A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 26

The map was sprawled across the wall.

My eyes lingered on its details: the territories, the settlements, the numbers scrawled across it. This was going to be a hard task.

The territories under threat were numerous. Anima had an astonishing number of settlements outside its main city. It spoke volumes about the state of Mistral—that people would rather face the Grimm than endure another moment there.

Speaking of Mistral, Cius was one of the larger cities in the southwest—a port town. Deeper inland lay the caravan towns, the lifelines for travelers heading into Anima proper. All of them were under siege in one way or another.

Rescuing them was a no-brainer. If I wanted a power base and the support to back it, liberating those towns was the first step. Cleansing them of bandits and feudal overlords would secure loyalty and resources. From there, everything would build.

The door creaked open behind me. I glanced back to find my aunt stepping into the room.

The morning buzz hung heavy in the air. The aftermath of last night's celebrations, no doubt. Partying hard had left everyone in a daze.

She caught my eye, studying me briefly before rubbing her temples. "You know, you could take the day off."

"I'd rather get to work quickly," I replied, turning back to the map. "What can you tell me about these territories, Auntie?"

She sighed, stepping closer. Crossing her arms, she gazed at the map. "We're here, at the southwestern tip," she said, tapping the lower edge of the peninsula. "We call it the Dragon's Tail. This region is rich in agricultural goods, though other towns produce timber, marble, amber, and other resources. What exactly? Honestly, I couldn't tell you."

Her finger traced a line northward from Cius. "Goods are transported by road or by sea, heading up the coastline. From there, they're shipped across Lake Mistral to the city itself."

"How big is the peninsula?" I asked.

She paused, thinking. "About three hundred kilometers or so, if you're just counting the peninsula itself."

I blinked, my mind stalling. That was roughly the size of Italy.

"And the towns?" I pressed, shaking off the thought.

She pointed to the map again. "Well, there's us here at the very tip," she said. "Then, as you move north, you'll come across smaller villages—most of them insignificant. The ones that matter, though, are these."

Her finger landed on a town near the center of the peninsula. "Panormus is the heart of the region. It connects the east and west coasts through a central canal. Then, at the northernmost point, there's Napolis. It's the gateway into Mistral proper and another port town."

I studied the map, letting her words sink in. Panormus and Napolis. Two key towns that could make or break this plan. If I could secure them, the peninsula would be mine.

"And what's the situation in these towns?" I asked, tapping Panormus on the map.

Medea frowned, her arms tightening across her chest. "Panormus is... complicated. The canal makes it a trading hub, but it's also attracted all sorts of problems. Bandits, corrupt overseers, feudal skirmishes—you name it. The people there are tired, but they don't trust anyone. They've been burned too many times."

"And Napolis?"

She hesitated. "Ah, that, I do not exactly know. I haven't been there in years. Last I heard, it was under the rule of a popular town council. They seemed competent enough back then, but who knows now?"

I nodded, my mind already racing with possibilities. "What about the smaller villages? Are they loyal to anyone?"

She shook her head. "Most of them fend for themselves. They're too small to attract attention from the lords or the bandits, so they've learned to survive on their own. But if you can offer them protection—real protection—they'd rally to your cause."

That was good news. The villages might not be the most powerful allies, but they were the backbone of the peninsula. With their support, the larger towns would have no choice but to take me seriously.

"And the Grimm?" I asked, my voice dropping.

Her expression grew grim. "They're always a threat. The farther you move from the coast, the worse it gets. The forests are teeming with them, and the roads between towns are dangerous. If you're planning to travel, you'll need a strong escort."

I traced the map with my finger, following the roads and canals. Every step of this plan would be a gamble. The bandits, the lords, the Grimm—they were all obstacles, but they weren't insurmountable.

"I'll start with Panormus," I said finally. "If I can stabilize the center, the rest of the peninsula will follow."

My aunt raised an eyebrow. "And how do you plan to do that? Talented as the others might be, the White Fang here are so few, and you have no weapons."

"I thought to ask the Mayor to release the arms we captured. It's my right to ask for them, considering the wounds I sustained. I was also planning to ask for volunteers." 

"You can try. I doubt there will be much volunteers, Adam," 

My eyebrow raised. She raised her hands up in surrender. "I am not saying there won't be. What I am saying is that most people here do not wish to go out farther than they have to." 

"Militia," I muttered.

"Exactly. Most of the people here would be happy to fight if it meant protecting Cius. But going on grand adventures, you will have to convince them a little harder." 

I leaned back, folding my arms as I stared at the map. "Convincing them isn't impossible. Most of them must realize that protecting Cius long-term means stabilizing the surrounding regions. Threats don't stop at the city gates. The bandits, the Grimm—they'll come here eventually."

Medea exhaled sharply, her tone skeptical. "You're not wrong, but people don't think that way, Adam. They don't plan for what's down the road; they deal with what's in front of them. That's survival. You'll need a stronger argument than vague promises of safety."

​I thought about what she said. If I was a Cius resident, I honestly would not be thinking too much about what is happening in other towns. What would it concern me if the other town is getting mauled? It isn't happening here. 

I doubt any notions of national pride would get anyone here moving forward. As far as I saw, Mistrali Nationalism was there, true. People praised the old Empire's achievements but it did not inspire them to fight for it back unless you were a monarchist. 

​"I still think I will find some eager people," I countered. "My contributions would prove I got what it takes to lead. As long as I got an actionable plan and more successes, it will cascade." 

I turned to her. "And maybe with your help too, Auntie.' 

She blinked. "My help?" 

"You could come. Lend us your dustmancy. Having a powerful dust mage would inspire confidence." 

She scratched the back of her head. "Who would watch over the farm? The animals? This place can't run by itself." 

"Is father not coming over? And my in-laws?" I asked. "Actually, where are they?" 

"The last letter I had from them was that they were taking a ship south. They'd be faster if it wasn't for Ercole having...you know." she trailed off. 

"So you could leave the farm under their care. And come with us." I pointed out.

"E-eh?" Medea blinked. "You really want me to come?" 

"Someone of your power would not just be good for our image, I would be able to spend time on the road with my beloved aunt." 

"It's...It's not so simple, Adam," Medea massaged her head. "After Jason...I-" 

She paused. 

Her shoulders sagged. 

"Give me some time to think about it." 

"Of course," I nodded. "I would appreciate it if you went with. But if you wish to stay here, stay." 

She smiled slightly. "Considerate of you." 

"It is only sensible. Otherwise, I would have a troop of hesitant people. That will not be welcome in the wilds." 

​She nodded then turned away. 

+++

The question lingered in Medea's mind, refusing to be silenced. As she stood at the edge of the table, her eyes traced the map Adam had so meticulously laid out. Panormus, Napolis—names that once felt distant and irrelevant now seemed to pulse with significance.

She hated that he was right.

After Jason... after everything, she'd told herself that her place was here, at the farm, tending the land, keeping her family safe. She told herself it was enough. Well... it was enough in the sense that she was satiated.

But was it?

Her gaze flicked to Adam, who was now leaning over the map, lips moving silently as he worked through his plans. Her mind wandered back to when the days were younger and the skies bluer. A different man had gushed over maps, wondering where to go next.

Jason.

His reasons for venturing out into the world were to see what beauty could be found amidst the chaos and strife of Remnant. Adam's reasons were different—revenge, surely, in his war against the SDC. But both pursuits offered the same thing: purpose.

And that word clawed at her like a restless beast. For all her years here, she had been idle. Listless. Restless. She was young still, in her late thirties. A rarity among Huntsmen and Huntresses who tended to die long before the weight of age could claim them. She could spend her youth staying here amidst the farm animals and crops... or she could spend it going forth, trying to change the world.

The idea sent a pang through her chest. She had sworn off this kind of life. Sworn off the roads, the battles, the endless cycle of hope and loss. But hearing Adam speak, seeing his conviction—it made something in her stir.

And yet, there were other reasons.

Her experience. Her skill. She had seen the world, survived its worst. Adam might be passionate, but passion alone wouldn't keep him alive. Her presence could make the difference between his success and failure, life and death.

She owed it to Ercole to make sure the boy stayed alive. That he didn't fall victim to the same hubris that had swallowed so many before him.

Then, there was another thing. 

She had gone with Jason because she loved him. Because she believed in him, in the dreams he held so tightly to, even when they seemed impossible. She had wanted to see the world through his eyes, to share in his hope, his wonder. For so long, she had thought it was love that kept her by his side, but now, standing here, she realized it was more than that.

It was the dream itself.

Jason had been a man who was always looking outward, toward horizons that stretched endlessly beyond them. And she, for all her cunning and strength, had been the one to help him reach them. She had been the steady hand, the quiet force behind his triumphs. She had poured herself into his vision, nurtured it, made it real. That was who she was—someone who built, who supported, who turned fragile hopes into something solid and lasting. It was her gift, her curse.

She had loved Jason, yes. But more than that, she had loved believing in something.

And now... now Adam stood before her, with his own dream. A darker, angrier dream, perhaps, but a dream nonetheless. His fire burned differently than Jason's had. Jason had wanted to explore for beauty's sake; Adam wanted to fight for justice. But both had that same glint in their eyes, that unrelenting drive to carve meaning from the chaos of the world.

Adam reminded her of herself, in some ways. Or at least, of who she used to be. He was brash, stubborn, reckless. But beneath it all, there was something tender. Something fragile he didn't want the world to see. He was like a tree too young to bear the weight of its branches, yet determined to grow anyway.

She could see where his path would lead if he went alone. Passion like his was dangerous—it burned hot, but without guidance, it burned out. If she let him leave without her, he would throw himself into the fire, and there would be no one to pull him back.

It wasn't just about keeping him alive, though. It was about the dream. His dream. She wanted to see where it would lead, what it could become. She wanted to nurture it, to shape it, to make it real.

And then there was the part of her she tried so hard to bury. The part that still got taken by dreams. The part that looked at the map and saw more than lines and names. She saw possibilities. She saw a world she hadn't walked in years, a world that still called to her even though she had sworn to leave it behind.

The Dragon's Tail, Panormus, Napolis—those weren't just places. They were promises. Promises of something more than crops and animals and quiet evenings by the fire. They were places where stories happened, where lives changed, where people like her made a difference.

The farm was safe, predictable. But it was also small. And deep down, she knew she wasn't made for small things. She wasn't made to stay in one place, to watch the world pass her by. She was restless because the world was still out there, waiting for her. Because there were still battles to fight, dreams to chase, wounds to heal.

She looked at him, at the sharp lines of his face, the fire in his eyes. He didn't say it outright, but she could hear what he wasn't saying. I need you.

And maybe that was it. Maybe that was what she needed to hear. Jason had taught her how to dream. Adam was giving her a chance to dream again. To believe in something bigger than herself. To be the Medea she was always meant to be—the builder, the nurturer, the one who turned the impossible into the inevitable.

With that in mind...why couldn't she not want to go? 

It certainly did not help that Adam sounded sincere in his words.

Hearing people who genuinely believed in what they said...how could she not want to see it done?

+++

Her eyes opened.

Gods… what happened last night?

The ceiling swam above her, slow and spiteful, wooden beams tilting gently like a ship caught in low tide. Light leaked through half-shuttered slats—sharp, golden, accusatory. Outside, birds chirped with insufferable cheer, oblivious to the battlefield that was her skull.

Sienna groaned, a low, cracked rasp like crushed gravel. Her throat burned as if she'd screamed herself raw—had she? Or just shouted? Sang?

Drank. Definitely that.

Her skull pulsed with a dull, insistent throb. Not pain exactly—worse. Pressure. Like her entire head was being squeezed in a drunkard's grip. Every joint ached. Her spine popped as she tried to shift, and her dress clung wetly to the small of her back, soaked in a sheen of dried sweat. Still wearing it. Crumpled, twisted, bunched high around her hips like she'd passed out halfway through undressing. She blinked. Once. Twice. The room began to take shape in fragments.

Wood beams. The washbasin across the room. Her boots—one in the corner, the other nowhere to be seen. A sandal draped stupidly over a stool like it had been hurled in surrender.

Last night...

She shut her eyes and forced the pieces back into place.

Music. Loud. Alive. The square thrumming like a heart too full to stay still. Boots slamming into stone, castanets snapping, laughter bleeding into screams of joy. She remembered Malik—cackling, wild, shoving people into the circle with both hands.

And then—

Adam.

Her breath caught.

She sat up far too quickly and instantly regretted it. Nausea surged, slow and tidal, and she barely managed to steady herself with one hand planted hard against the mattress. Her braid was stuck to her collarbone with dried sweat. Her legs ached. Her thighs ached.

Everything ached.

Not from battle.

From dancing.

Gods.

They had danced.

She had danced with Adam.

No—they had danced. That wasn't just motion. That wasn't movement. That had been heat.

The memory hit all at once, not gently, not gradually—but like a thrown blade finding soft flesh.

The pull. The spin. The crash into his chest. His breath hot at her ear, his body pressed so hard to hers it had become a question with no answer. His thigh between hers. His hand splayed across her back. The slide of her skirt up, the sweep of his palm down.

She buried her face in her hands with a sound between a growl and a groan.

Her body remembered.

Not just the steps. The feeling. The want.

Each motion had ground her deeper into him, and she hadn't stopped it. She'd leaned in, hips moving with his, eyes locked, gasping with every roll of heat that built between them. It hadn't been a dance—it had been a dare, a challenge, a promise neither of them had the words to speak.

He had looked at her like she was his.

Not like a friend.

Not like a comrade.

Like she was his.

Like he had earned her.

Her cheeks burned. Her fingers pressed harder against her face, but it did nothing to erase the flush. If anything, the memory kept sharpening—Adam's hand dragging up the inside of her thigh as he dipped her, the bunched fabric of her dress around her hips, her gasp, involuntary and far too loud, into the space between his lips.

She could still feel the imprint of his thigh.

Still smell him—salt, heat, firelight.

And her own betrayal: the way her body had wanted.

She squeezed her legs together. Too late. The ache was there, low and simmering, a pulsing aftershock from friction that should not have been so intimate. That should not have felt so natural.

They'd said nothing when the music stopped.

Just that look.

That look.

He hadn't spoken.

He hadn't needed to.

She'd turned and fled. She hadn't seen him since.

Sienna collapsed backward onto the mattress with a groan, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer an escape. It didn't. Only dust motes, spinning slow in sunlight like they were mocking her.

Just friends.

Just friends.

Just… fuck.

Her fingers clawed into the blanket. Her muscles were sore in places that had no right being sore after a so-called innocent flamenco. Her lips parted—dry, trembling. And worst of all?

She wanted to do it again.

Gods damn it.

She thought she had a comrade. Someone who moved beside her, not around her. Someone who got it. Who didn't ask questions, didn't prod, didn't flirt. Just fought.

Not a…

Whatever the hell he was now.

She'd seen it happen before. Men dragged down by the pull of feelings—that soft hunger, that need to be wanted, touched, seen. She'd mocked it. Thought herself untouchable. Thought she could walk among them, swords drawn, eyes ahead.

But now she couldn't stop thinking about the way his hand had fit on her back. The way her body had reacted like it had always known him. Like it had been waiting.

Adam had been different.

Not soft, not swayed by fantasy. Sharp. Steady. A man who never looked through her, only at her. The smirk was annoying, but it came with discipline. He didn't seek her attention. He simply stood, present. And that had made him safe.

A comrade.

She pressed her palm into her forehead, teeth grinding.

It wasn't the dance.

It was what the dance revealed.

How quickly she gave in. How easily her body yielded to his. How right it had felt to press into him like that. How, for a heartbeat or two, she had let herself want. And not with guilt.

With greed.

She had wanted every motion. Every breath. Every time he spun her, caught her, dipped her. She wanted to feel that again.

And that terrified her.

She was supposed to be building alliances, not obsessions. Winning support, not craving a touch that still haunted her skin. She was supposed to be washing the blood from her boots, not wondering what his hands would feel like without gloves.

She groaned into the blanket again.

Damn him.

Damn his hands. Damn his eyes. Damn his timing.

She thought she'd found a comrade.

Her lips curled, involuntary, bitter and full of reluctant understanding.

Now she understood.

Why Pasiphae had loved him so fiercely. Why she had clung to him.

Sienna had thought it childish. Silly. A girl caught up in heat and admiration.

But now?

Now she knew.

+++

Despite herself—despite the throb behind her eyes, the dry sandpaper in her throat, the hot coil of heat still shamefully curling low in her gut—Sienna dragged herself out of bed.

She couldn't lie here like some petulant teenager nursing her bruised pride and thighs. She wasn't seventeen. She wasn't some blushing recruit just now discovering what it meant to crave someone.

She had shit to do.

The dress clung like a second skin, dried sweat stiffening the fabric, and she peeled it off with a hiss between her teeth. A basin rinse would have to suffice—cold water, rough hands, no soap. The chill made her flinch, but it shocked her brain into focus. She twisted her braid into something presentable, tugged on her jacket, and ignored the phantom ache in her thighs.

Adam.

She needed to find Adam.

They had danced like enemies desperate to devour each other and parted like cowards. No words. No closure. And now plans had to be made—actual, logistical plans. There were regions under siege, bandits with blades at the throat of half the peninsula, and she couldn't let whatever the hell that was between them get in the way.

She found him in the stable courtyard, tightening the straps on a worn satchel with one hand, a half-eaten apple in the other. The bastard looked perfectly composed. Shirt freshly laced, boots cleaned, skin gleaming with that effortless post-battle glow some people were cursed to possess.

She scowled.

He didn't even look tired.

"Tell me," she called, her voice rougher than intended, "how the hell are you not half-dead like the rest of us?"

Adam looked up with maddening calm. His eyes scanned her face, pausing just a beat too long before answering.

"I don't drink enough to die. That's the trick."

Sienna narrowed her eyes. "Bullshit. You drank."

"I drank just enough," he said, smiling as he bit into the apple again. "Enough to enjoy the celebration."

She stopped a few paces away, arms folded. "So what, moderation? That's your big secret?"

"No," he said, swallowing. "Hydration. Two cups of water for every one of wine. Cold compress behind the neck before bed. Salt, protein, no sugar. And I always piss twice before sleep."

She blinked. "…What?"

Adam shrugged, completely unbothered. "It's science."

Sienna stared at him, the pounding in her head intensifying with every smug word.

She wanted to hit him. Or kiss him. Or shove him into the trough and walk away like nothing had happened.

Instead she asked, "Where are you headed?"

"Mayor's estate," he replied, tossing the apple core into a nearby bucket. "Going to ask about the weapons we seized during the siege. If we're serious about pushing inland, we need arms in our hands before the week's out. I'm also asking for permission to start pulling recruits."

She nodded, slow, reluctant. Good. He hadn't forgotten. He hadn't let last night soften him.

The mission still came first.

"Didn't think you'd be up this early," he added, voice light—but something under it was coiled, waiting.

She didn't meet his gaze. "I have work to do."

"Still glowing from the dance?" he asked, tone far too innocent.

Her head snapped up. The glare she hit him with could've frozen fire. "Don't."

He held up both hands, lips twitching into that aggravating half-smile. "Touchy."

"You're lucky I'm hungover," she snapped. "Or I'd drown you in that trough."

Adam chuckled. "Tempting."

She clenched her jaw. Her hand twitched at her hip, where her weapon should've been. He knew how to dance, alright—on the floor, and around her temper.

He slung the satchel over his shoulder with ease. "You coming with?"

She hesitated.

Yes, she told herself. Because strategy mattered. Because they needed to coordinate supply lines, determine which towns to hit first, prioritize. Because nothing that had happened last night meant she couldn't still lead.

Not because of the way his voice still hummed in her ears.

Not because she could still feel the print of his hand on her thigh.

"Yeah," she said finally. "Let's go."

Adam raised an eyebrow. "You sure? You look like you're about to keel over."

Sienna shot him a look, then turned toward the washroom. "Let me get a bath first, you stubborn bull."

His laughter followed her as she walked away.

+++

They found the Mayor in bed.

The walk to his estate was short and uneventful—Cius still lay in a half-stupor, its citizens nursing hangovers, memories, or both. The streets were littered with the remnants of celebration: spilled wine, forgotten shoes, flower garlands mashed flat underfoot. The city breathed slow in the aftermath of revelry, and few people even noticed them passing.

The estate stood atop the central hill, solid rather than extravagant—brick and timber, lined with old banners from a war no one talked about anymore. A pair of guards let them in without much fanfare, one suppressing a yawn as he pulled open the door.

Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of whiskey and pipe smoke, and Sienna's headache flared immediately.

They were shown upstairs to the master bedroom, which had clearly become a war room, recovery ward, and drinking den all in one. Maps covered the walls, a dusty rifle leaned in one corner, and amidst rumpled blankets and a pile of half-read reports lay the Mayor.

"Ah! Welcome, welcome!" he thundered, his voice bouncing off the beams and crashing straight into Sienna's skull.

She winced. 

Mayor Rider had seen better days. He had tanked a fire dust round to the face and it showed. A gauze bandage wrapped around his forehead, his left arm in a sling.

Aides stood scattered around the room like furniture—clean-cut, expressionless, all dressed in matching black uniforms with red piping. His staff, no doubt. Loyal, disciplined, and probably terrified of him.

"Medea," he bellowed, brightening. "There you are!"

She stepped forward, arms folded loosely, chin raised. "Mayor Rider."

He extended a massive hand but didn't rise from bed. "Come, come. Sit, sit. Fine work, you did. I got knocked out, but plenty of people said your walking stick did some damage!"

His eyes landed on Adam. "Oh, it's you! Bully, young man!"

Adam's smile was strained. "Sir," he offered.

"Bah, don't sir me! As far as I'm concerned, we're brothers now! Brothers in arms!" He roared with laughter, then turned to Sienna, his grin widening. She fought the uncomfortable urge to back away.

"And you! My staff tells me you dueled that so-called Crown Princess?" he asked.

"I did, yes," Sienna muttered.

He roared again. "Bully for you too! And you headbutted her unconscious?"

She nodded hesitantly.

"Ahahaha! Excellent! Hardcore! Exactly the kind of person who survives out here in the wilds!" His laughter echoed again before fading into a low chuckle. 

Adam waited patiently, hands clasped behind his back. He glanced once at Medea, who gave him the slightest nod.

"Sir," Adam said, clearing his throat, "I'm here for two things."

Rider raised a brow beneath his bramble of white hair. "Speak up, son. My hearing's not what it used to be."

Adam stepped forward, his voice steady and firm. "I want permission to recruit from Cius. Volunteers, militiamen—anyone willing. And I want access to the weapons we captured from the enemy during the siege."

The room seemed to quiet further, even the aides glancing up from their ledgers and datapads.

Rider didn't answer immediately.

He puffed on his pipe, exhaled a cloud of sweet smoke toward the ceiling, and gave Adam a long, measured look. The joviality drained a little—not gone completely, but pushed back behind something harder, more calculating. He tapped the bowl of the pipe against the edge of his tray.

"You want to raise an army," he said. Not a question.

"I want to reclaim this peninsula from the ancient regime and the bandits. Reclaim the towns, clear the roads, protect supply lines."

Rider listened. His joviality didn't vanish—it quieted, condensed. The mirth in his eyes narrowed. His pipe clicked once against the tray again, ash falling like gray snow.

"Hmm," he said, the sound low and thoughtful. "You've got the pitch, I'll give you that."

He sat forward slightly, wincing as his shoulder shifted in the sling. The aides stirred, like wind brushing through reeds, but he waved them off.

"You want to take Cius men and go stomping through the peninsula like a righteous thunderstorm. I don't hate it. Gods know someone should. But...well."

He gave Adam a long look—not cruel, not dismissive. Just firm. Quiet steel behind the warmth.

"I'm not saying no. Hell, I'm halfway to saying yes. But you need to tell me: what makes your cause worth our blood? What makes you any different from the other cunts ruining Mistral?" 

He gestured vaguely outside. "For as wild as the celebration was last night, there are still people who didn't come back. One boy, only seventeen, took a bullet to the head. Never even saw who shot him."

His voice dropped at the end, thick with the ache of someone who had buried too much hope.

Sienna stared. Was this human serious? Adam led the charge when his own men froze. She had risked life and limb taking down that pretender. They had proved their mettle. And now the Mayor was asking them again? 

Adam's shoulders squared at Rider's words, his back straightening with a quiet determination. He didn't flinch under the Mayor's gaze, nor did he bristle at the challenge. Instead, he let the silence stretch for a moment, taking his time before speaking. When he did, his voice was calm, measured, each word carrying the weight of his conviction.

"Outside this place is chaos incarnate. Bandits rule the roads. Criminals run the towns. Old world rulers colluding with both." 

Frowns quickly spread around. If there was one thing the Color Revolution brought, it was utter distrust for the ancien regime. The feeling was worse among the Mistralis for it was their nobility that got them into this chaotic state in the first place. 

"I am not a rich man. I was not born a rich man. I was born in the mines of Solitas. I have toiled hard, mining dust for a company that would bury its workers underneath a mountain." 

​Sienna's mind worked. Adam was framing himself as a salt of the earth man. His struggle was their struggle. He was separating himself from the bandits and the ancient regime. 

"Someone clearly has to dispel the chaos out there. That someone is me," Adam said, as if stating a fact. "I have led your militia to victory. I will lead the volunteers to victory too. I have in my company my aunt, powerful and experienced. Those who went to confront the bandits have heard about her dustmancy and they will know it is no joke." 

He was putting forward his credentials. And the mobile artillery that was Medea provided she had dust. That dust could come with Cius support. 

"I have family that will be soon to come here. I want them safe. And by sallying out, dealing with the chaos ourselves, we can ensure that trouble will be as far away from Cius as possible." Adam continued. "I already have a plan in mind. An expedition North. We will not stop until this peninsula is safe and secure. All I really need is support. I will do the rest." 

The room was silent, the weight of Adam's words pressing down on everyone present. Sienna's sharp gaze flickered between Adam and the Mayor, her thoughts racing. She could see what Adam was doing—carefully constructing himself as the only viable answer to the chaos. 

The Mayor's lips tightened, his calculating eyes narrowing as if searching for cracks in Adam's resolve. But Adam didn't waver.

"I do not doubt your skills. Any man willing to rally the faltering have balls and you have that," Rider hummed. "But that did not answer my question, Mister Taurus." 

He leaned in. "Why you?"

Adam's crimson eyes met Rider's piercing gaze without hesitation. The question hung in the air, heavy and pointed. For a moment, he didn't respond. Instead, he let the silence stretch, his expression unreadable, his jaw tightening slightly. Sienna shifted uneasily beside him, but she said nothing. Medea, too, stood still, her staff tapping once on the floor as if to mark the tension.

Then Adam spoke, his voice low but steady. "You want to know why me?"

He paused, his hands moving to the buckles of his vest. His movements were deliberate, slow, giving everyone in the room time to notice. The guards at the door immediately stiffened, hands twitching toward their weapons. Sienna's brows furrowed in confusion, her lips parting as if to question him, but she stopped short when she saw the steel in his expression.

Adam shrugged off the vest, letting it fall to the floor with a heavy thud. His fingers went to the buttons of his shirt next, the room growing colder with every second of his silence. The guards exchanged glances.

"What are you doing?" Rider asked, his tone sharp but curious.

Adam didn't answer. He unbuttoned the last clasp, pulling the shirt from his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. His upper body was bare now, his skin marred with scars—thin, jagged lines crisscrossing his chest and arms, a testament to battles fought and survived.

But it wasn't the scars that drew the room's attention. It was the brand.

The Schnee snowflake, burned into his back, stark and cruel against his skin. Its edges were rough, the mark of an iron pressed hard and fast, leaving behind the unmistakable sigil of the Schnee Dust Company.

The room froze.

The guards bristled immediately, one stepping forward with his hand on the pommel of his blade. "What the hell is this?" he hissed, his voice taut with suspicion. "Mayor—"

"Stand down," Rider said sharply, holding up a hand. His voice cut through the tension like a knife, and the guards hesitated, though their hands didn't leave their weapons. Rider's gaze, however, was locked on Adam, his expression unreadable.

Adam didn't flinch under the weight of the stares. He turned slightly, giving everyone in the room a clear view of the brand. The silence was deafening, an unspoken understanding settling over the room.

"My father was diagnosed with dust lung. I resolved to word twice as hard to pay for his medication. My wife...disagreed," Adam recounted, his words a painful memory. Sienna's eyes widened, Medea gasped, covering her mouth. "She did something stupid. The enforcer wanted to brand her. I...volunteered and took her place. If I hadn't, she would be kicked out of the mine with her family, into the cold of Solitas." 

He glanced up. "I led Nicolasburg in an uprising. The man who branded me, I killed with my own hands. The Atlesians...they tried to retake the mine. It took a whole squadron to do Nicolasburg in." 

His fingers brushed the edge of the brand, a faint tremor in his hand, but his tone remained steady. "This is why me. Because I've lived the worst this world has to offer. I've been the one crushed under the heel of tyranny. And I swore I would never let that happen again."

The room was still, the weight of his words pressing down on everyone present.

"I don't just fight for this cause," Adam continued, his voice rising slightly. "I am the cause!"

He took a breath. "The cause of the broken, of the stunted, of the ashamed. There are no humans or faunus here. We are all feeling the boot against our faces. The old ancient regimes against yours! The greedy spiteful businessman against mine!" 

He paused, letting the room sit in silence for a long moment before continuing. "This fight isn't just about reclaiming towns or clearing roads. It's about something bigger. It's about justice. For every father who worked himself to death. For every mother who had to steal to survive. For every child who's grown up wondering if they'll live to see tomorrow because the world has been rigged against them!" 

Adam's voice softened, but the fire behind it remained. "So I'll ask you again, Mayor. Why not me?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Rider leaned back in his chair, his gaze locked on Adam. His pipe rested in his hand, forgotten, a faint wisp of smoke curling upward. He didn't speak right away, his expression unreadable as he weighed the man standing before him.

Finally, he exhaled deeply, setting the pipe on the table beside him. "You're either the bravest man I've ever met... or the craziest."

Adam didn't flinch. "Maybe both."

Rider chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "Alright, Taurus. You've made your point." He gestured to the guards. "Some of the weapons, we have secured for the town's use. The others, it is yours. You have my blessing to recruit. As long as they are hardy folk and not the young, understood?" 

"I do," Adam repeated. 

"Good. As far as this town is concerned, we do owe you and your family. So we will pay that debt." Rider declared.

"Then why question me so?" Adam asked.

"Because I do not like liars. I wanted to see who you truly are. Are you sincere, I asked myself. And I saw that."

"Glad to be of service, then." Adam clicked his tongue, annoyed, as he bent to retrieve his shirt, the brand caught the light one last time, its cruel edges stark against his skin. Then he pulled the shirt back over his shoulders, straightened, and turned to leave. Sienna and Medea followed, their expressions unreadable.

+++

A/N: Adam thus declares: I am him. 

Now we shall see if he truly is Him.

Any history fans will know The Expedition of the Thousand. But here, it shall have kooky Remnant powers.