Whitley Schnee Appreciation Blog

SIGNAL LOST

SIGNAL LOST

SIGNAL LOST

With a tap, the screen closed, leaving only darkness that was somehow more mocking than the static of the disconnect. He lowers his head down over the desk and tries to breathe, tries not to panic, tries not to shut down. Panic would bring the Grimm. Fear would bring the Grimm. Shut down would bring the Grimm, and the Grimm were oh so very close. Another reason he had retreated to the office - Father had purposefully chosen frosted windows out of line of sight of the desk. From here, he could not see the pitch-black shapes that circled and dived through the crackling red storm that had engulfed Atlas.

This is what his sister had been up to? This is what has brought them so low, barging into the manor dragging a half-dead woman and looking over their shoulders like they expected an army at their heels? He scoffs to himself; after pulling a stunt like this, it would be a miracle if the whole lot of them weren’t executed by the military, him included for “harboring” them. Telling such tales, stoking fear and hopelessness in the middle of an invasion? Even the smallest child could recite the public service announcements that warned about the consequences of breeding negativity when the Grimm were scratching at your door.

But that thought is quickly quashed by an even more sobering one - that that was only assuming that there would be a military left to press charges... and that they would all be alive to face them. If what their leader had said was true, if there was a threat controlling the Grimm, if she was immortal and now coming for them...

What hope could they have?

What could even the mightiest army or the most heroic storybook huntsman do against that?

Why bother?

Why try?

Why -?

Why?

Why? Why?

Whywhywhywhywhywhy-

He pinches himself, hard. Calm down, calm down, calm down. Panic brings the Grimm, fear brings the Grimm, and the Grimm were already here - calm down, calm down, calm down. Breathe, just like the drills from primary school. In. Out. In. Out. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five.

When his hands stop shaking in front of him, or when he can at least lie to himself that they’re not, he sits up, taking slower, deeper breaths.

“Things are dire, and we need help.”

What could be done? What could he do? He wasn’t a fighter - that wasn’t an option for him. He wasn’t a pilot - his knowledge of airships started and ended with the types of Dust used as propellent for the thrusters. Fleeing wasn’t an option, even if the skies weren’t filled with the demonic screeches of monsters. Then what? Hiding, here, alone in the manor, praying to gods he didn’t believe in that the manor was too empty and too useless for monsters to even think about targeting?

...That wasn’t true. It wasn’t empty.

...But what were they going to do? They had holed themselves up in Weiss’s room the moment he’d relented and left - not for his room, of course, but to one of the passages that ran throughout the manor’s walls, allowing him to keep an eye on them. They had left to grab bandages, ointments, any of the supplies left from Weiss’s training days, but even he could tell it wasn’t enough for their injured comrade, even if a single one had actually known what they were doing.

And then... they had done nothing. Oh, yes, one of them has raided the kitchen and made tea, but that wasn’t going to heal their friend. That wasn’t going to stop the Grimm from finding them and attacking. That wasn’t going to quell the panic and distrust that was going to spread among the citizens and soldiers alike, now that they had publicly accused Ironwood of being – untrustworthy - Would it be enough to break the front line? Would it cause teams and units to fragment and go AWOL? If they can’t trust their commander, their orders, what would they do? - with no evidence but their leader’s earnest eyes. That wasn’t going to defeat the ancient evil they swore had come to destroy them all.

They were doing nothing.

...what could he do?

...

...

His hands, the ones he pretends aren’t still shaking, pull out his scroll. He wasn’t a huntsman. He wasn’t a soldier. His voice held no sway over the citizens, he couldn’t command the military, and he wasn’t a doctor.

But he knew one.

He pulls up his contact list and scrolls, remembering a slip of paper crushed into his hand under the guise of a handshake and a furtive whisper masked by the twitch of a mustache. He had been enraged at the time, damn near throwing away the consolation prize he’d been handed. Once again being a second thought, once again being discarded in favor of his oh-so-precious sister, sacrificing even the slightest bit of life in this mausoleum of a home for him in favor of making sure she didn’t have to spend one more day here.

...But he had broken, fishing the slip of paper back out of the trash and adding the contact to his scroll.

He finds the correct number and taps it, all too late remembering the mocking message he’d just closed. SIGNAL LOST. Could there even be a signal now, when the sky was falling all around them? If there was... would he even answer? Could he?

The low rumble of a dial tone soothes one of those fears. The unnatural storm, whatever it may be, wasn’t enough to block local communication. But would he -

“Master Whitley?” Klein’s warm voice is the first thing he hears as the line blessedly connects, and he almost cries in the rush of relief that crashes over him. “Are you okay? Are you safe? I saw the news, before - “

Before. Before. How strange that the worst day of his life had become a “before” so quickly.

“I’m fine,” he swiftly cuts him off, ignoring the shiver in his words. “I’m fine. It’s Weiss’ -”

“Weiss? Is she alright?”

An old hurt ached in his gut, and he very nearly hung up. Even now, even now, could he not pretend he cared just as much about him as he did his sister? Could anyone?

He grits his teeth. This wasn’t about her, not at all. “She’s fine. It’s her friend. They brought her in and gods only know what happened, but she needs a doctor and they aren’t doing a thing about it.” A bit difficult with their wanted posters blasted across every screen and scroll in the city in an emergency broadcast, but he wasn’t feeling charitable tonight.

“...I see. I’ll gather what I have, then. Shouldn’t take me more than a half hour.” His usual cheer had settled in, and he almost laughs at the absurdity of being cheerful at a time like this.

“Are you sure? The Grimm - “

“- Don’t look to be focusing too much on this sector. I assure you, Master Whitley, I didn’t go far when I left.”

Not far. Not far. Was that supposed to be a comfort, when not far had still been out of reach?

“I’ll be careful, but I will be there.” Klein’s firm words pull him out of the thoughts threatening to spiral into a rage, and he shakes his head.

“Alright, I’ll be waiting.”

“Stay away from the windows,” He cautions, as though that wasn’t the first thing pounded into your head during Grimm attack drills. “And be careful, Master Whitley.”

“I’m not Weiss; I’ll be careful.” He doesn’t mean to snap, but that hint of anger still sneaks in.

A pause.

“I’m proud of you, Master Whitley.” His tone is soft, gentle, and he physically flinches back in his seat at such absurd words. “You’ve done an excellent job. Just sit tight and I’ll be there. I promise.”

Acid boils on the tip of his tongue. He’ll be there? He promises? After all of this, after what he’s done, how can he dare to say such things with such an innocent and honest voice? The metal casing of his scroll creaks as his grip tightens, and the temptation to throw it against the wall almost overwhelms him. He swallows it, though, and all of the stinging words that threaten to spill out, and he only says once more, “I’ll be waiting.” He hangs up now, before he says something he’ll regret.

Waiting. He was good at that. It seemed to be the only thing he ever did: wait for Father to look his way, wait for Mother to sober up, wait for Winter to acknowledge his existence, wait for Weiss to leave her room, wait, wait, wait for a scrap of attention that wasn’t dripped in scorn or dismissal or wine. And now, he had to wait for Klein, who promised he was on his way.

…He promised. He promised.

“Things are dire, and we need help.”

…This wasn’t about her. This wasn’t about him. That girl needed a doctor, and he’d called one. Klein would come. He had to, simple as that.

Red lightning crackles through the windows, a thunder that was more cackle than roar shaking the room, and he jumps up out of his seat, the chair rolling back and knocking against the wall.

…Perhaps he should go back to the passage by Weiss’ room. For the sake of keeping an eye on Klein’s patient for him, of course.