A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 45

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The roar of engines echoed through the crisp morning air.

Atop her truck, SDC Officer Karin zipped up her coat, bracing against the chill that seeped into her bones. The convoy crawled forward, painstakingly slow, the uneven dirt road a constant torment. She cursed under her breath as the truck jolted violently, the wheels slamming into yet another pothole, the seventh one today.

"Bloody Mistral," she muttered bitterly.

She should have known this country was cursed. The roads were abysmal, little more than glorified dirt trails. The trees towered overhead, dwarfing even the skyscrapers of Atlas, their thick canopies blotting out the morning sun. And then there were the locals. Glowering, resentful faces that barely hid their disdain as they watched the convoy snake through their villages. Karin didn't blame them entirely, but that didn't make their hostility any easier to bear.

If she had her way, she'd be anywhere but here. Back in Vale, where the weather was kinder, the roads were paved, and the culture had more to offer than this remote stretch of Mistral. She missed the quiet moments in the city, the evenings with good wine and biscuits. She missed her children most of all. Her eldest had promised to look after his younger siblings while she was away. Such a brave little man, trying so hard to fill her shoes. She blinked away the thought, her chest tightening.

The truck lurched to a stop.

Karin frowned and pressed the communicator in her ear. "This is Karin. What's the hold-up?"

"Ma'am, there's a convoy ahead of us. Refugees," came the curt reply.

Karin groaned. She pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled slowly. Refugees. Of course.

"Let them pass," she ordered, her voice flat with resignation.

As she waited, her gaze drifted to the side, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the moment. They weren't as strong as they had been in her twenties, but she was still more than fit enough to do the job. Still, the thought lingered that maybe it was time to step back, retire from her position. Things had been easier when she ran her outfit from behind a desk, fieldwork a rare exception in the SDC's private army.

The creak of wagons broke her reverie. Tired carts groaned under their loads, pulled by beasts of burden that looked as weary as their drivers. Disdainful faces stared back at her as the refugee convoy passed, their bitterness palpable. She shifted uncomfortably. A nagging whisper in the back of her mind resurfaced, a question that had been whispered around the barracks more than once:

Why were they here?

This wasn't their job. This was supposed to be a task for the army.

SDC Security was just that: security. They didn't march out in force to hunt down radicals. Their role was to stay put, guarding company assets, not waging wars in foreign lands.

"Convoy out," a voice crackled through her communicator, pulling her back to the present.

She sighed in relief. "Let's go," she commanded.

The trucks rumbled back to life, engines coughing as the convoy resumed its slow, jarring progress. Ahead lay the village of Ningen, rumored to be a stronghold for radicals. Her orders were simple: deploy there, eliminate the threat, and report back after securing success.

A flash in the distance caught her attention, hidden behind trees. At first, she thought it was nothing. But then came a loud revibrating bang that sent the birds flying from trees. Slowly she realised that it was a gunshot. But before she could cry out in alarm, a .50 caliber bullet painted sent her bones, brains, and sinew into a mist.

"Ambush!"

The shout cracked the air, too late to save the front truck. Gunfire erupted from every angle, the forest vomiting bullets in fiery arcs. Men tumbled from their seats, rifles clutched in hands slick with panic. The driver of the lead vehicle folded over his wheel, the horn droning as his blood painted the dash.

The convoy stuttered, chaos blooming. SDC troopers pressed themselves flat to the frozen dirt, cries for headquarters drowned beneath the machine-gun staccato. Trucks shuddered as rounds chewed through their steel hides, glass cascading in shards over the men still inside. The forest itself seemed alive, every shadow spitting death, every tree a muzzle flashing in the gloom.

Then, the roar of engines. Hope stirred in their chests as the sound of bullheads came close. The shooting stopped as they arrived, their miniguns raining fire into the trees. Others hovered above, deploying their complement of Atlesian Knights who themselves joined in the maelstrom, their weapons felling trees, cutting bushes and vines. True overwhelming firepower.

It only stopped when the bullheads ran out, and peeled away. The Atlesian Knights themselves ceased firing, brought about by a throaty order from the Troopers. Shivering, one of the troopers peered his head out.

"Seems to be clear!" he cried out.

It looked to be. No one, huntsman or otherwise, could survive such overwhelming firepower.

The company relaxed.

But it was not over as a deep, chilling, malevolent roar thrummed throughout the road.

"GRIMM!" someone cried. "GRIM-ARGHHHHHHH!"

From their vantage point, Malik Ashina and his group watched, with barely contained horror, as the Grimm descended upon the hapless SDC men. They were like a flood, surging out of the shadows with a primal, unrelenting fury. Beowolves bounded forward in a frenzy, their claws raking through armor as if it were paper, their fangs tearing into flesh with sickening ease. The screams of the dying was terrible and bone chilling, the kind of sound that clawed its way into the soul and refused to leave.

One trooper, desperately firing his weapon, was dragged down by a Beowolf twice his size, the beast's jaws snapping closed around his midsection. His blood sprayed in a crimson arc, painting the ground as his torso was wrenched free from his legs. Malik's breathing hitched as he watched a trooper try to run. The woman made it only a few steps before a Nevermore swooped low and grabbed her by her shoulders. and lifted her up. SHe screamed in a way that someone would who knew their end was coming, but could do nothing to stop it, but shriek their fear. The sound was stopped when finally, the Nevermore dropped the screaming trooper to the ground. Her body crumpled helplessly.

The Atlesian Knights fared little better. Beowolves swarmed the mechanical soldiers, slashing through their joints, ripping apart their reinforced plating. Limbs and shattered circuits littered the ground as sparks danced. One Knight, still firing, was torn in half, its upper body flung into the side of a truck with a metallic clang before being crushed under the claws of a charging Ursa.

It was an orgy of violent pulsing deaths, brought about by utterly merciless things who had hunted everyone, human or faunus, rich or poor. Malik had seen death since the start of this revolution. But the way they died, the sheer primal rawness of it all, was something he could never get used to.

The last trooper, a woman clutching a rifle slick with blood, screamed defiantly as an Ursa loomed over her. She fired until her weapon clicked empty. The beast roared and swiped, the strike cleaving her in two. Her upper body toppled into the dirt, her lifeless eyes staring up at the canopy above as the Grimm tore apart her remains.

It was over.

The road was littered with mangled corpses, both human and machine. Blood pooled in the ruts of the dirt road, soaking into the earth. The stench of death was unbearable, heavy and cloying. The Grimm roared in triumph, their glowing red eyes scanning for any remaining prey. But the sounds of engines returned, bullheads, who swooped low, and fired upon them.

Malik shook his head. "Let's get out of here," he ordered.

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Dalrymple stared at the casualty list on his desk, his fingers trembling as he scrolled through the names. Line after line, they stared back at him, cold and unrelenting.

Barely a day after their arrival, and already they were suffering losses. Not a few injuries or minor skirmishes but deaths.

"How?" he asked, his voice tight with disbelief, as if speaking the words aloud might make the situation less real. "How, in the Brothers' holy name, are we suffering casualties this soon?"

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of the holographic projector on his desk.

"It's...it's the Grimm!" a panicked voice finally cried, one of his junior officers, their holographic form flickering erratically. "The radicals must be weaponizing the Grimm against us!"

"Fool, Grimm can't be controlled," a more level-headed officer corrected. "It's the negativity. Our presence here is sending the region into overdrive. The locals are generating it."

A third voice cut in, sharp and skeptical. "We're in the damn boonies, Henry. There aren't enough people out here to generate that much negativity. What are you saying? A few farmers and their brats are enough to summon a horde that wipes out an entire company of armed and trained troops?"

"It is exactly because we are in the boonies, Martin, that its easier for the Grimm to detect when someone stubs their toe! Might as well put up neon signs and advertise our boys and girls!"

The tension in the room rose like a storm, voices overlapping in a cacophony of accusations, theories, and barely contained panic.

"Enough!"

Dalrymple's roar shattered the chaos, his fist slamming against the edge of his desk. His commanders fell silent, their holographic forms stiffening as if they were still standing at attention before him. He took a slow, measured breath, his nostrils flaring as he fought to quell the anger roiling inside him. "We must establish facts," he growled. "Have we at least encountered radicals?"

"We have," Martin reported. "What reports we've got is that they take potshots at our men then leave."

Dalrymple pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly as he tried to focus. At the very least, the attack confirmed the presence of radicals in the region.

"Double the Knights escorting the convoys," Dalrymple ordered, his voice sharp and decisive. "I want our men armed with three times the firepower they currently have. If the radicals or the Grimm dare show their faces again, our troops will have everything they need to crush them. Remind the men that we have resources, discipline, and firepower unmatched by anything in this gods-forsaken wilderness. A few fools slithering in the dark are no match for them."

He paused, resting his hands flat on the desk as he leaned forward. "And what's the progress on our bases?"

"Construction is complete," Henry reported, his voice steady and confident. "They're fortified and utterly impenetrable. We can begin deploying the Knights from the backlines immediately. The sooner we replace the men with Knights on the front, the better morale will be."

"Good," Dalrymple said with a curt nod. "And the safe zones?"

"Established," Martin chimed in. "We're still receiving refugees, but the villages are beginning to empty out."

"Reward the villagers," Dalrymple growled, his tone icy. "Make it clear that collaboration will bring them safety and rewards. Resistance, on the other hand..." His voice trailed off, but the unspoken threat lingered heavily in the air.

"Understood, sir," Martin said quickly.

"Anything else I need to know?" Dalrymple asked, his gaze sweeping over the holographic figures.

Martin hesitated before speaking again. "We've received an envoy from Mistral, sir. He's here to ask why we've deployed in full force."

Dalrymple's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as irritation flared within him. How tempting it was to simply tell the envoy to leave, to shove their questions back down their throats.

"I'm surprised! The Eunuchs of Mistral realize that they have a country outside their walls?" Martin mocked.

"I will deal with him," Dalrymple growled. "Focus on your jobs. If there's nothing else to report, this exchange is over."

They all nodded.

"Good. That's all for now," Dalrymple said with finality, leaning back in his chair.

One by one, the holograms blinked out, leaving Dalrymple alone once again. He let his head tilt back, closing his eyes as the silence of the room pressed in on him. At the very least Headquarters was quiet. The last thing he needed was for them to be on his back. Now, the Mistralis.

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It was no office conference room but it would fit for their purposes. Dalrymple may have hated the Mistrali Council but even he had to show them some manner of courtesy. He sat back on his chair, table filled with treats and refreshments, and he did not rise as the doors opened. His nose twitched, smelling the representative before he saw him. When he finally did, the man moved with a deliberate, almost genteel air, his long robes of emerald and gold swaying slightly with each step. His face was calm, as though carved from marble.

Dalrymple rose from his seat, his towering frame stiff and unyielding, offering no pretense of warmth. He didn't extend a hand. The envoy didn't seem to expect one.

"Dalrymple," the envoy said smoothly, inclining his head in a formal greeting.

"Councillor Zhang Yao," Dalrymple replied, familiar with the man. He did not return the greeting. Instead, he gestured to a seat. "Sit."

Yao sat gracefully, folding his hands in his lap. He studied Dalrymple with the kind of detached curiosity one might reserve for a predator in a cage. "Your presence here has not gone unnoticed," Yao began. "Nor has the scale of your operations."

"Good," Dalrymple replied bluntly, leaning back in his chair. "We're not here to hide."

Yao's lips twitched upward in a faint, humorless smile. "Clearly. But the Council finds itself perplexed. The Schnee Dust Company's mandate, as we understand it, is to protect its investments, not to deploy military forces on foreign soil. We would like to ask why you have deployed here in force."

Dalrymple snorted, his irritation barely concealed. "Perhaps the Council has not heard of the radical movements stirring outside its walls, attacking SDC property and personnel?"

Yao's expression didn't waver. "We are well aware of the radicals, Dalrymple. The question is why the SDC has taken it upon itself to address them with such...vigor."

Dalrymple watched as Yao smiled. "Why act directly when the Regents have resources, intelligence networks, and influence. Why does Jacques Schnee risk tarnishing his lustre when Regency Council is a friend?"

Immediately, he understood the hidden question.

"I see," Dalrymple leaned back, his tone shifting into something measured, almost urbane. "You see, Councillor, the SDC has decided to act on its own power, for our assets have long since suffered. Repeated incidents, escalating violence, and delays in protection have already cost us dearly. We judged it unwise to press further burdens upon the Regency when it is already tasked with matters of state and the preservation of Mistral's stability. Our deployments are not meant to overshadow your authority, but to shield our own interests swiftly, so that your resources remain unencumbered."

His gaze met Yao's squarely, firm but polished. "It is our belief that a strong and prosperous Mistral requires a strong and unshaken Council. By assuming the immediate risks ourselves, we allow your august body to preserve its focus on governance, while we manage the hazards that fall upon us first."

Yao's calm facade tightened. "Does the Regional Manager imply that the Council is unable to handle such matters?"

"It is in our belief that the Council is beset on all sides by affairs of state. We did not think it wise to distract the Council with our issues," Dalrymple said, patience threatening to snap.

"Then in such a case, the Council must insist on payment for occupying Mistrali soil," Yao retorted.

Dalrymple's jaw tightened and his patience finally snapped. "Councillor Yao. Let's drop the pretense and call this what it is. Your master will not see a single bit of SDC Lien. You do not care about your people, otherwise you would have done something about the bandits running around extorting them of their money. No...no," Dalrymple shook his head. "Why should the Schnee Dust Company work with you?"

Yao's eyes narrowed, but he remained otherwise composed. "Careful, Dalrymple. You tread dangerously close to disrespect."

"Do not lecture me on disrespect. If the Council wished to be of assistance, they ought to have used its power to bring the radicals to heel when they first started but no, you waited for a payday from the SDC," Dalrymple said, eyes glimmering with disdain.

"This is an outrage," Yao roared, offended. "The Council will have words about this!"

Dalrymple gave no reply, merely staring at him with open disdain. "I will expect your strongly worded letter, Councillor."

Yao's composure cracked but then, he paused. He took the lull to gather his thoughts before he replied, eyes twinkling. "You speak as if you have all the time in the world. But you do not, Regional Manager."

Dalrymple's eyebrows furrowed. "The SDC will-"

​"The SDC will not," Yao shot back. "For does Atlas not rail at the seams? Doesn't Atlas already suffer from protests regarding the Schnee Dust Company's overreach?"

An ugly snarl came upon Dalrymple's lips as Yao smiled. "I wonder then if the Atlesian citizen, already tired of you, will tolerate this?"

"They will," Dalrymple retorted. "The SDC brings them warmth, the luxury they enjoy. They would not dare rise up against us."

"Then so be it," Yao proclaimed, rising from his chair. "Listen to the news, Dalrymple. The SDC will once again feature in it."

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A/N: Corrupt megacorp vs corrupt eunuchs, who wins?