing to it. I, however, have zero experience in the field of combat. The closest thing that can be considered as experience was my morning routine of stretching. Which mind you, I haven't done in a while."

"But the suit works."

Whitley nodded slowly. "Yes. It works."

Victor sat back. "Then show me. Show them. Show them the strength of your suit, of your unrivaled intelligence, and open a path for my soldiers. Don't worry about the logistics or even Ironwood, I'll handle that. I can get you a controlled engagement. No stakes. Just a demonstration."

Whitley swallowed.

"You're serious about this."

"Dead serious."

The room went quiet.

Then Whitley stood. He straightened his shirt, exhaled through his nose, and nodded.

"Very well. I'll do it. When do you want this to happen?"

Victor smiled. Just faintly.

"Up to you, but the sooner the better."

Whitley thought for a bit, he wanted this ridiculous request to be as over as possible. But he also wanted to prepare for said ridiculous request. "I can do it in two days if you'd like."

Victor nodded his head. "Good, I find that schedule agreeable. I think you're going to change minds, Whitley Schnee."

Whitley turned toward the door.

"I highly doubt that, Colonel. But one step at a time."

III.

Whitley shut the door to his room with more force than intended. The metallic clack echoed like a hammer on his nerves. He stood frozen for a moment, staring at the soft glow of his computer monitors, hands clenched at his sides.

"You're distressed," came the familiar voice of Tess from the embedded speaker above his desk. "That's not your usual brooding walk. What happened?"

Whitley let out a long breath, throwing himself at his bed then audibly groaning. "I agreed to a combat demonstration."

There was a pause. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

"A combat demonstration. With the power armor," he clarified. "In two days."

Tess' voice instantly adopted a sharper edge. "Whitley, have you completely lost your mind? You're not a fighter!"

"I know," he snapped. "Believe me, I know."

"Then why would you agree to this?" she asked, equal parts exasperated and concerned.

Whitley rubbed his face. "Colonel Victor Greyfax. The commanding officer of the Altesian infantry. He spoke to me directly. He apologized to me, and he was oddly sincere about it. Not just that, after he praised my work, he then went on admitting that he wants to save lives. He wants to change things, and he thinks the Mark II is the key to that."

"And you just... signed up to be a human target out of pity?"

"Not pity," Whitley growled. "Respect. He gave me something I rarely get: a choice. He was honest. The kind of honesty that hurts."

There was a brief silence. Then Tess finally sighed. "So... do you have a plan?"

Whitley turned to his computer, a spark of focus returning to his eyes. "Yes, I will create a prototype combat analysis module. This is an A.I. subroutine capable of watching, analyzing, and adapting to fighting patterns. When finished, I believe it can learn from on-the-spot video footage and apply countermeasures almost instantly."

Tess perked up. "You want to use this to compensate for your lack of formal combat training."

"Exactly. It'd be stupid if I started studying how to fight right now. This program won't give me reflexes, but it can predict moves, and suggest a but-load of counters that will create opportunities for me."

"And you trust it to be ready in two days?"

Whitley looked down. "No. The final product will need a bit more than just two days. I do, however, believe the prototype will be enough for me to survive the whole thing."

Her tone brightened with something that might as well have been amusement. "I was afraid you'd say that, but it can't be helped. Here's what we'll do. You spend tonight and tomorrow exclusively working on the programming of this combat-analysis A.I. of yours. No distractions, no detours."

"And you?"

"I'll go back to the factory, which by the way is mostly maintained by Klein and a skeleton crew. I still have access to most of our systems. I can design and produce the stimulant nerve systems and the biochemical stimulants themselves. You'll need a neural boost just to keep up with the predictive processing, and more importantly, the physical strength to actually act on it."

Whitley frowned. "We talked about the stimulant protocols before. They're unstable."

"I'll make them stable," she said firmly. "Trust me. You don't have the luxury of hesitation. We'll call it our mutually desperate compromise."

He hesitated. Then gave a reluctant nod.

"Fine. But how are you planning to deliver them? Security will comb through any unauthorized tech."

"On the evening before the demonstration," Tess said, "I'll hack into the Atlesian Academy's logistics system and tag the delivery as a routine parts shipment for the R department. They won't question it."

Whitley narrowed his eyes. "You make it sound so simple."

"Because it is simple. One of these days I'm going to teach you the lesson of not overcomplicating simple things. Now, you have your miracle to build, Whitley. I have mine."

He let out a shaky breath. The room suddenly felt a little colder. A little heavier.

"You're insane," he muttered.

"And you're exhausted. Which is why you're about to do something utterly uncharacteristic."

Whitley raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You're going to eat. A full, heavy meal right now. Not a nutrient bar. Not coffee. Real food."

"That's a waste of time."

"Which is exactly why I'm forcing you to do it now. Knowing you, you'll probably starve yourself while trying to program a neural AI from scratch in two days. You know I'm right."

Whitley sighed. "Shut up Tess…but yeah, you're right."

"Of course I am. Now get up, go to the cafeteria, and don't come back until you've eaten enough to support twenty-four hours of nonstop coding."

He gave a defeated grunt but pushed himself out of the bed. "Fine. But only because if I don't you'll nag at me the whole time."

"Absolutely not. Unlike you, I have a healthy routine dedicated to gloating."

He paused in the doorway, turning back just slightly.

"Thank you. For doing this."

There was a warmth in her voice that sounded human. "Don't thank me yet. Save that for when you've survived after the demonstration."

With that, Whitley turned and headed down the hall, the tension in his spine still tight. A meal right now did sound rather magnificent.

IV.

The air inside Atlas Academy's hangar had a scent that was sterile, similar to that of a hospital but with more engine oil thrown in the mix. Whitley walked briskly down the steel corridor, despite the numerous sounds of generators and machinery he could still hear his footsteps. In his hands was a clearance slip, reminding himself not to crumple the document as he tried to remain calm.

He reached the logistics desk, handing over the slip without a word. The logistics officer raised an eyebrow but scanned the paper and nodded. "Hangar bay C2. Delivery arrived this morning."

Whitley nodded once and turned, heart pounding. In truth, there wasn't any reason to be this anxious, but he wasn't taking any chances. The moment he reached C2, he found the package exactly where Tess said it would be: a large wooden crate marked as "R Supplies - Component Replacements." The exterior was unassuming, dull brown with standard labeling. Whatever anxiety he felt disappeared as he pried the crate open, revealing Tess' creation from within.

Inside lay the newly fabricated stimulant systems that were sleek, compact, and refined. As well as a container of the actual stimulants. He carefully checked each part. The systems were modular, just as designed, with direct neural interface ports and hydraulic lock-ins meant for seamless integration into his power armor. She had done it.

No. They had done it.

He moved with urgency now, loading the crate onto a cart and pushing it toward his section of the hangar. The Mark II stood on its platform, untouched.

He rolled the crate next to it and began his work.

Silence enveloped him.

Normally, Tess would be in his ear, making snide remarks, offering corrections, mocking his posture, or challenging his overconfidence. Now, nothing. The silence from her absence was deafening to his ears, making the sounds of his tools and the ambiance of the hangar louder than usual.

Whitley worked through it. He removed a portion of the interior plating beneath the armor's chest cavity and began rerouting the cable lines. The stimulant systems needed both internal housing and direct access to the pilot's nervous system.

The room, once only populated by technicians and vehicles, had begun to fill. At first, it was a trickle of curious students and staff. Then soldiers. Then instructors.

He felt them. Dozens of eyes on him.

Whitley paused, his tool hovering above the interface port. He could hear their quiet murmurs, the shuffling of boots, the way people kept a careful distance but still stared. They were watching him.

He hated it.

Every glance was a judgment. Every whisper was a dismissal. They didn't see a genius. They saw a Schnee. An arrogant child who somehow built something worth noticing, and yet believed he was unworthy of what he had created.

His fingers trembled. He tightened his grip on the tool until his knuckles turned white.

"Do you ever get tired of trying to prove people wrong, Whitley?" he remembered Tess asking once.

"No," he'd replied coldly. "Because they never give me the chance to stop."

He took a breath. Held it, and let it go.

Then he got back to work.

He installed the first stimulant pod into the chest cavity, linking it to the armor's life-support system. Next came the stimulant dispersal tubes which were tiny, precise injectors that would deliver calculated bursts directly into his bloodstream at the AI's command.

The work was delicate, almost surgical. And all the while, the crowd grew.

Whitley's jaw clenched. He refused to look at them. Refused to let them see how their presence rattled him.

You don't belong here, their eyes told him.

You're not one of us.

You'll fail.

He closed the last panel, sealing the internal ports. The Mark II hummed as its systems synced to the new additions. He ran a diagnostic on his phone. Green lights. Full compatibility. His hands dropped to his sides.

Still not a word.

Still no voice.

Whitley stared at his reflection in the polished armor chestplate. For a moment, he let himself wish Tess were here. She would have said something sarcastic by now. Something grounding.

But she wasn't. And he had a demonstration tomorrow. So he turned, ignoring the stares, and wheeled the empty cart away.

Let them look. Let them think what they want. He had a job to finish.

And for once, the future of Remnant might depend on his survival.

V.

Never had Whitley thought that his patience would be tested in such a short time. The restrictions forced on him by the Academy were already crippling in his eyes. However, being summoned by the most powerful man in the Atlesian military in a near-daily occurrence was also a factor. He adjusted his collar out of habit, spine straightening as the elevator doors hissed open.

The General's office was just as he first saw it. General Ironwood stood by the panoramic window overlooking the academy's central field, hands clasped behind his back.

"Whitley," Ironwood said, turning only slightly. "Come in."

Whitley stepped forward, his shoes tapping softly against the polished floor. He stopped a few feet from the desk. "General."

Ironwood moved to his chair and sat, folding his hands neatly in front of him. His piercing gaze fixed on the young Schnee with the same mix of curiosity and skepticism as the first time they met.

"I received a report from Colonel Greyfax two days ago. He tells me you agreed to a live combat demonstration."

Whitley nodded once. "Yes, I did."

Ironwood arched an eyebrow. "Forgive my skepticism, but this surprises me. You've been... selective about who you cooperate with. You've challenged Colonel Soleil of the R unit at every opportunity, and even Dr. Polendina has voiced concerns about your attitude. So, my question is Whitley, why now? Why this?"

Whitley hesitated, his eyes flicking to the window behind Ironwood before returning. "Because Colonel Greyfax did something unexpected. He saw me as a human being first. He didn't try to force me to get what he wanted, and he didn't order me around. He simply asked. He admitted he didn't know everything, and he wanted help to save lives. That's more than I can say for most people here."

Ironwood leaned back in his chair slightly, frowning. "You think we don't value human lives?"

"No," Whitley said carefully. "I think many people here value results more. Efficiency. Control. Colonel Greyfax didn't ask me for perfection, General. He asked me to try."

There was a long pause.

Whitley folded his arms. "Maybe you should try being humble, too."

Ironwood's brow furrowed. "You walk a fine line, Whitley."

"I've been walking fine lines my entire life."

Another silence, this one heavier. Ironwood sighed and tapped the surface of his scroll. A holographic projection flared to life above the desk, displaying the profiles of four students.

"Team FNKI," he said. "Second-ranked among the first-year students at Atlas Academy. You'll be facing them in a one-minute combat demonstration."

Whitley blinked. "One minute against four Aura-wielding fighters?"

Ironwood nodded. "Yes. Consider it a stress test—for you and your power armor. Your tech is promising. And like the Colonel, I'm curious. I want to see if technology can bridge the gap between ordinary soldiers and Huntsmen."

Whitley frowned. "And if I fail?"

"Then we understand its limitations," Ironwood said simply. "And you gain experience."

Whitley looked away, jaw tightening. "I'm not a fighter."

"No," Ironwood agreed. "But you chose to put your name on that machine. You chose to demonstrate what it could do. We're not asking you to become a Huntsman or even a soldier. We're asking you to stand behind your own work."

The logic was cold, but not unkind.

Whitley slowly nodded. "Fine. I'll do it."

Ironwood studied him for a moment, then relaxed his posture slightly. "Thank you."

Whitley turned to leave but stopped at the doorway. "General."

Ironwood looked up.

"When you lead an army, remember that some of your soldiers want to be heard. Not commanded."

Ironwood blinked, a touch surprised but gave a faint chuckle and nodded. "Noted."

VI.

The hum of machines barely masked the sound of Whitley's typing as he calibrated the final inputs for the stimulant system inside the hangar's built-in lab. He had already installed the modified stimulant ports into the inner lining of the power armor. Now, it was only a matter of syncing the whole system with the onboard interface. Despite his sharp mind and dedication, Whitley's hands were trembling ever so slightly—nerves, anxiety, maybe even fear. Definitely fear.

A soft chime sounded from the door console. Before he could call out, the door opened with a soft hiss.

"Winter," Whitley said in surprise, straightening immediately. "What are you doing here?"

His older sister stepped inside, arms folded neatly behind her back in her usual military posture, sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on him. Her expression was unreadable.

"I was ordered to ensure you're prepared for your upcoming demonstration," she said crisply. "A task I personally find redundant."

Whitley tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "Redundant? You think this is a waste of time?"

"Yes," she replied without hesitation. "And no. I think this is a waste of their time. But for you?" She let a breath out through her nose. "You are in desperate need of discipline. If it takes a public defeat in combat to make that clear, then so be it."

His lips curled into a scowl. "Nice to see your faith in me remains as cold as ever."

"Faith is earned, Whitley. Not demanded," she said sternly.

Before Whitley could craft a biting retort, the door slid open again with a sharp swoosh—and in burst a blur of pink, blue energy.

"Whew! We're here!" a bubbly voice rang out. A girl with bubblegum-pink hair and a long tail bounced into the room with uncontainable excitement. "Oh my goodness, are you Whitley Schnee?!"

Whitley blinked. "Yes. And you are...?"

"We're Team FNKI!" she declared proudly, spinning on her heel and gesturing behind her. "I'm Neon Katt! That's Flynt, Kobalt, and Ivory!"

Flynt entered the room and stood behind her with his arms crossed. He gave Whitley a once-over and scoffed. "So this is the guy. Rich kid in a tin can, huh?"

Kobalt, a tall, quiet boy with dark blue hair and a relaxed posture, gave a friendly nod but didn't say much. He looked mildly interested, but not particularly invested in what was happening.

Ivory, on the other hand, was impossible to miss. Tall, with dark skin, short straight gray hair, and an aura of dramatic flair. He stepped forward with a dampened smile. "Well, well, Mr. Schnee. Got a lot riding on those shoulders, huh? Hope that armor's more than just a pretty shell. Still, fair's fair—I'm looking forward to seeing what you can do."

Whitley frowned, instinctively bristling at Flynt's tone. "I didn't ask for this. I was voluntold. If anything, I'd rather not entertain spectators who've already decided I'll fail."

Flynt rolled his eyes. "No one's saying you can't try. Just don't cry when it doesn't work out."

Neon zipped around him, peering over his shoulder at the armor. "This is so cool, though! Look at the plating, the joints! Are those adjustable shock dampeners? Can I touch it?"

"No," Whitley replied sharply, turning slightly to guard his suit from her curiosity. "It's still sensitive. And I'd rather not have sticky fingerprints on a precision instrument."

Neon gave a fake pout but still followed his request. "You're kind of intense, huh? That's okay! I think this whole thing is super exciting! I mean, you're trying to fight without Aura! Sure you're cheating with that big suit of yours, but that's still wild!"

Ivory leaned against the nearby console, observing the exchange with amusement. "She's right. Whatever else you are, Schnee, you've got guts. Or ego. Maybe both."

Winter clapped her hands once, drawing everyone's attention. "Enough chatter. You're here to prepare. I expect professionalism from all of you."

As they all began gathering their gear, Whitley caught something in Flynt's expression when Winter spoke. The tightening of the jaw, the hardening of his eyes.

It wasn't just dislike. It was personal.

As the rest of Team FNKI dispersed toward the locker room, Whitley stepped closer to Winter. "He hates you."

Winter looked at him sidelong. "He doesn't like authority. Or perhaps he doesn't like the Schnee name."

"You're not really that Schnee anymore," Whitley muttered.

"Tell that to the people who suffered under our father's company," she said coolly. "The name sticks, Whitley. Whether we like it or not."

Whitley fell silent, his gaze lingering on Flynt's retreating figure. "Think he'll go easy on me?"

"No," Winter said, not even trying to soften the answer. "And he shouldn't. This is a test. A test you agreed to. Prove yourself, Whitley. The world won't bend over to your will because of your name."

He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling the weight of it all pressing down on his shoulders. The armor, the demonstration, the sneering doubt in Flynt's tone, the electric curiosity in Neon's, the cold professionalism of his sister.

And yet… despite everything, he found a flicker of determination beneath the anxiety. The Colonel believed in the cause. Tess believed in him. And maybe… just maybe… he wanted to believe in himself too.

"Then I'd better make sure I don't disappoint," he said quietly.

Winter didn't reply, but her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than necessary. Then, with a nod, she turned and followed the others.

Whitley stood alone, the steel frame of his power armor beside him—silent, gleaming, waiting.

The countdown had begun.

VII.

The room was quiet—eerily so. The kind of stillness that preceded a storm, or perhaps a public humiliation. Whitley Schnee stood in front of the Mark II, gleaming under the fluorescent lights of Atlas Academy's preparation hangar.

It was time to suit up.

He stepped forward and triggered the start-up mechanism with a gentle tap on the embedded panel near the base. A mechanical hiss echoed as the armor whirred to life. A base platform rose from the floor, encasing his boots and calves first. A warm metallic brace clasped around his ankles with a gentle pull upward, guiding his legs into place within the reinforced armor sheaths.

The feeling was familiar—the tightening of locks, the click of securing latches over his shins, knees, and thighs. The soft hum of gyros spinning up activated a series of internal muscle-alignment systems. The joints adjusted automatically to his posture, allowing flexibility without sacrificing protection. With each mechanical whisper, more of him disappeared behind custom-tempered alloy and advanced synthetic fibers.

The torso piece, segmented and reinforced, unfolded from the back and wrapped itself around his chest and back like an exoskeletal embrace. He exhaled as it locked into place, perfectly contoured to his frame. The power conduits connected with tiny sparks as the arc core embedded in the chestplate hummed with dormant, powerful energy.

His arms were next. From shoulders to fingertips, the armor sealed over his body in smooth, synchronized movements. The plates expanded and molded around his biceps and elbows, ending in sleek gauntlets that clicked over his hands like tailored gloves instead of armor. Inside them, he could feel the latent heat of the repulsor rays powering up. He flexed his fingers and the armor, responding instantly with no delay. Not even a flicker of resistance.

Last came the helmet. It hovered for a moment, rotating slowly, before descending. He tilted his head forward slightly as it slid into place, clamping down with a soft mechanical hiss. The HUD lit up across his visor in blue and white: vitals, power levels, pressure readouts, gyroscopic balance, and targeting assistance. Everything was green. Everything was ready.

Whitley rolled his shoulders, his motions fluid. The armor moved perfectly with him. No lag. No stiffness. It was like slipping into a memory, his memory. He lifted one arm and aimed his fist toward a nearby wall, triggering a soft pulse from the repulsor. The HUD blinked, confirming readiness.

"Repulsors active," he muttered to himself.

Next, he reached behind with a twist of his torso, engaging the jetpack mounted across the backplate. Twin vents flared gently with light as they activated, silent but powerful. Designed for extended flight but they were just as perfect for maneuvering in combat.

"Jetpack online."

Finally, he opened the compartment in his right forearm. With a soft whine, the handle of his beam saber jumped into his hand, and as he activated it the pink blade of energy shined brightly. He gave the blade a few practice swipes before deactivating the beam saber with a satisfying hiss and returning it to its compartments.

"All systems… nominal," he whispered, pride evident in his voice. He stood in silence, encased and ready.

It felt good. It felt great to be back inside the Mark II.

The suit was more than armor. It was the culmination of his intellect, his work, his defiance of everyone who doubted him. For a moment, it dulled the roar of anxieties clawing at the back of his mind. For a moment, he could forget the spectators, the judgment, the weight of the Schnee name on his shoulders.

"Status check complete. Suit integrity at 100%. Are you ready, Whitley?"

Tess' voice chimed in his helmet's auditory feed and it was deeply reassuring. Their brief separation in the previous two days had felt incredibly long to him. The feeling of wanting to see someone again was weird to Whitley, and yet it was rather welcoming to him.

He smirked slightly under his helmet.

"No," he replied. "But such is life."

"That's your idea of optimism?"

"Compared to how I normally feel?" he quipped. "Absolutely."

"Fair enough. Your vitals are elevated but within acceptable parameters. Try to regulate your breathing as you enter the arena. The last thing we need is a performance issue due to anxiety."

"Noted," he muttered. "Though if anyone dares call me nervous, I'll just say it's anticipation."

"Whatever helps you cope, boss." There was a teasing lilt in her voice, but it was comforting. Her presence filled the silence that had been gnawing at him earlier.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

Through the HUD, he saw the hangar bay doors begin to part. A long corridor stretched out beyond, flooded with the cold light of the arena's overhead beams. Beyond that? Team FNKI, the audience, his sister, General Ironwood, Colonel Greyfax, and more. Possibly even the whole of Remnant.

He stepped forward.

With each armored stride, the suit moved like a part of him—graceful yet grounded, humming with restrained power. This wasn't just a fight to test his tech. This was his moment. His message to the doubters, the skeptics, the disbelievers. He didn't need Aura to stand tall. He didn't need a Semblance to fight for something.

As he neared the end of the corridor, the crowd's whispers became a roar in his ear. He could already hear Neon's voice—cheering, probably. He imagined Flynt glaring, Winter silently judging, Kobalt not caring but happy to be there, and Ivory already making bets.

He smirked again. "Time to show them all."

"Don't forget I'm with you, boss. Literally, even."

"I know Tess," he whispered.

And with that, he entered the arena.

AN: I don't own either RWBY or Worm. Apologies for the light technobabble in this chapter. Since science wasn't the main point I admit I only took certain words from wikis, instead of explaining the whole thing like in the Dragonflight chapter. As for the motivations of the cast outside of Whitley and Tess, I really don't want to spoil anything right now but I will say that these questions will be answered/revealed in a narrative way within this story. Anyway, that's enough from me and I hope y'all have a nice day.