A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 49

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Sirens wailed in the distance, a haunting harmony to the groaning of airships cutting through the skies above Atlas' spires. Their engines rattled the air, the sound bouncing off the cold, unyielding stone of the city. The rhythmic stomp of marching boots joined the cacophony, accompanied by the low growl of armored trucks. One by one, the trucks stopped, their back latches slamming open. Soldiers poured out, white armor gleaming under the dull, wintry light. They moved with precision, scanning their surroundings, weapons at the ready.

From behind a shadowed screen, Cinder Fall observed them with thinly veiled contempt. Her amber eyes glinted as she watched their movements, every step predictable. To her side, the flickering television blared static-laden news reports. Atlas was under full lockdown for obvious reasons. No one was allowed in; no one was allowed out. Exactly as planned.

With a faint scoff, Cinder turned away from the scene and retreated further into her rented apartment. The cramped, dingy space was a far cry from the luxury she was accustomed to, but it served its purpose well enough. She moved into the kitchen, her steps light but deliberate. Two days had passed since the assassination attempt, yet the news that had reached her was…disappointing. Ghira Belladonna had survived, recovering in an Atlesian hospital.

Cinder had considered finishing the job herself, sneaking into the hospital to ensure that the Faunus leader drew his last breath. But her orders had been clear: shoot him, and nothing more. She had done her part. Perhaps it was time to report her success partial though it may be.

Her gaze fell on a sinister object resting on the kitchen counter: a smoky crystal orb encased in jagged, bone-like plating, its surface adorned with cruel spikes. A faint, sickly hum emanated from it, and as she approached, the wet, organic sound of it stirring filled the room. The orb began to open, parting like a grotesque flower. From within, a dark red mist unfurled, curling through the air like living shadows.

Cinder dropped to one knee immediately, bowing her head. She spoke, her voice smooth and silken.

"I am here to report on my mission," she purred. "It appears that Ghira Belladonna has survived."

The mist swirled, thick and oppressive, and though it had no eyes, Cinder felt its gaze pierce through her. She was being judged, scrutinized, every fiber of her being exposed to the unseen entity on the other side. The air grew heavy. Cold seeped into the room, unnatural and biting. Solitas was the coldest continent on Remnant, but this chill was something far worse. 

[SPOILER="Salem Leitmotif"][URL unfurl="true" media="youtube:Wj3eaaIGGS4"]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wj3eaaIGGS4[/URL][/SPOILER]

Frost crept along the floor, crystallizing across the cabinets and walls. Cinder's breath turned to visible steam, the warmth of the room stripped away in an instant. Despite the thick layers she wore, the cold sank into her bones. Her heart thudded heavily in her chest, a sick beating that resonated with the pulsing frost around her. Her lungs strained, every breath a struggle, but she did not falter. Training kept her steady, even as her body cried out in protest.

Fear spread throughout Cinder. For in the face of this, she was nothing. But she felt something else as well. A deep sick fascination, an electrifying chill in the midst of true absolute power. She spoke quickly, her soul tethering on crying out or exploding in ecstasy. "I...I can go and finish the job. It is only a matter of infiltrating it..." Cinder offered. 

"No," the orb spoke, its voice soft yet regal, steeped in authority, and ancient. "There is no need. Ghira's survival was inconsequential. What mattered was the outcome and you have done well."

Cinder's lips curled into a pleased smile at the praise.

The orb continued, its tone as smooth as velvet yet sharp as a blade. "The Faunus are enraged, convinced the Atlesians targeted their chief. The Atlesians, in turn, are confused, suspecting treachery within their own ranks. The world stumbles ever closer to chaos. The Grimm feast. I could not have orchestrated this better myself."

Cinder's amber eyes gleamed. "What next?" she asked eagerly, her voice dripping with devotion. "Shall I target an Atlesian officer? Organize a bombing at the Schnee Dust Company?"

"Patience, my child," the orb admonished, its gentle tone hiding an iron will. "There is a time and place for everything. You have done your part. Now, you must rest. We cannot risk the Atlesians discovering your presence here."

Cinder's mind flickered to the blurry photographs of her that had been circulating. She had been hunted before, but she was always one step ahead. Her disguise had sown further distrust within Ironwood's forces. The Atlesian Army trying to hunt an imaginary traitor in their ranks. 

The orb's voice cut through her thoughts. "Lie low until I have need of you again. Do you understand, Cinder?"

The disappointment stung, but she masked it with practiced submission, bowing her head. Missions, responsibilities, these were her only pathways to the Queen's favor. But now was not the time to press, not when she still had much to prove.

"Your will be done," she purred, her voice as smooth as silk.

The connection severed. The orb's crimson mist dissipated, and the oppressive weight that had gripped the room lifted. Frost melted from the cabinets and floor, and Cinder greedily inhaled, her chest heaving as warmth returned. The Queen's power was overwhelming. Being in her presence, even through the orb, was like placing an ant beneath the glare of a relentless glaring sun. It burned. It crushed. It humbled.

Cinder rose to her feet, gazing at the orb with a mixture of reverence and sick fascination.

One day, she thought. One day, I will have that power.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms.

One day, others will stutter and choke in my presence.

Her smile turned cold, her eyes burning with ambition.

One day, I will become so strong that I will never fear pain again.

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She leaned back in her throne, the connection severed.

Shadows pulsed and waned, prancing across the cavernous chamber. The throne itself seemed to breathe, its twisted, organic surface shifting in subtle, unnatural rhythms. Gnarled branches, blackened and slick with an otherworldly sheen, coiled around its frame, their tips adorned with faintly glowing runes that pulsed like embers. The air was oppressive, humming with an ancient energy that bid all to bend and bow.

Salem's pale fingers drummed lightly on the armrest, the sound soft but resonant, as though the throne itself amplified the motion. Her nails, sharp and black like obsidian, gleamed in the dim, flickering light of the chamber. Around her, the walls seemed less like stone and more like flesh, pulsing faintly with veins of liquid night that coursed through their surface. Whispers, faint and fragmented, echoed through the space, half-formed words spoken by no one and heard by no one but her.

In Atlas, the mightiest of the kingdoms, they were groaning at the seems. Their commanders and generals were panicking, trying to find who the assassin was, an imaginary soldier. No matter their explanations, no matter their justifications, it would not matter. An Atlesian Officer, perhaps one that served under Jacques Schnee, would be seen performing one final act of revenge. Salem was not an idiot. She understood Atlas's sturcture far better than anyone could. There existed a clique that held strong views that had been, before all this, hidden behind glamour. But now, this was a confirmation of Atlas's corruption. The faunus would rage even more than they already were. 

Salem could hardly believe her stroke of luck. She hadn't lifted a single finger to orchestrate this chaos. No schemes, no commands, no nudges. And yet, here it was, a masterpiece of disorder unfolding before her eyes. All thanks to one man: Jacques Schnee.

A cruel smile tugged at her lips as she leaned back in her throne, the shadows around her curling in anticipation. Jacques wasn't her operative but he might as well have been. His insatiable greed, his shortsighted avarice, his willingness to poison the very foundations of his world for personal gain…It was all so deliciously perfect. He had taken a flourishing world and molded it in his image, consequences be damned. Salem didn't need to corrupt him; he had corrupted himself. This was further proof, as far as she was concerned, that humanity was little more than a pack of animals. Vicious, self-serving, and ripe for manipulation.

And she would use that to its fullest advantage.

With Watts at her side, she would fan the flames Jacques had already ignited. The rebels would have everything they could ever want. Money, weapons, food, resources. It didn't matter what. So long as they spread discontent, so long as they turned their fury upon her enemies, they would want for nothing, so long as they continued to tear it apart.

Atlas was just the beginning.

Her gaze darkened as her thoughts turned to Mistral. That kingdom if it could even be called one. It was a hollow shell of its former self, a ruined land exploited by parasitic Regents who dared to call themselves leaders. Salem felt nothing but disdain for it. Goodness, she'd destroy it out of principle alone if it weren't for the fact that she still needed the pitiful creatures. 

This was about twisting the knife, about making them bleed, scream, and writhe. She wanted him to suffer, to feel the weight of his failures, watching as the creatures chose choked on themselves. 

A faint tapping echoed as her sharp, black fingernail struck the armrest of her throne. At the sound, a small, tentacled orb drifted closer, its surface gleaming with a sickly, iridescent sheen. The tendrils coiled and uncoiled with a mind of their own, twitching in eager servitude.

"Reveal to me, Vale," Salem commanded.

The orb quivered, then obeyed. Its surface shimmered, and an image began to form of a fair and fertile land. Rolling green hills stretched out beneath a sky so blue it almost hurt to behold. Elegant architecture dotted the landscape, and at the center of it all stood a tall tower, its spire reaching toward the heavens like a defiant hand.

Salem's silver eyes brightened as the vision brought the tower into sharper focus. A cruel, almost wistful smile curved her lips.

"Oh, my dear, sweet husband," she whispered, her voice laced with venom and mockery. "I wonder…how must you feel about all of this?"

Her gaze lingered on the tower, her smile widening ever so slightly. 

Jacques Schnee may have been the architect of this chaos, but it was Ozma's world that was crumbling. It was his dream that was being turned to ash. Jacques had corrupted the world, yes, but Ozma had built it. He had molded it at the height of his power to become a world of unity, of peace, of hope.

And now?

"Does it hurt, Ozma?" she murmured, her voice soft yet dripping with malicious glee. "Does it hurt every time you turn on the news? Every time you hear of the latest atrocity? Do you cry when you see the next crime, the next betrayal, the next horror?"

Her words hung in the air, heavy with venom. She knew the answer, of course. She knew it hurt him. She knew every act of cruelty, every moment of chaos, was a dagger driven deeper into his heart. He had once held the world in his hands. He could have united them all, brought them together under his guidance. But no. He had trusted them and their so-called better judgment. He had believed in their capacity for good.

Fools, all of them.

"They don't know love, Ozma," she whispered, her tone almost pitying. "They don't know kindness. They don't know peace. They are rabid dogs, every one of them. Give them a chance to do good, and they will always choose otherwise."

Her smile faded, replaced by an expression of cold resolve. The orb's image flickered, the vision of Vale dissolving into a swirl of shadow and light. Salem leaned back on her throne, quiet. She stood up, her dress following behind her. Her heels clacked against her halls. 

​He deserved this. 

​He had one chance to do as the Gods had bidden, to unite the world. But not, it was not the way he wanted. 

​Now he was paying the price. 

She was going to relish in that, twisting the knife in then adding salt for good measure if only to taste the pain on his face. When she had her fill, when she was finally satisfied...then and only then, she was going to end them all. 

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A/N: Salem is evil, news at eleven. Next up, Adam POV.